The ephemeral wandering thoughts of which I have spoken in two other blog posts covered loved ones in Italy. I am now in England, and, specifically, London, where my mother’s two sisters and a brother lived.

First and foremost, I am in the ever loving arms of my sweet Zia Elisa, my mom’s oldest sister. All that I know of courage and resilience come from all my antenati, but my mind has always rested more on Zia Elisa whenever challenges have presented themselves in my life, and especially during the difficult journeys I have taken with my family in times of emotional and physical distress.

My aunt’s life was fraught with all the trauma of having lived in Northern Italy during World War 2, followed by giving birth to her first child who was born with Down Syndrome in a time when there was a lot of ignorance on the subject. Then there was the immigration to England, away from all that she had ever known, to losing her third child to Leukemia when Wilma was only three. She also cared for my grandparents during numerous trips back to Italy, and then eventually bringing them to England and caring for them both until their deaths.

In spite of, or maybe because of all these hardships and tragedies. her genuinely loving, kind, and empathetic spirit was never diminished, and near or far, I always felt so completely accepted and loved. I admired how she and my mother were “due corpi, un’ anima, “two bodies, one soul,” a feeling that I am honored and grateful to share with my cousin, Carla, her second born, which always makes me feel that my mom and aunt are still very present!

Next to Zia Elisa is Zio Guido, her husband, my godfather, whose demeanor was always so joyful and upbeat. I honestly cannot remember a time when he did not have his signature kind, compassionate, loving smile. He, my aunt, and cousin, Carla, cared for Antonio lovingly, and demonstrated so well that when you truly love, accept, and “see” another individual, they do thrive, and Antonio did! He was such a delightful person who loved music, magazines, and hugs! His life was not easy, and yet he was happy. I smile whenever I think of my time with him.

Across London I envision Zia Lea, my mother’s youngest sister. Her life had its challenges as well, from also living through the trauma of World War 2, to migrating to London and being the forerunner of bringing over and accommodating her sister, Elisa, and brother, Peppo, and their families. She also battled and survived breast cancer.

Zio Net, her lovely husband, was always so very kind, compassionate, and best of all, playful, and again with him as well, I cannot remember a time when he wasn’t smiling! He unfortunately died young from cancer but his spirit is still strong!

My aunt eventually moved into a smaller flat of her own where I visited her many times and spent such delightful hours listening to stories of her youth which of course included the escapades of her siblings, and she always made sure there was wine available for me! 😘 Whether I was with her physically or talking to her by phone, her voice was always strong and the love I felt was so very palpable, as it is to this day when she comes to mind . My two cousins, Claudio and Mirella, are a testament to all that was amazing and beautiful of my aunt and uncle – a gift that’s still felt and witnessed whenever I see them, talk to them or just think of them along with three amazing second cousins!

My last vision in England is of Zio Peppo, the youngest brother. My feelings and memories of him are a bit murkier and guarded as he battled his own personal mental and emotional demons. Nonetheless, he was always so genuinely happy to see me, and he would also weave stories of his youth as I listened to him, all the while enjoying a sumptuous meal prepared by my aunt. Good food, wine, and incredible storytelling always accompany my antenati as they walk with me!

England, and specifically London, has always been a second home to me, and being such an integral part of this extraordinary extended family acts as a very sturdy anchor! Though their physical presence is lacking , the strength of their love, support, and all that made them special to me still accompany me, and I only need a thought or memory to activate it all.

Kindness and love manifest themselves to all of us, sometimes when we least expect them! When I think of the random acts of kindness and love that have come my way, what I get are slow moving shots in my mind of special moments shared with very special people who “helped me find my way.” Through the haze of memory, I see my father sitting atop the small retaining wall of our garden on a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon. We had spent the good part of that morning, talking and laughing about this and that. At 21, I had just returned from a six month jaunt through Europe after graduating from college. And, on this particular day I was to leave once again to venture out on my own, living with a friend in Berkeley and working in San Francisco. I remember feeling that uncontrollable need and desire to spread my wings, to be on my own, “finally!” And, all of this was very evidently against the old fashioned “stay at home until you get married” view of my immigrant parents.

As I nervously awaited my ride to leave, I glanced outside to see my father sitting there, smiling and making faces at me, as he had always done since I was old enough to remember. In slow motion I see him patting the space next to him, motioning me to come sit with him. In that one very simple gesture, I felt that unmistakable glow that accompanies unconditional love!

I knew that he did not agree with my life choices at this point, and yet, unlike my critical and distant mother, he put his feelings aside to make sure that I knew how much I was loved in spite of making decisions against their better judgment. Ironically enough, I do not remember what we talked about that day, but I can still feel, even now, thirty-three years after his death, the intensity of his love and his pride in me. That one simple, “random” gesture had given me strength, courage, and faith in myself. I have of course experienced other random acts of kindness from my father and others as well, yet nothing comes quite as close to how incredibly good that “pat” made me feel! ❤️

When Sonny Bono, the actor turned politician, died, his ex-wife, Cher, eulogized him. She referred to a section of Reader’s Digest entitled “Unforgettable Characters,” mentioning that Sonny was for a most unforgettable character. Well, I’d have to say that my mother would definitely be my pick for an incredibly unforgettable character. There are so many reasons why she qualifies in my mind, and here are a few!

I loved her stories , especially the ones of her growing up in Italy. My mother was always “spiritosa,” or lively which caused her pleasure to be sure, but a fair amount of pain, too! She was always disciplined when she went to school for talking too much, and had a hard time paying attention. She was also disciplined by her father for various and sundry reasons. First of all, she loved to dance, but there were, at this time, many rules and regulations concerning when and how you were to dance! My mother couldn’t be bothered; she just wanted to dance! On several occasions she stayed behind at a local festa to dance. Of course, when she returned home later than her siblings, she was met by a very displeased father. On one occasion she even slipped out the window after everyone had gone to bed, but again, she was discovered, and disciplined!!! It was always somewhat ironic to me that she knew she would be corporally punished, and yet, she continued with these painful escapades! Her response was always that, yes, she knew she would “ get it,” but it was well worth it! She ended these stories sadly by saying that she believed that she was being punished because she had three children, and not one of us ever cared about dancing! 😂

Then there were the stories about living through World War II. She told tales of finding cover when occasional bombs would fall near the field where she and her family were working. She always told the story with fear to be sure, but also with a fair amount of innocent fascination. She also told of hiding, feeding, and caring for a young German soldier who had defected, until it was safe for him to leave. On another occasion a troop of German soldiers were en route to her village, and with them came horrific accounts of violence, waged on women. My mother saw them approaching and quickly rubbed soot from the fire all over herself and her younger sister, including their teeth, making themselves look very undesirable. She then picked up her baby brother and pricked him with a pin, causing him to cry. The ploy worked and they eventually left!

I think my favorite story was the one she told every year about the day I was born, and she would tell it in great detail which included being alone the whole night before, my brother being sick, and having my sister go out to the well in the dark for water which she boiled while awaiting her mother and the midwife. She was in painful labor the entire night and delivered me quickly, or as she put it, “I fell out!” And, of course, she always insisted that I weighed a whopping 6 kilos (about 12 or so pounds 🤷🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️). This we always argued about, since I was convinced that she had made a gross error! In any case, after the telling of the story, it was mutually agreed that the birthday presents should go to her, not me!

When I think of my mother, I think mostly of her courage. There were so many examples of it. She left her family in Italy, and the life she knew to travel with three small children on a ship for two weeks, and then on a train across the US to California to be reunited with my father. And, I was always amazed at how not knowing English never presented itself as an obstacle. As a matter of fact my mother could communicate with just about anyone regardless of the language!! 😂 She and my father succeeded in making a good life for themselves and for us with so little!

Her courage was quite evident as she battled colon cancer. I know she must have felt fear, but she was so straight forward about dealing with it that there was more laughter than tears. I loved the bimonthly treks to UCSF for her first rounds of chemotherapy. She was an immediate hit with the doctors and the nurses for whom she brought gifts! I will always appreciate these special times, for we talked so much going to and from the hospital as well as during her treatments.

One round of chemo did yield the typical, unpleasant results, such as hair loss. My mother was more fascinated than afraid! As a matter of fact, when her hair was falling out, she loved to show everyone just how easily it came out by pulling handfuls of it out for all to see. Then, when she was completely bald, she was simply amazed! When she showed me, we had a good laugh as I told her how much she looked like her hairless father, (only prettier!) 😂When her hair grew back, she was overjoyed again, because, finally, she had curly hair! 🥰

My mother was an artist. Boy, could she cook! As a matter of fact, my mother’s favorite questions were: 1) Have you eaten? 2) What would like to eat? 3) When are you going to eat? 4) Have you eaten enough? She enjoyed creating incredible meals as well as eating them! I really miss her detailed description of what she ate at some get together she attended! She’d always remember what she ate, if not who was there, and what else she did! 😂 And, anytime I visited, I was always loaded up with supplies and food for a few weeks! 🥰

She also enjoyed knitting, crocheting, creating her infamous Christmas mailboxes and her frogs in which she would insert a Hershey’s kiss, and a note that said, “Squeeze my cheek, and I’ll give you a kiss.” She always had a large supply of these and gave them to whomever she came into contact with!

I still miss our late night chats which would sometimes last for hours! My mother would make a batch of her famous Manhattans and we would sip and snack as we exchanged stories! When my father was alive he would bang against the wall, and we’d both cringe, all the while laughing, because we realized that it was quite late!! Giggling we’d make it bed! 😂

My mother was not a touchy feely kind of mom! And, as in any mother- daughter relationship, we did not always get along. But the legacy that my mom left behind is how she lived her life: with courage, grace, compassion, perseverance, and humor. I know that my mother would finally have agreed with St. Paul when he said , “The time has come for me to be gone. I have fought the good fight to the end. I have run the race to the finish. I have kept the faith.” My mother touched many lives, and helped so many through her diverse community commitments that they often referred to her as angel on earth. I find great comfort knowing that she is definitely an angel in heaven.

There is not one day that goes by that I do not think of her, that I do not wish that I could sit once again with her over a Manhattan and listen to her rich stories. As I get older and my children get over I find that I have more in common with her, and that I have a strong longing to have her on earth “ to talk.” This being the impossibility that it is, on Mother’s Day, I revel in remembering the essence of her and know that she is by my side whenever I need her!

In my ephemeral wandering thoughts about those who have gone on physically, but are always with me spiritually I remain in Italy. My mind rests on Maria Dellafiora, the wonderfully loving mother of Carlo and Laura, my good friends.

She was a very talented seamstress by trade , and worked out of her home, all the while taking care of her family. When I think of her she always has that amazing smile on her face to accompany her soothing voice and the positive words she constantly shared. Whenever I would return to Italy, and she would see me, her whole face would brighten up as she would utter excitedly, “ Ecco, La nostra Loretta,” (here is our Loretta,) the essence of unconditional love!

Before I leave Pieve di Campi Zio Gianni pops up with his amazing, magnanimous spirit, love of life, people, and wine and it makes me smile. I can still hear him as he once counseled me, “ Speranza; bisogna avere speranza; se non c’è speranza; non c’è nulla! (Hope; you have to have hope; if there is no hope; there’s nothing !) So profound was my love for him that I devoted an entire blog to him after his death a few years ago.

Next, I meander up the hill to Campi. Here I see Zio Geppe, my grandmother’s youngest brother, whose face seemed only to smile, as I can not ever remember a frown! When I was a child, I was rather large in girth, and he coined the expression, “Bambolona,” ( big doll.) On my first return trip, though no longer as hefty, he continued to use this nickname lovingly each time he greeted me.

Next, is Zia Nerina, the wife he married late in life. Generous of nature, she always had open arms, and I spent a fair amount of time with her. She enjoyed talking, gossiping as it were, but still, she was so enjoyable. I see myself in her kitchen, making gnocchi from scratch with her, which we ate with a fair amount of wine after which I enjoyed a nice, long, comfortable afternoon pisolino or nap.

Up the road is Zia Desolina who never married and was pretty religious, but she loved to laugh and was so happy to see me which she demonstrated with her huge grin. She loved listening to my sister and I banter in English and irritate each other , as siblings do.

My very fond memory of her was when a cousin from New York tried to teach her how to say “fork,” but she simply could not pronounce it correctly, so what came out, was the infamous four letter word! F. . . K! I’m not sure if she purposely did not say it correctly, or whether she knew what she saying was inappropriate. I can still see and hear people doubled over in laughter.

Her beauty and love was especially manifested in her creation of a sweet pastry she called a pesca, which means peach . She formed two hollow halves of homemade dough, inside which she inserted a delicious cream filling. This delicacy would only appear when we visited, and always made me feel special.

Down the road in another village, Spalavera, is Zia Adalgisa, my godmother, whom I did not know well, but who always was so welcoming, and always prepared a feast whenever she knew I was coming!

One of her sons, my cousin, Egidio, is the next person who brings a smile to my face. He resembled my dad so much in his mannerisms and calm demeanor that I was naturally drawn to him. As with all the people aforementioned a feast always awaited me when I’d visit, served with that unmistakable love.

Here I rest my mental, momentary meanderings, savoring these special individuals before moving across the English Channel to London and my mother’s brother, two sisters, and cousins, and more smile inducing, spirit raising memories, thoughts, and feelings!

Kindness and love manifest themselves to all of us, sometimes when we least expect them. When I think of the random acts of kindness and love that have come my way, what I get are slow moving shots in my mind of special moments shared with very special people who “helped me find my way.” Through the haze of memory, I see my father sitting on the small retaining wall of our garden on a beautiful sunny September afternoon. We had spent the good part of that morning, talking and laughing about this and that . At 21, I had just returned from a six month jaunt through Europe after graduating from college. And, on this particular day I was to leave once again to venture out on my own, living with a friend in Berkeley and working in San Francisco. I remember feeling that uncontrollable need and desire to spread my wings, to be on my own “finally.” And, all of this was very evidently against the old fashioned “stay at home until you get married” view of my immigrant parents.

As I nervously awaited my ride to leave, I glanced outside to see my father sitting there smiling and making faces at me, as he had always done since I was old enough to remember. In slow motion I see him patting the space next to him, motioning me to come sit with him. In that one very simple gesture, I felt that unmistakable glow that accompanies unconditional love.

I knew that he did not agree with my life choices at this point, and yet, unlike my critical and distant mother, he put his feelings aside to make sure that I knew I was loved in spite of making decisions against their better judgment. Ironically enough, I do not remember what we talked about that day, but I can still feel, even now, thirty-three years after his death, the intensity of his love and his pride in me. That one simple, “random” gesture had given me strength, courage, and faith in myself. I have of course experienced other random acts of kindness from my father and others as well, yet nothing comes quite close to how incredibly good that “pat” made me feel!

Penombra-Italian for dim light; it is the time between the deep slumber of the night and the arising consciousness of the morning when a different reality can unfold in very sharp images. For me it is when I peer into a “periscope”of my past. I am six and snuggled comfortably in the crook of my father’s arm on the couch. His melodic voice and laughter fill the entire room, and I am so very loved, safe, and protected. The impeccably trimmed Christmas tree reaches to the ceiling, and the brightly colored packages are placed strategically under its branches. My heart pounds faster and faster as I anticipate opening them that evening. I go to pick up the small silky pink crib with a miniature Jesus lying atop it, a relic of my mother’s youth, and now, mine. I love the smooth feel of it in my hands. My slightly older brother lies sprawled on the floor, counting, sorting, and resorting the gifts we each have. As he does so, unable to sit quietly for very long, he “clucks” loudly by pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The resulting noise of course does not go unnoticed by the oldest sibling, our sister, who is reclining comfortably on the golden colored love seat, legs drawn up to her chest. In one breath, she admonishes him to “cease and desist,” and in another, she speaks calmly and happily to our father about anything that comes to mind: politics, family, and values, and there is a steady stream of Italian and English conversation.

In the kitchen I can hear my mother, a true culinary artist, flit from one corner to another, creating her Yuletide masterpieces. Familiar tantalizing aromas emanate throughout the house – to every room. I can almost taste her specialty – my favorite- annolini, small, ring sized, stuffed pasta in homemade broth. The table is festively set for Christmas Eve and the soon-to-arrive guests.

I “revel” in my dream without eating the food my mother has made – without the arrival of the guests, or the opening of the gifts. My brother’s hyperactivity continues as do the discussions between my sister and my father. It is the importance of being with my family – of being loved and cared for that leaves me feeling “at peace” when I finally reach complete consciousness into my present reality. It is about the moments of any life when all is right, even after the glitter of the holiday fades.

Penombra – A Yuletide Memory

Penombra – A Yuletide Memory

Penombra – A Yuletide Memory

In my life I’ve had the fortune to be born into a family of storytellers, and my own personal journey in this world has shown me that all of our traumas, hardships, challenges, losses, and grief, along with all that makes our hearts smile, are inspirational tools at our disposal to connect to others! In the direst of times when we are sad and feel lost, lessons are present to be learned in order to proceed with more confidence and courage! Such is the case with a story I tell, mostly to the students I have had the honor of teaching, and those I encounter while subbing, which I’ve been fortunate to do since I retired 10 years ago!

I am 12, and attend a religious private school. Having come to America when I was 4 1/2 from Italy, and having to deal with the realities of two cultures each day was quite the challenge! I was quiet, reserved, a bit frightened all the time, and wanted not to be noticed, especially at school, lest I give the wrong answer. I followed all rules, rarely spoke, did what I needed to do which included completing my homework as best I could!

One day at school. I realized with horror that I had not completed an English assignment which the required scissors! Panicking, and since I did not have scissors, I meticulously folded the paper and tore it. I glued this down, and completed the writing task, which involved creating sentences describing a picture, underlining the parts of speech.I was able to complete the task right before the bell rang to line up, and I felt relieved.

Once seated in class, I handed my homework in along with everyone else by sending it forward. There were others who had not done it at all, and as Sister Mathilda, ( not her real name,) collected the papers, she got angrier and angrier at the shear number of students who had not done their homework at all! My relief at having turned in my homework was short lived. I was seated close to the front of the room and her desk, so mine was on top, which she had in her hand as she literally screamed at me, because she could see that I had not used scissors, and had surmised that I had probably just completed it. She used me as the example, I think, to put the fear of God into everyone! She screamed at me for what seemed an incredibly long time. I was horrified, and it took everything I had not to burst out crying and run out of the room, but I did! Once recess came, I bolted out of the class, no longer able to restrain the tears!

Once outside, I headed to the bathroom! A classmate, Amber Rose, (not her real name,) followed me and immediately put her arms around me! I don’t remember what she said, but her kindness and comforting words put an end to my tears and struggle in the moment! She didn’t have to follow me and do what she did, but I’m ever so thankful she did! I was able to go back into that class with a bit of confidence and courage, knowing that this wonderful classmate had my back!

In that same class was Markus Down, ( also not his real name,) who took every opportunity to make fun of me. I guess you could call him the quintessential bully. I barely spoke and tried so desperately to keep to myself, and, yet, he would search me out – find me anywhere and make fun of everything about me, from what I had in my lunch, to the numerous trips to the bathroom, as I always seemed to have a very nervous stomach, to the fact that my father was a janitor, with his own business, and I was his helper, so I would be seen all over town cleaning businesses. He made my life miserable! He was so mean!!

As I look out at the students, I then stop, and ask them who they want to be remembered as- an Amber Rose or a Markus Down? I continue by saying that I recall both these students very well – though I’ve not seen them in over 50 years, but both supplied me with such strong feelings that I internalized them, and they are as strong as when I lived through that time!

We cannot control much of what goes on in this world, but we can be the best versions of ourselves each and everyday, by being kind, compassionate, empathetic, and even if we don’t like someone, respectful. It’s literally all that we can do!

Though it’s a story I share with students who have self defeating attitudes, or when there are altercations in the class amongst their classmates, it’s a memory I often go to, to remind me what Maya Angelou said so eloquently, “ People will forget what you said or what you did, but they’ll never forget how you made them feel.” It’s not necessarily what happens to us in life, but rather what we do with it. Therein lies our power.

A Birthday Story

A Birthday Story

— Read on rockysinspirationandstories.com/a-birthday-story/

I have many soothing mantras, but my favorite one of late is in Italian.  “Quanti cuori!” Asked as a question, it simply means, “How many hearts?” But I use it as a very uplifting exclamatory statement: “So many hearts!” My obsession with hearts is another byproduct of the Pandemic of 2020, and one more thing I began to notice in the quieting of my mind and the curtailing of a rushed life.

January 13 is my father’s birthday, and as always I commemorate the day with a FB posting as it truly gladdens me to share this amazing man with the world.  On this particular day, I decided that a solo walk was just what I needed, so I chose the San Pablo Trail on Mare Island, a flat, sparsely visited path with beautiful scenic vistas, diverse bird sightings, and rocks – lots of them.

Though my dad’s earthly presence has been missing since 1991, his unmistakable and palpable aura has always been felt strongly, and not a day has passed since his death that I do not think of him, feel his hugs, his unconditional love for me, his silly sense of humor, and his soothing voice as he utters his nickname for me, “Lori.”

On this particular day he was right next to me as I walked along. Every once in a while I would look down only to discover heart shaped stones. One here – another one there. Eventually they were all over the place, and every time my gaze veered down, I became slightly giddy and light, thanking my father for a manifestation of his presence. “Ma, Daddy, (as he preferred to be called,) Quanti Cuori! Grazie!!!

As I picked them up, the count suddenly became important. After four I was reminded of being 4 ½ when I first met my father, he having migrated to the US the month I was born. Seventeen was my age when my parents dropped me off at UC Davis for college, and I flash on how my dad cried, blowing his nose into the handkerchief he always seemed to carry in his pocket. Twenty-nine was how old I was when I got married, and he walked me down the aisle with a kiss and very tight hug before he “handed me over.” Thirty-one marked his age when he became my dad, and when he came to the US. It is also the age I was when he became the remarkable nonno that he was to my son, Aaron, and four years later to my daughter, Joanna. Thirty-three was the count of the total number of years he was physically in my life. Thirty-seven was my age when he died, and sixty-eight was his age at the time of his death.

Hearts have become the manifestations of which Wayne Dyer, the beloved spiritual teacher, speaks in describing the infinite divine love that resides in each one of us. There is no death because we are not our bodies for they do die.  We are our spirit and energy, which never die, and my father’s indomitable spirit is alive and well, and though I cannot see him, I can feel him.

Each time I spot a heart shaped stone or cloud in the sky or a leaf or a tree or a foamy heart or, my favorite, heart shaped bird poop on the ground, manifesting my dad’s silly sense of humor, I smile and my own heart smiles, and there it is – all the love, energy, and beauty that is who he always was and continues to be. It literally makes my day, along with all the wonderful people in my life who in humoring this obsession of mine are now also finding “hearts” and sending me the photos. My sweet sister-cousin, Margie, from Santa Cruz, has found them on the beach and they now adorn my front walkway and cabin.

Needless to say, I have amassed quite a collection of rocks from all over the place – Italy – Peru, and the Inca Trail, Viet Nam, Cambodia, Spain, on the Camino de Santiago, Patagonia, South Africa, England, Scotland, Wales, Canada, numerous states in the US, and especially on my walks here at home and at the Russian River, my oasis of peace. They are part of my heart garden and soon will make up a mosaic of sorts. I also love to enclose them in gifts, and “pass them on.”

This heart experience has me taking heed and feeling the presence of so many other people in my life who are no longer physically here. Sometimes it’s a song or a story I share of them – a joke – anything that was important to them – and I smile because they are right there.

I’m always reminded of the truth behind the words of Maya Angelou who said that,  “People will forget what you said. People will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel.” This, along with the hearts, are my guiding light in leading a life where one chooses kindness over anger, acceptance over judgment, rising above ourselves as best we can to embrace the divinity that is in each and everyone of us.