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.

     With Valentine’s Day stowed away, along with the plethora of other holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, diverse celebrations, seasons, and would be adventures, until a certain normalcy returns, I gently allow my thoughts to roam.  Today they encircle the warm memories of my very favorite uncle and his sad passing in May.  My journal entry that day:  May 12, 2020:

“My sweet Zio Gianni has died, and I do believe that our psyches were intertwined around the time of his death.  I awoke around 2 am with such a strong feeling of complete angst and sadness, thinking of him because he had been ill.  I was itchy all over and uneasy, on the verge of tears.  A foreboding invaded my whole being, and nothing could settle me down until complete exhaustion took me in, around 4 am.

         I was then awakened the next morning by a What’s App message from my cousin, Carla, informing me that our beloved Zio had passed away – around noon in Italy – which would have made it 4 am my time – the exact hour when I was able to go back to sleep.

         Might my unmistakable connection to Zio Gianni have been strong enough for me to feel his departure? Maybe he was saying goodbye – presumptuous, I know, but oh, so comforting. “

         Separated by a continent and an ocean from him most of my life, I spent, in the grand scheme of things, little time with him. Yet, my bond with him was always strong and very deeply felt.  He was such a jubilant man with a good heart and a lovely, infectious laugh.  He was “di compagnia,” and equipped with a “spirito magnifico,” a male version of my mother, his sister!! I love to muster up and remember his friendly, comforting smile, and hear his ranting and raving about this and that along with his perfunctory, “ma, molla,” (oh, come on!) shouted throughout each and every discussion.

         We shared a love of wine! Oh, how I loved drinking a glass of wine with my uncle, and visiting his well stocked cantina, where I had the task of choosing how many bottles of his homemade wine would accompany the delicious meals created by my aunt.

     A favorite memory pops up, and makes me chuckle once again. While visiting Italy with my family in 2001 he came by to pick me up for “church,” and to spend some quality uncle/ niece time with me. I realized pretty quickly that this was not where we were headed, but rather to his favorite morning bar/café.  I did pose the question as to where we were going. His response was accompanied by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes and he smiled, “Si, la mia chiesa .”  (Yes, my church.) Once we arrived at our destination we had a sweet and tasty concoction of Marsala and white wine, maybe Prosecco, the perfect morning drink, according to him, all the while chatting with so many “frends,” a word he often used, from his rudimentary and unique knowledge and pronunciation of the English Language.

         My last two visits occurred in 2013 and 2019. He never seemed to age and was so energetic, always in shorts, on a bike, his main form of transportation.  In the Fall of 2013 I headed to London to visit family, and flew to Italy for 10 days, staying with my uncle and aunt in the ancestral house where my mother and her siblings were born and raised, this now being his getaway in the country during the warmer months, where over a century of living had taken place.  As was true with my mom, he also was a gifted and captivating storyteller, and from the tales he spun I learned so much more about the escapades of my mother, who had passed away in 2001. I relished these stories so much as they also included tales of my nonni, aunts, uncles, cousins, and my beloved father, who had passed away in the 90’s.  Having retired the previous June, I was trepidatiously finding my way in the next unknown section of my life, without my parents, and being here with him helped center me and remind me of where I came from, that all the important people of my past were always present, spiritually, if not physically.  

Another humorous memory emerges during this time and deals with my departure back to England.  On the day that I was to leave, he insisted that we had enough time to stop to have coffee before proceeding to the airport.  I didn’t feel that we did, but I relented, as he seemed so intent.  Once the coffee was consumed we got back in the car, which now would not start, so we were given a push from nearby workmen.  Relieved, we were back on the road and still had enough time.  A little while later though the car simply shut off, and he veered it off to the side of the road.  At this point I was resigned to the fact that I would miss this flight, but this was not to be.  He jumped out of the car, and started flagging people down, talking to the drivers, until one in particular nodded his head, and he motioned to me to bring my suitcase here.  Off I went to the airport, about twenty more minutes away with a complete stranger. I made it there safely, just in the nick of time!! My first lesson regarding retirement emerged and gave me courage – things eventually work out, and in the meantime, enjoy the adventure.

In 2019 I ventured back to Italy after the untimely death of my sister to take care of some family property, and organize a memorial in her honor in the church where we were all baptized. Since it was February and cold, I stayed with my aunt and uncle in their apartment in the nearby city of Borgo Val di Taro. He had been hospitalized for an intestinal blockage a few months earlier, but his demeanor belied any traces of illness or physical setbacks, and again, he seemed unchanged.  The apartment was my home base as I connected with other cousins and friends, and dealt with the business at hand. Each day I would venture out twice a day to a café to make use of the WIFI he did not have, but each evening we sat and ate dinner together, laughing, joking, watching Italian game shows and shouting at the television, and of course drinking his special wine. In the midst of it all, he spun more tales of the past and listened intently as I told stories of my own life in the US. He was always “present,” truly hearing all that I was saying.  When the day came to leave, he drove me to the nearby train station, and as always we had a coffee before I left.  Since I did not want a repeat of my last experience with “having enough time,” I chose to wait near the track, and since it was bitingly cold, we said our goodbyes – a tight hug, a double cheeked kiss, and one last wave as he drove away, and I did not turn around until I could no longer see him.   I relive this moment over and over, seeing him and feeling all that made him so very special – his gentleness, his positive outlook, his infectious energy, his kind smile and melodic laugh, and his unconditional love for me.

I did speak with him on Face time after I got back home.  This always made me chuckle because he would not hold the phone appropriately so that all I could see for most of the conversation was his forehead, even after numerous reminders on my part.  No matter, because his voice was loud, clear, loving, and always comforting. I have saved a recording of his voice, as he called and left a message once, and at the end of the call, he simply says that he’ll call another time, and that he’s feeling good, and this is where I leave it when I think of him, that he’s feeling good.  What is most unmistakable though is that I deeply feel his absence in this world, in spite of the fact that in the grand scheme of things I did not spend a lot of time with him. I miss him as much as I miss my own parents, and his legacy as well is a pretty powerful one, one that is palpable to me in this world, of all that he was with his magnanimous spirit, and my memories of him make my heart and soul smile.

Zio Gianni did not dispense advice, but once during a rather difficult time in my life I called him, and as always, he listened intently.  He did not interrupt, or try to talk me out of my feelings, or diminish them.  His words were few but monumental – “Speranza – bisogna sempre avere speranza.  Se non c’e speranza, non c’e niente.” (Hope – you have to always have hope.  If there is no hope, there is nothing. )

Writing this blog was difficult, as I was forced to think of him and his absence, and embrace of course the finality of his physical existence. But, my life has been incredibly enriched because he was in it, and I am reminded and comforted by the words of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler:

         “ The reality is that you will grieve forever.  You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it.  You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered.  You will be whole again but, but you will never be the same.  Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to.”

Never has the question, “How are you?” been so difficult to answer.  Good? Not totally.  Bad?  Also not an accurate summation. Thankful?  Always, everyday, as they say, there’s always something to be thankful for, a practice which has its own unique power in and of itself. But the word that sums up this year for me is “weary!”  I feel the weight of a very heavy cloak of weariness on me, which grows with each passing day, the result of endless months of being on alert due to Covid, and all the protocol entailed in staying safe for yourself and others, along with the sadness in thinking of the approximately 220,000 who have succumbed to this unrelenting virus in the US alone, the horrific race riots and unjustified deaths, the unsettling and downright frightening political situation, the catastrophic and unyielding onslaught of the fires and the resulting debilitating, hazardous air quality, and all the personal losses associated with this maelstrom.

The whole experience has slowed me down – made me ever so much more thoughtful about what it really means to be alive, and of course, the feeling of being grateful for all that is simple and at our disposal all the time. For me this includes any walk outside, noticing the delightful antics of animals and insects, the beauty and perfection of any flower, sunsets, sunrises, our pets, our relationships, accessible under careful Covid guidelines or virtually, and books, lots of books, my favorite music, the weekly visits to my most favorite place, the family cabin, nestled among majestic pines and in large part untouched by time with so many memories, the refreshing river nearby, and the inherent natural beauty of the entire area, and of course this list goes on endlessly,  and is different for each and every one of us.

And, then, there are specific days that stick out, when something truly magical happens.  Such was the case when our library reopened to one hour scheduled visits.  Under a hazy, smoky sky, I headed to my long awaited and missed visit to the library, where I checked out the maximum number of books, sauntering down all the aisles, soaking in the smells and the uplifting possibilities of so many books!

After checking out my chosen books, I decided to keep my mask on and walk around the duck pond in back, in spite of the unhealthy air quality.  After so many days of being housebound, I marveled at the ducks and the birds in and along the length of the entire pond, oblivious to the smoky haze, the reflections of the trees in the water, the splashing water of the fountain, remembering nostalgically the frequent trips here with my children long ago, and lest I become too sad I headed back to the car, stopping to read a plaque on a boulder, dedicated by a son to his mother whom he thanked for her encouragement and love, with her most often used words of “Never Give Up,” etched boldly into the rock. Smiling, I straightened up but something caught my eye right below the commemoration, on the ground.  The small little “being” was on its back with its little feet moving furiously as it was trying to right itself.  I bent down and told him to “not give up.” I spoke softly, informing him that I needed to get something to scoop him up and put him back in the pond where I’m pretty sure he belonged.  (Yes, I could have done this with my bare hands, but pandemic or no pandemic, I’m still squeamish about such things.)

At the car, I met a very friendly city worker, and as it is my nature to talk to any and all strangers, I relayed to him what I saw and how, with plastic bag in hand, I was headed back to save the little creature. He decided to follow me, especially since I had no idea what it was – a cross between a lobster and crab is what I told him.

Once we arrived the “creature” had righted itself but was very wobbly and not headed to the pond.  My new friend recognized it immediately as a crawdad.  He scooped it up and gently put it in the pond where it swam away.

Our conversation continued as he filled me in on his life growing up in Fairfield, his ventures with his dad to catch crawdads and then have crawdad feasts. Curious as to how they tasted, I asked if they tasted like lobster. His retort was accompanied by a chuckle, a pretty wide smile, and, “Nothing tastes like lobster.”

We also realized that we had friends in common, one with whom I was going to be talking to, so I promised to pass on his regards.  I thanked him for his help, and wished him a good day, and my usual comment these days of  “Stay Safe.”

The whole incident truly lifted my spirits, and as I reviewed it all in my head, I knew why.  This long siege since March has curtailed my activity level, causing me to slow down, and when you slow down you notice so much more, always there, but we’re often too much in a hurry or busy to notice.

Now, I had, in just a mere two hours, visited the sorely missed library, checked out new books, walked outside, met and had a very lighthearted conversation with a kind and helpful human being, and, most of all, I saved a crawdad!!! It is truly in the simplicity of life where we can find a peace that has the power to lift us up out of the dread that we may all be feeling these days.

 

As I sit here in the majesty of the pines – with birds chirping, listening to inspiring music of my choosing, sipping my third caffelatte, my palate and taste buds shoot me back in time, and I cannot ever remember not having coffee, or ever being too young to ingest it.

It is who I am – what defines me, in part – my Italian identity, as it were. As a child the caffelatte was a daily custom; a mixture of coffee, warm milk, and sugar, served by both my parents, along with a prodigious meal of pancakes laced in chocolate created by my mother. On other days, my father would dole it out to my brother and I, after he returned from his early morning rising at 5:00 to undertake his janitorial jobs. In he would walk with that big smile and jubilant nature as we were glued to the antics of Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Greenjeans. He would quickly prepare this wonderfully comforting caffeinated elixir, and lumber over to us with 2 steaming mugs of caffelatte. I was a nervous, anxious type – still experiencing the clash of the two cultures – the two countries- Italy, my birthplace, and all that was familiar, and America, still so very foreign and scary, but the caffelatte and all that it represented calmed me, along with the unconditional love of a most wonderful and brave father.

Caffelatte was also put in my thermos as part of my school lunches, along with a delicious chocolate sandwich, composed of two pieces of white bread between which chocolate pudding was inserted – all very commonplace to me- but not to those students sitting near me. It was a quite a feat to cower at the end of the picnic table, where I would hide my sandwich as I snuck a tasty bite, quickly unscrewing the top of the thermos to take a very fast swig of coffee, often scalding my tongue, as I rushed to put the top back on, so as not to permeate the area with the aroma of coffee, and the uncomfortable stares from those nearest me. Whew!!

The other variation is of course just a simple latte caldo – never ever freddo or cold, as my mother thought this was bad for us. Latte caldo to me is all about love, caring, family, peace, and recuperation. It was served with sugar, and at times, honey, at any hour, but especially during any and all illnesses.

I was most pleased with my inadvertent discovery of “latte corretto,” literally translated as “corrected milk.” While going to school in Padova, Italy, as a junior in college, I came down with a bad case of the sniffles, but not wanting to be indoors any longer, I bundled up in my heavy loden haired coat, and ventured out to my favorite café where I ordered a latte caldo. The barrista, having noted how sick I was by the endless sneezing and blowing of my nose, shook his finger at me, and said, “latte corretto.” I shrugged my shoulders not understanding what he meant. He motioned me to wait as he steamed a frothy glass of milk and added a shot (or two) of brandy. My eyes widened as he very gently, with the kindest eyes and smile, pushed it towards me. As I sipped this amazing potion, I warmed up quickly; my throat was soothed, and my sneezing stopped. I was forced to remove my winter outer wear, ordered another one, sat down, and read. To this day, if I get a cold, I go directly to “correcting” my latte caldo. It is a very distinct and wonderful memory that always makes me smile.

Sweet, warm milk is indeed my go to when I can’t sleep, as when I was recovering from knee surgery, and would awaken in the middle of the night to a painfully throbbing knee. Off to the kitchen I would go, and with the milk in hand, I would sit on the kitchen nook breakfast table and swing my leg, as instructed by the physical therapist. The power of the swing and the milk allowed me to return to bed and sleep.

My relationship with caffelatte and sweet, warm, frothy milk connects me to my life, instantaneously releasing a myriad of wonderful memories and sensations, and is explained very clearly in a novel I read in college by Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time. He differentiates between voluntary and involuntary memory, voluntary being something you try to remember using your knowledge of the world – your intelligence, and involuntary is reliant on your senses, and in the case of the “Petite Madeleine;” taste.

“No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. … Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? … And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.”

—Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

 

Memory is a funny thing, and it does wane as we get older and accumulate  an abundance of experiences, with details becoming fuzzy or simply no longer existing. This isn’t always the case with the involuntary – those memories hardwired to one of our senses. If we stay with these, parts of our lives are revealed, relived, and deliciously re-savored.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

During the more challenging times in our life, we need to seek out the best ways to deal and cope, and so the question is, “From what source does this strength or courage that we need come?” This is something about which I have been thinking a lot. It seems to come, in part, from our own stories of what we have experienced personally and survived, but it also comes from the stories and legacies of the people in our lives, past and present.

The stories that I remember the most, that made quite an impression on me, were those of my mother, who would have turned 95 today. She was not a touchy-feely kind of mom, and we did not always get along, as she was quite a force to be reckoned with, and could hold a grudge longer than anyone I have ever known, but what makes me smile is that we never gave up on each other, and we were never estranged. Because of this, I am to this day able to access our wonderful midnight chats, which would last for hours. My mother would make up a batch of her famous Manhattans, and we would sip and snack as I listened to her most amazing stories, told to me so often that I would often have to interrupt her, lest she leave out an important part or not “recall” it correctly.

She was a young woman during World War II, and witnessed so much. She told of having to find cover when occasional bombs would fall near the field where she and her family were working. She always told this story, like a kid would, with fear to be sure, but also with a fair amount of just plain innocent fascination.  She also told of hiding, feeding, and caring for a German soldier who had defected and was able to leave when it was safe. This was made even more remarkable when I was 10 and was actually able to see the area of the barn where he was kept.

On another occasion, a group of German soldiers were on route to Pieve di Campi, and with them came horrific accounts of violence waged on women in particular. Since her family was so big, they lived in two separate houses right across from each other. My 17 year old mother happened to be alone with one of her sisters and her baby brother when she saw them approaching. She quickly tore her clothing, as well as that of her sister, and rubbed soot from the fire all over them, and blackened out a few teeth, making themselves look very undesirable. She then picked up her baby brother, and pricked him with a pin, causing him to cry. Between their slovenly and disgusting appearance and the wailing child, the ploy worked, and they left.

Then there was the infamous story of my birth, which she would tell, in great detail each year. How absolutely frightening to be alone in a secluded farmhouse far away from other neighbors with two small children and in labor. Her rendition was fraught with anxiety, but she always seemed to insert some humor as well. The details are emblazoned in my mind – my brother being sick with a fever – directing my older sister out to the well for water to boil while awaiting her mother and midwife who were to arrive the following morning. She was in labor all night long, and delivered me quickly the next day, painfully climbing up a very narrow staircase to the bedroom, and out I “fell” as she put it, weighing in at an astonishing 6 kilos – (or so she said.) This, we always argued about, since I was convinced that she had made a mistake or was exaggerating. In any case, after the telling of the story, it was mutually agreed that the birthday gifts should go to her – not me.

After my birth, we moved in with my mother’s parents, and for 4 ½ years she was separated from my father who had migrated to California the month I was born. There he was sponsored by his brothers who had arrived earlier, and where he was working hard, trying to save enough money to give us a better life. The separation was not to have lasted that long, but it did, and I can only imagine the amount of courage it took to deal with taking care of us and missing him so very much.

The day finally arrived when she left her birth family and all that she had ever known to travel with 3 small children on a ship, (aptly named Il Cristofaro Colombo,) for two weeks, and then on a train as she immigrated to California to be reunited with her husband.

Soon after our arrival and moving into our new house, my father suffered a nervous breakdown, for which he was hospitalized for several weeks. Though there was some family support, my mother, newly arrived and not speaking a word of English, let alone not being in possession of a driver’s license, persevered, continuing to clean many of my father’s janitorial jobs, on foot, early in the morning with my sister in tow. I do remember it being a frightening time, but I also recall how matter -of -fact she was in keeping things going.

I was always amazed at how not knowing English never presented itself as a problem. She could communicate with just about anyone, regardless of the language. Though she eventually attended ESL classes in the evening, she managed to acquire a job, a driver’s license, and U.S. Citizenship in a short order of time.

Her courage was quite evident as she battled colon cancer for four years. I know she must have felt fear, but she was so straightforward about dealing with it, that there was more laughter than tears. I loved the monthly treks to UCSF for her first round of chemotherapy during a clinical trial. She was an immediate hit with all the doctors and nurses, for whom she brought gifts of food and her needlepoint projects. I will always appreciate these times for we talked so much going and coming in the car, as well as during the treatments themselves.

One round of chemo did yield all the typical, unpleasant results, such as hair loss. My mom 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 out handfuls of it for all to see. Then, when she was completely bald, she was simply amazed, not upset. When she showed me we had a good laugh because I told her how much she looked like her hairless father, but prettier. Her hair did grow back, and she was again overjoyed because she finally got the curly hair she always wanted.

It was a true honor to have been by her side when she took her last breath at home. She had been in a coma for a few days, and I had planted myself nearby, talking to her, replaying the stories of our lives, keeping her as comfortable as I could. Her courage and resourcefulness were present all the way to the end when she somehow dislodged her dentures, causing them to knock against her bottom teeth, the sound of which made me move closer to readjust the dentures. The moment I bent down to do so, she snapped her mouth shut, and I noticed her shallow breathing. She was saying goodbye. Leaning over her, I caressed her face, now devoid of any pain and so peaceful, kissed her, letting her know that she could now go. As I gazed down at her, I did most definitely feel the sadness, but I also felt the innocent fascination that comes from witnessing something so amazing – so mysterious-so beautiful, like a child would, and then I smiled because that’s how my mother lived her life.

Both my parents were true mentors in all sense of the word. Through all the ups and downs of my family, what I’m fortunate to be left with is the amazing legacy of how they navigated their lives in spite of, and also because of the obstacles and hurdles put before them.

I feel privileged to have a treasure trove of numerous other people in my life whose tales of courage and perseverance have also inspired and encouraged me, my source of “strength and courage,” if you will, but today I celebrate my most remarkable mom on her birthday, as I keep her stories and legacy close at hand as a beacon of light.

 

In this surreal time of quarantine and social distancing, as we all attempt to thwart and eventually stop the spread of this insidious virus, we have been given time to become quite thoughtful – to think our thoughts – to remember our stories – come to grips, maybe, with all that is us – our regrets, delights, successes, failures, yes, all of it.

I’ve recently considered the metaphor of a “dot-to-dot” worksheet in visualizing our lives. You have to connect the points in order, whether they be letters, numbers, or coordinate graphing points. All create a distinct picture, which becomes askew if you do not connect them properly as you go along. Such is the case with our own lives.

At each turning point we leave behind the life we lived and the person we were, not permanently, but our energies are needed for each new phase, each new set of numbers, letters, and coordinates.

During times of trauma, or sadness, or “things not having gone well or as we planned,” we would rather just as soon not think about them, and put them out of our minds. The lines connecting these dots might very well be very light – hard to see, in need of being outlined or darkened. The person that we are require us to acknowledge and accept all “points” and “connections,” no matter how painful or sad, because mixed up together, you see, are the good ones as well.

Not long ago I returned alone to where I grew up, driving and walking down the streets of my youth, remembering it all, in order to “darken” the faded points and lines. After many years of being away, a result of the untimely deaths of my parents, and the subsequent, unfortunate estrangement from my siblings, it was a remarkable experience to return.  I became a spectator, observing my former self, and it proved not to be as frightening as I thought, sad at times to be sure, but incredibly empowering!

As I moved along, I brought to mind my first “dots,” which began in Italy with those first memories of the bald head of my grandfather, on whose lap I spent a lot of time, being held, loved, hugged, and kissed – leaving it all behind in 1958 at 4 ½ years old – with scant memories of the actual voyage across the Atlantic, but with the night of the departure firmly emblazoned in my mind, as all traumas are – my sweet nonno crying, grabbing my hands, pulling me toward him, and me being so very frightened!

The journey on the ship, the short stay in New York with relatives, and the train trip across the US are 3 faded points and lines that I do not recall well, but I most certainly have a very clear recollection of peaking out from behind my mother at the Oakland Train Station, and meeting my father for the first time – he having migrated to the US the month I was born. He was so handsome in his suit and tie, and with those dark brown compassionate, kind eyes.

The “points,” and my walk continued to include the temporary house with the red porch we lived in on Loreto Street, which my father said he chose because it reminded him of my name. From here I think of our  permanent residence – my father’s hospitalization and all four of us huddled at night in the same bed for support, warmth, and protection – onward to a frightening first day of kindergarten in a foreign land. The flurry of points continue to include endless “ feste” and time spent with an extended Italian family, my endearing and wonderful apprenticeship working alongside my father in his janitorial business, going to school, church, paper routes, numerous trips to the library, not to mention to emergency rooms, the neighborhood friends, the few unexpected encounters with “unsavory” individuals, and so much more – so many more dots and lines to acknowledge and maybe darken.

And so I navigated the first 17 years of my life: standing in front of my high school, which was torn down years ago, and replaced with stores, condos, and a park – sitting in the library of my youth where I spent many an hour – acknowledging the exact place where I learned to parallel park in the Wells Fargo parking lot, the bank that I cleaned with my dad, standing where we would park and wait for the employees to leave so we could enter, remembering the “politically incorrect” stories my father would spin about the passers-by , until I couldn’t stop laughing – walking into the exact buildings that were once stores we frequented often but which now house different businesses – remembering and feeling the insecurities and fears, along with the wonder and excitement of that life, all the while, darkening and connecting all the dots and lines.

It is so important in life to accept that which we cannot change or control. Mixed up with the more unpleasant events of our lives are also the beautiful parts. Never has this become more evident than now, as we struggle to find our way through the muddy and uncertain waters of this horrific pandemic. Let us first take stock of our own individual lives, connecting and darkening all the “dots” and “lines,” and then move on to the lessons we can learn from the present situation, accepting the existence and seriousness of Covid19.  We can do our part by following the guidelines to stop its spread, but let us not be undone by panic and fear.   Rather, relish the beauty we now have the  time to appreciate: the love of friends and family – a sunrise – a sunset – a simple flower – a graceful egret – a purring cat – fresh air- a good book –and the list is endless. Stay safe and be well.

 

 

 

A very Happy New Year to one and all!! Yes, the holiday greeting does come a bit late, but how refreshing for you to be able to sit a spell and be entertained by the “Tale of Henrietta, the Hernia,” my gift to you.

Henrietta came to light – or life? – at around 10:00 AM on December 12, 2019. That morning started off normally enough with an early coffee and chat with my good friend, Robin, after which I headed to my second-grade sub job. All was well until midmorning when I felt an exorbitant amount of sharp abdominal pain.

“Whoa, that hurts, ” I thought, but as my philosophy in life, in general, is that if I just ignore it, it will go away, (a very ineffective method, by the way, which rarely works, but one to which I adhere tightly,) I ignored it, though it was a challenge to get around. Fortunately, there happened to be a very hyperactive 7-year-old girl, who I directed throughout the day so I would not have to stand or move around much, killing two birds with one stone. She did not have any time to get into any mischief, as I kept her busy the entire day, and I’m pretty sure she slept pretty well that night!! You’re welcome, Mom!!

I did manage to shuffle-walk them to Art, after which I headed to the restroom, thinking I just needed to clear my system, as it were, and that is when Henrietta “popped out!” “That’s not right,” I thought, as “she protruded with a very pronounced mound, and I automatically tried to push her back to where she came and belonged, but this only produced more pain, and she simply and stubbornly was not budging!!!

I managed to power through the rest of the day – besides, who knows, maybe ignoring it might just work this time. I did phone the family doctor of 35 years, who immediately diagnosed Henrietta, and instructed me to come in ASAP. I then detected a very loud, annoyed, drawn-out exhalation of breath when I informed him that I couldn’t as I was working. (Being retired, I get this a lot!!) His last words were to get to the ER.

The day finally came to an end, and I called my husband as calmly and confidently as I could, to let him know that I was experiencing some rather sharp abdominal pains and that I thought I should drive myself to the ER. Since I never call him – half the time I don’t even return his texts – he knew this was serious enough to come to me and drive me there himself.

Once there, everything sped up. All I had to say was that I had a hernia – granted, I was doubled over at this point – and, before I knew it, I was put in a wheelchair, waiting for an ultrasound. Then, there was a second long, very loud – annoyed drawn-out exhalation of air, along with a very serious eye roll from my husband – when I was thinking out loud, “I wonder if I should cancel my sub job for tomorrow.”

I was then rolled into the Ultrasound Room where many photos of my new friend were taken from many different angles, and the discomfort from this photo op prompted my next question and more concerned looks.

 

With my “little voice,”(which I use when I am either in pain or tense), I asked, “ Will there be any kind of pain medication in my near future?” The response could not have been any more exciting or perfect: “We’ll be giving you some morphine.”

 

Me: “Oh, I love morphine! It’s my favorite! My heart was pumping with excitement!! At this point, all the doctors and nurses stopped cold and stared at me. I continued, stammering, in my little voice, “I’ve actually only had morphine twice: today would be the second time. I had knee surgery 34 years ago, and I just remember how very well it worked.”

Thankfully, my explanation sufficed. I was then transferred to a bed in a room – still in the ER – which was totally padded, and quite empty; the faucet didn’t even have a handle???? When I questioned the doctor in charge as to the use of this particular room, his response made me chuckle: “It’s used for patients with “personality issues.”

For a moment I nervously thought that maybe my morphine comment had caused the decision to bring me here, and I frowned. The doctor, seeing this, smiled, and explained that they did not want me out in the ER waiting room, and this room was the only one available. Whew!! That was a close one!

Then, the kind nurses came in, and, voila, an IV was pumping me with morphine – instant relief!! It was during this time when the doctor who was to perform my emergency “robotic” hernia surgery, arrived to explain what was in store for me.

He was quite excited at being able to perform this surgery using one of the few robotic machines in Solano County. His eyes were literally gleaming with anticipation. It all sounded good, except that I thought he looked awfully young – too young, perhaps and not experienced? I nervously asked him how long he had worked at North Bay. He filled me in with his background – 10 years here and 13 years there. I stopped him, “ Wait, but you’re only 20!!!”

He stopped me with, “I’m 44,” and then it hit me, “Oh, My God; that’s what old people say to young people!!!” I’m officially old. Yikes – Plus, I have been and still am very excited at having my Medicare cards and the amazing Clipper Card for the Senior Citizen/Handicapped – an amazing saving!!!! But, just maybe, if I ignore all this – the acting old (if not the actuality of being older,) it’ll all go away!!! Hope – you’ve got to have hope – as tenuous as it might be.

The surgery went well, and I was well cared for!! I learned a lot. First of all, I am happy to report that I verified with the many nurses who got me to walk, that there does not, in fact, exist a room in any hospital where the nurses and doctors go to grab some sleep and then have sex with each other, which they discuss while in surgery, as is portrayed on Grey’s Anatomy. My concern was met with cackles of laughter from many!

In the end, all went well, and, except for the pain, it was a truly amazing adventure, as it made me realize how lucky I was, that I came in when I did, that the medical situation was not worse, but “fixable,” and that everyone I came into contact with took such good care of me. Most of all, I was grateful to be able to channel the wonderfully comforting aura of my dad who would always have a humorous spin on anything life could dish out. As a child, I was either crying, hurt, bleeding, or on the ground, or a combination of all four. My dad was always there to pick me up – literally and emotionally. Thirty years have passed since his death, and yet, I still feel his presence by my side, encouraging me and making me laugh when the more serious side of life shows its face.

So, here’s to the restorative and regenerative effects of a life lived as one long, amazing adventure with all its ups and downs and wonder. Much peace, love, happiness, laughter, and good fortune to all – always.

 

 

 

I just recently saw a delightful and thought-provoking Italian film, entitled, “Quanto Basta.” In Italian, this is technically a cooking term meaning, “just enough.” How do you know when it’s exactly enough? There are no steadfast rules in place; it’s up to your own individual discretion and taste, and as the film itself, and life in general, demonstrate, you are the only one who can make that call to figure it out! It’s not just about how much salt to put in your sauce; it’s about leading a balanced life

So then, the question that we should always be asking ourselves, is, “How much is ‘just enough” in our own lives? Well, I think that we first have to love ourselves enough to set boundaries, to use our time and energy as we see fit, to find those things that we truly enjoy and pursue them. At the same time, it’s also important to include the power of kindness, empathy, compassion, and love towards those we meet along our path. That said, as we journey through our life, with all its challenges and struggles, we need to know when enough is enough, not necessarily to “give up,” but rather to “let go,” of that which is no longer working.

First and foremost in my own mind are our relationships. The rapport we have with others, be they friends or family, are very important to leading a good life, but when we try to forcibly manipulate the dynamics, holding fast to unrealistic expectations, we no longer do justice to ourselves and them. Sometimes it is vital to realize that you’ve reached the “Quanto Basta” point, that it’s enough, and it’s time to let the natural order of things take over.

I’ve especially used the “Quanto Basta” philosophy in dealing with my thoughts about those people who are no longer in my life, whether it be due to death, estrangement, or just a natural progression of events. Striving forcibly not to think of them, lest we become too sad, or maybe even angry, is simply counterproductive! Better to let the memories come, acknowledging how much we miss them, allowing ourselves to remember the essence of who they once were, to us, which can produce such a good feeling, and, maybe, even a smile or two. But, also important is knowing when to put a temporary end to our thinking. “Quanto Basta!) –until the next time.

The same holds true with our worries, anxieties, problems, difficult situations, and challenges, about which we can obsess, trying desperately to resolve, to the point where we work ourselves into a frenzy, even losing perspective, and maybe even sleep. It’s essential to step back, take a deep breath, and let go of that over which we have little or no control – to find another way. “Quanto Basta!”

This wonderful philosophy of “Quanto Basta,” of which we are at the helm, speaks to the avoidance of any and all excesses, to strike a balance in our lives, in order to enjoy and appreciate this one and only life we have. It’s a wonderfully melodic mantra to remind ourselves when to stop and change gears. “Quanto Basta” – I’ve now reached the end of my musings about this  – for today.:)

Awww – the stories of our lives – we all have them – sad, happy, good, bad – they belong to us and make us who we are, and must all be embraced, felt, and remembered!! I am, by nature, a daydreamer, and nostalgia often gets the better of me, and I simply indulge myself and tap into my “mind memories.”

 

My cousins and I come from a whole line of aunts and uncles from Italy who owned their own janitorial businesses here in America, and as children, we were often their “helpers.” Of course there were other numerous times when we were left to our own devices, and instructed to go “outside to play.” I am convinced that we were often not well supervised.

 

One story comes to mind a lot, and was recently retold at the yearly family picnic when I met up with my cousin, Jimmy! It took place when I was a mere five years old, freshly arrived from Italy, and Jimmy, who was all of six years old. He was left “in charge” of me to play outside the office my aunt, his mother, was cleaning. It is important to mention that this was in a strip mall and near a very busy street.

 

We were instructed to “play amongst ourselves,” so play we did, until a fire broke out across the street in an apartment building. Let’s face it, the bells, whistles, and sirens of a fire engine are not anything a child can resist, and resist we did not!

 

Without a further thought, Jimmy got up and ran toward what was now a very chaotic situation. Pausing, he looked both ways before crossing the street to investigate closer, but I, being so much younger, and maybe not as bright, did not use the same precaution, and was immediately hit by a very slow moving car! Down I went falling vertically under the car.

 

I do not have a clear memory as to how much it hurt. I was crying – screaming – yelling – in Italian, as I had not learned English – calling out for Jimmy, who by then had returned, and very fearfully peered down at me – splayed on the ground.

 

Now, one thing that was crystal clear was the absence of my new “Sunday shoes” from my feet. The impact had apparently caused them to fly off. My supplications to my cousin did not have anything to do with the actual act of being hit by the car and being on the ground in pain, but it had everything to do with the fact that my shoes were gone. Now, to clarify this concern, you must understand that my siblings and I were only bought two pairs of shoes a year – “Sunday” or our good shoes and tennis shoes, and those not visible to me were my good shoes. I was panicking as to where they were and, according to Jimmy, that I was going to get in a ”lot of trouble” if I lost them. This fear far outweighed the actual trauma.

 

Jimmy quickly found the shoes, brought them to me, and scurried off to get my aunt. His big fear was that he was going to be in big trouble because he was supposed to be watching me – an amazing and unrealistic expectation for a six year old!

 

Eventually I was taken to the hospital where my family met us. The story ends well: I was not seriously hurt – but more important – my shoes were back on my feet. So happy and relieved were my parents and siblings that I even got a pretty little red dress out of it. No one faulted my poor aunt who was already so devastated and horrified about what happened under her “watch.” I have to say though, that a lesson was learned, and to this day, I am a very vigilant street crosser! 😂

 

All my aunts and uncles – mostly immigrants from Italy – worked very hard, and we cousins were not always closely watched because of this. Nonetheless, we had such wonderful freedom, which only rarely led to an unfortunate incident as being run over by a car. Most of the time, it was exhilarating and there was always an adventure, and I feel grateful – even honored to be part of the “richness” of a simpler time, of growing up in a large extended Italian family, with loving aunts and uncles, and so many cousins with whom to play and create mischief! Don’t get me wrong; my immigrant experience was also fraught with stress and difficulty, but I embrace it all, as we all should and need to do as we look at our lives, because the “whole picture” makes us who we are!

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