Today is getting away from me. I have a legacy post in my head for my mother-in-law Marcella (God rest her soul) but am not sure I can do it justice with the mushy membrane--a mysterious malaise I have--between my ears today. Maybe by the morrow I can manage.
I have miles to go before I return to blogland, but this is my M post for today, just in case, because I like to play by the rules. I prefer to make up my own rules (most mere mortals do), but it just might be that I have to make room for other matters in the next several hours, including picking up a matching pair of end tables I bought for the main room this morning for only half the moolah the merchant was asking. Merry moments mean moving miscellany and, I hope, not matrimonial mayhem!
Showing posts with label A to Z. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A to Z. Show all posts
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
L is for Linda
My aunt Linda is my mother's only sister, and she's always had a special place in my heart. She was always the cool aunt, the fun aunt ,the wild aunt.
The first memory I have of Aunt Linda is from 1972 or '73. I was seven or eight. I will call the memory "The Cigarette and the Seminary." My aunt had come from Kansas to Missouri to visit us when we lived at the Baptist seminary where my parents were taking courses. Our apartment was about the size of a hopscotch board with the airport closer than the grocery store. I remember having to stop mid-sentence while a jet flew over, about every third minute of the day. I think that's when I learned to talk fast. It's also the first time I ever flicked the ash off of a cigarette, and it thrilled me. My aunt would hold the cigarette while she talked, and I just sat there watching the thing burn till I could flick it. Funny how things stick in a kid's mind. Aunt Linda smoked and she was cool; I concluded that I wanted to smoke when I grew up.
By the time I was in the seventh grade, Aunt Linda had moved to Ohio and we to Maryland. My mom took us three girls out to visit her. Aunt Linda was a product of the 60's, so she had this groovy, hippie style about her clothes, her house, and her music. It was all so foreign to this little dyed-in-the-wool Christian school girl of a niece. Her dark house was full of character, antiques, and quilts. She seemed to know everything there was to know about quilts and had her own shop. I couldn't fathom paying that much money for a blanket even if I had it. (I understand now, of course.) Her bed was a high, old, antique wooden bed with a feather mattress and comfy American quilts. We loved to take turns sleeping in it with her because we could stay up late talking. She seemed to really enjoy our company. It was probably hilarious because we were so doggone naive.
Aunt Linda was, and is, a gourmet chef. I won't even say "cook." She exceeds everyone I know in culinary skill, and I know a lot of great cooks. Nothing came out of a box or a can that I remember. Everything was fresh. She chopped onions, tomatoes, avocadoes, cucumbers, lettuce. She grilled fish and chicken and beef long before it was popular. The best homemade I've ever had in my life was at her house on Spring Break in 1993. That's how good it was. I went to her place for the week instead of going home. She served orange roughy with fresh lemon, steamed artichokes with butter, and a tossed salad. The thick oak table was always set with brown cloth napkins and stoneware. No delicate china like my mom used. Aunt Linda's style was 100 percent earthy.
*As an aside, I had three smoking experiences growing up, all of which were quick and non-habit-forming. One was in third grade in the loft of a barn. Not smart at all. One was right after high school when I worked as a Woolworth waitress and everyone smoked. And one was in the college dorm/former convent in my freshman year when my roommate and I wanted to see if we could smoke a whole pack or eat a whole bag of Combos first. We got so sick trying that neither cigarettes nor Combos has ever appealed to us again, so that's the last word on the cool charm of smoking for me. )
Back to Aunt Linda...
Twenty-one years ago she adopted a darling girl who now has a daughter of her own. My young, cool, hippie aunt became a grandmother. It seemed weird that the same woman who loved Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell and marijuana and beads hanging in the doorways was now rocking a grandbaby, but to every thing there is a season. (Turn, turn, turn.)
Aunt Linda and I stayed up late talking about all kinds of stuff. Geriatrics was a favorite topic, believe it or not. I don't know if she or my parents (or all three) helped me develop a love for old people, but I learned much from my aunt. She was the director of a nursing home in Ohio and loved it so much that she moved to Santa Fe to build a home that became an adult daycare facility in the 80s and 90s. When it was no longer financially profitable for her, Aunt Linda converted it into a bed and breakfast called Casa Pacifica. Once again, her signature style of quilts and antiques and rustic, earthy decor filled the rooms. And once again, she used her gift of hospitality to welcome and nourish hungry travelers. Her business acumen (learned from her mother) helped her make a living at what she loved to do. She named one of the rooms in my grandmother's honor. It's called Tola's Favorite. If you're ever in Santa Fe, please stay at Casa Pacifica B&B and ask for Linda. Tell her Zoanna sent you. (She might double your rate, but oh well.)
There is so much more I could say about Aunt Linda. Her love of language, puppies, Kansas skies, and the Rolling Stones are just a few of the things that endear her to me. (Well, I could take or leave the Stones.) Her quick wit, great questions, hearty laugh, and affection have wrapped me up like a warm quilt in my reminiscence of our brief visits together.
I will always love my Aunt Linda, and I'm certain it's mutual. She is leaving a legacy of hospitality, and true hospitality is love.
The first memory I have of Aunt Linda is from 1972 or '73. I was seven or eight. I will call the memory "The Cigarette and the Seminary." My aunt had come from Kansas to Missouri to visit us when we lived at the Baptist seminary where my parents were taking courses. Our apartment was about the size of a hopscotch board with the airport closer than the grocery store. I remember having to stop mid-sentence while a jet flew over, about every third minute of the day. I think that's when I learned to talk fast. It's also the first time I ever flicked the ash off of a cigarette, and it thrilled me. My aunt would hold the cigarette while she talked, and I just sat there watching the thing burn till I could flick it. Funny how things stick in a kid's mind. Aunt Linda smoked and she was cool; I concluded that I wanted to smoke when I grew up.
By the time I was in the seventh grade, Aunt Linda had moved to Ohio and we to Maryland. My mom took us three girls out to visit her. Aunt Linda was a product of the 60's, so she had this groovy, hippie style about her clothes, her house, and her music. It was all so foreign to this little dyed-in-the-wool Christian school girl of a niece. Her dark house was full of character, antiques, and quilts. She seemed to know everything there was to know about quilts and had her own shop. I couldn't fathom paying that much money for a blanket even if I had it. (I understand now, of course.) Her bed was a high, old, antique wooden bed with a feather mattress and comfy American quilts. We loved to take turns sleeping in it with her because we could stay up late talking. She seemed to really enjoy our company. It was probably hilarious because we were so doggone naive.
Aunt Linda was, and is, a gourmet chef. I won't even say "cook." She exceeds everyone I know in culinary skill, and I know a lot of great cooks. Nothing came out of a box or a can that I remember. Everything was fresh. She chopped onions, tomatoes, avocadoes, cucumbers, lettuce. She grilled fish and chicken and beef long before it was popular. The best homemade I've ever had in my life was at her house on Spring Break in 1993. That's how good it was. I went to her place for the week instead of going home. She served orange roughy with fresh lemon, steamed artichokes with butter, and a tossed salad. The thick oak table was always set with brown cloth napkins and stoneware. No delicate china like my mom used. Aunt Linda's style was 100 percent earthy.
*As an aside, I had three smoking experiences growing up, all of which were quick and non-habit-forming. One was in third grade in the loft of a barn. Not smart at all. One was right after high school when I worked as a Woolworth waitress and everyone smoked. And one was in the college dorm/former convent in my freshman year when my roommate and I wanted to see if we could smoke a whole pack or eat a whole bag of Combos first. We got so sick trying that neither cigarettes nor Combos has ever appealed to us again, so that's the last word on the cool charm of smoking for me. )
Back to Aunt Linda...
Twenty-one years ago she adopted a darling girl who now has a daughter of her own. My young, cool, hippie aunt became a grandmother. It seemed weird that the same woman who loved Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell and marijuana and beads hanging in the doorways was now rocking a grandbaby, but to every thing there is a season. (Turn, turn, turn.)
Aunt Linda and I stayed up late talking about all kinds of stuff. Geriatrics was a favorite topic, believe it or not. I don't know if she or my parents (or all three) helped me develop a love for old people, but I learned much from my aunt. She was the director of a nursing home in Ohio and loved it so much that she moved to Santa Fe to build a home that became an adult daycare facility in the 80s and 90s. When it was no longer financially profitable for her, Aunt Linda converted it into a bed and breakfast called Casa Pacifica. Once again, her signature style of quilts and antiques and rustic, earthy decor filled the rooms. And once again, she used her gift of hospitality to welcome and nourish hungry travelers. Her business acumen (learned from her mother) helped her make a living at what she loved to do. She named one of the rooms in my grandmother's honor. It's called Tola's Favorite. If you're ever in Santa Fe, please stay at Casa Pacifica B&B and ask for Linda. Tell her Zoanna sent you. (She might double your rate, but oh well.)
There is so much more I could say about Aunt Linda. Her love of language, puppies, Kansas skies, and the Rolling Stones are just a few of the things that endear her to me. (Well, I could take or leave the Stones.) Her quick wit, great questions, hearty laugh, and affection have wrapped me up like a warm quilt in my reminiscence of our brief visits together.
I will always love my Aunt Linda, and I'm certain it's mutual. She is leaving a legacy of hospitality, and true hospitality is love.
Friday, April 06, 2012
F is for Flo
Flo was the pastor's wife at one of our old churches. She was kind, witty, caring, gracious, humble,
hard-working, and inquisitive. Inquisitive with a capital I.
If you've ever been in the company of someone who really wants to know you, to hear your thoughts, your dreams, your ideas, your jokes, your tears, your concerns, and even what you had for breakfast because she really cares about the details in your life, then you probably felt honored and perhaps even loved. Most people fill a conversation either talking small talk or about themselves (often one and the same). I am guilty of that, but it's usually when I'm graced by an inquisitive person like Flo.
A typical "flow" to Flo's dialogue might go like so (say that three times fast!).
(on the church grounds or in her yard next door to the church...)
"Zoanna, it's so good to see you. What brings you my way today?"
"Oh, I had to pick up a crock pot I accidentally left at the church."
"Was that the beef burgundy everyone was raving about?"
"Well, I made it, but I'm not sure about the raving part."
"Could I get the recipe?
"Sure. It's really pretty simple."
"I'll bet you are just one of those people who thinks all cooking is simple, aren't you?"
"Me? If it's not simple, I don't cook it."
"Your children probably look forward to mealtime, don't they? Are they good eaters?"
"They are good eaters, yes. We make them try three bites of everything once, and they can't say they don't like it until they've tried it."
"That's good. Was your mom a good cook?"
Do you see how her questions were focused on me instead of on herself? Can you count how many questions she asked? Did you get the sense that her side of the conversation was rapid-fire questioning, or that she really wanted to know the answers? Are you like me in loving this kind of person who seems to have the knack for interviewing people? Do the people Flo talks to realize they are doing most of the talking on the spot, or does that thought not occur to them until they walk away? Do people like me wish they'd have asked more questions of her? What observations have you made about her questions? How about this paragraph? Is it getting on your nerves yet? Or are you are nodding along saying, "I know someone like Flo!" or "I am a Flo!"?
Inquiring minds want to know: Are you more of a Zo than a Flo?
Flo left a legacy of inquisitiveness in me. Her questions made me the object of her care for the many years I was privileged to be in the same church. She was more interested in asking what I thought or felt than in telling me what she thought and felt. I really try to emulate her in that way, but often fail. Ya know?
hard-working, and inquisitive. Inquisitive with a capital I.
If you've ever been in the company of someone who really wants to know you, to hear your thoughts, your dreams, your ideas, your jokes, your tears, your concerns, and even what you had for breakfast because she really cares about the details in your life, then you probably felt honored and perhaps even loved. Most people fill a conversation either talking small talk or about themselves (often one and the same). I am guilty of that, but it's usually when I'm graced by an inquisitive person like Flo.
A typical "flow" to Flo's dialogue might go like so (say that three times fast!).
(on the church grounds or in her yard next door to the church...)
"Zoanna, it's so good to see you. What brings you my way today?"
"Oh, I had to pick up a crock pot I accidentally left at the church."
"Was that the beef burgundy everyone was raving about?"
"Well, I made it, but I'm not sure about the raving part."
"Could I get the recipe?
"Sure. It's really pretty simple."
"I'll bet you are just one of those people who thinks all cooking is simple, aren't you?"
"Me? If it's not simple, I don't cook it."
"Your children probably look forward to mealtime, don't they? Are they good eaters?"
"They are good eaters, yes. We make them try three bites of everything once, and they can't say they don't like it until they've tried it."
"That's good. Was your mom a good cook?"
Do you see how her questions were focused on me instead of on herself? Can you count how many questions she asked? Did you get the sense that her side of the conversation was rapid-fire questioning, or that she really wanted to know the answers? Are you like me in loving this kind of person who seems to have the knack for interviewing people? Do the people Flo talks to realize they are doing most of the talking on the spot, or does that thought not occur to them until they walk away? Do people like me wish they'd have asked more questions of her? What observations have you made about her questions? How about this paragraph? Is it getting on your nerves yet? Or are you are nodding along saying, "I know someone like Flo!" or "I am a Flo!"?
Inquiring minds want to know: Are you more of a Zo than a Flo?
Flo left a legacy of inquisitiveness in me. Her questions made me the object of her care for the many years I was privileged to be in the same church. She was more interested in asking what I thought or felt than in telling me what she thought and felt. I really try to emulate her in that way, but often fail. Ya know?
Monday, April 02, 2012
B is for Barbara
(Barbara, far right with a friend and my folks in Israel)Barbara has been a friend of my mom's since I was in junior high. I think they met through a Bible study. I'm not sure when I was officially introduced to her, but the one thing that I couldn't get over was how anyone could keep smiling--genuinely smiling and laughing contagiously--for so long at a time. This wasn't just once; it was every time we were together. If a room didn't have joy in it, Barbara would walk in and immediately the atmosphere would change.
I don't know much about her past except that she had her share of grief in marriage. Her children, however, brought tremendous pleasure and pride to her. She was never subtle or particularly discreet in expressing herself, but it wasn't offensive; it was just plain funny. I remember she said -- with her kids and my sisters and I standing in the very same room together--that she wanted her kids to hang out more with us to get even smarter and godlier than they already were. If anyone else had said that, it would've sounded like a left-handed compliment to her kids, but when Barbara said it, I felt like she was just hooking mentors up with mentorees! The way she would giggle and "tell it like it is" in her thick Baltimore accent cracked me up.
I remember one of her sons developed a crush on my older sister and gave her the most beautiful wrist corsage to wear to a special ring ceremony at school. I was so jealous of my sister and her flowers that I think I gave Barbara reason to take me down from the pedestal she'd put me on.
One thing Barbara has consistently modeled is prayer. She talks to the Lord and about the Lord as if He is standing right there in your midst--which He is--but the rest of us tend to forget that. Too often, for me, God is "way up in heaven," but to Barbara, he is as close as her ring finger.
Whenever other people would tell her about a worry, or a decision they were weighing, or a relationship that needed restoring, Barbara would ask, "Have you prayed about that? The Lord really has this all figured out, you know, right?" And she would add that little giggle with a hug around your shoulder and say something like, "It's nothing the Lord can't handle. You b'lieve that, hon?" ("Hon," by the way, is a very Baltimore suffix to a sentence. Men, women, and children get "honned" by native Baltimorean women, and it's rather endearing in my opinion.)
Barbara's prayer life and joy have been constant companions in times of great difficulty and suffering. When her son Michael was a teenager, he went in for surgery to repair a heart defect.
Quite tragically, instead of coming out of the operation, he died on the table. I wasn't around Barbara at the time, but I can only imagine she did not succumb to bitterness even in her darkest sadness. She had a confidence in God's sovereignty that ran so deep it solidified and fortified her faith instead of shattering it. Michael's death did not steal Barbara's joy because her joy is in the Lord, not in people.
Her other son (the one who had the crush on my sister) is a helicopter pilot with the US Special Forces. He flies some of the most dangerous missions known to man, and for that reason, his family never knows where he is. He can't tell them. But one thing he can be sure of is that his mom is praying for him. Barbara told me about two years ago that she was just going about her daily business when "all of a sudden, I had this picture in my mind that Kevin was under attack. I saw him hiding under something, crouching down, covering his head. He was terrified. I stopped what I was doing and immediately began praying to the Lord to protect Kevin wherever he was. I just prayed and prayed for several minutes until I felt this release in my spirit that he was okay."
As soon as he was able, Kevin called her because he didn't want her to hear the news and be afraid, but he had just been under attack. Bombs were exploding everywhere in the city. His building was shaking, and he'd taken cover under a metal desk. He wasn't sure he'd live or die, but he wanted his mother to know he felt the peace of God protecting him.
Barbara took care of a young boy named Mikey who was severly disabled from cerebral palsy. Unable to do anything for himself, unable to speak, or walk, he was confined to a wheelchair. Barbara fed him, bathed him, sang to him, prayed over him, read to him, and adjusted his position when he moaned. She knew what he needed from the moans or the look in his eyes. It was a mystery to me, but a beautiful picture of how Jesus intercedes for us when all we can muster up are groans. The boy was not her own, but she loved him like her own. She was a faithful nurse, and often took him places because his own family wouldn't or couldn't. Mikey passed away peacefully one afternoon that was as ordinary as any other. Barbara had the privilege of seeing a smile on his face that told her he had just seen Jesus. I can only imagine the thanks Mikey will give Barbara when she joins him someday at the banquet table in heaven where he will be feeding himself and singing and praising God for this dear saint who ministered to him when he was in his twisted, aching, broken body on earth.
I could say much more about Barbara, but if there's one legacy she is leaving to those of us who know her, it is the legacy of joy.
Sunday, April 01, 2012
A is for Anthony
He was only in my life for five short years, but his legacy of generosity lives on.
My father-in-law's name was Anthony, but everyone knew him as Tony. Or Dad. Or PopPop. One of ten children born to Polish immigrants in Baltimore, Dad grew up in a poor, Catholic neighborhood where he was schooled by nuns. World War II erupted when he was 18, and he was "called up" to serve as a medic in the United States Army. Later he worked various jobs including as a butcher's apprentice and plumber. His lifelong vocation was plumbing, his avocation crossword puzzles. You might say he had an abundance of wrenches and words at his "DisposAll."
He met and married a slim, pretty young lady named Marcella in the mid-40s. He liked her legs and outgoing personality. She couldn't resist his dimples and his ability to "cut a rug" to the Beer Barrel Polka. Their brood included five sons and no daughters.
I had the privilege of watching Dad in action as he fixed our earliest sinks, tubs, and toilets during our poor, newlywed life. He would never take a dime for his work, but could be easily persuaded to eat one of my humble spaghetti dinners as thanks. Paul and I bought our first home six months after we got married, for $44,000. and Dad was there to help us transform the ugly duckling into our little dream cottage.
On many occasions, Dad would show up at our door with his toolbox in one hand and a bag of good-quality meat in the other. First he'd slice the big hunk of flesh into steaks or roast portions for us to freeze. Then, while I was cooking dinner, he would sit down on the sofa and bounce a grandchild or two on his knee, clucking to make them giggle. He had a special way with babies, something that many men lack. That's something he passed along to my Paul; people have always noticed the way my husband loves infants. You can't manufacture that nurturing side of a man, and I credit my father-in-law with modeling good "daddying."
Dad also coached Little League baseball, and his sons grew up running bases and catching fly balls. When our sons were young, Paul coached Little League himself. If only Dad had been alive to witness that. I remember thinking of Dad when I'd watch Paul huddle on the sidelines with a bunch of rag-tag seven-year-olds full of sugar and promise. "Like father, like son," Dad and Paul loved training and encouraging the next generation of these young bat-wielding boys to work hard at being good players on a team.
Dad loved the Baltimore Colts and the Baltimore Orioles. Any time of day or night, his portable radio or his truck radio was tuned into a game if it was on. I never understood how someone could enjoy action in only audible form ,but that's what he grew up on.
His main fault was that he couldn't say no. My sisters-in-law and I joke about how he overbooked the babysitting commitment all the time. Linda, Donna, and I would all want him for a certain Friday night, and he'd tell us all "sure!" and then show up to only one house, leaving the others "hanging" because he forgot what he'd promised. The solution? Drive ALL the kids to the house where Dad was, and let him figure it out. Somehow he always got nine grandkids, including toddlers and babies,
to mind him. (Bribery of donuts and McDonald's french fries worked well.) If Dad kept one commitment, he kept them all. His favorite night at our house was the time he committed to watching our 13-month old Ben while Paul and I went to the hospital to have our next baby. "Bring home a pretty one," he said, meaning "a girl to add to the bunch of all boys." We did, and he spoiled her rotten.
Dad didn't earn much money as a plumber, but every member of his large and growing family could count on getting a crisp ten-dollar bill and a kiss or hug on their birthday or Christmas. In those days, a ten seemed like a hundred. The funny thing was, even the babies got ten dollar bills, and he thought it was really cute that they would put their money where their mouth was.
At about 2:30 a.m. on the morning of February 12, 1992, I dreamed that Dad died suddenly. The dream was so vivid I startled awake. My heart raced; I had the distinct impression that this nightmare was God's way of preparing me. I was too afraid to say a word about it to my husband. Eventually I fell back to sleep. Four hours later, when Paul was drying his hair for work, the phone rang. I answered it, trembling. It was his younger brother David.
"Zo, Paul there? I've got some bad news."
"What do you mean?"
"Dad's dead."
The guy he picked up for work every day found him slumped over the wheel of his truck. Massive heart attack.
To this day, I miss him when I am trying to cut a big slab of meat into pretty sliced portions, or when I make keilbasa with sauerkraut at Thanksgiving. Paul misses him on Orioles' Opening Day or when the hot water heater leaks or when he watches old war movies. Dad donated his time, talent, money, and love, over and over and over again. For that I remember Anthony--"Dad"--as a man who left a legacy of generosity.
Dad loved the Baltimore Colts and the Baltimore Orioles. Any time of day or night, his portable radio or his truck radio was tuned into a game if it was on. I never understood how someone could enjoy action in only audible form ,but that's what he grew up on.
His main fault was that he couldn't say no. My sisters-in-law and I joke about how he overbooked the babysitting commitment all the time. Linda, Donna, and I would all want him for a certain Friday night, and he'd tell us all "sure!" and then show up to only one house, leaving the others "hanging" because he forgot what he'd promised. The solution? Drive ALL the kids to the house where Dad was, and let him figure it out. Somehow he always got nine grandkids, including toddlers and babies,
to mind him. (Bribery of donuts and McDonald's french fries worked well.) If Dad kept one commitment, he kept them all. His favorite night at our house was the time he committed to watching our 13-month old Ben while Paul and I went to the hospital to have our next baby. "Bring home a pretty one," he said, meaning "a girl to add to the bunch of all boys." We did, and he spoiled her rotten.Dad didn't earn much money as a plumber, but every member of his large and growing family could count on getting a crisp ten-dollar bill and a kiss or hug on their birthday or Christmas. In those days, a ten seemed like a hundred. The funny thing was, even the babies got ten dollar bills, and he thought it was really cute that they would put their money where their mouth was.
At about 2:30 a.m. on the morning of February 12, 1992, I dreamed that Dad died suddenly. The dream was so vivid I startled awake. My heart raced; I had the distinct impression that this nightmare was God's way of preparing me. I was too afraid to say a word about it to my husband. Eventually I fell back to sleep. Four hours later, when Paul was drying his hair for work, the phone rang. I answered it, trembling. It was his younger brother David.
"Zo, Paul there? I've got some bad news."
"What do you mean?"
"Dad's dead."
The guy he picked up for work every day found him slumped over the wheel of his truck. Massive heart attack.
To this day, I miss him when I am trying to cut a big slab of meat into pretty sliced portions, or when I make keilbasa with sauerkraut at Thanksgiving. Paul misses him on Orioles' Opening Day or when the hot water heater leaks or when he watches old war movies. Dad donated his time, talent, money, and love, over and over and over again. For that I remember Anthony--"Dad"--as a man who left a legacy of generosity.
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