Grandma

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandmother, probably because I am getting close to her age. She always seemed ancient, old-fashioned, and not much fun. She was a worrier, the kind of grandmother who made me hold her hand to cross the street—at twelve years old.

But she was also sprightly, deeply concerned about world events, and a great cook who made pies and bread from scratch. She loved her camera. I have her album of photos taken in the early 1900’s; my favorite shows her standing on top of a flagpole. She loved to people-watch, and living in New York, then San Francisco gave her plenty of “characters” to watch. She was a career woman at a time when a woman’s sole place was in the home. One of my earliest memories is visiting Grandma’s workplace and noticing her obvious happiness there and affectionate relationship with her co-workers.

She came over from Russia at only six months of age. Her earliest memory was of being bundled up in the middle of the night and rushed outdoors because her tenement was on fire. Wrapped in a blanket clutching her “doll,” a bunch of rags, she watched her home burn down. A family portrait shows her at age three, standing at her father’s knee, staring at the camera defiantly. She looks like she could eat nails. It’s strange to connect that tough little girl with the frightened woman I knew.

I know she made an unhappy first marriage to a cold, abusive philanderer. Her second husband was likewise self-centered and lacking in warmth. Life revolved around placating them, worrying, trying to keep disaster away. Yet with each husband’s death, she moved, made a new life for herself. Two days before she died, age eighty, she visited Knott’s Berry Farm, sent my mom a postcard which arrived after the funeral.

So. Was she happy? Or did she spend her years like me, feeling like it’s all amiss, so caught up in worries and fears that life rushes past in an unhealthy blur? It seems a terrible waste. What was her life about then? More than anything, I feel, my grandma should have been happy.

My Decision

Musing on all this, I dedicate myself to living like I want her to have lived. By settling deep into the present moment, it can be done. Today I find joy in the rush of cold air on my hands as I wash them. The fading December light. Sitting at my laptop watching my husband in the warm kitchen as he prepares food for his friends.

It’s paying off. For the first time since I was eleven or twelve, I felt a sense of impossible happiness--excitement for the coming Christmas, the beautiful pale winter air, the jewel-like lights.

Let it be so. Amen.

Rocky and Jo

We got the news this week: My husband’s Uncle Rocky has dementia. Rocky came to our house for Thanksgiving, absolutely bereft because his mind no longer works. His daughter Jill said when they got in the car to come over, he kept trying to insert his seatbelt into the cigarette lighter. Poor Jill and Lance. They were already dealing with Aunt Jo’s dementia and now both their parents have it. Of that generation only my mom has all her marbles, as we say.

The whole situation makes my mind wander far afield to when I was twelve and came out here to spend the summer with my cousins. It was a hard time for me. My lifelong playmate, Cousin Nona, had turned sixteen and suddenly lost all interest in me. There was no one my age to play with. Her brother Phil was at camp.

Sometimes my aunt took me out to Rocky and Jo’s. They were young, full of fun, and had a big ranch house with a pool in the back yard.

Their baby Jill was just a year old. I loved to place her in front of a mirror and watch her laugh and dance at the sight of her own reflection. Six-year old Lance wasn’t too bad either. He liked to play Barbies and we could swim in the pool together. I thought of myself as the loving big sister to both of them.

But one day all that came to an end. Lance and I were in the pool. For some reason I told him I would dunk him. I waited till he held his breath and then I pushed his head under water for a second. He came up laughing, so I dunked him again. And again. Suddenly he was hanging onto the side of the pool, gasping for breath and screaming. He hadn’t been laughing; he’d been crying. “I couldn’t breathe!” he yelled. I apologized profusely, but he ran inside and told his mother. Jo came out, madder than an adder, and told me, “Don’t you ever do that again!” Later I could hear her in the house, still furious, telling Rocky and Aunt Bernadine, “That is the meanest thing I ever heard of a kid doing! There’s something wrong with that girl.”

I was overwhelmed with guilt. Raised in a dysfunctional family, my self-concept comes from what others think of me. Never mind that it was an innocent mistake. Jo said I was mean; something was wrong with me.

I carried that shame for years. In fact, when I moved out here at age twenty , I was shocked to see my graduation photo prominently displayed in Aunt Bernadine’s living room. Didn’t she hate me like Rocky and Jo did?

A few years later I happened to marry Rocky and Jo’s nephew. We all get together for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. But for years I avoided Rocky and Jo, scared I’d say or do the wrong thing.

One Easter dinner about ten years ago, I sat next to Jo and was surprised to realize she liked me. Clearly I had grown up enough to let go of the old shame and fears.

But I still avoided Rocky, mostly because he had a habit of pigeonholing people and regaling them for hours with his political opinions. Only once was I able to escape. He was going on about what cushy lives prisoners lived. "We have too many rights in this country," he railed. In most pleasant tones, I said, "What rights of yours are you willing to give up?" He said, "It's been nice talking to you; gotta go."

Now both he and Aunt Jo become more and more withdrawn. I don't know what to say to them. I’m not clever enough to carry on a conversation if the other person doesn't respond beyond one or two words.

It looks like I'll be avoiding them all over again.

Erasmo

Twice a week I volunteer, tutoring first through third graders.

Wednesday is my day to work w/ Erasmo, age eight. He is an English learner, small and thin with a wiry, mischievous face. The first time I met him, he told me he had ten brothers, ten sisters, and a pet dinosaur at home. He and I immediately bonded. He says, “I miss you every day you’re not here.”

But he is a challenge. He clearly has given up on ever learning this reading thing. He will only look at things that are easy, but everything’s hard for him. I always spend the first half hour trying to get him to sit in his chair and focus. He is up and down, wants a drink of water, wants to watch a spider in the window, wants to position the book cart in just the right place.

Today he wanted to show me some fall leaves he picked up outside the boy’s room. I never yell at him, but I spoke firmly and said, “They won’t let me come any more if you don’t read.” Usually that works. But he just sat staring off in space. I tried my usual prodding—no response. Finally I pretended to knock on his head and said, “Anybody home?” That got a grin out of him.

But he still wouldn’t look at his book. I said, “Is anything bothering you?”

After a long time he said, “I miss my grandma.”

I said, “Where is she?”

“She died.”

I said, “When did she die?”

“When I was in my mother’s tummy.”

I thought Oh for Christ’s sake. Out loud I said, “You really miss your grandma even though she died before you met her.”

For some reason that perked him up. He opened his book and started to read. We worked for about twenty minutes.

Then he said he wanted to show me something, so I watched as he made flower and butterfly sculptures out of his leaves, scotch tape, and cut-up pieces of a straw he found under the table. I could only say, “How beautiful, how beautiful.”

Some folks may think I am a pushover, and I am; but for what price am I also going to squash his sense of wonder and beauty? I pray for God to show me the way to reach this darling boy, even if only by letting him know someone loves him.

Just When I Thought It Was Safe...

Well I thought I was over getting trashed last week. But I’m not. Went to a meeting last night and my trasher was there. As soon as I saw him, I felt all jittery and upset. I thought, “Damn, he goes to the noon meetings every day. Can’t he stay home once in a while?”

I sat where I couldn’t see him, but I didn’t enjoy the meeting much. (It wasn’t just his presence; people were having private conversations while others were sharing.)

I felt so pissed, I went home and ate about a cup of peanut butter mixed with about a cup of choc syrup and powdered milk. Then I had some French bread while I watched a show about the Great Chicago Fire. Felt pretty sick as I went to bed.

A wise Al-Anon once told me, “When you can't get over emotional pain, ask yourself, 'Have I ever felt this way before?'”

Meditating on her words, I am reminded how my older brother always hated me. When I was just leaning to crawl, he’d stomp on me and I’d go splat. According to my mom, I got so frustrated, I would bite my own hand.

One can see the parallels--I got stomped on at a meeting, went splat, and now I can’t get back at the guy. (Well I did think about putting dog doo on his car door handles, but that’s not the Al-Anon way.) You might say I was biting my own hand last night with all that peanut butter, etc.

Today’s entry in the One Day at a Time book told about having compassion for our alcoholic’s pain. I thought, “Anybody who would say the things my trasher said must be really hurting.” There’s the famous phrase-- Hurting People hurt other people.

Went to the noon meeting today and every time I had to look at Mr. Trasher, I imagined him all bloody and bruised. You know, it worked. I felt kindness and compassion. People shared about Step 3, turning one’s life over to the Higher Power. I shared about letting go of controlling my daughter. Mr. Trasher shared about letting go of controlling his daughter.
I walked out of the meeting feeling better than I have in a long time.

Poe Gets Trashed. Survives With Difficulty

My heart feels like someone scraped it raw. I got trashed during a meeting last week. I was sharing on the third step when this guy interrupted me, very angry. The gist of it was that he wanted to share a second time and I reminded him of his mother.

Now I’ve been in Al-Anon long enough to have developed a lot of healthy behaviors, one of which is to not exacerbate a conflict. I do this by remaining calm (Well fairly calm in this case) and reflecting loving kindness. So despite my inclination to stomp out of the meeting or attack him back, I stayed, prayed, and basically worked the third step.

But I was pissed. The meetings are supposed to be a safe place, free from the alcoholic insanity, and nothing makes me crazier than cross talk, especially hostile cross talk.

I must stress that this is an extremely rare incident. In eighteen years I can only recall two similar occurrences, curiously both directed at me.

In any case, I decided I needed to assert myself, so later I called my sponsor and we rehearsed two short loving sentences. Next day I ask to speak with the guy in private after the meeting. I said, “What happened yesterday was very hurtful.”

He said, “Yes, it was.”

I thought, “Wow, he’d apologizing; that was easy.”

Then I began my second sentence about how the meeting is not the place to bring up the fact that someone is reminding us of our mother. He hit the ceiling. Apparently he had thought I had been apologizing to him! After that I couldn’t get a word in edgewise; he just stood there, attacking me, taking my inventory, interrupting, wouldn’t let me talk. In fact he reminded me of my mother.

I stayed pretty calm, but after awhile I just started feeling about 6 years old and my brain shut off. Twice I tried to interject love: “We have so much in common, can’t we get along?” But he didn’t want to hear any of it; he stomped off, calling over his shoulder that I was crazy.

So that’s what happened. I know the guy is nuts, not following the Al-Anon way. Why get all depressed?

I did talk to friends and with my sponsor (She said she would have decked him). I prayed a lot.

Here are my conclusions:

We are all captives of our culture, whatever it happens to be.
The alcoholic culture I grew up in had some Great Forbiddens:
You must never be weak.
You must always win.
You must never be stupid.
You must never make a mistake.
If even one person thinks you weak, stupid, mistaken, or a loser, then you are.
This makes you unlovable and worthy of contempt.

My codependent mind tells me I should have defended myself better—maybe if I’d said this or that, he’d realize the error of his ways.

So what to do?

I must recognize that living with the disease of alcoholism has made me vulnerable and when faced with my weakness, treat myself the way I’d treat a sick friend.

It doesn't hurt to do a 4th Step Inventory. Even before this guy attacked me, I had been secretly impatient with him. Who knows? Maybe he sensed it and was reacting in some fashion.
So I resolve to be more patient with everyone, especially those who don't deserve it.

Finally, I must love my own poverty. My weakness and my stupidity are as much a gift from God as my strength and intelligence and I lay both at his feet.

My Shyness and How I Deal With It

I hate going to parties. Even getting together last weekend with my husband’s friends, whom I’ve known for decades, I spent most of the evening fighting the urge to bolt out of the room. (Just writing those words makes me want to run I don’t know where since I’m currently sitting at home in my nightgown.)

Anyway, as I stood at the party, trembling with anxiety, I noticed the wife of one of JR’s friends. I don’t know her; they almost never come to the parties. She was sitting by herself, looking sad. I hate seeing anybody being left out, so I sat next to her and engaged her in conversation, which is not as easy as it sounds. I’m never comfortable talking to strangers. But my friend Liz taught me to get the other person talking about themselves. (I like this method because then I don’t have to say anything; I can just nod sagely and say “how fascinating.”)

So I asked the woman about her work. She was something called a “chart nurse." Now floored me for a minute because I know absolutely nothing about chart nurses. But following Liz’s guidelines, I asked the woman to tell me about a typical day. I asked what her greatest challenge was, what she enjoyed the most. From there we moved on to the subject of her children and after that I had no trouble talking to her.

Now I suppose some people are thinking, “And from then on, Poe lost all her shyness and felt great.” Sorry to say, I still wanted to run out of there screaming. But the important thing is--it made things a little better. And who knows—maybe that lonely woman enjoyed the party.


Illustrative Anectdote: One two separate nights a woman dined with Queen Victoria’s Prime Ministers, Disraeli and Gladstone. Later, people asked, “What were they like?”
She said, “When I left the dining room after sitting next to Mr. Gladstone, I thought he was the cleverest man in England. But after sitting next to Mr. Disraeli, I thought I was the cleverest woman in England."

When I grow up, I want to be like Disraeli.

Pilgrimage Continued

"Nothing you do for children is ever wasted."
Garrison Keilor

One of the reasons I survived my crazy alcoholic family was our minister David Brown. The first time I met him I burst out laughing to see him wearing a Bach sweatshirt. He and I laughed together from then on. He was a free spirit, with a childlike joie de vivre. I delighted to hear him shout, “Good God on a bicycle!” when surprised or vexed. At the time I fancied myself a cartoonist and put together daily cartoon strip modeled closely on Peanuts. Every time he saw me he’d rub his hands together and say, “Where are the cartoons?” Of course, I’d immediately pull out my latest offerings, and he’d eagerly read each one and giggle. Can you imagine what that did to my shy 11-year old heart? My brothers were as much in love with him as I was because he never talked down to kids, but treated us all like we had good sense.

Shortly before we moved, I asked if, when I got married, he’d perform the ceremony. To my delight he burst into song: “I’d do anything for you dear anything…”
But it was not to be. When I was fourteen he died suddenly. He was 46. My mother said I grieved like it was my own father. I still miss him.

Years ago I made a paper mache heart with doors opening into the four chambers. In them I put photos of the people who made a difference in my life—my aunt, grandparents, friends. It seemed surprising that we never took a picture of David Brown. After forty years I could barely remember what he looked like—chubby face, curly red hair, turned up nose, big mouth. How I’d love to have a picture of him.

Then an opportunity came up to visit my old home town. Suddenly it occurred to me that I could attend services. And maybe, just maybe I would find an older member who has a photo of the man who changed my life.

My friend Laurie drove me down there. Our old stone building has been replaced by a modern Frank Lloyd Wright-style sanctuary. I recognized no one. The congregation was mostly young; they were between ministers. No one made any effort to welcome me. There was no chance to introduce myself. After services I did spot a few old people and rushed up. But the two people who remembered David Brown were not keen to talk to me. I wandered over to Laurie, thinking, “Well I guess I’m not supposed to get a photo.” “Are you ready to go?” I asked her.

But no, she wanted to introduce me to an old friend of hers, a struggling writer like me. We had a nice little chat. I told her about my various writing projects. The friend said, “I just finished making a DVD of our church’s history.” A light went off in my head. “Do you by any chance have a photo of David Brown?” I asked. “Just a minute,” she said, opening a binder and leafing through it. Five seconds later she pulled out a very familiar photo. Two minutes after that, she’d made me a copy of the one and only David Brown.

He is in my heart.