Memorial Day: Postmortem

My father was a proud Marine who served in Vietnam from 1967-1969. I know that Memorial Day was important to him, as it is to many veterans. I imagine that recognition for service is important to those who have served. For someone who was (literally) spat upon when returning home from two tours of duty, perhaps Memorial Day provided a source of solace. To finally be thanked by the public must’ve provided some consolation. Perhaps not for the reasons that people said out loud—”for your service,” “for your bravery,” “to protect our country”—but for doing something that wasn’t entirely his choice, something that no one could prepare a young man or woman for. The public Memorial Day displays for veterans border on pandering these days. It is important for the general public to participate, but I believe the power of the day is between veterans. We have no idea.

Undoubtedly, the day provides a sense of community. “You are like me,” he must’ve thought, “you have seen what my eyes can’t unsee.” No words. Just knowing that others have made it through to the other side, doing the best they can to live in this world. Many continue to serve, no longer under duress or otherwise forced or drafted. But they still enter into that service covenant much like those drafted, without the slightest clue of what war can do to them.

The details that lie between my father’s service and his death are not what matter about Memorial Day. But that is what I remember on Memorial Day. There’s nothing easy about how the war affected him and how that pain manifested itself post-war all the way up until his death. Certainly it was not something that deserves much remembrance.

Although my father’s name is not on The Wall in Washington, D.C., I often think that it should be. Not just his name–but so many others who were eventual casualties of the war, after lifetimes of emotional and physical suffering. Those men and women who “came home,” but never really did.

Peace.

Valentine’s Day: You can be in love and still sorta hate it

I’m not a huge fan of Valentine’s Day, and yet I collect vintage valentines. It’s a weird dichotomy, I know. A few years ago, I inherited a bunch of old scrapbooks from my great aunt. She had amassed some beautiful cards, letters, and valentines throughout her long life and had the foresight to keep them neatly organized in a scrapbook. She didn’t set out to collect vintage things, but she was born in 1898 and it just so happens that the stuff you collect in the early part of your 89 years  eventually becomes “vintage” shortly after you die. Funny how that works. But I love everything about those old valentines. I love their designs and colors, their fonts, even their inscriptions.

So, why do I have this “bad blood” with Valentine’s Day? I mean, I have been married for 13 years, I love my husband, I always get something nice from him every Valentine’s Day. What’s my problem?

1. The holiday is exclusive. One might say, well, Valentine’s Day isn’t just a day to express romantic love. Bullshit. People are throwing it in your face all day long, usually young couples or old ones who feel the need to validate their crumbling relationships through your uncomfortable discussion with them over top of the four dozen roses teetering on the edge of their desk. Yes, I see them. I can barely see YOU, but I see the flowers.

2. It makes your dating (or general relationship) life a living hell. Did you get (or give) wayyy to much stuff…or too little. Is it too early in our relationship to celebrate? What does it mean if we don’t celebrate? I mean, it’s just a mess.

3. I don’t like that there is a day to do what you should be doing all year, every day. Tell people that you love them or like them any day. With or without a conversation heart to help you out.

4. The onslaught of social media photos and broadcasts of gifts and sentiments is unbearable. For the record, I am really happy when people are in solid relationships, I am. In fact, I wish more people were in healthy, stable relationships. I probably even like the fact that you received special things today because I love you and you are my friend! I just feel that posting about all the things you got or how much you love someone is inconsiderate to so many others today. You should enjoy it. You really should. Bask in it, bask the shit out of it. But you should also enjoy it privately. It’s yours. Think of all the people you know that don’t have anyone, or are going through a difficult divorce, or recently lost their husband or wife. Celebrate your love, but think of others who don’t have anyone. You wouldn’t go tap dancing around a wheelchair convention, would you?

My son Paul’s favorite part of the holiday is eviscerating a shoe box with a knife to accommodate classmates’ cards and treats.

Now there are things about Valentine’s Day I like. I enjoy buying my family little gifts. I like helping my kids prepare treat bags and seeing all the valentines they bring home. I like funny and super awesome Valentine’s Day cards. I even–yes–like to get gifts (gasp). But really, I just like collecting old valentines.

This one just sounds like a threat circa 2013.

Some of the valentines I’ve collected are funny, others just beautiful. The following valentine always intrigued me, since it totally alluded to gettin’ it on–olden days style. However, I could never quite figure out what “sterilize” might mean in this context. Who was the “speaker” in this situation? Is the woman or the man initiating the request to “get busy”? What were “sterilization” methods for each gender around this time? Did this “procedure” take place in Salem, Ohio? So weird.

Be My Sterile Valentine

I’m hoping any reproductive rights specialists or just some crazy polymath can shed some light on this little card.

Oh, and Happy February 14th!!! I love you!

Saturday Night Fever: Grape Jelly

With the “help” of five neighborhood boys (including three of my own) I gleaned my neighbor’s Concord grape vines today. By “help,” I mean that I looked over while teetering (one-footed sometimes) on a crappy old stepstool trying to reach the bunches that had grown into a pine tree—and noticed them all lounging in lawn chairs around the pool, looking at the alpacas in the back property. Thanks guys!

I kept things as simple as possible for my first foray into grape jelly making. I simmered the grapes in a big pot and tried my best to crush them as they were cooking. I was surprised at how much liquid was available after the initial heating step.

After straining all the liquid off, I was left with 5 cups of juice. Miraculously, the exact amount needed per the Sure-Gel recipe I was using. Sweet! This is the setup I needed to do the whole process. In the end, I only got around 8 cups of jelly, but it’s all I’ll be able to use in a year.

Late in the evening, one of the kids was chomping at the bit to use this homemade jelly for a PB&J sandwich. Although not totally set up, I let him have at it. He told me that it was delicious and tasted *exactly* like “real” grape jelly. Success!

Marrying into an Italian family: baptism by sauce

Jars of sauce, ready to boil.

I married a first-generation Italian boy. In my youth–usually enamored by the loud, showy, unreliable, ebullient jackass-type–I found solace in his quiet reserve. His complete and unabashed loyalty. His work ethic. His handsomeness. His amazing family.

Although I am half Italian, I am not Italian Italian like my husband’s family. My in-laws came here in 1968, shortly before my husband was born. They did not know the language. They did not know any other “Americans.” They did not have anything but what they could carry over. But they had each other. Many people from the same part of Italy settled in a particular part of Pittsburgh called Bloomfield. I was lucky enough to start out my married life in this neighborhood, and many of my husband’s relatives still live here. I felt like I had become a member of a magical and cloistered society. Where Italian was still spoken around the table, prosciutto (made by my father-in-law) was hanging from garage rafters, where homemade wine was placed on the table for every meal, and every supper had a pasta course, then a meat and vegetable, followed by a salad–and of course an espresso to finish it all off.

Unidentified relatives of mine from Calabria.

My mother is Italian and I grew up learning how to cook from her and her mother, my Grandma Rizzo–also a first generation Italian born in 1918. I learned how to bake bread for Easter, always rolling out two small dough strips before covering the bread to rise, using the strips to make a cross over the dough to bless it and, according to my gram, help it to raise. My grandma would make bread each year on the feast day of Saint Anthony and get it blessed at the church in Sharpsburg, Pennsylvania. Sometimes when I was looking in one of her buffet drawers for something, I would find little stale frizenes (a crunchy anise-flavored type of bread, typically eaten buttered and then dipped in coffee) from previous years, tucked neatly away into socks. Kept safe since they were blessed, not to be eaten.

Saint Anthony

An interesting thing happens in many immigrant families. Oftentimes, the people from the origin country culturally progress and give up “the old ways,” but those that emigrate to another country hold onto the traditions of their home. So, even though the customs and lifestyle of the mother country have changed, the immigrants hold on to the ways that they left. It is what ties them to home. It is how they remember.

On my in-law’s most recent trip to Italy, my mother-in-law lamented that many of her friends and family still living there had given up on many of the labor-intensive traditions. The fine lace work to embellish tablecloths, the pasta from scratch–even the canning of fresh tomato sauce. I am so blessed that my husband’s family, my family, has held on to the old ways.

So every year in August, we travel to a local farm to pick tomatoes. This year we brought home 11 bushels.

It’s a family job and everyone pitches in. What makes things particularly effective, is that we process everything outside. My father-in-law has acquired steel drums and large burners that run from propane tanks. Pots and utensils travel between homes when it’s a family’s particular day to do their canning (sisters-in-law, parents, etc.). The tomatoes are usually left to ripen for a few days before processing. Calls are exchanged between family to discuss the ripeness. The final decision is always made by my husband’s parents on what day we should finally jar everything.

The process, although time- and labor-intensive, is quite simple. The tomatoes are washed, cored, squeezed (of water and seeds), boiled, machine processed, canned, and boiled.

Tatone, Paulie, and Uncle Ronnie processing the tomatoes.

We don’t add anything but some fresh basil to the top of the jars before canning. We flavor the sauce when we use it.

Making the final sauce is pretty subjective, and is all about what you like. Your sauce will end up being great if you just try your best and add what you like. Personally, I shred up a carrot and onion and fry in olive oil. Then brown some lamb and add the tomatoes to that. I flavor with salt, basil, oregeno, and parsley, but like to go very easy on the garlic.

Believe me when I tell you, there is nothing like the taste of sauce on the day the tomatoes are crushed. Nothing. Of course, after a day of canning, a big dinner is prepared where you taste the fruits of your labor.

Happiness is when you finally sit down after canning and cooking all day, look over to your youngest son, and watch him doing this:

Anthony enjoying his pasta.

All life is suffering

One morning I woke up to find one of my kids heading out of the house with a fishing net. He briefly noted that he was going outside to catch butterflies. I thought this was really sweet–and then this exchange happened:

Me: “Oh cool, you’re catching butterflies.”

Paul: “Yeah, we’re gonna kill them later with bb guns.”

Raising boys is __________.

They don’t dial 911. Home protected by Red Ryder BB Guns.

Random memory: Mixtape for a fearful ex-boyfriend

I once had a boyfriend who was horrified by my father. I mean, horrified. I can’t say that his fear was unwarranted–my father was just awful to this guy and totally intimidating. I was 23. In hindsight, this particular boyfriend wasn’t all that terrible, but he wasn’t for me. However, my father felt some primal need to protect me (and my two sisters) from harm, perceived or otherwise.

This boyfriend, however, would not be deterred. In order to deal with his fear, he created a mixtape. This mixtape was *specifically* designed to be listened to on the way to my house to pick me up. It was his “psych up” music to face my father.

Every time I hear the song “Machinehead,” (first song on the mixtape) I think of this person and thank god that my father was one crazy son of a bitch.

Dad, an iron worker in Local #3, taking photos pre-demolition of the Brady Street Bridge. Pittsburgh, PA. May, 1978.

Parenting: Pet fish by the pound

“Good morning, Gil. I said, good morning, Gil.”

Ahh, summer carnival season. It’s almost over, but if you’re lucky enough, you have one keepsake or two from that special night you spent with your family. Close your eyes and you can almost smell it. That warm June night where you dropped $85 on nine (9) rides (of dubious construction and unknown operator sobriety), one (1) funnel cake, five (5) chances on the balloon dart game (Beyonce poster, yes!), two (2) orders of cheese fries, a few spins of the wheel at the chuck-a-luck table, and five (5) chances to get a ping pong ball into a vase for a goldfish.

Carnival goldfish. It’s exciting to win “stuff” at a carnival, but winning a LIVING thing is just the apex of prize winning. You win a soul. I mean, a soul that will probably only live between 6 and 18 hours, that doesn’t feel empathy, that you can’t pet, and that cost the carnival ~$.015–but a soul nonetheless. If the good people who run these carnivals really thought about it, they would sell little “goldfish starter kits” for $20 right next to the game. (Small tank, canister of food, bag of rocks. Boom.) But, alas, the carnival cooperatives haven’t decided to do this quite yet. You cross your fingers that your goldfish makes it home alive (or not, perhaps) and then you scrounge around in your garage at 11:00 PM trying to find your old tank. Or worse, you grab the big ricotta cheese container you’ve been saving with the rest of your Tupperware (clean, preferably), fill it with water and tell yourself, “just for tonight.”

Carnival goldfish inevitably enable us to teach our kids about the circle of life. In a way, the carnival people might be providing one of the greatest services to us parents. We get the opportunity to discuss life and death with our kids. Understand care and feeding. Feel love for something that relies on you. Create burial practices, understand loss. Conversely, this “prize” allows parents to lie and deceive our children by any means possible (another great skill to hone to deflect discussing one of life’s difficult issues) to replace the dead fish with a similar looking one before the kid finds “the floater.”

When my kids won a goldfish this year at the fair, ONE goldfish, they decided to spend $100 of their birthday money on a 10 gallon tank setup the next day (complete with kitschy “No Fishing” sign, faux plants, “deep sea” backsplash, rocks, and the all important filter.) I have to admit, it was kind of cool to have a nice tank after all these years. I thought this new guy had a fighting chance.

If you can keep the fish–or a series of lookalikes–great. You’ve succeeded. However, if you’re like most people, even with a fancy schmancy new fish tank, the fish die and you are left with an empty tank. You can perform an unceremonious flush of the deceased, or have an all out funeral (with eulogy and burial.) I’ve had both and everything in between.

At a certain point, the death of your fish is no longer a sad event for everyone, it’s just annoying. Trip after trip to the pet store to pick up the next round of goldfish becomes onerous. There had to be an easier way.

The last time we went fishing, we caught a lot of bluegill and sunfish. A lot. I usually just let the kids catch them and then release them back into the lake. But I just kept thinking of that empty tank. That sad empty tank. Fast forward two hours to our 10 gallon tank full of 4 inch pan fish. I had just been to LL Bean store and they seemed to be *thriving* in their tanks at the retail location. Well, I never thought I’d say this out loud, but the next day I muttered, “I really hope that bluegill doesn’t get stuck in the toilet.”

So, what I’ve decided to do now, is to go down to the local bait shop and buy minnows. Yes, minnows. They are pretty hearty, they are active in the tank, and the best part, they are sold…by the pound. I’ve resorted to buying my pets based on weight. It’s come to this.

Thank God I didn’t have to buy my beagle this way.

“Gunner. ‘Big boned’ like his mom.”

Barely Pinterested: my lukewarm feelings toward Pinterest

I’m a scrap collector. Since I was a little kid, I have always kept a book where I collected and archived ideas, memories, short stories, photos, and anything printed (or sometimes handwritten) that interested me. A mix between a scrapbook, picture album, and diary: a comfort book. All the small and printed things I loved in one place.

Back in 1987 I was a sarcastic 15 year old. I collected silly magazine headlines, photos of comedians I liked, birthday cards, and notes from my friends. Still makes me happy to page through...

Kellie V. over at le zoe musings recently did a beautiful post about her Vision Books. It made me so happy to see someone who collected ideas and thoughts similarly to me. (Albeit, so much more elegantly!) Photos, ideas, clippings, and to-do’s all wrapped cleanly in a book beautiful enough to publish as a quarterly.

My “book” serves the same purpose, but its pages are housed in an old binder from a former employer. It is dark and dingy on the outside and I have filled it to the gills with things I love. I like to use plain pages for small items to be glued onto (as a collage), and then many clear plastic document holders (that have pre-punched three ring binder holes) for stuffing pages into. Sometimes I’ll just hole punch printed pages and file them right into the binder. No rules. Just good stuff.

My dingy old idea book.

So when Pinterest  hit the scene, with blinding speed and popularity, I thought I would love it. In addition to my collection of physical scraps, I am notorious for keeping hundreds and hundreds of “bookmarks” for web pages that I like. Perhaps I would use Pinterest to my advantage, rather than have bookmarked links so long that a. I no longer reference them, b. I no longer remember why I saved them or c. the links are now broken due to their old, old age? But Pinterest was exclusive! By invite only! Wow, it sounded so intriguing–it must be special. So, I begged for an invite from friends and family, and finally, I was in.

First off, after all the hype, I found Pinterest cumbersome to use. Perhaps I didn’t research the usability of the application very well, I don’t know. It just wasn’t very intuitive to me, so it ended up frustrating me a bit. I didn’t like that I had to categorize the pins. I wasn’t sure how to create new boards. I didn’t like that I had to write some sort of verbiage on each pin. But I suffered along through those first pins…and began my journey. I pinned a total of 6 things. I had been thinking about winter a lot (I love winter) so I had found some cold, yet cozy winter home scenes that I enjoyed. But, then, I just lost interest. I never pinned again. I never referred back to my pinned items. My Pinterest was a cyber graveyard of cool things and “ideas.” It was going the way of my dead end bookmarked links in my browser.

But, oddly enough, despite my lack of activity, I collected 42 followers. And boy, were other people pinning! I see Pinterest updates all day in my facebook feed. I’m intrigued to see what everyone else is interested in, what recipes they are stockpiling, what colors they might paint their new baby’s room, the fun classroom activities they are going to do for Arbor Day. I found it to be a delicious glimpse into other’s personalities. It was such a public way to share. And it was fascinating.

It’s odd, but when I show someone a page of my physical idea book, I often tense up when they start thumbing through the rest of it. These are personal snippets, a glimpse into my very core, my own likes, my stuff. A reflection of me. It feels odd to give others a chance to view something so personal. And this is not necessarily a bad feeling–I would never stop someone from looking through my idea book, I mean there are no state secrets or anything close to being relatively juicy–it just makes me feel a bit vulnerable to share things that were collected so methodically and thoughtfully.

So, while Pinterest is a pretty novel idea, I just can’t love it. I can’t. Maybe I am just being a curmudgeon about technology versus print: the joy I have towards reading and looking at things on paper, the feel of paging through a book, or the act of clipping and placing something special enough for keeping into a record that I can hold. Maybe I feel that Pinterest is not that different than the hundreds of bookmarked links that I have, slowly atrophying in my toolbar. Maybe I know in my heart that the things I really love, are the ones that I need to work harder to keep. Maybe I feel that all of these pins are collected so easily, they will stagnate on Pinterest forever, with nary another view.

Whatever the reason, I’ll just continue collecting the way that feels right for me. And when I feel sick, or tired, or a little bummed, nothing picks me up like paging through that idea book. Lovingly pieced together by my own hands.

Shopping list: glitter that can kill you.

Winding down our Sunday, the kids decided to take a break from basement roller hockey and made a little science project. If you’ve never seen it, there’s a neat little trick you can do to create a whirlpool using two empty two-liter bottles.

DIY whirlpool; lots of whirling going on in there.

It’s a fairly simple experiment and not horribly complicated to create–or get to work. The kids were pretty intrigued by the cyclone effect. I honestly didn’t see the big deal with the whole execution since it’s basically just what you see every time you flush a toilet. But being that my kids seldom (to never) flush, I guess I see the potential novelty with the “experiment.” There are even kits you can buy to make the assembly a little easier. We just used old faithful for our tool: duct tape.

Apparently, you can also do fancy things with your cyclone’s water. Today, we used some orange food coloring for that nice (inadvertent) “whiskey” effect. But the boys wanted more, they wanted to step it up a notch. They wanted to make the experiment their own. They wanted…to put glitter in the water. (Yes, my boys.)

So, I began pulling out craft supplies in the quest for glitter. Boxes and boxes of googly eyes, pipe cleaners, embroidery floss, candy molds, felt. Wait, I found it–glitter!

But, oh no! The only glitter I had was edible. Edible glitter! But the boys were still ecstatic. I explained that this type of glitter would most likely dissolve in the water and not look very cool. They would need *real* glitter for their trick–not the easily broken-down edible type. They were apprehensive of my warnings. So, I handed over my coveted cookie-making supply and let them have at it. It looked like glitter to them; they were one step closer to their dream: a real live glitter suspension whirlpool. (basically, children’s Goldschlager.)

So, of course it didn’t work. The edible glitter almost immediately dissolved in the cyclone. There was slight disappointment. They still played with it for a while. Then they used the assembled experiment as some sort of eastern martial art weapon. And then, finally, they went back to playing basement roller hockey. Abandoning the cyclone.

Getting ready for bed tonight, one of my 8-year-olds looked at me, point blank, and said, “Mummy, tomorrow on your way home from work, can you stop at the store and buy real glitter–the kind of glitter that can kill you? For our whirlpool?”

So, tomorrow, to make a young boy’s dream come true, I am going to buy a big canister of glitter. Non-edible glitter. Beautiful, non-disintegrating, deadly glitter.

Edible glitter. Note: NOT available at specialty stores catering to gay assassins.

{why i can’t have nice things} Urination edition.

“A weekly, or as close as I can get to weekly, ritual (who am I kidding that I think I can do this every week). Some photos – with or without tons of explanation – capturing a moment from the week.

A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. A moment that makes me remember why exactly it is that I can’t have nice things (but someday will).”

**A twisted step-cousin twice-removed of www.soulemama.com‘s {this moment}.

*********************************************************************************************************

Upon returning home from work one evening last week, I was met in the driveway by my baying 50-pound beagle and three (screaming) adoring fans (read: my children). I’m not sure why they still do this, maybe they’re just psyched that I decide to come home every night. Who knows. So, after I signed some autographs, reviewed the day’s artwork, and kissed everyone, I left the boys to their own devices outside. I wended my way through the garage junk labyrinth. I passed by my husband who was heading out to assist in the grocery unloading (greeting with a solid and meaningful “high five”!) and I then proceeded to drop my pack mule–sized parcels onto the kitchen floor. Alone in my kitchen. Home.

I’m not certain that anything would prepare me for the words I then heard, right after that four second period of quiet respite in that kitchen. From the driveway, and directed towards either a. the kids, b. me, or c. Jesus, my husband asked/(hollered) the following question:

“Who pissed on the Blazer?!?”

On.

The Blazer.

Which is a vehicle.

Yes.

Who pissed on the Blazer.

Now, it’s hard to pick out the most disturbing part to this story. But I made a list so you, the readers, can pick. In no specific order (except for that first one):

1. Why anyone would pee on a vehicle. I mean, it’s the most blatantly obvious choice.

2. That someone had to ASK who, *exactly* peed on a vehicle. I mean, in most families, there’s probably always “that kid.” Like, “oh shit, Pete pissed on the Blazer again.” But in my family, anyone–everyone–was a suspect.

3. That there’s a lot of outside pissing going on, just in general up here.

4. That these were the first words spoken to/at me by my husband after I came home. I mean, we greeted–remember that high-five–but these were the first words.

5. That there became a hillbilly CSI-like episode out in my driveway; an episode complete with accusations, denials, close visual examination of the liquid, claims that it was just “pop,” and even…smelling.

I stayed in the kitchen for most of the action, and then headed towards my room. Alone. Whether it was because of shock, concession, or malaise, it’s not important. To be honest, I really didn’t care. Pissing on the Blazer. So what?

There is an understanding in my house. When things spiral out of control, I sometimes go into my room and sit quietly. It’s my proverbial, “count to 10.” When I check out for a few minutes and disappear, and after my kids figure this out and ask where I am, I simply respond (from behind the locked door), “I am in Maine.” Maine: a state that I’ve always wanted to visit. Where I’ve never been. Where I dreamed of going to college. Where my patron saint of 21st century motherhood lives. It’s my happy place. It’s where I pretend I am. It’s where all my kids are not crying and I’m wearing sweet Wellies to collect the chicken eggs while the fresh blueberry pies are baking. I am “in Maine.” It’s a simple mental exercise. It can be done anywhere, not just when sequestered in one’s room. They understand this.

So, things settled down. They always do. The piss on the Blazer was cleaned. I never followed up on who the guilty party was. I made myself a cup of tea. I am OK with things. I am OK with being me. I hung out and played with my kids in the family room. I smiled.

Music was played and we all were at peace with our world. And then, from out of the ashes of what could have been a horrible, terrible, no good night, Spider-Man serenaded me…all the way back to Maine.

Spider-Man also weaves webs of music...to torture people.