Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Relic

Where did you come from?
Did you come for me?
Did they tell you what to expect
Or how it would be?

Did you know the questions
Before they were asked?
Do you know the secrets
That lie behind this mask?

I stand on the edge
As I look into your eyes.
Are you here to rescue?
Or be my demise?

Is time forever?
World without end?
Is there eternity?
Tell me, dear friend.

I've known you forever
Or have I, my love?
An angel, disguised
From Heaven above.

As I reach for the mask
To expose myself new,
Will you gasp? Will you smile?
Will you still say, "I love you?"

Copyright 2012 liamsgrandma

 

Collapse

I always have some kind of writing in the works.  Much of it is just for my eyes; some of it, I allow others to see.  I may write to relieve some kind of angst, or to express feelings I have, based on something beautiful I saw, or to comment, for example, on a father running with his child, their jackets fluttering in the wind as they try to catch the bus, their laughter filling the air, and causing me to smile and stare at a moment like that. 

This particular writing that I'm about to share has been only for my eyes.  Mostly because of embarrassment and the feeling that people will judge the family members involved.  As this writing has grown, however, and has seemed to take on a life of its own, I've realized that I am not alone.  These issues are very real and touch many of us everyday.  Some of us handle it better than others, some ignore it and pretend it doesn't exist. Some of us end up in therapy for our entire lives, trying to learn how to close the wounds that others have unwittingly cast on us with the choices they've made.  Some of us collapse.

I'd like to finish this story within a year or so and try to find some interest in it - because if I can help another family, another soul, another mother, father, sister, brother, grandparent, friend, husband, wife, even if it's only one person, then I will feel right in sharing this  journey.

This is only a segment of "Collapse."  I most likely won't share anymore with you for a very long time.  It is private and painful, but I also know that there is hope and redemption on the other side of that long, dark tunnel. 

Collapse

It’s the rare young woman who doesn’t, when accepting a proposal of marriage, firmly believe that her life will be exactly as she dreamt it would be:  traditional wedding, pregnancy, family, home, pets, soccer practice and nights filled with laughter as we’d play board games together.  At least that was my idea of the perfect American Family. 

My own upbringing had been normal, to a degree.  Dysfunctional to the nth degree.  But whatever our lives are, we seem to survive, grow - and, to us, life is “normal.”  Mostly because that’s all we know.  Maya Angelou’s book, “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” says it all.  The bird sings because she doesn’t know anything else and finds happiness within the confines of her own small world.

Despite my childhood ideations of family and happiness, I knew there were things about our life that I didn’t want to bring to my potential future family.  Alcoholism and addiction was the biggest of all.

My parents each had alcoholics within their families.  Some were rabid alcoholics; others were the occasional binging alcoholics.  Still others drank “just a little bit” every night.  Sadly, by the time I was 11, my mother had also succumbed to alcoholism.

As a youngster, the drinking didn’t bother me much because it was common practice during the 60s and 70s for most people to come home from work and pour a drink.  It wasn’t until my teenage years, when I needed my mother most and she was available to me the least, that I realized the impact alcoholism and addiction had on me, and would continue to have on me for the rest of my life. 

My mother’s family was Irish-American with strong roots in Roman Catholicism.  My father’s family was Ukrainian, also with strong roots in Catholicism – the Greek Orthodox version.  Despite the fact that my Irish Catholic grandmother said the rosary at least twice a day, drinks started at a very early hour, for as long as I can remember.  Grandma got silly, danced around the kitchen, and occasionally got mouthy.  Whenever one or two gathered at the house, it was cause for a party. 

Once, as a teenager, my mother dropped me off at my grandmother’s home on her way to work.  There was no school that day and I wanted to spend the day with grandma.  Those days were favorites for me.  Grandma seemed to make the best buttered toast in the world.  After breakfast with toast and tea, we’d play cards all day and she’d call me a little shit when I’d beat her.  She’d open herself a beer by noon (or earlier) and she’d take an occasional break to stand at the kitchen window and smoke her non-filtered Pall Mall cigarettes. 

On that particular day, my high school boyfriend and his friend, Jim, stopped over.  It was 8 am.  Grandma saw this as a reason for a party and asked if they’d like a beer.  Why, of course two teenage boys would like a beer!  I turned her down and insisted that one was enough and no more for each of them.  When she offered them another, I glared at “Jeff” and he politely refused before he and Jim rose and left to do whatever guys do on a day off from school.

Little did I know, as I sat at that table playing cards and eating toast, that the foundation was already poured and firmly set for a lifetime battling the wily, ever changing demons of alcohol, addiction, lies, incarceration, health problems, hospitalizations. And I, one of the warriors fighting an ever stronger foe, walked along the brink of madness and fear - amidst what I perceived as a world filled with little hope.

Copyright liamsgrandma 2011

Broken

Sometimes we get overtired, overworked, overwrought.  And with those things come consequences.  Some get sick, some get run down, some don't sleep, some go crazy. 

I recently met a grandmother who was raising two of her four grandchildren.  She pretty much had all of the above going on with her.  Not only had she adopted two of her grandchildren (the other two were with their other grandmother), but her retired husband was gone all day, everday, caring for his disabled and sick mother.  He'd come home every night at dinner time, exhausted and worn, and the two would push through to get their 6 and 7 year old grandsons to bed.  After that, they'd fall on the couch and stare at the TV for a few minutes before going to bed themselves and starting it all over again the next day.  She told me her coping mechanisms were not good and she needed to learn how to relax more, how to cope and how to not be so stressed and resentful.  She told me that when she looked at her husband, she saw brokenness.  She said that she, too, is broken. 

Are you broken?  How do you handle stress and put your life back together once it seems to have broken into a million pieces?

 

Funny Faces

I had no idea Liam was video recording himself on this particular day.  We had just pulled into the bank drive up window.  The child brings me more joy than words can express.  Sometimes, there are just not words for the things we feel. 

 

Copyright 2011 liamsgrandma

Life

Sometimes life is a breeze and we sail on it like a bird, wings spread, feeling the lift as the air pulls us up, up, and up; or the way a leaf must feel as the wind plucks it from a tree, swirling, dipping, rising - wildly out of control - feeling the crisp breeze against its unfurled points, not caring where the wind takes it or where it may land, but only enjoying that moment with the breeze.

Other times, life is a wind storm, threatening to crush us against whatever it can smatter us to as it mercilessly works and doesn't give up, almost as a wildly out of control lover beats his wife, girlfriend, significant other, and doesn't know when to stop.  The storm's victim, whilst in the throes of the battering rain and howling wind, is uncertain whether he/she will live or die, for life - or death - is in the hands of the powerful storm.  Or so one thinks.

When things get rough in your life, it's ok to roll up for awhile.  It's ok to sit in a comfy chair in a fetal position and stare blankly at the wall.  During such times, the greatest thoughts are borne.  Ideas, new promises, new resolves, and, eventually, the ability to say, "I have got to get out of this chair."  And, somehow, you do.

 Copyright 2011 liamsgrandma

Bugs

This morning, I was minding my own business, pacing while waiting for my husband to leave because that's how my mornings are.  Not that I'm in any hurry to get him out of here, mind you, but as the morning routine winds down after making the coffee and greeting the sweet guy who is squinting in the morning light as he trudges, unsteadily, to the coffee pot like an android returning to its leader; and, after I make his lunch and stay out of his way while he tries to get his  morning legs going, I pace for the final part of our morning - the kiss goodbye. 

This morning, I was standing in the hallway, while he foraged in the bedroom, looking for his glasses, when he came out, looked me square in the eye, paused and said, "You don't want to go in there.  There's a huge bug."   Reacting as any woman might do (?), I scream and start backing up, eyes wide, going into a panic.  At the sight of this, he falls onto the floor, LAUGHING.  I say, "Oh dear God.  Are you joking?  Don't play me like that.  Don't!"  He replied that no, he's not joking and that yes, there is a huge bug in our bedroom. 

So, naturally, I scream again and start to hyperventilate and say, "What the hell are you doing on the floor?  Get it OUT of here before it gets away!"

"Do you want to see it?" (He says between gasps of laughter).  I make another attempt  to breathe and scream, "NO, I do NOT want to see it."  My legs are weak and I stagger to the arm of the couch and crumple down, putting my head on the arm, as he shrieks in laughter STILL.  But I know that my husband would not say that this was a huge bug if it were not because he is an outdoors kind of guy and this thing would have to be the size of a bird for him to say it is huge. 

As I lay on the floor, trying to revive, he returns to the bedroom and I hear him open the screen.  "Uh oh, it's on the run," he remarks.  Again, I scream.  "Close the door," I yell.  "CLOSE THE DOOR!" (He does not). 

After a minute, I hear nothing.  And my neurotic mind is conjuring up an image of this thing actually being a rabid bat and maybe it's bitten him and he's fainted and I have no idea what's going on in there except I know that I can only crawl at this point and I wonder if I should go check on him.  "Dear?"  "Yes."  "Are you all right?"  "Yes, but you should really see this thing.  It's a big moth."  "Maybe it's a bat," I reply.  "It's as big as a bat."  I let out another small anguished cry.  "Get a towel," I say.  "Throw it over him."

Finally, I hear the screen closing and pull myself to my feet.  He emerges from the room, triumphant.  "You got it?"  He nods.  I plant a huge, powerful kiss (or all I can muster of power at this point) onto his lips.  "Thank you."

Which reminds me of years ago...

We were living in a small basement apartment while my husband was working full-time and going to school full-time.  I was working full-time and taking care of a baby.  One evening, after giving Christopher a bath, I wrapped him in his little hood towel and carried him out of the bathroom, into the hallway when I thought I saw the carpet move.  Wait.  It wasn't the carpet moving.  It was a big MOTHER of a spider, light brown in color, like the carpet, with LOTS of hair and .... and ... and... JOINTS.  Yes JOINTS.  Oh dear God.  Why in the world create such things?

My heart raced fearfully and I knew I had to protect my child.  I carefully set him in his crib, all the while watching that bold thing standing on the carpet as if to say to me, "I dare you."  I removed the towel from my son's little body and grabbed a tin cup that my father-in-law had gotten for him while he was in Cape Cod.  I threw the towel over this tarantula and started pounding with all my might.  Suddenly, the monster raced out from under the towel and was on the go.  I didn't scream because I didn't want to scare my son.  I quickly grabbed the towel and threw it over the large animal again and pounded as hard and as viciously as I could, gritting my teeth the entire time. 

Breathless and sweaty, I waited.  Nothing.  I watched for movement under the towel.  Nothing.  Slowly...very slowly, I lifted the towel.  That thing was mashed into the rug so far, it quite possibly could become a permanent part of the carpet.  I placed the towel back over its lifeless body and gave it a few more pounds - just in case.  Then I called my husband who was at work.  I was frantic. 

"You are NEVER going to believe what just happened."  I relayed the entire story.  He listened calmly.  "Where do such things come from and why are they in OUR apartment," I cried.  "Do you think he has any brothers?"

"Well, yes.  He probably has brothers but we live in a college town so I am sure they are away at school." 

"OK." I say, trying to take comfort in something that made no sense whatsoever but I had to get back to my son.  I left the body there for my husband to clean up.

There were no more incidents of such things in our apartment (at least none that I saw) but we did see another one or two in the storage room across the hall and I refused to go into the storage area after that. 

Meanwhile, this morning, after the Attack of the Killer Moth, I resumed my pacing and my husband, still looking for his glasses, grabbed me by the shoulders and planted a firm kiss on my mouth.  "There," he said.  "Now you can go relax while I try to get out the door."

"I love you," I say sweetly.

"I love you too," he replies with a quiet close of the door.

We all have our little quirks, don't we?  What are your biggest stupid fears?

Copyright 2011 Liam's Grandma

Makeup is ON

Yes, I have my makeup on....Please also watch the video below this one because it's all about life and life with Liam.  Thanks!  And THANK GOD FOR MAKEUP.

 

Variety is the Spice of Life

In keeping with my "Variety Show," here's a video I just made yesterday after some fun in the sun with my grandson and his mama.  Heat stroke?  Maybe.  Just plain crazy?  Most likely.  Delusions of grandeur?  Most definitely. 

 

Dancing With Dad - Part I

My dad turned 80 last year.  On January 25, 2010.  And I had a plan for a story about him because, well, my dad is one of the most important people in my life.  But, just as I was writing the story about my dad, talking about the celebration of his 80th year, I was struck with a tragedy that involved one of the other most important men in my life:  my son... and dad's story slipped away....

Regardless of the time and effort it took to bring my son back to some sort of normalcy, my dad was, and has, always remained at the forefront of my life.

There was a wedding album of my parents...but, sadly, that album somehow got lost when my mom was moving from one place to another.  But images from those photos remain embedded in my mind - dad and mom, leaving the Church, heads bent as rice was thrown, and I, as I youngster, seeing my dad in those pictures; I actually thought someone was choking Dad by throwing rice down his throat.  As a child, I sat, cross-legged on the floor, crying because of what I perceived to be my dad being attacked by a heavy woman flinging rice at him.  I hated and loved that picture at the same time...because my handsome dad looked so young and so happy with a beautiful bride on his arm and, yet, some woman with a weird cap on her head was causing him to choke.

Anyway, back to my Dad...I missed posting about dad's 80th, and now, he is 81.

My dad and his wife, Jean, have had a rough year.  The kind of year when, the daughter of a man whose child adores him, will wake during the night and lay quietly, saying prayers for her dad and his wife.  Where memories will wash over me and it's only in the comfort of those childhood memories that sleep is allowed to take over again.

Last year, I thought about the story I'd started about my dad...the story of our dancing days together.  What I didn't realize, until I came back to this post to continue it, is that life is an incredible dance.  One in which we start out by learning easy steps, just as a small girl stands on her father's feet while he slowly waltzes her around the room, and then the harder steps are learned, sometimes painfully, sometimes with grace.

Dad and I began life's dance together over 50 years ago and while, like any kind of dance, there were times we danced alone or out of rhythm, there were also times we danced in each other's arms, spinning, twirling, laughing and hooting.

During my childhood, my dad was the light of my life.  I remember, at around age 3, descending the stairs, holding my mom's hand and hearing my dad singing, "Here she comes....Miss America," making me feel like I was the most important little girl in the world (I am on the left with the Barbie doll; my sister is on the right with no hair). 

As I grew older, dad made my birthdays and Christmases important.  I remember the Christmas that dad gave me my first clock.  I was about 6 or 7, and I blinked at it when my mom told me that this was a special gift from my father - no one else, just from Dad.  The clock's face had a rose on it, and it glowed in the dark, and, for me, that gift said, you are growing up, and I fell in love with my father once again.  I kept that clock for years and years and even when it was ill and time to retire, I took it to a clockmaker and got it going again.  Finally, the old clock gave out and I kept it, as one would keep a loved one in an urn, for years afterward. 

I was a shy girl.  Always shy.  Teachers called on me in class and I sat there, seeing stars, trying to form my lips to say the words and, before I could get to it, the teacher would pick someone else.  I did, truly, want to respond.  I knew the answer!  Years later, after high school, I slowly came out of my shell.  Now my dad says I talk too much.  I know he's kidding...well...hm...Dad?

In 1978, my dad and I signed up for disco dance lessons.  The lessons, I must admit, were more for me than my dad.  My dad had an innate dancing ability - it just came naturally to him.  Every step, every twist, every move, dad could do.  I never really got it.  I always tried to lead, despite dad's encouragement to follow him.  I had no idea what I was doing.  To this day, I struggle, unless, like one who stutters, I am alone and at ease with myself and then, only then, can I swing my hips and move my body with the grace of a swan as it paddles and sways naturally to the current of the water.  Still, Dad has always guided me in my love for dance.  One day, I'll show you my dance moves via video.  When I am all alone.  Yes, I can move.  But I must be all alone with me and the camera.  Because the camera can't speak.  The camera can't judge.  It is nothing and something all at the same time.

Not long before I turned 19, I worked at the clothing store, The Limited, and, let me tell you, back then, they had clothes TO DIE FOR.   Why do things have to change so?  The clothes were fabulous - indescribable.  Anyway, there was a long white winter cashmere coat that, despite my 30% discount at the time, the coat was, for me, unaffordable.  I knew I couldn't buy the coat.  There was only one - in my size 3.  I told my parents about it and the WOE it brought to me that I could not get it.  I simply could not afford that coat.  It was, well, EXTREME.  FABULOUS.  CASHMERE.  WHITE.  LONG. BEAUTIFUL.

One night, on the eve of my 19th birthday, as I sat at the kitchen table, legs drawn up to my chin, talking to my parents, my dad walked to our coat closet.  He opened the door and pulled THE COAT from the closet, twirled around, smiled and said, "TA DA!!!"

I leapt from the chair and grabbed my dad by the neck in a huge embrace and said, "For me???"  And he responded, amongst his and mom's giggles, "For you!"  Mom insisted it was from Dad.

In October 1980, my parents divorced.  I was torn between two people.  One who needed me as his sounding board, someone to talk to, someone to reassure him that he would be OK, and another who needed me to love her, to tell her she'd also be OK.  It was a rough time because I was torn between two people who I loved more than my own life.  But Mom, Dad, Pat, John and I made it through that difficult time, all of us, despite the newly splintered family.

STAY TUNED FOR PART II OF DANCING WITH DAD:  A MEMOIR OF SORTS THAT I AM WRITING FOR MY DAD.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2011 Liams Grandma

Summer

I've not posted in awhile.  My hands are full with watching a 3 year old 7 days a week.  I'm sure many of you can relate.

What I'd like to offer is Liam's Grandma's Summer Reading List.  And I'll be honest, some of these are very old books, but well worth the read.  In fact, most of them are older books because, hell, I barely have time to get dressed in the morning these days, let alone read!

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.  This book is my favorite book of all time.  I have read it several times over the years; my sister gave me a leather-bound copy one year for Christmas because she knew how much I love it; and I have read it in French.  The haunting love story of the rogue, Heathcliff, and the lady, Catherine, grabs me everytime, regardless of the fact that I know the sad, painful ending.  But that ending - let me tell you - it keeps you thinking for days after closing the book.

Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden.  This is a fabulous read because it is historical fiction.  It follows the lives of two sisters during World War I and what happens to each of them.  The story brings about so many emotions and that's what I look for in a good book.

Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy.  A very old one, but an incredible story involving love, innocence lost, rape, chastisement, happiness and sadness.  Beautiful Tess really got the raw end of everything in this story but it is a real story of victory over sadness, redemption in some ways and even a bit of revenge.  Thomas Hardy is a craftsman in weaving this story down many paths and I absolutely love it.

The Magus by John Fowles.  Speaking of weaving a story down many paths, WOW, this is another book I have read a few times.  John Fowles is a master in this psychosexual thriller.  I could not put the book down.  I will say that he ticked me off at the end and once you read it, you'll understand.  I originally first read this many years ago as part of a book club.  This is a great book for such a thing because it brings out so many emotions, thoughts, ideas.  It is a tale well-spun and leaves you thinking, scratching your head and shocked. 

Whoredom in Kimmage:  The Private Lives of Irish Women by Rosemary Mahoney.  This is non-fiction and another one that I couldn't put down.  It's about modern day Irish women and what they face in their own country.  It's about those still holding onto the legends of the past and those who want to push through to be the modern woman of today.  While the book is NOT supposed to be a humorous one, there are parts in the book where I was screaming out loud with laughter because the group of people that the author often would go to the pubs with reminded me of my own Irish family and made me wonder if all Irish people are just a tad whacked. 

If this list does nothing for you, let me know.  I'll do some reviews of other books.  Are there any that you would recommend for summer reading?  If so, please share.

Until next time (and God only knows when that will be)....Liam's Grandma.