Amazing Grace

August 11, 2011 By

Fluttering Monarch, Copyright 2006, Joan Z. Rough

On the way to visit our daughter and grandkids a few weeks ago, my husband and I stopped to visit his 92-year-old cousin, Sister Petra, a retired Catholic nun, with a laugh-out-loud sense of humor and a feisty personality.

Before she moved to North Carolina to spend her retirement years with a friend, who is also a nun, she was a teacher at a Catholic School in Washington, DC.  Only two hours away, we’d often visit with her when we went up to DC for one thing or another.  We’d go to breakfast or lunch with her, catch up on what the rest of the extended family was up to and listened to stories about her life, like Bill’s grandfather’s attempt to bribe her to keep her from entering the convent.  She was always a show-stopper in her crisp black and white habit, young and old always smiling in adoration when they stopped to exchange a greeting.  We spent our time together laughing and in a fun way, she’d tease us about our lack of religious beliefs: “I pray for you everyday, because you’re not doing it and nobody else will.”  When it was time for us to part, she always expressed her love and gratitude for our visit.  Although I’m what many may call a “Recovering Catholic,” I have always felt a deep connection with her.  Simply put, I absolutely adore her.

Sr. Petra has had heart problems and developed macular degeneration over the years. Reading is out of the question, and moving about isn’t easy without a walker or another person for her to lean on. We last saw her after she moved, just before last Christmas.  She was as cheerful, happy and as animated as ever. But she seemed tired, had slowed down, and was aging before our eyes. We had lunch together, promising to be back on our next trip to see our kids.

On our most recent visit last month, she appeared to be having some difficulty with memory. “I’m not senile and do not have Alzheimers. I just forget a few things now and then,” she cajoled. But what was notable, was the bit of anger beginning to seep through her usual happy demeanor. It seems that  Sr. Kathy, her old friend and caretaker, will be needing some serious back surgery in the near future.  For everyone’s benefit,  Sr. Petra will need to move to the Mother House in Indiana, where she will have daily care and support.  She was interested in going, but also denied her plight, claiming she didn’t need any care at all, and could get along just fine staying where she was.  She’s quickly losing her independence. It must be terrifying, to have others making decisions for you about the details of your life, regardless of how much faith you have.

That day with Sr. Petra, brought to mind my mother in the last few years of her life.  By then, suffering from lung cancer and emphysema, she needed oxygen.  She continued to smoke, seeming to take angry vengeance on the circumstances that had brought her to this state.  In my clan, stubbornness is our mantra.  I suffer from it as well.

Once very active, mom now spent her days in front of the television, taking in political talk shows and golf tournaments. She loved the outdoors, and continuously created spectacular meals, that only a mother can make.  At Christmas she’d gather greens from the woods and put together a Christmas wreath for the front door.  She was a quilter and loved making greeting cards for every occasion from the papers and found objects she collected.

But things had changed, as all things must.  When dents began to appear with regularity on her car, I asked her to give up her car keys. I checked in on her frequently, to make sure she was taking her meds on time and correctly. I balanced her checkbook and took over the other day-to-day tasks that she could no longer manage. I imagine she saw me as the devil incarnate.

Unable to do the things she loved the most, she grew more and more negative, criticizing and complaining about the state of the world, or the sweater I was wearing. If I opened a door for her, she’d make it clear that she could do it herself. If I asked her a question, she’d answer sarcastically, calling me,“Mommy.” As her anger grew, mine did as well, and the battle between us became a full-fledged war. She was abusive. I fought back.  We were caught up in a dysfunctional family trap, unable to hear or understand each other.

I knew that she was filled with fear, mourning the loss of her life. But when I tried to talk to her about being afraid, she denied it.The compassion I felt for her, quickly became clouded over by my own anger and self-hatred for being inept at being able to care for her. I remembered and reacted to long forgotten chapters in our past together. There  was nothing I could do to make either one of us happy.  Watching my mother die, I was heartbroken, and imagined what might be in store for me when my own life draws to a close.

During this last visit with Sr. Petra, I found that my self-torture and anger had melted away. In her struggle I saw my mother’s suffering and understood her pain.  I’d been caught up in creating my own story, never questioning the truth of it, playing the victim, sure that my mother hated me.  She’s been gone four years now and I miss her.  It has taken me this long to understand how much she did care for me: that she was a product of her own life story; that she was experiencing loss of control, and was terrified by what might be waiting in the darkness around the next corner.

I’ve been told that it is often this way with adult children who choose to take over the care of a dying parent. It’s a hard job and one that can break the strongest of people.  I chose to do it because I couldn’t allow her to be in a nursing home. Despite our differences, I loved her.  Would I do it again?  I can say that I would, but knowing what I know now, I’d like to say I’d do it very differently.

My eyes have been opened by the suffering of a dear friend. I will remain forever grateful to Sr. Petra for her courage and tenacity, and for unknowingly helping me to understand what forgiveness is all about.

Filed Under: Navigating Through Life, stories

I Can Hear You Now

July 12, 2011 By

It’s hot! I stick my head in the frig to gather ingredients … half an onion,  freshly gathered carrots, crisp red lettuce, cukes and one perfect avocado that I plan on tossing into a big salad for a cool and refreshing meal.  I think I’ll add some Feta and a few pitted Kalamata olives.  In the background I hear Bill speaking to me, but the whirr of the refrigerator gets in the way and I end up shouting, “I can’t hear you!”  I pull my head away from the frig and he’s raised his voice, repeating whatever the message is he’s trying to get to me.  He’s right there, in the kitchen with me.  Never mind that we often try to have conversations when we are in different parts of the house.  Visitors might find it hilarious to hear us going back and forth with, “What was that you said?” while the decibels rise.

The other night, we were having a conversation at the dinner table, when I misheard what he was saying and attached a whole new meaning to his words.  In crowded, people-filled places like theatre lobbies, cocktail parties and the like, I find it difficult to hear what the person right next to is saying.  Background chatter builds until I finally have to give up, move outside into a less noisy environment or just shake my head, agreeing to whatever is being said to me.  Could it be I’ve agreed to some judgemental comment my friend has just made?  Have I agreed to help her kill her husband?  I’m left not knowing and often wonder why people look at me questioningly after such a conversation.

It’s been coming on for years.  I had my hearing tested a while back, and was found to have good hearing. But I still felt that I was missing something.  It could be either my head or my hearing.  Then someone pointed out to me that we often hear only what we want to hear.  So I let it go until a month ago. I asked my doctor for the name of an audiologist she would recommend.  I was simply tired of missing out on what was being said around me, tired of agreeing to things I didn’t understand and ready to find out what was going on.

So yesterday, I found myself in a booth, pushing a button when sound waves of different pitches were sent through my earphones and I heard them.  I found out that I have mild hearing loss in both ears, particularly in the high frequency range.  It’s not too bad, she told me, but still I’m missing hearing consonant sounds like ess and tee.

I thought of Bill’s Godmother who died recently. Her hearing had been compromised for years.  We would visit, sitting in her living room having to shout and repeat over and over again what we were saying in order for her to be included in our conversation.  She had found hearing aids to be too uncomfortable and after one or two tries, simply refused to use them. I thought of not being able to hear my grandkids on the phone or in person as the years go by.  I thought of not being able to enjoy the early morning bird chorus on warm, summer days, and I thought of not being able to hear Bill say, “I Love you.”

I came home wearing a tiny hearing aid in each ear that had been programmed just for me.  I am enthralled with the difference in what I can hear.  I now hear esses and tees and the directional blinkers in my car.  I hear clearly what is being said to me.  It will take a while to be really comfortable with them and I’m only to use them two or three hours a day to start. Best of all, they are practically invisible and almost weightless and I don’t need to use them all the time.  I have thirty days to try them out at which time I can return them for a full refund if I choose.

My hearing helpers!

The only thing left to do is to get Bill to have his hearing tested.  He, too, is beginning to repeat, “What did you say?”

Filed Under: Navigating Through Life, stories, Uncategorized

My City Life

July 9, 2011 By

Our house in Huntington, built by my dad, after returning from WWII. As it stands today.

For several years in the early ‘50s, when I was in elementary school, I lived on a quiet, tree-lined street in Huntington, New York, on Long Island.  The back of the house overlooked Jericho Turnpike, one of the main thoroughfares through town.  In what I remember as a giant oak tree, my dad built and hung a swing, from which I had a bird’s eye view of every holiday parade the city sponsored. I fell head-over-heals for marching bands and their amazing music.  I learned to ride a bike there and watched television for the first time, at a friend’s house, before we got our own.  On Saturday afternoons, a friend and I walked downtown, without our parents, to the cinema to see Roy Rogers or Gene Autry movies.  I had a cowgirl outfit I wore most of the time, imagining I was  Dale Evans.  In that house, my mother discovered that I had been stealing things from a Woolworth’s, near the movie theatre. She took me back to the store and made me apologize and return all of the little trinkets I’d lifted.

My friend Judy lived next door. She had a white german shepherd, named Lady and I had a dachshund, named Booby.  Judy was a few years older than I and she always passed on her outgrown clothes to me, which I loved, because I always thought she had more and finer clothes than I.  Judy and I spent lots of time together playing with paper dolls.  I envied her because she took tap-dance lessons and my dad wouldn’t let me, saying it was a waste of time.

Me and my bike, Judy with Lady and Booby.

We played softball and kick ball down the street with a few other kids and in the summer we stayed out until after dark, catching fireflies in jars and telling ghost stories.  When it was time to go in, you’d hear our moms and dads calling from up and down the street, informing us that it was bedtime.

Nobody worried about us.  We could go anywhere within shouting distance and do what ever we wanted.  Best of all, the Good Humor truck came by every day, its bell ringing, offering up the finest popsicles in the world. We’ d run indoors to beg for a dime or two, then sit in the shade and slurp away as the summer afternoon grew hot.

I became addicted to reading and books in the tiny public library, which still stands today, but is no longer a library.  I remember the enticing smell of the place and the dust-laden light, sifting through leaded windows as I paged through books, looking for the best horse stories I could find.  I always went home with armloads of reading material and was always back the next week for more.

What was the library when I was a kid.

Returning to Huntington a few years ago, I was surprised to find out how close I had lived to school, the library and the movies.  I remember them as being miles away, but in reality, they were just blocks away. And I remember the house I lived in as huge, but of course, it wasn’t. My small size and perspective at the time, just made them feel that way.

Since then, I haven’t lived in an urban setting, always finding myself in the country or suburbs.  So it is no surprise that the neighborhood I live in today reminds me so much of my Huntington address.  The streets here are quiet, narrow and tree-lined.  There are small patches of woods and a multitude of birds.  Kids of all ages live up and down the streets and it feels safe and inviting.  I love to sit outside and listen to them playing, often overhearing a touching conversation between a parent and a young child.  Some of the kids, play out what looks like a Star Wars story, in much the same way my friends and I played cowboys and indians.  Unfortunately, the never-ending childhood melodramas that teach us about good guys and bad guys.

Everyone here has a dog or two, and in the mornings and late afternoons we all walk them, often gathering in groups to talk about the latest storm damage or whatever else is happening in the hood.  There is Bill who walks adorable, Francey; Ruby who totes her tiny white poodle, Bridgette, in a stroller because she is old and unable to walk and another Bill, with his two Australian shepherds.  Even those without dogs are wonderfully friendly and helpful.  We’ve felt at home here since we moved in.

In the late summer and fall, when the UVA students return from summer break, the marching band practices in a nearby soccer field.  We can hear them from our patio and we’re close enough to walk over and watch as this talented group of musicians fills the evenings with baton twirling, flag waving and celebratory music as they prepare for the football season.

One of the public libraries is a few blocks away, though my presence has not yet graced its stacks, and the University libraries are also within walking distance. Unfortunately, these days I tend to underline and write in books and one cannot do that with loaners.  We have no Good Humor truck visiting the neighborhood but we do have our own parades.  On July 4th and Halloween, children and parents living on the surrounding streets come together, get dressed up in costumes and march around our block. Then everyone gathers for watermelon and popsicles.

I adore living here in the city and after all my years of being convinced that I’m a country girl, I’m now well aware that I have missed the friendliness and community to be found in this very 1950’s kind of neighborhood. The following photos are from this summer’s Independence Day Parade!  Hope you all had a great Holiday!!

Margaret leading the way

The End!

Filed Under: stories

Wineberries

July 4, 2011 By

Wineberries from the Farmer's Market

Every Saturday morning at 7 AM, throughout the summer, I head to the farmer’s market where I can find just about any seasonal vegetables or fruit I desire.  I usually pick up a dozen fresh eggs from pastured chickens or what some old-time residents call Yard Birds.  I also gather juicy peaches, a sweet cantaloupe or two, and berries of all kinds.  Freshly slaughtered chickens, beef, lamb and pork, all locally grown, are available along with cheese from goats and cows, handmade jewelry and so much more.

This past Saturday, two booths were featuring wild-harvested wineberries …  a raspberry-like fruit, sweet and tart, all at the same time. I was offered a sample and their tangy flavor sent me back some fifty-five years to my adolescence, growing up on New York’s, Long Island Sound.  At that time, we lived year round on a small neck of land that stuck out into the Sound on one side and Northport harbor on the other.  Our house was tucked into a small cove that at high tide filled with salt water and at low tide became a mud flat.  We had access to a private neighborhood beach and our own small piece of sound-front shore just five minutes from our home, where we could swim anytime, regardless of how the tide was running. Besides having to do daily house chores, I spent most summer days at the neighborhood beach or on the water with friends, swimming, flirting, sometimes sailing in a friend’s boat, or waterskiing.

The Sluice at the private beach where I spent my summers swimming.

Wineberries and blackberries grew wild along the narrow, shaded roads and my friends, mostly summer residents, and I would feast on those wonderous jewels, staining our mouths, hands and clothes with their runny juice.  If we could gather enough without eating them all, we’d heap them into hand-rolled pie crusts, bake them, and sell them to the neighbors.  We also made and sold apple pies, from fruit a neighbor grew in his yard and donated to our cause. We saved the proceeds to finance our late summer trips to Coney Island, where we’d spend a last fling together before school started and my friends headed back to the city.  We’d feast on hot dogs, smothered with sauerkraut and yellow mustard, scream from the top of one of the stomach-churning roller coasters and challenge each other to try the parachute jump, which was my favorite.

The 4th of July was always a festive occasion spent with neighbors and family at the beach.  A day ahead of time we’d dig clams and gather mussels from seaweed encrusted rocks along the water’s edge.  My mother would make baked beans, stock up on fresh corn, watermelon and party food.  On the Fourth, we’d dig a deep hole in the sand and line the bottom with rocks. On top we’d build a fire with driftwood, letting it burn until the coals were glowing and the rocks were too hot to touch.  We’d then layer in wet seaweed, clams, mussels and corn, top it all off with more seaweed and let the contents steam away. When the clams and mussels opened their shells and the corn was tender it was ready. There was a bowl of melted butter to dip seafood in and to pour over corn.  Always a grill with hamburgers and hotdogs sizzled away off to the side. When the sun went down, we’d begin to hear and sometimes see fireworks off in the distance, sit around the bonfire and toast marshmallows until they were crusty on the outside and very gooey on the inside.  Late at night, we’d wander home, in bathing suites filled with overstuffed bellies and lots of sand, often sunburned, and completely exhausted. I’d dream of sweet summers filled with romance and good-looking boys.

I visited Long Island a few years ago in the springtime, hoping to locate the seven houses I lived in as a child.  I found four of them.  The Eaton’s Neck house where I lived is still there.  My heart skipped many a beat as I slowly drove by.  So many memories flooded my head.  The neighborhood still looks pretty much like it used to, but there are more homes and fewer stands of woods and trees.  On the day I was there, I watched a chestnut colored pony grazing in the large yard of one of the nearby houses.  Had it been there when I was a resident, I probably would have spent much of my time there.  I loved horses and wanted one of my own.

The home where I spent my teen years. Built by my father, circa 1954, as it stands today.

As I write these words, I feel filled with excitement. I can’t wait to finish mowing the lawn and get down to the beach. I smell the salty breeze, hear my friends laughing as they throw each other off the dock from which we swam.  I run up the road, sweaty and anxious to join the fun.  I wonder where they all are now.  Are they still living and breathing, remembering as I am, the way life was then?  Where are you Nick, Gil, Denise, Judy, Richie, Billy?

Happy 4th of July to All!

Filed Under: stories, wonderings

Once Upon A Time …

July 1, 2011 By

Lunch on the Eiffel Tower, Paris, 1965

In June, 1965, a week before I was married, I graduated from college with a Bachelor of Science degree in Elementary Education.  I weighed 104 pounds and wore a size 4 wedding dress. You could say I had an eating disorder, years before they were considered to be serious ailments. Being prone to huge anxiety, I simply ate little to no food at all.

For the weeks and months following the wedding, I couldn’t grasp the idea of being Mrs. William H. Rough. Suddenly I was gone from my parent’s dysfunctional and abusive home. Someone actually loved me! But it took a long time for me to get over the suspicion that Bill would one day find out what a horrible person I was and leave.  During our honeymoon in Europe, there were times when left alone in a restaurant while he went to the men’s room, that I feared he wouldn’t return … that he was actually driving away while I sat there.  He always did return and daily my trust grew.  Beyond the eating disorder I also suffered from an extremely low sense of self-esteem.  A problem that has haunted me most of my life and can still upon occasion raise it’s fiery, dragon-like head.

After we returned home from our travels and set up housekeeping in St. Johnsbury, Vermont, I was to start my teaching career at a nearby elementary school.  In those days there were only a few days to get into your classroom before the first day of school to set things up or just sit and contemplate about how to proceed. There were no meetings ahead of time to talk with other teachers or the principle. I was to have a group of 15 first and second graders.  I was anxious and scared.  Though I had gotten rave reviews during two semesters of student teaching, I was sure that I was incapable of managing a classroom.

At the same time, my brother, Reid, came to live with us and attend the Academy where Bill was teaching English.  He and our parents were at war.  As chronic world savers, Bill and I invited him to share our home with us, along with another young man named Billy, whom my husband was trying to mentor.  Living with his mother, he was out of control. He’d been in reform school and at one time had been accused of trying to kill his father.  He wasn’t doing well in school, was on the verge of quitting and getting into who knew what kind of trouble.

So it was with a huge overstuffed plate, that the first day of school arrived and I made my way to the classroom where I was to spend the next year with 15 kids with whom I was totally unfamiliar. Eating was more torture than a delight. I was getting little sleep. As the children entered the classroom, I discovered two first graders who didn’t know their last names and were nowhere near ready to read or write.  A second grader confessed that he was very bright and would be going to Harvard when he graduated from highschool.  There were some old beaten-up text books and no mimeos or worksheets to keep one group busy while I was working with another.  And of course there was no Teacher’s Aide. Most mornings I was in tears on my 30 minute drive to school.  At lunch I’d slip away by myself to spend another hour crying and trying to work up enough strength to return to the classroom.

Two weeks later on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I went to the Superintendent who had hired me, and I quit my job.   He obviously understood my predicament and with a huge hug, sent me off to put my life back together.  He was one of the kindest men I’ve ever met. We remained friends for years. Even after we moved from the area, we kept in touch at Christmas until he passed away.  I cannot describe how grateful and relieved I was to have time to figure out who I was, and become the person I was meant to be.

I immersed myself in reading and the ever-forbidden artwork that my father had told me time and time again was not a way to make money.  Loving the days I had to myself, I learned to cook spectacular meals. There were everyday discoveries about life away from two parents who were rarely prepared to teach me what I needed to know. I became my own parent, stumbling, making mistakes in my marriage, later with my own children, and forever grateful for the kindness of those who believed in me so much more, than I ever had.

By the beginning of the New Year, Billy, the kid, never came in on time, refused to study and was off doing mischief when ever we were not around.  We sent him packing.  Brother Reid continued to live with us, and as I had during my days growing up, considered him to be my very own, and the only one in my family of origin who cared about me.

Nikki, Our First Cat

A few months later we moved from our tiny apartment to our first house.  A crazy but gorgeous Weimaraner puppy became our first dog, followed soon by a kitten that was given to us by one of Bill’s students whose father was threatening to drown the litter.  We caught Reid smoking and were becoming more and more like parents of a teenager, way before we had our own children.  We were addicted to Julia Child, who was showing off her cooking skills on PBS.  I followed along, learning to make all sorts of delicacies that I never dreamed would turn me into a true foodie, gaining pounds and forever loving to nourish people with beautifully prepared meals. I’m now way beyond the size 4 wedding dress and am constantly trying to keep myself from eating too much during anxious moments.

There have been too many years of my believing that I was broken …  a failure … because I quit that teaching job.  I’ve only recently learned to see my life as a work in progress. I’m a respected artist and writer.  I am a wife, a mother, a grandmother.  I am proud of myself for overcoming the obstacles that have become my teachers. By writing about my journey, I am healing the many wounds that have remained inflamed. Through hard work, understanding myself as well as those I am in relationship with, I am able to be with life as it is.  And by owning my story I’ve become a survivor rather than a victim.

 

Filed Under: Navigating Through Life, stories
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