The Enemy of My Enemy

My mom lives in my sister’s guest house.  My sister was having the guest house painted and thought my mom might like a little vacation. We were happy to have my mom visit for a week. I flew back with her and stayed for a mini vacation of my own.

The two residences are home to three cats. My mother has always had pets but a couple of years ago, her adorable little rescue passed away.

At 92, she wasn’t looking for another pet.  But her doctor told her the pacemaker she has should last at least ten years and my mom expects to take full advantage of its life expectancy.

So when someone at her senior center called and told her she knew of a litter of kittens and was hoping my mother would take one, she thought why not. First she asked my sister if she thought it was wise at her age to have another pet. My sister said, “Of course you should.”

And so, a raven colored, frenzied ball of energy she named Edward was welcomed.

I hadn’t visited for at least a year due to Covid, but I talked to my mother often and she told me of Edward’s antics and rough play. He scratches and bites her toes when he wants attention. He knocks everything off her shelves and thoroughly inspects anything new. He has a busy daily schedule he takes seriously.

Kittens and puppies are full of energy but usually calm down after a year. Edward is blissfully unaware of this rather common behavioral trait.

I was having coffee with her one morning and he jumped on top of a cabinet.  He craned his neck down to bite a corner of a calendar she has hanging on the cabinet door and worked until he lifted it from the hook and knocked it to the floor. My mother said it’s part of his routine. He promptly fell asleep on top of the cabinet after the effort. On a positive note, my mother said she gets her exercise picking up after him.

Edward’s fur is sleek and jet black, except for his tail – still black but huge and fluffy.  His whiskers are the longest I’ve ever seen. He’s an interesting mix – part cat, part Tasmanian devil.

My sister has two Selkirk Rex’s. They’re very fluffy, curly haired felines.  The orange older one has been with her since he was a kitten. The black and white one has been a permanent resident for about a year.  They’re rivals. They avoid each other, tolerate each other or swipe at each other.

While my mother’s house was being painted, my sister took Edward over to her house. The two “enemy” Selkirks became allies.  Neither had any patience for this uncouth invader. 

Edward went home when my mother came back, and the two fluffy antagonists resumed their pre-invasion stances. But with just a hint of a new mutual respect, knowing they could count on each other if another unwelcome intruder should arrive.

Self Image

I caught my dog staring in the mirror this morning. I knew what he was thinking. “My fur is too dark and short. This white on my face makes me look like an old dog. My paws are too small, my legs are skinny and my tail is too floppy. My ears are trying to pick up satellite signals. I have beady eyes.”

Actually, my dog never looks in the mirror. He’s pretty happy.

Memorial Day

I once worked with a lot of Israelis at a company in Jersey City. After one Memorial Day, one of the men asked me why people celebrate Memorial Day. You go to the beach, open your pools, have barbecues. I don’t understand it.

I told him that people remember the fallen with parades and planting flags and flowers in military cemeteries. There are often messages read at the cemeteries or at places like V.F.W. halls, chapels at military bases, etc.

But after the ceremonies people remember the fallen by celebrating the freedoms those men and women paid the ultimate price for. At least that’s how it was explained to me.

I told him it’s not that way anymore for most Americans. It’s not like Israel where war or the threat of war is a daily reality, and those sacrifices are felt more keenly. Almost everyone in Israel serves in the military.  Almost everyone in the U.S. doesn’t, and so I told him he was right. A lot of people think of the day as a day off, a day to go to the beach.

I guess that’s good and bad.

A Little Diabetic

My stories are a mix of fiction and non-fiction. Some of the fiction from when I was young came from my brother, Jimmy. He came to conclusions based on observations. Or maybe he thought making up stories for me was somehow entertaining.

A few years ago, while sitting around the table at my sister’s, I asked my mother why she thought none of us had diabetes. She seemed surprised and asked why we would.

“Well,’ I said, “They say it skips a generation. Rob’s grandfather had diabetes and he does, but his mother doesn’t.” 

And she replied, “but what does that have to do with you?”

“Well, grandma died from complications of diabetes so shouldn’t one of us have gotten it by now?” I asked.

“Your grandmother died having a fit in a mental hospital!” she exclaimed.

I looked at my brother, who was choking on his coffee, and asked “Why did you tell me that?”

He diverted to my mother. “Didn’t she have her leg amputated from complications of diabetes?” he asked.

So, this bit of fiction was one based on his observation, which makes sense. Your grandmother dying from having a fit in a mental home was probably not a subject that came up very often.

My mother explained that our paternal grandmother was a hypochondriac. She was sure she had cancer and the doctors were lying to her. When they found nothing wrong with her, she took to her bed, resigning herself to her imminent death. She developed such a serious bed sore, an amputation was necessary. 

Of course some things are genetic. I’m not a hypochondriac, but sometimes Rob tells me he thinks I’m becoming a little “diabetic”.

My Father’s Mom

Nonpareils

I just bought a little tub of nonpareils at Trader Joe’s.  They’re small dark chocolate discs covered in white sprinkles. The cashier said “These are delicious!” as he slid them over the scanner. “My daughter doesn’t like them, and she just brought some home, so guess who they’re all for?”, he continued with a big smile on his face.

I agreed, “Yes, they are really good.” I wanted to say more but I find that plastic partition rather inhibitive.

I wanted to say, “When my mother was small, her mother used to go into town on Saturdays to shop with one of her girlfriends. She always brought back a small bag of nonpareils for my mom. She died in childbirth when my mother was seven. My mom is 94 now and still loves nonpareils. Me too. Yes, they are really good, but for me, they’re a kind of nostalgic connection to a grandmother I never knew.”

My Mom’s Mother

Judy

My brother married Judy. I thought, what? A girl from Oklahoma?

Growing up in New Jersey and never travelling anywhere at that point in my life I didn’t know anything about other states. People often say Americans think this and/or Americans act this way and some of that is true. But American states have their own personalities and the north is different from the south and the east, different from the west. And then there’s the middle of the country.  We’re all different. At the time my brother married Judy, I knew nothing about Oklahoma. Well, to be honest, I still don’t know anything about Oklahoma. I did know I was afraid to go down south. Crazy rednecks down there.  But Judy was cute, funny, sweet and kind. I say Judy was because we lost her a couple of years ago to cancer. I often think of her and when I do it’s always a good memory.

We both moved often but when we lived close to each other we’d meet for coffee and sometimes go shopping. I’m not really a shopper but I liked going to inexpensive stores with her for a good bargain. There was a hit or miss ten dollar store in her town. I found a great pair of Gap button down jeans there once that fit perfectly. I remember looking at a pair of pants there on another outing and Judy remarked, “Yep, that’s your color – drab green.”  I never thought about it but yes, at the time I bought a lot of army green clothes. It was my color.

Once, at another store, we found these great tops that would be perfect to wear with a suit for work. I don’t remember how much they were but they were such a good deal that when a fire engine with lights swirling, siren blaring, pulled up right in front of the store, I said to Jude, “If it’s this store that’s on fire, I’m not leaving until I pay for this top. And she said “Neither am I.”

But shopping was just a prelude to coffee. Our real goal was to go get coffee and cake and just chit-chat. There was a small coffee shop we liked, long before Starbucks or any other chain. We’d sit there with our coffee and cake and just talk about nothing. I think that’s what I miss the most.

Speaking of cake, Judy was a good cook and good baker. When my mom’s brother passed away, we all met and stayed at my brother’s house in New Jersey. My mom and sister live in L.A. and I lived in Toronto then.  Judy made a good dinner, but I don’t remember what it was. What I do remember was the chocolate cake she made for dessert. The next morning before we all headed off for the funeral, she and I were the first ones up. She asked what I wanted for breakfast and I said, “If you don’t mind, could I have a piece of your cake and a cup of coffee?” Her face lit up and she said, “Exactly what I wanted but thought you might want food!” And then my sister and mom woke up and chocolate cake and coffee was had by all. It really is a great breakfast.

Judy and I joined an aerobics class once. We were the worst. The rest of the ladies in the group were really into it. One young lady took several classes in a row and was bursting with energy. We wondered what drug she was on or what drug she should’ve been on. We stayed on the opposite side of the room from her. The building where the class was held had no air conditioning and when the spring turned to summer, it was way too hot in there to be jumping around. So during the routine, when we were hopping to the left, I whispered to Jude, “Just keep going.”  And we did, right out the door and down to the coffee shop.

Melissa

It’s funny sometimes how childhood memories surface. My grandfather owned a rather large duplex with a little store at the front. Next door was a formidable house made out of stone with a huge back covered porch. The stone seemed to keep the heat at bay on summer days which were the only days I sat there, talking to Melissa.

 She was a warm, kind-hearted older woman who’d sit on her porch on late summer afternoons after her housework was finished. She wasn’t there every day. I know because I looked for her. When I saw Melissa on the porch, I’d run through my grandfather’s small garden, hop the little fence and jump up on her porch to visit.

Melissa was obese. Her girth was very unusual back then. it made her a kind of local celebrity – an interesting neighborhood character.

Melissa was patient with me. She listened to my inane chatter and musings and sometimes offered advice but always offered a smile. I suppose I would’ve become an annoyance had I lived there, but I only saw her occasionally when I visited my grandparents in the summers. 

The two homes took up an entire side of a short block. Next to Melissa’s home was an alley, so maybe the block continued. Nevertheless, the reason I cut across the garden was because it was a shortcut. 

Melissa rarely ventured from the house. On rare occasions, she’d walk down the few steps of her porch, then the few steps down to the alley, and walk around her home to the sidewalk and down the block to Perez’s Market (my grandparent’s store).

People came out of their homes or peeked through their windows to get a glimpse of a rare Melissa sighting. She didn’t seem to care.

Although her weight prevented her from taking this walk often, she liked to visit the store now and then to see what was new. If she ever really needed anything, she only had to ask my grandfather across the fence when he was in his garden. It was only a few short steps from her porch. 

She and my grandfather often chatted when he was tending to his plants. She spoke Italian and he spoke Spanish. Sometimes it was easier to speak to each other in those similar languages than to try to find the words in English. Their cultures were very similar. They talked about vegetables and olives and grapes. I think Melissa made her own wine.

I hadn’t thought of her in many years. Then the other day I was driving and happened to catch a reflection of my arm in the window. And I thought, “Oh, my goodness!  Melissa!”

My grandfather with Stephie (my mother’s stepmother – my grandmother) in front of their store. Perez Market. Don’t know who the little guy is.

Mars Shopping

Lately I bought several things that shrank after washing them. I purchased them in nice shops, so I wasn’t expecting it. But they’re only clothes that hopefully will make someone else happy. Surprisingly the latest incident brought back some pleasant memories. My mother did her best with very little resources. How she managed to buy anything was a miracle but how she managed to buy what she did was a mystery. I once jokingly asked her if she shopped on Mars.

One Christmas she bought mittens for my sister and me. They had faux leather on the palm side and faux rabbit fur on the other side. Each pair had two left hands. We laughed as we did with many of her purchases and used them for a day in the snow until they wore out. A short life also being one of the signature features of her special finds. Quality at its best. She bought us both mittens one other winter made of Martian blindingly bright orange material. Day-glo didn’t exist then. Yet I’m sure we could have directed traffic with them in a blizzard.

Another memorable Christmas gift was a pair of pink and white flannel footie pajamas for a petite 8 year old god-daughter. She took them out of the plastic wrapper when she got home to see if they looked the right size. We made my brother try them on. He was six feet tall – a perfect fit – long before they sold footie pajamas for adults (or giants). Some things were disappointing and some embarrassing but most just made us laugh.

My mother has been living a good life for years now.  But for some reason, she still shops on Mars. A few years ago, though, she switched from a Martian bargain basement to a Martian second-hand store.  One of my favorites is a stained medical dictionary she gave her grandson for Christmas so he could play Scrabble. He’s never played Scrabble. A few other favorites are a turtle lamp, ornaments sized for the tree at Rockefeller Center, and a fly swatter with a big flower on it (to fool the flies). But the winner is a couple of prescription bottles she filled with old coins and adorned with kids’ stickers for another grandson. I think he was in law school at the time.

Religion Rules

When I was seven years old I knew I was Catholic. I knew my grandmother was very Catholic. I was born Catholic, but she lived Catholic. 

She always wore a dress and platform heels. But on Sundays, the dress was just a bit finer and the heels fancier. The styles were the same.  Her everyday shoes were canvas and her Sunday shoes were silk.  The every day dress buttoned down the front with a tiny flower pattern.  She wore a full apron to keep it spot free.  A buttoned down satiny one was donned on Sundays – no flowery pattern and no apron. 

I was staying at her house and it was Sunday morning.  The house was warm with the aroma of coffee and toast.  But we didn’t have any because, communion.

She looked beautiful.  Her round full face was powdered and her perfect lips were stained a matte red.  She smelled of a mixture of apples and roses.

After fastening a small round navy blue hat into her soft curls, she grabbed what I can only describe as a white doily for me.  She slipped the doily into her slightly elegant, but practical navy leather purse; a heavy structured square with a short armband. The middle gold clasp thunked as she snapped it shut.  When her white gloves were slipped on and adjusted, she scooped her arm into the band of her purse, took my hand and headed for the door.

We waved goodbye to my grandfather.  He wasn’t Catholic like me or my grandmother.  His type of Catholicism meant he didn’t need to go to church. And he could have coffee and toast.

The church was a short two block walk.  The churchyard took the entire second block.  A railing type of black iron fence encompassed the entire property.  The rails looked like upended spears with sharp spikes on top resembling spades from a deck of cards.  No one could climb that without getting hurt. I wondered why someone would build a fortress around a church.  But I also thought it fascinating like a castle, something from an old, old world.

We walked around to the gate in front.  It was only open on Sundays and holidays.  We stopped only long enough for my grandmother to secure the doily on my head with a bobby pin. The church was a large white wooden building.  We ascended the stairs and walked quietly through the arched, shellacked wooden doors. Just inside it was musty and fairly dark with just a few dim lights and a couple of candles. The altar area at the far end was a different story.  That was brightly lit with plenty of gleaming gold.

There were four oblong stained glass windows on each side of the building. The light varied from these depending on the direction of the sun.  Also on each side were two or three statues of saints.  In front of each of them was a grouping of votive candles.  In front of the candles a place to kneel down and pray.

In the center, right behind the altar was a huge crucifix.  When you entered through the middle door as we had, or you walked up the center aisle, you were supposed to genuflect as a gesture of respect.  We did that and then my grandmother directed me to the left, to the first saint statue. He was on a pedestal so he looked like a giant.  He seemed to be carved out of chalk and wore a brown and white robe that flowed down to his sandaled feet. One hand was down holding rosary beads and the other in a kind of high five position. His face looked down at the kneeler in front of him.

We knelt on that kneeler.  My grandmother took what looked like a long piece of straw out of a box on the side and put it into one of the lit candles.  When it caught fire, she moved it to one of the unlit candles and lit the wick.  She then placed it, flame side down into a long metal cylinder next to the box.  The flame went out.  She dropped a couple of quarters into a little bank next to the cylinder.

She then made the sign of the cross.  She put her hand to her head, then her chest,  then one shoulder, then the other shoulder.  I did the same thing.

In a flash she backhanded me so hard I flew off the kneeler and rolled to the middle aisle.   In shock I looked up at her.  She was as stunned as I was.  I slowly walked back to her and reprimanding me in a loud whisper she said, “You never bless yourself with your left hand!”

His Eyes

My son has always been a bit of a hypochondriac so, at 16, when he told me he was seeing spots in front of his eyes, I didn’t believe him.

“That only happens in cartoons.” I said. 

But the next day he woke up and half of one eye was solid red. We were living in Canada at the time and didn’t have a regular doctor. That’s another story for another time.

I told my son to make an appointment with a doctor. “Just find one in the phone book.” I told him. And I left for work.

When I came home that evening, I asked about his doctor visit. He said the doctor told him he hit himself very hard on the side of the head.

“That’s ridiculous. Even if you were asleep and fell out of bed, hitting the side of your head hard enough to cause damage in your eye, you’d wake up.  Don’t you think? And you’d definitely remember if you were awake.  Make an appointment with an eye doctor tomorrow.” I responded.

The next evening when I came home from work, my son was in the living room reading a newspaper with a magnifying glass.  “What happened?” I asked, “What’s wrong with your eye?”

He said the doctor didn’t tell him, but she gave him drops to relax his eyes. “But I can’t see now.” he said.

Make another appointment with a different eye doctor for tomorrow evening if you can. I want to go with you.

And we went.

I waited in the waiting room as the doctor who examined him kept inviting every other doctor in the practice to come into his office to check out my son’s eyes. When the three ring circus was over, I asked what was going on and what was wrong with him.

The doctor responded that he couldn’t tell me anything because by Canadian law a sixteen year old is entitled to privacy. I was fuming inside. Canada is a beautiful country but some things were unacceptable to me.  I’m his mother. Shouldn’t he be able to waive that right to privacy if he wants to?  But I didn’t ask that. I said, “Well, have you told him what’s wrong then?”

“No.  He’ll need to make another appointment.” was his reply. “Um, no, he doesn’t. We’ll find another doctor” I shot back. He begged me not to leave without making another appointment.  We left.

At doctor number four, I was allowed in the exam room. The doctor looked shocked, or at least very concerned, but refused to tell us what the problem was. 

The next day at work, an older gentleman asked how the lad was just as a courtesy. He didn’t know anything about my son’s eye problem.

I went off on him (poor guy). I ranted about the quality of care. “If this is socialized medicine, you can keep it!” I yelled. “My son has a problem with his eyes and no one will tell us what’s wrong or offer treatment and he’s seen four doctors so far. I don’t know what to do!” 

He interrupted my rant, “I know someone who might be able to help. Let me call her and get back to you.”

I thanked him and apologized for yelling.  I never yelled at him before, and it wasn’t really at him, but he was used to my often blunt Jersey-speak and didn’t seem to take offense.

He did know someone, and she got an appointment with a specialist at a local hospital.

He was quite a character; a short stocky man with thick dark glasses matching his thick dark hair, scooting around on a small round chair on wheels.  He had no qualms about telling us what was happening.

He even drew a picture to explain it.  Two circles for eyes. And then he took his pencil and hit the circles multiple times.  He said, “Your son has acute bi-lateral corio-retinitis. It’s as if they were shot with a shotgun. There are cuts all over his eyes and when they heal, they scar. The scars are the spots he’s seeing.  I’ll have to send him for further testing to determine the cause. It could be fungal, or bacterial or viral and if I treat it for the wrong cause I could do more damage than good.” He didn’t tell us that he could go blind.

My son went for the tests. At his follow-up visit the doctor told him the attack had stopped. So we think it was viral and the virus ran its course. At a further follow-up, the doctor seemed amazed and said, “Your eyes are scarred everywhere except where it affects your vision! I was concerned about a particular spot in your line of sight but it seems to have receded. I don’t understand it.”

“I do,” my son replied, “Everyone in my church was praying for me.”