I Remember

The day the Twin Towers fell, I was outside weeding. My husband was watching the morning news with our three children, who were then ages 4, 3, and 6 months. He called me in to see the television. I didn’t understand what I was seeing. I went back outside in a daze wondering if it was the end of the world.

The birds in the protected land adjacent to our property went crazy, like a large bird of prey was after them. The locusts in the trees were deafening for days.

My eldest daughter at age 4 saw the news and was obsessed with the images of those towers . For months she would not stop building them from legos and drawing them. We told her they were bad men and she wanted to know why they were bad. We didn’t have a good answer for her.

My dad lost his friend John Griffin. Together they used to work overseeing the installation of air conditioning units, elevator cabs, and other major items that go into skyscrapers. I remember spending a weekend at the Griffins’ weekend getaway. They had kids my age. My dad used to have lunch with John at Windows on the World and would still have been going to the World Trade Center every day if he did not have to go on disability with multiple sclerosis. He held onto hope for weeks that John would be found alive under the rubble. “He knew those buildings like the back of his hand”, he said, “He will find his way around down there.” He was never found.

What loss, what horror we all experienced that day. And still it goes on. As the years pass by, the death toll rises. As the cleanup and rebuilding continues, construction men have been injured, emergency workers have been sickened, and firemen were killed by a crumbling building that was damaged that day.

I also remember the uplifting sight of American flags that were flown from people’s homes in the immediate aftermath. People went around with kinder, gentler looks on their faces. They remembered their manners in public places and greeted strangers with courtesy.

People remembered to kiss their loved ones goodbye in the morning because you just never know.

Please keep the remembrances going because we can’t ever forget.

500

Bedtime Story, 1883

My 500th post is dedicated to the memory of my “Poppop”, John S. Nagy. It was he who passed on to me a love of newspapers, especially the “funnies” section. Every summer I would visit him and Nanna in their Apollo Beach, Florida home for two weeks. He would wake up at around 5:00 every morning, make coffee for Nanna, and walk with Penny to get the newspaper. Then he would make eggs and sausages for breakfast. He taught me how to do the cryptoquote, and would cut them out for me and mail them in an envelope because we didn’t get the paper at home. To this day I do the cryptoquote and read Peanuts daily, and recently published a Wordy Gurdy rhyme in Newsday. When Poppop learned that I was a writer, he became one of my biggest fans and encouraged me to do it professionally. I know he is up in Heaven cheering me on.

As great as the Internet is, I hope that newspapers never die. We love to spread ours out on the kitchen table as we eat breakfast. The kids read the sports section, I read the weather and news headlines, and my husband goes through pretty much the whole thing. We cut out Peanuts cartoons that have to do with baseball and put them up on the fridge. Newspapers are also great for wrapping presents, lining pets’ cages, making kites, insulating drafty garages, and making you feel like you’re doing something for the world by recycling them.

My friend Leticia has been my greatest inspiration when it comes to publishing on the Internet. Loren Christie leaves uplifting comments on almost every one of my posts. My mom is my biggest fan and is helping me to build a book that is based on my best devotional essays. Julie lets me know when she really likes what I’ve written, and passes it on to others. My siblings Joanna and James have always encouraged me. My husband supports me in all my endeavors and my kids of course are the source of all my writing ideas. Last but not least are my readers. Knowing that you are clicking over expecting another post keeps me writing every day. Thank you.

Full Closure: Reflections on “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”: Book Five (Chapters 55-56)

Please click on key word A Tree Grows in Brooklyn for previous installments in this series.

I think it is imperative to find out as much as possible about one’s heritage, to examine it with truthfulness regardless of whether it hurts or not. They say history is doomed to repeat itself when people are ignorant of it. The same thing goes for families. Francie is an example of someone who came ahead a stronger and wiser person because of her clear-headed decisions made in full knowledge of where she has come from.

Francie comes just short of saying that her mother’s marrying her father was a mistake. Then she very nearly steals a man from another woman, just like her mother. She falls head over heels for a young man who has already said he is engaged, but that he plans to call it off. He says he wants to be intimate with her before going to serve his country. She says no, but has second thoughts about her decision when she finds out he has married his fiancé after all.

I found her conversation with her mother to be very interesting. It is wonderful that she is able to share her emotional conundrum with Katie, and that Katie can be so understanding. Francie knows that waiting for marriage is best, and promises to do so, but wants to know if she did the right thing in this instance. As a woman, her mom says, she did not. She missed out on a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

But on denying herself that, she also eliminated a lifetime of regret that could come from either stealing another woman’s man, giving herself away before finding her lifetime partner, or possibly becoming pregnant or contracting a disease. She did the rational and moral thing at the time, rather than follow her emotions, which is what her mother did when she set about to steal Johnny from her girlfriend. This is what sets her apart from her mother and what will eventually allow her to find a true love that will last.

Francie gives up the passion for Lee in exchange for a more quiet and respectful romance with Ben. They do share the same kind of shy smile, and I do think that Francie was initially attracted to Ben, but he did not “need” her enough to pay her any attention for so long that she found love elsewhere with Lee. The book leaves it up in the air whether she will settle on him or not.

Has Katie found true love in Sergeant McShane? It is hard to believe that one could love from afar as they seemed to begin to do when they first met. They would see each other randomly in public and each kept the other in his or her thoughts as the health of their spouses deteriorated. They have a physical attraction for each other, and can see the qualities that each had to offer. This is a more rational type of love, one that will trust on time to build.

As Francie says goodbye to her old neighborhood, the book comes full circle back to many of the particulars described in the beginning of the book: the tree, the librarian and her bowl of seasonal flowers, the prizes at Cheap Charlie’s, and the little girls watching the big girls get ready for their dates. At the end she says “Goodbye Francie” to the girl across the street, although her name is Florrie. (In book one, as a small girl she would watch Flossie across the street.) The last sentence is: “She closed the window.” She has had full closure and can continue her life – a life that she herself will build.

I hope you have enjoyed my reflections on this novel, whether or not you have read it or plan to. I may have more thoughts to ponder after meeting with my Long Island book buddies. “A Tree in Brooklyn” has become a commonly used metaphor in American life. In America, you are what you make your life to be.

Remembering our Childhoods Even-Handedly: Reflections on “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”, Chapters 3-6

Click here for my reflections on Chapters 1-2, which set up the story of this autobiographical novel by Betty Smith.

Francie Nolan deals with memories of both her parents fairly even-handedly. It is amazing to me how she can tell her story in the voice of a mature, wise woman, while reflecting on how she actually did see things while a young girl.

There is no real tenderness between her and her mother, Katie; yet she reveals the particulars of the painstaking ways her mother used to get by for the sake of her children. Her father, Johnny, is an alcoholic, bringing home very little income on his on-and-off-again job as a singing waiter; yet he has a beautiful soul that endears his children to him. She confesses that she did not know she was “supposed to be ashamed” of him.

It is during adolescence that she chooses to start this story; this is the time when the rosy glasses through which we see childhood start to come off. Then comes a stormy several years during which a growing girl’s mother seemingly does very little right, and her father can do no wrong. When we get older, and bear children ourselves, we see more clearly the sacrifices our own mothers have given for us, and see also that our fathers have some foibles that we hadn’t admitted before.

Katie is a genious in the kitchen. She can make all kinds of named dishes out of stale bread. She sends the children off for pennies worth of small ingredients to make a real meal. She has taught them all the “tricks” of dealing with the local shop-owners, such as how to make sure you receive unadulterated, freshly ground meat.

I have inherited the ways of this era, from tales of my second-generation maternal grandparents (whose parents came from Hungary and Italy), and refuse to waste a scrap of food. Rather than use recipes, I go by what I have fresh in the refrigerator. Whatever is oldest is used first. No meatloaf is the same; there is always some “secret ingredient”, which is perhaps some salad dressing that had to be used up soon. And when I make an egg-white cake, I save the yokes. These are whipped up for little ones that need the protein and fat for their developing brains. Ground eggshells can be used in the garden.

And yet, despite all her ingenuity, they always feel hungry. The reader can only feel pain for their empty little tummies. We wonder how the father could possibly drink away his sorrows while knowing he has two starving children at home, collecting junk to sell so they could buy stale bread. And how could he let his wife slave her youth away, scrubbing people’s tenements, including their own so they could have free rent? All he has to do is provide their food, and he is incapable of even that. His daughter truly is gracious in her memory, and yet she is allowing us to see the truth.

Certain quotes of her parents are remembered with sadness. It seems that she got them wrong when she was little, through her desire that things would be a bit rosier. But the actual conversations were clarified as she got older and saw things more realistically.

One night, Johnny goes off in a tangent, confiding to his daughter how he wished he never had any children; that he was never ready for this responsibility and it ruined his life. Suddenly he seems to see the effect of his words on his daughter and he tells her that he loves her.

Their lives are so imperfect, and yet the parents share a tenderness that is hard to believe amidst their turmoil. As Francie lies awake she hears them talking through the night, sharing and reminiscing. These moments, along with the hours spent with her books out on the fire escape in the shade of her beloved tree, seem to give her some peace of spirit.

Why has the author chosen to reveal these painful memories of her past, mixed with the solace of small pleasures? What has this to do with the tree that stubbornly grows through the cement? She has said that this particular tree thrives only in the poor neighborhoods. Is she saying she would not have become a great writer if it was not for her hardships? Certainly her writing would not have the same flavor, the descriptions of a life that could only be shown this way from within.

Her belief in God and faith in his plan is revealed here as well. He knew what He was doing when he planted her in the poor tenements of Brooklyn, with two young parents who didn’t know what they were getting into.

Follow me as I explore the rest of this novel, whether or not you have read it or plan to. “A Tree in Brooklyn” has become a commonly used metaphor in American life. In America, you are what you make your life to be.

My Son, The Ringbearer

The Village Wedding

My Dad called for my son’s eighth birthday. “I have his picture next to my bed,” he said. Every time I look at him, I think about him at Joanna’s wedding. I remember how he cried about the bubbles. That was great.”

“You know he wasn’t really crying about the bubbles, right Dad? He was just overwhelmed at everything at the moment.”

Really I think he was crying in reaction to seeing his grandfather in a wheelchair, but I didn’t say so.

I didn’t write much upon my return from the wedding because there was such a whirlwind of many mini-stories playing over in my mind. My Dad’s statement reminded me of one small part of the wedding worth dwelling on, if only because it will probably be one of those moments that are frozen into my son’s mind forever.

Going to a wedding is a far different experience than being in one. All the family dynamics come to play at a crescendo, for better or for worse (usually both). The adults are all caught up in their own personal dramas. I think we sometimes forget how it all must seem to a child.

In our case, we were traveling from New York to Tennessee and meeting the groom’s family for the first time at the wedding rehearsal. We arrived at 2:00 in the morning, the day of the rehearsal dinner. The children got their energies out at the pool, getting sunburned in the process, before the big pre-nuptial event. They did great, carrying out their instructions, and were made to feel welcome by all.

When my son came up the aisle, I replayed the memory, side by side with the present, of my little brother, at the age of 4, coming up the aisle with the ring for my own wedding. We had sewn the ring into the pillow so it wouldn’t get lost. When the best man tried to take it off, he had a nervous moment trying to get it detached!

Then my little sister came up the aisle, preceded by my two older daughters, and again I had a flashback to my own wedding, when she, at the age of 8, sweetly walked up the aisle in a lavender dress with a small bouquet. Not on purpose, I too was wearing a lavender dress at her rehearsal, and all these memories flooded back to me as she walked up the aisle. I couldn’t stop the tears from trickling down my face. When we were all together at the altar, the minister looked at my red nose and said, “I just love sisters.”

The next day was the wedding. We were all up early. The children showered and dressed, and we ladies and the children all traveled together, while my husband cared for our toddler. When we arrived, a hostess was ready to take my son over to the house where the groomsmen were getting ready. I insisted that I would take him myself. The poor little guy was in the company of a great many big guys. Fortunately, he knew both the groom and my brother. I gave my brother the charge of him and ran off to join the ladies.

Right before the wedding, my Dad came into the church, in his wheelchair. His health had been worrisome as of late, as he suffers from multiple sclerosis, and none of us were sure if he would be able to make it. I hadn’t seen him in five years. He was very thin and frail. I had tried to prepare my children for his appearance, but even I am never quite able to deal with the change that time brings upon him in my absence.

My sister came into the entryway and cried a little at seeing him. She was really happy that he had been able to make it.

The wedding went smoothly, beautifully, almost surreally (for me) and I was able to keep myself in control emotionally. The kids did a terrific job preparing the way for the beautiful bride.

At the end, we all came outside and waited for the couple to come out. Bridesmaids handed out bubbles to be blown for the pictures. The couple entered their vehicle and did a fake exit, driving around to the rear of the church for more pictures to be taken inside. I found my children and discovered that my son was quite upset. “I didn’t get any bubbles!” he said, his lower lip trembling.

“How could this have happened!” I exclaimed.

A bridesmaid came up to me, prodding me to come inside for the pictures. “I’ll be in in a minute, I said,” grabbing some bubbles from the basket that dangled from her arm.

Then my Dad rolled up to us. “This is your Grandpa,” I said to my son. And he burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” asked my Dad.

“He didn’t get any bubbles,” I tried to explain.

I received another reminder that they were waiting for us inside. I’m afraid I might have glared at the messenger. Here was a moment that my son might never forget, and I wasn’t going to rush through it until he was okay with everything.

My husband found us, and brought me my toddler, who also was very upset at having been separated from her mama. Her comparative outrage did some good in settling my son. Finally, we all went inside, and all went fairly smoothly from there.

It may seem puzzling why this might be a positive memory for my Dad. On a happy day, why would one want to remember the tears that occurred for ten minutes of it?

“He was just being a boy,” says my Dad.

And I think that’s it. Boys keep it real. If they are in a mood, they pout. If they are happy, they smile from ear to ear. You never see a little boy with a fake smile on his face, and they are usually not able to stifle their giggles.

In the middle of a smiling crowd, where some adults might be smiling to hide personal sadness, or to be polite and sociable, he was able to express his true emotion. Later, he would be running around by the lake, laughing and dancing. Whatever his actions, they were true.

So when my Dad sees his school picture sitting on his side table, with the same smile that my little brother has always had, he can see it all: the tears, the laughter, the genuine boy-ness. That still shot, combined with the living memories, will sustain him until our next visit.

Ode to an Old Wreath

The first thing I hang the day after Thanksgiving is this old wreath. Now that I see it in the picture, I think it is looking a bit asymmetrical. It needs to be turned a bit; the poinsettias and leaves need to be more properly placed. But I love it.

I have had this same wreath for ever so long, and like it much better than the standard green wreath that must be purchased new each year. I like it because it is old, and because it says so much about us.

It says, hello, greetings, and Merry Christmas! We love teddy bears because we are friendly and snuggly and loveable. We were recycling way before it was popular because our great-grandparents lived through the Great Depression, reused things out of necessity, and passed on their stories through oral tradition.

My great-grandfather used to go to the dump three times a day to pick up re-usable items. My favorite thing in his house was a tarnish brass frog with a wide open mouth that served as a pencil holder. That came from the dump. I would love to have it on my desk top to remind me of him.

The doorknocker, inscribed MILLER, was a gift from the real estate agent (who also was a family friend) who helped us find our house. We moved in one month before the birth of our firstborn. The gold wreath used to hang on my parents’ front door before they moved off Long Island, the same year we married. The ribbons came off of gifts that were given to us. The poinsettias were left over from a Christmas project my mom and I did when I was a teenager. The bear was a gift topper from way back when.

The little bears were purchased from a little boy named Kevin. Kevin came knocking at our door the first year we lived in this house. He was selling Christmas ornaments as a fundraiser for school. We were the first door he had knocked on. He wore glasses and was so shy that he did not know what to say. I took the brochure from him and picked out the set of miniature teddy bear ornaments. Kevin joined the Marines this fall.

They repeatedly say on all the purging and organization shows that you don’t need things to bring back memories. They say you can take a picture of the item if necessary, and it will serve the same purpose. I have plenty of pictures of my Christmas trees in photo albums, but nothing is so powerful as opening up the boxes of ornaments and holding something you have not seen for eleven months. On the bottom of these boxes I have handmade ornaments that have long ago fallen apart. I do not hang them – I glance at them once when taking out ornaments and once more when putting them back. I wouldn’t throw them out for anything.

The Little Pink Ball

Sometimes I have a day that is special in its absolute normalcy. I am following my normal routine and somehow every activity is enhanced with a joyfulness that is delicious. I know these days are a blessing from God and are given to us as encouragement and a reminder of his gifts. This happened to me yesterday.

I had a late start getting the baby and myself ready to go food shopping. The telephone rang and it was a relative I had not heard from for a long time. I was delighted to hear from her, and we talked for a while. We complained about how long it takes to go food shopping, but remembered to be thankful we had enough to eat.

I dressed the baby in a pink crocheted dress that had been mine as a baby, and that my second daughter had also worn. Now too short to be worn as a dress, I paired it with a pair of jeans and sweet little cranberry shoes. She looked absolutely adorable!

I had two certificates for free turkeys, as well as two “ten dollars off” coupons, so I made two separate trips into the store, loading up the car to the gills. Mind you, I am not hosting Thanksgiving. We really eat that much in a week.

During my shopping, I met a mother of four with one on the way. We exchanged nice words, encouraging one another. I also ran into a lady from church, who fawned over the baby and how she had grown.

The baby had her eye on a big basket of blow-up playballs, which were on sale for 99 cents. Probably for the first time ever, I bought a toy for my child on impulse. I gave her a pink and orange swirly ball and she giggled with glee. It was a good thing I was almost done shopping, because she then started doing what babies are supposed to do with balls.

At the milk case, she threw the ball onto the floor. It bounced and rolled to an elderly gentleman, who happily bent over to pick it up and hand it to her with a smile. Now at the yogurt section, she threw it to a middle-aged woman, who also was glad to comply. Eggs, ice cream, and we were done, with a few more games of catch thrown in.

I could not have her continue this in the parking lot. At the checkout counter, she lost her ball to me and I snuck it to the cashier, instructing her to hide it. She mistook my instructions, scanned it, and started to hand it to the baby, who was still looking around on the floor for her ball. “No no, hide it!” I whispered to the young lady urgently. Now she put it in a bag and it was out of sight.

Back in the car, I returned the ball and she gave me a laugh that meant, “There it is!”

Once at home, I placed her in the house with the ball. She looked out at me through the glass storm door. Every time I came to open the door, armed loading with groceries, she threw that ball out at me.

Finally, all the bags were in. She stood up and threw her ball, walked to it, and picked it up. She had just learned to walk independently over the weekend, so this was some pretty fancy footwork for her. To me, it was the perfect picture.

I ran and got my camera. This will be one of the days to treasure in this mother’s memories of childhood.

"Be cheerful no matter what; pray all the time; thank God no matter what happens.
This is the way God wants you who belong to Christ Jesus to live."
-1 Thes. 5:16-18

Another Rainy Day

It has been a rainy week with nothing to do but dream, read, and write.

I am so happy to see my children are taking my love of writing into their own hearts.

Some of the beautiful pictures I have in my head of my own young mother are of what she would do in her spare time: garden, read, swim, bake, and paint. I also took those activities to be loves of my own.

As I write at the computer now the baby is sleeping, my 6-year-old boy is drawing, and my 8- and 10- year old daughters are writing their own stores, complete with illustrations.

"Is it good enough to be published, Mom?" I often hear.

I often ask that about my own works.

"Of course," I answer musingly, "If the right editor sees it at the right time."

Remember your children will do what they see.

Illustration above: "The New Picture Book" by Hermann Kaulbach

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