The Flowers Arrived!

(picture from http://www.flowersociety.com/)

My grandmother got her flowers.

When I went to choose it was interesting, as I realized I don’t know her at all. “What if she’s allergic?” I thought. “How old is she now, what would she like?”

So I went to the oldest person at work, and asked him his opinion. He went by what his wife would like receiving, and we chose Peruvian Lilies in a vase. I had looked at the baskets, thinking that they say ‘grandma,’ but he told me a vase might be appreciated more, and the flowers might last longer in a vase than a basket. So I went with a bouquet of these lilies.

At first I was worried, as when I received the e-mail confirmation it said the flowers were left at her front porch door. Now, granted she lives on the top of a hill but I wondered if she ever received them. When a day went by without a call, I finally caved and called her.

Now, last time I spoke to anyone in that household I was told my grandmother was deaf, yet, she answered the phone and spoke very clearly. Though, since she did most of the talking, who knows?

She was ecstatic, absolutely overwhelmed with the flowers, telling me she hasn’t gotten any in years as at her age (86) all of her friends are now dead. I think I get my bluntness from her side of the family.

I was happy that she was so content, and it was nice to hear her say that I was always her favorite grandkid, I’ll admit it.

But then, then she went and said something that scared me. She told me that she’s happy that we got in touch so I can take care of her now.

Uhm, yeah. That really set my bells a ringing because I don’t even have a cat anymore due to feeling trapped. I understand that she’s old, but she’s not alone. She lives with my Aunt (her daughter) and my cousin (her grandson) who is probably about 36 or so now. My aunt has had that same job for over 20 years as the butcher in a chain grocery store.

Half of the reason it constricted my breathing was the thought of me having to take care of someone I don’t know, and giving up the life I’m working for now. But I was able to calm that down and realize she is just an old woman overwhelmed by emotion and her ‘ailments.’

The other half of why it bugged me was that it assumed her daughter would die before her. When I first moved to NYC, my mother told me that when I die she wanted all my artwork. “Don’t you mean if?” I asked.

“No, when. I know you’ll die before I do,” she replied quite coolly.

I hated that, her telling me that my decision to leave her was basically my death, and then the claim on my artwork that she had fought against for so long. I’m no fan of mother’s assuming or anticipating their children will die before them.

As an update, yesterday I got a card from my Aunt telling me that grandma loved the flowers and that they know I love them, and they love me as well.

Familial love, who knew it was possible for me?

I'm A Winner

Yesterday I found out I won Go! Smell the Flowers monthly contest. Each month they ask a question and their favorite answer wins flowers sent to anywhere internationally. This week, the question was, “What does your dream day consist of?”

My dream day was, “One where I wouldn’t worry about anything, I could live the 24 hours without judgment from myself or others, or worry about what other people were thinking in regard to my actions.

I’d love a day where I could just walk, no stress (physical or emotional) and just take in the beauty around me - whether I walk in the city or country. A day where everyone was kind to each other, and showed the common courtesies that are rare these days.”

Now, this was, to me, completely self-serving. I’m on a worry high as of late, can’t even see a smile without wondering what the ulterior motive is behind it. I’m sick of the worry and doubt.

What’s funny is I’m not self-conscious when outside talking with friends. I was at the park the other day when I ran into a neighbor/friend of mine, and her gentleman friend. She and I always joke around about things, sometimes going into the absurd. While the three of us were chatting my bra decided to come undone. But, rather than be embarrassed, I just started singing, “Do your ears hang low, do they wobble two and fro. . .” as I reached behind me to snap it back together. She was laughing, I didn’t really care, and when her male friend realized what was going on, he blushed and turned around (no, I didn’t show anything).

Which is why I’m amazed that every other little thing has been bugging me lately, having me worry, wonder, doubt peoples actions, even doubt my own actions.

After I put in my entry for the contest, I realized I actually did want to win the flowers. I mentioned the letter that I received from my grandmother. Since then I have written her back, she sent me a card, and my aunt left a message on my answering machine. I thought it would be wonderful if I won those flowers to send to them.

See, I’ve been talking about this in my therapy sessions. I don’t know how to go forward with my grandmother and aunt. It sounds silly, but there is a lot of my mom’s voice that pops up. In fact, my therapist asked if I realized that after every story I told of my grandmother there was one about my mom’s views on them.

My mother told me my aunt hated me. That because her daughter died she couldn’t look at me without being jealous and never wanted to see me. I asked my aunt about that after I graduated from college. She said that yes, her daughter died at age 3 days, but she never hated me for living. “I’ve always loved you,” she told me.

My mother told me my grandmother and aunt were stupid, were uneducated, weren’t worth our time. She laughed at my aunt when she got promoted at work (my aunt is a butcher) and had us, as children, laugh with her. “I can’t believe your aunt actually said that happiness is a 10 feet meat counter!” she cackled, having us join in on what she deemed small dreams. But, my aunt had what my mother couldn’t, a stable job she took pride in. Who cares what you do if you enjoy doing it?

My mother mocked the fact that my aunt still lived with her parents. That even when married, her husband moved in with them. That her son lives there, and when he married, his wife moved in to the house. As I grew up I realized how that was the type of family I wanted, one that wanted to stay together, one you could lean upon. She had me believing it was unnatural or incestuous to stay at home (while she implored my brother to never leave, which he didn’t until he was married) when you have a job, a career, a person to love. But the natural order seems to support one another, to be able to hold each other up, especially when it is economically advantageous to live together. They own the house everyone lives in, and always have. We lived in cars and a garage and Section 8 housing.

Right now, I don’t feel comfortable returning the phone call to my aunt and grandma. I don’t know why, I just feel so sad about it. I do remember our last phone calls, a few years ago, where it was awkward pauses and apologizes. Part of me just keeps hearing my mom’s voice and worries that I’ll repeat it, that despite talking to them about what was said I’ll slip into her way of thinking, of thinking that they are beneath me even though they are the family that loves me, something I have been seeking for a long time.

Another part worries that she was right, that they will just betray me at some point, that they don’t really care. Intellectually, I don’t believe that to be true, but emotionally, I don’t know if I can handle any more ‘family secrets’ being put on my shoulders. I want a hug, not a burden of history.

So while I may not be able to call them right now, I’m working on it. And I’m grateful I can send them some flowers and let them know I’m trying. I may not be able to say it yet, but I can write it out and, as the ad says, ‘say it with flowers.’

(The picture above is one I took after sharpening a lip pencil. I thought it looked like a rosebud.)

So Much To Say, So Little Focus

Photo by Anthony M. from Rome, Italy

I haven’t answered my doorbell (actually, more like a buzzer. Or, more appropriately, like that part in Dumb and Dumber when Jim Carey makes the most annoying sound in the world, that’s my doorbell) in maybe a month. It could be longer, or a little less.

At first I was just tired. I was in school two nights a week, working 6 days a week, and dealing with an elderly neighbor who didn’t understand what ‘no’ meant. She kept calling and ringing my bell because of computer issues. Like, she didn’t know how to turn it on, turn it off, plug it in. I hooked her up, helped her fill out rebate forms, taught her how to open Word, etc., then told her I was really busy. But alas, in the end I just stopped answering my door.

For about two weeks every day there’d be the buzz. I really do hate that sound. Still, I left it unanswered. Then, another elderly neighbor ran into me in the hallway – she was the one who had been buzzing my doorbell. She had a gift she wanted to give me for helping her out while she was in the hospital. I felt bad that I’d been ignoring her rings for the past couple weeks.

But still, I’m not answering it. I haven’t talked to my therapist about this, but I talked to Xiomara. She summed it up easily.

“I don’t answer it either,” she said. “Because it’s quiet, and then, it’s just not.”

It’s the ‘just not’ that I don’t like.

When the buzzer sounds, lately, I’ve been jumpy. So whatever I’m doing in my nice quiet apartment is disturbed, and I leap, and my heart races. Then, I get mad at the person on the other side of the buzzer and just refuse to answer because of that. Plus, I’m not expecting anyone, so figure there’s no reason for anyone to ring my bell. If I had ordered a pizza or something, I’d answer. But I’m not. Instead, my silence is being disturbed.

Anyway, so after my grandmother post I started thinking about her so sent her a little note. A really little note, tiny in fact. Co-workers weren’t sure the post office would mail something that small. It was just a little ‘thinking of you’ note to let them know I care.

I received back a three page letter, very sweet, very affirming. Very interesting, in that she mentioned my mother went to their house a couple times asking about me. She lives about three hours away from them last I knew. She was thrown out of their property, and they didn’t say anything. But it’s interesting that she even went there in the first place. . .

At least it didn’t lead to as many nightmares as I thought it might. I did have a dream that she came to my door and was banging on it, I screamed at her to leave me alone and then called 911. There was another dream, unsettling, but mainly just another ‘trapped with her’ dream. But, I was still able to sleep (without the aid of Ambien) so – improvement!

Part of My Family Tree or What Happens When You Can't Say No

Being young is hard. Being young and female, in a time when a woman’s education is to be in the home arts can’t make things easier at all. Add a good dose of poverty and the dominant feeling that at the time a woman without a man is incomplete, and you have a tough life.

You have my grandmother.

I often fantasized that had she been born in my generation we would have been best of friends. She seemed like she had a lot going on in her mind, but just lacked the words to express it. And she lacked the family to support her. My mother was always one to condemn her and applaud her at the same time. I heard tell that my grandfather controlled her, but I only saw him once or twice so can’t say. I do remember he made me doll furniture and grandma said he loved me very much.

My grandmother was amazing when it came to crafts. She made pillows and dolls and knit and just everything you can imagine. At Christmas time the house was filled with decorations and not one, but three trees that she proudly displayed and showed off to everyone who came in the house. The light in her eyes outshone those from the trees.

It was hard talking to her at times, as she didn’t have the words. When she worked it was usually doing things such as sorting books at a shelter or other such tasks. She was so proud when she was around intelligent women though, and loved telling me those stories as best she could.

“So she went to whatchyoumcallit sweetie, she did. She’s very smart. And she did this thing, you know? And she’s retired from the thingibob and now we work together sorting clothes.” She’d tell me, as she explained her day. At times it seemed like every third word or so was a replacement word – a ‘whatchoo’ or ‘thingie.’ Was it just excitement or did she really just not have the language? Unfortunately, I think it was the latter because even in calm times I just couldn’t understand her.

Yet, I loved listening to her stories. I should clarify that this is my father’s mother. I never met my mother’s mom. My mother reluctantly ‘allowed’ her to baby-sit my brother and I one year, as there was no other option that was affordable. After that summer the visits tapered, even though my grandmother never condemned my mother or blamed anyone for the divorce.

Grandma also loved to cook. Not that she was good at it. Many a time did we have gritty candies and an odd mixture of flavors (think garlic brownies), but her family praised her as the domestic goddess she was taught to be.

When Grandma told stories they were seldom about herself. They were about some relative she was proud of who was wounded in war and ended up with a metal plate in his head. I think he was in a truck that hit a mine. He was her hero, I believe in her story he was riding around saving people when the fighting got in the way of his adventure. Sometimes she spoke of the craft fairs she went too and how people praised her dolls, but usually it focused on the other people in her life – how hard her husband worked, how proud she was of her daughter the butcher (who lived with her as well).

This also led to grandmother never really showing me how to sew, or crochet, or knit as she didn’t want to talk about herself (other than to say she had no choice in the matter when talking about her lack of education) and she encouraged my education. In fact, she paid for a party to celebrate my graduation from highschool. One that, unfortunately, she didn’t attend (she couldn’t drive and I think my mom said she wouldn’t drive her back home). So we had it without her.

But, what is the point of me writing this besides some nostalgia for a woman I once knew? The point is the one story she told my brother and I, a story she had kept bottled up inside for a long time.

It was about my father.

And her father.

Between her sobs she spoke about how she didn’t have the strength to say no when her father wanted to take her son. Through tears we heard little snippets of how she knew what he would do, because her father had done it to her when she was little. But she felt responsible now for what my father had done to my brother, because she didn’t have the strength to stop the cycle from continuing.

It’s a harrowing moment to have happen. All the moments there are- she was taken by her dad and couldn’t say no when he wanted our dad. My brother was taken. And now, there we were, both under the age of ten listening but not quite understanding what she was saying.

We held her hand as she cried, knowing she needed something and not really cognizant of the weight she had carried so long. This was her story – the one she never wanted to revisit but it was eating her up too much not to. She had been taught to always do what her father said. Even though she knew he was wrong, she couldn’t say no.

She just couldn’t say no.

But while she felt that was her legacy, it’s not. She loved me. She loved her entire family and always did what she could to keep them clothed and fed and clean. As powerless as she felt, she still fought hard to love everyone. She was proud of everything anyone accomplished – no matter how others might have viewed it. The problem is now, when I’ve tried to reconnect with her it’s just apologies. I haven’t seen her since I was young, it was forbidden after a time (even though my mother still accepted money). She is sorry she didn’t stand up to my mother more, but was afraid we wouldn’t be allowed to her house anymore as eventually happened. She’s sorry she didn’t talk sooner about things that were going on. I do hope she forgives herself soon as I have. She was an oasis for me. I loved going to grandma’s house. And that one story she did tell of herself, it shows me what I have to face, an evil that goes back a long ways. I’m glad she had the strength to tell us what had happened, and what does happen when you don’t have the strength to say no.

photo from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Emirgan_04589.jpg