Letter to Roxie
by Betty Finocchiaro
Dear Roxie,
I've been so scared these past few weeks. I'm so confused I find it difficult to explain, even to you my dear friend. Honestly, ever since Michael was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, I've been driving myself crazy wanting to believe it's only a heavy case of dementia. That kinda makes it more bearable, you know? But I don't think its really working because I wake up in the middle of the night thinking he isn't breathing. So I poke him in the middle of his back until he grunts.He stops snoring and I think he's gone. His snoring has become nocturnal music for me. I forget about the fact that I could go first and then I think about that and don't sleep for the next three hours. I'm driving myself crazy.
Where do I go from here? Always, thinking about my dad helps. What a great guy. Every girl should have one just like he was to me. From the time I was about six years old, he would take me down to the East River in Manhattan where we lived and we'd walk our heads off. We were buddies.
A lot of Italians had grouped together in tenement buildings, while two blocks away the Irish who didn't like us too well, stayed their distance. The Germans pretty much kept to themselves. As to the Jews, they had a hard-enough time. And when we moved to the suburb of Queens, it was the Blacks who had their own corner of the world. Nobody went near them and if you did, and you were white, they'd stare at you like you were invading their space. Its funny how people are. Their differences stick out in everybody's crazy mind and then when something like the Second World War happens, they bond. And they mean it! Then the war ends and the ugly heads of their prejudices emerge again. It could be such a beautiful thing. You know, kinda like having a table with beautiful dishes from each country and enjoying the different foods.
Getting back to my dad and me, we went from walking along the East river in Manhattan, to sitting on the stoop on summer evenings when he would tell me about his life in the Italian Navy during the First World War, and how he came to America and met my mom. By then I was a teenager and I really loved my dad, and Frank Sinatra and hot dogs and root beer, in that order. We went to the movies a lot together and I remember going to see “Father of The Bride” with him and I think I saw a tear in his eye. What a fairytale this all sounds like. But I lived it, so nobody can tell me that there aren't fairytales in this life. By the way, did you know that the word “teenager” was coined at that time – for us?
When it came to Frank Sinatra, “Frankie” to all of us who thought we owned him, it came easy to believe that. Our feigned and sometime real swooning helped him gain his fame. We were the original and only “Bobbysoxers.” And we wore bobby socks – a no brainer for whomever coined that word!
Well, let me tell you about the hours and hours we stood to get into his show at the Paramount Theater on Times Square. Then we'd all crowd in run and for our seats, scrambling to get as close to the front of the theater as possible, bruising each other in the process. It was bedlam's heaven and like the postman's cry about “Neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of night stays these couriers, etc.,” when it came to Frankie, we lived by that credo. Wasn't that hard to do, Roxie. We were a bit pathological that way.
The only thing I know is that I lived and breathed Frank Sinatra. One day, as I was leaving for school, I had pinned a big “Frankie” button on my jacket. My father spotted it and told me to “take that stupid pin off!” I removed it of course, putting it in my pocket. Could it be that he didn't know a few minutes later it would be put right back? Tough guy, my father!
Going back a little farther in my young life, I remember how we started each school day. After greeting each other and the teacher finally walking in to begin the six or so hours together, we would stand at attention to deliver what I always remember thinking of as almost prayer, the Pledge of Allegiance. We pressed our right hand over our hearts and belted it out automatically, without questioning or doubt. This is what I'm saying. We rarely questioned. We were naïve and as I read somewhere, our generation was the last of the innocents. Some today may call us the uninformed. But whatever, we felt safe until it happened - the Second World War. We grew up in a minute.
That minute Roxie, has lasted us till now. It's almost like yesterday never happened. I've got the grandkids now who hardly, if ever, question where I come from. They must think I was born the way I am today, wrinkles and all. Maybe every generation doesn't look farther than the tip of their noses. Who knows? My dad was a great story-teller and that could be why I was so interested in his birth country, so when I landed in Italy, at the age of 19, I knew my father's country as though I had come from there. I felt a stirring within me that made everything familiar. It's the most stable feeling one can have in life. How lucky is that? I was very aware that I was an American, but knowing the roots of where my dad came from, made the earth I stood on feel solid. Maybe too, my father's great expression came into play, “Il sangue chiama,” “the blood calls.”
And so dear friend, I continue to use yesterday to make me feel safe in my today, especially in my world with Michael the way he is. I find it comforting to bring up memories; my wanting to be like my boy-cousins, rip-roaring up and down the street. The skinned knees, my badge of honor. A girl could keep up with the boys! And season after season passing by so swiftly -- Fall's palette of vibrant red and burnt-orange leaves, Winter's Solstice, daffodils in springtime, ice cream cones and plunges into lakes during summer. These are what passed so quickly, in a heart beat.
I think about it all Roxie and I'm happy. Today is here. Today is real. I am living in the now. I finally know who I am. I am Michael's wife and this is where I want to be. All of those seasons, all of the good and bad times of my past were needed to bring me here. And in really thinking about it, I became who I am today because of everything that happened yesterday.
Take care, my sweet friend – always there for me.
Betty
Art and Poem by
George Asdel
|
Yellow Bird Sings Her Song
Yellow Bird sings her song
She knows this bush
She knows these buds
She knows they will flower
and leaf out
shelter for
her nest
her eggs
her young
She's waited for generations
same bush
same flowers
same leaves
|
She waits now
for the changing of the
seasons
winter cold
to spring warmth
to start
her next
family |
Seventy by Elizabeth Buckner
I'm almost 33
home for the holidays
and the following 4 years
with my 1 year old
thanks to the largess
and at the mercy of
Mom, Dad and Southern California.
On December 1st
my dad's birthday
he drives me to Los Angeles
for a dental appointment.
The office is located downtown
in an elegant tall building
that faces MacArthur Park.
As the elevator rises
I glance at my dad
and he looks mad.
Is it our sudden intrusion
into their golden years?
"Dad, what's wrong?"
He says, "Today is my 70th birthday.
I have not lived the life I wanted
and now it is too late!"
I am speechless, stunned.
As we rise higher, higher
his spirits sink lower, lower
I always remember, often think
of that moment, especially now
since I recently reached 70.
I too am ascending
the ladder of life
Have I done
what I came here to do
this time around?
Is it too late?
|
Oars by Dianne Gross-Giese
There comes a time
said the sage
to the drenched woman,
to use your arms
as oars.
When the mother
of all storms
surges its crushing waves,
pounding and plowing
across the bow,
and tears through sails
as through your lungs,
against your ribs like spars,
it's time to reach
your arms as oars.
Your oars are
smooth and broad,
oak old and oak hard,
polished by oil,
smoothed by sweat,
and molded by toil.
They will guide the bow,
align the sheer,
override the surf,
undermine the tempests,
and hold the old boat afloat." |
Escape Velocity by Curt Hinkle
I soon realized that Judi Ann's right foot
was directly connected to the volume knob
If it was a song she liked, a song she liked played loud
her right foot went down
and we careened through traffic
like Richard Petty
down the backstretch at Talledega
If it was a love song playing softly,
her car became a slow rolling road block
camped out in the fast lane
traffic trailing a gleaming mile long behind
* * *
We were running late
I plugged my Nano into the CD
Dialed up ZZ Top, Sharp Dressed Man
and pumped up the jam
We accelerated til the windows were pulsating
to those three chords
and the fenders were rattling with the backbeat
We darted from lane to lane
trading paint
Next up, The Eagles, Life In The Fast Lane
a little more volume
Man, that girl can drive
Then, Michael Jackson's Thriller
the horn section filled the cab
and broke windows in our jet wash
We were approaching escape velocity
Anticipating our freeway exit
I pulled up Hey There Delilah
and lowered the volume a little at a time
we slid around that acoustic guitar off ramp
as smooth as an old vinyl 33
Two blocks later
we pulled up at the curb
Judi killed the motor, smiled at me
and raising her hand
snapped her fingers just once
as the music ended. |
