Tattooing Family

 

Em Getting Tattooed

Em Getting Tattooed on Saturday

My niece, Emily, is planning to reveal her new tattoo to Babcia, my mother, this morning at Easter breakfast. Dad and Ciocia will be there too of course, but they are silent knowing trees, to Mom’s active frontline.  I sense the butter lamb on the table already trembling.

I’m trying to picture how Mom will react. Sign of the Cross?  Yell at niece but kill brother before the eggs and kielbasa are passed around?  Repeat the word tattoo like she might not understand its meaning? Maybe just maybe, go with the flow? Sometimes Mom can surprise me.

If she faints from shock, Ciocia can use the freshly grated horseradish to make her come to.

Several things will be working in my niece’s favor:

1.) It’s a holiday

2.) The whole family (except me) will be there

3.) Mom will naturally lay blame on her parents

4) The Tattoo is of the word “rodzina” which means family in Polish.

With or without ink, Family is tattooed on all of us.

With or without ink, Family is tattooed on all of us.

That ought to bring on pause and surprise.  Just like it did for me when my niece told me of her plan for her 18th Birthday and asked me to verify the spelling. It’s pronounced with a slight roll of the “R”. Roh-gee-nah.

See, we are not a tattoo nuclear family.  Maybe it is truer to say, we have never been a family to believe in permanence. We could never even get Dad to put a bumper sticker on his car, no matter how hard we tried.

In college, when I came home with two extra piercings on only one ear on my already pierced ears, Dad said, “You just had to get another hole in your head.”  That’s about as brazen as it got at home with body art.

Maybe this is why I collect antiques the way other people get tattoos, to find an anchor of permanence in an impermanent world. Give ourselves reminders that we’re living.

Two of my young male cousins got tattoos, and I don’t think Mom flinched. But what will she think of her young granddaughter, the girl who loves animals so much, she took a broom and snapped all of the mouse traps in the basement when she was 10, the Captain of the Cheerleading Squad, with the word rodzina written in cursive script on the back of her neck?

I can’t wait to get the phone call. Will Mom blow a gasket or simply say, “She crazy.”

Em was about 12 years old when my aunt and uncle from Poland visited us for an extended time. So eager was she to communicate with them, she asked me to buy her a Polish Language cd. She memorized vocabulary. Not knowing whole sentences didn’t stop her from enjoying a quiz or recitation. Among the many words she knows, Lotnisko airport, trawa  grass and lody ice cream. Plus proszęPlease and dziękuję  –Thank You, which she knew even before she knew she was studying Polish.

This plan really got me thinking. Of all the tattoos Em could have gotten: hearts, stars, designs, quotes, etc. She chose the word family and in Polish. Since I’m working on a memoir about our Polish family and have been compelled at a very early age to investigate ancestry and heritage– not necessarily a conscious choice but like following a magnetic pull through a maze, her tattoo choice warms my heart.

It made me wonder, do we tattoo the next generation with family legacies? For better, for worse. In presence or absence our family is a sum of what extended before us.

I asked her what inspired her.

She said, “I’ve been wanting to get a tattoo since freshman year. I didn’t want something random or something I’d regret.  And I thought, I don’t regret my family.  Then I thought what can I do to make it different and I chose to make it in Polish, cause that’s what I mostly am.”

Will this be a secret?

“I’m getting it in cursive and I’m putting it on the back of my neck. I’ll be able to hide it for job interviews if I put my hair down. No, it’s not a secret. LOL. My mom is coming with me to get it. My dad is like, whatever. LOL.”

I can tell you right now, that my brother was not like, whatever.  Given her age, I’m sure he sighed. I’m sure he ran the riot act of do you know what you’re doing? I’m sure four years ago when this was brought up he was hoping it would go away. I’m sure he impressed the meaning of the word permanent.  I’m sure he thoroughly expressed his opinion and then let his daughter make her own choices.

She’s gutsy. I love that that she thought of the word family. I could never get a tattoo. I got nervous for her when my sister-in-law texted and sent me photos of the process.  In fact, it’s one of my reoccurring anxiety dreams I have.  Once after a friend recounted, in painful detail, what it was like to have laser resurfacing on her face, that night I dreamt that I got a giant purple leaf tattoo on one whole side of my face. Not even a cool-can’t-explain-it-because-it-was-so-beautiful in the dream but an ugly wall mural type leaf. Filled in solid light purple. I woke up in a sweat and was relieved when I looked in the mirror in the morning. I still shudder when I think of the leaf on my face.  Another time, I dreamt I had a snake tattooed on the entire length of my arm. Sheesh.  Panic-city when I woke up.  Real tattooing is not for me. I’ll appreciate them from afar and think about the other ways I’m tattooed by my family and write about it.

I’ll stick to collecting antiques too.

Mom is bananas about all four of her grandkids and given that I probably won’t have children of my own, they are like my own. (I was at the birth for two of them.) I wonder as generations of our family die, who of the young cousins and nieces and nephews will be interested to stay in touch with their heritage?

This tattoo gives me hope that the future is not without the root.

Seems kinda heavy to say to Emily, so I will just say it looks cool and that I loved the beautiful script, as I secretly analyze metaphors and extrapolate the largeness of this act, ponder its implications for generations and appreciate its poetic muscle.

 

 

Wesołych Świąt Wielkanocnych

Happy Easter!

 

 

Cabbage Proclamations and the Slow-Burn of Tolstoy

The cabbage that made me patriotic.

 

My friend hadn’t used up her box of Co-op veggies this week, so upon leaving town for ten days she texted me.

“Do you want some veggies?”

Who am I to turn down organic farm veggies for free? Of course I want them. I drove to her house.  My iron and calcium levels got higher looking at all of the greens spilling from her fridge.

“You don’t have to take anything you don’t want.”

I filled three grocery bags. I even included the celery root that took a few minutes of sniffing to identify.

“How ‘bout a cabbage?” Jen asked, “Can you cook a cabbage?”

I looked at the bowling ball sized head and couldn’t say no to it. I couldn’t bring myself to close the fridge door on its tightly wrapped face. It would have been unpatriotic.

“I’m a Polish girl. I should know how to cook a cabbage. Give it to me.” I took the cabbage and plunked it into the grocery bag “I’ll figure something out.”

Two things crossed my mind. 1) I need to call Mom   2) Is this cabbage proclamation going to end up like my Anna Karenina promise?  I’m on page twenty-two of eight hundred and seventeen since August and managed to read two other books in place of moving on to page twenty-three. It’s a slow-burn with the Russian novel, what can I say? It’s a workout.

Anna Karenina. Yoga Block.

when you’re in a pinch.

So is cooking. I have never made Bigos or Golumbki’s by myself. Sure, I’ve been in the kitchen and given a stir or stuffed a cabbage leaf to bring a smile to my mom or Ciocia’s face. But in charge of the alchemy that makes cabbage taste divine? Never.

Let’s face it, making cabbage taste great is a little like trusting stone soup will have flavor.  Yet somehow all the great Polish ladies of my life have made it so. Plus there’s bacon fat to thank.

I’m convinced that the tastiness of Bigos is in direct ratio with the age of the person making it and the amount of kielbasa and bacon in it. It’s the Golden Mean of cabbage making.

I’ve been eager to learn how to cook Polish food over the years, but it takes a kind patience and desire to really make those moments happen. All too often, I’m in a rush when I visit home for the holidays and sleep in late only to be woken up by the smell of frying onions to know the cooking went on without me. Another opportunity missed. Mom and Ciocia have made so many mouthwatering batches over the years.

In my teenage years, I recall my brother’s friends walking into the house, “Mrs. Matusiak do you have any Polish food?”  They scanned the stove top for pots or the counter for aluminum wrapped pans, the way others looked for potato chips.

People started requesting Mom and Ciocia’s cabbage stew at cookouts. Nevermind Hot Doggy or Hot Dogzi, as my mom liked to call them. Cabbage Stew was a 4th of July favorite. Talk about smug Polish ladies.

The way to their hearts was through your own stomach. It is a magic to be learned.

So what could I possibly know about making cabbage flavorful, hearty and a family crowd pleaser like my mom and aunt?  Next to nothing. I’m not sure I can even shred the damn thing for the right consistency. But I have to get my hands on it and try.

I don’t want to circle around a pile of cabbages in the store and think I should know how to cook you.  

 

 

 

Spiders Are Your Friends


This spider has been hanging in the house ever since I was small enough to be afraid of it and now I am old enough to want it.

It’s kind of a talisman.

At our old house, it used to hang in our hallway at the top of the front stairs leading to the bedrooms. We didn’t often use that staircase because we oddly had another staircase right next to it that led to the same upstairs hallway. So it had a rather ominous perch, the non-used stairway.

Friends who caught a glimpse of it as they walked by would say things like, “What’s that weird spider thing?” or “That’s creepy.” and my favorite, “Why do you guys have a spider on the wall?”

To these questions, I could offer only a shrug. ‘I dunno. It’s from Poland’.

My mom liked to point out that the pająk (pronounced Pie-yonk) was hand-made and that it was ciekawe– interesting. Something I could see when I allowed myself to get close to it and poke at its wicker belly.

Besides, my Dad has always told me, “Spiders are your friends. They eat the little bugs that you don’t want to eat.” This he always said in English.

I’ve been thinking about this lately because I seem to have a lot of friends around the house these days. One marched back and forth on the rim of the tub last night as I warned it away from the water. Earlier in the week, one was bungee jumping on his silk cord next to the kitchen table when I was at my laptop writing. The same night, I watched one go into my closet.

I felt like saying, “Guys! Guys! You’re getting out of hand.” I’ve been known to take them outside in a glass and release them. But it’s winter.

I pretty much have only one rule when it comes to spiders- Start biting me and you all die. So far, this is a friendly group.

Still, when is it too many?

I took exception to this rule, when I was living in Eritrea, Africa. One night I had come home by flashlight to discover a web that ran from my water filter to the floor. I got up close and discovered a black widow. Seriously, pea-size body, red hour glass marking! And I know you will think I am making this up, but it was October 31 to boot. There were expletives. I quickly lit some candles to give the room some light, took off my flip-flop, aimed, and said to myself, DON’T MISS!

I sent the squiggly remains to my friend who was being a terrible correspondent.

There was also the mysterious spider sticker that was on the wall during my in-country training. Huh, that’s funny I said to myself, I wonder what that sticker is doing up on the wall. Day after day I’d come home and notice it. Always the same spot. Then many weeks into my stay, I shook out my blanket and the wave of air hit said sticker and much to my surprise the paper thin spider came to life like a children’s pop-up book and scurried under my poster. It was so flat when it was still, that I named it Plate. It was a harmless spider so we stayed roommates.

Anyway, this spider decoration at my parents’ house, I really like it now. Weird little décor item that it is– there is just something about it that reminds me that a fear can be created and dispelled.

Coughing into a Christmas in Pictures 2011


My brother John picked me up from the airport on Thursday. Bless his heart for waking at 5am to check my flight status.  This voluntary early morning pick up from a guy who once needed an air raid siren to wake up.  We had breakfast and then I got into my post-cold coughing jag.

 “You want me to stop at Rite-Aid, Typhoid Mary?” asked John.

“No,” I choked between coughing fits. “I’m fine.”

I coughed all the way into my parents’ house.  Greetings. Hugs. And within a few seconds, Ciocia Felicia thunked a small bottle of thick yellow liquid in front of me and handed me a tablespoon.

“You drink.”    

“What is it?”

“Spirytus, honey and lemon.”

Dr. Felicia says take a few tablespoons, if you start feeling woozy time to stop.

Home-made cough syrup.          

 It’s in a recycled glass bottle that once held something similar.  

Spriytus is 192 proof.  Who needs Nyquil with Red #5 when my 84 years old aunt mixes her own elixirs in the kitchen? I took 2 tablespoons and slept for 4 hours, a mix of red-eye exhaustion and the warm burn radiating in my throat. When I woke up, Felicia said in Polish, “I didn’t hear you cough once.”

“You want me to mail?”

“Um, Ciocia that’s like mailing gasoline.  I don’t think you can do that.”  

As I photographed the Spirytus bottle today at lunch my mom reminded me that you can dip a little on your finger and light it on fire. Hm.

Gasoline in a bottle. Clears sinuses and car pistons.

 Now the house is sizzling with oil and onions and fish. The overhead stove fan is causing extra deafness. The table set. We’re waiting for guests. Wesolych Swiat! Merry Christmas everyone! The rest in pictures. (cough. cough.)

192 Proof.

My brother waiting for Santa.

One of three fish on the table tonight.

 

 

Babki baking beautifully!

Bundt cake moving fast!

 

Ciocia putting curlers in her hair after the first wave of cooking

There was a lot of this in the fridge.

Mom and Dad

My brothers Adam and John.

My sister-in-law Kim and me

 

My niece and sister-in-law Martha

 

It's a Patriots family. My niece.

Before Family.

 

That's more like it.

The Power of a Postage Stamp

Christmas card from Ciocia Halinka 2011

It’s that time of year. Cards from Poland come in the mail. As a kid, I would trot through the hallway to the spill of mail laying on the throw rug by the front door. Squiggly handwriting and exotic stamps would be peaking just past the Bell Atlantic bill.

“Mooooooooooooom, we got a letter from Poland.”

I knew this would make her happy. She’d be wiping her hands on a dish towel waiting to see which relative wrote. She’d note whether it was the first we received in the season, whether it was earlier than usual, or from a relative we hadn’t heard from in a long time.

The letter would be from the following list…my grandparents, Ciocia Genia, Ciocia Stasia, Ciocia Halinka, Bozena, Czesia. Usually my mother’s sisters or father’s sister, wives of brothers, cousins wives, nieces. Each time it would be a family tree lesson for me.

Whose sister is this again? This is whose wife? It was a giant puzzle and every year, every letter, every story kept putting another piece in place. Sometimes with little to associate with it, I’d relearn the same piece of information. When I wanted to show off my Polish skills, I would read the letter to my mother to high praise or pass it back shaking my head saying, I can’t read her handwriting. 

Unlike many of my school mates, I did not have an understanding of my extended family. I did not have the benefit of coming to know them through the osmosis of cookouts, christenings, birthday parties or the other kind of events that everyone is dragged to when their little and see people in person. I went to Poland when I was 3 and while I remember the smell of the barn and my father’s parents milking the cows I wasn’t exactly taking genealogical notes. That didn’t start until my visits at ages 18 and 25.

I only really knew my immediate family: My parents, brothers, Ciocia Felicia and her two children, and my Babcia- my mother’s mother who moved to the United States in the early 70s and passed away when I was in the 3rd grade. Everyone else who shared our last name or my mother’s maiden name was a mystery. And while they seemed like strangers to me, my parents’ warmth and reverence made me understand that they were not, in fact, strangers. Somehow these people in Poland knew very much who I was even though I couldn’t keep them straight when I was young.

I only had letters and pictures and stories that came while the dishes were getting washed, pork chops were getting pounded or the news of a letter was being rehashed over coffee. I grew up with the great sense that Poland was a place that was very far away and that my parents’ connection to it was like an invisible umbilical cord.

I was confused when people asked me how many aunts and uncles I had. I didn’t exactly know. Sure my parents told us, but their names and faces were airy and delicate just like the air mail envelopes that arrived through the mail slot. My sense of them would fade in and out. This was before phone calls could be made to them directly and Telecom Offices were expensive and had to be coordinated. This was before email, before Skype, before telephone cards and cell phones. The only thing that connected our families for a few decades was a piece of paper and a stamp.

There was a time I couldn’t name all my family members or associate them with the right side of the family, so I took to memorizing. I took to asking and re-asking the same questions until the information stuck solid like a wooden spoon in a good pot of Bigos.

That curiosity seed settled deep in my heart and sprouted. I’ve spent my whole life following the vine.

I get my own cards from Poland now. I just got one from my Ciocia Halinka, my Dad’s sister. The first of a few I’ll get from Poland this season.  It came early. I made a note of that.

Inside, a piece of Oplatek

Silent Night, Holy Night

Slipped inside was a thin piece of Opłatek, the Christmas wafer. During Christmas Eve, it is a tradition to pass the Opłatek around and break off a piece between each family member before dinner. Everyone wishes each other good health and special blessings and seals it with a kiss.

I love that a stamp and envelope are allowing me to break off a piece with my family in Poland, that despite the miles, a thin and delicate Christmas wafer can be both airy and real.

Things You See and Can’t See in a Picture

 

I love this picture. Me and my brothers: Poland, 1976, Wroclaw Zoo.

Johnny is on the left with his European man bag. Adam on the right with his 3 tone flare jeans that would have made any Bee Gee jealous. Neither carried this through in their adult life except for maybe when Adam spent $60 (could have it been closer to $100?) on a pair of parachute pants with all its zig zaggy zippers in the early 80s. My mother stroked out in the kitchen from price shock. I love the way the picture is cut off right at John’s bowl-cut hairline. It was the same kind of straight.  John turned out to be more the Hulk pants wearing type than one to don a satchel. I’m in the white and red dress, age 3, in my mother’s favorite color scheme: The Polish National Flag.

Other than beige, this was my mother’s favorite color combination that added pride or umph to any celebration like the time our Christmas tree was decorated in white lights and all red ornaments in the 80s. I remember how dazzled my mom’s eyes looked when she plugged in the Christmas lights. Her eyes so deeply absorbed in the tree, it was if she was seeing something I could not see.

I wonder if she was homesick.

In later years, when my Dad passed me a twenty dollar bill and asked me to pop into Wood Bros. Flowers, I knew what he wanted: white and red Carnations for Mom. My mother loved carnations. Perhaps more so than expensive roses that might too easily disappoint with drooping buds and whose full glory of bloom depended too much on chance. Carnations on the other hand lasted forever. Although when there were times a garden rose made it to the kitchen table and unfurled its many fragrant layers, she would cup it in her hands like the face of a small child and say in Polish, Look!

These are things that run through my mind when I look at this picture.

That and what I would come to know years later, that we were back in Poland because my Dad became increasingly sick. A kind of sick Doctors still didn’t have tests for. One with no medicine. A kind of sick that would likely involve paralysis and make my Dad unable to walk. The US doctors said it was Multiple Sclerosis.

They went back to their own country to hear it in their own language. My Dad was 35, Mom 38.

I look at this picture and think about where our minds were; for us, probably nothing more than the zoo. My brothers proudly sported their new gold watches and I felt the bounce of air from a twirling dress and knee highs, our backs to the giraffes, tired from our day. For my parents, it was something else entirely.

So much lay ahead for all of us.

But here we were. Relaxed. Waiting. In it together.

The Asking and the Doing

There is always something that needs to be installed, fixed, filled out, moved, hauled, or arranged at my parents’ house. I grit my teeth. I roll my eyes. I help. I proclaim lack of skill. Can’t (insert brother’s name) do it? I do what I can, sometimes it’s a quick and happy fix, other times the task is so tedious I dread having to do it, like reading and translating medical insurance manuals.

And it never fails, I will have one foot out the door and my Dad will call my name.

“Yeah Dad?”

“I was hoping you could install the thermometer outside.”

“NOW?”

“Well…oh skip it,” his gentle voice trails off.

I let go of the door handle and think for a minute.

“Can I do it when I get back?”

“Okay. I don’t wanna bother you.”

“I promise Dad, I’ll do it when I get back.”

“Do you have enough Petrol in the car?”

“Yeah I do. Thanks Pops.”

I think he asked about the thermometer a dozen times before that. It seems like such a small thing to get around to since they already have one in the kitchen. This one is for the bedroom window. Dad likes to know the temperature inside and outside. With his paralysis from MS, it’s a connection to the outside elements.

I get back from my errand and listen to his plan. I try to convince him that tiny sensor cord (digital) can get “a little smushed” between the window pane and the sill.

He doesn’t like this idea. I should know better than to think “a little smushed” would suffice. He proposes that I drill a small hole into the metal frame work of the window and thread the sensor through.

“Dad, that’s too complicated. I’d have to borrow a drill.”

I go outside to see what I’m dealing with. We talk back and forth and settle on nestling the thermometer in between the windows. I don’t have to drill. The cord does not need to be pinched.

He tilts his head right and left.

“Very nice. Thank you.”

For all the untimely requests, boring insurance literature to read through, phone calls to make, thermometers to install, I get the glimmer of the gift now: The asking and the doing.

It’s what captures time in a net.

Tactical Operations

Brigadier General Ciocia Felicia is an expert in tactical operations involving basement mice, squirrels eating bird food and woodchuck infiltration. No rodent too big. No rodent too smart. She will find its weakness. She will persist.

I bought my father a birdfeeder for Christmas a few years back for the new ranch house they bought. In the winter, it replaces the potted plant that hangs on a free-standing hooked stake in the backyard.

“Give the poor birds some food, will you?” Dad said when it was running low and I was over for a visit. I followed the narrow footpath in the snow and poured the seeds from the top until they gently started to spill over the lip. As soon as I left, a squirrel started pecking at the seeds that had fallen to the ground. Within minutes, it had shimmied up the pole and then hung upside down on the hook like a miniature acrobat. It swung towards the birdfeeder and knocked the seeds onto the ground.

Taking in the scene through the kitchen table window, Ciocia muttered, Skurczy Byk! Shriveled Bull! Not a swear word exactly, but not a phrase for polite company either. It can also be translated as Crouching Bull! Either way, I think you know what you could insert there in English.

The squirrel came back again and again. It was the same one. We knew that because it had an unusual white tipped tail. 

Also not their actual squirrel

 

The window banging started again.

“Can we try to act a little normal in this house?” I asked. Dad shrugged his shoulders and continued to read the paper.

When I came back home the next time, I heard about Felicia’s offensive.

She greased the base of the hook with Olive oil. I imagine that she stood by the window like a patient sniper waiting for her target to approach. And because the story was recounted so many times, I can tell you that the little fury acrobat started up with gusto and then promptly slid down the pole.

In my mind there were sound effects.

On the scoreboard of Ciocia vs. squirrel, she finally scored one for the team. Then I think the squirrel bought some Isotoner gloves because it managed to grip its way back up the pole again.

So our #1 Rodent General took the birdfeeder off the hook and ran a thin thread between the hook and the small flowering tree. The feeder bowed slightly in between. Ciocia was convinced this was better because she had picked an especially strong but thin thread. A thread that was too thin for the squirrel’s body to balance on. That turned out to be true, but the squirrel realized that instead of trying to walk on the line, it would flip upside down and grip the line from underneath like some scene from Mission Impossible.

It got to the seed again. Felicia got back to planning again.

This is the little dance that goes on between them.

Why bring up the woodchuck and squirrel stories? Because it occurred to me that this is what we must do.

You have to die trying.

Operation Scare the Woodchuck

A refresher for those of you just tuning in: Ciocia means Auntie in Polish. It’s pronounced Chuh-Chuh. My sister-in-law, in the family for 18 years, was so dreadfully afraid she was mispronouncing it like Spanish swear word that she refrained from using it. She just mastered it a few years ago. So don’t worry, you still have time to practice.

 

This is the view outside the kitchen table window where my parents and Ciocia Felicia (she lives with them by the way) enjoy the backyard view. The window also serves as an observation tower from which they strategically plot against two enemies: the squirrels and the woodchucks.

My family members are live and let live people but when the squirrels started eating the bird seed in the winter and the woodchucks decimated Ciocia’s tomato plants in the summer, lines were drawn. Mom and Ciocia began their daily surveillance. This involved mid-sweep pauses as they cleaned the kitchen to watch for movement outside the window. If they had access to infrared goggles, there would have been a night shift.

not their actual woodchuck

During the day, Mom kept one eye out over the sink window while she washed dishes. If she noticed a woodchuck she’d plunk the dish down and start muttering things that shouldn’t be repeated. Felicia would already be slipping on her flip flops to run outside. I think she was hoping for some hand to hand combat to settle this once and for all. After all, they ate all her tomatoes that year.

When Mom and Ciocia realized that the woodchucks had an acute sense of hearing, they started banging on the windows. It saved them from running outside each time they appeared. That got old pretty fast. When the banging stopped scaring the woodchucks off, Mom and Ciocia started making their own sounds to make things louder.

To an outsider, it may have looked like my mom and Ciocia were trying to be let out of their own house.

The woodchucks started multiplying. Started getting bolder. One blatantly sunned itself on the stone wall. It was all my mom could take.
They started going back outside to scare them.

And then…

My mom started barking.

Let me just say, that pretending to bark in Polish sounds different than in English. If you don’t believe me make your bark sound right now and then tap the next foreign person you meet and ask them to bark for you. I’m just saying. It is its own translation. My mother’s sounds something like a cross between a lonely wolf and someone walking on hot coals.

Her barking had no effect on our pudgy brown woodchucks at first. So she persisted barking in the back yard louder and louder. Until the next door neighbor who had been sitting on his back deck, stood up and looked over the tall hedge separating the yard and said,
“Everything okay Halina?”

My mother laughed so hard when she told us, she moved herself into a coughing fit.

“Oh my god Mom, did you tell him why you were out there?” I asked, wondering if I should start wearing a hat and dark sunglasses when I drove onto their street.

“I tell him. We havin’ good laugh.”

The barking stopped because the have-a-heart-traps came in…and eventually foxes.

When winter came and the squirrels moved in on the bird feeder, that’s when Brigadier General Ciocia Felicia really started proving her mettle.
To be Continued…

Food and the Freezer: Revisited

I spy five rye breads and eight bags of freshly frozen blueberries. I can barely make out the bag of Pierogi on the left hand side. Has my mother gone vegetarian? This is the not the pork chop stocked freezer I used to know as a kid, where if the family pak yellow Styrofoam slid out over the round of a bread, my toes would get hammered. Things are looking tidy in my parents’ freezer these days. And healthy! Look at all those frozen anti-oxidants. It’s a good thing because it reminds of my mom’s trip to the hospital several years ago.

It started with a mid-day phone call to my sister-in-law Martha.

Mom: “I feel screwdriver in my chest.”
Martha: “Oh my God! Halina, call an ambulance!”
Mom: “No ambulance. Some kinda pain in my chest. “

Martha had the good sense to already have one foot out the door since Ciocia Felicia made a similar call to her several years before that and said, “Feel like elephant on my chest, but I okay.” Felicia’s story ended in quadruple by-pass surgery. Martha knew if my mom was complaining, the situation was already a code Red. My mom did not call an ambulance to head to the Emergency Room as instructed. Instead she waited for Martha who lived one town over to pick her up in the Jeep.

Blocked arteries. “Somebody call Jannett.”

I raced down in my car from Maine and was in the hospital room by the time the Nutritionist showed up. My mother was only able to lie on one side after the catheterization into a groin artery. She half way turned her upper torso to face the Nutritionist.

“HALINA, I’M GOING TO ASK YOU SOME QUESTIONS ABOUT YOUR EATING HABITS.” announced the Nutritionist who evidently thought that by being foreign, my mother might also be deaf.

“DO YOU EAT ANY SALADS?”
My mom in a torso twist, answered, “Yes. Every day.”
“DO YOU EAT CANNED SOUPS?
“Oh No,” my mom said, “I make my own soup.”
“YOU PUT EXTRA SALT INTO YOUR SOUP, HALINA?”
“No.No.No,” assured my mom.
“YOU PUT A HAM BONE IN THE SOUP, HALINA?”
“Yessss, sometimes.”
“OKAY HALINA, NO MORE HAM BONES IN THE SOUP, OKaaaaay? YOU HAVE TO WATCH YOUR SODIUM.”

My mom turned away from the Nutritionist, back toward the curtain that split the room in half and said, “You ask too much of me.”