Knit one, purl one.

I couldn't believe how busy my mind became when I recently picked up a pair of knitting needles and a skein of yarn. I felt the need to fill an artistic "void" I began to feel after being away from my scrap booking and card-making while down in Florida. we didn't have much room for all I wanted to take, so, I took nothing, which turned out to be a big mistake.

So, memories of my grandmother surfaced and of the days of when I used to hold the large skeins of yarn between my wrists while she rolled it all into a ball.  For anyone who has ever knitted "back in the day," that was, and continues to be, the first requirement to prevent those dastardly annoying tangles and knots.  In order for me to perform my duties, I needed to stand a few feet away from her and watch while she sat and rolled and rolled a tiny strand of yarn into a large ball. As she wound, I would twist each hand inward in order to allow the yarn to pass. Difficult to explain, but hard to forget.

The exact ones Mama used to knit.

My mind continued down Memory Lane as I envisioned all the knitted hats, scarves and slippers my grandmother created. My sons loved the hats and slippers and wore them all the time. Each Christmas, everyone would get a new pair to replace the worn out or outgrown pair from the previous Christmas.

This year, I was able to complete my first knitted cap that that I had intended to bestow upon my son. A sizing error preventing it from fitting my son's head, but thankfully, my grandson's head was just the right size. He seemed to love it - or was that just my wishful thinking?

The knit hats my grandmother made.

My second project, a pair of soft pink slippers, has been completed with lots of attention to detail and love. The whole time, I remembered Mama's slippers and wished she were here to show me how to make them. I went from memory and apparently, my memory wasn't perfect, but the slippers are practical - if not perfect.

While my brain was racing a vision of my mother sitting in a chair, knitting, came into focus - then quickly blurred from tears. It's been over 50 years since I saw her knit, so naturally, the vision was fuzzy and faint.

Another vision flew in and out as quickly as the previous memory, and that was the memory of watching Rose Fusco, my childhood landlady, knit at breakneck speed. She was a seamstress by day, but knit up a storm at night. I have never witnessed another person knit at that speed before or since. She probably could have held a Guinness World Record.

The '60's version that was my doll.

Rose sewed and knit outfits for her daughter's Barbie Doll. Back in the 1960's (Barbie debuted in 1959), you only owned one Barbie doll and outfits were purchased to fill your wardrobe. Roseanne's Barbie doll clothing collection was magnificent and she let me play with her and sometimes shared her doll clothes. I don't remember Roseanne liking the hand-made outfits, but she never did share those with me. I would have given my eye teeth for what she had. If she remembers those clothes today, I'm sure she would treasure each and every item.

Slippers are done and Memory Lane had come to an end. I can't wait to get back on the "knitting" road again to re-visit those who filtered in and out of my early life and sprinkled so many memories in my mind. 

Had I known our time together wouldn't last forever, I would have savored each memory even more. 

How innocent we were as children....

Love/Hate Relationship

I have been told that at 9:30 pm, on a very warm summer day in 1955, a woman gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She was quite happy to have successfully carried this child to term, following two devastating miscarriages. Her family was now "well rounded" with her handsome husband and three-year old son. The daughter, was almost totally perfect. She was born with a finger-print sized and shaped birthmark on her left shin and she was as bald as a cue ball. This long-anticipated baby girl had no hair for a ribbon or bow, and failed to attain that fete until age two, when fine, straight dark spikes first appeared. She was named, "Victoria." A little baby, but a large victory for her mom.

Victoria spent most of her life hating that birthmark, because she felt it was ugly, obvious and big. She was often asked what it was, and even had a nun scold her in front of her entire class for having a "dirty grease mark" on her leg. Looking back, she wished she had summoned the courage to witness the nun's reaction when she was informed it was a only a birthmark, but the child's head only lowered in shame. She damned that ugly mole.

The passing of time worked wonders for gaining acceptance of this glaring imperfection and she almost forgot it even existed until recently, when a dermatologist insisted on performing a biopsy of the tissue. Victoria argued that it hadn't changed in 60 years, and was confident that if it was "bad," then it would have done her in by now, but the doctor was relentless. 

Fortunately, the results of the biopsy came back negative, which, deep down in her heart, she knew would be so, but something odd happened. Victoria's whole attitude changed about the way she felt about her "special mark." No one else in the world had the exact same mole, of the same size or shape, in the exact same place as she. It had set her apart from everyone else. It was special, thus, she felt it made her special.

Today, that perfect, fingerprint shaped birthmark has a round indentation in its center. It's no longer perfect, thus, she almost felt shame once more, until she realized that no one in the world had the very same mole, of the same shape and size, in the exact same place, with a hole in its center, as she. It remained special, and thus, she felt that she remained special.

The moral of the story is: You can hate something - grow accustomed to it - like it - love it - lose it -  mourn its loss - accept it once more and move on. It's a journey over time, but the best time was when you loved it, so don't waste too much of your precious life on all those negative emotions - get right to acceptance, and love will follow before you realize it was never loved at all.

The "Dash"

They say, “Life is Short.”  It has been said that you should be more concerned with the “dash” between the year of your birth and the year of your death, because that little line is how your life will be defined.  I heard a story about a high school English teacher’s class assignment, where the students were instructed to write their own obituary.  At first, I thought that macabre and out of the realm of teaching, but the basis of her assignment was to show that the “dash” between the years of your life can be as happy, prosperous and productive as you dream them to be. 

I am sure no student wrote that he or she wanted to be a drug addict, or a high school dropout.  No one wanted to be homeless, unemployed or working in an unrewarding job.  Through this assignment, she was able to give her kids a glimpse of how they could hope to be remembered and perhaps the ambition to prove themselves right. 

This caused me to think of how I would like my own obituary to read, and how I would like people to remember me after I am gone.   I know it would be as one who was generous of her time, concern, efforts and love. 

 I need to get busy making my "dash."

 

Ahhh, sushi....

I am still astonished at the fact that I absolutely, positively, entirely, completely LOVE sushi.  I'm not talking about California Rolls, or Cucumber Rolls.  I'm talking about eel, tuna, salmon, spicy yellow tail, ebi, tobiko, and nato.....Okay, not nato.  I exaggerated. 

The man who was my "Man of Honor," Chuck, AKA Charlie, AKA Charlie-San, AKA Joe, is my standing sushi companion.  No matter what name I call him, the one name that never wavers is, "friend." Even despite getting married (and not to him), he and I have our "sushi dates" whenever we can. 

Tonight, I am awaiting his arrival to feast at our favorite sushi restaurant,  Hastings Sakura Garden. We trek about 40 minutes to get to this restaurant because several years ago they moved from their original location that was a mere 15 minutes away.  Let me tell you, the trek is worth it.  These people have become more than just our friends - we consider them extended family, and whenever we walk into their "home-away-from-home,"  we are made to feel that way too.  Long hours are spent perfecting the presentations and ambiance.  Great pride from all, is exuded from the moment we are greeted until we bid our farewell.  How wonderful to enjoy a meal prepared just for you and presented as if it were a one-of-a-kind "gift." 

Tonight, I think I shall have a "Summer Love Roll."  It is described as follows: Salmon, mango and crunch inside, topped with black-pepper tuna, eel, shrimp and avocado.  My mouth is watering.  The sushi chef will, as usual, offer us a specially-prepared appetizer.  Sometimes they are new creations and other times they are one of the tried-and-trues off the menu.  Either way, they are delectable and much appreciated.

I think I hear my friend's car approaching.....Time to chat away 40 minutes and then enjoy the bliss of edible art. Good food, good friends, good wine.  What more could a girl ask for?

Hummm.  I'm hungry.

Coming to America

The Dante Aleghrie

My grandfather, John B. Mauro, was born in Susquehanna, PA on October 31, 1904.  He lived there for about seven years and then sailed to Italy with his parents.  On July 2, 1923, at age 19, my grandfather decided to return to his birth country for a better life.  He sailed as a steerage passenger on the Dante Aleghrie from Naples to Ellis Island, NY.

Ellis Island

Listening to him tell the story made you aware of what a huge event it was in his life.  By the time he was 92 years old, you could watch him look off into the distance as he went back in time and re-told his story for the 1,000th time, verbatim.  After hearing the story for the 742nd time, I began to dread the opening words, "You know, when I came to the United States back in '23, I saw the most beautiful sight.  I saw 'The Lady.'  I stood by the railing of the ship and cried."  That is how the story started, even though it was actually the end of his ocean journey.

The "Lady" he lovingly referred to was the Statue of Liberty.  Tears would fill his eyes as he recalled the sight.  Tears fill my eyes as I remember his words.  The story continues with his search for a good boarding home.  A good home, with good people. People from his vicinity in Italy, Naples.  Then, he would find a job.

Since he wanted to save the best part of the story for last, the tale would then return to the ocean journey.   He reminisced how while traveling via steerage, he was the youngest in his quarters.  It seemed like there were many men sharing the same sleeping area and  after each meal, they bullied him into washing the dishes and utensils that had been provided to each for the trip.  Galley-type meals were included with the cost of the ticket, but since he wasn't too thrilled at being the dishwasher, he decided to purchase his meals in the commoner's dining room.  Unfortunately, by the time he arrived at Ellis Island he had spent the little money he had, and was unable to pay his entry fee into the United States.  He was, therefore, treated as an immigrant and had to follow the procedures as if one.  That is how he actually got to see the main building on Ellis Island.  He waited there until his U.S. entry tax could be paid.  His older brother somehow learned about his status and paid his debt, thus, making  my grandfather indebted to his older brother.

One look from older brother to newly arrived younger sibling, prompted an immediate trip to a store where a new suit was purchased.  Apparently, my grandfather's mother had lovingly sewn him a suit.  It must have been so hard of a labor of love to sew a suit for a son who would be leaving you, possibly forever.  Her tears may have caused the suit to end up as badly as it was described.  Story has it that it was an ill-fitting, green, serge material hanging off my very fit grandfather's frame.  Here he stood....19 years old, basically on his own and looking like he "just got off the boat."  Now, to his mission...to find that "good family" and a job.

My grandfather happened upon a boarding house that was run by "paisans."  Paisan's are people who were from the same town as yours in Italy, but now lived in the U.S.  Italians believe that if you are a "paisan," you are family.  When he knocked on the door to inquire about an available room, he was greeted by a 16 year-old girl who was the daughter of the woman who ran the house.  It was located in Mt. Vernon, NY.  She was the youngest of three, with two older brothers. 

This is where his story takes on a different tone.  It becomes softer and gentler.  He reminisces about courting this girl and winning her heart.  I remember there was an incident of a box of chocolate and a slammed door in his face, a story about shoveling coal in the winter, getting ice cream in the summer and what a great boarding house he had found.  Many other details are getting lost in the fabric in my mind. 

To fast-forward to the best part of his story. It concluded with how they became engaged, got married, had three children and lived happily ever after.  My existence in this specific space and time, is due to the fact that a man was born in Susquehanna, PA and went back to Italy, only to return and meet my grandmother.   

On August 5, 2013, 90 years after my grandfather sailed into the Upper Bay of The Hudson River passing Liberty Island and arriving at Ellis Island, I sailed out of Pier 90 in Manhattan, on the Carnival, Glory.  As I passed Ellis Island and "The Lady," I thought back to my wonderful grandfather, his journey, his story, and his life.  I wish I could hear him tell it just one more time.

On board with me were two of his three children, two of his nine grandchildren, one of seven great-grandchildren and three of seven great-great grandchildren.  He would have been so proud. 

Yet another....

Yet another has arrived to enter my heart.  My newest granddaughter,  Emma, arrived on August 7, 2013.  At the time of her birth, I was on a cruise ship, sailing up the east coast from New York to Canada.  The occasion was my marriage to a most wonderful man. 

I flew out to see her right after the cruise and can't explain how you can so easily fall in love with a wisp of a thing, but boy, immediately, my heart swelled with love and adoration for this little person who doesn't even know me yet.

Trips out to Colorado are not as frequent as I would like them to be.  I will try harder to get out there again real soon.  They grow up so quickly, as I can attest to with my other five grandchildren.

Thank goodness for Face Time.  I am able to keep close to Emma and hers sisters via that format.  I love our talks and time spent over the Internet.  It is wonderful.  Today I Face Timed with her and her daddy.  When he held the camera for her to see me, I watched as her eyes, wide open,  seemed to focus on the image.  I called her name and asked her if she remembered my voice.  She did seem to be listening, or maybe it was my hope that she could.

I will Face Time and watch Emma grow until I get another chance to hold her in my arms again, kiss her face and smell her scent.

Wait for me Emma.....

A little red lobster

I love planning visits to see my six grandchildren, all of whom live a distance from me.  Yet, the whole time I am visiting, I am dreading the thought of when we will eventually have to say, "Goodbye."

The toughest ones to visit, out of the six, are the three in Colorado. I don't get out there as often as I do to visit the three in North Carolina as those can be a road trip for a long weekend,to catch a recital, holiday or birthday. Colorado takes planning, money and time.

My sweet six-year-old, Nina, is the eldest of the three Colorado girls and when I do get to visit there, she too is very aware that my visit will eventually come to an end. She is always drawing me a picture to take home with me "so I won't forget her." Yeah, like I ever could. On my last visit, she created a crayon drawing that was markedly improved from my last visit. She is staying in the lines so much better now. At home I have a huge folder filled with drawings from all of my grandkids. I can't wait for the day when I either give them back, or at least let them view my collection.

On this visit, I had just returned from a cruise to Nova Scotia, and while there I brought her back a stuffed lobster that was holding onto a smaller lobster.  When I gave it to her, I told her I liked to think that I was the big lobster and she was the little one. She loved it and slept with it each night of my visit. She called it, "Meema," her name for me. 

The thing that warmed my heart, yet broke it in two, was when she handed me the stuffed toy and asked me to separate the two lobsters. She explained that I should take the baby lobster home with me to remind me of her and, in turn, she would keep the big one(aka Meema)so we could be with each other all the time. As hard as I tried, I couldn't hold back the tears. I grabbed  her and the lobsters and held on as tightly as I dared. Part of me wanted to keep the two lobsters together, as they were meant to be - like the way I wanted to be with her, however, she insisted, so we got the scissors and I snipped just two little threads to separate them. We each took "the other," and made believe that they were talking to each other - puppet-like.  We laughed on the outside, but I knew we were each a little sad on the inside. 

The next evening, I left on a red-eye flight to NY. I crept into each of the kid's rooms to kiss their foreheads and take in my last deep breath of them (until my next visit). 

When I entered Nina's room, there she was, with "me" by her side, sleeping like an angel. My kiss lingered a second longer.

Packed in my carry-on bag was "her."  

I sat on the plane and made a fool out of myself, sobbing deeply with a little red lobster pressed to my face. I didn't care who saw me or what they thought. I could only think of what I was leaving behind.

So, a little red lobster sits on my desk.  A constant reminder that my Nina is with me every day, not only in my heart, but right in front of me. A constant, tangible reminder.

Some day, I will tell her that she never had to give me anything to remind me of her. I could never forget her; she is burned in my mind, my heart and my soul.

That little red lobster is so darn cute, just like my Nina.

Thank you, Nina, for being "you.”

"REVISED” 11/5/2024

Last year, the two lobsters were sewn back together. Nina, then 16, was ready to put Meema lobster away for safe keeping. She knew I’d always visit and never forget her. 

Some photos from our visits: