You Can’t Go Home Again? - Well Maybe to Thunderbird Lanes, You Can!

I have been hanging around the house for the past two weeks, per doctor’s orders, taking it easy, recuperating from my minor surgery.
As I am sure Ross will attest to, I think I might be going just a little stir crazy.
The subjects being discussed on the View and Katy are getting to be repetitive and mundane.
I have run out of  new-to-me TV show marathons to watch.
I’ve listened to hours and hours of audio books.
It is obvious that I have, too much time on my hands and apparently spend too much time studying my hands, because I have begun to notice that my pre surgery mani/pedi is way past its two week old expiration date.
Since I had shopped online for the April part of the WEBS 39th April/May Anniversary sale, and I have, thereby, added to my already substantial stash of yarn, I am desperately trying to hold back on my temptation to participate in the May part of the sale.

Not Me or My Amiga

 I finished a pair of socks and am now knitting Amiga designed by Mags Kandis.







Ross and I have become even more attached at the hip.
Yesterday, I decided it was time to venture out on my own.
Before Joe became ill, I was a member of  the Tuesday Morning Ladies Bowling league.
I left the league when Joe’s illness had progressed to the last stages.
After he passed away, the ladies tried to convince me that I should come back to bowling.  It would “do you some good” they said. “To get your mind off of things, you know” they said.
At the time, I thanked them for thinking of me but politely declined.  I was pretty sure that a few hours of bowling would not distract me from the pain of grief over the loss of my son.
It has been 17 months since Joe died.  I mostly now hide from the pain, kind of push it to the side.  It has become my way of coping with the life which, true to the cliche, “does go on".
But, yesterday, it being Tuesday morning and all, and me being just a little stir crazy and all, I thought a visit to the bowling alley might “do me some good.”
A little background on the ladies of the Tuesday Morning league.   When I started bowling with this league, about 8 years ago, I was still in my fifties and I was one of the younger women.
Although, at that time the majority of the women were in their mid 60’s, and a couple of the eldest ones were in their 80’s, they were a vibrant group.
I have not been to the bowling alley to visit since I quit the league a few years ago.
My memories of those Tuesday morning bowling sessions are noisy memories.
Each sound distinctly greeted me the moment I stepped through the double glass doors.
Practice was usually already in progress. Above the thunder of simultaneously thrown spheres, swiftly cruising (or okay, sometimes limping) their way down the boards, and over explosive cracks as ball met wood, were welcome shouts of “hi’s and how are you’s” .
As the games got under way, the racket seemed to get louder. There were high five slaps, cheers, hoots, and hollers for spares and strikes. Splits and near nine pin misses brought about foot stomping, and colorful expletives from the more bawdier women.
Voices had to be raised as the chatter of gossip, husband grievances, grandchildren stories and the how the days of the past week were spent could be barely heard above the din.
Growling, angry complaints were shouted when the alleys were too sticky or too slick.
A number of the women were knitters.  If you listened closely, you might have even been able to hear the click, clacking of needles as they worked on their latest projects as they waited for their turn to bowl.
Yesterday, I noticed it immediately, the moment I stepped through the double glass doors. The hush and quiet was, well, quite deafening.



At first I thought that I had the wrong day.  After all, the days seem to run into one another lately, and I have to frequently stop and think of what day it actually is.
The inside of the building was dimly lit and noticeably empty.  Presumably, Thunderbird Lanes was conserving on energy by providing necessary lighting on only the lanes being used.  When my eyes got adjusted to the low light,  I saw them, a handful of them, way down at the other end of the alleys.
As I walked up to where they were bowling, one or two of the women recognized me and waved.   I, on the other hand, only could identify a few of the women.
Erica, the league secretary, came up to me and greeted me warmly.
When I mentioned the quiet, she began to recite a linty of reasons why that was the case.
Over the years, it was obvious that time had taken its toll.
Sadly, now instead of happy animated conversation, tales of surgeries, forgetfulness,  injuries, illness and death have become more the norm, and spoken about in hushed tones.
She said that a lot of the members can no longer throw their balls with the same amount of strength as they once were able to.  The result is apparently reflected in lower scores and averages. She told me that each year the league has become smaller and smaller.
Most of the bowlers I used to bowl with have dropped out and it has become increasingly more difficult to find replacements.
Under five feet tall, with a petite frame, Erica is a tiny bit of a woman.  Her close cropped hair is still jet black and pixie cut.   Traces of her German heritage come through her speech.
Once a strong bowler, tossing a 14 pound ball without effort, it has become necessary for her to use a lighter ball.  Presently, she has been forced to sit on the sidelines, as a spectator, while she waits for her rotator cuff surgery to heal.
After Erica and I had spoken for a few minutes she gave me an intense look.  “Will you come back in September?” She asked.
Just then one of the women, Marie,  came up to Erica and told her that she would not be able to finish bowling. Her arm was hurting.  Marie was one of the women I bowled with.  She is not much taller than Erica with a full head of thick, snow white hair.   She glanced over at me and said, “Oh hi.  I didn’t recognize you.”  She wanted to know if I was going to be bowling next season.
Marie was there with her husband, Al.   Marie is a caregiver for him as he struggles through chemo treatments.
I watched as Marie and Al slowly made their way towards the double glass doors.  She trying to mange her bowling gear, purse and car keys, all the while steadying him.  He not able to help.
Erica asked me again if I would join the league and told me that they could really use me.
The image of Marie and Al still lingering in my mind,  I told Erica that I would think about it.
As I said my good-byes, another woman, Laurie, stopped me.  She told me I was missed and asked if I would please consider coming back.
Why do I hesitate with this decision?
Do the women of the Tuesday Morning Ladies League represent a futuristic mirror for me?  Am I seeing my not too distant reflection?
Or could I, shy me, be someone who could help breath back some of the life into, shed a small glimmer of light onto and perhaps even whoop up some noise again with the Tuesday Morning Ladies League?

Oh by the way, before I hit the double glass doors, Erica caught up with me.  She said, with that trace of her German heritage slipping in, “I have made a decision for you.  I put your name down.  You will be back in September!”

The Painful Choice of Yes, No or Maybe - The Pugliese Saga

So my mother's side of the family started planning a reunion about a year ago.  It is going to take place this year at the end of June.
My mother came from a large Italian family.  She was one of five sisters and five brothers.  Actually, my grandmother gave birth to 17 children.  Six babies died shortly after birth.  A girl, my aunt Antonietta, died from an illness at age seven.  I felt as though I knew Antonietta because of the beautifully framed photo which reverently hung in what was probably her bedroom.
My mother was the second eldest of the surviving 10.  I was the first of my generation to be born. As you can imagine, I have many cousins.
When my grandparents were alive, there were gatherings at their house practically every Sunday and always for every holiday.
I don't know what my grandmother's secret was, but she instilled a strong sense of family in each of her children.  The brothers and sisters were very close and to this day, those who are still with us, take care of each other.
As a way to preserve the strong bond after my grandparents passed away, my aunts and uncles began an annual tradition of a get together at the beginning of summer.   Each person would take a turn hosting.
This continued for many years.
Of course time brings about change.  The close knit core of siblings became older and then smaller.
The children of the sisters and brothers married and had children of their own.   Families moved farther apart and lives became busy.
Happy family gatherings became the weddings and christenings and significant birthday parties.
Grave side gathers have sadly become common place of late.
Naturally, the saga of this family is ever evolving.  Characters are old and new.

Once by word of mouth, now by tweets and posts, tales of new babies and brides, of illnesses and death, of troubles and joy continue to spread quickly from one to another.
The last reunion I attended was probably about four or five years ago.
My mom was still alive.  My son was not ill.  My youngest was settling in with a young wife and two young children.
When I reflect back to that time, I realize, comparatively speaking, that it was quite a happy almost idyllic time.
Since then, my mom and my son have passed away.  My other son has been heartbreakingly separated from his children.
A couple of weeks ago we received our e-vite to the family reunion.

It is a difficult decision for me to make.  Will I be able to attend without my mom?  Will it be the same without my son?  Will my two little grandsons ever know about this part of their family?

As I write this, I think about my grandmother's strength.  

To this day her haunting refrain of La Familia is carried forward by her two youngest daughters as they fuss over, care, wash and feed their elder sister. 

I hear it when I think about my daughter and her husband and the new baby brother that Bella and Ryan will soon have.  I think about how special my other "daughter" Anne is and the delight of Domani.  I am hopeful that Jimmy will be strong for his sons.

Even though we may not see each other very often, I am reminded of the way my own siblings manage to stay a part of each other's lives.  

Yes, my grandmother's message was clear.  Gather together.  Laugh and cry together. Take care of each other.  

How was this woman, who knew the heartache of so much loss, still able to hold so many in her heart?

One thing I do know is that she would understand my pain.  I never felt judged by her, only loved. 

That is all I ask of my family as I struggle with my painful decision to check yes, maybe or no. 

 

If I Don't Get To See You...

In my post yesterday, I expressed some of how I feel about this year's Mother's day.
I reflected on how women have such potential to change the world, to make it a more peaceful and better place.
I thought and wrote about my own mother.

Today, Mother's Day, in the year of 2013, in the quiet of a dreary rainy morning, my thoughts turn to my children and their children.

When I think of you, Jen, I think of gentle love.   Thank you for bringing your light to me.

Derek, you said the sweetest thing to me,  "If I don't get to see you, Happy Mother's day."
For many reasons, with those simple words, you touched me.

Jim, you made me feel very special yesterday in much more than 2 dozen ways.   You are my Jimmy and you are always with me.

Anne, your "just checkin up on you" and hearing that little voice "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy" was the warmest of  hugs.

I see the car pull up.  The door bell rings.  The dog barks.  I look out through the side window and I see   two little faces peeking out from behind pink rose buds and a pail full of carnations.   Special delivery indeed!

Gosh, I miss those other two little guys.  But, I am going to see them soon!

My son, my Joe.  Now as my thoughts turn to you I am filled with the pain of loss.
It's true, today is just another day.  Another day that I don't get to hear you say, "Happy, Mother's Day, Mom."

I imagine what today would  have been like.  I picture another little face in the window, holding a card.   I can clearly hear your gentle voice as you prompt him,  "Go ahead, give Grandma her flower."

So, no for me today is not just another day.

If I don't get to see you, Happy Mother's Day.