“Oh, my,” she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, “it’s fruitcake weather!”
The person to whom she is speaking is myself. I am seven; she is sixty-something. We are cousins, very distant ones, and we have lived together—well, as long as I can remember. Other people inhabit the house; relatives; and though they have power over us, and frequently make us cry, we are not, on the whole, too much aware of them. We are each other’s best friend.” (“A Christmas Memory”, Truman Capote)
We see this lovely grandfather strolling his gorgeous little grandbabies almost every morning. He patiently pushes them up and around the neighborhood while they smile and beam at passersby. There is such a peace about this little trio. And it had me thinking that here is an elderly man who probably lives with his family and has a purpose and place to be a comfort to all the generations there while he continues his life passage to the end. All under one roof.
He speaks Japanese and I don’t so unfortunately I can’t bombard him with a million questions. And that’s probably a good thing for him. So I am limited to the boundaries of my own mind and wonderment. And thinking how separate we have become not only from each other, but from the natural grace and chapters of our individual lives. Unlike it is within many cultures still, most of us in this country have our babies separate from parents and extended family. Our children grow up visiting their relatives and having to be reintroduced to them each time unless they Facetime them. And then as the years grow on we visit our own parents or our children visit us in care shelters until the final goodbyes. That’s our norm. That’s the way it is with us in this day and age and yet and yet… I’ve always loved the old ways. Ways I never experienced but heard and read about. The big old houses crammed full of crazies—some loving, some mad as hatters, but there for each other when another couldn’t be. Tiny communities where your tribe lived a backyard or clothing line away. No one was ever alone in all the phases of life. I know I’ve romanticized much of it. Often it’s really a great thing not to be close to nutcases nearby. Family can be as destructive and damning as it can also be supportive and loving. There is no perfect scenario.
But still. I couldn’t help but envy that sweet grandfather who wasn’t tossed out to pasture because he no longer had youth and stamina or a 24/7 job. He has a purpose to be there for those two urchins who will probably never forget that their grandpapa had the time to stroll them in the sunshine together.
Maybe that’s one of the failings of our world today. We no longer have time to be together in such grace-filled ways on all the twists and turns and markers of our lives. We go so much of it alone under our separate roofs and tightly locked doors and unwelcome mats. I think we need to be best friends to each other again…
Apollo 13 has become my chaos rescue. Timing, as you know, is everything and I guess it was the perfect time for me to totally receive the inspiration this movie offered. Based on fact, this mission to the moon became what they called a “successful failure.” Spoiler alert: they make it back home without landing on the moon. Failure because the moon mission wasn’t accomplished. Success because their lives were saved. But what the NASA teams go through to prevent the astronauts from self-destructing and incinerating themselves spinning off into space is astounding.
Forget that my all-time fears involve claustrophobia, abandonment, anything that is airborne—and math—this movie showcased these wunderkinds who conquered all those monsters and more by trusting their own instincts, knowing that they had the answers even if they didn’t believe they did. They had to in order to survive for themselves and an entire team working together. That’s the kind of calm I’m talking about.
I was one of the lucky ones. When I lost my home, my boys were alive, off to school and thriving. And though I was shell shocked at nearly age fifty, I was healthy. I sat on the floor of a teensy studio apartment the size of a postage stamp, surrounded by my six animals, light years away from my beautiful old home in the Hollywood Hills, I knew this was a Cosmic Test that I wanted to learn and pass—though I thought seriously of tossing it all in. But I couldn’t. I had to feed six animals that depended on me.
My father, Aaron Weiss, died on November 4, 2017. He was one day shy of turning 99 years old, which he would have done the very next day. I can’t even believe that sentence.
Leadville. You can find it yonder nearly 11,000 feet above sea level, known in the late 1800s and early 1900s as the best route for Easterners to head West. And while you experienced the most surreal scenery surrounding it all, you were lucky if you traversed there to survive the elements—both human and natural.
My mother passed last year and the void echoes loudly. She was such a vibrant force in so many lives other than my own. A beautiful “Lilly” I will cherish forever. It’s the first Mother’s Day also for my entire family not having her to physically celebrate—sister, niece, great niece and nephew, my husband, sons, daughters-in-law, grandsons and legions of extended other family and friends who loved her so much. But among the many aspects of my Lilly that I long for is her beautiful voice and the songs she sang to us—and I now sing to my grandchildren. I so miss my sweet mother’s voice.
