What if...

I'm sitting here taking a mental trip down memory lane. Wondering if I'd done this instead of that or that instead of this just where my life might be right now. We don't realize it at the time but the smallest choice, the simplest decision, can have a lasting and profound impact on our lives.

What if I'd made just a little more of an effort in school? Had I done that I may have gone onto a four year college immediately after high school instead of community college two years later. Two years of working full time. Not that I don't have fond memories of that job and that time period.

And then what if, instead, during THAT time frame, when I was working at good ol' Clover in Center Square, I'd made some choice differently. I can think of one in particular that haunts me. And I often wonder where I'd be today if I'd chosen differently.

I've always said that regret is a useless emotion. A pound of it won't make an ounce of difference. With that said there ARE a few things in my life that I regret. A few things that, given the opportunity, I might just go back and do differently. But then I think... if I did. It would change the present. My marriage issues aside I have six beautiful children as a result of this marriage. For that I will always be grateful and will always, in some way, love their father. No matter how this journey we're on ends up.

So that brings me back to regret being a useless emotion. It doesn't stop me, however, from wondering every so often. What if...

More books...

I'm reading again. Something I haven't taken pleasure in for some time. I just finished Sarah's Key by Tatiana De Rosnay. Excellent book. As a general rule I don't enjoy fiction or non-fiction that portrays the Holocaust. I find that the inhumanity and deprivation for human life exhibited in that dark period of history, while it should never be forgotten, is not something I need to hear or read about in detail. But this book grabbed me from the very first chapter. I had a hard time putting it down and finished it in record time even for me.

I'm now reading The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. A personal memoir of her childhood that I find fascinating, if not just a little disturbing. I'm at the midway point and it has me completely hooked.

Highly recommend both of these books!

Cherishing what you have...

I've always been a sensitive person. My earliest memories of school are of feeling shy and out of place and not fitting in. I wasn't athletic. I wasn't outgoing. My preferred activities were solitary or something that could be done within a small circle of friends. Reading, writing, listening to music, watching TV or some sort of craft.

I get my sensitivity from my father. That man will cry at the drop of a pin. He passed this trait along to me. I cry over commercials. Have you ever seen the Hallmark commercial with the husband and wife? Wife walks in, husband is hanging up the phone, turns to his wife and says, "The adoption agency needs us to come down there again.". The wife says, "Again. We've already filled out so much paperwork." or something to that effect. The husband hands his wife a card and it's something about mothers. She looks up at him and he says "It's a boy." with tears in his eyes. I'm a puddle by then. We're talking full blown tears, sniffling and at times sobbing (depending on the time of the month). I'll refrain from telling you how I cry over the Father of the Year episode of the Brady Bunch. Which I've probably seen hundreds of times in my life.

It's ridiculous really, but it's who I am. My husband and my kids love to tease me about my ability to cry with no effort whatsoever and with little control over it. Nice, huh? Yeah they can be a bunch of jerks sometimes but they're mine and I love them. At least I love my kids. My husband? Hmph. Right about now he's right there at the top of my shit list. I suppose I still love him. Though he is pushing his luck. (Which may be his intention for all I know.)

I love the show Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Now granted part of that love is I have a thing for Ty Pennington. However, I also love the concept of the show. Seeing these families living with things I couldn't dream of living through reminds me of how much I DO have to be thankful for. I'm a blubbering mess while watching it though. Tissues at the ready. Some episodes truly touch me. After those shows I have an intense need to look in on my children. And hold them. To remind myself that I am blessed. That it COULD be worse.

The Other Side's Stories...

My Mom's family is as rich in stories as my father's is. She comes from a large Italian family. And for those of you who are Italian or married into an Italian family you know how Italian family gatherings are. Lots and lots of food. Italian food. Handmade from scratch by my Great Grandmother.

I remember Sunday's at Great Grandmom's house. There'd be as many as twenty or more people sitting around the table. Her house had two dining rooms and a kitchen. There was the everyday dining room and the formal dining room. They were side by side and on Sundays the tables were brought together. They stretched from the end of one dining room to the opposite end of the other dining room.

There was food aplenty. And stories. And laughter. Even as a small child I loved to sit around the table with them after dinner and dessert were through. With coffee flowing the "greats", my Grandmother's brothers and sisters, (my Great-Grandmom's children) would regal us with tales of their youth in the very house we were sitting in.

There were eight of them all together. Six girls and two boys. My Great-Grandmother had ten children but two died early in life. My Great-Grandfather was a man with a good heart but a firm hand. He didn't take any sort of nonsense from his children.

As you can imagine with THAT many children in the house there were apt to be accidents. (I can assure you that though I have two less children than they did I KNOW all about these accidents.) One morning, when they were all mostly grown and working full time, my Aunt Caroline got up as she did every morning to get ready for work. She went into the kitchen and lit the stove. Somehow... she blew it up. She was unharmed thank God but TERRIFIED of what my Great-Grandfather would do.

In a lousy attempt to cover her faux pa she began leaping around the kitchen on one foot screaming, "Daddy!!! Daddy!!! He shot me!! He shot me!!!!" My Great-Grandfather wasn't to be fooled and in a fluent swirl of Italian and English hollered "you didn't get shot!! You blew up the (insert American and Italian cuss words here.. lots of them) stove!!!"

Later that morning they all walked, a rather hefty distance from what I understand, to work as their father refused to drive them over the blown up stove. When you're one of six children everyone suffers for the misbehavior of one. It's not necessarily fair but it is what it is. Large families have a different dynamic than smaller families. It's about survival and staying one step ahead of the chaos.

When I retell this story it loses something. The throaty voices of my Grandmom, Aunts and Uncles, from years of smoking and some drinking, made the stories all the more endearing. As did they're dramatic Italian hand gestures and loud voices. Everyone around the table would be in various states of hysteria and someone was always jumping up to run to the bathroom. Unable to hold their bladder any longer.

I miss those days. I miss the little girl I was. I miss Great-Grandmom. And Grandmom. And all my Aunts and Uncles. I miss Christmas cookies at Aunt Frannie and Uncle Tut's house. I miss Sunday dinners at Great-Grandmom's house. I miss the hustle and bustle of four generations all gathered together as a family.

Of those eight children there is only one left. And sadly, some of their children (my mom and her cousins) have passed away in recent years. My own mortality slaps me in the face when I think of all the family I've lost in my lifetime. When I think about just how many years have already passed me by I can't help but feel a little sad.

So many of those years were wasted wanting the next best or bigger thing. I didn't often take time to live in the moment. And I've missed out on some things I can never get back.

"It is only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on Earth and we have no way of knowing when our time is up that we will begin to live each day to the fullest , as if it were the only one we had." ~Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

Grandmom

My Grandmother should have five children. She has two. Living. My father is her firstborn. He was followed by Billy. Billy passed away, from what I understand, within twenty-four hours of his birth. The result of complications due to pneumonia.

This was in the late 40's. At that time new mothers were in for a long hospital stay. There were no private or even semi-private rooms. There were actual maternity wards. My Grandmother was left on that maternity ward. Surrounded by other Moms AND their babies. For ten days. While she mourned the loss of her son. Could anything be considered more cruel and unusual than that??

She said none of the other women spoke to her with the exception of one. That one, upon being discharged, asked my Grandmother if she would like to see her baby. No one else had thought to ask this question. While I, personally, couldn't have handled it my Grandmother welcomed it. It was the one small kindness afforded to her in those ten days. She never had another child in a hospital again. Her subsequent births were at home. I can't say I blame her.

Because she was in the hospital for ten days she missed Billy's service. She never laid eyes on Billy. She never held him. They didn't do that back in the day. So the only vision she has of her child is a picture that someone had the foresight to take of him the day of his funeral. To some that may sound morbid. I don't pass judgement. I have no idea, THANK GOD, what it's like to lose a child in such a way. I have no idea WHAT I'd do or HOW I'd handle it.

After Billy, if memory serves me correctly, my Aunt Liz came along. Healthy, happy, bundle of joy. (And a pip til' this day!) Then my Grandmother became pregnant with twins. The story I've been told goes like this...

She was seven months along. My Grandfather, a not nice man to put it mildly, pushed her down a set of stairs. Violently enough that it caused labor to start. She gave birth to twin girls at home that day. They died within minutes.

As if the push wasn't enough of an insult my Grandfather never told her where those babies were buried. Or IF they were buried at all. And, oddly enough, there are no records of their birth nor their death to my understanding. This is something I want to research though.

As I said, my Grandfather was not a nice man. I have very few memories of him because I was just 6 years old when he passed away. And I didn't learn the truth about him until I was much older. He was a cruel, sadistic, sick man who deserved to die the young death he did. Although it should have been a more painful death in my ever so humble opinion.

I have no doubt that, unless he begged forgiveness and regret at the moment before death, he resides in hell right now.

Family stories...

The things your going to read here for awhile are all true to the best of knowledge Things about my family's history. Things I've heard in upon years of stories I've been told by my parents, my Grandparents and even my Great-Grandparents. Everything within these "pages" has come from the mouths of some of the most wonderful people in my life. I take them at face value, if at times with a grain of salt.

My paternal Grandmother will be ninety years old in October. I imagine time has worn away some of the details in her mind and she has filled those in to the best of her ability. However, I have no doubt that the core of what she is telling me is 100% fact. For a woman of her age she is still sharp. Her body is beginning to falter at times, but she's still playing with a full deck of cards. May I be HALF that sharp if I live that long.

She has buried two husbands, three children, her parents, her brother and countless friends. One of her children died shortly after birth. (And there's a story there, one that gets me SO fired up! But I'll get to that in a later blog.) The other two, a set of twins, were born two months prematurely. They were born at home and died within minutes of their birth. (Another story here that gets me fired up.)

Those two events alone would render me a walking, barely functioning zombie, drugged up on every anti-depressant known to man. My Grandmother survived both and so many more trials and tragedies. Some so horrifying I can't even begin to imagine living through them. Stories that begin like hers don't always have a happy ending. But hers, for all it's bumps and bruises, has. And she's still smiling. She still finds joy in life. She still faces each day with optimism.

She is my hero...

Books...

For as far back as I can remember I have loved books. I devour them. When I'm reading I become completely immersed in the story. My husband and children can be standing two feet away from me saying my name in a perfectly normal tone of voice and I don't hear them. I don't even see them because I am IN the pages of the book. It takes finger snaps and hands waving in my face to break my reverie.

And it REALLY annoys me. Honestly, unless the house is burning down around me, someone is bleeding to the point that death is imminent or a limb has been severed there really is NO reason to disturb me while I'm reading. You'll only serve to get yourself snarled at. And risk bodily harm when I realize that you interrupted me to ask me where some inane object, that has no significance whatsoever to me, is. Look. For. It. Seriously. God gave you two healthy eyes. Use them!

Books are my escape from reality. They served me well through a tumultuous childhood and an angst filled term in hell. Otherwise known as my teen years. I am always blown away when someone tells me they would love to "go back to high school" just for a day. WHY????? My high school years were so far from fabulous that fabulous wasn't even visible off in the distance. There was a brief period of time, during my sophomore year, where I can honestly say I was truly happy and it didn't last long enough.

But I digress...

Books. Reading. According to my mother I was reading simple sentences by the time I was 4. I question her memory sometimes but if she says I was 4, I was 4. My memory of that time of my life is fuzzy at best.

I can spend hours browsing in the library or a bookstore. And left to my own devices I can easily drop $100-$200 on books in a day. I don't do that all too often because my husband would have my head. Ya' see.. I can read an entire full length novel in under twenty-four hours. I go through phases where I literally finish a book a day for weeks on end. I have a pile of "to be read" books that is somewhat obscene in it's size so I have plenty of material to choose from. And yet... I still bought NINE books today.

Don't have a cow dear.. six of those were bought at Gently Used Books for about $2 each after my store credit from the large box of books I brought with me to trade in. I love to buy books but I'm frugal to a fault. (I also bought quite a few books for the kids.)

So those nine books are sitting next to me and I'm going to pick one... and lose myself in someone else's story. Because my own is too difficult to focus on right now