Daughters

My daughter Brenda Glascott, Ph.D.

 

I recently returned from a visit with my only child, my daughter Brenda, who lives across the continent from me in California.

We spent a lot of time sitting and talking, time that was precious for us all. We talked about a range of topics and reminisced a little.

One night, as my husband and I drove back to our hotel, it occurred to me that visiting our daughter always makes me feel proud of her. I see a very competent young woman who is intellectually curious, who cares about the students she teaches, and who works hard all the time. Seeing her in the cozy home she and her partner have created, I realize how well she copes with many challenges. I know that we are fortunate to have a daughter like Brenda, one who is independent, true to herself and passionate about life.

The last afternoon we spent together, she asked a question that caught me unaware.

“Do you tell your friends that you are proud of me?” she asked.

It made me think—having a child with a doctorate isn’t something that you can work into everyday conversation.

“Oh, did I mention that my daughter’s Ph.D. is in English?”  isn’t a conversation starter.

And it’s really hard to pull out photos of her degree hanging on the wall of her office that overlooks the San Bernardino Mountains. Showing people photos of her teaching a graduate level composition class doesn’t have the same cachet as photos of the adorable grandchild taking his/her first step.

In addition to that, I make a point of not bragging about my family—although I could very easily.

Brenda’s question made me think.

I read an article a few years ago about adult children in therapy. These adults were trying to resolve their feelings about whether or not their parents really loved them. Imagine a man or woman into their senior years wondering, did my parents love me? It seemed very sad.

So, I have always made it a point to tell my daughter that I love her—as does her father. It is part of our conversation. And we mean those words.

But now I wonder if I ever told her in a concrete  way, that yes, I am proud of her.

So this is for Brenda.

 I am proud of my daughter Brenda and all that she has accomplished in her life. I am proud to be her mother. And I am blessed to have her in my life.

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Youth

                      “Love like youth is wasted on the young.”

                       (Love is Lovelier the Second Time Around)

Like most people in my generation, the renowned Baby Boomers, I don’t feel old.  Could I say then, that I think that youth could be overrated? And that there is a value in being seasoned, wise, even experienced?

Sometimes I feel jealous of youth, of the smooth unlined faces, the sheer beauty of young people, and especially of the young bodies that don’t hurt like mine often does.

 Being young again—what a frightening thought! Would I really want to try to figure it all out again? What will I be…who will I marry…will I marry…who am I?

I hate the way youth is used to sell everything from cars to cigarettes. It speaks to me of our culture’s love affair with youth.  And it really annoys me that most ads featuring people in my age range promote products like adult diapers, pain medications and fiber. Or conversely, they feature older people who are obviously made to look younger and almost maniacally happy as they dance the night away.

The scariest ideas? The never ending desire to look younger: Botox, Lasik, liposuction, words that didn’t exist when we were children are part of everyday speech now.

Now that I’ve matured to the “Cool Jazz” radio station, I think that I have embraced aging, with all of its unknowns: aches, pains, and losses. What I want most now in this  third age is the freedom to pursue interests I’ve put on hold  in the past, to spend time with interesting people, and to age gracefully. And I truly believe that anything is possible.  I can develop latent talents and enjoy finding out who I am now. Yes, I can redefine myself.

I intend to surround myself with other Baby Boomers who feel like I do. And to embark with them on this are great adventure called aging.

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Big Blue

Bulky and blue, with worn arm rests, Big Blue, our recliner, takes up a sizable piece of real estate in the enclosed porch. Next to its bulk are two tables, one on either side of it that makes it even wider. It’s almost like having a Cessna airplane parked in the house.

I used to hate that chair. To me, it was an ugly necessity—a chair my husband had  to have. I dreamt of getting rid of it. I rarely sat in it because the seat cushion sagged, making it so low to the floor that I had trouble getting out of it.

And when I visited other homes, I would look around for similar pieces of furniture. But I never saw anything as commanding anywhere else. I guess other people are better at hiding their monstrosities.

 Like a monarch on his throne, my husband felt entitled to that chair. He could sit there for hours, watching TV, reading the paper or catching a nap.

Furniture ads intrigued me—especially Lazy Boy stores. The ads showed recliners that actually looked like furniture and weren’t the size of a Hummer. But somehow, we never replaced Big Blue.

Then my husband became ill, waging a monumental battle with cancer. And the chair took on new meaning. It became his solace, his comforter. The one place he was at ease. He could sit there and sleep if the bed was not comfortable. He was able to entertain himself, too, because the TV was placed strategically in the opposite corner. And the chair was so worn and used that it was okay for him to eat while seated in it.

Big Blue had claimed a special place in our home. And I began to accept the chair. But I still never sat in it. It was Dan’s chair. The few times I tried it, it felt too soft and saggy. The seat seemed to almost graze the floor. And I still dreamt of the chair that would replace it. It would be compact, comfortable and as sleek as a jet.

And then I had surgery. I had to be out of bed all day while I was in the hospital where I had the choice of a straight back chair or worse, the institutional recliner.

So when I returned home after almost two weeks in the hospital, I rejoiced at finally being back in the comfort of familiar surroundings. And to be able to sit on something that wasn’t torture.

At first, I tried to content myself with the roomy arm chair that matches the couch. But I couldn’t put my legs up, and they started to swell. The nurse who came to provide at-home medical care fretted about my swollen legs. She eyed Big Blue. There was the answer to my problems, she said. I must sit in that chair. I protested, telling her that it wasn’t comfortable to me, and that I had problems getting out of it. I was very weak from my hospital stay and still quite ill. So the nurse let me be.

Then came the day when we discovered that a seat cushion we had kicking around the house fit the recliner. The cushion was firm enough and thick enough to actually raise the seat so that I could get out of the chair.

“Oh joy!” The nurse exclaimed. “Now you can sit in this wonderful chair.”

I nestled into its welcoming seat, and elevated my legs. M-m-m. It felt pretty good. Then my ankles shrank down to a normal size. And even better, I could hold my books comfortably on its ample arm rests. When I dozed off, which was mostly what I did, I could actually sleep restfully. And now I could rise from the chair with ease.

Then I developed insomnia. Sleep refused to come until the early morning, sometimes not until after the sun had risen for another day. I tried to sleep in our bed, but hours of discomfort, tossing and turning drove me to the enclosed porch.

 I sat on Big Blue, and I felt her protective arms enclose me, allowing my body to recline and to relax. Sleep started to come easier as she embraced me.

She was waiting to rock me to sleep, to hold me tenderly while I recovered. I began to think about moving her into our bedroom for the nights that stretch into the morning before sleep comes.

 Every now and again, I would catch my husband gazing longingly at Big Blue. When he started calling her my chair, I didn’t argue.

Someday we will find a chair to take her place. It will be welcoming and it will recline. I hope it will be more streamlined than Big Blue. Those are realities.

She is big, bulky and probably not all that pretty. Like a beloved grandma, her beauty comes from what she means to us. Big Blue is there when she is needed.

And finally I love her.

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Buffalo

      Buffalo, my home town. Name by the French trappers, according to legend, after the river that flows through it. The City of No Illusions, Queen City of the Great Lakes, famous for snow storms, chicken wings and the Buffalo Bills—a team that went to the Super Bowl four times and lost every time.

The place where I was born, attended grade school, learned about the world, came of age and earned two college degrees. The place where I made my first communion and was confirmed. The place where I fell in love, married and raised a child. The place I spent my happiest days and some of my saddest days. It is where my parents lived and are buried, and where three of my seven siblings live now.

It is also a city of uncommon beauty—wide boulevards lined with mature trees that are crimson and gold in fall, elegant public buildings—some designed by the most famous of American architects. Situated on Lake Erie—one of a chain of inland seas—cooled by breezes from Canada, it is circled by a necklace of Olmstead parks—green oases for the working class. Populated by the children of immigrants who came here to find the Promised Land and by the descendants of slaves who found refuge at the last stop on the Underground Railway.

I ran away from its harsh winters twelve years ago looking for endless summer. I found that summer here in Florida.

And now I wonder if I am called back to that place I never stopped loving.

I see a city rich with opportunity, full of the promise of intellectual and spiritual growth. A city where I can attend theatre, concerts, and visit art galleries easily. ( There is a saying in Buffalo that everything in the city is twenty minutes away…and it’s true.)

I can sit in bistros and watch the bustle of the world go by—and eat wonderful food and not have to mortgage the house to do so. I can drive through neighborhoods and admire Arts and Crafts style homes next to Frank Lloyd Wright houses.

I can be soothed by the rhythm of waves rolling into the marina, sit on a sandy beach or drive to the undulating hills south of the city.

And I can be among those I share a history with—who have know me for the six decades of my life—who love me for who I was and am now. People whose memories I share, who loved the same people I loved. I can be among the next generation in our family, and revel in their beauty, intelligence and goodness. I can see our family’s heritage and the future in their eager faces.

Buffalo is aptly named. Buffalo is an earthy name—unpretentious, it isn’t a beautiful sounding word, rather one that jars a little. The same way we are jarred by the real thing—by reality. It is a genuine place filled with people who feel authentic.

My visit home was the first in two years. I became ill last year, and spent almost ten months recovering from surgery, unable to make plans to travel. Then an invitation came to help celebrate an uncle’s ninetieth birthday—an opportunity to gather with our families and be reconnected again. I eagerly jumped at this chance—and put together a trip in a few days.  And the moment I arrived in this city—my city—I felt the joy of arriving home, like returning to  the warmth of a mother’s embrace.

Buffalo—my birthplace. I hear your siren call.

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My Mom

There is a story that needs to be told about this picture. You look at it and see an older woman wearing a hat and a corsage. Maybe you wonder why she is dressed like that—is it her birthday or Mother’s Day?

This is my Mom, Joanne Hannah Agnes Poth Joyce. Two weeks after this picture was taken, she died as a result of her lung cancer.

This photo was taken at my brother Tim’s wedding. He is the youngest of my mother’s eight living children. He and his wife Connie moved their wedding date to early April from May so they would be sure she could be there.

We all knew that her earthly life was drawing to a close.

But what none of us knew was that my Mom would reign over this day like a wedding planner. She rented potted palms to flank the mantel piece in our living room. She directed the decorating of the house and had her hand in the food preparations. Together the family  cooked, cleaned and helped produce Tim and Connie’s wedding under the watchful eye of my mother.  It was held in my parent’s living room, with folding chairs set up to face the adorned mantle. She entertained everyone trading reminiscences and opinions. It was a day filled with laughter and fun. My brother Tim remembers her being, “Charming, funny, opinionated, filled with that love that brimmed over on her when she was alive,” that day.

It was my Mom’s last and probably best party.

 The night before, another brother, Michael, (I have four) and I went to the all-night supermarket to purchase a few last minute items ordered up by Mom. She wanted more fresh flowers and probably, knowing her, extra food—just in case.

 She was delighted when her mother -of -the -groom dress arrived a few days earlier.  And she planned her outfit down to the last detail, including her hat.

And now she wanted lilac nail polish to do her nails so they would match her dress.

Michael and I wandered around the cavernous store and finally found the nail polish. I remember him saying how crazy it was to be out searching for exactly the right shade of nail polish for our dying mother.

This story tells you a lot about my Mom—she wanted to be engaged in life and to be part of her children’s lives. She showed us how to live—and how to die with grace and joy–and even a little verve.

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My Ideal Place

My ideal place is without strife and discord. A place where everyone gets along. And everyone loves me and understands me and I never make a mistake and I’m never venal or angry or tired or sick. And I’m beautiful and all the people around me are beautiful and kind and caring—and …well kind of bland now that I think about it. Because while we’re all being so damned nice, we’re also being very plastic.

Okay, my ideal place is –wait, wait, I know! It’s the beach.

Oh, yeah. I forgot. The beach is sometimes way too hot—and I can’t sit in the sun, so I have to carry enough stuff to put a pack animal to shame. And then I have to sit in the shade. And I have to slather on the sunscreen. And God forbid, if I fall asleep and get a third degree burn because I’m really fair skinned (the Irish heritage, you know.)

And then of course, there are the days when the beach is windy or cold…It can be less than ideal.

Ideal place…ideal place…I know—you think I’m going to conclude that there is no ideal place.

That’s the easy way out, because there must be an ideal place. A Shangri-La where the water is clear and turquoise without hidden pollutants and the sand is like talcum powder with a sprinkling of the most translucent, fragile sea shells—none of which are sharp enough to cut the sole of your foot so you bleed all over your new towel and then your husband yells about how much money you spent on them. (Oops! Sorry!) And the jelly fish live somewhere else and there are no sharks and there are no scary surfer dudes or weird looking guys wearing two–sizes-too -small Speedos with those incredibly hairy backs they all seem to have…

No, really there is an ideal place. Wasn’t that a song from West Side Story? No? What’s that? Oh yeah, it was called “There’s a Place for Us”—didn’t that song just make you cry when Tony and Maria sang it to each other?

What? You want me to focus? H-m-m…Could I ask why? Just do it? Isn’t that some kind of a slogan? Yeah, yeah, I know– the topic.

What’s that? Mountains. You’re right, they are awe inspiring. Except when I can’t breathe because you know, of course, that I have asthma and when I drove through the Rocky Mountains with my daughter I was in danger of developing…never mind.

Then there’s Disney World, you know, the happiest place on earth? I enjoy it—especially the part where a hamburger and coke and park admission cost enough to send your first born to college.

How about a cruise ship? That’s ideal in a way, a microcosm of the macrocosm where people who are diverse (and total strangers) dress up and sit together at dinner and carry on civilized conversations. Except for the time the three other people at the table were good friends who talked only to each other in voices that were just above a whisper. And I don’t know if it meant anything, but every time I smiled that one woman just looked at me and said something to her friend behind her hand. And then they both would snicker or just, you know, smile one of those snotty- middle-school-girl smiles. Yeah—just like that—why, you know how to do that, too! 

And did I mention that the seas were rough and my husband got sick, so we were confined to the 125 square foot cabin with guards posted outside for 4 out of the 5 days? And being in that room with someone who was in the bathroom all the time …oh, sorry. Too much information. Got it.

So enough already. I will not admit there is no ideal place! I will not, I will not! I will not!

No, whatever makes you think I’m throwing a temper tantrum? I was just stomping my foot to wake it up—it seems to have gone numb.

What? My ideal place?

Okay, seriously now. I have it!

I think for me, my ideal place would be to live in one of my novels (really!).

I just realized it! I am like a god when I write a novel. I decide who gets in, what they look like, how they act, if and when they fall in love…if they live or die.

So, see here’s my plan. I write a novel with me in it.  I am married to the most handsome man who is a tireless lover and looks like a young Robert Redford and we live by the beach (the one without all the sharks and sharp sea shells) in a house that overlooks the ocean with a full staff of servants and I am famous and glamorous and (did I say) ridiculously beautiful (think Angeline Jolie without all those bothersome kids). And we just have one wonderful adventure after another. And then they invent a pill that allows you to live to be 100 but look 30 and whenever any other woman even looks at David (my husband) her eyes fall out and I get to decide if she lives or dies or she suddenly becomes as ugly as a troll…

And that’s my ideal place.

Look, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, But don’t call or stop by, okay?  And cancel the lunch date next week.

I have a novel to write.

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School Daze

“No more school, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks,” the childhood rhyme echoed in my head as I faced the sea of parents, staring at me intently like sun flowers seeking the sun.

For a moment, terror washed over me, the terror you feel when you awake from a frightening dream in that moment when you realize that it was just a dream.

I knew what they wanted.

They wanted me fired.

I saw the Mom  in the back of the room.  She perched on the kindergarten sized chair like a petite vulture. I wondered how she had time to take care of her three rough and tumble young sons and a husband while waging the spiteful telephone campaign against me.

I had come to Florida full of excitement and promise.

 I had been hired me because the principal wanted to bring a more developmentally appropriate Kindergarten program to her school. Intelligent woman that she was, she realized that my young colleague conducted a Kindergarten program that was mired in practices long since discarded.

The kids in her classroom sat in chairs all day long, cutting and pasting while their young teacher went from child to child murmuring directions.

“Color inside the lines,” was her mantra.

The children produced a numbing number of projects each week- sometimes as many as 50 pieces of paper that they had colored and pasted were sent home each Friday for the parents’ approval. They completed this work under their teacher’s watchful eye—each child’s project was perfect. No one project looked any different from any other project. No one project was marked by any individuality. This was the result of the teacher’s persistent correction. For instance, if a child dared to paste an eye on a pumpkin face crookedly, they were shown how to place the eye in the exact place “it belonged.” The children smiled as she gave them a sticker when they produced a Stepford –like facsimile of the model project the teacher displayed prominently at the front of the room.

And my crime and misdemeanor, you ask?

Setting up a classroom with a painting easel and a playdoh station and (gasp!) blocks and a hands-on science table, among other play areas or stations.

I even worked with small instructional groups.

How dare I! Didn’t I know that the children needed to sit in chairs all day and learn like next door?

So the Mom got on her phone–calling and calling until her dialing finger was numb.

Oh, did I mention that Pamela’s son told me on a daily basis that he loved me and hugged me at every opportunity?

Meanwhile the children in my classroom continued to build with blocks and paint pictures at the easel…and learn, too. In fact, they learned as much or more than the other class did.

And after the first troubling year, parents began to appreciate what I did. Some even realized that for their active children, the environment that I provided was a far better fit than next door.

But the Mom would not stop…

Even after her son went on to first grade, she continued to solicit ill will against me, continuing her whisper campaign …on the phone and at school sports events.

And, of course, there is an ironic ending to this story.

Several years later, when I was no longer working full time, I came back and took over a faltering fifth grade with those same students who had been my first kindergarteners.

And those same parents who sat stuffed into the kindergarten sized chairs that night five years earlier were grateful that I did. I received a hero’s’ welcome, as if I had ridden up on a white horse.

What’s that old saying? He who laughs last laughs best?

Well, Mom, ha—ha–ha!

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Musings

I think of myself as a writer and a storyteller. My novels are about the South Buffalo neighborhood where  I grew up. The stories that fascinate me  feature real people–the ones who struggle everyday to find their place in the world. The people who face hardship and disappointment and wake up the next day and start all over again.That takes real courage. And those are the people whose stories I want to tell.

I am actively looking for an agent for my newest novel. It is a story I believe in and love, like a mother loves a child. I hope someday soon to share this story with the world.

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