Pain

If I knew then what I know now...
One of the biggest influences in my life was my father.  He taught me so much, without seeming to do so.  My lasting memories of him are tainted with the crippling effects of the arthritis that he lived with for most of his life.

Daddy was never an overly involved parent.  From my early years when he was in construction,  through the deli years, when he ran, and later owned a local deli, it was long hours and not a lot of family time. It was after I had kids that he mellowed.  Where my siblings and I would barely  DARE to enter my parents room (also his office), my oldest, Stacie, was free to use their bed as a trampoline with no fear of repercussions.

 She was guaranteed Boston creme donuts fresh from Swan Bakery every Sunday. When Katie came along,  it was lunch at the house in Blue Point every day.  During which Daddy would take great pleasure in feeding Katie from his own plate. And sneaking her cookies.

The one pleasure my father never had was holding his granddaughters. He declined, because he was afraid he might drop them.  The pain, the arthritis. I still remember him, in the winter,  in damp weather, rainy days, never complaining, but the pain on his face,  it was always there. I cannot erase his shuffling walk from my mind. Two hip replacements and an ankle replacement, and still the pain. There was the one day at lunch, I was sitting next to him,  he put his hand on the table and commented how he couldn't even lay his hand out flat-the arthritis had deformed it that much. My heart broke for him a little bit that day because I think I finally realized how debilitating it was.
If I didn't get it then,  I certainly do now. I have always considered my pain tolerance to be fairly high. I have never been less than fiercely  independent. Ever. Now I find myself in the hated position of having to depend on others. Since getting hit by a truck,  I cannot walk without a crutch. I cannot drive, as my left elbow required surgery to be rebuilt. As a result,  my left arm is severely limited in its mobility. I cannot do simple household tasks. I curse my lefthandedness. I cannot bake the traditional annual Christmas cookies that everyone looks forward to every year. I cannot sit for long periods of time due to a pelvic fracture. I cannot navigate the stairs to sleep in my own bed. Suddenly I fully understand my father's dislike of cold, damp, fog, rain. I got it this morning when I woke up to fog. I got it the last couple of days when the wind chill was 10. This pain is unrelenting. It takes far too long for my liking to get my ass going in the morning, my hip and my arm stiffen up overnight.
I have started physical therapy. the PT guys are awesome even if I do occasionally tell them I hate them. They're very understanding.  With PT and time,  I hopefully will become independent again.  They say I may not get full range of motion back in my arm but I'm still trying to remain positive.  When the pain threatens to overwhelm, I think of my father and the pain he lived with constantly,  without relief, and I think,  I got this,  I can do this.  I am stronger than this pain. This past month has not been easy,  emotionally or physically. I am still dealing with both the best I can.  But I'm seeing progress, I'm feeling progress, and I know that this too shall pass. it will take time,  and my gut tells me that I will never be enthralled with inclement weather again. But this will, indeed, pass. And I keep reminding myself that it could have been worse, so much worse. I'm still here, I'm  breathing,  as long as I can feel the pain,  I know I'm alive. One day at a time,  I can hear my father's words in my head,  one day at a time....keep the faith.  And so I will.
Everybody Hurts~REM

This is dedicated to the one I love...

My daughter once asked me, “How do you know when it’s for real?”
I thought about that briefly before answering, “When you’re with him, it feels like a big, comfy warm chair. It feels like being home.”
I have been fortunate enough to know this two times in my life. I hurt for those who have never known it. The first time, it changed me from an angry, cynical young single mother to someone quite different. So different, in fact, that people noticed. I smiled more. I wasn’t quite so rough around the edges. Because I had found someone who accepted me for who I was…and did not ask me to change. Who accepted my flaws and my faults, my daughter, my scars and my mistakes, without judging. I lost that love to cancer and I’m not gonna lie, it felt like half of me died. I floundered for a year, gliding through the motions, not feeling, trying to keep it together.
Now I find myself in that place again. By the grace of God, I am blessed to have found love and a best friend. We have come a long way in 16 years. Yea, we met 16 years ago, and aside from a brief break when I moved south, we are still together. And he has accepted me, my family, my flaws and scars and mistakes.
And my dog. Psht. Who am I kidding. He has stolen my dog’s heart. And mine. And I trust him with both. He has taken on my daughter as if she were his own. He has dropped the “step” when talking to anyone about her.  Because in his heart, because she is mine, she is also his. 

He has been there through many losses in my life, stood by my side ready to hold me up if I needed it, ready to help me get through anything life throws at me. He grounds me. He is my safety, my strength, my everything.  He doesn’t see himself as better than me, or anyone, really, we are equals, working together toward the future, as it should be. He is the common sense when my world spins out of control, the voice of reason. He would lay down his life for me and mine. I know this without question.  He is one of the few people who know me for who I really am. One of the few people who I can actually have a “comfortable silence” with, without feeling the need to fill the space with words. I know that, when he’s not here with me, he would be if I needed him, in less than a heartbeat. He has encouraged me unfailingly to believe in myself, because he believes in me.
In 16 years, we have had one argument. One. And it was because I got a little schitzy in the midst of divorce and custody battles. He said what I needed to hear. I got pissed. I got over it. (Note: I will not publicly admit he was right. He’d never let me hear the end of it if I did. And I say that with the utmost love and affection)  One argument.  In 16 years. It doesn’t get any better than that.
Everyone should know this love, this comfort, at least once in their lives, and it’s not fair that some never do. This happiness, this contentment, this security and the knowledge that this, this is what matters in the end. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, where I would be without this.
So here’s to you, my love, here’s to 16 years past and so very many more, God willing, together in happiness, in love, in life. You are….my better half, my hero, my light in the dark, my joy, my love.

Crystal ~ Fleetwood Mac

Do you always trust your first initial feeling
Special knowledge holds true, bear believing
I turned around and the water was closing all around like a gloveLike the love that finally found me.Then I knew in the crystaline knowledge of youDrove me through the mountainsThrough the crystal like and clear water fountainDrove me like a magnetTo the seaTo the sea
How the faces of love have changed turning the pagesAnd I have changed, oh, but you, you remain ageless
I turned around and the water was closing all around like a gloveLike the love that finally found me.Then I knew in the crystaline knowledge of youDrove me though the mountainsThrough the crystal like and clear water fountainDrove me like a magnetTo the seaTo the sea

Mea Culpa

I have found that there is a saturation point when it comes to hurt. When the scars from all the times past have toughened up to the point where the next attacks, more attacks, because there are always more, just don't matter. Comfortably numb indeed.
It's taken me years to let down my walls, built so carefully from my teen years. You grow up, you maybe, with a little luck, by the grace of God, find the right person and you learn to trust, to maybe love yourself just a little bit, to let others in, let the guard slip. And you never ever, with family history in mind, think the attacks might come from within. Over and over again.

Never assume. History does repeat. There was a time when I could strike back. Now, not so much. I have not the desire nor the energy to fuel this fire. My reality is the truth, the facts. I was never one for delusions. I am not sure what alternate universe you lived in, or how your reality got so twisted. It is what it is. I am sorry that life did not turn out as you planned. I am sorry I was not a more perfect parent - and that I was the only constant one you had. I am sorry your life wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could give you. You don't know that for a long time you were my reason to smile every day, my reason to go on. I am sorry that you seem to forget all the good times, all the times I was there for you, all the times you saved me, and the times I thanked God for you. I could list them, but I won't; I know, deep down, that you know. I  am sorry that you hurt so much, and that you feel the need to lash out at me so often. I'm sorry that we always hurt the ones we love. Perhaps that's why we do, because they love us enough. I am sorry there is no reset, if there was I would turn it all back and redo it all for you. I would do that for you. You never wanted for anything. You were always loved, a love that a mother can have only for her firstborn. The reality is, I cannot fix this, cannot fix you. This breaks my heart. It always has. Every. Damn. Time.
However I will not make the same mistake my mother made before me. I will not let twenty years go by without telling you that I love you. I always did. Whether you believe it or not is your choice. I have been through hell and back with you and without you. It counts for nothing clearly. My life will go on, and I will fill it with the love of those who care enough not to try to destroy me, and  I will be strong as I always am. One day you may be a distant , sometimes painful memory, or you may choose to be part of my life again. Your choice. Regardless, I will always hold you close to my heart, I will hold the precious, precocious little girl that you were, the angry teen that you have been, and the broken, scarred, beautiful woman that you have become, so very close to my heart. Because you are me, you are so much of me. I know you are strong, and you will survive. It's what we do. I don't know how this will turn out, where we will end up. The fact remains we are, always will be, bound by blood. You can't change that, can't erase it, can't forget it. I will treasure the early years. And I will continue to pray for you, and wish you, every year as I always do, all the happiness you deserve and more. Because the fact also remains that all I ever wanted was for you to be happy. I only wish that I could make it so.

And you rip it from my hands
And you swear it's all gone
And you rip out all I had
Just to say that you've won

Well now you've won
But I gave you all
I gave you all
I gave you all

I Gave You All

A New Direction

So...then I ended up in a kitchen after all. My kid the chef got a job out east, at a farm stand cafe, farm to table type stuff. They have sandwiches and salads and all fresh organic kinds of things.  They also have fresh baked things.  And no baker.

Carrot cake loaves

 Sooooo...once again these words left Katie's mouth: "oh, my mom's a baker!" After some back and forth,  I now spend my weekend mornings doing what I love. I had forgotten how quiet the world is at 5:30 AM. Sometimes when I walk out my door, the air smells like I remember the mountains in Virginia smelling,  that fresh clean air. It's a half hour drive for me to the farm.  My observations :
There's a reason is called Sunrise Highway. Especially if you happen to be driving east at 6 AM. Sunglasses mandatory.
There really are some beautiful areas on our island, the Pine Barrens,  the way the mist plays hide and seek through the trees, the sun rising on the river.
There are wild turkeys on the island.  How did I never know this? Seriously. A family of them running along the edge of the woods this morning. I think it was a family.  Maybe it was a herd. A flock? What the hell does one call a bunch of wild turkeys?
There's an awful lot of raccoons here. I fear many of them were not taught to look both ways before crossing. I find that sad.
I enjoy working with my kid. How does that even happen?

The farm. Garden of Eve. If you think walking to the barn to open the doors for the day doesn't take me back to the summers I spent on my grandparents farm in Georgia, you would be wrong. The smells,  the rows of carefully tended produce, the red of the barn...yea, all of that. Then Katie made a cup of coffee for me this morning (such a good kid!) She poured the milk and stepped back, sly little grin on her face waiting for a reaction.  There were lumps in the milk. I think she forgot that, all those summers on the farm,  all those years ago,  we got our milk directly from the source,  in a gallon glass jar, and the top third of it was cream. I can't decide if the best part of this new direction is that I get to do what I enjoy,  or that I get to actually have real, in person people to talk to.  I fear that,  having worked from home for so many years,  I may have lost some of the

social graces. (I'm not sure, really, that I ever had any to spare) Perhaps I really need to get out in the world again,  among actual people.  Can sitting by myself in my home office, cursing out loud and scaring the hell out of my dog really be healthy? I'm leaning towards no. I have worked in restaurants before.  I was damn near raised in a deli. I realize now how much I actually liked those jobs. I love baking,  making cakes and breads and cookies and all those delicious things that make people happy. I kind of blush a little bit when Katie texts me three hours after I've left for the day to tell me that all my stuff is selling.  Maybe it's  time to think about what I really want to do with the rest of my life.

Harmony

Harmony

One day last week I took a day off. To work. Yes, to work. Katie had this bright idea to volunteer my baking services, along with her culinary services to Harmony Café . This is a new endeavor, a pay what you can/pay it forward Café wanting to open a location locally. They were having a fundraiser at our local VFW hall, and were looking for volunteers to cook, serve, set up, and do whatever else needed to be done. Me being me, I harassed Ms. Katie about volunteering my precious time. However, all the while, I was thinking, kitchen, baking, flour, sugar, eggs, fresh fruits and things and oh yes!  THIS is what I live for. Well besides the kids, the grandkids, the fiancé, La Luna….THIS is my passion.

Cindy, Rose, Me, and the Chef <3

8 Hours. 8 glorious hours in a kitchen, doing what I love. Is there anything better?  Fresh local produce all over the place, tasting, fixing, tweaking, baking, cooking, it was pure heaven.  Can I just say, my kid makes the best, bar none, ranch dressing EVER? It was suggested more than once that she bottle it and sell it. Amazing what fresh herbs can do in her hands!  There was vegan eggplant and kale parm, mixed green salad, coconut curry (amazing!) and spaghetti and meatballs. Done by Katie and our other volunteer, Cindy. Dessert was strawberry shortcake and peach

The volunteers

slab pie. By me. It all went over swimmingly, compliments on everything, people were eating, they
were enjoying, we were happy. I understand the passion now. The busting your ass to make amazing food, just to see others enjoy it. I get it. The three of us worked, literally in harmony, in that kitchen. I have always worked well with Katie in the kitchen. Except for the holiday meals when she tends to take over a bit too much, one of us gets pissed off (usually me, she wields knives too well), and walks out of the kitchen. Happens without fail every holiday dinner.  It’s almost tradition.

Fresh local, pure heaven!

Peach Slab Pie

However, Thursday was an exception. Thursday was absolutely joyous, the hot kitchen, ovens and burners blazing, knives flashing.  This is an awkward time in my life to realize what I should have realized long ago. That I should be baking. LOL and as I type this, her theme song comes on “Go forth and have no fear” indeed! Is it time?  Is it too late? A voice whispers in my head, no. It’s never too late. I can do this. I have to do this. I have worked in restaurants before. I know the pressure. I know the stress. But it’s good stress. Such good stress. And the end result, we make people happy. I have been taking classes for baking certification. I should have seen it, really SEEN it, every time I do an assignment. My family, who knows me better than anyone,  who respect me enough not to lie to me, they tell me the things I make are amazing. The Crème Brulee?  Best ever.  The Sabayon parfaits?  To die for.  When the hot cross bun dough rose, VICTORY!  They would not lie about this. They would not say this to stroke my

ego. I can do this. I’m GOOD at this, apparently.

Let’s face it, I have been baking for 35+ years. On my own time. For 35 years I have made thousands of Christmas cookies every year and shipped them all over the country. Those of you who know, well, you KNOW. There could be riots if

I ever took a year off. The birthday cakes, breakfasts I used to do on Thursday mornings for the backroom crew at the deli, I’VE BEEN DOING THIS FOR YEARS. Everytime I pull out one of my grandmothers recipes and ace it, it’s confirmation.  I’m thinking, yea, I’m thinking maybe I should accept it, call it my fate and go for it.  Go forth and have no fear indeed.  Perhaps it’s my time.

Renegade by X Ambassadors

It's our time to make a move
It's our time to make amends
It's our time to break the rules
Let's begin...

It's My Time by Martha Wash

I can see it clear
I'm getting close
I'm almost there
It's indescribable
It's my time to shine
It's my time

We all have dreams
We all have goals
With laughter and tears,
That's what we're living for
It's my time to shine
It's my time

Keep on walking your own path
Never let anyone hold you back
When you feel like giving in,
You get right up and try again and again

Be who you are
And you will go far
There's a place for everyone to be a star
It's my time to shine
It's my time

Keep on walking your own path
Never let anyone hold you back
When you feel like giving in,
You get right up and try again and again
It's my time (ohhh!)
It's my time (yes it is)
It's my time (ohhh!)
It's my time (yeah!)

I can see it clear
I'm getting close
I'm almost there
It's indescribable
It's my time to shine
It's my time

Keep on walking your own path
Never let anyone hold you back
When you feel like giving in,
You get right up and try again and again
It's my time
My time
It's my time
My time

Pride

Pride

Happy Pride Day!  I don’t think there’s any need to specify what pride, unless you live under a rock….
This day means so much to so many, not only LGBTQ, but those around them. Specifically, their families.
Having had a brother who was gay, maybe I’m more accepting of it. Or maybe it’s just that unconditional love thing.
I have two daughters. They both identify as bi. And that’s ok. I am familiar with this world. I have spent time with the gay community, both at Cherry Grove and in The City. I found out from my brother, (And God how I miss him lately) in the early 80’s (though we all kind of knew) that he was gay. I will never, never forget the night he told me. My reaction was…no reaction. Because it mattered not a damn to me who he loved or how he loved. That moment when he said “that’s my boyfriend” did not change who he always was.
My reaction to my daughters was pretty much the same. I care not who or how they love. I ask only that they be happy. I never once thought, what did I do wrong? How did they end up “this way”, as I’ve no doubt my father did for a long time, years ago before he accepted my brother’s lifestyle.  Oh, he never turned away from Warren, never shut him out, he just never understood. My mother, on the other hand, reveled in it. After dad passed, and even after Warren passed, she spent many holidays with my brothers friends. And that was ok too. She was accepted there, as Mel’s mom. She was comfortable there.

As for my girls, they are both in long term relationships at this point in their lives. I hope they are happy, I think they are. They have both done amazing things. Stacie served 11 years in the Navy. She has fought many battles, physical and mental and has won so far. She has 4 beautiful kids who I love dearly. She has come farther than she knows and had filled me with pride she doesn’t even realize.

Katie is starting out on an amazing career, following in my brother’s footsteps, at home in the kitchen. She too has fought emotional battles, still is, somewhat, but she’s winning.

They are both amazing young ladies. The fact that they identify as bi has no effect on their achievements. They are not pedophiles. They are not mutants. They are not deviants. Nor does it have any effect on my love for them or my pride in them. They. Are. My. Daughters.  THAT’S how I identify THEM. When I found out, my strict Catholic upbringing did not, nor will it ever, enter into what I feel for them.  I understand that this was not a choice. The only choice involved is whether you choose to accept who you are, or to fight it because society, your religion, your parents say it’s wrong. I just don’t understand how anyone can decide that you’re wrong to be who you are.  Judge not…people in glass houses….so many clichés. The point is, your sexual preference does not define you. It is not who you are. And I hate, I HATE when people think it is. I don’t understand sometimes how in 2016, there is so much hate over something that is a non issue. I hate that my girls could be considered targets for who they are. For who they fucking are. No one has the right to be judge and jury when it comes to this. I have always encouraged my girls to be themselves, to not conform, to do the best they can, to fight for what or who they believe in. I want to hope, dare I hope that I’ve succeeded in helping them to be more accepting?

Take pride in who you are, no matter what or who or how you love. BE who you are. We all have that right, because we are all human. We all bleed red, we all hurt sometimes and mostly, we all deserve to live without fear of expressing ourselves. It’s a basic human right. Celebrate who you are, what you are, celebrate life!

Lady Gaga ~ Born This Way

It doesn't matter if you love him or capital H-I-M
Just put your paws up
'Cause you were born this way, baby

My mama told me when I was young
We are all born superstars
She rolled my hair and put my lipstick on
In the glass of her boudoir

There's nothin' wrong with lovin' who you are
She said, 'cause He made you perfect, babe
So hold your head up,
girl and you'll go far
Listen to me when I say

I'm beautiful in my way
'Cause God makes no mistakes
I'm on the right track, baby
I was born this way

Don't hide yourself in regret
Just love yourself and you're set
I'm on the right track, baby
I was born this way, born this way

Ooh, there ain't no other way, baby, I was born this way
Baby, I was born this way
Ooh, there ain't no other way, baby, I was born this way
I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way

Don't be a drag, just be a queen
Don't be a drag, just be a queen
Don't be a drag, just be a queen
Don't be

Give yourself prudence and love your friends
Subway kid, rejoice of truth
In the religion of the insecure
I must be myself, respect my youth

A different lover is not a sin
Believe capital H-I-M
I love my life, I love this record and
Mi amore vole fe yah

I'm beautiful in my way,
'Cause God makes no mistakes
I'm on the right track, baby
I was born this way

Don't hide yourself in regret,
Just love yourself and you're set
I'm on the right track, baby
I was born this way

Ooh, there ain't no other way, baby, I was born this way
Baby, I was born this way
Ooh, there ain't no other way, baby, I was born this way
I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way

Don't be drag, just be a queen
Whether you're broke or evergreen
You're black, white, beige, chola descent
You're Lebanese, you're orient

Whether life's disabilities
Left you outcast, bullied or teased
Rejoice and love yourself today
'Cause baby, you were born this way

No matter gay, straight or bi
Lesbian, transgendered life
I'm on the right track, baby
I was born to survive

No matter black, white or beige
Chola or orient made
I'm on the right track, baby
I was born to be brave

I'm beautiful in my way
'Cause God makes no mistakes
I'm on the right track, baby
I was born this way

Don't hide yourself in regret,
Just love yourself and you're set
I'm on the right track, baby
I was born this way, yeah

Ooh, there ain't no other way, baby, I was born this way
Baby, I was born this way
Ooh, there ain't no other way, baby, I was born this way
I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way
I was born this way, hey
I was born this way, hey
I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way, hey

I was born this way, hey
I was born this way, hey
I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way, hey

Senseless Repitition

On this beautiful summer Sunday, I wake up, and just about the first thing I hear is that 20 people have been killed in an Orlando nightclub. Wait. What?  No. Not again. No no no.  This can’t be right.

Sadly, it is. Though now the count is up to 50 dead.  I am trying to wrap my mind around this. Sandy Hook, Charleston, San Bernardino. When does it stop.  And of course, people jump right to terrorism. Well, yes. Domestic Terrorism. It’s a thing.  San Bernardino may have been ISIS, true. Sandy Hook and Charleston, they were not. They were quiet home grown white boys. Explain that to me. Go ahead. Reason it away. I dare you. I dare you to justify elementary school age children being gunned down with a fucking automatic weapon. Explain to me how it’s ok that people who are worshiping their God, are shot in their own place of worship. Then tell there is no racism anymore. I dare you.

One official said there’s a reason this happened at this time, at this place. A reason?  Let me make clear: there is NO reason. None. What, because it’s Pride month, and it was a gay bar?  That qualified as a fucking REASON?  There. Is. No. Reason.  None that I, and many others like me, will accept. This was another senseless shooting. They say now the shooter was set off by seeing two men kissing on the street. I say this: So. Fucking. What. This is 2016. Times change. The LGBTQ community has been around for a Godawful long time, for those who didn’t know.  Back in the 40’s, Cherry Grove was a closet gay community.  Closet because they were afraid to be out in the open. I find that absolutely disgusting, that 70 years later, we have not become more accepting of who people are. Have we not evolved at least that much?  Love is love, I don’t, frankly, give a damn who or how you love. I don’t give a damn what goes on, or with whom, in your bedroom. As long as there is love, as long as you’re happy, and there is no abuse, be who the fuck you are.  My heart breaks for those who lost loved ones this morning, because, again, there was. No. Reason. Nothing can excuse this, or any other shooting that goes on in this country. 

And then there’s the gun thing. I’ve said it before:  I don’t delve much into politics in public. I have too many diverse friends to do that, to start arguments over politics. But guns. Again, I dare you to give me one damn reason ANY civilian should have access to an automatic weapon.  Go ahead. I’ll wait…….

First of all, a question.  Has Obama come knocking at your door and taken all your guns away yet?  Yea, I didn’t think so. Oh, Wait. I think I just read the NRA admitted that he couldn’t do that even if he wanted to. So there’s that.  Let’s clarify this now: No one wants to take your damn guns away. Do you have a right to protect yourself? You do. But unless you’re expecting a damn army to attack your house, there is absolutely no reason whatsoever to own an automatic. These guns have one purpose, and one purpose only. To kill multiple people at once.  I find it despicable that there are gun shops where you can walk in, and with no hesitation whatsoever, buy an automatic weapon, along with hundreds of rounds of ammunition while you’re at it. There’s a big difference between barring guns totally and SENSIBLE gun laws.

And now, I see another attack was stopped in Los Angeles.  Some guy with weapons and explosives was arrested going to the LA Pride parade. AT the risk of diving into that political shitshow that I try so hard to avoid, the right is blaming this all on Obama. No seriously. Blame it on the guy who is trying to get SENSIBLE laws passed. Not the congress who has blocked his every attempt. 

When are people going to grow the fuck up and accept that not everyone is male, straight and white?  When are we going to stop aiming guns at anyone who is different and try fucking talking instead. None of those people at Pulse this morning was a threat. None of them were hurting anyone. They were celebrating who they are, enjoying the company of friends, raising a damn toast to life. And for this, they lost just that. There are people in this country who sometimes behave so badly, it makes me wonder how the rest of the world really sees us. Or maybe I’m better off not knowing.

For now, I will pray for these victims and their loved ones. And perhaps I will offer one up for this country, if it’s not too late.

Macklemore ~ Same Love

When I was in the third grade I thought that I was gay,

'Cause I could draw, my uncle was, and I kept my room straight.

I told my mom, tears rushing down my face

She's like "Ben you've loved girls since before pre-k, trippin'."

Yeah, I guess she had a point, didn't she?

Bunch of stereotypes all in my head.

I remember doing the math like, "Yeah, I'm good at little league."

A preconceived idea of what it all meant

For those that liked the same sex

Had the characteristics

The right wing conservatives think it's a decision

And you can be cured with some treatment and religion

Man-made rewiring of a predisposition

Playing God, aw nah here we go

America the brave still fears what we don't know

And "God loves all his children" is somehow forgotten

But we paraphrase a book written thirty-five-hundred years ago

I don't know

And I can't change

Even if I tried

Even if I wanted to

And I can't change

Even if I tried

Even if I wanted to

My love

My love

My love

She keeps me warm

She keeps me warm

She keeps me warm

She keeps me warm

If I was gay, I would think hip-hop hates me

Have you read the YouTube comments lately?

"Man, that's gay" gets dropped on the daily

We become so numb to what we're saying

A culture founded from oppression

Yet we don't have acceptance for 'em

Call each other faggots behind the keys of a message board

A word rooted in hate, yet our genre still ignores it

Gay is synonymous with the lesser

It's the same hate that's caused wars from religion

Gender to skin color, the complexion of your pigment

The same fight that led people to walk outs and sit ins

It's human rights for everybody, there is no difference!

Live on and be yourself

When I was at church they taught me something else

If you preach hate at the service those words aren't anointed

That holy water that you soak in has been poisoned

When everyone else is more comfortable remaining voiceless

Rather than fighting for humans that have had their rights stolen

I might not be the same, but that's not important

No freedom 'til we're equal, damn right I support it

(I don't know)

And I can't change

Even if I tried

Even if I wanted to

My love

My love

My love

She keeps me warm

She keeps me warm

She keeps me warm

She keeps me warm

We press play, don't press pause

Progress, march on

With the veil over our eyes

We turn our back on the cause

'Til the day that my uncles can be united by law

When kids are walking 'round the hallway plagued by pain in their heart

A world so hateful some would rather die than be who they are

And a certificate on paper isn't gonna solve it all

But it's a damn good place to start

No law is gonna change us

We have to change us

Whatever God you believe in

We come from the same one

Strip away the fear

Underneath it's all the same love

About time that we raised up... sex

And I can't change

Even if I tried

Even if I wanted to

And I can't change

Even if I tried

Even if I wanted to

My love

My love

My love

She keeps me warm

She keeps me warm

She keeps me warm

She keeps me warm

Love is patient

Love is kind

Love is patient

Love is kind

(not crying on Sundays)

Love is patient

(not crying on Sundays)

Love is kind

(I'm not crying on Sundays)

Love is patient

(not crying on Sundays)

Love is kind

(I'm not crying on Sundays)

Love is patient

(not crying on Sundays)

Love is kind

(I'm not crying on Sundays)

Love is patient

Love is kind

Stop the Hate

Enough Already!

I try really hard not to delve into politics on social media. I don’t hide the fact that I consider myself a liberal. However, I do not force my views on anyone. I occasionally (very rarely, really) voice my opinion because I don’t care to start a shitshow on my feed or anywhere else. I have numerous conservative friends on my friends list. I want to believe that friendship transcends political views. As far as I am concerned, all of my friends, conservative and liberal, are fully entitled to their views and opinions. I will not debate them, will not tell them they’re wrong, right, or otherwise. I RESPECT their opinions. And I refuse to hate someone because of their views. It’s what makes the world, our different views, perspectives, opinions. What fun would it be if we all agreed?

What I do not condone is hatred. This has been blogged and reblogged again. It’s my turn.  Somehow, hatred of anyone different has gotten totally out of control. I won’t go into the race thing, I would be here all day and night. There’s just not enough coffee in the world for that. But homophobia. That’s a whole different thing. The bathroom b*llshit. Seriously.

I have known, am related to, many gays, some who are even *gasp* married.  I have, by virtue of being “Warren’s baby sister” had the pleasure of spending many weekends, along with my then 4 year old daughter,  at Cherry Grove when my brother worked as a chef there.  And I met some of the most wonderful people there. I have been to the Monster in the city. When my dad passed in ’94, it was December. We ended up having Christmas dinner at The Monster in the Village that year with the staff. My brother cooked. Roast suckling pig. My youngest went with us that time. She was 3.  And didn’t question Mrs. Santa.  When my brother passed, the party to celebrate the spectacular person he was, was there.  ‘S Wonderful, ‘s Marvelous. Indeed. (If you didn’t already know, the restaurant at the Grove was The Monster – Best. Lobster. Thermidore. Ever. When it closed, the owner, Joseph,  who was delightful, opened The Monster in the city, at Christopher and Grove in the village.) My brother’s community for lack of a better word, welcomed us, cried with us, reminisced with us, took us into their family and comforted us.  And here’s a shock. I used the bathroom there. And did not think twice about Omigod, what if a GAY GUY came in?? HA! There was only one bathroom.  I have been to events at my brother’s apartment. EVERYONE USED THE SAME BATHROOM. Even the cats.  This was in the early 2000’s. No one thought twice about it. My girls have been exposed to the LGBTQ world from a very young age. And I’m grateful for that. They learned acceptance. No one loved these two very lucky girls more than their uncle did. They never saw him as anything other than Uncle Warren. And rightfully so.

"Equality" I designed it, Katie wears it proudly. Because we believe in it.

I can remember my mother talking about Cherry Grove in the 40’s. As she put it, “they” were always there, they just stayed up in the dunes because It was so very taboo to be gay. Where the hell do you think they went to the bathroom then. .  I have been to Miss Fire Island. More than once.  I have pictures. And if I were to post any of them, if you saw ANY of these “drag queens” going into the ladies, believe me, you would not question it.

My questions here are: Do you really think that transgenders, gays, drag queens, have not been using the “other” restroom all along? Are you that naïve?  And…what the bloody hell is the difference. In my house, I have two bathrooms. I am not going to, should I have a group of people…PEOPLE…over, designate who is to use which. I am not going to dictate to you, if you identify with the opposite gender, where you should do anything.  It’s basic decency. Respect for differences. Accept it and move on. EVERYONE is entitled to basic civil rights. EVERYONE.  They are not a danger to your children. They are not pedophiles. They are human beings with the same damn rights as all of us. And to tell the truth, most that I have met, and there have been many, are the nicest, most decent humans I have ever met. Look past their preferences and see WHO THEY ARE. How they conduct their private lives is none. of your. damn. business. They have feelings, they have fears and dreams like anyone else.

And the bottom line is, aren’t there more important things we should be worrying about other than who uses which damn bathroom?  Like, I don’t know, hungry kids, homelessness, abuse….instead of wasting all this energy on hating, how about volunteering at a shelter? It’s just too much negativity. I’m not gonna sit here and go all peace, love and harmony on you but good God, why all the hate?? I personally, don’t give a damn who you love, or how you love them. Treat me with respect and kindness and I will do the same, no matter who you are.  And feel free to use my bathroom anytime. 

Bound by Blood

Mother’s Day. It was never about me, after I was a mom myself. It was always about MY mother.  I try to remember past Mother’s Days and I find the memories elusive.  Always my brother comes to mind, he was closest to my mother, and always there for her, always the one who remembered flowers, made dinner for her or took her out for dinner.  I’m grateful that he was always there to take the lead on holidays.  I wasn’t so good at the family things.

I probably, quite possibly, most likely, have latent mom issues. I hate that. Our relationship was too often antagonistic.  In my eyes, she was never right. I was the youngest, the forgotten one, sometimes I thought that, after three other kids, she was just tired of it all. I swore I was adopted for awhile in my misguided adolescence. Ha!  Oh those family skeletons, how they dance, how they mock me! 

But back to the subject at hand. I have glimpses of memories. Like, seriously, my grandmother’s cousin’s funeral. In Jersey. First time I ever remember seeing a dead person. Why, oh WHY did she make me go?? I was, like, nine, for goodness sake!  The 1969 World’s Fair in Flushing. I can tell you exactly what dress she was wearing, the white one with little beige dots and a row of large daisies down the front, how she carried her black square Brownie camera, her straw (tres chic in the 60’s) handbag, and the sandals she wore. The sandals with the 2 inch heel. The heel that left a decent dent in our bathroom door when I borrowed them.  And ended up locking myself in the bathroom, pissed as a mad hornet at her. Slammed the door and kicked it for good measure. Yea, that’s how memories of Mom go.  The day I turned 18, it went something like this:
“Well, happy birthday!”
“Thanks, can I smoke in the house now?”
*Crickets*

I moved to CA when I was 19. Because I had friends there, and because it was the farthest I could get from home without leaving the country. She came out for my wedding. I’m grateful for that.  As I got older, my relationship with my mom got better. I moved back in with her in her last few years because the reality hit, after the third or fourth time she fell, that she shouldn’t be alone.  In the house I was born in, grew up in. I didn’t hate her anymore. Then too, I never fully opened up to her. We lived by silent agreement with no more fighting.  She, up til the end, had her silent disapprovals of me, of the way I dealt with my kids, my grandkids. But she kept her silence. I think she finally accepted that I do what I do, in my way. I think she would be proud of my girls. I hope she forgave me for my anger and the grief I caused her over the years.

And then I was a mother myself. Oh, how that changes things. Suddenly I was responsible for another life. Another tiny human.  A living, breathing…God how I loved that child. The wonders she brought, that first smile,  the first tooth, the time she got her hands on an ashtray and made a snack of the dregs. Yea, that didn’t end well. The surgery when she was 6 months old. The first real, honest to God fear I ever remember feeling.  I never wish visiting one’s infant in the hospital on anyone. Ever.  She and I, we have a bumpy history, just like my mother and I did.  I want to believe that I am more understanding than my mom was.  I want to believe that  she always understood that I never stopped loving her. I know I was not always there for her. I know this. But I always did what I had to do for her. I want to believe that I am not my mother. But then…I realize that that’s exactly the reason my mother and I never got along. I was far too much like her.  And so it stands to reason that Stacie is so very much like me. Stubborn but so very strong, loving but so afraid to be hurt.  She is, without a doubt, my daughter.  And for all that we’ve been through,  I am so proud, so very proud of who she has grown up to be.  My Navy baby, mother of my grandchildren, beautiful girl, life saver to me more than she knows,  my first reason to have the honour of celebrating Mother’s Day.

And then fast forward, I did it again. HA! I was never  gonna have ANY kids. Then there were two.  And again there was love at first sight. Where Stacie was all of an hour of labor….we waited all night for Katie.  LITERALLY. ALL. NIGHT.  Seriously, the ex’s family sat in the hospital lobby ALL. NIGHT.  And my first reaction when she finally decided to make an appearance:
Doctor: “It’s a girl”
Me: “YES!” *fist pump*
I never wanted boys. Obviously.  She was the easy kid. She was the one who the divorce had the most profound effect on.  She rebelled in her way, took a whole lot of anger out on me. And I let her because I understood that it wasn’t me that she hated.  She just had nowhere else to go with the anger. She has finally, at 20-something, learned that everything bad is NOT my fault. She, too, has made me proud, finally standing up for what she wants to do, to be. Finding her own way, following her dream.

These two girls, bound by blood, so alike, yet so very different, both of my blood, both my life. 

They’re both OCD. They both have anxiety. They change their damn hair color like they change their clothes.  One has beaten every obstacle that she’s come up against, come through and is still fighting strong. One is gentler but just as strong, has overcome so much emotional turmoil to be who she is.  We’ve had losses, we’ve had fights, we’ve argued and yelled and cursed each other out pretty good. We’re Irish. It’s what we do. In the end, the ties that bind are strong. For these girls who call me mom, I am blessed. I would not trade them for the world. I wish them both happiness always. It's all I ever wanted for them. 

 

 

 

Legacy

Over the years, especially since my mom is gone, I have become the keeper of the….things. All of the things. So. Many. Things.  Five generations of things. From the plates that my great great grandmother brought here from Silesia, the bible printed in German, sepia toned photos of people I’ll never identify, to crockery mixing bowls and wooden cookie molds and the metal sifter from my great grandmother, my grandmother and my mother (even though the cooking/baking gene seemed to have skipped over my mom, she made a righteous potato salad) right down to my brothers china, copper pots  and sterling tea service. While I treasure all of the things, most dear to my heart are the recipes.

Oh sure, there are many, many cookbooks (a veritable library’s worth last I checked) and recipes clipped from magazines, newspapers, yellowed from decades and just about falling apart. These are not the best ones. The best ones are the handwritten ones.

There are the ones in my Nana’s handwriting, writing that got progressively shakier as the years went by, but is still readable. The ones that refer to 4 “scoops” of flour. Good thing  I still have her sugar scoop, otherwise, how would I know what a “scoop” is. Hers are mostly hastily written down on scraps and bits of paper for our benefit, because she never, ever, that I know of,  had to actually USE a recipe for the Almond Horns or the Sour Cream Pound Cake or the Chocolate Pound Cake. She just KNEW.  There are typewritten recipes with her personal  handwritten notes, and who they came from.

There are actually one or two in my mom’s writing. On her pig notepad paper. The damn pigs. Probably written with a pen with pigs on it. And at the bottom “Mrs. Skipper”.  Fortunately I know who Mrs. Skipper was. She was a friend of my Nanas in Georgia.

Then, the crown jewels, my brothers collection. Many are written, in his distinctive hand, on index cards, with notes such as “Wonderful”  or “Difficult but good”.  There is his Salmon Pate, various cakes, breads, scones, trifles, Mousses, Cucumber sauce, Crown Roast, and so many more.  Some have coffee stains on them (because we all know that chefs always have a cup near by), and one would think, “God, why don’t you copy that on a clean card”. No. I don’t need to. I need to know that he used this recipe. That he knew it, that he perfected it.  My brother once did a cocktail party for Ted Kennedy. He must have known what he was doing, no? There are the half recipes that he wrote on what ever paper was handy quite literally as Nana made her cakes. Because that was, quite literally, the only way to get the recipe out of her sometimes.  Recipes hastily scrawled on my father’s ledger paper,  random scrap paper. All treasured, all saved.

And then, I carry on the tradition. My handwritten recipes that I hope I will someday hand down to my girls, and so to my grandkids, if they are so inclined. On several of my recipes, the title is followed by who’s recipe it was…Nana, Lily Reeves, Aunt Grace, Mother Medeck….there’s a whole bunch of generations and family history there.  And I wouldn’t give them up for just anyone. I have the original Red Velvet recipe, you know, the one from the 40’s, that didn’t need red coloring….because there was some chemical reaction in the ingredients that made it “red”.  These are recipes from the 30’s and 40’s with lots of butter and sweet things, occasionally lard is mentioned. I will not discard these treasures. I cannot.  I mean….molasses cake. Seriously. I drool. Nana’s Chocolate Pound Cake… I grew up on this in the summers on the farm.  Just the name brings back a flood of memories, running barefoot through the summer dewed grass to the barn, trekking down through three pastures to fish in the lake with  my grandpa, picking the blackberries that grew on the fences between the pastures, with no fear of the cows nearby, sitting on the front porch watching the thunderstorm pass through while Nana’s Beef Stew simmered on the stove and her cucumber salad marinated and perhaps, if we were very good, a fresh peach cobbler in the oven. It was, after all, Georgia. You know, the peach state.  

And so we carry on the tradition.  I have a few of Katie’s hand written recipes, with her notes. I will not copy them, I will treasure her creations, olive oil stains and all, just as I treasure my brothers and my grandmothers. And I will keep them safe for the future chefs in the family. My brother’s legacy. I am now the keeper of the recipes, and of so much more.  May they be treasured and used for years to come.