My mom and I sometimes had a cantankerous relationship. Because she was a cantankerous lady. And I am a cantankerous lady. She was also a bad-ass broad, and she tried to teach my sisters and I to be bad-ass broads, too. I am hoping that she succeeded, at least a little bit.
I thought of my mom this morning, because when I woke up, I could tell the day was going to be very hot (108 degrees, baby); and when I came down the stairs, I could smell the ripe cantaloupe on my kitchen counter. My mom's kitchen always smelled like ripe cantaloupe on hot summer days, because cantaloupe was one of her favorite fruits to buy in the summertime.
And I loved summertime at my mom and dad's house. There was no school and -- being that my mom was not "into" signing my sisters and I up for activities (the exception to this rule being swimming lessons, because my mom was a bad-ass life guard in her youth) -- summer was always very relaxing. My sisters and I would eat cantaloupe and watch the soaps with my Nana (who lived across the street) and read books and walk our dog and clean the house once a week. My mom was a stickler about having us clean the house once a week, which was quite fair and all, as we really didn't have to do much else, as far as chores went. We did clear the table, but we weren't allowed to load the dishwasher, because -- according to my mom -- we would inevitably do it wrong. We also washed the dog and cat bowls after they ate. And we would put our laundry away after my mom folded it and laid it out on the kitchen table for us. We weren't allowed to do our laundry, either, because my mom said that we would inevitably overflow the drain field (there were no sewers where we lived), and she was probably right about that. We were also expected to keep our stuff cleaned up, as my mom was very tidy. All in all, a pretty light amount of chores, I'd say. So, summer was very relaxing.
And that was so AWESOME, because I am a rather high-strung person in my nervous system, and I HATED school. I just HATED it. I went to Catholic school, where none of the teachers knew how to teach math, because they were all humanities majors. So, I sucked at math. Both because the teachers had no clue as to how to teach it and also because I had no natural talent in that area. I finally started to understand math when I was about 12 years old, but that was A LOT of years in which I suffered through the whole thing at Catholic school. I also sucked at science, probably also because the teachers were all humanities majors and didn't really understand science, themselves, let alone know how to teach it. In high school, I did well in both math and science, but it was a public school, where the teachers had actually majored in the subjects they taught (mostly, anyway). I also hated Catholic school because we had to wear wool skirts, no matter how goddam hot it was. And there was no air conditioning, or even fans, because -- in those days -- Catholic schools had no $$$. Now, Catholic schools charge people like a gazillion dollars a year, so I take it that maybe they can afford air conditioning (or fans, at least.) Maybe they can even afford teachers who know how to teach science and math. I bet Catholic schools still kind of suck, though, especially for people like me. I am an INFJ, and Catholic schools and INFJ's don't really go that well together, I don't think. Also, in the winter, it was goddam freezing in that school, because the boiler was always broken and my parents couldn't afford the "official" uniform sweater, so I wasn't allowed to wear my regular sweater (which was even the right color), even though there was no heat and it was goddam freezing in that school. I would be all shivering, with goose bumps, but did the humanities major teachers allow me to wear my regular sweater (which was even the right color)??? No. No, they did not. Because it was against the rules. And in Catholic schools, the rules are fucking EVERYTHING. I was so happy to go to a public high school, where I was treated in an actual Christian fashion by my secular humanist teachers. Thank God for secular humanist teachers. (Okay. To be fair, many of my public high school teachers were religious, but very few of them were Catholic. Thanks be to God.)
So, as you can see, summertime at home with virtually no activities and attire composed of shorts (which my mother sewed for us) and halter tops (which my mother also sewed for us) and cantaloupe eating and swimming in bikinis (which my mother allowed us to wear) were actually Heaven to me and my rather high-strung personality.
One of my favorite activities in the summertime was playing with the Barbie swimming pool. This was a lovely and relaxing game for me and my high-strung personality, because it was so mindless and involved Barbie, who I could always relate to. Why could I relate to Barbie? Not so much because of her magnificent boobs, but because she was -- in those days -- also bad at math. SO relatable for me. I actually thought that when I became a teenager, I would grow boobs like Barbie, so that ended up being kind of a disappointment to me, but those are the valuable lessons that childhood games teach us.
Anyway... Back to the Barbie swimming pool game.
When I was a little girl, my dad built a little deck/patio in our back yard. And when it was sweltering hot, my sisters and I ate some cantaloupe for a snack after our swimming lesson, and then we were allowed to fill the Barbie swimming pool with the hose and have our Barbies go for a swim. We weren't allowed to fill the Barbie swimming pool with actual water in the wintertime, because... Well, duh... Wintertime. But, when the thermometer went over 90 or 100 degrees in the summer, we were allowed to use actual water. And we had great fun having swimming games with our Barbies. One of my favorite games was to pretend that one of the Barbies was drowning and having another Barbie rescue her. We thought up this game after observing the life guard at swimming lessons.
Another wonderful Barbie game (that could be played in any season, because it was an indoor game, not involving water) was "Earthquake." My sisters and I would devise a makeshift townhouse in one of our baby buggies. This baby buggy would not be mine, of course, because I was the oldest and knew that this game was not really good for our buggies. My youngest sister didn't allow her buggy to be used for this purpose, either, because she was wise beyond her years. That left the townhouse to be devised in the buggy of our oft-abused middle sister, who was really nice about it. She is actually probably the brightest of the three of us, but is also the most generous. After devising the makeshift townhouse in our oft-abused middle sister's ill-fated buggy, we would arrange our Barbies in it and pretend they were hanging out at home, unaware that tragedy was about to strike. Then we would shake the buggy back-and-forth and up-and-down and scream and yell, pretending the "Big One" had hit. Living in the San Francisco Bay Area, we were always hearing about the "Big One," and it seemed like an idea that would make an amazing Barbie game. And it did. Eventually, the middle Argenti sister's buggy would sway back and forth every time it was pushed, even when it was being pushed in a simple linear fashion. My sister didn't really like this development, but -- being that I was kind of a douchy older sister -- I think I convinced her that it was actually really cool that the buggy swayed like that.
So, as you can see, summer was AWESOME at my house, when I was a kid. It was fun and relaxing and SO incredibly un-demanding. I wish more kids had the opportunity to experience this kind of summer. I hated it when school started again. And I have my mom to thank for this. Thank-you mom for all of those wonderful summers. I am so grateful that the bright sun in the sky this morning and the smell of the ripe cantaloupe in my kitchen reminded me of this gift. I hope you are having a great time up in Heaven, partying it up with Chris Bruno's mom.
Oh, and here is one more cool thing my mom would do in the summer. She always read her book after lunch, and she would read it aloud to us, if we wanted to hang out in the living room and listen. These were "grown-up" books, and I so much enjoyed hearing them. One of them was Rose Kennedy's autobiography, which is so much fun! If you haven't read it, you should, even though it is old and doesn't talk about Joe and Jack's affairs. I am quite sure Rose knew about them, because she was the farthest thing from an idiot, but she told her story sans all the crap. And it is delightful! I actually had my kids read this book when they were growing up, and I think they all enjoyed it. And they learned a lot, too. Because -- after all -- there really is more to the Kennedy family than Joe and Jack's inability to keep it zipped. And those good things need to be remembered. And Rose was a DELIGHTFUL story-teller. I bet Rose and my mom and Nancy Bruno are all up in Heaven, partying together, as a matter of fact. Another book that I remember my mother reading aloud to us was "The Making Of A Surgeon." This was a book written by a surgeon, and the title is fairly self-explanatory. I found it all so fascinating and actually thought about becoming a surgeon, myself. Which I didn't, because it involved WAY to much math and physics. Even though I was a biology major and was, actually, fairly proficient in math because of my non-Catholic high school teachers, physics was never really my bag. But, the story this guy told about his journey to becoming a surgeon was incredible, and I so much enjoyed it. So, the lesson here is that you should read books to your kids that aren't necessarily kids' books or even the classics. Pop-culture stories can be quite educational and memorable for children.
Rest in peace, Mom. And thanks a million times over for everything!
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Monday, January 26, 2015
Andrea Lynch Is My Role Model
Andrea Lynch is my 26-year-old daughter. I raised her, yes. But -- she is much a much better woman than I. Especially for her age. I often think kids are born with their own characters and personalities, at least for the most part. It is basically our job as parents to keep our kids alive until adulthood, allowing healthy opportunities for those characters and personalities to unfold. Andrea actually reminds me A LOT of my nana (my father's mother). She looks like her, acts like her, walks like her, talks like her. And they never even met, as my nana passed away when I was 12.
Anyway, Andrea is a stellar person. And my role model. I don't try to be exactly like her, of course. That would be silly, and unnatural. She possesses certain wonderful characteristics, though, in much more abundance than I. And I try to learn from those.
One of the things about Andrea that most stands out to me is her nonjudgmental nature. Andrea is the MOST TRULY NONJUDGMENTAL person I have ever known. I really don't know how she does it.
Andrea is a very Catholic person. She knows her faith well and practices it seriously. This leads many people to believe she would judge them -- on at least some level -- for their moral failings (or maybe it is better to say their moral failings as defined by Catholicism). But, she doesn't. At all. Really and truly. Andrea is able to be both a serious Catholic and a completely nonjudgmental person. This is a wonderful gift, because she is able to move throughout society, living her life as she believes she should, and allowing others to live their lives as they believe they should. She is kind and positive and happy towards everybody. She is able to be a true friend to all kinds of people. Unless -- of course -- you are not a nice person. And believe you me, Andrea will KNOW if you are not a nice person.
Back in her college days, Andrea had a Latina friend who told me, "Andrea has the sixth sense." And I think this is true. Andrea just kind of knows about people -- whether they are good or bad. She does get a sense about them -- very quickly. She doesn't make a lot of noise about it, but she'll let me know if she thinks somebody is shady. And at least 9 times out of 10 -- probably more like 10 times out of 10 -- she has been right.
Andrea also has a very well-guarded tongue. She is quite observant, but she is not quick to speak. Andrea could work in the most sensitive of places -- the CIA, the NSA, Hollywood -- and be completely trustworthy with the most sensitive of information. Of course, you could get nothing by her, either. But, you would know that she wouldn't shoot off her mouth about your business.
One final thing I would like to mention about Andrea is her work ethic. The girl just loves to go to work. Absolutely loves it. I have never seen anybody love to go to work like Andrea. And she works hard. Really, really hard. Harder than I ever have.
Again, please don't think I am bragging here. Because Andrea really is my role model. These things I have mentioned are things that I don't think I taught her specifically. They are things that have just developed over time, and which I would do well to learn from and emulate.
Anyway, Andrea is a stellar person. And my role model. I don't try to be exactly like her, of course. That would be silly, and unnatural. She possesses certain wonderful characteristics, though, in much more abundance than I. And I try to learn from those.
One of the things about Andrea that most stands out to me is her nonjudgmental nature. Andrea is the MOST TRULY NONJUDGMENTAL person I have ever known. I really don't know how she does it.
Andrea is a very Catholic person. She knows her faith well and practices it seriously. This leads many people to believe she would judge them -- on at least some level -- for their moral failings (or maybe it is better to say their moral failings as defined by Catholicism). But, she doesn't. At all. Really and truly. Andrea is able to be both a serious Catholic and a completely nonjudgmental person. This is a wonderful gift, because she is able to move throughout society, living her life as she believes she should, and allowing others to live their lives as they believe they should. She is kind and positive and happy towards everybody. She is able to be a true friend to all kinds of people. Unless -- of course -- you are not a nice person. And believe you me, Andrea will KNOW if you are not a nice person.
Back in her college days, Andrea had a Latina friend who told me, "Andrea has the sixth sense." And I think this is true. Andrea just kind of knows about people -- whether they are good or bad. She does get a sense about them -- very quickly. She doesn't make a lot of noise about it, but she'll let me know if she thinks somebody is shady. And at least 9 times out of 10 -- probably more like 10 times out of 10 -- she has been right.
Andrea also has a very well-guarded tongue. She is quite observant, but she is not quick to speak. Andrea could work in the most sensitive of places -- the CIA, the NSA, Hollywood -- and be completely trustworthy with the most sensitive of information. Of course, you could get nothing by her, either. But, you would know that she wouldn't shoot off her mouth about your business.
One final thing I would like to mention about Andrea is her work ethic. The girl just loves to go to work. Absolutely loves it. I have never seen anybody love to go to work like Andrea. And she works hard. Really, really hard. Harder than I ever have.
Again, please don't think I am bragging here. Because Andrea really is my role model. These things I have mentioned are things that I don't think I taught her specifically. They are things that have just developed over time, and which I would do well to learn from and emulate.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
"...a simple, flawed human being. He's strong...
...and smart and tough, but he's going to make the wrong decisions and trust the wrong people. And he has no out -- he can't put on a cape and fly off."
This is how Ben McKenzie describes his character -- Detective Jim Gordon -- of the upcoming TV show "Gotham" in an interview for "Entertainment Weekly".
Years ago, when I was a young woman, this statement wouldn't have struck me as anything particularly insightful or terribly brilliant. But now that I am older -- a 51-year-old mom with three young adult kids -- it strikes me as both insightful and brilliant. And it is also strangely comforting to my menopausal heart.
Why?
Because, when I was a young woman, I liked to think of myself as strong and smart and tough. Lots of people told me I was those things. I was a little bit proud of it, I guess, when I think about it now. And maybe I was those things, to some degree, anyway. And when I started having kids, at the ripe old age of 25, I wanted to be all of those things for them. I wanted to be the best mom. And I had this idea that because I was strong and smart and tough that I somehow wouldn't blow it, at all. I remember sitting in my hospital bed, with my first little baby in my arms, and not wanting any harm to ever touch her. I was afraid. I was afraid of all the crap in the world. And I resolved -- as I sat there looking at her little face and feeling the weight of her against me -- that I would use all of my strength and smarts and toughness to somehow get her to adulthood unscathed.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
As a mom, I have made many wrong decisions and trusted many of the wrong people. And I have really beaten myself up for these mistakes, especially when I see how they have hurt my kids. I have been tempted to cynicism. I have been tempted to trust no more. There have been times when I have been plagued by self-doubt when there is an important decision I have to make.
And when I read the statement that Ben McKenzie made, regarding Jim Gordon, that he is a "simple, flawed human being," while at the same time being "strong and smart and tough," I realized what I have been missing. I have failed to authentically accept my human weakness -- especially in regards to my role as a mother. Maybe I am -- and maybe I am not -- strong and smart and tough. I don't know, really. But, even if I am, my human frailty is going to enter into the equation. And I will inevitably make decisions that are wrong and trust people I shouldn't.
So, as I sat in that hospital bed with that new baby all those years ago, I grasped onto a completely erroneous notion -- a notion that I have never fully relinquished. Maybe it's finally time to get real. Maybe it's time to finally make peace with myself about this, because I want to live my life with confidence and joy, even with the knowledge that I am going to screw certain things up. I'm going to make the wrong calls, and not have the option of putting on a cape and flying off. And maybe this is really okay.
So, I would like to thank you, Ben, for the advice that you probably didn't even know you were giving.
Can't wait for "Gotham"!!!
P.S. -- The "EW" interview also states that the first scene Ben shot for "Gotham" involves him driving a 1970's-era Chrysler. This is a very cool thing for me, as my family owned a 1970's-era Chrysler. It had this BIG OLE' HONKIN' engine, and was ABSOLUTELY AWESOME for peeling out from stop signs in my hometown. A teenage girl's dream car, if you will. I wonder if Detective Gordon gets to peel out from stop signs in his Chrysler. It would be a shame if he doesn't. ;-)
This is how Ben McKenzie describes his character -- Detective Jim Gordon -- of the upcoming TV show "Gotham" in an interview for "Entertainment Weekly".
Years ago, when I was a young woman, this statement wouldn't have struck me as anything particularly insightful or terribly brilliant. But now that I am older -- a 51-year-old mom with three young adult kids -- it strikes me as both insightful and brilliant. And it is also strangely comforting to my menopausal heart.
Why?
Because, when I was a young woman, I liked to think of myself as strong and smart and tough. Lots of people told me I was those things. I was a little bit proud of it, I guess, when I think about it now. And maybe I was those things, to some degree, anyway. And when I started having kids, at the ripe old age of 25, I wanted to be all of those things for them. I wanted to be the best mom. And I had this idea that because I was strong and smart and tough that I somehow wouldn't blow it, at all. I remember sitting in my hospital bed, with my first little baby in my arms, and not wanting any harm to ever touch her. I was afraid. I was afraid of all the crap in the world. And I resolved -- as I sat there looking at her little face and feeling the weight of her against me -- that I would use all of my strength and smarts and toughness to somehow get her to adulthood unscathed.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
As a mom, I have made many wrong decisions and trusted many of the wrong people. And I have really beaten myself up for these mistakes, especially when I see how they have hurt my kids. I have been tempted to cynicism. I have been tempted to trust no more. There have been times when I have been plagued by self-doubt when there is an important decision I have to make.
And when I read the statement that Ben McKenzie made, regarding Jim Gordon, that he is a "simple, flawed human being," while at the same time being "strong and smart and tough," I realized what I have been missing. I have failed to authentically accept my human weakness -- especially in regards to my role as a mother. Maybe I am -- and maybe I am not -- strong and smart and tough. I don't know, really. But, even if I am, my human frailty is going to enter into the equation. And I will inevitably make decisions that are wrong and trust people I shouldn't.
So, as I sat in that hospital bed with that new baby all those years ago, I grasped onto a completely erroneous notion -- a notion that I have never fully relinquished. Maybe it's finally time to get real. Maybe it's time to finally make peace with myself about this, because I want to live my life with confidence and joy, even with the knowledge that I am going to screw certain things up. I'm going to make the wrong calls, and not have the option of putting on a cape and flying off. And maybe this is really okay.
So, I would like to thank you, Ben, for the advice that you probably didn't even know you were giving.
Can't wait for "Gotham"!!!
P.S. -- The "EW" interview also states that the first scene Ben shot for "Gotham" involves him driving a 1970's-era Chrysler. This is a very cool thing for me, as my family owned a 1970's-era Chrysler. It had this BIG OLE' HONKIN' engine, and was ABSOLUTELY AWESOME for peeling out from stop signs in my hometown. A teenage girl's dream car, if you will. I wonder if Detective Gordon gets to peel out from stop signs in his Chrysler. It would be a shame if he doesn't. ;-)
Sunday, March 16, 2014
A Lent Blog Post (Gag...)
I hate Lent blog posts.
For no good reason, except for the fact that they drive me crazy.
There are just WAY too many of them, filled with WAY too much advice.
And I end up getting all anxious.
Because I'm really not very good at Lent, at least in the way most "serious" Catholics think you should be good at Lent.
Because I am basically a wimpy candy-ass.
But, here I am, writing Lent blog post.
*headdesk*
Anyway...
When I was a little girl, I really loved Lent.
I went to Catholic school and we went to church and got ashes on Ash Wednesday. Which was really fun, because afterwards, all us kids would compare ash marks. We would talk about which priests gave the best ones and which priests got the ashes in your eyes and whose looked the most like crosses and whose would last the longest. Us kids would also talk all about what we were giving up for Lent. Some of us gave up chocolate and some of us gave up chewing gum and some of us gave up swearing and some of us gave up our favorite TV show. I never gave up my favorite TV show, because for most of my childhood, it was "Emergency." And there was no friggin' way I was giving up "Emergency" for Lent. I usually gave up chocolate. On Fridays, all us Catholic school kids would compare lunches and see what meatless items our mothers has packed away for us. Most of the kids had the usual -- peanut butter and jelly on Wonder Bread and tuna on wheat. But, my mother, being who she was, would often pack such sandwich delicacies as deviled egg mixed with chopped olive or deviled egg mixed with canned shrimp. These creations would inevitably result in various expressions of disgust from my Catholic school confreres, which greatly pleased me, because I have always been such a rebel contrarian. (I learned to be a rebel contrarian in Catholic school, because I was picked on a lot in these institutions, and it was either that or knuckle under to the bullies. And I was not one to knuckle under to the bullies.)
Lent was also a lot of fun in my house. Spring was coming on and my dad would beautify the yard with his Italian gardening skills. He would spruce up the house by scrubbing various dirty items -- like the stove and the barbecue -- and perhaps applying some paint. My dad was a kick-ass cleaning person. So was my mom. And they knew how to make our house shine. Perhaps they were a bit over-the-top in their cleaning enthusiasm, but I enjoyed the results. And on the Fridays of Lent, my mom would cook the most amazing fried fish dinners. She would pick us up from school and we would go by the fish market on the way home. Yes, there was an actual fish market in our town. You don't see many of those these days. My mom would purchase filet of soul and oysters, which she would coat in a batter of flour and egg, frying them in her electric fry pan. This wonderful fish would be served with tartar sauce she made herself and lemon wedges. The sides would be fresh asparagus or artichokes, homemade mashed potatoes, and sourdough bread. It was amazing. To be honest, though, I couldn't stand the oysters. But, I loved the filet of sole. And since my parents both loved the oysters, and never forced them upon my sisters and me, all was well and happy.
Now, some of you may think that all of this doesn't sound very sacrificial and suffering-inducing. And it probably wasn't. And I think that's one of the reasons I grew up to love Jesus so much. I always had very positive associations with Jesus and being Catholic and Lent. Jesus was AWESOME and being Catholic was AWESOME and Lent was AWESOME! In my childhood, anyway.
So, what am I giving up for Lent this year?
Lent blog posts.
And I am resolving to remember the Lents of my childhood -- full of family and fun and love and good food.
Pax. ;-)
For no good reason, except for the fact that they drive me crazy.
There are just WAY too many of them, filled with WAY too much advice.
And I end up getting all anxious.
Because I'm really not very good at Lent, at least in the way most "serious" Catholics think you should be good at Lent.
Because I am basically a wimpy candy-ass.
But, here I am, writing Lent blog post.
*headdesk*
Anyway...
When I was a little girl, I really loved Lent.
I went to Catholic school and we went to church and got ashes on Ash Wednesday. Which was really fun, because afterwards, all us kids would compare ash marks. We would talk about which priests gave the best ones and which priests got the ashes in your eyes and whose looked the most like crosses and whose would last the longest. Us kids would also talk all about what we were giving up for Lent. Some of us gave up chocolate and some of us gave up chewing gum and some of us gave up swearing and some of us gave up our favorite TV show. I never gave up my favorite TV show, because for most of my childhood, it was "Emergency." And there was no friggin' way I was giving up "Emergency" for Lent. I usually gave up chocolate. On Fridays, all us Catholic school kids would compare lunches and see what meatless items our mothers has packed away for us. Most of the kids had the usual -- peanut butter and jelly on Wonder Bread and tuna on wheat. But, my mother, being who she was, would often pack such sandwich delicacies as deviled egg mixed with chopped olive or deviled egg mixed with canned shrimp. These creations would inevitably result in various expressions of disgust from my Catholic school confreres, which greatly pleased me, because I have always been such a rebel contrarian. (I learned to be a rebel contrarian in Catholic school, because I was picked on a lot in these institutions, and it was either that or knuckle under to the bullies. And I was not one to knuckle under to the bullies.)
Lent was also a lot of fun in my house. Spring was coming on and my dad would beautify the yard with his Italian gardening skills. He would spruce up the house by scrubbing various dirty items -- like the stove and the barbecue -- and perhaps applying some paint. My dad was a kick-ass cleaning person. So was my mom. And they knew how to make our house shine. Perhaps they were a bit over-the-top in their cleaning enthusiasm, but I enjoyed the results. And on the Fridays of Lent, my mom would cook the most amazing fried fish dinners. She would pick us up from school and we would go by the fish market on the way home. Yes, there was an actual fish market in our town. You don't see many of those these days. My mom would purchase filet of soul and oysters, which she would coat in a batter of flour and egg, frying them in her electric fry pan. This wonderful fish would be served with tartar sauce she made herself and lemon wedges. The sides would be fresh asparagus or artichokes, homemade mashed potatoes, and sourdough bread. It was amazing. To be honest, though, I couldn't stand the oysters. But, I loved the filet of sole. And since my parents both loved the oysters, and never forced them upon my sisters and me, all was well and happy.
Now, some of you may think that all of this doesn't sound very sacrificial and suffering-inducing. And it probably wasn't. And I think that's one of the reasons I grew up to love Jesus so much. I always had very positive associations with Jesus and being Catholic and Lent. Jesus was AWESOME and being Catholic was AWESOME and Lent was AWESOME! In my childhood, anyway.
So, what am I giving up for Lent this year?
Lent blog posts.
And I am resolving to remember the Lents of my childhood -- full of family and fun and love and good food.
Pax. ;-)
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Sex -- Second Installment
I wrote a post a while ago about sex. I thought I'd write another one today.
These are just my thoughts. If you roll differently, that's cool. I'm nobody's judge and jury. Believe me, I know what it feels like to be judged. And it doesn't feel too good.
I am Catholic. Growing up Catholic, I was taught the Catholic ideas about sex. Many people misunderstand the Catholic ideas about sex. I have heard Catholicism referred to as an "anti-sex cult." That makes me giggle.
Anyway, amongst all the theological sex discussion that I grew up with, there is one statement which still stands out to me to this day. It was spoken to my by my Italian immigrant peasant-farmer-turned-candle-factory-worker Nana. Before I tell you what she said, though, let me tell you a little bit about her.
My Nana was cool. And she was no prude. In the family, it was known that she and my Grandpa were, as you might put it, "into each other." And she loved the handsome blonde guy on "The Lawrence Welk Show" and she loved her soap opera hotties. I tell you, if "The O.C." had been on when I was a young girl, my Nana would have been right there watching it with us. I think she would have dug Sandy Cohen and Jimmy Cooper (and, yes, even Ryan Atwood). Although, as we watched it together, she probably would have injected some of her Nana-wisdom into the whole situation. For example, she would have told us that the whole idea of Ryan in that poolhouse just wasn't good sense. She would have made him leave all the blinds open 24/7. And he would never have gotten away with taking off in the Range Rover in a fit of temper. My Nana was like 5'11" and 180 -- and Ryan just would not have gotten away with crap like that. Ryan would also never have been able to pull the wool over her eyes in his attempt to sneak across the border to finish off that Volchok character. My Nana would have seen that coming a mile away. And it just wouldn't have happened. She would have sent him outside to dig post holes or paint the house until he cooled off. That was her way of dealing with youthful passions. The digging of holes was high on her list of techniques for coping with teenagers and their ways. But, even with all that, she would have watched every single episode of "The O.C." and loved every minute of it.
When my Nana spoke, then, you listened. Because when she spoke, she always made sense. Because when she spoke, you felt like she understood you. And she always had a little gleam in her eye when she dispensed advice, as she did comprehend the hearts and minds of young people.
So, here I present to you the one piece of sex advice she ever gave me. I remember it clearly to this very day. We were in her "TV room" -- probably after watching one of the soaps that she loved. She was standing up, stretched out to her full 5'11'' height. And she said:
"Why should you have sex before you get married? If you have sex before you get married, then what will you have to look forward to?"
That was all she said. Nothing about sin or hell or the Theology Of The Body. Just, "What will you have to look forward to?" And, boy, in the midst of the Sexual Revolution, that did give me pause. Because when you are in the "middle of it" with a hot guy (or a hot girl, or whatever), it is hard to remember theological stuff, but it is not hard to remember a statement like that.
Again, this is not a judgement on anybody. Everybody is free to make their own decisions about sex. It's just something I present for your consideration. And it is a memory that brings a smile to my lips.
These are just my thoughts. If you roll differently, that's cool. I'm nobody's judge and jury. Believe me, I know what it feels like to be judged. And it doesn't feel too good.
I am Catholic. Growing up Catholic, I was taught the Catholic ideas about sex. Many people misunderstand the Catholic ideas about sex. I have heard Catholicism referred to as an "anti-sex cult." That makes me giggle.
Anyway, amongst all the theological sex discussion that I grew up with, there is one statement which still stands out to me to this day. It was spoken to my by my Italian immigrant peasant-farmer-turned-candle-factory-worker Nana. Before I tell you what she said, though, let me tell you a little bit about her.
My Nana was cool. And she was no prude. In the family, it was known that she and my Grandpa were, as you might put it, "into each other." And she loved the handsome blonde guy on "The Lawrence Welk Show" and she loved her soap opera hotties. I tell you, if "The O.C." had been on when I was a young girl, my Nana would have been right there watching it with us. I think she would have dug Sandy Cohen and Jimmy Cooper (and, yes, even Ryan Atwood). Although, as we watched it together, she probably would have injected some of her Nana-wisdom into the whole situation. For example, she would have told us that the whole idea of Ryan in that poolhouse just wasn't good sense. She would have made him leave all the blinds open 24/7. And he would never have gotten away with taking off in the Range Rover in a fit of temper. My Nana was like 5'11" and 180 -- and Ryan just would not have gotten away with crap like that. Ryan would also never have been able to pull the wool over her eyes in his attempt to sneak across the border to finish off that Volchok character. My Nana would have seen that coming a mile away. And it just wouldn't have happened. She would have sent him outside to dig post holes or paint the house until he cooled off. That was her way of dealing with youthful passions. The digging of holes was high on her list of techniques for coping with teenagers and their ways. But, even with all that, she would have watched every single episode of "The O.C." and loved every minute of it.
When my Nana spoke, then, you listened. Because when she spoke, she always made sense. Because when she spoke, you felt like she understood you. And she always had a little gleam in her eye when she dispensed advice, as she did comprehend the hearts and minds of young people.
So, here I present to you the one piece of sex advice she ever gave me. I remember it clearly to this very day. We were in her "TV room" -- probably after watching one of the soaps that she loved. She was standing up, stretched out to her full 5'11'' height. And she said:
"Why should you have sex before you get married? If you have sex before you get married, then what will you have to look forward to?"
That was all she said. Nothing about sin or hell or the Theology Of The Body. Just, "What will you have to look forward to?" And, boy, in the midst of the Sexual Revolution, that did give me pause. Because when you are in the "middle of it" with a hot guy (or a hot girl, or whatever), it is hard to remember theological stuff, but it is not hard to remember a statement like that.
Again, this is not a judgement on anybody. Everybody is free to make their own decisions about sex. It's just something I present for your consideration. And it is a memory that brings a smile to my lips.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Of Ash Trays, Picnic Benches, and Horror Movies
With the passing of my mom, my sisters and I have naturally been doing some reminiscing as we look through her photographs and possessions.
In her china cabinet, I found two very old ash trays. One was actually quite pretty -- made of what I believe is called "milk glass." Now my mom had not smoked since about 1972, when she was diagnosed with Hodgkins' disease. My mom really loved to smoke. She started when she was 14 years old (1947). She and her friends used to sneak down to the creek behind their Catholic high school to indulge themselves in this past-time. Upon being diagnosed with a disease that was most often fatal in those days, though, the doctor unceremoniously told her, "Quit, or die." Quit, she did. And took up incessant gum-chewing instead. Eventually, she gave that up, too. Dental problems, you know. Anyway, finding these ash trays, which nobody had used for AT LEAST 40 years, made me laugh. Why? Because my mother was anything but a pack rat. My mother did not keep useless things. She tossed old stuff with a vengeance. Finding that she had kept these ashtrays was, therefore, quite intriguing to me. Remembrances of a carefree, slightly rebellious youth, I suppose.
And hanging out with my sisters, remembering our childhood, brought back memories of incidents long-forgotten. Like the time I purposely dropped a picnic bench on my foot to avoid getting in trouble with my mother. I was probably about 8 years old. My younger sister and I were playing in the back yard of our home, when I did something that made her extremely angry. I don't remember what I did, but it was most likely mean and nasty. My sister yelled and cried, announcing that she was "going to tell Mommy." I was terrified of this. This could not be allowed to happen. My mother could be pretty fearsome when we got in trouble, and I wished to avoid her wrath at any cost. "Don't tell her," I pleaded. And then I got an idea. "I'll do something to myself, and then we'll be even," I told my sibling. This was agreeable to her. So I took our picnic bench, which was made of solid wood, and tipped it onto the top of my foot. Man, it hurt like hell. But, my sister was satisfied that justice had been done, so it was worth it. To me, anyway. What I did not count on was an absolutely enormous bruise forming on the top of my foot, which of course was quite visible to my mother when she spotted it one evening as I was getting ready for bed. She demanded to know what had happened, and the whole story ended up coming out. I think I got a spanking. So, in the end, I guess I got two punishments instead of one.
As I looked through the house with my sisters, I also recalled all the great parties my parents gave. My parents loved parties. I remember New Year's Eves as a little girl, when us kids were put to bed and then all my parents' friends would come over. There was wonderful food laid out on the dining room table -- stuffed veal pocket, lovely rolls, salads, salami and cheese, olives and pickles. And in the kitchen were all the makings of any kind of "high ball" one might desire. In the living room, swing dancing would be going on. My dad was a kick-ass swing dancer. Now, you might wonder how I know all about what went on at these parties if I had been put to bed. But, I ask you, why in the world would I stay in bed? I used to quietly sneak out of bed and down the hallway, where I would take up my post. The end of the hallway provided a great vantage point to see all the action. I would sit there, curled up in a tiny ball so as to make myself less visible, for what seemed like hours on end. I also used to take up this secret hiding place in the hallway when my mother would watch horror movies on the TV in the living room late at night. My mother absolutely loved horror movies, and I was quite curious as to what they were all about. My most vivid memory is of a scene in which some woman was being buried alive by being covered with large stones by a bunch of mean men. I really didn't understand why this woman didn't just whomp the asses of those mean men. They didn't seem to be armed or anything. To this day, one of the things that most pisses me off in movies and TV shows is when women get grabbed by men who really aren't that formidable- looking, and they just scream and flail around. I guess they are waiting to be rescued by Ben McKenzie (See? I found a way to talk about him. Ha!) Somebody needs to talk to these women, though, because Ben McKenzie just might not show up. But, I digress.
In some ways, this past week has been really hard. I have missed my dad greatly since he passed away about two years ago, and I am now missing my mom. I am really blessed to have had them as parents. They were really good people, and tried to teach their kids to be really good people. But, they were also a lot of fun and a little bit edgy -- and that makes me smile.
In her china cabinet, I found two very old ash trays. One was actually quite pretty -- made of what I believe is called "milk glass." Now my mom had not smoked since about 1972, when she was diagnosed with Hodgkins' disease. My mom really loved to smoke. She started when she was 14 years old (1947). She and her friends used to sneak down to the creek behind their Catholic high school to indulge themselves in this past-time. Upon being diagnosed with a disease that was most often fatal in those days, though, the doctor unceremoniously told her, "Quit, or die." Quit, she did. And took up incessant gum-chewing instead. Eventually, she gave that up, too. Dental problems, you know. Anyway, finding these ash trays, which nobody had used for AT LEAST 40 years, made me laugh. Why? Because my mother was anything but a pack rat. My mother did not keep useless things. She tossed old stuff with a vengeance. Finding that she had kept these ashtrays was, therefore, quite intriguing to me. Remembrances of a carefree, slightly rebellious youth, I suppose.
And hanging out with my sisters, remembering our childhood, brought back memories of incidents long-forgotten. Like the time I purposely dropped a picnic bench on my foot to avoid getting in trouble with my mother. I was probably about 8 years old. My younger sister and I were playing in the back yard of our home, when I did something that made her extremely angry. I don't remember what I did, but it was most likely mean and nasty. My sister yelled and cried, announcing that she was "going to tell Mommy." I was terrified of this. This could not be allowed to happen. My mother could be pretty fearsome when we got in trouble, and I wished to avoid her wrath at any cost. "Don't tell her," I pleaded. And then I got an idea. "I'll do something to myself, and then we'll be even," I told my sibling. This was agreeable to her. So I took our picnic bench, which was made of solid wood, and tipped it onto the top of my foot. Man, it hurt like hell. But, my sister was satisfied that justice had been done, so it was worth it. To me, anyway. What I did not count on was an absolutely enormous bruise forming on the top of my foot, which of course was quite visible to my mother when she spotted it one evening as I was getting ready for bed. She demanded to know what had happened, and the whole story ended up coming out. I think I got a spanking. So, in the end, I guess I got two punishments instead of one.
As I looked through the house with my sisters, I also recalled all the great parties my parents gave. My parents loved parties. I remember New Year's Eves as a little girl, when us kids were put to bed and then all my parents' friends would come over. There was wonderful food laid out on the dining room table -- stuffed veal pocket, lovely rolls, salads, salami and cheese, olives and pickles. And in the kitchen were all the makings of any kind of "high ball" one might desire. In the living room, swing dancing would be going on. My dad was a kick-ass swing dancer. Now, you might wonder how I know all about what went on at these parties if I had been put to bed. But, I ask you, why in the world would I stay in bed? I used to quietly sneak out of bed and down the hallway, where I would take up my post. The end of the hallway provided a great vantage point to see all the action. I would sit there, curled up in a tiny ball so as to make myself less visible, for what seemed like hours on end. I also used to take up this secret hiding place in the hallway when my mother would watch horror movies on the TV in the living room late at night. My mother absolutely loved horror movies, and I was quite curious as to what they were all about. My most vivid memory is of a scene in which some woman was being buried alive by being covered with large stones by a bunch of mean men. I really didn't understand why this woman didn't just whomp the asses of those mean men. They didn't seem to be armed or anything. To this day, one of the things that most pisses me off in movies and TV shows is when women get grabbed by men who really aren't that formidable- looking, and they just scream and flail around. I guess they are waiting to be rescued by Ben McKenzie (See? I found a way to talk about him. Ha!) Somebody needs to talk to these women, though, because Ben McKenzie just might not show up. But, I digress.
In some ways, this past week has been really hard. I have missed my dad greatly since he passed away about two years ago, and I am now missing my mom. I am really blessed to have had them as parents. They were really good people, and tried to teach their kids to be really good people. But, they were also a lot of fun and a little bit edgy -- and that makes me smile.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Rest In Peace, Marilyn Argenti
Last week, I spoke about my mother. I described how she had been struggling mightily after open heart surgery. I am very sad to have to say that she passed away yesterday, during the early morning hours. She will be greatly missed.
My mom was one hell of a woman. She lived through many things that would have defeated a lot of people. Her family struggled with poverty during the Great Depression. She saw two brothers go off to World War II (thankfully, both returned home safely). She had a failed engagement at a young age. Her first baby was stillborn and she had a subsequent miscarriage. She told me that she had made her peace with being childless before finally becoming pregnant with me after about six years of marriage. She dealt with having Hodgkins' disease in her thirties, while she and my dad were in the midst of building their own business. She raised three daughters and had five grandchildren. She nursed my dad through leukemia and was with him when he died. And she lived (pretty independently) for three years after suffering a heart attack that -- according to her doctors -- would have killed most people. My mother was tough. Much tougher than I.
In fact, she would often say as I was growing up, "You have to be a little bit tough in life." And one of her favorite stories to illustrate this was of her oldest brother, who enlisted in the Army during the Second World War. He wrote home to their mother and basically said, "I am going to join the paratroopers. I hope I have your blessing. But, if I don't, I'm going to join anyway." Join he did, and he was part of the 101st Airborne when they invaded Normandy on D-Day. (If you don't know what the 101st Airborne is, and if you don't know what D-Day is, and if you don't know what the Invasion of Normandy is -- then your education is sorely lacking and you had better find out. ) This uncle of mine told my father that he considered every day of his life after D-Day to be a "bonus". That was how bad it was falling out of the sky in a parachute on that fateful occasion. My mother liked to tell this story as an illustration of being "tough" because she considered her mother to be tough for being able to handle this. After all, how many mothers these days are considered tough when they have to send their sons off to college -- where they have meal cards and sports facilities and counselors to talk to if they get home sick? And -- just so you know -- I am in a glass house here. I shed plenty of tears after dropping my son off at school. My mom also considered her brother to be tough for volunteering for this job. No shit, right?
Along with teaching me to be tough, my mom taught me to create an orderly and enjoyable home life. A place of respite for the family to return to after a "day in the trenches". No matter how hard things got -- in my father's job, in our family finances, with anybody's health, in the extended family, with Richard Nixon and his antics, with Jimmy Carter and his inane moving of Daylight Savings Time so that everyone's lights were on during the day instead of in the evening (anyone remember that?), with gas lines, with the sexual revolution -- my mother made sure we had a secure, dependable, and usually fun domestic life. Each and every day she made most excellent meals, our clothes were always clean (ironed, even), and there was a routine to the housekeeping so that things were pretty darn spotless. We had swimming lessons, music lessons, and great birthday parties. She also sewed most of our clothes when we were growing up. She even made us "belly tops" -- our term for halter tops or half shirts -- the ones that show your tummy off. Take that, modesty police. ;-)
My mom was also an avid movie buff and reader of books. The movies she liked? Rosemary's Baby, The Exorcist, James Bond, the Mad Max series (she had a crush on Mel Gibson), and Woody Allen. The books? All the most popular fiction the library had to offer and Rose Kennedy's autobiography. There is also a closet in her room full of what my husband calls "bodice rippers". You know -- those paperbacks, whose covers are graced by illustrations of beautiful people with their clothes falling off. My mother always insisted that it was a waste of money to buy books, especially if there was a good library in town. But, she obviously made an exception for these romantic tales and anything by Ian Flemming. My sisters and I are going to have to battle it out over these... Tee-hee. ;-)
My mom, as you can see, was quite a spirited lady. And I'm sure St. Paul is now finding this out. She always had a few issues with him. And I'm sure he is hearing from her even as I type.
May you rest in peace, Mom. See you on the other side.
My mom was one hell of a woman. She lived through many things that would have defeated a lot of people. Her family struggled with poverty during the Great Depression. She saw two brothers go off to World War II (thankfully, both returned home safely). She had a failed engagement at a young age. Her first baby was stillborn and she had a subsequent miscarriage. She told me that she had made her peace with being childless before finally becoming pregnant with me after about six years of marriage. She dealt with having Hodgkins' disease in her thirties, while she and my dad were in the midst of building their own business. She raised three daughters and had five grandchildren. She nursed my dad through leukemia and was with him when he died. And she lived (pretty independently) for three years after suffering a heart attack that -- according to her doctors -- would have killed most people. My mother was tough. Much tougher than I.
In fact, she would often say as I was growing up, "You have to be a little bit tough in life." And one of her favorite stories to illustrate this was of her oldest brother, who enlisted in the Army during the Second World War. He wrote home to their mother and basically said, "I am going to join the paratroopers. I hope I have your blessing. But, if I don't, I'm going to join anyway." Join he did, and he was part of the 101st Airborne when they invaded Normandy on D-Day. (If you don't know what the 101st Airborne is, and if you don't know what D-Day is, and if you don't know what the Invasion of Normandy is -- then your education is sorely lacking and you had better find out. ) This uncle of mine told my father that he considered every day of his life after D-Day to be a "bonus". That was how bad it was falling out of the sky in a parachute on that fateful occasion. My mother liked to tell this story as an illustration of being "tough" because she considered her mother to be tough for being able to handle this. After all, how many mothers these days are considered tough when they have to send their sons off to college -- where they have meal cards and sports facilities and counselors to talk to if they get home sick? And -- just so you know -- I am in a glass house here. I shed plenty of tears after dropping my son off at school. My mom also considered her brother to be tough for volunteering for this job. No shit, right?
Along with teaching me to be tough, my mom taught me to create an orderly and enjoyable home life. A place of respite for the family to return to after a "day in the trenches". No matter how hard things got -- in my father's job, in our family finances, with anybody's health, in the extended family, with Richard Nixon and his antics, with Jimmy Carter and his inane moving of Daylight Savings Time so that everyone's lights were on during the day instead of in the evening (anyone remember that?), with gas lines, with the sexual revolution -- my mother made sure we had a secure, dependable, and usually fun domestic life. Each and every day she made most excellent meals, our clothes were always clean (ironed, even), and there was a routine to the housekeeping so that things were pretty darn spotless. We had swimming lessons, music lessons, and great birthday parties. She also sewed most of our clothes when we were growing up. She even made us "belly tops" -- our term for halter tops or half shirts -- the ones that show your tummy off. Take that, modesty police. ;-)
My mom was also an avid movie buff and reader of books. The movies she liked? Rosemary's Baby, The Exorcist, James Bond, the Mad Max series (she had a crush on Mel Gibson), and Woody Allen. The books? All the most popular fiction the library had to offer and Rose Kennedy's autobiography. There is also a closet in her room full of what my husband calls "bodice rippers". You know -- those paperbacks, whose covers are graced by illustrations of beautiful people with their clothes falling off. My mother always insisted that it was a waste of money to buy books, especially if there was a good library in town. But, she obviously made an exception for these romantic tales and anything by Ian Flemming. My sisters and I are going to have to battle it out over these... Tee-hee. ;-)
My mom, as you can see, was quite a spirited lady. And I'm sure St. Paul is now finding this out. She always had a few issues with him. And I'm sure he is hearing from her even as I type.
May you rest in peace, Mom. See you on the other side.
Monday, January 14, 2013
The Making Of Beds
I have not spoken about this online before now, as I just didn't know what to say. On December 7, my mom went in for elective heart surgery to replace her aortic valve. Things have not gone well, and she is still in the hospital, with a long road ahead. So, if you are a praying type of person, please keep her in yours. Good thoughts and well-wishes are also much appreciated.
That leads me to my story. As I was making my way about my house this morning, doing what moms do -- laundry, dishes, tidying up -- I went into my daughter Bridget's room. She has been gone for several days, having a lovely visit with friends out on the East Coast. I began to make her bed, so it would look all nice and inviting for her when she returns. Her bedspread is of an old-fashioned variety, like the kind my mother has always had on her own bed. It is a white cotton, with raised patterns of flowers and a decorative fringe around the edges. Bridget told me a couple of years ago that she had wanted a bedspread like this since she was a little girl -- one like her grandma's. So, I got it for her as a Christmas gift that year.
And as I smoothed this bedspread out over my girlie's bed this morning, with the warm sun shining in through the big windows, I thought about my mom and the rituals she created around the making of beds when I was growing up. Our bedding always consisted of the following: white linens (fitted sheet, flat sheet, pillowcase) -- never any other color; one blanket during the summertime and two in the winter -- always the type of blanket with the satin edging; and a formal bedspread -- never a throw or comforter. When we were small, my mother made all the beds every day. EVERY DAY. And when we were bigger, we were required to make our beds every day, in the way that she carefully taught us. The fitted sheet was to be smoothed out and the flat sheet was tucked in with tidy square corners at the bottom of the mattress. The top of the flat sheet was folded down over the top of the blanket(s). The blanket(s) and flat sheet were tucked under the mattress all along the sides and bottom. The bedspread was then laid over everything and folded down at the top. The pillow was then plumped -- not a step to be skipped -- and laid at the top of the bed. Lastly, the part of the bedspread that had been folded down was pulled over the top of the pillow and tucked in behind it. Thus, all you could see was the pretty bedspread from the top of the bed to its foot.
Now, this bedmaking technique was required on Sundays -- no exceptions. During the week and especially on Saturdays, though, a slight variation might be allowed. This variation consisted in doing everything exactly as stated above, but the bedspread could be folded in thirds, neatly and precisely, at the foot of the bed. My mother considered this the "less formal look," hence the "never on Sundays" rule.
Each evening, also, had its ritual concerning the bedding. Between 5:00 and 5:45, as my mom was preparing the dinner, one of us kids was assigned the task of "pulling down" the beds. If the bedspread was covering the entire bed, it was pulled down and folded in thirds (as described in the above paragraph). The blanket(s) and flat sheet might also be folded back -- neatly, always neatly. And the pillow was again plumped. Thus, all was arranged for a tired little (or big) person to go to sleep at the end of the day.
It is probably apparent to you that my mother has always been quite the homemaker. And one of the things that makes me especially sad about her hospitalization is the fact that I know she is missing being at her house and doing all of the things she enjoyed doing there each day. My mom has never considered any of these things to be onerous duties. She has thoroughly enjoyed her role of making the home a clean, lovely place to be. And, even though I have not emulated her entirely, her example has been of enormous value to me in creating my own home for my own family. And the remembrance of my mom's ways has always given me a happy heart. Nobody's growing up is a perfect thing -- and sometimes my mom's "extreme homemaking" could be irritating. But, it was also heartwarming -- and a valuable skill not easy to learn or emulate.
That leads me to my story. As I was making my way about my house this morning, doing what moms do -- laundry, dishes, tidying up -- I went into my daughter Bridget's room. She has been gone for several days, having a lovely visit with friends out on the East Coast. I began to make her bed, so it would look all nice and inviting for her when she returns. Her bedspread is of an old-fashioned variety, like the kind my mother has always had on her own bed. It is a white cotton, with raised patterns of flowers and a decorative fringe around the edges. Bridget told me a couple of years ago that she had wanted a bedspread like this since she was a little girl -- one like her grandma's. So, I got it for her as a Christmas gift that year.
And as I smoothed this bedspread out over my girlie's bed this morning, with the warm sun shining in through the big windows, I thought about my mom and the rituals she created around the making of beds when I was growing up. Our bedding always consisted of the following: white linens (fitted sheet, flat sheet, pillowcase) -- never any other color; one blanket during the summertime and two in the winter -- always the type of blanket with the satin edging; and a formal bedspread -- never a throw or comforter. When we were small, my mother made all the beds every day. EVERY DAY. And when we were bigger, we were required to make our beds every day, in the way that she carefully taught us. The fitted sheet was to be smoothed out and the flat sheet was tucked in with tidy square corners at the bottom of the mattress. The top of the flat sheet was folded down over the top of the blanket(s). The blanket(s) and flat sheet were tucked under the mattress all along the sides and bottom. The bedspread was then laid over everything and folded down at the top. The pillow was then plumped -- not a step to be skipped -- and laid at the top of the bed. Lastly, the part of the bedspread that had been folded down was pulled over the top of the pillow and tucked in behind it. Thus, all you could see was the pretty bedspread from the top of the bed to its foot.
Now, this bedmaking technique was required on Sundays -- no exceptions. During the week and especially on Saturdays, though, a slight variation might be allowed. This variation consisted in doing everything exactly as stated above, but the bedspread could be folded in thirds, neatly and precisely, at the foot of the bed. My mother considered this the "less formal look," hence the "never on Sundays" rule.
Each evening, also, had its ritual concerning the bedding. Between 5:00 and 5:45, as my mom was preparing the dinner, one of us kids was assigned the task of "pulling down" the beds. If the bedspread was covering the entire bed, it was pulled down and folded in thirds (as described in the above paragraph). The blanket(s) and flat sheet might also be folded back -- neatly, always neatly. And the pillow was again plumped. Thus, all was arranged for a tired little (or big) person to go to sleep at the end of the day.
It is probably apparent to you that my mother has always been quite the homemaker. And one of the things that makes me especially sad about her hospitalization is the fact that I know she is missing being at her house and doing all of the things she enjoyed doing there each day. My mom has never considered any of these things to be onerous duties. She has thoroughly enjoyed her role of making the home a clean, lovely place to be. And, even though I have not emulated her entirely, her example has been of enormous value to me in creating my own home for my own family. And the remembrance of my mom's ways has always given me a happy heart. Nobody's growing up is a perfect thing -- and sometimes my mom's "extreme homemaking" could be irritating. But, it was also heartwarming -- and a valuable skill not easy to learn or emulate.
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