Away I Go

I was in Philly this weekend helping the Aaron move into his new house (it’s lovely and he and the little dog are very happy, thanks for asking). When we weren’t doing the semi-heavy lifting, cleaning, discussing furniture placement, laughing at ourselves and each other, eating or napping to catch a second wave of energy, I was reading Amy Bloom’s novel, Away. I picked it up in preparation for a book signing Bloom was doing in town. I haven’t read her work in a while, so I wanted a refresher before I went to the event. I came across a passage that I haven’t been able to shake for days:

"Sometimes it's the case that when you hear the thing you have most wanted to hear, you cannot take it in. Hope is everyone's mirage and everyone who comes upon that green and grassy spot, the swaying date palms and the bubbling blue pool, is temporarily taken in, even people who have been there before and even when, upon closer inspection, the oasis is nothing but a reef of sand; even with grains of sand blowing lightly across our faces, we find ourselves standing on soft grass of a tenacious, unreasonable green."

Wow, right? I know. I’ve read it over and over again. There’s a part of me that doesn’t get it at all and a part of me that goes “yes,” every time. It’s been a long time since something I read had that sort of effect on me. And now I am trying to figure out why. I know, I should just go with my gut and not try to figure out why, but that’s what I do sometimes, think too hard and too long about something because I need to figure something out instead of just running with the feeling. But this many days later, this many hours of mulling it over, I think I know. I read that passage in the afternoon, I experienced it later that night. And that might be what I’ve been really thinking about for days.

Aaron and I were having dinner in his new house on Sunday night. We were sitting in a couple of armchairs in the dining room (we ran out of steam before we could get the dining table together), finishing our drinks and talking. The discussion turned (as it so often does) to relationships. Here’s what my dear friend told me:

“You don’t have any role models for the life you’re leading. You’ve had to carve this life out on your own and figure it out for yourself. And you’ve accomplished a lot.”

Seems obvious doesn’t it? It wasn’t. Not to me. I’ve spent all of this time feeling like a misfit because my two strongest (literally) role models, my mother and sister were/are working married ladies with children. Yes, I’m a lady (I mean a woman…fine, I’m a broad) and I work, but the other two parts…not so much. My mom and sister are from another generation and a whole other culture. By the time she was my age, my mother had gotten married, had two children, moved to another country and had another baby. My sister took a modified approach to my mother’s plan as she so often does: marriage, two children and a house (instead of leaving the country). I spent much of my life breaking away from that lifestyle, setting the apron strings on fire when I left for college, moving away without ever considering going “home.” I’m not saying that any of us Abreu ladies chose the wrong path, just different ones (and sometimes the paths chose us). Now that I’m not some brooding kid who didn’t want to be like them, I’ve begun to realize that I want to be like them in some ways (my sister’s endless positive attitude in the face of anything, my mother’s ability to cut to the chase regardless of who gets sliced by her words), I’m already like them in others (fiercely loyal, tender hearted, eager to please) and may never be like them in others (mom: widow with 3 kids; sister: married with 2 kids; me: late 30s, childless and single) It’s all OK. It’s the way it’s supposed to be.

I’ve had to figure a lot of it out on my own and I’ve done alright for myself, right? Right. Sometimes you just need to hear it, even if you can’t take it in right away.

No Ordinary Love

"Life isn't a love in, it's the dishes and the orthodontist and the shoe repairman and... ground round instead of roast beef. And I'll tell you something else: it isn't going to a bed with a man that proves you're in love with him; it's getting up in the morning and facing the drab, miserable, wonderful everyday world with him that counts." - Henry Fonda as Frank Beardsley in Yours, Mine & Ours (1968)

My parents were married for forty-five years. They survived a revolution, moved to a country where they did not speak the language, started a business, made a home, raised three children, fought a lot, laughed a lot, traveled (alone and together) and opened their home to countless refugees (and helped find them jobs and homes). They took care of each other (and us) no matter the cost. Sickness, health, richer, poorer, better or worse, they were in it for the long haul. God knows it wasn't easy, but they stuck it out. As my mother once said to one of a friend who told her she should go home and get some rest after spending days at my father's side in the hospital, "After forty plus years, I'm not leaving now."

I will think of my parents on Valentine's Day and remind myself that, not only is lifelong love absolutely possible, I've seen it in action. How lucky am I?

Practical Magic

With apologies to my sister if I got any of this wrong:

My sister was talking to her kids the other night about our father and how he is still a presence in our lives. Apparently, Brian (her youngest) remembered playing in his room shortly after my father passed away and feeling someone rub his head and put a hand on his shoulder. He knew it was his Papi, so he wasn't afraid. In fact, he said that he had felt the same presence recently when he was playing in his room. "I know it's Papi." My niece has had the same experience, that feeling that someone is in the room with her, watching over her.

My family has always had an affinity for the spiritual side of things. Growing up, I experienced a healthy mix of Catholicism and...something else. Not Santeria, not voodoo, but some sort of white magic mixed with old wives tales and a belief system my mother feels as strongly about as she does the church. Religious statues and photos are spread around the house (most notably Santa Barbara, San Lazaro and Pope John Paul II) and called upon daily. My mother spends the first part of her day reading from a book of prayers to honor my father and grandparents, but also for the comfort she receives from the ritual. In good weather, she is known to go to church multiple times a week. She will ask God to bless us before we leave her side and she will thank God (and Jesus and the Virgin and the saints) whenever good fortune shines upon a loved one. Candles are lit, holy water is sprinkled, prayers are said, but sometimes there is more.

Here's a good one: I'm a teenager holed up in my room and my mother calls me out into the hallway. I walk out and go "What?" She proceeds to rub me from top to toe with...a coconut. A real unopened coconut. This is supposed to clean me of any bad spirits lurking within me.

Another: On New Year's eve, my mother will mix up a bucket with holy water, regular water, some perfumes from the botanica and some flower petals. If you are living in that house and planning to shower, please know that you are expected to do your final rinse with whatever is in that bucket. What difference does it make if flower petals stick to your body? After midnight, she will walk through the whole house sprinkling holy water and then she will pitch that bucket out the door, sending all the bad spirits out with it.

She's got a million of them. You better believe my mother can fix what ails you through the power of prayer, a well placed lemon or a strong dose of Vick's Vaporub. In recent years, I have come to know my mother's powers and am starting to believe that I may have some too, although I have no idea what to do with them. I often say to my friends, "I must have brought you with my thoughts." Part of me is starting to believe I can. Is it magic when I have a dream about someone I haven't seen in a long time and then I hear from them the next day? The strongest example was the time my mother, sister and I all had the exact same dream about my dad, on the same night. Spooky, yet comforting.

My mom says she learned how to use her gift from her mother, who had learned from her mother before. I have never known my mother to use her skills for anything but good, so maybe leaning in and listening more closely when she tells the story is what I need to do. You never know when a good spell could come in handy.

Girls' Day Out

It finally happened. My mom and my sister came to visit, together, for a whole afternoon! It meant so much to me. Spending time with the two of them is like having my "whole" mother with me. It does my heart good. It's unnerving and thrilling all at once. Unnerving because I spend the whole day before cleaning like a crazy woman and trying to decide what I'm going to wear that won't make me look "fat" to my mother (her pet name for us, her beloved daughters, is "gordy." That's Spanish for chubby. Do we look chubby to you? Didn't think so). Thrilling, because they're coming here! To see me! Please note the a slight family resemblance. My whole life, I've had a pretty good idea of what I'll look like in 12 years, or in 36 years for that matter. Not too shabby.

They arrived on the noonish train loaded down with treats. A cheesecake flan (yes, it's true, cheesecake AND flan, together in one glorious dessert. Jealous?); tamales, fried hunks of pork, pound cake, plaintains and flowers (not carnations! YES!). My mother is incapable of coming here empty handed. She is under the impression that we need flan and poundcake, and I suppose on some level we do. I'm not going to argue. I'm going to chalk it up to "that's just what moms do."

We had lunch at a hibachi place in Hamden or, as my sister put it, "dinner and a show!" After lunch, we went for a walk around town. Ok, we went shopping. Well, Ann Taylor Loft was having a sale, and we were walking right by it...why wouldn't we go in and look? Turns out they had the jacket I had bought on sale in my sister's size! Yeah, she bought it. I told her to buy it. It was 15 bucks and it fit her perfectly, how could she not buy it? And really, what are the chances of us showing up at the same place at the same time, wearing the same jacket. She lives in New Jersey and I live here, so yeah, pretty likely that one of us will show up at the other's house wearing the jacket. My money's on Thanksgiving. But you know what? We'll both look supercute.

Every time my mom visits, I learn something new about her. Whether it's an old story about Cuba, or a new quirk that's been driving my siblings crazy, there's always something to be learned. This time, I learned that she is easily bored in stores (unless it's a dollar store) and will make her boredom known by wandering over to the entrance and looking like she is about to make a break for it. Apparently, this is not so new. "She does it all the time. It drives me nuts!" my sister said. I had no idea, probably because she usually comes by herself and I'm totally focused on keeping her engaged. With my sister here, really for the first time without being rushed, I had to divide my attentions. My sister and I would be talking about a set of earrings or looking for a particular size skirt ( you know, enjoying a leisurely shop), when we'd look up and there she'd be, at the door, her body language clearly saying "NEXT!" My sister told me she had decided to wear sneakers instead of sandals because she planned on running after my mother half the time. Smart move.

We had some time before their train, and I thought a bit of a rest would be good before the train ride back, so we came back to the apartment...and watched the end of the Yankees game. Not so much restful as shout-y. Poor Mike. Three Cuban women sitting in his living room screaming at the television is not his idea of a lazy Sunday. Our team won, though, so it's all good.

Does my mother make me crazy? Sometimes, yes. Does she make my sister crazier? Of course. Does my sister balance that craziness by knowing what I'm thinking and communicating with a single look a reassuring "I know. But she's ours." Absolutely. Am I already planning their next visit? You know it.

Reason # 783 Why I Live in Connecticut...

My brother and sister both live near my mother in New Jersey. My mom has keys to both their homes, as they have to hers. My mother is very close (physically and emotionally) to both my siblings. Sometimes I envy them. I said sometimes. File the following under "too close for comfort."

My mother was at my sister's house on Saturday. I guess they were going to run errands together and get my mother adjusted at the chiropractor. The details are a bit fuzzy. Anyway, my sister was taking a shower when she heard the door open. It was my mother. This is generally not a big deal because my mother is always busting in while my sister is in the shower to chat or use the toilet (I vividly remember her throwing open the shower curtain once while I was in there to ask me what I wanted for dinner), but this time...it was different. As my sister was getting ready to exit the shower, my mother stripped down and GOT IN THE SHOWER with her. She said, "don't turn the water off, I'm going to take a shower too. I know we have to hurry up today." So my sister was all "what the fuck are you doing?" and my mom was all "what's the matter? I'm your mother."

As my sister said in the resulting phone message to me: "NO ONE should have to endure this." My sister considers this taking a hit for the team. The team being my brother and I. Needless to say, everyone at my sister's house now locks the door.

This One Writes Itself

An email from my sister entitled Dr. Mom Strikes Again...

"Sooooo, your brother calls me & it seems he has a sty, he makes the HUGE mistake of telling Mami & what does she suggest??? "Ponte un poquitico de Bibaporru en el palpado para que tu veas que mañana no tienes nada." Can you FUCKING imagine putting Vicks anywhere near your eye? Of course the sty will be gone tomorrow because it will burn the hell out of your eye & next thing you know we'll be having to take him to get fitted for a glass eyeball. She's NUTS!"

"BTW...she went to Salazar's house yesterday & apparently she had a few drinks. Pete says she was SMASHED & casino night went on until 2 a.m. at ole 5800 Jefferson. Love you!"

This is the sort of thing my siblings and I call and email each other about all the time. We have HUNDREDS of these stories. The thing is, my mother means well, she really does. She loves us in her own way, but her methods are sometimes questionable. I'm surprised none of ended up down a well when we were growing up. She probably would have tossed a jar of Vicks down there too.

Travels with My Mother

Seven days since my last post? Damn. I'm still trying to find a balance. The highlight of my blog-less week? Going to the casino with Mike and my mom. We didn't win big, but I think she had a good time. And when she's happy, peace is plentiful for her children. She's a kick in the pants, my mother, truly. She's very much herself, and that's often more than enough.

We picked her up at the train station Sunday morning. I asked if she needed to drop anything off at our apartment before we jumped on the highway and started the hour-long drive. Logical question, since she always brings us food (because you know, there aren't any stores around here). "Oh, no, just a poundcake and a bag of seafood for Mike, but that's frozen solid, I wouldn't worry about it." Of course she wouldn't worry about it! This woman will put a paper towel over a bowl of soup and stick it in the fridge "for later." She has tupperware, but apparently is afraid to use it. Mike and I looked at each other, turned the car around and deposited the perishables safely in our refrigerator.

Did I mention my mom speaks very little English and my boyfriend speaks very little Spanish? Whenever she sees him, it's "Hi Baby! Como esta?" and he says "Bien. Y tu?" and she says "Bien" or she says "Goooood". There might be a little of her asking about his parents, "You Mommy and Daddy gooood?" but that's pretty much it before I have to step in and translate. When they're together, I end up talking more than usual in two languages, and I talk a lot just in English, so it can get a little exhausting and confusing. My sister's husband couldn't speak a lick of Spanish when they met either. He's still not fluent, but he understands enough to know when we're talking about him. So really, there's hope for us yet.

We arrive at the casino and she heads straight for the slots. She's dressed to gamble, too: light blue turtleneck, black blazer, black velour sweatpants with a white racing stripe down the leg (no elastic on the ankle though, thank you Jeebus!) and khaki sneakers. (My sister was outraged when I described the outfit, but if she'd seen the other ladies at the casino, she would know that our mother looked like the cover of AARP magazine. Pushing 70 and Still Fierce!). She picks a machine, pulls out a twenty and starts working. We flag down a "wandering waitress" for a Vodka & OJ. Gambling makes her thirsty, I guess. No luck at these slots, time to move on. "What about your drink?" "Don't worry," she says. Sure enough, she finds the waitress and grabs her drink. "Let's walk around." Now, I don't spend a lot of time in casinos, so I don't know the rules, but I was under the impression that you couldn't leave the gambling area, drink in hand, and wander into the mall and food court. I was wrong. We walked by a cashier station, two security guards and more cheerleaders than I've ever seen in my life (there was a spirit competition going on) and no one said a word to her (not that the cheerleaders would, but maybe their parents would say something). When she was through with her drink, she deposited her glass on a wall separating the dining area from the shops. She shrugged at me as if to say "Someone will get that later." I almost expected to hear the words "They have people for that." The woman knows her way around a casino. How foolish of me to ever doubt her.

We had a nice seafood lunch and she told Mike (through me) about the trips we'd taken when I was little. Someone from her social club would charter a bus, Mommy would pack a bag and we'd be off for a few days. I don't remember whole trips, just lots of bits and pieces: Niagara Falls, Washington DC, Toronto. She still takes trips when she can. Since my dad passed away, she's been to Florida, Vegas, California and Atlantic City. She saves her money, books a trip and sometimes stays with friends. She's off to Washington DC with a girlfriend in June. Mike told me he thought it was great that my mom still travels and seems to live so well. I told him what she said to me once, "I want to have something to tell your father when I see him again." Daddy always did like a good story.

Dr. Mom, Medicine Woman

I've been battling a migraine for most of the day and have tried every conventional trick in the book: caffeinated tea to shrink the blood vessels, earplugs to drown out the construction down the block (will they ever finish that building?), ibuprofen (3 every four to six hours but no more than 12 in twenty four hours...Wait, what?). Sleeping helps, but there's only so much sleeping I can do before I end up wide awake at 11pm with a full day of meetings ahead of me (too late). So, I'm lying in bed and I'm thinking, "Mom would have had the Vicks on my temples hours ago."

My mother once told me that if she had come to the US as a young girl, she would have studied to become a nurse. (She also said she wouldn't have married and she certainly wouldn't have had children. Thanks, Mom. I've got to go to therapy now.) I can picture her in peach colored scrubs, stethoscope around the neck, clipboard in one hand, giant jar of Vicks in the other.

If you're familiar with the film My Big Fat Greek Wedding, then you're already familiar with my mother. Just substitute Nia Vardolos' father in the film with a tiny Cuban woman and arm her with a little jar of Vicks VapoRub (or bibaporoo as it was pronounced in our house) and you've got the picture. My mother used (or tried to use) Vicks on us for everything, and I do mean everything. Got a pimple? A little Vicks will clear that right up! No, Mom, it really won't. As a matter of fact, it will make it infinitely worse. Obviously, she reached for the Vicks if one of us had a chest cold. She'd toss a spoonful of it into the vaporizer and rub a handful on our chests. She'd also try to speed up the effectiveness of the Vicks by heating up a chest sized piece of paper bag over an open flame and applying it to our chests. Don't worry, she'd let it cool for a second, she's not a monster.

My mother's home remedies and the subsequent stories that accompany them are legendary in our family. They range from the slightly bizarre and somehow effective (for hiccups, stick a piece of thread to your forehead. Thinking about how crazy you look will distract you from the hiccups, curing them in minutes. Don't' ask me how you get it to stick. ) to the simple, completely outrageous and in no way effective. My sister will often call and give a full report of Dr. Abreu's latest medical breakthrough. The most spectacular of these stories involves my brother and a jar of Vicks.

My brother was staying with my parents at their old place three years ago when his foot started to bother him. He works in a very busy restaurant, so it's not surprising that he occasionally hurts himself. His symptoms were eventually diagnosed as gout, but not before my mother stepped in to take a look. She counseled that he should lie down, rub his foot with some Vicks and all would be well. My brother argued (as gently as he could, I'm sure ) that the Vicks wouldn't help matters and that he'd be seeing a doctor about it. That was his first mistake. His second mistake was falling asleep on her watch. As the story goes, my brother was sleeping soundly when he felt something on his ailing foot. He awoke to find my mother crouched by his bed, rubbing a healthy dose of Vicks onto his foot. It was the middle of the night and my brother did not react well. My father, my sister and I all had a good laugh about it, and really, isn't laughter the best medicine?