My Own Land of Oz

“We’re not in Kansas, anymore.”

Ah, Dorothy.  She had landed in Oz, a magical place over the rainbow where dreams come true.  But by the end of her mystical journey she longed to go home.  Well, in the summer of   1985, I was in Kansas and wondering if Dorothy was completely bonkers.  It took me a month to appreciate why she would want to leave Oz and return to her family.

It started the day after school got out.  I knew my family was going on vacation because I had seen Mom packing the night before.  But, like every other summer trip we had taken, the destination would be a surprise.  My parents were very spontaneous people who loved surprises.  They enjoyed (a little too much, in my opinion) playing the guessing game.  We kids would beg for hints and then gather our information to try to solve the vacation mystery.  The only hint given this year was, “We will be flying there.”  My siblings and I were convinced, just convinced, that we were finally going to Disney World.  But Mom’s reply was simply, “Nope, it’s better than Disney.”  WHAT could possibly be better?

On the way to the airport the next morning we were given our plane tickets and told that on the count of three we could open them together.  We tore open the envelopes and the car went silent.  Topeka, Kansas?  Really?

“We’re going to see your grandparents and stay at their ranch for a few weeks!” my mom screeched.  Somehow we did not share in her enthusiasm but we were all too polite to show our disappointment.  Of course we were happy to be visiting Nana and Pop for the first time since they had moved to the mid-West, but staying on a ranch was not in the same league as coasting on the Magic Mountain.

After arriving in Topeka, we drove for several hours until we reached Cottonwood Falls.  The town wa

s as dry as the name implies.  Finally we saw the sign, “Bull’s Run Ranch”.  Turning right we drove for several more miles.  “Mom,” I complained, “I thought we were there already.”  She smiled and replied, “Honey, we are.  This road is their driveway!”

 

 

The Wizard of Oz had done justice to this territory.  The flat land reached to the horizon and not a tree was to be found.  There was one small creek running along the inside of the fence.  I was a New England girl who loved to explore the woods, hike and fish with my dad, and, of course, visit the shore as often as I could.  No wonder Dorothy dreamed of somewhere over the rainbow.

Nana was there to greet us and she hadn’t changed a bit since I’d last seen her.  Her sweet plump face was curved up in a huge smile. Her hair was such a mix of greys, whites and blacks; it reminded me of a seashell.  She stood at least a foot shorter than Pop and seemed to have shrunk a little more.  Pudgy and strong, she was made for ranch life.  She and Pop were from the mid-west originally and had returned there to spend their golden years in peace.  I had never seen her so happy.

I rushed to hug them and right away the familiar scents of Nana’s lavender powder and Pop’s VO-5 hair gel brought me back to my childhood.  Right away I could tell something was wrong with Pop.  The tall, strong, Navy veteran who once taught me to ride horses and hit fast balls had withered into someone I barely recognized.  He could not rise from his rocking chair and, when he held me in his lap, I could feel the bones of his legs beneath mine.  His voice was weak like a child’s, not the robust voice I remembered.  He was pale and his breathing seemed to be an effort.  His blue eyes still sparkled but they seemed to have sunk into his face.  I could tell he had tried to look his best for us in an effort to hide his ill health, but his efforts were in vain.  He couldn’t hide his sallow skin color or the shaking of his hands.  Pop had battled diabetes his whole life.  It looked like he was losing the fight.

I went out to sit on the front porch swing wallowing in my own misery.  The selfish teenager in me could not comprehend spending weeks of my summer vacation in a place where the smell of manure permeated everything and the closest mall was at least an hour away.  At the same time, the kid in me was miserable at the thought of my grandfather suffering and struggling against this awful disease.  I knew he was too old to fight anymore and we were here to witness his final battle. I was drowning in disappointment and sadness and the tears flooded my eyes until I could not hold them back.

My mother came out and held me. She rocked the swing to and fro as she hummed her favorite song, “You Are My Sunshine.”   She let me cry for quite a while and then sat me upright.  She explained, “You see now why we are here this summer.  Pop can’t fight the Diabetes much longer.  We need to be here to see him through til the end.  It’s important that he be surrounded by the ones he loves.”  Greif and shock poured over me in waves of icy slush; my blood ran cold and I shook uncontrollably.  I had never experienced the death of a loved one and was convinced that the people I cared about would always be with me.  Surprisingly, it only took a moment for me to do away with my self-pity.  I was determined to make these last weeks the best days of Pop’s life.

Despite my good intentions I fell into a well of helplessness.  I was fifteen and he was frail. What could I possibly do?  I couldn’t take him for a horseback ride or play catch with him.  The whole situation was surreal and I flailed like a young deer afraid to take a step.  I quietly roamed around the huge ranch house hoping some inspiration would come to me.  I sat in the library, a beautiful cool and dark room lit only by a few sconces.  My grandparents (he a former English teacher and she a retired librarian) were avid readers.  This trait was carried on by my mother.  I realized that several of the titles on these built in cabinets were the same as the ones lining our shelves back in Connecticut. It made this foreign place seem homier and more familiar.  And that’s when it hit me.  Diabetes had robbed Pop of most of his sight and he was no longer able to pursue his passion for reading.  That was just rotten, a low blow by that stupid disease.  But I’d be able to bring him back to the ring.

I grabbed his favorite book, The Old Man and The Sea by Ernest Hemingway, and scurried into his bedroom.  I found him on his bed taking an afternoon rest but right away he scooched over and made room for me beside him.  I began reading aloud and didn’t stop until dinnertime.  Often he would interrupt me to comment about symbolism and theme, among other literary techniques that I had not formerly understood or appreciated.  I found a new joy in reading this story.  Back in eighth grade it had been assigned for Summer Reading and I had hated it.  An entire book to discuss a 2-3 day fishing trip?  Then the trip ends in disaster?  Nothing had grabbed my attention and I had found the whole story boring.  This time was different.  Now I understood why the book was Pop’s favorite.  The deeper levels of inner conflict and the theme of perseverance were so beautifully and subtly brought to life.  I could feel the pain in my own hands as the old man towed the line.

My grandfather and I cheered for the old fisherman even though we both knew his battle was futile.  The novel, written many years ago by a complete stranger, was so timely.  I felt it had been written just for Pop and I.  One quote still sticks with me, “They were strange shoulders, still powerful although very old…..Everything about him was old except his eyes.  They were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.”  Pop was my very own Santiago and I was his Manolin.  In three days I learned about his days in the Navy, the ports he had visited and the cultures he had experienced.  He said I taught him that tomorrow was a new day and it was worth fighting for.  Hemingway’s theme had come to life right there in Kansas.

Two books and four weeks later Pop passed away.  Through sharing To Kill a Mockingbird and Of Mice and Men I learned more and more about Pop and about life.  Losing him was devastating, but he had given me so much.  I learned to appreciate a new lifestyle (riding horses, feeding chickens and branding cattle) and to open my mind to new experiences.  The world is a big, big place and it is worth exploring.  Most of all, I learned how books can unite people from all walks of life, from generation to generation.  So while the world is enormous and full of possibility, all the people of this world face similar struggles and have similar dreams. I didn’t need a trip to Oz to teach me about the important things in life.  I had Pop and the summer that changed my life forever.

 

My War Against Green Monsters

“You’re not leaving the table until your plate is clean.”

            Oh, how many times I heard this as a child.  It was usually followed by the famous “There are starving children in the world that would kill for that food.”   Double whammy: restraint and guilt.   I was not a particularly picky eater, but I was always leery to try new things.  Mealtime at my home was pretty predictable.  Monday was meat and potatoes, Tuesday was pasta, Wednesday was chicken, Thursday was pork of some sort, and Friday’s meal was usually a concoction of whatever was left in the frig.  Weekends were special and we were treated with roast beef, pot roast, bar-b-que etc..  We always knew what to expect, but occasionally mom would mix up the routine by throwing in a new vegetable. 

            I had battled my way through beets, squash and green beans.  They were usually cold by the time I consumed them, left alone at the table about an hour after mealtime was complete.   Many times our dog Toto would lend a hand, or a mouth, to help me finish them off.  He was my fellow soldier in the war against strange, new vegetables.  But this night the vegies called in their secret weapon and I was caught off guard.

            They sat there staring at me, little green brains stinking of vinegar.  I retreated, screaming in my most indignant 6-year-old voice, “WHAT are THOSE?”  My mother calmly ushered me back to my chair and explained that they were Brussels sprouts and that they were tasty and good for me.  She was clearly out of her mind.  Nothing that looked and smelled so horrendous could possibly be good for me.  I stuck a fork in one and my revulsion reached new heights.  Despite their crunchy-looking exterior, they were mushy inside.  When split in half, the odor was unbearably pungent and my gag reflex kicked in before one even reached my mouth.

            Mom poured me a glass of milk to help wash them down, but insisted that I must eat at least three of them.  I sat alone at the table waiting until her back was turned.  I bravely picked up one of the booger-colored spheres and handed it down to my comrade-in-arms.  Toto took it in his mouth, immediately dropped it and retreated from the battlefield.  He went AWOL and left me to conquer the sprouts alone.

            Keep in mind that the Brussels sprouts of the 70’s were not the Brussels sprouts of today.  They were not found in the fresh foods department and there weren’t any fancy recipes for preparing them.  They were bought frozen and boiled in water with a sprinkle of vinegar.  Often they were over-cooked, creating that putrid odor and mind-boggling texture.  Mom, who was self-admittedly not the best cook on the planet, lent a hand by coating them in butter.  While I appreciated her help, the butter only added a layer of slime.

            Alone in the trenches I knew I had no choice.  Several times I brought one to my mouth, but this strategy only caused me to gag until my eyes watered.  Dad would occasionally come in and pat me one the back saying, “You can do it kiddo.  They’ll make you big and strong.  ” But those words of encouragement were always followed by the reminder of starving children in countries I had never heard of before.     

            I decided the only way out of this was to wage an all-out blitz.  I coated my throat with milk, held my nose and quickly stuffed one, two, three of the horrid balls in my mouth.  Chewing as quickly as I could, pulling my tongue to the back of my mouth to avoid direct contact with my taste buds, I swallowed the mushy villains almost whole and chased them down with what was left of the milk.  Bitter and crunchy at first then sour and mushy, they tasted like dead grass with a hint of bleach-soaked lettuce.  They surely were toxic.  The aftertaste of vinegar wafted through my sinuses causing me to gag and choke.  The bitter acid slithered up my throat as the little demons kept trying to make their way back up.  I would not be defeated and I swallowed them down completely.  Still gagging, I smiled in triumph.  I had conquered Brussels sprouts and the victory was mine!

            Mom came to pat my back and whisper words of praise.  “I knew you could do it.  You may not like them, but at least you tried them.”   But I had no time to bask in my glory or appreciate her kind words.  The nasty green brains waged a surprise comeback and I proceeded to vomit into my plate.  I will save you the visual on that sight.

            Needless to say, I was never forced to eat Brussels sprouts again.  In fact, the vegetable war ended that day as a peace treaty was reached.  I was later excused from trying lima beans, kidney beans, and zucchini.  Apparently my parents respected my courage and launched no further attacks from vegetable land.  To this day, the mere sight of brussel sprouts makes my throat constrict and stomach churn.  I would not serve them to my worst enemy, least of all to my own children.  The sprouts may have won the battle that night so many years ago, but I won the war.

The Mortal Beach Goddess

     I worship the sun. I know the dangers involved in sunbathing, but I also know that the feel of the sun toasting my skin relaxes me and restores me. I thrive on Vitamin D. I feel most alive in the summer months because I am exhilarated by the rays of the sun. My church is the beach, and my favorite temple is Misquamicut Beach in Rhode Island. As a child, my family spent weeks vacationing there every summer. One of my earliest memories is riding on my father’s shoulders as he battled the oncoming waves to reach the sandbar where I could stand safely on my own two feet. Lying next to my mother on our huge black sheet (black, because she swore the dark color attracted the sun and supplied a more even tan), listening to her favorite beach music (of course, the Beach Boys) and eating fresh fruit was my idea of heaven.
At 25, this beach remained my favorite place on earth. So when my best friend and I wanted to celebrate her new job, there was no other destination considered. We were Misquamicut bound.  Despite all the skin-cancer warnings and high UV index, we were 25, we were immortal.
It was the perfect beach day. The smell of the sea air filled the car as we approached and as soon as we got out of the car I could taste the salt on my lips. Within ten minutes we had our blankets, coolers and chairs in place. At 10:00am we were reclining in time for the peak tanning hours. The weather was perfect. The sun rays were strong but there was no humidity. I was able to enjoy the feel of my skin baking and when it became too hot I simply buried my feet a few inches into the sand, until they reached that cooler level of ground which provides relief.
Every hour I would dip into the ocean. Sometimes just to wash off the gritty sand that is ever attracted to tanning oil. Standing knee deep, the undertow pulling at my calves, as the shore recedes under my feet. Natures pedicure. Sometimes I’d venture further out, allowing the waves to roll me about and carry me where they chose. I relaxed in the idea that I was part of something much bigger than myself.
Later that day, full of energy, we decided to partake in our favorite activity- diving head-long into the waves, battling the undertow and rising up victorious on the backside of the wave. The ocean is alive. It is in constant motion. The undertow was strong that day, but nothing I hadn’t experienced before. I was never frightened as I believed it was just Mother Nature’s hands coaxing me to join in the fun.
Then the waves picked up and the fun really started. The more powerful they became, the more I enjoyed the contest. As they crashed to the shore with smacks and thuds, I floated beyond the breaking point. By the third or fourth wave I was already tired. I was beginning to ride the waves in and swim to shore when Mother Nature decided to ignore my intent and insist that I stay. She yanked and tugged as the undertow dragged me further and further out. I could no longer feel the safety of the smooth coastal sand beneath my feet.
I continued attempting to swim in, but the fight was useless. The more I struggled, the more exhausted I became. My tired legs became numb with fatigue and my heavy arms became anchors. I turned to plan B: float parallel to the shore and ride the waves in like a beached whale. I failed to take into consideration that the strong undertow fueled the waves so that they grew higher and stronger, and they crashed earlier, further out. I was directly in the waves’ path and helpless. One mighty wave crashed on top of me with the power of an anvil being dropped on my head and I went down. Taken by surprise, I had not had the chance to hold my breath. The wave turned me over and over until my head collided with the ocean floor. The force was so strong, I swear I felt my brain rattle. I was gulping in water as I heard the muffled thud of more waves crashing. The salt water clogged my throat and I came up coughing but unable to inhale. Another way pulled me down, with no air left in my lungs. I looked up through a foot of water to see the sun, blurred and out-of-focus, as its image was distorted by the rippling ocean. I remember thinking, “This is how am I going to die. This is the last thing I will see.”
With every ounce of remaining strength, I pushed myself above the surface one more time. I could hear the blare of the lifeguards’ whistles as they called me to come in. The  shore was a mirage. Images were distorted and hazy and seemed a mile away. Again I felt the power of a wave coming up behind me and I gritted my teeth awaiting its onslaught. My fight was gone and I succumbed to the idea that this was IT.
Well, they say Mother Nature is forgiving, and from this experience I can truthfully tell you she is. The last wave, instead of drawing me down, threw me up and over, casting me to front side where the waves break and can carry you in. About halfway to shore the lifeguards had reached me and placed me on a surf board to ride the rest of the way in. The hot, hot sand under my feet was the most welcoming feeling in the world.
To this day, certain things stimulate my senses and bring me right back to that day. Going underwater and looking at the golden orb through the ripples sets my nerves on end. The feel of the undertow makes my stomach lurch. Salt, the taste of it on anything- even popcorn- is no longer appealing. I’ve learned that the more senses an experience stimulates, the deeper ingrained the experience becomes in your memory. Though this happened to me almost twenty years ago, I remember every single detail as though it was yesterday.

The Simple Things

So many childhood memories came back to me while preparing this assignment and I honestly could not tell which came first in my life.  Birthday parties, Christmas mornings, vacations, special events….all merge as I recall a happy and blessed childhood.  But it was the memory of my first day of kindergarten that came to me first.  I still think of it often, and it was an experience that impacts my life to this day.

As the youngest child in the family, I was excited to start school.  Wanting to be like my older siblings I couldn’t wait to bring home homework, go to gym class and make things for my parents.   I remember my grandmother taking me to the mall to purchase my first-day-of-school outfit.  Picture taken that morning reveal a very excited Carla in her pink and white gingham dress, white socks and Mary Janes.  I had a new shorter haircut, a cute little bob which I wore pulled back with a pink bowed headband.

Our school was just down the street so my mother planned to walk me there.  We met my best friend and her mom on the corner and finished our journey together.  As we entered the parking lot I was shocked to see what looked like MILLIONS of kids coming off buses.  Suddenly a bad feeling crept over me.  Where was everybody else’s mom?  We got to the sidewalk and my friend kissed her mom quickly goodbye and ran to join some girls we knew from swimming lessons.  I held my mom’s hand tightly as she walked me to the door.  She leaned down to kiss me good-bye and all of a sudden the reality hit…she was NOT coming in with me.

Panic took over, my excitement was gone, and I cried tears of fear into her shoulder.  I remember being aware that other children were staring at me but I just didn’t care.  My mother walked me to the corner and explained, “I don’t want to leave either but that’s the rule.  Moms would take up too much room in the class and you kids wouldn’t be able to have as much fun.  I will wait right over there,” she pointed to the park across the street, “and I’ll be here when you got out.”  She took something from her purse, a very small stuffed dog in a pink dress like mine and gave it a kiss.  As she placed it in my book bag she said, “Now if you feel lonesome, take her out and give her a quick kiss.  My kiss will be right there waiting for you.”

I don’t remember how this little ordeal ended or how I got into the building.  But I do remember looking out the window a couple of times during the day and there she was, just like she had promised, sitting on the bench reading her book.  I kissed the stuffed dog at snack time and at 11:30am I lined up to leave.  “Walkers” had a special line and I was first.  As I exited the building, my mom was right there, exactly where we had parted just three hours before.  I jibber-jabbered the whole way home and we made a special cake together to celebrate my first day.

I carried that dog in my back pack all the way to college.  Today it sits in my jewelry box.  Such a simple token, but a reminder of my mother’s enduring love.  Silly to say, but whenever I have felt lonely in life I have kissed that dog.  And, of course, all three of my children have “hug bears” (that’s what they call them) in their book bags.  They know, as I knew, that mommy is always there….just a heartbeat away.

Now I know my mother did more lavish things in my life to show her love.  I had extravagant birthday parties, tons of “mommy days” when she and I would take off and spend the day together, movie nights and mall dates.  But it is that silly little dog that holds the most loving memory of my mother and my childhood.  It’s true what they say.  “Life is all about the simple things.”

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