February 2009
Youth
“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children. One is roots. The other is wings.” ~ Hodding Carter II ~
It was the pictures which first gave away her secret. Allison was in love, or maybe just in very deep like. Allison had sent me several links, to her electronic photo albums; and as I clicked through the pictures, the ones with the reoccurring redheaded fellow were always accompanied by a smile, across her face, which truly seemed to glow. “I can’t help it!” She blurted out, at Thanksgiving, when something was said about how happy she looked. He was coming to America, as apparently he could not help it either.
~
It has been a chilly Floridian winter, but today we have had those perfect days when the sun is shining brightly, and we are cradled, by just enough tropical wind, to feel ourselves floating in a state of paradise. Allison, my second of three nieces, has come for a visit, and she has brought her beau, the handsome and strapping Nic.
Allison and I sit outside, exchanging morning pleasantries when speaking of her sister, she says: “Beth is going to have a very good year. She went to Japan, has to go to a wedding in England, and then our wedding in Australia.” I am forced to stop and reflect. It has been a while, but I do recall when travel itineraries were the standard by which we judged whether or not we were actually having a good year. Later, in the car, she and Nic banter over who has the most stamps in their passports. I remember that as well. The excitement of having your passport stamped, especially with some exotic alphabet – proof that you were engaged in life, and not merely a spectator!
Last May, Allison graduated from the university. She majored in Communications; and I imagine she easily mastered her studies, as she comes from a family of words and pictures and sounds. To celebrate her accomplishments, Allison spent thirty days traveling through Europe, on a guided tour. It was while in Paris, that Allison and Nic met – he says he was instantly smitten, by her beauty. I have no cause to doubt his words. Theirs has been the quintessential story book romance of youth and exotic locations. My sister will later thank me for hosting the kids, and I will smile, as Kate and I also took to calling them the kids. They are filled with an infectious enthusiasm and excitement and with limitless possibilities – all obstacles can be overcome, and if not – no worries! We should all be so lucky.
Nic is from Australia, and he has come to America to spend time with Allison, and to get to know her family. Kate and I are the end of their trip, and during his three month visit, things have developed beautifully. Allison is to be married to her beau, Nicolas. It will be an autumn wedding in Australia, almost a year from the time they met. They will honeymoon at the Great Barrier Reef, and their immediate ambition is to see the rest of the world – they seek adventure.
I, for one, will not detour them. I tell them to go, but do pay off your bills, do not acquire too much stuff, though you do want selective souvenirs, to be enjoyed later, and by all means keep notes! I also tell them that owning a house is overrated – the work is endless. There is plenty of time for obligations and responsibility. See the world. But even as I speak to their joy, I cannot help but think that you cannot live out of a suitcase forever, I know my parents tried. I do miss the road. I miss the excitement of the unknown; but I know that life must only be for a season. I shall be happy for them, but not envious. So much awaits them, and how delicious that they should want so much from life, instead of so little. Go get your passport stamped!
~
The house is quiet again. Nic has gone back to Australia, Allison is in Maine, and the dinner parties of the last few weeks are fading memories. We are now awaiting new chairs. We ordered them six weeks ago, and they have finally shipped. We have rearranged the house to welcome the new addition. Really, I ask myself? Yes, really. I ponder the price of the chairs compared to some exotic vacation and wonder about our choice. Yes, it is a choice, my choice, I remind myself.
At some point, you will want a bookcase where The Female Man, by Joanna Russ, can live. On my own, I would never have ventured into the science fiction section, of a book store, had some American woman, on her way to India, not been staying at the same hotel, in London, as I, and mentioned that I had to read this book – she was of course right.
Therein lays the great challenge for those of us with wanderlust souls. Our adventures produce ethereal visions which inspire poetry and paintings, and comfort us with warm memories long after the journey has come to an end; as well as tangible objects which eventually demand more than a box in someone else’s garage or a 4X6 space in self-storage, and perhaps most importantly, friends from far away places, who at some point want to return the visit, and thus thoughts of a home come into play.
I have neither lied nor exaggerated the work and responsibility of a home, to Allison and Nic, but perhaps I have failed to mention the value of these four walls and a roof, which must be painted, mended, cleaned, decorated, and constantly paid for in some fashion. There is something rather wonderful about climbing into my Swiss inspired bed and sinking into mounds of down filled pillows and comforters, which cannot compare to sleeping on a train, a bus bench, or a tent – even one pitched on a Hawaiian beach.
One of the many balancing acts is to own your life, instead of being owned by your life. The lines between the two are subtle and often missed. There is so much work and struggle that goes into the establishment of our lives. We must survive our families and childhood – even the great families and childhoods are filled with obstacles which must be overcome, getting through our education, finding something to be when we grow up and finding someone to love, and finding someplace to call home.
I have a love hate relationship with my home, which drives Kate crazy. On my own, I would never have endured the mounds of paperwork required to become a homeowner. I often feel trapped by the house and exhausted by its demands; but there are times when Kate suddenly slams on the breaks, turns a corner, goes around the block, and parks in front of the Museo Histórico Cubano, the Cuban Historical Museum, gets us buzzed into this building which always seems to be closed, when I am suddenly very happy that I have a house. We tour this incredible gem, at 3131 Coral Way, in Miami, which I whole heartedly recommend to anyone coming to South Florida, and as we walk through the rooms which are absolutely crammed with historical memorabilia from match books, to milk bottles, to machetes, I tell Kate, see someday our house is going to be a museum.
I too have match books which I have spent thirty years collecting, and milk bottles from my global travels, and yes, I even brought back a machete from Panama. My home does house my books and dishes, as well as all of the wonderful travel mementos, but there is more, for I am my families’ historian. I collect pieces of paper and pictures. I hold on to what is discarded by others, and try to make sense of all that we are and have been. In my four walls and a roof I hold on to history and I document a story – that is what I do, that is what I became when I grew up – a historian. A historian needs a house, but she also needs a passport. There is so much to balance.
A new generation is taking flight. Beth is having a good year, and Hannah, my youngest niece, and daughter of my other sister, has plans to be in Israel this summer. They have common roots, though each is as different as me and my sisters. The girls are grounded in their faith and sense of purpose, but they also want adventures.
The world is spinning around at warp speed, with more bad news than good. The balance between roots and wings is not easily won, but for the moment, I will make some peace with my own roots. I have a guest a room in my house. To Beth, and Allison, and Hannah, and therefore to Kyle and Nic, as you go forward soaring off into the world of wonder and adventure, I will offer you what Kate and I never had, a place to land – 24/7, no questions asked and no money needed. You are young, go and enjoy your life. Be wonderful and yes if you can be responsible that is great, but if given the chance fly! There will come a time when you will be happy that some hand blown, blue glass, vase, from Israel, sits on shelf waiting to hold the roses from your garden. You will want a home, and it will have to be cleaned and maintained and paid for, but you have time. Meanwhile, should you need a place to stay, the doors are always open. I have new chairs coming, so I will keep house.
~
The moment I heard about the Australian wedding, I went to the computer to check the airfare. I wonder if Allison will now be responsible for me acquiring a new stamp in my passport? That is all for now.
~ M ~
February 2009
Charmed!
“There is a magic in that little word, home; it is a mystic circle that surronds comforts and virtues never known beyond its hallowed limits.” ~Robert Southey ~It was not often that my mother, my sisters, and I stood up to my father, but Winslow Arizona was a deal breaker. My father had come home, to Cleveland, Ohio, with brightly colored ponchos, Mexican curios, and leather handbags, after one of his road trips, proclaiming that we were moving to the West and we were going to love it! He was wrong. The thick, red dust, which blanketed the small, desolate town, whose claim to fame is a line in a Jackson Brown – Eagles song, was anything but hospitable. After six months, we protested and my father moved us to Bell, California. I shall never forget driving into California, for the first time, and seeing the palm tree lined freeways – I really thought I had gone to heaven. The desert, which really is Southern California, was well irrigated, and thus in bloom with flowering plants and people!
Bell also had two very special and unique gifts. One was a Cuban bakery, which always smelled like fresh bread and strong, sweet, Cuban coffee. It had cases filled with over stuffed pastries, dripping in syrup and cream; and on the other side, a counter which housed savory treats like croquettes and meat pies. The other gift was actual Cuban people, not many, but more than Arizona. Especially important, were two little Cuban sisters, who lived downstairs, with all of their jewelry. I had never seen so much jewelry, in real life, especially not on children. But for these girls, one who was named Blanca, which I thought was a strange name, their jewelry was just who they were; and they seemed never to take off their identification bracelets, or birthstone earrings, or medallions of Jesus and Mary, the small crucifix, or either of their rings. I really wanted to be that kind of Cuban and Catholic, I wanted jewelry.
As a child, I had always wanted a charm bracelet. My mother bought me a Ten Commandment bracelet, but I am afraid it did not last long. My senior year of high school, I was Girl’s League President. I had never heard of Girl’s League, until I moved to Pico Rivera, but apparently, I was Girl’s League material. At the end of my Junior year, Miss Banks, my physical education teacher, and the Girl’s League advisor suggested that I run for Girl’s League president, which I did with the campaign slogan: Check a Jill, Check a Jill, Check Jill in the box, she’s really cooking now! (This was taken from a Jack-in-the-Box commercial.) Ruth Rickley actually walked around, in a box, chanting this winning slogan.
One of my duties, as President, was to purchase a silver charm, for Miss Banks bracelet. The bracelet was massive. Since she had been teaching at El Rancho, the Girls League had sponsored an annual cabaret show. At the end of the performance, Miss Banks was presented with flowers, and a charm which had something to do with the theme of the show. It was not until the night, of the performance, that I actually got to see the famed bracelet – it lived up to everything I had heard. I had some bracelet envy, but I have never cared for silver jewelry, so my envy was containable. I wanted a gold bracelet.
Tonight, we were walking around an art gallery, when the owner stopped me and said: I like your bracelet. She was pointing to my charm bracelet, which I wear on my left hand, though that may change, after tonight. Kate began my bracelet our first year together. For St. Patrick’s Day, Kate had a three leaf clover made, presenting it to me, and explaining that it stood for the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, something which I did not know, about three leaf clovers. It is a beautiful charm. Over the years, Kate has repeatedly given me charms which symbolize our life together, as well as different aspects of who I am and what I care about. She is not the sole contributor, to the bracelet. I think Melody, my friend from high school, was the first non-Kate charm. She gave me the state of California, when Kate and I moved to New England. It was a perfect charm, as are each of the charms, once they are attached. My family and friends have made the bracelet one of my most prized possessions, as I never fail to pause, every time I put it on, to reflect on the people, symbolized by the charms.
I do get a lot of comments, about the bracelet, and tonight, when the gallery owner spoke to me, I responded with a thank you, and smiled politely. I will admit, I thought perhaps her comments were intended only to aid in a sale, but I was wrong. A few minutes later, I see her charmed arm. It was now my turn to admire the seven bracelets she wore. They were gold bangles, each with a charm attached. She said: See I told you I like your bracelet, I really get it. I told her I had never seen anything like hers’, she responded saying: You know it is a Cuban woman thing, the seven bracelets. “Es una cosa de las Cubanas.” I did not know it was a Cuban woman thing, but it is certainly an idea I can embrace; I was happy to learn. As I stood, listening to the woman explain the bracelets, I subconsciously started rubbing the various gold bracelets, on my right arm repeating her words, in my head: It is a Cuban woman thing.
As we began to walk away, from the gallery, I asked Kate if she understood the exchange, as the conversation took place in Spanish. I showed her my right arm, and said look, and she smiled. She of course already knew and was happy for me, I was having another one of those Cuban moments, which I moved to Miami to have.
We were walking, in Little Havana, down the famed Calle Ocho. It was a spectacular evening, though a little cold for us. This was Vieners Cultura. The last Friday, of the month, there is a cultural street fair, where historical tours are given, artist display their talents, restaurants and bars offer refreshments outdoors, and the streets are filled with the smell of fine cigars, which are being rolled in front of ones very own eyes. Yes, there are lots of Cubans, both young and old; but also the tourist, college student, and bohemian. Individual art galleries, tobacco stores, restaurants, and bars, hire musicians, whose tunes spill out into the streets, creating a grand feeling celebration and joy. I overhear the couples speaking nostalgically as we walk; they seem to be longing for a moment now passed, but there is hope.
I walk into a shop, owned by a Cuban woman, who stares at me, trying to figure out how to address us. I put her out of her misery and say buenas noche, good-evening. She has a Columbian visitor, and the two women are in a lively exchange, which I listen to, as I look at the lovely painted tiles. The Columbian woman comments on the appearance of a third woman, and uses a term of endearment or offense depending on the recipient. She calls her old – vieja, as if that were the woman’s name. The Cuban woman takes offense, on behalf of the third woman, and the Columbian woman begins a discourse on how Cubans are too particular, with everything needing to be just right, and that Cubans are too concerned with appearances, and that they have this feeling of being special. The Cuban woman agrees with the Columbian, proclaiming that Cubans are special, embracing the words as a compliment, and not the insult which the Columbian woman was trying to deliver. I cannot help myself, I smile at the shopkeeper, nod my head, and say it is true, we are special. Again, it is a Cuban thing. She smiles at me; I am one of those who are a part of this Cuban thing.
I am feeling pretty good, about myself, until our evening draws to an end. After dinner, Luis walks us to our car, and we begin la despedida – our goodbye. On an earlier occasion, in our home, Luis had already taught me: “La despedida es mas’ larga que la vista.” I loved it! The literal translation is that the good-bye is longer than the visit. One lingers longer at the doorway, on the front porch, and in the driveway, saying goodnight, than the time which was spent visiting. I love this saying; I love the sentiment behind the words, or at least my translation of the sentiment. I am sure it is meant as a condemnation of the Cuban need to speak; but I rather think of it as tribute to our appreciation for good conversation – having spent a wonderful evening, immersed in riveting chatter, why would you not want to linger, a few minutes more?
Luis’ parting words are another Cuban phrase. What? I ask him, and he repeats his words. I still have no idea. How does he know these things? He responds: How can you not know? How is it that your Mother did not tell you these things? I pause for a moment, and remember that my Mother is from Ohio, and her decedents are from Ireland, England, and Scotland. I cannot blame her for not having taught me these things.
I drive away from Miami thinking Luis must write down these things for me; and thinking that I wish my father were alive. He should be here with me, he should be living in Miami – he would know all of Luis’ phrases, my father might even know about the bracelets. My father died too young, exiled from Cuba, and exiled from Miami. I understand the Cuban exile, at least intellectually. I know the facts and dates which took my father from his home; but I do not understand the Miami exile. I do not have it quite right yet, and maybe I never will; but I am more at home here than any other place I have ever been. I suppose because this is the place where my two worlds collide and co-exist. I am in America, but there is this Cuban spirit permeating the air, which rushes into my lungs and causes me to sigh and smile – I belong here. That is all for now.
~ M ~
February 2009
Cinderella
“We believed in fairy tales that day I watched your father give you away. Your aim was true and the pink bouquet fell right into my hands. We danced for hours and we drank champagne, we screamed and laughed when I got up and sang; and then you road away in your white mustang to your castle in the sand. Through the years, the kids, and the jobs, and the dreams that lost their way, do you ever stop and wonder? Do you ever just want to say: Hey, hey Cinderella what is the story all about? I got a funny feeling we missed a page or two somehow. Oh, Cinderella maybe you could help us out Does the shoe fit you now? We’re older but no more the wise; we have learned the art of compromise. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we cry and sometimes we just breakdown. We are good now because we have to be. We have come to terms with our vanity. Sometimes we still curse gravity when no one is around. Yea, dolls gather dust in a corner of the attic bicycles rust in the rain, Still we walk in that fabled shadow sometimes we call her name: Hey, hey Cinderella what’s the story all about have a funny feeling we missed a page or two somehow Oh, Cinderella, Maybe you could help us out, does the shoe fit you now” ~ Suzy Bogguss ~We have bought season tickets to the opera, and thus far, the entire affair has been delightful. Tonight we saw Cinderella, the opera, which in my vast ignorance, I had least been looking forward to, thinking it overly familiar and infantile. I was in for a lovely night of enlightenment and awe, which began before I left home.
On Thursday evening, Kate had decided that she wanted a new dress for the opera. It was after seven, when we left the house, to head toward the mall. We walked through Macy’s and picked out what became a stack of black and red cocktail dresses. In the fitting room, Kate began what has to be one of the most universal frustrations, of all women – trying on clothes which look stunningly perfect on the mannequin or hanger, but not quite right on you, despite the fact that it is in your supposed size, a color which normally looks good on you, and a style that complements apparently every other woman with your body type, but not you. It was late, and the clerk was trying to clear out the dressing room, but Kate kept trying on dresses. She settled on two very different red dresses. We debated several minutes trying to decide which dress looked best, all of the while, having to look past the black socks and loafers which she was wearing, it was quite a comical site. She finally bought the perfect dress.
After having spent the better part of Saturday, painting the mansard, Kate came in around 4:30, made her way to her bathroom, and began a magical transformation, without black socks or loafers. We passed each other several times, in various states of readiness, finally around 5:15, Kate walked into my room perfectly coifed and beautifully dressed. Ah, I thought Cinderella is ready for the ball.
We arrived early, and went about enjoying one of the more mischievous delights of the opera – a bit of gawking. This is not so much about staring, at the people, as it is about staring, at the clothes, which the people are wearing. The outstanding outfit of the evening was an above the knee, very round, puffy, purple, feather dress, accompanied by red leggings and an equally red, mesh bolero jacket. The feather dressed woman’s escort was wearing an exquisitely pressed black tuxedo with white shirt and bow tie – he seemed to find his date charming, never taking more than two or three steps from her side. However, the truly magical moments, in the lobby, were looking at all of the little girls, dressed in their finest twirling dresses, who had come to see Cinderella. I could not help but think about the fine evening which awaited them, as we made our way in the direction of the ticket taker.
Walking toward the elevator, which was inundated with the exuberant little girls, Marcial commented on Cinderella’s name in Spanish, La Cenicienta. He pointed out that it of course came from ceniza, the Spanish word for ash, as Cinderella spends her time around the hearth, doing her chores and trying to keep warm. Suddenly a light bulb went off in my dimly lit head – of course, cinders! How had I never put the two together before? Marcial moved on to the Italian, La Cenerentola, which was the name printed on our tickets; and I began to think that perhaps I was not as familiar with Cinderella as I might have thought.
The lights are lowered, the overture begins, and we settled back in our seats. Luis quietly whispered, to me, that he too was least excited about seeing Cinderella, a story which touts women being rescued by Prince Charming types, a notion which he finds thoroughly abhorrent. I tried to quickly think of a witty retort, but he was right. Cinderella does scream out long suffering, yet weak. I settled on the music and the magic. It will be fun to see how the pumpkin becomes a carriage and watch the mice turn into horses.
While the music was striking there was no magic. We had gone to see, Gioacchini Antonio Rossini’s (1792-1868) La Cenerentola, based on the Charles Perrault version of the tale. At intermission, we commented on the lack of a wicked step-mother, who is instead replaced by a cruel step-father; and the missing fairy God-mother, whose role is played by a trusted advisor, to the prince, who first appears as a penniless beggar, whom Cinderella welcomes and feeds, while her half-sister’s spurn the man. In the lobby, Marcial over heard little girls being told that there were over a thousand versions of Cinderella – I have so much to learn, as always.
This is not the story of a quiet, wishful soul, who patiently sits by the fire, hoping for some outside force to change her life. Cinderella does fall in love with a prince, but a prince disguised as a valet. The valet has been impersonating the prince, to allow the prince to intermingle with perspective brides, without them putting on pretentious airs. When the valet meets Cinderella, at the ball, he is smitten by her beauty, and begins to make advances which she rejects, proclaiming her love, for whom she believes, to be the valet. Cinderella is willing to forgo fortune and status for true love.
Our protagonist is a strong and vibrant heroine, who extends hospitality, despite being reprimanded, who voices her desire to go to the ball, who seizes opportunities, when presented with them, who controls how the prince will find her, and who most importantly, stands bravely proclaiming the terms on which she will marry.
As the curtain falls, on the final act, I am invigorated. Disney, God bless them, has short changed us all. The glass slipper, stroke of midnight, and Bruno, the dog which turns into a footman, are no where to be seen, but neither are they missed. We have been left with the story of a woman who struggles for a better life, while showing kindness and mercy to those who have mistreated her, and insisting the man she has fallen in love with, embrace her values, as opposed to enacting vengeance on those who injured Cinderella, she ask that he forgive.
We leave the opera house in whirlwind of thoughts – even Luis must admit that our heroine is bold and brave, and a fine model of feminism – though I do not believe he used those words. Cinderella has been empowering.
At four in the morning, I find myself sitting in front of my computer, searching for information, regarding Cinderella. The consensus is that there are truly hundreds of versions, of this fairytale; with the first written edition, dating to the ninth century, in China, where the young woman is aided by a magical fish, instead of a fairy God-mother. Also, Disney did keep true to one of the many adaptations of the fable, and cannot be blamed for a more delicate heroine than what Rossini’s has produced. But why has this story endured so many presentations and transformations? What draws us to the story of an honorable and fine young woman, who faced with adversity, triumphs with the aid of kind strangers or magical whimsy; as opposed to her running away from this wicked home, and setting up a shop, as a seamstress or baker? Why was I so happy to see all of the little girls at the opera? What is the message that Cinderella sends both little and big girls? Are women still being taught to sit and wait, that our future rest in someone else’s hands? Has the narrative for women changed at all in a thousand years?
I do believe in fairy tales and magic. I call it faith. I believe in mythical transforming love, which sweeps you both off of your feet. I also prefer to believe, that given the opportunity, humanity will do what is right instead of what is wrong. I would like to believe that if version 1501, of Cinderella, were written today, her fairy God-mother would be a wise and kind teacher who would hand Cinderella a stack of books and say read – be empowered! I want Cinderella to know that she can go to the moon, if she is so inclined or run IBM or sit in the White House, as the President, not just another Secretary. I would also like to believe that Cinderella can find her prince and that he will love her not only because she is beautiful and charming; but also because she is strong and passionate, and unafraid to voice her own ideas and dreams, like I imagine Rossini’s heroine will do, after she and the prince have married.
Trivia for those who are equally uninformed: Mike Douglas was the voice of the Prince in the Disney version. That is all for now.
