Red Pen Mama

I wish I had a better one.

I wish I could tell you all the stories of my grandmother’s life. Because they are great stories. How her parents met in Italy and traveled to the States. How she grew up in Erie. Her life with her brothers and sisters. Meeting my grandfather. Being the hatcheck girl at one of the Italian clubs. Her life as a wife and mother.

I know that my grandmother has told me all of these stories.

I wish I had listened better, or remembered more.

Because she can’t tell me those stories any more.

She doesn’t remember them. She can’t tell them to me.

Driving over to my mother’s house one night this weekend, she asked my mom, “Who’s watching your children?”

My mother said, “I don’t have children living at the house anymore, mom. Except for my husband.”

My grandmother laughed and laughed.

She does not seem to be sad. For that we are grateful. She has forgotten how to knit; she has forgotten how to play cards, except for King’s Corners, and she needs a lot of help to even play that. She can’t really read, because she can’t remember what she read. She can’t cook anymore.

Now that is a true tragedy, because as a pure Italian one generation removed from the Old Country, my grandmother knew how to cook. One thing I will never forget is her easy acceptance of my vegetarianism. She cooked for me before my mother deigned to. And she told me the stories of what she grew up eating.

“We never ate a lot of meat,” she would say. “Just once in a while.” Read: when the money was okay, we could have meat. Otherwise: peppers on Italian bread, polenta, tomato sauce, homemade pasta, pasta fagiole, ravioli with cheese… Oh, how she talked about food.

She was a baker, too, and no holiday or family wedding was complete without Grandma’s cookies: lady locks so flaky they melted in your mouth, pizzelles, Italian knots, biscotti, apricot-filled fold-overs — the list goes on and on. Thank goodness my mother has the recipes. I look forward to the day she passes them down to me.

Although I really should learn to bake first.

Today is my grandmother’s 90th birthday. We celebrated this weekend at my parents’ house. Most of my generation of grandchildren were there. She seemed confused, and got tired very quickly.

But when they brought out the cake, she smiled and clapped and sang along. And had a nice helping of cake and ice cream.

Happy Birthday, Grandma. I know you may not remember your day. But I always will.

I love you.

Your first grandchild (and your favorite!),
rpm

Happy 38th Anniversary.

I haven’t managed to get a card in the mail, so I’m afraid this is it.

DearDR, Monkey and Bun send their warm regards, too.

We all thank you for getting married, staying married, and having (and keeping) your children. Without you two, no me; without me, no DearDR (still leading as the favorite son-in-law); without us, no Monkey and Bun. The rewards of having children is really grandchildren; I can see it in your eyes.

Thank you for the home you provided; thank you for the example of love, faith, and fidelity you still provide. Thank you for launching me into my own marriage with a clear picture of what I want it to be. This feeling was affirmed when Dad and I danced at my wedding, and he said, “I think you found someone who will love you as much as I do.” Yes, Dad, I certainly did.

Anyway, this isn’t about me, it’s about you two. I hope you have a loverly day, and continue to choose each other daily.

Happy Anniversary. Many, many, many more.

Love, your older daughter, your first-born,
rpm

You are not going to believe it.

Where I work, there is a young man — I mean 15 years younger than we are (ahem) — who is also from Erie. Let’s call him Erie Joe.

He is a designer; he has only been at the company about six months. Along with our hometown, I discovered he and I had something else in common.

He used to work at the Zoo.

When I went into his cube yesterday, and told him, I, too, worked at the Zoo, I thought he was going to jump up and hug me. He got so wound up (I would say “excited” except that he wasn’t all that happy — just wound up). Erie Joe is a big kid (I shouldn’t call him a kid, I know), about 6′5″ and a hug from him would have been seriously… encompassing.

Erie Joe worked at the Zoo for about six years (summers only after the first couple because he went away to college — he went to college in the city where you are living now, actually), working his way up from mere concession worker (like us) to assistant concession supervisor. He disses on Erie a lot — I remember feeling the same way about the place when I was “escaping” at 19 years old.

When I told him I had worked at the Zoo, as I mentioned, he got very wound up. In a loud voice, he said, “What sound do giraffes make?” Yes, it seemed like a non sequiter to me, too.

I replied, “None. Giraffes don’t have any vocal cords.”

He threw his arms up in the air, cheering, “Yess! Yesssss!”

I guess that had been a bone of contention with our other co-workers.

So, we asked each other a few questions about our summer Zoo experiences. He worked the Zoo, then the Ice Rink, then went to college, returning to the Zoo for summers. I told him I had only worked that one summer — the one that the polar bears were in heat. I asked if they still put hung-over concession employees on the carousel. Affirmative. They don’t give them a bucket any more, though.

He asked who my supervisor was, and I actually remembered. He had a woman named Bonnie. Was there a Bonnie there when we worked there? Also, I thought we wore red shirts, but I think he said they wore blue. I know this is a detail you would remember.

Erie Joe said that our former supervisor was director of the Zoo now. To quote, “He likes owns the place now.” Can you believe it? He also said he had liked his job toward the end. “I just walked around all day,” he commented. “I was outside. It was nice.”

I don’t remember much liking my job. It was hot. And smelly. And because of the location of The Bear’s Den concession stand — directly across from rutting polar bears — if you worked there, you didn’t get a lot of business. Instead, you heard a lot of, “What are they doing, mommy (or daddy)?” And a lot of, “Never mind. Let’s go see the tigers.”

What a blown teaching opportunity!

Anyway, N, I almost called you from work, I was so excited. Then I decided to write this letter instead.

I’m very fond of Erie now. I think I can appreciate what it has to offer. Especially since Pittsburgh doesn’t have “the beach”, or my parents. As a matter of fact, the girls and I are headed to Erie later today. If it’s nice, maybe we’ll all go to the Zoo.

Love,
rpm