Very few things remain with us from childhood to adulthood. We go from our mother's womb into infancy, then on to the toddler years and then rush into our school days. Very rarely do we get the opportunity to hold on to those things, those pieces of memorabelia. They become lost, broken, sold, just become unimportant, dispensible. Unless our parents were the type to collect and hold on to everything for us and give them as they are cleaning out their attic, they just don't hang around. But, sometimes we are fortunate enough to be able to hold on to those special things. There are sometimes those special items. The ones you just can't let go of.
This is a story about one of those special representations of childhood. My October Angel
My October Angel has been with me since my 10th birthday. I remember fondly how beautiful she was. That she had hair like mine, and beautiful eyes looking up towards the unseen. The way she held on to the pumpkin which identified the special holiday that followed my birthday. She was so beautiful. I loved that her wings were golden. I was always fortunate enough to have wonderful birthday cakes. Typically they would have a Halloween theme. This particular year, I had a spectacular cake. It was an amazing haunted yard. My beautiful angel, I would keep her with me forever. I wanted so much to be like her. To be perfect. The comedy and tragedy that she clings to is a good representation of my life, as well. I have had more than my share of tragedies, and yes, much of my life has been a comedy of errors. But, regardless, this beautiful angel has remained by my side, always there. She, much like me has seen better days. She is fading, her wing is chipped. She has become flawed through the ravages of time, and the many moves that she has had to make with me. Regardless, she is a statue of beauty. A symbol of innocence both lost, and perpetually renewed.
Not long ago, I was facing a really tough time in my life. I had just gone through a type of, well, somewhat emergency surgery. I was alone for the most part and living in Chicago. My job had come to an end, (grant-funded position) and there was not another job in sight. I was healing from surgery, facing, once again the unknown. It was scarey, I felt isolated, unsure. My life had changed, again. All of the things that identifed me as Mary were being swept away. Most importantly, my identification as a mother was gone. Even though I was too old to give birth, even though, I was content and had no intention of ever having more children, it was still an identifier. Below is a poem I wrote one night as I was alone in my Lincoln Park garden apartment as I wondered what the future held for me. "The Room is Empty Now"
A year and 6 months ago, I received amazing news. News that would fulfill the reality found in the poem. I was going to be a Grandmother. My daughter Elyssa informed me that I was going to be a Grandmother much sooner than I imagined. I was stunned, shocked, and then over-joyed. That night I ran home and the lyrics to a song in honor of my new grand-baby came rushing in. That night Steve and I wrote a song to commemorate, celebrate the rising of a Beautiful Moon, "Bella Luna!" They told me that she was to be born around the 6th of November. I knew better, she was going to be an October Angel!
As the 7 months that followed filled us all with excitement and impending joy, I watched my daughter grow full with life and love. The October angel was growing inside my daughter. The room was not empty anymore. It was filled with great anticipation! I knew my grandchild was going to be a little girl. I also knew in my heart of hearts that my grandchild would be born on October 29th. Don't ask me why, I just know some things.
This October 29th we will celebrate Isabella 1st birthday! I pray that as she grows in beauty, that she will someday look at her MeMe's October Angel, and say "Me and my MeMe are both October Angels, and I will keep our October Angel forever!"
The room is empty now
Where seeds were planted
And grown
The pain of labor
Ended
There is no weeping for life lost
It is there
The life is there
You had your time
You welcomed gifts of flesh
And gold
And bronze
And blue
And green
And brown
You rocked and sang
You held and nurtured
You fed and longed
Prayed, you prayed
Lose another, no, no
The unthinkable
The womb, let there be life again
But in the womb of daughters
And saints who would give
The seed of self
The passage it is here
A new journey a voyage
The time is now to hold the hand
To touch the fruits of labor
The passing of recipes
And laughter and love
It is all a part
Of the passage
The right of passage,
that is a gift
Sins are forgiven
with the passage
And rewards are reaped in abundance
Woman to woman, mothers to daughters
Gently pass the child, the child that waits
To become one with the mother
Beautiful is the fruit of
a womb
And so it goes on
And men smile and women rejoice
and the room is no longer empty
Momma's Apron September 09
Momma's Apron
Forward by Mary E. LaLuna
Recently I was driving up Red Arrow Highway from New Buffalo Michigan to St. Joseph Michigan, just enjoying a nice Saturday afternoon with my sweetie. We had no intention of wandering into the local antique shoppes, as it has never really been anything that we have done together. Now and then, I enjoy walking into a neat orderly antique shoppe, but typically stay away from them. Except when I was in Cold Spring, New York a year or so ago, I have never been in one with Steve. This time was different. Something called to us from a little shop called "Days of Yore Antiques." It is a quaint little store tended to with a great deal of love as you can tell by the strategic placement of doodads, and other antique finery.
As we moved from the beautiful treasures in the front of the store towards the back (I was quickly moving towards the blue glass) I saw them, Aprons! What drew my attention to them was the pink and lime green gingham check ones with fine needle work around the bottom. Now any reader that graduated from King Upper Grade Center in Kankakee, aka, East Junior High School, would remember (that is if they were in middle school prior to 1980) making an apron in Home Economics, along with chocolate soufflé and other delicacies (?). It wasn’t until I visited Connie Yore's Antique Store, did I come to value the rationale behind the making of an apron in middle school home ec.
I carefully searched through all of the finely starched aprons, aprons of every style, need and occasion. I remembered the yellow gingham fabric that I was given. I remembered the cross stitch, the French knot, the chain stitch. I remembered that you would have to get it just right, or carefully take the stitches back out and start over.
I came across fancy aprons worn over the evening wear. There were satin black ones, ones made of lace stitched together with rows of ribbons. They were beautiful. There were aprons that dated even my now deceased grandmothers. Again, I was in an antique shop, which explained the antiquated selections. I wondered as I picked each one up, touched the aged fabric, realizing the life, the beauty, and fantasizing the stories that were woven into each delicate piece of fabric.
Which one would I choose? Which one would hold a story for me to share to you my reader? I further questioned, does anybody wear an apron anymore for the reasons that Beaver’s Mom and our grandmothers did? Have aprons just become some silly way for the BBQ chef to beg for commentaries from the salivating crew waiting to be fed, “the best darn BBQ ribs in said county!”
It didn’t matter I was entranced by a by-gone day. I needed to have an apron of my own. Maybe I would begin the tradition in my own home. Maybe, my new Granddaughter would be exposed to the beauty of MEME’s apron. I suddenly longed for the apron my deceased sister-in-law gave all of the women of the family one Christmas. An Avon Christmas plaid, it was of the pinafore variety. I recalled a picture of me standing in my kitchen, the same kitchen that I spent making the chocolate soufflé that was taught to us right after embroidering that yellow gingham apron, but this time a young mother. I dug out that old Polaroid photo of me again I remembered the value of the apron. I remembered wearing that regularly, cleaning up spills, wiping hands, but what I remembered the most was wearing it like a princess gown as I danced with my son. We stood next to the stove it was there that I danced a dance of love. Now I know how important that dance was. I did not understand the value then. I could not see that I was the most beautiful woman he knew. I know now that as he hugged me tight, his love was embracing the garment that made me look beautiful to him. “Sugar pie honey bunch you know that I love you!” I sang that to him, and it garnered me a kiss. A sweet little prince-like kiss accompanied with angelic pursed lips. What I would give to be once again dancing with him.
The apron that I chose, a delicate yellow voile one with simple adornments perfectly starched in spite of the wear and literal tear on the front. That was the one I wanted, it was transparent, it was well used. It is much like me, flawed, practical, useful but a little fancy too.
Please enjoy the story of Momma’s Apron written by Connie Yore of Days of Yore Antiques , St. Joseph, Michigan.
When entering Momma’s kitchen, you were handed an apron that was starched and ironed to perfection. It was one of many of a collection that matched every color scheme. Everyone who helped her had to wear an apron – it made her feel in charge!
The apron had many uses besides protecting the dress. Momma would use hers to wipe away tears when a child was hurt, or sad. If she was a visitor coming down the walk, she would quickly take the edge of her apron and dust the table. She would always have an apron hanging on a nail in the pantry for a quick change to greet her “coffee” friends at the door. She would gather her apron around the handle of the large black skillet to carry it from the stove to the table. She also used her apron as a grip-enhancer for opening Mason jars.
The porch was a good place to visit in the evening. If a chill was in the air Mamma would gather her apron around her arms. It also helped ward off those pesky mosquitoes. The everyday aprons were used as carryalls for vegetables from the garden, wood from the shed, eggs from the henhouse, and fruit from the trees. Mamma also used it to carry laundry to the bedrooms. The fancy aprons were used for serving at the Ladies Aid, church suppers, weddings and yes, funerals.
I hope you enjoy this apron and all of the memories that go with it!
**as I reread this, and shared it with you, my own memories of aprons, and the women who wore them in my life came rushing in. Please send me your memories. I will reprint them as they come in.
Artseesdiner@gmail.com
March 2009
ArtSees Diner is going global in this issue as we have been made aware by a friend of the Diner that there is great distress in Sri Lanka. We are sharing this story because we believe, that, "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." Dr. M.L. King
Please read the information as sent to me by, our Dear Friend Tasha, after reading this exchange, become involved, become aware.
Dear Kannan Anna: Monday February 2nd, 2009 by Rosha
It has been almost 3 years since I met you. You joked with me about my boyfriend, teased me about my accent, and scolded me for not having mastered the Tamil language. I watched you express concern for your students and listened to the aspirations you had about transforming your school to "American" standards. I remember your shy smile as you told me your wife was pregnant, and I treasured the photos of your baby you sent me after I left. I felt guilty every time I thought about how you asked me to buy the school a fridge. A fridge which I did not buy. An insignificant gesture worth gold to you. And now, I have learned that you have been killed.
Well, today I am embarking on a fast.
I do not know how long it will be for. That is for others to decide.
I am scared, though surely not as scared as you were.
I am angry, perhaps not as angry as your wife.
I am hungry, though not starving like your son.
But I am hopeful, and that hope is sure to bring about peace as your wife nears the birth of your second child.
Anpudan,
Rosha
For Immediate Release
Contact: Sadena Thevarajah
Phone: 443-621-4231
Email: sthevarajah@pearlaction.org
Starving for Peace: Over 3000 Meals Fasted by Day 11 of International Hunger Strike
Washington, DC February 12, 2009 –Over 1,100 Americans and hundreds abroad joined eight students and young professionals on the eleventh day of their indefinite hunger strike today. Eight Americans are on a continuous fast, as they maintain their student and employment responsibilities, in support of civilians under attack in Sri Lanka.
Since January over 300 Tamil civilians have been killed by aerial bombing and shelling in Northern Sri Lanka, also known as Vanni. Last week the UN warned that the entire population in Vanni is facing a food crisis. Emilia Casella, a spokesperson for the World Food Program said 250,000 Tamil civilians depend completely on humanitarian aid from WFP, but the government has not given clearance for WFP aid convoys since Jan. 16.
Last week a hospital housing 500 patients was shelled nine times by the Sri Lankan government and completely destroyed on Saturday. Following this brazen attack on civilians, the Sri Lankan government attempted to justify its attack by stating that the hospital was a “legitimate target” because it was located outside of a “safe zone.” Human Rights Watch stated that the government’s statement “indicates an appalling disregard for the well-being of the civilian population and is contrary to international law.” According to reports from the conflict zone, this past weekend more than 180 Tamil civilians were killed inside “safe zones”.
They have already seen multiple successes with their campaign: eight Congressional offices have contacted the State Department or Ambassador Rice calling for immediate action. Last Tuesday, Secretary of State Clinton issued a statement declaring that now is the time to resume peace talks in Sri Lanka. The Chair of the Foreign Affairs Committee sent a letter to President Mahinda Rajapakse, urging him to allow aid in immediately. These actions have energized these eight Americans, strengthening their resolve.
Every meal they sacrifice represents 30 refugees trapped in the ravaged regions of Sri Lanka, and they fast continuously until the over 300,000 Tamil civilians who are under constant artillery and aerial onslaught are represented. Supporters can visit their “Starving for Peace” webpage at www.pearlaction.org/fast and pledge to sacrifice a meal to represent 30 refugees, sending a letter to inform their Congress members and reducing the amount of fasting for these eight Americans.
PEARL is asking the U.S. government to ensure that medical supplies, aid and journalists are allowed to enter the area of Sri Lanka where the civilians are currently trapped. PEARL also wants President Barack Obama to immediately appoint a special envoy to encourage all parties to work towards a sustainable political resolution.
More about ArtSeesDiner!
Mary Elizabeth, aka ME, is the dreamer of the wordweavers. For over fifteen years there has been a daily (well pretty darn close to daily) fascination with opening ArtSees Diner. A humanities center with coffee at the center of the gathering table. The coffee part is not original, nor is gathering around a table to share stories so as to connect, to ponder life and the complexity of such, but a humanities center, when blended with a special dose of generous spirit, the creation of another place, a home away from home. Now, these days that is a little original. I dreamed of mismatched couches, personalized cups brought from patron's homes, a special brew of coffee (I found the coffee after about ten years of searching on a sisterly cruise, called Raven's Brew ) and people to share their stories, music, their longings for life, with a gentle touch and a family of amazing "wordweavers".
It grew to become a place to learn, and triumph. To reach out to those who needed a special place to go to. I searched in Indianapolis. I looked into Carmel, Indiana. Pondered and roamed Lincoln Park, Chicago Illinois, (other areas in Chicago as well). Plainfield Illinois, Cold Spring New York, my hometown of Kankakee, Illinois, and finally found a place to plant the seed in...drum roll please! Michigan City, Indiana. Why Michigan City? Well, it has what I want...water, sand, trees, diversity, streets to walk down, a farmer's market, vintage homes. It has what a good number of places before it had and didn't have. It is a culmination of a few years searching.
Regrettably due to job changes, dramatic life changes, student loans, economy and a few other bumps along life's highway there isn't a "real" place to house ArtSees Diner, but rather there is a virtual diner. A "third place" that will hold a "reservation" in the world until such time that a "real" diner will be born.
So for now I have gathered together members of my family to spin a yarn or two in true Harold Lester Rapier fashion. (go here and search back to January and you too can read about the "ten wordweavers in a row" ) You see we are wordweavers, born from the love of the written word. There is no power more piercing, more rivoting than the written word, well except for the rapid wit wielded from the tip of a Rapier. Shakespeare knew of the power of the Rapier and the mighty influence as evidenced in Hamlet.
So please join ME and the rest of the wordweavers as we entertain you the reader. ArtSeesdiner is a project of ArtSees Productions , under the direction of ME, Mary E. LaLuna. Enjoy!
