Category Archives: nostalgia

Presence.

December 25, 2015contemplative essays, Deep Thoughts, grief, nostalgia, UncategorizedChristmas Eve, Christmas morning, gifts, memories of family Christmas, presentsruth ann scanzillo

In Christmases past, there were always two kinds of folks: the Eves, and the Mornings. We were, because mum was always up, Mornings. And, it didn’t matter how late we stayed awake the night before; my little brother and I were out of bed, and always before we’d had enough sleep.

I think it might’ve been class related. Rich people opened gifts in the evening, after a posh meal and a high Catholic mass. Poor people liked to savor the sight, one more night; presents, we called them, falling over each other under the tree, in just the light from the strands wrapped around it.

In families where the cousins and grandparents lived nearby, that extra evening gave everybody more time to finish wrapping and delivering. For us, it was always an extended family affair; we had more than one gift for siblings and parents, plus something both for and from every cousin who came from across the street and around the corner and as far away as Lawrence Park.

When we were toddlers, I don’t even remember eating breakfast first. It was all about the living room floor, in pajamas and housecoats. Dad, sitting in the corner of the davenport, eyes closed, robe and slippers on.

Union Bank had a Christmas Club. This was a means of saving meager earnings, all year, so the windfall on Christmas morning could make up for all the sacrifice – that sacrifice, of course, being the exclusive domain of mum, who never bought a single thing for herself, ever, and made all her own clothes and ours, too.

Making mum her special Christmas card was always a big deal. And, in later years, finding her that one outstanding present, just like she had for us – several small, but one big, climactic box which, from her, meant a completely tailored suit or dress – was always the challenge; and, as the years passed, meeting this one successfully became more difficult. From me, the electric potato peeler and portable shower rail were two stand outs; she never had to use the peeler, and died before the shower rail ever became necessary.

We always, as children, had a real tree, too. Mum’s arthritis kept on, though and, once we reached our late teens, green branches made of twisted wire and flexible plastic needles took their permanent place. Yet, like everything else valued by the children of the Great Depression, the glass ornaments and lights as big as your grandfather’s thumb and table candles and window wreaths were as carefully brought out as they always had been, after the trunk was firmly set in its screws in the steel stand.

Dad, raised in an orphanage, had no need for any of this. He already knew that just being in a warm house, having had a solid night’s sleep, his brood all around him, waiting for some hot oatmeal, was more than enough. But, eyes closed, he’d be listening to us, with a smile on his face.

Memories like these are what make the present hard. Living in The Now is overrated; take me back, any day, to what we had growing up. Nobody could have ever told us how it would be later, and we wouldn’t have wanted to know. The Bible says that the poor ye will always have with you; but, there used to be a day when even those who had little could enjoy the reward of being alive, like the baby Jesus. Our parents knew that secret, and this is what I miss. Christmas, my friends, used to be for everyone.

Turkey.

November 24, 2015classical music, classical musicians, contemplative essays, nostalgia, performance, social commentary, UncategorizedAmerican holidays, dinner, family, holidays, holidays alone, homecooked meals, professional musicians, Thanksgivingruth ann scanzillo

Musicians have a slightly different take on the holidays.

We are the not so silent, persistently present color in everybody else’s landscape. We are the string quartet for the Good Friday service, Christmas Eve Midnight Mass, Lenten Sundays; the background Sousa marches for Fireworks on the Bay on the 4th of July, the marching music in the Memorial Day Parade, the Labor Day Telethon; the New Year’s Eve party band. We are the ubiquitous celebrants. And, then we go home.

Don’t get me wrong. We love making music; we wouldn’t be there, if we didn’t. And, the 200 bucks we put in our pocket, if we plan it just right, will buy groceries for two, solid weeks.

But, there’s one holiday, every year, that puts us all to the test. On this day, we can’t hide behind a music stand. We can’t wear the right costume. We can’t play the right song. We have to face the sum total of our lives.

Yeah. It’s the feast in November. Every year, we scramble to do one of two things: 1.) Did we clean off the diningroom table? 2.) Did we reserve a seat at the local buffet?

I’ve been riding my merry go round for five decades. I think it’s harder when musicians actually have wonderful memories of this holiday. I’m one of them.

Our grandmother spent her adolescence as second maid to a wealthy Jewish family in the Poconos. She learned how to create a feast, alright – Pennsylvania Dutch-style. Stuffed turkey, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, peas, corn, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes. Home made gravy. Rutabega. Wilted lettuce, with bacon drippings (that, from the Danes). Apple pie. Cherry pie. Elderberry pie.

The oak table was massive, and round, but had a leaf to make it elliptical. And, we cousins with the aunts and uncles, proletariats all, we knew how to squeeze over 20 people into that room, plus a card table in the sewing room for the teens.

The same would be true of Christmas, adding the cousins from Parma. And, for that, the card tables would spread into the livingroom – a linen tablecloth, for each.

But, the Thanksgiving feast was the first and, without all the presents to open in the morning, this one was all about the food. We’d eat until our stomachs were distended, and all stay the day, too, making turkey sandwiches later with fresh lettuce and Miracle Whip.

I loved all my cousins. Each one was more distinct than the next. Mouths full of teeth, all stops out belly laughs. We were all full of ourselves, and we knew how to sell that fact. The boys were natural comics; the girls, ready audience. And, everybody had their story to tell. I don’t remember anybody listening to mine, but I soaked up everything coming at me. And, as each one got married, there’d be a curiously quiet spouse to add to the mix, usually twinkling with amusement at the whole lot of us.

Not sure when it was that I missed the boat. It was probably somewhere between the competitive marching band and mom’s death, followed by the divorce, and the private students, and then Carolyn Dillon’s retirement from fifth grade in the building where I taught music to the children all day. I inherited her after school drama club, and reveled in producing a fully staged, fully costumed, fully underscored musical together with as many as 60 kids and one parent every year thereafter for a decade. To an outsider, this was a fully realized life; to me, it was just what I did.

What I didn’t do was have a child. What I didn’t do was raise a family. What I didn’t do was convince any member of the one I already had that attending my concerts and other live performances would enrich their lives and cement a lasting relationship with me. I guess, like my mother before me who ended up always doing all the housework alone, I assumed they would all just naturally see the value in participating in my life. Lord knew, at the end of my day, preparing a complete meal for anybody but myself was out of the question.

Actually, I did prepare Thanksgiving meal one year. The year mum died. I made dinner for 18 of my family members, all by myself. The 25 lb. turkey; the long grain rice stuffing with dates and mushrooms and walnuts; the sweet potatoes with raisins and pineapple; the squash, in butter, with pepper. The peas, in basil. The tossed salad, with everything. And, baked Gala apples, with drizzled Brie, for everybody. I was never invited by the family after that, until the year my nephew was sick and they needed somebody to sit with the other children. The span of years between those meals was an embarrassing sixteen.

That feeling, somewhere between the heart and the thymus, that I get whenever I think about Thanksgiving now is also embarrassing. It’s an ache, similar to the one I used to feel after a break up with a boyfriend. That a fully fledged, reasonably attractive, post menopausal woman who still had all her teeth should have this feeling approaching the day when, ironically, every American is urged to take stock of all blessings and be thankful, is hard to admit. But, I feel lonely. And, I don’t enjoy any part of that realization. Not one bit.

Funny. Had I raised a family like most everyone else, there would be grandchildren to hold and cuddle this week. There would be lives to laud and honor, details of accomplishments, and travel itineraries, and photos, and mementos. I might be the matriarch at the head of my own table. I might be the one.

But, I wouldn’t have become a cellist and pianist, or even this amateur writer. I wouldn’t have developed the ability, at any given moment, to make – using my hands – something rapturously beautiful out of simple sound. Nor would I have had the energy to teach thousands of children and train several. I would not have brought to the table my gifts, because they would have lain fallow in the service of another purpose.

And, so, on Thursday of this week, the windows and doors will be flung open. The autumn sun will stream in. And, I will clean my house. I will have the whole, entire day, uninterrupted by expectation. Maybe even play somebody else’s music on the CD player, and sing along.

We are all born to something. Eat your turkey. Don’t you worry about me; I’m an artist. I’ll be just as thankful as anybody else.

littlebarefeetblog.com

J’aime PARIS.

Just another narrative…..because we feel.

In 1984, I flew off to Europe, alone. Scotland; London; then, across the channel on a hovercraft….to Paris. Ended up on the Metro, with way too much luggage, standing at the doors waiting for them to open at my stop, after four years of high school French NOT realizing the green button said: “Press to Open”…….

The train finally did stop…at the airport. A kind man with curly, raven hair rode all the way back down into the city with me, hailed me a Mercedes cab which took us past the Arch d’ Triumph and its biker gang holding court in front, getting me all the way to my hotel by 12:30 am – to find the doors barred. He must have paid somebody to let me in because those crisp white sheets never felt so good, nor that Perrier so worth the extra, luxury fee.

I was only in Paris for one night and one, solid day. Veronique met me, in the heart of the city the next morning. It was Sunday. We went to the hidden Gospel Hall in the narrow alley, then to a lavish, two hour Sunday dinner in the upstairs apartment of an elegant couple, who served cantalope wedges on a platter with tiny little spoons; au gratin casserole; thinly sliced roast beef, on a platter; and, a glazed peach tart for dessert accompanied by coffees in tiny, heirloom porcelain cups.

We grazed past the Louvre, which was closed (on Sunday), and found some souvenirs – an “I ❤ Paris” t- shirt and bumper sticker…..

The George Pompidou Centre was open – a Marc Chagall exhibit. The purpled punkers hung around, outside on the plaza, decorating the landscape.
We had very spare pizza, in a nearby cafe.

At dusk, the two of us went up to the roof of the Montparnasse, finding a young Belgian couple already there, he helping me to set the shutter speed so I could get a great night shot of the Eiffel Tower and the whole, illuminated cityscape.

Mum had given me the name of her French soldier pen pal before I left. She wanted me to look him up in the Parisian phone directories. I never found him.

Somebody on the news just said that flesh and blood have adhered to the walls of a building in that city, tonight. These feel like the end times, for the civilized earth. I wouldn’t doubt, tonight. I would not. This is why I told my brother I wanted to go to the country of our heritage with him in October. My niece said: “You can still go.” But, Mum never made it to France before she died. And, by this time, next year…..?

God bless all the children of the world. The crazed, the horrified, the unspeakably grieving. God, please bless Paris. ❤

littlebarefeetblog.com