The Philosophical Mother: On The Bright Side

Showing posts with label On The Bright Side. Show all posts

Gerry Di Gesu

ON THE BRIGHT SIDE:

Mighty Duck (October 2005)
Once Upon A Summer (September 2005)
Beach Day (July 2005)
The Fig Tree (June 2005)
Motorcycle Momma (May 2005)
The Someday Dress (April 2005)
It's Okay to Say 'No' (March 2005)
Silence (February 2005)
Christmas Card Wisdom (January 2005),
On the Bright Side (December 2004)
Thanksgiving (November 2004)
Renewal (October 2004)
Growing Season (September 2004)
The Last Day (August 2004),
Insecurities (July 2004)
Ode to My Family (June 2004)
We Did Our Best (May 2004)
Decision (April 2004)
Pie in the Sky (March 2004)
Sweet Reunion (February 2004)
Most of the Time (January 2004)
Christmas Confusion (December 2003)
Down Time With Nancy (November 2003)
Just Like Your Mother (October 2003)
Terror (September 2003)
Back-to-School Night (September 2003)
The Last Day (August 2003)
Buddies (July 2003)

Mighty Duck

Mighty Duck is flying in two directions as he always does. It’s not easy. I’ve tried it for ages and it just doesn’t work.

Years ago my husband’s friend presented him with a duck for our home on Cape Cod. This is a special species of duck, able to flap separate wings in opposite directions at the same time. I don’t understand the mechanics, but however the metal wings are attached to the gray and white wooden body. It allows the unique creature to fly in two directions at once.

My husband couldn’t wait to give the duck a home and wanted him to fly high atop a pole attached to the fence on our front lawn. Totally tacky, I protested. He wasn’t amused and consigned the poor bird to the garage for years.

This summer, however, I was surprised to see him (the duck) flying atop a small metal pole attached to the top of the arbor in our backyard. He flew valiantly in the every-present breeze, oblivious to the brilliant morning glories which danced on the arbor beneath him.

I pretty much ignored the bird’s flight until one cool morning this summer as I sat on the deck having a cup of coffee after breakfast. I was in a funk and having a hard time shaking it. The bright sunshine, flowers and birds at the feeder did not lift my mood. Then I saw the duck whirling away and started to laugh. I saw my life.

The poised duck awaits flight, brown-spotted wings lined up evenly. One wing starts spinning slowly while the other remains motionless. Then it stops and reverses. The pole moves slightly and both wings spin wildly in the breeze — in opposite directions. The pole shifts again; one wing slows to a stop as the other increases its speed. Slowly, it continues to travel in circles.

On rare occasions both wings will line up exactly and even start to spin in the same direction, but only for a few seconds. Sometimes both wings are tilted forward, other times both tilt backward. Which way am I going?

I live on Cape Cod; I live in New Jersey. Health is good; health is poor. Family is happy; family’s a disaster. Plans are made for a day, a week, a month. Then life intrudes and plans, hopes, and dreams are changed or set aside.

The longer I watch the duck flapping away, the harder I laugh. “Going in circles, which end is up, pulled in two directions” — how many more clichés describe my feathered friend and me?

I’ve often described much of my life as controlled chaos and although I laugh as often as I can, I don’t always think it’s funny. But my duck brilliantly reminds me that emotional ventures in many directions - travels throughout a lifetime - are a fate which I share with everyone.

Today — another funk. Having friends for dinner and I’ve lost the tablecloth. Can’t find it anywhere. How do you lose a tablecloth? I need a haircut and my toenail polish is chipped beyond repair. Really important problems.

Then my son calls to say a promised loan to expand his business is now in jeopardy. My daughter flies out of the house to drive a friend to Cape Cod Hospital to be with her child who has just attempted suicide. I learn a friend is scheduled for immediate cancer surgery.

Upset and despondent, I step onto the deck to search the sky for Mighty Duck. For I am sure that as he flies to far destinations, he will be able to provide balance, perspective and remind me once again that life will be okay.

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net.

Once Upon A Summer

I remember when it seemed only movie stars had swimming pools and there were no beach clubs or municipal pools. When we wanted to cool off, we ran through the sprinkler or attached the hose to the top of a stepladder, marveling at the rainbow as the sun shone through the spray.

Families owned one car and Dad took it to work every day. Mom could stay home and relax because kids couldn't ask, “Where are we going today?” They just played in their own neighborhood. Mothers didn’t have to work to make ends meet and kids didn’t need summer camp. No one had much money but no one seemed to mind either. We didn’t know we were missing any fun.

There were no summer sport leagues. The kids on the block got together after supper, played stickball in the street or marched around the corner to the school playground to play kickball or softball. No TV, video games or mopeds, but kick-the-can, hide-and-seek, tag and SPUD.

No one went to summer school for enrichment or make-up work. And somehow, we all learned, passed on to the next grade and managed to cope with growing up. When we were bored, we were expected to entertain ourselves and mom could say, “Get lost”, without feeling guilty.

A bike trip to the park was a big deal. Not on a ten-speed but on a Schwinn with balloon tires that made the ride an endurance test. The bike was safe, the lake clean and the fish living there grew larger every year.

Our homes didn’t have air conditioning so we all sat outside every night to cool off with some homemade lemonade and watched the stars and fireflies brighten our evening. Hot dogs, well-done over a homemade charcoal grill and a glass of root beer shared with friends under the grape arbor was a fancy barbecue.

We seemed to have more friends than neighbors. There were few fences but lots of holes in hedges to cut through to the next yard. When it was too hot to move, I would lie on the porch glider, watching the clouds and dream secret dreams. Or watch a spider spin his web and marvel at the scurrying ants carrying food to their families in the anthill, one crumb at a time.

We didn’t have to work at enjoying summer — we just did.

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Copyright 2005 – Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her collection of essays, “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl”, is available on the web from iUniverse.com and amazon and barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net

Beach Day

It had to be a good day. We were headed for my favorite spot, the beach, to spend the day with a friend and her family at their cottage. The omens were good: a cloudless sky, the air clear and cool and the Garden State Parkway surprisingly uncrowded.

Arriving early to cram as much activity into the day as possible, we quickly unloaded shovels, rafts, and everything else kids need for the beach. The first thing the boys did was upset the picnic cooler and dump our lunch — sand for the sandwiches. I could taste the salt on my lips and the warm sun soaked into my bones as we headed across the sand. The kids charged at the ocean and the week’s problems slipped away.

Fishing boats were anchored close to shore but more fishermen seemed occupied with eating or drinking since not too many were reeling in fish. Countless party and pleasure boats jockeyed for position in the shallow water. Kites competed with seagulls for airspace. Fierce dragon faces filled the sky and multicolored box kites, tails drifting behind them, danced overhead. A few homemade contraptions proudly soared closer to the sun than sleek kites made at home.

It was quiet on the beach. Hammered by noise all the time, it wasn’t until after I reached home that I realized how peaceful it had been loafing on the sand. Not one portable radio blared rock or the ball scores; no recorded music assailed us from the boardwalk. Nice sounds: waves crashing, kids squealing, folks laughing — people having fun.

A group of beach-blanket Romeos next to us displayed an amazing ability to change approach and tactics instantly as each girl passed by. Raised eyebrows, suppressed smiles, a cool stare — all seemed to elicit the same response from the parading beauties — disdain. One boy described a chunky, bikini-clad girl as having “MGTB” -- more guts than brains.

The ocean was gentle, warm and (I hope) clean. My kids shared my joy in the foaming, salty water. Frightened looks disappeared and clutching grasps loosened as they bounced over the waves. Soon they were laughing and splashing like pros. When a wave dumped them they surfaced, spitting sand and looking bewildered, but charged right back for more.

Tired and sunburned, my friend and I took a leisurely stroll back to her bungalow and reminisced about experiences shared through the years. Although we often don’t see each other for months, the sharing of joy, heartaches, hopes, and disappointments has cemented a lasting friendship. With a friend, time makes no difference. I reached out to give her a hug and “thanks for the great day” but drew back, remembering she is not a toucher. Her wink and smile told me she shared the same feelings.

Once we showered it was time to head for home. Three wilted kids battled for awhile but a change in seating quieted everyone. They were too tired to fight. Approaching the Raritan River Bridge, my eyes smarted and my throat tightened as the haze and pollution from the factories along the river seeped into the car. It always angers me, riding over that bridge and being exposed to such a mess. But then a thought came to me: hey, maybe someday we might clean up this pollution. And you know, I believed it. It was that kind of day.

1980

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com and iUniverse.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net.

The Fig Tree

I yanked and tore at the large weed which would not let go of its hold in the earth. Finally, I got it half way out, but it was stubborn and I was exhausted from the struggle and quit trying.

My father had died two weeks earlier. It was the first week of November and I was clearing out his beloved backyard garden. I thought about leaving the dead plants and unharvested, rotting vegetables until spring, but ached each time I saw the wasted plants. My mom must have felt the same because she asked if I could find time to clean up the garden. She couldn’t bear the constant reminder of dad each time she looked out her kitchen window.

“Oh, Lord, what happened to Daddy’s fig tree? It looks as if the frost has heaved it out of the ground.”

Mom had come out of the house to check on my progress. She gently touched the “weed” I had been struggling to pull out a few minutes earlier. A sick feeling in my stomach pushed into my throat as I knelt beside the plant. I hadn’t known. It looked like a weed. Dad’s friend had given it to him two years ago and my father had nursed it and checked its progress daily because he wanted a fig tree the same as his father had when Dad was a boy growing up. It had grown only a few inches but had produced some leaves with the promise of more growth. “Wait till next year,” he would laugh when we teased him.

“The kids were probably digging out here, Mom,” I choked. Never could I tell her how I had struggled to pull it out. The dirt around it was loose, so I patted it back around the exposed roots. “We’ll see how it is in the spring.” I took mom inside for a cup of tea. Sick and guilty, I couldn’t continue my work. I never finished the garden that fall. Through the winter, every time I visited Mom, my eyes were drawn to that solitary stick in the middle of the garden. Unspoken guilt and shame engulfed me since I knew it was dead.

In May, I returned to the garden which was now overrun with weeds. At least they hid the tree from view. Mom had sold her home and was moving in another month. I couldn’t leave the mess for the new owners. Dad would want his plot to look neat and well kept. Furiously, I ripped and tugged at the strong, healthy weeds. Although the sun shone brightly, I felt as cold as stone. I was saying goodbye to my dad, my yard, my childhood.

I reached to pull out the last row of brush and stopped. In front of me stood the fig tree. The tiny stick was covered with leaves and new shoots reached up from the ground. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stroked the leaves. One word sprang into my mind — resurrection. Dad was here with me in his garden. God had given new life to this stick I had yanked from the ground and left for dead last winter. The core of bitterness inside me slowly dissolved and was replaced by a warm feeling of acceptance and hope.

I dug out the tree and carefully wrapped it in burlap to transplant it into my garden. That was almost thirty years ago. Today, I picked the first fig of the season and knew Dad was with me as I savored the sweetness of the fruit.

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net.

Motorcycle Momma

I stare at the yellowed newspaper photo in front of me: Newark, NJ Star Ledger, Tuesday, October 3, 1933: “Women ride with Newark Motorcycle Club Corps”. And there’s my mother in the front row, hand raised holding what looks like a beer stein. There are four other women in the photo and about fifteen young men. She is twenty-one and smiling broadly.

I wish I had known the person my mom was then, but I had little interest in her stories, being self-absorbed in my own life and problems. Only now do I realize how important it is to appreciate our parents and their backgrounds, for only then can we truly understand them and in turn often understand ourselves. The woman I knew was not the happy young girl in these pictures.

I sort through the collection of snapshots of her motorcycling days -- pictures of a happy woman, smiling in every picture. Not the woman I knew later on who seemed sad, distracted, and wistful. She sits proudly on her huge cycle which I sure hope was a Harley. She’s dressed in a uniform of jodhpurs, knee-high leather boots, and a long-sleeved shirt featuring a large emblem which resembles the Harley-Davidson insignia. A jaunty beret is perched on her head. Who is this woman?

Her club traveled from Newark to rural Pennsylvania on warm Friday nights to compete in various locally sponsored races. Many of them involved “dirt-climbing” huge hills and racing on a circular dirt track. Everyone slept in the big barn on the farm where the races were held each weekend, sharing meals with the farmer’s family.

How and when did my mom become a member of a motorcycle club? It didn’t make sense. The oldest of four children, she was responsible for providing for her family since her dad was a deadbeat who rarely paid his bills, forcing the family to move in the middle of the night for endless years. She left school before eighth grade to help support the family. Where did she get the money to buy a motorcycle? And how did this self-professed “mousy, shy, and insecure” woman evolve into a person with enough confidence to ride and race a motorcycle and spend weekends with a group of men?

My mother was bitter that my dad’s four sisters never accepted her into their family. He had been married and divorced, so by marrying my mom he was ex-communicated from the Catholic Church. They never let her forget it. There was always an underlying sadness in her face, a longing for a “little more” as she said -- More income and a better job for my father who was soft-spoken, reserved, and not aggressive; more socialization with neighbors who didn’t include my parents in their plans and projects; more time away from my dad’s family whom we visited every weekend.

I remember wonderful trips to Newark to shop for Easter outfits and Christmas gifts with my mom. We traveled by bus from our suburban town and shared a special lunch in Bamberger’s, a great adventure I looked forward to each year. Mrs. Adams, a gentle and beautiful Scottish friend, provided marvelous English tea parties. But other than that, I can’t remember other special shared times or interests.

My brother is two years younger than me but since he wasn’t interested in sports at all, I became my dad’s buddy. I spent endless hours with him every weekend at softball and baseball games and we went to the movies every Friday night -- the highlight of my week. I didn’t want to be like my mom -- saying yes to a husband all the time or doing housework and food shopping and raising kids was not my idea of fun. I was going to be a famous journalist.

Years flew by. I married, had children and returned to work while mom helped me out tremendously by caring for my children. As a wife and mother, I started to empathize with the life she had led. I had wanted to be a writer and wondered what her dreams had been. But I never discovered what they were. We didn’t talk about things like that. After my dad died, she lived alone in our family home for three years and then bought a condo in a senior citizen complex. She became another person, only I was still too busy with my life to realize it.

Six years later she was diagnosed with cancer and died within the year. The number of friends who came to pay their respects at the funeral was amazing. Everyone praised her beauty and warm and caring attitude. These were friends she had found after she moved. They had shared picnics, dinners, countless bus rides, and endless laughter.

Cleaning out her apartment was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I was angry at God for taking her just as her life had become what she had always hoped it would be. As I sorted her clothes, I was amazed to see my mom for the first time in years. Bland gray, beige, and black outfits had disappeared. The closet over-flowed with bright pink, green, and flowered and striped ensembles. Shoes to match cluttered the floor. Her jewelry box was stuffed with chunky bracelets, flowered pins, pearls and bright summer necklaces.

Towels in vivid hues of red, white, and orange hung in the bathroom, replacing the utilitarian white she’d used for forty years. A plant-stand jumbled with plants nestled in the corner; black and white prints covered the walls. As I walked into her living room I was amazed to see the same vivid colors and patterns jump out at me. My mom had transformed into a beautiful butterfly in her last years and I had hardly noticed.

I feel sad that I never really knew my mother and was unable to provide her with a happier and more satisfying life. But the smiling images of her on her motorcycle and a vision of her in a bright salmon pantsuit boarding a bus with her friends for a week-long vacation fill me with joy. I find comfort in knowing that at least as a young woman and near the end of her life, my mom seemed happy and content.

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net

The Someday Dress

I bought a dress last spring that I didn’t need for any reason other than I loved it.

That’s not something I usually do. Rather, I tend to wear the same clothes over and over and buy something new only when I really need it.

But this dress called to me. It was red, slightly ruffled and frilly, with an almost indistinct pattern of white leaves running through the delicate material. Best of all it was two pieces: a long skirt which covered droopy thighs and varicose veins and an over-blouse which camouflaged my mid-section bulges. Perfect.

I christened it my “someday” dress and knew I’d wear it for a special occasion one day in the distant future.

Now the future is here. The first week in May my husband and I are going to New Orleans to attend the wedding of his nephew and we’ll have great fun. The best part is that he’s getting married on the same day we’ll celebrate our forty-fifth wedding anniversary. I realize most of you who are reading this probably haven’t even reached the age of forty-five so the thought of being married that long is probably beyond comprehension! But it’s true.

And that’s really the special occasion. The wedding will be wonderful but the fact that we’re still together after forty-five years is the true celebration. It hasn’t been easy and there were many times I wanted to walk away. But when you love you keep on trying; that’s what marriage is – you keep on trying, especially on the bad days, because you want it to work.

We married young, he twenty-three and I twenty-one. We brought our hopes and dreams and insecurities and quirks into a relationship when neither of us had yet had time to mature and find out who we were or what we wanted from life. So off we went on a tumultuous journey of discovery together. And our life evolved. We grew up together, slowly but surely over the years. Compromise emerged as an integral part of our lives.

We had the same problems many couples face: infertility, adoption, job losses, a special needs child, chronic illness and all the demands of raising three children and caring for terminally ill parents. It was a wild ride because these two emotional, stubborn, and often volatile Italians did not usually agree on much of anything. He, the perfectionist who tended toward pessimism and I, the “it’s good enough” optimist were usually at opposite ends of the spectrum. I tease that our relationship is still in the period of adjustment and will remain so until the day we die.

There’s an ease between us now that didn’t exist before. Once our three children were off on their own (although you never stop loving or worrying about them) the tempo in our home became more peaceful in many ways. Leaving the stress of work behind when I retired eight years ago, I was able to relax and finally fill my days with activities I’ve dreamed of pursuing for a lifetime. I’ve stopped nagging and he’s less critical. He laughs more easily and more often and I don’t try to convince him my way is the right way anymore. He’s retired but works full time; I’m retired and love the choice of getting up each morning deciding how to spend my day. He gives me space and I follow along to Home Depot without protest.

The other night I was thinking about all this, wondering how we finally attained this ease and comfort level with each other. Then I remembered his one constant criticism over the years - “stop analyzing everything, especially me” – and I started to laugh. Let it be. I’ll just say a big thank you that our marriage has evolved into something this marvelous without trying to figure it out. With faith and hard work, it comes.

I went shopping today and found the jazziest pair of shoes to wear for the wedding, a perfect match for my “someday” dress. I can’t wait for our anniversary in May, to revel in the festivities of the wedding, and to appreciate again all the hard work we’ve done through the years in order to make it. So – strike up the band and let’s hear that music and start to celebrate. At last it’s time to dance.

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net.

It's Okay to Say 'No'

The suggested topic for this month's issue was “Spring Break,” so I want to implore harried moms to try and take a break from guilt -- the guilt of not being the perfect wife/mom/professional. This is an impossible goal. Forget being the perfect mom – she doesn’t exist.

Just before I started to write this, I picked up my mail and the Newsweek cover story this week is The Myth of the Perfect Mother, including two articles – “Mommy Madness” and “The Good Enough Mother”. I was delighted to see this call being taken up on a national level with the hope perhaps a generation of young mothers can finally start to enjoy their children.

I’m the grandma in this group of young moms (and one dad) who write monthly for The Philosophical Mother so of course it’s easy to give advice. And I know that when I was raising my three children who are now in their thirties was easier and less demanding in many ways. But it still wasn’t easy to juggle work and motherhood. I didn’t have a “career” as many young women do today. I had a job as a secretary in our school system which suited me just fine since I wasn’t the career-girl type and worked to help pay our bills. A seven-hour workday was fine with me since I had no professional ladder to climb.

But I still felt guilty not being available for my kids. There were the usual disruptions, tantrums and illnesses. My kids were often strong-willed, stubborn, and defiant and experienced the same insecurities, heartaches and disappointments that children share today. With one special needs child, consistency and routine were totally lacking in our home. I often described my life as controlled chaos -- not much different from the way young moms feel today.

I hear major differences now, though, reflected in the comments of young mothers I know, parents who appear in the TV series Super Nanny (which I watch to learn how to be a better grandma) and in countless articles in newspapers and magazines. Young parents often make the entire focus of their lives their children and their perceived needs. It’s what society expects. They seem to feel they must always put their child’s wishes before their own when often their kids’ requests are frivolous, selfish or unjustified. They constantly keep their children amused and entertained and strongly resist the role of the “heavy” in the family, providing instruction, direction and punishment when it’s called for because they want to be a friend. But parents have to be parents before they can be a friend to their children.

We don’t do our kids a favor by giving in to their wishes all the time. This attitude will only provide us with a generation who expects instant gratification without the realization that you have to share, cooperate, and work for what you want and that life is full of disappointments and often despair. I always wonder what the effect will be on a generation of children who always come first in their families. When they are adults, who gets in line in second place?

I’m sure many times I seemed harsh and strict with my children but they’ve survived. Surprisingly, they’ve thanked me and my husband for the way they were brought up and are raising their families with basically the same values and expectations. My kids were not raised in a democracy. We listened to and respected their wishes and desires whenever possible, but we were the parents and made the decisions according to the family’s needs. All children need limits and direction, not the ability to dictate to their parents and decide the way a household will be run. Limits enable them to feel safe and loved. Where else will they learn how to compromise and share, important qualities in a healthy society?

To raise a family in today’s society can be difficult, frustrating, often numbing and full of heartache. But it can also be one of the most rewarding and enriching experiences in a lifetime. My hope is that young parents will find a way to start to say "No" to their children and "Yes" to their own needs in a positive way without feeling guilty.

Sometimes it seems as if takes forever for children to respond to new modes of discipline but it does happen one day. That’s the day young parents will start to enjoy their families.

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl – is available on the web from iUniverse.com or barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net.

Silence

I love silence. Fortunately, because I’m retired and can pretty much choose how to spend my days, I enjoy most of my time surrounded by – nothing. Most friends and family find it difficult to understand how I can go through an entire day without watching television, listening to the radio or being connected to a cell phone, but it’s easy.

I read the daily paper and Newsweek, check the news headlines when I turn on the computer each morning and watch Peter Jennings for thirty minutes to give me all the news I want to hear. The New York news stations that I listen to, like those in most major cities, feature murder, rape, and local disasters, and problems. I can’t do anything to control or help these sad situations, so why should I let them into my psyche to disrupt a peaceful attitude?

My husband turns on the radio to listen to the news each morning as soon as he gets up, continues when he comes home from work, and catches up right before he goes to bed. And he is constantly aggravated by the state of the world. He says that I stick my head in the sand by not “being informed”. I say that I keep my sanity, and enjoy life.

I have a cell phone that I keep with me when I go out to use for emergencies, but it’s never turned on. I figure if someone needs to reach me they’ll leave a message on my home phone and when I check in during the day I can return their call if it’s necessary. Otherwise, I don’t need to be interrupted as I shop, browse through the library, or take a walk. I don’t have call-waiting on my home phone because I find it annoying and intrusive. If someone wants to get in touch with me, they’ll call back after getting a busy signal. I use the internet and e-mail friends daily but find no need for instant messages.

Sometimes, I turn on the radio at home or in the car to listen to music or some favorite CDs, but that’s not very often. I just like it quiet. Ever since I was a kid I enjoyed being alone. Alone is not lonely. I love people, enjoy having company or a lovely chat on the telephone with a friend. And I look forward to an evening out at a restaurant, theater, or movie. I’m not anti-social, just selective about the noise I let into my life.

Because I’m a writer, serene hours allow me to sort out ideas and feelings regarding essays, poems, and future projects. A lot of times my brain processes random thoughts that seemingly make no sense, but I don’t think that’s so bad either. It’s much better than the craziness I used to feel in my head and soul as the mother of three juggling work, family, and the care of parents. Quiet time allows introspection, the continuing search for self and conversations with God. Answers and direction often appear when I least expect them.

When I ride in the car with my husband the radio is never off. When he’s home either the radio or TV is on and I’m always asking him to please “turn it down”. He thinks I’m a pain; I’m sure I am. After all, this is the real life of noise, negativity, intrusive commercials, violence and the constant reminder that our world is no longer a safe place. Who needs it?

I just don’t see how being connected every waking minute truly helps us. Communication is faster and more innovative on a daily basis, but is that always a benefit? More people complain about feeling rushed and harried, dissatisfied and unhappy with their lives and having less time for their families or themselves. How does “accessibility” and the constant striving for speed in communication truly add to the quality of our personal lives?

There is an endless stream of articles on how to communicate in women’s magazines, on the internet, and in bookstores packed with self-help books. But when do we take the time to truly listen to each other? In our super-speed technological age everyone has instant access through the wizardry of electronics. Men and women can talk to each other within seconds. But how many are sadly still stuck in stereotypical roles within our society and don’t know what to say?

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net.

Christmas Card Wisdom

I haven’t made any New Year’s resolutions for a long time because I get aggravated when I don’t follow through and annoyed at my own laziness. For the last few years, though, I’ve found guidelines and a solid foundation for my new year by sorting through my Christmas cards.

As someone who tends to moan and groan over insignificant problems, I always need the perspective of someone else’s life and difficulties in order to see my own in a clearer light. There’s a huge stack of cards from friends and family, many of which remind me that through this past year they’ve faced severe illness, divorce, heartbreak, and the death of loved ones. Some are starting new lives alone, fearful of what the new year brings. I’m busy complaining about stupid things like dirt tracked through the house, not feeling up to par, or being bored. Then I remember that I’m right where I’m supposed to be according to God’s plan and that it’s time to practice what I preach.

Many of the cards from friends tell me how much they enjoyed my first book of essays which was published this year. Even better, they’ve shared the book with neighbors, friends, and family members who also had kind comments. Especially now, when I haven’t had a creative idea in many weeks, this affirmation lets me know that my words are touching others and that the muses will return when they’re ready.

Cards from former co-workers give me jolt. I still see many of them and we remain friends, but I remember that I used to give advice to everyone, often requested, sometimes not and I am ashamed at my own arrogance. My husband used to call me “Joyce Brothers of the telephone” – not always kindly and I used to get mad at him. Only now that I’ve been retired for seven years and can see how much I’ve grown, learned, and changed do I realize that my ego and need for approval were often what drove me. But at least I’m learning.

I hold the cards from my adult children and start to laugh because I think I’m finally starting to let go. For years I thought I accepted their decisions on how to live their lives with their families, but of course had not, always wanting to suggest that this idea or that one might provide a better solution to a problem. But recently I noticed that even when the three of them were experiencing craziness and hardships in their lives at the same time I was still going to sleep at night just fine. My husband gets annoyed when I use “whatever” as the answer when asked about their problems. But is there another answer? They make their decisions and have to live with them. All my husband and I can do is let them know we’re always there when they need us.

Some friends and relatives are more than twenty years older than my sixty-five, and many have much more energy and ambition than I do which makes me feel ashamed. They’re out volunteering, enjoying a stroll every day with their walkers’ groups, going on vacations to exotic locales, and enjoying life tremendously. I have to get off my backside and be and do this year. Life is short and I have to stop talking about what I’m going to do “someday”.

The most poignant card came from my cousin who is in her late eighties. We don’t keep in touch the rest of the year and I call her infrequently. She’s been widowed for many years and was always an active and vital person, accepting what life brought her, which was often impossible heartache. This is what she wrote in her card: “I’m fine and now a resident in a nursing home in Pennsylvania. It’s very nice and they are good to me. I had to give up keeping house and cooking for myself. Old age finally caught up with me but I don’t mind. Life is easier here.”

I know she is accepting and satisfied with her life because that’s who she is. My wish is to have the same acceptance.

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

On the Bright Side

I was thinking about the upcoming holiday season and it didn’t make me happy. Last year I remember feeling at loose ends and unfocused on New Year’s Day. Many of us suffer from post-holiday letdown; everyone seems to get sick and we seem unable to shake off whatever bug has invaded our system. It's a downer.

My holidays were peaceful, happy and uncomplicated but I felt no joy. At first I thought it was me, but people I talked to, including teenagers, seniors and folks in-between seemed to share the same feeling. Not particularly rushed or harried -- but empty, a void, ennui hard to shake off. The holidays seemed to be a big chore to get through, another job done. A sad commentary on a festive season.

I’ve come to the conclusion that part of this feeling comes from possessing too many “things”. We suffer from the poverty of plenty. Christmas presents often only add to a surplus of already unused or under-utilized items cluttering our lives. I realize there are those who don’t have enough income to meet even the basic costs of food, shelter and clothing. But many of us are able to buy whatever we want. The problem is, things don’t seem to make us happy; otherwise why do we always want more?

Someone will always have more expensive jewelry, a bigger home, a larger income, two new cars, smarter kids or a connection enabling them to get the promotion we deserve. Why can’t we ever be happy with who we are and where we are?

So my wish for you this holiday season is for less. Especially paying less attention to undefined “shoulds” and “what they say” and listening to your own inner needs and desires for a change. Less racing around on roads which become more congested by the day. What’s the rush? Instead of hunching over the wheel, blasting the horn and swearing, sit back and relax. You’ll get there just as fast and without a headache.

If you’re tired after coaching Little League for years, had enough of being a Brownie leader, of volunteering at your child’s school or have given all the time you can or want to give to an organization just say – “Sorry I’m tired”. To kids who often make unreasonable and selfish demands on your time or pocketbook it’s okay to say, “Not today; I have something I want to do”. They’ll survive and hopefully learn the give-and-take necessary in a healthy family and society.

My fondest wish is for less television in our lives including the nightmare we call MTV, video games, and sexual and violent films. The media message of hype, noise and competition assaults our senses and sensibilities, insidiously working its way into the core of our being. And we wonder why we’re always running, hyper or hostile. Maybe because it’s expected and accepted?

And for this Christmas season - select fewer gifts for folks on your list, perhaps just one, even for family members. But a gift you’ve selected with love and care, not a check-off item on a list. Less to eat and drink. Less holiday hassle by celebrating the way you want to, not the way they say it should be done, whomever your particular “they” may be.

Try less this year. It gives you more of a chance to be you.

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Copyright 2004 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at gerrycapecod.net@att.net.

Thanksgiving

Serendipity: “The gift of finding valuable things not sought for.” One of my favorite words reminds me again that there can be a pleasant surprise or positive aspect to almost every situation if we look hard enough. Perhaps it’s been an entire year you’d like to forget, but Thanksgiving is the time to poke around for positives. You might be surprised at what you find.

Our kids often drive us crazy. We always seem to be driving them somewhere, waiting for appointments, hurrying to speed them on their way to becoming adults. Why not say thanks to those who help them through the maze of childhood and adolescence: Scout leaders who spend hours planning meetings, special events and camping trips. Religious education teachers who volunteer their time to help our kids become caring, concerned people. Coaches who help them realize their potential in athletics and instill a sense of sportsmanship and camaraderie.

I’m fortunate to have a job I enjoy, a boss with integrity who treats me with consideration and kindness and co-workers it’s a pleasure to greet each morning. We disagree at times and get on each other’s nerves, but I think I’m lucky. One co-worker talks incessantly, but the guy at the next desk brings me coffee each day. That’s the way it goes.

I have friends and neighbors who are always there when I need them. They collect packages from the UPS driver, bring in the garbage cans twice a week or drive me fifteen miles to pick up my husband’s set of keys at work after I lock myself out of the house. It’s a glorious feeling to know I can pick up the phone and receive help immediately. I’m spoiled for there aren’t too many neighborhoods like mine any more.

Thanks to the priests who lead my church community in the search for peaceful solutions to the problems of mankind. Their job isn’t an easy one -- to keep perspective while not losing their smile, to console others when they may be hurting more, to inspire faith when theirs may be lagging. Then comes the joy of mass, baptism, communion or confirmation and my faith is re-affirmed again.

Thanks to my three kids for putting up with my ever-changing moods. I tell them "all geniuses are moody" and they just laugh. To a daughter who patiently keeps trying to help me look “jazzy”. To three super kids who leave books, sneakers, and socks strewn around the first floor all week but help me vacuum and dust each Saturday. For two sons who cleaned up the house and prepared a tasty Italian meal for us after their dad and I returned from a long weekend. They tell me I look pretty as I leave for a wedding reception. They encourage my writing and leave me alone when I want solitude. They hug me every day.

Most of all this holiday, I’m thankful for my husband. We’ve been married a long time and will always be in the process of “adjusting”. He’s a man who does the grocery shopping, laundry, and cooking. He's a considerate man who sorts out the mess I’ve made of our checkbook and takes time to prepare a huge antipasto for a friend’s surprise birthday dinner. He’s a gentle man who can always fix the barrette in Nancy’s hair or tie the bow in her dress -- better than I can.

He still gets a hug and “good night dad” from teenage sons even after bellowing at them over dinner because they know how much he cares. He’s a man who surprises me with a bowl of flowers and a lovely note on the kitchen table after a stormy argument. I am blessed. So are you. Look around.

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Gerry is a retired school secretary who divides her time between homes in New Jersey and Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Her essays and poem have appeared in the New York Times, Catholic Digest, Cape Women magazine and a variety of publications and anthologies. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available from iUniverse, Amazon, Barnes and Noble.com and at your local bookstore. E-mail gerry at gerrycapecod.net@att.net.

Renewal

I sit on my back steps with a sandwich for lunch and inhale the beautiful day that surrounds me. Blue jays squawk and splash at the birdbath; squirrels chase each other in endless circles around the base of the maple tree. A fragile Monarch butterfly floats across the yard. Yellowing leaves from the birch tree brush by my face and land next to me, announcing that fall is near.

This fresh coolness is a respite from endless humid, polluted air which has choked and immobilized us. September is always the beginning of a new year for me and this day is an affirmation of my feeling of renewal. I feel refreshed after summer vacation, ready to meet the challenges of my “new” year. My family is out fishing, squeezing in a final day of fun before the colder weather arrives. Soon they’ll return and the hum and rhythm of my life will pick up again. I don’t feel guilty sitting here; I realize the need to enjoy such a special time and say “thanks, God” for making it possible.

Patches of brown lawn have turned green again after constant watering and care. Bright yellow mums planted last week reach to the sun and fill the yard with their glow. Impatiens are bushier, their petals a rich salmon color. Bushes that drooped all summer now stand erect. The plants want a second chance, a final opportunity to strut their colors. “We’re still vibrant; you haven’t seen us at our best yet!”

Beyond the trees the noise of the Parkway traffic vibrates through the clear air and a new office building under construction at the edge of the cemetery abutting our property insults me. Its stark facade is an intruder against the soft green silhouette of the trees in my yard. I remember when I could look out my kitchen window and see only green. Now a new warehouse creeps closer to me, its monolithic presence choking my privacy as each new stage is added to the construction. I’d like to be able to flee to a place where no huge buildings intrude, yet I know this is where I must make my home. My husband’s job and the best educational opportunities for my children are here.

I block out the vision of tall buildings and the roar of traffic and focus on the soft sunlight filtering through the leaves onto baskets of ferns hanging on the fence. This yard is my oasis. I come here to seek peace during times of stress and fatigue and to be renewed and strengthened by the timelessness of nature’s kaleidoscope of changing colors and patterns.

We cannot run. We need to find our refuge whether relaxing with a book in a favorite chair, a shared cup of tea with a friend at the kitchen table, standing at the workbench in the cellar, or harvesting the last crops from the garden. Then we can carry peace and renewal within our hearts as we face each day.

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Copyright 2004 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry Di Gesu is a retired school secretary who divides her time between homes in New Jersey and Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Her essays and poems have appeared in the New York Times, Catholic Digest, Cape Women magazine and a variety of publications, journals and anthologies. She has recently published a collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – which is available from iUniverse, amazon or barnes and noble.com. E-mail Gerry at gerrycapecod.net@att.net.

Growing Season

Ever since she started junior high school, there were many times when my daughter Nancy just didn’t make sense. She was a wonderful kid in every way. Attractive and bubbly, she had lots of friends, participated in school sports, and achieved the highest rank in Girl Scouts. A good reliable kid, she babysat and did odd jobs in the neighborhood to earn spending money.

Yet she experienced severe mood swings and would go from being her cheery self to a brooding, nasty adolescent in a short time. I blamed hormones and knew all teens experienced some of this behavior, but her reactions seemed extreme.

A marvelous athlete and honor roll student, she would start projects enthusiastically and then not complete them. A gifted artist, she scattered her art supplies all over the basement leaving a few wonderful and half-completed watercolors on the work table. Her dad wanted her to “shape up and get her act together” but I knew it was more than that. But I didn’t know what “it” was. She was hurting inside but I couldn’t tell why. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so protective, maybe I should have made her “shape up” – but how? I didn’t know how to help her.

The mood swings became worse. Early in her senior year of high school I dragged her to see a psychologist. He immediately recommended a psychiatrist who could give her medication for what he diagnosed as “chronic, severe depression”. “I’m not taking any damm pills,” she cried. “I’m strong. I’ll get better by myself.” She started medication and suffered severe reactions to the first three prescriptions. It took endless and hurtful months to find one that would help her.

That was twelve years ago. Serious depression has remained her constant companion. She lived in New Jersey and on Cape Cod at various intervals, trying to find her way. She has traveled a long, difficult and painful road. Years of different therapists, a variety of pills, sadness, and despair. Only her inner toughness and faith helped her to keep going. Last year she found the right therapist and medication and now she has a wonderful sense of self.

God has been kind and Nancy is ready to soar. Finally free from the effects of various medications, her mind is clear and open to a new world. She is vibrantly alive when she returns from an evening college course, grinning and chattering endlessly about her classes and the joys of learning. For the first time in her life she realizes she is a bright and gifted woman and the world is hers. Now engaged to be married to a wonderful man, she knows how much she is loved.

Her gift to me is love and perspective. I always knew the love was there but her perspective and insight into who I am and where I am in life right now is amazing. As she said, “Gee ma, sometimes I feel like you’re my kid”. That’s not a good place for a child to be. At my own crossroads in life, she has been able to shake the cobwebs, resentment, and anger out of my brain, heart, and soul and fill it with love and knowledge gained from years of her own struggle.

Yesterday, I walked through our garden and felt sad that another season had passed. Nancy is the major gardener in the family and I saw her everywhere. In pots of herbs she had grown from seed and proudly incorporated into her cooking through the summer. In the yellow and green rotting tomatoes which had fallen on the ground, hidden beneath the foliage and now a snack for squirrels and raccoons. She had planted the tomatoes from seed in early spring and nurtured them as she would a child. Her perennials – a wide variety of flowering plants and bushes, roses and Black-Eyed Susans smiled in the late afternoon sun.

On the hill behind the deck she had planted a variety of ground-covers, some with bright purple flowers, some red, others covered with tiny white stars. They are now creeping across the walk, still in full bloom, reaching for the freedom of the woods and bog beyond. As she is now ready to reach for freedom and new life.

Her signature favorite sunflowers have almost all wilted. A few of the plants have been uprooted by the wind. But today I picked two that were left on the stalks – one a Van Gogh yellow, the other a glorious orange. Now they rest in a cobalt mug on my kitchen windowsill, testimony of the joy that is now part of Nancy – the joy she is ready to share with the rest of the world.

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Copyright 2004 – Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry Di Gesu is a retired school secretary who divides her time between homes in Union, NJ and Cape Cod, MA. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including the New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women magazine. She recently published her first book of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl”. The essays celebrate the essence, power and magic of ordinary people and events made extraordinary and provide readers of all ages with a sense of acceptance and new perspective into their own lives. It is available at local bookstores or by ordering through iUniverse, Amazon or Barnes and Noble.com.

The Last Day

On this last day of vacation, I wanted to spend time at one of my favorite spots — Mill Pond in Brewster on Cape Cod. My two teenage sons protested vehemently. One envisioned a final day of stalking females, the other, roused from sleep under great protest, proclaimed he wanted to soak up the sun and listen to music. City boys — not attuned to “bugs and all that nature stuff you like, Ma”. But, good mother than I am, I insisted we spend this day as a family. Only Nancy, 10, was happy. A spider spinning a web fascinates her, too.

Once there the kids disappeared. My husband Rod and I walked past the mill, and the atmosphere immediately changed the tempo of our day. Shifting light and shadow, birds calling to each other, fish splashing to the surface in search of a fat bug — we entered another world.

Soon Rod was deep in conversation with a young teen from Minnesota vacationing with his family who fished daily from their ancient fishing boat. His knowledge of salt and fresh water fishing techniques was exceptional. I felt sorry for my husband as he listened to the boy relate his feelings of boredom over the large number of bluefish and striped bass he had landed in Wellfleet Harbor. After many years of trying, Rod is still trying to catch his first “keeper” striper. We had debated returning to the Cape next year for vacation but now I was sure we would be back. He knew where the fish were and how to catch them.

I sat down on a stone wall to inhale my surroundings. Pale sunshine filtered through cobwebs, spotlighting captive insects, twisted leaves and a few gull feathers caught in the spider’s trap. Lily pads bursting with delicate white flowers moved gently in the water. Tangled vines hung from branches around me and provided a refuge where I could be totally alone.

Schools of small herring circled the pond as if on a merry-go-round. Their parents seemed to be herding the youngsters faster and faster and reminded me of cowboys rounding up cattle. Groups of young fish were forced over the spillway and started downstream on their trip to the sea where they would live until returning to this pond in a few years.

A catfish and is sister — prehistoric looking fish with evil eyes, whiskers and a nasty look — surfaced to trap some herring in the weeds next to me and snatch them up for lunch. A water bug, his body set high on long legs skimmed the surface of the pond, imagining himself a hydrofoil. Beetles skittered around in circles like a child’s wind-up toy. Next to me a spotted bug splashed down onto the surface, a seaplane making an abrupt landing.

Bass, sunnies, pickerel and perch swam in harmony. Two eels oozed from beneath a patch of weeds, gliding toward the opposite bank. My skin prickled as I watched a water snake slither across the mirrored surface.

I heard a rustle behind me and discovered Chris, my heavy-metal fan, groping in the water for a large mussel to use for bait. “Hey look,” he yelled. “There’s a big frog right by the bridge.” Kevin raced over to join him and I chuckled as I watched my two nature-haters trying to catch the large bullfrog.

After much maneuvering, they were able to prod the frog gently, but he leaped beneath the bridge, out of reach. My meticulous husband, clad in yellow shirt and white shorts, plopped down full length onto the wooden logs. Moments later he jumped up — a huge grin on his face and the bullfrog in his hand.

“Quick, get the camera,” he ordered. “This is the only marine life I’ve landed in two weeks.” The kids laughed, surprised at their father’s quick reflexes. The frog rested a few moments, gave us a long, disgusted look and took a gigantic leap back into the water.

Chris captured a large turtle which was stunning himself on a rock. Apparently used to intruders, the turtle showed no fear and blinked at us complacently. The boys talked about taking him back to the pond behind our cottage but I suggested we leave him here with his family. Chris set him back in the water and in a few minutes his family appeared.

A huge turtle, probably dad, swam gently along the surface followed by three offspring. “Look at this little one,” squealed Nancy, pointing to the tiniest member of the family who slid off the bank and swam to catch up. The kids stared at me, apparently impressed with my knowledge of turtle family habits.

Too quickly it was time to leave. We had been here only a few short hours and had experienced just a tiny sample of the wonders of this pond community. I imagined the joy of being able to spend a year here. To experience the changing of the seasons, to hear the hums and cries, to smell, to feel the new rhythm of each day — to be.

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Copyright 2004 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry Di Gesu is a retired school secretary who divides her time between homes in New Jersey and Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including the New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women magazine. She has recently published her first book of essays, Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl. These essays celebrate the essence, power, and magic of ordinary people and events made extraordinary. The book also provides readers of all ages with a sense of acceptance and new perspective into their own lives. The book is available at local bookstores or by ordering through iUniverse, amazon, and barnesand noble.com .

Insecurities

It happened again.

I just returned from two glorious weeks of loafing on Cape Cod and all my complexes were reactivated because I didn't have an alligator emblem on my shirt.

The town in which we rent a summer cottage has a large proportion of affluent summer residents. Even though I pride myself on not being concerned with appearances, when I return home each summer I feel totally insecure for at least two weeks.

Everyone, from schoolboys who choose from a fleet of boats to sail to the retired executives who drive their Mercedes to pick up the Boston Globe or Wall Street Journal, wears Izod La Coste knit shirts. The alligator snaps at me for two weeks wherever I go and the penguin on my pocket peers back dolefully.

Mothers wealthier than I appear different somehow. They seem impervious to the weather, difficult children, or situations faced by middle-class wives like me. They walk in the same sand and dust that I do, but I swear their feet don't get dirty. When the temperature soars, they don't sweat. They might perspire a little, but they never sweat. And they don't yell at their kids in the supermarket either.

The first day of vacation I stood in the wine and cheese shop deciding whether I should spend an extra $5. on wine. The woman next to me ordered $l00 worth of seafood canapés for a cocktail party. The blonde in the next row at the ball game wears the same wrinkled polo shirt and white shorts that I do, but there's a difference. She looks athletic; I look sloppy. Even their laundry has class. I sit bedraggled in the laundromat in my last set of clean clothes and watch enviously as the unwilted sophisticate next to me tosses her nautical designer sheets into the dryer.

We're proud of our 14-foot boat we brought with us this year so we could do some fishing and putt proudly toward Nantucket Sound. But mostly we stay busy dodging the wakes from a parade of Boston Whalers headed for deep-water fishing. The Bud Lite and ham sandwiches in our cooler provide a sad contrast to the gourmet lunches I'm sure are neatly packed aboard their boats in beautiful and expensive picnic baskets.

The glowing matron next to me in the supermarket line makes me feel like throwing a beach blanket over my head. Dressed in immaculate tennis togs, she wears an expensive sweater knotted carefully around her neck, casually perfect. I'm on my way home from clamming clad in faded shorts and a Red Sox tee shirt with a fishy smelling sweatshirt tied around my waist. The woman in the gift shop makes out a check for $75 for a shimmering mobile of glass starfish as I grab my son's arm muttering, "I'll kill you if you touch anything."

What am I doing here? All the women in this town seem to have curly hair, beautiful skin, and lovely figures. It's like a movie. The damp wind brings a glow to their tanned faces. I get pale and cold and the ever-multiplying gray in my hair sticks up like Brillo. Is this self-abuse worth it?

You bet. To me, this town of sun, sand, and sea is my idea of heaven. I'll gladly unpack my imagined (?) inadequacies for another two weeks to be able to enjoy it again next summer.

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Copyright 2004 Gerry Di Gesu/Originally written in the summer, 1985.

Gerry Di Gesu is a retired school secretary who divides her time between homes in New Jersey and Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Her essays and poems have appeared in the New York Times, Catholic Digest, The National Enquirer, Cape Women Magazine and in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies. Gerry has recently published a collection of her essays, Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl, which is available from iUniverse, amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com and at your local bookstore. E-mail Gerry at gerrycapecod.net@att.net.

Ode to My Family

My older son is thirty-eight and was recently installed as the Exalted Ruler of the Elks Lodge in the town where he lives. To some, not a big deal; to me, everything.

Chronic asthma, severe learning disabilities and always being the outsider because he was klutzy and different, “not one of the guys”, plagued him throughout his school years. I cried every September, dreading what the new school year would bring. I could have saved my tears, for Kevin is a survivor.

We adopted Kevin when he was one week old and I would love to meet his birth parents. One or both of them has the personality, sense of humor and grit which they passed on to our son, enabling him to conquer his handicaps and problems, and become a wonderful man. My husband and I cope well and I like to think I’m pretty level-headed and a survivor, but neither of us has the degree of mental toughness Kevin required to make it. Nurture or nature – the old story. His wife, Kathy, is a gift, who continues to encourage him and help him become all he can be.

As he walked to the podium for his acceptance speech during the installation ceremonies a few months ago I cried. But when he started to deliver his acceptance speech, a total feeling of joy erased any residual tears. I remembered the boy who stuttered and stammered through grade school. And I marveled at the man who stood before me.

My younger son Chris, thirty-six, has re-located his business, and after working endless hours for the last twelve years has realized a dream by opening a brand new pizzeria-restaurant a few blocks down from his former location. Only his determination, integrity, work-ethic and sense of self enabled him to survive this nightmare experience.

The hardest thing to watch was the erosion of his trust in people and in the ethics and values of the business community. Honest, driven, and self-motivated, he gives only the best of himself and expects honesty and quality in others. That didn’t happen as he climbed over endless roadblocks and faced daily obstacles and disappointments that would have made others quit.

He never felt sorry for himself but kept his sense of humor and balance - how, I don’t know. His wife and two sons are his whole life and his love for them provided the bright spot and reality in each day for him. When I watch a couple work together toward making a successful family and life with great love as Marta and Chris do, I know they will be blessed with joy and success.

My daughter Nancy became engaged in February and when I return to Cape Cod, which is where she lives, I’m looking forward to the joy of watching her and her fiance as they start to make wedding plans. It’s delightful to know that she’s level-headed and wise and as they plan their wedding I’ll be happy to sit on the sidelines. I know, you’re thinking -- “Oh, sure, she thinks she’s going to sit there and agree with everything and not get involved." I’m sure I won’t agree with everything, but after watching my daughter struggle for years to find a sense of self and enjoy the person she found, I’m not about to intrude on her joy.

Nancy has struggled with depression for many years and only through her constant willingness to work hard through therapy and try various medications to find the right one has she been able to achieve a happy and balanced life. Her future husband is a most wonderful man – supportive, caring, loving, and willing to do more than his share to help them achieve their goals in life. Nancy will also become a step-mother (still considered that awful word) to the greatest little seven-year-old guy. He’s a honey and they’re forming a bond through love which can only become stronger and better. I am blessed to have all of them in my life.

My husband and I are happier today than we have ever been. We’ve had the same rocky times as all couples and recent years have been more difficult. But I have to admit that our relationship today is much better because I am finally grown up enough to be able to see that much of his past criticism of me was right on target and I either couldn’t or wouldn’t see it at the time. And he’s gentler, gets aggravated less easily, and is more patient. Older can be better in many ways. Or maybe it was the Medicare cards which arrived to let us know just where we are in life!

I published my first book and it is so exciting, a dream come true. I’m scheduled for my first book signing in June on Cape Cod and I hope to have more of them throughout the summer. I’m finding self-promotion extremely difficult since it’s hard for me to find the balance between selling myself and seeming arrogant. But I’m getting there and surprisingly, starting to get the hang of it and enjoy the process. Maybe there’s a more self-assured me inside that I didn’t know was there.

As I read this over, I’m reminded again of one thing I always told my kids: To love is one of the greatest, most wonderful and most difficult jobs on earth.

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Copyright 2004 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry Di Gesu is a retired school secretary who divides her time between homes in New Jersey and Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Her essays and poems have appeared in The New York Times, Catholic Digest, The National Enquirer, Cape Women Magazine, and in a variety of publications, journals, and anthologies. Gerry has recently published a collection of her essays, Keep Quiet, You're Only A Girl which is available from iUniverse, Amazon, and barnesandnoble.com and at your local bookstore. Email Gerry at gerrycapecod.net@att.net.

We Did Our Best

“That’s not the way I raised you. Whatever happened to everything we tried to teach you? Where did we go wrong and fail?”

The common lament of parents of teens and adult children. Don’t buy into it. As parents all we can do is love our children, guide them and try to instill the values and principles we feel are important as we help them become happy, successful, and productive members of society. A daily, ongoing struggle of the heart. Then we give them a hug, cross our fingers and send them out into the world. What happens after that is not our “fault”.

We say we love our children equally and I think most of us do. But do we like them equally? I think not. We’re human beings and naturally some personality traits in our kids make us crazy (often the ones which remind us of ourselves) while other facets of their personality are warm and appealing. Don’t most of us have a child whom we would like to throttle, who tests our patience every day?

“Everyone has to have at least one like that”, is usually what we hear from others when we complain.
Often we show favoritism toward one child and aren’t even aware of it. Favoritism shown by a spouse, grandparents, or other relatives to a particular child in the family can be a strong factor in the formation of their personalities, not always in a positive way. All children do not seem to be created equal no matter how hard we might try.

“When I was a kid.” Those words are the best choice if you want your child to tune you out immediately, especially if he hears them often. They usually aren’t even a little bit interested; they care about today, this moment. Sharing our “old-fashioned” values is important, though, as long as we realize our children are growing up in an entirely different world than we did, facing problems, challenges, anxiety and uncertainty that didn’t exist when we were youngsters.

As a teenager I walked home from the movies with girlfriends late on Friday nights. My own children would ride their bikes to a town five miles away to go fishing in the lake and walked alone to and from elementary school every day. But today, in the New York metropolitan area where I live, many parents are afraid to leave their children alone outside their own homes to play. It’s sad and upsetting.

My sons are six and eight years older than their sister and had graduated from high school before she entered as a freshman. The changes in our culture over those eight years scared me. Her peers had become extremely materialistic: the car your parents drove, how much gold you wore, and the label on your clothes were all that mattered. Pressure to smoke, indulge in drugs, and experiment sexually were daily battles.

Yet, compared to today, those days were tame. As parents we grow up in one world, raise our children in another, and send them as adults into an environment which can be a scary place. We pray that their core values will see them through life, yet they must adapt to a rapidly changing world.

I once went to a therapist who, after many weeks of therapy, informed me that “Your mother really did a job on you.”

I’m ashamed to say that for many years I had thought the same thing and blamed my mom for the person I was. But my immediate response to him was an angry challenge: “But she loved me and did the best she could.”

At first I had no clue where that answer came from. Then I realized that I was now the mom and knew how hard I was trying to help, encourage, and be fair to my children, making daily decisions guided by love and concern. That’s all I could do. And I realized that, rather than learning from the mistakes I felt my mom had made with me, I was repeating the same ones with my daughter. I was horrified. Although an introspective and questioning person, I had been totally unaware of the pattern I was following. The therapist’s words were an epiphany for me.

I’m not trying to deny responsibility for the people my children are today. Of course as parents we help form their personalities; that’s why being a parent is so darn scary and overwhelming. You’re responsible in every way for the tiny infant you hold in your arms for the first time and that thought is mind-boggling. But all we can do is love, trust, and pray.

My older son is now thirty-eight so I’ve had plenty of time to feel guilty, beat myself up over all the mistakes and poor choices I’ve made and cry many times for the negative ways I’ve impacted on his life and the lives of his brother and sister. But I’ve finally gotten past that guilt and it hasn’t been an easy job.

We only go around one time as parents and we do the best job we can. It’s nice to know that I have three caring, loving, and wonderful children who grew up okay, in spite of me.

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Copyright 2004 Gerry Di Gesu

Decision

Since my father had married in a Catholic ceremony and was then divorced, by marrying my mom he was ex-communicated from the church.

As a child I could never understand this because he was such a good and kind man and it didn’t seem fair. At weekly Mass as I knelt next to him, I was in awe at the reverence I felt emanate from him. How could he pray so fervently I wondered, if the church didn’t even accept him as a member.

As a child I considered God my best friend and talked to Him daily. But as much as I loved the ritual of weekly Mass and the feeling of belonging to a parish, the older I got the more I questioned the rules of the church and the authority of the Pope. Too many rules seemed to be man-made rules – not God’s rules – and had little to do with God, spirituality, or becoming a good person.

I struggled with these feelings for years as I went to Mass each Sunday with my family, became active in my parish as a Eucharistic Minister (someone allowed to distribute communion with the priest during Mass or bring it to an ill person at home or in a hospital), attended home-based group discussion meetings and helped plan parish social functions. I hoped these activities would bring me closer to a true acceptance of my faith. Ritual, tradition and the friendships formed through a wide variety of church activities helped fill a need, a void, through the passages of my life.

I took a three year course to become a lay minister so I could more actively participate in ritual and bring comfort to those who were hurting. Another woman from my parish was also taking the course with me at a nearby parish. Our daughters had gone through school together and played on the same junior and senior high softball teams when we had carpooled over the years. But whenever I waved to her during class breaks she ignored me and refused to acknowledge my greeting. She chose not to know me. Why? I have no idea.

But I soon realized that many of my classmates didn’t seem to practice Christian ideals and often couldn’t even be tolerant of each other’s differing opinions during class discussions. Everyone wanted to be in charge. I wondered more than ever what religion was all about.

At the end of the lay ministry course, after learning much of the history of the church and how it had evolved over the centuries, I knew I could no longer participate in Mass and practice a faith which I felt was so hypocritical. Then came an Easter Sunday when I stood at the altar with other Eucharistic Ministers, waiting to share communion, and I looked into the faces of the people who packed the church. I felt like a hypocrite and a cheat.

I distributed communion to the long lines of parishioners and was almost finished when the superintendent of schools stood in front of me. Since I was a secretary in the school system, he was my boss although I seldom saw him. I had known him for years on a personal level and through those years had grown extremely disappointed and sometimes angry regarding his priorities regarding teachers and students.

I stared at him and had a realization: “Gerry, who are you to judge him or anybody? How do you know what pain this man has inside him, what makes him tick?” Hand shaking, I handed the host to him.

As I knelt in the pew for final prayers as Mass ended, I couldn’t quiet the pounding inside me. I have never felt so humbled. And I have never gone back to Mass.

More than ten years have passed since that Easter Sunday. Through the hardships and losses over the years, God has remained my steadfast best friend. When I enter a Catholic church for a wedding, funeral Mass or perhaps a Christmas concert, I feel at home and still sometimes miss the ritual and richness the church offered me for years.

But I still feel a personal closeness to God, and I am at peace because I am being true to my beliefs. And the knowledge that I am trying to be the best person I can be, reminds me again that my faith grows stronger every day.

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Copyright 2004 Gerry Di Gesu

The Philosophical Mother