Stories To My Dad
written by me, his daughter, Mary Ann McCoy
My Cowboy’s Soft Embrace
by Mary Ann McCoy
Memories of a rickety small row boat come to mind and bring feelings and sensations I’ve always carried with pride. A brawny man with loving blue eyes is holding my hand while gently encouraging me to throw my line into the bluish-green water foaming on the waves. We were sitting opposite each other, taking time to enjoy the Caribbean sun and our love away from the rest of the family. There weren’t many words although lessons don’t always need words, they need actions.
These are the moments I treasure, small, quiet times when my husky, domineering but yet soft-hearted father molded me into who I am. I trusted him, learned to feel pride for who I am and to always hold my head high and to take my best to higher grounds. All I needed was a look from his eyes, and still do, even if they are only in my heart and mind now, but they are there. They still guide me.
“Don’t do as I do, do as I say.” He’d holler with a deep and inflexible voice, sometimes grumpy and intolerant. At times a tap on my head with his big purple-stoned ring would make me stand to attention and make me hush abruptly. Yes, there were hard times with him for us girls, but his gentleness displayed with my quickly aging mother have helped cancel them and have brought to the surface sun-filled waves of affectionate words and moments.
I remember him as my own personal cowboy. He taught me to defend myself when I got teased by kids at school and to never give up unless I truly wanted to. After I had given a little boy half my size a black eye he took me into my bedroom and secretly told me this secret:
“If you have to punch a boy, punch him where he’s not going to show anyone his bruises and you’ll be safe, mom will never know!”
I loved him that day and those words stayed our secret for many years to come.
His expression next to my mom in their wedding picture brings me scenes of cowboys fighting for what was right while defending their families from any evil they saw. That’s who he was, my hero straight out of the movies we’d watch together.
As I grew into my teens, distances between us became obvious and painful. He taught me to be independent, courageous and ambitious without realizing that those were traits that would take me far from him.
I wasn’t there to hold his then soft, fragile hands and remember their calloused palms and strong grip. My sister held the phone to his ear and I spoke to him, but those words flying over the Atlantic weren’t enough, neither was his whispered or my shaking “I love you”.
A month later, while driving on a windy country road on my way back from work in the evening, a wild animal ran out from the adjacent corn field and into the beam of my headlights. As I was swerving into the oncoming lane all I could think was “I’m going to hit that pole and end up in the ditch”. Well, that I did, but as I was approaching the ditch I was fearless, my eyes closed and I felt a warm, soft embrace protecting me from any harm.
I opened my eyes to a car’s lights shining at my upside-down body tightly held by my seatbelt in the middle of the two lane road. Sirens, brakes screeching, loud voices were sounds and nothing more. I was safe, not a scratch or bruise, not even where I wouldn’t show.
My cowboy was there and I was safe. We held each other and said goodbye and I was left with a gift of courage and strength that hasn’t left me and never will.
To My Dad, Now Gone
by Mary Ann McCoy
The benevolent blue sky and puffy clouds above me, a warm muffled breeze blowing through my long blond hair and
with the foaming sea on my bare feet in the sand, the feel of your now soft and frail hand is in mine.
Your voice, your warmth, you are here with me like the rolling waves splashing on my skin.
You are here. Holding me close and safe.
I sense your presence, your hands and the foaming sea. We are both here under this clear blue sky and the floating clouds.
The sun warms my skin and your now, cold, soft hands hold me close and give me the constant love you always gave
while the warmth of your love holds our grip and the salty waves spray my face a while hot tears slide down my cheeks.
You are here holding my hand and reassuring me that you, now, are alright.
Our toes in the sand we walk together under the now vibrant and flawless sky
while a mellow but urgent whisper graciously smoothes the strands of my hair and says “I love you” for the last time.
Now you are home and at peace.
I love you too.
Here is a collection of my very short stories that my family and my life have inspried me to write
LOVE LETTERS
by Mary Ann McCoy
On the third floor of my old family home in Italy, in the center of the worn wooden landing, is a hefty antique dresser made by my grandfather or maybe his father, of a warm shade of reddish wood. I rescued it from my grandmother’s house years ago when we decided to sell the family home my mother was born in.
On the landing are also three old fashioned over-sized trunks with what’s left of stickers from the many countries I traveled to all round the world with my parents. Cruise stickers and international customs permits still show their shadows and remnants on those trunks. Every time I climb those stairs and stare at the inanimate objects that I placed there a very long time ago I sigh and tell them:
“How many stories you could tell, how many good-bye tears you could show, how many moments you bring back to my heart. If you could only talk.”
I have always kept the older objects that represent my younger life when I was in the states in them . Those papers, fabrics, patterns, clippings, pictures, documents and, yes, even those love letters. I say “those” because I have never re-read them for fear that the magic they contain may disappear or might have already disappeared.
While dreaming of my Italian boyfriend as a 22 year old in Florida I never considered that love changes, it mutes into something deeper and more worthy. I thought I already possessed the paramount of love, the uttermost supreme of feelings. I was wrong. It fades through pain, hurt, distance and stress, hushed into a silent world amplified by tears and broadened by the love for one’s children. So is it that love is only a feeling we carry throughout life or is it something that grows within us and our families?
A voice creeps over me, shivering in my heart, giving motion to my lips,
“It’s greater than the air we breathe, greater than the water we drink. It’s what keeps life moving and friendships, families and relationships together. Love gives us the courage to be there, wherever needed by those we love making us feel motivated and useful.”
I sigh, turn away, and a whisper softly leaves my heart,
“But as we love, we walk a thin, fragile line that easily can spill into madness.”
Those are words from my heart uttered loudly through whispers and sighs. Cautioning, caring, loving me first so I can share and grow within its limitless boundaries.
So, are the words in those letters written with patience and profound passion still valid? Are they words that if read once more, will disappear from the onion skin sheets and vanish from my heart?
“ Just leave them there and the magic will flow filling this home. Don’t move them now. There’s time for them to be found, later when you are no longer found.”
My heart dialogues intensely with my brain not allowing for some things to be changed, fearing the worst.
Songs, poems, novels and much more are based on our hearts’ vibrations, but just how valid are these feelings, or are they the engine which keeps our Earth rolling?
FRIENDS AT NIGHT
by Mary Ann McCoy
My sleepy body fills with the cool air in the room but the warmth of a cozy comforter cuddling me now lets me fall relentlessly into hazy dreams. The girls’ voices sooth my thoughts of worries from the day.
“I told you to repeat just like this: bonjour… NO! NOT bonjir, yes, now that’s better! Now say it again…oui madam..oui monsiour… Good! That was better!”
Gessica’s determination to teach Jennifer French was incredible. Instead of reading her bedtime stories she’d teach her French! After repeatedly insisting for the proper pronunciation sleep would take over and both snug in their beds while still holding hands would float onto puffy soft clouds and glide into another dimension of fairy tales and fables or adventures.
“Come on Nina, get out of there! It’s time to get up! I can smell ‘em, they’re sweet and yellow and those things you like, wow! They’re orange and crunchy! She was at the fresh market this morning. It’s Saturday night! We’ve gotta get down there before somebody’s gotta pee!”
Chip, the family's favorite monkey, always remembered when it was Saturday that I had been to the farmers’ market and that the fridge was full of fresh and colorful veggies.
I love walking around all the stands and listening to the farmers call out:
“Verdure fresche, deliziose! Venite! Comprate!” (“Fresh, delicious vegetables! Come and buy!”)
or maybe:
“Pesce spade, sarde, polpo, tutto Italiano!” (“Sword fish, sardines, octopus, they’re all Italian!)
Then maybe I’ll walk over to my favorite florist, he’s from Padua and makes me feel so special! He always gives me a hug and asks:
“Allora, come stai oggi? Cosa ti dò bella signora? Gigli? Rose?” (Well, how are you today? What can I give you? Lillies? Roses?”)
Then I always go off with a huge bunch of fresh flowers and two extra pink roses for my girls. Even though they live in the states he always says:
“E queste due rose, per le belle americane tue!” (“And these two roses, for your two pretty Americans!”)
But now it’s night time and a lot is going on in this big old house:
“I can’t get out! She’s holding my hand and her leg’s over me.”
Nina’s soft words hid her despair while Chip was jumping and bouncing up and down on the pillows. He had squirmed out of Gessica’s grip by quietly whispering soft nothings in her ear. It always worked, she liked all those whispers and sighs he knew .
“Sing her a song, stroke her hair, tickle her thigh, that always works.”
Teddy’s voice was a bit muffled but he tried to encourage her to not give up. From under the bed, Teddy wiggled his way out from the smothering of a smelly sock and peeked up over the blanket edge.
“Get out, we’ve got to get downstairs, Gessica always gets up at night to pee and she’ll find us!”
Teddy’s words were strong and steady. He was the one to give the best advice and to solve the little daily problems.
Nina made her way from Jennifer’s hold and hopped onto the floor.
“I made it and she didn’t even move! Let’s go, I’m ready. Chip, where are you? Get down off the ceiling lamp and stop messing with their school bags. No, you can’t scribble in there! Let’s go!”
She had put together all her courage to speak up to Chip. He usually teased her because of her fluffy tail and long ears but she never said anything about his big round ears that looked like little radars poking into the space around him. She kept her opinions to herself. A friend of her mother’s had told her :
“If you don’t have anything nice to say, say nothing at all!” and so she did!
“Creeeek, Sqweeek, hop, hop, swoosh, tip, tap, tip tap, bum!”
The complaining of old dry wooden stairs and the pitter-patter of three pals made me stir in my dreams. A voice called:
“Come on, lift me up there, yeah, just a little more. Now pull! Oh wow! Look at all those colors and smell all that sweetness! Grab some and let’s sit under there.”
Once again, tonight it was Chip to poke his nose into the fridge first and describe the treasure he found.
“I don’t like that stuff, where’d you say she put the honey?”
Teddy’s frustrated words became loud and Nina’s little finger lifted to her pink embroidered lips:
“Shhhh! She’ll smash me with her leg and squeeze my hand so tight again that I’ll never get out!”
“It’s over there on the table, next to that funny looking red thing swimming in the water.” Chip yelled out.
He had a bad habit of talking with a full mouth and leaving those yellow slippery peelings all over the kitchen which made Nina awfully angry but he never learned and got them in trouble all the time.
Teddy eyed the brown paper bag that revealed the golden liquid worthy of any risk and he grabbed the leg of the chair and climbed up, sat with the jar between his furry legs and twisted with all his growling strength till it opened then dipped his nose straight into the sweetness.
“She got it just for me! I know, last night I reminded her to get some at the market and she did!”
Now the sticky liquid was running down his cheeks and onto his lap. Who would clean this all up?
“These carrots are the best. They come from that stand with the chubby farmer that has all that hair on his face and is always singing songs and kissing all the pretty ladies that come to buy." said Nina in a low feminine voice.
She had been to the market many times with Jennifer hanging onto her middle or ridding on the back of Jennifer’s bike along with Jack. Jack rarely spoke, they called him the invisible friend but Nina never understood why. It was fun riding with Jack. He wore a cowboy vest and had a shiny star on his chest.
“And away we go!” He would shout as Jenny peddled down the sidewalk with her blond curly hair blowing in his face.
Saturday evenings were the best for Nina, Chip and Teddy and I knew that the morning would give me just a bit more cleaning to do. Banana peelings on the floor, carrot and celery leaves sticking out of the fridge door and sticky drips on the table but this time there would be more.
The rooster alarm clock went off:
“Cock-a doodle dooooo!”
And it was time to get up! Why can’t he just stay in the coop on Sunday mornings? Even the hens would like it more, I’m sure!
The girls were already finding their way down the stairs and Jenny with warm tears rolling down her chubby cheeks calls out sadly:
“Mommy, Nina doesn’t love me! She ran away again! I held her tight but she got away! Look! Chip ate all the bananas and look the carrots are gone too.”
Jenny’s cries could be heard all over the old house and its thick walls watched tenderly while she searched the kitchen for her best friend. Gramma had given Nina to her and she had chosen Nina’s name right when Gramma asked:
“What are you going to name your little rabbit?”
With no hesitation my little 2 year old said:
“ Nina!”
Gessica came down the stairs shouting too:
“Why don’t you leave Chip in bed with me? I asked you to leave him there, right next to me under the covers!”
Her complaints and sobs came to a halt when she saw Chip and Nina under the dinner table with their full bellies a little rounder than the day before.
“Jenny look! There they are! But where’s Teddy? He’s not with them!”
Jenny’s eyes got a worried look and just as her little smile started to lean downwards she called:
“He’s here, all sticky and messy. His black nose is all shiny. Maybe he’s got a cold!”
All the confusion made its way up to my room.
“What are they up to again? I guess I need to get down there and clean up the mess before breakfast!”
The happiness of finding friends we thought had lost themselves in a big house full of memories and antiques is enough to make little hearts get ready for the day’s next adventure and overflow mine with love for them
Innocence Shocked
by Mary Ann McCoy
“Donne e buoi dei paesi tuoi”
“Women and oxen from one’s own land”
I got off the plane dressed in a pant suit I had lovingly made in dark navy, silk blouse and high heels, all special for the occasion. A warm breeze was blowing through the fresh scented trees on that late spring afternoon as I walked out of the airport all nice and dainty holding my beloved’s hand.
“Amore mio! Mi sei mancata! Finalmente siamo insieme!”
(“My love! How I missed you! Finally we are together!”)
Right! The story begins….
I had been in Italy just a college semester before and love had hit me so hard I even wrote to “Dear Abbey” to learn how to pack up all my belongings and return as soon as I had my diploma tucked tight in my hand. An old gold painted Valient which I, my older sister and before her, my mom had driven almost into the ground became my escape plan. My dad had transferred ownership of this worn out but still very efficient car for insurance purposes to my name. And what did I, a 22 year old, fresh out of college do? I went straight to the store and bought a For Sale sign, put it in the rear window and drove around. Soon after with a check in hand, not worth much I must say, I got my once skinny self to the travel agent’s and bought that ticket!
“I’ll show them just how I can manage on my own!” Those were the thoughts of an inexperienced 22 year old full of dreams and hopes.
Now I was ready, but my first move was to figure out how I’d get all my hope chest all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. “Dear Abbey” wrote back all right! There was her answer which I had begged to be secret, on the first page of the Tampa Tribune. Sure, no one was going to figure out who that fool going to a corner of Italy so very well described in black and white was, so, why not just write out her initials?
Well, mom’s nosy friends sure did! Just because no tourist had trekked that area quite yet didn’t mean I hadn’t been bragging and showing maps all over town! Mom grabbed the newspaper before dad could get to it and ripped off that revealing page. I read it over and over memorizing every bit of advice I never used.
Well at this point the game was on. I got over the ocean and into a rather hostile house but then maybe you figured that out by now since I gave you a picture of my romantic arrival a few paragraphs back. Just a couple hours from the “O Sole Mio” arrival was when I learned how an ancient moustached mother-in-law would soon see too much difference and the shock would present itself in learning how to feed chickens, deal with rabbits multiplying over and over like magic and recognizing which plant, tree, shrub or vine which vegetable come off of.
So much to learn and so many clothes and shoes to never wear again. My pretty sandals and red toe nails would soon slip and slide in a not-so-well-kept chicken coop and the look of mushy green stuff and hay stuck under my feet would make me take drastic precautions for my life’s survival.
It took me a few years before the constant repetition of that moustache telling me something about how women and oxen should come from one’s own land to realize I had stepped on a real big poop when I had traded in my beautiful golden Valient.
Shoulders get broader, and so do hips, but life teaches and we learn. Even dark clouds and thunder storms bring showers of golden dust we can hold and love for enough years to have memories to last all through the next hurricanes and earthquakes that shake us but never break us.
How Important Is It To Have Roots Today?
by Mary Ann McCoy
I feel honored to have had the chance to interview an exceptional 101 year old woman in rural Italy. “My family and garden roots are what keep me active and hoping, they make me want to get up even on a cold rainy day.”
Donning her straw hat and garden gloves Signora Laura D’Angelo, an Italian great-grandmother, uses her walking cane to help her step along the worn and uneven stone path her husband had laid 60 years earlier creating a winding walkway in their garden. Her need to chat with her roses is just as precious to her as those weekend phone calls from her kids abroad. Their roots call to her just as she, the root of her family, calls to her children and their families in her heart.
Americans are used to the long distance family gatherings, holiday travelling to see relatives and aging parents, to catch up with friends or maybe even meet newborn family members because this is part of life in the USA and has been for decades. On the other hand, today Italian families are suffering due to the need their children face to travel in order to find jobs. This separation for centuries was seen only through immigration caused by extreme needs to find better lives away from war-torn lands and hungry mouths. Years of well-being gave false hopes to people like Laura who had hoped their return to their villages after years of working abroad would have brought a sense of permanent roots to their young families but they were wrong.
“We can’t stay in one place and hope for things to get better, we have to go look for it and adapt to the changes.” Says her grand-daughter, an unemployed college graduate, while packing a small carry-on for a low cost flight to Brussels where she has an interview for a job as consultant for the EU.
“The roots of these old roses help me remember my family united under this old roof.” says Laura in a soft melancholic voice while serving us a cup of espresso. “I am the last root this family has, I am here waiting for my family to come back just like the roots of my roses wait for water and fertilizing.”
I spoke to sociologist and historian Carlo Cambelo of the Bocconi University in Milan. He has compared the post war immigrations and the need for moving away from hometowns and families in rural Italy today. He told me:
“The tight-knit families which we think of Italy as having is rapidly dying because of the economic situation in Italy. Work is not available for anyone and the young are pursuing careers in northern Europe, the USA and even South America. Italy is bleeding it’s young and it’s not only rural villages but major cities also to have a majority of 65+ year olds left to hold onto family roots in hope that families will reunite again soon. Life has changed in the past years and we are experiencing a new immigration age in Italy to which Italians will have to adapt without forgetting where they came from.”
The Rusty Nail
by Mary Ann McCoy
That rusty eight inch iron nail I found in the shed was going to be perfect for what I had in mind. I pulled the old extension cord from a plug behind the wine jugs in the cellar, used pliers to tear off the connector end and peeled off about 4 inches of the old plastic wrapping around the copper wires. I then wrapped them around the nail and headed to the garden. The rain had just stopped and the clouds were clearing but the ground was soaked and mud oozed around my rubber boots as I made my way to the corner of the garden where the chickens were pulling the worms out from the soft ground.
“Get back girls, go lay eggs if you don’t wanna lose some feathers. I’m gettin’ Chris’s magic beans outta the ground before they start sproutin’.”
I shooed the chickens into their coop and planted the nail into the mushy ground. As soon as I plugged the cord into the socket in the shed, worms started coming out of the ground like spaghetti jumping in a hot pot.
“Magic beans? So you’re after them again!”
Chris laughed until he saw the worms tangled around the shiny gold and silver beans jumping out of the mud with the electricity I had fed the ground. The chickens were flying onto the low branches of the peach trees and clucking loudly.
Chris watched with his mouth open while I picked out the 12 magic beans from the mud with my bulky rubber gloves and put them into my pocket.
“Now they aint yours! I’m gonna plant ‘em for my money tree. They aint just beans, you’ll see!” I shouted out to Chris.
Magic beans
by Mary Ann McCoy
The table was set, dinner was ready but no one was in sight. The colorful porcelain plates with bright pink roses and little leaves all round the edges had been placed with care and order. The silverware and crystal pastel pink glasses matched the linen tablecloth perfectly, napkins were folded neatly in triangles to the sides of the dishes, all was prepared. There was no aroma of home-cooking in the air, no pots or pans out of place in the kitchen, no food on the counter ready to be sliced or chopped, in fact all was in order and there were no signs of dinner besides the table. I was sure to find everyone anxious to slice the turkey or dig into the stuffing, or maybe stick a finger in the creamy frosting of a luscious cake but disappointment made me think I had mistaken the date. I checked my agenda and read my note: dinner with the family 6pm sharp. Checking my watch, time and date was correct but then, what was going on?
“Alright, it was fun but now it’s time to come out of your hiding, I’m hungry. Come on everyone, where are you? OK, this is creeping me out, dad, mom, Chris, where are you?”
My voice escalated as my worries and confusion did. I walked down the hall and into the first room to the left. A suitcase was open on the bed and a few clothes were neatly folded on one side, a pair of shoes wrapped in a plastic bag and a few toiletries were scattered on the bed together with a teddy bear and a stuffed rabbit and monkey. After a few seconds inspecting the room I walked out and headed straight to the master bedroom where the beds hadn’t been made and the closets were empty. A couple drawers were half open and inside not much was left. Water was running in the bathroom sink and overflowing onto the counter, not yet spilling onto the floor. I turned to a faint sound I heard and called out:
“Who’s there? What’s happened? Where is everyone?” My voice now a touch shaky gave away my soon-to-come panic.
Following the scratchy but muffled sound I slowly walked back towards the kitchen and stopped trying to find the source. It wasn’t continuous so I had to wait until it started up again and then opened the wooden door of the cupboard at the end of the long kitchen. The door squeaked as it always had and to my amazement the shelves were all almost empty, something I had never seen. I bent over slightly to see all the way to the back of the second shelf from the bottom and saw a brown burlap bag about the size of a big fist tied with a red ribbon. Just then the noise started and I could see movement in the bag. It was wiggling and rubbing against the side of the wall. I grabbed a big wooden spoon from one of the kitchen drawers and used it to bring the bag closer in my view and then gave it a good bang right over the ribbon. It stopped moving and I pulled on the smooth red ribbon giving way for its contents to pour out. Twenty orange and light brown beans fell out onto the floor and a few rolled under the fridge but I pulled them out reaching under it with the spoon handle. They were moving and hot to the touch. Immediately I thought of Mexican jumping beans that moved due to little worms forming inside and put them all back into the cloth bag and set it on the arm of the sofa as I walked through the living room.
“Where is everyone? This just isn’t funny!” I called out now almost crying.
I got my cell phone but there was no reception. This had never happened before so I tried outside in the garden and nothing changed. Crossing the street I was sure to get an explanation from the neighbours, who being so curious, would surely know where everyone had gone. Lights were on and I could hear voices inside the house. I reached over the flowering bush by the door and pressed the doorbell. A few seconds later a tall dark-haired man wearing jeans and a long sleeved shirt opened the door and with a kind voice said:
“ Well Happy Thanksgiving to you! What can I do for you? Are you lost? Do you need help? Are you looking for someone?”
I couldn’t utter a word, this was my father but at least 30 years younger. I stared at him and felt weak. The next thing I can remember is that I was lying on a red velvet sofa and a pretty lady with short brown wavy hair was looking down at me with a familiar smile. She was my mother, much younger. To her side was a little boy, probably around 10 with short blond hair and wearing levis and a stripped t-shirt.
“Chris, it that you? Are you my brother?” I whispered sure I was looking at my brother, but now younger, those were his eyes.
“Yeah, it’s me, but how do you know my name? Who are you?” He said with bright eyes now staring at me and fidgeting with something that looked like marbles in the palm of his hand.
“Would you like something to drink dear? You look awfully upset. What can we do to help you? You just fainted at the front door and Tim grabbed you after you called him ‘dad’. Should we call you a doctor?” The lady said in a comforting voice while tucking a pillow under my head and pulling a soft blanket over my legs.
I sat up and proceeded to explain the dinner invitation to my family home but that these people were my parents at a younger age and that I remembered them from pictures. I told them about the wiggling beans in the burlap bag on the shelf in the kitchen of the house next door. Tim opened back the drapes behind the sofa to reveal a vast field of sunflowers across the dirt path from their fenced garden. There were no houses, just sunflowers and a big willow tree on the corner.
“ Where am I? What happened and where is my home? Where have you taken me? What is going on? I left the office this morning and drove over to have dinner with my folks, but, they were gone, now I’m here with younger versions of them. They are in their 80s and Chris, my brother is 45 and has a family. What has happened?” Tears were now filling my eyes and confusion invading my brain.
Chris looked at me opened his hand and asked “Do you want to play with my magic beans? They wiggle and jiggle and if you want they make you travel in time. You can wish for something and get it too. I won them at a fair last week when I went with dad to sell our cows. A man gave them to me in exchange for my pocket knife and when I wished to play forever he told me I’d always have a child’s heart and that all those I loved would help me keep my childish age by staying with me. I don’t have a sister, who are you? Why do you think we are your family?”
Confusion overwhelmed me and I lay quiet while their stares were on me.
“Wake up! Come on sis! Let’s get to the table. Mom and dad have been waiting for you to wake up. The kids want to play with their aunt!” Chris’s deep voice woke me to what I knew and was sure of. Kids playing, music, and mom and dad. Dad motioned for me to come to the table. Sally, Chris’s wife, now 8 months pregnant of her third, pushed open the kitchen’s swinging door with her elbow and brought in the corn bread and butter. She looked at me strangely, smiled and asked if I was alright.
“I don’t know. There are magic beans on the shelf.” I blurted out without thinking, barely awake yet. Everyone laughed.
“Magic beans?” Chris laughed and took a small burlap bag tied with a red ribbon full of sunflower seeds from the shelf. “Here are your magic beans. Mom’s sunflower seeds from the farm down the road. You’ve been reading too many children’s stories. Don’t you do anything but edit kid’s books? I thought you were moving on to romance or mysteries. You’ve been sleeping on the sofa since you walked in two hours ago. Come on the turkey’s getting cold.”
I got up patted down my ruffled air and kissed my dad’s cheek. He was slicing the stuffed bird and whistling a tune. Mom sat down at her usual place. I hugged her and gave her a kiss on both rosy cheeks. She was wearing a pretty flowered dress and her white wavy hair was combed back and held with a gold hairpin. She always smiled and kissed everyone even if her mind had gone far away and she couldn’t remember who we were. Dad filled her plate first and I cut her meat and put her fork in her hand. I knew she hadn’t forgotten him, maybe just us. They had gone through hard times. Both had lived the great war in Europe, one a soldier fighting, the other doing her best to survive.
These holidays were important for all of the family. We had the chance to remember and appreciate how it was to grow up in a loving family. If we look hard enough we can see our lives reflect in those we love and hold them in our hearts.
If only I had a bag of magic beans to make these moments last forever.
“Wake up!.” Chris woke me to what I was sure of. Kids playing, mom and dad. Sally, now 8 months pregnant of her third, pushed open the kitchen’s swinging door with her elbow and brought in the fresh corn bread and butter. She smiled and asked if I was alright.
“I don’t know. There are magic beans on the shelf.” I said barely awake and still dreaming.
“Magic beans?” Chris laughed and took a small bag full of seeds from the shelf. “Here are your magic beans from the farm down the road. You’ve been reading too many children’s stories. Don’t you do anything but edit kid’s books? I thought you were moving on to romance or mysteries. You’ve been sleeping on the sofa since you arrived two hours ago. Come on the turkey’s getting cold.”
I got up patted down my ruffled hair and kissed my dad’s cheek. He was slicing the stuffed bird and whistling a tune.. I hugged mom and gave her a kiss on both cheeks. She was wearing a pretty flowered dress and her white wavy hair was combed back and held with a gold hairpin. She always smiled and kissed everyone even if her mind had gone far and she couldn’t remember who we were. Dad filled her plate first and I cut her meat and put a fork in her hand. I knew she hadn’t forgotten him, 60 years and still together.
These holidays were important for all of the family. We had the chance to remember and appreciate how it was to be a loving family.
If only I had a bag of magic beans to make these moments last forever.
Green
by Mary Ann McCoy
Just an unmistakable green grape leaf is what they say I am, but no, that’s not the essence of my existence. My rough and rugged edges sometimes with rusty tinges of orange and brown, my straight semi-tough veins which flow nourishment to my deeper colored stems are not just green, no they are numerous colors and shades determining my quality, grade and maturity. Green would be simplistic, but the fresh shades of spring peas to the dark stages in autumn of cabbage leaves wrinkled and curled tightly around its heart to shield and withstand the frosty cold are more likely the spectrum of hues I choose to wear. Tiny tender buds of delicate shades of freshness first appear on the first warm days of spring to later extend into more almighty and intense depths of nature. Green, how offensive for my life to be called when my mere existence is a symbol of life, freshness and youth. Later, after giving grassy tints to new grapes which turn to royal purple and velvety red or translucent lime and lemon shades, I the leaf, the origin of their aroma and pureness become clay-brown, dry and ripped of life then float in the late shivering autumn wind and lay over cabbage leaves warming them in the kitchen garden so lovingly seeded and still green as they once called me. So no, I won’t accept the label of green as my color for I am life as it was and as it becomes.
Riding to Town
by Mary Ann McCoy
This lazy morning the sky is holding back the sun and allowing only a pale light to emerge from behind its gray blanket wrapped over it. Determined to go for a ride, I hook my tired wicker basket onto the handle bars of my old-timer’s bike, climb on and set out for town.
Traffic at this time in the morning is rather hectic but I just pretend I’m on a Harley and ride alongside the vehicles lining up at the angry ruby traffic light. The rubber end covers over my handle bars are turned backwards due to my forcefully turning of them as though I was changing gears on a Harley. The light overhead winks a bright green eye and I clench my left buttock a few repeated times to indicate I need to turn in that direction. You see this is my turning signal but I truly hope no one has noticed. I let out a few motor-growls to help convince my bike of its outstanding pedal power and ride over lamenting cobble stones hearing their whining and whimpering as my wheels spring off them and my turning signal bounces about.
Instantly my nostrils swell with an extraordinary morning aroma. It’s the combination of creamy brown cappuccino calling to me and freshly baked brioche with crumbly, buttery and scrumptious outer layers singing a soft buongiorno tune dedicated solely to me.
My bike expels me and I eagerly enter the corner café and choose a small round table by the window. A poodle looking woman emerges from behind a gurgling shiny espresso machine and swerving round the tiny tables like an eel making its way round slippery stones in a calm sea, she smiles revealing a toothless grin and asks what I’ll have.
“Un cappuccino e una brioche” I reply holding back a chuckle then try to control the complaints coming from my deflated belly. You see I’ve been on a diet for the past few months and today I’m prizing myself with a wheelbarrow full of ambitious fat-producing calories.
A foamy cup of delight and a smile shaped pastry look up at me while guilt overwhelms my make-believe slim being just as my first mouth watering nibble reveals a soft inside full of dripping jam.
You see, few things can gratify a bogus Harley driver with soft blinkers as much as the aroma and flavor now dancing on my tongue.
Eavesdropping
by Mary Ann McCoy
It’s Monday morning and two elegantly dressed women in their early 30s choose a table in the corner café of a bustling Tuscan piazza. They lean forward not to be heard by people standing at the counter drinking cappuccinos and dipping fresh croissants into frothy milk. With building curiosity I grab the morning paper and begin to listen in, who knows, maybe they’re gossiping.
“Didn’t I tell you not to trust them? You knew this could happen! You shouldn’t have given in, now our project is down the drain!”
The taller, a woman wearing black rimmed glasses and red hair pulled back in a chignon was staring while blurting out strained words. Her lips held tight and in tension, she set her cup down ignoring the flustered reply:
“They rang the bell, demanded to see all five and working permits. What could I have done? You weren’t taken to the station, interrogated and hand-cuffed! I told you we couldn’t bring those girls into the EU and put them to work in the hotel without permits. Now get your attorney-husband on the case and get me out of this pinch if you don’t want your name slapped in the paper!”
A flush came over the woman, who looked familiar but I couldn’t place. Her big eyes, separated by a Barbie-nose and framed by brown curls ending at a pointy chin showed rage. Fleshy ruby lips opened spilling stern words. Tension built, I turned the pages of my newspaper and stretched my neck, this was getting better with every word.
In walked an average height man wearing a dark suit and carrying a folded newspaper under his right arm. He had a foreign air to his style. He pulled up a chair and sat with the ladies.
“Ce ne facem cu fetele? Cu hotel închisă şi sub ancheta nu bani vine în. Voi doi au suficient pentru amenda? Nu conta pe mine!” (“What are we going to do about the girls? With the hotel closed and under investigation no money is coming in. Do you two have enough for the fine? Don’t count on me!”)
The man went on talking after ordering a caffè coretto (espresso spiked with grappa). I caught only few words in Romanian, the story sounded familiar and I turned to the front page. A picture showed police arresting a local hotel keeper for having clandestine maids. The brown-haired lady!
“Le-ai adus peste pentru stivuitorul dvs. cu aceste constructii lucratorilor. Nu cred ca ai sa iesi din aceasta gratuit!” ("You brought them in your truck with those construction workers. Don't think you will get out of this free of charge!")
The red-haired woman stood up while talking, fumbled in her purse, paid the waitress and said:
“"Trebuie să ne plecăm de aici, am putea fi recunoscut." (“We must get out of here, we might be recognized. ”)
The threesome hurried out and I thought:
“Today I have something to talk about at school while the kids get out!”
The Marketplace
by Mary Ann McCoy
The marketplace: a living place where exchanges from smiles to plums, from fish to flowers and from under-ware to honey take place.
Where can you see and enjoy so much?
“ Bella signora, venga, si faccia tentare dagli aroma e sapori della terra. Goda dello spettacolo dei colori che le offro a un prezzo che a lei piacerà.” (“Pretty lady, come, let me tempt you with aromas and flavors from the earth. Enjoy the show of colors I offer at a price you will like.”)
Saturday mornings at the market you’ll see people of every dimension and origin your borders allow, tasting, laughing, and chatting. The colors, oh, how the great masters could have extracted them from fruit and vegetables giving life to canvases and music to hearts. Let yourself be taken by the flowing of aromas and flavors, relax and live life through your senses. This is the place where you can arrive empty and tired and take home treasures that will make the weekend real and far from the week passed.
Why I chose this word? I’ve got a permanent date on Saturday mornings to taste olives and cheese, to pick flowers the next week will enjoy and to just stroll for a while.
Finding Family Roots
(a true story from my past)
by Mary Ann McCoy
Carla and Rafael are an Argentinean couple that met thanks to my bed and breakfast in Udine, Italy. They were sent to me through a church organization which helps needy families, immigrants and war refugees.
They arrived one Sunday afternoon in 2005 dragging a large beaten-up yellow suitcase with broken handle and no wheels which meant Rafael had been carrying it for all their journey. She, a beautifully feminine face framed in long bluish-black curls wore a red and green flowered dress and flat, ballerina style shoes. She looked into my eyes with an extreme need of rest. She was in her late 20s and he in his early 30s, both worn out and overwhelmed. This is how I met this South American couple who were escaping their country’s bankruptcy and corruption to a better life in a country where their ancestors had originated; northeastern Italy.
I took them to their room and spoke in a reassuring voice trying to convey protection and love. I wanted them to know they would be safe now. The following day they woke early, had breakfast with matte, the traditional herb tea from their country and shyly finished the bread and jam I had prepared. Once rested, we sat down and spoke about their plans and reasons for being where they were. Rafael wore jeans and a checked shirt with short sleeves which revealed his muscular, tan arms. He sat quietly, his Italian was scarce and Carla, more adventurous, took over the conversation. They are both college graduates who, after the deterioration of Argentine banks, had lost everything and with the help of their families and friends put together enough cash to buy two plane tickets to Italy. No return flights were affordable.
Carla held a large manila envelope with both hands and removing the rubber band which held it closed, showed me Rafael’s grandmother’s birth certificate, proof of their origin from this northeastern region. This would be their passport to a new future and would guarantee their becoming Italian citizens, if and only if, they managed to put together all the documents and deliver them in time to immigration. I felt eager to give them a hand in their enterprise.
They obtained citizenship, got a job in the town of San Daniele del Friuli, shared a house with other 2 families and 1 year later were on their way to Murcia, in southern Spain for, once again a new start.
A few days ago I received a phone call, Carla and Rafael asked me to be their second daughter’s god-mother. Proud to accept and officially become part of their family I’ll went to spend a weekend at their home for little Cecilia’s baptism.
I hear from them often and they keep me up to date with their two daughters’ progress in school and with their successes at work. At times I hear the tremble in their voices and worries in their speech but their courage and perseverance keeps them going and never halting to discouragements or difficulties along their way.
I’ve learned lots from them and maybe they have from me too. The first day we went to find trace of Rafael’s grandmother’s birth certificate at her old village church and heard from the soft spoken priest that all documents had burnt many years before in a fire which turned the church to ashes. It had been rebuilt but of course papers, that at the time of the old lady’s birth had been kept in the parish church where the family at the time had residence, were no longer available. Desperation fell onto the young couple that afternoon, but I didn’t give up.
Further search proved that the church we had visited really was not where Rafael’s grandmother had been baptized more than 120 years before and we were able to track down the papers needed. Soon after Carla and Rafael became Italian citizens, and being part of the EU now, they moved to southwestern Spain where they live and work now.
They never gave up and every time I feel discouraged my mind goes to the first day I met them when they arrived tired and overburdened. They’ve shown their appreciation and have never forgotten me and I am appreciative also for having them trusted me when they needed my help.
Belonging
by Mary Ann McCoy
I arrived at the station and took the bus number four to the house getting off at the pharmacy as I had been told. There was a big sign on the white house so I knew I was at the right place and I rang the doorbell which rang on as if echoing for a bit. A middle-aged blond woman with a sweet smile opened the heavy door and let me in. She had a happy air about her but her eyes gave a hint of sadness. The house was welcoming with good cooking smells in the air and fresh yellow flowers in a wide vase on the table. I could get a glimpse of the private area of the house where guests didn’t have access and saw hand embroidered white curtains on the windows, doilies on the well-kept old furniture which probably were family heirlooms. A good family sensation of love and tenderness wrapped me in this home.
After exchanging a few words and telling me to call her Sabrah she led me up worn dark wooden stairs that could have told me decades of stories. We passed a low door on the first landing and she explained that beyond it was what children called the elves’ restroom. When she pushed open the small door there were three steps downward and a tiny bathroom decorated like one would have done in the 1950s. Smells of powder and handmade soaps filled the air.
As we took a turn and headed up the stairs the pictures framed in old wood hanging orderly on the white wall caught my attention. They’re grouped in a sort of order that even after repeated questioning the kind lady never explained to me. The smaller ones are of her and her sisters, the youngest being much smaller and younger while the eldest not all that much taller. In one of the pictures, their mother, a brown-haired Hollywood sort of lady with a slim shapely body and gracious features is holding hands with a hefty John Wayne sort or army guy showing a friendly smile. There is something special that holds them together in that image, could it be just the moment or were they actually connected heart wise? Sabrah tells me they are Jim and Rina, her parents, and that the wall is telling her life story.
As I took a few more steps I came to an old frame holding a black and white faded picture of a man. To his left side is only what is now the light gray shadow of a woman with only her right hand visible on the his folded arm. As I paused at this picture I felt Sabrah’s presence. She told me it was a picture of her in-laws and that only the shadow of the woman remains because she had been mean in life and that after her death the picture began to fade unexplainably. She is believed to not have found the light yet and is searching for it in the house continuing her wickedness even after passing. Sabrah explains that she tried burning sage, a ritual to ward off witches and evil spirits and once she even sprinkled holy water from the Vatican and from Lourdes on the picture and on the wall but to no avail. The gray shadow never went away.
At this point my brain spoke to me.
“Where have you brought me? You know these ghost stories creep me out and that I came with you for a rest far from all the stress in the city at home!”
I ignored my brain and went on listening to the stories as I walked up the stairs.
My favorite picture is where her dad is sitting on a big grey elephant in the jungle. She told me it was India. My heart jumped bringing to me a tsunami of memories and I couldn’t help from revealing my little secret whispering softly,
“Is that where I entered the family or was it before? I feel the Indian sun on my skin and it feels so near.”
In the picture that so intrigued me there are two slim dark skinned men draped at the waist in a white cloth standing in the grey mammal’s way smiling into the camera. I guess there was no danger that day to be aware of, none of the cobras or wild animals Jim had shot on other occasions were present. It could also be that the day was so nice and all was going so well that he nor the dark skinned men could see the coiled snake with its forked tongue leaning down at them from the bare branch right over their heads while it inched its way round the dry wood. My imagination flies and I have to catch myself and before I lean into another story I remember being told, that wave has hit me hard and my treasure box of memories has opened.
I remember one of Jim’s stories which he had repeated to me many times about a moaning man who hobbled into their hut in the jungle one hot humid summer day with a swollen and festered infection on his leg begging for help. Although Jim and his colleague Tom, the only white men of the camp weren’t doctors and hadn’t had any kind of medical emergency training, they knew they had to do something to alleviate the poor man’s suffering. They had penicillin in powder, disinfectants and sterile bandages in a large tin box on the shelf, so knowing it would be painful without anything to sooth the man’s pain they gave him a few sips of booze and they tied his legs down. Grasping a sharp hunting knife which had been laid on a flame to sterilize they were ready to do what they thought was best. Jim, the man with wider shoulders and more determination, poured some bright orange disinfectant onto the swollen leg and noticed there was movement under the skin. As soon as the blade opened the lump there was an explosive flow of what looked like wiggling over-cooked rice. An insect, evidently, had laid its eggs into the open wound and the larvae had formed finding nourishment from the muscle and tissues under the skin. The clean-up was fast and efficient, alcohol was poured, the larvae burnt and the wound cleaned as much as was possible. Then yellow sulfur smelling powdered penicillin was poured all over the clean, but no longer festered wound. The man’s leg was wrapped in gauze and bandages and he was sent on his way. To Jim and Tom’s surprise, the man hadn’t even twitched during all the procedure. As he left the camp tent he lowered his head clasping his hands together as if in prayer and bent his body at the waist thanking the two big white men.
It was about a month later when the man, now in much better spirits and health returned to the tent walking with a heavy limp to thank the make-shift doctors for their assistance a month earlier. He arrived accompanied by a string of children and a woman wearing a red sari with long silky black hair and gorgeous black eyes. They brought the white men a basket full of mangoes, coconuts and bananas, and thank-yous in their eyes.
I come back to the reality of where I was and the pictures on the wall with the aroma of fresh brewed espresso coffee making its way up the well of the stairs and waving a wake-up sign to my senses.
Sabrah asks me if I’d like to have a cup and whether I wanted sugar or not. I paused a moment and the feeling of belonging came over me.
“Is it that I know her or is she part of me, part of my life? Everything feels familiar and comfortable.”
As I wait for the coffee I take a few steps back and they take me beside the scary one. You know that picture where the woman to the man’s left has disappeared for no reason at all. It’s black and white but the shades of grey have vanished and that woman no longer is on the paper. I think she’s just floating around causing problems and enjoying it as she always did. Sabrah later told me:
“One day I got a little plastic Virgin Mary shaped holywater bottle from Lourdes, opened it oh so carefully and splashed a few drops on the paper waiting to hear a sizzling or to see a puff of smoke but nothing, just nothing, it just sat there and the grey just keeps getting whiter day after day.”
Years have past and the visit to Sabrah’s house and the stories she told me are still part of my memories. I have a certain belonging sensation when I pull out all the pictures I’ve lovingly saved in a silver treasure box in my mind. At the aroma of an espresso I am taken back in time up those worn stairs walking slowly and observing each family picture and hearing once again the stories Sabrah told me.
That old white house and all its red geraniums on the long balcony have carved a memory in my cache of recollections. Suddenly my need to reconnect echoes loudly. I open a bulky wooden trunk and through papers, letters and pictures and find a card with the address and telephone number of Sabrah’s home and grab my cell phone. Hers is a landline from over 40 years ago and I wonder if I could possibly hear the gentle voiced smiling blond lady with this number. I dial, wait and a vibrant “Pronto” comes on the line. I explain who I am and ask if Signora Sabrah is available. A happy laugh reaches my ears and I recognize the accent and voice. It’s her!
We have a pleasant conversation which ends in an invitation to return ‘home’ and spend time with her. She promises she’d teach me how to make the delicious egg tagliatelle with ragu I loved when I visited so long ago. She remembered me! My heart was swollen in happiness and tears ran down my cheeks. I would certainly return. Spring was round the corner and I’d check on flights right away, I promised.
Sabrah’s enthusiasm and joy to hear me gave me once again the feeling I had never forgotten of belonging. There was something in those walls, stairs and pictures that included me. I needed no reminding of the feeling of being part of her stories and belonging. This feeling had always stayed with me since the moment I rang the doorbell and heard it echo in my ears. Now that sound echos in my heart and I am anxious to enter that door once again.
Soothing Trust
By Mary Ann McCoy
Flowing in a cool breeze while letting my heart catch love and hold my soul in a limitless time gives temporary soothing to my heart. Already betrayed by trust and wounded by affections one doesn’t slide over the borders between dreams without remembering losses long gone. Gone in time, not in soul or mind.
My heart weeps the trust I gave through the naive eyes of a child to later be tossed into a tornado of uncertainties which gave boost to courage I hadn’t known before. Creativity is sparked and a refreshing feeling of renewed energy and life returns as the breeze calms and my hair lands onto my shoulders in soft locks curled to whisper a story to my ears.
“Remember that time when she crawled into your bed and asked for protection from her dreams? Remember how you let her place her head on your shoulder while you told her not to worry, that you were there? Yeah, sure you do, you loved it. It was you taking care of your older sister like you always did. You were hefty, not slim and weak like her. Yet, the best was still to come. Forcing yourself to stay awake waiting to hear her deep breathing, then, with a smile on your lips you shook her, you woke her, held her tight, then with a rough deep voice you said: ‘Did you hear that?’ That’s when you’d started to laugh from your gut, that deep funny laugh you do so well. She’d get so angry when you teased her but you both had fun at it. Always ready to play, no matter what time it was. Right, you two were somethin’ else!”
Curls caress my neck reminding me of what my heart is full of, not the scars of past or recent years nor the disappointments I try to forget. It’s that deep love we are born with, that feeling we are linked to and share while we grow together.
“Why can’t that flowing breeze take away blundering words and just leave me with laughter and love?”
This I ask my old dependable cherry tree in my garden. It stretches out its branches to hold me when I climb up its trunk and sit in one of its laps , it sheds its leaves to cover and warm the earth which covers its roots while sharing its juicy red fruit tempting me into happiness. I am offered its child tree which has sprung from strong roots and is showing its first cherries, only three, but they are for me. I know that I’m being asked to care for this tender tree since its mother is soon to be gone.
Now it’s not only me in need of protection but I’ve found where to pour my love.
Mending
by Mary Ann McCoy
It’s raining outside and drops of cold winter rain are hitting my window pane creating a constant musical note repeating itself over and over. Wind isn’t howling but just calling out to me and telling me to get to work. I’m sitting in an old wicker chair cushioned by feather pillows in my old aunt’s kitchen. My overflowing sewing basket is looking at me and wondering which spool of thread I’ll be using. Colors are all there, and so are all imaginable textures. From the thinnest smooth silk to the heftiest and thickest cotton. Needles of all sizes and pins with tiny metal heads or pearl colored tops are also in abundance torturing my fat tomato shaped pin cushion.
My dilemma isn’t which thread or which needle but which tear to mend first. I’ve set out with intentions to pull together the few threads that might reconnect and heal my heart. Yes, I know, I’ve got ahead of myself in this story so let me explain.
I arrived here, to a land I didn’t know full of dreams and plans and I was, at that time, undisguised and naïve. You see, I believed in passionate and truehearted love. The kind that holds you close in ones heart and is prompt to defend and shelter. A love that becomes a refuge in each other’s heart. I continued to draw breath from an ideal, an image I had fashioned to my own needs but didn’t know I wasn’t corresponded.
I can still see myself pushing with force onto the arms of an overworked wheelbarrow where I carried my heart. A heart so full of love to give, it over-weighed my body’s weight by much. As time has gone by the splinters in the old dry wood of my heart’s transporter has found way to penetrate and transform ripping and digging into what had been a brilliant ruby red fresh muscle into a dripping mass draining itself of vigor and brawn. As I’ve walked up and down worn stairs and over mossy cobblestones or muddy paths pushing and at time pulling, I haven’t lost hope of resilience, although smiles might be from my pocketed supply, I continue my pursue for love.
Years have gone by, daughters grown and off, marriage fallen apart, and I’m ready to start over. First I need to confront my demons and replace them with better times. My heart now, in my hands, awaits mending and reinforcement to proffer and collect its initial resolution. No more dripping or ripping can be tolerated so I’m out to mend, fix and repair, restoring vitality and desire.
Should I start with the deepest and most torn open lacerations or the superficial ones resembling scratches, scrapes and scuffs with scabs to remove and tend to? No, no, no! The deepest ones are hidden the most and are where most attention is needed to find and cure.
My choice of needle first. One with a sharp tip and wide eye to fit a strong, hefty thread needed for deep and still spilling lacerations. I look into my basket of threads and move around the smaller spools of silk and linen threads of all colors. I need red, a deep scarlet red, of indestructible, polished thread. Maybe wire would be best but wire won’t give to expansion the way thread will so I stick to thread. The vision of barbed wire comes to my mind and I feel scars open to pain from disillusions and tears from harsh words. No, only thread will suffice. I find a perfect shade of scarlet red and the thickness is optimum for the need. Scissors in my hand I cut a long line, pass it through the eye of my needle and join the two ends in a knot. A knot? Yes, a knot! I use knots to hold love in the warmth of my heart, so, yes, a knot is appropriate. My needle goes deep grabbing the sides of the open wound and the thread pulls them together and matches the lacerated sides to its original self. The color is perfect, once pulled together the seam is invisible. Yes, it’s not in view, no longer dripping but I know very well that it’s there although hidden in the folds of love. Another laceration, under a few folds as though wanting to hide and not come together.
I rethread my needle and set to sew pointing the needle on one side but provoking a sharp and intense pain to my memory keeper. I’ll be needing tight, close stitching on this one. Memories like a fast rolling movie appear in my mind and I set down my small tool and let warm tears run down my cold cheeks. I bring myself to reason reminding my brain and heart how much I need healing, mending and forgetting. The later being an impossibility I yield to the others and recommence my repair work. Stitches are close and overlapping just in case. The thread vanishes and the sides come together and tears disappear.
Once the deeper layers are mended I take a smaller and finer tool assuring the sharpness of the tip and searching for another spool. This time a red with less intense hue and a thread with thinner and more delicate feel. Silk is the most adapt for the case and I find a red of the exact intensity I need. I thread the eye with difficulty, in fact my glasses are now needed to help the thin hair of red silk pass through the eye. A tiny knot here too, is needed and I start to weave a silk latticework joining ripped sides and parts and I slowly but surely result with an elaborate lacework worthy of a grannies expert fingers.
Sitting back against my feather pillow I hear the complaint of the old wicker chair supporting my weight and I admire my work. Holding my heart in my hands I turn it and appraise my needlework. Lace it is and well made too. The warmth of the reddish spill of ichor is no longer present and memories are blurred into a fake oblivion but they remain there cured by love and hope and are muted by the intricate stitching of elaborate lace.
I feel a connection from my full hands and my warm muscle now prompt and alert ready to serve. I press my scarlet throbbing warmth to my chest and allow it to seep through my flesh and find its home there, in the depths of my inner self and welcomed by my breath. Now blood once held in suspense and shocked by life runs fast and securely through arteries, veins and a tight mesh of capillaries then reaches my lungs which sigh in happiness and my heart now offers me a second chance to life and love.
Mia’s Village
by Mary Ann McCoy
Mia’s village was changing dramatically and at 73 adapting brought difficulties. Fields of wheat showed construction sites and her centennial family home was divided and becoming a condo after various deaths in the family. Neighbors with distinguishable customs invaded tranquil routines.
“Would it be possible for your family to be more silent at night?”
She repeatedly asked the Albanian family who had vociferous late meals. This elderly woman with soft features and delicate manners had never lived in such clamorous environment and the noise of construction daily and this family nightly was reaching limits.
“Old lady, you take pills, sleep night. Leave me alone. Shut up, go cook!”
Eldon, the burly man donning an unappealing beard leaned out of his window and yelled sending Mia home like a stray dog with its tail tucked deep between its hind legs.
Mia’s daughters and families arrived as tradition dictated on Easter Sunday for grilled rainbow trout. The morning started calm and sunny, no workers and clanking sounds, no bustling of children, just an occasional car.
“Granny, where are you?”
Mia was starting a wood fire. Every Easter they knew they’d find her placing rainbow trout from the nearby river on the grill.
“You have grown, give me some loving.” Tears filled her eyes.
Smoke curled its way from logs under the trout into the air and out came the bearded man, his potent voice dampening festivities.
“Smoke's intoxicating, put out or I do!”
“Delicious! You catch these from the river in your field?”
Toni asked and a choir of “Yummy!” followed.
Spring skies often deceive and distant clouds invited Mia to finish grilling. The last trout were placed and the fire revived. Despite wind blowing in the opposite direction of Eldon’s window, a bucket of water splashed the flames and fish.
Mia walked to a voluminous container, opened it releasing a strong odour, reached in and pulled out a cupped hand with manure used to fertilize hydrangeas. With family eyes on her, she approached Eldon’s window, called, and as his fat face poked out the window, Mia hit it with manure and rubbed in circular motions.
No word was spoken, Eldon didn’t move.
A roar of laughter overflowed in the air when black clouds released their dampness.
The following Easter was celebrated in Mia’s garden by families speaking Albanian, Spanish and English. Music invited condo inhabitants and new family traditions began.
Forks, Knives and Loving Spoons
by Mary Ann McCoy
My kitchen usually isn’t very well organized because I tend to be spontaneous and like having tools at hand so near the cooking surface I find big colorful mugs or funny face shaped jugs and maybe even strange tall glass containers of all shapes and sizes. These are full of spatulas, ladles, knives, oversized spoons and forks.
Every sort of utensil I am attracted to and I am able to find when walking through shops in their cooking section are at hand.
The early morning sun is seeping through colorful flowered curtains above the sink, where I’m washing dishes from the dinner last night, casting shades in pink, yellow and green into the room. Two of just about every porcelain plate and bowl I own is soaking in the sudsy warm water. Four long stemmed and wide cupped crystal glasses with etchings of swans and roses wait quietly and cautiously to the side of the basin. A round bellied water jug in light blue crystal along with a few empty wine bottles with barely a couple drops of crimson liquid in their bottoms smile at me when I meet eyes with them.
Pots and pans sit patiently on the stove one above the other as if in friendly embrace, or maybe just stuck from the dried mashed potatoes on the sides of one of them. Well, I prefer to think of their position as an embrace with the ladles and spatulas guarding for good behavior in my dark night absence.
In the clean bubbles I place the crystal wine glasses and twirl them in the water delicately. My lipstick had left a one lipped kiss on a side so I am careful to remove it with the same love I had given it with my ruby lip the night before. I rinse them and set them with care on a linen cloth where I can be sure they will not get over turned. Soon the rounded water jug joins the long stems of the open blossomed glasses.
I proceed washing the plates and carefully setting one next to the other on a bamboo rack over a white towel and go on to scrubbing the pots and pans bringing out their shine and luster. I then, set them onto another towel next to the plate rack. My hands search deep in the water and pull out flatware which had been waiting in the calm of the warm water. I’m not talking about everyday flatware, no, this is sterling silver elaborately decorated forks, spoons and knives that I bought from a plump red cheeked lady at the antique market in my town a few years before. She told me their story. They had arrived with her in her suitcase from Nazi occupied Poland many years before, handed down to her from her mother who had in turn received them from hers. Not having family to share them with, or to entrust them to once her life would end, she was reluctant to concede them to me. She proceeded asking a few questions and watching me curiously while I handled the them gently commenting on their shapes and elaborate decorations attentively.
My thoughts return from the antique market to my kitchen and my chores. Holding the butter, steak and dessert knives carefully I use a soft sponge to caress their sides then move them into clean water to wait. Next come the forks with their devilish points ready to puncture or lightly scratch. They too get soft caresses and are placed in the company of the knives, mindful to not disturb their easily angered sharp sides. Now is the turn of the spoons and like all others, they boast their long stems with a grape-themed pattern. Vines wind round the stems and the widened bottoms expose tiny bunches of silver grapes and wide flat shiny leaves. They take a quick swim with the forks and knives and I pull all the sparkling silver out of the water and dry them polishing one at a time with love.
They all are happy after the delicious meal they were honored to assist the night before. The spoons seem the happiest and wink at me while I wipe them clean and put them one next to the other faces downward on the towel next to the glasses. I turn to empty the sinks and dry up drops I’ve made. In the air I hear soft music playing and I smile at the memory of my night before, spent in your arms. A low murmur of complaint comes from behind me begging me to turn. I see nothing, but the silverware seem agitated and anxious to return to their wooded box with each its own compartment. I open the redwood box lined in velvet and assuring all pieces are well dried, I start with the knives and place them one next to the other with their tall slim bodies pressed closely against each other allowing the grapes to kiss and vines to tangle on their bottoms. I then take the forks in hand and gently match their curves placing them in the narrow compartment carful to not scratch the delicate antique metal. Over years of use their tips have not lost their devilish pinch and I’m careful to not let them penetrate my skin.
Now it’s the spoons which overturned with space between them, seem to suffer, and as I lift one at a time the murmuring complaints float away in the notes of the soft music in the kitchen warmth. I polish them well and place them one over the other delicately as in a lovers embrace. They sigh and half close their eyes which I can see in the shine of their scooped heads. Grateful for the closeness of each other they allow me to place them in a more spacious area in the box. Their murmurs resembled the suffering in a lover’s farewell but once together again, their signs brought me back to you and our closeness under the embroidered feather quilt on my soft bed. We, like the silverware in the polished box, were lovers held tight in our loving embrace murmuring sweet nothings and sighing soft love.
Love, sighing in our hearts is like spoons dipping into a creamy soup or forks piercing a tender red tomato or even a sharp edged knife slicing through a juicy steak and entering our lives. Love is the sigh of a luscious aromatic soup filling our heart-shaped stomachs with love in our spooning embrace. I close the red wood box, place it in the cupboard with my porcelain plates and crystal glasses and there, they wait patiently for our next dinner to share and night of sighs under my grannies embroidered quilt.
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