My Eighty-Year-Old Heros

My mom and dad are 80 and 82. They still drive. They can still think.  

They are a marvel.  My parents are super-heroes.

Daddy is much thinner than he has ever been. He is underweight.

What I did not expect was to have him pick up a plastic bin filled with cookware, weighing at least forty pounds, and haul it into the house like it was nothing. I barely could get the thing up the porch steps, my elbows about to pop apart at any moment.

Mami is hurting more, more than she has ever been. I expected that, with her asthma, COPD, arthritis, and leg pains.

What I did not expect was her running house to house on Halloween with a blond Marilyn Monroe wig on, begging for candy. Okay... maybe I wasn't expecting it, but am I surprised? Not at all.

My Little Sister was the closest relative, living only two doors down from my parents. She has since moved away (I'm thinking running away), and it has been left up to me to be their "go-to" gal.  At first I was wary. Mami can demand a lot of attention. Papi usually doesn't speak at all (especially when Mami is around.)

But as I spend more time with them, I find that I really enjoy their company. There is a camaraderie. I make sure I take time to engage Papi in conversation, not letting Mami cut him off or take over the topic. Soon we are all conversing about world affairs, local news, their childhood memories, grandchildren and much more.

My parents are sentient, they're smart, they're passionate. Their life has been a hard one. They have lived all of their 80 years living way below the poverty line. They showed me that worrying does you no good. That money and  living can be difficult, but manageable even with five kids, a dog, and a parakeet.

They showed us that even without money, one can live a full and rich life, filled with love, without fear, without regret.

I look at them. I feel that there is decades in them yet.  But I know that life has a way of hitting you with the unexpected. My sisters and brother and I are so lucky to have them still.


Update: Six years later, my dear Papi passed away at the age of 88. I am a grateful to be his daughter.

She Needs to Know

I was inspired by the connection we made today when my mother called from Puerto Rico. 

She Needs to Know 

She called wanting to know.  That’s what a Mom needs. 

She needs to know. Everything.

If she can know

then maybe she won’t worry so much. 

She’ll keep connected to the people she loves. 

A connection that cannot possibly ever be severed.

If she knows, maybe she can be there for her child.

Maybe there will be a need to console,

to advise, or to cry with her child. 

Or maybe to cheer, rejoice, congratulate,

or exclaim like the days of old.

But best of all maybe to laugh

and be more than mother and child

and thereby find joint joy.

By knowing, she can imagine

that eyebrow of yours going up,

the glint in your eye when

you’ve made a decision,

the way you look when you’re pensive. 

Her connection is experience.

She needs to know

because she believes she’s the one person

that knows you better than you know yourself.

She imagines the thoughts and emotions running through you.

And feels it with you so far away.

And when She called, I made it light and airy. 

There was nothing new to report

No crisis, no triumphs, a typical cold day.

Much like hers except there’s heat in her day.

Nothing that needed much knowing

No underlying need to role-play mother and child

But I know that She likes to console and feel needed

so I complained of all I had to do.

And she told me to slow down and take it easy.

So we laughed, we talked

Of happy things, listening to the joy

And the harmony within our voices.

Because now I know what She knows

Our ages are far closer than our years

And I know and feel the same need

To be the She, wanting to know.

Don't Expect Any Doggie Back-Up

When everyone in the house heard the loud thump on the floor, the three of us looked at each other. Two of us jumped up immediately to investigate.

The third one made a bee-line for the back door and wanted out of the house.

Smokey is no guard dog.

Puerto Rico. Do I Have To Go To Paradise?

Panoramic Views of lush valleys at every turn.  

I haven't been to Puerto Rico since I was thirteen years old. I wasn't interested in going back because of that teenage attitude, "Been there. Done that." But Papi and Mami are in their 80s and need help opening and cleaning their vacation home and then help packing and closing the place when they leave. My sisters have been taking turns going and later returning with them.

I have been avoiding it, but it was my turn to take them. Sister in the Middle, Sister After Me, and Only Brother have been there twice already. Finally the inevitable had to happen. It was my turn.

So I went with much apprehension in leaving my business (especially my little dragons), my husband (it's hard to leave your solace and life-force), my home (not too much time left before Christmas), and my comfort zone (change is not necessarily a good thing.)

I dreaded the plane rides. (Delays, cancelled flights. It's happened so often. I also pray a lot during takeoffs, landings, any time between 11,000 to 42,000 feet and during turbulence.)
I dreaded the drive from one side of the island to the other side of the island. (Rush hour. Wow, I didn't need to experience that.)
I didn't want to think about the drive up the steep, winding roads to my parents' home at the top of a ridge. (Horror stories from Only Brother, constantly telling me his driving mantra, "Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!)
I especially didn't want to drive it in the dark. (Damn, I had to drive it in the dark.)
I worried about the state of the house and their car. (Last year there was no running water for a week. The stove was broken, the toilet was broken, and the car wouldn't start.)

But I kept my perspective and my fears in check and decided that "no expectations" was the best expectation. Sister After Me said, "You have to decide to be in the moment."  Because in the end, when you can't change or have control of what's going on, you have to go with it. You have to be in the moment.

I'm back, exhausted. I feel like I've been on high alert, jittery for seven days. But my sisters and brother were right. I didn't believe them, or I didn't care to listen.

But by the second day, I fell in love with Puerto Rico. Yes because of its infinite beauty, but more, because it was the land of my forefathers. My mother was raised in these hills.  Almost every home my mother pointed out was a relative's home, a cousin, an uncle, or an aunt. She pointed to businesses owned or once owned by relatives. She pointed to miles of valley and hill sides that belonged to her father and uncles. I was amazed how hard and beautiful the terrain was. I was amazed on how much family history was still here.

My father was raised in a much dryer and hotter area, lower in elevation, but just as beautiful. The terrain was flat, the flora more cactus like. We spent an afternoon and evening there, but the breezes of the cooler hills were calling us back home.

So the next few posts will be about my days in Puerto Rico with my parents. Time with them I would not have traded in the world.  I'm so glad I'm home, but I am equally as glad that I went.

The hardest part of the trip was leaving them behind.

Happy Birthday Sis

Sister After Me is having a birthday today.  She is now officially 50 years old.

And a mother of a five-year-old.

She is also the mother of a 31 year-old daughter and a 29 year-old son.

And a grandmother of four, ages 14, 4, 2, and six months.

My memories of her go all the way back to the crib we shared, when exchanging or stealing her bottle was a favorite past time of mine.   When she was little, whenever she got mad, her hands became tightly clenched fists, her arms stiff by her sides. She loved mischief.  She loved fun.  She was always up for the challenge.

Boys adored her from the moment they saw her, five "boyfriends" in kindergarten was just the start.

Since she was a small child, she was always saving animals in distress. That crazy woman chasing a dog around on the freeway trying to grab it before it got hit by a car, that was probably her.

Although I was older, by one year, she was always the one I looked to for comfort, for confidence, for allegiance, and more often than not getting it.  I sometimes wished that she needed me as much as I needed her.

She is a person that believes that you get out of life what you put into it.  Karma is big on her list.  She is very health conscious, always reading and learning how to be healthier in body, mind, and the spirit.  She wants everyone around her to feel fulfilled, to feel balanced, to take things in stride, to be happy. And if you can't be happy, to find solace.  She makes the effort to plant that seed.

At her younger daughter's preschool graduation, she turned to me and said, "I am so thankful because I am here.  I get to do a re-do.  I wasn't able to appreciate as fully as I do now my role as a mom.  Being a single mom, I always felt sorry that I wasn't there as often for my older two.  I was too young.  My work took me away. But this time I get a re-do.  I can give my youngest the home, the attention, a family that has a mom and dad, some stability in her life. I get another chance, a re-do.  I'm very blessed."

Her life has been filled with many highs and lows. And I'm not sure she will ever know the stability that she strives for in her life.  I know she is a "master juggler." No matter how often life gives her another ball to juggle, she will be able to do it.

As a 50th birthday present, she is giving herself this year. This year is for her, for her health, for her happiness, for her indomitable spirit.  My wish is to  help her celebrate this Year of Me.

Happy Birthday, Evie.   I love you.

Seven Weeks of Smokey

Seven more weeks. Smokey is staying with us while Mom and Dad are sunning themselves in the Caribbean, really going back to their childhood homes.  This is Smokey, the most chill dog ever.  I don't believe in endowing animal with human traits, but he is...

the most patient, loving, comically endearing dog, such a character.  Perfect for my parents who are in their 80's.

QueenMaker and I had dogs when we were children, but we never owned one during our married life.  The whole family decided that we were just too busy to give a dog the quality of life it deserved.  So its been 40 years since a dog has graced our lives.

I would never volunteer to take care of a dog, but for some reason, Smoky loves me.  He adores me.  Maybe it's because every time I visit, Smokey gets a complete doggy massage.  I look at that fur and I immediately feel the itch.  So I figure he must too.  That is why he loves me.  I'm way too empathetic.

So I mentioned that I may, possibly, give some thought, ask hubby first, not sure, but thinking about it, on the fence about taking him. That means its a done deal to my Mom.

Every maybe hints at possibility.  Possibility means a potential positive outcome.  So every maybe means a positive and even enthusiastic Yes! to my mom.  She will always say, "But you said..."  I didn't want to disappoint her.

So we have Smokey for seven weeks.  You never know what to expect from a dog that doesn't belong to you.  But he is true to character.  With a big sigh of relief for me and especially to hubby, the dog shows great self control.  It's as though he has always been here.

Today, I swear he did a seven take.  We confused him, momentarily.  First I saw the double take, then the quad, then a seven take!  It was simply awesome.

So I'm beginning to feel like a "mommy blogger,"  okay more like a beloved auntie with a nephew visiting for a month or so. He's becoming our little bundle of joy, waiting for us, greeting us with so much love and enthusiasm, reveling in our affection, wanting to play.

And he can stand on his hind legs forever too.



 

The Kindest Eyes

I've been thinking about my nephew lately. He lives in California. I keep seeing his face.  About a year ago, he was here for a visit and during an anniversary party we had an opportunity to sit down and talk with him.  We miss him very much.  

QueenMaker said, “Will has the most kindest eyes I have ever seen.  Did you notice when he’s speaking to people, his eyes are always gentle and full of kindness.  What a great young man.”

To my nephew:

When a good soul comes along

It makes the world brighter

He’s good nature, helpful, and full of love

The glass is always full, his smile always shining

When he talks, he talks about family

The bonds of joy, the ties between us

He gathers us to him, his eyes singing his love

He wants and needs to know what we know

We watch him, his manner infectious

We smile because he smiles

We laugh because he laughs

We love because he loves so much

And when he listens, he listens with his whole being

With the most gentle eyes ever expressed

With the fullest of kindness that reaches deep

And when you speak and look into his eyes, 

your beings meet, talking soul to soul. 

Come visit us soon.  

Papi and Boyfriends - The Early Years

I was chatting with my sister on the phone and she reminded me about the time Papi went after a boy that was bothering her.  It makes a young girl feel safe when her daddy is willing to be her knight in shining armor and save her from the advances of some unseemly suitor.  Then again...

Here is a short history of my dad’s interaction with his four teenaged daughters’ boyfriends, the early years.

Chased boy with a crowbar, a guy bothering Youngest Sister.

Chased boyfriend P with butcher knife, boyfriend arguing vehemently with Sister After Me.

Chased rival boyfriends P and W, fighting over Sister After Me.  Stupid guy, W pulls small knife, Papi pulls much bigger butcher knife, chases both guys away.

Frightens future suitor of Middle Sister while wielding a baseball bat in the air.

Finds oldest daughter making out with boyfriend on couch.  Boyfriend suddenly disappears, flying through the air, landing on butt about fifteen feet away.  Daughter looks up to see very angry father, very frightened boyfriend, and Youngest Sister (could have warned me that Papi was home from work, but chose not to, Punk!) and friend coming in to watch the fun, laughing their arses off.  Boy ordered from house. Boy running as fast as possible.

My dad, the Dark Knight, fiery eyes, with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, wielding tools of mass destruction – priceless.

Coloring Hair May Cause Childhood Injuries

Memories of Childhood, always good blog fodder.

Principal Lord, what a man.  He was great guy and a gorgeous one at that.  He had presence and charisma that even the youngest children at our school would take notice of it.  And his name, can you believe it?  Just saying it makes me think of him with a dreamy smile and real affection. Principal Lord.

The parking blocks in the teacher’s lot lined up nicely and the kids would walk and hop on them on our way into the building.  I was doing just that when I slipped on a wet block and put a gash in my knee that would not stop bleeding.  Being the wimp that I was, I cried uncontrollably.

Principal Lord drove me home. How cool! We found Sister After Me and soon we were in front of our house.  He carried me to the door (Sweet!) and when the door opened, I think we both gasped.  Mami was wearing a tattered housecoat, had plastic gloves on and her hair was covered with goop.  What was that stuff!

She grabbed her head in horror when she saw Principal Lord and frantically looked around desperate for something to cover up. Her expression quickly changed from extreme embarrassment to concern and she forgot her head.  Soon the red dye was running down her face and dripping on the floor.  Who knows what Principal Lord was thinking?

The following year someone pushed me down.  My face hit the gravel and a gash opened up over my eye that later required nine stitches.  Blood poured down my face getting into my eyes and although I was the biggest wuss ever, I felt perfectly justified in screaming my head off.  Again the gallant Principal Lord came to my rescue and drove me home.  With blood dripping down my face, he swooped me up and carried me to the door. My mother seeing a man carrying one of her children swung open the door wearing once again, big plastic gloves and black goop in her hair.  What are the odds!

A year later, Sister After Me broke her ankle and you guessed it, Principal Lord took her home and carried her to the door. Yes you can guess the rest. Mami opens the door with plastic gloves and was coloring her hair. My poor embarrassed mother. Everyone said she was a beautiful woman, looking a bit like Elizabeth Taylor, but Mr. Lord would never know it.

The three times Principal Lord came to our home. Three times he comes carrying injured children. Three times he finds a woman that is apparently obsessed with her hair color. Did we have radar and know just when and how to embarrass our mother in front of the most gorgeous man on the planet?

Is there a cosmic connection that whenever Mami colors her hair, one of her children incurs an injury? A twist on the old chant that children sing when walking along, “Don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mother’s back.”

“Color your hair red and a child will break his head.” Really what are the odds?

The Humbug Routine

Hey, hey, time for sweet Christmas memories.  I've had tons and tons of them.  I remember the joy of running down the stairs and seeing bikes in the living room! I remember the smell of a new doll, nothing better.  When I was sixteen, I received my first gift of jewelry from a suitor, a pair of opal earrings from Queen Maker,  followed by an opal ring three days later for my birthday.  Okay, getting jewelry is way better.

So I am now going to tell a tale from the Belen family files, describing one of those rare but cathartic Christmases. The one dramatically silly.

CHRISTMAS, BAH! HUMBUG!

My father sometimes played games that would backfire on him.   Everyone knew that every Christmas Papi would start the humbug routine. He’d start with saying that Christmas was too commercialized. Even hinting that, maybe, there would be no tree this year.  We of course would protest and beg for our tree and he seemed pleased with the rise he would get out of us as kids, pretending to relent or keep us in suspense for a few days.

His main complaint was that everyone was knocking themselves out buying presents they couldn’t afford and he hated watching it.  The true spirit of Christmas was lost.  He’d be joking at first and then get angry, and soon he convinced himself and us that no Christmas was coming. But of course, it always would.

The way my dad showed affection was by picking on you.  He baited you, bantered back and forth, sometimes poked or pinched you when you walked by. We all knew he loved us and that was his way.  Although my little sister did once ask Mami why Papi didn’t like her since he would pinch her every time she walked by.  But Mami would always explain and remind us, that Papi was a product of his own upbringing.  That he did love us but didn’t know how to express it. That Papi was trapped and didn’t know how to change.  He couldn’t make himself pass out the hugs and kisses so he would show his attention and affection the only way he knew how, by bugging us.

As we grew older, Papi continued to repeat the annual Christmas rhetoric.   As preteens we would tease him and counter, “Yes we are going to have Christmas." Although it always started out as playful banter, he would work himself into a corner of stubbornness where there was no retreat and then get angry.  We learned to modify our responses to his Christmas diatribe.  But this became a never ending pattern for him for many years.  At Christmas parties, he wouldn’t open his gifts, his stubbornness, childlike and unyielding. But he always took them home with him.  He’d try to say hurtful things though by this time we just let the comments go by.  We knew it was his way of venting and that in reality he didn’t mean a word of it.

One year in my 20’s I went to my mother’s home to find that the Christmas tree was in a horizontal position. Apparently someone had thrown the tree to the floor, the tree lights still twinkling.  The carnage of broken bulbs and ornaments were everywhere.  Papi was sitting in his chair, as always watching television.  Where was everyone?  Papi pointed his finger upwards and told me to check the upstairs flat.  Upstairs my mom, my brother, and three sisters were huddled together. Sister in the Middle is crying her eyes out.  What happened?  Well apparently Papi was doing his usual Christmas rhetoric, when Sister in the Middle said as a joke, “Oh Papi, quit being such as scrooge.” It was the trigger Papi needed and he jumped up and hit her on the back of the head, a patented dope slap.   Now mind you, we are all in our 20’s, adults, not children anymore.  Our relationship with our parents had evolved to that of mutual understanding and respect. So to be attacked like this, just for making a joke, unprovoked and by your own out of control father, was too much for any of them to bear.

I asked is this when Papi threw the tree down?  To my surprise, Mami had done it.  She stood up to him at last.  Always the peacemaker and the soother of every potentially volatile situation, Mami finally exploded herself and threw down the tree he so hated.  I was shocked. Mami did it?  Way to go Mom. My father’s game finally backfired.  My anger grew, because I am just like my father. Here we are gathered to celebrate being together and he has to pull his usual crap.  This time, regrettably he took it too far and successfully ruined everyone’s Christmas. 

I went downstairs and was about to give him… what? My anger, to scold him, to tell him off, to tell him what a bad person he was?

No, that would give him exactly what he expected or perhaps in his own self-destructive way what he wanted. Poor guy, I thought, he’s a little messed up.  And really when you think about it, the whole situation was ridiculous.  His stubbornness, the passion play, my mom tossing the tree down with a stomp, (wished I had witnessed that myself).  finding my family huddled together in despair all to be forgotten tomorrow as “one of those things.” I just had to smile. As I walked down the stairs to confront him, I stifled a laugh. The last few Christmases have been a tad boring.

Instead I said, “You know what Papi?  No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you can’t make us stop loving you.  You can be as stubborn, mean or as hurtful as you want, but it still won’t matter a bit.  We will always love you, no matter what you do to us.  So you can keep on trying to drive us away, but I’m telling you right now, it isn’t going to work. We will still be here and loving you. So there!” And I left.

Ah those cathartic moments. Christmases were damn good after that one.

Beautiful Goodfellows Firemen

Being one of the poorest families in our neighborhood, a fact totally lost on us because we didn't know any better, several boxes were dropped off at our home during the Christmas season with some great stuff in it. I assume a teacher or the school had given our name to the local chapter of the Goodfellows.

I was six years old. The door bell rang and Three. Tall. Muscular. Beautiful. Blond. Men walked into our home carrying several boxes.  They were all over six feet tall and they were wearing their firemen gear.

One of them made a big impression on me.  Maybe it was the uniform or how high I had to look up to see his face, or how blond he was or that deep voice when he offered the boxes to my Mom, but I was instantly smitten.  Up to that point, all the men I knew were friends of my parents.  They were short, flabby, and all brunettes.  This was a new revelation of manhood never before experienced! It was as though Superman had walked in the door.

To have strangers in our home was exhilarating for the five of us. My Mom was incredulous.  all this for us! In the boxes were foodstuffs, white t-shirts, toys for my brother, and dolls.  We were touched.  My mother cried when they left.  The Goodfellows came several years after that always wearing their uniforms.  They were sometimes police officers or firemen and it was thrill to have them in our home.

My family think of the Goodfellows with great affection.  I saw them today selling their newspapers and it always transports me to that day when I discovered tall gorgeous blond men that others actually cared about our family. They made sure we had a good Christmas and we will always be grateful.

Introducing Great Aunt Ellie

Oh yes little ones, you are going to know me well.  I have the time and dare I say it the inclination to visit you every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday.  Your mommy just had a new baby, your new brother and brought him home this week.  She has joined the ranks of women who have three children under the age of four.

When I came to visit, you were both screaming at the top of your lungs and running around like whirling tops. As soon as I walked in you both decided it would be wildly funny to come over and start smacking me. Little girl started screaming at me to get out and generally maligning my character.  Kid, you barely know me.

I looked over at your Mom exhausted and staring out into space.  I heard that when her hubby came home the other day, she grabbed the keys and got in the car and had a good cry.

Now I know for sure that I was right to offer my services to her when she was in the hospital. Don’t worry; you will have the times of your lives when I am there.  So you will be more than happy to bend to my will. So kiddies, get ready, here comes Great Aunt Ellie.

Family Camping Trip Memories

For the past 30 years our family meets up north one weekend a year for the family camp/canoe trip. We first started going on these canoe trips as part of a company outing, originally hosted by my brother’s employer. Richard, who was also a good family friend, organized these weekend trips. Camping somewhere in Grayling, and then Saturday morning canoe down the Au Sable River. We were single then and went sporadically, but my brother hasn’t missed a year in 30 years.

Soon as we started having our own families, our family decided to break from the original group, because we like acting like grown-ups and wanted to be respectful of our camping hosts. Our group was big enough on its own and we wanted to make it a family affair instead of the wild corporate party that soon had them ban from every campsite in the area.

The best memories started when as parents of pre-schoolers scholars, we began our children’s indoctrination to the camping and canoeing experience. Soon the grandparents started coming too. At least fifteen to twenty family members went year after year.

Imagine five little boys and two girls ages 3-6 looking up at us in astonishment. You mean the dirt is our living room floor, and our kitchen floor and our playground? Wow, you mean we can play in the dirt? Yeah, let’s get down to business. Soon we had dirt highways for their matchbox cars and tonka trucks around the tents. Whole armies of ninja turtles set up in foxholes fighting off Barbie dolls. We couldn’t keep the kids clean and after a while we stopped trying, changing them three times a day. Or the following year, when one of the dads pulled out a bag of marbles, showing the boys the art of shooting marbles. Gradually the little boys were replaced by grown men, kneeling in the dirt, aiming with one eye showing off their shooting accuracy.

There was a small patch of trees and brush next to our campsites. Really it was just a couple of pathways from one camp area to the camp store or pool. The kids kept going into the four by six patch of “woods” chasing each other around and pretending to be lost. To this day they insist that the “woods” were immense. Then at dusk we would walk through the “woods” with our children wearing their pj’s to the showing of a Yogi Bear cartoon and eat popcorn.

I found I love meandering down a river in a canoe. If I could, I would do it every week. I remember my three-year-old niece proclaiming, “I don’t like this. I want to go home” over and over again all the way down the river. Seven years later, I hear my three-year-old niece, Ms. A proclaim the same thing over and over. Aha, the tradition continues! I remember the lunches we had at the halfway point. After lunch the kids are in the water searching for guppies and tadpoles with their dads. The water cannons and squirt guns in later years and their riotous play in the water.

Two years in a row, we found a spot in the river around a bend, where the current was moderately fast and a perfect size for young children. We parked our canoes along a sandy bank and one by one each child rode the current. The life jackets made them buoyant enough to let one go at one end and ride the current to a waiting parent on the other. It was a blast. But the river changes year after year and we never could recognize where the bend with the fast water was ever again.

We relished whenever my brother brought a new girlfriend or a new couple decided to join our group. “Umm, never been in a canoe before, really?” The scene was repeated year after year. The arguing, the bickering and the blaming begin immediately. The couple is in full adrenalin mode as they crash over and over again in a zig zag pattern up the river, only moving a few feet forward at a time, and fighting all the way. Then the inevitable happens. No matter how hard they try, they will eventually flip that canoe and land in the river soaked from head to toe. For a couple to navigate a canoe down a river is a true test of any relationship and damn entertaining. See how I italicized it and underlined it. It’s just that entertaining.

These were really good years. The kids were young enough to put to bed by eight or nine and the grown ups made a fire, had cocktails, and talked. Some times the guys did skits and we would roar with laughter and the contests of man versus woman on who could start a fire. The ladies usually won because we were patient enough to gather or cut kindling wood. The men would throw a huge log in the fire pit and throw fluid all over it and grunt, “Ugh, fire.” While the kids slept, we took turns taking romantic walks under the stars. We brought our lounge chairs and look up at the magnitude of stars and felt the awe and wonder of the universe. We were recharging our souls.

So many memories, the year that Beloved skidded in the sand while riding his bike and fracturing his collarbone. The year some of the kids came down with the measles. The years of cars breaking down and the guys going to the rescue of some family member. Some unbearably hot weekends, especially the year that every campsite in sight had fans blowing outside of their tents. What a strange sight. People everywhere rushing to Wal-Mart to buy a fan, any fan and sitting together under the trees. We were the first to put four or five of them in a row hoping the blowing air from the fans would cool us off. All envied us. The year of the big rains when camping was just miserable but always remembered as adventure. The year hail as big as baseballs came down and dented all of our cars while the twenty of us huddled in the one tent that was erected in the nick of time. “Was that a tornado warning in the distance? Anybody else hear that?” The year my brother lost his keys in the river. It took us an hour but we found them. The year my niece found she loved bugs and taught all the other kids to love bugs. Think, bugs in pockets. Hearing the maneuvers and artillery fire coming from the nearby army reserve base in Grayling. The women staying in camp while the men took the kids to Hartwick Pines or Gaylord Alpen Fest. We played skip bo (card game) in the camp’s laundry room while having cocktails. Ah good times.

When the kids got older, we found another campsite, less commercial but with a lovely private beach, a few small cabins, a boat launch, and fishing poles for rent. This secluded campground was our destination for the next decade. New traditions were born, swimming in the lake, the volleyball tournaments, the nighttime search for crawdads and frogs, Saturday night popcorn and Sunday morning pancakes provided by our hosts, the evening gathering at Middle Sister’s cabin to play cards.

Now the kids were older and could stay up and roast marshmallows. They would spend hours looking for the right size fire stick. This cut down adult “party” time considerably since we couldn’t send them to bed early anymore. They were mesmerized and loved the fire, the little pyromaniacs. Listening to their youthful exuberance and conversation was enlightening and entertaining. Now the whole family could sit around telling stories. One year the kids grabbed the video camera and made an impromptu film on their hunt and quest for the big crawdads called, “The Crawdad Hunter.” (I'll have to post that later.)

I thought when the kids became fourteen or fifteen that the camping trip would lose its appeal. After all they were teenagers now and surely wouldn’t want to go anywhere with their parents. But they all informed us that it was the highlight of their year that they would never get tired of this trip. They loved it and would always love it. One year my sister and husband decided to skip the family camping trip. My eleven-year-old nephew was so angry that he made picket signs and walked up and down in front of his house in protest. He got his way.

The little boys and girls that were 3-5 at one time are now 19-22 years old. I hear them talk about coming up north on their own and camping together “without the parents” or how they will continue the tradition with their own kids. It gladdens my heart. I’m looking forward to the time when they are the ones setting up camp and cooking all the meals and driving us around.

A full circle is coming. As we (the parents) are getting older, it’s harder and harder for my sisters and brother and their spouses to enjoy the tenting experience. We can’t take the heat. We can’t stand the dampness on wet weekends. The whole setting up camp and then taking it down again has become a big chore. Taking that long walk to the bathroom three times a night is not fun at all, especially when it’s raining. There is not enough excitement for the young adults especially since there are “no babes or hunks” in our secluded campground hideaway. We’re all ready to go someplace new. Plus we have new little ones in the family, new children to introduce to the camping and canoeing experience. They have yet to get really attached to our present camping site so moving to a new one is sounding good to everyone.

Since I don’t “party hardy” anymore, (Did I mention we are getting old?) I’m never inebriated tired enough to stay asleep all night. For the last few years, my irritation with nature has grown. The birds start chattering loudly in the wee hours of the morning that I have to keep myself from screaming, “Shut up, you stupid birds!” Or pull out a shotgun and plug ‘em full of lead. Just a fantasy I’ve had the last few years. Finally when they settle down, chipmunks, squirrels, or crows start their bickering and run around our tent and up the trees making sleep impossible. If it rains, the drops against the tent sound like timpani. So I have been wearing earplugs and taking Ambien on our last few camping trips.

Queenmaker announced no more tenting for him and I wholeheartedly agree. We’re just not sure if this is a new tradition we want to start, leaving the campsite and missing out on all those late night activities and stories around the campfire. It’s bittersweet. But we are planning to go this year, rent a cabin or motel room and see how it all works out. If it’s not too expensive maybe we’ll rent a camper.

Summer memories are best when they are part of a tradition. I would like to keep it going. I want to be part of this ever growing family’s trips up north. Every year we are together at the same place, same time, and same river, with the same beloved family. Every year we share new bonds, new experiences, and new traditions adding to our ever-growing treasure trove of beloved memories that family summers bring. Priceless.

Remember to go to Sprite's Keeper for more memories.

Mami's Love for Machetes

My mom, 78, got a new machete.  I said, “My god woman! How many do you own now?”  This was her third one. Her grandson Jose gave it to her.  I asked her how many did she need, really, I mean. She said, "Never too many."  She pulled it out to show me. She was so happy like a little kid at Christmas. “I got a new machete! I got a new machete!”  This has always been Mami’s tool of choice especially in the garden. Now this tool might be a little over kill for a garden, but it’s the tool she knows.  She can wield it expertly.  Her expertise was always apparent. I never questioned it.

We finally asked the history of her affinity for the machete, and the stories she told generated a paradigm shift within me.  I know nothing about my mother.  I don’t really have a clue. She has history to tell and she has been busting out trying to tell it. But I have been deaf to the stories about her life all my life.

Since Mami doesn’t own a computer, she has been curious about my blog, so she asked me to print them out for her to read.  I think she also wants to make sure that I show her in the proper light. She's been saying a lot lately, "You know I tried my best.  I don't think I was too bad a mother." I keep assuring her she's a great mom.

Since we were all getting together for Memorial Day, I printed them out for her to take home. She decided to read several of my stories. She later said to me, “You forgot to mention that I was the one that bought the Pecan Sandies. I knew that Papi did that, so I made sure we had them around.”  In other words, I’m the one that facilitated your visits with your father.  It was because of me that good things happen in your life. You didn’t acknowledge that. Because I didn't know.

Knowing that she had this thing about being left out of anything or that any of us say something favorable about Papi, drives her crazy.  I said, “But Mami that’s not really the point of this particular story.”  She said, “I know, but…”  Again I assumed that she was being overly needy, slightly jealous or childish.

Later she said to me, with real longing and sadness in her eyes, "If I could write about my life it would be a real story to tell.  I have a lot to tell." 

These two sentence had a profound effect on me.  Here I am, writing the stories I want about my childhood, as a young woman, motherhood, and as the middle age tween that I am today. How pale in comparison. I have a burning desire to write, but I realized that Mami needs to write too, but she doesn’t have the means. She has no outlet. She tries to tell her story, but no one wants to listen. 

I only know the woman that Mami is today.  But she needs me to see her as the impoverished child foraging for and stealing food to help feed her brothers and sisters, her mother’s right hand, her mother’s only ally, the indentured servitude first to her father who never treated her as a daughter, and then as a young woman in the many homes she was sent to work. 

Searching for love, she thought she wound find it with her husband.  And since a lot of us marry our fathers or mothers, she robbed herself of the love she sought, finding someone whose pain body was as large as hers. The only joy she acknowledges is her children and grandchildren.  She was always known for the unconditional love she taught and gave freely to others.  I realized that she was filling the hole with as much love as she could give, because the hole within her was just as large from the lack of it.

I haven’t been able to write a word since.  I realized that the stories she told, I always discounted as complaining because they were the “same old stories.”  They were about the hurts and pain she had experienced in her life.  I never realized the extent of the sorrow and hardship in her life story.  I wasn’t willing to listen.  But I got a glimpse of it when I asked her why she loved her machete. I finally listened.  My mouth dropped when she told me just a fraction of what had happened to her.

I began to feel that writing was a therapy and I want to extend that therapy to my mom. My story and need are so miniscule to hers. I realized that my need to blog seemed more akin to self-indulgence or a self-cleansing.   But in reality I just wanted it out there.  I wanted my stories to be told and since they’re out there in cyberspace, I feel perpetuated. Do I need comments?  Really for me, no.  Knowing that my stories are out there are mainly an experience of release.  Feels damn good.  My need is no longer paramount.  

Now I will try to release it for my mom and dad.  I will be starting the Mami and Papi Project. We start taping Friday. 

Bye...AND I love you.

Check out Sprite Keeper for all the spins on the phrase, "I love you."

We never held it against him. We understood.  We were patient, and we finally wore him down. I remember when Papi first told me he loved me.  I was approximately 26 years old and he just volunteered that information to me one day.  I was shocked; you really don’t know what a pleasure, euphoric feeling, and the wonderment to actually hear your father say he loves you. I didn’t do anything to prompt him.  I didn’t do anything especially nice or thoughtful for him. 

We were at a church social and about to leave so we went to say good-bye to my parents. I gave Papi his kiss, when he said it.  “Bye and I love you.”  And he meant it. He even said it to Queenmaker, my boyfriend of nine years.  We looked at each other in astonishment. Queenmaker mentioned how honored he felt that Papi said he loved him too. He saw the look on my face and said, "What?"

"Do you know that’s the first time my father has said he loves me?!!”  The most important thing about that phrase is the “and”.  That’s where he put his emphasis. It created the necessary pause to let me know that he means and knows what he is saying.  I think he told all his children that year that he loved us.  And we knew that something had triggered the beginning of a relationship we had always wanted.  He says he loves us more and more often as the years go by.

As children we were just such a huge responsibility. He may have looked at us as adversaries, the reasons that kept him from the quiet life he wanted, the dreams never to be fulfilled or to have my mother to himself.  As adults, he could see himself in us, that we were good kids, who showed patience, intelligence, tolerance, courtesy and love. We all established an excellent work ethic, which we tribute to him.  Maybe he realized that we were all grown up and he was seeing less and less of his children.  Maybe he even missed us. I don't care why he said it. I was okay if he never had said it. But when I heard it, the still waters deep inside of me gushed like a happy  geyser.  

No matter how hard he tried to push us away, we always came back with unconditional love for him. That is what we learned from my mother. My mom was all about unconditional love. My dad was always an open book. His emotional state was always right on the surface for us to read and it was usually angry. He wasn’t an absentee father not physically, but definitely emotionally. 

He loved a good joke and when he was happy and Mami was happy, the kids felt like vases being filled up with their laughter and happiness.  Don’t get me wrong.  Papi was not always a sourpuss.  He was just moody.  He was just Papi.  

From Papi we learned acceptance, justice, tolerance and truth.  We also learned stubbornness, candor, detachment and irrational anger. He was one extreme while my mother was the other extreme.  We picked and chose from their characters both positive and negative. We learned what or how to be and what not to be. As adults we have learned that the phrase, "I love you" is one that must be heard and said a dozen times a day.

My mother taught us to look at things from the other guy’s perspective. She told us that it was very hard for him to express his feelings. As children we always did look at it from Papi’s perspective. When I look back, if I had five noisy, fighting brats, all trapped in a little house, I’d go crazy or just run away.  But he stayed because it was the right thing to do.  He always taught us the right thing to do. But that day I knew he did it because he loved us.

 

Tongue Out and Belt Jumping

When Papi got mad it was an amazing sight.  He had a look that could stop you in your tracks. The phrase, “if looks could kill…” comes to mind and his were lethal.  I’m proud to say I have inherited that look, a look that stops people in their tracks, keeps children in line, and can make a husband turn on a dime and leave a room.   What power. 

If Papi told you to do something you did it immediately.  If he asked you a second time, you may or may not be safe, but don’t push it. He’d asked for quiet, but with five loud, screaming children, playing or arguing, some days he just had enough. Rage would overtake his face.  His eyes narrowed, his head would snap toward the offending child, and his tongue would settle on the side of his lips.  He’d begin to unbuckle his belt and everyone would scatter. Sometimes the guilty party would get away and he’d get the wrong person. So it was always best to scatter first, ask questions later. He was like a T-rex instinctually going after the slowest or the weakest at times, but his pinpoint accuracy to track and capture a known offender is also legendary.

He had no trouble with the prospect of chasing you down, even if it meant climbing the stairs two or three at a time or chasing you into the basement.  Sometimes it was better if you just stayed where you were and took it.  He always made sure not to hit too hard and never above the waist. But the belt did sting which is why it was so effective. Yes, occasionally he would just threaten, but if the unbuckling process had begun, it was going to be used, much like the code of the samurai, a sword drawn from its sheath is a sword that must draw blood. 

Experience taught us that if we started wailing right away and yelled the words, “Ow, ow, OW” each time he swung that he would stop sooner. Distraction techniques were deployed, such as pointing to another sibling and tattling on some heinous deed yet to be discovered. Another talent developed was avoiding the belt like a jump rope. Although this made Papi angrier, he got tired more quickly and we got away with hardly a scratch. We got so good at jumping, that we would compare notes afterwards to see who got the worse and who got away, offered tips, and reviews on particularly good performances.

The most comical moment was the time Papi holding Youngest Sister’s arm while trying to belt her and Youngest Sister jumping over it like a gazelle over and over again. Her rhythm was fantastic and when he tried to change up on her, she jumped even higher and matched every swing of his belt with a skillful leap that even Nureyev would have been proud.  Papi missed every time and finally gave up. What a girl!

With four girls in one room, we would talk and giggle for hours. Mami or Papi would yell up to quiet down and go to sleep. If we heard the first step squeak, we’d shut up and listen. At times, Papi would sit quietly on the bottom step, waiting. We would forget and the steps would creak heavily and we knew we were in for it.  We start wailing before he hit the top step. “It’s wasn’t me, it was Middle Sister.  I wasn’t talking, it was those two!”

Afterwards, we would compare notes. How many times did he land a strike and the percentage of swings vs. strikes?  We analyzed his particular striking method, soft or hard, which was a reflection of his particular mood that night, either very angry or slightly annoyed.

As we got older, Papi didn’t pull out the belt as often. Plus he was getting worn out by now, right? Wrong.

Only Brother, who was in his teens, decided to act all “alpha” and talked back to Papi. Judging from Papi’s reaction, Only Brother soon realized his peril and jumped the fence. Feeling pretty smug about getting away from the “old man” he looked over his shoulder in time to witness the “old man” kick down the fence without breaking stride.  The combination of fear and awe on Only Brother’s face was priceless as he sped away down the street.

Here are some tips on how to avoid the belt…

1) Start whimpering right away, crying “No Papi, No Papi, it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”  It is helpful to have at least three or four siblings you can implicate.  The art of misdirection, a much needed trait for survival.

2) Tattletale – Start the blaming right off the bat so you don’t get bunched in with the offenders.

3) Secret hiding place – No one must know where it is, because you’ll find another sibling there in your place, or they will surely fink on you.

4) Stay put – Take what’s coming, finding comfort that the real offenders will be chased down and  get a really good whooping.

5) Run – Easy to do, faster than Papi. Lots of places to run him out like running upstairs, then downstairs to the basement, then around and around the kitchen, dining room and living room doors or run out the back door if its a warm day. Stay away at least 20 minutes to an hour. If a new infraction has taken place and justice has been dealt to a new offender you may return because Papi’s already forgotten about you. Maybe.

5) Subterfuge – Scream “Ow” louder with each strike reaching a dramatic crescendo. The Pavlovian Response will kick in and he’ll stop. This important observation helped us create other verbal cues signaling we had had enough, triggering the response, becoming all Meryl Streep to sell it. (I want to thank the Academy for the Oscar.)

6) Learn to jump with great skill and timing.  Special skills must be developed to jump while he is holding your arm. Be a gazelle. Be the gazelle. You are the gazelle.

7) Learn the warning signs.  Head snap, eyes become like slits…. Swoosh, that’s me running out of the room. Don’t want to be there when the tongue comes out. 

8) Proximity - Sit next to Papi the whole time he’s home.  Watch his favorite shows and ball games with him, ask him questions about the ball game, and try to engage him. He will recognize you as the only child that should have survived and make you his heir apparent, because that’s all you really want anyway.

 

Looking for the Ghost

Why the fire started I would find out later, but we know who started it, Youngest Sister and Only Brother, five and six years old respectively.

Our upstairs bedroom had access to two separate attic spaces.  One door about three feet high was along one wall of our bedroom. No one ever wanted their bed near this door because it was spooky. You never knew what lurked within. The second door was above the landing at the top of the stairs.  You had to take a big step up to get into this attic space.  Inside this door was a large cedar lined closet with shelves and poles for hanging clothes. Beyond this space was another 3-foot door that led to the rest of the unfinished portion of the attic. We never explored this area beyond the closet because it was dark and scary and you had to walk stooped over in that part of the attic, making it hard to turn and run from monsters if need be.   It was hard to feel secure in the cedar closet because who knows what lurked behind that other door, but sometimes you would find all five of us in there playing. 

It started when Mami decided to play a prank on us one day.  She was cleaning out the cedar closet and she thought it would be funny to go into the other section of the attic behind the second door. She decided to hide. Where is she? She’s gone.  Mami, Mami where are you?   She started making ghosts sounds that made us jump and run.  She started screaming pretending that the ghost was “getting her.”  We screamed and cried, and then she came out laughing.  It was a good prank, but some of us didn’t think it was funny at all. Mami always had a mischievous streak and she loved to watch the reactions she would get when she did or said something outrageous.

So that’s why I found it strange that Only Brother and Youngest Sister would be alone together in that closet a week or two after Mami’s prank.  When I realized why they were in there I thought them both brave and stupid at the same time. They were going ghost hunting. What they did next was very, very stupid. 

The light was dim so they took matches with them. And you know it; they dropped a lit match and tried to blow it out themselves. Only Brother sent Little Sister down to get a glass of water. Mami noticed the filthy glass in Little Sister’s hand and asked, “Where are you taking that glass?” Only Brother wants some water she explained. Mami took the glass and told her to get a clean one. Soon Only Brother had to raise the alarm, running down the stairs screaming that the attic was on fire.  No one believed him at first, until I looked up the stairs and saw a glow coming from the inside of the closet. Mami flew into action. 

First she screamed for Only Brother and Little Sister to get out of the house, and they ran out the back door.  Mami screamed, “Girls! Bring me water. Get the big pans and fill them up with water and bring them to me quick.  Hurry, hurry!”  Pretty much every kitchen had huge pots to make enormous amounts of rice or soup for their big families.  Luckily we had three good size pots. Mami jumped into the closet and started beating the fire with whatever she could.  She started tossing things out of the closet as not to catch fire. 

Sister After Me, Middle Sister and I were taking turns running the pots of water to her. We started out by trying to fill the pots to the top, but this was too inefficient. The pots were too heavy and water sloshed out before we could get them up to her.  Plus Mami was yelling down for us to hurry, she needed water, NOW! We realized that we couldn’t fill the pots too high, but at the same time there had to be sufficient water in the pots to do any good, otherwise Mami she would certainly lose the battle. And battle she did. 

Every time I went up I still saw the glow of the fire, sometimes against her face, her arms rising above her head, working hard to beat the blaze down. We ran up and down the stairs over a dozen times each, Mami grabbing the pot of water and throwing it onto the fire and screaming for us to hurry with more.  We decided to try the bucket line, where I would fill and the others would grab the pot and leave the empty one. But it seemed to take forever. Besides I was the oldest, the strongest to carry the heaviest of pots, so we went back to each of us filling and carrying our own pots.  I can’t tell you how long it took to put it out.  After a point, we realized that Mami was in danger.  We started calling and crying for Mami to come out. But she wouldn’t give up.

It seemed an eternity. I think it actually took about 10-15 minutes, but finally the fire was out.  We were amazed. She did it.  My mom was a hero, and one of the bravest women I know.  I was so proud of her. When she came out her hair was wild, her face black, and she looked exhausted.  We looked at her and started laughing because even the inside of her nose was black. She looked perturbed with us, but then gave a big smile.

I realized that not only was she battling to put out a fire, she was battling to keep her home. She was fighting to keep a roof over our five heads.  Mami saved our house. What a woman!

For punishment Little Sister and Only Brother knelt for hours on the bathroom floor.

Queen Maker Have You Met Mami?

This is how Queen Maker first met my mother.  

I was fifteen years old when I first met my boyfriend and future husband (but after this encounter, I don't know why he stayed around.)  I invited him to my house to meet my mother and father. When we walked in,  Mami was preparing dinner. She was using the large butcher knife cutting a whole fryer chicken into pieces.  

Queen Maker went over to introduce himself and to talk to her for a few minutes.  Mami asked him, “So you like my daughter?”  He said he did and she said, “Just so you remember I’m really good with a knife and..” she suddenly thrust the butcher knife into his belly.  Queen Maker’s knees almost buckled.  He was shocked and when he looked down, expecting a big hole in his belly, he realizes that she was holding the tip of the blade.  She was so good with a knife that when she pretended to thrust the knife at his belly, she just let go of knife handle and with the dexterity of a magician, moved her hand to the tip of the knife in one swift, perfect move. She laughed and laughed and laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.

I walk up and ask, "So Queen Maker have you met Mami, yet?"

PECAN SANDIES

One of my most cherished memories of my father is when he was getting ready for work.  Because the family didn’t own a car, he had to take the bus everyday.  He got up before 4am every morning.  He would make his coffee, eat a chuck of bread and a few thick slices of cheese and this would be his breakfast, which is pretty much what it is today at the age of 79. One morning I heard him moving around. I carefully made my way down the stairs trying not to make the steps creak. I pretended I had to go to the bathroom and when I came out, surprisingly he didn’t shoo me back to bed.  He always wanted us away from him, didn’t he?  I sat and watched him prepare his lunch and breakfast.

I don’t remember if there was much conversation, very little. He offered me a little bit of coffee or milk and two Pecan Sandies. I picked coffee so I could be just like him, I’d tell him.  This was a most special time.  We would sit and eat our cookies and then he would send me back to bed. Sometimes I would try to wake up the next morning to be with him and of course to get those cookies. This was our secret and I felt special that he let me be with him from time to time. 

Thirty years later the sisters were talking about our favorite cookies.  I said, “Pecan Sandies of course. If you put a bag of Pecan Sandies down in front of me they’ll be gone within the hour. I can’t help myself. I had to stop buying them.”  Sister After Me surprised said, “I didn’t know you liked them so much.  Those are my all time favorite cookie too. Papi used to let me come downstairs when he was going to work?”  Middle Sister and Little Sister confirmed the same thing. My sisters are all afflicted with the same condition when presented with a bag of Pecan Sandies, uncontrollable bingeing.

Little Sister said,   “Remember the time I cut my foot so badly and Papi had to carry me upstairs every night? I loved it when he carried me.  Papi went upstairs one morning and picked me up and brought me downstairs to have cookies with him. I loved him so much at that moment.”  A few years later, I spied a bag of Pecan Sandies on my brother’s kitchen table.  I asked him if he ever sat with Papi before he went to work and ate Pecan Sandies. Only Brother said, “Of course. I sat with him lots of times before work.”

Although I initially thought that I was the only fortunate one to have shared those quiet mornings with my father, I feel comforted in knowing that each one of us had our turn downstairs with Papi. I cherish those moments and now I know that my siblings share those same strong feelings, similar to mine, but each a beautiful memory belonging uniquely to each one of us. It puts daddy in a whole new light.  He seems less alone. He must have realized how much his little girls and boy loved him and wanted to be with him.

I realized that Pecan Sandies was a sacred icon on the desktop of my life. Press the icon and a big picture of my Papi pops into my head. 

Sledding Anyone?

Mami and Papi sometimes had to leave the five of us alone. I was about nine years old at this time making the youngest about five. For a time my mother was in and out of the hospital and went in at least once a year, so there were many opportunities for us to be alone together in the house. They didn’t do it often, but every once in a while it became a necessity for our parents to leave us home alone while they went grocery shopping.  We didn’t own a car so they walked to the grocery store. In those days, you could buy a lot for twenty dollars, filling up four or five bags.  I’m not talking about those wimpy plastic bags you get now that have a maximum load capacity of one to three items.  I’m talking the huge brown paper bags filled to the top. It would take both of them to carry back the groceries.

These were the times when our games became really interesting. We had about an hour before they got back to the house.  We would always get into mischief jumping back and forth from the loveseat and the couch or raiding the fridge. We would post a sentry, usually my Little Sister or take turns running to the window to check every five minutes.  When the alarm was sounded, everything had to be put back in its place quickly.  Sometimes our sentry system wouldn’t work and the sound of Papi’s keys turning in the lock would be our only warning. That’s when we would grab anything or everything off the floor carrying it away (to return discretely later) and scatter. Most of the time we managed to make it right. Sometimes we wouldn’t and we’d get a “whooping.” Today they would be gone a little longer, having to walk a mile or so to the store, so we decided to go sledding.

Imagine your hair flying back as you slide down the slope.  Although the toboggan run was short, it was still exhilarating to swoosh down gaining speed. The bottom was a little tricky to maneuver, not a lot of room to stop. We had to avoid falling off or hitting anything hard because Papi would get really mad if we got hurt. Only one of us could fit on the sled at the time, except for Little Sister and Only Brother. They fit two on the sled by sitting very close.  The tricky part was balancing just right so our hands wouldn’t get pinched or smashed underneath our homemade sled. After awhile, we became so good at balancing that we didn’t use our hands at all. 

We climbed to the top of the platform; sat on our sled, our hands outstretched to touch either side of the wall until the sled was balanced. Taking a big breath, we leaned forward to drop off the platform pulling our hands in to make the run and hopefully not hit the doorway. Over and over we took turns the five of us, sometimes alone or two on the sled.

We would drag our makeshift wooden sled climbing to the platform on top of the stairs leading to our bedroom.  The stairs were exactly the right distance apart to accommodate the length and width of our sled so that we could slide down the stairs without stopping.  We were getting really good at this. Wow! If you lean a little to the left at the end of the run, you could adjust your trajectory to fly right into the bathroom and all the way to the toilet. Speed and distance were perfect because the sled stopped just before it could hit the porcelain.  It became a competition to see who could slide the farthest. Who needed snow? Not us. Our upstairs steps were angled perfectly. Our weird little sled glided smoothly over the edge of each step to the bottom and the momentum carried us a long way.

Mami and Papi came back from the store. We were having so much fun that our sentry became too distracted to keep a good watch. Hearing them at the door we scattered.  Mami walked into the hallway and asked aloud, “Why is this broken toilet seat in the hallway?”