family

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Tota and the Cookies

 cookiesTota, age 6, was Rudy’s childhood friend. He was part of the crowd. One of the boys. Someone who wanted to do the right thing, mostly. But because of peer pressure from his buddies, sometimes he did the wrong thing.

The women in town made it a point to purchase snacks to share with their friends whenever they came to visit. A nice cup of tea, and some scrumptious cookies always filled the bill. Those cookies weren’t to be touched by anyone except for the woman who bought them. And only when she invited someone over, or when other women invited themselves to stop by for some good conversation. Or maybe just a bit of gossip.

One day, the boys were outside playing their crazy made-up games, running around, having a great time. Having fun until one of them, and then all of them, began to feel the pangs of hunger. Or maybe not hunger, but a desire for something sweet. Something good. And before you know it, all the boys are staring at Tota. They all knew what lay hidden behind his kitchen cupboard doors, sealed, waiting to satisfy. Cookies. Layers of small, buttery cookies.

“Come on, Tota,” one boy started, then another and another.

“I can’t,” he began, his eyes wide, almost fearful. “My mom will burn my fingers if I even think about stealing a few.”

“Nah, no way. She wouldn’t do that. Come on,” the boys continued their chant.

The boys snuck in, following Tota into his house. He quietly grabbed the tin of cookies, peeled the clear wrap away, lifted the lid and allowed his pals to choose a cookie here and a cookie there, until half were gone.

“She’ll never guess,” someone said, as they tiptoed out of front door, each heading to his own home, each living in a house on the same street.

Later, as everyone gathered at a predetermined time, at a predetermined place to continue their shenanigans, someone wondered where Tota was. They looked toward his house, which was directly across the street from where they stood. Suddenly, there he was, walking with his head down, walking toward the boys he spends most his time with, the boys he can depend on.

“I told you she’d burn my fingers if I took some cookies,” he stated, holding up two fingers, red from a flame being held to them. No one said a word. No one needed to. Their wide-eyed scared looked said it all.

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feeling

IMG_4073As you walk down your life’s path, thinking about what is important and what is not, be conscious of where you meander, for if you lose track of your whereabouts you may find yourself walking into the hands of disaster, unexpectedly prodding on thorns and other hurtful entities . Keep your morals and values intact, remembering that it is the small things that make the chaos seem miniscule.

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rudy and the rocks

Medion DIGITAL CAMERAIn first or second grade Rudy found himself in a pickle. He did something wrong, something the teacher didn’t approve of. She handed him a sealed note addressed ‘To the Parents of…’ and told him to take it home, that he needed to have one or both his parents read and sign it. And, well, in his town, a sealed letter from the teacher always meant You are in trouble mister! news.

Rudy panicked, was scared of the spanking that was sure to happen once his mom read what he had done. He knew that his dad was at work so it would be his mom that would handle the situation. Her way.

A classmate, a wee boy about the same small height as Rudy, noticed the fear building up in his eyes, so he recommended that Rudy defuse the situation with just three rocks.

“Three rocks?” Rudy questioned.

“Only three,” the friend responded. “And you must find those three rocks right here, on the school grounds, right now. You cannot pick them up on your way home.”

Rudy ran off to collect the average sized rocks, not much bigger than large pebbles.

“Got ’em,” he claimed, holding out his hand, displaying the carefully-selected-similar-looking gray rocks.

“Good. Now what you do is… when you are walking home toss one rock behind you, and don’t look back. Never look back,” his peer stated.

“So, I just throw the rocks over my shoulder?”

“Yes, but you must throw them one at a time, not all at once. And, you must throw them with an equal distance between each toss.”

“Okay,” Rudy felt slightly confused, and must have shown it on his face.

“Once you leave this spot and are a short distance away throw the first rock behind you, wait until you have walked a little then throw the second rock, and then the third rock gets tossed at an equal distance compared to the first two. Understand?”

Rudy shook his head up and down. “And you are sure I will not get a spanking when I get home?”

“Yep,” the boy confidently stated.

Rudy made it home, successfully tossing the rocks at an equal distance, and never once did he look behind him to see where they landed. He nervously handed his mom the letter, whereby she simply smiled, and let him pass without a word.

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rudy and the belt

IMG_2614Something happened at dinner, some kind of confrontation. Maybe it was something he did, maybe it was his brother, or maybe his mom was in a bad mood because of something that happened to her during the day. But, it didn’t matter the reason  because all Rudy knew was he was in big trouble.

He left the table, said he was going to go to the room downstairs, had to get out of there, away from the negativity. His mom didn’t let it go that easy. She grabbed a belt and followed him down the stairs, down to where the guests stayed and where she did the laundry.

His mom wrapped the belt tightly around her wrist, around her hand, leaving just enough leather to whip him. Rudy surprised her by grabbing the belt and yanking it away from her, saying he wasn’t going to take spankings anymore. That he was beyond too old for such discipline. That didn’t stop his angry mother. She grabbed a piece of wood, determined to make a point. But, that too, he pried from her hands. And then he walked away, walked back upstairs, up into his own room, and locked the door. And out of anger, he smashed some glass, breaking apart the bottom half of an otherwise functional slated glass window.

He could hear his mom on the phone, the phone right next to his bedroom, calling his dad, telling him how awful Rudy was behaving, how out of control he was. Rudy’s dad listened to his wife, told her he’d be right home, that he just needed to say goodnight to the client he was having dinner with.

He heard his dad approach, and opened his bedroom door when asked to do so. Rudy’s dad asked him what was going on, what happened. Rudy began by apologizing for breaking the window, but then he told his dad he didn’t do anything wrong, he didn’t know what his mom was so mad about, and that in no way, no how was he going to let his mom spank him with a belt. “I am 15 years old,” Rudy told his dad. “Enough is enough.” His dad wasn’t angry. Didn’t try to dispute Rudy. He simply listened, then nodded. Then his dad walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

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cat moves

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Skyler.

On the porch. With me. In the early morning. Eating. Off a porcelain tea saucer. I pet her. Her tail responds. Stands straight up. Her back arches. Eyes close. Chin juts out. Quietly. I open the front door. She glides inside. Runs down the hall. Looking for solace. Yet. Suddenly. Hesitantly. She stops. Mid-step. Hears a noise. Feels frightened. Until she hears my voice. My trusting voice. She relaxes. When she hears my cooing. That’s when she knows she’s truly safe.

Skyler.

Looks at me.  Stares at me. Trusts me. Connects with me. She wraps her body around my ankles. While a soft meow escapes her. She wants to stay. To cuddle. With me. Inside the house. But more than that, she wants to leave. Go back outside. Out into her world. I open the sliding door. Walk out. Into the backyard. After Skyler. That’s when I notice. She’s thinner. Still furry. But her body is smaller. She turns toward me. Looks. It seems. Deep into my soul. I sit. On the cold cement step. I hold her. Rub her face. Her eyes. Her ears. Her chin. I comfort her until she no longer wants comforting.

Skyler.

She jumps down. Out of my arms. Lies next to my feet. Meows. Lovingly. Then she’s off. Walks away. Swishing her tail. Greeting the morning’s sunrise.

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a boy and the lies he tells

Most times kids lie to avoid trouble. Not him. He lies to avoid the truth.

During a classroom math time discussion his teacher asked the students a graphing question. “Who has been to Disneyland?” she wondered, big fat marker in hand, ready to chart their answers.

Youthful hands shot up into the air, wiggling with excitement.

Not his. His hands were jammed firmly under his little boy thighs.

“Never?” Ms. She’s Really Nice inquired.

He shook his head back and forth. ” But, I have been to Las Vegas,” he shared.

Later, in the late afternoon, while sitting in a circle with the other boys and girls in karate class, he made an announcement.

“I did not get any presents for Christmas.”

That got their attention.

“I did not give any presents to anyone either. Anyway, I don’t even celebrate Christmas,” he said.

No. Big. Deal.

When he was in the car with his mom, driving home from an hour of kicks and jabs, he rehashed his day.

“Why would you tell the teacher you’ve never been to Disneyland? And Vegas? Why did you say you went to Las Vegas?”

She continued questioning him before he could get a word-in-edgewise.

“You said you didn’t get presents, didn’t give them, and don’t even celebrate Christmas? Why would you make up all those things?” she wondered.

“I just don’t want people to know everything about me,” he answered.

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grandma’s visit

Rudy and I were sitting together on the couch this morning, me enjoying a cup of coffee, him sweating from the overbearing heat filtering through the windows, when he somberly stated, “My grandma Victoria came to me in a dream last night.” I turned my body toward him, encouraging Rudy to continue, to tell me about his favorite Abuelita, who, sadly, passed away when he was 15 years old.

“She was wearing a light beige skirt. It went to about here,” he made a slicing motion across the middle of his calf with the side of his right hand. “And she was wearing a tan colored long sleeved blouse, with fancy ruffles across the front. Which is odd, weird, I don’t know, just not her style. She always wore dresses. You know, the spring kind, with flowers? Bright colors?”

In the dream, Rudy had been sitting on the screened-in front porch of the house where he was living as a teen. His back was to the front door when it suddenly opened, revealing Victoria. He turned to see his grandma, and smiled.

“The top was tucked into the skirt,” he continued, “and she asked me, ‘How do I look?’ I said, ‘You look beautiful, Grandma!’ and then I cried.”

While Rudy was relaying the dream, and the intense love he has always felt for his long gone maternal grandmother, tears flooded his red rimmed eyes, just as it must have happened in his dream.

“As she held my face in her hands Grandma said, ‘It’s time for me to go. I need to go home.’ But this is your house, I told her, you live here too, with us. ‘I know’, she said, quietly, ‘but I need to go home. I have postponed it twice now, Hijo, but I need to go.’ I told her I understood, but I didn’t really. And then I woke up.”

I looked at Rudy, waiting for more.

“I don’t know what she meant about postponing going home twice. I can’t make sense of it.  Or why she was wearing beige. I think it might be because we were just talking about colors the other day, and remember when Liz mentioned something about the beige clothing a character was wearing? About how psychologically colors represent some kind of emotion? So maybe that’s where the outfit comes from. A symbol that she’s been an essential and dependable force in my life? But it’s weird to see her like that because, like I said, she always wore dresses. Very colorful ones. And she was never without an apron at home. I don’t have any idea what the dream meant, and probably never will. My grandma died so long ago, but I do like that she visited me.”

Rudy looked at me. I smiled.

“Anyway, I felt happy seeing her, and my grandma seemed happy and content. When she held my face the way she used to, in a way that I knew how much she loved me, I felt her here, with me.”

His eyes brimmed with tears as he squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.

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empty-nesting

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Our nest was empty today.

And it felt sort of like when Rudy lived in Arkansas.

And I lived here, in California.

So many days came and went.

Both of us experiencing life without the other.

Mostly, only words said how we felt, or what we were thinking.

Gestures and body language played an intermitent role in our relationship.

Those are days that will forever be distant.

Days that cannot be redone.

Days that are, thank goodness, over.

But.

Today.

I am reminded of those distant days.

Because.

Here I am. Here we are.

In the house. Together.

Without kids.

No one is mumbling on the phone with friends.

No one is singing along to the lyrics booming from a computer.

No one is chatting. Talking about a day in the life of.….

And it hits me.

Both softly and a bit aggressively.

That life will be sort-of-like-yet-not-exactly-like-but-in-a-way-it-will-be-sliced-up-similar-to when Rudy lived there and I lived here.

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man vs. cats

  IMG_0996Our cats came into our lives, unexpectedly, a few years ago. I was a bit sneaky about the idea of the fluffy twins, taking advantage of the fact that Rudy was living and working in Arkansas, when Brad first approached me with a photo of their newborn cuteness. After a lot of thought, seriously, quite a bit, because, well, Rudy is allergic to cats. But, since he was permanently positioned in another state it made sense that during his visits we could make sure the kitty-cats steered clear of him. In the end, I told the kids Sure. Let’s do it. Let’s get ourselves a few cats! And so we did.

The girls joined our household, fit right in with our lifestyle. Enjoying a sense of well-being and comfort. All was good.

Except when Rudy first found out about the fact that, like never before, we were entertaining a pair of pretty kitties, in his absence. He ranted. He grunted. And did so for weeks until he was left with nothing more to say. Nothing more to add to the many reasons we should not have cats. Realizing and considering that he was there and they were here. So, instead, he slowly, over time, began to adjust to Cassandra and Skyler. 

By the time he returned to California, living here, for the long haul, Rudy had begun to accept their presence.

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Feelings began to imprint.

Last night, Rudy quietly opened our bedroom door, not wanting to interrupt my much needed shut-eye and whispered, firmly, without a show of passion, and refusing to say Skyler’s name,

“That colored cat is sitting out there, by the front door.”

“Oh, ok,” I attempt, running a hand through my already messed-up hair. I know he’s telling me this because no-way-no-how is he going to pick her up, because, obviously his allergies will attack, big time. As I was walking down the hall, toward the front door, Rudy continued.

“I saw her sitting out there, way out at the end of the steps. She was just sitting there, staring at the front door, so I opened it, figuring she’d walk in, and go straight to Roberto’s room.”

Roberto’s room. The room with a door to the backyard. Their home within our home, I think to myself. I smiled, knowing how hard this task must have been for Rudy, yet he was doing it for me, because he knows how much I care about our sweet cats.

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“She walked to the door, then stopped. I guess she saw it was me and wasn’t sure if she could trust me.”

Probably, I think.

Out loud I say, “Yeah, she’s trying to figure out what you mean to her. It’s not like she doesn’t like you, but she hasn’t developed a relationship with you either.”

“I’m fine with that. She’s not my cat,” he confirms.

I reach down and pick Skyler up, wrap my arms around her multicolored body.

Rudy doesn’t know it, but his face gives him away. He’s curious about her. Finds interest in who she is, who her sister is, her twin who looks nothing like her.

He no longer feels angry or negative about them; yet, neither does he feel the need to grasp them and love them.

But, he does wonder about them.

And most importantly, he’s decided to fully accept them. Accept them in a way that works for him. By watching and observing. Without touching.

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siblings siblings and more siblings

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Sometimes, when I’m sitting around, in a group of, I don’t know, people discussing the subject of families, you know, the size of them, the effects of the first born, the middle child, and the baby I often hear the sentiments Oh, I’m an only child, there was no one to compete with someone might say, or Me? The typical middle child, I’ve been overlooked most my life, or What about the baby? Yep, someone will announce, I was spoiled and, of course, the oldest child pipes in with I had to do everything, help out and was expected to be the perfect role model. I usually just listen until I feel ready to contribute. And, of course, that depends on how much time I have, or how truly interested anyone is.

Say what!? most people exclaim when I casually tell them that I am one of 11 siblings. Oh, yes, it’s true, I tell them. I have 9 brothers and 1 sister. And then I go into my whole spiel. I guess I would be classified as the youngest, except I am not. I have a brother who is three years younger than me. Seriously, someone might say. Seriously, I respond. And of course they always want to know why my parents had so many kids, but, honestly I can only guess because I don’t know, that that is really something only they know the reason why. So wait, really 9 brothers? And what about your sister? Are you close in age? Really, 9 brothers, I say, in my mind, nodding my head up and down. And no, my sister and I are thirteen years apart. She’s number one, I’m number ten. I guess she’s your classic first born, someone who innately is able to take charge. Well, wait, I backtrack, I definitely have 9 brothers, but two of them have died. Both unexpectedly. Sometimes other people don’t add the lost sibling in their total count. But I do. I always do, I think to myself.

Life must have been crazy, loud, chaotic, an interested person may ask. Nope, I state. Not in my recollection. Everyone seems to basically have had a calm attitude. Just like my parents. And honestly, I’m guessing here, but I think a house full of no-drama-boys is a lot easier than a house full of chatty girls. I don’t know, maybe I am wrong, I think to myself. Then, someone wonders, You must have lived in a big house, with enough bathrooms? I shake my head. That would have been great, but no. Just a three bedroom house, and one bathroom. My brothers were piled on bunk-beds in one room, my sister and I shared another. Mesmerized listeners can’t seem to believe it. So, you’re one of the babies? someone asks. Well, sure, but I’d probably be, personality wise, more of a middle child. I’ve always figured, that with big families you really need to divide them up. In our case, by groups of three, although one group would be a foursome. Then kids are classified. First. Middle. Baby. But wait, let me think about that. No. Never mind. I take that back. I honestly don’t know how to divide us. Rather than first (well, okay, that one is obvious, and so is the baby) but there is no middle. Or are there? Middle kids? Yes. No. Maybe so.  Middle kids in big families are basically in the middle. Just that. Middle. Kids.

I can’t seem to fathom the idea of so many kids, someone lacking siblings may move the conversation along. Well, I state, honestly, when I was younger, I used to say, wholeheartedly, that someday I would have a large family too, that I would have 11 children. Wide-eyed people listen. But, you know, the reality is, as I came to that point in my life, the time to plan a family, it just wouldn’t work for me. I wanted to be able to give each and every one of my children my undivided attention. That’s hard when there are almost a dozen kids to attend to. Makes sense, someone states. But, I will say, I did enjoy growing up as a tomboy. Boys are fun. My brothers let me tag along when they were catching spiders and salting snails. And even though my sister, a teenager when I was small, never felt the urge to teach me her hair and makeup tips, she did let me tag along to the grocery store, letting me pick something, anything, I wanted to add to the almost full basket.

Just to clarify, someone questions So, where do you stand on the rung of first, middle, and baby? I think for a minute. I think about me. About who I am. About how I deal with life, with people. I seriously think about if I take charge, have I been overlooked, or am I the spoiled sort. And then I answer. I am a first born – I can take charge, but don’t need to be in charge. I am a middle child – It is easy to overlook me because I am quiet and reflective, yet when I need or want attention I will seek it. I am the baby – the youngest girl, that is. But, you might think being the second girl, being the baby girl, would have rewarded me tons of rewards, spoilage of all sorts, but it didn’t. Therefore, I think I can safely say, and truly believe, I am an accumulation of more than just a place within a large family.