Closet Purge

For weeks, “closet purge” topped my list of to-do’s. Finally, I am ready and prepared to be ruthless. Past efforts yielded only pitiful piles destined for Goodwill when I was swayed by sentimentality and wistful hopes for weight change or a return to styles I loved. No more. This time, I will try on each piece, discard it if it doesn’t fit or hasn’t been worn in the last two years. 

Jaw set, I paw through the guestroom closet where I keep dresses and off-season clothes. I pull out all but items I wear regularly and heap them on the bed. The pile of questionable garments is substantial. 

At the back of the closet is an emerald-green, floor-length robe, a gift from Dad maybe 55 years ago. I’ve not worn it in over 40 years, but I think it’s the only garment Dad ever gave me. Still, the time has come. I fold it up and put it in the Goodwill bag. 

My, I have a lot of dresses! When did I wear them all? The evening dresses were for school benefits and Christmas parties, but what about all these fun tea-length items? Some are so eighties, with spikey, uneven, swirly skirts. Others have wild geometric patterns, and I have accumulated a surprising number of fitted black numbers with spaghetti straps. Given sunspot-speckled skin and biceps that sag rather than bulge, my spaghetti strap days  are over… but I try them on anyway. 

I stand in the hall before the mirror, an old one more speckled and aged than I am, so it’s forgiving. From the end of the hall, in dim light, with my near-sighted eyes, the lines in my face don’t show. I turn and twirl a little. Not so bad, and I do like this dress… 

I start a “maybe” pile on the floor.

Have to say, past purge regrets haunt me. A purple pantsuit with zoot suit shoulders and a belted waist. A slinky 80’s dress with fitted black torso, puffy white sleeves, and a flounced white skirt – my “Chiquita banana” dress – so unique! So fun! Too-tight Victoria Secret jeans cast off in 2007 that would have fit perfectly post-cancer in 2010. So, ruthlessness must be tempered with reflection. An imperfect fit or passé style warrants a decision not necessarily the discard pile.

I mull over the dresses I wore to Tucker and Casey’s weddings. I might not wear them again, but they hold memories of pinnacle moments, so they return to the closet. And the floral 70’s sundress I’ve hung onto for 50 years? It’s vintage for heaven’s sake! So, I keep it.

What’s this? A funereal black sheath with long gauzy sleeves and a scooped neck. It must have been my grandmother’s, or even my great-grandmother’s. How did it wind up with me? I have several of Mom’s dresses, those I can remember her wearing, so maybe this spooky dress was mixed up with them. It goes into the Goodwill bag momentarily, but I pull it out. It might be worth something, who knows? 

Still, I’m making progress. I have a small pile for the garbage, a bag for Casey, and two full bags for Goodwill. I haven’t attacked the chest full of summer clothes yet, and I know there are plenty of too-short shorts and tee-shirts too tight or too-cropped for 73-year-old Lea. Souvenir/statement shirts from Salem, Red Sox games, the Women’s March, and my new No Kings shirt from the Bruce Springsteen concert will remain. Close to a century’s parade of passing fashion, personal history, and current events hangs in my closet or fills these bags. 

Some readers might be feeling a tug of worry in recalling my hasty discard of Mom’s boots when the sole fell off during a visit to Switzerland. You might be thinking, “About that green robe your dad gave you? Beware of second thoughts.”

You’re right. Of course you are. I rifle through the Goodwill bag, reclaim the robe, and return it to the closet. 

 

 

Christmas Catalogue Connection

Covid might have derailed holiday plans and traditions, but Christmas nostalgia is deeply ingrained, with triggers as varied as the scent of cinnamon, carols playing on Sonos, Dickens on my bedside table, and the L.L. Bean catalogue appearing in the mail.

 

With a cup of tea in hand and a Bean’s catalogue to browse, it could be any decade from my past: me in a voluminous, unflattering Lanz nightgown, Mom and Dad reading by the fire in Vermont in the seventies, or, in the eighties, my kids in their pajamas, playing with their Transformers and Cabbage Patch Kids. L.L. Bean is consistent, and relatively unmoved by trends. Models smile rather than pout, and stride through snow in sturdy boots and puffy parkas without that awkward hand-on-cocked-hip pose favored in most fashion magazines. L.L. Bean’s catalogue is colorful, familiar, and comforting. 

 

Not long ago, I called the company’s 1-800 line to order some gifts, and a woman answered the phone.  She introduced herself and asked how she could help me.  I had questions about sizing, fabrics, and colors, and she was patient and friendly. I must’ve been feeling raw that day, for her kindness touched some deep chord, and I was inordinately grateful for her gentle voice. 

 

“Can I tell you something?” I said. “You have no idea what it means to have a real person, a nice person, answer the phone.” 

 

I confess, I choked up a bit… I know. It’s pathetic, but so it was.  “Everything now is rushed and impersonal, all about business and money. It means something to have a human connection. Please let the company know how important that is, and how much I appreciated talking to you. ”

 

She was quiet for a minute, then said, “Just this morning, I left home for work and thought, ‘Here I go; off to change the world selling slippers and sweaters. I felt sheepish about my job. But maybe the way I do it does make a difference in someone’s day. So, thank you for saying that.” 

 

Again, I assured her it did, and we signed off with warm wishes for the holidays. 

 

Dave has all the flannel shirts he’ll ever need, and my signature Bean’s rubber-soled boots have held up over the years as advertised. We already have snowshoes, quilts, towels, and turtlenecks, but still, I flip through the catalogue, enjoying the ride: evergreen wreaths, berry-red candles, families in matching plaid PJ’s, and precious Labrador puppies peeking from canvas tote bags. It’s a relief in this time of turmoil, loss, and disease to give myself over to the fantasy of L.L. Bean world and pretend that it is 2020 that is the illusion. 

 

An added note: My husband, Dave, routinely asks for a manager in order to compliment an employee when someone has been helpful. They certainly hear the complaints, but not always the good things, and THAT can make someone’s day.   

 

  

Christmas Old ...and News!

My father, Paul, was tough on Santa Claus.  Mom, my sisters, and I would sit on the stairs in our nighties and robes in the morning on December 25 while Dad lumbered down to the living room to “make sure the fat man was gone.”  While surreptitiously turning on Christmas tree lights and lighting the fire in the fireplace, Dad would bellow, “Hey!  What are you still doing here?  Off!  Off you go now!”  Even as young believers, somehow we knew this was funny and not a rudeness that would send Santa off in a huff having snatched back our gifts.

Dad’s performance in berating Santa and chasing him away became ever more outrageous as we three girls grew older.  And Dad was still shooing the fat man when those gathered on the stairs included my own children and tiny nephews.  Is it totally pathetic to grow misty over such a memory?  Perhaps, but for all the lights, tinsel, jingle bells, and parties, Christmas is poignant, ripe with promise and heavy with expectation.  Like a snowball gathering size and weight as it rolls, the holiday carries with it the shadows and brilliance of years past.

Early this December, I drove to Pennsylvania to join my sisters in a green room vigil as my mother had surgery. The procedure went smoothly and, undaunted, Mom went to dinner and the theater with friends two days later.  So I headed home, free of worry, serenaded by a Christmas CD Dave had compiled. 

My current favorite is a Don Henley song and when it played through the first time, I chimed in at the end of the chorus, then tapped the replay button on the dashboard for another round.  And then, a third.  I listened a mite and repeated the lyrics, striving to learn the words.  At some point, I keyed in to the message beyond simply singing along:

“Bells will be ringing the sad, sad news.

Oh what a Christmas, to have the blues.

My baby’s gone.  I have no friends

To wish me happy, happy Christmas, once again…”

No friends?  Ouch.  Not exactly jolly.  Time to move on; no more replays.  Johnny Mathis began to croon, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” and I cruised vocally on auto-pilot, joining in on every word.  But you can’t miss the melancholy in that World War II lament as a lonely soldier longs to head home. 

Next up, “White Christmas.”  In my mind’s eye, Bing tapped his pipe, tamped in some tobacco, and gazed with languid eyes into his pool of memories.  From some musical archive in my soul, the lyrics spooled forth as Bing and I sang together of tree tops glistening, sleigh bells in the snow, and Christmas cards.  Clearly Bing was wistful.  His Christmas held not those things; he was yearning for them, “just like the ones I used to know…”

When Dave toasts fresh breadcrumbs, chops black olives, and mixes them with browned garlic, olive oil, and lemon juice, he senses his Aunty Cam, deceased for seven years, watching over his shoulder and nodding her satisfaction.  As he reaches to the top of our tree to place an angel, crafted in 1986 from a barely disguised toilet paper roll, we picture little Tucker, the artist, leaping about in anticipation with his sister, Casey.   On Christmas Eve, as is our tradition, Dave and I lie in bed, reciting “The Night Before Christmas,” and I remember my father with my kids in his lap, reading them the same story.  So many snippets from the Christmases we used to know.  

When I was a kid growing up in the fifties, tree lights were universally multi-colored, but ours glows now, magical as a snowy Christmas, with tiny white lights.  Its prickly green fingers display shimmering glass icicles and decades-old ornaments.  Many hands have crafted the satin peppers, rustic calico creations, clothespin dolls, and salt-dough figures tucked among shiny red and silver balls.  The eighties reaped a host of pieces personalized with Tucker and Casey’s names:  crocheted snowmen, wooden teddy bears, tiny sleds, and sweaters. Our grandniece, Ava, has provided our most recent acquisitions: a clay Santa face made from her handprint, and a glittery pair of Dorothy’s ruby slippers.  That is the way of family trees, whether balsam or genealogical, their branches fill with new additions.

And so it is this December, because this has been a richly blessed Christmas: Casey and her boyfriend, PJ, announced their engagement, and Tucker and his wife Lisa brought a new Paul into the family!  With a full head of hair and soft kissable cheeks, this little bug looks much like Tucker did when he was my baby.  And I miss my father on this fourth Christmas without him, but I know he is beaming from his spot on the heavenly couch.

 Tucker, 1980

Paul, 2015

2015, PJ and Casey, engaged! 

Summer Reflections Part III - Envy?

  It is an August evening, close to 6:00, yet the sun is warm, so the beach is busy despite the dinner hour. Lying on towels, teenagers bask, text, or chat while swimmers loll in the water, rising and falling with the rhythm of the waves. Sand castles dot the beach.  Some, tide casualties, are water-rounded and misshapen, like all ruins once of man and eventually returned to earth.  But around those under construction, there are shouted directions and discussion as crews of young ones haul and dump buckets of wet sand to smooth turrets and walls into shape.

Wearing neon orange trunks that match the shade of his shovel, a small boy bends to scoop sand from a widening pit dug just beyond reach of the sea’s frothy fingers.  His baby sister, in a purple suit with criss-crossed straps, sits in the hole.  Their father, ankle-deep in water, hands on hips, gazes toward the horizon while Mom sits on her haunches, forearms on thighs, smiling at the children.

These little ones do not look like my sisters and me, but there is an aura of the sixties in the scene, and the late summer sunshine bestows a halo of sepia memory to the present.    Wistfully I imagine the three of us playing with my cousins on this same beach five decades ago, with my grandmother Byeo, Mom and Dad, Uncle Ding, and Aunt Barbara relaxing in their chairs under an umbrella.  The leap to little Tucker and Casey is even easier: the baby with her dark hair and almond eyes, the boy’s lithe form, prominent shoulder blades, and possessive stance as he surveys his work.

 

Dave and I lounge in our beach chairs, the Boston Globe and my book within reach.  Oh, we are relaxed, and it’s possible, perhaps probable, that the young parents eye us with envy.  We are enviable, with our books, drinks, and serene companionship; no kids to watch over and entertain.

How I remember lusting after such leisure while grappling with a cooler of snacks and Capri Sun juices, a diaper bag, toys, towels, and a playpen.  The playpen was absurd, of course, ungainly and unnecessary, but I was young.  Sigh.  I was young, lithe myself, with unspotted skin, and two little ones to watch over and entertain.  Even then, I recognized how precious the time was and tried, I tried, to freeze it. 

Beach days were tiring, but joyous.  Dave and I would dig, scrape and sculpt a sand car big enough to hold two diminutive drivers and keep them happy for hours.  Well, no.  Maybe for a quarter hour at best.  And then Tucker would head off, delighted to be exploring on his own, at least while within range of a quick parental jog.

Casey loved the beach, but hated bathing suits.  She’d start the day in an adorable skirted stretchy outfit, which she’d soon wriggle out of and refuse to wear.  So she’d sit on a towel, a sweet round nudie, feeding herself shovels of sand.  Our little flower. 

When the kids were a mite older, Tucker’s Crab Restaurant was a favorite activity, usually at Dave’s suggestion.  We’d clamber gingerly over mossy rocks bathed by incoming rushes of water.  Tucker and Casey would squat like frogs, peering into tide pools, feeling under stones to tug glistening purple-black mussels free from their seemingly safe nooks.  The kids would crack the shells and submerge the soft insides to entice and feed the scuttling crabs.   

Now I stretch back in my chair, a folding backpack model with a pouch big enough to hold towels, sunscreen, and snacks.  I watch the young mom as she wades into the water with the purple-suited baby on her hip.  Chubby feet hitch up as tiny toes touch chill water.  The child’s eyes are wide, uncertain, afraid, and then she squalls, as the mom dunks her up to her shoulders. Yes, I am envious of her with her little ones to watch over and entertain, but that squall prompts a flash of whiny, less enjoyable moments.  Like childbirth, I’ve forgotten most of them.     

Our current status has allowed us a summer glorious in its wanderings, flexibility, and freedom.  We attended two weddings in June, a reunion in Maine with my Farmington friends, and a gathering with Trinity friends.  We visited Charlie and Joanne in New Hampshire, Tucker and Lisa in Boston, and, a tradition we are fortunate to have every summer, spent time in Weekapaug with family. While I strive to live in the present, I’ve felt grounded in these re-connections and the reminder that I’m not just 60-year-old-Lea, but the sum of events and people, and the girl and woman I have been in relationship with them.  Each phase has held joy as well as challenges, and what a blessing to say honestly – and perhaps with a trace of wonder – I am content where I am.

Missing Home

In the 1950’s, home for my husband was in Worcester, MA, in a neighborhood with yards bounded by sidewalks where kids walked to school though drifts of leaves or snow. He grew up in a neighborhood where cars drove slowly because kids were apt to be in the road playing baseball. He grew up in a neighborhood where kids scoured the surrounding woods for detritus treasures left by the tornado of ‘53. And he grew up with Italian grandparents who spoke little English, but whose garden flourished with the eggplant, tomatoes, onions and garlic that when stewed and simmered, made a rich red sauce for Sunday dinner.

But in September, when he goes back to Worcester for his 40th high school reunion, he’ll have to stay in a hotel.

It wasn’t until Dave mentioned this for the third time that I thought to stop what I was doing and look at him. His eyes were soft and wistful; he was sad. We haven’t been to Worcester since 2003, when his father, Colombo, and Colombo’s older sister, Cam, moved to a senior community in Southbury, Connecticut. Twelve years before, his mother had moved south to be closer to Dave and his brother. And while Dave has many wonderful memories of his childhood, my sense was that when the senior Sylvestros left town, he’d moved on too, with barely a backward glance.

Apparently, I was wrong about that.

The topic had come up because of my plans to visit my parents in Bryn Mawr last weekend. I am supremely spoiled because my mother and father are alive, still married, and living in the house they purchased when I was ten. Both of my sisters live with their families only minutes away. When I go home, my parents burst from the front door at my arrival, waving their hands and blowing kisses. When I go home, it is to the same green carpet in the living room that has always been there, to the bedspreads that covered my Mom’s twin beds as she grew up in St. Louis, to the 1938 Roper kitchen range that was in the house when Dad bought it, and to the same tricky toilets that take ages to refill after a flush. When I go home, I feel secure as my little-girl-self in the stone Pennsylvania house shaded by the two-hundred-years-old copper beech tree.

I can still go home. I can drive down I-95 and the Pennsylvania Turnpike, shed the skin of wife, mother and grown-up, and slip gleefully into my old roles of big sister and daughter. It feels comfortable, easy, and familiar.

This particular trip south held an added bonus: my childhood friend Edie, now a resident of Washington state, was coming to visit her father who lives in the house that Edie grew up in, a house where I spent many nights talking about boys, dancing to Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” and sneaking tastes of Edie’s mother’s home-made chocolate sauce, too tempting in the pot on the stove.

“I’m envious,” said Dave. “You’re lucky to be able to go home to your parents, your house, your sisters and Edie.”

I know this well; I cherish each visit home. Like some kind of crazy person, I caress the stair railing, pat the walls and even hug the copper beech to the extent that my arms can reach around its massive girth. At night, I lie in bed knowing my parents are just down the hall. I hear their voices and tense my jaw, my fists, my closed eyes in a prayer or incantation that all might remain as it is. Home is part of me, part of my footing, as it is for most people, I imagine. As it was for Dave.

During our years as a young couple, Dave and I split holidays and visits equally between Worcester and Bryn Mawr. While in Massachusetts, we would drive past playing fields where as a youth, Dave had thrown touchdown passes, hit homeruns, and pitched as if throwing strikes were easy. We ate mocha chip ice cream cones at Pinecroft Dairy, shopped for deals at Spags and in winter, skated on the pond at Elm Park. And of course, we would have Sunday lunch at Nanny’s, which became Cam’s house when her mother passed away.

Jack, Cam and Colombo’s brother, was the gardener and while he was alive, the lettuce in the smooth wooden salad bowl came straight from the garden outside the back door. Cam would add some olive oil and fresh-squeezed lemon juice, maybe a little salt and pepper, and that was the best dressing you could ask for. She would make peppers stuffed with black olives, anchovies, capers and breadcrumbs. She made pasta with slow-cooked sauce that she topped with a sprinkle of crushed nuts. “Adds a nice crunch,” she would say.

Cam once said, “You are always welcome here,” and while she didn’t need to say it for us to feel it, I remember thinking how much it meant that there were still grown-ups to take care of me.

And Dave doesn’t have that anymore.

While I am still my parents’ child, seeking approval, occasionally hissing, “Don’t tell Mom!” to one of my sisters, Dave’s relationship with his parents changed years ago. We were married a year after Dave graduated from college and his parents divorced three years after that. We had thought them the ideal couple and it was a bolt out of nowhere when they separated. Visits to Worcester, for a time, were a balancing act as we tried to give equal attention to his mom and dad, avoid ruffling any feathers, and play it straight down the middle.

Dave’s mom moved to Connecticut while his father took an apartment on Harley Drive, literally a stone’s throw from Dave’s childhood backyard. Small as it was, Colombo’s new “pad” was cozy and, along with Cam’s yellow house at #3 Stratfield Street, felt like home.

When Dave and I dropped our daughter Casey off for her freshman year of college, I worried about my life without kids to care for. As we drove away, leaving Casey to four years of independence, fun and hopefully, learning, I was envious of the open field before her. You have an open field too, I told myself as we drove to Worcester for a night with Colombo. This is every bit a new life phase for you as it is for Casey. What do you want to do now?

What did I want to do? I’m still trying to figure that out, but at that point, holding myself together was the more immediate goal and staying with Colombo eased my yearning for the end of my hands-on mother years. For me, Colombo whipped up a strong White Russian – a tasty concoction of vodka, Kahlua and cream. He and Dave sipped Sapphire Blue martinis and watched the Red Sox on T.V. I felt soothed and cheerfully foggy in my spot on the mustard yellow couch that had been a staple in Sylvestro world for as long as I had been. While Dave’s anguish over our new status as empty-nesters was not as overt as mine, it was a comfort for us both to have a parent to retreat to.

Cam and Colombo have both passed away, but I know my husband is thinking of them when the Red Sox do something great or stupid and he’s itching to call them to hoot or grouse. And whenever Dave makes stuffed peppers or stuffed squid, there’s no question Cam’s looking over his shoulder.

“Honey? Forget the hotel. Why don’t we find a nice bed & breakfast and make a weekend of it when you go up for reunion?” I suggest. But Dave shakes his head. That isn’t the answer. It’s not so much the missing bed, roof, walls and place to stay, it’s the void where the smells of red sauce, the tang of Sapphire Blue, and Colombo and Cam used to be.