Thrilling: A Series of Vignettes Inspired by Under Magnolia by Frances Mayes

On my pink two-wheeler, I coast down a steep ramp off an overpass, ahead of my family. Flying down, and picking up speed, I'm gripped by both thrill and fear. What happens at the bottom? Things are moving fast, the leafy trees are green blurs. I find myself on the ground, with both knees opened and blood pouring out.  I probably cried. I definitely had to finish the ride home, trailing behind my family now. 
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A few years later, in a new neighborhood, I do a short run down a dirt hill that leads into a cul-de-sac, this time on a ten speed road bike. The neighborhood kids and I run down, and drag the bikes back up, and run down again. Coming down off the hill, I deftly turn into the circle and coast around before heading back up the hill. No bloody knees but the same thrill. 
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Many more years later, I ride up onto the George Washington Bridge approach to the pedestrian path, huffing and puffing up a minor ascent until it flattens out somewhat and I can enjoy the view of the mighty Hudson stretched out below, snaking its way north and south, as far as the eye can see. I crest the bridge and start the descent into Fort Lee, following a pack of riders in this charity ride. It's not such a big hill and I relax a little. Then, comes a climb up to the start of a route that takes us through Englewood. I stop at the top of the hill, look down at the long slope unfurling before me, take a deep breath to gather my nerve and take off, not sure where this hill is going to end. Always, the thrill. 
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2004. In a sleepy coastal town in Ecuador, popular with surfers, I borrow a bike of questionable safety from the hostel while my friends sleep. I head off down the road to seek out a dirt hill we had driven past the day before. As soon as I saw that hill, I knew I wanted to ride down it. I huffed and puffed my way to the top, on this crappy bike that probably hadn't been tuned up ever. At the top, I prepared for descent. From that vantage point, I could see that the hill was deeply and erratically rutted which gave me pause. But 24 year olds have a lot of confidence, and they feel invincible besides. And I had to get back down anyway. I took off, going slow and then picking up speed as I lost my trepidation. Then, I was going too fast. I lightly squeezed the brakes  in an attempt to slow down, but of course, of course, the brakes were shot. I leaned back, letting one foot dangle down to slow my descent. I hit a rut and I flew over the handlebars, landing with a sickening thud, my temple bouncing off the ground. I lay there, sprawled out and very still, wondering if anything was broken, besides my dignity. I gingerly picked myself and examined myself for damage. Bloody knees. Bloody elbows. But I can walk. I push the bike down the rest of the way, and drag myself back to the hostel. I return the bike, the hostel owners gasping and fretting over me. I wave them off. Back in the room, a stream of f-bombs comes pouring out of my mouth, waking my friends from their hungover stupor. I look in the mirror and realize why the hostel owners had gasped. My very first black eye. 

Thrilling, yes. 




This post was inspired by Under Magnolia by Frances Mayes, a memoir of her return to her roots in the South. Join From Left to Write on April 30th as we discuss Under Magnolia. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes. This post contains affiliate links. 

Family Mysteries.

My great-uncle Al was a packrat and a copious and mostly accurate notetaker. After his death, my mother uncovered boxes of photos and documents that Uncle Al kept all his life, along with a mystery! It seems that when my great-grandfather Naif emigrated to this country, he left behind a wife (and children?) in Lebanon. Naif, in the 50s, returned to Lebanon and there are photos of him there with the people he visited.



Are these people our family? Are they friends? We don't know! It's all a mystery. We also discovered, from looking through some papers, that our great-great grandmother was actually born in France. (A Lebanese friend explained that Lebanon was colonized by France at one point in history.)  I loved the part of the novel, Bittersweet, where the main character, May, is holed up in the attic, delving into old family documents, trying to make connections between all the details she uncovered because my sister and I try to do the same thing! Our story is hopefully not sordid, as the story of Winslows turns out to be. 

Naif and Sarah

I love looking through these artifacts with my mom and my sister, and trying to put the story together. We have quite a bit of research to do but we have a good beginning. My sister and I now live in the town where Naif and Sarah settled, and where my grandfather and great-uncle were born. Here's a story we were interviewed for: http://helloreddingct.com/2014/04/09/sisters-return-redding-roots/

And just for kicks, here is a baby picture that reveals the origin of Micah's crazy hair:

Baby Al

This post was inspired by Bittersweet, a novel by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore that exposes the gothic underbelly of an American dynasty, and an outsider’s hunger to belong. Join From Left to Write on May 20 we discuss Bittersweet. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes. This post contains affiliate links.

The Stories

I have a strong recollection of my grandmother telling me that she was a fur coat model when she met my grandfather. She said my grandfather used to come into the shop and she wouldn't give him the time of day.

I have no idea now if my memory is true. I don't question whether my grandmother was confused or got the details wrong because she pretty much always had her faculties but I do wonder if I misremember our conversation because to everyone else, she was a shoe model!

Clearly, the moral here is to write everything down or get it on tape. My grandmother isn't here to back me up and quite frankly, my word doesn't count for much! I'm notorious in our family for either not remembering something at all, or for remembering it wrong. Throw in the inevitably of my not hearing something correctly and my credibility is shot when it comes to family stories. I pretty much never get the benefit of the doubt.

As infuriating and annoying as that is, I get it, I really do!

Whether or not this is you, it still pays to write the stories down and have a record. These stories, these little details are what makes each family special and give each family it's place in history. Sometimes the stories are hard. The great-grandfather I was named after, he committed suicide. I wish I knew more about the circumstances but I never felt like I could ask my grandpa about it. I don't even know how I know about it, and right now, I'm not even certain that someone won't chime in to tell me that I've got all it wrong. Hindsight is 20/20 but when you're a teenager, hindsight is not even a concept that exists. If I knew then what I know now and all that jazz!

My great uncle Al was a meticulous note taker. He was also a record keeper and a hoarder. Thanks to him, we know so much about my mother's side of the family, enough to figure out a lot of the missing pieces through research. I was not as close to this side of the family growing up, so I love discovering fascinating details like my great grandmother being a caterer and the fact that my great grandfather left behind a whole other family (wife and kids!) in Lebanon when he came here. On the surface, these are details that are unique to our family but dig a little deeper and they become artifacts of history. My great grandmother's catering business was key to surviving the Great Depression, and she was part of an era in which people did whatever they needed to do to make a living. It was also fortunate that the family lived in a factory town, with jobs available during wartime, and between wars as well. The family that my great grandfather left behind is a clue to the emigration patterns of the late 1800s and early 1900s. Emigration to the US, from certain regions, was also an escape from something--usually oppression or economic depression.

All our individual stories can be threaded together to form a "big picture" view of our collective American history in a way that complements and deepens our understanding what we learn in history class. Understand history to make sense of the present and create a vision for the future. 

All this to say, become a record keeper and story writer. Your future selves will thank you. 

The Good Mother Myth + Giveaway!

{The winner has been announced.  See the Rafflecopter widget below for results. Thanks to everyone who entered!}

A lot changes between Baby #1 and Baby #3. As a new mother, I had high expectations of myself. I had big plans for my first foray into motherhood. I "retired" from teaching and became a pregnant housewife,  which left me with way too much time on my hands to obsess over all things baby on the internet and to read Ina Mae and fantasize about giving birth on The Farm. Alice arrived, and I got to finally earn my earth mother cred, except for that pesky unplanned but planned c-section. We nursed, we co-slept, we played, we didn't sleep train, we took a music class, we Baby-Led Weaned, we babywore, WE DID ALL THE THINGS.

Baby #2 came fast on the heels of #1 and I did it all again, and the same (except for the holy grail VBAC) but with a two year old in tow.  No biggie. But now there was more Trader Joes and more TV and more crying it out (really, just crying while waiting for her turn). It was a total "shit just got real" scene.
Baby #3 came a few years later. I'm doing it all again, and the same, and shit is even realer. More junk, more TV, more yelling, less patience, earth mother cred shriveling up and dying a slow death with every spoonful of frozen peas and Trader Joe's fish nuggets I dish out.

But in between Baby #2 and Baby #3, I did a terrible thing. I left my children for a week. To go to Europe. With a friend.  I'm pretty sure some people thought I should be fired! But I went with Henry's encouragement and blessing. He'd gone to Italy by himself for a week earlier in the year. So, it was my turn. My week in Copenhagen was amazingly revitalizing. I did nothing healthy, mind you-- I completely reverted to my singlehood days, chain-smoking and drinking my face off. But for one week, I wiped no tushes. I woke up when I wanted to wake up. I didn't do laundry. I spent approximately ten minutes in the kitchen. I drank my coffee hot. I walked slow. I walked fast. I had uninterrupted conversations. I peed alone.  Big things, big things.

After that trip, I grasped the importance of self-care. Self-care is not selfish. Self-care is vital to being the best mother I can be to my children. I don't need to go to Europe every time I need a break. A hot shower will do. Or a quiet hour with a cup of coffee and a book in a coffeeshop. Sleeping in does the trick, too.

My point is this: in the beginning, I fell victim to The Good Mother Myth-- mother as martyr, in particular. But I wised up and not a moment too soon because Baby #3 revealed itself two months after my trip. Back to life, back to reality.

Avital Norman Nathman came up with The Good Mother Myth after discovering that her reality of mothering didn't match up with media's portrayal of mothering. Her story, and 35 others are told by the powerful voices of mothers that have rejected the media myth of motherhood to embrace what is real, what is truth, and to let the rest of us know, "hey, it's okay, you're not the only one."

I am so excited to be going to the book release party for The Good Mother Myth at Hinge in Northampton, MA on Friday, January 17 at 7pm. I'm even more excited that this book is finally out in the world. My friend Tara, who is an amazing writer, is a contributor to the book so the book has been on my radar for months. To celebrate, I'm giving away a copy of the book.  Good luck! And remember, if you don't win, you can order the book from your local independent bookseller! 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

{Disclaimer: I am personally sponsoring this giveaway and purchased the book with my own funds. All opinions here are my own. I have received no compensation. This post contains affiliate links}

Anticipation

My favorite thing to do while waiting for a baby (9 weeks to go!) is to read birth stories and watch birth videos. I watched this one yesterday, shot by Georgia of Documenting Delight. I love the mother's poise but I won't pretend that'll be me. I was a wild animal when I was pushing Stella out. :)

Enjoy!