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My dead grandma visits. Finally!

Posted on April 29, 2015 by Ice Scream Mama

I am searching. Slowly, but purposefully, walking down a line of closed apartment doors that feel distantly familiar. I am also distracted; talking on the phone with my mother and trying to untangle plastic shopping bags twisted uncomfortably around my wrist when I reach the right door.

It is the only one open.

I recognize my aunt’s body moving around inside, hunched over, cleaning up. She sees me and brightens but quickly turns solemn. “There’s not much time,” she says. “We’re going now.”

I am trying to figure out what my aunt is talking about when I catch another person’s movement off to the side. “I’ve got to go mom,” I say and hear the touch of disappointment her voice gets whenever I have to hang up. “There’s not much time,” I repeat my aunt’s words, “I’ll call you back.”

I watch her come toward me; her red hair darker than I remember, thick and vibrant, piled high on her head, her makeup perfectly applied. She looks trim and ready to go out, dressed in a fashionable printed button down hanging long over a pair of pants. The smile on her narrow face broadens, revealing strong white teeth. “So good to bite you with,” she used to say before taking a little nibble from my arm, thigh or any bit of revealed skin. Why was she going now, I worried momentarily, with some vague feeling that all was not well. She didn’t look sick. She was beaming.

“My Alisee,” She greets warmly, the way she always has and reaches out to me. I stand on the outside of the doorway and lean in to hug her, my absolute joy overwhelming. Her body feels surprisingly small, but my happiness at seeing her face fills me with such emotion, such elation, that I give her slender body another squeeze and instantly explode into tears so strong I immediately wake up.

I lay in bed feeling her presence, wanting to go back to my dream in the worst way; closing my drowning eyes, trying to hold on to her image, her smile, her love that filled me, trying to continue a conversation that we didn’t even start. “My Alisee,” She had said and I replayed her warm, throaty voice over and over in my head like a lullaby. But there was no way I could go back to sleep or back to her now.

From the moment she died, I wished she’d come ‘visit’ me. Somewhat psychic in life, seeing dead people and knowing things before they happened, I trusted her when she threatened to haunt me. “Promise?” I’d reply and receive a small smack on my thigh.

It’s been over three years. Finally she has come but my aunt was right. There wasn’t enough time.

Don't be a stranger

Please come back. I have chocolate…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you’ve got a minute, check out my new essay up on Kveller. Click here… It’s middle school angst -mine. 🙂

 

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Pennies from Heaven, Diamonds from Grandma

Posted on September 30, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

My grandmother loved diamonds.

She loved all jewelry really and had an eye for interesting pieces, especially ones discovered at a tag or estate sale. I don’t think she ever bought a piece retail; haggling a good price made it even more valuable. A queen must have her jewels, even if she has to get them herself.

As she regally stirred the pot of her mouthwatering chicken soup, golden bangles lightly clanked together. When she bent down her perfectly coiffed swirl of red hair to speak with one of us grandkids, chains adorned with diamond pendants swiped past our noses. As she breezily blew on her cigarette, rings of smoke and glimmering gems danced through her manicured fingers.

And the day, decades later, when she rubbed my leg the way she always did in a circular motion that generally ended with a squeeze, her old diamond pinky ring nipped at my skin. “I want you to have this,” she said with great formality, opening a box holding a diamond ring I had never seen before.

“Grandma, I don’t want your things. You keep them,” I said, mesmerized by the shiny bauble that I couldn’t decide was the prettiest or the ugliest thing I had ever seen.

“You can’t take it with you,” She insisted.

My grandmother had been dying for about a decade. Every week she reminded me that her bags were packed and she was ready to kiss her old arse goodbye. For nine of those years, it was more cranky optimism than death that gripped her, but she was 90 now and visibly weakened. I didn’t want to think about that or that she was giving away things that had really mattered to her.

“I can wait,” I said stubbornly.

Her circular rub turned into a pinch. “Ow! Fine.” I took the ring and studied it. It was a flower of tiered diamonds, glamorous and gaudy, an object of another place and time. But who wanted it? I wanted her.

“It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed, “Thank you! I’ll wear it to all the baseball games to blind the players in the field.”

She smacked at me lightly. “It’s an old-fashioned cocktail ring. I got it from two sisters who came to me knowing I had an eye. They had no idea how much it was worth.”  Her eyes glinted as she remembered her coup, licking her lips in satisfaction, the same way she did before a bowl of chocolate ice cream or a plate of lobster Cantonese.

The value of the ring mattered little to me. I would never sell it. Nor did I need a fancy diamond to wear at the gym or on a playdate. Things like this weren’t important in my world. I barely even wore my engagement ring. The older I got, the more jewelry just seemed like money better spent in a 529 plan, a new fridge or even a family vacation.

But the value she placed on it mattered. Passing it on to me was like offering a piece of herself. ‘Remember me’ it glimmered; like her deep humor, wit and love somehow needed to be cemented with a stone.

She died not too long after, but that was years ago. Her face now smiles from frames on my shelves, my middle son still cuddles with a frayed stuffed cat she gave to him, and I proudly wear her ring every chance I get, just to keep a little flash of her sparkle in my day.

My grandmother loved diamonds. And I loved my grandmother.

 

Ain't nothin like the real thing baby

Ain’t nothin like the real thing baby

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sick days, Blue days and Birthdays

Posted on July 10, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I really want to write something right now but I think I may be getting sick. My throat is scratchy and I’m feeling so tired. No matter that I got up at 5:45am because the cat was crying loudly again at the foot of my bed.

She’s old, pushing 18, and it’s like every morning she’s announcing, “I’m still here!” I’d like to toss her across the room and throw her the hell over there, but instead I get up with a heavy sigh and pad downstairs alongside her. We are both a little slower and more creaky than we were just a few years ago.

I give her fresh food as she twists through my legs. This used to be no big deal, but now half the time I almost trip on her. My cat’s cat reflexes have also gone to the dogs and she is no longer adept at darting out of my way.  We are two clumsy old broads.

My throat really is sore and I grab a piece of cantaloupe from the fridge, hoping the juiciness will soothe it. It does for an eighth of a second and then I’m back where I started, but now I’m thinking I need some Advil. I know it’s bad to take on an empty stomach but it’s barely 6am and I can’t think of putting anything in there except my coffee, irritating or fruit, acidic.

I take another piece of cantaloupe, sip my coffee and consider it all while I rest my head on my desk instead of typing brilliant, entertaining prose like I’m supposed to be.

When I pick my head up it is 7am and my middle son is looming over me. He wants a morning hug, pancakes and to know whether he needs to wear his blue or white shirt for his baseball game later.

I check the calendar and confirm that it is in fact a blue day and then realize the date. July 10th.  And now I feel a little sicker. It is my grandmother’s birthday. She died two and a half years ago and would have been 93.

I know she’s hovering around, watching me, tsking when she sees my boys running outside without shoes, invisibly rubbing my hand in that circular comforting way that she had when I’m on the phone with my father, wishing she could send over some lobster Cantonese, fried rice and an egg roll because right now I know she wants to fatten me up.

She took such joy in life and in the challenge of life. She was a lawyer without a license, a psychologist without a degree. A lover of babies, a card shark, a chicken soup maker, a shoe thrower, a piece of work, a force to reckon with, a giver of jewels, words of wisdom and tough love; a matriarch, a mother, a grandmother and a great grandmother.

From her first “Helloooeee” to her last “I love you more” and every affectionate “You rotten bitch” in between she captivated you with her commanding tone and raspy voice.

I wish I could do her justice but no one could.

I still hear her and think of her and wish she was here with me to enjoy my boys and tell me in person everything I’m doing wrong and how exactly I should be doing it. We would laugh over a bagel and lox, a good cup of coffee and lick our lips before we dove into our bowls of chocolate ice cream. We would talk for hours, but mostly I would listen, because she was a fascinating woman who led a fascinating life.

It’s July 10th and it’s a blue day. My throat hurts and now so does my heart.

Damn I miss this woman

Damn I miss this woman

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From one mother to another

Posted on February 26, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“So tell me something you remember about me from your childhood.” My mom asked casually. “Anything.”

Oh no. I smelled a trap. This was definite trouble. I struggled to come up with something. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but my memories of childhood are basically a dead zone. I don’t remember spending much time with her at all, and my father was a mix of random play and me stepping over his drunk body. I do remember them fighting. Hmm. I don’t think that’s what she’s looking for.

“I knew it.” She concluded from my hesitation. “I was a terrible mom.”

Crap.

Okay, so I probably could have had a better childhood, but at this point, who remembers? Oh man, the pressure. Think! Think!

“Tell me something you remember.” I countered, stalling for time.

That stopped her. “Oh, okay.” Pause. Then, a giggle. “I can’t remember anything.”

Disbelief. “You can’t remember anything from my childhood?”

More giggling. “Where was I?” she asks. Like I should know?

I don’t know if it’s funny, but we are both amused. “That’s a good question, mom.”

“You were so precocious. You just raised your cute little self.”

“Apparently.”  Well, it was the 70’s.

We giggled some more about it and then moved on to lighter subjects, like how full she was from her over-sized dish of vegetables or how cute my boys are.

It’s good that we can laugh about the past and move on. Our relationship has evolved so much since the times I don’t remember, or my brain chooses to forget. I’ve grown and she’s grown as well. Emotionally, at least. There was a time when she wouldn’t even think to ask such a question. Not because she didn’t care, but whether it was her youth, immaturity or overwhelming circumstance, she just didn’t think of it.

I still remember a couple of years ago when I was telling her about a friend of my son’s whose parents were divorcing, which coincidentally was around the age my parents divorced. She said, “Wow, that must have been really hard for you.” I was shocked. It was the first time she had directly acknowledged my feelings about that time. Okay, so it was almost 30 years later, but still, I was touched by her, albeit belated, concern.

Physically, she’s gorgeous, strong and energetic, but tiny, topping out at about 5’1, and I’m giving her that inch because I love her and I know she’s just arched her back and is standing up a little straighter reading this. I can hear her bemoaning her stature all the way from her house. “Oh, why am so short?”  65 years and she hasn’t come to grips with her height. She is eternally cute.

It has taken years to come to this point, but our relationship steadily improved around the time I got married and markedly improved after my first child was born. I honestly didn’t expect all that much given our history, but she completely surprised me. Devoted, loving, generous. She dotes on each of my boys. They are such a joy to her and she is so attentive and wonderful, that I can’t imagine that she wasn’t always this way.

Later, my phone rang again.

I answer, “Hi mom.”

“Hi, I was just wondering if you thought of anything.”

“Uh no, mom. I haven’t been thinking about it.”

“Of course. Me neither…” She switches to her favorite subjects. “Hey, did I tell you how good the boys were the other night? And Julius did the funniest thing…”

I don’t know what happened back then. I can’t remember what I did five minutes ago. What I do know is that today, right now, she is the absolute best mom possible. I wouldn’t change a bit of her.

She, of course, has a list of things she’d change. But that’s another story.

A grandmother is born

A grand mother is born

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Dead Grandma Totally Messes With Me

Posted on January 8, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Before I even had a hint of the infertility problems which would plague me, before any of my babies were ultimately born; my grandmother envisioned me with a girl. She was prone to ‘seeing’ things, mostly dead people, but she also had an extremely refined intuition or esp. She’d offhandedly say things, like, “Oh, so and so just died.” While we were busy processing that information, the call would come in. So and so was dead.

So it was no surprise to me, and I took it as almost a certainty, when 11 years ago, she called and told me I was pregnant. I had been quietly trying for almost two years by the time of her call. I was seeing doctors, and was on an emotional roller coaster month after depressing month.

“Why haven’t you told me you’re pregnant?” she asked, her strong, smoky tone full of reproach.

“Uh, because I don’t know that I’m pregnant. Wait,” I held my breath like I was speaking with a doctor holding test results, “Am I pregnant?”

“If this old witch still has it, you are.”

Five days later, full shock and glee, I called her back. “I’m pregnant.”

I could hear her blow her cigarette smoke into the phone before she offhandedly replied, “It’ll be a girl.”

I had a boy.

She scratched her red head (what other color would a witch have?) and said, “I guess it’ll be the next one.” Nearly three years later, she was wrong again. Almost 3 years after that, when I had my third and last child, she was so convinced it was a girl, she snapped at me.  “What do you mean, it’s a boy!? Well, I’m sorry!”

I certainly didn’t care, but my grandma was not one to be wrong, ever. She didn’t take it well, but decided to love my boys regardless. They each were a shining, joyful light in her life.

By her 90th birthday celebration, she still remained convinced that I would have a girl. Somewhat dramatically (she knew no other way) she said, I would be naming the child after her, implying her death was near.

In the Jewish religion, a name is passed down after a loved one passes. My grandma had been housebound for the last decade with a variety of issues, but none of them life-threatening. Still, as she put it, over and over again, her suitcases were packed and she was ready to kiss her old ass goodbye. We listened to this talk for years, but recently, it seemed she might actually be getting closer to taking that trip.

I was over 40 by then. Given my age, and the fact that I had never become pregnant without assistance, I told her that, she would have to rely on another grandkid for that girl. Besides, I insisted, she was an ox with special powers, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Her response was a dirty look, but she conceded that maybe, in this one instance, her radar had been off. I don’t think she really believed it. She just no longer had the energy to argue. When I think about it now, I love that she remained truly convinced that she was right; such beautiful, dogged stubbornness.

Six months later, she died. I held on to her promises to haunt me and she didn’t disappoint; showing up in many ways, most notably as a fly on my wall, something she had always wished to be in her last homebound years.

I miss speaking with her, knowing I could just pick up the phone and hear her raspy voice. I know she hears me out there, but I’d be much happier to have her hear me over here. I try not to think about it.

But this week, I was late. Yes, that kind of late. A solid, bloated, hormonal and crampy, full week late. I knew I couldn’t be. I counted days and considered. It was not possible. Still, her voice was loud and bossy in my head; you will have a girl. Against all reason and sanity, I went and purchased a pregnancy test, cursing her under my breath.

I’ll spare you the suspense. I wasn’t pregnant, and two hours later, my friend, ‘Dot’ arrived. I laughed at myself and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

As the year anniversary of her passing draws near, I love that she can still mess with me. And since I don’t plan on having another child, I’m definitely going to be just a bit more careful about ‘things’ in the future. My grandmother doesn’t like to be wrong, and I don’t trust that witch at all.

grandma & jack

Boy, did she love her boys, but would it have killed me to have a girl?

 

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Grandma Has Landed

Posted on August 14, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

There’s a fly buzzing around my kids’ heads at the kitchen table. They jerk reflexively out of its path, but know better than to swat at it. “Is that Grandma?” My eight year-old asks.

I shrug a knowing, little smile. “Could be. Either way, the fly is our friend.”

“But grandma keeps going around my head. It’s annoying,” complains my oldest son.

“Maybe she wants to say she’s thinking of you.”

He nods, somewhat appeased.

“Or,” I reconsider. “That you need a haircut. Yup, that’s it.”

“Aw. Come on!” He protests.

“Blame Grandma.” I say and push the hair from his eyes.

“I want gramma!” mumbles my five year-old with a mouthful of macaroni.

I look at them warmly and feel a spark of my grandmother’s pride. I am now the matriarch of my own beautiful clan. Beautiful and innocent. It is the gift of childhood; my stuffed animals are really alive, why can’t grandma be a fly?

Of course, she wasn’t always a fly. For all my years, she was the Queen Bee. Grandma Bebe – the most wonderful, fascinating and formidable woman I ever had the honor to know, love and be loved by; a woman from an era of class and balls rarely seen today.

For years before she passed, she was home bound, long-suffering with her hip, back and other calamities of age that do its best to damage life’s dignity. My grandmother refused to be diminished, certainly not in people’s eyes. Instead, she refused visits and exercised her influence from the phone.

It was she who insisted, wistfully when she longed to see me or my children or spitefully when I was brave (or stupid) enough to poo-poo her power, that she would return as a fly on my wall and make sure things were as they should, meaning as she liked. If they weren’t, well, the implication was threatening. I wondered if she could still throw shoes from the after-life.

It was a month after she passed, on a cold winter day that brought night before its time. I was on the phone with my father. He was troubled, which meant trouble for me. As I heated up with frustration, a fly from nowhere, circled my body and landed on my hand. It rested there and as I gaped, it stared back. Grandma had come to comfort me. I accepted it as I accepted the sun.

So grandma is a fly, as well as the lox on my bagel, and licking my lips before chocolate cake and scratching the backs of my boys. She’s living and breathing in my heart. I hear her smoky voice in my head, or her words coming from my cousin’s mouth. I miss her presence, but I do love knowing that sometimes she’ll still fly down for a visit and buzz “What’s doing, pussycat?” in my ear.

My door is always open, Gma.

 

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