When you think about an Italian grandmother, what image comes to mind? A short, plump woman in a housecoat who loves to cook and bake and watch people eat what she cooked and baked, right?
My grandmother fit most of that stereotype – except I never saw her bake – but she hated being in the kitchen. She cooked to please my grandfather and, every Sunday, she’d make a pot of gravy (a.k.a., “sauce”), meatballs, spaghetti, baked chicken, etc. for our family’s weekly “dinner” at 2:00 p.m.
Before she retired, though, Grandma worked as a forelady in our town’s sewing factory. That’s where she developed a talent for projecting her voice so it would be heard over the din of multiple sewing machines – a trait that remained throughout her life and made my ears ring after any prolonged period in her presence.
I think she got married and had children, just because that’s what was expected back in the 1930s. But she seemed happiest when she told me about her work as a forelady where she earned more money than Grandpa, as I write in my memoir:
“Remember, Maria, when you start working, it’s best to be salaried. That way, you’ll always get a paycheck each month.” Conspiratorially, she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “You know Grandpa wasn’t salaried; he worked on commission, but I was salaried.”
Straightening she’d continue in her normal tone. “And when you get a raise, make sure you save half of it; just put it in the bank and forget about it. You were doing fine before you got it, right? So you won’t miss it if you put it aside, and then you’ll still have the other half to do with as you please. That’s what I always did.”
The third of eight children, Grandma’s father died when her mother was pregnant with Grandma's sister, Dehlia. As a widow – before Roosevelt’s New Deal and social security benefits -- great-grandma re-married soon afterwards, but her new husband turned out to be an alcoholic who routinely abused his wife and children. Grandma never trusted him:
“I was so afraid that one night he’d kill Mama and all of us,” Grandma said, her eyes wide. “I’ll never forget the night I saw him go down to the furnace room and come back with a hot poker! A red, hot poker! I struggled with him and that poker until everyone else woke up and called the police. Never forget it…”
I don’t imagine anyone wants to be in a wheelchair. Indeed, the goal of my spondylolisthesis surgery was to avoid such an existence.
However, after traversing the Animal Kingdom during our recent visit to Disney World, I conceded to being pushed in a wheelchair in Epcot, the Magic Kingdom and Disney’s Hollywood Studios. Being in a wheelchair at Disney has the occasional advantage of scooting to the front of the line at some attractions – something my kids and nieces thought was cool. My sister-in-law was uncomfortable with that particular fringe benefit but, as my niece, Bailie, pointed out -- I’d earned it.
Thing is, I didn’t need the wheelchair because of my back. It was my hip.
In 2006, while my family lived in St. Louis, I visited an orthopedic practice at the renowned Barnes-Jewish Hospital (http://www.barnesjewish.org/orthopedics/ortho.asp) to determine why my right hip was becoming increasingly stiff and achy. Both an orthopedist and a hip specialist confirmed that my spinal fusions were solid and stable. Instead, it was the severe, bone-on-bone arthritis evident in my right hip that was causing my discomfort -- and would more than likely be a source of trouble as I age.
Neither doctor could definitively explain how this had happened. My theory: the slight scoliosis curve that persists in my lower back -- and tilts my pelvis so that my right leg feels shorter than my left -- has caused above-normal wear on the right hip joint.
Bottom line: My medical future includes a hip replacement – or two, or three – depending on how soon I cave. The St. Louis team recommended that I wait until at least age 60 before the first, since current prosthetics only last about 15 years.
In the meantime, I have good hip days and bad hip days. Exercises that stretch and strengthen have helped to reduce pain and increase range of motion, so I’ll press on and hope to keep all my original parts for as long as possible.
One of my favorite movie lines is from My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding:
“The man is the head of the house, but the woman is the neck, and she can turn the head any way she wants.”
I had a front row seat watching this same scenario unfold between my parents during my childhood.
Mom was and is the touchstone of our family. She handled the money, managed our household and raised Anthony and me with a gentle strength that was both nurturing and no-nonsense. Mom taught us patience, perseverance, and pride in a job well done. She valued honesty, trustworthiness and proper grammar. And, consequently, all these things are now important to me.
As the family troubleshooter, she approached life’s challenges by developing an action plan. For example, when we found out I would be bedridden during the first three months after my spondylolisthesis surgery, she transformed our dining room into a bedroom so I would be downstairs “where the action is.”
Mom was cool and confident, with a great sense of style – traits I sorely lacked. And, in the random spirit of genetics, my daughter is just like her!
Similarly, aside from physical traits, Mom is nothing like her own mother (more about Grandma in a future post). Instead, she emulated her father’s mother, who lived with my mother’s family during Mom’s childhood.
When I think about great-grandma Chuckerel, I envision kind, gentle hands that taught Mom how to cook and bake like an Italian, and how to love a child like only a mother can. Mom was a stellar student and, just as surely as hair or eye color, these traits will continue to pass from one generation to the next in our family, because of her.
I’ve talked a lot about my medical history so far, but my purpose for creating this blog centers around my memoir, Growing Pains (that’s the working title, which I came up with long before the TV show, fyi).
The memoir genre has gotten a bad rep in recent years, thanks to several infamous folks who unwisely chose to fabricate the truth to sell books.
In the May/June 2009 issue of Writer’s Digest, there is an interview featuring the unlikely pairing of Stephen King and Jerry B. Jenkins. In it, Mr. Jenkins makes an observation that sheds some light on the motivation behind the practice of making up stuff for a profit.
“…the definitions of nonfiction and fiction have flip-flopped these days. Nonfiction has to be unbelievable, and fiction has to be believable…”
And so, I wonder – not for the first time -- is my story unbelievable enough?
From the very first draft, what I often refer to as “my back stuff” continues to be a major focus of Growing Pains, but it often take a back seat (no pun intended) to the primary comedy-drama of being a teen stricken by an unrequited infatuation/obsession. It’s also about growing up in the ‘70s in a small, New Jersey town where being Italian-Catholic put you in the “majority.”
But whether this – coupled with my spinal experiences – will be “enough” is yet to be determined. In the meantime, stay tuned for more character introductions, similar to the “Dad” post, and don’t be shy about commenting. I want to know what you think!
