A Good Man

 I wrote once that there are many definitions of a father. Ask one hundred people and you’ll get the same number of answers. Mine is as complicated as the question because forming words about my dad isn’t as easy as it sounds.

What I will tell you is that I will always be grateful for Alfred because he gave me two of the greatest gifts in the world. One, of course, is life itself, and the second is that life with my mother. To many, the two of them were probably, at first glance, a mismatched pair. That also describes the two of us.

Over the years, I heard repeatedly how good a man my father was, and as I got older, I realized that assessment couldn’t have been truer. I won’t deny that it took a long time for me to get there. My understanding of him has been a work in progress, with countless hours spent on therapist couches; long talks with my mother; and finally, a letter-writing campaign with the director himself. What we couldn’t articulate in person was easier to convey on the page. I learned about everything from his childhood to his time in the Army, his monumental meet-cute with Rosemarie, life on Carney Street, and more.

“What a happy kid I was,” he wrote me, describing a time in his childhood. It was the first time I pictured my dad as both a kid AND happy. His letters made more sense to me than all the years of heated discussions and arguments between us. I was constantly frustrated by his answers. For instance, he worked at the post office for years, and in all that time, I never really knew what he did. “I fix the machines,” he’d say.

“What happens if they don’t break?”

“They always break.”

There you have it—that was my dad. That was Alfred. Short and to the point. I used to envy people who had fathers who said more and were involved in their kids’ lives. Maybe I didn’t need him to be. He let my mother lead the way, and for that I will be eternally grateful. There was no greater gift in my life than my mother. But this day is about honoring someone who might seem like a puzzle to many. And I love solving a good puzzle, even when it stumps me, because the journey to the answer is always full of surprises. What I can tell you is that through all our letter-writing, I think my father and I finally made it on the same page.

Alfred was a good man. He was a good father. He loved his brothers, and spending time with their families brought him so much joy. He took his responsibility as head of household seriously. He provided a home and never wavered with his support. Even when I didn’t agree with him. He supported my move to California to start a life that was so different from his own.

I told someone once that there are no memories of just me and my dad without my mother in them. But I don’t fault him for that. It was the way things were, but boy, did we have some good times. People will say rarely laughed, and that may be true. But I will leave you with one story that brings me joy.

Long ago, we were all in his ’69 Chevy Impala, on the way to the only restaurant he would agree to eat at—the Hilltop Steak House. The way there was down the long and winding Jerry Jingle Highway. There were traffic lights galore, and as we approached—each one turned green. First one, then the next, then the next! He sped up. There was one last one to go before the highway opened when suddenly—a red light. My dad burst out laughing, and he turned around to the back and said, laughing, “Oh, we almost made it!”

I can still hear the joy emanating from inside that car.

Yes. Dad. Rest Easy. We almost did.

My Dad with his aunt Clementine- the Mother Superior 

 circa 1956.

Still with her Words of Wisdom

It's July. Less than one month until I turn another year older and just a few days away from the anniversary of my mom's passing. What a strange word that is - anniversary. I think of anniversaries as happy moments - memories that make you smile, laugh and remember what it was like to be surrounded by the people and places you love. Should I describe it as commemorate? Remembrance? Maybe anniversary puts a less depressing shine on an event that has changed you forever. In the years since, I've left a career on one coast and tried to reestablish one in the central, but for some reason, my experience in California is of no importance or use to anyone here. Perhaps it's my age. Don't let anyone tell you that ageism does not exist. It most certainly does. It's quiet and insidious and quite laughable when you realize that the same people who think you are too old will one day be that to someone else themselves. There's some comfort in that. There's also a confidence that comes with age. Not settling for things. Not accepting an offer that is clearly beneficial only to the one offering. You also realize that life is fleeting and that the back end of life is scarier than the front end.

Five years ago, I never pictured my life where it is now. In fact, at one point, I thought I would be in San Francisco forever, and the friends I made there would be with me for life. Though I worked hard at maintaining relationships through all of my moves, ultimately, I lost some of them. But, then, you realize that some people are meant to be in your life at a certain time of your life. Some disappearances may hurt more than others, but the good memories of those times together smooth the disappointments and confusion that come later. I like to think of it as a new adventure, and anyone who knows me knows that I am thrilled when a new adventure appears before me. When I was younger, I know my relatives probably saw me moving around as someone who was never satisfied. I like to think of it as I never settled for what everyone expected of me. 

It's no mystery why all of these thoughts are swirling around in my head. My birthday is also quickly approaching. And even though I turned 60 last year, this August, I will officially be IN my 60's. There's a gravitas in that statement. One I'm not so sure I like.

Being fully in this decade of life leads me to realize that where you are is because of your own decisions. Any regrets that may have happened have led to the present. Someone asked me of all the places I have lived, which was the best. That was a tough one to answer because I have lived in some of the most amazing (and expensive) cities in the country. My top choice, as surprising as it may sound, is Los Angeles. I was no longer the naive kid who had moved to California. When I was 24, that foggy, beautiful city of San Francisco brought me such joy. It gave me memories and experiences that can never be repeated. By the time I returned, I was fully forged as an adult from my relocation back to Boston. There was another move to the Southland and then one more move to New York. Overall, I was at my lowest and loneliest in Manhattan, with is ironic because there are so many living there. As hard as I tried, I never found my footing there. Coming back to California and re-establishing myself in Hollywood was the best decision I ever made. And it was one that my mom fully supported.

I was afraid to tell her that I was once more leaving for the west coast. I didn't want to break her heart again. But in reality, I never broke it in the first place. True, she was always sad when I would be far away, but she knew I was not meant to stay. Seeing me succeed was always her greatest joy. Secretly, I think she liked it because it meant she had more places to travel. Maybe my love of Paris comes from the fact that it was the first city in Europe that we went together. I do know that she was the first person I thought of when I was first arrived in that city on business in 1995 and she is always the first person I think of each time I return.

My greatest fear was losing my mom before all others, and the universe was as cruel as I had imagined. Five years ago this week, it played that very card. Five years of shifting moments. Five years of change. Five years of finding my footing in a world without her. I think she'd love the life I have made for myself these past few years. I know she would've gotten a kick out of my living in Texas, but even more so from the reason I am here.  

When you think about it, five is a milestone in so many ways. A child turns five, and really starts to become the person they will be in the future. It's also, I think, probably the best age to take them on vacation. Interviewers ask that ridiculous question of where will you be in that amount of time, and you both believe the silly answer you supply them. Five years from today, the world will be very different than it is now. I can't even begin to image what it will look like. One thing for certain is I will be even further into this decade and my mom will be gone even longer. The grief of losing her won't fade. But, that's the price of love. The harder you love, the stronger the pain of the loss. I wouldn't have it any other way, really. What's life without love? I've known it. It's lonelier than being single in a crowded New York City bar on a Saturday night.  

"Don't be so excited about your birthday," my mom would always chastise me. "Just means you'll be going back to school soon."

Five years later and she's still making me laugh. I'll take her admonishment to heart and try not to be too excited about my birthday. The memory of her and the tone of her voice wraps me in her hugs. I'll hear her again and I will tell her, "Hey, at least this year, I don't have to go back to school."

Where Do You See Yourself in Five Years?

Today would have been my mom, Rosemarie's, 91st birthday, and this year will also mark five years since her passing. Tonight, I will toast to her as I have consistently done by going out for Chinese food, which was always her favorite. Not only have the past few years shifted the direction of my entire life, but recently, in an interview for a job that was clearly beneath my skills, I got that ridiculous question, "where do you see yourself in five years?" 

Instead of lying about how much I wanted to work for their dismal hourly salary position forever, I really wanted to answer, "What is wrong with you? Is that really the best question you have for me? Well, let's see — in the last five years, my mother passed away, I survived a shooting in Mexico, I got a boyfriend, I fell in love, my job dismissed me for being too old, I moved to Texas, got married and lost friends. So, no, I don't know where I see myself in five years." 

Next time I get that question, I will politely end the interview and take my leave.

Aren't where the years take anyone the great mystery of the future? And, being 60, the realization that I have more time in back of me than in front is something that I grapple with almost daily. I'm not sure if my mom ever thought of her life in those terms. As we sat with her in her hospital room, I know she was saddened by her inability to get better. At one point, she apologized, telling me how sorry she was for not getting strong enough to come home. 

I never really knew if she was aware that her time with us was nearing its end. The night we moved her to hospice, I lied and told her that the doctors wanted to transport her somewhere that they could take better care of her. I'd like to think that she believed me. She fell asleep, and on that Tuesday night, the heavens unleashed a storm like I had not experienced in years. Thunder shook the rooftops, lightening split the sky and torrential rain pelted down as if the clouds themselves were feeling my pain. I thought that if there was ever a night to leave this earth, then this was most certainly it. Yet, the storm passed, the sky turned blue and my mom lay peacefully asleep in her bed. Two nights later, after we had spent the day in her room, after we drove my father home, I turned to my brother and stated.

"We have to go back."

"We'll see her tomorrow," he said.

"No. We didn't kiss her goodnight. We have to go back." 

It was the end of discussion. So, after a bite to eat, we returned to her room. And, I will believe this until it is also my time to leave this earth - my mother knew we had come back. She was waiting. Later that same night, as I was finally having a much needed cocktail, when my phone lit up, I knew.

Did she predict where I would be in five years ? Did she know that her leaving was the only way for me to move onto my next chapter? Despite what Rosemarie thought of herself, my mother was a smart woman. When we whispered that it was okay for her to leave, that we were going to be ok, that we loved her, that she could let go - I believe she heard every word. Even though I wanted her to stay with us and I was at peace knowing the outcome, for these past five years, I have been angry that the universe took her when it did. Some days, I am able to turn that disappointment into happy memories, and others, I can hardly believe that I have to face another day without her. As she got older, her birthday celebrations were low key. When I lived in New York, I would take the train up from Manhattan and we'd have Chinese food in an incredibly tacky behemoth of a restaurant. Sometimes, we'd go bowling and always, we'd have dessert back in the house I had spent so much of my childhood wanting to leave. In 1990, she knew I should never return, in fact, before I relocated for three years, she surprised me by saying, "Why do you want to come back here?" At first, I was taken aback that she wasn't overjoyed. It was years later, on our trips to Europe that I realized she knew more about me than I did about myself. 

Five years later from that fateful summer, I wish I could show her where I am in life. To tell her what I've learned from all those years in California and show her what I have built in Texas. The night she left, my world shifted more than any earthquake was able to move me. In her way, she allowed me to let go of the last remaining slice of my time in Boston. This week, especially, she would have hated the amount of snow that pummeled the state. It made me think of one of my favorite memories with her during the Blizzard of '78 and the two of us traipsing through the snow and sinking into the snow drifts just to get to the grocery store. Maybe that's why I'm never bothered by all this insane panic buying that people do these days. We survived and had fun doing it.

I wish I could tell people the pain of missing someone you love diminishes, but it does not. The feeling morphs and shifts into something that's hard to describe. It's at times a happy memory, other times it's a sharp pain of sadness, or a flash of a smile or the sound of a laugh. The feeling of loss never goes away and you keep the memory alive by telling stories so you can bring the one you lost to life for those who never had the joy of knowing them. 

When I look at the date stamp on pictures from my phone, I always think to myself how we never really knew how much time we had left with each other. But, that's the way of life, isn't it? We don't know how much time there is for any of us. The world can shift in the span of any number of years or even moments. So, in five years, I just want to look back and know that I gave everything I had to the people I loved the most while they were with me. The ones who are no longer by my side - whether by choice or fate - were in my life for a reason. 

So, every year, I will continue to celebrate my mom on her birthday in a way that made both of us happy. The restaurant may not be as tacky, but the food will be just as good, and most likely, unhealthy. As always, I will toast to her and realize that there are no regrets  - well, except for not walking out of that aforementioned interview. But something tells me that chance will happen again. And then I can imagine calling my mom and hearing her laugh. 

"No, you didn't? Well, good for you. What is wrong with people?"

.  

Shadows and Rainbows

 Long before there was Limontella - there was just a boy and girl who met at a Search firm in Boston.  And, years later, just like with my husband, it was, well, meeting just felt right. She was the first person who made me say "I love you," out loud, because replying "me, too." wasn't good enough. So, when I moved to San Francisco, she deserved something special because I wanted to let her know what she meant to me. After all these years, I'd forgotten I had written this until she recently sent it to me. How amazing that I was in her wedding and last year, her husband was the one to marry me and mine. There's been a lot of rainbows with her over the years. I wish you all a friendship as strong and comforting as this.  

We have no idea who the one in the middle is. I guess we had groupies?

I

A SHADOW AND A RAINBOW

I've met many people in my life. Some have remained shadows,

silhouetted against the hallways of my life, never daring to enter my world. I've stood illuminated in their entrances, but their

doors have remained shut.

So, I have often dimmed my light. Why

brighten an empty hallway?

Many people in my life have come and gone. They've exited at the first turn and I was left to drive alone. There have been tough turns along that road: accidents, yields, sunshine and rain.

I've weathered every storm. Seems the sunny skies were never far away, just hidden behind the clouds.

The people in my life. What a strange and diverse crowd.

I resist letting them in, afraid they'll douse my light. But once in a while I see a small shadow. Slowly, I open the door and my light escapes.

The shadow disappears and someone new is standing

in my doorway.

One day, I met a not so silent shadow. It lingered near my

doorway, as if it had been against many before and been turned away.

It seemed to tremble. What an insecure shadow. Maybe it's

been down the same road I have traveled. Survived similar storms, never finding a rainbow. Maybe it needed one, maybe it needed mine.

Shadows in my life; they have no faces, they have no names.

They disappear too quickly and I turn away•

This one yelled her name. Let her inside I thought, she certainly wants to come in.

I opened the door, my light poured forth, and there in my doorway stood Dawn

 

There are many people in my life that have ceased to be shadows

They are my rainbows with a pot of gold. And one piece is named Dawn. Can you see how it glitters?

Can you see how it shines?

When it starts to fade, I make it shimmer. When it sparkles, it makes me smile.

A shadow no longer, she became my rainbow, filling the sky with her brilliance. As the dawn brings the sun to the sky, its namesake brings the shine to my life.

I won't dare let it go,

the night is already too long before it breaks.

So, if you notice a shadow lingering outside your door, give

it light. Let it in. To the world I say, shed light upon the shadows, but find your own rainbow. This one, with all her charm, beauty, and gold, belongs to me.

I opened my door and she came in.

How very lucky I am. Why?

She chose to stay.

It's Been Some Time

Life as Jim and James has taken quite a turn since I last blogged on this site, having spent most of my time on limontella.com. Managing two blogs, I tend to forget about one of them, but when I do remember, and re-read things I've written, it's a nice trip down memory lane. So many changes in life, so many moves, so many dramatic events that have occurred in just a few years. The one constant that never changes, though, is me. My location has shifted, my relationship status has morphed into something no one could have predicted, but my thoughts continue to blend together like a protein shake being torpedoed in a Vitamix.

These days, I've been home recovering from hernia surgery and let's just say, it hasn't been the most pleasant of experiences. I've known since my Los Angeles days that I had one, but my doctor there never made a big deal out of it. In fact, he told me not to worry about it. That always sounded strange to me because of course, I always thought of it. Having one of your internal organs poking through a hole in your abdominal wall is just not a good image.

So, after visiting my no nonsense San Antonio doctor this year and the discovery of a second hernia on my left side, I decided, it was time to fix it all. Of course, it all had to wait until after my honeymoon in Paris.

"Don't get married," the surgeon said as he firmly and forcibly poked my naval area looking for a third hernia. "Where there's two, there's usually three."

"Oh, too late," I replied, grateful that the final number of hernias was capped at two. "We're going to Paris for our honeymoon this summer."

The doctor smiled slightly and told me to have a good time but not to wait to get the hernias fixed. I wasn't exactly looking forward to surgery, I mean, who really can say they do? The last time I was under anesthesia was back in 2004 when I was turning 40 and needed a tonsillectomy. I had a different life then. Living in San Francisco, no serious relationship, friends that were part of my circle, and most importantly, my mom was still with me.

And, of course, it's July - the month I lost my mom four years ago, and that always makes me reflective. Add that to being on painkillers and attempting to sit and stand on my own, and it's been a hell of a post honeymoon. Before the anesthesiologist put me under, we were talking about our mutual love of a Mexican restaurant in town and the potent margaritas they concoct. Next thing I knew I was saying hi multiple times to my husband John - and when I mention multiple times, I mean MULTIPLE times.

The pain hadn't hit me yet, but as I slowly tried to fully wake up, it wasn't long until it made its presence known. Getting the opioids to make the pain go away, though was the best part of my day. 

I'm quite the sight to behold these days. I've finally stopped looking six months pregnant, which is probably a good thing since I live in Texas now and that could cause some serious issues if I'm seen out in public. I haven't however, lost all the baby weight so as I sit here and pop more tramadol, I can't help but review life.

Coming off an incredible two weeks in France to have my abdomen laparoscopied  was something I was anticipating but it doesn't make the recovery any easier. Writing helps clear my head, thinking of my life now and how John is here to help me recuperate is something out of storybook, but I somehow feel useless as I maneuver from couch to bed, clinging onto walls and furniture so I don't find myself on our new tiled floors like I was in a bad 80's 911 commercial. From the minute I landed in San Antonio, life has been different. And, that's different in a good way. I told my good friend, Holli, that when I left Los Angeles I was finally running towards something and not from it. That has never wavered. 

Yet, I don't think John was prepared for what kind of patient I am. After all, when I was younger and living in Boston, my mom would come to my apartment, cook me breakfast and lunch and make my bed for me. She'd sit for hours before she went back home. No matter if I am sick or not, one thing John does not do is make the bed. 

So here I sit in a newly remodeled house, listing to the continuing construction in the back of the house as we add more square footage - unable to really put the place together since I'm forbidden to lift anything over three pounds. For the next two weeks, until I am fully mobile, I will try and think of what's next. My career isn't what it used to be, but my life is better. Sometimes I think that's a good trade off, while other times I wonder what did all those years working where I did accomplish?

I'll admit I was a bit nervous going under the anesthesia. What if I didn't wake up? Would I even know I never did? I most likely pushed that out my mind and just concentrated on having that margarita. You face mortality every day, but especially when events happen like losing your mother and going to sleep while a doctor you've met only once cuts you open and fixes what's broken. Oh yes, and then there's that shooting incident that I tend to make light of because no one likes to talk about it.  Of course, I'm happy to say, life continues with all of its questions. Hopefully, I'll find some answers. One thing for sure is that I'm still not well enough to have tequila, but you can bet that when I am, I will be having more than one. 

What a difference a Year Makes

 As another year comes to a close, the "year in review" posts will flood social media and make the rounds of the news. If I can impart anything on top of what will be written is that, as you toast to 2023 just toast to the here and now because tomorrow, no matter how much you want, can't be predicted or guaranteed. This is the first full year without my mother and Christmas this time around has been particularly poignant. Maybe because last year, the pain of losing her was too fresh that it all seem surreal. And, oh yes, there was that "surviving a shooting in Mexico incident" that forced me into a leave of absence from work. A job that I held for over 14.5 years, and where only one person contacted me to see if I were alright and ironically, that same person less than a year later, leading a toxic and hostile workplace incident that resulted in just one more thing to get through.

Since last Christmas, I've gone on Prozac, something I was initially ashamed at having to take, but realized this year, that NOT asking for help and not sharing your story does more harm than good. Once upon a time, I loved my job. Seeing the studio gates open, and driving onto the lot was one of the greatest thrills of my life. I told my boss at the time that I hoped that feeling would never end. And, my mom was so proud. 

"Is this THE NBC," a post office worker asked her one Christmas season as she mailed me a package.

"It most CERTAINLY is," she told him.

Working for the network gave me some of the best memories with my mother. It allowed me to take her on three trips to Europe. Showing her Paris, Rome, Venice, Florence, Pisa and finally London where we had some of the best times of our lives. Relocating to New York as painful as it was for me in the end, allowed me more time with her. More Christmas Days and more weekend trips to exotic locations like Maine! (And, if you had asked her, she was just as happy there with me as she was walking along the River Seine.)

So, when this job came to end this year, it was with a bittersweet recollection of all the memories I'd accumulated there. For, in the end, the company doesn't matter. It was how I looked at the employment that did. What it allowed me to accomplish is what I took from it. Not what it took from me. In the end, the people I worked with tried to break me. They tried to insult me and treat me as if we were all back in high school. Through it all, I held my head high. My mother had been the subject of taunts and insults all her young life and she came out the other side with a life that she never imagined was possible. 

Try as I might, I was met with resistance as I tried to make the career work. I came back from my leave of absence with a fresh outlook. I had worked on recovering from losing my mother and realizing that life, as I hid under a pool chair, could be taken from me in a split second despite a gorgeous setting and a blue sky. In all, the last two years, and I won't even mention the COVID isolation, have combined into quite a series of events that have made me look at the years differently. 

And, oh yes, the most important? I fell in love. Me. After ALL these years, after my time in San Francisco, Boston, Los Angeles and New York and always thinking that it could be possible but why bother looking for it to happen at this point. Perhaps my attitude turned off what could have been before, or maybe, as I'm pretty sure, that it wasn't right until now.

I will always miss my mother. I will always miss our holidays and her laugh and her hugs. I have our memories and she lives in my heart and in everything I do. And, without a doubt, she brought a tiny Texan into my life. So, what will my year in review be this time next year? It makes no sense to predict. What matters is seeing what is in front of you. Holding on tight for the ride and making memories that will last a life time. And, above all, never forget that when the excitement of the gate opening fades, it is beyond time to exit stage left.

That Goddamn Yellow Bird and Me

My only hope when the clock struck midnight on January 1, 2022 was that this year would be worlds better than the last. So far, and I have no wood to knock on, things are going in the right direction. Really, though, after the last two, is there any direction that is NOT the right way? And nothing in these past months could have prepared me for the ironic collection of Tweety Bird.

It’s no secret that my mother was obsessed by that goddamn yellow bird. I would travel back to Boston, walk into my childhood home and be surrounded by Tweety. From glasses to figurines, and notepads, pens to calendars. When I took my mom out, she’d put on her Tweety shirt and off we’d go with Tweety on her key chain. Half laughing, half serious, I would comment on how that bird was everywhere possible. I even expected Tweety toilet paper in the bathroom but thankfully, I think, Warner Bros. doesn’t make that product.  

And now, months in 2022 - in a strange twist of fate, that goddamn bird puts me in a place of calm. He makes me smile and he surrounds me with a sense of comfort. Perhaps, though, Tweety is something more.

Whether you believe in signs or not - it’s been a journey I could never have imagined. The day I was unpacking some of my mom’s things in my apartment, I was struck by the thought of getting a tattoo. I’ve always been fascinated by body art, but never felt the need to get one. Standing in my living room, unwrapping yet another Tweety Bird, I instantly knew what I was going to do and where I would get it painted. On top of it all, I am not a pack rack, I save nothing. Perhaps it’s because I have moved so much in my life that to make things easier, disposing of clutter makes each location easier. But, for some reason, in my stuff, was one - ONE - birthday card that my mom had sent me. And so, it is that signature that adorns my left arm along with that bird. 

Recently, on a trip to an antique store in Palm Springs, after spending some time in room after room with my brother, I’d had enough of looking at old dust collectors and told everyone it was time to leave. Passing a showroom that we’d passed over and over that day, I took a quick glance inside and there on the shelf were tea cups with that yellow bird. How many times did we walk in that space that day? Yet on the way out, that’s when that goddamn bird decided to make its prescence known? I laughed as I bought them, shaking my head at the irony in the moment.

And now, my collection of yellow birds is growing. T-shirts, a hat, slipper socks, even cards arrive in the mail with him. I wear a Tweety pin on my shirts above my heart. And, the baseball cap to cover my messy hair is always the one with the lounging yellow bird.

What I would give to trade my love of Tweety to have my mom back this Mothers’ Day. Yet, I know if that were true, that I’d be greedy and want her for yet another day and another. I have missed her more than I can possibly describe. Her laughter, hugs, the scent of her White Diamonds on her skin as I kissed her cheek and just the sight of her sitting doing nothing with me. I think back on last summer and the weeks and days leading up to her leaving us and I’m filled with a mixture of sadness, smiles, and yes, even laughter. There was no better way for us to say good-bye except to never have had to say good-bye. 

With her passing, Rosemarie has given me gift upon gift. The way I look at life, the way I conduct myself, the outlook I have on my job and the hope that I have for the future. And as this 2022 day for Mothers approach, I’m not sure how I will feel as the realization that she’s not here will make me feel. Yet, the one thing I do know, is that though she will not be physically with me from now until I see her again, when I’m feeling particularly lonely, I can flip open her White Diamonds body lotion, rub into in my Tweety tattoo and go to sleep with her scent surrounding my senses. I’ll open my eyes and I am comforted more than anyone can imagine that that goddamn yellow bird will be with me forever.