"History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again."~Maya Angelou
Showing posts with label Remembering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Remembering. Show all posts
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Pay Attention
"History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again."~Maya Angelou
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Mama Mia
I have such happy childhood memories of pasta. My neighbours growing up were Italian and one of my earliest memories was being left at Rosa's house when my mother went into labour with my sister. Rosa hardly spoke any English at the time, a few words here and there, mostly commands. She had three children and we were all close in age: the twins a year older than me, and the youngest my age, minus a couple months.
I distinctly remember Rosa feeding me. My indignant three year old self was quite annoyed as I was allowed to feed myself at home. To add further insult to injury, she allowed her youngest (same age as me) to feed herself. I couldn't quite understand why she felt the need to personally feed me when her youngest went unassisted. Perhaps it was because I was the guest, but more likely than not, it probably had something to do with me being the scrawny neighbour kid with the long skinny legs. I am sure she felt my scrawniness was some fault of my parents, rather than a combination of genetics and spending hours running around outdoors like a wild banshee.
So there I sat as she spoon fed me saying "mangi, mangi" or something of the like. The trouble was I have always been a slow eater. Rosa continued shoveling one spoonful into my mouth after another. I simply could not chew and swallow fast enough and eventually had such a full mouth that I had to spit it out or risk choking to death...so out it all came much to Rosa's chagrin and dissatisfaction. The irony, even at three, did not allude me. Had she simply let me feed myself, as I was quite capable (at least in my mind) of doing, none of that would have happened. But despite that minor blip, I did love Rosa's cooking, especially her pasta. She usually made spaghettini which not only tasted delicious, but each mouthful felt incredibly luscious and deeply satisfying as it made it's way down my throat and into my stomach.
Lately I've been having a craving for homemade pasta, so yesterday was the day. I'd forgotten how easy it is to make and how much better fresh pasta tastes than the stuff bought at the grocery store. The recipe below is for a small batch. I'd recommend doubling it depending how many you're hoping to feed.
Basic Pasta
1 C durum semolina
1 egg
1 Tbsp olive oil
2 Tbsp water (if and as needed)
Put all ingredients in a food processor. For this batch, I added some fresh cilantro (just because I had some in my fridge that needed to be used), some basil and some fresh ground pepper. Be creative, add what you wish. Basil is my favorite, but you can add a variety of other herbs and spices or even vegetables to flavour the pasta as you wish: oregano, nutmeg, spinach, grated lemon peel, poppy seeds.
Once the dough is well mixed, put it through your pasta maker. I just have a little hand crank one, but it works well for small batches. You could also roll it out thin with a rolling pin and slice with a knife. I've known many to make noodles this way and then hang to dry if not using right away. Of course nothing beats them fresh.
I distinctly remember Rosa feeding me. My indignant three year old self was quite annoyed as I was allowed to feed myself at home. To add further insult to injury, she allowed her youngest (same age as me) to feed herself. I couldn't quite understand why she felt the need to personally feed me when her youngest went unassisted. Perhaps it was because I was the guest, but more likely than not, it probably had something to do with me being the scrawny neighbour kid with the long skinny legs. I am sure she felt my scrawniness was some fault of my parents, rather than a combination of genetics and spending hours running around outdoors like a wild banshee.
So there I sat as she spoon fed me saying "mangi, mangi" or something of the like. The trouble was I have always been a slow eater. Rosa continued shoveling one spoonful into my mouth after another. I simply could not chew and swallow fast enough and eventually had such a full mouth that I had to spit it out or risk choking to death...so out it all came much to Rosa's chagrin and dissatisfaction. The irony, even at three, did not allude me. Had she simply let me feed myself, as I was quite capable (at least in my mind) of doing, none of that would have happened. But despite that minor blip, I did love Rosa's cooking, especially her pasta. She usually made spaghettini which not only tasted delicious, but each mouthful felt incredibly luscious and deeply satisfying as it made it's way down my throat and into my stomach.
Lately I've been having a craving for homemade pasta, so yesterday was the day. I'd forgotten how easy it is to make and how much better fresh pasta tastes than the stuff bought at the grocery store. The recipe below is for a small batch. I'd recommend doubling it depending how many you're hoping to feed.
Basic Pasta1 C durum semolina
1 egg
1 Tbsp olive oil
2 Tbsp water (if and as needed)
Put all ingredients in a food processor. For this batch, I added some fresh cilantro (just because I had some in my fridge that needed to be used), some basil and some fresh ground pepper. Be creative, add what you wish. Basil is my favorite, but you can add a variety of other herbs and spices or even vegetables to flavour the pasta as you wish: oregano, nutmeg, spinach, grated lemon peel, poppy seeds.
Once the dough is well mixed, put it through your pasta maker. I just have a little hand crank one, but it works well for small batches. You could also roll it out thin with a rolling pin and slice with a knife. I've known many to make noodles this way and then hang to dry if not using right away. Of course nothing beats them fresh.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Life Over 100
Perhaps some of you have already read this, but it is too beautiful not to share. This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and president of NBC News.
My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.
He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.
'In those days,' he told me when he was in his 90s, 'to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it.'
At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
'Oh, bull!' she said. 'He hit a horse.'
'Well,' my father said, 'there was that, too.'
So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.
My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. 'No one in the family drives,' my mother would explain, and that was that.
But, sometimes, my father would say, 'But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one.'
But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.
It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts,
loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.
Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother.
So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. 'Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?' I remember him saying more than once.
For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.
(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.
If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests Father Fast ' and 'Father Slow.'
After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: 'The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored.'
If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along
to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, 'Do you want to know the secret of a long life?'
'I guess so,' I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.
'No left turns,' he said.
'What?' I asked.
'No left turns,' he repeated. 'Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.
As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn.'
'What?' I said again.
'No left turns,' he said. 'Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three right s.'
'You're kidding!' I said, and I turned to my mother for support 'No,' she said, 'your father is right.. We make three rights. It works.' But then she added: 'Except when your father loses count.'
I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.
'Loses count?' I asked.
'Yes,' my father admitted, 'that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again.'
I couldn't resist. 'Do you ever go for 11?' I asked.
'No,' he said ' If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week.'
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.
She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.
They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)
He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.
One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.
A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, 'You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred.' At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, 'You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer.'
'You're probably right,' I said.
'Why would you say that?' He countered, somewhat irritated.
'Because you're 102 years old,' I said.
'Yes,' he said, 'you're right.' He stayed in bed all the next day.
That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.
He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said:
'I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet.'
An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:
'I want you to know,' he said, clearly and lucidly, 'that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have.'
A short time later, he died.
I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.
I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, Or because he quit taking left turns.
Life is too short to wake up with regrets.
In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing. I hope you laugh as much as I did.
---------------------
---------------------My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.
He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.
'In those days,' he told me when he was in his 90s, 'to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it.'
At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
'Oh, bull!' she said. 'He hit a horse.'
'Well,' my father said, 'there was that, too.'
So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.
My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. 'No one in the family drives,' my mother would explain, and that was that.
But, sometimes, my father would say, 'But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one.'
It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first.
But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.
It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts,
loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.
Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother.
So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. 'Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?' I remember him saying more than once.
For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.
(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.
If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests Father Fast ' and 'Father Slow.'
After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: 'The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored.'
If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along
to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, 'Do you want to know the secret of a long life?'
'I guess so,' I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.
'No left turns,' he said.
'What?' I asked.
'No left turns,' he repeated. 'Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.
As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn.'
'What?' I said again.
'No left turns,' he said. 'Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three right s.'
'You're kidding!' I said, and I turned to my mother for support 'No,' she said, 'your father is right.. We make three rights. It works.' But then she added: 'Except when your father loses count.'
I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.
'Loses count?' I asked.
'Yes,' my father admitted, 'that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again.'
I couldn't resist. 'Do you ever go for 11?' I asked.
'No,' he said ' If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week.'
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.
She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.
They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)
He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.
One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.
A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, 'You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred.' At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, 'You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer.'
'You're probably right,' I said.
'Why would you say that?' He countered, somewhat irritated.
'Because you're 102 years old,' I said.
'Yes,' he said, 'you're right.' He stayed in bed all the next day.
That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.
He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said:
'I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet.'
An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:
'I want you to know,' he said, clearly and lucidly, 'that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have.'
A short time later, he died.
I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.
I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, Or because he quit taking left turns.
Life is too short to wake up with regrets.
So love the people who treat you right.
Forget about those who don't.
Believe everything happens for a reason.
If you get a chance, take it.
If it changes your life, let it.
Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it.'
Monday, May 26, 2008
Ebb & Flow
I let myself flow onwards, I swim through my mind back and forth. My soul still sings the song that once we wrote together. We had a dream. We had everything. We rode together to the end of the world. We slew dragons. We climbed skyscrapers. The peace is gone now. I lack balance, I fall down. Still, I let myself flow onwards. I swim through my mind. But I always come back to that same place.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Breach of Reality
I could be anywhere. My mind flits from my "to do" list when I get back home to an altered plane of reality in a variety of different locations. But the reality is that I am sitting in a black Mercedes heading north towards Köln at 180 km/hr. We're in the fast lane. My surroundings whir past me similar to my brain's present mode of processing. Everything outside of the vehicle is in muted tones of brown, grey and white. Winter does interesting things to the landscape. I feel like I am passing through a black and white film with selected objects tinted in sepia. It all adds to the surrealism of the situation. The radio is turned on playing mainly 80's pop songs which carries me back to my high school days. I see peoples faces, remember situations, places...it's all in there somewhere. Man, it's been a long time. I don't even know if I know their names anymore. Occasionally the music stops and a news clip is interjected. I catch a word here and there but realize that I am presently oblivious to the happenings in the world. And does it really matter anyway? "Charlie get down. Charlie get down." Have I heard that one before? I'm not so sure. Every so often they throw in one I don't know. Even now as I sit here, it all feels like a dream, I can just imagine that it will only feel more so later.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Lest We Forget
On this eve of this Remembrance day, I encourage all Canadians to watch this tribute to Canadian soldiers in honour of the men and women who have sacrificed their "today" that we might have a "tomorrow." Although by nature I am more or less a pacifist, I acknowledge that many of the freedoms that we are blessed with today are a result of the sacrifice that others have made on our behalf. I don't take our freedoms in this country lightly. There are many places in the world where individuals are persecuted for speaking their mind, acknowledging their beliefs and speaking out about injustices. There are many of us, who have lost relatives somewhere down the line in our ancestry because of their differences or unwillingness to blindly follow those with power. Although I do not believe that all wars fought are justified, I have a great respect for the soldiers who have chosen to actively stand up for our beliefs and values and to fight for our freedoms. At the same time, I feel that we all have a responsibility. Even without an active war in this country, it is still possible for our freedoms to slowly be usurped. I hope that we will all have the courage to stand up and support our neighbours when we know that something is wrong and I hope that when the time comes, there will be someone there to stand up for us.
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