laurushka.org/blog

I just finished my first summer session course, Storytelling. For one of the assignments, I had to write up 10 personal stories from throughout my life. I wrote them up, and asked Joe to look them over, since he has heard most of them, and was there for some of them– they were too boring for him to get through! I submitted them without another pair of eyes looking at them. Fast-forward to yesterday… Joe was going through boxes of scraps of paper we’ve saved over the years… and he finds this story I wrote for a class I had in Fall 1995. He says, “It’s better than anything you wrote for your assignment– go type this up now!” I was on a self-imposed computer break all weekend, so I will type it up now.

——

When I was growing up, my family didn’t have a lot of money, but my mother always gave me anything I wanted, from trombone lessons to tickets to see Rod Stewart when I was six. She also gave me everything she had always wanted, from dance lessons to the opportunity to be more than a nurse. In the summer between fifth and sixth grades, I hounded my parents to send me to a two-week camp. I think my mother worked over-time to send me. And the second I got there, I had one thing on my mind– going home.

I became hysterical. “I miss my mommy and I want to go home,” I’d wail. I knew if I just asked her, she would come and get me. My letter writing campaign began: Please, please come get me, I’m sick, my toe’s infected, my nose won’t stop bleeding, my head aches, my throat is sore, I hate swimming, I have no friends here, and I want to go home now!! For the first week, I was convinced she would come get me on Parent’s Day. Parents’ Day came and went– I cried to her all day long, but she held firm. One more week to go.

The next three days I continued the letter-writing, the complaining and the crying. And then I am not sure exactly what changed, but I did stop crying and complaining, and almost had fun (although I still won the camp’s homesickness award!) This is when I began to resent my mother and became independent from her.

I also started to notice the way the other girls dressed, did their hair and talked about boys. I was still wearing my older-by-eight-years sister’s hand-me downs. When I got home, my sister took me shopping at the mall and I bought fashion-conscious clothes.

Sixth grade started and my best friend and I became boy-crazy, period-anticipating mall-rats, who didn’t need parents to tell us what to do. When I was about 14, I decided to throw a lot of my things away. I came across a group of letters addressed to Pioneer Village– the letters my mom wrote me at camp! I might have re-read them at the time, I might not have. Even three years later, I was still very embarrassed by my actions at camp and extremely resentful towards my mother for not letting me go home. I threw out the letters.

Five years later, when my mother died, I came across a plastic bag marked “By ALL means SAVE!!!” Inside were the letters I had written to her. This time, I carefully placed them in a box with my first blanket and kindergarten drawings.

Lyrics from a Woody Guthrie song I never heard:

Dear Mother, you’re gone to your heavenly home
Where heartaches can’t enter in…
Tonite all alone in spirit I’ve flown
To kiss my mother again.

–

Tuesday marks an unbelievable 16 years since I’ve seen my Mother. Funny that when she died, I didn’t notice how close it was to Mother’s Day, and how that would feel over the years.

Ah, Spring. As someone with year-round allergies, you’d think I’d be used to the symptoms, but Spring Pollen and grass is at the top of my list. Aaachooo.

I have been facing my nemesis and heading outdoors anyway. Here are a few pictures from a walk to the playground today:

Pretty flowers in someone’s yard:

This didn’t turn out like I thought, but I wanted to document that today is election day. I thought the church was making a statement, supporting both candidates (the Clinton sign doesn’t show up that great), but really, the church was a polling place. That open wrought iron fence is, I believe, a Samuel Yellin piece.

Lilia still loves swings!

And one for good measure– Grampop visited last Friday. Look at these hams!

A weekend update on a Wednesday. I’ve been busy trying to get some homework done for my big class this weekend.

Somewhat spontaneously, the family drove to DC to see the Smithsonian Kite Festival. Of course, a visit to the DC area includes a visit with Aunt Maria– this was Lilia’s first trip down there, unless you count when she was in mah belly. And a visit with Aunt Maria includes a trip to see Pandas! We had a great time, even though we forgot to use sunscreen (I hope Lilia isn’t cursing me in 50 years for that!).

This post requires PICTURES, and here they are:

Aunt Maria teaching Lilia all about pandas:

I think this is Tai Shan:

A quick family portrait in front of the White House (taken by Aunt Maria):

Lilia completely shocked at the amount of kites in the air (again, Aunt Maria’s picture):

I liked this Cat Kite, but never saw it in the air:

This homemade kite looked really heavy, but it sailed right up when the breeze was there.

This serious kite handle belongs to a kite by Olivier Reymond:

Watch out for Kite-Eating Trees!

Best in Show… it’s an Unidentified Flying Mao!

An Old Cherry Tree:

Joe took a dozen pictures until he could get the leaves blurry and the Jefferson Memorial in focus:

And one final picture… my brand new camera (Canon PowerShot SD850 IS) has given me “unidentified images” a few times. I wonder what the deal is? Here is an example…

We had a great time at the kite festival, and Aunt Maria has given us her old kite. More on that when we get outside and get it in the air!

I went to Reading yesterday for the funeral of my great-aunt. I wanted to be there with my Grandmother, and I was glad… she said seeing Lilia made her day. I know this is going to hit her hard– as we stood at the grave, she said, “Oh, my friend”. It is going to sink in slowly.

After the funeral, I sat around with Grammom while Lilia napped. I asked her if she ever had Paczkis, and while she knew they were doughnuts, she had never had one. Although she is 100% Polish, growing up in Berks County pretty much makes you Pennsylvania Dutch– she’s a fastnacht fan, through and through. She did mention one treat that she remembers her mother making. She said it like “hrust” with a throaty H sound– said she thought it was spelled “hurst”. It was a twisted doughy fried thing that my great-grandmother sprinkled powdered sugar on. Grammom said that she gave her mother some Chinese noodles (I’m thinking like the ones they give you to snack on?), and her mom blotted the oil out of them, and sprinkled them with powdered sugar– and proclaimed they were just like “hrust”. I found this site which says they are called Chrust Faworki. Maybe I can find some in Port Richmond.

My Great-Aunt Jen and my Grandmother on my grandparents’ wedding day.