Look What The Storm Blew In

Sweeping dark clouds over white...the battle of weather

L.A. was hit by a rainstorm yesterday. Not news in some parts of the world, but in drought-ridden California, rain is news. Heck, it’s an event. In yesterday’s case, it was lots of rain, big time wind and even thunder, which I love.

My oldest blew in with the storm. He’s been in Afghanistan for months, then onto Virginia where he lives and soon to be gone to parts unknown but most probably dangerous. The nature of his work is secret, scary and he loves it. I’m the one who worries and when I voice it, get the response he has on automatic for his mother, “ah Mom, you know I love this shit and thrive on it.” Yeah, ok. We won’t talk about the scars on his leg from mortar fire (he doesn’t know one of his siblings spilled on that or that I know).

So he blew in with the wind, and today, with they L.A. sky so scintillatingly blue, as it is after big winds or the rain, he walked into a restaurant where I waited with more family. He looked tired, worn, a little haggard and absolutely wonderful. The two little kids at each side look just like him and they were too absorbed in Angry Birds and the possibility of pancakes to notice the suddenly teary grandmother clinging to their father.

I don’t know. One minute I was sitting at a table laughing with my son-in-law and next thing I know, I was buried in a big bear hug by my very military looking firstborn. It was all I could do not to cry and make a scene. I did over-cling though for just enough time to get people in the restaurant staring. Then that first “I haven’t seen you since before you were in Afghanistan last time and omg you’re safe” realization passed and I was able to act like a normal person, not a frantically worried, relieved mother, and sit down to calmly order pancakes for my grandchildren.

Max hates butter on his, Zoey eats extra butter. When asked if he wanted his pancakes cut into squares or triangles, Max opted for little squares. Me asking earned me an arched eyebrow from their Dad, an “oh Lord, my mother over-complicates and spoils them too much” look, a beautiful smile from Max and a nod of approval from Zoey.  These are the little things a grandmother files away in her memory for the next visit.

They’re at the hotel now, resting. We’re going out to dinner later, probably somewhere kid-friendly here in town. I can’t wait. I saved my tears of relief for my solitude where my son can’t see them. He’s only here for a day, but what a day we’re having. Pancakes, hugs, smiles, laughter and blue skies. It doesn’t get better than this.

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Everybody has a Story

I’m always saying that. That everyone has a story, that stories are to be found everywhere.

Yesterday, a man came in to fix my typewriter at work (yes, I have a typewriter and use it at least once a day). In fact, I’m thinking of getting an old Smith-Corona. Seriously. But, I digress.

The man that came to fix the typewriter was old, but unlined except around his startling blue eyes in his tanned face. He was short, about 5 foot 2 and stocky but not fat. As he worked on my computer, we chatted and he talked about working for Royal Typewriter Corporation in 1948 when he was eleven years old in Guatemala. Wow.

We talked more. Mostly, because I can’t help my frustrated interviewer/journalistic self and for some reason, people like talking to me. Apparently, this same man has been fixing the typewriter/maintaining it for the past 20 odd years but no one ever knew his story. Until me.

He talked about Guatemala. About the curfews, the army, and dictators. He spoke about “the disappeared ones” and with glistening eyes told me that on his first trip back there after coming to the States, found that everyone he had known, all his friends were dead or missing. “Why go back?” he said to me. Why indeed.

He told me about one night he had walked a girl home and got stuck after curfew. He told me he hid, so scared he could hear his heart thumping in his chest and that every step he took seemed to echo on the silent streets. He finally made it home and told me it was the end of that relationship. He decided the risks of having a girlfriend so far away wasn’t worth it.

Everyone has a story. All you have to do is listen.

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True Colors

A while back I found grey and almost had a heart attack, then had the nerve to turn the much dreaded fifty years old this December past.  The grey was tough.  I vacillated back and forth about whether or not to color it.

Silly, I know but a very real issue women face when confronted with their mortality.  Most women I know dye their hair or pluck out the greys or hide it.  I don’t know one that likes it, though admittedly, I was more of a baby about it than most and certainly more vocal.

I couldn’t do anything about it though, because frankly, I was broke as a joke.  Freelance work was patchy and money was super tight.  The last thing I could spend money on was my vanity, i.e., my hair.  So I waited, agonized and watched more of those little grey suckers appear.  Then things got a little better financially and I started making grand plans for the much desired, and to be honest, needed hair appointment.  At the very least, I needed a trim.  I had about two or three inches of frayed ends.

My intention was to color it.  I was fed up with the grey and it was going down baby.  I had every intention for some strong smelling chemicals to send those beasties on their way.  Really.

Then I got to Frank’s (Frank is my hairdresser, has been since I met his darling wife Elodia over 20 years ago and became fast friends with her).  Frank knows my hair and he always makes me feel like a rock star.  I never go in with a game plan or style in mind, I just trust Frank and am ALWAYS happy with the result.

So I sat in the chair and watched my old friend, who is mostly grey now, whip out the cover thingy they throw over you when you get your hair cut (if there’s a name, I don’t know it, so “thingy” works.  Don’t judge me!), and suddenly, I was comfortable with my grey.  It had not only grown more plentiful, it had grown on me.

I’m fifty, not twenty and I’m fine with that.  I’m a young, energetic fifty that feels thirty (most days) and you know what?  I’ve earned those grey hairs.  Maybe one is from my son Bobby that fourth of July so long ago when he took a dive on his scooter and we ended up watching the fireworks from St. Luke’s hospital waiting for the doc’s there to stitch him up.  Maybe another is for the nineteen hours I sat by my daughter Bernadette’s side, holding her hand while she labored to give birth to my first grandson Damien.  Maybe a few are from years of waiting, watching and worrying while my oldest, Albert was in Afghanistan.  Those two springing up at my temple might be from worrying about Phillip when his friend accidentally shot his tooth out with a pellet gun.  This extra long one here, that I push out of my face when I’m working is probably from watching my grandfather slowly die of cancer.

There are memories in my hair, each grey strand is a story or a huge life event.  Those painful things, those worries and stressful moments that you think you don’t want. turn out to be precious life lessons, or special moments or something that makes you treasure what you have.  All that hit me in the instant before Frank asked me his usual, “so Gina what are we doing?” and my usual answer is always, “you tell me.”  This time it was “you tell me but I’ve decided to keep the grey.”

His answer?  “It looks good on you Gina, I’m glad you decided to keep it.”

Yeah, the stories of my life look good on me and I’m keeping the grey.

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Sunday Sky Watching in L.A.

It’s Sunday.  Palm Sunday if you’re Catholic, which I’m not but a lot of L.A. is.

The sky is glorious today partly because I live in California and partly because it rained yesterday and it’s windy.  Big, fluffy, picture-perfect clouds, scintillating blue and the scent of flowers on the wind.  Perfection.

It was family day for me.  A day out driving around this city I love so much with the people I love most.  Jasmine, Aiden and Marissa.  We drove with the windows down, letting all that lovely wind ruffle our hair and feeling it on our face.  First we headed to do the serious business of laundry and got that taken care of efficiently and quickly. We’re pros at laundromats.

Next up, a drive through to get much needed sustenance and coffee then we just drove around Highland Park, meandering around, up and down hills just enjoying the sunshine and wind.  We came upon a man in front of a Catholic church selling woven, elaborate palms fronds in honor of Palm Sunday.  We bought a few, but it occurred to me that Jesus probably wouldn’t approve of selling outside the church.  But, this is L.A., I’m not Catholic and the day was too pretty for me to give it more than a passing thought.  The grandkids wanted to know what Palm Sunday meant so, as we drove, I told them the story and for some strange reason, it ended up being a long discussion about ritual, holidays and the different customs and practices of different religions.  The grandkids are so curious!  I’m glad I actually know this stuff (thanks Grandma Lupe for all those bible stories!).  Throughout the drive, we sky watched.

Sometime after 1:00 p.m. we suddenly decided we needed girly stuff done and Aiden, generous soul that he is, didn’t grumble when we parked in front of the nail place.  I got a manicure and so did Jasmine.  Marissa and I also got our eyebrows done.  We took Aiden shopping in the Dollar Store so he had fun too.  Then we drove some more.

Eventually, the lovely day was over and I got dropped off at home to put away my clean laundry and clean my kitchen.  The grandkids are here, munching popcorn and watching movies.  We’re going to make a stuffed bear a little later.  They’ll leave in a couple of hours and I’ll have a relaxing night, probably dreaming about how blue the sky was today.

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A War on Language?

Things are getting beyond ridiculous.

The NYC Department of Education was fifty words banned from students standardized tests, calling them “forbidden.”  Seriously.

Read the article here.

Whatever happened to freedom of speech?  What has happened to education?  Are we so politically correct, tiptoeing around on eggshells that teachers can’t even teach?  Really?  I thought I lived in America, the land of the free and home of the brave.  Now, this morning, I read that we want not to be able to teach children WORDS.

That’s the most half-assed backward thing I’ve heard this morning.

I hear children, teens and even adults using non-words like “conversate” and “hotness” and I cringe each time.  Sometimes I can’t keep my mouth shut and try to tell them that the words are actually “converse” and “heat” but no one listens.  This is the result of a poor education.

Did I mention the word “dinosaur” is one of the so-called “forbidden” words.  Why?  Because it might offend Creationists.  Um, I guess teachers can’t take students to a museum to see dinosaur bones either.  This is stupid.  The word “poverty” is another of the proposed banned words.  I was brought up to believe there was no shame in being poor as long I was clean, honest and minded my manners.  Now the very word that describes a common state in this economy is something to ban?  Ridiculous.

Words are important.  Words are powerful.  Words need to be learned.  We also need to teach how they should not be abused.  My feeling is that if a person knows a word, knows what it means, they can CHOOSE to use it or not.  That’s right folks – hey can choose.

People died fighting for the right for us to have the freedom of speech.  Other people in other countries don’t have that and they fight incredible odds to come here in order to be able to speak their mind.  With idiotic bans like the one the NYC Dept. of Ed is proposing, people won’t have words in their mind to speak.

Instead of fighting words, let’s fight ignorance.

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