Moments and Memories

Moments and Memories

I was walking down the restaurant's narrow hallway toward the restrooms and was just about to enter the women's facilities when the door swung open, startling me. Filling the open space was a woman who stood about my height, had perfectly coifed bottle-auburn hair and sparkling brown eyes. She was bedecked in head-to-toe matching green, khaki and gold from the floral print shirt to her gold penny loafers. Around her neck were layers of dazzling gold necklaces, some of which swung to her belly, heavy-laden with baubles and pendants and from her ears dangled matching gold earrings.

She was a radiant, stunning vision of precise perfection and I instantly saw my Grandma Faye.

Grandma Faye left this earth almost exactly seven years ago and every year around this time I feel the absence of her with such longing I practically ache with it. I miss the sound of her tick-tock heart and the smell of her - roses. I miss the touch of her tiny hands that were always adorned with beautiful jewels. I miss her laughter and I miss her gentleness.

I stared at this woman in front of me, awash in memories of my Grandma that came rushing at me with such force, I could hardly breathe. I gasped with the sudden onslaught of emotions and the woman looked at me harshly, appearing as startled by my presence as I was by hers. I could feel the tears burning in my eyes and swallowed hard around the huge lump in my throat. She smiled warily.

We were only about six inches from one another and I looked her straight in the eye after taking in her appearance in one sweeping glance. Blinking away the tears in my eyes, I swallowed and said, in a voice that sounded strangely airy, "Oh. Hi. You... uh... startled me. I'm sorry. You just... you just remind me so much of my Grandma that I almost hugged you."

"Poor Grandma," she said as she inched around me, back pressed to the wall, eyes wide.

She dashed off down the hall and, startled by her response, I stepped into the bathroom, shaking off the curious sensation of, "what in the world just happened there???"

I've thought about this experience a lot since it happened several weeks ago. I've wondered what on earth she meant by her odd comeback. I've wondered what she heard me say. I've wondered at my sudden urge to say to her, "Thank you for reminding me of love," but holding back and not saying it. I've wondered what would have happened if I had told her that.

What I've thought about the most, though, is that very visceral experience of my Grandma Faye that was embodied in this stranger. In that brief interlude, she brought to me the body-memory of what it was like to be around a woman whom I've been missing deeply as of late.

I know there are people out there who have caught my eye and with whom I've shared moments of divine beauty because I honored the love that enveloped me in that moment. I've seen people's faces change when I've stepped up and have said, "I want to tell you how beautiful you are," or "I loved hearing your laughter," or "Thank you for your kindness. It meant everything to me today."

At times, people - sometimes complete strangers - have said impulsive things to me like, "You have a beautiful smile," or "What you just said changed my life forever." When this has happened, I've had a moment to pause and realize that all around me are opportunities to connect and to share a beautiful experience. When someone has taken the time to follow their impulses and share with me some kind word or loving feedback, I've been so touched and transformed.

There are times in our lives where people cross our paths and it is our chance to share with them the loving feelings that arose merely from crossing paths with them. It is in the awareness of the beautiful coincidences of crossing paths that the revolutionary moments can happen. Even when I don't realize it's happening, in any moment, I could be changing someone's life for the better by simply being me.

What are you doing with your moments?

© Angie K. Millgate 3/13/10

Bedazzled by Angie K. Millgate
© Angie K. Millgate 2010 All rights reserved.
To view a full-size version of this piece of art, visit angiemillgate.blogspot.com

Nighttime Travels

Last night I dreamt of many beautiful places. I dreamt I went to New York with a bunch of friends. We shopped and played and travelled everywhere we could on the subway. It was very reminiscent of my time there in 1988. Not much had changed and I felt very confident and safe being there.

Later, I found myself in Italy - where I've never been - visiting my distant family for a couple days. Funny me, after I'd been in Italy for a day and knew I was going home the next day, my brain began wondering how I was going to get back in America because I don't have a passport. I had this whole dialogue with the me now and the dreaming me...

How did you get into Italy without a passport?
I used my birthcertificate.
Oh. I thought you had to use a passport.
You do. They let me go just this once.
Oh. Nice.

Funny how dreams work out like that.

At any rate, Italy is beautiful. The family home in which I was staying was warm and inviting, made of old stone and hardwood floors that gleamed with a polished sheen. There was an old stone fireplace the had a gently roaring fire in it. Above the fireplace there was a projection of a slideshow containing my family's art. On every wall there were masterpieces of art. Some of the created by my family. Some of them were massive puzzles they had done together then Hodge Podged them and framed them. Some of them were famous pieces by famous artists. Everywhere I looked, I was delighted.

I discovered that my cousin had created all of the art and animation for a 1/2 hour children's movie about Jesus that was popular over there. She showed parts of it to me and I wanted to cry with the beauty of it. The colors were vibrant. I remember her saying how she loved using the rose and azure the best. The movie reminded me of a children's book I had once read and she had portrayed Jesus so lovingly and real. I remember feeling so much love and passion radiating from her and realized that was how I felt when I created my art.

I walked through the house several times throughout my stay, falling in love more and more with the place. At one point, we were all gathered in the kitchen - a longstanding tradition on my Italian side - and I realized that Grandma Faye (who was married to my Italian Grandpa, but died in springtime 2003) was there and I felt such happiness to see and hug her. I felt the touch of her hand on my cheek and smelled her familiar scent - roses. And there, looking out the window at the backyard was Grandpa Vic (my Italian Grandpa who hasn't been the same since Faye died and is now in a home for Alzheimer's patients) and I kissed his cheeks and ruffled his dignified, silky white hair - our little "thing" that he always let me do. He is such a proud man and always looks his best. Ruffling his hair was the absolute worst thing because then he looked mussed up. But he would let me.

I stood between them and we looked out the window. The backyard was a miniature version of their backyard of their home in which they lived for over 50 years on Signora Drive in Rose Park. I remember saying to them, "This reminds me of the old backyard on Signora Drive. Especially that tree."

Grandpa had a thing for trees. He planted a ring of trees around his backyard - all fruit bearing - and then spent an exorbitant amount of time complaining and fighting off the birds that were attracted to the fruit.

When it came to wake up, I felt sad. I wasn't ready to leave Italy or my grandparents. But I was grateful for the time I had had there.

Hot Dog Memories

I opened the fridge to discover my father had purchased a package of hot dogs. Surprising myself, I let out a whoop! of glee and danced around like a small child. Giggling at my reaction and curious about it because, generally, hot dogs are not my favorite thing to consume, I carried the package to the counter and debated about how I would cook it.

Boil? Brown?

Bar none, if I'm gonna eat a hot dog, browning is my favorite.

So, I went with the browning.

I placed the skillet on the burner and turned on the stove. Relishing in the feeling of the knife slicing into the meat and easefully gliding through, I had a wash of memories flood over me. Grandma Faye is the one who had taught me to do a hot dog this way.

I find myself with tears in my eyes and I am all of a sudden eight years old, standing by her in front of the old fashioned stove, learning to brown hot dogs. Tears running down my face, I listen to the hot dog sizzle against the surface of the heated pan until it's the right time to add Grandma's secret ingredient: just a tiny bit of water which mixes with the juice from the meat and creates a overall, even, glimmering brown color.

I watch the dropplets skitter and dance across the hot surface, creating a symphony of pops and crackles in perfect harmony. And I cry.

I miss my Grandma.

Cocoa Coffee

I am drinking hot chocolate laced with a splash of french vanilla capuccino. I love me some hot chocolate. I love me the smell of coffee, but can only drink that crap if it is lost in a sea of chocolate. I love it that way.

Coffee is a happy memory of mine linked to my younger, gentler days when I would beg my parents to allow me to spend the night at Grandma Faye's and Grandpa Vic's house. In the morning, I would wake up to the sounds of the birds busy in the trees, someone mowing their lawn in the distance, the flowing sight of the curtains floating on the breeze coming through the slightly-opened window and the smell of coffee and bacon. Grandma was a full-blooded English Mormon Good Girl married to a full-blooded Italian Catholic Bad Boy who loved himself some coffee every morning with his eggs and bacon.

Grandpa was in the hospital room when Grandma died on April 3, 2003, after her fifth open heart surgery. It was a traumatic death scene, complete with spraying blood and cries of agony. In that moment, Grandpa became frozen, staring at the blood splatters on the floor and slowly began his slide away from life. On that day, I lost both my grandparents, although Grandpa still breathes and walks today. He breathes, but has no idea who I am, where he is or who Faye was. He still believes, after four years, that he is on vacation in Texas after being whisked away from his home of fifty-five years. His home, his possessions and his belongings that he worked so hard for his entire life have been sold out from underneath him by his sons and he has no idea. His entire life is as if it never was.

While he still lived at home here in Salt Lake, my uncles and their wives would visit him dutifully. For quite some time there was huge strife in the family because the local siblings - the sisters - were unable to physically, emotionally and mentally support their father as much as the brothers felt they should be. Neighbors began calling saying they were frightened that Grandpa was going to hurt himself or someone else with how crazy he was driving. They were frightened he would be hurt or lost on his meandering walks in the middle of the night which led him all over the city, collecting garbage from the gutters that he believed were artistic treasures and began adorning the walls of his kitchen. They were frightened by his sudden appearance at their windows as he peered inside, surely looking for the home that was his but seemed to be lost now. Things slowly got so sad.

One uncle left a list of things to do taped to the kitchen cupboard before he left. A list of daily reminders because Grandpa was beginning to have difficulties remembering the simplest things:

1. Take a shower.
2. Sleep in the bed.
3. Put on clean underwear each day.
4. Put clothes in the hamper each night.
5. Clean your teeth and put them in every day.
6. Eat fruit each day.
7. Drink no coffee or beer.
8. Brush your hair.
9. Call one family member each day. The numbers are by the phone in the closet.
10. Say your prayers.

I was offended when I saw the list. Especially, as you can probably guess, by numbers seven and ten. Beer and coffee were loves of my Grandpa and I don't ever remember my grandfather praying. I asked him what he thought of the list and he snickered, "Aw, that list? It helps him feel better."

Even when he was losing his mind, Grandpa never lost his sense of humor or irony. Another time, while he was visiting here, our family met at a Vietnamese restaurant for Pho (Vietnamese soup, pronounced Fu, like Fuck) I had never had Pho before, nor had most of my family. My uncle thought it would be cool to introduce us to something new. Grandpa sat beside me, swirling his soup around and staring at the odd-looking concoction, eating carefully only that which he could recognize. The entire time he sat there silent, staring at that soup and I could feel him giggling inside. He had an odd smirk on his face and a glimmer in his eye when I glanced at him.

I leaned toward him, lowering my voice and suspecting his answer, "Grampa... you like the soup?"

He grimaced and whispered, "Not really. It's weird. But I will eat it like a good boy."

[funny sidenote on the name of this soup. The aunt and uncle who invited us all there are some of the most prim, proper Mormons I have ever met. I don't think I have ever heard either of them say so much as "Dang it" let alone anything tough like "Damn." My aunt, who is the most prim of the two, kept saying "Pho" with such relish that I glanced at her every time. She said it almost too frequently, with such passion and as if it was the coolest word she had ever heard. After hearing her use the word with such excitement four separate times in, seemingly, a matter of 30 seconds, I said, "Ya know, Auntie, that is sounding sorta nasty." Her eyes grew wide and she asked with a gasp, "Nasty?! What sounds nasty?" I was perversely enjoying the razzing I was giving her and knew she would be mortified when the meaning of what I was implying sank in to her demurely thick skull. "The way you say 'Pho' makes it sound more like a swear word." She repeated the word one more time to figure it out. I raised my eyebrows and waited for the realization to sink in. The blush began creeping up her neck as she started dishing the Pho to her grandson. From that point on, it became "fff-*blush*-SOUP!"]

When Grandma died, my uncles - who both served their missions in Italy - swept in and began, in earnest, the conversion of my Grandfather who swore in his sanity that he would never convert to Mormonism, even though he was more knowledgeable about the religion than pretty much any Mormon I knew. For all of their lives he had been, in no uncertain terms, emphatic that he would never be Mormon. While I understand and respect their point of view, I feel angry that they did not honor his beliefs at a time when they should have most honored them. I feel angry that they played on his emotions in his dwindling mental state. He told me once in a moment when he remembered who Faye was, "I want to see my Honey Girl again. They told me the only way I could do that was to get baptized. It's what she would have wanted. So I did it."

They did it without inviting us in Salt Lake - those who they knew opposed the coercive nature of their conversion process. All we got was a note in the mail from Texas with a picture of Grandpa in his white baptism jumpsuit standing in front of the church building. The look on his face was distant and detached. He had no idea, I believe, about what was going on in that moment or what it really meant to be baptized. Something in my Grandfather's stubborn Italian way, though, holds him back from finalizing the entire process and going through the Temple.

Knowing what was in his heart and hoping that it had not been completely taken away from him, I asked him the last time he was here in Utah, "Grampa, ya gonna go through the Temple?"

His answer: "HELL NO!" He grinned at me and I laughed. He has no idea who he is. He has no idea who I am. He has no idea where he is and yet, part of him still knows he is a proud Italian Catholic man depsite the fact he has been dipped in the waters of Mormonism.