Jumping Over Potholes

Quel Mazzolin di fiori - traditional Alpini song

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NS38HgcJBaI

Most of you will not understand the words or the meaning behind this song. Hint: it's in Italian. :)

But even those who do understand the lyrics and be able to sing along as well may not get why I chose to use this song for this particular post. 

Stella Alpina - photograph of real thing
Folklore states that this flower is a gift to a
loved one as a promise of dedication.

Well, the Italian heritage is a good part of it but more importantly for me it is the symbol of a happy and simple time in my life where there was beauty and laughter. This is one of the songs that sparked my life long love affair with traditional Italian folk songs.

Not all rainbows and sunshine. For the one thing that was missing, was Dad (Dante). The wearer of the traditional Alpini hat and singer in the drunken choir at family gatherings. 

My mother took on the role of teaching us the language, traditions and songs of Dad's family. For although Mom was also Italian, she was from a different region. She embraced the family heritage and immersed us into it with family, friends and celebrations that made us feel a normal part of our world, despite Dad was not with us.

And that was my life. Two sisters (Sandra and Linda), a brother (Ron), a dog (Scamp) and a Mom (Livia) who was the glue that held us together. But it wasn't meant to stay that way. I wish I had known.

There was a lot I didn't know. 

1) The struggles Mom and Dad endured just to be together - their union was not approved by Mom's mother. They persisted and eloped on January 9th 1960. 

2) I didn't know that Nonna (Italian grandmother, Mom's mom) blamed Dad for killing her son. Dad died on February 17th 1964, in a horrific car/train accident that also claimed the life of his brother-in-law. He left behind a wife with 4 children ranging in age from 3 years to one month old.

3) I didn't know that the lawsuit that ensued lasted for

5 gruelling years and ended in a loss because of an incompetent lawyer. 

4) In 1969 as the last of the trial appeals were being exhausted and Mom tried to return to her profession as a teacher but was denied a position as the rules had changed and she now needed a university degree to go with her Teachers College certification. 

5) We were not well off financially and required assistance at times. I never questioned why sometimes our food came in boxes instead of grocery bags and included toys. 

6) I remember the day after Christmas 1972 when Mom discovered a lump on Ron's neck. Chaos ensued, there were a lot of hospital trips and suddenly Mom wasn't around much anymore. She was with her only son, enduring surgeries, treatments, diagnosis and endless sleepless nights dealing with the new reality in our life. Ron had Hodgkins Disease. Without cancer in the name, it was like the flu that he would get better. We never saw him at his worse. His treatment were in Rochester Minnesota at the Mayo Clinic. We were left behind and in the dark. We wouldn't have understood. We were kids too.

7) When Mom left to go to the Mayo Clinic without Ron we didn't know that it was a nervous breakdown - maybe more?  

But what I did know is that we were loved and we were valued. We could walk out of the house any day with our heads held high. Proud of our family, heritage and the Dad we didn't know. 

If the days weren't sunny, Mom turned on the light with her brightest and biggest smile and we knew it was going to be okay. Her laughter made the worst days seem a little less so. 

Like when I cut my foot and required stitches and she arranged a surprise party for me. Just family singing and laughing. When she got angry and chased us around the house with the wooden spoon until we were in a heap laughing. 

She hit a deer once on her way to Rochester for her own appointment and when she told us about it on the phone, she was laughing. I was so mad at her then but now I remember that laughter as a symbol of her character. She was okay. It could have been worse.

And it got a lot worse. On a day, like today, March 21st, 42 years ago it got a lot worse. She wasn't okay anymore. And my sweet, beautiful sisters wouldn't be either. 

It was March break, there was some snow on the ground. Ron had an appointment in Rochester. Mom turned it into a family trip. We left Thunder Bay late. We stopped for supper at Perkins in Duluth. We called Nonna to tell her where we were. 

An hour later, at 8:55pm, it was the end of life as I knew it. 

In the blink of an eye, the sky darkened like a solar eclipse that wouldn't quit. Mom was 34, Sandra was 13, Linda was 10. They would be no more. 

A truck driver (for unknown - to me - reasons) hit us from behind as we travelled down the interstate. The crash was spectacular and continued as we were pushed down the road for 250 feet before becoming airborne for an additional 80 feet and finally plunging 13 feet, taking a 180 turn to land on the roof of the car. The transport truck finally dislodged when we became airborne and landed on the other side of the divided highway. 

Seconds really. And then, Linda is crying and pleading for help. Mom tries to console and says "Don't breath". Sandra is silent. That is all.

A tugging on the sock of my foot. I crawl in that direction, leaving the inferno that had me mesmerised. My brother. A vision, standing there with one sock in his hand. We climb the embankment and watch the flames, not completely aware of what we are seeing. We speak. Maybe we don't. We rise to go back to get others. We are stopped and made to go into the police car. 

Racing to the hospital, we pray. Our prayers are not fulfilled.

In the hospital being treated for the injuries I suffered, I answered the question "Why". Mom died, because Dad wanted her to be with him. They loved each other so much and worked so hard to be together. Sandra died, because - well, you know how parents are with first-borns. Dad knew Sandra best and missed her. Linda died because she was only 1 month old when Dad died and he wanted to get to know her. 

That was my Mom's attitude coming through. Could be worse. I told myself, at least I had my brother. I wasn't alone. 

It took a long time to accept my new life, my fate. A lot of years wasted on anger. A lot of time fighting back against the hurt. Knowing "Why" doesn't mitigate the pain. It just means that the demons you fight are within you, because you have no one to blame. 

I thought I had it together but in reality I was punishing myself, denying myself a life I deserved. 

It wasn't easy, because while I managed to jump over some potholes, I fell into others. 

A little more broken and a lot more stubborn I crawled out again and again until finally an angel came into my life and made me realize that I am okay and I can make a difference. I can be proud of who I am again, I can be loved and I have love to give. And with that I found that my heart had love for another child. My blessings. 

It's been easier since that time to see that the dark cloud above me had some very bright stars in it shining down on me. Including, my brother Ron's - who joined them in 1984. I get now that darkness is okay, because it lets us appreciate the light of day. 

But a balance would be nice. 

The power of positive thinking kicks in and I am reminded that the first day of spring, while a sad day for me, is a day when we will see longer days with more sunshine and less dark. I need to remember that. Still.

Time does not heal. It makes remembering easier...sometimes. On a day like today I let the tears flow. 

Stella alpina
https://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leontopodium

The Memories are Forever, If the Breaths of Life are Not

Bookends - Simon and Garfunkel

Music choices for me is not about popularity but how it touches my soul at that moment. Hearing the above track just recently I was swept away in a flood of memories and knew immediately that it had to be the song for this post. 

Memories. Sometimes it is all that is left. I consider myself lucky that music can trigger those memories for me, because then I can feel peace at any moment in the day. For besides my vast collection of Pink Panthers I am known for my love of music. 

I come by it honestly. The more I research my family history the more I find relatives that have the same passion and often talent for music. Be it writing or playing or listening. It's in the genes. My mother taught me that passion by example. 

My earliest and fondest memories involve music. Back in the day choices were limited. With enough homemade wine passed around the adults would break into song, belting out all the traditional songs from the old country. The children sang along - for we were all familiar with the language and the lyrics. If there happened to be an accordion around, well that was the accompaniment. 
In the past quarter century, I have had limited occasions to recall those beautiful words in public but rest assured the lyrics come flooding back with the first strains of the melody. It feels like I am surrounded by my family when I hear those songs. "Sul Cappello, Evviva, Evviva il reggimento."  

With Sandra and Ron in the foreground you can see
the stereo that Dad built in the background.

My mother had a fair collection of albums but the majority were songs from Italy. In fact that was the title of one of the LP's. I still own those records, but unfortunately have no equipment on which to play them. But I have many fond memories of adjusting the pennies on the toner arm of the stereo that my dad built. It was a beautiful piece of furniture that had space to hold LP's and 45's on one side and a turntable on the other. I'm told that the inner workings of the unit were created with the help of my Uncle that passed with my Dad. It was a collection of tubes and wires but had such fancy details as a light that not only illuminated the controls but alerted you when it was left on. Reception for the radio was astounding considering it's basic simplicity. For nostalgic reasons only, I hung onto that stereo well into my 40's and I kept one of the knobs from it, still in the top drawer of my desk to this day. 

Not mine but a reasonable facsimile :)

Mom was not beyond using the tactic of bribery to get her four children to do what she wanted. Case in point, when she got tired of employing all the tried and true methods for getting me to stop chewing my fingernails, she took to the darkness and bribed me. And for a 33 cent 45 I quit - at least temporarily lol! That 45 is still in my collection with it's original price tag entact. Day After Day by Badfinger was released in 1971, and it was the start of a collection that blossomed to more than 550 at last count.  

To appease the tastes of so many different musical minds in the early days, we often gravitated to K-Tel purchases of compilation hit music. The first one that I got to pick out and call my own was another bribe of sorts. I desperately wanted a chocker and my mom didn't like them. She slyly suggested that I would want music instead - a whole album. A chocker would have been soon forgotten. To this day I scour old bins of records to find that precious collection again. I would also like to know how it disappeared from the house in the first place - curses on the culprit whoever you are. I remember the cover artwork in my mind but can't seem to reproduce it on paper, the only song that I remember is Obla-di Obla-da by the Beatles. The album meant a lot to me. 

Sandra and I in our music-themed bedroom

We didn't just listen to music, we used it as a source of entertainment. In the evening the local radio station CKPR would hold a contest called The Top Ten. You had to listen to all 10 popular songs and recite them back in descending order to win a prize. The trick was to have a quick finger on that old rotary dial phone to key in the last number upon hearing the first few notes of the number one song. Of course you had to have entered in the previous 6 numbers prior or you would never be the first caller in. It was competitive and I don't think we ever won but we sure loved playing. It was a real family event. 

Linda at the piano. She learned by listening to
her older sisters practice.

Linda (youngest sister) and I took music appreciation to a whole new level. We spent hours upon hours listening to songs over and over again and we painstakingly tried to decipher and then immortalize the words in our own hand. You don't know how good you have it now that a simple google search or simple click on the Shazaam app will get you all that information without the toil. And between those two extremes of lyrical searches was the magazines that included lyrics of the popular songs of the day. I had such a collection of those lol! 
When we actually got to the point where we bought an album by a single artist, it was a real treat to find the lyrics printed within. But with compilations and "best of's" it wasn't likely to happen. So with either her or I at the control of the arm of the turntable and with a steady hand we would move the song back one or two grooves in the vinyl over and over until we came to a consensus. With an ear right next to the speaker, eyes closed and face scrunched in concentration it was like the worlds best game. In the end, having those lyrics so we could confidently sing along meant the world to us. And that folks, is probably why to this day I can listen to the same song over and over again ad infinitum and not tire of it ever.  

A gorgeous lady, A wonderful Mom. A beautiful soul. <3

Rod Stewart and his Every Picture Tells a Story release in 1971 heralded my departure from an egocentric child to awareness beyond self. I thought of my mothers musical taste more along the traditional, country or pop genres. This was a u-turn from the norm. And as I sat at a safe distance, hidden from view, I watched as my mother sat on the floor shoulder to shoulder with a man. To my burgeoning hormones, it was love. The man was a university student who was boarding with us. Chris might have been in his early or even mid-20's, Mom 10 years his senior. Today, I think "Way to go Mom!" Back then my jaw hit the floor and my diary got a page full of shock. And every time I hear a song from that album I still think of love and compassion and of the look of happiness on my Mom's face. Bliss!  

We didn't remain passive listeners for long. Starting with a paper keyboard on the kitchen table, Sandra (my oldest sister) and I began piano lessons 6-8 years old. Maybe younger. It wasn't too long before the need for a real piano became a necessity as we continued to pursue lessons with the nuns of the Avila Centre in Royal Conservatory format. Ron wanted to learn guitar - a few lessons in piano would be helpful. His health and Mom's death sidelined the aspirations of guitar, and he did continue with his piano. Although alternative music on the radio station became more his style and not the classical repertoire or the nuns. My youngest sister Linda picked up piano playing of her own volition. She would try and get in on the action after we had practiced and very quickly was picking out tunes she had heard. A talent not to be wasted she soon found herself tickling the ivories as well. Moms original intention was that the ability to play an instrument made you a more well rounded person. Personally, in hindsight, I think that she had the desire to play instruments but was never offered the opportunity. Hearing music in my sleep may have been her trying to teach herself to play in secret. 

And then there was dance. For what is music without the dance. Sandra, myself and Linda all took dance lessons. Ballet, tap and jazz. To be honest I sucked! Well at least compared to my sisters I did. Let's just say choreographed dance wasn't my thing, but really, I dislike lessons. I felt bad because I was only in the back rows of the dance numbers while Linda and Sandra shone in the front and lead positions. Oh well, we can't excel at everything we try. 

Just Breath - Pearl Jam

"Meet you on the other side"

After they were gone there was a considerable time were Ron and I were estranged emotionally if not physically. He tolerated me and I didn't know what to do with him. We didn't know how to rebuild our family from 5 to just the two of us. 

But with a physical separation when I moved out, we found our connection. We were just two kids trying to make our way through the world on our own and hanging on to each other with spiritual threads. Music gave us that stepping stone into the world together. I called on him to help me build and compile my audio system and he shared the music that he had gravitated towards. To this day still my favourite genre of music, the alternative format and the Canadian musician. Bands like The Deserters, the Villians and Audience. Gone was Top 40 radio and I searched out the CFNY of Toronto for my fix of new music. 

It didn't pigeon-hole the music I gravitated to, it expanded it and the vinyl collection. And although I may get a little teary-eyed when I hear Slade I will never stop listening to it because the memories are all I have. Even if some of those memories are sad not all of them are.  

**On this day, March 21st I have endeavoured to remember my family in the written word in many different ways. This is one of them. For I never feel alone like I do on this day because 41 years later it still hurts. 

For other stories please see:
Website
http://www.pinkpantherfan.caFamily Here and Gone Blog Listing
http://www.pinkpantherfan.ca/Family_Here_and_Gone.php

I am eternally grateful to have found this forum to share and release some of the intense feeling that I have kept to myself for so many years. 

R.I.P. 

Paradise Forever...Lost!

Paradise - Coldplay

"When she was a little girl, she expected the world but it flew away from her reach" 

This song doesn't have a lot of lyrics but the ones that are there touch my soul to the very core. This is a tough subject for me. I have always said that I have talked about it so much that I fear I have begun to sound callous and unfeeling about it. Like Sgt. Joe Friday from the old cop show Dragnet was whispering into my subconscious "The facts. Just the facts, ma'am." But, the truth is that in my solitude and private moments it is still painful and emotional 38 years later. While the rest of the world heralds the first day of spring as the reawakening of the world after a cold winters sleep, I recall the day that my world died. I was living in a paradise and in the blink of an eye it was ripped away and I was standing alone on an island. Forever different and forever changed. 

38 years to heal and get over it. Life goes on, and there are times of normalcy and moving on, there are times when you can honestly say that you have learned to live with it. Times when the tears flow less frequently and you remember some of the happier times. But those times that are hard for you - average girl and average boy - those are the times when you turn to your mother or father, brother or sister for support and comfort. Those are the same times that you might find me leaning against a wall holding myself. Ah yes, the wall rears it's ugly head again. The wall, that I hid behind. The wall, that protects me. The wall, that many are afraid to scramble over. The wall, that gets higher as the pain intensifies. But stop for a moment and consider that my wall has taken the place of the people in my life that were supposed to be there to protect me but left. Left me alone and vulnerable. 

Sometimes when children have bad things happen to them, they repress the memories and live as though the trauma was just a dream. But I couldn't do that. Every time I looked in the mirror, I was reminded that I was different than you. It was no longer the carefree, happy girl I saw, it was a monster who was frightened and who frightened others that was looking back at me. I was in my mothers' house, with my mothers' decor and it was my mothers' presence that I felt. But it was an old lady who didn't like me very much that had taken her place. And when I retreated to the sanctity of my bedroom, my sisters empty bed was still there and she would never come back again to lay on it in the darkness of the night as we whispered our dreams to each other. My confidants and best friends were gone. I retreated further into myself where I felt safe and where the memories were happy. The house, to the ones looking in, looked the same but everything had changed. It wasn't a happy place filled with love. The love died and it would be years before I would see a glimmer of love from that house again. 

38 years isn't enough time to get over that depth of trauma. It was life-changing and just by continuing to live doesn't mean it can ever be forgotten nor should it be really. In times of uncertainty, joy, fear, elation, trepidation, melancholy, dread, excitement - my mother and sisters would never again be there for me to turn to. All I saw was my wall. I covered that wall with graffiti that were the thoughts and words of my life that I wished I could have shared. Why would I want to take it down? Who knows, maybe there were angels sitting on top of that wall watching over me? I love that visual that comes to my mind with that thought! Like it or not that wall is my reality until someone is strong enough to stand beside me and help me see the other side - real love! 

Livia, Linda and Sandra Sdraulig

Even if you have suffered loss, you will never comprehend my sense of loss. Circumstances are different and cannot be changed. The loss of my father at the age of two was not as devastating for me simply because there was still the support of family to rely on. It was hard to miss someone I didn't know. But go back to my wall and look at the make up of it. Upon the foundation of the death of my father there is one row of bricks for the loss of my mother, another row of bricks for my older sister, another row for the loss of my younger sister, another row for the loss of my innocence, another row for the loss of who I thought I was for my vision of self died as well, another row for the anxiety and trauma of a life of love lost, add another because now I was told on a regular basis that I was not good enough to even be. And with every crushing blow of hurt in my life where the pain was to much to handle alone, I added another row. But through it all, I still emerged (with time) to believe in myself and feel worthy and happy. 

I am not judging your life experiences, I am asking you not to judge me by mine. The difficulties in my life today most certainly wouldn't be if I had not suffered loss in my childhood. But not for the reasons that are being put forth! The truth is, were it not for the events of March 21, 1974 my family would be by my side to help me kick your ass! But I don't want to talk about them - for they aren't worth it - but they work for the Dufferin-Peel Catholic District School Board. And they personify evil.