muggy and sultry

Summer is definitely here at the Ponderosa. Our agave plant's flower stem is now to the level of the roof of our two-story house. It has sparked an ongoing discussion (out of range of children's ears) between Mr. Strega and me as to what exactly it resembles. I feel it is leaning towards a certain aspect of maleness, yet he insists it is more like an asparagus. This has prompted an unanswerable, Alice-in-Wonderland type of question: "When is an asparagus like a man?"

Anyway, my garden is in that wonderful phase just before everything blooms; all is lush and green. Jasmine and honeysuckle are in full and fragrant bloom; the first roses--Elaine (white rose), Bella Roma (multicolored), Dream Cloud (hot pink, single petals), Blaze (red climber), Angel Wings (pink/white miniature) and Angel Face (purple) are all in their last flowering and some have been cut back for a second round of bloom. Nasturtiums are just about to flower, as well as calendula; I have blue windowbox sweet peas, which I don't think I will plant again, as they look weedy; I also have pink windowbox sweet peas, which always look nice. Future bloomers include zinnias, larkspur, four o'clocks, sunflowers, climbing sweet peas, and tons and tons of poppies. I tend to grow easy things, and not very many veggies--this year I have mini pumpkins and one very large tomato plant. Gardening is integral to my life as a writer--there is really some connection for me to making things grow and being able to write, if only for the hour or two I can spend outside, puttering about and thinking.

Speaking of which, I have been getting my poetry manuscript together for Milkweed Editions' June open reading and for Comstock Review's poetry contest (I generally don't enter poetry contests because I hate shelling out reading fees, but Comstock has published my work twice and their reading fee is low, and they're legit to boot). Still working on that other project--due to a lot of new information about my family, I am faced with a bit of revision. Even though my book will probably be published under the cloak of "based on true stories," I still want it to be aligned as much as possible with the reality of my family. Thus, I have been a bit of a hermit these days.

People have been asking me how I feel about getting all these family photos--I honestly think my mind has really not gotten over the shock! Ultimately, it makes me feel that anything is possible.
So, I'm off to the races for another day of pen to paper--I do often remember to pause and be grateful for the fact that I am learning to carve out the time to work, trying to make at least a fluid schedule to sit down and just plug away.

Meet Mary Vardaro, my grandmother

On June 12th, I saw my grandmother Mary's face again for the first time in twenty-seven years (that is the last time I saw a photo of her. Yes, it is grainy and her features can't be made out very well, but it is her. The woman standing next to her (in a bridal gown) is my grandmother's sister Rose; the fellow in the tux is likely the best man, and the cut-off fellow is Rose's husband (I've included the small pic my grandmother's image was taken from--note the bridal headpiece). Even though the image is tiny, if there are any folks more knowledgeable about historical clothing styles than I am, do post here and let me know if you have a better idea of this picture's timeframe.

My best guess, given the clothing styles, is that this was taken in the late 1920s to early 1930s, so my grandmother was anywhere from her very late teens to her early twenties here. To find any pictures at all of her is, to me, a miracle--I've discovered from talking to relatives that my grandmother hated to be photographed (a trait that, strangely, I share with her). Also, my mother, through a series of very sad mishaps, lost all our family photos, so I thought there was not one photo of my grandmother that was "findable." I have spent the last five years actively looking for a photo of her, with nothing but closed doors all the way.

My cousin Johnny visited my mother in Boston this past Saturday; he has not seen her in many years, as that part of the family became very estranged. For reasons I won't go into here, I have been unable to feel safe enough to visit my mother in the old family home in East Boston where she lives (the same house she grew up in with my grandmother). However, my cousin Johnny has gone into the house to do home repairs, talk to my mother, mollify the man she lives with, and get my mother back in touch with relatives in Boston and California who love her. One of my greatest wishes is that my mother--who is elderly and not in good health--will know in the last years of her life that people love her.

Johnny spent a lot of time with my mother, who apparently is still very sharp in her old age (she had some dementia for awhile after a mild stroke, but--par for the course for her side of the family--she seems to have made a good recovery from that). Mom took out the only two pictures she has of her mother--through all the unspeakable tragedies of her life, including terrible living situations, she managed to hold onto these. Johnny didn't want to take the pictures from her even for a few hours to scan them, so he snapped photos of the pix with his camera phone. I will be going to see my mother in October (with my cousin at my side, due to fact that the man my mother lives with is very scary guy). I will bring a laptop and a scanner with me at some point when I am there and bring them to the house to scan photos without taking them away from her, if my cousin doesn't do this first. I will also be printing photos of my relatives that I have to send to my mom, as she has very few photos of the family anymore.

Through all the writing of my book, I became very aware of how profoundly the loss of my grandmother Mary affected my life. For many years, I just encapsulated the grief and loss; I kept no photo of her myself and pushed her out of my consciousness. I began my book partially as a way to create an image of her life, because I was afraid that eventually nothing would be left of her for my children and others to know. I guess eventually all that we are passes away s time goes on, but my grandmother had a very premature erasure of her existence--for a long time, all that remained of her was her grave marker with her name on it.

So, for now, a very ghostlike image of her, which seems appropriate to me in some way. To see my grandmother's face again has been one of those times in which the life seems to subtly shift into rightness. I learned from another beloved friend of mine, now departed, that life really is a circle, and I feel that very much today.