Book Club April 2010

Tuesday night my book club gathered for our monthly meeting. We alternate hosting and it was again my turn to do the honors. The book discussion revolved around the classic “Pride and Prejudice” our latest chosen read. But before I delve into our dialog, let me first give you some club member background…..

If you are reading my blog than you are already familiar with me, so knowing my modesty when it comes to centering on self, I will instead describe my fellow members for the purpose of this posting. I will also give them pseudo names for the sake of protecting the innocent and respecting the privacy of some women that have truly become near & dear to my heart. My new BFF’s one might proclaim….

“Carly” has faced serious grief in her short lifetime. Losing her father at an early age and then losing her husband in the prime of their marriage would certainly have destroyed a weaker woman. Left to the task of single parenting she has rallied to the challenge. I truly admire the relationship between Carly and her only child. They have a special bond and unlike some adolescents her child reacts with genuine interest to her questions and queries. Carly is one of the most down to earth women I know. Well spoken and interesting, yet surprisingly nonchalant. She prefers silver jewelry to gold – I can see her silver dangling earrings as I write - like her, the jewelry is effortless in its beauty. I have known Carly for many years, but really it has only been recently that our relationship has taken on a deeper level. My respect for Carly is insurmountable and all of us owe the creation of this book club to her perseverance to the cause.
“Jenna” is my special surprise. When first we were introduced I felt unsure in her presence. Somewhat intimidated, I didn’t immediately warm to Jenna. Over the months though instead of growing increasingly more uncomfortable in her presence I have instead come to admire her quiet strength. Her words, when spoken, are weighted by substance and dimension. She is a woman that does not put on airs and certainly reflects my ideals of a women of independent means. Married with 2 grown children, I am certain that her life is a series of give & takes with an equal balance of each. Jenna just does not strike me as someone that will settle for less than a healthy balance, whether in her relationships, her livelihood or just in life in general. With Jenna it has become my personal mission to make her laugh, for no stand-up comedian is ever more flattered than when invoking laughter from someone not easily amused. Jenna may take more than the average Joe to provoke a tickle, but one is rewarded by the music of her authentic laughter when successful in such efforts.
“Jackie”, I give her this name because she embodies everything I admire about Jackie O. You know - the one and only - the first lady of fashion and grace. Our Jackie is a woman with piercing dark eyes that see clearly the world around her. Recently dealt the unexpected blow of her husband’s decision to leave their marriage, I have watched her evolve from genuine shock to cautious acceptance. When she walked in the door at this latest gathering I was taken aback, for not only does she continue to exude grace, but having taken a job that requires intense physical labor she has really taken on the WOW factor. Though it is still early spring, Jackie is already burnt dark brown by the sun. She walked in sporting a button down starched white shirt and flattering blue jeans that really accentuated that tan. Her hair was pulled carelessly back and the wild wisps that fell around her face gave this woman of grace an added air’ of sensuality that made me look twice. I smiled to myself imagining all that this fool of a man had lost - for this was no shallow trophy wife here, Jackie is the kind of woman that makes “her story” a telling not for the faint of heart.
Yes, I think I am going to enjoy watching Jackie grow.
And finally there is “Trudy”. Gentle, kind, fun loving Trudy. What a people person our Trudy is. Her hugs and kisses so naturally shared with all of us. Our group radiates intimacy when Trudy arrives. She is the sweet side that brings us full circle. For what is a bowl of ice cream without the slow pour of a sweet syrup?
Trudy is married to her polar opposite, but somehow this unlikely duo makes for a solid union. Having herself survived a divorce, Trudy is not naïve about the ways of the world, yet refuses to digress from her sunny optimism believing in the best from everyone and everything. No wonder plants thrive under her watch. I blossom under her gaze and if this flower power child of the 70’s can feel the love, the universe must surely be basking in her glorious rays. First to arrive tonight, I answered the door to her open gaze and was immediately put at ease. Blue iridescent earrings dancing in the sunlight like bookends to a face everyone loves.
So this is us. The book club with an agenda that is casual and unscripted. Simple women with a desire to be challenged by our own literary goals.
Our loftiest goal to date has been to read one of the timeless classics of Jane Austen. Pride & Prejudice. As Trudy so eloquently put it; “I had a love/hate relationship the whole way through this book”. Other members heartily agreed with this assertion for this was no easy read, but rather required (at times) the ability to be present in the moment and completely focused on words written. Being present in the moment is not an easy undertaking for women - you could call us the masters of multi-tasking.
But, with this book we were forced to “read outside our boxes”. For not only was the period dialect a challenge, but the style of writing presented surprising twists to the plot that were both unexpected and (at times) hard to digest. In the end though, we all sighed with relief when Mr. Darcy got the girl. Elizabeth our heroine deserved her new found place in society for she, like our own “Jackie”, pushed aside false barriers to be the epitome of true class.
Though this book proved itself a challenge, the unanimous sentiment was that it was worth our time to read & we will pursue more of this author’s work in the future.
Our next chosen read? “The Lake Shore Limited” by Sue Miller. We had read another of her books; “The Senator’s Wife” and look forward to delving into this her most recent work.
Bidding a fond farewell to one another we departed for our separate lives. A separation that is bridged by the shared communion of a common woman.

Visit from beyond

As the night turned to a new day and April 19th became April 20th Mike and I were awakened by the sudden illumination of our bedroom. The lamp on his nightstand suddenly turned on. This has never happened before but sure as I am writing this post, that light was suddenly lit. We looked at each other with the weary stare of two disrupted sleepers. "Did you turn the light on" we simultaneously asked each other. "No". Okay, this is weird.
Holding onto his c-pap, Mike reached over and turned off the light. I could soon hear the rhythm of his return to slumber. I, on the other hand, lay awake thinking - thinking about nothing and then thinking about something.
Thinking that it was the anniversary of my dad's death. April 20, 2004 - six years ago - Ambrose Mongin took his last breath. I was with him in the moment of his passing - a moment to share in another post on another day.
So, knowing how much dad loved to visit our home when he was still alive and remembering several "odd" occurrences in our home immediately after he died, I had to wonder if he was just letting us know that he still illuminates our life.
He is here even now, forever watching over us. Dad always called me his "#1 daughter" sure I was the first, but I always figured there was a deeper meaning to that title. We had a special connection dad & I.
Thanks for the visit dad. I miss you. I love you. Forever your #1 daughter....

Canned Chicken: A Memory

Growing up, my grandmother would often times bring "extra" groceries to our home for consumption by 10 little Mongins (my maiden name). Bless her heart, I am sure her efforts were much appreciated.
One fine August day as summer winded down & we began the slow slide into academia mode, she graced us with a bag of groceries that included one of those cafeteria sized cans. You know the ones, they make you think of the jolly green giant sans all the fancy labeling. This hear label was pretty straightforward; "Canned Chicken" was all it said. No pictures, no gimicks, just two solid words with a world of possibilities behind them. Canned Chicken.
Now, you can only imagine the reflections that were considered by the 10 little recipients of this canned chicken. Sitting, staring at the pantry shelf in the basement dialogs went something like this; "do you think they left the feathers on it?" Because of course we envisioned, in our lively little minds, that inside this can was stuffed a chicken. Crammed into the can in a position similar to the fetal curve of an unborn baby.
By this time in our little lives one or more of us had previously had the experience of seeing a glass jar with a pickled pig - you know the kind, like the biology teachers use to sport on a very visible shelf in their classrooms. No doubt strategically placed to freak out young impressionable minds. No kid is going to come into a classroom & start messing around when there is a pickled pig staring out at you from a jar filled with formaldehyde. No siree that there teacher has a free pass to a right respectable classroom.
So there in the musty confines of our basement we debated the contents of the can; "I wonder if they left the beaks & claws on the bird" one of us ventured. "Of course not" was the quick reply, "they always cut off the head when they kill a chicken". Now instead of giving comfort to the younger siblings, a remark like this sent a visible chill through the air. For our fetal-prone bird was headless as well. With a sideways glance, at each other we made for a hasty exit. Last one up the stairs is chicken shit. Spread real thin now ya hear.
And so it went, for weeks we became the most virtuous of young pious Catholics. Praying that somehow mom would overlook the canned chicken in pursuit of other culinary choices.
Then, as the days got shorter and the cold winter winds began to blow an announcement from church was made. The Sunday before Thanksgiving there was to be a food drive. All parishioners were invited to participate by bringing canned goods to any Mass. The food would be sorted and sent to the poor so that they too might have something to give thanks for on this special holiday.
Like a row of Xmas lights, our little minds lit up one after the other straight on down the line. Each in his or her own way coming to the same grand conclusion; "canned chicken for the poor" was our silent chorus. Yes, that was it - together we would convince mom that this would be our personal sacrafice to the cause.
Surprisingly, mom needed little convincing. Now, mom has many, many gifts. None of which are expressed within the confines of the kitchen. She had probably wondered from the moment she laid eyes to that can of chicken just what the heck she would ever do with it. Now, her children, brought up with a strict belief in faith and a spirit of generosity for those less fortunate, had answered the question for her. The canned chicken would go to the food drive.
Of course a can of chicken is just a can of chicken unless you include some delicious sides; a can of green beans, some boxed mash potatoes (mom never could understand the reasoning behind going to all the fuss of mashing your own potatoes when a few flakes from the box cooked up a batch of no-lump wonder spuds). Oh and a can of cranberry sauce. Jellied.
With a mixture of pride and relief we worked together packing our bag.
That Sunday we proudly lugged our heavy bag of groceries to the altar. Yes sir we were right proud of our generosity. Let the poor people rejoice. God is good. We left Mass that day with our heads held high and a lightness to our step.
As the days were getting shorter, darkness had already settled in when later that day there was a knock at the door. Wondering who might be visiting - a rare treat as for some (unknown) reason we didn't often get drop in company - we raced up from the basement where several of us had been admiring the now vacant spot where our beheaded chicken in a can had previously sat.
It was Father VandenHogan from Church. "Well Father", we angels of mercy exclaimed, "what brings you here?" We asked in our most precious tones, imagining he was here to praise our generous contribution to the food drive for the poor. Slightly out of breath, he set a box down on our table. Slowly all eyes went to the box. "I just wanted to stop in to wish all of you a happy Thanksgiving" he said with more baritone in his voice than I care to remember. Peering cautiously into the box one by one we drew back in fright. For there it was...the "Chucky" of all chickens are very own Canned Chicken was back.
Lord up above I believe I have seen the devil in my dining room. What else could have propelled that chicken back to our home.
But wait, what does this mean? Are we? Could it be?
And so with fear and trepidition our security was ripped from our innocent little hearts. For the truth had been told. We were the poor. What else could have brought this bird back to our fold. The poor. The pitied. Branded like a poorly labeled can of chicken.
Life, for some of the older fry, was forever altered. Hunger would take on a greater urgency and our pride in the size of our family became the shame we wore as a belt of poverty instead.
Many years would pass before we could laugh about this can of chicken.
We might never have seen the humor if not for the fact that one day that can of chicken simply disappeared. Mom not up to the challenge opted to dispose of the Canned Chicken instead of trying to make a meal of it.

Tucked

Thank you Lord, for granting me today the humble experience of realizing my girlish figure is once and for all a thing of the past…
As much as I love to “tuck” my shirts, my daughter is forever reprimanding this style faux pas on the part of her mother. I try to adhere to the strict rule of style etiquette that forbids tucking of the shirt, but on the occasion when I am layering my clothes I sneak in a tuck. I love the way it feels to have a layer of clothes tight against my torso – a sort of second skin – and given my “thin skin” physique, this feeling borders on the blissful.
Today just happens to be a “layer it up” day, which of course I gleefully realize means a secret tuck for my protective pleasure.
Tucking is always more secure when the tuck includes ones panties. This helps to keep the snugged more securely anchored – a trick I credit to the advice of an old buddy Kay. So after tucking my shirt into my panties I proceeded to pull them up around my flat ass. In the process of doing so I heard the simultaneous sound of fabric ripping as my thumbs broke through the material on either side of my hips. The reflection in the mirror is not pretty. Fonzie gone bad. Two thumbs up on the old hipsters. “Heyyyy!”
A tragedy of sorts. Maybe Victoria Secret would like the patent on these here beauties. They could market them as the new “peek-a-boo panty” or better yet the “tug time teaser” maybe this here situation could render itself after all.
Well, daughter’s advice aside, the tuck is once more my dirty little secret. Besides a little ventilation never hurt – especially if I decide to take these blossoming hips on a little power walk later today….

Out of the Blue

The other night I had a dream that just won't get out of my head. Maybe if I put it to words, the images will, if not disappear, make room for other thoughts....

I was at a large service station. Many mechanics working on vehicles. One of the mechanics turned to me and it was "RR" someone I had known in high school. He was always treated cruelly by other students and came from a broken, troubled home. I have regrets about not siding with him when he was picked on, but instead I silently stood by while he was taunted by the high school hecklers.

RR approached me, we hugged & started a catch-up conversation. I was relieved that he had fared well in life because even to this day, I find myself drifting to thoughts of him on occasion. As we were talking, we walked out of the garage. Outside it was a dark, ominous day, no sun in a cloudy sky with the weighty feel of an impending storm.

Suddenly I looked to the sky and there the most amazing site greeted my gaze. A pair of hands (bigger than life) came racing through the clouds. The best way I can describe the hands was that they appeared to be the most brilliant blue - the blue of a bolt of lightening - except unlike lightening they did not light up the darkened sky and disappear within seconds. Rather, they slowly moved across the break in the clouds illuminating the darkened sky. Watching the hands I was filled with an indescribable awe.

Then very clearly I heard the words; "behold the hand of God is upon thee" and saw around me people dropping to their knees in prayer. I, too, fell to my knees and began to pray. Next to me, on his knees, was another face from the past; "DB" who I had always felt a sort-of "protected" feeling from. Growing up he was a neighbor from down the road & one of many brothers. Though we never dated, to this day when I see him (which is very little) I always feel a sort of kindred spirit between us.

As DB & I were praying to the illuminated sky, I realized that around us were people refusing to look to the sky, going about their way. This confused me, couldn't they see what was happening? And then very clearly I heard; "For tho they too can see, still they will not believe".

Suddenly I was awake. Wow! I felt such a strange sensation as though I were outside of myself. My body felt heavy beneath me and I was filled with a range of emotions - joy that I had been so close to God, fear for those who refused to believe & trepidation wondering what this dream could mean. I could not move for quite some time, barely able to utter the words; "I think God just came to me in a dream" to my husband.

After 25 years of marriage, Mike has learned to expect the unexpected with me for a wife and merely asked a few innoculous questions.

This questioning actually helped bring me back to myself and I started to slowly feel more grounded in the moment.

But the dream has not faded the way most dreams do. I see them still - those magnificent hands - the overwhelming awe I felt at the sight of them and I remember my dismay at the people who continued about their business with no regard for this apparation in the sky.

All in a dream and out of the blue; was it a message for me and for you?