Memories of home and happiness

Its funny the randomness of memories that come to you when you are ill or otherwise mentally stagnant for a short period of time. My memories, although they seemed long were in truth more than likely rapid and without any pattern of succession.

I remember watching with fascination as my friend Loren used a straight razor to shave in his bathroom in San Francisco. I remember watching him make the face soap and slather it on. How bad I wanted to write my initials in the soap as my inner 4 yr old took over. The smell of the leather strap as he sharpened the blade mixed with the soap and the musty wood smell of his apartment, I watched in absolute fascination as he slid the blade across his skin without any cuts or incident and the way it sliced the hair straight off, expecting the whole time to see a fountain of blood at any moment and holding my breath in case it should happen exactly that way.


Sitting in the passenger side of Katy’s giant monster of a truck we named Jiffy- a well loved and well used jeep with a canvas top that someone had sliced and an engine that alerted the neighborhood to her presence two minutes before she arrived. I remember sitting in the passenger side of that fantastically fun and childhood dream of a car as we tore down the freeway ( tearing down the freeway at about 70mph feels incredibly fast in that giant) on our way to the beach on a Sunday morning that we had woken up early for only to go back to sleep once we got to the glorious sounds and smells of the ocean. Feeling the wind whipping my hair watching the smaller cars that in my own were eye level. The roar of the engine, humming tunes to ourselves or shouting conversation snippets before they were ripped from our mouths. Smiling at each other or catching each others eye as we saw something that we knew we both found entertaining.


Feeding bat rays at Sea World. Sliding my hands across their slimy skin as they delicately sucked the fish from my hands and griping their wings as they smoothly slide past. Loosing any sense of age and decorum as I plunged my arms into the cool sea water up to the elbows waiting for the next bat ray to make a pass against the ridge of the tank. Beaming at Katy and the children surrounding me and totally loosing myself in the moment each and every time I could. Staring at the black glass bat ray pendant at sea world with its $15 price tag and telling myself, “No, Ill get it next time,” each time not getting it. Its been three years since I first saw it and I still want it just as bad as that first day. Although that only makes the getting of it when I finally can an absolute joy!


Eating chicken burritos in the early evening after a long day of work and swim and enjoying the wonderful flavors. In fact, food is on of our favorite conversation topics in Peace Corps. We talk about it, fantasize about it, and discuss our means of consuming as much of it as possible as soon as we get the chance to get back to the states. Its very very entertaining how often it comes up. And the pain of separation never gets any easier. It never really does. Sushi bars with Gregg in San Diego, my dad and my brother in San Francisco, Okazu Ya with Loren in San Francisco and discovering Okazu Ya Bombs- which I can actually still remember the taste of, or cooking breakfast on Saturday mornings in SF after returning from the Italian butcher shop down the street from his house with fresh crusty bread and sausages.


Going out with Narcy and Melissa on Wednesday nights to the only smoker’s bar in San Francisco. Even though I don’t smoke anymore I still remember the greatness of the whole experience. Laughing, smoking, de-stressing, talking, and drinking before consuming a few slices of pizza from across the street at Pizza Orgazsmica- which really was as good as it claimed. Well, not the end result but if you really, really loved pizza…. Anyways, a few hot cheesy slices after a few drinks around 1 or 2 in the morning was just what you needed to finish off a night.
Sitting on my parents couch in San Diego talking to Pam. Many, so many conversations, about pain, hopes, dreams, futures, pasts, disappointments, healing, etc. So many conversations I didn’t hear like I should have, that were stored inside of me until I was quiet enough to unravel and listen to them all over again. Why does it take us so long sometimes? To find, within ourselves, the quiet that is needed to truly listen to the wisdom of those around us in an application sense of the word listen. Not simply just to hear but to apply, to realize what step you are in that application process and how much farther you have to go.


Watching the elephants routine show at the zoo in Salt Lake City with Cederic. Snapping off shots on my camera with each new stunt and trick performed by the elephants as their handlers discussed the purpose and use of each of those stunts being performed. Watching in awe as the giant beasts made gestures of affection and went easily from one action to another, from playing to lifting their feet, opening their large mouths or demonstrating the dexterity of their trunks. I remembering looking at Cederic to see his reaction and see if he was with me on the wonder and excitement of seeing these animals. I remember hiking through the park talking about dreams of travel, the places we could go and see, places to backpack, hike, tramp through forests, see mountains, sleep near seas. Talking about peace corps, hopes and dreams of futures, our families, lives, jobs, careers possibilities and painting his house. ( I know random but it’s the small stuff that stands out when your mind looks back). Sharing the excitement of the elephants with someone else who appreciated it only increases my own, although it would seem that I instantly revert back to that 4 yr old each and every time and loose myself in the moment, the company, and the environment I am experiencing. Its really the only way to experience anything that is worth experiencing. It’s the whole environment, including the people you are with that make it in the records in my mind.


The same as eating fish tacos with my dad one of my last nights in San Diego. It wasn’t the food that was great, it was more a snack in the day of shopping, but it was the conversation. The pride in his voice and face as we talked about Niger, about me finally leaving, about hopes and expectations and my fears. So many fears of leaving the next, leaving my family and life behind, the fear was more that I would be left behind with all those I was physically leaving. I know now that this is truly impossible. For those you truly love, you carry them with you in all things you do. My grandmother who died years ago is carried on within me and my family each day and she is physically gone completely. We don’t get forgotten or left, only those who are truly the ones you want in your life are the ones that stay and we keep it that way. Those I love know they are loved by me and I know I am loved by them and that is the way it is meant to be. But the fears are scary, when you are looking at the drop of the cliff and have no idea what the next rise will look like ore bring. Many things are so unknown, about yourself and your actions and the fear comes from that. But its intensity is overpowered with the excitement of promised adventure and that was our conversation. The places I was going, the things I could do, could see, could experience. What might happen, what could, things that sounded ridiculous that now I can say “Actually yeah, I did that too.” Bad Feinman humor jokes riddled with plays on words and extreme scenarios that tickle your imagination into a squeal with little to no effort that I manage to only hold aside with an exasperated expression that only causes my Dad to laugh twice as much. My Dad’s expression of looking to the sky with raised hands and a half beg, half plead, 100% hilarious expression asking the powers that be why he was blessed with such an intelligently ridiculous daughter, then slapping his hands and rocking back into my own seat, trying to swallow all the fears and sadness that continue to threaten the joy of the evening. Speaking of slapping hands.

Sitting on Pam's couch. The world could pass by while sitting on that couch. It is the most amazing thing. Crying, talking, conversating, bickering, playing cards watching something sappy, being scolded or lectured with a wisdom I would not actually take into credit until I couldnt get any more of it when I needed it. In the beginning it was rolling out of my bed in an attic closet lovingly converted into a small and cozy bedroom, in my pajamas to sit on her couch while she busied around, making coffee, making tea, breakfast, checking emails. Telling dreams, new stories, new ideas. Later it was coming over in the afternoon, or over lunch, or on the weekend, popping off my shoes, curling into a ball while she busied around or sat on the couch with her magazines, the smell of fresh toe-nail polish. Its amazing how much of a conversation you can have while sitting and imbibing the smell of fresh manicure. Talking about boys, guys, futures plans or lack there of, feelings of happinees and of being lost. Wisdom coming down from experience, questions coming up from a lack there of. And nothing but patience in the meantime. There was so much passed between us on that couch, so much time spent between two people who never shared a relation but found a common ground in female companionship. Fighting from the heart, crying from the soul, loving from both those are priceless times. Matched only in moments of stolen raw cookie dough, hiding cookies from my dad, or planning menus.

Cooking for my family

Playing the hand slap game with my Dad as a child, actually I cant say that since we still do, and then later in life with countless friends and Loren. Laughing so hard I cant breathe or so or let alone pull my hands back away into safety before getting completely killed. I remember Loren’s response laugh to my own laughing. It caused more and more. Narci’s laugh that matched my own with hysterity and wheezing which we noticed while doing it that left us countless hours of silent laughing fits with no air, until our ribs and muscles ached to breathe and we had to separate rooms and, sometimes, stop looking at each other for minutes at a time until the urges had passed. Giving yourself into that kind of laughter and the health it brings for your mind and body. I have so many memories of laughter in my laugh. Family, friends, my brother has my Dad’s laugh, which I don’t know if he would admit or not. And when he gives in to it, in Northern California it was over food or drinking, he does the same bend and the same face, with the same smile and the same crinkles that marks a family laugh and it just kills me. I love watching him laugh, just like I love watching anyone I love laugh. It’s the best expression.


Cooking with my mom. Cooking in the kitchen when I was younger and the countless times she would make me stop and reread the recipe. “Read the whole thing first” she would tell me, and each time I wouldn’t, impatient and assuming that the recipe went in order, which it never does in those gourmet magazines, then getting caught in the lie of not reading it all the way through when half way it called for a three hour refrigeration, or only half of a required ingredient to add to the mix. I read through the whole thing now each time, I honestly do, but I remember those lessons. Learning to beat, sift, mix, whip, pour, scoop, fillet, etc. Learning to season and flavor by taste, which combined with which that made an odd but delicious result. Cooking by smell instead of by text for basic foods, going outside the lines for some ingredients and which you could never hurt to skimp on if you didn’t want to overpower the food, loving garlic more and more each day. Learning the respect for a good knife and the quality of a pan or random utensil, learning how to do it all by hand and then cheat with gadgets after I had figured that out first. And watching her ice cakes. I remember picking out birthday cakes from an assortment of fun pans, almost always the pony for me, or a bear. Helping her add colors to the icing mixes, sneaking my finger into the bowl for a quick lick, or finding an excuse to go back to the mix master to grab my own serving. Playing with the assortments of icing tips and icing bags, offering to clean them just to get my hands dirty and then cleaning up the mess afterwards and seeing a beautiful cake come to life like in my coloring books. I loved watching those, whether it was for me or someone else it was art. I remember hoping that I would learn to make cakes like that one day and that she would do my wedding cake for me when I got old, not that I ever wanted to get married. Boys had cooties and they were retarded. Oh wait, not much changes as we age does it? Now, as I cook on my own on a two burner stove with one skillet and one pot, all those lessons in hand work are paying off as each day I invent new recipes and unravel the mysteries of new fresh foods. At least I can get my beans shelled. From there I am on my own!


Waking up Saturday mornings at my grandma’s house to the smell of eggs frying sunny side up in butter on the stove, a tray of fresh toasted bagels, cream cheese and lox with tomatoes and onions piled high. Watching her and smelling the food mixed with the smell of her house that echoed her own blend of perfume, products, and cigarettes. Completely made up in a style only women raised in the 30’s and 40’s still have, she maneuvered her way around the kitchen with coffee, food, juice, and smiles and kisses for her son and grandkids. White hair blown and brushed back in a style that had enough hairspray to look exactly the same by the end of the day, little waist, and big smile, she was as much a part of the perfect Saturday as the breakfast itself.
　

You all are the best memories. Keep them coming!!!! And as always thank you!!!