Archive for the ‘sunday scribblings’ Category
sunday scribblings: superstitions
Prompt #49: Superstitions
Superstitions–a topic close to my heart having grown up with an Italian-American grandmother and now living in southern Italy, where Roman Catholicism and mysticism live in surprising perfect harmony.
That phenomenon is worth a whole post, and indeed books have been written on the subject. Perhaps someday I’ll wax theoretical, but for today, let’s stick in the here and now, the daily implications of superstition in my life.
I’ve already written about my experiences with malocchio, The Evil Eye, perhaps the greatest superstition of all, especially since it crosses many cultures and religions. Some of my other favorite superstitions are things you should avoid doing lest you invite bad luck: placing a loaf of bread upside down, spilling wine, olive oil, or salt, dropping scissors.
Another of my favorites is that a pregnant woman’s cravings should always be satisfied or else the baby will be born with a birthmark in the form of the desired food or the child will be generally disfigured. You scoff?
I inherited a birthmark that my father has because my pregnant grandmother expressed her craving for chicken while scratching her legs. Yes, we both have chicken-shaped birthmarks on our calves (although I prefer to think it looks more like a heart). Someday I may show you, but sorry, today’s not the day.
All of my pregnant readers are more than welcome to quote me on this topic, by the way.
But my freakiest experience with southern Italian superstition happened about a year ago when P’s mom rushed into the house with tears in her eyes, begging me to go and retrieve some of her jewelry she had given me a few months before.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I had a dream.” I’m pretty sure she thought that would be enough information, but, you know, I’m American, so I ask questions.
“About the jewelry?” I was still not making a move for the steps to get the jewelry, so she gently guided me with her hands.
“No, about you and my son, and….” She sat down, started rocking back and forth, made repeated, furious signs of the cross, and began mumbling what I assume were prayers.
“What happened in the dream?” I stepped down two steps and stopped.
“I didn’t sleep all night,” she said, and continued saying prayers and crying. I didn’t see the conversation going any further, so I didn’t push it. I assumed that P and I had been dead in the dream–because if we had just broken up in the dream, that wouldn’t have been so upsetting? Right? Hard to tell. I went to get the jewelry.
“This is everything?” she asked as I handed her a few little boxes that contained earrings and a necklace I rather liked–it had a tiny ladybug charm, which, ironically, I always thought meant good luck.
“Yes, that’s everything. Do you want something to…”
“OK, I have to go,” she said abruptly and left, still saying prayers and still crying, but most importantly clutching the jewelry.
So I was left in the wake of this early morning encounter to consider not only my own and P’s mortality, but also what the jewelry had to do with any of it. Through various research including thinking back to my own grandmother but *not* including asking P’s mom, because this is a subject not to be discussed, I think maybe I’ve figured it out.
Among southern Italians, it’s a common practice that when one prays to a particular saint or the Virgin Mary for a request, one often promises something in return–many times it is a piece of jewelry to be pinned to the clothes of a statue.
I’m wondering if perhaps P’s mom had promised my pieces of jewelry somewhere along the way for some request, and then saw something bad happening in her dream because she gave them to me instead. Or perhaps she had simply promised away that jewelry in lieu of P and I staying alive and/or together. Or maybe she had seen something in the dream about the jewelry somehow causing trouble.
Like I said, I haven’t asked, because, truth be told, I don’t actually want to know the whole story. I’m definitely superstitious, and I believe in messages coming through dreams, so this was one time I was more than happy to live in blissful ignorance.
In fact, I didn’t even tell my own mom about this until I figured P and I were in the clear. Like birthmarks, superstitions seem to run in the family.
sunday scribblings: puzzled
Prompt #48: Puzzled
“Dammit!” she yelled, pushing her chair out from under her with her bum. She reached across the small round table to retrieve her industrial-sized paper cup. After burning her tongue on the first sip, she had set it a little too close to the edge to cool off and now its contents and its cheap plastic lid were in a pool spreading ever so quickly to a black-haired man’s left foot. How he didn’t notice the commotion when everyone else in the bookstore coffee spot flipped around to share squinted eye stares was a mystery.
“Excuse me? Sir?” she yelled toward him while exchanging knowing looks with the guy behind the counter. “Hello?”
He looked up from his newspaper crossword puzzle and flashed her the same glare that everyone else had offered a few moments ago.
“Yes?” His deep blue eyes focused on hers, which were slightly hidden by rectangular black frames. He put his pen down, exchanging it for his own industrial-sized cup and sipped.
“Just some hot tea inching toward your foot there,” she said while pointing to the floor. He yanked back his foot, and the guy from behind the counter arrived with a mop just in time. The leather loafers were safe.
“That was close,” he said and put down his cup, still glaring. Then he smirked, grabbed his pen, and scribbled something on the puzzle without looking at her.
“Yeah, sorry,” she said and sat back down at her table, wishing for another glance at those blue eyes and a few more words of his Irish accent.
She wondered how she didn’t notice him when he came in, but apparently she had been too absorbed in her research on Academy Award history. Wasn’t the most exciting assignment, but playing around with the winners’ names would be later. She just needed to make sure all the dates were right.
She rearranged her coat on the back of the chair, loosing a grip on her green silk scarf. As she secured it under the collar of her coat, she glanced up at the counter guy; he responded by reaching for an Earl Grey tea bag. Then she settled back, crossed her arms, and focused on Crossword Guy.
He must’ve felt the attention because he looked up straight at her.
She shot her head down, covered her forehead with her hand, and flipped open the book where her pen had kept her place. She tried to focus on the words so she could continue picking and choosing, but she kept getting sidetracked by stories of illicit Hollywood romances along the way. And by stolen glances of the dry-loafered Irish guy a few feet away.
She turned around and scanned the area behind her. Nothing much happening there. She tried to push her curly brown hair behind her ears, but it wouldn’t cooperate. Then she turned back around and again exchanged an eye-to-eye moment with Crossword Guy. Instead of looking away, she let her eyes travel past him as she looked toward the counter, and, wait, did Crossword Guy just look down quickly? Huh.
She tapped her pen lightly on her notebook while reading about “Wallace and Gromit,” but stopped when she heard an “ahem.”
“Your tea,” said the counter guy.
“Thanks,” she said, and could’ve sworn that Crossword Guy was staring through the space between the counter guy’s arm and body.
She pulled the book onto her lap and placed her tea in the center of the table. With her eyes looking so far down at the book, she figured, she wouldn’t be so tempted to stray.
In fact, she didn’t even look up to grab her cup while she took off the lid. Still looking at the book, she brought the cup to her lips but stopped short. The steam fogged her glasses, reminding her just how hot the tea inside really was. She put the cup back down, still without looking. She wasn’t about to burn her tongue again.
“Excuse me?” Crossword Guy said, foiling her plan to not look at him.
“Yes?” He was blurry through the moisture, but she acted like his image was crisp.
“You don’t happen to know an 10 letter word starting with G for ‘the place to be’ do you?” he asked.
“Oh,” she said feeling a little deflated that this was the reason behind the repeated glances. “I mean, of course. It’s ‘Green Acres,’ an old television show.” Her mind’s capacity for useless trivia had only been expanded by her job.
“Brilliant!” he said, writing furiously. “Finished!” He shoved the puzzle back into its newspaper and tucked everything into his shoulder bag. He got up, slung his coat over his arm, pushed his chair toward the table, and smiled as he walked by.
Then he stopped at the exit of the coffee area a few feet behind her and turned around.
“Same time, same place next Sunday then?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said looking straight ahead. Then she turned around to meet his eyes with hers and added, “You bring the puzzle.”
Writing crossword puzzles for a living has some perks after all, she thought as she sipped her tea, which was now the perfect temperature.
————–
[tags]sunday scribblings, puzzles, crossword puzzles, writing fiction, short stories [/tags]
Sunday Scribblings: Crush
Prompt #47: Crush
I read this prompt on Friday, and I had so wanted to go the fiction route…a fast-moving piece about the planning and scheming to make a meeting with a crush seem so natural, the mix of nervousness and excitement that bubbles inside as the crush approaches. It likely would’ve been heavily based on reality being the self-proclaimed Queen of the Crush that I am. Or at least was for the major part of my life.
But I kept coming back to the same idea, or the same idea kept taunting me I should say. And every writer knows that when something nags at you, you get your fingers to the keyboard and stop asking questions.
“Because your kiss, your kiss is on my list…” he sang into the mirror of the sun visor pressed against the windshield. His big brown eyes focused on me, the four-year-old in the back seat. I probably rolled my eyes, because I always rolled that way, but inside I was smiling. I’m sure of it.
Our families were good friends, but theirs didn’t have a little girl. On top of that, I was the youngest of anyone, so I was rather spoiled with attention. His mom treated me like a daughter, and I ended up with two big brothers in addition to the one I already had; the oldest of the bunch became, as I can understand now with adult eyes, My First Crush.
Even at an early age, I remember feeling safe with him while my own brother, his brother, and even his father tormented me. And so I ran to MFC when I couldn’t take any more teasing, and he was always there to hold me, play with me, and generally calm me down.
He was only a teenager at the time, so you can imagine that he was mature beyond his years (at least as it concerned me). All I knew, though, is that I liked being around him more than anyone for the first five or so years of my life. And for a kid, that says a lot. One might even say that it says everything.
And then about that time, our families had a falling out of some sort that didn’t involve any of the kids, but oh, did it affect us; MFC went away to college and then moved away, and well, all of us lost touch.
I don’t remember the details of that period very well, but there were surely times that I missed seeing him, laughing with (at!) him, and generally being fawned over. Who wouldn’t love that kind of devotion? But it passed, obviously, because many more crushes followed.
I’m a long-term crusher, so I basically kept the same boy in mind through elementary school, then switched to a new one in high school, a different one in college. Law school, as any law school survivor won’t find surprising, lacked a real crush opportunity–a sad three years without looking forward to accidentally running into a special someone on purpose.
Isn’t that the best thing about a crush? Unrequited love is never fun, but, oh, that rush of emotion when you see your crush unexpectedly (or expectedly, as the case may be), when you’re suddenly thrown into a conversation, when you’re daydreaming about those fateful meetings, when you’re recounting them later to the chosen few who know of your infatuation.
*Sigh*
Sure over time, thoughts and imaginings become more mature, but at the base of it, a crush is so innocent and young–a raw, guttural, overwhelming like for someone and his/her presence. If we’re lucky, our crushes always hold special places in our hearts.
And if I’m anything, I’m lucky.
Over the past year, I’ve been able to return to that oft-forgotten corner of my childhood. Why? Because MFC came across my name on our high school’s alumni list (I graduated 12 years after he did) and sent me an email.
He started with the suggestion that maybe I didn’t remember who he was. Hah! He wrote of memories of my grandmother and times spent with my family when he was younger–priceless stuff especially since my grandmother had passed away a few years before.
I was ecstatic to hear from him, that he’s doing well, is happily married, successful, and just as funny and generally wonderful as ever. Now we’ve gotten to know each other as adults after sharing just a few years of childhood, which is quite a surreal experience. For him, I imagine that my life took a hiatus right around the phase of the froofy pink dress (wanna make somethin’ of it?), and his, as far as I could tell, never progressed past Hall & Oates.
Good thing for both of us that we’ve moved on.
In fact, in one of those Internet-inspired twists of fate, we’ll be moving closer together for at least one day soon–he and his wife are on their way to southern Italy in April, and we’ll see each other for the first time in, oh, 25 years.
I’m only 30 years old, peeps, so this is some amazing stuff.
Through our emails, I’ve learned even more about my early years from his memories. Recently he wrote that when the house was full of company and I didn’t want to go to bed thereby missing any of the fun, he was the go-to guy to get me to sleep. He (correctly) joked that putting girls to sleep was certainly no skill to brag about later in life, so he didn’t talk about it much, but there you have it.
I don’t remember any of that, but the fact that he does? Wow.
Such a warm fuzzy feeling to know that I, too, hold a place in my first crush’s heart.
sunday scribblings: behold the power of yum
Prompt #46: Yummy/Yum
“Yummmm…” Laura hummed as she swirled a yellow bear with a penchant for honey through the air, swooping down to pick up newspapers with its paws.
She was using every available weapon in the war to get her tea party-playing 3-year-old daughter to help get the house in order.
Lila was probably getting too old to be fooled by the Yum farce, but Laura’s date would be arriving in less than 15 minutes, the babysitter was a half hour late, her six-year-old son was running around in only his underwear brandishing a glowing green sword, and she was pretty sure her hair was streaked with mashed potatoes.
And now even Yum was failing her.
Yum was Lila’s favorite toy, and for a long six months about a year back, was the only authority that Lila would obey. Whether or not a new boss had taken his place was debatable.
“Come on sweetie. You know Mommy’s new friend is coming over soon. Even Yummmm wants a clean living room.” Laura nuzzled Yum’s face into Lila’s neck. “See how he helps Mommy?” Laura carried Yum and the newspapers to the recycle bin in the kitchen and returned to find Lila serving more tea to a rather busty plastic doll.
Yeah, like she’d waste calories on that, Laura thought, blowing her too-long bangs off her forehead. Why didn’t I get my haircut?
Hands on hips, Laura surveyed the rest of the mess and caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the glass protecting last year’s Christmas portrait. The first one without Steven.
Doorbell. Oh God, please let it be the sitter.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Tracy, the bubbly blonde, green-eyed daughter of one of Laura’s dearest friends. “My brother came home. . . .”
“I’m just glad you’re here,” Laura said turning away from the door and grabbing some stray books with Yum’s paws. As she walked to the bookshelf, she looked over at Lila, who was wiping off her play table. Laura flung Yum on the couch next to her nearly naked son and his sword. At least he’s not running around.
“I don’ t mean to be short, and I know this isn’t really part of your job, but could you please tidy this place up, get some clothes on Lyle, and keep Lila occupied all in the next seven minutes? Chris will be here any minute, and well . . .” Laura circled her face with a finger and then flung her hands downward indicating the rest of her.
“Oh! Your big first date. Get in there and get pretty!” Tracy said, turning Laura around and pushing her lightly. “ER! Pretti-ER!” Tracy said while scooping up Yum and a bunch of markers from the coffee table.
“Yum!” Lila cried, finally noticing that her favorite bear was in the room. “I help Yummmm and Tracy!” Lila squeezed both of them to her.
Once in the safety of her own spotless bathroom, Laura ran a brush through her hair (no mashed potatoes!) and flipped it up into a ponytail. It’s only a coffee date, she reasoned. Ponytails are entirely appropriate for cappuccino.
As she flicked on some mascara, the doorbell rang again and scared the wand out of her hand. Luckily she was on the upswing, or things could’ve gotten ugly. As it was, the big black streak on the mirror was the only damage, quickly repaired by a wipe with a damp tissue.
While studying her laughlines in the mirror, she realized that she just sent a smoking hot 22-year-old to the door to meet her first date since the divorce. At least this wasn’t a blind date–Chris already knew what he was getting into from all the impromptu run-ins at the drugstore.
“Your date’s here!” Tracy yelled from the door. Laura swiped on lipstick–or was that gloss–and flipped off the light. Next stop: hopefully a clean living room.
And it was. And her children were clothed and seated on the couch, Yum between them, flipping through an L.L. Bean catalog.
Twenty spot for Tracy.
“Hi,” Laura said, leaning into kiss Chris on the cheek. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem,” Chris said with the smirk that hooked her. “You look great.”
Laura smoothed out her sweater before answering. “Thanks. Have you met my children?”
“Yes, Mommy,” Lila said looking up from a page of chinos. “And I even told him we were talking about him before.”
“Oh yeah?” Laura scanned her memory for what they could’ve possibly said about Chris but came up with nothing. “And what did we say?” she asked with narrowed eyes.
“Yummmmmmmmmm!”
And there was that smirk again.
Yum indeed.
—————
[tags]sunday scribblings, yum, yummy, writing fiction, fiction, flash fiction, short stories[/tags]
Sunday Scribblings: You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello
This post is inspired by Sunday Scribblings‘ prompt “goodbyes”:
I’ve been asked countless times by strangers, close friends and family, and everyone in between how I ended up in southern Italy. It’s really a rather mundane answer, actually, if you break it down to its barest element.
I decided to come.
Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Well for me, it was. Whenever faced with big decisions, I go through the motions of weighing pros and cons, but I always know what I’m going to do anyway. Once an enticing idea enters my mind, it’s all systems go. I have instincts, and I follow them, and that’s why I’m here.
Three and a half years ago, I came to Italy, saying goodbye to the United States, my family, my friends, my apartment, my profession, my native language, my general comfort level, and so much more. All of that sounds scary now looking at it in print, but I swear to you, it didn’t even phase me at the time.
Looking back, even I can’t believe that, but this is a common theme in my life. When I went away to a prestigious university 400 miles from home, 17 years old, not knowing a soul, not exactly from the same background as most of the students, not nearly prepared for the kind of people I’d be surrounded by, I wasn’t scared or nervous at all. How ridiculous is that?
Some may call it habitual naiveté, but I like to call it dancing to the rhythm of the universe instead of sitting this one out. Or, put another way, if you are quiet and listen to your heart, it will tell you what to do. My heart has never been one to wait for silence, though, as it speaks up whenever it damn well pleases. Not surprising, being that it’s inside of *me* and all.
So when someone asks how I ended up in Italy, how do I explain in a blurb without sounding at least a little like a loon? I’m pretty sure that the phrase “doing the universe jig” isn’t going to make things any clearer.
Sometimes I wish I had a more solid, mature, acceptable answer like that I came here for a job or heck, even a guy. But I didn’t. I came because I wanted to. Simple as that. I didn’t have a significant other or children depending on me, so there was no one to consult. Just my heart, and it told me it was time.
The most difficult part for me was leaving my family and friends, not being able to be there for all the big and everyday things that I’ll never get back. And I’m sure that some of those people still don’t get what I’ve done or approve of it. I’d guess that some of that also has to do with the idea that I left a promising legal career—my goodness just that phrase makes me want to hurl.
You see, I had done the right thing, what was expected for so long, and I most certainly don’t regret it, because it’s made me who I am. But at the ripe old age of 25, I decided to do what I really wanted, what would make me happy. I would hope that those who love me can understand and respect that, but I don’t know if that’s happened, or ever will.
And I’m at peace with that. Because when I said goodbye to my old life, I said hello to me—the real me, the one that I’d been meaning to become—and to new experiences and a way of life that just feels right. Makes perfect sense to me.
And you know what else makes perfect sense? In Italian you say “hello” and “goodbye” the same way, reminding me that where there’s a goodbye, an inevitable hello can’t be far behind.
Michelle Kaminsky is an American attorney-turned-freelance writer who lived in her family's ancestral village in Calabria, Italy for 15 years. This blog is now archived.
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