childhood

Death’s Door

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I’m not a huge fan of death; never have been. Whenever I think of death, I think of my uncle Nathan. His was an open casket, and the only memories I have of him were of cigar smoke and that moment of seeing him in the coffin. I cringed at every funeral after that as a child and well into my adulthood.

I would say that while this is a memory from me as a young child, the two that stand out more abruptly are of both of my grandfathers. They both died when I was five or near about. My first grandfather, my dad’s father was from Canada, and I remember his family there more than I remember him.

The most enduring memory I have is standing in the hospital parking lot looking up to the roof where my grandfather stood. He was wearing a grey bathrobe and I think my grandmother stood next to him. He waved to me and possibly my brother, and we waved back. Well, I waved back because my brother would only have been one or so. I think my father stood with us in the parking lot.

This was 1970 or 1971 and children weren’t allowed in the hospital. It’s kind of like that now, but when my dad was in the hospital, we used to sneak my son in to see him and the nurses would ignore him just so long as he could get past the security guard.

We never would have thought to sneak in back then.

I remember this grandfather from photographs that blend into memory. There is me in a stroller wearing bunny ears, holding a Kodak film box, the recognizable yellow box of the Eastman Company. We are on a street in the Bronx outside of an apartment building. I don’t think this is their apartment building, but nearby there is an asphalt park surrounded by a chain link fence where the older boys played basketball and the girls jumped double-dutch. It was a noisy street with cars driving by, their engines noisy and their horns loud, interspersed with the bouncing of the basketball off the backboard and the handball off of the wall that divided the spaces.

My other grandfather, my Mother’s father died either later that year or early the next year. It was within months of each other. In fact, my grandfathers died within a year and my grandmothers did the same although they waited for many years after that. My parents also died within eighteen months of each other.

The only memory I have of this grandfather was his balding head, sitting with his back to the doorway at the kitchen table eating his dinner when he’d come home late from work. I’m not sure what we would have been doing there so late, but it is the one picture of him in my mind that is consistent.

My mother says that it isn’t true, but I have vivid memories of his death. He had a heart attack in the house, and I remember him lying on the carpet and the paramedics coming in with the stretcher from the ambulance. I would swear that I was there, and my mother would swear I was not, so I don’t know if this is an actual memory that she’s always tried to protect me from or if it is one of those planted memories from other people’s overheard conversations.

He did have a heart attack and died in the house and there are other details that it would seem strange for others to talk about around me, but I don’t know.

These are the three that still stand out to me as an adult, and form my ever fearful phobia of death and dying, although I have mellowed out in the abstract of faith and adulthood. I still occasionally have a recurrence of a childhood dream that I’ve often had of nothingness. If you can’t imagine it, it can’t be explained, but it is the abyss of nothing and it is palpable. It is the dark staring back at you and as much as I try to be calm and rational, the noiseless void can be too much to bear. All I can do is wait for it to pass, and it usually does.

I Remember – First Plane Ride

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I have a vivid memory, but I’m still not sure how much of it isn’t fantasy. I’m holding Dad’s hand and we’re boarding an airplane. We are standing in the aisle looking for our seats and I picture myself perfectly. White patent leather shoes to match my little purse, carefully placed Jackie O style on my arm. My jacket is all white and buttoned up to my neck, the collar properly turned down. I don’t think I had a hat. Although my hair is neat, as neat as a five year old’s can be anyway, but still sticking out over my ears, a little more than it does now. I’m not wearing the gold pin of pilot’s wings, but I must be clutching it in my small hand. I kept that for a long time after, but haven’t seen it in decades. I did get a replacement provided by my friend, but now you have to ask for your wings. They don’t think they let you visit the cockpit anymore either, although I don’t recall visiting the cockpit on this flight. We were on our way to see family in Toronto, Canada, and since we always drove and my mother and siblings weren’t with us, I can only imagine that it was for some kind of big event like a funeral. We always stopped in the duty-free shop when we drove, so I can only imagine that we did on this visit as well, although Dad could have only gotten half the normal allowance of whiskey and cigarettes, a staple of ours on our return trip to the United States. My parents didn’t drink, but this was a time when you kept alcohol in your house for guests; just in case. These little snippets of memory pop out at the least provocation. Sometimes, they don’t seem so far away.

Tea

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Tea has been a part of my life since I was a child. My family used to go to a Chinese restaurant on Horace Harding Blvd. in Queens, NY. They always gave everyone a glass of water and in the middle of the table was a bowl of crunchy noodles, a metal tea pot, duck sauce and hot mustard. My parents mixed the hot mustard with the duck sauce, which we kids didn’t like. We always drank the tea in those little tea cups that had no handles. I poured in way more sugar than it probably needed. I don’t think I liked tea as much then as I do now, but tea was part of the Chinese restaurant ritual. The owner knew us by name; I think we must have gone there weekly.

That tea was always too hot, steam rising as it was poured out into the small white cups. It sat for a bit, steam rising, too hot to pick up, but when it was lukewarm it was perfect, at least to my elementary school self it was. Chinese tea had a very distinctive taste, and it wasn’t until last year that I discovered that taste again.

I know I’ve talked about the teas that I tried and wrote about in memory of a friend, a victim of domestic violence, and after those were completed, my friend had sent me a variety of loose teas that he enjoyed and wanted to share with me. My favorites were Lady Londonderry and Moroccan Mint. His Moroccan Mint was a black leaf variety; I had only been able to find a green tea, which I did not like as well.

I discovered a local tea shop and started trying new teas and sharing them with friends. The one that my friend really enjoyed is Mexican Chocolate. This is lovely with milk and a tiny bit of sugar if any, and I found it especially wonderful to drink during Christmas time.

It was during these experimentations and tastings that I found Pai Mu Tan. This was the one that when I tried and tasted it I was transported back to the end of the Chinese dinners of my childhood.

British comedies sent me on a path of no return of putting milk in my tea. It was usually Lipton’s or Tetley or very occasionally Red Rose. My regular go-to tea now is none of those; it is a black leaf tea with ginger. It was a chance visit to a Job Lots where I discovered Stash’s Ginger Black Breakfast Tea; the first ginger tea that I had found that was a black tea and not a tisane. This became my daily drink with milk and sugar. When that one box ran out, I ordered a case. Even sharing it still took quite awhile to run out.

While I visiting friends in Denver a few years ago, I was treated to proper British tea. PG Tips with milk and sugar made by an authentic Brit. There was nothing quite like waking up to a beautiful, hot, blissful cup of tea. It was perfect. Every time.

I also went through a Star Trek phase and only drank Earl Grey, hot.

I’m not a fan of green tea, but last Lent when I gave up Diet Coke, it was recommended that I drink green tea with jasmine. This tea tasted good and it would counter the negative effects of always drinking soda. This was my daily drink during Lent with sugar, no milk. It made me feel good. I don’t know if that was the tea itself or if it was its relation to the spirituality of my Lenten habit.

My current favorite is from Twining’s: Honeybush, Mandarin and Orange. I add a bit of sugar, although I think honey would work as well. There is the warm soothing taste and the citrusy kick as it slides across my tongue. Since I’ve been so sick, I also pretend that it has enough vitamin C to keep me healthy.

When I go to therapy, I am asked if I want coffee, tea or water. I don’t drink coffee, so I always say water, although most days I’d rather have the tea. Unfortunately, my personality won’t ask for tea because it’s too much bother and for an hour long session, it would be too hot to drink immediately and then once I started talking, it would be too cold to enjoy. My anxieties are a complicated lot.

Tea, however, is not complicated at all. Tea is comfort. It is that cozy friend who sits in your lap and holds your hand. It’s medicinal. Tea makes all things better. It listens to the beat of your soul. Tea understands even when you don’t.

Pass Me a Fry

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I feel nostalgia welling up inside, ready to burst out. There is sadness and melancholy and what’s next, and I just don’t know. I have my lists of things to do. It is only March, and that’s good. The kick in the butt is good because it is still early in the year and I can get it done. Well, get it started. I just need to be unafraid. Not an easy task. I don’t want things as they were, though; I want them better. Is that even possible?

I don’t know why, but right now I’m thinking of McDonald’s fries. When I was a kid, my Dad would drive way out to Queens to get McDonald’s for dinner. (Believe it or not, but McDonald’s wasn’t on every street corner.) So we’d drive out to Queens and whoever went with him got to sneak some fries. Mainly, he’d ask for one, and the person holding the bag would pass him a couple of fries and then take a couple.

All the way home.

They were so hot. I almost always burned my mouth. By the time we got home, one of the fries were completely or almost completely gone.

We started buying an extra order of fries for the ride home, so no one was mad at us when we got there.

Even today, eating a cheeseburger or a Quarter Pounder makes me remember those moments as a kid with my Dad eating fries. It is not lost on me that it isn’t when I eat the fries, and it is only those two burgers. They taste exactly the same as they did back then.