Tag writing

Describe a family member.

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Daily writing prompt
Describe a family member.
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My grandmother on my mother’s side, known fondly as “Nana”, was born Eleanor Barbara Zeilonka. She was the fifth of ten children, two of which were her elder brothers. Oddly enough, both were named Michael. With the boys gone, Nana Eleanor’s mom had eight girls in a row, my grandma being the third daughter born.

It was a houseful, in a small town called Dagget, Michigan. The only reason I know this is because my Nana had a framed certificate on her kitchen wall stating her “Ella of Dagget”. It was a prize for a writing contest she entered when I was a child, and it was addressed to her in renaissance style, her pen name presumably being “Ella” and being of Daggett, Mi. I’m fairly certain she was born at home, I’d imagine her older sister Emily probably helped when things got messy and tough, as they do.

Nana’s father, Michael Zielonka, was a cabinet maker, and he was always short of money with so many mouths to feed. Apparently he liked to drink. Her mother, Marie Jukl, was a beautiful lady of infinite patience and talents.

My Great Aunt’s names were, in order, Emily, Bernice (forever known as Bunny), (Nana Eleanor), Stephanie, Frances, Virginia and Jeanette.

I had to text my mom to get the name list correct.

They all had the same broad smile, gorgeous brunette hair, and killer figures. Great Grandma had made eight pretty ladies, but my Nana was the prettiest by far. She was a beauty contestant in the J Sterling Morton High School physical education follies of 1938.

Nana loved to cook, and her specialty was soup. There could be nothing in the house to eat, and she’d come up with the most amazing soup to chase the winter chill away.

I spent a lot of time at her and Papa’s house as a child. I remember working in their victory garden. We’d pull weeds, make little rows, “put the baby beans to bed so they can make big beans!”, more weeding, and the great harvest at the end of the season. When my cousin Andre came to visit up from St. Louis, once he and I got to know each other again (As long distance cousins often do), we’d run around the yard, playing, sometimes stopping to eat berries off the bush, refresh with the mint overgrowing in the big planter, or grab a handful of chives and dare each other to eat a big bunch at once.

Nana was an excellent seamstress. I owe my success in sewing to her. She taught me the basics, helped me alter her clothes to fit my little self if I needed a special costume, and told me I could dive in her sewing box for fabric whenever I got bored. Nana kept a big beehive pincushion in her room, next to the lotion bottle which was stocked with rose scented lotion. On the beehive pincushion, she kept large needles threaded not too long, just waiting for me to use. In her own way, she encouraged my creativity.

Nana was a glamour queen as well, when she died in 2013, she left behind five full closets of clothes spanning decades of fashion.

She was under my care part time when her health started to fail. After she had a stroke, she resided at a nursing home for a bit, then quickly declined.

But in between those points, we had a lot of fun together! At the grocery store, she’d always be shocked at the prices, and once we got home from shopping, she was equally shocked when I served her a WHOLE GLASS full of orange juice. “Such decadence! Are you sure this is all for me, honey?”

She called my eldest daughter Sugar, for she could not remember her proper name. But Sugar always fit, and thankfully Olivia responded with joy to the sweet moniker.

Nana loved the movie “It’s a wonderful life”, and we watched it every day after I picked her up from adult daycare at the church. She loved it so much, that my daughter and I started setting up the Christmas tree each week for her. Oh how she loved Christmas.

Nana was also a product of her time, and frequently remained in the past once her dementia took hold. By this time Papa was long dead, and Nana asked where he was at least once a day. I’d say, “I’m not sure, but let’s have a snack before he comes home!” and she’d smile and agree.

We kept it to happy moments.

I miss my Nana a lot, she was always so kind and sweet to me and my kid. She thought modern music was hilarious “Honey, they sound so angry!” and enjoyed getting her hair done “The world needs more glamour!” and taught me that even in the midst of confusion and uncertainty, it’s okay to be sweet.

My favorite book from childhood

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Daily writing prompt
Do you remember your favorite book from childhood?
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It’s funny-how the memory changes with time, experience, and medication.

When I was in third grade, I had the best reading book. It was so amazing and comforting to me, that I often read ahead of the assigned pages in the hardcover, colorful book. Reading was an enjoyable activity for me, as marathon reading sessions were held in my family home almost every night. Stacks of books surrounded us, and the unfortunate required television was surrounded by volumes of texts. Great books, biographies, autobiographies, non-fiction, fiction by bestsellers, up-and-coming novelists, stage plays, and one of my favorites-the MGM faces book. I’d spend a long lingering hour just browsing the featured actors-I thought Ned Sparks was hysterical, and when I asked my playwright father who Sydney Greenstreet was, he’d respond with his best impression of Mr. Greenstreet’s signature laugh.

Among my other favorites were the world atlas, the space atlas (according to my mother, one of the first books from which I recited on demand at the age of two-and-a half when she wanted proof that my sister, eight years my senior, taught me to read.) and Peter Freuchens tome about the seven seas. One night I absorbed myself in his personal accounts of the Atlantic while taking breaks to chase the lightning bugs outside. Mom and Dad were not big on me constantly running in and out, but they’d make an exception with their noses deep in a book. (They didn’t notice.)

But my favorite was that little blue hardcover reading textbook full of playful and innocent stories tuned to my wee active mind. It was called “Together We Go” published for schools by Harcourt, Brace Jovanovich. I loved it so much I kept it in my toybox which my grandfather, Papa had made for me. I read it during my vacation break, until I was told I had to return it to school. (This wasn’t the first time I got into trouble over a book.) And the memory was so clear in my head of this slim volume, so desperately seeking my attention to re-read it again, that I found it on that marvel of marvels, Ebay, and I squealed with glee as my fifty-two year old fingers typed in my credit card numbers to acquire it.

Seven days later, it arrived.

And although the stories in it have become something less familiar to my middle-aged mind, it’s still glorious.

Exposure therapy and trying the Duck

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There has been great discussion around our house today about what’s commonly called “exposure therapy”.

The basic concept is as follows: find something that is semi-scary to you, (i.e. trying a new food). Assuming that the food in question is not something you are allergic to, slowly begin to introduce it into your personal sphere.

Think about it.

Smell it.

Look at it.

Taste a little bit of it.

Eventually have a reasonably sized portion of it and consider if you like it or not.

The topic of duck, as a food item, came into play this morning. “I think I’m going to make myself like duck.” says our littlest person. All eyebrows in the room that are not hers raise in suspicion.

“I mean, I did that with sushi, and now I can’t get enough of it!” Thus happy with her new culinary mission, she begins to discuss it further with Chef. “You enjoyed the Duck ramen I made-maybe try some roasted duck breast next time?” he says, and she replies with “Well yeah-its ramen after all and its great. I think I’ll give the actual meat a chance.”

Which makes both Chef and I happy because we definitely like to serve everyone at the table the same thing as much as we are able. Long gone are the days when we had to make a complete smorgasbord of dishes to satisfy our three food critics: the tiny one who only liked ranch dressing and ketchup and fries; make sure a potato alternative was readily available for the adopted child who as a baby was left at an orphanage overseas where the main fare was potatoes; and figuring out gluten free vegetarian recipes for our food-sensitive eldest.

Mostly these days it’s Him and I eating a wonderful rotation of predictable and lovely dinners by ourselves, with the littlest eating with us fifty percent of the time due to our parenting schedule. (Our guy eats out mostly, being the popular friend at school, and is perpetually ‘going out’.) The eldest has moved on to their own kitchen and can make whatever they and the partner desire.

So the concept of having roast duck was intriguing.

This kind of ‘hey let’s try something new’ has also flowed into scary stuff for me-not food related necessarily, but as it relates to tunnels.

For years, I have suffered crippling anxiety when going through a parking garage, underground caves, or very large unsupported basement areas. The reason for this, I really have no idea. Be that as it may, I just don’t like going through tunnels of any kind. The noises overhead make my brain go on high alert, and I feel as if the world is closing in.

I discovered this particular phobia of mine when we were on the way to my husband’s aunt and uncle’s fiftieth anniversary party. What started as a “let’s crash the party!” turned into a family extravaganza the likes of which will not be seen for a good long while. The actual event was amazing-lots of great family stories were told, many fun sightseeing adventures in downtown Philly, amazing art, wonderful food, and a loooooong drive back and forth from home in Chicago to Philadelphia and back.

Through a tunnel.

Which went through a mountain. (I’m told it was a super big hill, but to my prairie state ass, it was a mountain.)

As I saw it approaching in the not too far off distance, my husband began to say “WOO-HOO! THE TUNNEL! We loved this as kids.” while pumping one first in the air. Our wee traveling companions (at the time, ages 5 and 9) in the backseat began to howl with excitement.

As we got closer and closer, my stomach began curling up. It was a big tunnel. It was a long tunnel. I had no Xanax with me. Hell, I didn’t even have a flask on my hip. But there we went.

As I listened to his story of how every time his family made the pilgrimage to Philly to see family, my fingers curled around Chef’s big hand, cutting off his blood flow until he looked over at me for a second and realized my eyes were closed and I was absolutely stuck in a crouched sitting position.

“Honey, are you ok? What is it??” he asked. “Don’t like it don’t like it don’t like it” came my mumbling response.

Of course he started to try and calm me down and we made it through that giant rock unscathed.

Afterwards, we talked about it at great length, and I felt much better on the ride home, now that I knew what to expect and Chef had an idea that I needed some warning and reassurance about such things.

All this to say, we had occasion to go through lower Wacker drive recently. If you’ve never been on lower Wacker, it is a twisty and turny underground street of epic legend. Look it up sometime, and you’ll find that it has earned the reputation it currently has. It’s dark, it’s underground, and it goes on endlessly, offering only slight glimpses of sunlight now and then.

This time going through the darkness underground, I just looked at Chef, held his hand, and closed my eyes as he turned up the radio a bit for me to have a good focal point. I like how we go through the scary things now. Hand in hand, encouraging each other along the way.

And for the record, the Duck was excellent too.