As you know, my mother lives with me and my husband in our little 3 bedroom dormer cape. She basically takes care of everything around the house - including - and possibly most importantly - our garden. We have a small flower garden in the front of the house with beautiful gerber daisies. Recently, the daisies' flowers get "chewed off" somehow. My mother insisted that they were snipped with scissors. I told her that no one would do that. So, she set out to find the source of the snipped flowers.
Setting up shop at the front window, my mom saw a wretched little squirrel clinging on to the daisy and furiously ripping the flower off. Never one to sit by the sidelines, she opened the front door, grabbed one of her stash of rocks, and flung it at the squirrel, effectively scaring it away for the time being.
Later on that night while I'm outside stretching after a run, my Mom recounts the tale of catching the squirrel red-handed.
"If only I could get a hold of one of those creatures, I'd tear it apart limb-to-limb."
"Mom, that's kind of drastic - you wouldn't do that."
"Of course I would! Just like a man that lived in our village. The birds were always eating the grapes right off the grape vine. One day he caught one. Ripped it apart. And left it there. When asked why he left the mangled bird there, he answered 'to show the other birds what could happen to them if they eat the grapes'."
"MOM!! That's so gross!!"
"Well, it would definitely show them."
Haha - so I guess now I have to be on the lookout for mutilated squirrels in the garden.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
"La Isla Bonita"
I know this post is not technically a story FROM my mother, but it's about my parents' home land ... so it counts :p
My thirteenth birthday was spent in Terceira with my parents, my brother and my uncle's family who lived there. I think that for everyone there is something magical about finally turning thirteen and becoming an official teenager. For me, this magic was amplified surrounded by spending it with my family in the place where they were raised.
Because my father, my brother and I all danced in a Portuguese folklore group, we were presented with the unique opportunity to travel as a group to Terceira to perform. I am forever grateful that my parents decided we should all take advantage of this - and it turned out to be instrumental in shaping my future. So it was in June of 1997 that my brother, my parents and I made the trip to their homeland.
Here is where I witnessed my father really truly happy. He was vibrant and full of energy. He and my uncle literally ran around like teenagers in an attempt to show my brother and I all that their little island had to offer. From the time my uncle randomly dug up a potato from someone's garden on the side of the road to the moment we stepped into the house which was built by my parents for their marriage, I was overcome with a sense of belonging. Although I was not raised on that small island in the middle of the Atlantic, here is where I really felt the strength of my roots. Surrounded by bullfights, feasts and family, I was home.
Appropriately enough, Madonna's "La Isla Bonita" happened to be a popular song during this time - even then I found it so fitting that I was lucky to be spending time at this beautiful island. I will forever remember riding in the backseat of my uncle's blue punch-buggy singing "La Isla Bonita" at the top of my lungs, windows down, wind blowing .. the whole nine. I had the feeling that life would last forever. That we would all be together for the rest of time. If there was a moment in my life that I could revist, time and time again, that one would definitely take the cake.
In the song, she sings "..it all seems like yesterday, not far away.." And she couldn't be more right.
Missing you.
My thirteenth birthday was spent in Terceira with my parents, my brother and my uncle's family who lived there. I think that for everyone there is something magical about finally turning thirteen and becoming an official teenager. For me, this magic was amplified surrounded by spending it with my family in the place where they were raised.
Because my father, my brother and I all danced in a Portuguese folklore group, we were presented with the unique opportunity to travel as a group to Terceira to perform. I am forever grateful that my parents decided we should all take advantage of this - and it turned out to be instrumental in shaping my future. So it was in June of 1997 that my brother, my parents and I made the trip to their homeland.
Here is where I witnessed my father really truly happy. He was vibrant and full of energy. He and my uncle literally ran around like teenagers in an attempt to show my brother and I all that their little island had to offer. From the time my uncle randomly dug up a potato from someone's garden on the side of the road to the moment we stepped into the house which was built by my parents for their marriage, I was overcome with a sense of belonging. Although I was not raised on that small island in the middle of the Atlantic, here is where I really felt the strength of my roots. Surrounded by bullfights, feasts and family, I was home.
Appropriately enough, Madonna's "La Isla Bonita" happened to be a popular song during this time - even then I found it so fitting that I was lucky to be spending time at this beautiful island. I will forever remember riding in the backseat of my uncle's blue punch-buggy singing "La Isla Bonita" at the top of my lungs, windows down, wind blowing .. the whole nine. I had the feeling that life would last forever. That we would all be together for the rest of time. If there was a moment in my life that I could revist, time and time again, that one would definitely take the cake.
In the song, she sings "..it all seems like yesterday, not far away.." And she couldn't be more right.
Missing you.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
making your own mayo
Last night, my brother and I were hanging out for a little in my Mom's room. We were talking about what my Mom did that day. She said tht she worked in the garden and remarked on how we have tons of tomatoes. I told her that I need to learn how to make sauce. My Mom then said "when I lived in Brazil, I even made my own mayonaise." You made your own MAYO?? Like with eggs???
It's not often that both of us are in the room when she starts a story, so, here is my recollection of it.
When my Mom, Dad and older sister lived in Brazil, they lived next door to Sr. Nunes and his wife and son. They were well-off in the sense that they had a TV and they helped employ my father. My Mom went on about how generous they were and they helped out my parents.
One time, my father cut his fingers on his hand and was unable to work. Sr. Nunes put him to work painting since he would only have to use his right hand. My father would paint, with his left hand across his chest resting on his right shoulder. The son, who grows up to study to be a doctor, found himself a little stick and would use this stick to hide behind my father and hit him on his left hand. My Mom started laughing at this point. Guess it was all in fun.
Here's where she started to jump around in the stories about Sr. Nunes and their time in Brazil.
The street in front of their house would periodically get flooded. On his way to and from work, my Dad used to carry his shoes (which were more like sneakers according to my Mom) in his hands to cross the stream so they wouldn't get ruined. My mom would also carry her shoes - and my sister - to cross the stream to run errands.
They faced many difficulties in Brazil. Sr. Nunes and his family though were so helpful and generous. My Mom mentioned she had a lot of toothaches while there and the Nunes family would bring her medicine, invite them over to watch TV.
That seems to have been the theme with my parents - they spent their lives surrounded by those that care and love them - and they offered their care and love in return.
It's not often that both of us are in the room when she starts a story, so, here is my recollection of it.
When my Mom, Dad and older sister lived in Brazil, they lived next door to Sr. Nunes and his wife and son. They were well-off in the sense that they had a TV and they helped employ my father. My Mom went on about how generous they were and they helped out my parents.
One time, my father cut his fingers on his hand and was unable to work. Sr. Nunes put him to work painting since he would only have to use his right hand. My father would paint, with his left hand across his chest resting on his right shoulder. The son, who grows up to study to be a doctor, found himself a little stick and would use this stick to hide behind my father and hit him on his left hand. My Mom started laughing at this point. Guess it was all in fun.
Here's where she started to jump around in the stories about Sr. Nunes and their time in Brazil.
The street in front of their house would periodically get flooded. On his way to and from work, my Dad used to carry his shoes (which were more like sneakers according to my Mom) in his hands to cross the stream so they wouldn't get ruined. My mom would also carry her shoes - and my sister - to cross the stream to run errands.
They faced many difficulties in Brazil. Sr. Nunes and his family though were so helpful and generous. My Mom mentioned she had a lot of toothaches while there and the Nunes family would bring her medicine, invite them over to watch TV.
That seems to have been the theme with my parents - they spent their lives surrounded by those that care and love them - and they offered their care and love in return.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
one and 1/2 escudos a day
A few weeks ago, my mother told me this story about my father's insistence on keeping in touch with her while they were dating. Back in the days that they were dating, all the men in Portugal/Azores had to go to the army for awhile. I'm not sure of the length of stay, but I know they all had to go to "become men". They all went to the "Castelo" in Terceira which is where my family is from. The "Castelo" was in the city and I can imagine that it was sort of a coming of age to head in to the city.
Anyways, my Mom was telling me that my Dad would always visit her and her family on Sundays even when he was in the Castelo. Every Sunday, like clock-work, he would be there. Then one Sunday, he didn't make it. She knew that something was wrong. And was of course worried about him. In those days, she couldn't just pick up the phone or check his Facebook status to find out what was going on. She said that her entire family was sending word out through the village to find out with happened with "O Numero Treze" (that will lead into another blog post).
When finally she got word that he was in the first-aid area, sort of like a hospital, because my father had a bloody nose that was not healing. Which, he continued to randomly get a bloody nose all throughout our childhood. Well, as you can imagine, she was relieved to hear that he was OK.
Flashforward to the next Sunday when he was able to make it to my mother's family's house. He asked if they did not read the letter that he sent. Of course, they did not know what he was talking about.
For being in the army, my Father recieved 1 1/2 escudos a day, which, in 2002 when the Euro came out, 1 1/2 escudos were about 75 cents. When he came down with a bloody nose and went to the hospital, he wrote out a letter to my Mom and gave it to a fellow soldier. He also gave this soldier his entire day's wages to deliver the letter. The soldier pocketed the money, and threw the letter away.
Guess my Dad was really upset. He wasn't ever good at being taken for a fool. From what I gather, he gave that soldier a piece of his mind.
At this point in the story, my Mom kind of drifted off in the way she usually does when talking about my Dad.
Anyways, my Mom was telling me that my Dad would always visit her and her family on Sundays even when he was in the Castelo. Every Sunday, like clock-work, he would be there. Then one Sunday, he didn't make it. She knew that something was wrong. And was of course worried about him. In those days, she couldn't just pick up the phone or check his Facebook status to find out what was going on. She said that her entire family was sending word out through the village to find out with happened with "O Numero Treze" (that will lead into another blog post).
When finally she got word that he was in the first-aid area, sort of like a hospital, because my father had a bloody nose that was not healing. Which, he continued to randomly get a bloody nose all throughout our childhood. Well, as you can imagine, she was relieved to hear that he was OK.
Flashforward to the next Sunday when he was able to make it to my mother's family's house. He asked if they did not read the letter that he sent. Of course, they did not know what he was talking about.
For being in the army, my Father recieved 1 1/2 escudos a day, which, in 2002 when the Euro came out, 1 1/2 escudos were about 75 cents. When he came down with a bloody nose and went to the hospital, he wrote out a letter to my Mom and gave it to a fellow soldier. He also gave this soldier his entire day's wages to deliver the letter. The soldier pocketed the money, and threw the letter away.
Guess my Dad was really upset. He wasn't ever good at being taken for a fool. From what I gather, he gave that soldier a piece of his mind.
At this point in the story, my Mom kind of drifted off in the way she usually does when talking about my Dad.
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