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| Monday, August 27, 2007 |
| I Miss The Innocence I've Known |
I'm a pack rat. There are no two ways about it, I save EVERYTHING. Ticket stubs, programs, cute pictures small children have drawn for me. Eventually they all end up in shoe boxes stored under beds, in closets, behind chairs. Occasionally as I'm cleaning or trying to find something I'll root through them, reminisce a little, and then promptly put them back to once again begin gathering dust.
A few weekends ago, while I was at home in Rhode Island, I was given an ultimatum. There was an entire closet filled with evidence of my sentimental nature taking up space in my parents home. I was to go through it all, throw out what I no longer remembered the significance of, and indicate what deserved saving so it could be sent to its new home: the attic.
Some of the oldest stuff dated back to middle school. All those self-important diaries in which my apparent hatred for my mother, and love for some kid I don't even remember, was splashed across the pages. I found a small Happy Meal toy a guy I liked freshman year of high school gave to me. I found prom photos, knick-nacks, a red sox themed soda can from 1995, all of my sheet music from All-State choir, a flower Steddy brought me my sophomore year of college from his sister's wedding.
What amazed me was how vividly I remembered almost all of the items in these boxes. Each layer revealed something I had thought once long forgotten, when in fact it was actually just deeply buried - awaiting some visual cue to come crashing back to the forefront.
One of the items that gave me the most pause was a stack of letters written to me by one of my best friends in high school. Matt had been a few years older than me and the only way to describe my feelings for him is to say that I loved him in a way that only a girl who's never had her heart broken can. Innocently, naively, and completely. The letters were filled with what we then thought were hugely important issues. We were yet to be jaded then, untouched by the real world.
This trip back through childhood continued this weekend when I attended a Brooklyn Cyclones game out on Coney Island, which was immediately followed by hours of riding the Cyclone and various other vomit inducing rides and playing games to win a small stuffed gorilla that I probably could have bought at a toy store for a buck. Sure I didn't grow up in Brooklyn, but it reminded me an awful lot of Rocky Point. (To all of you Rhode Islanders out there - tell me you don't still remember the theme song ... "Come with your family, come with your friends, that's the Rocky Point tradition 'cause it's summer time again!").
As my friends and I were flung about like rag dolls on a ride called the Break Dance, I laughed with an abandon I hadn't in what felt like ages. I may only be able to vaguely remember the innocence that came along with the younger years, but it's nice to be reminded of a time when you absolutely believed in the good in the world, and your biggest concern was whether you were going to lose your lunch on the Music Express.
side note, title of this post borrowed from the lyrics of Wilco's "Heavy Metal Drummer"Labels: misc., NYC, Rhode Island |
posted by FINY @ Monday, August 27, 2007   |
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| Monday, February 05, 2007 |
| 3 Homes |
There are three places in this world that will always feel like home to me. Rhode Island. Boston. And New York. Rhode Island will always be home, but it's a place I could never move back to (sorry Mom). New York, well it's been home for going on five years now. And Boston? I may have only called Boston home for 4 years, but it's where my heart will always be. And where I plan to move back to. Eventually.
But what if eventually were to come sooner rather than later? What if NOW is eventually? Am I ready for that? Suddenly my head is spinning, my heart is torn in two directions, and I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.
See, there's this job in Boston. This Director of Communications job in Boston, and as of tomorrow morning, I will officially be an applicant for said job.
It's something I had pondered for weeks. DTR happens to work there and over the weekend while visiting her I met her boss while watching the Super Bowl (and no, I won't talk about that here, but I will say that the wrong quarterback got the MVP award - Grossman won that game for the Colts). She's wonderful. The job I'm applying for is everything I've been looking for. More even.
But it's in the wrong city.
Then again ... is it really the wrong city? I've spent weeks trying to figure it out in my head. I love New York, I love Boston, I've made pro and con lists, I've thought and thought and thought. And I just have no idea.
It's a conundrum I don't technically have to worry about right now. I would only need to worry about it if I was offered the job and hell, I haven't even been offered an interview yet. But it's amazing what a mind fuck this has been already. Just thinking about it.
They say that home is where the heart is. What happens if your heart's in two places?Labels: Boston, NYC, Rhode Island |
| posted by FINY @ Monday, February 05, 2007 |
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| Tuesday, November 21, 2006 |
| Homeward Bound |
Homeward bound, I wish I was, homeward bound
Oh wait, I am! And I couldn't be happier about it. I know I'll miss NYC while I'm gone, and I will most definitely miss my kitty, who I leave in Meegan's more than capable hands, but God I just can't wait to round the bend on Rt. 114 in East Providence and see Hundred Acre Cove. To walk into my family room to be wrapped into a never-ending hug from my mother. To see my little brother who's home on his first college break. To visit with family, and friends, and eat turkey, and stuffing, and everything else that goes along with Thanksgiving.
I'm not bringing any books on the train ride. Or magazines. Or DVDs, crosswords, or any other piece of paraphernalia that could possibly keep my entertained on my 4 hour train ride home other than my laptop and a pen and notebook. I will be doing nothing but writing tonight, and every night from here on until the 30th. I'm woefully behind in my word count, but I feel like my plot has finally got some traction, my characters are taking on a certain amount of depth, and I'm finally starting to feel a little hopeful that this project might actually be worth revising in the end instead of simply walking away from which is what I've wanted to do to every other piece of writing I've gotten down on paper in the last four years.
And now, here's the admission I've been avoiding making.
Oh God, am I really going to tell you this?
Well, I have to now, since I've teased you with it.
Ok, dear internet, this book I'm working on? It's ... it's ... it's chick lit! Part of me wants to hang my BFA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing filled head in shame. But the bigger part of me? The one that's pushing me through this entire Nanowrimo experience, hasn't had this much fun writing in a long long LONG time. So judge me if you must, and I know some people who read here will, but I'm about to finish writing an entire novel in one month and I've never been happier doing it. What have YOU done this month?Labels: family, Rhode Island, writing |
| posted by FINY @ Tuesday, November 21, 2006 |
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| Sunday, July 02, 2006 |
| Getting to Know Uncle Arthur |
The last time my mother saw Uncle Arthur, he was on the local news. There, standing behind an on-the-scene reporter, was my great uncle, holding a picket sign, protesting the release of The DaVinci Code. Mom called me, laughing. Sure, we didn't agree with his politics, but you had to respect a man who was still fighting for what he believed in, when most men his age we sitting at home wasting away in their recliners.
And then, last Tuesday, my grandfather was at his apartment, about to take him to the doctor. Arthur hadn't been feeling well, and had called his older brother to drive him to his appointment. As he went to lock the back door he said three words; "Joe, catch me". And that’s exactly what my grandfather did. And just like that, his brother, my Uncle Arthur, was gone.
It's amazing how much you learn about a person after they've died. Arthur never married, never had children. What little is left of his family could be counted on my fingers. Before arriving at the wake, I was afraid. Afraid that no one would be there. That it would be even MORE depressing than a wake always is.
But instead what I found were dozens of mourners. Mainly people from his church group. It was astounding how many lives he had touched. And then, well, a little creepy.
Throughout the course of the evening, I learned just how religious my uncle was. As head of a group called the Legions of Mary, Arthur was more than devout. The man had nothing in his bedroom but a small twin bed that he slept only on top of, not in, and a prayer bench. At the end of the wake, approximately 15 members of the Legion knelt before his body and recited the rosary. The entire thing. All 50 Hail Marys. In a weird monotone not-quite-unison kind of chant.
The next day, at the funeral, it got even weirder. The two priests that eulogized Arthur, spoke of his willingness to stand in front of the "abortion mills" with his pro-life group. The term was used multiple times throughout the day. And then I looked around, and realized that there were people in the crowd, quite a few of them actually, that were wearing these large pins with pictures of fetuses on them that read; "I once looked like this too". It got to the point that when my little brother and I took up the gifts, I had to wonder if Uncle Arthur was looking down at me from wherever he was, and asking why in the hell these two heathen children were participating in his mass!
In the end, what turned out to be the hardest part of the day came after the mass. The cemetery in which Arthur was being buried happens to hold too many of my family members. Before going over to the lunch which followed the mass (which, just for you RIers, contained every bad stereotype from Federal Hill. Remember, this is the side of the family that has more than a passing connection to the mafia), my mother, father, brother, and grandfather, drove to the plot which contains my grandmother and my sister. It was the first time I had visited since my grandmother had been buried there. And as I looked at the headstone, and saw their names, I felt the tears starting. Tried to hide them behind the sunglasses. It only got worse when my aunt and uncle arrived, and my uncle walked off at a swift pace in search of his son's grave, which was right nearby.
I felt guilty for crying only after Uncle Arthur's funeral was over. I had cried for him when I heard the news, but as the days passed, and I learned more and more about him, I realized that I barely even knew this man. And I still feel the same way I did when I heard about him protesting the movie; I may not agree with his politics, or have his level of faith, but you have to respect a guy who lived his life exactly the way he felt he should, right to the very end.
RIP Uncle Arthur. Put in a good word for me whenever I meet you there. Lord knows, you've probably got the most pull of anyone in the family.Labels: family, Rhode Island |
| posted by FINY @ Sunday, July 02, 2006 |
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| Monday, October 10, 2005 |
| Blogging From Barrington |
Sometimes, there's just nothing more necessary than a trip home. For a week and a half I've been wandering around, at work, in the apartment, even while out with friends, in a sort of pissed off daze. Nothing specific had happened (well that is until Friday when my Red Sox unceremoniously got swept out of the post season) I was just worn out. For a month and a half I had been pushing myself too hard. Too much drinking, too little sleep. Too much socializing, too little alone time.
I should have known a long time ago what I needed was to come home. Because in the span of three days, which included: a dinner with my aunt, uncle, grandfather, mom, dad, and brother; a shopping trip, a haircut, more food than you can even imagine and and all of Season 4 of the West Wing on DVD, I head back to New York, ten pounds heavier (thanks Mom) with a lot less hair (I'm still mad at you crazy stylist) and a lot less stressed out.Labels: Rhode Island |
| posted by FINY @ Monday, October 10, 2005 |
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| Wednesday, August 17, 2005 |
| Random Memories |
Childhood memory is a funny thing. You can never tell if what your remembering is an actual recollection of the event, or an amalgam of stories you’ve been told. For example, I will swear until my dying day that I remember falling into the deep end of a pool when I was three (or so) and on vacation with my family on Cape Cod. It’s not a full memory, just a vague recollection of going under and a hand reaching out to grab me. This belief, that I truly remember the sensation, even if it is in the hazy way you remember a dream when you first wake up, is most likely unfounded. I was most likely too young to actually remember and have simply pieced together a “false memory” (see what working on psychology textbooks will do to you) from the endless retellings of the story at family gatherings.
But the one thing that I know I will remember, and that I know is true, are the details of my grandparents house in Pawtucket, RI. Though they moved to FL when I was somewhere around ten, so many memories are stored in that house that is no longer theirs that for years I couldn’t drive by it without getting misty eyed. Oh let’s be honest, I couldn’t drive past it without bawling for at least a year.
Certain things stick out. The green shag carpeting in the family room for sure. I used to pretend it was grass and have picnics on it. With my mother’s parents living so close to my childhood home I spent an amazing amount of time with my grandparents. I used to sleep over with Grandma and Papa quite frequently, and perhaps that’s what contributes to the fact that I actually do remember that the Chips Ahoy cookies were always in the left hand cupboard above the stove. And that the Tupperware was underneath the microwave in the corner. It’s literally impossible to forget their kitchen table as it now resides in my dining room after living for a long time in my parent’s kitchen as well.
I remember the living room was a sacred place, only visited on holidays and when I wanted to be a rebel. I remember that at the far end of the hallway stood a bookshelf that had the greatest glass clown on it. I remember the “toy basket” that was home to my life-sized Raggedy Anne and Andy dolls. But most of all I remember the basement.
I spent more hours down in the basement than I ever would have imagined I could. I was a bit of a “’fraidy cat” and was never a huge fan of the dark. So a basement filled with stacks of boxes, a washer and dryer that made some interesting noises, and an old desk filled with more National Geographic’s than I have yet to this day ever seen in one place, wouldn’t have been the most likely of play places for me. Yet I found myself there constantly. Sitting at the desk, a small lamp my only illumination, looking at all the pictures in the magazines I couldn’t quite understand yet. Creating trains filled with cargo out of any box that was light enough that I could move. And best of all, getting rained on by pennies.
One lasting image I will always have of my grandmother is her standing at the top of the stairs to the basement tossing pennies down on the floor. I was never supposed to know she was throwing them. I always acted as if they had appeared out of thin air and then scampered off to wherever they had rolled to exclaim in my newfound riches.
I know that many of these memories may be, yet again, the product of numerous stories. But to me they’ll always be real. And for some reason they came flooding back to me tonight and I felt like taking a trip down memory lane. And what would a road trip be without company. Just don’t touch the radio. I like this song.Labels: family, Rhode Island |
| posted by FINY @ Wednesday, August 17, 2005 |
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