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On Grayson Road

Frank Finamore — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 23:37:10 GMT

As the bristles of the broom swept the red and yellow autumn leaves from the flagstone, my mind wandered to the Springtime when I’d be delighted by the first glimpse of the purple crocus rearing its delicate petals above the recently frozen earth. But that sign of the coming warmth takes me back in time to my first memories of getting dirt under my fingernails. Going up the walk from the driveway at 14021 Grayson Road, was the small flower bed that my mother taught me to tender. There beneath the pink azalea, given to her by my Uncle Bob a few years earlier, were nestled the purple and blue crocuses. Later in the season to be joined by the tiger lilies and chrysanthemums.

My mother taught me to bury those crocus bulbs in the Fall and each Sunday as Easter approached, we’d scan the small garden for signs of their approach. When they finally arrived, I wanted to pick them, preserve their beauty, and somehow capture the exhilaration of a new season, with all its possibilities that those delicate flowers represented.

For nearly 40 more years, those crocus have bloomed at 14021 in the garden tended so graciously by my mother, now in her eighth decade. Soon, she’ll be selling the only home that I’ve ever known for her and a piece of me is sad just as I was sad when the last crocus would lose its color and vibrance. Sometimes it’s easier to focus on what is fading rather than what is to come.

Decades later I now remind myself that the beauty of the flower isn’t really in its color, texture, or delicateness, but rather in the warmth that it brings to our hearts when we think about it and remember its splendor, whether its mere minutes after it blooms or 35 years after we first saw it.

I could give a detailed description of my mother’s house on the hill, including the etchings of seven kids’ writings in the “little attic” under the stairs, the small wooden arbor near the spigot in the back, or the grooves in the basement door from our four-legged family members, Puppy, TJ, or Spike. I know the physical structure intimately, but soon a new family will create their own memories there, painting over ours, and maybe even removing the crocus. Not knowing their previous significance. But that is their new journey to create and ours, those of my mother and my six sisters, will forever be in our hearts, warming us, making us laugh and cry

My Bed, Her Bed.

Frank Finamore — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 20:27:31 GMT

We had a ritual every night -- Maggie and I. She always wanted in the bed and I was determined that she’d sleep in her own bed. The new green, faux lambswool pillow top that I’d bought her at Petsmart which laid on floor next to Peter’s side of the bed, the right side. Always the right side. Never the left. I slept on the left.

When Peter first brought Maggie home, he had to tether her to the bed with the green leash so that she wouldn’t wander off and pee on the carpet. The group house that we’d rescued her from had kept her in a crate. Probably for 23 hours a day. She arrived just as scared as perhaps Peter had. Both moved in with me on the same day. Allegedly Peter adopted Maggie to save her from the confinement of her life in that metal cage on Capitol Hill. But I also knew that some part of Peter needed someone else to move in with him, to keep him company, to ground him as we merged our lives. I was all of 28 and he was a mere 23. We thought we were old enough and the time was right, but really we were just kids that grew tired of having drawers at each others’ houses.

So along with the futon and some assorted clothes, came Maggie. So afraid, completely untrained, but already utterly devoted to her savior, Peter. After a few years, she no longer required the tether, but then demanded more. I’d read for a few minutes until my eyelids grew heavy and then reach for the light, but before I could turn it off, Maggie would start pacing. She’d head around the foot of the bed to my side. She’d bark a bit, but not a full bark. Merely a half-bark that was meant to show me her displeasure. She wanted to be in the bed. “Maggie, no, go to your bed.” I’d say. But those long Beagle ears were immune to my suggestion. “Ruff” she’d say again and then add a slight jump on the bed rails with her front paws. “No, bed. Go to bed, Maggie.” “Ruff”

“OK, fine. Damn it, Maggie.” I’d say as I pushed the covers back and stepped onto the cold wooden floor to lift her up to her spot. And then the circling would begin, presumably a vestige of the time before dogs were domesticated when they needed to flatten the tall grass that would be their bed. But in my house, it was probably her attempt to stake out the perfect spot on the feathered comforter between me and Peter, who was inevitably already asleep. She had to touch both of us and would get up several times, circle, and then plop back down until the perfect spot was attained. The true signal of such was when I’d finally hear her sigh, as if her work was done, and she was now off-duty. It went on that way, each and every night for 11 years.

I’d try to stick to my ground but she’d inevitably win. Her closeness was comforting and brought a sense of normalcy to our evenings. Until it wasn’t to be any longer, that is.

She died in that bed right there between us. We’d called the vet the previous night when we knew that the tumor in her bladder had gotten too big for her to be comfortable. That last night was without sleep. She got up, circled, and sighed only to do it again and again without the subsequent sleep. Maybe she was circling that night for all the nights that she’d miss in the future. I don’t know, but we all dreaded the ring of the doorbell at 7:30.

I wish that I could say that it was quick and painless, but it was neither and all of us hurt. Maggie cried out and tried to bite the vet. She wasn’t ready to go, wasn’t ready to give up her spot. My beagle, Mr. Enzo, two years her senior but always the submissive one, licked and cleaned her face after she was gone. His last act of obedience toward her.

Peter had her cremated. She arrived in a box the color of her fur. So fitting for the beautiful blondie that she was. Now she sits on the bedside table -- Peter’s bedside table on the right side. Her spot is now fixed there on the table and in our hearts. She’ll be there until one of us, Peter or I, die. Then, she’ll go in the box with us. No one wants to be alone. Not Maggie and certainly not me.

Four years later, I miss our ritualized fight, her endless circling, and final sighs signaling the end of another day. And yet the days go on.

What's Next?

Frank Finamore — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 13:15:57 GMT

What makes a man? On various levels I think I’ve been asking myself that question all of my life. And yet, I still wonder. Today marks the beginning of week three of unemployment. It’s a status that I chose for myself with visions of autonomy, time, creativity, and numerous personal projects to be tackled - finally. But, as it turns out, it’s more complicated than that. The list is long, and sure I’ve managed to check many things off, but at odd times I feel like I’ve lost a certain part of what defines me.

Shaking work is kind of like changing skin color for me. It seems part and parcel of who I am perhaps a result of my mother’s work ethic drilled into me from an early age. At eight I had windex in hand and scrubbed for pay. And yet now I am in the very fortunate situation that I don’t really need to work for a while. I know it’s a gift that I’ve afforded myself after years of saving and yet somehow it’s a gift that I resist claiming or opening, at least not without a bit of guilt or perhaps shame. After all, I’m middle-aged, aren’t I supposed to be at my productivity prime?

Odd isn’t it that I need to get used to relaxing? My good friend, Hilary, tells me that I need to get my ass on the couch and do nothing. Wow, that’s a taller order than telling me to figure out how to re-wire the house. And yet my creative self is dying to get out, explore, and dance around at this new found freedom. He’s never going back in that box. That much is clear.

So perhaps as I plow through my chore list, I’ll figure out somehow what excites me, what feeds my soul, what makes my heart dance. It’s kind of like washing dishes when trying to figure out a huge problem. Somehow between the washing and rinsing, a thought will come to me. A new way of approaching a familiar issue. Here’s to hoping that the brainstorm of my future is just a paint stroke away. If nothing else, the garage door will look better, right?

Pasta on Sunday

Frank Finamore — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 03:36:00 GMT

There’s a ritual in my family. It’s pasta on Sundays. We all do it, my six sisters and I. We’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember and likely many generations before us. We’re Italian. Finamore as in fin (the end or ultimate, depending on your interpretation) and amore (love). In truth, my sisters and I are only half Italian, but we never really identified as anything but Italian. My mother is mixture of Scotch Irish and French. Saying we were Italian was easier because my father is all Italian. We identified with the ancestry with the highest percent affiliation. Majority rules in bloodlines, I suppose.

There was plenty of food on Sunday, even if it meant eating popcorn for dinner other nights. Feeding seven kids on my mother’s receptionist’s salary was no small feat, so we made do. But every Sunday was the same -- always “sauce” which meant marinara sauce. It would be decades before I knew that term. We just said sauce. There was no other kind. If we were speaking to non-family members, then we might say “spaghetti sauce” just to be clear, but for all of us, we knew what we meant by “sauce.”

Mass was at 10:30 so mom was either up early to put the sauce on or we’d make it the day before. When made ahead, my sister Gloria, just three years older than me and the closest in age, would fight with me over who got to squeeze the tomatoes. Somehow feeling the canned whole tomatoes erupt from the pressure of my squeeze was a thrill for me. I’m guessing it was for Gloria as well because of the fierce battle that usually ensued to see who mom would choose for the job. “You did it last time.” “No, I didn’t you did.” “Mom, he’s lying, can I do it this time, please?” Being the distributor of justice, Mom would usually split the task up so that she didn’t have to listen to any more griping. “Frankie, you open the can and Gloria you can squeeze the tomatoes in. Then, Frankie do you want to mix the meatballs?” “OK!” I’d say enthusiastically. Squeezing the meat was the best job -- even better than the tomatoes. You get to feel the cold meat ooze between your fingers.

Now a man, I wonder about the fascination with the squeezing. Was it just that it felt good or that, for a moment, I had been given some preferred status by mom? With seven, individual attention didn’t come easy or often so be the chosen one perhaps took on special significance. Looking back now I wish I’d hung back a bit more and seceded more attention to Gloria. Perhaps my wanting to be acknowledged led to her being less so. I’m not sure, but I imagine today that she doesn’t often see the beauty and love that is within her. But my five year old self, could only gloat a bit in having been rewarded the more sought-after job of making the meatballs.

After Mass, my father, Frank Sr., would come to visit. We didn’t know exactly when he’d arrive. He didn’t call and we didn’t know how to reach him. He would just show up, usually with soda, wine and beer in hand. His contribution to our weekly family event. We all looked forward to it, although I’m not sure how my mother felt. It’s amazing to me now that she would cook and clean each week for her estranged husband. But then again, love and rejection, I know, often leads one to doing what might seem puzzling to outsiders.

To me, my father represented a strange masculinity that I was unaccustomed to the other six days of the week. He was scruffy and although I couldn’t wait for his kiss, like his love, it always hurt a bit. His mustache was bristly against my smooth skin. But we always kissed anyway. It was probably the one way that my gender didn’t affect our relationship. He dolled out hugs and kisses to his female children and me equally and always with a squeeze of the cheek to follow. Perhaps it was being Italian that made it acceptable. All of the men in my extended family kiss each other. It shows our love and respect for one another.

The meal was the centerpiece of the day and we made it stretch on for hours, with games and conversation between courses of pasta, eggplant, bragiole (thin strips of beef and garlic, rolled and cooked in the sauce), salad, casatiello (Italian Easter bread), and usually dessert. We began eating and drinking almost as soon as Daddy arrived. First a bit of sauce and bread. “Just to tide you over” Mom would say. With lots of ground pepper and parmesan on top. Is there a better food? Looking back now I know at some deeper level that we were not only physically hungry, but also hungry for a sense of normalcy. We were perhaps more accustomed to our physical hunger. The late 60’s and 70’s wasn’t exactly the most comfortable or accepting time to be from a “broken” family of Italian Catholics.

Today, I still cook sauce on Sundays. I guess I am a creature of habit, a product of my ancestry, or both. Without pasta, the day feels somehow incomplete. It grounds me in my heritage, but also in that sense of the importance of family, in whatever configuration, to feeling loved, secure, and happy. I can only hope that my son feels that each day, but especially over shared meals. Sacred meals that feed our souls as much as our stomachs. Knowing that my sisters are also likely having the same meal, although thousands of miles away, brings warmth to my heart. The same warmth that I felt from them while growing up, trying to make sense of our our family in that idyllic suburban setting where every other house looked the same, except ours only had one parent on most days.

In the Tribe

Frank Finamore — Sat, 03 Apr 2010 12:38:00 GMT

I have a confession to make. I kind of relish that I shock people when they find out that I am both a Catholic and a “practicing” Catholic, meaning that I still got to Mass on a routine basis. Just this week, one of my colleagues asked me why I didn’t go to a dinner and when I told him that it was Holy Thursday and that I went to Mass instead, I could see his unspoken questions on his face. I thought Frank was gay? He goes to Church?

So, there’s my confession. I like to shock people a bit. But more importantly, I want them to know that I will not be shut out. In fact, I demand to be included, even if the hierarchy of my own church acts against me -- or people like me. I believe that the hierarchy has gotten it wrong and by my presence I’m taking my seat in the pew just like Rosa Parks took hers on the bus. Except, my road is made easier. No one at my church, a small concrete block structure just outside of Washington, DC, would ever exclude me. They too want me there.

There’s power is their inclusion. I feel it in the depth of my being that I am one of the tribe. As such, I also bear the same heavy responsibilities as all tribe members to care for our sisters and brothers. The real cost of inclusion is loving others, meeting their needs, reaching outside of ourselves. For me, that’s the true meaning of Church.

Happy Easter!

What is our responsibility to others?

Frank Finamore — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 02:34:00 GMT

My friend Jim died thirteen years ago and yet he is somehow as present with me today as he was while still alive. Perhaps more so. Sometimes, I think he haunts me - but always in a good way. Helping me to do my best, telling me to not be too hard on myself, but most importantly, to carry on his message of hope and love.

Jim, or Fr. Healy, was my pastor. He was a Catholic priest who died of AIDS. Somewhat controversial in the mid-nineties. I remember being totally surprised of his diagnosis. Not because I ever really believed that priests were perfect, always celibate, or anything like that. No, I was surprised because it was hard to believe that Jim had personal passions. He drove an old station wagon and only seemed passionate about establishing a greater social justice in our world.

A gifted and animated liturgist, I listened to him, filled with the fire of love for his sisters and brothers, nearly beg and plead for those of us in the pews of that humble, concrete block church to take action. Write our congressperson, donate some of our treasure, make a meal for the homeless shelter. Anything, but something. His message is simple , hopeful, and tough. It goes something like this:

God is love and mercy. God lives within each of us and therefore we have a responsibility to help our brothers and sisters. We will be weak, at times, and we may even stumble, but God always loves us. God forgives us - always and unconditionally. That isn’t to be questioned. The only question that we need to ponder is how we can use the unique gifts that we’ve received to make this earthly experience better for everyone. Not everyone, but those illegal immigrants. Not everyone, but those Republicans (or Democrats) with whom we disagree. Not everyone, but those who don’t work hard enough and pull themselves up by their bootstraps. No, just everyone. Period. Do something. Now.

It’s a message that is both uplifting and hugely challenging. Perhaps it’s that message that haunts me because of its power in my life. And the power to change the world. I want to believe that we can do that. I want to raise my son in a way that he will grow up to believe this message. That he will own his responsibility for being part of it. For doing his share.

I believe in Jim’s message so much that I’ve created a blog where his weekly homilies can be heard as podcasts decades after he first delivered them. Although this isn’t an advertisement for that site, those interested can check it out at www.fatherhealy.com Listening to his messages again now, week after week, brings tears to my eyes once more. It also brings a renewed sense of urgency to do more.

I guess what amazes me most about my being haunted by Jim and his words is that somehow he’s penetrated the core of my being. Struck gold, as it were. I know there’s no going back, only looking forward, always questioning my role and my responsibilities to others. I wish I were as selfless as these words may make me appear, but I do wonder out loud here what our world might be like if we each did more for others. Like my mother’s handwritten reminder on her refrigerator says, “I live simply so that others may simply live.” How can I live more simply is a great question.

But how we take action seems important too. I remember from my sophomore year Basic Judaism class that there is a commandment in the old testament that says that farmers should leave one corner of their crop unharvested. Doing so means that those needing food can retrieve what they need, but without the shame or embarrassment of having to go to the center of the field where they might be seen. Just as Jim’s words of love, hope, and responsibility have stayed with me throughout the years, this biblical story has as well.

In today’s modern world, where few of us are farmers, but all of us with gifts, what field might we leave unharvested so that others may eat?

President Kennedy's Seafood Casserole

Frank Finamore — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 01:28:00 GMT

The harder she squeezed, the more she loved you. That is what we told ourselves. Well, that is what I told myself to soothe my aching cheek. Known as Gang Gang because my oldest sister, Susan, the oldest grandchild, couldn’t say grandma. My cousins the Peakes called her Wawwy and the my other cousins, the other Finamores, called her Granny. I never liked that. She was only 59 when she died. Too young to be called Granny. I prefer Gang Gang.

I stood at the bottom step with my six sisters lined up the stairs in order by age. We’d see that 1969 white Chevrolet Impala with a black vinyl top and a plastic orange flower taped to the antenna coming down Grayson Road. What excitement that Gang Gang and Pop Pop were visiting. I was in my green velvet suit and it wasn’t even Christmas, Easter, or a Feast Day. The sauce and lasagna were ready. Meatballs made. Salad chilling in the refrigerator. We were ready to act as if our Dad, their son, lived with us. It was Sunday, his day to visit us. But first we had to endure the squeezing of our cheeks. The pain was somehow enjoyable. I was either a masochist or a sadist. I didn’t know the difference then. I still don’t know, but I know that I don’t like to cause pain. I don’t like receive to pain either, but if given the choice between giving or receiving, I think I’d prefer to receive pain.

In any event, at six, I didn’t have a choice. I was the receiver. The door opened and we all screamed and yelled hello to Gang Gang, always the dominant figure among the two, despite the hugeness of Pop Pop. A result of too much pasta and probably too much alcohol. We loved them both, but Gang Gang’s personality made her stand out. She stood out like a cherry flavored lolipop. I love cherry flavored anything. One time Peter, my partner of fifteen years, and I ate cherry pie every night for six weeks while our kitchen was being renovated.

But on that Sunday morning, just after 10:30 am Mass at Our Lady of Angels at 1 Mary’s Way, after having lived through an unintelligible homily by Fr. Welch, we were finally ready in the receiving line for Gang Gang. First there was her warm, wet kiss. Being the first, there was a trace of her bright red lipstick that was in sharp contrast to her jet black Italian hair. I loved her face, her hair, her roundish body, and brash mannerisms. Sometimes I can’t wait to die, believing that there must be an afterlife, because I want to see her again. I want to have a conversation with her. I want to ask her so many questions, like why she seemed to favor her oldest son, my uncle John. But I also want to ask her where she got the recipe for President Kennedy’s Seafood Casserole. A few years ago, I found her old recipe book and recreated a booklet of my favorite ones for my family members, including that casserole.

But there on that bottom step, after the kiss, I knew to expect her thumb and forefinger. They would squeeze my cheek until it hurt, until I couldn’t feel it any longer. I loved that pain. I loved her more than I knew.

I wasn’t allowed to go to her funeral because I was too young. It was that same year that I remember standing on the steps. She died suddenly in Rome. Her dream was to go back to Italy, her homeland that she’d never seen as a second generation immigrant. She wanted to go there and then onto Lourdes to finally be cured of the cancer that ate through her ovaries. But she never made it. She died a day after my birthday. Her limbs turned black and in two days she was dead. Maybe a bad blood transfusion to make her feel good for her transatlantic flight or maybe a return of the cancer. It didn’t matter any longer because she was gone.

No more squeezing, but after the initial shock and sadness and largeness of her absence, we went on. We went on, loving our Pop Pop who became bigger in our minds and in his girth. God I loved him. And Gang Gang became a mythical figure with images of her forever woven into the folklore of our large Italian clan. Taken too soon, but somehow always in our hearts and in our stories.

When she cooked she moved about her tiny kitchen of apartment 109 on Manchester Avenue as if she was the only one in it. I was in between her and the aluminum foil in the third drawer. She reached and opened the door, pushing me out of the way, but not on purpose, but merely because I was there. It was her kitchen and she was in a hurry. She needed the foil. The next time, I’d move. I’d get out of her way, but I wouldn’t leave that tiny kitchen where I could get all sorts of morsels of food and taste the pasta before it was done. No, like most everyone, I wanted to be with her. Near her. In her way, even if it meant pain. The pain of be squeezed harder than I thought possible. The pain of being pushed aside. It was all worth it. Gang Gang exuded love, compassion, and caring for us, her grandchildren.

Now she resides forever on Georgia Avenue in Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Silver Spring, Maryland. Not Silver Springs, no there was just one spring. And Gate of Heaven. Only the gate. I hope that she got in further than the gate. If she didn’t then there’s no hope for any of us. If there is no heaven, then I’ll never see her again and my six-year old memories of her will have to suffice. For the time being, they do suffice. I feel close to her, connected in some way that is impossible to explain. Like somehow she lives on in me. Not only in my memories of her but in what I do.

I squeeze my son’s cheeks and he runs. The dogs are more tolerant. I love them all and I squeeze their cheeks with regularity. My mother-in-law has the world’s best cheeks for squeezing. I’d love to grab them and just squeeze all of the blood right out of them. It would feel so good to do it. Maybe I like giving pain more than I want to admit. But the site of those bulbous mounds of flesh high on her protruding cheekbones are so tempting. I wish I could muster up the guts to make that squeeze, but instead I try to put my son up to the task. He loves her, although I’m sure that she wouldn’t love him if he actually squeezed her cheeks. What else can I say, but her cheeks tempt me.

When does an action become one’s trademark? The squeezing of cheeks was and somehow still is my Gang Gang’s and she has been dead since July 18, 1972. The last picture was taken on July 15th in St. Peter’s Square in front of a granite column. That picture, now an 8 by 10 is on my dresser. I look at it every day, sometimes many times a day. She still stands out although her husband is there. What is she saying to me? What is she communicating with that smile, like the Mona Lisa? I’ve had that picture in my bedroom for six years now and I still can’t tell. I want to ask her, but she just smiles. Maybe she’s happy that I remember her squeezing, maybe she’s happy that President Kennedy’s Seafood Casserole lives on after her death, or maybe she’s just dead. Gone forever. I don’t know, but I do know that I love her, not loved her, but presently love her for the excitement that she represented to me and the pain that somehow felt good and has stayed with me now into my forty-third year.

Bridges

Frank Finamore — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 01:06:00 GMT

A bridge. That’s how I often think of myself. Connecting people. Not letting anyone go. Never wanting anyone to feel left out. Not wanting to be left out myself. I think it started when I was a kid. I can picture my mother and some of my sisters sitting around the kitchen table in our house on Grayson Road. The same house my mother still lives in, but alone now with 4 spare bedrooms.

They sat around that table talking, telling stories, laughing and likely drinking and smoking. It was the 70’s. My sisters and their friends were old enough to drink and my mother was more liberal then. Everybody smoked. There were more women in that house than I could count, but I loved it. Sometimes I wasn’t sure who of my sisters’ friends lived with us for a time and who was just visiting.

Today, nearly forty years later I’m still in touch with many of those girls, now women. I have to be careful on facebook not to compliment just one because then the others will chime in that I didn’t say anything about them. I should know better anyway, but sometimes something is so endearing, a smile, a comment, or a memory that I feel the need to reconnect with them and give a compliment. Not ever meaning to exclude the others.

Relationships are like flowers in my garden. Always precious and surprising in their splendor. I feel so grateful for the people that I’ve been lucky enough to have in my life. Each one gives me something different and touches me in ways that last through the years. Sometimes nourishment in times of a drought. Always comforting, even in just reliving memories from around the table.

Six Girls and One Boy

Frank Finamore — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 04:22:00 GMT

Whenever someone learns that I am the last of seven children and the only boy raised by a single mother, I can anticipate their next question. What was it like growing up in a house full of women?

What I’d really like to say is that women take forever to get ready and hog bathrooms. I know it’s a stereotype and generally I am against stereotypes, especially the sexist ones, but growing up with my mother, six sisters, and their assorted girlfriends in the house, I think I have some street cred. Sure, our house had three bathrooms, but in my experience, they were hard to get into.

“Wait. I am putting on my makeup!” someone would yell as I slowly opened a bathroom door. It was soon slammed shut and locked for good measure. Why they didn’t lock it in the first place is another matter. One down two to go. To the master bath. Unfortunately, to get into that one required entry into the master bedroom which was always a problem. Someone was always in some stage of dressing or undressing in front of the largest mirror in the house. Usually it was Patti, my second oldest sister. More than once, I’d opened that door only to see a towel on Patti’s head and then hear the scream. “Ahh...Frankie, I’m getting dressed!” I saw her naked so many times, that I eventually I didn’t flinch, but just closed the door quickly. It seemed comical to me that she had a towel on her head but nothing on her body. How was her hair going to get dry when she had it wrapped in a towel? Why didn’t she use two towels -- one for her head and one for her body? These were questions that I thought but knew that I couldn’t actually ask.

I’d try the downstairs bathroom, but I really didn’t want to because it was, well, downstairs. Strange things lurked down there. Most likely, Chrissy or Peggy would be in that bathroom anyway. Probably Chrissy. Peggy was more of a tomboy so she claimed less bathroom time than the others. If I’d find one miraculously empty, someone would usually yell “Put the seat up!” I didn’t need the reminder. I’d learned early on after potty training that I’d better do that. What could be worse than hearing the scream of a woman sitting down on a toilet without a seat? And why did they wait until the very last moment to go which caused them to be in such a hurry that they didn’t notice that the seat was up? Couldn’t we all take responsibility for moving the seat appropriately for what we were doing and leave the seat in the down and covered position for the next user? More unspoken questions. I took the easy route and just put the damn seat up when I went and down when I was done, always with the lid closed. They hardly ever closed the lid, not that I’m bitter or anything. I’m just saying.

I speak to at least one of my sisters every day. Today, I spoke to both Toni and Peggy. Yesterday, I talked to Susan three times. I know their phone numbers by heart. Chrissy actually quizzed me on her number once when I went a long stretch without calling. I love them. Can’t imagine my life without them, but I sure am glad that I don’t have to share a bathroom with them any longer, or wait for them to get ready for church, or God forbid go clothes shopping with them. Some things in life are best left as childhood memories. So, my standard answer to the recurring question of what is was like is usually “interesting and I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

What's twenty cents worth?

Frank Finamore — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 20:36:00 GMT

The other day I was in a hurry to get back across the border to be on yet another work conference call. The thought of it was more than I could take at that moment, or at least, more than I could take without a triple shot latte to soothe me. Odd, I know, that three shots of espresso would soothe me, but when you're a caffeine junkie like me, trust me, it's needed.

As I approached the coffee shop where I spend entirely too much money, I happily notice an empty parking space! "Yes, there is a God!" I think to myself, all the while knowing that my God doesn't quite work that way, but again, old habits die hard. Now I just needed money for the meter. I look in my wallet only to find dollars and pennies. The change holder yielded nothing more and the back seat and area under the seats were totally barren of any coins. Desperate for the latte but not wanting to risk a ticket, I was in a bind.

Only then did I see the cab driver parked behind me frantically motioning me to come over. Being from Washington, DC where you don't talk to strangers -- not on the Metro and certainly not on the street -- I slowly approached the passenger's side of the yellow cab. He held out two dimes. Enough for 8 minutes on the meter and more than enough time to get my triple shot fix. I offered him a dollar in return, but he wouldn't take it. He didn't want my money. He only wanted to help. Maybe he was a caffeine junkie too or just didn't want to give the city of San Diego any more parking revenue. In the end, however, his little act of kindness, reminds me that many people are inherently good, wanting to help their fellow man.

Three days later, I find myself still thinking about those two dimes. For me, it really is all about the little things in life that make a difference. Somehow, by receiving two small coins, I'm convinced that we can change the world. That we can help Haiti rebuild in a meaningful, sustainable way. That we can end discrimination. That we can ensure that people don't go hungry. What it will take, I'm not exactly sure. But I do know that it starts with each of us doing something, something small perhaps, but something.

What does our silence mean?

Frank Finamore — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 00:06:00 GMT

A 1972 Chevy Nova passed me by today. Orange with two blue stripes down the hood no less. My mind went back to Mrs. Johnson in the cafeteria of Marumsco Hills Elementary School. She drove a Nova. Somehow I noticed that fact as she drove along Grayson Road and it has stayed with me for 38 years or so now.

Kids made fun of her. "Eeeww, she just ate the old sandwich off that plate!" someone would say. "So gross!" another would reply. She wore a drab greenish dress that resembled more of a hospital gown than a custodian’s uniform. But we called her a janitor in those days. My classmates weren't exactly kind to her. I honestly cannot recall participating in the banter but I remember my heart aching for her, but not knowing exactly why.

My response to gossip then is similar to what it mostly is now - silence. Hoping that somehow my silence won’t offend the speaker and yet also won’t indicate passive agreement either. It’s an in-between kind of place, a familiar place that’s not all that comfortable anymore, but old habits are hard to break. I pray it’s not collusion.

Sometimes I wonder if others’ hearts ache as mine does. Yesterday, in the border line, waiting to cross back into the United States, the land of opprotunity, I again saw a severely disabled man selling his bag of candy. He's there almost every day. I didn’t want any of his candy, but I also didn’t want him to think that I thought he was begging if I gave him a few pesos without taking anything. "He has pride" I thought, as he uttered what I think was “Gracias, senor.”

The amazing thing about the Mexicans that I’ve encountered is that they work and have an entrepreneurial spirit that is extremely strong. It’s what I imagine the US was like in another age. Even the most destitute mom with three kids on the corner of Avenida de las Ferias and Las Palmas offers chicklets for sale. Few beg. Taco stands and impromptu bars, complete with music and beer, pop up everywhere in a matter of minutes. I respect their spirit and ingenuity.

I console myself by thinking that in 1976, driving a 1972 Nova must have meant that Mrs. Johnson wasn’t likely hungry. Resourceful probably. Kids leave a lot of food untouched on their plates. She was a precursor to the sustainability movement before it had a label. Back when we just followed the common sense principle of trying to not waste so much. For some reason now, I fantasize that she’s still kicking around collecting her Prince William County pension longer than they ever expected. Beating the odds and actually getting to enjoy a long retirement after an even longer stint of mopping the floors in the gymnasium turned cafeteria, enduring the jeering and giggles of school kids.

I guess this is my way of saying “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. I hope I didn’t laugh at you. You had a cool car.”

Love Unplanned

Frank Finamore — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 03:24:00 GMT

She had a beautiful coat. Reddish like the sun and soft. The kind of soft that defines the word. Touch her and you know exactly what I mean. But shy. And tentative. I reached out to pet her and she backed away a bit. I knelt down and got on her level and let her smell my outstretched hand. “She is so beautiful.” I gushed. “Thanks” said the woman holding the purple leash attached to the jeweled collar. “What’s her name?” I asked. “Honey” She responded. “Oh that’s a perfect name for her. She’s the color of honey.” “And as sweet as honey, too” she said.

Before I knew it, Honey had her head buried in my lap. Frozen, almost afraid to move for fear that I’d stop stroking her, she stayed buried between my legs for more than a few minutes. “I just lost my dear Maggie three weeks ago” I told this stranger, obviously a dog lover too, but for no apparent reason I just blurted it out the pain that lived within me. Talking was a coping mechanism to deal with the grief. Maggie was a trusted, albeit bossy, family member in the form of a Beagle. “Oh, I’m sorry” the stranger said. “Yeah, well my other beagle, Enzo, is here getting his ears cleaned so at least I still have one more.” “Mmmhmmm” she said in reply trying to be both cordial and understanding without really using words. Sometimes just sounds suffice. As a dog lover, I’d learned that years earlier.

“So, how old is Miss Honey?” I said trying to get back to safe, neutral ground. “Actually, I don’t know. I am just fostering her. She was found wandering the streets of Fredericksburg and no one adopted her at the county shelter, so our organization took her so that she wasn’t euthanized.” “Mmmm” I replied, stealing her cordial line. “Are you interested in her? she asked. “I can’t. I mean she’s beautiful, and so very sweet, but we’re still grieving Maggie and we are moving to Mexico in a few weeks. My life is chaos right now, but she sure is beautiful and sweet.” “Well, let me give you my number in the event that you change your mind.”

And with Enzo safely in the front seat of my Accord, clean ears and all, I drove down Columbia Pike and dialed Peter. “Hey, I think that I found the most beautiful dog for us.” I said, without so much as even saying hello first. “What?” he said. “Yes, well, her name is Honey and she is a beautiful lab/hound mix. You should see her though. She’s reddish in color -- like Maggie, and oh so soft, but bigger and shyer. “ “You’re crazy.” Peter said in reply. “Yeah, I know we can’t adopt her but there was just something about her. Anyway, I got the woman’s number that is fostering her, but I agree that it’s crazy. We’ll be home soon. Enzo’s sleeping after getting his mani/pedi and his ears cleaned.”

Next I called Hilary. A fellow animal lover that was dealing with her Bichon “Dot” and chemotherapy. “Hey, Hil you’ll never guess what just happened.” I said all in one breath. “Tell me, dumbass” she said. We have a tendency to use derogatory names with each other as a term of endearment. Perhaps it’s odd, but somehow it feels loving, kind of how siblings or old married couples treat each other. I relate the whole love story of how I saw Honey from across the room and how she’d endeared herself to me the instant I felt that soft coat and looked into her big, brown eyes. Hil responded, “Oh, you have to rescue her. She’s meant for you.” But I held fast to my line, “Yes, but I’m not over Maggie, we’re moving in three weeks, and have you noticed that my life is in a bit of chaos?” “Yeah, well, when isn’t it, you stupid shit. Go get that dog” she practically screeched at me. “OK, well, I’ve got to go. Shouldn’t be talking on the phone while driving. Just wanted to tell you about the girlie girl. I’ll send you a picture from my phone. Of course, I took a few of her.”

Finally, home from Annandale, which when you live in the city center, feels more like Siberia. Enzo, delighted to be king of his castle again, literally runs up the stairs to the back door, despite being fourteen. Fumbling for my keys, I can hear the phone ringing but can’t open the door in time because Enzo has encircled me in his leash. Hog tied might be a better description, but I twirl around hoping the neighbors aren’t looking from their upstairs sunroom. Untied and free I manage to get finally get inside. “Hey, I’m home." I unhook Enzo’s leash as he’s happily lapping up water not caring that he’s splashing it all over the tile. I look up and see the message light blinking.

“HI, this is Honey. I’m calling for Frank. Frank, please adopt me. I need a home and I think you love me.” Hilary’s Southern accent gives her away as I’m sure that despite being found in Fredericksburg, Honey is a northern girl given her shyness - not withstanding the fact that she had her head in my lap within thirty seconds. “Oh my God, that woman is crazy” I tell myself as I laugh and think some more about how beautiful Honey actually is.

The next morning, Peter, Elias and I are off to Lowe’s to get a myriad of household items required to make the house suitable for the renters that will occupy our house in a few weeks. “Hey, do you think that I should call that woman with the dog?” I casually say to Peter as we stroll through the garden section looking for a gardenia to match the one that died in our front yard under the Dogwood tree. Why we thought a second one would do better is a rhetorical question, but in our rush to make everything perfect, it seemed that getting another one was the easiest thing to accomplish. “Sure, give her a call, if you want” Peter replies somehow already resigning himself to the fact that we’re likely to have another dog soon.

Honey arrived at 6:03 pm on Saturday, April 7, 2007 weighing in at a mere 46 pounds. She was just coming for an overnight visit -- to test things out. Again, shy, she stepped lightly and cautiously across the threshold of our rowhouse and tried to immediately find a place to be inconspicuous. Curled up on Enzo’s bed which was twice as small as she was, she looked more stressed than she had in the vet’s office. “She’ll adjust, but just give me a call if you need anything” her foster mom said. “OK, I’m sure we’ll be fine, but I’ll call you in the morning and we can arrange a time for you to come pick her up.” I said. So, as we discussed, I called in the morning. Odd that she wasn’t there I had to leave a message. “Hi, this is Frank. I’m just calling to say that we had a great night with Honey. She has some quirks, like not wanting to leave the house for any reason, but honestly I can’t imagine my life without her. So, you don’t need to come pick her up. Just let me know where to send the donation to the organization for rescuing her. She’s beautiful and already a part of the family.”

Enzo was in denial. He’d lived thirteen years under Maggie’s rule and was enjoying his new found freedom from female tyranny. I promised him that it would be different with Honey. That he’d be the top dog. That we’d make it clear to Honey that he was to be respected. Always one of few grunts and fewer emotions, he turned away from me, jumped up on the couch, and promptly turned his rear end toward me. “Naptime. You’ll deal with the bitch. She probably needs a walk. Good luck getting her out the door.” is what I imagine he wanted to say to me.

But I took it in stride and went over to my new girl. My new love. I couldn’t help but pet her some more before coaxing her out of the door. She wouldn’t budge. She was home and knew it. Why leave? I had to carry her over the threshold, as it were, but I didn’t mind. She was my girl.

A Lasting Gift

Frank Finamore — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 07:30:00 GMT

When I was fourteen, I remember wanting and getting a clock radio for Christmas. It had the faux wood finish and numbers that flipped over. The precursor to digital it seems in retrospect. But it was cool at the time and I actually used it throughout college. I can still picture it on my dresser at 61 Lucille Street. As a kid, I also got pajamas every Christmas eve. I opened them after Midnight Mass so I could sleep in them before waking just a few hours later to celebrate with my mom, six sisters, and later in the day, my father.

And while these memories are somehow heartwarming, especially during the holiday season, there’s really one gift that stands out as a memory in front of all others. When I was eight, a family friend, Miss Davies, gave us all gift certificates to Kinney Shoes. Jackpot. New shoes and I got to pick them out. Whatever I wanted. My sisters and I all thought we’d gone to heaven. We didn’t get a lot of new things and were generally limited to the sale or clearance items when we did.

Even at that young age, the gift itself seemed decadent. But more importantly, on some level then, and even more today, Miss Davies’ generosity is what truly moved me. She was a patient at the doctor’s office where my mother worked. For some reason, they became friends and Miss Davies became a fairly regular fixture at our house. She was a single woman, slightly younger than my mother, who intrigued me. I was fascinated by her style, mannerisms, patience, and intelligence. In earnest, I was initially fascinated by her 1968, yellow Mercury Cougar with the headlights that were covered when not in use and the full row of brake lights in the back. What can I say other than my car fascination started early.

Other than driving what I thought was a cooler car than my mother’s Pinto, Miss Davies was a history teacher who had enormous amounts of patience and a true desire to challenge us to learn and be inquisitive about the world. Not only did she teach me to play Pick Up Sticks but she later explained Watergate and origin of the phrase “red tape.” It was always a treat when she came over because she played with us while managing to maintain the calm, cool demeanor that I’ve always associated with her.

But on that Christmas, she had an affect on me that’s lasted nearly four decades. I think that I was most impressed that she ensured that every one of us received a gift certificate and that we could pick out what we wanted. I don’t actually remember gift certificates being common then as they are today so that helped to magnify the importance for me. On a teacher’s salary, even without kids of her own, I can’t imagine that she had a lot of extra cash, but what she had, she shared. Perhaps she recognized that there were so many of us and we lived fairly meagerly on my mother’s salary. Or perhaps she just thought that we’d enjoy getting new shoes. Whatever the reason, she did something so altruistic that each Christmas since I have thought about it and been grateful for her presence in my life.

The irony is that my own son has a shoe fascination. Cars not so much, but put him in a shoe store and he can hardly stand the excitement. I know that he’ll appreciate the story when I do share it with him. When I do, I am glad that he’ll already know Miss Davies. Luckily, this summer I had the great fortune of introducing them. There we were back in my hometown having lunch with Miss Davies, who now prefers that I call her Pat, as difficult as that is. We made a deal, I’ll try to call her Pat if she tries to call me Frank instead of the more familiar Frankie.

We had an Italian lunch and true to form she was engaging with my son. “What do you like to study? How do you like living in Mexico? What’s different in Mexico from Washington?” she asked him. And then in an instant he was responding. The kid’s got charisma but in this instance I believe that Pat knew exactly the right lever to pull to get him to talk. Maybe it’s the schoolteacher’s gift to know how to connect with the student. For me, that connection will forever be there, inspiring me to try to be a good man, and bring some sense of joy to others.

So, in this season, I wonder how I can emulate Pat’s affection and love, if not generosity. How could I touch someone’s heart in a way that might have them remember some gesture of kindness in the decades to come?

By the way, over our fettucine alfredo and spaghetti bolognese, I asked Pat what she was driving these days. “A 1989 Toyota Camry that just got a new paint job for its twentieth birthday” she replied. She drives it into the city every Friday to serve as a docent at the Library of Congress. A great thing for a former history teacher to do in retirement. Lucky tourists who get her as a docent. I can’t help but think that the Cougar was definitely sportier but the longevity, and likely dependability, of the Camry seem a perfect fit for her now. The connection that she has with cars, like people, seems to last.

Welcome

Frank Finamore — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 00:39:24 GMT

I was eight in 1974. I started cleaning doctors' offices to make money to buy my cub scout uniform. Work lasted longer than scouts. Just as well because today the scouts don't want me or any gay man for that matter. But, I've never stopped working and now do so for a national non-profit. Hopefully making the world a more inclusive place and appreciative of our cultural and language diversity. But that's my day job and only a part of who I am. This blog is a way of expressing more of me. That part that's been trapped in the work, school, parent obligation-filled world.

So, welcome to this other aspect of me far from the to do lists and deadlines. This is where my authentic thoughts finally escape and are heard. One request of you, the reader -- let me hear from you. Thanks for reading and being interested.

Highway One

Frank Finamore — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 22:14:00 GMT

It was still dark out. It was 4:15 in the morning. We had to get across the border so we needed extra time before catching our flight. I put my hand on his shoulder, “It’s time to wake up son. We need to get to the airport.” “Ok, Papi.” he says at the same time as he opens his eyes so wide that it’s hard to imagine that he was sleeping just seconds before. Only his smile is bigger than his eyes.

I know that smile and yet for so many different reasons. I’ve worn it and felt that excitement. My journey was far less interesting, but similarly engaging. An escape from the hot, doldrums of a crowded house with little food. “Time to wake up now, son.” My mother would say, but I always felt her hand on my shoulder before I heard her words. I was already awake. I had been awake for hours, anticipating the moment when we’d leave and go on the journey. “Ok, mom. I’m up. It’s ok. When are we leaving?” “Now my favorite son.” I never quite knew how to take that line. Was it a compliment? I am her only son. Would I still be her favorite if she had another?

We’d meet in the Pinto - the blue one with the vinyl seats and the cracked dashboard from the heat of the sun. The push buttons of the radio and the eight track tape of Anne Murray signing Bluebird. I loved this time, this experience,this journey. Alone, finally with my mother. No sharing her with my sisters. She suddenly had time for me.

We’d ramble down Highway One with dim headlights meeting the rising sun. Not too much to see but old motels that fell into a state of collapse when the interstate system arrived ten years before. I found myself amazed at the diversity of the scene. There was Storybook Land with its fading characters looking sad and long-faced despite their fabled personas. Then, up the hill the Mount Vernon Inn compete with the steeple on the top of the main house and white painted tires buried halfway into the ground marking the walkway to the out buildings where so many had traveled for so long on their journey to Florida.

We were only going to Fredericksburg. A mere 30 minutes away, but we might as well been going across the country. In my head we were. I loved this trip. We made it so many times that I had memorized every plot of land, building, and junk yard on the fading stretch of Americana. Mostly I remembered the time with her - my mother. The woman that was crazy enough to raise seven kids alone. So tiny at only four foot ten, but so tough. Colored reddish hair depending on how the dying went, some smart dress, and usually a Viceroy in hand. The only sign of the pressure was the slight bald spot that resulted from her literally pulling her hair out. But then she usually wore a wiglet -- that strange piece of hair that clipped on top to cover her weakness. No visible sign really, but I could still hear the ring -- the one with seven stones, one birthstone for each of her children, hitting the closed driver’s window as she yanked a strand. We never talked about that sound. We both knew what it was. There wasn’t anything to say about it.

We’d finally stop in Triangle, just before the Marine base at Quantico. Seven- Eleven for breakfast. Black coffee for her and a donut and orange juice for me. Breakfast out of a bag, what’s not to like? It was sacred time. Only the two of us. In the dark. Heading to a destination that I knew was somehow my way out of poverty too -- Mary Washington College, where my second oldest sister had escaped thanks to Miss Duffy. Red brick buildings, flowing green lawns, and the beginning of my yearning for a college experience to transcend me from the darkness to the beginning of a new day.

I still love mornings. I drink coffee now. Probably started when I went to college. I drink lots of it in fact but never black. It’s too bitter for me. I wish I did like it black just for nostalgic reasons. Just like I wish I had an old car. Those things ground me in a way that keep me humble, keep me remembering what’s really important in life or what should be important to me -- being with someone you love, going on an adventure, anywhere, but together for a brief time feeling like you are really the favorite.

“How much longer until we get there?” He asks. “Probably thirty more minutes. We are almost to the border now. You can go back to sleep if you want. I will wake you up when we get there?” But I am somehow saddened when he does drift off, dreaming of the Caribbean and the five star resort that will be his paradise for the next week. “Doesn’t he know that this is the best part?” I think to myself. We’re together, driving in the dark. Its not important where we are going. The sun will be up soon and this is our bit of time. My bit of time to spend with my own favorite son.