Metaphysical Time Travel

                                                             

                                                       

 

We all have that one special person in our lives that had influenced us by their words and actions to be the best we could be. For me, my siblings and my cousins, it was our maternal grandmother, Maria Grazia Federico Chiusolo. My grandmother was a very spiritual woman and she also had strong psychic abilities that she passed down to all her grandchildren. She has been on my mind recently.

                                                                

                                                              

Grandmom was born in Benevento, Italy. She came to America at the start of World War 2 and it was a good thing because her home was bombed during the war. My grandfather was already living in Philadelphia and when Grandmom arrived in New York, she brought along her three children: Anna, Lucia and Mario. This is a photo of them as young children and long before they came to the States.

                                                               

                           Aunt Anna, Uncle Mario and my mother, Lucy

They moved into a home on 7^th and Ellsworth and there she and grandpop lived until her death sometime in the early 1960’s. Grandmom never spoke a word of English, but she understood me and, I understood her. She always had rosary beads in her hand. She was always praying for us...we were mischievous kids who also happened to be accident prone. We needed every single prayer to keep the Angel of Death at bay.

                                                             

Like I mentioned at the start, Grandmom has been on my mind, lately. Maybe it’s because I am going to Italy this month. It’s the first time I’ve ever been out of the country and although I’ll be with a tour group, I’ll be by myself. That’s okay. I’m not afraid and in a way, I won’t be entirely alone. I have inherited my grandmother’s gift and I can see dead people. In fact, there are two ghosts that live in my house. They are my parents. Their names are Fred and Lucy. I told my parents that I’m bringing them with me on this trip. I also asked my grandmother to come with me. Maybe they can translate for me.

My sister Jane recently sent me copies of some important papers belonging to Grandmom. I studied the papers and the photos and after a few minutes, I was back in time. I must have been around nine years old and I watched as my grandmother sang an Italian song as she cooked the pasta on the stove. The door in her kitchen that led to the yard was open. It was a warm, sunny day. I watched the chickens pecking for food outside in the yard while grandpop cooked a steak on grill that he made from a metal can.  

                                                               

                                                          

Time and space are connected and maybe we don’t need a machine to travel back or forth in time. Maybe our minds, because we are connected to the Universal Collective, are able to make that jump. I did that jump today while looking at the old photos my sister Jane had sent me. You can try this technique, too. Find a photo of a special person who has passed away. Sit in a quiet room. Play some meditation music. Light up some incense. Hold the photo in your hand. Take deep breaths...think of your loved one...now...go back to that moment in time when you were your happiest with them. Let me know if it works for you.

Life with Fred and Lucy, Part 21: Fresh Fruits

                   Our Family Grocery Store in South Philly                                         

I’ve mentioned in earlier posts that owning a grocery store does not guarantee financial freedom. Nope! My dad learned to make due with the small change made off each product sold. He called it being frugal, us kids called it being cheap!

                                                                  

Before the age of dousing fruits and vegetables with toxic chemicals and when there were more local farms, my father bought his fruit from the vendors who sold the produce from the back of a pick-up truck; nothing like fresh fruits in season.

                                                                        

My Uncle Jack had a farm in Jersey and in the summer, sold my father the excess peaches that Aunt Louise couldn’t make into a pie or jam. The peaches today don’t have the sweet taste of the peaches that I remember from my youth. The taste is different from the peaches of the 50’s & 60’s era… something has changed with the taste of our food…something is missing.

Anyway, because Dad could only sell fruit to our customers while it was fresh and was at odds on what to do with the fruits displaying signs of rot. Guess who was given the bad fruit?
                                                                  

Yep, the Maratea kids were given the apples, bananas, peaches, etc. with brown spots. It wasn’t until I was an adult and went shopping for food on my own that I realized that, contrary to what I was told as a child, bananas don’t grow on trees squishy and brown. Wow!

My father changed his ways as the time passed and grandchildren were born. After my divorce, my two year old daughter and I moved back in with my father. My mother was no longer there. No, she didn’t pass away…she took off, heading to sunny California, but that is a story that I’ll save for the book.

                                                                     

Fred was different with Rere. She was the first grandchild and was treated as royalty. When my father gave Rere fruit from the store, it was the prized peach or apple. My daughter never ate a banana that featured any brown spots.

                                                         

Why the big switch? One day, before I headed off to my job at St. Agnes Hospital located on Broad Street in South Philly, my father handed my daughter a big juicy peach to eat before she left for the Montessori pre-school across the street. I was curious and asked, “Fred, why the fresh fruit now and not when we were growing up?”

His reply, before heading back into the store was, “Dumb ass!” This was his normal response to any questions that he either refused to, or did not have an answer for. My daughter never having to dream about eating fruit without spots did not appreciate the gift given to her and because the peach was too big and she wasn’t able to finish it; she hid it.

                                                                      

I came home from work to find a plumber working diligently on the downstairs bathroom. There was something clogging the pipes. My father was mumbling under his breath about dumb-ass plumbers and how expensive they were, while my daughter, clueless to all the activity going on around her, played with her dolls.

My father and I were in the store wondering what could have possibly caused the back-up and following biblical flood in the bathroom, when the plumber came out holding the slightly eaten peach in his hand.

                                                           

My father, who would have taken the belt to us kids if we ever did anything like this in the good ole days, said nothing to my daughter or me. Grandchildren change the way we handle disasters. My father continued to give the best produce to his granddaughter and a special spot in the fridge for Rere to store her unfinished fruit.

Side note: Later that year, my father found another hiding spot where Rere stored her unwanted dinners; Fred’s snow boots.

                                                                            

Kids! What's the Matter with Kids Today?

                                                                            

Yes, the song is from Bye Bye Birdie and it’s as true today as it was when the musical came out in 1963.

 http://youtu.be/1wCXr_6wgns

Every time that I stop by my daughter’s house there’s never a dull moment. Today, I walked in as my daughter was asking the oldest of the desperadoes if he was taking her to the Mother and Son dance as part of his senior year graduation.

                                                                   

   

                                                                   “I don’t dance,” was his reply.

                                                                                      

                                                  “So, we’ll just go and hang out,” was hers.

                                                                                 

                                                                 “Nope!” he replied.

This went on back and forth for at least thirty minutes. Jimmy has given my daughter angst since he locked her out of the house when he was only two years old. Oh yeah, let me tell you about that. His brother Josh was only a few weeks old, and it was summer. Jimmy wanted the air conditioner on and he wanted to watch cartoon central (or something like it). ReRe wanted to do arts and crafts while infant Josh took a nap. She went out onto the porch to get the mail. What did Jimmy do?

                                                                    

                                                               

He locked the door; put on the air conditioner; put on the T.V. and made himself lunch. We’re talking only two years old.

The only reason my daughter was able to get into the house was because I had called from work and asked Jimmy to put Mommy on the phone. I wanted to take him to the park. When ReRe got on the phone and told me what he had done; I knew then that she was in for a ride of a life time. Believe me, Jimmy has perfected the art of driving his parents crazy, and I’ve had to talk his parents out of sending him to Military School many, many, times.

After thirty minutes of this back and forth, blah, blah, blah, I did what any grandmother would do; I reasoned with him, cajoled him and then finally threatened him. I would post baby pictures of him on my blog.

                                                                        

 

                                        Jimmy is taking his mother to the dance! Amen.

How the hell, did I get this old? or Receiving the 'CARD'

Okay, so around two weeks ago I received a letter from our government, the envelope stating official business.

"Now what?" I asked myself, as I pulled open the tab, only to find 'the card' inside with a book of instructions.

"Welcome to the band," my husband, who has been on Medicare for three years already, teased.

"Wait, I think there's some mistake. I'm not ready for Medicare," I replied, while mentally subtracting my date of birth from the present year.

He watched silently, as the realization hit me, knowing after thirty-one years of marriage, not to say a word, when steam begins to seep from my ears.

"Well this sucks," I said, throwing the unwanted information onto the dinning table, grabbing my purse and keys before announcing, "I'm going to visit the boys."

The boys are three of the nine grandchildren we have, and are experts at diversion, and I needed diversion to take my mind off that damn card. After picking them up, we went for ice cream and talked about their upcoming school year, music, zombies, and my writing. Finally, I brought up the card, explaining how it upset me.

"Well grandmom, you were born around the time of the Dinosaurs," the eldest teased, knowing I had worked at the Academy of Natural Sciences.

"Yeah, didn't you get to see the first moon landing?" piped in the second eldest.

"I'm surrounded by clowns. Thanks for perking me up," I teased back.

Finally the youngest spoke, saying, "I don't think you're old, because you do fun things, and always play pirates in the back yard."

"Yeah, you're a fun, grandmom," the older two chirped in, "You take us hiking, fishing, and you love zombies."

"Hey yeah, we do have fun. Thanks guys."

They accomplished what I wasn't able to do own my own, they helped me look at the whole picture,
when I returned home, after spending time with my advisors, I took the time to read the instructions   included with the card.

"You okay, now?" my husband asked, catching me reading, treading softly, in case I was still in a bad mood.

Yeah, I'm fine," I replied, and I was.

I was born in time to see the space program begin, watching the first landing on the moon. I got to see the Beatles live in 1964, took part in the peace marches against Vietnam, protested for equal rights, lived and worked during the feminist movement and loving every bit of it. I'm surrounded by a large and growing family, and I'm still on the go.

Even though, I'm retired from the Academy of Natural Sciences, I didn't retire from life, and in fact, I'm doing more than ever. I advocate for Unicef and Somaly mam against human trafficking, I finished my first book of a Paranormal trilogy, I'm into steampunk, going out once a month to Dorian's. I've joined a ghost hunter's group and will be going on a three day haunting this month, I took my granddaughter to see Lady GaGa, getting a super box, front row seats. I loved the show and became a GaGa fan. My next concert will be with Usher, next time he's in town, per Nathan's wishes.

So, the Medicare card, no longers upsets me. It's a 'token', telling the world, "Watch out because you're dealing with a boomer and we kick butt."

The only down side to this story is the tons of advertising coming to me from insurance companies eager to make me a member.

I'll end now with a quote from Spock. "Live long and prosper."  Amen to that.