Cranberry Blog
Paul Lazarovich (948)     
http://www.cranberrycountry.com
Posted Wednesday, June 13, 2007 (2 years 149 days ago.) Viewed 676 times.
My mom died this past December-Two weeks before Christmas.
Approximately thirty-three months after having started chemotherapy.
Nearly three-plus years after she and Dad had learned that the night sweats, re-occurring back pains and the constant tiredness was actually a killer that had taken over her unsuspecting body. My Mom had non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.
In the recesses of my mind I hid the fact that my mother was sick. That she was going to die. I purposely pushed aside the doctors' reminders that they weren't sure how long she would be with us – “ten months, ten years." "This happens to other people. It can't be real. A plot line for an episode of ER. Not my mother," I thought.
I recall after she had stopped her chemotherapy, how reassured I felt in seeing her progress. Things seemed wonderful. It was a period of over a year during which Mom was herself again: playing with her cherished two grand daughters, getting her hair done, shopping every Thursday at Stop and Shop. Her spirit - along with her hair and love for life - had returned. She was even arguing with Dad - just like old times.
Give or take a few pounds on her dying body, my mother's return had me fooled. Forgetting that she was living on borrowed time, I tossed aside the "ten-to-ten" sentence the specialists had handed down. I was too frightened to ask when her time would be up. It's my Mom. Hell, after all, she was supposed to live forever. See MY kids get married.
When I last saw her - tubes running in and out of her body, an electronic device spitting out jagged lines that informed us she had only days left - I still couldn't fathom that this was happening to my Mom - that once beautiful twenty-two year old kid who said "I do" to Dad fifty years ago.
She died the next morning on December 9.
Christmas and New Years passed. And although Mom wasn't present for the season that meant so much to her, I tossed it aside, telling myself that she was still in the hospital. During that past year she was hospitalized - on and off from April until about September. I had gotten used to driving into Boston, asking “how's it going, ma" or celebrating another holiday - like Mother's Day - with Mom hospitalized. She - always informing me that things were going fine and she was hoping to get out soon. Me - safe in believing her lie.
It was only until a short while ago, February 9, to be exact, however, when it finally hit me. My Mother was dead. She was no longer there.
It wasn't an epiphany or a glimpse at an old picture that did it. Wasn't even the reminder card from the funeral home that sat on our refrigerator.
It was baked ziti.
Wednesdays usually meant baked ziti at our house. Kate worked on Wednesdays. Left with the task of serving dinner to our two hungry daughters - a dinner that wouldn't include a burger, french fries and a toy - I would make the filling pasta dish that my mother had taught me.
Though she had repeated the recipe, close to a hundred times according to my wife, I never wrote it down. Nor did I commit it to memory. What this translated into was a ritual. Ok, more like an ongoing comic battle of sorts. My mother - on the right (she WAS right) - demanding that I jot down the recipe's few steps. And on the left, me. Teasing and begging her to tell me how to make baked ziti - "just this last time, Mom. Honest. I’ll write it down."
The Wednesday recipe ritual carried on for over four years. Usually in the form of an afternoon telephone call that sounded like this:
ME: "Hi, Mom." (Stated very quickly so she would not have the chance to ask if I was going to ask about the recipe). "I'm uh, making the girls that recipe again. Say, uh, is that 350 ° or 325 ° I'm supposed to bake the ziti in?
MOM: "Paul, didn't you write that down? (Sternly) Now what do you think it is?" It's 325!"
ME: "Oh yeah, 325, I remember." (Very quickly to catch her off guard) How's dad, now do you glob spaghetti sauce on the bottom first, then add the ricotta mix?"
MOM: (Not catching on at first) "Dad's fine. He's...( Angrily) Oh, I told you it's sauce on the bottom! How come you haven't written this down. I’m going to crown you"
Our "Who's On First" routine would go on for about ten minutes. Chuckling, I would end the call, delighted to have continued our ritual. And I would hang up - assured that I'd never have to write down that recipe.
Until last month.
You see, I hadn't made baked ziti since about the early summer. Mom was home and feeling better then, and I prepared my youngest daughter's favorite dinner only after our Abbott and Costello conversation took place. Until then, however, I realized that I hadn't made baked ziti since she fell ill - and never made that dish unless it was preceded by my call.
As I was preparing to make her ziti dish on that chilly February day, I picked up the phone. Then quickly hung up.
I realized that she was no longer there. She was gone. My mother was dead.
And I couldn't quite remember. Was it 325 ° or 350 °?
And I could not ask her.
And I hadn’t written it down.
My mom died this past December - two weeks before Christmas.
Cranberry Country Communications. 2005. All rights reserved.
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Posted Friday, June 08, 2007 (2 years 154 days ago.) Viewed 6,800 times.
Can you believe it? Ads for laser hair removal. Athletes shaving their chests; magazine ads containing smooth-chested male models without one, single strand of…hair?
I truly am a member of another era.
"Hey, I bet he don't need no sweater in the winter, huh guys?" snickered the six-foot something, twenty-something. His "something" said loud enough to resonate among the nearby lockers, intended to rebound toward me.
Chuckling and rib-jabbing his buddies, the ringleader and his band of merrymakers (making merry at my expense, that is) continued their men’s locker room glares and comments.
I hastily threw on my favorite workout shirt, pretended I didn't see them, grabbed my Evian water and ran the stairs up to the courts. I turned, made sure they were gone, and then muttered so that no one would hear me, "Lucky for you, mister! "
Lucky for all of them, all right! For I had maintained restraint, successfully avoiding having to teach them a lesson. The moral of which they would never forget - "Walker, Texas Ranger" style!
But to be honest, I’ve never retaliated.
Through the years I have had to learn and practice that rigid self-control. Today? It's second nature - able to keep myself in check whenever I hear the taunts or whispers. I am able to remain in the zone, with a stoic, faraway look in my eyes – sort of like Chan in "Kung Fu" whenever I feel the stings of a strange stare; the chill of a chuckle, the jolt of a jocular jab.
Their comments, looks and snide remarks become especially prevalent during the summer months. At the beach, for example, I'd be part of the same scene, enacted over and over each season.
A red-faced Mom's "I'm sorry." Followed by her embarrassed attempt to hurry little Johnny along, sheepishly tugging his arm, when from out of the mouths of babes - echoing for all to hear- he lets go a parting shot, "But Mom, it does look like that man IS covered with seaweed, with seaweed…with seawee...with sea."
Lying on my blanket I'd get wind of parents and young couples using me as a living-lighthouse beacon. Eyes closed, basking in the rays of the summer sun, pretending I was asleep, I'd hear them. Helping their "significant other" recall his or her spot in the sand - or reminding the kids what to look for if they got lost. Their words so strikingly similar - and stinging.
"Just look for THAT guy," they'd say, pointing at me. A pause; a chuckle. "You know!"
Or to impress a girlfriend, from the young men I would inevitably hear, "Just look for HIM. We're on the blanket next to THAT guy. (Snicker). The one with the...(pointing to his chest)."
I got to admit, when I first heard the comments I was bewildered. Was I saddled with some unusual features? A Marsha-Brady-Getting-Hit-In-The-Face-With-A-Football swelled nose, perhaps? The cauliflowered ears of an Ultimate Fighter, maybe?
Certainly wasn't my well-tempered body of steel that caused their attention. I mean, I did play high school sports! Okay, not really. No one ever mistook me for Swartzenegger.
What then. Was it the cut of my clothes?
Was I my father? Wearing the equivalent of white socks and shoes with an aqua color, leisure suit - embarrassing me at the high school Father/Son Banquet?
I had always considered myself sort of a fashion plate - knowing when to shed the flares, platforms and smiley-face clothing of one generation - keeping in tune and moving to the flares, platform heels and smiley-face clothing of another.
No, wasn’t my sartorial splendor. Could it have been the hairstyle? My mutton chop sideburns and moustache were ancient history. And my "Steve Perry from Journey" haircut was tossed aside years ago.
So, what was it?
To my great consternation, I learned that it was worse than what I had first imagined. Because in this matter - I had no choice. I had to play the hand I was dealt with. Dance with the gal I brung to the dance. I was a horse of a different color - saddled with what the Man Up Above - and family genetics - had left me.
For what adorned my body - proudly worn as a swaggering high school kid - and for what had once served as a backdrop for pukka beads, and, during the Travolta-Saturday-Night-Fever era - a gold chain - was no longer hip.
Today, I was uncool; outdated goods. A capital "U" as in Unhip. My chest bore the generation of today's scarlet letter. I was trapped in a body. One that - during a previous time - was naturally considered "cool," “in."
I was a hairy-chested guy!
Was it really that long ago when every guy like myself yearned for the Burt Reynolds’ look? I remember checking - on an almost daily basis - to see what God had brought forth to my bony, adolescent chest.
Why it seemed like only yesterday when those strands first appeared - eyed with great envy by my teammates in the locker room. Later, serving as the hot topic at the table where the cool cheerleaders sat. (At least I hoped so).
Back then, my hairy-chested brethren and I would find ANY excuse to wear V-neck sweaters, seven days a week - without a shirt! Even during record breaking ninety-degree days! Our cotton-fibered sweaters were carefully selected so that our "natural fibers" could be viewed by all.
In fact, hairy chest became a part of our lingo. "Your as cool as a moose - and twice as hairy," was a sought after compliment. While "eat all your vegetables; it'll put hair on your chest," prompted us to take a second helping of carrots at the dinner table.
Being hairy-chested also served as the basis of a running bad joke uttered by us guys hanging out on the corner - during our sophomoric, adolescent - non-politically correct - days.
The joke went something like this:
Corner-Hanging Guy: "Hey, Sully. Your mom has everything a man wants!"
Sully (Going along with the gag): "What dy’a mean by that?"
Corner Hanging Guy (laughing hysterically): "She has a deep voice, a low numbered license plate (dramatic pause) – and a hairy chest!"
(OK. We weren’t the funniest guys around. But we didn’t have to be. We were cool. We had hairy chests!)
But as I further advance into the 2000s it's clear that the tide has changed. And unlike the tide at the beaches where I am starred at and talked about, it appears that this one's not coming back anytime soon.
Being cool, nowadays, takes the form of those male TV show cast members - of the "One-Tree-Hill-Beverly-Hills-9010-The OC" type - with their smooth-as-frozen-cranberry-bog chests. Replacing us - disciples of the hairy-chest.
The idolized Mark Spitz hairy-chested swimmer's body of a generation past has been taken over by that new young Olympic swimmer kid guy - showing off his silky shaven chest. And after winning the butterfly!
We’ve even been pushed aside by cool, once hairy-chested rock stars. Guys like John Bon Jovi – who have waxed, lazered, shaved, Naired or electrolysized themselves into bare, buffed beauties! Ah Robert Plante; will you ever forgive them?
In newspapers and men's magazines it continues. The countless ads that blatantly advertise laser hair treatments! To remove "unsightly chest hair" their ads scream!
Nevertheless, I did feel that I still had MY generation watching my back. Er, make that chest. However, to my horror, many of my brethren have fallen. In an effort to get back at being cool, they’ve taken advantage of the latest hair-removing technology. Today they wander - chest-hair free. Free from the fuzz that once was. "Just because," one ex-hairy-chested guy snottily informed me.
But it is a new era, and I am resigned to live with what the good Lord has blessed me. Though not without some modifications.
Today? Won’t catch me wearing a V-neck sweater without an undershirt.
I have added a large collection of t-shirts to my wardrobe – specifically to be worn AT the beach.
Scarves are worn without question. Turtlenecks have replaced my open neck shirts. And as I look to the future - I realize that ascots may soon find a welcome home in my walk-in closet.
Never again to proudly display my badge of courage, I live (or at least my chest hairs do) in hopes of someday rising up. Thinking that there will come the day when I will be able to hold my head high – and my hairy chest out.
Until then? I will remain, hairy-chest hidden.
But proudly still unshaven!
For I am the last of the hairy-chested guys!
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