Cause and Effect?

This Saturday, my parents were fixin' to go to a birthday party for one of my dad's maternal aunts. I knew the dear lady was "up there" in age, but didn't know the number, so when my mom told me it was 97 I was suitably impressed. Another thing I didn't know is that my great aunt had some troubles with her heart and that she's suffering from depression and thinking a lot about death. (That I've inherited the depression gene from my dad's side of the family, and have thought about death pretty much daily since I was maybe 5 years old, I didn't bother mentioning. I mean, what's the point in upsetting my mom when there's nothing she can do to help me?)

Anyway, my mom noted that my great aunt's lucky in having so many children who love and look after her, who check in with her regularly, so that she's not going gentle into that good night all by her lonesome. (I'm embellishing a little; I don't believe my mom's familiar with the poetry of Dylan Thomas). She anticipated that the party would be just annoying enough to cheer my great aunt, what with folks asking her the secret to her longevity. In a rare moment of like-mindedness, my mom and I agreed that there's very little cause and effect with regard to these matters. You can eat healthfully, exercise, and never miss a doctor's appointment or medical test and die young. You can eat crap, do all sorts of drugs, and live long (and prosper!).

From there, our conversation turned to the old controversy of nature v. nurture. Somewhat shockingly, we again agreed that it makes more sense to think about things in terms of an individual's disposition and willingness to unlearn bad stuff/press on with good stuff. Again, there's no guarantee that a person raised in a "good" environment will turn out to be "good," and that a "bad" environment insures a "bad" person. We understood that there's no formula for human perfection. Living's an art, not a science. We all make choices, it's just that sometimes we need help with choosing to do "good" (and sometimes, some need a little more help than others).

Finally (and I think I may have seen pigs flying by that point), we concurred that people seek 1) the easiest of answers to the profoundest mysteries of life, 2) rough and ready labels for one another, and 3) pithy sayings to summarize the human experience. One that I find particularly loathsome is the ubiquitous, "Everything happens for a reason." It comforts some to think this, perhaps because it assures them that, though they've no control over devastating external events, some benign hand guides them, and even the most awful thing has some deeper meaning and purpose. Me, I'm not so sure (which, I suppose, makes me a very bad, quasi-practicing Catholic, indeed). Given some of the horrors visited upon us, I can't help think the "lessons" are overly harsh. I don't see any intrinsic value in suffering and I don't believe that it's necessary for growth and learning (in my view, positive reinforcement works better than negative). Rather, I'd simply paraphrase Keanu Reeves and say, "Everything happens." The challenge isn't to find meaning in the happenings, but to arise from the smoldering embers of destruction and create meaning, and the reality you desire, despite them.

On Sunday, I nibbled a monk-style breakfast of bread and Portuguese cheese (eaten by Portuguese monks, of course) while watching Futurama reruns. The season 7 finale lampoons documentaries of animals in the wild, with the Planet Express peeps playing the roles of the animals, so to speak. There are three segments in it; in the first, Leela and Fry, as salmon, struggle against tide and time to spawn. That done, they die, and as they float away, the Morgan-Freeman-like narrator says,

"And so the endless circle of life comes to an end; meaningless and grim. Why did they live and why did they die? No reason."

I paused mid-chew to ponder this (because I can't masticate and think simultaneously, obviously). Nearly on the heels of my philosophical discourse with my mother (an extremely rare occurrence), it struck me, hard. But I've concluded that I'm not quite there, just yet. Whether it's because I need the comfort of belief in a reason for living, or because I'm too stubborn and stupid to accept that there may not be one, I can't say for sure. No, I totally don't buy that "everything happens for a reason." But I feel that we happen for a reason (us living creatures, I mean). I guess it's the drive to discern that reason, or to make our own reason, that propels us all through to our inexorable good nights.

Mom & The Cat Face

Mom, in her early teens.

July 22 was my mother's birthday and so, to honor her, I thought I'd write about The Cat Face.

A bit of background on Mom: she's the third of four daughters born to poor folks in a small village in central Portugal. It was a very rough life—her father died of tuberculosis when she was about 4, leaving her mother hard pressed to care for herself and her family. The girls had to be left with their maternal grandparents (my great-greats) for a time, so my grandmother could scratch out an income for them all.

The way Mom tells it, while her grandfather was a gentle old fellow, her grandmother was quite stern, and when they weren't working the family farm, they were praying the Rosary. Life was not only hard but mostly humorless for my Mom and her sisters, yet they found a way to make their own fun. The gals developed a method of cracking one another up on the sly in the form of The Cat Face. It's just what it sounds like—when their grandparents weren't looking, they'd catch one another's eyes and contort their faces into expressions they imagined to resemble a cat's. The evening Rosary sessions became less prayer-like and more suppressed-giggle fests. I have to say, knowing what I do of my great-greats' no-nonsense attitude re: the Lord, I'm mightily impressed with my Mom and surviving aunts (the eldest passed away many years ago of heart problems). It took a lot of guts for them to goof off, however innocently, given how dire the consequences would've been if they'd been caught.

Mom, flashing her gams, but not The Cat Face.

Adulthood didn't mean The Cat Face went into retirement, oh, no. As my sister and I grew up we were treated to it by our Mom regularly. Always surreptitiously, though; if Dad was looking, The Cat Face stayed hidden. But the second his eyes shifted and Mom had our attention, the Face flashed, this bizarrely hideous, wrinkled-up nose, tongue stuck out, grimace. Actually, it could be a bit frightening when we were younger. Now, it cracks us up, because Mom still tosses it out at us.

The "tradition" is that The Cat Face can be shown to females of any age or children of either sex, but never, ever to adult males. Never, never, ever. Mom's speed and stealth have only improved over time, and her daring has grown so that at a table full of family, she will still keep an eye out for a moment that the gals are looking her way and the guys aren't and boom, baby—The Cat Face strikes again, leaving all the men wondering what the hell the chicks are laughing at. My sister has worked at perfecting this art and will often trade Cat Faces with Mom whenever she comes to town for a meal, leaving me choking on my vinho verde. I, alas, am not as adept as they, and can't manage a proper Cat Face to save my life. The shame of it haunts me.

One Christmas around the dinner table, I teased my Mom about no longer being able to get away with doing The Cat Face as quickly as she used to. She didn't realize she was being baited, as I had a camera waiting in my lap to catch her in the very act. So naturally, she had to prove me wrong and SNAP, FLASH! I got a picture of it!!! My aunt and (female) cousin's hoots of hilarity, plus the look of shock, and then fury on Mom's face were all the reward I needed, even if the picture didn't come out (which it totally did). I would dearly love to share it with you all today but, even if Mom hadn't threatened me with unspeakable acts should the photo ever come to light, my sister warned me not to break The Cat Face Code - no men may ever see its grotesque glory. My apologies, y'all—call me a tease if you will, but I must respect the Code or forfeit my honor. (Such as it is.)

So, Happy Birthday, Mom, and Viva La Cat Face!

Shooting at the Devil...

You wanna pass me over a what, now?

I recently discovered a blog which has quite gripped my fancy - As the Crowe Flies by author Penelope Crowe. Her book, 100 Unfortunate Days, is described on Amazon as being "...the diary of a woman of the verge of a breakthrough--or breakdown." With an opening like that, you can bet this'll prove to be a wild trip. I've not read it yet (it's available as an eBook right now and I've no eReader, so I'm waiting for it to come out in paperback format in the coming month or so, 'cause that's just how I roll). But Crowe's put some excerpts up on her blog, from the amusing Day 10, which provides "profiles" of a variety of pet owners, to Day 23, a dark fable which left me feeling rather hollow. In another post, Do You Believe in Possession? A True Story, Crowe writes about her friend, a young woman who suffered from and succumbed to Wilson's disease, though Crowe wonders if demonic possession was at the root of her illness. An unsettling post, certainly, but what really struck a strange chord in me was that the friend was in Portugal when the spooky stuff went down.

I'm a first-generation American of Portuguese descent. One thing about my peeps across the ocean that's always perplexed me is that, for a ridonkulously Catholic country, the folks there got superstition oozing out their what-whats. For instance, you can't say with any certainty that a thing you're planning will come to pass - you say it will, "Se Deus quiser" ("If God is willing"). For this reason alone, if you wish a Portuguese a happy birthday before that event takes place, you may induce a stroke in the poor unfortunate. Belief, whether real or "just in cases," of O mau olhado (the evil eye) is so pervasive that folks will give a newborn to the family a charm bracelet meant to protect the babe from supernatural harm. If a kid's stretched out across the floor, God forbid you step over him or her - the child's mother will insist you cross back over because you've just opened the kid up to eeeeeee-viiiiiiiiiiiil and you must close that "circle," imediatamente! (For realz!) Mind you, not all the 'guesers are that twitchy but the average native buys into this stuff just enough to make him careful not to cut a homemade loaf of bread when it's fresh out of the oven and still hot (because that would be the same thing as cutting into the loaf's maker, as everyone knows).

I myself have long been interested in things mysterious and spooky, from tarot cards to ouija boards, runes to gemstones, witchcraft to astrology to dream interpretation, vampires to werewolves, you name it. I've been told that my occult bent stems from a branch a little higher up on the family tree - my dad's maternal uncle (my great uncle), Tio Nuno*. (TEE-oo NOO-noo.) AND, as it happens, though the gentleman never met me in person, he did diagnose me as being "possessed" of some kinda yuck.

Tio Nuno was a typical, chouriço-fed farm boy from a podunk village in the middle of Portugal, until he traveled to exotic Brazil to make his fortune. This he did, and came back an "Espiritista," or Spiritualist, to boot. With his newly earned coin, he set about buying some forested land, a vineyard, and whatever else seemed a good money-earning prospect, and the man did well for himself. But he developed the reputation for being involved in bruxaria (witchcraft) and, to be honest, alcohol. My dad tells some entertaining tales of Tio Nuno's exploits, which frequently transpired in the black of night, while Tio Nuno made his way home from carousing with women and spirits of the liquid variety, his trusty pistol within easy reach. One time, as he made his way along the dusty road to the neighboring city of Aveiro, Tio Nuno was surprised by the Devil, who straddled the cliffs that bordered the road and effectively blocked his path. He told Old Scratch to get bent, who (unsurprisingly) wasn't inclined to oblige him. So Tio Nuno whipped out his pistol, fired off a few shots, and, when that failed to yield the desired result, prudently took an alternate route to his destination. Another time, as he engaged in his nocturnal rambles through the woods, he saw a light flaming from the top of a pine tree. Tio Nuno called out but heard no answer. He resorted to his pistol again, shot at the light, but it wouldn't go out. So he took an alternate route home. Yet another time, as he approached his parents' house in the wee hours of the morning, he found a lamb chillin' by the front door. He couldn't get past the lamb and couldn't shoo it away. Thankfully disdaining his pistol this time around, he scooted around to the back of the house, thinking to get in through the backdoor, but that tricky lamb was already there, once again blocking his access to the house. So what did Tio Nuno do? Well, he took an alternate route to Dreamland by snuggling underneath a nearby haystack, where he was discovered by his parents in the morning.

These stories are great for a laugh over a glass of vinho verde and some tremoços, but the one involving me is slightly less goofy.

Mom and Pop brought me over from the States when I was a wee one so the family could meet their first born. Apparently, I gave them a bit of trouble - I stayed up crying the first nights they were in Portugal, growing cold and clammy from getting so worked up. Nothing they tried soothed me. I hadn't been colicky or anything up till then, so there was no reason they could discern for my fussing. They took me to a local doc who assured them that I was medically fine. So my Mom put it down to me feeling out of sorts from being in an unfamiliar environment. Or, you know, the evil eye (I dig that she didn't rule anything out). Shortly after the doc visit, Tio Nuno stopped by my paternal grandmother's house and my Avó told him about my peculiar spells. Because my Grandma's husband had recently passed away, she wondered if he might somehow be "visiting" me and generally freaking me out. Tio Nuno thought there might be a larger problem and asked her if any of my clothes or belongings were lying around. She found something of mine and brought it to him, which he examined carefully. After a while he told her that someone in the family wished me ill, but he wouldn't specify who (the big tease). He gave her the following instructions to pass on to my parents:

1. Make the baby a wreath of garlic and sprinkle her with holy water.
2. Make a bonfire and toss into it some rosemary, rue, and eucalyptus.
3. Pass the baby through the smoke of this fire and pray to some saints (which specific ones is lost in the mists of time).

When my Mom heard all this from my Grandma she nodded politely but privately thought there was no friggin' way she was going to pass me over a bonfire (the Portuguese equivalent of this thought, obviously). Instead, when she went to put me to sleep that night, she laid me on my back and prayed the Apostles Creed over me three times, all the while making the Sign of the Cross over me, asking God to liberate me from whatever ailed me. And, according to her, from then on, I did get better.

I have to admit, I'm disappointed that she didn't try the bonfire thing. Also, I think I'd look pretty smashing in a garlic wreath (kickin' it old-school!). But seriously, I'm proud of my Mom for turning to her faith during this peculiar phase in our lives...I hope I'll always turn to God, in good times and in bad. Still, I'd love to know who hit me with the bad juju, so I could avenge myself (and my parents) by TPing her house.

*Nuno was not his real name, but it is a common - and unique - Portuguese name, for an uncommon man!

Blog, the First

Some...

...girls are bigger than others?

...day, someway, maybe I'll understand you?

...people dance cheek to cheek?

...like it hot, and some sweat when the heat is on?

...times the truth is harder than the pain inside?

Dark...

I first became aware of mortality, generally, and of my own in particular, when I was about five. I was in kindergarten at a Catholic school and, as my classmates speculated about that spring's Easter Bunny haul, I was haunted by the "Davey and Goliath" Easter special, in which Davey's grandmother dies, which I seem to recall thinking was pretty messed up. (GAH, just watching this clip tied my stomach in knots.)

Anyway, my mind's traveled a gloomy trajectory ever since, though I prefer my doom with a liberal dose of L.O.L. (I adore "Shaun of the Dead"). Also, I prefer supernatural monsters to psycho-killers (though the Talking Heads tune is groovalicious), 'cause they're, like, totally not real. Probably. Anyway, as time goes by and the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune perforate my poor, tortured psyche, I find I gravitate even more closely toward that which is...well, dark.

Romantic...

I gravitated toward books at an early age too - possibly, my first literary obsession was the Nancy Drew series. Sure, I enjoyed a good, neatly resolved mystery, and how could I fail to love that it was the chicks who figured everything out??? But, being completely honest, the thing that absolutely drove me to read more, more, MORE was the hope that something...special would happen between Nancy and her boyfriend Ned. I wanted their love to blossom. At the tender age of 9 or 10, my sweet, school-uniformed, unquestioning-obedience-to-authority, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth self wanted Nancy and Ned to...put on some Marvin Gaye. (I had no idea what this meant back then, and yet somehow, I kinda did.) And beneath what I sensed was a physical event I believed should lie a grand, passionate, everlasting love...and since Nancy had it all, I wanted it for myself, with one whose heart could match the nobility of my own.

So, as dark and somewhat twisted as I am, the romantic in me allows hope to dance her dangerous way through my heart...which brings me here to pollute the world with my nonsense, 'cause, you know, all the other kids are doing it.