Of nativity scenes and Christmas joy

I usually try to write posts that will appeal to a general audience, no inside jokes, no personal details, because I believe the journey of an adult child is universal. However, I also write as therapy, so this post is different. You can probably stop reading right now if we didn’t grow up together. Or not. Anyway, I can’t blame the contents of this post on any one but myself–unlike those mystery thumb tacks in the door…

This will be my first Christmas as an “adult orphan,” my first with no living parent. Of course, that goes for my eight siblings as well. The nine of us will each get through the holiday in our own way, feeling their absence as individually as we felt their presence when we were children. Despite our being a pack of nine, despite the fact that we are still recognized in our home town, decades later,  as “one of the Pola children,” there is no doubt we were raised to be separate, independently thinking units of one.

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Until we meet again

It’s as if I’ve walked in to a party, expecting to see her there. The host notices my expectant look and, ever attentive, taps me gently on the shoulder.

“You’ve just missed her,” he says softly and I flinch with surprise.

It happens time and again as I work my way through the crowd, through the days and weeks, through a lifetime ahead. I thought for sure I’d see her again. But though she’s slipped away and left the party, it’s not as if she’s gone unnoticed. She has left her mark, undoubtedly.  Rising from the murmur of the guests,  there is no hiss of idle gossip, only a whisper of fond remembrances. Yes, I thought for sure I’d see her. I have so much to tell her.  Perhaps another time.

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In memoriam

peg-and-carlo-loving-touch

I had the privilege of delivering the eulogy at my mother’s celebration of life that took place at St. John’s church in Sandwich on April 19, 2017. Perhaps you’ve read the memoir that spurred this website… perhaps not (available here on Amazon).  If you have, you already know the essence of my mother, Peggy Pola, as well as my father Carlo. If you haven’t read the memoir, I hope you’ll get to know her just a bit from the text that follows.

Margaret (Peggy) Pola

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Across the last bridge

My parents were builders of bridges in so many ways. My father’s original poem merely laid the planks on top of what was already a solid foundation– and from there, the path stretched on and on. As my mother’s surviving sister reminded the family, the bridge still stands, it just now crosses a wider divide. Below you’ll read a little bit about my mother, Peggy, and perhaps understand why she stood as a shining example to us all. What appears below is the text of her published obituary.

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In celebration: Happy 100th, Daddy

I can just imagine it: the way his usually rigid jaw and tight lips would soften in a half-smile. When told, he would query quietly, “Am I?” His blue eyes would twinkle and he’d pause just a second then say, “Well, I guess I am,” and chuckle softly. He was not a man to wallow in his accomplishments but this is something he wanted for so long. He would have turned 100.

You would have never guessed his age. His appearance, like the rest of him, was both an open book and an enigma. Stripes and plaids, a copper bracelet, a belt of twisted cable, the watch he wore upside-down.  Though he offered no pretense, you never knew him well until you read between the lines. He did not waste words but neither did he mince them. A single glance spoke volumes. He did not lavish praise but conveyed his love unfailingly.

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