Mary tore into her New Year's Day fortune cookie, handing me the fortune and inhaling the cookie.
The best fortune ever found by a young child belonged to my sister who, at eight or nine, found "only thing better than great wall is cocaine" in her folded treat. Mother grabbed it away as she sounded out the last word and handed it back to the owner's son, not terribly interested in an explanation. Almond cookies and sorbet were served gratis.
Mary's fortune was a question, "what is something you have loved and lost?"
Without hesitation, and with barely a break from the cookie, she answered, "BonBon".
Not terribly funny, but one of the best just the same.
NorthSideFour: You're never too old, too wacky, too wild, to pick up a book and read to a child. Dr. Suess
Showing posts with label Bonnie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bonnie. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Still Stings
Just this morning,
Mary: Mom, remember when we were in Dallas, when we went to church, after BonBon went to heaven?
Me: I do.
Mary: Tooty was crying, I saw her crying when we went in that room.
Me: You're right, Tooty was sad, she missed BonBon.
Mary: Oh.....Mom?
Me: Yes?
Mary: Me too.
Mary: Mom, remember when we were in Dallas, when we went to church, after BonBon went to heaven?
Me: I do.
Mary: Tooty was crying, I saw her crying when we went in that room.
Me: You're right, Tooty was sad, she missed BonBon.
Mary: Oh.....Mom?
Me: Yes?
Mary: Me too.
Monday, March 23, 2009
On a Wish and a Prayer
The girls have found new delight in tossing coins into fountains while making a wish. Happening upon a fountain today at lunch I dug out two pennies, both dropped quite unceremoniously into the water.
Kate: Are you ready for this? This is a good one. I wished that my fork could talk, then I could talk to my fork!
Mary: I wished that BonBon didn't have to die.
Kate: Mary, everyone dies.
Duh.
Kate: Are you ready for this? This is a good one. I wished that my fork could talk, then I could talk to my fork!
Mary: I wished that BonBon didn't have to die.
Kate: Mary, everyone dies.
Duh.
Monday, March 16, 2009
What Are You?
Growing up in the suburbs of Kansas City makes you a white girl from the suburbs, very few ethnic neighborhoods to be found in Johnson County. There was a rumor about someone in high school being Italian, of course with mob ties, but that was all just talk, certainly not possible. Jewish was about as exotic as it got, although you didn't actually know anyone was Jewish until their seat was empty on Rosh Hashanah, and even then it took a few hours to figure out why about a third of the class was missing. For years I dreamed of being asked to swim at the Jewish Community Center, so curious to see what actually went on behind those closed Jewish doors, and sadly, never invited.
Eight grade touched on ethnicity for about 10 minutes in the extremely controversial "Decisions for Living" class taught by science teacher Joe Long. "Where is your partner's family from?" questioned Joe Long. My table mate was Julie whose last name was quite long and very Italian. It took me about 10 guesses to get to Italy. Having never been asked this question before I went with England, assigning based on my very white bread surname. That evening I asked my dad the same question, "You my dear are what one would call a Heinz 57". I was even more confused.
In Chicago everyone has an ethnicity. Neighborhoods still tout their ethnic pride, if you grew up near Lincoln and Lawrence you are probably German, if you are from Bridgeport, Irish, and Taylor Street, Italian. Years ago a colleague asked where I was from. Kansas City offered no clue as to my ethnic heritage, she probed further "what are you?". My mutt response was unsatisfactory, everyone is something, how could you not be something?
Researching my family history has taught me that I am, in fact, something. I correctly guessed that my family name was British, that branch of my family coming to this country in the late 1600's from the west coast of England. My grandmothers were both Celts, one from Ireland and one from Scotland. The remaining piece is somewhat a puzzle, English and Irish being my best guess.
As an adult I notice that my mother, her sister and brother all have red hair like their mother. And they all like shortbread. My father's mother, Mary, and her sisters Margaret and Katherine, all short Catholics with a penchant for apples and potatoes. Mimi loved Bing Crosby and although she grew up in the "Irish Need Not Apply" years, so much of her, in her cooking, or singing, or faith, clearly stemmed from her deep Irish roots. With my Aunt Katherine I share a love of tea, with BonBon, shortbread, and from Mimi, apples, Bing and my Catholic faith, a choice I made as an adult, possibly giving me the roots I never knew I had.
The white bread surname is still mine, and I couldn't be prouder. Although my children will live their life identified as Irish, it is my responsibility to teach them the other names that came before, all making lasting impressions on who they are. Oddly their love of sushi follows no known family lineage.
Happy St. Patrick's Day, slainte!
Eight grade touched on ethnicity for about 10 minutes in the extremely controversial "Decisions for Living" class taught by science teacher Joe Long. "Where is your partner's family from?" questioned Joe Long. My table mate was Julie whose last name was quite long and very Italian. It took me about 10 guesses to get to Italy. Having never been asked this question before I went with England, assigning based on my very white bread surname. That evening I asked my dad the same question, "You my dear are what one would call a Heinz 57". I was even more confused.
In Chicago everyone has an ethnicity. Neighborhoods still tout their ethnic pride, if you grew up near Lincoln and Lawrence you are probably German, if you are from Bridgeport, Irish, and Taylor Street, Italian. Years ago a colleague asked where I was from. Kansas City offered no clue as to my ethnic heritage, she probed further "what are you?". My mutt response was unsatisfactory, everyone is something, how could you not be something?
Researching my family history has taught me that I am, in fact, something. I correctly guessed that my family name was British, that branch of my family coming to this country in the late 1600's from the west coast of England. My grandmothers were both Celts, one from Ireland and one from Scotland. The remaining piece is somewhat a puzzle, English and Irish being my best guess.
As an adult I notice that my mother, her sister and brother all have red hair like their mother. And they all like shortbread. My father's mother, Mary, and her sisters Margaret and Katherine, all short Catholics with a penchant for apples and potatoes. Mimi loved Bing Crosby and although she grew up in the "Irish Need Not Apply" years, so much of her, in her cooking, or singing, or faith, clearly stemmed from her deep Irish roots. With my Aunt Katherine I share a love of tea, with BonBon, shortbread, and from Mimi, apples, Bing and my Catholic faith, a choice I made as an adult, possibly giving me the roots I never knew I had.
The white bread surname is still mine, and I couldn't be prouder. Although my children will live their life identified as Irish, it is my responsibility to teach them the other names that came before, all making lasting impressions on who they are. Oddly their love of sushi follows no known family lineage.
Happy St. Patrick's Day, slainte!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Bonnie Jean MacDougall Purdin Russell
My aunt called on Tuesday, perhaps we should head to Dallas, unsure as to what was happening, and hating for us to miss our grandmother, she thought maybe it would be best for us to err on the safe side and get to Dallas as soon as possible. We left Kansas City the next day. And in Oklahoma City she called, my grandmother had died in her sleep that morning, and we were only three hours away.
The truth is that for the last few days she might not have known we were there. This cancer hit quickly; at 96, when everything moves at a slow pace, cancer takes over in no time. My frustration came at the diagnosis, in amazingly good health her entire life, why at 96 did she have to face cancer? Why couldn't she move on at her own time, on her own terms? Why cancer? In the end I believe she made her own choice, opting to step out before we arrived. My aunt believes she choose to keep the little girls from seeing her in such a compromised state and I tend to agree, that kind of selflessness in complete alignment with her character.
Bonnie was my mother's mom, and for too many years I followed my mother's lead, not making the trips to Dallas that I should have, not working on the closeness that we had when she died. It was Mary and Kate who brought me back to Dallas, and Jack, who pointed out soon after they were born that not every child born to a 37 year old mother has a great grandmother. At six months we were on a plane to Dallas, and we visited six times in the past four years.
My grandmother was exactly as a soft spoken woman from Texas should be, sentences took forever to complete and she struggled to understand my northern chatter, for years begging, "Allyson, please slow down". She never called me by my commonly used nickname, Ally, and she preferred to be called Grandmother, although I called her "Bon" as a child, and my girls "BonBon" which I think she actually loved.
Bonnie was a dancer and in 1930, amid depression, she opened the "Bonnie Jean MacDougall School of the Dance" where she taught dancing to children, often taking payments in reciprocal services. In a world where women had just been given the right to vote, my quiet grandmother opened her own business and operated it successfully for several years, shutting the doors after she married my grandfather Noel.
This past Christmas BonBon sent the girls tutus and ballet shoes, by far the most exciting gift opened on Christmas morning. Tutus and ballet slippers made the trip to Dallas with us, the girls eager to perform their never graceful rendition of Swan Lake for their great grandmother. That performance did not happen although I have to think that my grandmother would have delighted in seeing her great granddaughters flaying about her living room, in desperate need of a ballet teacher.
In recent weeks the girls and I have had many discussions about death and heaven, getting older and being young. And so it was on Thursday morning, when my aunt Dee called, that I had to tell my little ones that their dear BonBon had died; Mary clapped her hands, smiled and said "Hurray for BonBon! Now she gets to be in heaven with all the people she already loved!".
Thankfully my little girls brought me back to my grandmother and now they are teaching me how to say goodbye.
The truth is that for the last few days she might not have known we were there. This cancer hit quickly; at 96, when everything moves at a slow pace, cancer takes over in no time. My frustration came at the diagnosis, in amazingly good health her entire life, why at 96 did she have to face cancer? Why couldn't she move on at her own time, on her own terms? Why cancer? In the end I believe she made her own choice, opting to step out before we arrived. My aunt believes she choose to keep the little girls from seeing her in such a compromised state and I tend to agree, that kind of selflessness in complete alignment with her character.
Bonnie was my mother's mom, and for too many years I followed my mother's lead, not making the trips to Dallas that I should have, not working on the closeness that we had when she died. It was Mary and Kate who brought me back to Dallas, and Jack, who pointed out soon after they were born that not every child born to a 37 year old mother has a great grandmother. At six months we were on a plane to Dallas, and we visited six times in the past four years.
My grandmother was exactly as a soft spoken woman from Texas should be, sentences took forever to complete and she struggled to understand my northern chatter, for years begging, "Allyson, please slow down". She never called me by my commonly used nickname, Ally, and she preferred to be called Grandmother, although I called her "Bon" as a child, and my girls "BonBon" which I think she actually loved.
Bonnie was a dancer and in 1930, amid depression, she opened the "Bonnie Jean MacDougall School of the Dance" where she taught dancing to children, often taking payments in reciprocal services. In a world where women had just been given the right to vote, my quiet grandmother opened her own business and operated it successfully for several years, shutting the doors after she married my grandfather Noel.
This past Christmas BonBon sent the girls tutus and ballet shoes, by far the most exciting gift opened on Christmas morning. Tutus and ballet slippers made the trip to Dallas with us, the girls eager to perform their never graceful rendition of Swan Lake for their great grandmother. That performance did not happen although I have to think that my grandmother would have delighted in seeing her great granddaughters flaying about her living room, in desperate need of a ballet teacher.
In recent weeks the girls and I have had many discussions about death and heaven, getting older and being young. And so it was on Thursday morning, when my aunt Dee called, that I had to tell my little ones that their dear BonBon had died; Mary clapped her hands, smiled and said "Hurray for BonBon! Now she gets to be in heaven with all the people she already loved!".
Thankfully my little girls brought me back to my grandmother and now they are teaching me how to say goodbye.
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