Motherhood – FROM THE SHOE

Heli-Texting: A Helluva Habit

One of the Helicopter Mom’s greatest tools is texting. I know many would say the Life 360 App is the best, but, I confess, I have never used it. I’m still old school. I still remember the days when my parents had no idea where I was and what I was doing. And, primarily, for that reason, and the fact that if I used that app, I would be a wreck, I have refused to use it. But my kids use it for each other, so when I am tempted to know where someone is, I tread the unpredictable waters and inquire from one of the kids. But I was a habitual heli-texter. Yes, you heard me right…”was”. I am proud to announce most of my heli-texting days are probably over.

Heli-texting, what the…heck is that? Well, I made up the word last night. Backstory… I live with three nocturnal creatures…my daughters. They go out every night, even after a long day at work or at school. And one of them is like a four o’clocker…almost always a very late night. Horrible conditions in which to quit heli-texting. I don’t know where they are. I have been long exiled into the “need-to-know basis” territory. Much to my chagrin.

Anyway, last night, I was home all alone, all the creatures, even the ones next door, were out. I didn’t know where most of them were. I had been working on ditching heli-texting for almost a month, but I did panic a little last night before I went to bed because one of the kids said they were coming home before going out again. Didn’t come home, didn’t text. So general anxiety panic disorder (GAPD) set in. (I made that up too.) And I fell off the wagon, and began to type out a text, copy it and sent to each of my offspring. To which I got two answers. Then I finally heard noises downstairs from one of those nocturnal creatures who had returned home. I went to check it out. I asked, “Where is everyone?” One of the persons present told me of a potentially harried tale while the other person present tried to throttle him. And all I said, “If they’re home safe, I don’t care.” And I added, “Hey, haven’t you even noticed I haven’t’ been “heli-texting” anymore?” To which, my daughter replied, “Hella texting?” “No, heli-texting…helicopter texting. Hey, I just made up that word.” She wasn’t too impressed. I went back to bed and went to sleep.

Heli-texting, or known as hella-texting apparently in the Bay Area, is helicopter parenting via text. That’s it. It’s blowing up their phones. I even googled heli-texting and couldn’t find any match for that word. Therefore, I hereby unofficially patent the word and take ownership. And why not? I am an expert…albeit a retired one.

I wrote a blog, “Hope For The Helicopter Mom”, about an incident when my oldest son tried to check my rampant heli-texting. Heading over to the City back when he was like 17, he told me I only get five texts. I sweated through the evening and he arrived home safe and sound just using five texts. But that was twenty years ago, it’s only recently that I’ve quit heli-texting.

A few weeks ago, I don’t remember exactly what happened, but as I’ve tried to emotionally distance myself from my grown kids and put the mothering to rest, I decided to quit bugging them via text. Just quit bugging entirely. They’re grown, they’re doing their own things (nail biting) and unless they loop me in, I’ve got to find something else to do. In a conversation on a podcast, the interviewer reiterated some of Jordan Peterson’s words to him: “I heard you recently talk about a mother’s ability to let her child go out into the world knowing that they’re still vulnerable and that it’s now down to them and the world to look after them, that’s one of the bravest things…” To which Jordan Peterson finished the thought, “It’s the female crucifixion.” He went on to describe the Pieta and Mary’s grief after the crucifixion.

Yes!! Letting them go, go out into the world – a place you know is dangerous and evil as well as beautiful and glorious – knowing they are so young and inexperienced is likened to something as traumatic as a crucifixion. Letting them go has been that hard. And what keeps me on track to not worry, be anxious or fretful is that, as a Christian, I am called to JOY, PEACE, LOVE and HOPE, things that cannot survive in the hazardous environment of fear.

Lest you think I’ve arrived at total acquiescence and indifference to my kids’ independence and activities, I do still peak out the bathroom window after I wake up and count the cars, and, sigh a heartfelt “Thank You, Lord.” So what am I supposed to do now? Read my last blog post here.

And the Oscar Goes To…

The best 2023 Stories and Performances From the Shoe

Live from sunny Antioch, California is the 2023 From The Shoe Oscars. Twenty Twenty-Three was an exceptional year at the Shoe. Dramatic as well as comedic stories and performances abound. The industry here at the Shoe has undergone many changes and those changes are reflected in last year’s stories.

The Best Actress category is filled with spectacular and moving performances. The nominees for Best Actress are:

Donna Fentanes “Let Me Know”
Eleanor Fentanes “Bruh!”
Esperanza Fentanes “You Don’t Need to Know”
Eloisa Fentanes “A Friend From Work”
Evangelina Fentanes “Nevermind”

And the FTS Oscar goes to…Donna Fentanes for her patient, understated and restrained performance in “Let Me Know”. Congratulations, Donna!

Though the Best Actor category is a little sparse, it, nonetheless, comprises strong and impactful performances including a memorable performance by wunderkind, Peyton Carter. The nominees for Best Actor are:

Elias Fentanes “Mom, I’m a Full Grown Man”
Evaristo Fentanes “The Eighty Hour Work Week”
Peyton Carter “I Don’t Wanna…”

And the FTS Oscar goes to…Elias Fentanes for his consistent, strong and determined performance in “Mom, I’m a Full Grown Man”. Congratulations, Elias!

The nominees for Best Picture are:

“Almost Untethered” by Donna Fentanes. Critically acclaimed, “Almost Untethered” is about a former middle-aged woman’s emotional ups and downs as her children fly the emotional nest while still living with her physically.

“Working Girl” by Eleanor Fentanes. Underscoring the plight of Gen Z, “Working Girl” is about a young 20-ish woman who embarks on a 40 hour work week and experiences the emotional and physical ups and downs of working full time as well as enjoying the financial benefits of earning one’s own money.

“Cat Lady” by Esperanza Fentanes. Sympathetic with cat lovers, “Cat Lady” explores the emotional ups and downs of a 20-something young woman as she juggles work, school and her two cats who wreck havoc on her life.

“Travels with Mario & Luigi” by Elias Fentanes. Adrenaline junkies adored “Travels with Mario & Luigi” which is about a full grown man’s travels around the country going on various and sundry adventures with his friends.

“Driver’s License” by Eloisa Fentanes. Highlighting a teen’s rite of passage, “Driver’s License” is about a late teenager’s emotional ups and downs as she learns how to drive and experiences the freedom and financial impact of passing her driving test.

And the FTS Oscar goes to…Eleanor Fentanes for “Working Girl”. A young adult braves the treacherous trenches of the 40 hour work force. Her emotional ups and downs are brilliantly portrayed by Ms. Fentanes herself. Congratulations, Eleanor!

What a phenomenal year of stories! Twenty twenty-four is looking just as good as well with early entries such as: the election story “What is a Primary?”, adult dental decisions “Should I go Under?” and retirement worries such as “I Can’t Live Off of That”.

What Was I Thinking?

My youngest turns 20 today. So, that’s a wrap, right? Pretty much. All the days of finding shoes, making breakfast and driving to various and sundry places (SF Bayshore District at midnight, for one) comes quietly to an end, like the slow fade out at the end of a movie.

What was I thinking having ten kids…ten kids in seventeen years? Really! Not only do I blame my ex-husband (who wanted the decuplet), but also Frances Hodgson Burnett for writing about Dickon’s family in such a way that enticed me to dream of a small home overflowing with children, love, laughter, baking and animals. Alas, “the best laid plans of mice and men”…literature should have warning labels.

After the divorce, it was my primary motivation, responsibility and obsession to finish rearing this motley crew of characters – the main characters in my story – and provide as best I could a decent education, healthcare and some spiritual direction. To help them overcome the inevitable emotional hurdles they would face in the wake of a broken home, in the wake of a father who left and in the wake of a mother who stayed, but was herself very flawed.

One by one they graduated or flew the coop. One by one they found their footing and began to tread their path. One by one they no longer needed me. But I still needed them. I still needed to be needed. What was I to do now?

It wasn’t the fifteen years of inadequate sleep, nor the refereeing between squabbling siblings, nor even the hand ringing, tums popping nights as I waited up for them to come home, but it was when they declared their independence from me, that was the hard, painful pill to swallow. My characters were leaving the show. My show. Me.

Now, I know I was only a temporary guardian of these souls. I know that they were not going to remain with me forever. But I didn’t know it would go by so fast, nor did I know that the end would seem so abrupt and nor did I anticipate the emotional impact that would leave me feeling very ALONE. “And only I am left on stage to end the play.”

They’ve started their stories, their own shows as they should. They’ve taken center stage. I am just a supporting character. I remember being their age and what I wanted to do. That was all I thought about. I didn’t think about my parents and what emotional experience they may be having when their children grew up and moved out.

What WAS I thinking? Even though My Secret Garden dream didn’t come about as I’d hoped, I’m thankful for my ten kids. We had lots of laughter, a small home crammed with kids, puppies, chickens, friends, cats and hole-digging, fort-building and bread making. Yes, of course, there were dark times, obviously; but despite them, my children gave me so much joy. Now, they give me grandchildren….compound joy! I am very blessed. And I hope and pray that their childhood will serve them well. Kids, break a leg!

So, what am I thinking now? Ride (or write) away into the senescent sunset? No, I don’t think so. Lord willing, I think there may still be a second act left in me. Break a leg, Donna!

What to Really Expect…

Like many moms-to-be in the late ’80’s (which extended to the mid-2000’s for me), I had a copy of the now maternity classic, What to Expect When You’re Expecting by Heidi Murkoff and Sharon Mazel. They gave us the low down on what to expect in the first, second and third trimesters, what to expect during labor and what to expect afterwards. But, if I recall, there was a lot of information missing. As a experienced mom of way too many kids, I have gleaned some things that were unexpected. So here are a few things to really expect….

A Newborn’s Smell

I think the book may have mentioned that a newborn smells nice. I’m not talking about how they smell after they are bathed. Just their essential smell. A new sweet presence. A smell that instinctively causes you to draw them near. To cuddle. No one told me about that sensation. No one told me how emotionally powerful that simple smell would feel like. Also, nobody said how transient it would be. You only get a couple months of newborn smell….drink it in!

Intense Joy

There are times when I’d watch my kids and be overcome with a joy that was mingled with contentment, wonder and love. They do things that tap into that well of joy, and sometimes so unexpectedly, you are in tears while you drive. One of my kids, one of the very frugal ones, was on his way home. I was picking him up at BART. You have to understand we rarely had extra money. But this kind-hearted, sweet soul of a son, parted with a five dollar bill to one who according to him, “I just thought he needed it more than me.” When my kids do things like that, a wellspring of joy, pride and admiration spring up and seep out my eyes. I don’t think the book mentioned that feeling.

Terrifying Fear

I had always been fearful. An anxious and highly imaginative father, a deep connection to Catholic guilt and a hyperactive constitution was a perfect recipe for anxious foreboding. As much as I was afraid of things temporal and eternal before I had kids, after I had them, things got worse. All of a sudden I became acutely aware of the dangers that preyed on little kids. We lived in Northern California at a time where many little girls were kidnapped…often out in the open. My kids were not allowed out the gate because of that. They still don’t get it. The book didn’t mention how worried you’ll be. And that doesn’t go away. I like the line from “What a Girl Wants” with Amanda Bynes, Kelly Preston and uhm, the handsome Colin Firth. He calls Kelly’s character, Amanda’s mom, and complains their daughter went off on a motorcycle with her boyfriend. He then asks her, “Does it ever go away?” “What, Henry?” she responds. “Worry.” “No, Henry, it doesn’t” The book doesn’t really mention that you’re gonna worry about your twenty-three year old as much as you worry about your three year old. Just different circumstances. Be prepared!

Grandchildren

I had ten kids. Grandchildren were never on my radar. Many of my kids, especially my oldest, declared they were not having children. “Mom, don’t expect grandkids.” more than one announced. Uhm, I was still raising kids so I didn’t really care. Not until one March afternoon when I received a downloading photo text from my son-in-law. What could James be sending me? A picture. A grainy, black and white sonogram image with the message “Congratulations, Grandma!” My coworker thought there was a death in the family when she heard my response.

The book didn’t tell me what to expect when I was expecting grandchildren. Maybe that was out of their purview. But, after the scream, I wept. I didn’t think I was going to respond that way. And I pretty much did the same thing with the three others that came after little Elena.

What to really expect when you’re expecting…expect intense, joyful emotions, fierce protective instincts, love that you didn’t think you were capable of and unimaginable blessings.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

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She Walks In Beauty – My Mother

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December 9, 2024…four years since you left us. We miss you, especially this time of year. Thank you for the decades of Christmas celebrations you hosted. Footsteps I am unable to fill.

Originally written in 2019…

I looked over my blogs and noticed I hadn’t written a lot about my mom. My dad, yes; but my mom, not so much. As much as my dad was formidable, boisterous and gregarious, my mom was the opposite. She is quiet, hardworking and constant. And funny. But her humor is subtle and understated.

One of the funniest stories I remember I wrote in another blog: My sister and I were at my parents’ house one day. Standing at the kitchen counter, we were engaged in a serious and riveting conversation about what we all discuss in the kitchen: hemorrhoids. Who knows who was the afflicted, but our conversation covered causes, symptoms, side effects and various and sundry methods of treatment. My mother entered the kitchen while we discussed the burning, itching and pain. She listened for a bit. And, in a humph, she pronounced her expert therapeutic remedy: “Just put a little Vaseline on it; and, for Pete’s sake, stop licking it!” No, Mom, we’re not talking about cold sores. Although she didn’t intend that to be funny, it certainly was.

Living with my dad was no picnic. I remember the tumultuous times which she endured with dignity and strength…but there were times when he pushed her across the line. That’s when the plates and pots began to fly. I’m sure that quieted him down. I suspect she regretted those times, but she was human…she is human.

My dad liked to be the center of attention, and I think my mom was content to be in the shadow. As I remember all my dad gave me, all that I attributed to him to the creation of my personality, I realize the things that are the dearest and the most important to me are the qualities and characteristics I received from my mom.

Three biggies I got from my mom – faith, family and literature – continue to dominate my world. Her faith in her church is such a stronghold that it even kept me grounded, well as grounded as I could be (as a restless and reckless hare) until I found my own faith. Only God knows how much I owe to her prayers. My mom is so Catholic…not the devout zealot who prays and penances painfully, but the one who echoes and reflects the beauty and joy of the old denomination though aware of its shortcomings. A sensible saint.

My mom taught us “Ohana”. Family…like what little Lilo said, “Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.” My mom taught me Ohana generosity. When a neighbor girl would come over hungry, I thought my mom may shoo her away, but she didn’t, she invited her in and fed her. That one act of kindness taught me to always keep my door open. Even when there were times when I didn’t have enough, I tried to exhibit her Ohana generosity.

Growing up there was one book – one book – that I remember reading, my Mom’s literature book from her Honolulu Catholic high school. In this book, I discovered Shelley and others whose poetry became seeds, seeds which would bear fruit in my own writing and can be seen in my little library that I am creating. One of my favorite poems from that book, She Walks In Beauty, defines my mother:

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

–

-Lord Byron

My beautiful mother’s raven tresses were cut after she got married. But her cheek and brow remain “so soft, so calm, yet eloquent” and her smiles still win and her tints still glow as she embarks into her ’90’s. Now she has some peace, and her love continues in innocence.

Thank you, Mom, for these priceless gifts. Gifts I hope to pass down to my children. Happy Mother’s Day.

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Teen Times, Vol. II – Fortnite

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Fortnite, or correctly spelled: Fortnight. That deliciously English word which means a unit of time of two weeks; ergo, fourteen nights. No doubt my first acquaintance with this word was in Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice: “I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight.” I’d add to Jane’s observation, and wager to say that one cannot know what a man really is even by the end of a score or two.

Other English writers have toyed with this verbal antiquity.

“Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.” Dr. Johnson

And…

“I can’t see that she could have found anything nastier to say if she’d thought it out with both hands for a fortnight.” Dorothy Sayers

And even our friendly American humorist, Mark Twain, dropped an f-bomb…

“We have been housekeeping a fortnight, now long enough to have learned how to pronounce the servants’ names, but not how to spell them. We shan’t ever learn to spell them; they were invented in Hungary and Poland, and on paper they look like the alphabet out on a drunk.”

I think my kids feel pretty smart now that they know the meaning of this interesting word, but they didn’t stumble upon this word from reading the classics or from their vocabulary lists or even chatting with their English buddies. No….they know what the real fortnight means because of the current bane of my existence: Fortnite, the Video Game.

The first indiction of the Fentanes Video Game Experience began harmlessly with Duck Hunt, but before I could even reload, we were running the hallowed hills of Halo, partnering with the precious Pikachu in Pokemon, dodging desperadoes in Call of Duty, meticulously making maps in Minecraft, learning harmony and happiness in Harvest Moon, seriously slugging siblings while playing Super Smash Brothers, liberating the princess as Link in The Legend of Zelda, and the winner of them all, spending hundreds of dollars for air time for the World of Warcraft. WOW, really? Video Games 1; Mom 0. Game over, Mom, acquiesces to video game reality.

Before the second indiction began not too long ago, video game playing had subsided to a few hours of Pokemon and Harvest Moon. But, recently, a new phenomenon took over my household: Fortnite. The only good thing about Fortnite is that it doesn’t cost any money, at least not my money. That’s all.

My son and I watched Psycho last weekend. Still don’t really like that movie, but you’ve got to hand it to Janet Leigh and her ability to produce blood-curdling screams. The selfsame screams are uttered by my daughter during Fortnite. You’d think she was being stabbed in the shower. I’ve watched them play, all they are doing is running and shooting up some people every once in awhile. I leave the room and then the blood-curdling screams begin, the frantic orders to comrades to “Watch out, watch out!!!” “He’s behind you.” Followed by more blood-curdling screams. To add to this mayhem, unnamed female offspring wears a headset, which causes her to amplify her responses to the game. Hence, mother stomping into the living room at 10:30 p.m., and yelling “quit screaming” which, of course, she does not hear because of said headset. I don’t know why the expression on my face doesn’t cause her to scream.

Fortnite is the latest craze of video games. I’ve about had it. About a fortnight ago, I ran into my upstairs neighbor. I’ve been meaning to apologize for the Psycho-like screaming, and wanted to reassure them that I was not harming anyone in anyway. The neighbor kindly responded, “No, I don’t hear anything. Do you hear us when we play Fortnite?” “No…, I don’t, the insulation must be good,” I bemused. “Thanks.”

In the three decades of my child-rearing experience, I have come to appreciate video games and the entertainment they provide my children. I remember fondly the years of Halo and Super Smash Brothers because those are the years all my kids were together as well as many of their friends. Video games were one of many things they had in common with their friends, friends they still have, one who has become a family member. Now that the aforementioned unnamed female offspring has been working for about a fortnight, we’ll see if she continues to give her time to this game.

I admit I have no halo as a mom, but my call of duty is to raise kids, and part of that responsibility is to pick the battles in this battlefield, a battle royale. I am happy to report that none has yet been arrested for grand theft auto or any other felony that I know of, and though the fallout has been minimal in permitting extensive video game playing, I am grateful they don’t overwatch them. I consider my kids to be in a league of legends, and hope someday, they will triumph in the trenches of life.

Teen Times Vol. 1

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I have found communicating with one’s offspring to be daunting at times. When they’re small children, conversation can be simple: “Gotta go pee-pee?”, “Time for nap” and “No, don’t put the fork in the socket, honey.” Simple supervisory skills.

As they get older, and if they’re still not as smart as you, you can figure out how things are. But it does require knowing your children and what their proclivities are. But then they hit pre-teen, and with technology the way it is, you’re gonna fall behind. I did Twitter, but just got depressed; I am on Instagram, but the kids aren’t really there anymore. It’s all about Snapchat…and I’m not going there. So they have this Snapchat world that you kinda have to watch from a distance.

Then there are the full-blown teenagers, the attitude has come, the manners have gone, and any motivation or inclination to do minor work has vanished. Communication becomes very difficult. I have one teen with whom I can have normal conversations, hopefully that will not change, I have one who must have mentally muted my voice, and I have one with whom I can start WWIII with that hate-filled word, “Hello”. Texting is the go-to form of communication for my teens. However, how my texts are perceived by them is a mystery to me, even after 30 years of child rearing. For example:

Sample Mom Text: What time will you be home?

In the English language, this kind of sentence is called an interrogative sentence, a question, if you will. Typically, these kinds of sentences elicit a response, and furthermore, in our sample text, a response dealing with time. This text, in its basic and unfettered form, would seem innocuous; however, in the mind of a teen, our sample text can create benign annoyance to outright hostility. Also, this sample text has elicited declarations of independence from said teens who are over 18. You know where I’m going.

Lately, I’ve been spending two nights a week at my mom’s “mom-sitting” while my dad’s been in rehab…no, not that kind of rehab. One of those nights is a Sunday night, and consequently, my two school-aged daughters must get up, get ready and be prepared for pick up around 7:30 without my gentle nudging, aka “get your butt outta bed, it’s almost time to go” encouragement. 🙂

This particular Monday morning, I sent out some preemptive texts at 6:55. I sent this harmless text: “Awake?” Interrogative, yes, so I get one response, not good, both should be awake by now. Ten minutes later, I send this declarative text: “Be ready in 20 minutes.” Same respondee, text one, “Whooooa?”, text two, “We’re not ready.”

As I wait for mom’s caregiver, I send another text, testing the waters of readiness, 7:27 am – “Ready?” Faithful respondee, “No, E in shower” My calm response: “Whaaaaat!!!” E must think that “Be ready in 20 minutes” means “I have ten more minutes before my shower.” I have to drop off two teens at two different locations in two separate cities, and get to work by 8. The Plight of the Hare. Ain’t gonna happen this morning. Que sera, sera! We’ll all be late today.

I finally get over to pick them up, I futilely text, “here” and wait. We get on our way at 7:49, faithful respondee needs to be at school by 8:05 and her silent (mentally mute) sister needs to be there by 8:12. I’ve been using my son’s manual transmission Toyota, so today necessitated me to fall into Mario Andretti mode. I bobbed and weaved, shifted and downshifted through residential streets to deposit Thing 2 by 8:00 and managed to fly up Sharp Park, make the lights on Westborough and get Thing 1 dropped off a little late. Meanwhile, I get to work late, there goes my break.

Since I have an advanced degree in teen times, I didn’t stress out. I chocked it up to experience, and determined the next Monday morning to send out preemptive texts earlier. I tell my older daughters who have young children to enjoy the baby years since time flies by so fast. Folks, these teen times too will pass, so my advice is to fasten your seat belt and enjoy the bumpy ride.

Come Harvest Time

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Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. – Galatians 6:9

Last year, I bought this old Plymouth Voyager mini-van. What attracted me to this vehicle was not only the low price and the low mileage, but the fact it had a cassette tape player. Yay for me, I could play my favorite Cat Stevens cassette. But, alas, the tape deck doesn’t work, and the radio only gets one decent signal – KEAR, Family Radio’s SF Bay Area station. I don’t mind KEAR, so I’ve been listening to the Bible readings, the Bible contests (which are hard), Alistar Begg sermons and various types of Christian music.

Two wonderful songs have come my way through KEAR: “I Take Refuge in You” and “Come Harvest Time”. I absolutely love when new things come my way that resonate deep down, and these two songs do so. Another beautiful providence. Glen Campbell sings “Come Harvest Time”, and I knew I had heard it before, but never listened. Funny, the difference between hearing and listening! That I love autumn and harvest time is no secret to anyone, and this song poignantly tells the story of human sowing and reaping.

As we get older, we begin to reap that which we’ve sown. My weight doesn’t budge because I’ve sown poor eating habits. My pocketbook is “holey” because I’ve sown poor financial management habits. However, I’m seeing some glints of golden grain in some of my parenting endeavors. My kids, who have been through a lot, are always surprising me with acts of kindness towards others, smart financial choices, varying degrees of compassion and good common sense.

One son is just completing his first journey to Europe and North Africa. He kindly kept me abreast of his and his girlfriend’s activities with pictures of churches in Barcelona, of a sultan’s lunch spread in Fez and of the first Catholic Church in Lisbon. Despite the horrendous heatwave the Iberian Peninsula experienced this past week, he was able to hold up, and I’m sure he’s relishing the thought of San Francisco’s chilly fog as he makes his way home. I showed my Portuguese mother the pics from Lisbon. She was so excited about his trip.

This kind son asked me, “do you want me to get you anything?” I answered, “No, that’s ok, maybe something churchy for Grandma.” He immediately sent me a pic, a pic of a simple, silver Portuguese rosary from that first Catholic Church in Lisbon, with the text, “I got her that, don’t tell her.” This text conversation was going on with “Come Harvest Time” playing in the background. And what came over me quite strongly, was that….this is my gift. That my son already thought of his 90 year old grandma and purchased a gift for her that will be close to her heart…literally. A glint of golden grain, “Come Harvest Time”.

I know I’ve made many mistakes in my life, especially as a mom. But I am determined to make up for them by praying for these ten souls (actually they’re many more now with grandkids, girlfriends and a great son-in-law) and imploring God to bless them much like Jacob did when he wrestled with the Angel. By God’s grace, I will not grow weary in this endeavor.

Come Harvest Time

Females and the Facilities

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We’re having a nice morning. Every one is well rested, all have the day off, and, miracle of miracles, it is sunny in Pacifica. We may even go swimming later.

Two of the five Fentanes females that live under this roof were gone for two of the three days this weekend. And the Fentanes female, who shall remain nameless, and who does a lot of the housework, (no guilt intended…well, maybe a little) cleaned the kitchen, even mopped the floor, and spit and polished the bathroom. The weekend has been very productive, housework wise for this Fentanes female.

In an attempt to extend the cleanliness of the apartment, the bathroom in particular, housecleaning Fentanes female asked very nicely, even sweetly, to her x-chromosomed brood, “Ladies, do you think today it’s possible we could keep the bathroom looking like it does at this moment?”

I did not intend to create a ripple in the cosmos, but the effect of that question on those eight ears, was remarkable.

“Mom, we’re girls, we’re not guys. We can’t keep the bathroom clean.”

“Ahhh, yeah…no.”

One was speechless, and the other one was so engrossed in some life or death battle on Fortnite that there was no response.

What is it with females and the bathroom facilities? It seems like the room is an extension of their very lives. The make-up, the towel mountain, the bras…geez, I’ve got like two, I’ve never seen so many bras. And the hair. I’ve already had maintenance out twice to unclog the sink. He asked, “What’s down there?”

“Uh, lots of hair and maybe the Alexa remote, I have no idea.”

I grew up with Noxema and Oil of Olay. Now there are five varieties of just Vitamin E oil, two large containers of coconut oil, an array of shampoos and conditioners. The White Rain (you know, the 99 Cent Store variety) is mine, of course. Razors, rings, soaps, solutions, brushes, bras, I tell you, I am amazed at the stuff that’s out there. Fake eyelashes that look like spiders. Not what I like to see on the counter first thing in the morning.

We live with one son. One young man who possesses one bottle of shampoo, one toothbrush, one hair cutting kit; that’s all. I think the girls believe the bathroom is an annex to their closets and make-up bags.

One of the characteristics you need as a mother is patience and flexibility. I’ve learned when to throw in the towel, or just pick it up. I’ve lived with personalities that never change. So, when it comes to my females and the bathroom facilities, I accept the things I cannot change and wait for the serenity that God is going to grant me.

To my surprise, after their showers, each of the girls picked up after themselves. Later in the day, one of the females eagerly asked, “Mom, what do we get for keeping the bathroom clean?”

“A clean bathroom,” was my serene reply.

The Old Man Walking Down The Road

Here is an excerpt from my self-published book, “The Plight of the Hare & Other Stories From the Shoe”. Illustration by Breena Nuñez.

old man

I was driving home one Sunday after trying to go to church. I was angry we hadn’t made it to the service because of the little war that erupted in the car. While driving, I noticed an old man walking on the road. The road was a busy four-lane street without sidewalks. He was walking in the direction I was driving, and I was coming up behind him. From the back, I noticed his ill-fitting suit and his brown derby securely on his head. He reminded me of my old, agile Portuguese neighbor whom I’d admire from my window as he repaired his roof.

I passed the old man and glanced at him in the rear view mirror, thinking maybe I would see that old Portuguese face. I knew I wouldn’t because that neighbor had already left this world. And this man was very much alive. He was defiantly smoking a cigarette while walking at a brisk pace. He wanted to cross the four-lane road, and I glanced in my mirror again to see if he was successful. I thought maybe I would stop to help. But, he was determined and sure-footed. He didn’t need my help, he would make it.

This old man, his clothing, his hat and his defiant manner reminded me of my carefree childhood when men like him were all over the place. The most discomfort I felt was the anticipation of doing chores, or the consequences of not doing homework. My most pressing concerns were whether that cute guy was going to be on the bus or if I had a ride to the dance on Friday. What a stark contrast to today! Driving home with a car full of children worrying about a bank account empty of funds, my concerns had dramatically changed. There are creases on my brow from the sheer weight of my responsibilities. Men, like that old man walking down the road, had the same creases. My father had the same creases.

My father told me of a time when the weight of his responsibilities were at their heaviest. Confronted by his boss to quit drinking or to quit, he purchased a six-pack to think it over. After that was gone, he got a ride to the Russian River where my mom and we kids were. In the cabin, he was lying on his bed contemplating the wife, the kids, the mortgage, the houses, all the cares; and these responsibilities pressed hard. He could hear the kids splashing and laughing as they swam, careless, without worry, while he was carrying the load, however imperfectly, on his fragile shoulders.

Fast forward forty years, my children were silent in the car because they knew I was mad. I looked nervously at the little gaslight that comes on when the tank is empty reminding me of the many empties in my life. Now the burden was on my even more fragile shoulders, and I felt like my father did. But that old man reminded me of the kind of folks who were around when I was a kid; they had their creases, their responsibilities, but somehow they made it. That six-pack was the last my father bought, and he made it, too. I looked back one final time and saw that the old man made it across. So I drove home that quiet Sunday afternoon, believing I would make it too, like my father and like the old man walking on the road.