For Naomi...

Flash back.  February 2009.

I am on one of my missions to de-stress and get some exercise.  My mind is wrapped up in thought.  If only I could be successful in fixing all my woes on this, my walking meditation... why won’t all the answers come right when you want them...?

My conversation is interrupted, “Nancy?!”  Okay I say ‘conversation,’ though it’s just me talking to myself.

I looked up to see a beaming smile radiating from the car window.  A woman’s voice spoke again, “Nancy?  Is that you?!”  I slowed my pace and tried to squint beyond the suns glare to see more clearly... as if squinting would help my failing memory issues...

“It’s Naomi!  Do you remember me?  I used to live here...”  She pointed to the home she used to live in.

“Do I remember you?!”  I laughed at her question... and was thankful that the pieces came together so succinctly.  Of course I remembered her, and her sisters, and growing up with our backyards butting up to each other.

What a flashback!  We spent an hour chit-chatting away.  We covered all the do-you-remember-when’s we could think of.  We giggled, and shared, and re-lived, and caught up... life had happened between the time the Mastrogiacomo’s moved and today... sadly death had happened in that span as well.  (Her sister Gina died in 2001, and my Dad died in 2002.  Both too soon!)

It is unthinkable that we - and by ‘we’ I mean those of us that are left behind to deal with these unintended departures - go on.  

But we do... and here we were... together again.

Neighborhoods from yesteryear seem so removed from today’s day and age.  Back then, kids left the house in the morning and were not seen, nor heard from, till dinner time.  My mother - who was ‘blessed’ with amazing vocal capabilities, that somehow cut through airwaves - would call out our side door to beckon her little ones home.  Should we not have heard, the neighbors surely did.  A virtual game of telephone would ensue, and we soon got the message.  Mom was calling, time to go home.

My sisters, Barbara and Lisa, and the Mastrogiacomo girls, Kim, Naomi, Gina and Amy ~ along with the rest of the neighborhood brood ~ played for hours.  We were 'The Neighborhood Family.'  Removed was a blood line, but no denying, we lived our lives and grew up together.  

My first memory of our new neighbors stills stands out.  It was Christmas time...  Lisa and I found ourselves in their living room staring at our first live Christmas Tree.  Go figure... we never had a live tree.  Every December a box would come out of the attic, and Dad would give the orders to separate and categorize the ‘branches.’  He would hold out his arm as we placed the next requested piece in his hand.  An hour or so later... Waa Laa... we had our tree.  There was no aroma, other than the dust from the box... There was no pine needles to clean up, just a few shattered Christmas balls and some malfunctioning Christmas lights.  Seeing a real tree bewildered us.  Don’t ask me why... it just did.  We stood there in amazement, taking it all in.  Lisa pondered her mental images, “It doesn’t look like a real tree?”  As though her young mind had comparisons to go on.  I tried to shush her, and reassure her that it was real.  She reached out and touched a limb.   “Wow.”  Indeed it was real, we thought our new neighbors were loaded.  How could they get a new live tree every year?  The moment passed, and we ran up the stairs to continue playing.

Now every year at Christmas time, as I open ‘the box’ (Frank is allergic to pine...) and instruct my own children to separate and categorize the ‘branches,’ I think of that moment.  It’s one of my many portholes connecting me to my memories.  

Actually, I must admit, it began before the boxed tree.  When I grew up and had a family - and my own home - my choice of tree was real... a la Mastrogiacomo.   It was then, that I experienced the full plethora of this ritual... the crisp snowy air, the fire burning in a nearby 55 gallon drum, the large round white light bulbs strung from post to post glowing over our heads, the variety of aromatic trees to choose from... Frank and I with our kids in tow, would walk between the pyramids, on dirt path isles, searching for our perfect tree...  and I thought of my neighbors... 

It wasn’t until Frank insisted I was trying to purposely torture him... this as he sniffled, scratched and was near blinded from rubbing his itchy eyes raw.  (Seriously, people... this allergy stuff is for the birds.  On top of pine, he is allergic to chocolate, nuts, and coconut.  Should he ever really piss me off, it’s been suggested that I could stuff an Almond Joy in his mouth and beat him with a pine branch... but no worries.  Frank is safe....... for now... ;)  The shedding pine needles and family cat  ~ who was thrilled to have her very own tree to climb,  and knock down ~ helped the decision along.  Artificial tree it is.  

I am always amazed by what I call, ‘memory portholes.’  We all have them... you know, the little things that remind us  and send us back in time to a day, a moment, a person... Naomi and I spoke about Butterflies... this the 'porthole,' or believed to be medium, in which Gina visits her loved ones.  I could relate, as I believe my father visits us through birds... (I admit, I am crazy.  Certifiable.)  

When Naomi and I reconnected, I sent her a few stories I had written about the kids.  To my delight, she requested more... I sent her a link to a web-site where I have a gallery of photos and stories.   (http://www.muddlemaster.com/myissues/index.html)  As well, I sent her the web-site I set up for my Dad, where she actually posted to the Guestbook.  (www.charliedodge.com)  I chuckled as she chided the ‘ugly chain link fence’ that separated our yards...  I didn’t have the heart to tell her, I still have that rickety old fence.  (said in a sheepish tone...;)  The forsythias and honey suckle grow rampant on it every year.  It proves to be my makeshift trellis.  Aside from that, removing it would prove to be a nightmare... following in the footsteps of that old domino effect adage... That old fence is intertwined through the big tree (the one that was a mere twig when we were kids...) it’s holding up the back wall of my rock garden, and on top of it all - replacing it would be a small fortune... one I would have to take on for the sake of my lovely dog, Toots.

Naomi emailed me again at about 3 am... and then called the next day.  She went on about my stories and that she had not been able to stop reading.  This was music to my ears, as I’m a want-to-be writer.  Having someone read, and actually enjoy, my ‘stuff’ completes the process.  Having no time to catch-up on everything... this was also an awesome way to fill in the gaps.

Today it seems only fitting that I sit here and write something for Naomi.  I wish she was here to read it.  I think she might like to know that it is she that inspired me to hit the keyboard once again...................  Sadly, she died March 6th. 

Two of my childhood, neighborhood family members are gone.  So too, is my Dad.  I don’t want to believe any of it.  How can this be?!  

Life passes us by... and then it just passes?!  I am bewildered.  

Many years ago, before my husband and I were even an item, he pointed out that -

“The greatest gift any of us have to offer is that of time.”  

How true!!  

Time to spend, time to share, time to create memories that live on... Every passing moment is a turned page...  and if I can have anything to do with it, there will be a lot of literal pages to live on beyond my own existence.  

I pay tribute to Naomi, and to all the loved ones lost to the great heavenly abyss.  I feel your presence.  I know you are there.  I will continue, until I can no longer.  Thank You for your precious time, that you share so beautifully... for the memories you helped create.  

You will not be forgotten!

Naomi Mastrogiacomo Barone ~ 10/18/1960 - 03/06/2012