Denise Marotta Lopes, Author at Denise Marotta Lopes

The Ring

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 22, 2021 category Stories

This Christmas was unlike Christmases of the past. There would be no celebration this year with siblings, nieces, and nephews. No overflowing stockings; no seven fishes; no trays of Mom’s cookies. At least not for me and my extended family.

Instead, Mom and I would celebrate together, just the two of us in the home she shared with my Dad before he died nearly five years ago. We would meet on a Wednesday as we have done weekly for more than two years. We would sit at her kitchen table and have lunch. She would tell me stories of her childhood, of the early days with my Dad. I would have coffee; she would have tea.

This Christmas, it was I who filled my car with gifts from those who were unable to come to Mom’s due to health concerns with COVID-19. It was I who played gift-giver, handing her one package after another with an explanation of its giver.

We listened to Johnny Mathis Christmas songs on her new CD player. We reminisced about my grandmother and her husband, Allie, who would pile gifts into their 1970s gold Gran Torino and drive the two hours down the New Jersey Turnpike to spend Christmas with us when we were young. To my siblings and me, she was our Santa.

In those days my mother would tell us that we wouldn’t be getting a lot for Christmas because things were tight. And, yet, we always had enough—in fact, more than we could ask for.

When Mom handed me my Christmas bag this year, I already knew what was inside. I had picked out a special pair of ergonomic gardening scissors with a shiny white handle; I pretended to be surprised as I unwrapped it. In the bag there was also a card with cash so I could pick out another gift later on. I returned the scissors and card to the bag when she said, “There’s something else in there.”

I looked up. “There is?”

I reached past the tissue paper and crumpled wrapping to the bottom of the bag where I found a small nondescript box.

“What is this?” I asked.

Mom sat quietly, smiling. I unsnapped the box and lifted the lid.
Inside, was a silver ring. It was art-deco-inspired with geometric settings of triangles surrounding an edged oval in the center. There were diamonds inlaid in each of the shapes.

“Grandma’s ring!” I exclaimed.

Across the kitchen table, I looked at Mom, and she at me. My eyes returned to the ring as I held it up, imagining it on my Grandmother’s finger. In that moment I heard her raucous laughter, saw her red hair, bright lipstick and blushed cheeks. I felt the excitement of a little girl sitting around the family table playing penny poker in our kitchen. It was always a holiday when Grandma came to visit.

Mom shared that her mother had the ring made from my Great Grandpa Tony’s diamond tie clip. Mom remembers her grandfather as a man who always wore a suit. I remember him as one with a ruddy complexion, bulbous nose, deep, gentle voice, and thick white wavy hair.

Grandma originally had the clip attached to a ring she wore until the diamonds began to loosen and she consulted a jeweler to obtain one with proper settings. I wonder how she felt as she chose the style. I wonder what she remembered about her father as she considered the gift he had left for her.

I slipped the ring onto my finger. I held it in place to keep it from sliding and tried to see it as mine, though it still looked like hers. Maybe it belongs to both of us now. Maybe to all three of us, as it was my mother who passed it on to me. And, one day, I will pass it on to my daughter.

I showed it to my grandson and told him the ring had belonged to his Great Great Grandma Peggy. Sometimes he adds an extra “Great” when saying her name. That would certainly be apropos.

The ring was fitted to my smaller finger. I wear it remembering what came before and what is still to come. And, I am thankful for a legacy of love captured in this shining gift.

Ivy (10 months)

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 3, 2020 category Furry Friends

she snuffles, she bumbles,
she coughs, and
she fumbles

through woods, and tall grass,
over roots, mud, and
trash

she wags, and she wanders,
she stops, and
she ponders

chews sticks in the street
she sits down
with her treat

cars slow to observe
drivers smile
and swerve

puppy life in the city
‘burbs, woods,
is all pretty

Everyone’s Aunt Lucy

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 13, 2020 category Stories

When my Uncle Charlie brought his future bride to meet the family, she wore a leopard pillbox hat with a matching bag. Stylish, yet understated, Aunt Lucy made an impression on the family, especially on my then-teenaged-father, who for years after, reminded her of that first meeting.

As a child, I remember her remarking on my height, looking upward and saying I was growing like a weed. Many call her Aunt Lucy—including my sixteen cousins on my father’s side alone. She addresses us using our given names. Her son, she calls Daniel; my brother, Joseph; my son, young Joseph. She has a quiet grace and thoughtful manner. She has strength she is unaware of and speaks simple words that carry weight.

Aunt Lucy listens more than she speaks, uttering sounds of acknowledgement with a slow nod of her head. Due to her quiet manner, some might mistake her for naive; but as her son, Danny, noted, “You don’t live 96 years and not know stuff.”

She lives with my cousin Jo Anne and her husband, Vince, near Charleston, South Carolina. Aunt Lucy’s second-floor bedroom has a porch where she often sits to read, pray, and nap. From her vantage point she is able to see a wooden porch swing in the park across the street. Her daughter, Marguerite, said, “For the last five years she has been eyeing the swing on the green.”

Several months ago, Aunt Lucy was in her upstairs bedroom when she suffered a stroke. Jo Anne noticed the signs and immediately called for an ambulance. When the emergency medical team arrived, they discussed how to get a stretcher upstairs. Recognizing the difficulty, one of the team asked how much Aunt Lucy weighed, and as Marguerite describes, “The fireman carried her down the stairs as if she were a young bride.”

She was put on a stretcher and wheeled out of the house and onto the walkway leading to the street. Lying on her back, she was able to see the sky, the trees, and the windows of her neighbors’ house. She spotted two young children looking down at her.

“They looked so sad and frightened,” she said. “I was able to lift my hand and wave to them so they’d know I was okay.” Jo Anne later described the act as “the queen mother waving to her subjects.”

Aunt Lucy’s recovery was long and arduous. Due to COVID-19 she was not allowed visitors; the nurses and doctors became her connection to the outside world through their bedside chats.

“How old are you?” asked one of the nurses.

“I’m 96.”

“You are?”

“Yes, I am,” Aunt Lucy responded.

“You don’t look 96.”

“Look closer.”

The days ahead were difficult, but my aunt worked hard at her physical therapy, hoping she would soon be strong enough to return home. The day finally arrived and she was able to once again be in her own room with her family nearby. Physical therapy continued. She forced herself to eat in order to gain strength. She continued to sit on her porch and look out at the park, and in particular, at the wooden swing.

One day, while her daughter, Marguerite, and granddaughter, Krysta, were visiting, Aunt Lucy said, “I wish to go on the swing.”

Marguerite said, “Come on, Mom. Let’s go.”

The walk was slow—one tiny step at a time—out the front door, across the street, into the park, and onto the paver stones. With help, she was positioned onto the middle of the swing’s wooden planks. Bracing herself by holding onto the arm rests, she gently pushed off with her feet, and began to sway—back and forth. Behind her large black sunglasses, I imagine her eyes closed in the wonder and freedom of the movement. Her smile lit up the space. Dappled sunlight fell upon her striped dress, blue cardigan, pastel pink socks, and soft-soled shoes. On her head she wore a fuchsia wide-brimmed sunhat. I suspect it will be a day remembered with fondness.

Photo credit: Krysta Vidakovich

A Mom to the Rescue

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 31, 2020 category Stories

My mother-in-law was a slight woman with a movie star voice. Born the third youngest of eight children, she learned early to speak up for herself. In families that size there was often a line of demarcation between the older and younger siblings (the older ones assigned as “guardians” of the younger ones by over-worked parents).

On her first day of kindergarten, my mother-in-law entered the classroom as Leonora, and left with the Americanized-version of Eleanor. Growing up, her job after school was to come straight home and sweep the whole house. One day she took a break to read a book when one of her older brothers caught her and said, “Put that down and get back to work!”

She glared at him before shouting, “You’re not my father!” But the message stuck, and for the rest of her life, she never again picked up a book purely for pleasure.

In 1954 she married my father-in-law. In the years that followed, taking care of her own family would become her life’s work. She ironed twenty shirts a week: five for her husband and fifteen in total for her three sons who attended Catholic School. She danced with her neighbor, Josie, to Italian folk songs playing on the radio in her suburban kitchen. She made escarole and beans on Friday nights and codfish cakes on Christmas Eve. She stirred her husband’s coffee before serving it to him after supper. She enjoyed her red wine.

She was the mother of a three-and-a-half-year old son when the twins were born (I am married to one of those twins.) One night, she tucked Joe and Jon into their shared doubled bed and turned out the light. But, instead of falling asleep, they discussed the evil cartoon character, Max the Nose. Hearing the boys’ chatter, my mother-in-law returned to their room.

“Why are you not going to sleep?”

My husband spoke for the two of them saying, “Max is underneath the bed.”

Anger rose inside of her, but the anger was not directed toward her young boys.

“Oh, yeah? Where is he?”

Joe pointed under his side of the bed.

“Right here, Mom.”

With long, purposeful strides she made her way to the bed, reached under and grabbed the little monster.

“All-right,” she announced. “I’ve got him now.”

With her fist tightly-clenched around the monster’s neck, she stomped to the window, lurched it open, and threw him out.

“He won’t bother you anymore. So, now it’s time to go to sleep.”

And, with that, her young sons were satisfied. No longer afraid, they breathed sighs of relief and fell to sleep. Max was gone.

My mother-in-law may have lived a simple life by some standards. But, in the eyes of two frightened little boys with a monster under the bed, she was a full-fledged hero.

The Earring (and why knowing math is helpful)

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 13, 2020 category Uncategorized

Earrings have become a signature look for me. They make a statement without my saying a word. I am particularly fond of large earrings with pops of color, shiny glimmers, sudden movements.

I recently purchased a pair of medium-sized hoops with a small shell dangling from the bottom. And, then I tried putting them on.

Most earrings are post-based; you put the straight end through the front side of the ear lobe and attach the earring back from behind to hold it in place. In others, there is a clasp that unites to keep the earring from slipping back out of the ear. Most are obvious—except for the ones I purchased at a little hippy shop in Ocean City, New Jersey.

They seemed simple enough, attached to the packaging. I got them home and decided to try them on. That’s when the fun stopped. The part of the earring that would normally enter the piercing was pointing toward the ceiling. Hmm. Should I bend it back to have it face my ear lobe? Do I put them on from the back and twist the other part of the earring around in order for the two parts to meet? Neither seemed like a reasonable option. For a moment I considered the fact that I had purchased a bracelet instead of hoop earrings. I tried it around my wrist but thought them too delicate to have been created for that purpose. I concluded that they were made incorrectly and I was going to have to return to that cool little shop and ask for a refund (or at the very least, a tutorial on how to put the darned things in my ears).

I continued to ponder when something came over me. Was it possible there was another way, a way I had not considered? I stared at that delicate earring with the post pointing straight up. And, then it hit me. What if I rotated the earring a quarter turn so that the pointed end was facing my ear? Eureka! I turned. I stuck. I turned it again so the point was now facing up once again, and attached the loop over top to keep the earring secure. The little shell naturally moved to the bottom where it was free to dangle, and all was right with the world.

It may have seemed obvious to someone else, but not to me, I had never considered another way of looking at this problem. Naturally, my thoughts went back to math and the students I’ve been teaching the last few years. The method by which they learn is not focused on the answer as much as the process. They are asked to consider new methods of solving; taught to manipulate, rotate, and come to reasonable conclusions.

One of my students answered a word problem that involved the elapsed time between 7:15 and 8:05. She and I both came to the same conclusion: the elapsed time was 50 minutes. But, we solved the problem in two separate ways. I knew there was 45 minutes between 7:15 and 8:00, and added on 5 more minutes to get 50; she knew there was an hour between 7:15 and 8:15 (60 minutes) and subtracted 10 minutes (to get to 8:05) and got an answer of 50 minutes.

The lesson? There is more than one way to solve a problem—be it for determining elapsed time or getting earrings in one’s ears.

Moments Unexpected

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 1, 2020 category Furry Friends

I had just settled into my favorite chair on the screened porch, Ivy sniffing at the floor. I looked out onto my rear-facing driveway and the access road beyond it. The morning was quiet aside from the early-rising birds. It was then that I saw a fox walk down the drive from the road, and continue past our driveway. It was hidden behind our neighbor’s hedge when Ivy suddenly stopped, no doubt catching the fox’s scent. I stood and approached the screen—Ivy at my side. We focused our attention hoping for a closer look at the fox, when it retreated from the hedge and entered our drive. It looked about, nose-to-the-ground near the sage, clematis, hosta, and bird bath.

It glanced up and caught us staring. It looked disheveled, its white and reddish coat in need of a brush. The face, long and narrow; the prominent tail, orange and fluffy. After several moments, it turned in the direction of the road. It appeared to be heading toward a neighbor’s home—the one with the five cats that freely roam the neighborhood snatching birds from friendly feeders. Instead, it turned and suddenly, from behind it, an orange animal, low to the ground, scurried in pursuit. I wondered why a cat would be following a fox. It wasn’t until they were both out of sight that I realized the orange fluff was a kit. And, that momma, undoubtedly, had been searching for it.

Boomer Buying Coffee

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 15, 2020 category Uncategorized

The sky was gray, the streets crowded, and the wind biting. She shifted her briefcase from one shoulder to the other in an effort to distribute the weight perpetrated by her math books and student folders; two white boards and dry-erase markers; a Square by Square Creative Pattern Game; and a pencil case neatly-filled with an eraser, pencil sharpener, yellow highlighter, and four No. 2 pencils. She had 45 minutes before her next tutoring session and scouted the block looking for a suitable place to set down her bag and rest. She scanned the storefronts and after dodging people who didn’t know enough to look where they were going, she chose to duck into a cafe for a warm drink and perhaps, if she were lucky, a creamy cheese danish.

She wrestled with the heavy wooden door, pushing instead of pulling, and finally entered what appeared to be a conglomeration of airport waiting lounge and modern furniture store showroom. The noticeably warmer temperature fogged her glasses causing her to put down her briefcase to search her pocketbook for an optical lens cleaning cloth—a harsh napkin wouldn’t do. Once she’d wiped her glasses enough to view her surroundings, she surveyed the room looking for where she could place her order.

She attempted to locate a cashier but saw nothing resembling a register behind which to find one. There was what appeared to be a wooden bar which made her wonder if she’d walked into a tavern. Nevertheless, she observed patrons sipping out of white ceramic cups and knew she must be in the right place.

The noise belied the mood the music attempted to portray. Lightly-plucked guitar strings and James Taylor-sounding lyrics were overcome by whistling machines, clanking cups, and banging silver baskets with long black handles. Hoards of young adults occupied long tables, little white buttons in their ears, staring at computers and cellular phones. Some spoke with loud voices in order to be heard. Others, quiet in their thoughts, leaned into comfortable couches, legs crossed, heads tilted. She suddenly felt old and conspicuous, tucking strands of unruly salt and pepper hair behind her ears.

“What can I get started for you?”

She didn’t hear the woman calling to her from behind the large silver machine across which letters spelled out “La Marzocco”. She had, instead, been staring at a mural occupying the back wall, reminiscent of graffiti she’d seen painted on train cars in other parts of the city, though here, matched with the wood and steel decor, created a particularly soothing ambiance. Struck by the dichotomy of attempted mood and boisterous reality, she sensed a clash of generations similar to “Game of Thrones” meets “I Dream of Jeannie”.

“M’am?”

She realized someone was addressing her; standing on tiptoes, she leaned across the stainless steel counter in order to see a young lady staring back. Her dark hair fell just below her ears, and her bangs, cut straight across her forehead, left lots of room for eyebrows. She was wearing a read knit top with sleeves rolled up just below her elbows. Her black pants were tight-fitting, cuffed enough to show a thick sock above black ankle-high boots. Her red lipstick set off a mouthful of very white teeth.

“Hello. I’m so sorry, I was distracted. May I have a cup of coffee, please?”

Wiping the wand of her machine with one hand, the young woman handed her a menu with the other. Ringed with brown stains, it had apparently been glued to a thin cutting board.

Espresso.

Pour Over.

Gesha Village, Surma Plot, Lot 68, Ethiopia.

Finca Porvenir, Colombia.

Jeronimo Chambe Taype, Peru.

Single origins.

Blends.

Farms.

Farmers.

Delicate acidity.

Where was the coffee?

The menu read like a movie poster for a foreign film. She pointed to one name in an effort to appear knowledgeable.

“Oh, good choice. That’s literally my favorite. It’s a single origin from Peru with pecan, cherry, and hibiscus notes.”

Notes?

“Do you like bright notes, or do you prefer something more nutty or chocolately?”

She listened to the young woman, her eyes enlarging behind her heavy-framed glasses.

Chocolate!

“Yes, that.”

A line had begun to grow behind and around her. Young men in dark jeans and flannel shirts. Work boots. Beards everywhere. A bike helmet. Backpacks.

“May I have that with cream, no sugar.”

“Sure, we have half & half, whole milk, and a number of alternative options.”

“Alternative options?”

“Non-dairy: almond, soy, cashew, goat, oat…”

“Uh, half & half will be fine.”

“Will you be enjoying that here or taking it to go?”

Definitely to go.

“To go, please.”

The young lady ground the beans and poured them into a white filter placed inside a glass carafe set atop a thin black scale, and ever-so-slowly added water from the narrow spout of a kettle. She stopped, then started, methodically and meticulously preparing the drink until the golden brown liquid began to funnel into the bottom.

She was taken with the care the young woman took in preparing the coffee. After removing the funnel which now contained wet grounds, she held the carafe at eye-level and gently agitated it like the barrel of a washing machine. She poured the liquid into a white paper cup, leaving room for cream.

Looking at her watch, she realized she needed to leave in order to get to her next student on time. She quickly pulled a five-dollar-bill from her wallet and prepared to hand it to the young lady.

The server slid the cup across the counter and announced, “Here you are, ma’am. That’ll be $8.50.”

Yikes. And, please don’t call me ma’am!

My Challenge

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 7, 2020 category Uncategorized

I am challenged today
by the struggle to make room
for the man who died by the knee
and by the one whose knee caused his death.

I am challenged today
by the beauty of the protests, the signs of lament,
the cries of long, long years
and by broken glass and tear gas and wounded innocents.

I am challenged today
by months of isolation and fear,
distancing and lack of connection
and by disregard for the vulnerable who must
sit by and watch the beaches fill and the streets come alive.

I am challenged today
by the voices that share the events of this world,
the dualistic me-vs-them in each scenario
and by the ones who kneel in quiet contemplation,
praying for peace and unity and change.

I am challenged today
by the noise, the clatter, the bumps
and bruises
and by the sound of birds and the gentle sway of the
trees as they continue to grow despite it all.

I am challenged today
by the attempt to make room
for both the loud and the soft,
the thump and the gentle touch
and that to feel my heart still, I must
also feel the agony of discontent.

Sounds of a Pandemic

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 24, 2020 category Uncategorized

Sounds of a pandemic

dogs barking
sirens blaring
starlings squawking
dishes clanking

refrigerator humming
neighbors conversing
hammers banging
vacuums whirring

lawn mowers
leaf blowers
chain saws
large cars

one stops
another starts
harmonious chaos
no slowing

clamor
clatter
uproar
racket

pause, I pray
silence, come

heart racing
no escaping

people walking
dogs barking

Conversations

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 9, 2020 category Uncategorized

Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of Roger’s death. I use the word “death” intentionally because it highlights the significance of his loss.

This week, my nearly-five-year-old grandson asked, “So, why did Roger die again?” I explained that he had cancer, but quickly moved to, “He was old. His body was tired. So, he died and went to heaven.”

He responded about his nine-year-old dog: “Her body will get tired and die, too. And, she’ll go straight up to heaven.”

Yes, she will. Hopefully not for a while, but yes, your dog will die.

In the next breath, he showed me his toys; he ran, laughed, moved, ran some more.

We filled his bubble-gun and he quickly emptied it. I taught him to play hop-scotch and he changed all the rules. We played baseball, had snacks, and sat in the sun on the driveway, watching the chickadee fly in and out of the bird house by his front window.

The boy has the innate ability to be in the moment, think big thoughts, and appreciate the world as it is. He speaks about his five-year-old birthday, what we’ll do, who will attend. Aware of the current condition, he adds, “after the virus.”

I learn that more than one thing can be true at the same time.