Denise Marotta Lopes, Author at Denise Marotta Lopes

In the Eyes of a Child

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 1, 2021 category Stories

When I was a little girl, I thought that tonsils were long toothpicks that resided in the stomach. I have no idea where I got that impression, but there was no talking me out of it. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve had an especially keen appreciation for the ways of children, and of how they see the world. Of what they hear and of what they believe. I wonder what conclusions they’ve come to.

Rockland is my link into that world. I could listen to him talk all day. I have to squelch my desire to write it all down for fear of missing even one word.

Recently, one of his kindergarten classmates was missing her grandmother, who had died only the week before. She had heard Rockland speak about me in class, and decided she would draw a picture of me, and asked Rockland to give it to me. But, first she needed to know what I looked like.

I didn’t even know she was drawing a picture of you and then she came over to my desk and I told her what you were like.

Oh.

I said you had a blue dress. And you have curly hair. Black.

Awe! My favorite color is blue! I see some gray crayon in there, too. Did you tell her I had gray hair?

Yes, and I told her about your face—that your skin was brown.

How sweet.

I also told her she should draw a little bit of some glasses—an eyeball and then a lens.

Okay.

This portrait, drawn by a five-year-old I’ve never met, hangs on my refrigerator. It depicts her heart—the one that longs for her own grandmother. It is also a reminder to me of how I’m seen through the eyes of that little boy. I’m glad he included a smile.

Now, I’ll have to buy a blue dress.

I Feel, I Wait

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 20, 2021 category Uncategorized

A gentle sense of malaise has set in over the past few days. At first on the surface, it has now begun to seep like melted snow into thick winter grass. I look for its origin, for in the finding, I can hope to resolve it.

This uneasiness is not easily identified. It is hidden, but its effects are plain. I consider what is around me: the ongoing pandemic, the suffering of a dear friend, the deaths of three significant adults from my childhood and young adult years. Any of these could produce sadness as I mourn with those who mourn.

And, yet. there is something about this feeling that has life of its own, as though it is fueled by the very air around me. I sense it in posts I’ve seen on social media. I hear it in public service announcements. There is a tugging in this season, an awareness that something is just not right.

Yes, this, too, shall pass. But, for now, I will sit with it. And, acknowledge it. And, wait.

Friday Fun with Five-year-old

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 15, 2021 category Stories

There’s something about Friday that conjures up a pause from the routine and opens a door to something new and exciting. In my earlier years, it was a sleepover at a friend’s house or a Friday night high school basketball game. Later, it became meeting up with friends or attending a party with co-workers. Now, it means picking up my grandson from kindergarten.

I pulled up to his school in anticipation. I parked the car and began walking from the parking lot to the playground where I spotted him in his brown Carhartt jacket. He was wearing blue sweat pants and a green “Elf” t-shirt underneath—his choice for “mismatch day”. His mask with the school insignia floated just below his nose.

There were two adults on duty and I told one that I was there to pick up Rockland. She called to him and when he saw me he stopped playing with his friend, ran over at full speed, and wrapped his arms tightly around my legs. Nonna! I hugged him and told him how happy I was to see him. I asked him who his friends were and he began to name each child, adding important details I should know. As he spoke, the other adult came over to greet me; Rockland’s words began to get swallowed up in his mask and the sounds of the children and I wanted to kneel right next to him so as not to miss a single one.

I showed my identification and waited outside the school door while Rockland and the adult went inside to gather his belongings. Soon he reappeared and handed me a baggie with little Valentine’s hearts inside. You can peel off the back and stick them onto a card if you like, Nonna. He informed me that I could carry his water bottle and lunch bag, as he slung his backpack over his shoulder and we headed to the car.

My 14-month-old lab, Ivy, was waiting for us on the front seat. As I opened the back door to let Rockland in, she hopped over the console and right out the back door, overcome with excitement at seeing her favorite five-year-old. I caught her by the collar as Rockland climbed up and buckled himself in. I got Ivy settled and then began the 25-minute ride back to my house.

He started right in on the red Gala apple I had waiting for him, chewing it down to the pits. Look at this, Nonna! There was a bag of popcorn, too, but he informs me that he prefers his popcorn hot. He entertains me with his conversation, pointing out things I would have driven by with little notice. We don’t stay on any one topic for long. Somehow we landed on school rules and I was interested to hear some of them: no wrestling to the ground; flush the toilet and wash your hands; and no squishing your friends when you sit down.

We pass the street that leads to President Joe Biden’s house and I point it out to him. Can we see his house? I tell him we are not allowed to go there. Oh, you can only go that way if you live in that neighborhood? Correct.

We continue on, keeping up with the flow of Friday afternoon traffic. Finally we reach my street and I back into the driveway. When the car stops, he swings the door open, dashes out, and runs toward the side door. I wrangle Ivy, backpack, water bottle, lunch bag, apple core, napkin, and nearly-full bag of popcorn. When I enter the house, I hear Rockland asking Papa if he wants to play soccer in the basement. Papa tells him he’s still working, but maybe in a little while.

His shoes and socks are already off and flung to the ground in the living room. He proceeds to the guest room/office, the one he calls his room, the one that he graciously shares with me. I help him open the closet that holds his toys and stuffed animals. I am awed by his ability to move so quickly from one thing to the next.

He plays, he eats, he grabs a book, he lifts weights, he throws the suction-cup ball against the wall to see if it sticks. He shows me how to use the voice command on my remote. Nonna, you press this button and say, ‘Santiago of the Seas’. I suggest we read and he runs to the shelf to pick his favorite book, No, David! We take turns being teacher. I go first. He gathered six or seven stuffed animals to the chair to join him for the story. They cover him and I have to remind the animals that we don’t squish our friends. I read two pages before Rockland raises his hand, telling me that the stuffed hot dog has to go to the bathroom. I ask if it’s an emergency. It’s an absolute emergency!

Papa comes up from downstairs and we tag-team so I can get dinner started. Rockland requests oatmeal. Oatmeal it is, then. He used to help me cook. Now he tells me I can do it and goes off to play with Papa. He eats his oatmeal with butter, cream, and maple syrup. He uses the knife to cut a big hunk of butter and watches as it melts in the warm oatmeal. He pours half & half from the little doggie creamer and I help him with the quart-sized jar of organic maple syrup. He adds an ice cube so it won’t be too hot, and then gives one to Ivy. He also grazes on two bananas, some raisins, and a bowl of blue chips.

Hey, Nonna, let’s watch the Phillie Phanatic. I pull up his favorite YouTube video, the one in which Tommy Lasorda and the Phanatic get into a fight before the game. We laugh heartily. We watch some more Phillies highlights. Hey, Nonna, why are there real people at the game?

He discovers a manual kitchen scale that belonged to my mother-in-law; I use it more as a decorative piece than as a measure of weight. He pushes down on it, noticing how the dial moves with his pressure. I bring it to the dining room table where he begins to pick up a banana, the dog creamer, and game pieces and adds them to the container that sets on top of the scale. I fetch a bag of pennies that I used for math tutoring when I still met with my students in person. He began adding those, as well. He estimated which items would equal a pound, and then proudly told us to look when he achieved his goal.

My daughter texted that she and her husband would arrive in 20 minutes to get Rockland. (It makes for a more peaceful transition when he knows it’s almost time to go.) When they came in, he quickly hid himself under a blanket on the couch, and we said that he already left. Angela pretended to sit on the blanket. I’m right here!

We said our goodbyes and when he was safely buckled into his booster seat, I realized he had left without the small bag of blue chips I packed for his ride home. I quickly retrieved them and handed them to my son-in-law before they drove away. He rolled down Rockland’s window so he could talk to me.

Nonna, do you think you could send me a post? And, can you put a picture of yourself in it in case we don’t see each other for a while?

I can’t think of a better way to spend a Friday afternoon and evening than with him. Oh, this little boy.

Our Morning Walk

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 5, 2021 category Furry Friends

Walking in the early morning hours is an activity I treasure. Before the town is fully awake, when it’s just me and Ivy, the newspaper delivery person zipping along in her white sedan, and the bus driver making near-impossible turns, I own this day. Along with them, I feel like one of the privileged few.

On especially chilly mornings, I layer in leggings and jeans; vest and coat; scarf, gloves, and head band. Ivy and I leave the warmth of the house for the welcoming air of the streets. With Ivy on my left, we start up the long steady rise to the knap that meets the boulevard. We stop in order for her to sniff, and for whatever naturally follows.

In my right coat pocket is a tissue and a green eco-friendly doggy bag; the left pocket is for treats, which come in handy when I need her to look at me instead of at the squirrels chasing each other up the telephone pole or at the barking dog behind the fence across the street.

We continue past old stone houses, and smaller bungalows. Two enormous sycamore trees grace the property of a home in mild disrepair. Though it is February, some homes still have their holiday lights on. I enjoy the calm that it brings.

At openings between the houses or at one of the five intersections we cross, we can see the river and the sun that is beginning to color the sky. Sometimes Ivy will stop right there and wait—cars be damned. This past week, the full moon still shone to the west while the sun in its rising attempted to blot it from the sky.

I remind Ivy not to cross in front of my feet to lunge at a fallen stick; there are plenty on her own side. She chooses the largest of the options, often whacking me across the shins with it as we go. She bites it hard, which causes it to break and fall to the ground. Sometimes she’ll pick up the discarded piece on the way back.

Aside from the occasional walker, the sidewalks are generally free of people. Sometimes we see another dog with her person. Other times we pass a solitary man who walks purposefully with head down and no words to share. We observe newspapers thrown short of front porches. I read the headlines as I step around one: President Biden received his COVID vaccination.

When we reach the house with the thick, expansive lawn, I remember to look up. It is from here that the bridge connecting Delaware to New Jersey can be seen. I am seldom unimpressed with its grandeur. The boulevard continues a downward trek to a road with fast-moving vehicles headed to the interstate. It is at that intersection that we turn around to return home, but not before Ivy stops, taking in the change of direction. I move my hand in a gesture of invitation. She considers and eventually follows along.

This walk is our dance. When in sync, our steps form a rhythm. If one of us forgets about the other, it’s like hitting a bad note. Most times it’s Ivy whose mind wanders and I become just something she drags around at the end of her leash. At other times it’s me who falls into a “where’s-the-fire” pace, long legs marching forward forgetting the dog who needs to sniff and sniff some more. We remind each other to pause and look at the mockingbird high in a tree, cawing like a blue jay. We slow as we hear the 4 bus approaching. I stop and wave.

We continue on, uphill this time, past the house with the big lawn, past the same newspaper, past the magnificent sycamores. Ivy finds the earlier-discarded stick. I loosen my scarf and unzip my jacket a bit. We make it back to our street, turn right and head downhill toward home.

Return Visit

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 29, 2021 category Furry Friends

In December, 2013, Roger, my golden retriever, and I embarked on the world of pet therapy with a visit to the priests and brothers at the Oblates of St. Frances de Sales in Childs, Maryland. For several years, we met at 10:00 on Tuesday mornings for coffee and extended visits. We fell into a comfortable rhythm with three men in particular: Father Sarro, Brother John, and Father George.

But, as often happens, those we love leave, and we are left with both the joy of remembrance and the sorrow of loss.

In November, 2020, Ivy, my English Labrador Retriever puppy, and I made a return visit to the Oblates, where I introduced her to Father George. This time, he and I sat six feet apart wearing protective masks. He had prepared a cup of coffee for me, and set out water in a large cookie tin for Ivy. We caught up; he told stories. We laughed; we sat in silence.

At my last visit, Roger wore a support-harness; at this visit, Father George used a walker. As is his custom, Father George walked us back to our car. Along the way we stopped in the small cemetery where Brother John is buried.

Life changes, but some things remain: friendship, connection, and the healing power of a puppy.

Adapted from an article originally published in the PAWS for People Community Newsletter: Late November, 2020

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.

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