Denise Marotta Lopes

My Dad’s New Clothes

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 23, 2020 category Stories

My dad grew up the seventh son of a seventh son. He and his eight brothers and one sister lived in a small railroad apartment in Brooklyn. They were poor. So poor, in fact, that Dad said they couldn’t afford grandparents. Nevertheless, they were happy.

My grandpa Rocky, a war veteran, belonged to the American Legion. Each summer the men chose local boys to attend an overnight camp in New Jersey. My dad had never been to the country, so when he was told that he and his brother, Rocky, were going to camp, he was elated!

Grandma Josephine bought them some new clothes to wear and packed their suitcases. After the long, steamy ride on the bus, they finally arrived at camp. It was exciting for the boys from Brooklyn to be so far from home and in such a beautiful place.

After a full day, some of the campers decided to take a swim in the lake. Dad chose instead to get washed up and dressed for dinner. He was anxious to put on the new suit that his mother had packed for him. When he was alone, he carefully removed it from his case, taking care not to wrinkle it. He scrubbed up, brushed his hair, and got dressed. He felt so proud to be wearing new clothes. Having so many older brothers, he usually wore hand-me-downs. Oh, this suit was something special! It even had pinstripes and piping all around it.

Dad proudly walked out into the camp area to wait for the boys to come back from their swim. After a short while, two of the guys started walking toward my dad. “Hey, Joe, what’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”

Dad replied, “Sure I do. I’m fine.”

A few minutes later some more of the boys came back. Again, Dad was asked if he felt okay. He replied affirmatively.

Finally, brother Rocky returned, and when he saw Dad, he looked very concerned and asked, “Hey, Joey, what’s wrong with you? You sick or somethin’?”

By now, my father was very perplexed and beginning to get annoyed, he shouted, “I’m fine! Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because,” Rocky replied, “you’re wearing your pajamas!”

Remaining Calm (or at least trying to)

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 14, 2020 category Uncategorized

My initial reaction to the Coronavirus conversation was one of empathy and, frankly, nonchalance. I appreciated that those far from me were suffering, and for that I was saddened. Empathy carries within it a degree of privilege—until it lands on one’s doorstep.

The landing point for me was when the NBA suspended its season. And, schools began closing. And, my husband’s company began speaking of having the employees work from home. A pet therapy conference I was scheduled to attend was cancelled, as were all visits for the next month.

I wondered if I should avoid visiting my neighbor because I had been in the same room with a coughing student. When I accompanied my mom to her local grocery store, I saw for the first time the results of fear living right beneath the surface—not full-out panic, but rather an unease and uncertainty that caused people to strip the shelves of wipes and bottled water and toilet paper and even bars of candy, sticks of gum, and containers of mints.

In an effort to avoid anxiety, I began reading articles from trusted sources and listening to podcasts from voices of reason. For the same reason, I stopped. I watched Ivy, who still ran to fetch a ball and return with it at full-speed; I sat on a rock in the woods and listened to my four-year-old grandson tell me a story with multiple twists and turns. In the midst of a rapidly-changing landscape, I focused on what remained the same. At least for a little while.

Yes, I will be aware. And, wash my hands. And, look out for those in my world. And, pray for those outside my immediate reach. And, I will marvel at the sunrise. And, plant petunias. And, sip coffee. And, try my best to remain calm.

Everyone’s Neighbor

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 9, 2020 category Stories

A well-worn path leads straight to the back door of my one-hundred-year-old neighbor, Rose. When my family and I were planning a move to the area, she was the first person I met. Earlier on that day she had returned from her final visit to the doctor who performed her hip replacement surgery.

“Yes, I am all well,” she said triumphantly. “The doctor said I can drive again.”

She was 95.

Rose greets her guests with a smile and an open door. Those who know her don’t mistake her welcoming nature for that of a push-over, however. She is every bit as capable as those decades her junior. She speaks up for herself, stating, “I don’t let them get ahead of me.”

One of nine children, Rose fell in the middle of the birth order. She attributes her ability to stand up for herself on the fact that she was often picked on. In response, she became an advocate for others, as well as for herself.

“My mother used to tell me that if we had money, she would have made me a lawyer,” she said with a smile.

Some are prone to assume certain things of a woman her age. A nurse once looked at Rose’s chart, and upon recognizing her advanced years, began speaking to her in a thunderous voice. Rose politely told her, “I’m not hard of hearing, dear.”

The limitations put on her by others is a frustration to Rose. “You know, my age is just a number, but when people hear it, they say, ‘Really? What do you eat?’ I want to tell then, ‘I eat sh*t!’”

My neighbor has lived in her house for 79 years—the last 20 as a widow. She was 21 years old when she first stepped foot into her new home in 1941. “I moved in here with my husband,” she said, and with a sideways glance, added, “And, my mother-in-law. She came with the package.”

In the 1940s, Rose was a hairdresser. She wore a crisp, neatly-pressed white uniform and spotless white shoes. Hairdressers and nurses were hard to tell apart in those days. Even after retirement, clients came to her house to have their hair done. Mrs. du Pont was the only one who entered through the front door.

Rose is a town historian—a veritable welcome wagon of the neighborhood. People of all ages enter through her back door. Some are newlyweds; others, longtime friends. Some bring their dogs; others, their grandchildren. She keeps a box of crackers for the kids and dog biscuits for the pups. She drinks milk and cooks her own meals. She cleans her house and reads mystery novels. She watches “tapes” with flight attendants and speaks glowingly of her devoted daughter. A phone call is not required; a knock on the door will do fine. I often say, “Hi, Rose, is this a good time for a visit?” Her response is, “It’s always a good time.”

She has a give-and-take relationship with friends and neighbors. Some cut her bushes, while she prepares their dinner. Another checks her generator while she offers cookies to his granddaughter.

As a result of her recent heart valve replacement, the doctor said she may no longer drive. She will miss the freedom of leaving home whenever she wishes. She will miss her Tuesday visits to the ACME, and taking friends out for lunch. But, in typical-Rose-fashion, she looks at the bright side. She is grateful for her health, and her good mind. She is comfortable in her surroundings and with her position in life. She is thankful for what she has and doesn’t dwell on what’s been lost. She stops what she’s doing to have a conversation, and values friendships with her neighbors.

It is this positive attitude that most impresses me about Rose. She is someone people want to be with. I asked her why.

“I tolerate everything and everybody,” she said. “I don’t fight with anybody. If I’m upset and all tightened up, I control it. I don’t let it bother me. I say, ‘Dear Lord, help me.’”

Though her roots in this town run deep, she willingly welcomes new ones into the fold. As one of those newly-welcomed, I am grateful. After a visit, she rises from her recliner to walk me to the door. I tell her she doesn’t have to get up; she tells me she’s got to keep moving.

“Visit me again.” I certainly intend to.

Note: This updated story was originally published at Her Stry Blog. The photo was taken at Rose’s 100th birthday party.

Raising Ivy…the saga continues

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 4, 2020 category Furry Friends

Ivy’s discovered a parallel universe. Her world has now moved beyond what is on the floor, to what is three feet above her head: bright blue S’well bottles; creaky, shiny doorknobs; luscious Granny Smith apples; herb-rubbed top round roasts; unsuspecting cats on the radiator cover.

She sees.

She stops.

She barks.

I’ve discovered some things, as well.

Rain beads on her back like bulging drops on a windshield.

She doesn’t need to go out as often—yet, I don’t rest on that knowledge.

She likes to bark and it sounds like yelling to me. I remember that she is a puppy, and likely trying to communicate something to me. (Couldn’t she just whisper?)

She enjoys the bathtub.

She makes me laugh out loud.

I’m told by her breeder, Beth, that Ivy is bored. I am not another puppy. She can’t lay on the ground and bite my ears and wrestle. No matter how many times I throw the ball across the dining room floor, I am still not her pack member in the way she needs. I’m told two are easier than one.

I simply can’t imagine it.

Thursday, February 27, 2020
11 weeks, 6 days

Raising Ivy (12 weeks)

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 29, 2020 category Furry Friends

I awoke with a start and looked at the clock. It showed 5:02 and I quickly sat up, listening for movement from the downstairs kennel. Nothing. Could she still be asleep? Quietly, I found my glasses, put on my socks and tiptoed across the creaky wooden floorboards to the no-less quiet stairs. One-by-one, I began my descent. I reached for the doorknob, bracing for its squeak and slowly opened the door. There she sat, across the room, in her kennel. I went directly to her, opening the two latches, waiting for her to sit quietly before I opened the door, and invited her out. Not stopping to fuss, I opened the French doors to the dining room, moved toward the kitchen, turned on the overhead stove light, said hello to Graycie, and placed the pink collar and leash on Ivy. I unlocked the door, and said hello to the dog that appeared to have grown overnight. She yawned, sat, got up, and moved toward the kitchen door and the outdoor lighted steps to the yard. Graycie ran out ahead of us, encouraging Ivy’s movement down the stairs. Another day begun.

Today marks three weeks since the little bundle came to live with us. In some ways it seems a long time; in other ways, like the blink of an eye. It’s hard to imagine life before Ivy. I don’t have to anymore. There’s no time for thoughts of that nature.

She is more predictable than that first day she arrived. Now, she gets up, pees, drinks water, eats, poops, pees. Feeding time is interesting as she is not particularly food-motivated. I place the kibble in the palm of my hand and she is willing to take it. I place more on the cool, tile floor and she cleans it up. There’s something about that big stainless steel bowl that doesn’t interest her. I’m learning, too.

I keep her still during the hour after she’s eaten, and she is fine with that. She sleeps on or near my feet, or with one of her soft toys, near my chair. I drink coffee, read, or watch the Eagle Cam on my computer. I look forward to the day she will join me for my quiet time on the porch, but currently, it’s not quiet when I bring her out there. It’s dark and too difficult to follow her movements when I’m trying to pray.

As soon as she decides she’s rested enough, it’s out to the yard she goes. Another pee. Most times, another poop. More water. And then…she’s off! Retrieving balls, biting bones, crawling under the hutch, pouncing, barking at Graycie. Moving, running; playing; going outside again; watching, listening, going outside again. There’s a rhythm to this dance, and after a while I can’t help but feel a part of her world.

About an hour or so later, boom, down she goes. It’s the end of her busiest time of the day. It’s when (in addition to indoor play) I walk her around the yard; today we ran in circles—six times, six times, five times. It’s when I wish we had a fenced-in yard; she has energy to burn. I’ve told friends that she plays hard and sleeps hard. Her snores confirm that.

Routines change from day to day, but I force myself to look at consistencies and focus on the things she does well. Yesterday morning was one of those times that did not go well. I had been up with her since 4:30 and at 9:00 decided I needed a shower. I thought she was ready for rest and she agreeably stepped into the kennel with her usual treats and safe toys. Her usual fussing did not cease and I was, by then, already soaking wet and unable to get to her. I called out words of comfort over the hum of the shower. I dried as quickly as I could and dressed. I went to the kennel with my hair dripping to find that she had already pooped and stepped in it. I whisked her outside knowing it was my fault. She tried to tell me, but I didn’t reach her in time. I bathed her, cleaned the tub, scrubbed the kennel, put her mat and toys in the wash, and went back to finish my preparation for the day. My hair had begun to dry into an unruly mess and at that moment I wanted to cry. Yet, she rested. My hair eventually dried. I got dressed. And, life went on.

Welcoming Ivy has filled a gap. Her questioning head-tilts make me laugh. The way she pounces on an unsuspecting toy is pure delight. Her excitement at seeing me warms my heart. Watching her grow and learn gives me hope.

Saturday, February 29, 2020
12 weeks, 1 day

Raising Ivy

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 25, 2020 category Furry Friends

Raising puppies is not for the faint of heart.

Ivy discovered dirt today. Not the muddy form of dirt that spreads itself across the yard like peanut butter on bread when temperatures are above freezing, but, rather, the dirt that supports our five-foot tall Dracaena Janet Craig. The plant that has found a home in the corner of our dining room for the past two years. The plant that minds its own business, filling the corner with lush green. That plant.

I found Ivy’s Kong ball inside the container, setting atop the soil; her nose covered in brown, and her paws spotted with crumbs. She appeared nonplussed at my response; for her, digging in dirt was as natural as splashing in puddles.

The little girl has been with us for ten days. She eats morning, noon, and night, though prefers drinking to eating. Her teeth are sharp, though she willingly trades a hand for a Nylabone. I note her growth based on how much she looms over our dilute tortoise cat, who wonders what she ever did to deserve the likes of this bubbly little creature.

One of the puppy’s first lessons was: we don’t eat library books. We also do not poop in the crate, pee on the rug, or chew on the table legs. We do, however, pee outside when her humans take her out after eating, playing, sleeping, and breathing. We do poop twice after each meal (this was discovered the hard way). We do pull in the direction of our neighbor’s side fence to visit Henry, the Bichon Maltese, and if he is not there, will sit facing his yard in wait.

She wags her tail at breakneck speed when meeting someone for the first time, or seeing her humans magically reappear in the morning. She retrieves (I swear). Our floor is littered with her toys, colorful, fluffy, hard, soft. I remind myself that these trying, all-consuming puppy days are limited. She will not always need constant watching. In time, she will let me know when she needs to go out, instead of me having to calculate those outings. But, she will then be too big to carry and will have lost that sweet, musky puppy fragrance.

Raising puppies is work and laughter and exhaustion and appreciation of those relaxing moments when I cuddle her and breathe in all that she is and all that she will be—one day.

February 18, 2020
10 weeks, 4 days