RIP Nana. 1942-2011

My Nana and I, 1995.

If anyone was to be known for “living life to the fullest”, the reward indeed would given to my Nana. She wasn’t only a tough cookie, but a brave woman also, that stuck through four marriages, three children, and plenty of grandchildren. At the ripe age of sixteen, which I am almost approaching, she married her first husband and had all three children as well. That husband was to forever be my Grandfather, as she was forever to be my Nana.

My Nana knew for quite some time that I am an amateur writer, and so the instant she came to terms with that, she told me “One day, I’m going to tell you my life story and you’re going to write it for me. It’ll be a best-seller, I know it.” However, her and I never got the lucky chance to acquaint with one another and have a lengthy interview, fully on her, fully on her life, and fully on her mistakes. It destroys me instead to be fully in reality of knowing that I won’t ever be able to interview her or create that “best-seller”.

But I promised to myself, after she passed away, that although the information I knew about her past was obscure, I would try earnestly to gather information about her and INDEED make that best-seller. And the day that I do, she can smile down from Heaven at me, because not only did I promise myself, I promised her.

My Nana’s sense of humor, I believe, was gently passed down to me. She was always telling jokes, and making jokes. I remember one time when she was staying down at our house for some time, she kindly, with a smile on her face and hysteria in her eyes, asked me to clip her toenails for ten dollars. I couldn’t help but laugh with her, in perfect harmony. Another specimen of her joyous humor, was when my older brother, Evan, asked my Nana that if he turned into a stripper, would she love him still? Immediately, she said “Yes, and I would watch you too.”

My Nana would always watch soap operas from one PM to four PM everyday.

The last time I saw my Nana before her passing, was about a week ago, when it was her birthday. We brought her Arby’s and we sat outside, enjoying one another’s company.
Every time I ever went to her house, I would ask her gingerly if I could look through her old pictures. She never once said no to me. I looked at her old pictures, in awe, in love, in fascination. I saw how beautiful she was not only then, but now too. In all youth pictures, her smile was forever faded. I didn’t see her smile much in them, so I asked her why and she said “I didn’t have a happy childhood.”

Before passing, luckily, my father talked to her. I am so very thankful for that, because my father loved her dearly, and when it struck him that she died, he was stricken. His sister passed away seven years ago exactly.

My Nana, whenever speaking of death and all it has to it, always said that she wanted to be buried next to her daughter, Teresa. Not only did she want to be buried next to her, but she loved the fact knowing that one day they would meet again. I rest assure that they are speaking in perfect spirits right now. Nana, you got your wish. You finally get to see your daughter again.

My Nana and I, 1995.
I love you so much, Nana. I always have, and I always will. I will never forget the wonderful memories that we shared, and I will never forget the time you taught me how to make my first homemade apple pie. You’re so spectacular.

Juanita McMahon 1942-2011

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” John 3:16

I also wanted to add that, once my Nana would depart from us, she would always hug us individually and say “I love you” to us- she would NEVER  forget. I find that to be of the highest importance.

My top 5 most beautiful men of the 20th century

(In no particular order, just simply listed as they came off my tongue.)

#1 Richard Thomas, formally known as John Boy Walton, from the Waltons.

The first time I ever saw or heard of this well-spoken of John Boy was when my mother was cleaning our house and she turned on the television to The Waltons. Me, being an intrigued young woman that I am, I sat down on the couch and before me laid Mr. Richard Thomas and boy, was he beautiful. The main reason why I was so dearly intrigued by his lifestyle and features was because he was a writer, and for those of you that know me, I’m a writer as well. So just for being a writer, he stole my heart. John Boy left alone with a piece of paper is such a wonderfully exquisite thing.

 

#2 Humphrey Bogart, well known for his role in a 1942 film entitled Casablanca.

For some peculiar reason, men from the 20th century that are smoking ciggies, send my heart to the moon and back with zest. Although it is evidently unhealthy for them, it sure does make them attractive! I fell in love with Bogart in this picture, he takes me back to a time when chivalry was at it’s finest. The first film I ever witnessed Bogart in was indeed Casablanca, which my brother-in-law introduced me to and I am very glad of it. I was so very glad of that I bought it on DVD!

 

#3 J.D. Salinger, known for his world renowned novel The Catcher in the Rye.

Although I was fidgeting between Ronald Reagan or Salinger to be held in this spot, I chose Salinger. The very first time I heard of Mr. Salinger is when I read his infamous novelette The Catcher in the Rye, which I am quite frankly a big fan of. I just finished reading it a few months ago and was pleased to my highest intentions.  After reading and becoming familiar with it, I decided to learn more of this wonderful author. When I did, let’s just leave it at this; He is truly uniquely beautiful. I think his beauty originates not only from his physical appearance, but for Catcher in the Rye, as well.

 

#4 Paul McCartney, known for his earnest music career, especially with the Beatles

The first time I ever was acquainted with the music of the Beatles and Paul McCartney himself was when I was on the bus in the 5th grade, heading home. My bus driver enjoyed playing some good ole’ tunes and I didn’t once complain. In fact, most of the time I didn’t want to talk to any of the kids on the bus because I was too busy listening to the beautiful music of the 20th century. The first song I heard of McCartney’s was Silly Love Songs (which was and is still my favorite song of his), and I thought to myself “what a genius!”.  His beauty radiates from his hilarious personality, to his beautiful, genuine music, and obviously his physical features. Who doesn’t love a man with such lengthy eyelashes?

#5 Fred Astaire, known for his excellent performances in dance, acting, and singing.

If you don’t know of Fred Astaire, you must of been living in a deep, dark cave your whole life.  A year ago, my nana allowed me to pick anything of hers to keep. Immediately and without questioning, I chose a glass statue of Fred Astaire. Not knowing who he was or what legacy he carried, I took him home with him. His top hat and dancing body compelled me to choose no one other but him. Later on, I finally became familiar with who he was and what his reputation was all about, which added to his beauty and brilliance. Not only can he dance, but he can sing and act too! That’s a package deal right there.

 

Men, men, men. Men will always be apart of my life but it will be the men of the 20th century that will hold dear to my heart. Though none of them know of me, I sure know of them, and I’m glad of it.

A new day, a new thought.

As I sit here, contemplating on life’s obstacles and collisions, I wonder at the marvelous wonder of having a book club of my own. With a few of my closest friends (that surely feel compelled to the art of writing and books, in general) all neatly closed in together, embraced around one another, breathing in the magnificence of the book that will lay steadily in our hands that month. I would surely love that. From the beginning of when I learned to read, to now, I have read by myself and experienced the dreaminess of it, in solitude. Although that’s a treasure, I wish to express my love for books with others, in a book club. Maybe one day it will come of me.

 

To the present and the past,

Melani L

R.I.P Uncle Eric. 1951-2011

A deep hush of sadness and mourn rustled through the Spring trees on this very morning. I knew something suspicious and unruly was surrounding us, but I couldn’t process through my mind what was the matter. I started my day off no more than normal, I was reading my Physical Science textbook, when out of the blue, my sister, Whitney, called my mother. I decided to intrude and I picked up my head and faced my bland, pale wall. My mother was giving my sister a few updates on my Uncle Eric. She spoke words that spread off sadness, and further continued to explain to my sister that his blood pressure was dropping, he wasn’t responding well to the procedure the night before, and that he was put in critical treatment.

My mother, (far right, black hair) and all her siblings. 1981

Although my memories of my Uncle Eric are vague, I do recollect some that will perpetually hold a place in my mourning heart. Around five or four years ago, my grandmother, mom, Uncle Eric and I spent time together, after a long interval of not being acquainted with one another. We drove to Cocoa Beach, (where my Uncle Eric lived for a great sum of his life), and that’s where we met him at the surf shop there. I don’t recall any conversations that were held there nor do I recall what we did at the surf shop, or where we delighted ourselves on dinner. However, when we went back to his small apartment, I remember that quite vividly. We went inside, and it looked lonely as ever. There were no pictures hanging up, no television or radio of some sort, or any sign of comfort. All that my Uncle Eric had in there was his bed and himself. His bed was positioned in a corner, hugging the walls. I remember when we dropped him off and left, I felt a form of melancholy. Visualizing that someone of my family is living like that, made me feel absolutely terrible inside. Inside, I felt a sudden urge to take him to our consoling home and care for him, but I knew, deep down inside, that we couldn’t.

Recently, around three or four weeks ago, we all gathered for brunch at my Uncle Glenn’s house, where we saw my Uncle Eric, for the first time in awhile. Thinking about it now, regretfully, I fell asleep on my Uncle Glenn’s couch. I woke up to the soothing voices of my Aunt’s, Uncle’s, and my mother’s angel voice. I visualized in my mind what they were doing, for I couldn’t see, because a wall was plastered amongst my view. My Uncle Eric brought old pictures down, and they were passing them around, in laughter and harmony. I can tell they were at their happiest spirit. I woke up, and I was near my Uncle Eric. He gave me two pictures of his new station wagon, and it looked absolutely divine. One is hanging peacefully on the fridge. I remember that when we left, I gave him a big hug and both our cheeks met, and I felt his blazing skin embrace me. He had a high fever that day.

Those are two of my fondest memories I remember of him.

To the right: My mother and my Uncle Eric sharing a joyful laugh

Today, around twelve-twenty, I was in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. My mother called, (she was on the way to see my Uncle Eric in the hospital – she knew it was gradually becoming worse), we gave our usual greetings and she suddenly said, “Eric passed away.” She gave me a brief moment to respond, but all I could think of was “oh”. “I got there fifteen minutes after he passed.” Hearing that my mother, of all people, didn’t get to see her brother before passing away, nearly shook me. We parted our ways, and I went over to the sink and gazed at my garden bed abroad. I wept for a good amount of time, and stared at the flowers while doing so. I was planning on picking those flowers to give to him.

As a family, we were all going to see my Uncle Eric on Sunday.

We were too late.

My Uncle Eric was a man that I wish I knew more in depth, but God gave me some great memories with him, as it is. He was a man full of adoration for the past. Every Christmas, he would pull something out from the past and send it to the family members. Everybody couldn’t help but smile when seeing a memory from the before.

My dear Uncle Eric, the third of nine children died today. He was a brother, a son,  a father, an Uncle, and a grandfather.
I love you.

Ecclesiastes 3. 1-8:

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

May all those suffering from the threatening disease of alcoholism be forever cured.

I have transferred my blog, yet again.

And though for some it may be an exasperating and arduous move, for me, it is casually thrilling. I find adding myself to the blog atmosphere sends off more of an awareness towards my writing. That way, if anybody is taking a leisurely stroll, they just may stop upon my blog and make a pit stop or two to digest my works. And wouldn’t that be just lovely?

My clock reads 11:01 PM, and in an hour I shall be headed off to bed. Clearly and blunt, I wanted to state that I have finally found my home: Word press! I’ve grown a deep passion for it, so far.

As far as my works go and what I have been up to lately, I am currently reading “Becoming a Writer” by Dorothea Brande, and I need that breath of assurance in writing so very badly. I am currently working on a novel, (which may turn into a short story), about a young writer, who is also an alcoholic. Alright, alright, I know that isn’t much of a synopsis, but I haven’t fully grasped the meaning that this story will acquire. I felt inspired by The Lost Weekend, a 1945 drama film, which adapted from the novel by Charles R. Jackson.

 

Now, I’m going to end this abruptly. I hope to write here again sometime soon.

To the present and the past,

Melani L

Hello world!

Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!