Nostalgia-O-Rama
During the recent years of Steven's, er, challenging adolescence, I have occasionally stopped to recall the time back before I left for The Frigid Northeast, back when Steven was not only my much younger, but also much shorter brother. I like to ponder this simpler time - back in the old days when I could make Steven dissolve into giggling fits simply by saying the word “doily” or by singing my rendition of The Dueling Banjos using “meow” as the lone, repeated lyric.
(Note: While I’m pretty sure that I discovered the potent effects of “doily” during numerous readings of ‘Bread and Jam for Francis,’ I cannot fathom how we came to be singing songs in cat lingo. Perhaps some derivation of making fun of Nefer’s less-than operatic kitty voice, but I really couldn’t say for sure.)
These were the days when Steven still thought his bright red hi-top Converse were the coolest and most versatile shoes on the market (check out his Little League team photo) and when it seemed impossible that he would ever grow up to be big enough to pack his bags and head off to another continent for a few months.
(Note: to clarify, that last points still holds true. Technically, Steven is now only old enough to have Mom and Dad pack his bags before he headed to parts unknown, but we’ve moved beyond that.)
But sure enough, with each transcontinental trek back to California during summer breaks and Christmas vacations, I found that the top of Steven’s head rose closer to eye level and one day a couple of years ago, I discovered that tickling him had became a danger to my person. It was dangerous, that is, if he stuck around the house long enough to be tickled. During Steven’s high school years, little brother sightings during my visits home were usually limited to glimpses of the back of Steven’s sweatshirt hooded head as he loped out the back door or up the stairs to his room with his posse in tow.
In an effort to stay connected with a brother to whom I’d read every Winnie the Pooh story at least a dozen times, I implemented a regimen of enforced outings to Dream Fluff Donuts. About once per home visit, I would roust Steven from his slumber around 11 a.m. and we’d head out for some custard filled, chocolate glazed fried dough logs of happiness with some coffee on the side for dunking purposes. To kick start conversation with a teenager prone to communicating in monosyllabic grunts, I would try to pump Steven for information about himself with probing questions such as,
“What have you been up to lately?”
or
“So school, like, sucks, huh?”
I tried to be cool and down with it and not some dorky out of touch adult, but usually I think I just came off as spacey and not that interesting. Steven humored me and told me how things were with him, but even in his exhausted, just woken up state, I’m sure he noticed the awkwardness of discussing how much school might suck with someone who has volunteered to spend the first 25 of her 30 years on this planet as a student.
I was always a bit sad that the time I spent with Steven on these donut dates didn’t really help me solve the puzzle that was/is Steven’s complex adolescent personality. But I have remained utterly confident that given sufficient time, Steven would come around and decide that we Campodonicos aren’t such a bad lot and that ones teenage angst is just a phase, if a rather terrifying and all consuming one.
And I do believe the wait may be just about over. As I type away on this warm late summer evening with crickets raging through my kitchen window, Homer is on a plane to India. To INDIA, people. And he has a blog that he has started so that he can SHARE his adventures and remain CONNECTED with his family and friends. In just the first few days, he has posted pictures of graceful moths and trees of wisdom and has described his powerful encounter with Shabda, the leader of the Sufis. Is this Steven? Is this the person who has been waiting to crawl out from under the hooded sweatshirt and infinite scowl.
Right on, is about all I have to say about that. Right on.
(Note: The origin of Homer as a nickname is as mysterious as the inspiration to sing The Dueling Banjos in cat. But it is a remnant of the hold days and he responds to it without flinching so I’m sticking to it.)
When I left California for my first year at Middlebury, the idea that I would not be heading straight back after four years was beyond comprehension. I thought I would only miss Steven Years 8 through 12 and I’d be back for the blissful teenage years. But then I learned that the more certain I was that something would or would not take place, the more likely it was that the opposite would occur. Actual quotes from Eva, 1998 – 2000:
1998: “Oh yeah, back to Cali in ’99, man. Like, for sure.”
1999: “I think I’ll stay east for a bit. The only city I just can’t see myself living in is New York…”
2000: “Me? Grad school? You’re kidding right?”
So when I finally sell off my apartment-full of IKEA furnishings and point Etta the Jetta west in ’07, I will be returning to find Steven with 20 years under his belt, many of them much harder years than I may ever know. I missed a good piece of the rollercoaster ride of a life that has transformed the little brother I knew from a Little Leaguer to a blog posting, Sufi meeting, continent hopping adventurer I’m not sure I quite recognize. But he sounds like a fascinating guy and I can’t wait to meet him. And I’m hankering for a donut.
(Note: While I’m pretty sure that I discovered the potent effects of “doily” during numerous readings of ‘Bread and Jam for Francis,’ I cannot fathom how we came to be singing songs in cat lingo. Perhaps some derivation of making fun of Nefer’s less-than operatic kitty voice, but I really couldn’t say for sure.)
These were the days when Steven still thought his bright red hi-top Converse were the coolest and most versatile shoes on the market (check out his Little League team photo) and when it seemed impossible that he would ever grow up to be big enough to pack his bags and head off to another continent for a few months.
(Note: to clarify, that last points still holds true. Technically, Steven is now only old enough to have Mom and Dad pack his bags before he headed to parts unknown, but we’ve moved beyond that.)
But sure enough, with each transcontinental trek back to California during summer breaks and Christmas vacations, I found that the top of Steven’s head rose closer to eye level and one day a couple of years ago, I discovered that tickling him had became a danger to my person. It was dangerous, that is, if he stuck around the house long enough to be tickled. During Steven’s high school years, little brother sightings during my visits home were usually limited to glimpses of the back of Steven’s sweatshirt hooded head as he loped out the back door or up the stairs to his room with his posse in tow.
In an effort to stay connected with a brother to whom I’d read every Winnie the Pooh story at least a dozen times, I implemented a regimen of enforced outings to Dream Fluff Donuts. About once per home visit, I would roust Steven from his slumber around 11 a.m. and we’d head out for some custard filled, chocolate glazed fried dough logs of happiness with some coffee on the side for dunking purposes. To kick start conversation with a teenager prone to communicating in monosyllabic grunts, I would try to pump Steven for information about himself with probing questions such as,
“What have you been up to lately?”
or
“So school, like, sucks, huh?”
I tried to be cool and down with it and not some dorky out of touch adult, but usually I think I just came off as spacey and not that interesting. Steven humored me and told me how things were with him, but even in his exhausted, just woken up state, I’m sure he noticed the awkwardness of discussing how much school might suck with someone who has volunteered to spend the first 25 of her 30 years on this planet as a student.
I was always a bit sad that the time I spent with Steven on these donut dates didn’t really help me solve the puzzle that was/is Steven’s complex adolescent personality. But I have remained utterly confident that given sufficient time, Steven would come around and decide that we Campodonicos aren’t such a bad lot and that ones teenage angst is just a phase, if a rather terrifying and all consuming one.
And I do believe the wait may be just about over. As I type away on this warm late summer evening with crickets raging through my kitchen window, Homer is on a plane to India. To INDIA, people. And he has a blog that he has started so that he can SHARE his adventures and remain CONNECTED with his family and friends. In just the first few days, he has posted pictures of graceful moths and trees of wisdom and has described his powerful encounter with Shabda, the leader of the Sufis. Is this Steven? Is this the person who has been waiting to crawl out from under the hooded sweatshirt and infinite scowl.
Right on, is about all I have to say about that. Right on.
(Note: The origin of Homer as a nickname is as mysterious as the inspiration to sing The Dueling Banjos in cat. But it is a remnant of the hold days and he responds to it without flinching so I’m sticking to it.)
When I left California for my first year at Middlebury, the idea that I would not be heading straight back after four years was beyond comprehension. I thought I would only miss Steven Years 8 through 12 and I’d be back for the blissful teenage years. But then I learned that the more certain I was that something would or would not take place, the more likely it was that the opposite would occur. Actual quotes from Eva, 1998 – 2000:
1998: “Oh yeah, back to Cali in ’99, man. Like, for sure.”
1999: “I think I’ll stay east for a bit. The only city I just can’t see myself living in is New York…”
2000: “Me? Grad school? You’re kidding right?”
So when I finally sell off my apartment-full of IKEA furnishings and point Etta the Jetta west in ’07, I will be returning to find Steven with 20 years under his belt, many of them much harder years than I may ever know. I missed a good piece of the rollercoaster ride of a life that has transformed the little brother I knew from a Little Leaguer to a blog posting, Sufi meeting, continent hopping adventurer I’m not sure I quite recognize. But he sounds like a fascinating guy and I can’t wait to meet him. And I’m hankering for a donut.
posted by Eva Marie at 9:39 PM
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