"April is the cruelest month." -T.S. Eliot

Adam and I awoke to a foreign feeling...a feeling so strange that we couldn’t quite place its origin. 

Had we felt it before? Yes, but where? Certainly not in the cheerless gloom that shrouds our beautiful city this time of year. 

And then it came to us: Spring!

Right now it is 75 degrees and sunny--a marvel if one considers that until today, it seemed that spring was a thing of the past. A memory caught in a crumpled photograph of my siblings and me in our Easter attire--holding baskets as big as our bodies, smiling grandly at the prospect of chocolate bunny ears after the obligation of church. My sisters and I are in little spring dresses and shiny patent leather sandals. In the background, daffodils trumpet their yellowy cheer while tulips lean lazily in their beds.

Ah, spring...

Like beauty, like love, it will wane.

“O, how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

And by and by a cloud takes all away!”

                             -William Shakespeare,

                               The Two Gentleman of Verona

From Abstract to Concrete

I called my mother at around 9:30 last night.

“Mom,” I said. “I’d like to write about Daddy.”

We talked for a half hour or so; I mostly listened.

“Do you know what your father said to me on our first date?” she snickers.

“Didn’t he say...”

“He said, ‘What does the mass mean to you?’”

Not knowing my father, you might think he was some sort of Jesus freak or something, but really, my father was a devout Catholic, a late-in-the-game convert who had a genuine faith in God that I still can’t fathom. 

To put it in context, my father grew up poor in an old Chicago neighborhood with his mother, brother, and older sister. For some reason, he was the only one of his siblings not to be baptized. Somehow, though, in the service he befriended a fellow draftee who would introduce him to the faith and become his godfather.

“Gosh, I can’t for the life of me remember his name,” my mother says a half hour into our chat. “He was such a good friend of Daddy’s.”

Though baptized in the service, my dad did not become a practicing catholic until he met a priest at St. Rose of Lima Church where he'd had a job designing bulletin covers that went out to several other Chicago parishes. It was in the kitchen of that church’s rectory that my father would meet Mary Lou Davis, his future wife, who just happened to be both the organist and music teacher at St. Rose. 

“It was because of your father that I became who I was,” my mother says. “His faith kept me involved in the church.”

A few minutes after I hang up the phone, my sister calls me to give me the name my mother couldn’t recall. 

“We knew it started with a G and had a ‘ski’ at the end,” she says all aquiver. “Mom thought you’d want to know.”

I did want to know the name, but here’s what I really want to know: I want to know how people back in the day had a faith like my father’s. I want to understand the kind of faith, or, in the very least, the connection to a church that drove my father’s sister and her husband to go to St. Rose’s when it was being demolished and to take home the concrete slab that bore the name of their church. My mother told me that Aunt Betty still has that concrete slab, and I don’t know why but I was surprised by it--the way a person can be so moved by the demolition of a church as to seek a remembrance of it. 

My father designed the stained glass windows of St. Richard’s Catholic Church, windows that some parishioners disdained for their abstract representations, the windows my evil first-grade teacher disliked so much they made her "look the other way.”

Hmmm. Where’s a concrete slab when you need one?


Photos: Ralph V. Smith stained glass windows at St. Richard's Church, Chicago, Il.

Growing Up Smith

Imagine a childhood so rich it makes your memory feel full. A childhood so full of music, laughter, and art that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to replicate it with your own children some day. 

That was my childhood. And it’s because I was raised by Ralph and Mary Lou. 

My father was an artist. I say “was” because he’s no longer able to create. But when he was still healthy he’d create elaborate signs for every birthday, baptism, and communion party, not just for his seven children but for all of our family and friends, as well. 

Our Christmas cards were Broadway productions. Ralph and Mary Lou would build a set and we kids would be dressed up as sugarplum fairies or, in my case, Rudolph. 

Yeah, we had fun. 

My dad was a genius. He designed the stained glass windows for our church. His faith combined with his genius equalled art like few people in our parish had ever seen. 

That was my dad. 

My mom is a pianist and used to sing in the opera. But she loved show tunes and Frank Sinatra, too. So every Saturday as kids, my siblings and I would find ourselves dusting window ledges or wiping the bathroom toilet while humming Puccini or perhaps something from Camelot. 

It was a great way to grow up. The Smith way.

That’s why it's a strain on my heart to see my father the way he is now: thinner, hunched over, his blue eyes not nearly as bright.  The one thing that gave him his genius has been erased like a wrong answer. 

Alzheimer’s can do that to a person. It’s been eight years now since my father was diagnosed. He still knows my name but always states it as a question, searching my eyes and the contours of my face to make sure he’s got it right:

“Are you...Christina?”

“Yep.”

“And your last name is Smith.”

That last line he speaks declaratively, like it's something he knows for sure.

“Yep. My last name is Smith.”

“Your name is Christina Smith,” he repeats.

We say the next part together, every time.

“Christina Smith. That’s it. Fort Pitt!”

And then we laugh hysterically, my Dad’s old laugh, the real one. I have no idea what “Fort Pitt” is, but I don’t care. The rhyming sounds help him remember me. 

Thank God he still remembers me. 

Happy Days Part II: A Very Merry Chris Smith!

Adam and I are hosting his family’s Christmas gathering for the first time. The last time most of them were at our apartment we had no furniture and served cheeseburgers and hot dogs on the grill. 

This time it’ll be crown roast, my famous mashed potatoes and my grandmother’s totally-made-from-scratch-stuffing (if I can get it right!). 

When I told my family about our hosting gig, they did what they normally do whenever I say “Adam’s family.”

They started singing, “The Addams Family. Buh-da-da-dum. Snap-snap...” Nothing derogatory, of course. That's just how maniacally silly we are.

But I digress...

Truth be told, I’m sort of a Christmas crazy person, so I really can’t wait. We'll have a fire, maybe sing Christmas carols while Adam and I play guitar. Yeah, the stockings with our initials are beyond cheesy but I still love them more than you’ll ever know.

“Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” -George Bernard Shaw

Today is a happy day.

Adam just found out he's been accepted to Northwestern University's Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program. He'll be studying under Stuart Dybek, a Chicago writer, a short story genius. 

That means he'll be writing again, his own stuff, instead of just helping me with mine. 

My heart is overflowing with joy for this man who has so much talent but is uncomfortable with compliments. 

He'll be writing again, creating. 

What else is there? 

To Chuck or Not to Chuck?: That is the question

I’ve stopped writing. 

Not because I want to but because I’m tapped out, plain and simple. After sharing the latest draft of my novel with two people I trust, I’ve realized that it needs a lot of work. Or, maybe, that I should simply chuck it.

This photo is a metaphor for my novel. When Adam and I first moved in here after I finished grad school, our giant living room was a blank canvas; with only a couple of chairs, a rug and some plants to fill it, we looked forward to making it come to life. So, too, with my story. Now that the walls have been painted, the color just doesn't feel right. And it's back-breaking work to have to do it all over again.

Aarrghh!

Adam is an editor of the highest order, to the point that it makes me jealous. Yes, he actually studied creative writing (and I didn’t), but still. With all of the books I’ve read, you’d think I'd have a grasp of what goes into good fiction.

Did John Grisham take a creative writing class? Okay, okay, he writes beach books. Still, my point is that with all of the writing I’ve done in college and grad school, I felt sure enough of my talent, or at least of my smarts, to give it a try. 

So, now that I have given it a try, I’m less than encouraged. What to do? Re-write the whole thing? One of the people who read this latest draft said, “I’m not an expert or anything, but there are a couple of chapters where it seems like there’s no action. Just a lot of dialogue.”

I wasn’t upset or hurt, probably because I knew she was right. Part of being a writer is having to deal with criticism. In graduate school I endured thesis peer review sessions that were so intense I thought my mind would melt from the pressure. 

So it’s not the criticism so much as the lack of inspiration at this point. When I first embarked on this writing jaunt, I was so excited. Now, I sort of can’t stand my female protagonist! Isn’t that just sad? Or do all writers hit a wall so to speak? 

Whatever the case, I’m going to try posting regularly again just to get the juices flowing. Plus, I really just miss my lovely blogger friends.

Beauty Is In the Eye of the Beholder, And More Rather Obvious Realizations

This is the trendy new restaurant that opened up in my neighborhood not too long ago. Adam and I dined there for his birthday this year. We were surrounded by the beautiful people. Adam had roast duck for the first time. 

It was fatty.

When we needed to get out of the house the other night, instead of heading to the overpriced trendy spot we mosied on over to a different joint one block down. 

To the naked eye, it’s a dive. A corner bar I wouldn’t dare be seen in (which actually wouldn't be  possible because there aren't any windows).

But beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

On the inside it’s one of those dark, old-school bars with round, high-backed booths that make me feel like Sinatra and Deano might saunter in. The air always looks smokey to me, even though there is no smoke. 

The clientele are a motley crew:  boys with ponytails and long beards; girls with thick black eyeglasses and bright orange hair;  a sprinkling of high-powered business men. 

Depending on the day, there’s either Johnny Cash or Coltrane on the jukebox. Add to that the fact that they serve the best bar food in the entire world (including homemade tater tots and the freshest salads), and it’s no wonder this dark little cave has become our favorite haunt.  

The ambience provides little moments. While I enjoy a cosmo (or two), Adam leans over and touches my arm. 

“You have the softest elbows,” he informs me. “You really do.” 

On the way home, Adam spots one of those mini murals of our delightful former governor that have been popping up all over the city. He gets such a kick out of it he simply must snap a picture.

So I ham it up like I usually do. He shows me the picture on the walk home and all I can think as I look at my ridiculous self is that in less than a month I will be given the title of “Professor.”

Adam is holding my hand as we pass by the trendy place--where the giant windows allow its trendy patrons to be seen in all their trendiness. We keep walking and laughing and being our silly selves and I say to myself, “Yep." 

Eye of the beholder.