Suddenly This Summer

This was the strangest of summers. A gamut of events and emotions created a roller coaster of ups, downs, stops, and starts. There was never a precise rhythm; a pace to define a daily ritual. Sometimes, the promise of the unexpected gave way to endless nothingness. Just as suddenly, surprises burst on the scene without warning. And losses abounded—only to be mourned with introspection and, ultimately, a silent surrender of acceptance.

You would think that such uncertainty would make these months endless, the challenges Herculean, the spirit defeated. But on the contrary.

Let me explain…

Summer In The City/Town:

When I moved to Sacramento, I cannot tell you how many people commented on the brutality of the summer heat. Call me odd, but I was excited about the possibilities of basking in the glow of a hot sun and the lengthy days of light. It is who I am. I looked forward to leaving the grey, cold, damp fog of San Francisco and embracing the season. And, Sacramento did not disappoint.  I happily took on the challenge of navigating days of 100+ degrees. Early morning walks and late night walks with the dog energized me. Though I missed the fireflies and, yes, humidity of the East Coast, there is nothing better than starting and ending one’s day in the soft caress of a summer breeze. Mid-day was a challenge as temperatures peaked. But you go outdoors if you have to and otherwise, you stay inside with the air conditioner. You may find this further strange but I found it soothing to walk out of an airconditioned room and feel the warmth of a hot sun slowly embrace mybody. In short, in my own little world, I had my own definition of the dog days of summer.

As well, I have spent the season, discovering more about Sacramento. I love the tree lined streets which create a canopy of protection from the intensity of a bright sun, yet never depriving you of its warmth and the glory of lush greenery. As I navigate the parks, the neighborhoods, and, yes, even the multi-laned, strip-malled boulevards, I no longer see the strangeness. It is becoming second nature, it is becoming home.

As a city girl, I honestly still struggle with the concept of Sacramento being a city. There is a suburban tempo which creates a small town sensibility.  Its history is contained in forts and singular landmarks—as opposed to the bounty of architecture that I have come to adore about my favorite big cities. But as my daughter told me when I moved here, “You cannot expect this to be your kind of city. If you do, you will be disappointed. Learn what it is.” And, as I strip away life-long criteria, I find gems and surprises in the little streets of Sacramento. I see the sterile parts as utilitarian—a means of going from point A to point B when in search of a car dealership or a Target. Funny, if you look at places from this perspective, you can simply appreciate the convenience of it all.

Summer Farewells…

Since I have come to Sacramento, I have been confronted with the loss of some special people in my life. As always when someone passes or is nearing death, those of us who remain reflect and honor the legacy of the people who have gone. It is a uniquely personal journey, shaped by the nature of the relationship as well as the love. Here was my summer grieving…

The Baptista Sisters: Top Row: Theresa, Mom (Marie), Geri. Bottom Row: Millie, Mimi, Jacinta, Betty

My mother was one of 7 sisters. Each filled with larger than life personalities. I grew up immersed in their stories, in their shadow, in the enormous responsibility of being their niece.  They were all deeply intelligent and, yes, beautiful.  I have come to learn that each was not perfect—in fact, quite eccentric in many ways. But somehow, that childhood admiration that was drilled into me prevails throughout my life. So the loss of each is deeply impactful.

Aunty Betty died in the Spring when I first came to Sacramento. Though my only contact with her was during brief visits from her home in Hong Kong or England or finally in Vancouver, she seemed to be omnipresent throughout my life. It came from the power of the stories. As a child, I learned of Aunty Betty’s temper, told jokingly by the family, with a nod to her scary volatility. Then there was the legacy of Aunty Betty’s stature. Compared to her sisters, Betty towered in height and weight. In Portuguese, she was called “gorda”. When I was a chubby child, I would be called Betty. Well, you can imagine the tears that flowed from that. None of the nieces ever wanted to be nicknamed Betty. I am not sure if she ever knew that such mocking was going on.

But Betty loved her sisters. There was a bond amongst the seven girls that superseded “normal” familial alliances.  Understandably, that is all they had. Together they went through the brutality of war, the loss of their mother, the abuse of a distant father.

Mom and Jacinta in Montreal

Just prior to coming to Sacramento, I learned of the loss of my Mother’s youngest sister, Jacinta. She was found dead on a beach near the town she lived in Quebec, just outside of Montreal. It was a sad and tragic ending for a lovely, albeit mercurial woman such as she. In my youth, I became close to Jacinta after I visited her husband Klaus and her in Montreal. I was only 12 years old and they brought me to Expo '67. I was agaze! They took me to my first Robert Redford movie, “Barefoot In The Park”. They purchased “Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band” for me when the album was just released. And, on a visit to Quebec City, she pushed me  to the front of a crowd where I found myself face to face with Charles DeGaulle. He smiled and handed me a French flag. To this day, I still have the it and I will never forget his towering presence. As I grew up, she shared her newly acquired paintings by artists named Miro and Klee and instilled in me a lifelong love for art. She became my youngest daughter’s godmother and would always send both my little ones beautiful French smocked dresses. The connection and memories abound.

Jacinta and Klaus with a friend circa 1960s

Jacinta’s husband died in a car accident and she was never the same. Then one day the entire family, myself included, received a letter that she did not want any further contact. I tried to visit her, even knocking on the door of her home in Canada. But to no avail. What followed were years of silence. And then we heard she had died so tragically.

In the months that have bled into my time in Sacramento, the Canadian government has contacted the remaining family to advise us that she left behind no will but a sizable estate. They would vet each of us and distribute equitably. But the process has turned arduous and on-going, with no end in sight. More importantly, this has become an immersion into the unresolved pieces of the puzzle of her life. And, throughout this time, I think of that young aunt who opened up the world for me. There is a part of me that thinks she committed suicide. She was done. I respect her decision. For you see, I understand the story of the seven sisters. How their past fated their futures; how their bond created their destinies. Ironically, Jacinta was the one who tried to break away–only to find her ultimate fate was to be alone, even in death.

Images of Aunty Theresa

And, as I write this, perhaps my Mother’s favorite sister, Theresa, and certainly one of my favorite aunts is in hospice and under palliative care.  She has lived a long life—93 years. Her son Peter is like a dear brother to me. She was always a kind aunt who generously gave to her family and, in her own reserved way, fiercely protected the legacy. She is known as the nicest of the seven. I have to agree—and that is not saying less of any of them. She would not have wanted me to ever speak ill of her sisters. Nor would she probably want to hear of this distinction of being the kind stand-out. There is a lot of humility in her soft and quiet ways. (I apologize for shifting from present to past tense in writing this. Dying is a confusing state of reality, wracked with emotions and grammatical dilemnas.)

So the family waits for the final news. I think of her each day and hope she is resting comfortably. It makes me sad to lose her but I accept the inevitability of the ultimate passing.  But I smile too as I recall the Aunty who was the tomboy, who was the doting Mother, the sweetest of Aunts. I will miss her.

As a little girl with
Mom, Aunty Guida,
my brothers 

And now for the biggest loss of this summer…my Aunty Guida. She is not really a “blood” relative. Out of respect, I grew up calling all of my parents' generation by Aunty or Uncle. But Aunty Guida should have been a biological part of me. She definitely was a part of my heart.

Marguerida Savant (known as Guida) was my Mother’s best friend. She loved to tell the story about my birth and how she snuck into the delivery room as the "nurse". How, other than Mom and the doctor, she was the first person to hold me. Now that is a metaphor! As a child, I spent hours at her house. I always felt safe and loved. I would go over when things got tough. Once, when my parents separated, I packed up my younger brothers and took them to her house. She always welcomed the Pereira kids.

Then, as I grew up and out, my Mother and she became estranged (as friendships sometimes do). She was not in my life but there was always that respect and love. In the last 10 years, we reunited and I became a part of her world and she in mine.  I spoke to her almost weekly.  I loved that we could gossip about family as she knew my relatives better than anyone else--even the part that was unexplainable. As I did as a child, I told her my problems and wishes. She was the first person to know that I was starting my own business. She came to my first art show. She helped when mom was failing in the throes of dementia. It was poignant to witness their final reunion. It was clear that their childhood bond sustained. During our private dinners and endless talks, Aunty always spoke her mind. There were times I did not agree. But I did not argue. She was older, she was respected, she was treasured.

Aunty Guida and me

A few weeks ago, I got the call that she was dying. You know, I was away on a business trip when my Mother died unexpectedly. I got that call sitting alone in a hotel room in Brazil and  I was shocked. I was equally taken aback when I got the news about Aunty Guida. But this time, I got in my car and drove to San Francisco. I held her hand and told her I loved her and said goodbye. I knew when I left her that it was our last conversation and I cried all the way home. Two days later, as I stood within my new life in Sacramento, I felt she had passed. I looked at the time—3:15. I was told she died shortly before. It was as if she had come to tell me. There was no apparition or strange startle—just a silence in my heart.

With each recent and pending loss, it is as if my Mother has died all over again. But I am thankful for all the Aunties and how they filled my life. As a writer I should be able to express deep emotions and perspectives at such losses, but I am immobilized. Perhaps it is too soon. Perhaps when winter sets in...

I’ve Got A Friend…

On the American River on a hot August night

I am happy to report that my dog, Baci, is holding up well.  Perhaps he loves summer just as much as I. Without a doubt, he is now a very different dog. Gone are the days of rugged hikes, running and fetching. (I recently gathered his toys and gave them away as a poignant recognition that he just does not need them anymore.) He is now blind. He remains on a life sustaining daily regimen of insulin shots and a special diet. In my kitchen, I have a shelf dedicated to his foods, needles, pills.  I call it “the hospital”. And his care does not always go smoothly or predictably. There are good times and challenging ones. There are still some sleepless nights. There have been days I absentmindedly forgot to refrigerate his insulin and had to rush to the vet for yet another costly vial. There are days when I cannot leave him for more than an hour or two.

But, knock wood, no other medical issues have arisen. Considering he is 13 years old, that is good. I have been told he is living on precious time and I have come to accept it. He taught me, in so many ways throughout his life, to live in the moment and that is definitely what we do. He continues to honor me with his loyalty and love. He continues to fill my days. As I said in an earlier blog, it is almost as if he wants to make sure I will be alright in this new city/town. How can I not do the same for him? Such a dog, such a friend.

The Sweet Smell of…

I would be remiss if I did not write about the summer gardenias. To my surprise, these bushes abound in my neighborhood grounds. At first, I would simply walk by and smell the sweet aroma. I would recall such memories as my summer visits to Italy or that florist on the Upper West Side in New York City where I would buy a large, dramatic bud and bring it “home” so it would fill my apartment with beauty and a wonderful scent.

The gardenias are smaller here in Sacramento but are equally potent. And, as they grew wildly throughout, I found myself picking up a few and bringing them home-- filling little China bowls with water and floating a grouping of buds in each.  

And, to my joy, this has became a summer long ritual. On our evening walk, I will snip them and fill a bag. Baci always waits patiently for me as I go about the pruning. The warm summer air, the setting sun, and the gardenias…perfection.

And there are other flowers as well.  In my little patio, roses, an olive bush, and geraniums grow in large stone and clay pots. With my carved, wooden furniture and Provencal cotton cushions, it looks like a country scene in southern Europe.

But I am not in France or Italy or Spain…I am in Sacramento.

At last!

When I first came to Sacramento I had a job which ended under some pretty harrowing circumstances. In short, my “boss” was a con artist. And though it was a financial setback, this loss was a step again towards a personal direction of eliminating toxic people/situations from my life. I then spent months researching and interviewing for other positions. After some humiliating rejections due to my age or over qualification, I was done. I came to the realization that, at this point in time, at this moment, do I really want to go back to a career of long, arduous days? Do I really want to update my profile on LinkedIn? Do I really want to be turned down by another millennium? Enough! With my dog’s health the way it is and my adjustment to a new “town”, I decided to simply find a part time job.

I am happy to report that I have done just. I am a shop girl in a little children’s boutique and I work with wonderful people. The owners are delightful -- my first new contact with Sacramento natives with whom I connect.

I also have been accepted as a docent at the Crocker Museum. I am thrilled. Albeit a volunteer position, it casts me back into the art world. The Museum is gorgeous and bounteous with contemporary artists and special exhibits from around the world. I am impressed and I can be very select/critical about museums. As I venture into this, I look forward to the experience and sharing my passion for art. How lucky am I?

And you know, what make me most proud? I did all of this by myself…quintessentially embracing my solo life in Sacramento! I am surviving!

So here I am. And, as the summer warmth now starts to subside, I know another rhythm will be entering my life. The changes abound and I don’t know if I ever will capture back a definable lifestyle. I am no longer the young Mother whose days were charted by her children and the community in which I lived. I am no longer that career woman who woke up each morning to the routine of a job. And most importantly, I am no longer living under the chaos of my Father’s narcissism.

So maybe it is O.K. to be in a continuum of suspension. Perhaps it is no longer expected of me to find a niche and carve out a predictable schedule of being. In the final analysis, does it really matter? Is that a paradigm shift? Certainly. Is this scary? Without a doubt.  Is this not what I planned or hoped? Definitely.

But, ultimately, this is my life.