Growing Into




	WRITE 2 THE HEART Stories that are aimed "Write 2 the Heart" February 27, 2002 Issue 022702 Cheryl Speir, Editor, moderator@write2theheart.com -------------------------------------------------------- By subscription only! Welcome to your next issue of "WRITE 2 THE HEART" You are receiving this FREE newsletter because you requested a subscription or a friend generously forwarded their copy to you. ------------------------------------------------------- Do you have a heart-warming story to share with our readers? We are accepting story submissions at this time. Please email your original story to moderator@write2theheart.com ------------------------------------------------------- Rose finds that she is becoming her mother. As teenagers that would be the last thing we would want to be. As we mature and see the finer and gentler sides of our mother, the comparison is welcomed. Having known mother and daughter, I can tell you Rose is filling her mother's shoes very well. ---------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------- Growing Into A Rose By: Rose Wade-Schambach --------------------------------------------------------- I am turning into my mother. I notice it more and more often these days. It started when I realized that I had inherited from her the same propensity for "premature" gray hair and a thick waistline. Even beyond physical appearances, I am like her in other ways too. Perhaps she marked me when she named me Rose. It was her name too. It remains a mystery even today as to whether my name was a coincidence or an Italian tradition where the first-born daughters were named after their mothers in the same way that first-born sons were named after their fathers. Either way, somewhere along the way, perhaps to avoid confusion or because there were no other nicknames to choose from: I became Rosie. How I hated that name too! I longed to be a Susan or Debbie or Kathy or Karen. Every year in schoolgirls with those names were as plentiful as the plaid dresses and saddle oxfords that little girls wore back in the 1960's. My mother was a second generation Italian born into a large family who entered school without being able to speak a single word of English. Only then there weren't any ESL instructors for students to make the transition. Instead, she was forced to abandon her native language and was punished severely if caught speaking it at school. Even though she forgot Italian, she always spoke with a trace of an accent, which always embarrassed me when I brought home friends from school. I grew up in a housing project on the Southside of Buffalo in a city called Lackawana. The acrid smoke that blew across our lives from the nearby steel mills continually covered everything with a layer of soot and grime. Even so, despite our bleak surroundings, my mother worked hard to keep our home clean with daily fresh baked bread and cheerful red geraniums in the windows. When I walked home every day for lunch from Roosevelt Grade School, I would find my mother baking bread or hanging a freshly washed load of laundry on the clothesline. While she worked, she would listen to the latest troubles of the neighborhood ladies. Sometimes as I ate my lunch of hot bread and pasta or soup, I would catch snatches of their conversations as the women unburdened their hearts with their latest disappointments. It was at that table that I learned the hard lessons of life: tales of abuse and alcoholism, way-ward children, and adultery. Soon the words would be spent as my mother poured another cup of coffee and helped dry their eyes in between ironing and putting a fresh baked batch of bread in the old electric range. Sometimes she would stop what she was doing long enough to come and briefly sit next to them and put her arm around their tired shoulders while she offered them sage advice. She would say things like, "You're so young and pretty. You don't need a man who treats you like that" or "Your boy Mario is a good boy. I'm sure he'll outgrow his foolishness. Just remember to let him know how much you love him." And the women would somehow leave my mother's house with their heads held a little higher knowing that someone cared. I would like to think that the gift has been passed on to me. Now I'm the one who tries to offer the listening ear and sage advice as I pour another cup of coffee to my friends and neighbors. Life is different now. The bread machine hums on the counter in harmony with the rhythms of the washing machine or dishwasher or clothes dryer. And I never iron. The women's issues are the same, though, and so is the same advice that Rose would have given them. I don't call myself Rosie any longer. The ironic thing is that a year before my mother passed away, my woes of being cheated on and ignored in my marriage had begun. As much as I wanted to sit at Rose's table and unburden my heart and find comfort, I just couldn't. Somehow I never could find the courage to broach the subject and admit that as a participant in the event called marriage, I had failed miserably. Maybe I was embarrassed to admit that I too had made a fatal mistake in picking a marriage partner. Or maybe I thought that I should spare her the agony of seeing her only daughter in so much pain. And so I carried my pain as I watched her console others. By the time I gathered enough courage to come clean with her, I received the incomprehensible phone call that she had slipped away from me as a result of a massive heart attack. The journey has been hard, but I followed what I believed her advice would have been. I divorced and struggled as a single mother and healed. Then I once again allowed love into my life through a wonderful man named John and the outcome has exceeded what I could even hope. But I am determined to carry the legacy on and encourage the women around me who are struggling with the same issues as always. I think Rose would have liked that. Rose Wade-Schambach schwadeton @ yahoo.com (You are encouraged to write to the authors to let them know what you think of their story, just remember to remove the space before and after the @ symbol. The space is placed in the address to protect our writers from viruses.) -------------------------------------------------------- Rose lives in Georgia with husband John and their combined tribe of 12 children. She is interested in pursuing more experience with counseling women. She is a freelance writer, teaches creative writing and is currently working on a book. --------------------------------------------------------- Lettie said it all, miracles do happen! So nice to see stories where God has protected people. I also enjoy reading first time writers, when you stop and think about it, sending in that first story is like a leap into the unknown. You bare your soul and wonder how it will be received. Thanks Lettie for sharing. Jill --------------------------------------------------------- Cheryl's Corner I have a love/hate relationship with my computer. Don't you find them to be one of the biggest sources of frustration on the face of the earth? Still, I would rather write on them than a typewriter. Jeremy left with clothes, food and high expectations last weekend to stay with friends while he looks for a job in another town. Remember when everything you did as a teenager made you feel like you were on the verge of a great adventure? The older I get I keep hoping the great adventures would go and bother someone else. Set in her ways? Me? Yep! God bless Cheryl --------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------- © 2002 Write 2 the Heart Nothing may be reproduced or published without the written permission of the individual author or copyright owner. All rights belong to the authors. ------------------------------------------------------------ All subscriptions sent to your email free of charge.