Spring Green was in a bad way upon her return from WI last night.
Red Hair Girl and Penny Cooper, who had stayed home, were very worried. They set up a hospital tent for her, to keep her warm and dark and quiet.
They got the idea for a tent from Many Moons--and just like moons, flowers, and unicorn horns, Spring Green's good health returned. This morning she is sitting up eating breakfast and telling them all about her traumatic trip.
I feel responsible, of course. She is too young and tender to have been exposed to the stress of highway traffic––
(the road was filled with such aggressive or inattentive drivers, I kept thinking, "I don't want to die in a car accident", and bink who was driving (I don't drive) came home with painfully cramped forearms from gripping the steering wheel)
––much less exposed to the stresses of visiting old Sicilian relatives.
I have always sung here the praises of my last relative remaining from my parents' generation. I treasure her lifelong kindnesses to me.
But have I ever mentioned the way she enforces obligatory optimism?
It's obliterating.
You're not even allowed to have a bad night's sleep.
"How did you sleep?" she asked the first morning.
"Eh . . . not so great," I said.
"Say, 'pretty good!'" she instructed. "That's what I always say:
How'd you sleep? Pretty good! How're you feeling? Pretty good!"
On one hand, this is an admirable tactic:
life is hard, and a cheerfulness helps, even if you have to fake it.
On the other hand, this tactic applied not just to aches and pains and inconveniences but to all of life (as she applies it) squashes the juice and joy out of conversation.
Further, my relative has gotten progressively deaf, so the pleasant chats we used to have have been reduced to her talking at me.
She has often declared that she doesn't want hearing aids. Still, it's gotten so bad I don't even bother to talk much. She doesn't seem to care, but I decided to risk asking her to consider seeing an audiologist.
"I hear pretty good," she said defensively.
I pushed (unwise with Sicilians, as I know full well).
"I miss being able to chat freely with you," I said. "I can't say what I'm thinking..."
"TOO BAD!"
And out came the Positivity Steamroller, flattening me with accusations of meanness and unfairness. Because I want to talk and be heard.
We've never had such a horrible exchange before, but I was vividly reminded of why I don't miss her brother, my father--this sort of exchange was a regular occurrence between him and me.
When I went upstairs, after having frantically retracted all my ridiculous ideas about the importance of mutual listening, Spring Green was catatonic. The dolls don't necessarily care about human affairs, but they do register the winds of our emotions, and she'd been knocked flat.
Now, I'm grateful for my relative's lifetime of kindnesses, I really am. But I don't feel like risking my life on Death Race Highway to go visit someone to exchange fake pleasantries.
Probably I will. She's almost 93, after all.
But next time, all the dolls will stay home.
Red Hair Girl and Penny Cooper, who had stayed home, were very worried. They set up a hospital tent for her, to keep her warm and dark and quiet.
They got the idea for a tent from Many Moons--and just like moons, flowers, and unicorn horns, Spring Green's good health returned. This morning she is sitting up eating breakfast and telling them all about her traumatic trip.
I feel responsible, of course. She is too young and tender to have been exposed to the stress of highway traffic––
(the road was filled with such aggressive or inattentive drivers, I kept thinking, "I don't want to die in a car accident", and bink who was driving (I don't drive) came home with painfully cramped forearms from gripping the steering wheel)
––much less exposed to the stresses of visiting old Sicilian relatives.
I have always sung here the praises of my last relative remaining from my parents' generation. I treasure her lifelong kindnesses to me.
But have I ever mentioned the way she enforces obligatory optimism?
It's obliterating.
You're not even allowed to have a bad night's sleep.
"How did you sleep?" she asked the first morning.
"Eh . . . not so great," I said.
"Say, 'pretty good!'" she instructed. "That's what I always say:
How'd you sleep? Pretty good! How're you feeling? Pretty good!"
On one hand, this is an admirable tactic:
life is hard, and a cheerfulness helps, even if you have to fake it.
On the other hand, this tactic applied not just to aches and pains and inconveniences but to all of life (as she applies it) squashes the juice and joy out of conversation.
Further, my relative has gotten progressively deaf, so the pleasant chats we used to have have been reduced to her talking at me.
She has often declared that she doesn't want hearing aids. Still, it's gotten so bad I don't even bother to talk much. She doesn't seem to care, but I decided to risk asking her to consider seeing an audiologist.
"I hear pretty good," she said defensively.
I pushed (unwise with Sicilians, as I know full well).
"I miss being able to chat freely with you," I said. "I can't say what I'm thinking..."
"TOO BAD!"
And out came the Positivity Steamroller, flattening me with accusations of meanness and unfairness. Because I want to talk and be heard.
We've never had such a horrible exchange before, but I was vividly reminded of why I don't miss her brother, my father--this sort of exchange was a regular occurrence between him and me.
When I went upstairs, after having frantically retracted all my ridiculous ideas about the importance of mutual listening, Spring Green was catatonic. The dolls don't necessarily care about human affairs, but they do register the winds of our emotions, and she'd been knocked flat.
Now, I'm grateful for my relative's lifetime of kindnesses, I really am. But I don't feel like risking my life on Death Race Highway to go visit someone to exchange fake pleasantries.
Probably I will. She's almost 93, after all.
But next time, all the dolls will stay home.
