Archives for posts with tag: Ripples

It is hot. I am dressed in a new, pale yellow dress with a smocked front. Well, it’s new to me, a hand-me-down that I finally fit. I love the texture of the dimpled smocking. It has contrast color stitching. Mostly I feel dressed up and special. My mother puts my little sister down for her nap. The older kids are outside with my dad, who is mowing the lawn. In retrospect, I have pieced the scene together, and know that I must have been about three and a half.

Mum wants to take a short walk to the mail box. It’s just a hop-skip and a jump away–maybe a little over a block. She takes my hand and tells me we’re going to mail some letters. I am thrilled. I get to go on a walk with my Mum, just the two of us! We stop in the yard, to tell my Dad.

It is blisteringly hot. My mother mops her brow with the back of her hand, even before we’re out of the driveway. I cling to her other hand.

We don’t get far, before our neighbor calls out to my Mum. They live opposite us, the front of our house looks across the crescent to the back of their house. Theirs is the mirror image of ours, one of the many variations on a theme in our neighborhood. The Missus wants my mum to come in for a minute, she has a question. We head across their lawn towards her “back door,” which, like ours, is really a side door to the kitchen, off the carport.

The carport area is shaded, and cooler. With me in tow, Mum takes the first step up to their kitchen door when the Missus tells her to leave me in the carport–this won’t take a minute. Mum settles me onto the concrete steps, before heading in.

I smooth out the fullness of my new dress, over my knees. My little fingers explore the fancy puckers in the smocked front. The neighbors’ dog, Taffy, jumps up to sit beside me. She is not a big dog, I later learn that she’s a cocker spaniel. I turn to her and tell her that it is very, very hot. The rest happens very, very fast.

The dog attacks me. The first bite is just under my chin, along the jaw. Then it jumps and grabs the flesh at the end of my eyebrow. I scream. My mother, who has just barely cleared the threshold into the kitchen, turns, and Taffy bites me again, piercing through my upper and lower lips, muffling my cries. My mouth fills with blood.

Mum rushes out and shoos the dog.  She scoops me up into her arms to comfort me.

“She must have teased the dog,” the Missus accuses, from just inside her kitchen.

I understand. She wants this to be my fault, and I cry out, “Noooo!”  I am covered with blood. I know that I did not tease the dog.

My Mum turns to bring me into their house, to their kitchen to clean me up and assess the damage. The Missus holds the screen door shut. “Oh no,” she says, “Take her home.”

Stunned, Mum turns and runs home with me in her arms. It takes both of my parents to hold me, screaming, on the kitchen counter as they flush and clean the wounds. The letters are not mailed. The dress is ruined. My parents are livid.

The Missus never mentions it again. She does not check to see if I am okay. My parents, young and shocked, never think to report the attack to the authorities. Though we live there, just across the crescent from them for another fourteen years, my mother never speaks to the Missus again. To this day, my Mum becomes incensed when the incident comes up, which it doesn’t very often.

The scars remain. And, in my mid-thirties, I am diagnosed as being allergic to dogs–the only one in my family with an animal allergy. I ask the doctor if being mauled as a kid could be the cause, and he nods, “Yes, that would make sense.” I tell my Mum (one of the few times it comes up.) She pursues it and asks her doctor, and other medical friends. Not that it really makes any difference.

Last year, in a Facebook group from my hometown, I become re-acquainted with her son, Bill. We reminisce about growing up in our neighborhood. He comments how odd it is that there was so little contact between our families, given our proximity. I say, that, for my part, it was because of the Taffy Incident.


I describe the dog attack. He never knew that that had happened–and mentions that the dog had attacked other children, and had to be put down because of it. I hadn’t known that. He mentions, in passing, his hope that that incident hadn’t been the cause of any distance between our families. So I ask my Mum.

“Absolutely.” She answers, as if it had happened yesterday. “That woman!” She is doubly incensed when I tell her that the dog had to be put down. She bemoans that she and my Dad hadn’t had the sense at the time to report it. It’s more raw for her than for me. Some things never go away. I decided not to mention it to Bill.

The Missus passed away this week. Covid. I read the obit, and sent a note of condolence to Bill. The obit was full of loving tributes–how wonderful, and funny, and warm she had been. The Taffy Incident was nearly six decades ago, and I hold no grudge. Of course, she was elderly–and like many family members of Covid victims, it pains Bill that she had to die alone. This is the agony of a pandemic.

I decided not to mention it to my mother, but my sister did. My mother, in turn, reported it to me–announcing in the same breath, that she had no feelings about it, one way or another. But I can still feel the icy chip on her shoulder.

Bathroom Fixtures, James Stone

I was just a kid, but the import of the event wasn’t lost on me. My mum was making a special dinner. She’d scrubbed and vacuumed until our home shone. My grandfather, my Dad’s Dad, was coming to visit. There had been tentative outreach, but it would take some doing to melt the nearly two decades of silence between them. My mother was seeing to it that the visit would be seamless, and delicious. This new grandfather was bringing his wife…the woman he’d married immediately after my grandmother divorced him. I didn’t understand it then, but this was “the other woman.”

Still, she’d been with him faithfully for years. My father held no grudge against her; that was my grandmother’s forte. We, all five of us, were dressed and spit-shined. This would be one of those ‘best behavior’ days, more tedious than enjoyable. Only the curiosity of my father suddenly revealing a secret father of his own made it worthwhile. That, and the promise of dessert.

The actual visit is a bit of a whirlwind in my memory. They arrived and there were introductions and small talk. Everyone took seats in the living room, with my mum getting up to check the oven, from time to time. The table was set. It looked like Thanksgiving. The secret grandfather was tall, with the same piercing blue eyes as my Dad, and the same wispy, fine hair. He seemed as entranced with us, as we were with him, his eyes traveling from one tow-headed new grandchild to another. All the promise of five surprise grandchildren! The missus mostly sat quietly, jaw tight and lips pressed together. Perhaps it was a mistake that my mother politely refused her offer of help in the kitchen. Certainly my mum had no intention of reducing this honored guest to scullery help!

Finally, it was ready. My mum sent us all to wash our hands in the bathroom at the end of the hall. When we returned, the new grandmother, asked for directions to the bath, and my mum waved her down the hall. She never actually reached the bathroom–about halfway there, she shrieked like a gored animal, “Arthur!”

We all looked up in shock. Whatever could be the matter?!

“Dear God, Arthur, nudes! Obscenity! And in a house with children!” Her bony arm held outstretched, her finger pointing at the two, small, charcoal, nudes, tastefully framed, that hung at the end of our hall. “I cannot spend another minute under this Godless roof!”

My parents were both slackjawed, unable to comprehend the disaster unravelling before them. The woman turned, sprinted to the front entry and collected her jacket. She was out the front door before my new grandfather even knew what was up. Shaking his head, he apologized, before following his wife out to the car. They sat there, for some minutes, in heated discussion, before he eased the car back down the driveway and away.

Five little towheads, wide-eyed and shocked, lined up at the living room window, looking at the now-empty driveway. My mother quickly gathered up the extra place settings, returning the table to our normal set up for seven. My father quietly announced that, though he was surprised, it was true that some people might not appreciate our tastes in art. He suggested that we all sit down and enjoy the lovely meal that my mother had prepared. We ate mostly in silence. The apple pie was delicious.

Years passed before we visited with them again. She, of course, refused to come to our house. By then, though, the irony of this woman’s objections to nudity wasn’t lost on us.

My parents were always artsy people. I once heard a neighbor describe us as ‘Bohemians’…and I was never sure if it was a compliment. But my father was an amateur woodworker, and my mum became a potter of some artistic note. Their friends included potters and painters, weavers and sculptors. What can I say…it was the sixties. But that scene, halfway down the hall, always stuck in my mind.

Years later, my parents’ best friends, Jim and Irene, invited us to a special dinner. Some people become family, even without blood relations. These people were part of the fiber of our lives. This event was to celebrate the unveiling of his most recent painting. We arrived and while playing with their children, we peeked into the basement, where the easel stood…covered with a sheet. We’d have to wait until after dinner.

After dessert, we all trooped into the basement for the big moment. Jim adjusted the lighting and then, like a matador, dramatically swept the fabric up and away, revealing the canvas. It was a nude–a woman seated in a bathtub. Most importantly to me, breasts visible! Tits! Tits were okay! It was such a relief! If Jim and Irene could have tits in their artwork…we could, too! If there’d been any question left in my mind about the fallout from the unpleasantness in the hall, this erased it, made it all okay.

Decades later, as an adult who’d married, moved away, divorced, re-married and returned, my mother and I visited Irene. It’s a pleasure when someone has been in your sphere so long that they are a well-loved fixture in your life. Jim had since passed away, as had my Dad. But our families are inextricably interwoven. After dinner, Irene announced that she had a housewarming gift for Rick and I, for the home we were building. She left the room and returned with a painting, its back to me. And then, much like its first unveiling, four decades earlier, she dramatically flipped the painting and revealed…that very same painting of the woman in the tub.

She could never have known how much that particular painting had always meant to me. I was shocked…that she could offer me this painting, this special image, that was so deeply imbedded in our joined family history. I love it. It hangs in my bedroom, where I see it, and appreciate it and its history, every day.

Despite having tried, verbally to explain this and thank her–I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to convey how, in my mind, this painting accomplished a great healing for me. After all, without this confirmation, I might have gone through my entire life, wondering just what was meant by “Bohemian.”

To Irene, with eternal gratitude.


A.V. Walters–


Sometimes there are crystalized moments in your life, moments that are loaded in a way that forms who you will be, or that define a new direction that your life will take. I’m fascinated at how a chance event can snowball to construct an entirely different version of you, than the expected path might have yielded. You may not even know it at the time but, upon reflection, you can see how the impact of that moment left its fingerprint on you, and maybe on others around you.

We all have answered those “pivotal” questions, “Where were you when…” But they reflect a wider sensibility—that of a community or a nation. And I don’t doubt that those incidents that form the arc of history have an impact overall. What I’m talking about here, though, are the more personal moments—the AHA! events that took who you were, an instant before, and then mapped a new direction for who you became as a result.


From time to time, in this blog I’m going to address those ripples—in my life, and in the lives of those I know. I invite you to ponder your own circuitous paths, and how the “you” of today emerged. Feel free to share.


The Magnificent Radovini Brothers

stick built

We were stair-step kids, arriving with catholic regularity, one, nearly every year. Before long, our standard issue, three-bedroom tract home was too small, owing to our lopsided gender distribution. When the time came that my brother, the only boy, really needed a room of his own, we four girls were too much for the other bedroom.

My parents own interests were running out of space, too. My father’s woodworking and my mother’s new involvement, in the world of clay, were spilling out of the utility room and into the kitchen. So, my parents took the plunge. Together they sketched out a plan to expand our home to make enough room for our wild tribe, and enough for all the different things we did. An architect made their dreams into plans and the bank gave the go ahead. My parents found builders, the highly recommended Radovini Brothers. These young men accepted the job, but warned that, in the middle of it, they’d be taking off for two weeks for a long planned family reunion. As long as the project was enclosed before they left, and then finished before the end of the summer, my parents didn’t mind. How could they? They understood family.

It was high theater for us. It was summer and we were off school so we could watch. They were doubling the size of our house, there was digging, with its piles of dirt and concrete, and finally, The Radovinis arrived. We loved them. They were five brothers with mops of dark hair and sun-bronzed skin. They worked shirtless. The neighbor women came to watch. The Radovinis worked and laughed and sang—sometimes opera, sometimes Italian folk tunes. The brothers harmonized, in their songs and in the rhythms of their work. They brought enormous lunches, which they unpacked from coolers with great ceremony. Food was important. They ate with great gusto, the jokes and ribbing continuing between bites.

It was like being visited by the circus. They were as charmed by us as we were by them, a string of blond towheads, following their every move like puppies, soaking in the aroma of pine boards, and watching the building take shape.

Our house grew by the day—faster even than we’d been told to expect. These men loved their work, and loved showing off their skills. Our jaws hung slack as we watched the drawings from the plans take shape in the air. It was a two-story addition and they were fearless—walking out on the thinnest of planks, twenty feet in the air, tossing up tools to the outstretched and ready hands of trapeze-artist framers. We tipped our heads back and shielded our eyes from the summer sun with cupped hands, to watch. How lucky we were to have found such tradesmen! As the time for their scheduled vacation approached, they worked long hours, determined to frame and sheath the structure before their trip—as promised.

The oldest brother approached my father. Were we happy with the work? Of course! Sheepishly, he requested that my parents advance the full contract price. The brothers were traveling across Canada for their reunion and wanted a “safety reserve.” My parents, thrilled with their work, were happy to oblige. Hell, they’d have adopted them if they could.

In their absence, we clamored over the new addition like squirrels. We collected nails and pieces of scrap wood—which we hammered into odd towers. When parents weren’t watching, we walked on the skinny joists, high above what would be our new garage. It was all so exciting–we could hardly wait for their return.

My father broke the news at dinner one night. We knew that something was up. My mother’s face was puffed and red. There’d been an accident. The Radovinis, they were going over the mountains—with most of the family riding in a travel trailer. A passing car clipped their trailer and forced it, and its tethered truck, over the edge. Four of them had been killed, along with their wives and children. The surviving brother would never walk again. With him, all that remained of this vibrant family was the elderly grandmother and an infant child, who’d remained home. The singing and laughing, gone.

My parents never mentioned the money. And, from that day, we became builders. My dad rolled up his sleeves and learned. His weekends became building time. We were his cadre of conscripted workers, little fingers stuffing insulation around windows, holding the end of the measuring tape and carrying tools and supplies. He learned wiring and plumbing and tiling (Oh My!) So did we. He harnessed his intense fear of heights to finish the roof and upper walls. We learned to put our fears in context. Money was tight, but skills we could learn. We became a family that built what we needed. We never shied from what willing hands could perform. It took my parents, and us, ten years to finish, but it was done, and done well.

That continues to today—not a professional builder in the bunch, but my siblings, mostly girls, are not strangers to the working end of a hammer. The Radovinis came into our lives nearly five decades ago. Right now, I am poised at the largest project of my adult life—my husband and I are building a home. As I wrote this, the concrete truck arrived to pour the footings.


Pouring Footings

Pouring Footings

In my minds eye, I can see the Radovinis, perched, straddling the skeletal ribs of our new roof, drinking ice water from re-filled Coca-Cola bottles. They chug it down and pour the rest over their heads, laughing and working in the summer’s heat.