Dress Sizes

There are a great many posts of late by women saying they have the blues and are feeling like their own skin is a size too small.  There is something in the air women are saying, maybe a funk has settled in, worse than the cold, harsher than the flu, debilitating like pneumonia, and that nothing is moving forward.  We’re taking steps forward, but the wind is pushing-pushing, pushing us around and damn-it, it’s taking our spirit too.  Those damn Karma fairies are holding back on the good news, a winning lottery ticket, come-hither stares from a lanky stranger, they’re holding back on all those little intangible perks in life we inhale greedily and take for granted when we’re not under that grey cloud of the blues.
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My family tree is sparse.  What I know about previous generations I learned by hiding behind the sofa when I was supposed to be in bed while the adults sat around the kitchen table reminiscing. I have more Intel from my mom’s side of the family because she and her sister’s were storytellers without knowing it. I wonder sometimes if this influence has something to do with my love of writing, and making up stories.

My Latin family had secrets, exotic and mysterious ones, and the only way to learn them was to resort to tactile maneuvers while the girls—my mom and her sisters–poured sweet wine into their tumblers while listening to an eclectic selection of albums, the combo set the tone for the story hours.  Telling stories preceded dancing, which meant the LP’s dropping down on the Magnavox were the mellow sounds of my dad’s collection.  It was probably Eddie Fisher, Patsy Cline, The Four Tops, and Dean Martin, anything pleasant that didn’t get the foot taping or change their mood.  A ritual went along with our annual family reunion dinners, rowdy drinking music during dinner preparation, Glenn Miller and Artie Shaw during dinner, and then after, background music during their memory weaving.  Much later, there would be more wine, and dancing music.
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I think about Billy Bucks more or less depending on the connection with my family.  In recent months, the bond to my small family is weakening, so I think of him more. He was the glue that held us together; he bound each of us to our obligations to one another, to the family, to the love we share.   I am less inclined to be co-dependent these days.    I haven’t thought about it too much, or made any rash emotional decisions my Latin self is known for, only reflected on a life that was unexpected, and the bond that weakens.

I grew up in an untypical Latin family, but Latin it was.  We lived in one another’s pockets, and packed ourselves into small spaces, traveled yearly along Route 66, had 99 cent breakfasts at Stuckys, drove through the night to beat the snow, watched the sun rise over the four corners, and ate red chili in Santa Fe.  Our house on Hilltonia Drive was Grand Central Station in those early days.  Billy had the ‘Place’, our nickname for his dream came true restaurant-Bronco Bill’s.  He was a chef before it was chic, and had been trained by an even chicer chef; he even cooked on television long before there was Foodtv.com. 
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