My Grandmother

The death of a loved one is always hard, whether you know it’s coming or not.  When my grandmother was dying I went back to NH to see her whenever I could.  We had nice conversations about my uncles and she spoke about how she missed them.  I think I realized that she knew she was dying and wanted me to have her stories.  I cherished those stories because I only had a few memories of my Uncles.  I remember Uncle Joe’s house in Hyde Park was on a hill so big and all the cousins would lie in the grass and roll down the hill over and over.  I remember that we couldn't wait to get there because we knew Aunt Mary was up there waiting to give us candy, or that my Uncle Pete was the one who taught me to play cribbage as soon as I could add to 31.  Our family was always playing cards; it was what we did whenever we were together as a family.  So I cherished every story my grandmother had to tell.

It was always hard to leave my Grandmother and head back to Boston, but she understood that’s where I needed to be.  It made her happy to know that I was living the life I wanted and that I was making my dreams come true. On the train back to Boston, I thought a lot about my Grandmother and the memories we made together.  I never did say Goodbye to her, I only ever said, “I’ll see you next time I come home Yaya”  The unfortunate thing was there never was a next time.

It was a grey day In November and it was a perfect day to spend it in the darkroom processing film and making my working prints for class.  So with my bag packed and my headphones on, I set out to the photo department of my College to work.  I loved being there more than shooting itself sometimes.   I always felt comfortable in the dark and I've always loved the glow of the orange safe light. It was a Sunday and it was quiet and the floor only had about 3-4 students on it.  I found a groove and worked through the afternoon.  It was late when my roommate came into the darkroom looking for me.  She said, “there was a message on the machine.  Your dad is coming down to get you.”  I knew in that moment, while I was tucked away safely in darkness making pictures, my grandmother had passed away.  Liz, seeing the look on my face quickly told me, “She’s not gone Lo, it just doesn't look good.”  I met Liz my freshman year and we became great friends and we've lived together since then.  She always kept her cool in any situation.  She helped me get my things together and we left for our apartment.  When we made it to our front door, my Dad was pulling up.  He had no words, just a pained look in his eyes.  I kissed Liz goodbye and got in the car.  I cried silent tears the whole way while I prayed that we’d make it back in time to say goodbye.  I’d never seen my father like this.  He was always so strong, so in control, and so full of life.   The air in the car was thick with emotion and full of silence.  I felt such guilt over the fact that my family couldn't get to me in time. My grandmother passed away while I was on my way to NH.

That event changed me.  I watched my father crumble to the floor like a lost little boy, instead of the strong man that he was, when we entered the hospital room and learned that she was gone.  A part of me was lost that day as I looked at my grandmother and couldn't see her energy and feel her warmth the way I always had whenever she was in the room.  My sisters and I were a mess, my brothers were just as lost as my father, and I watched my mother do something I hadn't seen her do in over 10 years. My mother went to my father despite the pain he caused her, and she knelt on the floor by my father’s side, pulled him to her and just held him while he cried.

I stayed in NH in my childhood home for a week following the death of my grandmother.  It was odd to see my father in our home after so many years when I came down from my room in the morning.  I could tell that my mother wanted him gone, but I could also see that she wanted to take away his pain.  It was very surreal to see my parents connecting like I remembered from when I was a child. By the time I was ready to go back to Boston, I felt like my family was in a good place, and I was too, I felt ready.  Once back in Boston, I fell into my routine just like before only this time something was different.  I could feel a change in me.  At first I thought that it was just me mourning the death of my grandmother.  I wasn't myself, I felt like I was an observer in my own life.

I worked through the following month barely getting through finals. I couldn't go into the darkroom without having a panic attack.  I saw a therapist that I didn't connect with.  I found her to be obnoxious, and I didn't feel like she was helping me, I felt stupid sitting in her office and trying to explain to her what was going through my mind when I couldn't make sense of it myself. How could I ever properly communicate what I was feeling. Therapy wasn't for me.  It just made me feel worse.  A professor in the department heard or saw what I was going through. I never knew how she found out. I was shocked when she reached out to me.  She quietly said, "I know what you're going through. I've been there."  I'll never forget that day. It was a simple statement from someone that I wasn't close with at all, but that one statement helped me find what it was I needed to get through this depressed state I was in for far too long.  If only she reached out sooner.  Perhaps I wouldn't have pushed away the man who loved me more than anyone ever did.  He was pushing me to get my shit together, but he didn't understand my depression, so I let him go.
That experience changed me, and was the catalyst for what would be the next 2 years of self discovery, new love, another loss, and recreation.                                     

                                         --Lola Fontaine 2014

Memories are a Funny Thing

Sometimes you hear a song, or a phrase and you are instantly transported back to a time where you something important, something meaningful happened.  My very first memory was the day my little brother was born.  I was just about 4 years old when I got to hold this sleeping doll, and I asked my mother why his eyes were closed.

To this day whenever I smell fresh basil, or mint, I’m transported back to when I was a little girl helping Yaya in the garden on South Street.  Every summer when I plant my own garden of vegetables and herbs I can see her so clearly helping me to remove tomatoes off the vine.

As a mother of my own daughter I make a point to create memorable experiences with her.  Growing up we didn't have much, but we had each other, we had music and we had fun.  My mother always made everything fun.  Music filled our house back then and it fills mine today.   I can relate almost any classic rock song played on the radio to some experience with my mother doing something around the house jamming away to her music.  My mother loved to play “dance party clean up.”  She’d turn up some Creedence Clearwater Revival or something and call out “it’s time for a dance party” and she’d come into our rooms to start stripping the beds of their sheets.  Each of us whether we wanted to or not, couldn't help but join in and start to clean our rooms.  Before we knew it, our rooms were clean.  What was then a game to get us to clean our rooms and do our chores without an argument, is to this day a cherished memory.  We did what we had to do, together, laughing and listening to music.  What could be better than that?

 In 2009 I started the dance party tradition with my own little girl and she looks forward to it.  We use music to set the pace for our night time routine.  I’ll tell her, “we have time to play until the end of this song, and then we have to go brush our teeth.”  This ritual works for us and my daughter gets to enjoy her music too. 

What I remember about our house growing up was how warm it always felt.  My mother did that.  She created a space for us to feel safe and loved.  Our nights after dinner were soothing, and spent reading books.  Today my daughter rushes to get herself ready for bed so that we can have more snuggle time reading.  My girl always climbs up into my bed, gets the pillows fluffed, and is under the covers when I come into my room.  She’s ready.  She’s waiting for our special time together.  We spend this time snuggling under the covers and reading together.  She’s really become quite the little reader and she loves it.  As a reader, writer, and lover of all things books, I’m going to do everything I can to make her reading experience as enjoyable as possible.  I cherish this time with her, because I know there will be a day, sadly not far away I’m sure, where she won’t want to snuggle with her Mama.  There are many nights when we both fall asleep in my bed, heads touching and a book over us.  Some nights my husband finds us and will take her to bed.  He’s even started a little collection of photographs he’s taken of us after we've fallen asleep snuggled with books that go back to when she was a baby.  Even I haven’t seen all of the photographs, but I know that he’ll turn it into a special memory book for her someday. 

So on one particular night I wake up and I’m alone so I carry my daughter to her bed and I head back to my room.  When I pull back the covers I find my sweet girl’s ruby red slippers and an extra book that she had tucked into the bed.  Instantly, Seeing these things in my bed made me smile and reminded me of my little girl when she was 3.  That’s when she became obsessed with the Wizard of Oz and at nearly 8 it’s still her favorite.  The slippers, like many other things, will serve as a symbol for my own cherished memories.  A memory of a special ritual my daughter and I share, one that I hope she will continue with her own children someday. 

My daughter will grow up and remember our “snuggling with books” time, but what she may not remember is all the little extras I've found in my bed after she’s gone to her room. Through the years there were many things left behind and I've started a photo collection of some of them that I will put into a book for my daughter.   My goal is to give her my pictures and give her fond memories of a time that I will always treasure. Make memories, cherish them, and find a way to preserve them however you can, whether it be through words, pictures, or music. Just cherish the memories.

-Lola Fontaine 2014