For nearly six years of my life, from almost three to nearly nine, I lived a magical existence in Dottie's home and heart, where she, no questions asked, took me in when my own mother failed to come home one day.
The abandoned three-year old that was me, had finished off a jar of peanut-butter, the only thing I could fix myself. It was the third night of being alone when the electricity deserted me, and I, desperately afraid of the dark; stumbled in gulping sobs next door to my neighbors and sometimes baby-sitters house.
I was welcomed with out question, bathed and fed; fed exceedingly well as only an Italian Momma can. And for the next six years, that was a constant.
I was loved, scolded, teased, and trained in her kitchen to love, even worship food, both for its healing properties and just for the pure joy it could bring, in the making, eating and sharing of it. Manja, Manja! What an adventure to grow up in Dottie's kitchen and heart.
Perhaps a thousand mornings I sat cross-legged on Dottie's feather bed, or flipped over on my stomach, chin resting in my palm, being entertained just watching her dress in front of the large round dressing table mirror on her vanity from the twenties.
Her body was this amazing terrain, a map of her life and all that had gone before. Two children had left her a vast white expanse of stomach, nursing them, heavy pendulous breasts, stretch marks made intricate pathways in every direction. A dark hysterectomy scar repelled me, even as it drew me to peek again.
Nude, this unstoppable, effervescent woman was so vulnerable. Wrestling with her girdle, pulling and twisting, mounds of flesh trying to escape over the top, upper arms jiggling with the effort, as the girdle was conquered she would gaze triumphantly - not at an adversary, but at her body with which she had made a wry collusive peace.
I would surround myself with her jewelry boxes, satin bags, and velvet pouches full of treasures and be allowed to play with abandon with all the wonderful colored gems and beads. Pearls draped my neck, bracelets jangled on my arms, rings on every finger. Yet although I appeared busy still I would take surreptitious glances at her body as she changed. It was so different from my own and yet so about the future of my own, that I had to do the mental equivalent of taking a deep breathe to actually dive into the looking. She had a really old fashioned body, the kind before gyms and dancercise and step-aerobics. One sculpted by her history. It was such a user-friendly body, safe to lean against, one that could engulf me. She was warm and cuddly and always smelled of freshly baked bread, with that amazing yeasty, comforting smell.
So many magic drawers in her bedroom were open to me. Prowling was always allowed. The bottom desk drawer held old frayed and faded photos. Pictures of Dottie young revealed a beautiful girl with still gravity-defying breasts, a "who gives a damn" attitude, and an 'I dare you' smile. She had been so tiny then! Yet, still now, Dottie remained beautiful. That self-confident girl was still a super-imposed image on the fleshy pliant body that I knew so well. That confidence endured.
Somehow her thick Italian accent never left her. It soothed in ways I felt rather than understood. It embodied love and eased pain from the cruelty of other children that sometimes wounded me indelibly. She taught me to hold my head up high and feel sorry for stupid, cruel, and unthinking people. She taught me to be strong and waste no time licking wounds. Her quotes, "When the going gets tough, the tough get going", and "That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger", got me through all of life’s toughest moments. Of course as I grew older, I found they were not actually true Dottieisms, but never-the-less I have her to thank for engraining them in me. They are indeed words to live by.
Dottie spoke her mind fiercely, laughed with great abandon, wore bright colors and brave styles. She swept into rooms. Watching her eat was entertainment, she ate with a passion. She would play ball and skateboard with us and could stand on her head. She made everything more fun. She was visceral, a scholar, an avid reader, wrote poetry, was an unbelievable cook, and everything I ever wanted her to be.
Our door was always open and all our friends were welcomed and fed and given a shoulder or a shaping up in Dottie's kitchen. She could always feed one to ten more people, "No problem, sit, eat!" At her table tears were brushed aside, and laughter replaced them. Life was simple if you followed her advice. "Don't mope, laugh" and, "Do the right thing". Simple? Maybe. Funny thing is, they’ve worked throughout my whole life, no matter how difficult the circumstances.
Yes, Dottie's body, her heart and her cooking were the center of our universe, many hearts, and life. Hugging her was coming home, being safe, feeling loved. Thanks to her legacy, I can now see the beauty in the imperfections, or life's map, on my own body. For although a little fuller of figure then is acceptable in our anorexic, commercially-driven world, I feel feminine and am proud of the breasts that nourished my two beautiful sons, and the belly that housed them. No tummy-tucks or boob-jobs for me, because now my body tells my history, and in a world of contrived perfection, I prefer to be real!
Oh it’s 2006, so I joined a gym and I work out. But still Dottie resonates from me in my love of cooking and baking and nourishing the people I love with Dottieisms and fresh baked bread. Her legacy still allows me to feel her gently brush my hair out of my eyes and cup my chin in her hand, making me feel like something precious. I inherited her love of books and music and life. And now it is I, who wander the house looking for where I laid my reading glasses last, just as she did 35 years ago!
I like to think that Dottie would be pleased with the woman I’ve become, because when she gazed at that abandoned lonely child, she saw beauty, and in so doing, she made me beautiful – inside; where it counted!
Now I just want; what I loved so much in her, to love well and with abandon, to listen well and care greatly about others. And in this high powered world where everyone seems to want so much; the perfect career, cars, homes, and vacations - the only thing I need is love, mostly to give it, all thanks to the wonderful woman who molded me.
I am a little person with a little life, and all I want is to write, sing, bake, listen, and play games with children and old people. That and to love the people in my life with the unrestrained acceptance that was unstintingly shown to me.
Dottie died fourteen years ago, but I know she still lives in so many hearts...most especially and lucky for me. in mine.