My cousin Frances, whom we affectionately called Franny, died the night of October 24. She suffered a fall on September 11th and never really recovered. It was a long, painful death. Considering Franny’s life, I always assumed her death would be easy. That wasn’t the case according to Franny’s older sister. That’s what I get for assuming.
Franny was always in my life. In the terminology of the day, Franny was retarded. I have no idea what that really meant or what the implications were for Franny. As kids, we knew she was different and simply played around her. One day, Franny took a bite out of my arm.
Unprovoked, I thought, but I didn’t know that word yet. Since that bite, I acquired a healthy respect for Franny. Maybe she wanted us to recognize and respect her. She was entitled to that respect. Franny certainly enjoyed the respect of her immediate and extended family.
Eventually, we all grew up and married. Franny stayed locked inside herself. We had children, reared them, and guided them through grammar school, high school, college, and finally marriage. With each milestone, we became grayer, but Franny stayed the same. No gray hair for Franny.
Franny. What was she thinking? Did anything hurt? Did she know each of us? Did she have a roll-o-dex in her head, or were we all one blob? Franny looked normal: she was dressed normally and treated normally. How mature was her thought process? I don’t know. I
do know that Franny will be missed. She was special. Her friends and family knew that. Good-bye, Frances. Peace.
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Rosa Parks died the same day as Franny. Rosa will be accorded two days of lying in state in the Capitol rotunda. Finally, Rosa is being treated with respect. I’ve had my own theory regarding Rosa and her seat on the bus in Atlanta that day. Want to hear it?
Rosa had just gotten off work. She was dog-tired. She had cramps. Bad cramps. All she wanted was a place to sit. She found one and sat down, relieving her weary bones, waiting for the cramps to subside.
Along came this strapping male specimen. Because his skin was white, he stood glowering over Rosa and waited for her to relinquish her seat.
Well? His body language screamed.
I’m waiting!Now, Rosa was a diminutive woman. She always wore a hat. Proper for young ladies of that time, you know. She was aware of the large man towering over her, breathing on her space. Unsympathetic. She ignored him. Although Rose began to feel uncomfortable, her cramps dictated what she did next. Nothing. The rest is history…no one being more surprised than Rosa Parks.
Some of us have an uncanny knack of getting
the curse at the most inopportune times. It happened to my younger daughter when she was traveling with my husband and me in Europe. We had gotten in to Ventimiglia in Northern Italy haven taken the sleek, immaculate, high-tech TGV train from Paris via Nice. At the Ventimiglia train station, we passed up the train into Rome -- a train on which we had
reserved seats -- because the train looked dilapidated…and full. To our chagrin, we found that the next train didn’t leave until 10 the next morning…and all the inns, hotels, hostels,
pensiones, and other potential accommodations were full…
Prego, prego!, we were testily told by each establishment we phoned, begging for a room for the night. Our only option: spend the night at the train station with our fellow stranded travelers. Luckily, since we were all together and all safe, we chose to view our error as an adventure rather than a mishap. As the night wore on, everything just seemed funnier and funnier…it took all our restraint not to laugh out loud and wake the people camping out at the station with us. Around 2 in the morning, my daughter went to the bathroom (with its creepy seatless toilets) for what she hoped would be the last time that night -- and sure enough had
the curse. Good thing she went when she did -- she found as she was leaving that they were just about to lock up the bathroom until morning. We passed the rest of the night failing to nap and instead continuing to exchange jokes and funny stories. Morning came; the bathrooms were reopened. We availed ourselves, treated ourselves to cappuccinos, and, despite the obvious “closed” sign, settled into the cafe at a small table
behind the plants. Trying not to look like “ugly Americans,” we had hidden ourselves as best we could (at least not to encourage others to break the rules as we were doing). We knew we would leave our table as clean as we had found it. But my daughter was desperate to sit down. No
standing room only for her! The curse had given her face a pallor that made her delicate features take on a porcelain quality. As her mother, all I could do was sympathize with this sweet creature as she and I rested as inconspicuously as we could
behind the plants (my husband, ever the obedient Catholic…and male…stood as far away as possible from us lawbreakers in the open
standing room only section).
Before long, an unsuspecting cafe attendant came over and motioned us out of there.
He looks like Peter Lorre, whispered my daughter in something between a snicker and a growl…
He’d better not press his luck if he values his health. Normally, we would have either obediently stood in the area that was open or complied with the attendant’s request that we leave. But my kid was crippled with cramps. Her nostrils became flame throwers. She had only to turn to that Italian attendant and give him a look. He is probably still running!
