Zany Bananny

One of my best friends died in May of 2004. She died of a very rare form of blood cancer. I put her in the category of one of the wildest women I ever met.

My girlfriends have never been one type but one thing they all have in common is courage, strength, and grit. Some of them are very spiritual, some are seekers of who they are and are brave enough to look at themselves, some aren't, some are extremely liberal, some very conservative, but no matter what they believe, they know how to think and most importantly, laugh. Oh lord, could we laugh. You know, that snorting, pee your pants, can't breathe think you are gonna die kind of laughing. They have challenged me, pissed me off, pushed and pulled me where I didn't want to go, taught me, loved me, and have been very honest with me. It hasn't always been a dainty tea party but what a ride I've been on with them.

Susanne and I called each other pet names like Rozanny Bananny and Suzanny Bananny and Zany for short. Susanne loved to call me Baba Yaga.

Baba Yaga is a fearsome witch with iron teeth who eats kids and leaves their bones surrounding her hut. According to Russian folklore, she was also known as Baba Yaga boney legs. She lives in a hut deep in the forest and has no power over the pure of heart. It is said that a lot of screaming, wailing spirits follow her. She also plays the role of helper and wise woman. The Earth mother, wild and untamed. She is all knowing and all seeing to those who dare to ask and could be very kind. She is the Guardian spirit of the fountain of the waters of life and death. She is a nature spirit bringing wisdom and death of ego and through death.....rebirth. Baba Yaga is the Arch-crone and Goddess of Wisdom and Death.

Susanne was very involved in the metaphysical world and I met her at work in the 1990's. She deliberately interviewed me before deciding to take me on as a friend. She said she needed to find out if I could out smart her.

Susanne was like an art form conversation wise, circling around, meandering, hinting, a dash of bald face truth, retreating into secrecy, back at ya with humor; you had to pay attention. So Susanne decided one day as I was sitting on her couch after she finished one of her colorful descriptions of a particular struggle she was having, said, "you, you are good, you are the one for me". There I was all picked out, her Baba Yaga. I was her witch with iron teeth who flew in the night, the spirits screaming in the deep woods. From my twirling hut with windows that served as eyes, I watched Susanne but I didn't eat her; she was pure of heart. She told me all of her secrets, what tortured her heart, everything she did right and wrong. We witnessed each others sins if you will and we confessed more and more as time went on. We weren't the best of mothers but we weren't the worst either; we tried hard to make up time with our kids but of course they would have no part of it, children don't forget or forgive easily. We helped each other make it all liveable somehow. We didn't eat our young, but we nibbled.

Susanne was a horse lover. She cleaned horses stalls, pitched hay, brushed down the horses and worked in those boarding barns taking care of "rich" people's horses so she could afford the keep on her own horse. Susanne said she liked the smell of horse shit. She didn't know it then but when her feet started going numb, she didn't feel in control of her horse and she lamented when she became afraid. It was the start of her end. She cried and cried that the scent of fear was breaking up her love affair with her horse.

We used to go line dancing at a huge bar full of cowboys and cowgirls. I bought some pointy toed boots and borrowed some of her country western clothes. Susanne was gorgeous, blond, tall, slender, light blue eyes. I would watch how the men stared at her when we went dancing. I asked if she ever noticed but she didn't. She was hell bent on line dancing.

One time I went shopping with her and she was crazy, impulsive, and focused and didn't let anything get in her way and if it did she would mow it down. We were in one of those very small, quiet, upscale type boutique stores, the kind with one lady in it watching your every move but smiling. Susanne saw a blouse she just LOVED so she simply took off the blouse she was wearing and while standing there in her bra calmly put the new one on. I was shocked. The woman working there looked concerned and so I told her my friend had just gotten out of one of those mental places and that she was just fine but having some transition issues. I could hear that Susanne giggling and snorting at how I was trying to save her from being arrested for indecent exposure. I have to hand it to that woman because she was so graceful when Susanne paid for the blouse and I had the giggles so bad, I looked the absolute fool. Of course, Susanne had to look at me quizzically and somehow the whole situation reversed itself and I was the one who looked like she came out of a looney bin.

When I went to see her several months before she died, she was living in her little apartment up in the trees. There was quite a flight of stairs but it reminded you of a tree house and she lived by herself in her wonderfully decorated apartment. She had a real flair for decorating in that shabby chic style. White cottons, light sage greens, the 5 foot mermaid made of some kind of white stone that laid on her side, her tall bed with comforters and eyelet pillow cases, her beautiful silver bracelets and torquoise jewlery laying around. We had a wonderful visit and went to dinner and a play about wild women who were friends and we laughed and laughed and she got exhausted and she told me "I'm afraid to go to sleep, I'm afraid I won't wake up". I massaged her feet with oil until she dosed off.

I talked to her on the phone about 2-3 weeks before she died. She was all pissy because her sister had given away a pork roast that was in her freezer while she was in the hospital. She fractured her pelvis when she fell asleep sitting on the edge of her bed and fell off . We talked for about an hour, something she had not done with me for a long time. Most of the time, depending on her pain, our conversations were very short but this time was meant for us and so she cried about her roast and she told stories about her friends and she grieved about her daughter who committed suicide several months before and so I told her stories and I made her laugh and she told me she loved me and that I was still her Baba Yaga. I was her Arch-Crone, her Goddess of Wisdom and she my wild and untamable friend.

Her sister contacted me a short time later to tell me that Susanny was in the hospital and only had two to three days left to live because her pain was out of control no matter what the Doctor gave her to relieve it. She consciously had to make a decision to be put into a coma so she would not feel the pain while she died. I wrote Susanne a letter from my husband and I saying good-bye which included a Native American poem about transitioning and asked her sister to read it to her for me. (I was caring for my parents and couldn't be there). I try to put myself in her place at being forced to make that kind of decision in that existential but necessary moment.

Her ashes are scattered in the mountains surrounding Sacramento, California. Susanny comes to Baba Yaga during the times I walk on a nature trail. She tells me to look up in the tree tops, she's there, to look up into the clouds, to look up, look up. She's comfortable now and says she can't describe exactly where she's at, that she no longer has a form but becomes form when I think of her. When she first died, I kept seeing her in misery and fear and I asked my friends that have crossed over to help her and they did. This transitioning isn't always a bed of roses and angels and pearly gates and magical mist seems more of a hollywood version. It looks like alot of work dad and that ole flirt is liking her just fine!

Suzanny

What if you had

not disappeared

into the sterile

sheets

What if you had
flipped out of
your shell shock
and donned
a curly health crown

What if you
had stolen the show
with those glinty
eyes and that
huge slit of a smile

What if God
could twitter
would she
tell me?


2010 Rozanna Landavazo

Nobody's ball of fur One morning she woke up and her air was clear no man smell... no lurching in her chest just silky licks of peace up one side and down the other of her soul The wild tangles in her hair gone... her brain free waving like colorful scarves She stretched her body languidly like a cat and and rubbed up against herself and hissssssssssed Shaking him out of her fur she coughed and sent the hairball to hell Swishing her tail claws retracted she rested waited....

Daffodils waving their yellow heads crazily Spring's disco dancers Rozanna

...and she left me standing there

Mom and I having a "goofy" moment Mom and dad had a rough couple of years before mom had a stroke. Mom broke her arm and had to have surgery. Shortly after that, dad had another heart attack and had to have open heart surgery. After that, mom had a stroke This is a story about the time I spent with them following mom's stroke. I was with them and helping the other times too. I was sleeping upstairs in their condo in California. I had their Master bedroom because mom couldn't go up stairs anymore since her devastating stroke. I was in that twilight area between sleeping and waking up, my mind yawning and my body wanting to stay under the blankets but I came to as I heard a soft little voice calling me, "Rozanna, Rozanna, I have to go to the bathroom". I said, "coming ma". It was 5 a.m. I went downstairs and there she was with dad in their bed in the living room. Her little head poking out of the blankets. Dad was still asleep. "Good morning sweetheart", I said to her. I love it when my mother first wakes up, she is so sweet and warm and cute. It sure as heck changed as the day went on but I savored this part of the day. First of all I would put her tennis shoes on; she needed that kind of support as the right side of her body didn't work so well. Next I swung her legs around to the edge of the bed as I put as arm behind her back to balance her as she sat up. Next I put a gait belt around her waist so she didn't slip away from me. She was known as a "pusher". This happens to some folks who have strokes, they have an instinct to push away from. This got tricky when I was trying to transfer her from bed to bed side commode (wheelchair didn't fit into the downstairs bathroom) I had to be very careful with her right arm too as she had a shattered her upper arm less than a year ago and had no range of motion. I squatted in front of her, put my arms around her and on the count of three pulled her up to a standing position. Now this is where she would push back from me and I would say, "come on mama, dance with me" and sure enough she would start shaking her butt back and forth and giggling. Oh yes, there was a time or two when we both fell on the bed, after losing balance, Dad would wake up and say, "what the hell?". He said that alot those days. Mom and I had our routine down. I would arrange the bedside commode so that when I stood her up, got her britches down, and pivoted her until she sat down. When finished, I would transfer to her wheelchair, put a lap blanket on her and make her coffee. After she got her cup of coffee, I would go back to bed and sleep for another 2 hours. I usually woke up hearing mom and dad having their morning chat. Sometimes I would overhear their worries. "What are we going to do when Rozanna has to go back home?" It was time for breakfast. I cut up their fresh fruit, poured bowls of cereal, made my style of coffee, 1 tablespoon of coffee per cup. We would talk about what to have for dinner and I would encourage dad to call his brother Paul to go out somewhere. All I can say is my Uncle is a real special guy! Dad would call him and say, "hey boy, come and get me, I got to buy some coffee at Raley's". To which Uncle would reply, "what do you think I am, your fucking chauffeur". To which dad would respond with a litany of words like "pendejo, chingada, cabron ,etc". Pendejo means coward, jerk, silly, stupid, irresponsible and last but not least the hair over the pubis and groin. Chingada is pretty simple, fucking hard, screw and a bloody nuisance (somewhat British eh?) and cabron - a bastard, bitch, asshole, cuckold, billy-goat and of course one who consents to the adultery of his wife. After this exchange of endearments between old men, Uncle would show up, delicately kiss my mother and say, "come on you old motherfucker" and off they went, cussing away and anxious to get to the mall to do their walk but mainly to look at women's butts and boobs. Paul was open about his admiration for these bodily parts of women but dad always took the safe route, "I can't see 'em, I'm blind" but it didn't stop him from damn near breaking his neck trying to look! After they left, I would give mom a bath while she sat on her bedside commode. I would place her feet in a container of hot sudsy water, cover her body with towels to keep her warm, turn up the heater and get to work, washing her hair, her body, and her feet, drying her each step of the way so she didn't get cold. Then I would put lotion all over her and she would finish by using her powder puff to put her beloved talcum powder on. Then she would pick out her slacks and blouse to wear. She did her own make-up. We would then wheel over to the table for her daily Physical Therapy exercises for her leg and arm. One of mom's big accomplishments while I was there was to kick out at me. (I was never so glad to get kicked!) Then we did her Speech exercises and what I called "mind" exercises. When people get brain damage from a stroke, it takes therapy to rebuild sections of the brain and to relearn things. Mom had the most fun saying the words she was supposed to say and shaping her mouth; sometimes it was hard to keep her on track because she would get the "sillies" and then I would get to laughing at her and much like I tend to do when somebody thinks I am funny, I can't seem to quit clowning......so it was off to the races of silly, goofy town with mom. It was a particularly beautiful day in Northern California. The sky was clear blue and it was warm. Mom and I decided we should go to the local park by their home and take our lunch of disgusting (to some) liverwurst and onion sandwiches. (One time, my sister Sharon chided me for taking a liverwurst sandwich to the first day of a job I took; she not only said this lunch was politically incorrect but that my sandwich was a "stinky"). On with her straw hat, lunch on her lap, and her squawking at me the whole way to the park because I only had a learner's permit for driving a wheelchair! Once we found a tree to our liking, we brought out our lunch and ate quietly. I watched mama look at the trees and the children playing and we made sometimes not very reverent comments about the people walking around the park. Sometimes, I would turn my head and cry silently. I never thought anything could take my mom down. She used to have such awesome energy, took care of my dad completely, did all her own housekeeping, shopping, cooking and even renewed her license recently. Now, she was dependent on others, could not even wipe her own rear anymore but she always had a way of dealing with the harsh times.....she just kept going and paying attention to what was in front of her. She did not mourn her loss until much later when she realized she was not going to get back her ability to walk and use her right arm. She always said, "I will walk again". Then she had another mini stroke and she never said it again. After our afternoon of bonding over "stinky" sandwiches, I brought her home for her nap. When we got back, dad was sleeping in his lazy boy recliner and when he saw his wife, he'd always say, "hello my honey". She would grin and flirt back. After mom was settled in bed, dad and I would go for a walk in the same park. My cousin lived at the other end of the park and we slowly worked dad up to walking to their home. They have a mansion of a home with a beautiful backyard with a swimming pool, comfortable lawn furniture, a restroom, a putting course and if dad was lucky his niece in-law would be home and dad could visit with her. They were friends and loved to talk. She was kind of a sister to me. She took care of me while I took care of my folks. She held me when I cried, she counselled me, made me laugh and she gave me the strength I needed to keep going on some days. Well, this particular day, we started our walk and dad was feeling real confident and talking about how he never thought he could walk this far and that it felt good, etc. etc. Well, I had to use the restroom, so I found a nice curvaceous tree for dad to rest against while I went to the bathroom. Great idea huh? Only I totally forgot about him when I came out of the restroom and went a different direction to complete my walk. There I was enjoying my "break" from care giving, making calls on my cell phone and then when I saw someone with their elderly parent, a light bulb went off and I screamed, "OH SHIT". I was 54 years old then and I started running (something I am not used to), called my sister and told her what I had done, got hysterical, could not run for sure, in the middle of a field, bent over trying to get my breath, saying my mantra of "oh shit" the whole way, getting fits of giggles and finally arrived to find my dad still leaning up against the tree and him cussing me out, "where the hell have you been, shit, I'm about to fall over". When I saw him cursing at me, I for sure could not quit laughing and apologizing at the same time and he's saying things like, "you crazy girl, how could you forget me? I tried to explain I had a "brain fart". Every explanation I tried to give him was met with his response of "oh bullshit". He was so pissed at me that he walked with a big huff and we made it to my cousin's with no problem. Not so good a day.....sorta.

Leaving The moonlight saturated her soul and she sighed the stars winked at her She stretched her arms upward to infinity and waited for her night lover to take her I will go, I will go she whispered the air carressed her and she closed her eyes and like a firefly she flickered in the air briefly and disappeared.... Rozanna 3/10

4+3=1

4+3=1 means that the Basqueland in Spain was made up of 7 provinces, 4 in Spain and 3 in France. The Basque were fierce warriors who protected that little strip of land from boundaries being made and insisted that the area was One and no one was going to divide it. I read something the other day about how people are now more than ever trying to find out where they come from. The article likened it to the need for people to feel centered since technology has most people speeding out of control. Can't wait to pull over to text? Have to have that argument on an interstate highway going 80 mph? Crash and die after having to text that message about what size shoe Jr. needs. Oh, I am guilty of talking on the cell phone but not texting. I justify it with claiming I can multi-task. Well, it's malarkey and I know it but I am part of the impulsive sorts that aren't as disciplined as some of our more rule bound, sensible, smart, mindful types. If so, I would eat soy and tofu and all organic. These are areas I am trying to address......spend $10 on a cauliflower that is "organic" versus .99 for a burger at Wendy's. So we spend a lot of time trying to stay alive, fear dying, and continue doing stupid things that can kill us and eating poison. Who can figure our complexity and our incongruousness? Well, I think we spend most of our breathing time trying to do this by educating ourselves, bettering ourselves, re-creating ourselves, improving ourselves (don't the self-help books know it). But my dad didn't. My Papi originated from Basque, Spain. My dad spent his breathing time improving his golf and bowling game. I am not kidding. He was Basque, he was the world, something Basque are known for. I would talk the psychology to him, the social work stuff to him, and spiritual stuff as I tried to make sense of the events going on in the world. Dad's look in his eye became blanker and blanker as he became blinder and blinder. He would politely listen and then he would say, "hey, can you get me my electric shaver, I need for you to clean it out for me". That's what counted for Papi, cause if that shaver got clogged, it pulled the whiskers out of his face. It never stopped me from getting on my podium with him because he did LOOK like he was listening. I spent about 6-7 months in all in Los Banos, California before my Papi died. He was getting sicker and sicker so my husband secured a travelling nurse assignment there so I could be close by to help my dad out at the assisted living place. Help out meant cooking as he hated the "American" food. Dad said, "it tastes like shit". I would say, "how do you know what shit tastes like", he would say, "I do". The end of my curiosity there. So the more he complained, the more I cooked. I cooked his enchiladas, his pinto beans, his flour tortillas, his green tomatillo pork, his Spanish rice, his Po sole, his red chili, his tamales and he was satisfied. Los Banos which means "the baths" was named after a natural water spring that feeds the wetlands in the San Joaquin Valley. Los Banos is located next to coastal ranges and mountains and hills. Los Banos means "bathroom" in common Spanish but don't let the locals get going on that. Los Banos also sits on the edge of extensive national and state park game refuges. It has a long history of Portuguese and Basque immigrants. Ernesto "Che Guevara", Manu Chao, and Francis Xavier are all people of Basque. The population is approximately 35,000. So we lived in our 29 foot 5th wheel in a trailer park while Ernesto as my dad called my husband worked. I jokingly used to refer to myself as his trailer trash wife. So I cooked day in and day out for my husband and dad. I am not leaving mom out because I cooked for her, but she was easier. She liked sweets and I bought them at the bakery. My mother was the COOK and anything my sisters and I make that she used to make never measures up. She would paw at her Spanish rice with her fork fiddling around and I say to her, "ma, why aren't you eating" and she would look at me with those big Italian eyes and very quietly say, "I guess I didn't teach you to make this right". Dad would pipe in, "eat it M. J., it don't taste like shit". sigh. The word Basque word "gure" means "our", our people, our home, our village. My dad's veins coursed with these Basque genetics. His whole life, his world was his wife and his daughters, his home, his food and golf and bowling and when he could tinkering on his old Peugeot car that eventually died but not that long before him. Dad was cheap. I used to call him, "cheap ole man". His voice was low and gruff and he would say, "you pay, you are the rich one". I made him a fleece Xmas blanket one year of a Snoopy pattern and I tied $1 to $20 bills all over it and boy you would of thought he won the lottery! I'll add the sequential opening of that gift with pictures soon.

Walking in frog country

Today as I am walking alongside one of my favorite dikes, I heard what seemed like 100 frogs carrying on quite loudly. I listened and could actually hear the rib-it, rib-it of the more baratone members. The ducks were floating and seemed to be trying to nap. The clouds in the sky were all white and puffy and sort of stretched out and in the distance, the darker, gray clouds were giving warning. People were out walking. That's what you do in Washington, you get the heck out of the house and hope to walk without a downpour. A young lady with a nice big smile and big blonde ponytail swishing back and forth was jogging. As I walk, I do a lot of thinking. I like to talk to my dad whom I'll refer to as Papi (pronounced poppy). Papi is spanish for father. Papi died this year exactly 9 months ago from today. I was there for him, I held his hand, I cared for his body when he could no longer do it. Papi brought me into this world and I helped him out of this world. A few days before he died, my sister asked him if he needed anything and he responded, "what's there to need, I have my 4 women here with me". I talked to dad every single night around 7 p.m. for many years. My mother told me recently, he used to sit on his couch and wait for that call every night. I did not know that. I worried I might be bothering him. I would tell him about my day, what happened at work, whine and complain about things and he would listen until I wore him out and then he would say, "ok, enough, time to sign out KROZ." So I was like a bedtime story for him. Dad's heart had been on the fritz for the past 5 years. It barely pumped but my sister referred to him as the ever-ready battery bunny. Dad did not quit until he was forced to. He even held out to the first of the month to make sure my mom got his pension check. When I worked as a social worker in Hospice, sometimes I would need help knowing how to be with certain people and families. Dad was so wise and helpful and he was very interested in my work and would want to hear my stories. He also turned to me as he lost friends in the assisted living place he lived in. I would tell him, go visit them dad, even if they can't talk, the hearing is the last to go. Tell them you are there and that you will sit awhile and keep them company.....and he would. I miss him alot. I am glad I spent so much time with him the past 3 years. He had lost most of his hearing and was almost totally blind but we had alot of fun. We would have a contest going on of who could out tease the other. I would always threaten him with the "duct tape" and he always responded, "yii, yii". The duct tape story comes from a summer vacation when he and mom drove to Washington. Whenever we went anywhere, he and mom would always sit in the back seat of our car and sing Mexican songs or dad would talk and talk and talk until your ears damn near fell off. Well, one time I told him if he didn't be quiet I was going to duct tape his mouth shut and throw him in the trunk! Well then we never heard the end of his Rodney Dangerfield, impersonation of "I get no respect". More on the Papi man later.

Dad A teardrop fell soft and disappeared by moonlight camouflaged as dew. Rozanna