Incontinent on the Continent

Christmas Jane

Description

To honour a promise to her dying father, Jane takes her ageing incontinent mother to Italy. What could possibly go wrong? Jane Christmas had always had a difficult relationship with her mother, but thought that a mother and daughter trip to Italy could be the start of a whole new friendship. In this hilarious but poignant memoir, she discovers that it will not be that easy. Describing her mother as a cross between 'Queen Victoria and Hyacinth Bucket', Jane struggles to build bridges to a woman she has always found a puzzle, while also trying to cope with her mother's failing health and physical needs.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Canadá
• 21st century
• Travel writing
• Memoir
• 20th century
• Italy
• My Last Duchess
• Canada

Informations

• Publié par: Lion Hudson
• Date de parution: 21 octobre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780745968940
• Langue: English

Extrait

An honest account of a mother and daughter relationship that challenges the accepted norm.
Eleanor Stewart, author of A Voyage Round my Mother
Jane Christmas writes with honesty and humour as she muses on the troubled relationship with her mother and the poignant challenges of growing older, set against a beautifully described Italy.
Katharine Swartz, author of The Vicar s Wife and The Lost Garden

Text copyright 2009 by Jane Christmas
The right of Jane Christmas to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Lion Books an imprint of Lion Hudson plc Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road, Oxford OX2 8DR, England www.lionhudson.com/lion
ISBN 978 0 7459 6893 3 e-ISBN 978 0 7459 6894 0
First published by Greystone Books Ltd, 343 Railway Street, Suite 201, Vancouver, BC, VA6 1A4 This edition 2016
Acknowledgments Map by Stuart Daniel
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover image Hugh Rooney / Eye Ubiquitous / Getty
For my mother, Valerie, of course
Contents

1. E XTENDING THE O LIVE B RANCH

2. E N R OUTE TO I TALY

3. A LBEROBELLO , M ARTINA F RANCA , L OCOROTONDO

4. A LBEROBELLO

5. S AN M ANGO D A QUINO , R EGGIO DI C ALABRIA , T AORMINA

6. S ICILY : R ACALMUTO , A GRIGENTO

7. M ESSINA , C ATANZARO M ARINA

8. A LBEROBELLO , M ATERA

9. C ASTEL DEL M ONTE , P OTENZA

10. A MALFI C OAST , S ORRENTO , C APRI

11. P OMPEII , M OUNT V ESUVIUS

12. V ITERBO

13. F OLIGNO , M ONTEFALCO , S ANTA M ARIA DEGLI A NGELI

14. C IVITA C ASTELLANA , S IENA , S AN G IMIGNANO

15. P ISA , F LORENCE

16. R OME

17. V ENICE

18. M AKING THE E FFORT

A FTERWORD

A CKNOWLEDGMENTS

1

Extending the Olive Branch

N OW , WHAT are you going to do about that hair? This was my mother s immediate reaction when I broached the idea of our going to Italy. Just her and me. For six weeks.
Nothing, I replied. I picked up a magazine from the coffee table and began to leaf through it, pretending not to be bothered by her comment. I m not doing anything about my hair.
Even with my eyes averted I knew Mom s jaw was tightening and her head was shaking with disapproval. She is convinced that if she could just fix my hair she could fix my life. As if it were that easy.
Mom is five feet two inches short with a soft, plump body and a round face that exudes a charming, effervescent sweetness. Beneath that sugary exterior, however, is a tough cookie. Imagine, if you will, a cross between Queen Victoria and Hyacinth Bucket ( It s pronounced bouquet, dear, ) from the British sitcom Keeping Up Appearances . She emigrated as a young girl with her family from Hungary in the 1920s, but you would never know she was born anywhere else but England, and she prefers it that way.
She has a thoroughly determined personality, my mom. Her opinions and beliefs are so entrenched that a tidal wave of evidence to the contrary on any subject cannot dissuade her. Her faith in God is as unwavering as her certainty that she will win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. She pooh-poohs the notion that man ever set foot on the moon: according to my mother, the lunar landing was staged in a movie studio.
Mom s hair is blond-ash blond, according to the product description-and she has maintained the same hairstyle for as long as I can remember: short, frothy, and layered. She likes it shorter at the back of her neck because she complains that that area gets hot. The front is swept off her face to reveal a smooth forehead; the sides are slightly curled.
To my mom, a tidy hairstyle signifies order, control, maturity (the very qualities, coincidentally, she feels I lack), and she trots out her theory like religious dogma at every opportunity. Whether watching TV , stopped at a traffic light, sitting in a church pew, reading the newspaper, or getting groceries, my mother monitors the world s hairstyles. No one escapes her appraisal: the Queen ( A bit too severe ), Adolph Hitler ( I hope he shot his barber ), the Woman in the Street ( That style does nothing for her ), Robert Redford ( Perfect ). Wander into my mother s range of vision and you ll get an immediate, no-charge assessment.
Men I have dated and introduced to my mother have been accepted or rejected-mostly rejected-on the basis of their hair: I didn t know whether to let him in or sweep him off the doorstep. That hair! Or, You tell him that he s not sitting at my dining room table unless he gets a haircut. Or, He d look much better if he parted his hair on the side. Or, His hair is his best feature, and that s not saying much. On rare occasions, she has confided: Oh, I do like his hair. The guy could be a serial killer but that would only register as a minor concern.
To my mom, hair is the yardstick by which civilized people are measured-and that includes me. She scolds me if my hair drifts into my eyes ( Get it off your face ), for not getting it cut short enough ( I hope the hairdresser paid you for that cut ), or for not having age-appropriate hair ( A woman your age should have a neat, smart hairstyle ).
When she spots an agreeable style in a magazine or in a shopping mall she shoots me a baleful look and says: There s a nice style for you. A tight smile or a nod indicating total agreement from me is usually sufficient to end the conversation-until she hones in on another passing hairstyle. Lately, she has been pushing a short streaky blond bob as the elixir to happiness. The fact that such a hairstyle would not work with my face shape, my personality, or my impossibly fine, unpredictable dark hair is inconsequential.
If I have learned anything in life it is that my one-day-limp, next-day-curly hair is best left alone. Over the years, I have made peace with my hair, but I have not done so with my mother. I wanted us to go to Italy to see if I could finally fall in love with her. This trip was my olive branch.
I was not going to allow her question about my hair to bug me. Not one bit.
I looked up nonchalantly from the magazine I was perusing and flashed a calm smile to mask the emotional maelstrom that was swirling and slopping inside me like the contents of the boiling cauldron being stirred by the Three Witches.
Dishevelled is my look, I said playfully, tousling my hair as I prepared to shift the conversation to our travel itinerary.
Your hair looks like your life, she said.

WHAT WOULD possess anyone to go to Italy, the Land of Love, with a sparring partner?
The answer: it was part d tente, part deathbed request.
It has been a source of sadness and perplexity that my mother and I have not been able to get along. Don t get me wrong: it has not always been a battle. The wary coolness between us has evaporated during moments of laughter or when we have weathered loss together. She never turned down a request to look after my children when I was struggling to adapt to single parenthood; she has always been a kind and generous grandparent. I, too, have been there for her: when she falls ill or when she needs my help around her home. She has even been known to seek my opinion.
Still, the tectonic plates of our relationship have never stopped shifting, and the fault lines-there s an interesting metaphor-have, according to my mom, been entirely my creations. She also thinks I am too sensitive-and there is no question that I am-but she doesn t think she needs to modify her tact when dealing with me.
You take my words too seriously, she scolds impatiently.
Really? I reply. So when you say that my hair looks like a rat s nest I should just laugh it off?
No, she answers thoughtfully. You should go to a hairdresser and do something about it.
It s that sort of no-win bickering.
Then there is the matter of the deathbed request:
Make friends with your mother, my father had instructed as I sat on the edge of his hospital bed a few weeks before he died.
I had wanted to scream, CAN T YOU JUST ASK ME TO WIN THE NOBEL PRIZE IN MEDICINE ? THAT WOULD BE EASIER !
When my father died in 1999, Mom and I lost our mediator and our buffer. We were left to soldier on through the minefield of our relationship as best we could. We maintained an awkward truce while marching to the beat of old drums.
Now, with life ebbing away and my mother s health issues mounting, I decided to be proactive and use what time we had left to set things right-if that were at all possible. So I came up with this ingenious idea of a trip to Italy. I wanted to see whether my mother and I could spend six weeks together without biting off each other s head, six weeks so distracted by art and antiquity that we could see each other as the individual works of art-flaws and all-that we are. I wanted to get to know this woman I call Mom, a woman I am pretty certain, deep down, I love-but have had trouble liking. I hoped that in Italy the conversations I ve always wanted to have with my mother would bubble up and help ease, if not resolve, decades of discontent.
I believe we take two trips when we embark on a journey of almost any duration: there s the physical trip, with its attendant need for schedules, accommodations, maps, and fretting about what to pack, how much money to bring, where to go and what to see, all the while anticipating possible calamities. Then there is the parallel journey, the internal journey. We talk about leaving it all behind, but in reality a lot of emotional and primal baggage accompanies us on our travels. Trips are as much about testing ourselves or seeing how we adapt to a new place or to unfamiliar circumstances as they are about exploring new territory. Removing o