Darby Girl's Perspective

Oh, Girls of Prendergast High

2012-01-07T02:01:00.004-05:00

By mid-afternoon on this, unusually warm for January Friday, workers from Radnor to Mayfair, in cubicles and behind Wawa counters were discussing the news from the Diocese of Philadelphia. The announcement culminated a week of speculation about the fate of our Catholic schools. Nowhere was the news more painful than on the “hill of Drexel” for there sits what was once described as “one of the finest buildings in the diocese”, Archbishop Prendergast High School for Girls and the more modern structure, Monsignor Bonner High School for Boys. After nearly 60 years of educating the young men and women of Delaware County, the schools will close in June. These bare facts, reported throughout the region this evening, seem flimsy and irrelevant to what the schools mean to the students there now as well as those of us long ago graduated. Talk of budgets, restructuring and dwindling enrollment belie the true impact the schools closing will have on its current students as well as the communities and parishes that support the high schools.

My first memory of “Prendie” is hazy but in it the school is a magical place. It is around Christmastime in 1964 and my sisters and I are on the bus coming from 69th Street to Darby. It is dusk and dark comes fast that time of year. As the bus lumbers down Marshall Road, my sister tells me to look across the field to the light at the top of the hill. I see the shadow of a magnificent building and the light of the bell tower. “That is my school”, she tells me, and “someday you will go there too”. I am 4 years old and for the next ten years, every time the bus turns the curve onto Marshall Road, I look across the field to the top of the hill and think “someday that will be my school”.

By the time I was in 5th grade, my second sister was a Prendie Senior and I had a close-up view of life at Prendie. Roseann was in the Glee Club and I attended her concerts and plays, always waiting in the wings with flowers of congratulations. Her love for Prendie was unwavering, giving her the family nickname of “rah rah”. As much as we teased her, those brief moments at Prendie made me consider that there was something special happening there.

In 1974, finally part of the Prendie family, I slowly came to realize that this beautiful building held within its walls an energy and vibrancy that created strong and resourceful women from little girls. Archbishop Prendergast held the highest standards of academics and even I learned to conjugate a Latin verb and still know the difference between a first and second declension noun. More importantly, Prendie was a place to explore and understand the meaning and significance of female friendships. We were encouraged to know and understand one another, to find the things we had in common rather than focus on our differences.

For Freshman, that common thread was Prendie itself. We were the “Girls of Prendergast High” and learning the fight song and alma mater were rites of passage as were “Big Sisters” and “Freshman Day”. We came from many parishes but by the end of that year, we were the “Class of ‘78”. The joys and tragedies of our high school years were shared with the friends we made and there always seemed to be more friends to meet. During gym you’d learn that your square dancing partner had the same affection for poodles that you held or at lunch the stranger next to you blossomed into your best confidant. By Senior year, the milestones you looked forward to such as Ring Day and Music on the Stairs were bittersweet with the knowledge that they would be your last.

Today’s announcement was the death knell to the Prendergast community and with it go the long traditions passed to my sisters and then to me and then to others behind me and upheld today by its current student body. Along with all of us who attended or are currently attending Prendergast, there is the loss to all those who may have attended Prendie in the future. All those little girls looking at the bell tower and thinking “some day that will be my school”.

Enduring Relationships or Relationships that are Endured

2011-11-05T14:37:00.007-04:00

Navigating through internet waters for some background on the influences and factors in the establishment of long term, successful relationships and challenged by the volume of pop psychology articles found, I turned to Google Scholar.

Remarkably, it was as though I had entered an entirely different search. Articles questioned the value of relationships on brand success and recommended best practices for managing customer relationships. Long term relationship success appears to be easier to maintain for corporations than for individuals. Dig a little deeper and it is apparent that the same key opens many doors when building successful long term relationships, either personal or professional.

Those individuals who share common life experiences, common political and religious beliefs and who work toward a shared goal tend to be most successful over the long term. When expressed in a marital union, shared goals and interests that respect the individual’s talents and differences seem to provide an important basic framework for success. These factors though do not guarantee enduring intimate relationships. That guarantee is found instead by couples whose individual character is enhanced as a result of their being in the relationship.

The old saying “behind every great man is a great woman” should be reworded and embraced for modern society. Perhaps, “behind every great person is a great partner” would be more succinct. To achieve an enduring relationship, rather than a relationship one endures, requires that couples willingly share their talents and energies with one another. In American society this is often considered in a negative light since we value individualism and expect to be free to pursue our personal goals. It is a conundrum, of sorts, to yearn for the satisfying intimacy of a relationship while embracing the ideals of individualism.

The desirability of marriage is reflected in surveys suggesting that 90% of Americans will choose to marry at some point in their lives (Brubaker & Kimberly, 1993). A good marriage provides individuals with a sense of meaning and identity in their lives. A variety of studies have demonstrated that people are generally happier and healthier when they are married (Gottman, 1994; Kelly & Conley, 1987; Orbuch & Custer, 1995; White, 1994. Research and experience indicate that it is far easier to achieve when both persons begin in a common place. Having similar backgrounds and beliefs relieves the couple from having to build consensus in those areas, allowing them to focus their energy on improving and sustaining one another’s life goals.

Common background does not negate the importance of an individual’s disposition on a relationship. Some people are simply better at maintaining relationships because of positive personality characteristics. It is in this arena where it may improve a relationship when partners are somewhat different. If a person is fearful or antagonistic, those qualities could be exacerbated if the other person answered in kind. A partner who is optimistic and cooperative may have a positive influence by dampening his/her partner’s negative outlook. This is what I consider “good fit” in a relationship; the ability for partners to nurture and grow one another’s best assets. Individual growth and maturation is encouraged and supported by the union.

Romantic relationships are born and die frequently and romantic love can be a wonderful experience. Love alone, without real trust, loyalty and compatibility cannot sustain a relationship beyond a few years. The potential of any relationship to become an enduring one depends on the fundamental beliefs, personality and commitment of the partners. When individual life experiences, cultural backgrounds and dispositions are in sync, they are more likely to be able to sustain a healthy relationship across the lifetime. Life is full of changes and can be significantly more satisfying when experienced by partners who are supportive of one another, as individuals and also as a couple. People in enduring relationships recognize the importance of their relationship to both partner’s development and well being.

Sunny Saturday

2011-06-20T02:14:00.002-04:00

That year Easter was late but spring was cold and rainy. Finally, a sunny Saturday and the season burst forth with all its color. The dogwood out front and the azaleas on the side of the house celebrated as we set forth on our mundane household tasks. Working hard you hung shelves in the new shed. Measure cut. No, measure, measure again, cut. I climbed up and down the pull down stairs carrying things to the attic. Storing away the winter cold. By afternoon the temperature soared and the first sunny Saturday held the promise of spring that the others had denied.
After a long bike ride, Ali and Cate sat at the kitchen table coloring bold pink flowers with kool aid green leaves. Walking through the kitchen, you smiled at their brilliance and critically considered them for the walls of your new shed. “I want to catch the Flyers score”, you said. Always the optimist. Seconds later they followed you, willing fans of orange and black, a color combo that even after a lifetime in Philadelphia, I could not embrace.
When they ran back into the kitchen, Cate nervously giggling and Ali, wide-eyed and serious, I expected an overturned iced tea. When they called me to the den, I expected a broken lamp. I expected a bumble bee or a scary beetle. I did not expect you, on your favorite chair, head back like you might be asleep but not really. Even then, I expected you to jump up, shout “boo” and scare the girls’ silly. But I moved without expectation, trained, professional, a trained professional. Place the patient on a flat surface. I moved you off the chair onto the floor. Open the patient’s airway, instruct the bystanders to call a cardiac emergency (the bystanders are your daughter and her best friend. They are 10 years old). Begin chest compressions. Continue until help arrives.
Help arrives. But not right away. I am working hard. I am talking to you between counting and praying. I need your help here. Hang in. When help arrives, the first responder (an old school police officer) does not have an AED and he doesn’t know CPR. I work harder. I hear someone say “step back” and I realize that help did arrive and the kinetic energy I held is now pure fear. They work really hard. The guy who takes my place is as big as you and I know his compressions will be more effective than my own. I am hopeful. Until I walk outside next to the stretcher where you lay and where they continue to work on you. Outside, half the neighborhood and twenty or so volunteer EMTs line our yard in a single row. I notice a woman; she is about my age, dressed in heavy emergency gear, with her head down, holding her helmet. She is crying. Sobbing really. And I am not so hopeful now. They stop traffic from Franklin Avenue to Route 320 so that the ambulance can zip through and I can’t help thinking how irritated all the Saturday shoppers must be, waiting in traffic on Baltimore Pike.
In the emergency room, I wait outside the door but I listen carefully. I am alone. I listen and I know the routine exactly. I have been there for others, not my own, ready to drop a heavy cassette behind the patient’s back, get an underexposed view of the chest. Give the doctors something to look at. I am pleased that they continue and wonder if they know you. Know that you are not a quitter. But it is not going well. I can’t deny this. If you weren’t my own, I’d have slipped out of the room around now. My services not needed. Today on the other side of the door, I hear someone say “Are we ready to call this”. And I know. I hear him again, “Time is 5:21PM”.
So what did you do then? My sister asks me later. I smoked a cigarette, I answer. There is nothing else to say. Someday maybe. But that day still has not come.

Growing Conditions

2011-03-27T14:42:00.002-04:00

Your plants made the small house smaller. And they dropped leaves and needed water or had too much water and sometimes they’d drip water all over the console stereo that Dee bought at Gimbel's with her first paycheck. Dad took the stereo part out years ago and turned it into a cabinet where you kept Golden Books and extra napkins and plants on top. And others hanging above. The ones that dripped.
When I’d visit you’d want to show me something new. A bud. A brown leaf that confounded you. A macramé hanger that Roseann made. I lived in the small house with the plants long enough to know their vagaries, I even knew individuals and remember their arrival. Mother-in-Law’s tongue from your father’s funeral and Boston Fern from the Philadelphia Flower Show. Wandering Jews that escaped and set roots in the Weeping Fig and an amaryllis that Grandmom found in an alley in the 1930’s. Mistaken for an onion set she was deeply disappointed by flowers at Christmas instead of food.
The disappearance of philodendron was a good sign. Big Mark could finally fit on the end chair at the dining room table. Then silence and the missing bromeliad. The stereo console turned into cabinet top was clear and the few hanging plants struggled with something. You weren’t sure what it was. No ideas. No talk of spider mites or mealy bugs or root bound problems. The dining room surprises me in March, awash in a new light after all the hanging plants are gone. Indifferently, I ask why because I kind of like the emptiness. Your answer doesn’t bring me any closer to knowing but I am trying to find a missing Golden Book and little Mark is rummaging through a cereal box to find the surprise inside. Distracted, we are satisfied.

Countdown

2011-03-23T23:33:00.002-04:00

Now, I count, add, the years. At least eight. But more like ten. Unless you count when you recommended I visit the Empire State Building during the Washington trip.
Should I count that? Will they count when I said Labor Day instead of Memorial Day?
A lot of people do that. I think. No. Definitely at least eleven. I remember Aricept at the millennium. At least eleven but if we count the nun who talked to you through the television. That would be more. Or less. I can’t remember. Really. It is a long time, either way. To be caught between the here and there. So, they tell me I should be relieved. Definitely eight. We went to a party and you had to relieve yourself and you couldn’t tell me. I figured it out then in the car on the way home. And made them stop at the mini-mart where the key was attached to a giant wooden paddle and you wore pantyhose and underpants and it took too long to take them off. You cried in the backseat afterward and I brought home the giant key holder. Accidentally.

Life Lessons

2011-03-09T20:27:00.002-05:00

As a little girl I would play with the kids in the neighborhood and I recall having a fight with one of the girls. I went home angry and crying, my mother washed my face and soothed my ego. I asked her to talk to the other girl. Gently my mother lifted me from the couch onto the floor and said “Lorraine, if you want to play outside you will need to learn to fight your own battles” . My mother taught me how to be brave.

When I was a young teen, I was not so industrious. I was in fact, spoiled and a little lazy. After working all week my Mom would clean the house on Saturday and feeling a little guilty, I would offer to help. I wasn’t a great worker and I recall asking my mother how she could stand doing all this housework. She advised me to “offer it up to God”. I didn’t fully understand this but instead of complaining I would begin each task with a loud reminder that I was “washing the dishes for God” or “cleaning my room for the souls in purgatory”. But the work did become easier. I finished projects, I started new ones without being asked. My mother’s entreaty helped me to learn that there is joy in doing things for others. My mother taught me generosity.

As a young adult I was quick to judge the behavior of others. I could be harsh and unforgiving at what I perceived as foolishness and disrespectful toward beliefs that I did not share. During lunch one day, as I complained about a friends behavior my mother said, in a quiet and peaceful voice “Lorraine, don’t judge a person until you walk a mile in their shoes”. For weeks afterward, I would hold my tongue instead of voicing my opinion. I would try to walk in the others shoes. Soon, I realized that I wasn’t qualified to judge anyone except myself. My mother taught me tolerance.

These last few years, I’d sit with my mother at the nursing home. She greeted me, until the very end, with a smile. She’d stroke my hands, touch my face. Whisper words that often I could not understand. Invariably, my thoughts would lead me to wonder about the lesson I needed to learn from her illness. I always left empty-handed. There was nothing to learn. One rainy Saturday morning I visited early and helped her to have breakfast. There was music playing, so I started being silly, dancing around the room singing. She was smiling at me and shaking her head, much as she would have done when she was well. In an instant I realized that my mother was able to attain what most of us will never be able to do. Without a memory of what was past, or a worry of what would be, Mom’s awareness was wholly in the present. My mother taught me how to live in the moment.

Rose

2011-03-07T22:20:00.004-05:00

A compass rose, is a figure on a map, or a nautical chart used to display orientation -north, south, east, and west. The compass rose is an element that provides direction. Mommy was our compass rose. Her direction helped us navigate through the rough seas of adolescence and traverse the rocky paths of adulthood. Her gentle demeanor and strength of character inspired us to action. Her generosity helped us to prosper. Her humility led us to wisdom. Like the compass rose, she pointed us in the right direction but allowed us to get there on our own. Mom’s passing, however sad and painful for us, is for her, a blessed rest after a long and beautiful life.. And when our time on earth is through our compass rose will be there to lead the way to the Lord.

My Heart...Now Grown

2010-03-07T23:33:00.006-05:00

Watching from a second floor window as you walk to the school bus, I am ashamed at my impatience with you. If you were not so easily distracted you would not have noticed the bluebirds flying in the trees between the houses, whose yards you shortcut through. I pray that Mrs. Kennedy is still sleeping on this Tuesday after a holiday weekend. Hope that she won't notice you again walking on her finely manicured lawn. Especially now, since you have slowed down to watch the Bluebirds dance in her Bradford Pear tree. The dew clings to the grass beneath your feet and I am sure your ankles must be wet and I consider how uncomfortable I'd feel walking in damp shoes all day. I remind myself that none of this, Mrs. Kennedy, wet shoes or imminent bus, weigh even slightly upon your head. The way the sun is coming up behind the houses makes you look almost golden. Your red baseball cap climbing the hill now as you turn to watch the birds fly into the woods behind our house. Big, yellow school bus appears as you reach the top. Like you knew all along that there was plenty of time for watching bluebirds.

Later that same morning when Aunt Dee Dee calls and we run a two hour long conversation on life, death and the dubious significance of it all, I try to explain why it isn't the sad and horrible things that depress me. How sometimes, it is the simplest, most beautiful things that make me sad. She tells me how our mother, the new one we have now since Dementia abducted our original Mom, how she tried to pay our Dad when he hollered at her for using too many hearing aide batteries. How she unfolded, in her bony, translucent hands, several twenty dollar bills from her wallet. Danielle tells me how she remembers those same hands stroking my black, curly hair on the day she brought me home from the hospital. How she reached out to show me off to my siblings who were already half grown.

I tell her about the baseball cap in the sun.

Proud to be an (Italian) American

2009-01-18T01:00:00.006-05:00

I don't like to fly. Tossed in that giant bag with water, extra reading material and a clean pair of socks is my old rosary beads. I'll be frank. I don't like to fly and I am superstitious about flying as well. So, I bring the beads and I hold them during take off and landing. I am willing to wing it during the flight simply because I've fallen asleep on my rosary beads in the past and woke up with the imprint of the miraculous mother across my cheek. How much do you want to bet that someone on the US Airways flight that went down on the Hudson was holding rosary beads? Following six months of bad news, the survival of 155 passengers after an emergency landing on the Hudson River has a way of making Americans feel like maybe our luck is changing. We feel proud that the "system worked", feel secure in knowing that trained professionals were, well, professional. No Katrina-like "It wasn't really our responsibility" or Federal-Reserve like "the stimulus plan should have improved the economy". Yes, I am proud to be an American. After crashing into the Hudson, the passengers emptied onto the wings of the plane and in minutes, ferry boats arrived to assist in the rescue.

Ferryboats on the Hudson River haul people back and forth from Staten Island, New Jersey and between boroughs. It is the busiest ferry route in the world. Fortunately, New York ferry boat captains are willing to pick up passengers from the wing of a plane in the middle of a river, in arctic cold and during rush hour without feeling the need to consult with anyone in the chain of command. Vincent Lombardi was captain of the first ferry boat to arrive, Brittany Catanzaro, age 20, was captain of the second boat to the rescue and the third boat was led by Captain Vince Lucante. The alarm was sounded by New York Waterways Safety Director, Robert Matticola and additional boats as well as the Coast Guard joined the ferry boats. All 155 passengers were rescued within minutes by the kind of folks we don't take much notice of on a regular day. Regular Americans. Italian Americans.

I'll Always be Younger Than My Friends & Sisters

2008-11-13T00:05:00.006-05:00

Of all the intelligent and thought provoking things I've written on this humble blog of mine, I am surprised at the reaction to my "Birthday" post. Delighted and surprised. Always I want to be that thing that irritates you enough to stop and try to figure out what the hell it is that is making you so uncomfortable. If that thing is me, well then, I have done my job.

Like the tag that scratches your neck all day long, the sock that slips off your heel and into your shoe, the tiny fleck of popcorn stuck in your left molar. That is me. I am more than delighted. I am ecstatic. If I knew that it would be this easy, I would have quit dying my hair long ago. Or never have started.

To clarify a few fine points. We are born. We live one year and than we say we are one. But we are starting our second year. So, I am 48 this month, but really I am starting my 49th year. Math always fails me, but the truth never does. That, my dear friends is the truth. We are in our 49th year. Well, you are anyway. I have a few days to go.

Birthday Wishes

2008-11-06T23:23:00.003-05:00

Phillies won. Obama won. The stars are in the heavens and everything is all right with the world. I lost in Vegas. I took hundreds of photos and I am featured in exactly four. I am not pleased with the image but it is me as I wrap up the 48th year of my life. I am nearly fifty and I look okay. I look 50. I like the way my smile, nearly unchanged since the photo on my fridge that Uncle Buzzy gave me. I am just one year old and I look nearly the same except my eyes have shrunk and my chin has disappeared. I like the smile because it is devilish and that part of me is unmistakable. It is kept under wraps some of the time but it is there and if anyone would bother to notice, they'd see it too.

The gift I have given myself this year is one of freedom. I cut my hair very short, sort of boyish. I am planning a surprise. I quit dying my hair. Soon I will surprise even myself as the image in the mirror changes from raven to white, or some place in between as the days go by. I've heard dire warnings from close friends and lovers. You will look old. You will look like an old commare. You will look like a grandma, says my sexiest friend, who actually is a grandma.

I spend a lot of time these days peering into the 10X magnifying mirror. I part the spikes in my hair and look at my scalp where the real me struggles to come through. Mostly white, I think, but I can't be sure just yet. I feel excited when I look at my real hair, like something special is happening to my body. A lot like when I first was pregnant and gazed in wonder at the small bump on my lower abdomen.

I feel brave. I wonder why women, myself included, feel so pressured to color their hair. Dark hair doesn't make me any younger and in truth, at this juncture, my value lies less in the way I look and more solidly in what I have accomplished and where I have been. What I have survived, lived through. Flourished.

I feel scary. I am thickening up my skin for the inevitable mistakes people will make. The age I may become in others eyes. Old. I like old. Antiques. Vintage linens. Old photos. Obama and I are the same age. He looks younger.

So then someone told me about Jamie Lee Curtis and the funny thing about it is that I am not much for Hollywood and don't follow pop culture too much but I was always sort of fond of Jamie Lee Curtis since watching "Trading Places". And Cher too, but that's another story. Anyway, Jamie Lee and I are the same age. Exactly actually. We have the same birthday and so I find out that she went gray too. I haven't seen pictures yet, but I know she is very thin and that kind of eliminates the old grandma look. I am not so fortunate.

I am testing myself. Trying to know if I have the confidence to be old in a culture that devalues aging. Wish me luck...

Donations for Those in Need

2008-10-21T16:22:00.008-04:00

Average yearly salary for these men in May 2008 was 950 million. I imagine times are really tough for them now. Donations can be sent in care of the US Taxpayer.

Praying for Obama

2008-10-12T01:21:00.004-04:00

I received an e-mail from "Right Wing News" detailing all the stops Obama was making on Saturday. In addition to the disparaging comments and racial undertones, there was a creepy feeling that these people were stalking Obama. So, I did a web search on right wing groups and was appalled to see an advertisement for this T-Shirt. I thought these folks were Christians?

Why I Love Philadelphia

2008-10-12T00:38:00.003-04:00

Ed Snider might own the Flyers but he doesn't own their fans. While Sarah Palin smiled for the camera, Flyers fans raised Obama/Biden signs in the background while the fans at center ice gave the thumbs down sign.

McCain & Palin: Full of Hot Ayer

2008-10-10T23:27:00.004-04:00

Watching McCain/Palin rallies on You-Tube tonight prompted me to say the rosary, maybe tomorrow I'll say a novena. These people are scarier than an NFL lineman on a cold, Sunday afternoon. The words, feelings and ideas they spew make me wonder if we are from the same country. Or even the same planet. While Palin continues to stoke the "Obama's buddy is a terrorist" speech, I am compelled to learn more about the infamous Bill Ayers. The Weather Underground, I remember in a vague way, mixed up with my first tie-dyed shirt and eating King Vitamin cereal while my dad watched the news. My research reveals that Bill Ayers was charged with "conspiracy to bomb" but the charges were dropped because of prosecutorial misconduct. What does that mean? I guess someone who should have known better did something that made the charges null and void. That was in the early seventies. I don't remember that at all, but by then I was busy acquiring a world class 45RPM record collection and riding my Sting Ray around town pretending to be an outlaw biker. I was born in 1960. Obama in 1961. I wonder what Barrack was doing then?

No Interest Until Bankrupt

2008-10-04T20:30:00.003-04:00

Saturday morning mail was full of the usual store ads in addition to the pre-Christmas charity requests. I keep hearing that the credit market is tight, so it was amusing to find a credit card offer, no interest until 2010 with a line of credit to 30K dollars. Heading for the shredder I glanced at the return address-WaMu-and I realize that I am being offered cash by a bankrupt entity. The political pundits have assured me that without this bailout, credit markets would freeze and businesses across the US would grind to a halt. I am not naive, my partner owns a small business, I know about cash flow. For larger corporations, I know that cash on hand determines their bond ratings and that sort of thing. I am well aware that money makes the world go round. I just don't believe that a 700 billion dollar taxpayer financed bailout is going to improve the economy so long as Americans continue to spend money they don't really have on things they don't really need. Banks have been happy to finance our shopping spree these past fifteen years and perhaps they too think that we can continue with all this deficit spending. I am not surprised. So does the federal government.

Natural History

2008-09-30T23:05:00.005-04:00

I don't normally notice my age, or anyone else's for that matter but something interesting is happening to me and it is thoroughly age related. I have become a fount (or is it font, like print?)of historical knowledge mostly because I was there when it happened. Helping my college-aged daughter with some research, I came across an article about Jim O'Brien. Excitedly, I read on and saw another about Edie Huggins. My daughter has never heard of either of them and couldn't appreciate my story about interviewing these two local celebrities during my own college years. I even drove Jim O'Brien to my school in a musty old car that someone in the newspaper office borrowed from someone else's grandpop. I'd almost forgotten that period of my life, not long enough to even be considered a chapter, more like a non-sequiter that would have been removed by the editor. It was that short period just after high school, before I quit college, when I thought I would live my life as a writer. When dashing around Philly in an old Buick trying to find the place I was to pick up Jim O'Brien was as exciting as the whole of all previous 18 Christmases that came before it. By the New Year I had changed my mind. Or closed it. Or something like that. I think that was the part where the real editor came in.

Work & The Economy

2008-09-26T23:59:00.008-04:00

Work and the economy. What does this little catch phrase mean? I am not sure but this week while the economy was on every one's mind, television and radio and sometimes simultaneously, I was thinking about work. More specifically, I am trying to devise a way to prove to my boss and her boss and probably his boss that their investment in me is worthwhile. There is plenty of anecdotal evidence to prove my value but when it comes to real numbers; dollars, cents and that sort of thing proving their return on investment has been a little, um, challenging. Frankly, I too would like to know that the work I produce results in a better bottom line. So, this week I gathered data, real numbers without funny stories attached and next week I intend to use that data to prove that I am worth the investment. This line of thinking has lead me to wonder if anyone has asked Mr. Paulson or Mr. Bernacke to reveal the data that suggests a 700 million dollar bailout is the antidote to Armageddon. A three page document with significant and powerful economic recommendations without a single piece of data to prove it's worth. I should work in Washington.

Tapped Out

2008-09-21T22:08:00.006-04:00

In a previous post my poor math skills were revealed to the world and that deficit stands uncorrected. Nonetheless, economically speaking, I think I may be getting the shaft. Excuse the slang, there are probably nicer ways to say it, but I think it is time someone spoke clearly and didn't allow words to bundled up like the mortgage securities that are screwing me this very minute. For the past thirty years I have supported certain government programs that led many people to refer to me as a "socialist". I listened to your criticism, I sought understanding, I embraced your "free market capitalism" sermon. I was enlightened. I came to realize that healthcare, education, unemployment compensation, support for families with young children and many other social programs should not be supported by the federal government. In a free market economy, people should be encouraged to work and support themselves. People should not look to the federal government for handouts. So, you will understand my dismay at the turn of events this past week. I think I was just asked to sign a loan for 700 billion dollars with a line of credit to one trillion and I did this for the same folks who told me that handouts were bad for the country. I am sure that I can't afford this loan.

Drop an e-mail to your representative. It is easy and it is free.

WoManipulate

2008-08-29T23:56:00.013-04:00

Loyal readers (all 3 of you) know that I supported Hillary Clinton for President of the United States and much of that support was related to the fact that she is a woman. Having a female fill the highest leadership role in the country, and possibly the world, would have been a real catalyst toward a more egalitarian society. Fortunately, Hillary Clinton had a remarkable legal and professional political career that made her suitable for many reasons other than her gender. I have been quietly adjusting to the reality that I will not have the opportunity to cast that vote and as much as I like Hillary for president, I did not support her as vice president. There is nothing second string about Hillary Clinton. Strategists are interested in people like me. If I am not in it for Obama, there might be a chance that I will be in it for McCain. McCain's advisers are looking closely at what people like me think, what I care about, what I relate to and dream about. They want to be my girlfriend. Today, in the naming of Sarah Palin as McCain's vice president, they figured they found a way to do just that. Palin is cute, she is a mom of five kids and a spunky 44 year old. She is the kind of person who could really be my new best friend. Driving in the car, listening to NPR, I hear coverage of McCain's 72nd birthday and realize that by the end of just one full term he will be 76years old. Considering my new girlfriend as President of the United States is not comforting. It is, in fact, downright petrifying.

Myspace Tshirt Generator

The Drink Is On Me

2008-08-23T22:39:00.009-04:00

Photo Courtesy of Wikipedia

In 1984 the Federal Government enacted a measure that withheld federal highway money from states where the legal drinking age was below 21. The goal, of course was to force states into raising the age to drink alcohol and it worked. For those of us in the Philadelphia region, it meant an end to long summer nights partying in the clubs down at the Jersey shore. The act was a death knell for places like Wildwood, NJ where the under 21 crowd filled dance and comedy clubs to capacity and made a "Vacancy" sign on a weekend night at any of the islands hotels rarer than a steak at Neil's. What it did not do in all of it's 24 years on the books was stop underage drinking. In fact, many people contend that it actually increased alcohol consumption by those under age 21. Instead of dancing and gathering together to hear the latest comedian while enjoying a cocktail, now young adults hole up in someones dorm room or basement where alcohol and the drunks it produces actually are the entertainment. Binge drinking has increased since 1984 and according to JAMA (The Journal of the American Medical Association) 30% of high school students admit to binge drinking at least monthly. This "all or nothing" approach to alcohol has not done our country well. Last weekend our nephews (age 18 and 20) from Italy came to visit, they will be here for another two weeks. Today they accompanied another family member to Penn State where the opening of Fall class is heralded by rounds of Beer Pong and Keg Stands. They were amused and confused by this riotous behavior and are baffled by the allure alcohol holds for American teens. They share their experience with me while sipping wine at dinner. I ask them if they remember their first drink and they laugh, it is inconsequential and therefore not memorable. I doubt most American kids would answer that way. Perhaps it is time we reconsider the way alcohol is presented to American youth. Instead of being illegal until some arbitrary age, it should be introduced slowly as something to be enjoyed in the same manner as fine food. The National Minimum Drinking Age Act is set to expire in 2009. Mindful consideration and intelligent conversation should precede any decision to extend the Act.

Lucky Throws a Seven

2008-07-19T23:04:00.004-04:00

The evening we brought our puppy home, I remember thinking that she could be with us until the kids were teenagers. Watching Ali & Mark, not even school aged, as they argued over what we'd call her, imagining them grown was impossible. Since we brought her home on Friday the 13th, we decided to call her Lucky. And that we truly were. This tiny ball of fur grew into a dog that found the greatest joy in our company and we in turn felt safe and secure with her in our lives. She drove us crazy when she'd bark furiously when the kids dove into the pool. She embarrassed us when she'd try to eat the mailman or pizza delivery guy. She'd surprise us with her patience when the cats would stroke her fur or the kittens jump on her back. Lucky would always be ready for a late night Wawa run or a walk around the neighborhood with Melissa. She'd hang on the porch with Mark and Brian and the rest of the boys. She'd charm Ali's friends by stretching into their laps for a tummy rub. And Sarah decided long ago that she was "just the nicest dog in the world". Lucky was a good dog. A good dog because most of her life she lived unnoticed. Under the table while we ate. Sleeping next to our bed while we chatted long into the night. Laying next to the couch on movie night. Smiling in the breeze while we worked in the garden. This past year Lucky started to slow down. She wasn't as quick to greet me at the end of the day. She'd sleep longer and harder and stare at the stairs for a minute before climbing them. I realized that unimaginable time was close. A few months ago my carpenter Dad decided that Lucky should have a special box made for her "just in case". I was appalled to think that he was making her a coffin and instead I made jokes about his efforts as though they were just the antics of a foolish old man. With age comes wisdom. Lucky passed away today.

Coasting Along

2008-05-30T10:46:00.005-04:00

Yeah, the US is a big country but most people live on the coasts. I wonder why my grandfather didn't go to the other one. The one that is funky, where the weather is always pleasant and the people better looking. Too tired maybe after the long trek across the Atlantic or perhaps living on the East Coast allowed him a glimpse of home or at least a glance at the horizon that led the way back to the Adriatic Sea. Which makes me wonder why he ever left the place at all. That place more lovely than even California.

Adding It Up

2008-03-09T23:56:00.005-04:00

I woke up yesterday with a great plan that, because of my poor math skills, cannot come to fruition. I heard about a lottery with a three hundred million dollar jackpot. I also read that there are three hundred million Americans alive today. I believe in synchronicity and live by the mantra that "all things are meant to be". So, I woke up believing that I was meant to win the lottery and then share it with my fellow Americans. I announced at breakfast that I would soon be distributing a million dollars to every person in the country. My partner's choking sounds, as well as my son's blank stare were disappointing. "You two are so selfish. Our family will end up with five million dollars. What's so bad about sharing the rest? I don't need three hundred million. Think about how happy I could make others. Every person would be a millionaire. You guys are greedy!" I grabbed my bag and car keys, intent to get my tickets early. "Lorraine," my partner is pushing away his heart healthy and perfectly awful oatmeal, "Three hundred million dollars divided between three hundred million people. Please, do the math." I am completely irritated now as I did the math twice even before I got out of bed. There are five in our family, counting my dad, and a million each is five million dollars. The rest of the country gets a million each too. Duh. Three hundred million people. Three hundred million dollars. "Lorraine, that is a dollar per person. If you win, everyone gets a dollar."

Tonight I found out that I did not win, so none of us will be getting our dollar. I apologize, I really did want it to work out. Nevertheless, I have another idea and the math works. I read in the Washington Post that the United States will spend three trillion dollars on the Iraq War. This time, using a calculator, I figured we could have given every man, woman and child in the United States, ten thousand dollars instead. It equals three trillion. You can check my numbers, they are real. So, for my family, that is 50 grand. You might have five kids and a spouse for a whopping 70 thousand. I think I've figured the way out of our economic slump.

What could ten thousand per person buy? A few years worth of health insurance. A decent car. A really great vacation. A few years at a state college. Pooled together, like in a family, we have a hefty down payment on a house. Invested by a recent college graduate, a comfortable retirement.

I might not be good at math but I know what we got for our three trillion was not a good deal. And for some people, those who are fighting in Iraq, those who died there and the families and friends impacted by that, it has cost far more than money could ever buy. You don't need to be good at math to figure that out.

Girls for Girls

2008-02-15T03:45:00.006-05:00

I am recovering from a Valentine induced chocolate high and while I am sure that I am not totally sober, I am sober enough to have regretted accepting the chocolate in the first place. While in a stupor, I was told, by the man that gave me that succulent, calorie ridden treat, that he wasn't voting for Clinton. Big deal, you think, he gave you chocolate (and a wonderful home cooked meal), let him vote for whomever. I would agree except for what he said next, "because she has big hips". Hillary Clinton is a women and grown woman, on many occassions, have hips. They allow us to have laps big enough for multiple children to lie upon. They allow us to swing and sway as we flood the dance floor at family weddings during the Motown Medley. Hips give strength to our mid-sections as we heave and pull and squat and scrub during spring cleaning. Hips, like shiny, black patent leather Mary Jane shoes, are uniquely female. When my male counterpart said, "I am not voting for Clinton because she has big hips", he was saying, "I'm not voting for Clinton because she is a girl".

I'm taking the high road. No arguments, no cajoling, no intelligent dialogue. I'm reaching out to the women in my life, the ones I know well, the ones I've yet to meet. While you consider your choices in the primary election, consider the many things you've heard about women and girls since childhood. Playing on that empty lot with the neighborhood kids, "Girls can't play football". Sitting in class in elementary school, "Girls can't do math". Behind the wheel at 16, "Oh no, another woman driver". Listening to the corpulent man next to you in a restaurant talk about how he "doesn't do fat chicks".

There are some things women have that men do not. Hips are one of those things, friends are another. Pass this on to all your friends and join the "Girls for Girls" campaign. Together we'll prove that "girls can too be president". And wear your shiny shoes so that I'll recognize you in the supermarket.

Actually no, I don't remember

2007-05-03T21:50:00.001-04:00

Yesterday in the supermarket, I ran into the girl who sat in front of me in homeroom throughout high school. Four years staring into the back of her head;we were pretty good friends. After a big hello I had a serious mind blank and could not remember her name. I was quick enough to figure that her last name had to be a "D" name and definitely a D followed by a letter that came before E. We sat in alphabetical order. I was getting nervous and answered her casual "catch up" questions in an irregular way. Before DE? Must be DA. Dallinger. No, she is Italian. I remember that. D'Antonio. No, that girl sat in front of us. Maybe DB. Can't think. DC. DD. Come on! DD. That's silly. Had to be DA. She was staring at me by then, waiting for a response. I had no idea of what she asked. She was kind and said that she had an appointment and it was so nice to see me, after all these years. Twenty-nine to be exact, but I didn't say that. I was thinking still. D'Ancona. No. Definitely not. D'Dado!! That's it. I want to chase after her, have a really good catch-up conversation and tell her how much I liked her hair when she cut it like Farrah Faucett.

My memory is inconsistent. It is acute only when digging up the most useless facts while compelling information is totally lost. Today I went to the market and was totally distracted by the jingles in my brain until I realized that I could turn this into a really cool game. I want you to try it. When walking through the market or better yet, do it now at home. All you need is a pantry full of food. As you gaze upon each box, bag, jar or can of food, cleaning supplies and toiletries, sing the jingle. I started with Nutter Butter Cookies. "Have another nutter butter peanut butter sandwich coooookie. By Nabisco." If you can hear the tune as you read this, you are probably about my age and will definitely recognize, "Hot Dogs. Armour hot dogs. What kinds of kids eat armour hot dogs? Fat kids, skinny kids, kids that climb on rocks. Tough kids. Sissy kids. Even kids with chicken pox. Love hot dogs. Armour hot dogs. The dogs kids love to bite." Not very PC but memorable. And if you're from Philadelphia I'd lay odds that you know the Tastykake jingle as well as The Melrose Diner one. See, it is fun. You can stop worrying about your memory. Your memory is perfect. When we can no longer remember that the underwear go on before the pants and we are sent to the "memory park" at our local nursing home, we can all have a giant, jingle sing-a-long.

Myers-Brigg

2007-03-01T16:27:00.000-05:00

There are lots of silly, stupid & amusing internet personality tests but this vey short one is a little like the old Myers-Brigg. It just doesn't take hours to complete, which is ideal for us ADD folks.

Your Personality is Very Rare (INTP)

Your personality type is goofy, imaginative, relaxed, and brilliant.
Only about 4% of all people have your personality, including 2% of all women and 6% of all menYou are Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, and Perceiving.

How Rare Is Your Personality?

Saturday Morning

2007-01-18T23:49:00.000-05:00

A group of Amish girls pardon themselves as they move ahead of me, stooping down to their parents who sit on plastic, woven lawn chairs underneath the tent. I stand just outside the canopy begging warmth from the early morning Autumn sun. The girls are given a few dollar bills and they pass me again as they run toward the food cart that the Ephrata Fire Company has set up in the driveway of the 200 year old home. The auctioneer is holding up an old, aluminum trashcan, pale pink with ballerinas dancing in an endless circle around the center. Minimal chipping, paint in good condition. Late 1950's. "Do I have ten", he starts in rapid fire voice, "five, five dollars for this vintage can. And not just any can. This can is full of clothespins. Do I hear five? Three. Two. Two dollars. Just the clothespins would cost you three times that price. One dollar!" I shoot my hand up at the same time as the Amish woman in the front row. The auctioneer looks at me. "Two dollars?" I nod. "Now we have two. Two. Three. two Three." He is looking at the woman. "Two. Once." She nods and he looks at me again, "Three. Four. Four dollars for the can." I hesitate. The can has more scratches than I initially noticed but I see all those clothespins now. I am thinking of something else. I shake my head yes and listen as he tries to raise the price to five. The Amish woman has lost interest. "Sold. Number 133. Standing in the back. Next up a quilt..."
I walk toward the aisle where a young boy passes me the can. I thank him quietly and place the can on the wet grass where I have piled the other items I've won. A small handmade quilt with a little fraying at one end but brilliantly colored. Two primitive rug beaters with red wooden handles. I was excited about getting the rug beaters for five dollars each. I sell a lot of these in the store priced close to thirty dollars a piece. I feel the need to justify waking up so early on a Saturday morning and the rug beaters do just that. Truth is that I used to come anyway, even before the store. I'd watch more than buy in those days, wondering what people did with all that stuff. I still wonder about that. The dealers, like me, I understand. We buy. We sell. We like to possess things but only for a little while. Clean them up, wonder about their history and pass them on again. I like the idea of antiques. It's a green business. We recycle. I understand the Amish too. They buy what they will use. Buckets. Rugs. Sewing notions. Tools and barn equipment. It's the others I can't figure out. The ones that buy boxes of old towels and chipped teapots. What do they do with that stuff and how does the desire to possess it get them out of bed on these early Saturday mornings? I am thinking these thoughts and realize that I missed the last auction. A chalkboard from the late 1800's with a small wooden box of chalk. I am mad at myself until I notice that one of the Amish men has purchased it for his children who are smiling these really great smiles. I wish my own kids could be so pleased with a hundred year old chalkboard and a box of chalk. I let go of my anger even as I calculate the eighty dollars or so I could have seen as profit.

Season of Waiting

2006-11-30T00:33:00.000-05:00

I have a favorite Christmas poem. It was written by Joyce Carol Oates and I have been pulling out the tattered copy that I originally cut from a women's magazine for many years. It went missing for a couple years around the time we moved in 2000 and then miraculously reappeared. I want to share it with you but I think I need the author's permission or perhaps I could just post it as long as I give the author credit and I wouldn't consider doing otherwise. Maybe she'll excuse me, considering that maybe you, the reader would be inclined to buy and read her other stuff. I would recommend you do that, she is an author worth reading, so here goes.....

Season of Waiting

Christmas: The house adrift in a wide white ocean of snow.

Black December is a ditch winking overhead,

but here beneath your parents' roof the piecrust faces

are dimpled by forks

and the clock faces are round and smooth as buttons.

This is the season of waiting and of expectation

and of hunger keenly roused to be satisfied.

This is the season of the miraculous birth,

the oldest story,

these years,

centuries---

the fresh-trimmed spruce bristling to the ceiling,

smelling of cold, of night, of forests wild and tamed

as forests in a child's picture book.

The splendid tree is balanced in a shallow tin of water

looking as if it would live forever---

green-spicy, sharp-needled---

and such tinsel, such trinkets ablaze

on the boughs, a glass glitter

of icicles, angel's hair,

strings of colored lights plugged to a socket!

And beneath the tree, presents wrapped in shiny paper,

satiny bows, gifts heaped upon gifts---

a child's fever-dream spilled on the carpet.

Outside, snow flying like white horses' manes and tails;

inside, cookies that are stars, hearts, diamonds,

the smell of a turkey roasting slow in it's fat.

There are stories children are not told,

of grandmothers dying in secret of their hearts

or of cancer shopping for months for this season---

the costly boxed gifts that are love, the stiff silver paper

that is love, all the effort of joy, love---

torn open too quickly by a child's impatient fingers.

And there suddenly is your father,

young again,

entering the kitchen, the wind behind him,

snow melting in his wild dark hair,

a carton of presents in his arms.

From what and to what could this world be redeemed ?

---is not a child's question.

You are sitting at the long table with the others.

Those years: The roof weighted with snow. Candle flames,

the smell of red wax, O take and eat; the clock tells

its small rounded time again

and again, again---

this is all there is and this is everything.

The miraculous birth is your own.

Joyce Carol Oates

Wooden Clothespins

2006-11-21T10:11:00.000-05:00

I found four old wooden clothespins in a pile of junk at an auction a while ago. One red. One green. One blue. And one unpainted. The wood was smooth from years of use. For some reason they gave me a good feeling, so I stuck them in my pocket. When I got home I sat them on the windowledge in the kitchen where I have been looking at them for the past six months. I think I have them figured out. They remind me of the alley at Winthrop Drive where my mom and loads of other mom's hung their wet laundry while we kids rode our bicycles in the obstacle course created by crooked clothes poles and clean sheets. On quiet days when everyone had gone off to school and I was left to play alone, I'd gather up the clothespins, sort them by color and pretend that they were armies at war and sometimes families at war and other times good girls and bad girls. The bad girls were always red. When my mother needed more clothespins, I'd pretend one died, or went to school, which was a lot like dying as far as I could tell. When I went to kindergarden someone made an apron for me with pockets across the front. In each pocket was a clothespin dressed in scrap fabric that looked like a dress. I brought the apron to school to wear at craft time to protect my clothes. Between the start of school and the Chrsitmas holiday, the apron got pushed back deep in my cubby where I forgot about it. Just before the holiday break we made plasters of our hands to give to our mother for Christmas. I was looking for something when I found the apron abandoned at the back of the cubby. I pulled it out and tried to smooth out the wrinkles and wrap it around my neck, when one of the clothespin dolls fell out. I was filled with an intense rush of homesickness. I longed for those days in the alleyway watching my mother hang and fold clothes. I got in trouble that morning at school, holding the red clothespin doll in my hand

The Writer Writes...sort of

2006-11-18T09:44:00.000-05:00

I make promises that I cannot keep. You wouldn't suspect. I am so reliable to my family and friends. But I do it nonetheless. I promise that I will quit smoking when I know it is a promise that I am not willing to keep. Maybe I should just promise to think about quitting. I do that all the time anyway. I promise to listen better but I am incapable and often have to ask my kids to repeat the story. This is not fair. A story is not half as good the second time around. They tell me many stories. Maybe I should ask them to tell me only one story a day. Maybe then I could listen better. I wonder what story they would choose. I promise Danielle that I will write a book. Danielle still asks every few months about "my book". I tell her it is fine. I write a little here and there. Sometimes I am impatient and ask " how I am supposed to write a book when no one has clean underwear and my commute to work takes several hours." Where is there room to write? They just nod their heads. Tell me they will wait. They look forward to reading "my book". I looked forward to writing it for a long time but then it seems like such an egotistical thing. Self centered and self absorbed. As though my story is any better than your story. The poor listener asking others to pay attention.

Money Talks; Haynesworth & the NFL

2006-10-07T14:26:00.001-04:00

Last week NFL Titans defensive tackle Albert Haynesworth (#92) purposely stepped on the face of Dallas Cowboys center Andre Gurode. The play was already complete and Gurode lay on the field without a helmet when Hayesworth stomped his cleat into his face. Haynesworth has a five game suspension, which seems to be a big deal in the NFL. Criminal charges were not filed, although it clearly was a felony assault. There is no doubt that Haynesworth is a nasty individual and this is not his first incident of uncontrolled anger that has resulted in violence. I am seriously bothered by this. I too happen to have an angry temperment. I only wish I were a male species so that I could crush this rage in a productive way like playing football. Instead, I clean and I write. And I watch football. I love football. I like the strategy. I like the massive men who line up on the field. I am moved by their gentleness off the field. When someone like Haynesworth comes along, it ruins the whole game for me. It reminds me that not all giants are gentle. I am disappointed by the punishment that the NFL has metted out. So, I am responding with a punishment of my own. I vow that from this day forward I will not purchase a single piece of official NFL merchandise. It probably won't mean much unless I can convince another hundred thousand folks to take the challenge with me. I don't care though, it will channel the anger I am feeling right now. And no one ends up bloodied.

The Terror From Within

2006-03-25T13:10:00.000-05:00

I wrote this back in September on another blog. I am adding it here because I believe it is worth considering now that the President has slashed funds from the CDC just as H5N1 simmers around the world. Resources are being squandered by this administration which has led to an inability to respond to the real threats to US citizens.

Sep. 11th, 2005 11:30 pm
Four years ago the United States of America was shocked by the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. In retrospect, had the towers not fallen, but merely burned on the upper floors, we'd probably have returned to business as usual without having created a Department of Homeland Security, Terror Alerts and the subsequent erosion of some basic constitutional rights. Perhaps even, we would not have been so aggressive in our quest to neutralize Saddam Hussein and may even have avoided the war in Iraq. The towers did fall and well, the rest of the story is history. Holding our collective breathe and waiting for the next attack that we are told is inevitable. Then, just before the four year anniversary of the World Trade Center Attack, a natural terrorist named Katrina slams into the Gulf Coast. Had the levees not broken, this event also would have made headlines and then receded into oblivion as those suffering damages from the storm restored and rebuilt. The levees did break and the story continues to grow as damages, death and accountability are measured. Katrina may have proven the largest falsehood born from nine eleven. The terrorists are not as willing, able or swift to strike as we might have thought. During the first week after the levee's broke,gas prices skyrocketed, looters, murderers and criminals of all genres overwhelmed security in New Orleans, people lay literally "dying of thirst" and the federal, state and local government throughout the United States began sending aid South. Where then were the terrorists? Would this group of people just poised and ready for another attack simply show good manners and not overwhelm our resources when we needed them most? I think not. If they were truly ready to strike what better time than when all our energies and institutions are focused elsewhere? When even a small thing could topple our already shaky economy. But, it didn't happen. No bombs, no planes, no strange men taking photographs at nuclear power plants. Nada. Nothing. Zip. Could it be because our Homeland Security is so strong? I think Katrina proves that falsehood as well. It didn't happen because the terorists we have been taught to fear are not as prepared to strike as we once thought. They could attack tomorrow or next week or next year but they are not nearly so organized and capable as we were led to believe. Thank God for that because as Katrina has proven, neither is the US Government.

Nail Biter

2006-03-21T23:42:00.000-05:00

I promised to keep this blog up to date but am completely uninspired as well as extremely busy. I have chewed my nails off and am contemplating going to the nail place (salon, but it doesn't look like one) and get a fake set of nails. I will chew them as well, but not right away. It takes an hour and one-half to get a full set of fake nails with polish. That seems like forever and I get restless and anxious. It is not relaxing and it smells and I chew them off. But not right away. Not until I have pranced around waving my long, lovely fauxs at various cashiers and tapping them impatiently at key business meetings. I feel very feminine for about three days until I notice a little space where they have begun to grow out and then the chewing begins in earnest. I have no idea why I bite my nails. They really look ugly and sometimes (as any fellow biter will attest) they really are painful. I bite between typing words, while driving and especially when I read. I bite when I'm anxious but more often when I am calm and contemplative. I hate biting my nails but hate when people tell me not to even more.

Bonding with Dad

2006-03-16T09:20:00.000-05:00

In a post early yesterday, I described my teenage kids amusement at my bird flu preparations and my secret research and stockpiling. Last night after I found the third half eaten, open jar of peanut butter, I figured I should remove my stockpile to a place far from the hungry eyes of my fifteen year old, two hundred pound son. My eighty-five year old dad lives in an apartment below our main house. He has a large storage area and an empty cabinet that I consider for seizure. Unfortunately, this would mean that I would have to divulge my plans to him. I eventually decide that I am willing to risk the ridicule for the benefit of the greater good. I enter his place with two overflowing bags of groceries and try to quickly explain that I need to store a few extra groceries in his store room (I end up making five trips to move all of the food). Normally, it takes three attempts to communicate anything to my father. It isn't that he is confused, he actually is quite sharp and physically fit, but he invariably either doesn't have his hearing aid in, or the radio is too loud or he is in the middle of creating something out of wood and a power saw is running. Not tonight. He sees me with the bags and immediately comes to my rescue, listens to my lame excuse about the food and then helps me to get it all down to his place. When we have finally hauled it all down and I am considering what items I am missing, dad decides to show me his stash. How could I not have figured that my dad, the man who tells stories about the Great Depression like it occurred only last year, would be prepared for any sort of disaster. He has food, he has a small propane stove, oil lamps and arms. This man is not just ready for the flu, he is ready for Armageddon. And he doesn't find my stockpiling amusing. We are bonding over disaster preparedness. Dad tells me how he cried while watching coverage of Hurricane Katrina, how disappointed he was with the US Government response. He remembers World War II and the calm efficiency of war production. He remembers the food, the most he had in his whole life, provided by the US Government to that young soldier. He is proud of my industry and makes me prepare a written list of missing items. We discuss the value of Tamiflu and I explain the science behind bird flu, recombinant viruses, and birds as sentinels. He tells me about George Bush's latest lousy appointments in key roles that may affect the outcome of any disaster (dad listens to the news 24 hrs. A day). Then he tells me about his Uncle Enzo, who in 1918 was the pride of the DeLuca clan. The DeLuca's are small people, my dad is barely five feet tall and weighs less than 120 pounds. Enzo was tallest, strongest and most handsome of his father's brothers, newly immigrated to the United States. He was newly married and working his trade (carpenter) when in the fall of 1918, influenza swept through Philadelphia. Within days Enzo was dead. My father's mother would see two infant children die in the next two years, both attributed to "Influenza". My dad was fortunate, he wasn't born until 1922 and by then the virulence of the flu had decreased. Lucky to have spent his formative years struggling through the depression and his years as a young adult sleeping with a rifle under his arm under the English sky. Stockpiling food is not a joke to him, it is sound domestic policy, like having cash in your pocket at all times, gas in your car and the ability to defend your family and home. When we finish packing away our supplies, he tells me not to worry, that old guys like him aren't afraid of dying from avian flu. I tell him that avian flu prefers well fed fifteen year olds, a lot like Uncle Enzo. He pretends not to hear that part.

2006-03-16T00:03:00.000-05:00

Lovely, old woman-Castelbasso, Abruzzo, Italy

Declaring A Truce

2006-03-15T12:27:00.000-05:00

This was originally posted as a comment to The War at Home but I felt it deserved it's own post.
I was referring to GW, not you, when I said "religious". Who wrote the Bible is a good question and one that I will tackle as best I can. I assume that we are speaking of both The Old and New Testaments. The Old Testament consists of the histories, prophesies and wisdom literature. There has never been any agreement from either historians or theologians about who actually wrote them and exactly when they were written. The New Testaments are attributed to Jesus' followers, the Apostles. I do believe that the Bible is a book written by men and I also believe that humans are divine. Is it the word of God or of man? To me it does not matter, because either way it is divine.

As far as strangers guessing whether or not I was Christian-again who knows. I am not a perfect human being but I am a kind imperfection and I seek justice for all people, as much as possible in an imperfect world. Your statement makes me feel bad for non-Christians, what do they look like? It also leads me back to feeling like all religions are dangerous. The first rule of any religion is belonging and separation from others. I mistrust all things that seek to further divide humans. I want inclusion and religion by it's very nature precludes this.

George Bush is President of the United States today because the majority of Americans felt as you do now, that he knows best. It is much easier to think that the president, the pope, the pastor, our fathers, mothers, husbands etc. know what is "best". It takes away a lot of personal responsibility. I accept that it is the condition of most people to want to feel like someone smarter or stronger is looking out for them. It is a fallacy but a sweet one for many people.

I liked Christianity a lot better when Christians were held accountable for their actions. Of course, only God can judge us, but we at least believed that he would. Now all I need to do is accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior and to hell with good deeds, kind words and genuine human compassion. I think you may be right about the BJ's in the Oval Office but I am not sure. We were all screwed by the current administration and we're still complaining.

Finally, as your sister, I want you to be happy and peaceful. I mistrust beliefs that alienate people from one another. I have faith that Jesus is within you and has always been there. That you were born indicates that you accepted him as your Lord, since it was he who allowed you to become human in the first place. He didn't send you here alone-you sprung from your mother and father, who also contained bits of Jesus. So do I. In the end what will matter is how you shared your days, your life, with those you chose (husband,friends) or who God chose (family) for you. Do we wake in the morning and thank him for the day, for our partner lying next to us, our children nearby and far away, for the fortunes we have and the burdens we carry? Do we do our best to be happy even when times are hard and to spread that happiness to those we meet but more importantly to those we live with? Are these "Christian Ideals" or just plain humanist thought? I don't know-either way I love you and want to always be that irritant just beneath your skin that keeps you scratching at the surface to reveal what is truly deep inside of you.

Tuna & Powdered Milk-A Nod to Avian Flu-H5n1

2006-03-15T10:19:00.000-05:00

My teenage kids have been socking away their milk money because of bird flu. Not, as one might think, to stock up on "tuna and powdered milk", which they wouldn't consider consuming, but for their dear mother's (that would be me) psychological evaluation. Two months ago when I began stockpiling food and supplies and placed mandatory handwashing in effect and increased my already diligent use of bleach on kitchen surfaces, they came to the consensus that I had finally gone the way of Howard Hughes. I became a household joke in my own household. I had to hide my rubber gloves so they wouldn't see me use them when I cleaned up the dead bird that one of our cats brought to me on a cold, January morning. I erased my tracks on the toolbar so they wouldn't know about my late night searches for "H5n1, unusual bird deaths, 1918 flu". So, this week when the major TV news outlets gave wide coverage to the possible (I am a realist, it may not happen) flu pandemic and Michael Leavitt, Secretary of Health and Human Services, United States Department of Health and Human Services recommended stashing food under our beds, they took notice. They wondered aloud, could mom actually be onto something, has she recognized a trend before us trendsetting youngsters? Considering the US Government reaction to recent natural disasters, this mom, at the risk of being an alarmist, is preparing for an outbreak of a previously unknown virulent flu. Food, water and medical supplies are not a guarantee that we'll make it through alive. We need oxygen, ventilators and pharmaceuticals that I just can't seem to find at my local grocery. This is a serious issue and I hope that our government can provide something better than tuna and powdered milk under the bed, which at the very least could cause an insect problem. And no one in this household wants to be around when I spot a bug, a fear that no amount of therapy could resolve.

Tuesday Night

2006-03-14T22:22:00.000-05:00

"Only a person of deep faith can afford the luxury of skepticism"
Friedrich Nietzche

The War at Home

2006-03-14T19:25:00.000-05:00

To DD after scolding me for comparing George to Adolf: Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, of course, however, I do feel as though the present administration, from the president on down has exceeded their rights under the US Constitution. I accept that there are those people who do not feel threatened by this and feel that this is the sort of country that they WANT to live in. So be it. If you feel safer and more secure and if you believe that the poor and underserved are better off today than in the past, then you have every reason to be supportive of President Bush. I guess it all depends on your perspective. Just remember that those people who proclaim to be "religious" oftentimes do things in God's name that would be unacceptable in any other context. George Bush is a Christian but just calling oneself such does not make it so. Has he demonstrated Christ in his actions? If so, please point out these examples as I would not want to criticize anyone's good works.

DD's Response:
Dear Lorraine, I thought you were supposed to send this to me on your Blog? However,that term "Religious" is not what I am about. I am a Christian which to me means that I follow Christ and His teachings as written in the Bible. Correct me if I am wrong , but I believe that you feel that it is just a book written by men and not the word of God?

As far as Pres. Bush being an example of a Christian I am not sure I know what you are getting at. My question to you would be .Would a stranger guess that you are a Christian.?Remember salvation is a gift from Jesus Christ absolutely totally free. You can not buy it,and all the good works in the world does not guarantee it. It is free from The Man who died on that cross for you and me.

In other words, George Bush isn't any different than us in that we all try to do our best and I am sure that he does good works and contributes to charities and is nice to his wife and children as you are to yours. As far as this war enters into it no I certainly do not agree with some of the things he is doing or has done, but let's face it ,we do not have at our disposal all the information we would need to make such a decision. It sounds as if some of you liberals would like to have a vote on everything that goes on and run the country yourselves as long as the White House has Conservatives in it.....or whatever you call George Bush's party.
Or I know you would all rather forget about terrorism and have your President enjoying Sexual Favors in our Oval Office and the hell with the country since this is only about sex and we don't have to worry about the Sadams and the Osama's. In fact why don't we invite them all to the oval office for BJ's. and maybe it will there they will establish peace.

2006-03-14T00:32:00.000-05:00

July Morning in Castelbasso

The Non-Partisan Meaning of Life

2006-03-13T20:44:00.000-05:00

Monday's are not inspiring but I received sad news about a friend's son and am forced to contemplate, once again, the meaning of my (our) existence. I feel an intense envy at those whose work allows them to change the world in a profound way. It also seems unjust that many of those people are not particularly admirable-politicians come to mind. Our wonderful elected officials, many whose integrity is questionable, have the power to improve the lives of people all over the world. Or not. Much of what is accomplished in politics is self-serving and partisan without any regard to the greater good. Voters, like myself, are often making choices that are described as "the lesser of two evils". How can we allow this and why do we settle for leaders whose personal agendas don't match those of the general populace? Is it our two party system that gives us candidates that are big on financial resources but low on candor? Candidates that are politically connected but distanced from their constituency. Is it possible to change this? Think Jimmy Carter and that answer would be a resounding no. His presidency was best remembered for what he couldn't achieve mainly because he lacked the support "inside Washington". Maybe by Friday I'll have figured out why we exist, today I am only sure that eventually we all die. Even lousy politicians. I Take solace in my late husband Mark's favorite saying, "At the end of the game, the king and the pawn go back into the same box."

Quiet Time

2006-03-12T20:24:00.000-05:00

It has been four days since I decided, or found out, that I shouldn't be talking so much. So far, no one has noticed. I went to a wild 5oth birthday party on Friday night. Wild and 50 may sound like an oxymoron but no one informed that crowd and we partied like it was still 1978. Maybe it was the 70's Disco music, certainly it was the waiters carrying around trays of cosmopolitans. Rolling into bed at 4:00 AM on Saturday morning kind of screwed up the remainder of the weekend. I cleaned off the porch late in the afternoon and fell asleep after that until 7PM. A hung over dinner at The Cracker Barrel where normal 50 year olds spend their evenings and then slept until noon today. Not much opportunity for talk, between the dancing, alcohol and protracted sleep. Unfortunately, this purposeful silence hasn't inspired my writing. Maybe someone will notice this week.

Wooden Clothespins

2006-03-09T22:24:00.000-05:00

...But my words may have cost me

2006-03-08T17:58:00.000-05:00

Today I heard that a writer shouldn't talk too much about what one is writing. Somehow it ruins the creative process. This explains a lot. My first, best and greatest novel has been blown into the wind as carbon dioxide. Tonight, I will call my sister and break the news. In a sense, it is her fault anyway since she is the one who elicited all this verbal detritus. There will be no great American novel born here on Chiswell Drive, it is already buried as a long, languid conversation deep in the atmosphere. So, I expect that she and all the other wonderful conversationalist in my life will understand when I tell them that I will no longer be available for oral circumlocution. Daily briefings will be available here at blogspot. For free. Comments welcome, though not seriously considered. Not so much different from all that hot air that killed my novel.