Tell it to someone who cares

Water works

2012-01-06T09:26:00.000-08:00

I used to be an easy cryer.

When I was a teenager, the slightest little blip in my boyfriend status brought floods of tears. In fact, high school was so miserable, I think I cried my way through it and don't for the life of me know how any academic work was accomplished.

College was a little easier, but a major crisis in my junior and senior years turned on the spigot again. I cried... a lot!

But then it seemed crying didn't fit into the crises that followed. Financial problems, a failed marriage, the loss of the business I'd loved and nourished for 21 years... none of that brought a lot of weeping. I saved that for people, like my mother, although I don't remember doing a lot of crying when she died... I was too numb, and encouraged not to show my emotions lest they embarrass my then-husband.

I can still well up just thinking of the loss of my dear friend Marie. My emotional attachment to her was akin to that of a sister/sister, sometimes mother/daughter or daughter/mother (depending on who needed whom the most at any given moment). I guess the easy release of tears whenever I think of her should clue me in to the fact that I never got over her death and the sadness is just an eye-blink away.

When my younger daughter was diagnosed with a pre-cancerous thyroid, I cried. When my grandchildren were born, I cried, but those were tears of pure joy.

But every now and then, just for emotional release, something cathartic to purge the pent-up sadness that lurks just below the surface, the tears come uninvited. My darling little cat hates it when I do that. She will hiss to show her displeasure. This, after all, isn't the Mommy she knows.

They don't last long, these little bouts of weeping. And I always feel good when they vanish. So this morning, as I scanned the tv listings to find something to watch while I ate breakfast, I watched the last fifteen minutes of The Bridges of Madison County. Uh-huh, my favorite tear-jerker and the one guaranteed to turn on the tears. It worked as it always does.

Now I can get on with my day.

Where did 2011 go?

2012-01-03T14:04:00.001-08:00

We were in the crush of people on the Palm Court at Tropicana in Atlantic City. It was so crowded we could barely move. It was so noisy we couldn't hear each other speak.

For the past 20 years or so, we've rung in the New Year at Trop. We've enjoyed a great dinner, shows that were both just okay and absolutely fabulous and the company of friends we've met there. So this year wasn't any different. Or was it?

As we listened to the roar of the crowd when the bewitching hour struck, it occurred to us that we'd just done this... we'd just rung in another new year. Could it possibly have been 12 months prior? Hardly.

After all, we had just endured a long, snowy winter and greeted the arrival of spring with all the rain Mother Nature showered on us. In spite of the wet weather, we managed to spend a week in Wildwood with the kids and enjoyed a lovely few days on the beach in Atlantic City, taking in the sun and sand. We had gone to a show at the Ocean City Music Pier and seen another Chicago concert at Caesar's. We'd marveled at the changing colors of the trees along the country roads we enjoy traveling, and we'd talked about the Halloween costumes our grandchildren were planning to wear. Thanksgiving was only yesterday. We spent it with our family, traveling up to Branchburg shortly afterward for grandson Nate's middle school 6th grade band concert. We'd gotten our Christmas shopping done early, figuring it would be great to have a couple of free weeks without the stress of holiday prep. But we didn't get those weeks... regardless of how ready we were.

What we got were mere minutes, flashes of time that zipped by almost unnoticed. Just like the rest of the year we'd just bid farewell.

They say time goes faster the older we get. I used to scoff at that notion, not imagining how true it would be. I resent the speedy passage of days, weeks and months and want to hold onto them, clasp them tight and refuse to let them fly past so quickly it's like they were hardly ever here.

I can't, of course, but as 2012 came in, loudly and with great fanfare, I promised myself to remember each day and try to make it last, find something noteworthy in every single one. That way, when 2013 knocks, I won't feel like I've missed out on what was probably a terrific year!

What a difference color makes!

2011-05-24T12:58:00.000-07:00

We have lived in our little house in Pemberton nearly five years already. For the first three, we had only a few rooms painted; the others were still contractor white. Because of my lousy close-up vision, Howard gets saddled with most of the painting, so it had to wait until he could squeeze it in among all his other responsibilities.

When we did decide to finish the rooms, we picked some pretty bold colors: a deep forest green for one wall of the kitchen and all of the laundry room, a burnt orange for the office, chocolate brown and beige for the bedroom and a vivid royal blue for the entry and hallways. We're delighted with it.

Then came the outside. Landscapers we're not. Worse yet, I don't know an azalea from a hollyhock so I was no use in the planning of the plantings. Worst of all, anything I have ever planted or bought in a thriving state quickly succumbed to my black thumbs and withered and died. My daughters used to kid me and say I could kill an artificial philodendron. Not any more, my friends, not any more!

Now there are knockout roses. I guess they got their name from the fact that it takes so much effort to knock them out. Three summers ago, we planted three bushes along the back of the house. Two summers ago, we added three more and planted four in the front mulch bed. Some are bright red, some deep pink, some soft pink and some are a fragrant yellow and white. Now we can truly say, with apologies to the rock group Chicago, we have colored our world. We'll enjoy the explosion of blooms and color until November. Aren't they beautiful?

A birthday wish

2011-04-24T06:27:00.000-07:00

Easter was her favorite holiday... along with Christmas, Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July and just about any occasion that called for celebration.

This year, fittingly, Easter falls on her birthday, an occasion I always used to fuss over her and make her feel special.

So today, she is doubly on my mind.

We lived in a small ranch house not far from Atlantic City. My stepfather built the house himself, getting help only to construct the huge Jersey stone fireplace that filled one whole wall of the little living room. I moved into that house, the first I'd ever been able to call mine, when I was eleven. My room had been painted a beautiful shade of sky blue, my favorite color. The living room was light green, the kitchen a pale yellow. Unlike the homes of today, there was only one bathroom, also a pale yellow. When we moved in, the house was still bare of decoration. That was yet to come.

Little by little, precious antiques were added. The huge, upright piano that had been in my grandparents' home as long as I could remember, filled one corner, its worn walnut and mahogany finish hidden with a coat of faux antiquing. I spent hours every week practicing the lessons assigned by my gentle, cultured teacher, Helen Bozarth, with whom I sat for half an hour every Tuesday for critique, advice and music education.

When the holidays came, the house was transformed. At Christmas, one corner of the living room was dominated by a huge tree, almost always brought in from somewhere in our yard or a nearby farm by my stepfather. Under the tree, I could always count on finding whatever I had put on my list. I learned early on that it was wise to keep the list short, since we didn't have a lot of extra money and I knew no expense would be spared to purchase every item.

The front door of our house was never locked and people streamed in from lunchtime to bedtime. Relatives, neighbors, friends. Our house was always filled with laughter and love.

Easter brought the traditional egg hunt in the front yard. When my older daughter was little, her grandpop gleefully hid the eggs and then followed her around with a brightly colored basket to carry the treasures she spied among the bushes. There were always lilies on the cobbler's bench in the living room and everyone dressed in their finery, bonnets included, for Mass on Easter Sunday.

Sadly, all that's gone now. The house has had several owners since then and a second story has been added, making it all but unrecognizable. There are no relatives; most of the friends have departed and I'm sure the present occupants keep the front door locked. I no longer celebrate the religious holidays of my youth and my older daughter hides eggs in her own yard for my grandchildren to find.

But I can close my eyes and see that living room and the lilies. I can hear friends calling "Yoo-hoo!" as they come in the door. I can smell the fragrance of the flowers in the yard and see my dad cavorting around carrying that basket.

Most of all, I can see her face when we wish her a happy birthday and help blow out the candles on the cake I often made (never from scratch!). In spite of the long years of her absence, I can hear her voice and especially her laugh. This December, she will have been gone for four decades. Forty years is a long time to be without the comfort, the joy and the love of one's favorite person.

Happy Easter, Mom, and happy birthday. You are missed every day.

Visitng with Helen

2010-12-22T14:07:00.001-08:00

We were connected from our very first meeting.

There are those kinds of people in our worlds... the ones with whom we feel an instant kinship, a soul-mating that tells us we've been connected forever.

Helen fit that description perfectly. She was principal at Marlton Middle School when I was hired as Public Information Officer for the Evesham Twp. School District and I, having heard of her no-nonsense approach to administration, felt more than a little trepidation the first time I stuck my head in her office doorway and asked for a minute of her time.

We've been sharing those "minutes" ever since, and when weeks or months go by without a chance to visit, I feel an emptiness that is like a part of me is missing.

Luckily, I caught her on Facebook last week and immediately snagged the chance to chat for a few exchanges. We set up a date for lunch at her house and I hoped nothing would get in the way of keeping the appointment.

When she was healthier, we met often, she and I and another soulmate, Carol. We solved the problems of the world, discussed politics heatedly (all three of us are committed, proud liberals), talked about religion and its place in our lives today (Helen was a nun for 13 years and her viewpoint on spirituality is unique and simply beautiful) and anything and everything that came to mind. Carol and I liked to regale her with funny stories about our grandchildren and she countered with tales of her many nieces, nephews and cousins. There was never a topic that could not be thoroughly aired.

Our lunch today was no different. Because Carol couldn't make it, I had the high privilege of being the only guest at her table. We started talking, taking a break for me to pick up lunch, from about 12:30 to 3:30, three hours that passed in the blink of an eye. There was much more to be said but Helen was tiring and I had a long drive home before dark.

Friends like Helen are precious. She has always been in my life even if I might not have known it at the time. In a previous existence, maybe, but surely always there. I love her compassion, her kindness, the way she relates to the world and people in it. I'm grateful she's still around and willing to share time with me whenever possible. I'm already looking forward to our next "lunch."

The King's Speech

2010-12-21T08:47:00.000-08:00

The summer of my sixteenth year was very bad in many ways.

My stepfather's friend offered me a job as a desk clerk in an old family hotel in Atlantic City, on Florida Avenue where now an empty lot stands. I jumped at the chance to work so close to the beach until my first day on the job, when the boss's wife explained my duties, one of which consisted of answering the switchboard and directing calls.

Sounds simple enough, no? It should be, except I had to say, "Good morning, Roma Hotel," and I stuttered too badly to get out the "R." After several "Ruh, ruh, ruhs," I usually managed to force it out, but was humiliated and angry at myself every time.

Then, I employed a trick many stammerers use. I found that, if I switched the name of the hotel around, I could push out both words without stumbling on the "R." Even though the management wasn't thrilled with my solution, no one seriously rebuked me for answering the switchboard with "Good morning, Hotel Roma."

Preparing to see the Colin Firth movie, The King's Speech, I read a lot about King George VI and his speech problems. I learned how different stammers can be, and how each afflicted individual finds ways to cope, but never really "kicks" the stammer. Now, as a adult, I find myself struggling occasionally when I'm trying to speak too fast, so I simply force myself to slow down and do just fine.

Sitting in the theater on Saturday night, I felt such sadness for the king. Not just because he stuttered so badly but because, in him I recognized myself... the frightened child who bore insults and ridicule from relatives who knew very well what they were doing but chose to follow their penchants for being mean-spirited.

In many interviews, Firth points out the heroism displayed by this king, who doggedly pushed on, taking on the unwanted burden of monarchy, fearing every word he had to utter. George VI was saved by a speech coach who was far less a clinician than he was a friend. In the end, it was simply friendship that gave George VI the extra courage he needed to face his demons and give his empire the wartime leadership for which it turned to him.

I will see this film again and again. To look at Colin Firth for two hours, certainly. But more importantly, with this Firth film at least, to relish the victory George VI achieves. I felt such pride for the way Firth portrayed this lovely man, since he brought to life the tender, kind and caring person "Bertie" really was. Friendship, dogged persistence and the love of a friend are the three main themes of this movie. Sure hope you get to see it!

An unusual tradition

2010-12-01T11:52:00.001-08:00

I'm getting an early start with Christmas cards this year. They are bought, labels are printed and the boxes neatly stacked, ready to be addressed.

Every other Christmas, however, there is one very special card that must be prepared. A very simple message, usually only one sentence, is pondered for days and then carefully written in the tiny space left on the 8 3/4x3 3/4 card. It's in remarkably good condition, considering its history, but its time is finite, since available white space is shrinking with each year.

Back in 1982, when my partner at the newspaper and I first sent the card, we got a laugh out of it because it suggested the recipient save it and then send it back to us the following year. Who could have known that 2010 will mark the 29th year this bright red card with a silly cartoon on the front has been sent back to my dear friend, Mike DeNardo. Mike will store it somewhere and next year, it will make its 30th journey to help brighten my Christmas holiday.

Mike was just a kid in 1982. He'd graduated from high school in 1979 and gone on to Temple University where he studied broadcasting and put in some free hours helping us at The Journal, doing some writing about local high school sports. I still have a photo of our staff from that year, taken at Christmas when we gathered for a party in the beautiful old office on the White Horse Pike in Berlin.

I stayed with the paper until 1994 and Mike had long been gone to bigger and better things... a stellar career with KYW Newsradio, where he reports to this day. I still smile when I hear his "broadcasting" voice on my car radio.

But no matter where each of us went through the years, that little Christmas card made its faithful journey from me to Mike and then Mike to me, carrying a little message just to keep the connection open, to keep us mindful of our friendship.

In 1985, Mike wrote "Is this a tradition yet?" I responded in 1986, "Sure is." "It's cheap, too!" came from Mike in 1987 and in 1990, I wrote "Long live tradition!" In 1991, Mike asked, "Remember when cards used to cost 75 cents?" And the following year, I wrote "Remember when life was simple and fun?" As if only hours had passed since he received my query, he responded in 1993, "Sure do... it was just last Thursday, as I recall. Merry Christmas!" In 1995, noting the passage of time in his own inimitable way, Mike remarked "Hey... where'd all this gray hair come from?! Have a blessed Christmas!" In 1999, noting the timely story of the day, he remarked, "This card is so old that it HAS to be fully Y2K compliant! Merry Christmas!" In 2004, we began to keep track of the number of years the card had changed hands. I wrote, "This card has survived 23 Christmases and so have we!" To which Mike replied, "Christmas wouldn't be the same without it!" I replied, in 2006, "It's the 25th anniversary of this card, my dear. Funny how we're not any older!" "You can't get old if you continue to think young! Happy year 26!" responded Mike, to which, in 2008, I said, "The mind is willing but the body isn't. Hope you are well." Undaunted, Mike responded just last Christmas, "Let the mind and heart lead... the body will follow."

There are only about two and a half inches left of white space on this precious message-carrier, so we'll have to get creative in a few years and find a way to continue the tradition. Certainly it will continue... something as unique as this tradition must find a way to go on.

For now, I have to sit and ponder my message for 2010. This is much more fun than affixing labels to envelopes!

Thoughts from a funeral

2010-11-05T11:21:00.000-07:00

My wonderful friend, Lesley Gross Fuchs, lost her mother, Sophie, this week. Mrs. Gross was 90 years of age.

I drove to Cherry Hill for the funeral today, in dreary, wet, chilly weather, thinking of Les and her family dealing with what is always a heartbreaking blow.

Both Les and Andy, her brother, gave stirring, lovely, humorous tributes to their mother, as only children of devoted mothers can. Les's husband, Mordecai, known more commonly as Moti, a well-known New York cantor, conducted the service. His sweet tenor voice intoned the psalms in Hebrew, then he read them in English. But it was what happened next that stayed in my mind as I drove home and is still rolling around in there somewhere, niggling away for no seeming reason.

Moti could have been a very successful actor. He knows how to deliver lines in stentorian tones or in the crooning way of soft-spoken orators. Best of all, he knew his wife's mother well and loved her dearly, so the words of his eulogy were personal, moving, sentimental and compassionate.

I listened to the praise of Sophie and all that she meant to her family... her exemplary mothering skills and, then, her son-in-law spoke about tachlit, the Hebrew word that means a sense of purpose, the purpose for which each of us was created. Motherhood, he said, was Mrs. Gross's tachlit, and Lesley and Andy were living testaments to how faithfully their mother had fulfilled her purpose.

I sat in the silent room, half of my mind on Moti's words and half of it searching my own life, asking if I had found my tachlit and either fulfilled it or was on my way to doing so. My answers were unsettling.

Yes, I was a mother, but not of the stripe attributed to Sophie Gross. Yes, I'd worked at a variety of tasks but none of which stamped my indelible mark for future note. Yes, I had made and cherished countless friends whose love I valued, but making friends hardly qualifies as a purpose fulfilled. Where, then, does that leave me? What do I have that stands out as a tachlit achieved?

Obviously, I don't have an answer. Perhaps my "purpose" is still waiting to be discovered and fulfilled. Perhaps something along the way, something unconscious or appearing to be trivial, was a purpose for which I could claim fulfillment.

Regardless, the life of Sophie Gross held up to me the value of doing everything I attempt with a zeal, a dedication or an attempt at making it part of my tachlit. I'd never looked at life that way.

Now, in the shadow of one remarkable woman, I do.

Slaying the packrat

2010-10-11T16:38:00.000-07:00

I have a terrible time discarding "things" that matter.

There are shoeboxes filled with birthday, anniversary and holiday cards piled high on the top shelf of my closet. The file cabinet in our office contains one whole drawer filled with memorabilia from thirteen years of working in school districts.

I have a terrible time discarding any of these important things.

Oops! Let's be correct... I had a terrible time etc. etc. As of today, I am well on my way toward being cured of this affliction.

Credit Daughter #1. Terri casually mentioned not long ago that she and her sister would not hesitate to unceremoniously chuck the piles of papers and letters, greeting cards and employment records when they were in the throes of unloading my "stuff," either upon my entrance to an assisted living facility or the crematorium of a local funeral home. Why, I thought, should I leave the task to them? They will, after all, have their hands full with the houseful of knick-knacks, family hand-me-downs and other treasures which hold no value or sentimentality for them. Certainly not fair, then, to add reams of paper to that job.

So, today it began. First went the greeting cards. Boxes of them (read, of course, before discarding) were emptied into paper bags destined for the recycling dumpster. I'll admit to holding onto a few bearing little girl signatures, dating back to the babyhood of my girls, which I simply could not assign to the trash. I'll find another place for them and hope my daughters will consider keeping them.

Tonight, I attacked one file cabinet drawer. Throughout my career in school public information, I kept an annual file labeled "Personal." Into it, I placed employment contracts, notes from colleagues, annual evaluations and an occasional citation for one job or another having been done well. That makes thirteen files containing items meaning absolutely nothing to anyone but me. So, I callously visited each folder, removed its contents and began a new recycling basket, saving only a few photos and newspaper clippings the girls might decide have enough family value to preserve when...

I'm proud of myself. I'm sure my girls will share that pride, tempered with gratitude for having saved them the task. Tomorrow, more files to be discarded.

Then, when it gets cold and gray outdoors and I need a good winter project, I intend to tackle the thousands of photographs that are scattered in albums, boxes, drawers and just about anywhere a photo can hide. Hopefully, I will have a few years to complete the task of sorting, cataloging, even scanning and captioning the ones I choose to retain. Wish me luck.

The pack rat has been successfully captured and slain.

Getting hit by a freight train

2010-05-21T12:45:00.001-07:00

That's what a birthday is nowadays. At least for people of my age.

Most of my dearest friends in the world are gone. They were all older than I when we grew our friendships, but I never anticipated they would one day just not be there... how bleak life could be without them. One by one, they moved across to the Other Side where I know they will be waiting for me when it's my turn. But now, as I look at the calendar for the month of May, 2010, I see a lot of birthdays for friends who are blessedly still with me. I send greetings and wish them health and happiness. But the older I get, the more I realize I need to do more than that. I need to tell them how much they have enriched my life and given me strength when it's been needed.

Friends like Carol Panella, a kindred spirit if ever there was one. Sometimes, I think the Creators made two identical minds, didn't know what to do with them so they gave one to me and then, a year later, the other to Carol. We laugh at the same things, cry at the drop of a hat over who-knows-what, get goopy sentimental about our kids and love to swap grandchildren stories. I don't "collect" anything like Carol collects bunnies (not the live ones, of course)and Santas and steins and Christmas items. Carol doesn't enjoy the casino and hasn't my penchant for spending hours doing nothing. Carol is a phenomenal cook and a world-class hostess. I serve up the same dishes again and again, minus the panache, and am lucky if I have matching candles on the table, but we both love to eat and appreciate each other's efforts. We love old movies, music and good writing. She is articulate and expressive with a killer sense of humor. We make each other laugh.

We met at work in the Evesham School District and are both passionate about public education. We are both fierce Progressives and could discuss politics for hours without pausing for a breath. We like the same kinds of television shows and are fans of NPR, Rachel Maddow, Keith Olbermann and Ed Schultz. I love "24," but I'm not sure about Carol and I know we share a fascination for "Flashforward." I like a good mystery like "The Mentalist" and appreciate the humor of "Castle." Don't know about Carol because we rarely get to discussions about television preferences when we're cramming our conversations into two-hour lunches (okay, three). After all, solving the problems of the world takes time.

One of the my favorite things about Carol is that we can really talk to each other. Not prattle, gossip or chatter. Talk. Time always goes too fast when we are together and there doesn't seem to be enough excuses to plan another lunch.

Carol has a birthday on Saturday, May 22. That's tomorrow. She's been under the weather a bit and so have I, so I haven't gone shopping and there's no birthday card or gift (for now). But she will be on my mind all day as I flit from one task to another and I'll be certain to call with a rousing version of a song that's supposed to sound like "Happy Birthday to You!" She, being the wonderful friend she is, will not suggest I stop singing.

A rose is a rose

2010-05-04T09:32:00.000-07:00

Bev's funeral is over and she is resting in a place where there is no pain and so many people who loved her were waiting to greet her.

I was feeling down this morning. Instead of giving in to the mood, though, I stripped the beds, started laundry, cleaned my bathroom and dusted a couple of rooms. As I was walking through the living room on the way to the kitchen, I glanced out the window and stopped in my tracks. Those knockout roses, the ones we planted last May, have just erupted into gorgeous blooms of various hues... best of all, the bushes grew so much over the winter we can see the flowers from inside the house! And from our screened porch, there is an unobstructed view of the bushes laden with colorful blossoms. How beautiful they are!

Since I was a child, the rose has been my favorite flower. My favorite teacher, and later friend, was named Rose Theresa Abbott. At confirmation time, when I was 13, I took "Rose" for my confirmation name. There is something steady and beautiful about the word... rose.

Tribute to a cousin

2010-05-02T11:26:00.000-07:00

Most of us have a lot of cousins. Often, we know them all because our families have stayed knit and there are frequent occasions on which to see them. Sometimes, though, families scatter and the time comes when we know only the ones with whom we grew up, not the subsequent generations beneath.

I was blessed to be Beverly Breder’s cousin. She and I had the common experience of spending our formative years in the care of our grandmother, although for different reasons, and we often reminisced about life in the small Pennsylvania town in which we lived.

Thanks to her love for my mother, her aunt Catherine, Bev was around a lot as I was growing up. She was the teenager I wanted to be like, with her beautiful smile and strawberry blonde, naturally curly hair. She was my sponsor at confirmation when I was 13 and she and her family were often in my parents’ house, filling it with the kind of love and laughter for which they were known. I remember always being envious of what Bev had… a husband who adored her and made her laugh and children who made her eyes light up when she looked at them.

But, we drifted apart, too, like family members do. Still, in the last several years, I was fortunate to reconnect with Bev, to travel with her to visit her husband Bart during his final illness, to drive out to Sweetwater to visit Aunt Bert and to just sit in a diner or restaurant or her apartment talking for hours, never seeming to find enough time to get everything said.

If there is one word that describes the Bev I will always remember, it is “love.” She loved her husband with singular devotion; she cherished her children, then their children and their children’s children. She loved her faith and the hours she gave to St. Nick’s. She loved her friends, old and new, and she loved to laugh and have fun. Her eyes crinkled with amusement when she smiled and her laugh was infectious. We joked that we felt more like teenagers than the old ladies the calendar told us we actually were.

The last time we were together, sitting in Mario’s enjoying Bev’s 80th birthday lunch on March 31st, we talked about our lives, how blessed we were to be surrounded by people who inspired us, valued us and made us feel loved. I don’t think I told Bev then that she was one of those people for me. After all, there would be plenty of time for that later, wouldn't there? There would be more lunches, more times to say “I love you.” We agreed, though, that, given our ages, it would be smart not to put things off any longer… to spend as much time as we could with the people who mattered.

Bev mattered very much to me and everyone who knew and loved her. Her passing leaves our world colder and less bright. I will miss her very much.

On retirement

2010-02-26T08:11:00.000-08:00

A friend and previous boss is retiring today after over 30 years in service to children. I've been thinking about her a lot in the past week or so, recalling the days leading up to my own farewell to a job I loved (and hated at the same time!). Don't know what made me do it, but I checked my files and found the following that I apparently wrote the day before my own last days. Thought I'd share it with you.

On Retirement

I’m officially retiring today. In less than an hour, the Board of Education will have a brief, unscheduled meeting to consider another district matter and, thrown on the agenda at the last minute, they will find the item that asks that they approve my retirement. My retirement.
I wonder if other potential retirees have such internal conflicts about the end of their careers. I wonder how long it took them to get to this point, where the letter is submitted to their boss and word gradually begins to filter through the building that, in less than 90 days, a new person will be sitting at the desk where once they worked.
It took me months. I vacillated between wanting not to do this job anymore and never wanting to quit, knowing I owed it to my husband, my children, my grandchildren and, most of all, myself to stop working, to be available, to pursue other interests. In the end, after a lot of internal discussions (that’s what I call talking to myself), I decided life is too short to spend it working, answering an alarm clock every morning, slogging through rain, snow or ice to get to the office, balancing a plethora of projects, completing them and moving on to the next. In short, the few negatives of this job won the argument and overrode the positives that kept me coming back, year after year.
That I’m tired of some parts of the routine is a given. I find the 6 a.m. wakeup harder each day. In spite of the beautiful farmland and livestock I pass on my way to and from the office, I’m tired of the commute. I’m tired of keeping up a professional wardrobe that spans four seasons. I’m tired of night meetings and being awake for hours afterward reliving every stressful moment.
Most of all, I’m weary of the disappointment that comes every year with the apathy and indifference of the people whose children get private school educations at public school prices from a staff that is top notch and an administration that cares more about kids than about getting enough sleep or taking care of their own health.
I dread another budget cycle with its countless meetings, graphs, charts, press releases and PowerPoint presentations, all geared toward trying to justify the cost of educating tomorrow’s leaders. It wouldn’t be so frightful if parents and school district staff thought it important enough to come out and voice and opinion. But for most of the years I’ve worked in public education, I’ve watched the numbers of people … real stakeholders … get lazy and surrender to the folks with an ax to grind or an agenda to promote and the budget is defeated once again. I’m frankly sick of the people, who benefit from their schools, refusing to pick up the tab for the cost and then watching as the municipal officials, with no idea of what it takes to fund a school district, slash huge amounts from the budget, forcing cuts in programs and services that, one way or another, impact their own kids. It is exhausting, infuriating and sad.
So this year, before that scenario plays itself out again, I’m leaving. I will read about the budget battles online in the comfort of my home office. I will learn who the new Board members are from profiles in the newspaper and I will hold my breath to see how both issues will affect such a wonderful school district. Not positively, I’m afraid. How do I know this? Reading handwriting on walls has become a secondary benefit of this job and all the signs point to big trouble ahead.
What I will miss are my colleagues, the people in my office building who have huge smiles and caring hearts. I will miss the bagels and cream cheese, the hot soft pretzels and mustard, the home-baked goodies that appear every day and the mountains of cookies at holidays. I will not miss the weight gain and the constant temptation for sugar overload just outside my office door.
I will miss the people, the teachers, the kids and the staff. I’ll miss talking politics with some and skirting the issue with others. I’ll miss feeling like what I do matters for something, makes a difference in the lives of those I write about. I’ll miss having stories to tell when I get home each evening. I’ll miss the interesting interaction and the challenges of the job.
But it’s really time to go. I’ve worked for 50 years, since my teenage years, and I’m ready now to do something just for me. No guarantees I won’t look back, maybe even drop in to say hello and catch up on what’s happening, but for the most part, I will be gone. I hope that doesn’t mean I’ll be forgotten.

A friend I've never met

2010-02-24T11:25:00.001-08:00

Can't be, can it? A friend I've never met?

I might agree, except for the many friends with whom I correspond online I've yet to meet and probably never will. In addition, there are those about whom I devour any piece of written information, long to meet but again probably never will.

Still... there's Carole Imes, one of the sweetest women I have the pleasure of knowing and how did I meet her, you ask? After about eight years of online correspondence with no hope of ever actually seeing one another! We finally met when Howard's business took him to Florida last year and I went along. Carole lives not far from Orlando, where Howard's trade show was held so I drove to her home and found this lovely lady who was everything I knew she'd be. We visited for a full day non-stop and then she and Walt joined Howard and me for dinner. It can happen.

Meg Tilly's most recent blog entry reminds me again how much I would love to get to know this delightfully talented woman. She writes about one of my favorite topics... the brilliant actor Colin Firth (Meg's ex and the dad of her son, Will). Actually, she stole the topic of what would have been my next blog post ... Colin's Best Actor win at the British Academy of Film and Television Arts (BAFTA) for his portrayal of George Falconer in "A Single Man." He's another person I would love to meet.

Sometimes I think we reveal ourselves more to online correspondents than to people we meet casually face-to-face. Our guards are down while we're chatting away at the keyboard and we don't filter our thoughts and feelings as thoroughly as we do in person.

So, thanks, Meg, for putting my admiration of Colin's work and my congratulations on his achievement in your blog. It's saved me a lot of typing and added to my strong belief that you would be a truly kindred spirit should our paths ever cross.

Those eyes!

2010-02-09T14:14:00.000-08:00

As a movie fan since childhood, I've had one so-called matinee hero after another... Father Ralph Bricassart (Richard Chamberlain) in "The Thorn Birds," Clark Gable in "Gone with the Wind," Cary Grant in "An Affair to Remember" and now, Colin Firth in just about anything.

I first met Mr. Firth (may I call him 'Colin?')a few years ago when A&E aired its series "Pride and Prejudice" and I, like millions of women everywhere, gave their hearts to Fitzwilliam Darcy. After that, it was one film after another, each different in its own way, each owing its appeal to the brilliance of the actor. He's been Mark Darcy to Bridget Jones, Jan Vermeer to the girl with the pearl earring and a poet who is faced with the imminent demise of his father. He's wielded a sword to rescue a Roman emperor, played a cad who despoils a schoolgirl and then leaves her carrying his child and charmed a daughter he never knew he had in "What a Girl Wants." I've seen them and now own them, bought one at a time, until I've amassed a reasonably decent Colin Firth film library. What's the attraction?

Those eyes. The face that he downplays as something less than beautiful, something on which characters can be painted. I say nay, nay! I think I know beautiful. And, be honest, Colin... magazines like "Manhattan" don't give pages of gorgeous head shots to people who aren't beautiful. Still, beauty isn't everything. In the case of Colin Firth, talent trumps everything.

His movie, "A Single Man," for which he's received an Oscar nomination, simply proves my point. A 52-year-old English professor teaching in 1960s L.A., Colin's George Falconer is a textbook neurotic who covers his homosexuality (hardly acceptable in that era) with fastidiousness and reserve. He has just lost his lover of 16 years to a car accident and is struggling to get through what just might be his last day on earth. We see his suffering, his loneliness, his despair. In one scene, he and Jim are curled at opposite ends of the sofa reading with one of their fox terriers resting between them. They are good-naturedly arguing about who will get up to change the record and their ease and comfort with one another speaks volumes about their relationship. After the death of Jim and one of their dogs, George goes to the bank to empty his safe deposit box and comes upon a fox terrier in a car parked outside. He goes to the window and, ever so gently, nuzzles the dog's head, remarking to the dog's owner that "he smells like buttered toast." That little gesture tells the viewer volumes about the depth of his loss. I was the only one in the theater who was crying out loud. In fact, there were only four of us occupying the auditorium, so difficult has it been to find this lovely film playing anywhere.

This Firth performance is brilliant and moving. It is sad and devastating, even as George begins to see the beauty of things around him and perhaps think of an optimistic future. I've seen the movie twice and am about to make it a trio. I am sad that, nominations aside, Colin was passed over for the Golden Globe and the Screen Actors Guild awards in favor of Jeff Bridges' portrayal of a has-been falling-down-drunk country singer in "Crazy Heart."

Any actor worth his salt can play that. Not many could infuse the face of George Falconer with pure grief and grip the hearts of those who come to care about his character. I'm afraid Hollywood will reward family heritage and run-of-the-mill acting while a superb performance like Colin Firth's will lose out. See the film, if you can find it. It's as beautiful as the man who stars in it.

Still crazy after all these years

2009-06-22T08:39:00.000-07:00

He was about my age, maybe a little younger. Standing in the elevator, he came up to my husband's shoulder so he wasn't a big guy. Still, his face clearly displayed the displeasure he was feeling.

It was another Tropicana Casino "event," a beach party indoors (another rain casualty) and a drawing for one grand prize of several thousand dollars. Attendees all received one entry, deposited them in a revolving drum and then went about the merrymaking. Our host was dispensing popcorn while around the ballroom various stations handed out other beach party goodies.

Howard and I didn't stay too long and ended up on the floor playing one of our favorite joker poker machines.

We promptly forgot about the drawing at 6 p.m., but as we got on the elevator to go to the players' club on the 20th floor for dinner, we asked the gentleman if he knew who had won. Naturally, this one time we'd failed to show up, our ticket would have been picked. We were sure of that.

But our usual luck (or lack thereof) held and he informed us of the winner's name. She was also a Smith but no one we knew. Then he said the following:

"If that drawing had been held in the '50s, she wouldn't even have had an entry."

I asked if he meant she was so young she hadn't been born yet. You see, I didn't get it at first, but he made sure his point was clear.

"Nowadays it's different than it was. They wouldn't even show their faces back then; now they think they run everything."

"I don't understand what you're saying," I said, as I felt Howard drawing himself to his full height in preparation for a nasty comeback. I was still hoping to be wrong about the man's meaning.

"I don't have to make it any clearer," he said. "You know who got elected."

Before Howard could react, the door opened and, as we stepped out, I looked at the pathetic rascist and said, "We don't think that way. Besides, we voted for our president."

Not giving him time to react, we proceeded on into the club and didn't see him again.

Now I know there are people out there who still nurse the old hatreds. I'm not naive enough to believe we've made complete national progress.

But it simply amazed me that this particular bigot would voice his animosity and hatred to total strangers. I suppose he didn't care if we were offended, but he did risk bodily harm had not the elevator doors swung open. Okay, maybe not bodily harm, but a good tongue lashing was certainly on its way.

Did he assume because of our ages we would agree with him? Did he assume we, too, had learned nothing over the course of the decades since the '50s? Did he simply not care who witnessed his bigoted ridicule? We couldn't decide what prompted him to vent the way he did except to chalk it up to total ignorance.

Regardless, we were saddened that our paths had crossed and very glad his name wasn't the one called as the grand prize winner!

A little of this, a little of that

2009-05-18T10:35:00.000-07:00

Wish spring would show itself for more than a day at a time. Howard planted knockout roses yesterday in the back yard and with a little luck we'll get some more flowering stuff out there to brighten the view from the porch. We are such novices when it comes to planting anything! Especially me, with my black thumb and reluctance to go outdoors except to walk to the mailbox! Howard's good, though. He weeds, rakes, fertilizes, herbicides and plants grass seed. He frets over the health of our tree (yes, one tree!) and plants. I simply trust they will fend for themselves and either thrive or die. With that attitude, I'm not surprised that most everything I plant dies.

I'm troubled by the incessant publicity being given to Elizabeth Edwards on the release of her book, Resilience. Yes, she's been wronged. Yes, John is a cad who broke her heart. Yes, she has a right to vent her spleen and rail against his infidelity. But.... she will leave this earth as soon as the cancer she's fighting finally wins. When she does, her beloved children will be left with their father, a man they only know as a loving parent. How will this public shaming help them cope when Elizabeth's gone? To what purpose does she put his failings into the public spotlight any more than they already are? In the end, we are all imperfect humans who make huge, hurtful mistakes. Too bad she couldn't have left it at that.

As I write, there are echoes of banging, slamming and other noises that accompany the installation of hardwood floors. Finally, we have rid ourselves of the carpet that came with our house and replacing it with beautiful oak wood. Packing up the breakables and moving everything from the room was a chore and we will be left with a terrorized cat when the job is done, but at least we will have what we've wanted since Day One ... easy to care for, beautiful wood floors. Good things come to those who wait.

Happy birthday this Friday to the dearest of friends. Carol Panella and I met when I began work at the Evesham School District in 1998. We became dear and close friends two years later and we adopted one another as sisters shortly thereafter. She's been the shoulder I cry on, the patient sharer of health woes, the grandmother who tolerates my stories and always has incredible ones to share, the companion who joins me in stretching lunch hour to three or beyond and a loving, caring, compassionate person who makes my life easier and brightens my days. She knows all this, of course, but it never hurts to have it affirmed. Many, many more happy birthdays, my dear sister. Enjoy this one with your family. We'll celebrate later!

Kudos to our president on his speech at Notre Dame yesterday. Sad that those with opposite viewpoints should mar the glory of the day for the graduates. To his credit, President Obama set the right tone for the debate on social issues that often bring out the worst and most violent in believers and proponents. He showed his talent for conciliation, for bringing us together in spite of our differences. I was a proud Obama supporter as I watched his address. He was worth waiting for.

Longing for sunshine

2009-05-05T06:42:00.000-07:00

Even though this lethargic feeling has a name, Seasonal Affect Disorder, I'm not comforted enough to pull myself out of the doldrums and move! Every gloomy morning that presents itself when the bedroom drapes are opened motivates me in one direction: to the sofa under the afghan with an old movie on the tv.

I love movies. Not all of them, mind you. I'm not really into action stuff and don't like any films about boxing (which I believe should be outlawed). Every year when the Academy Awards are presented, I lament that I've not seen one film that's nominated. They are too new, thus requiring a schlep to the theater, the purchase of tickets and the gamble that I'm not sitting in front of folks who use the movies as a chance to catch up with all the local gossip or to complain about their lives. At home, I curl up on the sofa, usually with my cat next to me, and get lost in the story. Often, my choice is almost inadvertent... luck of the dial, so to speak. Like yesterday.

I had grand plans for the day. So much would be accomplished! There was laundry, ironing, some cleaning and grocery shopping. When I opened the bedroom drapes, darkness and rain greeted me and immediately sapped my energy for chores. As I pulled the sheets off the bed, I flicked the remote and checked the guide for a listing of what I could use as mind-numbing fare for the work ahead.

Instead, I found myself staring at Liam Neeson, one of my favorite actors, portraying Oskar Schindler in the famous film Schindler's List. I'd always vowed not to see the film, despite its awards and raves. Shame for what humanity can do to humanity, for the silence of those who could have prevented or stopped it, deep and disturbing sadness for those involved, including the descendants who have this doleful history upon which to build their lives... all of those emotions determined early on that I would not see the film. Until yesterday.

Needless to say, nothing was accomplished except for the clean sheets. Even when the movie ended at about noon, I was still there, still in the power and emotional aftermath of Steven Spielberg's work. There was nothing in it I didn't know from history except the actual work of Oskar Schindler and the results of what his courage prompted him to do. I couldn't help thinking, as I watched him at the end of the film, grieving that he could not have saved more people, of the world leaders who could have saved millions, not just eleven hundred, had they stood up against Hitler, taken action against his genocide and motivated the rest of the world to condemn that man for the evil he was.

The Holocaust wasn't all Hitler's fault. He instigated it, of course, but he has help carrying it out. Not just from the famed SS or the Hitler Youth or any of the groups about which we learned in history classes, but from the leaders in the western world, the Pope and other religious figures and ordinary people who heard rumors of the slaughter but stayed silent and did nothing.

Today, I see that The Jane Austen Book Club is on HBO. As an Austen fan, I would dearly love to lose myself in that one, too. Lighter, easier on the psyche, certainly. But the work still wouldn't get done. And we now need milk, cereal, cat food and loads of other stuff. Rain or no rain, I have to go out.

Maybe there will be something really good showing this afternoon!

Thanks, Meg Tilly!

2009-04-21T07:31:00.000-07:00

I didn't check her blog all that often.
But when I did, I loved reading about her life and her family. She wrote the way I imagined she spoke... in a friendly, next-door-neighbor style that made me feel I really knew her.

I found Meg Tilly through a Google search aimed originally at Colin Firth.
Since he is my favorite actor, I occasionally check to see what's coming next in his film and TV work so I won't miss a single performance. That's when I found the link to Meg, who is the mother of Colin's son, Will. She and Colin worked together in Valmont, a version of the classic story, Dangerous Liaisons.

She lives in Canada, has long-since abandoned acting and instead writes books. She and her husband are raising their children and living, for the most part, like most of us do... struggling with social issues and worrying about our kids' futures in this unpredictable world. Her life is very different from mine, though. She cooks and bakes a lot. Imagine having the ingredients for made-from-scratch breakfast muffins on hand in your pantry instead of having to menu-plan and make a grocery list to be sure you have it all! She thinks nothing of whipping up a great, huge meal for her family without breaking a sweat and often shares favorite recipes with her readers. I cook because we have to eat, a trait I learned from my mother who was not a creative cook and didn't inspire me to want to become one.

I like Meg's philosophy of life, although I can't say I can be as fundamental and basic as she often is. I'm not a back-to-nature kind of gal and I laud Meg for being so mother-earthy. She seems happiest when talking about things family and I never detected any sense of longing for her earlier career pursuit, although she is still among the respected members of the acting profession.

Last time I checked into her site, settled at my computer and ready to enjoy a few weeks' worth of Meg's chatter, I was stunned to find that she'd signed off and abandoned her blog. She'd become too much of a slave to the computer, she complained, to the detriment of her relationships with family and friends. So she'd gone on a computer-free holiday, disconnected from the internet and returned to the simplicity of phone calls, visits and pursuing her varied interests without the interruption of e-mails and blogs. She was less stressed, she reported, and far happier than when the computer was her constant companion.

We part company there, I'm afraid. For me, e-mail contact with my friends and family and an occasional post on this blog are essential to my sense of well-being. I find that long months, even years, can go by without word from some cousins and long-time pals unless I take the time to initiate an e-mail that just says hello, how are you. Then I am rewarded with catch-up notes that reconnect us and bring them back into my life.

I've often said I don't know how people get on without friends. Meg connects with hers in her own way; I still rely on my buddy the computer for most of mine. Meg gave up her computer reliance for a less-stressful life; my life becomes more stressed when I don't have the means with which to chat with everyone on my list. Maybe I'm just not where Meg is. I'm quite certain I don't want to get there, either.

Still, I will miss your blog, Meg Tilly. You made me smile and enjoy reading about your wonderful family and your writing.

A not-so exclusive club!

2009-04-03T08:29:00.000-07:00

Computer techs in India are savvy people.

My respect for their training, patience and skill grew immeasurably yesterday, particularly in the person of one young man, Amit, who spent nearly the entire day trying to rid my hard drive of a particularly vicious Trojan. When I was younger, a Trojan was something we girls giggled about. And, as I've gotten older and somewhat computer knowledgable, I did learn the new meaning of the word, but never had first-hand, closeup experience with one. Operative word ... had.

On Tuesday, my computer began reacting sluggishly to commands. Nothing to alarm me, mind you, just hesitance to obey my wishes. But Wednesday brought the frightful truth. I couldn't access the internet using Internet Explorer and found my browser taking me to strange, unrequested places without explanation or recourse. In a minor panic, I called my daughter and son-in-law, both of whom are my tech gurus who can solve any problem. Not this one, it turned out, despite both their efforts, mostly my daughter's. Terri researched the symptoms and found the recommended remedies, all of which we tried for several hours. By nightfall, we thought we had it under control and I went to bed, leaving my computer humming away as my Norton antivirus did a complete system scan so we'd be sure we'd succeeded.

Then came yesterday morning. Confident I would be able to boot up the computer and resume life as I know it, I dashed into the office and was terribly dismayed to find IE still sending me to points unknown, this time accompanied by an error message I'd never seen before. That's when good fortune led me to Amit.

After sitting through several calls to Verizon to determine that I was properly connected, I was sent packing to the manufacturer of my computer, Dell, who as most of us are aware, maintains its primary call center in India. With the first two techs stumped, I was sent to the young man who was touted as their malware expert. With a great sense of humor, super people skills and a tenaciousness that was admirable, Amit began his quest to eradicate my Trojan at about 9:30 a.m. (our time). He took control of my computer and then performed his magic, thwarting every effort of the sleazy virus to override his efforts. At times, the bug seemed to be winning but Amit pulled out every trick he knew and eventually slayed the enemy, restoring my computer to useability by about 3 p.m. Of course, none of this was free, but the cost was well worth it.

Now to the Trojan. I will never understand why anyone would spend brain power and time developing tools of destruction like viruses, Trojans and worms. Amit explained to me that the creators are well paid for their effort by people who stand to gain by disruption on a mass scale. Why???? I felt nothing but anger and resentment toward these disrupters as I struggled to rid my computer of their invasion and they gained nothing by disabling me.

I've learned a lot through this brief encounter with malicious codes. I will no longer open an attachment unless it is something I've requested from a person I know. I won't let a day go by without running an update of my antivirus definitions so stuff like this won't get into my hard drive again. And I will never join in any ridicule of the overseas tech support people. Granted, Amit could have solved my problem from inside the US of A, but he wasn't here. He was at a computer somewhere working for Dell. Most of yesterday, though, he was working for me.

I hardly knew ye

2009-03-09T06:50:00.000-07:00

My family was broken in half when my parents split up. I was two. Forever after, there was my mother's family, with whom I lived and interacted, and my father's, with whom contact was severely limited and closely monitored.

I didn't completely belong in either. I barely knew my father's side ... the myriad cousins and their children, only some of whom I saw occasionally, usually at funerals when we were all grown up and pretty much strangers.

And, after my mother died when I was 31, her side of the family seemed to turn into strangers as well. Not all of them, of course, but certainly most. I've spent entirely too much time trying to figure out why. Was it because I reminded them, not of my darling mother, but of the father they all despised? Was it because I don't hold the same view of the world they do, the same political and religious beliefs? Was it because I had been divorced, a failure as a wife and a Catholic? Like I said ... entirely too much time. I don't do that anymore.

The fact remained... the more years that passed, the less I saw or heard from them unless I was the one who made the overture. Years ago, I found that one cousin passed within a mile of my home several times a month on business and never called or stopped by. See what I mean?

Many years back, Leo, the son of my mother's brother, visited New Jersey from his home in California. I learned of the visit from a cousin I love and Howard and I drove south to visit. It was uncomfortable from the moment the door opened in response to our knock. They were gathered around the dining room table, looking over photo albums, sharing remembered times. One cousin, never a favorite of mine and vice versa, snickered audibly when I made a mistake and called the child of another by the wrong name. How could I be so obtuse as not to remember the names of my own family? No one asked about my life, my children, my work. I felt invisible except for the ridicule that seemed to emanate from the walls of the room in a house I'd hated and feared since I lived there as a small child. When next our California cousin visited, not many months ago, no one remembered to call to let me know he would be here.

Last week, I received an e-mail from that dear cousin who matters. She was sorry to tell me our California cousin had passed away. I knew from e-mails Leo had written to those on his list (me included, oddly) that he had a terminal cancer and, despite his willingness to fight hard, there would be no recovery. I read his obituary online and realized none of the names of survivors was familiar. I'd missed the last opportunity to see him and I know his children and grandchildren wouldn't even know my name.

They wouldn't know that his grandparents were mine, that his father was my mother's brother. That his parents gave solace to my mom when she was going through her painful divorce, the one that ultimately cost me all of them.

Now there is one less cousin in a very large family. May he rest in peace.

The family is still there, for the most part, but, without the glue that was my mother, it is still a fragmented memory.

Through the eyes of our kids

2009-03-06T08:58:00.000-08:00

I am getting old. Who'da thunk it?

Chatting with Terri yesterday (or was it the day before?), I heard about the failing health of her grandmother, my ex's mom. Then we talked about her father's upcoming 70th birthday (he's two years older than I!). Somehow, we got from there to the fact that she and some of her friends were talking about their own parents ... and about how old we are getting.

Old?????

Just because I'm on a committee planning the 50th reunion of our high school class? 50th!! Just because I think Chicago, the Eagles and the BeeGees are still the only music worth listening to besides my beloved classics? Just because I have to visit the beauty salon more frequently to keep that youthful blond look from descending into mousy brown and gray? Just because there's less hair to color these days?

Seriously, I spent a bit of time after we hung up thinking about being old. Guess it's a monumental joke Mother Nature plays on us as we plow through life ... she doesn't let us know we're old. She just shows the rest of the world how old we are. Honestly, I look in the mirror and see a few wrinkles ... okay, a lot of wrinkles. I see a few brown spots on my face and hands. I see sagging eyelids that could be corrected if only I had the bucks for cosmetic surgery. But, aside from those little things, I see the same face I've looked at all my life. It's me ... Jeanne, the 30-something youngster! Me, old?

At a recent reunion committee meeting (before the phone call from Terri), the five of us touched on the same topic. We remarked how unchanged we all were from the high school yearbook photos, although our outlooks on life and philosophical bents might have radically changed. We agreed we didn't feel 67 (or 68) and couldn't understand what all the fuss is about.

I'd rather stick to that notion. If I start mulling over my actual age, I may be forced to admit that I'm on the downward slope of my life. That I won't get to see my grandchildren into their 30s or maybe even their 20s. That there isn't an infinite amount of time left to do everything I've put on the back burner for 'just the right time.'

I'd rather enjoy my dear friends (some even more ancient than I), spend hours on the beach in summer, struggle with a dormant Muse who won't give me inspiration for another novel, keep trying to win that jackpot at Tropicana and plot color schemes for some drab rooms in my house. I'd rather play War with Adela and enjoy Nate's fabulous sense of humor. I'd rather marvel at the beauty and independence of my daughters, both of whom are also getting old (gotcha! Didn't think I'd figure that out, did you?)

They say age is only a number. I'd rather leave it that way.

Snow angels, bah!

2009-03-03T12:43:00.000-08:00

Can't believe it's been over a month since I last blogged. So much going on! We took a one-week trip south so Howard could attend a trade show in Orlando and bumped right up against a cold snap that felt more like home than Florida. Natch. The Smiths are here ... it should be warm??? When we got back, Howard had hernia surgery and is slowly healing, a tough process that sneaks up on him when he tries to overdo. Tough not being able to work to capacity, but as a dear friend reminded him, he's not 18 anymore and won't heal like a teenager, either. Thanks, Joe.

I've had two YAG treatments, one on each eye. Fairly common after cataract extraction surgery, I'm told. Asked the ophthalmologist what the letters stand for and found they mean Yridium, Argon and Garnet, the three elements in the laser beam that is zapped into the eye to cut a tiny hole along the back of the retina allowing more light to get in and thus sharpen the vision. Voila! I can see much more clearly, except for night driving which can often be a challenge, thanks to halos and rays of light that shoot out from approaching headlights or streetlights overhead. Doctor Kindermann, the benevolent genius who has given me better sight than I've ever had, tells me I should be finished with procedures ... this is as good as it will get, and I'm very satisfied with it. No glasses ever ... except for magnifiers to read very, very fine print!!!

Like everyone else, I am following the economic situation closely, not that there's a cause for panic in our household. One advantage of having nothing is that one then cannot lose. No stock market jitters for us! Howard's business has been slower than normal, but winter isn't his best selling time anyway. We are hoping that our president's stimulus package will spur businesses to invest in equipment and energy-saving devices so Howard's phone will once again ring off the hook. Spring and summer will tell the tale.

I actually cried a few tears during President Obama's address to the joint session of Congress last week. He thinks! He can speak with clarity and inspiration! He isn't an ideologue but a pragmatist who places his trust in science, empirical evidence and the virtue of listening! We finally have a chief executive who seems perfect for the job at hand. He's here because his entire life has prepared him for the task at hand! He proves to me once again that everything happens for a reason. President Obama is where he is because that is where he should be. Thank goodness!

Taking some time this week to work on publicity for the Wellness Fair our over-55 community is sponsoring for residents in April. I'm not a joiner anymore (that was for my younger days) but it's nice to contribute something. Also on the committee for the reunion of the Class of 1959 of St. Joseph's High in Hammonton, NJ. You do the math. I can't believe the number! Do I feel old enough to have a @#$%# reunion? No.

One last note... my friend Bonnie and I saw "The Reader" last week. No wonder Kate Winslet won an Oscar! I love movies and this one just reaffirmed that feeling. Powerful, emotional and superbly acted. Don't miss it!

Fickle eyes

2009-01-16T08:16:00.000-08:00

After successful cataract extraction and lens implant surgery last April, I was flying high with 20/20 vision or better in both eyes and absolutely no need for glasses or any other correction. I wore real sunglasses that didn't get clipped on or cost a mint as a "spare" pair. I wore eye makeup that could actually make my eyes look younger. I could wear my hair very short knowing the little sideburns wouldn't stand out like semiphores when the glasses stems pushed them outward. In short, after nearly 60 years of glasses and contact lenses, I was FREE!

Note the operative word "was."

A couple of weeks ago, my vision started to blur occasionally, especially at dusk when I'd go from a well-lit room to a darker area. Halos formed around light sources and it was hard to differentiate their borders. It wasn't enough to trouble me, though. I attributed it to lack of sleep and stress. Then came last Tuesday.

Coming home from a wonderful visit with Terri, Adela and Nate, I drove blissfully along, aware that darkness was descending but unconcerned about any potential problems. Then, I drove onto Interstate 295 in Ewing Township and found myself nearly blind. Nothing but streaks of light and blurred images met my eyes through the windshield ... imagine my terror! Cars and huge trucks zoomed by at 70+ miles per hour as I struggled to see the white lines on the right side of the highway, where I clung desperately, too fearful to try to pass anyone or even to maintain anything over 55 mph. I crawled like that until reaching the exit for 130 where I usually travel a mile or so before picking up Rt. 206 which takes me home. A large truck in front of me obscured my vision of the route signs and I made a wrong turn. Trying in vain to see clearly enough to read the subsequent signs as they flew past, I finally used my own sense of direction to instruct me to find a way to turn around and retrace my route. Thank goodness for the Delaware River, which I knew should not have been directly on my right!!

Finally, after a harrowing trip, I pulled into our garage and sat there, trying to calm down. An immediate call to my optometrist came next and a day later I was sitting in his chair, my eyes dilated wide. I waited to hear a dire verdict ... retinal separation, diabetic retinopathy, corneal disease, slippage of the lens implants. Instead, after a thorough exam and vision tests, he scratched out some numbers on a pad and pronounced me in need of corrective lenses. My pitifully myopic eyes had enjoyed a brief respite from dysfunction and were now reverting to the need for assistance in order to keep that 20/20 ability.

At first I was terribly disappointed. Then I realized just how lucky I am. It could have been any of the dreaded things that passed through my mind. I could have been in need of further surgery and long recuperation. Instead, I'll have to adjust to being a wearer of bifocals once again. I'll order bifocal sunglasses and be happy to wear whatever it takes to clear up the glare and halos and allow me to drive home from my daughter's after dark without fear.

Oh ... lesson also learned. Pull over, stop and use the OnStar phone to call home for assistance. While I wasn't in imminent danger, my situation wasn't a good one and an accident could have been the result of driving without clear vision. As they say on tv, don't try this stunt yourself!

It's in the genes

2009-01-11T11:02:00.001-08:00

What a treat! I've always known that the love of writing and the power of words are alive and well in our family's DNA, but now there is another piece of concrete proof. Daughter Terri has begun her own blog, http://tcfamilyblog.blogspot.com, in which she chronicles the events in her young family. It's entertaining and filled with the kind of news her relatives and friends want to know but don't always have time to seek. Check it out!

Facing the new year

2008-12-30T08:37:00.001-08:00

2008 wasn't the best year I can remember. In fact, it could easily be labeled one of the worst, with a couple of exceptions. My cataract extraction and lens implantation surgeries were the high point. Since I was eight years old, I've worn some kind of vision correcting device and have never had clear, precise eyesight. Now, thanks to the genius of my surgeon, I do.

Once the healing was completed, I was ready to enjoy being retired. Barely a few weeks after, though, my mother-in-law fell in her apartment and ended up needing surgery and weeks of rehab. Howard and I began the six-month-long routine of driving either to the hospital or the rehab center each day, usually more than once, to check on her and spend some time. In between hospital stays, she lived with us, not a good arrangement for either her or us. She had a hard time adapting to our lifestyle and her own lack of independence in a strange house without the benefit of the setup she had so effectively managed in her apartment. We had a hard time adjusting to the presence of a person with specific medical needs in the tiny, over-55 home we'd bought two years earlier. Paper thin walls meant we were awake whenever she coughed or talked in her sleep. We found it impossible to leave her alone unless she was tucked into bed for the night and even then, we worried about her whenever we were out of the house. All in all, it wasn't the best solution to her health-care needs.

Then in November, doctors said she required major surgery. The lead surgeon didn't want to perform the operation because of her age and general poor health, but he had no choice. The entire large intestine had to be removed and an ostomy created on the small one. Mom knew the risks but wanted the surgery to be done and over so she'd have a shot at getting well.

It didn't work that way. From silent heart attacks to staph infection to pneumonia, she slid downhill quickly following the operation until we decided that in-hospital hospice was the only way to ease her suffering. On December 11th, she passed away and went to join her husband Howard and son Bill who'd been waiting for her for over 20 years. From what she'd so often told me, I knew she arrived on the Other Side and immediately lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Howard's face. He had, after all, nagged her into quitting and she said with a laugh that she'd delight in getting back at him. She was a feisty, independent woman who had more courage than most of us are ever required to muster. We think of her every day, so many, many times as we go about the necessary business of settling her affairs and putting her bedroom back to its former use as a den.

Our younger daughter heard from her grandmother the other day. In the quiet of her room, she was feeling down, thinking of Nana, when the words "Take it easy," in Nana's voice, came out loud and clear. Erica was Mom's "Rose Queen," since nearly every time she visited her grandmother, she brought a dozen roses of various hues to brighten Mom's living room (and her spirits). I can't look at roses without thinking of the joy they brought and the thoughtfulness of Erica who loved pleasing her Nana.

We spent Christmas with our other daughter and her family up north. They were the ones who were trusted with the custody of Mom's parakeet when she moved in with us and couldn't bring him along. We were afraid our little cat, Mitzi, would have the bird for lunch, so Terri and her family gladly adopted him, intending for Mom to be able to visit when she was better. Pretty Boy is thriving and sings and chirps all the time. He also talks ... in Mom's voice with her North Carolina inflections, at once comforting and painful for my husband to hear. In time, when the mourning isn't as fresh, he will welcome this occasional "visit" from Mom.

Now for 2009. I have plans for the year that include some travel for just the two of us and plenty of beach time when the weather warms. In the meantime, lessons learned from this experience will spur me to drafting Advance Directives and wills. I will also decide for my girls who gets what and where everything is to go so they won't have those difficult decisions to make. They already know my last wishes, so that's a done deal, but it should be in writing so memory isn't forced to go back and put together the pieces. I hope they won't need the results of my organization effort for many, many years yet, but no one is guaranteed tomorrow and I want to know they are protected as much as possible from the heartache of uncertainty.

We'll welcome the new year at a formal dinner at our favorite casino. Then we'll come home and start trying to live normally again. There are no regrets for the time spent with Mom ... she had the best we could give her and she knew how much she was loved. Is anything else important?

Chatter withdrawal

2008-11-17T10:17:00.000-08:00

For days, I've wanted to find a few minutes to write.

Nothing profound, of course, just words.

Hardly seems like I've lived without jotting down some thoughts and then expounding on them just to hear myself think.

Ego? Yeah, no doubt. I've always loved seeing my name in print at the top of an article I wrote. Guess that's what keeps writers writing.

But there's also the communication side of it. I've never been one to keep things to myself. Self-disclosing, I think the shrinks call it. A healthy willingness to share, I'd rather say.

The world according to the Smith family has been topsy-turvy since the last post.

Howard's mother is in the hospital facing major surgery this week. What will happen afterward depends on how the operation goes and what doctors give as a prognosis. She is frightened but determined to do what must be done. Howard and I are exhausted and worried for her, as we watch the ordeals she endures day after day without benefit of a positive outlook. Prayers from friends and family pour in, for which we are very grateful.

I watch all of this from the vantage point of one whose own mother died of breast cancer when she was 56 and I was 31. Seems forever since I had a mother of my own to worry about. We never went through the elder-care routines for her, so I'm a novice at caring for someone so ill.

And amid all the medical talk and test procedures, both Howard and I realize we are next in the grand scheme of things.

Death doesn't frighten me, since I believe passionately in the next phase of living ... although unknown, still comforting in its certainty. Suffering, growing old and infirm, losing my independence, relying on others for my every need .... this is what frightens me. I jokingly (perhaps) tell my daughters to park me in a nursing home, visit when they can and go on with their lives rather than suffer the disruption caring for someone causes. Then I laugh and warn them I might take a header into a bridge abutment at 70 miles an hour and save them all the trouble.

Jokes don't really make anything better. I am growing old in a hurry, it seems, since years now fly instead of merely pass as they did before I hit 50.

At 67, I realize my time will be here sooner rather than later. I don't dwell on it a lot, but it's really impossible to avoid coming face to face with the reality every time some new horror visits itself on my mother-in-law.

So ... the plan is to live every day to the fullest possible. Hug the grandchildren, stay close to friends and don't let a day go by without saying "I love you" to those whom I need to hear it. I may not be the world's best caregiver (far from it!) but I'm learning how to behave when it's my turn to accept the ministries of others. Not an easy lesson. Certainly nothing I ever contemplated too seriously.

Now, though, it's simply a reality.

The mountaintop

2008-11-05T09:36:00.000-08:00

In 1964, when my then-husband and I went to Biloxi, Mississippi a couple times a year to visit his mother, I had my first taste of Jim Crow and the horror that was segregation. You need to know I was raised in an all-white town in south Jersey, where the African-American population was isolated on either side of the main streets and my schools were lily white. In college, I met people of all backgrounds and quickly realized that color didn't register with me as it did with some. I dated young men of color, had friends of all ethnic groups. So you can imagine what Biloxi, Mississippi did to my social conscience. Why, for God's sake, should a black man have to get off the sidewalk so I could pass? Why separate water fountains and rest rooms? Why, most of all, did everyone seem to take that hideous status quo as gospel and not challenge the basic errors of its way?

Then came Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Not only did he speak for the legions of African-Americans who hungered for his message and who risked their lives to abolish the old ways, he spoke to me in a very personal way. I believed what he preached ... that the day would come when a person would be judged, not on the color of his skin, but on the content of his character.

Election Day, 2008 was the final push to the pinnacle of the mountain Dr. King envisioned. At 11 p.m., when most of the results were counted, it became apparent that one man, Senator Barack Obama of Illinois, had reached the mountaintop and planted a symbolic victory flag there for not only those of his own ethnic heritage but for all of us who finally can believe the evils of segregation and racism have been set aside.

Am I naive enough to think racism died when Senator Barack Obama was elected as the 44th president of the US? Of course not. After all, his victory wasn't unanimous. Millions of voters who did not support him couldn't get past his race, so we know old prejudices won't vanish instantly. I am, however, optimistic enough to believe that, as his presidency progresses and our country's divisions and mistakes are healed and made irrelevant, all Americans will benefit from this election result.

I believe President-elect Barack Obama will be a great president. He inherits some of the most serious problems ever to face our nation, thanks to the incompetence of his predecessor. But I believe he will surround himself with the best and the brightest and those great minds will find practical and effective ways to turn us around.

I'm seriously proud to have watched Senator Obama way back in 2004 and spotted the potential for what happened yesterday. I felt an unusual sense of pride when I cast my vote for Senator Obama and I couldn't hold back the tears of gratitude I shed when the victory was sealed. We have come a very long way and now the real work of restoring our nation to its rightful place in the world will begin.

Spending hours in the past

2008-11-03T11:59:00.001-08:00

When my stepfather died, I "inherited" a plain brown box filled with music ... old sheet music with ornate covers and strange-sounding titles. The box was sealed with tape and stored. It was then moved from Berlin to Mt. Laurel and then to Pemberton. Each time, I wondered what to do with the stuff. Sentimenality and the thought that someone might actually want this stuff, kept me from tossing the box, music and all, into the trash.

We cleaned out the garage a bit more on Sunday. Warm weather and the need to prepare for winter prompted the work, certainly not a desire to neaten up the place. And there, on a wire shelf above my head, was the brown box of music. Almost daring me, this time, to deal with it.

So, I took it down, sorted the pieces by year (from 1898 to 1945) and began cataloging them in a list on the computer. For what, I don't know. Old sheet music is a dime a dozen, I'm discovering, as I surf around sites that offer it. Still, I can't escape the feeling (and the hope) that I have some rare gem mixed in with the mundane. Dream on, huh?

This is my new project, I suppose. I'll send out some e-mails and see if any collectors or dealers bite. At least the brown box is out of the garage. Now it's in the office. Next step ... outta here!

So many stories to tell

2008-11-02T13:23:00.001-08:00

Wendy's son Brian called yesterday. We'd never met, although I knew Brian and his late brother from the pride in Wendy's voice when she spoke of them.

There were so many address books, names and lists of people Wendy knew, it wasn't possible for Brian and his family to contact everyone. There are, after all, still boxes and boxes of her papers and things to go through and not much leisure in which to do it. So, this young man who had lost his wonderful mother apologized to me for not calling to let me know she was ill. That's how she raised him.

We talked for a while ... me, the college buddy who had memories of his mother he couldn't begin to know. How could I explain those laugh-til-you-cry times we spent together? Wendy and I in Barrett House on the Trenton State College campus, staying overnight with Doris Perry, the house faculty member and college psychologist who had adopted us as the daughters she never had. Her apartment was so tiny there wasn't enough room to turn around. Her bedroom was a little part of the living room, set apart by a sliding plastic door. After a potpourri dinner, we three decided to bring a mattress from one of the empty rooms upstairs down to Doris' apartment to sleep on. Picture a 41-year-old woman and two co-eds, 18 and 19 respectively, lugging an unwieldy hunk of batting down a slightly curving staircase. Of course it got wedged in between the bannister and the wall. Of course we ended up sliding down the mattress from top to bottom, giggling uncontrollably. Of course we got very little sleep, but the memory of that night was relived again and again.

Wendy had an infectious laugh and marvelously caring nature. We had a momma-loves-you-best relationship when it came to Doris, whose approval we both sought constantly, but who loved us both enough to give us what we needed proportionately and always just at the right time.

Those were the days, my friends. Now both Doris and Wendy are gone. Makes one think long and hard about who might be next.

Goodie, the weekend!

2008-10-31T12:28:00.000-07:00

Thank God it's Friday. Not just TGIF, but the whole shebang.

Every Friday night for about 20 years, Howard and I have had "date night" at Tropicana Casino in Atlantic City. Even with his mother living with us, we have managed to get her settled with her dinner, good books and tv and off we go. Our cars know the way so we almost only have to point and put the gear in "Drive."

Each time we make the trip, I realize all over again why I love living in New Jersey. We drive through a little road that's lined with the prettiest trees, particularly in fall when they are dressed out in yellows, reds and oranges. We pass a glistening lake and then ride on a long, perfectly straight roadway for 15 miles or so until we reach our first turn. Along the way are deer alongside the shoulder, towering pines that gradually give way to stubby scrub pine so characteristic of the New Jersey Pine Barrens. A lot of the landscape is scarred from fires that burned huge acreage last year. As we go along, it's evident we are nearing the shore as the exposed ground turns from reddish topsoil to white sand. Trails for dirt bikes and ATVs snake off on either side of the road and the sky takes on the azure dotted with white that tells us we're close to the ocean.

The Garden State Parkway takes us all the way to Atlantic City where we hook up with the Expressway, a crowded six-lane parking lot on most weekend nights. We are usually early enough to avoid the crush; often we watch the traffic snaking slowly into the city from the Top of the Trop where we end up for dinner on weekend nights. We know the back roads into the city but this is usually the fastest. Most of the time, Howard drives and I snooze, always managing to wake up before we make the final turn into the glitz and neon of the casino row at Atlantic and Michigan Avenues.

As a child, I took a weekly bus ride into Atlantic City to the orthodontist. Starting at age 12, I hopped the bus in Egg Harbor, rode to A.C., had an adjustment on my braces and made the reverse trek. By the time I was in high school, my stepfather had gotten me a job at the Hotel Roma on Florida Avenue, right next to the parking lot for the Convention Hall. The Roma is gone now and an extension of the Hall fills what was the lot. But as we pass Florida Avenue on weekends, I never fail to remember the good times spent behind the front desk there. Atlantic City was a mecca for entertainment, family fun, movies, restaurants and, of course, the Boardwalk back then. I miss those days, especially in light of what the city has become.

But I digress. We usually get to Trop, have dinner and then seek out our favorite poker machines for a night of fun. Trop has been very good to us over the years and we usually either break even or win (the same thing, as far as we are concerned).

We stay late.

Very late sometimes, often pulling into our driveway at home after 2 a.m.

In the casino, there is no sense of time. The flow of adrenaline makes you feel as though you are never tired. The lights are bright; the crowd noisy. We know a lot of people there, more, really, than in our own neighborhood. We feel at home.

Each week, we work, do what we have to do and mark time to the weekends. Without the casino, we would undoubtedly preserve date night. We enjoy movies, going out to dinner with friends, Real Time with Bill Maher or a show we've DVRed for later viewing.

But it's the casino that gives us our fun, that makes up for the stress of the week that goes before it.

We're almost there

2008-10-30T13:51:00.000-07:00

Couldn't believe we did it, but we'd planned a dinner out with friends last night instead of staying home to watch either Barack's half hour or the Phillies game! Thank goodness for DVR! Our friends, almost lifelong for Howard and twenty-odd years for me, are good Republicans, so we usually try to avoid talk of politics. We have grandchildren to brag about, stories of life in a 50+ community to share and other passions in common, so the friendship does just fine without politics, thank you very much.

Last night was different. The topic was approached gingerly, but it was soon evident that this year, this election, neither of them is comfortable pulling the Republican lever. They aren't nuts about voting Democrat either, each for a different reason. But what amazed me was that they were willing to listen to our feelings and beliefs about Barack's potential as a great president with interest and a lot of agreement. We've always felt that good friends should be able to talk about anything without the discussion sinking to rancor, but in many cases that just doesn't happen, so we take cues from our companions and either venture in or not. We were thrilled to have an intelligent, open-minded give-and-take about the coming election! It didn't hurt that we left them after dinner with the firm belief that they will be pulling the same lever as we.

I was a graduate student in the era of John Kennedy, a young mother in that of Robert. Like so many of my generation, I saw in Bobby a hope for a better, more peaceful and respectful world, where the differences among peoples were minimized and we finally had a leader who would teach us, by example, how to love one another and achieve peace. I've always believed the world would have been a much different place had Bobby lived and served two terms as president. No use wondering, however, because that was not to be. Now, I feel the same stirrings of hope and excitement when I listen to Barack Obama. Perhaps this time, this election, we will get that chance again. We will have an intelligent, compassionate and wise leader who will appeal to the best in all of us. We will be able to show the world that the United States can do better than it has; that the bellicose face of unilateral action isn't really who we are. Our president will look like most of the people of the world, but he is an all-American man of principle, faith and love for his country, his family and his fellow man.

Four years ago, I listened to Barack as he gave the Keynote for the Democratic National Convention that nominated John Kerry. I remarked to my husband that we might have the wrong guy running, that this young man had the mark of greatness and I saw him as a future president, maybe even four years from then should Kerry lose. Way back in the 80s, I saw a young goalie named Ron Hextall come leaping out of the gate at a Philadelphia Flyers game and told Howard that I thought the kid would be one of the greatest goalies in Flyers history. Right then, too! I'm a pretty good predictor, huh?

Like most of my friends and acquaintances, I'm tired of the campaign. It's gone on far too long and has gotten so hideously ugly and filled with fear that I can't wait for Tuesday. Perhaps after we've all done our civic duty and a president-elect is declared, we can rest a bit and wipe the airways and tv stations clear of the constant barrage of political discourse/attacks/propaganda. It will be a pleasant relief.

In January, whoever we elect will face the daunting task of beginning the repair of everything that's gone wrong for our country in the past eight years. I hope he surrounds himself with the best and the brightest in each area so the job gets done well. We have a country to save.

Another friend lost

2008-10-29T12:26:00.000-07:00

One of the worst things about growing old is how many friends you lose.

I started losing them with Marie in 1994. She was like my sister and to this day I think of her with fondness and a quiet laugh or two, remembering her wagging finger, her Irish laughter and her unconditional love for me. Read "A Hand Across Time" on my website: www.jeannehoward.com and you'll understand how much she meant (and still means!) to me.

Now comes another loss. Wendy Acrish.
Wendy was my buddy when we were in college at what was then Trenton State together, she a year ahead of me and thus the role model and big sister I never had. We were "adopted" and loved by the college's first psychologist, Doris Perry, and the three of us shared so many happy and wonderful times together! Wendy was an insecure gal, just like me, who wasn't sure of her Jewishness and didn't quite know where she fit in. Doris took us under her wing and gave us self-confidence and the strength to go on with rich lives.

In 1960, Wendy and I were recruited by the U.S. Air Force. The captain who shepherded us through the process was gorgeous and I'm sure I was as much enamored by him as by the idea of uniforms, travel and glamor. I chickened out before signing on the dotted line; Wendy didn't. She served for four years as a Personnel officer and recruiter and I'm sure many Air Force cadets owe the experience of a lifetime to her work with them.

When she left the Air Force, she married a rabbi and, after a long and illustrious career in mental health as Director of the Hudson Valley Psychiatric Hospital in New York, she realized a life dream when her one and only novel, A Time for Love, was published. It was my honor to edit and help with rewrite on that manuscript and I know Wendy was thrilled when she saw the first copy and did signings at local bookstores.

Wendy retired to Naples, Florida after having visited one time and fallen in love with the area. She sold her home in Connecticut and soaked up the sun, taking up golf and making frequent trips north to visit her growing family.

Although it's been years since I saw her or even had an e-mail or phone call, I was thinking of Wendy this morning, remembering the good times we had and just wanting to reconnect. I dashed off an e-mail that, surprisingly, came back undeliverable. So, I called her house, stunned to get a message saying the number was no longer in use. I called her son's house in New York and left a message ... how can I contact your mom? And then I put her name in my Google box and got the worst possible news. Wendy passed away in March of this year, obviously after a long and courageous battle with cancer. She died at the home of her son and left many friends to mourn her loss.

Now I am one of them. I wish I had known. I wish I'd kept better contact. I wish she could have visited again before all this happened. I wish I could have helped her work on the second novel she had in mind. I wish ... I wish a lot of things that won't happen now.

Most of all, I wish her peace.

Getting started after all these years

2008-10-29T11:24:00.001-07:00

Let's see ...it was in 1995 that I wrote my last "blog," although no one knew that word yet and I simply called it an "Editor's Note." It went on Page 4 of my weekly newspapers, The Journal and trend of Voorhees, papers I'd founded in 1973 and 1985 BR (Before Recession). My readers waited eagerly for those columns and I loved writing them. Hated losing those papers the way I did ...sort of a blatant testament to my lack of managerial skill. My sales staff were friends from my neighborhood, too dear to fire but eventually ending up enemies anyway. I blamed them for the papers' descent into financial ruin and their eventual takeover by the last person I would ever want to have them.

That was long ago, huh? Have I gotten over it all? Sure, the enemies part, at least. They were good friends at one time; I was the lousy manager who didn't know how to be tough enough to make the business last longer than 21 years. Now that I look back, 21 years is a very long time for a business to last when it's run by an incompetent owner, so I guess the recession really was to blame. At least I'd like to think so.

So here I am, "blogging" to no one in particular. Hoping someone somewhere might happen upon it and want to read regularly. Presumptuous. But welcome to this collection of musings that began today. I hope you don't get too bored.