The True Power of Now

Several years ago I read a book that held life-changing results for me. The title was "The Power of Now", by author Erkhart Tolle. Over the years, I've read it no less than 10 times. Perhaps I listened to it is closer to the truth, for I bought both the hard-cover and cassette tape versions. At any rate, the book spoke volumes to me and although it was not what I would call 'an easy read', Mr. Tolle's ideas, concepts, and beliefs somehow found their way into the back-most recesses of my mind. And, over the years, they have often whispered to my conscious mind and therefore have given me much comfort.

I am finding that particularly true right now. To me, nothing is as important, pure, or beautiful as this moment right now in time. Why? Because at this moment in time, I am not aware that my cancer has come back to torment me, the cancer that tried to steal my life three years ago, and which I believed to have beaten. Waiting to hear the results of my biopsy from last week, at this moment in time I only have to think about how I am feeling right now, and what I am tending to right now. Right now, I am writing this essay and I am enjoying the feel of the keyboard just beneath my finger tips, and the look of the computer monitor as my words seem to magically appear on it, letter by letter. The dryer's sounds in the background are cozily familiar as my clothes tumble and scamper amongst themselves in a race to nowhere. My dog lies at my feet, snoozing and seeming to be enjoying each moment of peaceful oblivion.  As I give myself over to the true 'power of now', at this moment in time I have no problems, no worries, and no pain. How wonderful is that?! Pretty wonderful, if you ask me.

This happens to be December 9, 2011. It is the holiday season and as the whole world counts down the days to Christmas, the Reason for the season, I am caught up in the festivities as never before. For a very deeply personal reason, this year's Christmas is very special to me. Each sight, sound, and smell is thrilling to me. I could not wait to put up my Christmas tree, and so I did, on December 2nd., the day after my biopsy. That night when my husband came home from work, he walked into my version of a winter wonderland and I could see a smile beginning to form on his tired-looking and worry-lined face. That made me glad! Very glad.

For the past 2 years, I didn't even put up a tree -- we relied on a little pottery-type replica with plastic lights sticking out all over it, something my husband's mother created long ago in a moment of creativity. It was green, shaped like a Christmas tree and had lights. Good enough, I thought. No muss, no fuss and just one main light bulb to worry about -- how much better could it get? I couldn't have been more wrong.

This year, our house is modestly dressed for the holiday, but at least it shows that I did something to make it look festive. After all, our kids flew the coop long ago, and we live so far away from them all -- so for too many years, I had the attitude "Why bother?" Our house did not look too Christmasy, but only as if someone had a second thought or two and stuck up a wreath here, or a glass tree there. Now, our house looks ready to welcome both friend and weary traveler alike; and in our minds and hearts, our family is here (thanks to the wonderment of texting and the ability to send pictures over a device instantly!), be it in spirit only.

I was never one to enjoy Christmas shopping. This year, I am a tad ahead of the game. I buy what strikes my fancy whenever I am in a store, making sure all of my wonderful friends will have something from me this year. I've already sent my gifts up to my kids and grand kids -- which is extremely early for me!  The true joy I am experiencing this year takes me back to a time long ago in my life when the secrecy of Christmas gifts seemed like a delicious treat! Not a chore at all, gift gathering for those I love is a thrill this year, something I had long forgotten.

So, the morning progresses. I am thinking toward the trip to the mansion with my friends this afternoon, the one over in Germantown that is decorated to the hilt for Christmas, and open for tours. I've never seen it before, but this year is special, and so I will make the trek with them. Then, there is this evening, when I go with my performing choral group to the Women's Home on Leverington Avenue. We will sing for them and entertain them, just as we've done all year long for so many nursing homes, rehab centers and hospitals. We even sang at the Alzheimer's Walk event this past year, finding ourselves the only performing group allowed into the Citizen's Bank Ball park in south Philly. What a glorious day that was!  But, this is to be our last performance for this year and how fitting it should be for women who have somehow lost their way, or who are too ill to live on their own. It will be a very special performance, indeed, for us and I know we will put our heart and souls into it. I love our singing group! They have become members of my extended family and I treasure each moment with them. I have so much to be thankful for this year!

As the sun slowly climbs a bit higher in the sky with each passing moment, I know that at some point it will seem to have come to a dead stop for me. That moment in time -- that "now" that is not here yet, but is on its way -- will find me holding the phone up to my ear and carefully listening to what my doctor has to say to me. I will either get a reprieve,  via negative test results, or the test will be positive once again and it will be back to the all-too familiar routine of battling a serious illness. The next few moments will be very, very hard for me. I will, of course, make two calls to two special people who know about this situation and who are waiting so anxiously for the results. One is to my wonderful daughter, Janette, who has texted me no less than 10 times in two days to see if I've heard yet, and the other to my loving husband, the man who stole my heart so many years ago. He and I are a team, a true "duo" -- connected at the very soul. It is he that I am worried for, and I pray that for his sake, my test results will be negative. Oh, how very much I would love to call him and share that with him!  The same goes for my daughter, of course, and she will become my 'telephone tree' and let the others know the good news.

But, that "now" is not here just yet. I don't know what it will be like because I don't know yet what my doctor will say. However, for Now, the only Now that any of us has, I am doing just fine. I do not have cancer, I do not suffer from the pain of Osteonecrosis, which I've battled for the past 16 years and formed an entire Organization for -- I am simply a person who is enjoying the sunny yet cold morning and cherishing each moment of it.

If I could give just one gift to everyone I know and love, it would be just this: Inner Peace that comes from true understanding of the power of "now".  It would be a Peace that comes from deeply within, and which is a grace given from God Himself. It would be a Peace that would tide us all over from any circumstance this life has to throw at us, and a deep inner knowing that we are truly loved by a Power greater than any of us.

Merry Christmas to all this year and may we all enjoy the coming year, and many years to come. I intend to be here, God willing, but even if I"m not at least I am feeling that inner peace for now. The "Power of Now" is mighty, and to be treasured, as well as shared. God bless, everyone!

"Time" - My latest Writers' Group project!

“Time”

Do you have the time? Is this the time? How many times? When will it be time for_____? Time marches on so slowly…..time flies right by!  Time for a change. What time is it? “It’s Howdy Doody Time!”

Time: What a wonderful word and elusive, abstract concept!

Great philosophers have asked if there really is such a thing as time, or is it just a man-made commodity, created to give us something by which to measure things such as our days, our nights, our very lives?

No matter, whatever it is, to us time is very real. Just look at the great variety of expressions in which we use the word “time”, for example! But, if we had to define time at all, what would we say as individuals? By what do we measure, or mark time?

For me, it is the growth of children! I’ve often said that if a person wants a real yardstick of the passage of time, look at a friend’s baby or child. Newborn, a baby nestles in his parents’ arms, safe and secure from the bumps and bangs of the world. Within a year, the baby sits up, starts trying to feed himself, and smiles at his family members with happy abandon. By age two, he has usually taken his first steps, if fortunate enough to be of good health, has a vocabulary of at least a few words, and is able to toss his baby bottle across the room with glee. Two years later, he is having full-blown conversations with others, telling with great relish stories about his puppy dog, or his new baby sister or brother. Blink your eyes—don’t see your friend for a few more years – and the child has grown into a pre-teen-ager!  The next time you may see your friend and his family, the child may have graduated from high school My, how the time has flown!

But, time can also turn into molasses and barely inch its way across the fabric of our lives! I remember one job I had, as the Receptionist at an airport, where quitting time was 5 p.m. Since I was the principal phone contact, it was imperative that I leave not one minute sooner than 5 p.m. You never knew who might be calling with a question about a flight, or lost baggage, and so on. I can recall that I hated, above all other times in my life, the specific time of 4:55 p.m.  The ensuing five minutes were the absolutely longest minutes of my life! I would sit and virtually stare at the clock, trying to will the second hand to move faster with my mind’s help – all to no avail. Tick by tick, the slender hand would move toward it’s goal of the number 12,  only to move past it again, make another circuitous route and do so until at last, and with agonizing slowness, the little hand would finally land on ‘5’. Oh, my God, but those were the slowest minutes and seconds of my life!

Yet, here it is so many years later and all I did was blink my eyes!

Cleaning off my desk yesterday, I came across last year’s Christmas card and letter from our dear friends, Brian and Christine, from our home town back in NY.  As always, there was a lovely and current picture of their four children. At first, 11 years ago, there were just the twins, darling little 2 year old orphan girls from China. Then, there was Tommy a year later – a real surprise natural child. Two years later, there was Danny, another Chinese orphan. Looking back at me from the photograph was a group of four young people that just took my breath away! The girls are now teen-agers and the boys all baseball and soccer players, happily sporting their uniforms. The passage of Time once again rapped me on the head: “Look!”, Time goaded me. “While you were busy doing your things, look at what I did!” Time said with a grin. Until I looked at that photo, I had forgotten how much time had passed!

It’s time I wrapped up this essay. Thank you for your time in listening to it, and I promise that the next time, my essay will be shorter! 

*the word “time” was used 31 times in this piece!*

THTSL Manual: The Kook Next Door

Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Just a matter of time is all it took, and I am sure that I have been officially dubbed "The Kook Next Door." I guess I can live with that; at least, it's not 'The Neighborhood Kook', which honor goes to the old man way up the street, the one who collects the chestnuts from the tree bordering the field across the street. Not a bad hobby at all, except, he manages somehow to go into the horse's enclosure to get his prize chestnuts. Strange things happen when you live in the same neighborhood as a farm school, so just accept what I'm saying for now and I will explain further a little later on. Anyway, I digress....


I decided to concentrate a little bit on our front yard. With a new landscaper to do the more exhausting chores, this frees me up to do those little side things, like killing annoying weeds between the cracks in the sidewalk. I'm telling you, those weeds are the bane of existence! Everything else looks almost picture-perfect: every plant is growing, right where its supposed to grow, and the solar garden lights all really light up at night (even the one I accidentally stepped on and is lying on its side with its broken stem as useless as a cat's hairball), and so on. Everything's great EXCEPT for those stubborn, healthy, thriving and totally unwanted weeds in between the slabs of concrete that make up our front walk. I know what you're thinking...why not just buy some weed killer and be done with them? No way, Jose. Not again, at least. The last time I did that I forgot to read the damn label on the bottle and squirted weeds willy-nilly without the benefit of rubber gloves protecting my hands. That night, I made fresh meatballs, carefully rolling the meat in my hands to make the golf-ball sized entree -- and wound up poisoning myself for an entire night and half the next day. Thank GOD no one else was home that night to eat the meatballs, but still, it was bad enough.

Anyway....NO poison. I just can't take that chance with Max living here, and with neighborhood kids and other dogs wandering the neighborhood, so forth and so on. So, I had an inspiration! Somewhere along the way, I remember reading about someone using boiling water to kill weeds. They said it was simple, clean and if you weren't clumsy, a very safe way to kill the little buggers. I went inside to put the kettle on, as well as two huge pots of water, and in jig time, I had all 3 boiling away, with me cackling with glee like the witches from MacBeth (at least, I think it was MacBeth...my memory isn't what it used to be)!

I hurried outside and began to gently pour boiling water from my tea kettle on the green, unsuspecting plants. I began to giggle a bit, very pleased with myself for this amazing brainstorm, and started talking out loud to myself, something along the lines of ,"I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!"

 Then, I heard a gentle cough...and looked up to see my new neighbor staring at me, looking a bit confused and more than a bit worried.

"Good morning!" I chirped, still giddy with glee over my great idea.

"Uh....Hi..." he responded. "If I may ask, what are you doing?" He didn't look as curious as he did really worried.

"I'm killing...." but before I could say "weeds", a sight more horrible than a dozen eggs dropped on the floor met my eyes. To my horror, four or five wiggly, frantic and probably very p**** off earth worms were trying their best to flee the boiling flood from hell -- and for all intents and purposes, looked like they were coming straight AT me! A little-known fact in these parts is that I hate -- and I mean totally loathe -- worms of ANY type, and most especially earth worms! Just the sight of one on the pavement is enough to send me walking way out of my way around it, afraid it is going to somehow touch me (God forbid!).

And, with that I screamed out, "WORMS!"

"Uh...yeah...right. Well you have a good day, ok?" he finished lamely, scooting really fast into his car.

Oh, well. Some days it just doesn't pay to try and explain what you are doing. I must have looked a fright with that hot kettle dangling from my hand, and trying to catch up with his car for a little ways as he backed out of his driveway. I'm not sure, but I think that only made things worse!

Well, I think that did it. With one successful try, I've moved out of the realm of 'eccentric lady next door'  to 'the kook who kills worms'. Yeah...maybe so. But at least I own the Queen of Green, who lives just out back, and I'm sure she would have nodded her approval , had she seen me doing my thing.

Yep, it is going to be some summer!

THTSL Manual: The Fountain - I wish

The giant hosta sits quietly on her throne, spreading her arms wide as if to hug the entire backyard. Her throne is a garden bed --  more accurately, a 4 foot wide space of ground surrounded by planks, each about 12 feet long by 6 inches high. The enormous plant fills nearly the entire bed as she grandly claims the title of The Pride of Henry Ave.

It’s been somewhat of a hassle for me to be the guardian of this unusual Queen of Green. For the past few years, I’ve protected her from various assailants, such as the notorious Chuckie the groundhog, Wicky the rat, and Max, my beloved aging shepherd-lab mix (his aim is to improve his aim, preferably no where near the hosta). However, I’ve taken to this task like a duck takes to water, or dandruff takes to a black sweater, or something like that. I’m not fussy. This year, I’ve done something truly radical with my yard and gardens, something I vowed I would never do. I’ve hired someone to help me, God help me, and so far, he’s done a swell job. My biggest fear is that I will grow fat and sassy (oh, ok…fat is a probable, but sassy is a given) from lack of working outdoors – but the bold truth is that I am not a young as I was 10 years ago (who is, really?) and I find that relaxing has some real merits.

My landscaper, Tim, works very hard to make sure the finished product is to my satisfaction and so far, he has delivered. I asked him to remove all but 2 of those annoying wooden-box type garden beds. Yes….there was a total of 8 of them, and they were built by the homeowner before us, probably about a hundred years ago. The boards were all starting to give in to the ravages of weather and time and I noticed last year that the ‘beds’ were harboring weeds more than anything else.  However, my giant hosta lived in one of the beds and some of her children lived in another one. There was no way I would chance uprooting them and replanting them elsewhere. So, I asked Tim to leave those 2 beds alone and plant a lovely lawn where the others had been. He agreed, and in one fell swoop (two days, really), the deed was done. 

With the offending, crumbling boxes gone, the giant hosta stood out like a monarch. I decided to give her a name, and came up with “Francie Nolan”, or just Fran, for short.  Francie Nolan was the protagonist in the novel “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”. She was as tenacious as they come and managed to survive during an era that knew no electric washing machines, TVs, computers, credit cards, iPhones, Chuckie Cheeses, or even McDonalds, come to think of it. Still, she managed to grow up into a fine young woman and went on to graduate college (or so we assume), even though she totally skipped high school. Now, that’s tenacious! My giant hosta certainly was in the same category, surviving all sorts of trials and tribulations. So, “Fran” now had a name of her very own.

The days slowly passed until April turned into May, and May gently glided into June, and Fran just kept on growing. The day lilies at the other end of the bed soon crowded together, like people huddled in a bunch on the street, watching Queen Fran wave to them from her throne.  All was right with the world. The brown scars where the other beds used to be were dotted with grass seed, as I patiently waited for green sprouts to appear. I lounged in my hot tub, gazing at the panorama and envisioned a lovely green lawn that Fran could reign over -- when suddenly, I had a vision! 

I know what my yard needs, I thought – a fountain! Yes, a beautiful, waterfall-kind-of-noise fountain. So, off to the home center I went with dreams of a fountain filling my head.

Welcome to The Garden Centre and to Fountain Reality 101.

“What type of fountain are you looking for?” the salesman asked.

“You know, the type that has water cascading down into a kind of bowl or dish” I lamely answered.

“Yes, I know that,” he replied swatting at some invisible gnat or something. “What I meant was, what type of fountain material do you want?”

Hmmm.. I thought all fountains were made of stone, or concrete. Wrong assumption, I found out.

“Look..there are fountains made of stone, concrete, and copper, brass, bamboo, ceramic, bronze, resin, and fiberglass,” he said. Seeing the confused look on my face, he inwardly groaned as he asked me the next question:

“What style fountain would you like? Before you ask me, let me tell you that there are, for example, fountains that are two tier, three tier, all the way up to five tier; urn, floor, solar, waterfall, cascading, lighted….” he droned on. I was starting to feel a headache coming on. This was going to be anything but easy! “And, what type of water hookup are you going for?” he asked next. Hookup?? Oh, geeze! Who even thought of a thing like that! I guess I should have…..

Feeling a bit defeated, I thanked him for his time, and making some kind of excuse, I told him I’d be back in a day or so. The look on his face said, “Yeah…right…sure you will” He was simply determined by this point to shove some type of fountain in the trunk of my car. I kept saying ‘no thank you..not right now’, but he and his voice followed me all the way to my car,  badgering me with his descriptive verbiage of fountains.

Not too long after that, I was back at home and stood by my gazebo taking in the beauty of the whole place. Fran looked peaceful and serene and the lilies seemed to be waving to me. In my mind’s eye, I could see a lovely fountain smack dab in the center of the yard.

With a little grin, it hit me! All I really needed to do was to call Tim! Let him advise me and above all else, let him install the fountain. There you go, I thought to myself. Problem all solved!

Then, I spotted it.

Right in the dead center of the yard, a hole about 6 inches in diameter broke through the crust of the seeded area. Oh, no!!!! Could it possibly be??! Could this be Chuckie making his grand appearance once again?? Right where I intended my new fountain to go?!!

This was going to be some summer, I decided. Yep, some summer for sure.

I’m not exactly sure, but I think I heard Fran snort at me.

Remember...it's still only June! I can't wait to see what Fran will look like in another month or so!

THTSL Manual: A Teacher Worth Remembering

 Our latest writing assignment for our Writers' Group is to talk about a teacher or mentor that had a good influence on our lives. For me, this was a "no-brainer"....

To Miss Costa

She stood slightly less than 5 feet tall and had grizzled gray-black hair pulled back tightly in a bun. Square glasses sat perched on her nose as if she was born with them on her face. They formed a permanent, almost angry, groove across the top of her nose.  As for her body, she managed to pack about 200 pounds into a 110 pound frame; all in all, a tidy, neat power-house of a woman. And not one student dared to cross her – not ever! Her name was Miss Costa and she taught Italian. She was deathly serious about it as every kid who ever entered her classroom soon found out.

It was the 11^th grade and I decided to switch from Spanish to Italian for two very good reasons: I had studied Spanish for 4 years and felt somewhat out of place in my family, most of whom spoke Italian. Secondly, I was tired of Spanish and wanted to learn another new language. What better one than one that was spoken by my various family members? I was in for a terrible surprise.

She asked me to stay after our first class and I thought, “Oh, boy! She is going to welcome me and tell me that she knows my family really well, and I am just going to have a wonderful time here!”, but little did I know the trouncing I was in for! Miss Costa clearly was not happy with me.

“WHY are you dropping Spanish, young lady?” she boomed with a frown knitting her eyebrows together. She was not happy with my choice, apparently, so she continued:

“Hmmmm…. So, you think you are just going to breeze through my class because you are Italian! Wrong! And, what’s more, you are making a horrible mistake by quitting Spanish after spending so many years on it. I will tell you this, my dear young woman:  you had better not ever get anything less than 100 in my class!” she virtually thundered at me. My little talking-to had come to a close, and I was summarily dismissed.

Over the next two years, I not only managed to squeeze in four years of Italian, but I never got less than 100 percent on any test, quiz, or what-have-you in that class. It wasn’t that I was afraid of her, necessarily, but more as if after such a verbal dressing down, that I was going to show her a thing or two!

 In fact, we had a project in my senior year that required us to make a representation of something of importance in Italy. I chose the Cathedral of Milan, with its 60-odd statues all around the eaves of the building. My statues were hand crafted out of tin foil, and the base of the church was a cardboard box, about 2 feet square. It took me 3 months to complete and hand-paint; but I will never forget the look on her face when I gave it to her. She actually had to turn away for a moment and blow her nose into a perfectly flat Kleenex. When she turned back to face me, her eyes were a bit red, as a tear, probably afraid to fall and ruin her perfectly applied facial powder, hovered precariously just above her plump cheek. Her voice cracked as she thanked me for my project. She did not smile. Needless to say, I got 100% for it.

At Graduation, I received a national award for my achievements. I had gotten the highest marks in the country in Italian 1 through 4. Miss Costa’s face bore a ghost of a smile as I went up to the podium to receive my award, but I have a feeling she was highly, although secretly,  pleased.

This formidable woman taught me above all else that I could achieve great things if I wanted to badly enough, and if I really applied myself. I went on to accomplish some very worthy things in my life and each time I did accomplish some type of success, I would think of Miss Costa.

I was told that when she died about 10 years ago, her family found a  small, gray cathedral made from a cardboard box in her spare room. She had kept it, neatly covered, all those years, and her express wishes for it were that a family member would keep it and then pass it on when his or her time came.

I salute you, Miss Costa, and thank you for making me believe in myself by pushing myself onward and upward. You were quite the lady, after all, and I hope you are smiling now as I write this!

                                   __________________________________________

This is a photo of the actual cathedral in Milan, Italy. Each of the spires has a statue at the top. My little rendition didn't look quite this good <smile!> but I tried to recreate it as best as I could!  It was a true labor of love for me and I only wish we had thought to take pictures of it.

"Color My World with My Favorite Color"

Well, our Writers Group did it again! Issuing another thought-provoking topic, our task for next time is to write about one color that has some sort of significance in our lives. At first, this seemed difficult to me. But once I really thought about it, the task became quite a bit easier. The reason, I hope, will be obvious....

Color My World with My Favorite Color

If I had to pick just one color that I truly like and explain why I like it, I think it would be a test that I might very easily fail. As an artist, I love most colors! But, since that is what our assignment is, I will comply and tell about just one of them, and what it means to me.

Green is the color that I feel has impacted my life the most. It signifies the leaves on the crocuses that peek up through the snow in my front garden, and the early shoots of grass stretching their tiny arms toward the sun that follow close behind in the spring.  Just spying a dot of green against the starkness of the white snow will bring an up-turn to the corners of my mouth, and cause my heart to skip a beat or two. Green reminds me of Life itself, life being reborn as it once again enters this world from deep within the ground up to the tops of the tallest trees.

I remember standing in front of the huge glass window in the hospital’s hallway, with the eerie whistle of the furiously blowing wind demanding entry to the building.  I could see the cars’ red tail-light smears reflected like zigzagging ribbons on the wet, gray pavement of the streets three floors below. The trees in the park across the street from the hospital were all dull brown and quite bare. The sky behind them was a gun metal gray-blue with no hint of yellow sun anywhere in sight. It was late March and I had been in the hospital for nearly six weeks at that point. When I entered, it had been winter. Now, the world was ready to welcome spring; and there I was, trapped behind red brick walls in a stark white hospital room. Dragging my silver IV Poles along with me, I could go out into the hallway and watch the world go on without me on the other side of that crystaline window. All too often, a tear or two would escape my eye and roll down my cheek, going just so far, and then pause, waiting for me to wipe them away.

Then, one day in early April a miracle awaited me! As I looked out the window at the park across the street, tiny green flecks dotted every branch of every tree. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. But, no – they were real, they were there and they were a tender, light green: tree buds! Buds filled the backdrop of the robin’s egg blue sky like freckles on a child’s face.  Just seeing those green buds brought joy to my heart. The world had made it through a very tough winter; and I slowly realized, this time, so had I. Green also means “Go!” Every day that I am given the gift of waking up, I get that green light to keep going,  and  that is something that I cherish above all else.

Yes, out of all the colors in the rainbow, if asked which one means the most to me, I would have to pick green: Wonderful, glorious, generation to generation green! 

This is a life-sized tree that I painted in our wildlife clinic's lobby! Needless to say, it is full of green!

The Music Goes On

I am now participating in a wonderful Writers' Workshop and our task for our next meeting is to write about something that no longer exists. The following is from my treasure-house of memories!

The Music Goes On

In the distance, the mournful cry of a peacock could be heard punctuating the laughter of children and the underlying murmur of adults. A gentle breeze drifted through the warm summer evening, caressing everyone with the scent of the park’s pine trees, grassy lawns, and the slightly earthy aroma of the lake. With the exception of several youngsters gleefully running around the perimeter of the semi-circular stone amphitheater, everyone was seated on the faded green park benches, eagerly waiting for the concert to begin.

In stately single file, the musicians emerged from behind the statuesque arborvitae trees that formed the backdrop of the concert stage. The bandmaster appeared last, walking slowly up to the podium as a hush finally settled over the crowd. With great ceremony, he lifted his baton and with this action, the musicians raised their instruments with careful, precise deliberation. On the downbeat, wonderful, glorious music filled the air, snapping everyone to attention with the strains of "The Star Spangled Banner." Needless to say, the entire crowd rose to its feet, hands across their hearts. It was official: the concert had begun!

My own chest swelled with pride at the thrilling strains of the music because that was my father up there at the podium! The leadership of the band fell to him once his own father passed on back in the early 1950’s. Watching him lead the musicians, I could not have felt any prouder!

This is what it was like growing up for me in Newburgh, NY. Once a busy seaport on the mighty Hudson River, Newburgh became a refuge to many America-bound immigrants who arrived first in New York City. Escaping the maddening hustle-bustle of the big city, they moved up-river to communities such as Newburgh, where life proceeded at a much slower pace, and where it was far less crowded. Of those immigrants, my grandparents were two who migrated to America from Italy. Along with them, they brought the gift of music. A graduate of the Rome Conservatory of Music, my father’s father, Grand Dad Giacomo, was a Doctor of Music. Every person in our family, from his generation on down to my own, became a musician of some sort. It was as natural as rain for my family to hold summer concerts – and to march in every parade the city ever held. With most of the band members being of Italian-Catholic descent, this also meant participation in wonderful processions in the summer time, to celebrate the feast days of Sts. Cosmo-Damiano, San Gennaro, and Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

Growing up in a musical family had its good points and more difficult points, too. Every holiday and feast day meant work for us. Parades meant marching in all kinds of weather. Memorial Day in Newburgh could either be bone-numbing cold, or as hot as the middle of summer. No females were allowed in the marching band, but that didn’t mean my mother and I got off Scott-free! We had to help transport musicians from the parade’s end back to the starting point, or to our band rehearsal hall, where their cars waited for them. Also, my mother was the Uniform Concierge and Music Librarian; so, her work continued all year long.  In those days, uniforms were lent to the band members so it fell to her to launder them and keep them in good repair. She also kept the music neatly correlated, not an easy task at all. Having married into a musical family, she accepted her role with grace and good spirit. As for a really good point, I don’t think I ever missed a single parade while I was growing up – and I had ‘ring side seats’ for all of them! Ditto for our wonderful concerts in the park!

My family also had our church’s music under its direction, with my father being the Choir Director, his eldest sister the organist. Needless to say, most of the rest of us family members were members of the choir as well. With the exception of my grandmother, this meant double and even triple duty for all of us on holy days because we sang for every high mass. Almost as a reward, a grand and sumptuous feast awaited us back at my grandmother's house, which we all looked forward to with great anticipation. To the day I die, I will always remember the cloying scent of the candles in that church, undercut with the pungent odors of Frankincense and Myrrh, then followed by the delicious aromas, mouth-watering food, and warm camaraderie at Grandma’s.

As for the concerts in the park, they stopped a long time ago, right after my own father passed away. The park is still there, green and lush, with its ducks, geese, grass and flowers. The amphitheater lies silently neglected, slowly giving way to the build up of years. The calls of the lonely peacocks still hover in the air from time to time, but all else is hushed, with the exception of automobiles’ horns and noises, faint yet ever-present, in the background.

Still, I have a wealth of memories to hold on to and to cherish. For me, the music goes on in my mind and my heart, and it always will.

 

View of Newburgh in 2009. This is the area called The Newburgh

Landing, down by banks of the Hudson River.

The USMA at West Point, NY, lies just to the south of the mountain

on the right.

 

THTSL Manual - "We are what we write"

Oh, happy day! There was a break in the snow and ice storms long enough for me to actually go to the Senior Center this week. Talk about irony! I no sooner find a bunch of folks -- all under one roof! -- that remember first-hand The Beetles, Love-ins and Sit-ins, and disco, than I was stuck in my house for one entire week, thanks to fouled up Weather Management. Hey, it's all OK. We can only do what we can do, right? Right.

Anyway, for my entry to the Senior Center activities, I tried my hand at the Writing Group. After all, I've been writing a good many years, with much of my work appearing on my web site for the past 15 years; so I figured what the heck, I'd fit right in. From their last meeting, the topic my group-mates chose to write on was "Animals", as in pets, both past and present. Naturally, since this was my first meeting with them, I had brought nothing with me of my writings. Or, so I thought. As each member read his or her story or essay, the room filled with warmth, smiles, and at times, tears. Very talented people, my group mates' writings suddenly inspired me to remember something:  I had my cell phone with me, so ergo I had access to my blog, right here on the mighty Web!

Suddenly, all eyes were on moi.

"Do you have anything by chance, Marie, that you would like to share?" asked Audra, our leader. I have a sneaking suspicion today that at that moment, she might have been thinking, "Of course she doesn't, so it's safe to ask!" However, I believe I burst her bubble with my reply.

"Yes! As a matter of fact, I have access to my blog on the 'net, right here on my cell phone!"

Everyone smiled and all of their voices chimed in with requests for me to read something from my blog.

Oh, my goodness! What to pick?? I've done stories here on my pets, including Roxy and Max, my horse and dog, respectively. And, of course, a myriad of critters from my backyard -- not to mention those at the wildlife clinic where I volunteer. What to choose, I wondered. Almost panicking, I opted to find my very first story here, going back to  when I began this blog. All I know is that it was quite a few entries ago!

I found it. It's not so easy scrolling around when you are fiddling with a tiny computer screen the same size as a compact mirror! But, eventually I found my first entry, which if you have been following my blog, was on "Wicky the Wat". If you haven't read that series of writings, go back to the beginning of my blog and read them! It took me about 10 or 11 entries in all to finish the tale of Wicky the Wat and it will remain near and dear to my heart, always.

But, for my Writing Group, I only got about 2/3 of the way through my first entry when I realized something. Two of the men in our group were turning almost beet red, trying to hold back laughter! Three of the women were giggling behind Kleenex's, held politely up to their noses and mouths. The leader's eyes almost bore holes into my own, as if to say, "Please tell me -- you have GOT to be kidding! A rat??!"  The third man in our group, a guy of about 83 was snoozing away, his head making little bobbing movements. I was impressed he was up, out of bed and out of his house at all, so his nap didn't faze me in the least!

"Er...all I can tell you is that to understand the story, you need to read the whole thing and we don't have nearly enough time today," I answered.  With that, everyone began asking me for the URL to my blog! Even though I felt somewhat honored, I also felt a tad embarrassed. After all, what they were about to read was something truly 'out of the norm' for most people's experiences.

I could only hope and pray they'd be happy to see me in two weeks, when our next meeting convenes. I guess I'm going to find out, huh?!

THTSL Manual - "On Life and Age"

I could be wrong, but it just seems to me that all my life I’ve been out of step. It’s either been that I was too young, or at one point in my life, almost too old. For what, you may ask? Let me explain…

My mother had the bright idea to enroll me in kindergarten at the tender age of 4 years, 7 months. At that age, 5 months can make a big difference, but be that as it may, I started school nearly half a year short of my fifth birthday. It seems that I was ‘smart’, a word they used to use years ago – today they might call it ‘intellectually advanced’ – and so, I did kindergarten virtually standing my on head. By the time first grade rolled around, I was intellectually bored almost mindless, but emotionally it was a whole ‘nuther story! I just couldn’t get the hang of things and always seemed about five steps behind the rest of my classmates socially, which in essence, I truly was (if you count each month as a step).  They would sneer at me with derision, calling me a baby and I hadn’t had the social moxie enough to plaster someone square in the nose or face with every child’s standard, cure-all response: “So what?!”

So, I continued throughout my school life in the top percentile of my class, and bearing the additional burden of being ensconced in accelerated classes and programs. By the time I graduated high school, I already had accrued approximately 10 college credits, thanks to a revolutionary program instituted in my last year of  school. It seemed the world was my oyster and it was nothing but clear sailing ahead toward a career that promised a life full of rewards and success.  However, I was by this point a full year and a half behind my classmates emotionally, and with Italian parents who wanted to keep me close to home and hearth (and out of trouble) seemingly forever. All my peers were 18 or over and able to drink (thankfully, New York State’s law on this has long since changed) and party and stay out until after midnight. But, not me. At barely 17, I was ‘too young’.  This led to long and bitter battles between my parents and me, but somehow I was always on the losing end of things. My college friends teased me mercilessly, and as I meandered through the musty hallways with my head hung in shame, I bore their taunting with as much grace as I could muster.

 I did the only thing I could think of to even up the score a bit: I found a boy who was crazy about me, and we formed a relationship. This was truly the beginning of a very long, tortuous journey for me which included my dropping out of college, and getting married (and later on, divorced) at  far too young an age. The only saving grace was the birth of my four children, all of which I had by the time I was just 23.  Again, I was way too young for such a weighty responsibility. But, I had my youth on my side, as I realized years later. Being such a young parent, I had the energy of the Gods and was able to go non-stop virtually around the clock for days, weeks, and months on end. These days, if I can manage going through the day without at least a little cat-nap, it’s almost a miracle!

At any rate, we were the youngest family in the neighborhood where we bought our first home. My older neighbors would cluck their tongues and shake their heads at the ‘noise and bother’ of the new young family on the block. Again, I felt like a pariah and slightly on the outside of things. But, I persevered.

Many years later, as my kids advanced through their own school years, I had the somewhat disquieting experience of being one of the youngest parents around. I didn’t really appreciate it fully then, fool that I was, but actually most of my kids’ friends’ parents were 5 to 10 years older than me. They, too, tended to treat me as if I were a kid myself. I used to ask myself, “WHEN am I going to be ‘old enough’?”  Silly youngster that I was! It was coming….just waiting for me….right around the corner….

Well, my children went on, grew up, went to college and/or married and had kids of their own. Only this time, I had the distinct advantage of being one of the youngest grandparents around!  NOW, it was starting to be a bit of fun! Still young enough to really enjoy my grandchildren, I can continue to cope with my own grown kids’ problems and pitfalls, and to realize with relief that they are all eventually going to learn from their own experiences.

Not so long ago, my second husband and I moved into our new home (we were DINKS – ‘double income, no kids at home’) and for the first time in my life, I was almost, but not quite, in the ‘too old’ category! Everyone around us was busy raising their families; but I went on to enjoy my home, my gardens, activities,  and my comparative freedom, much to their longing glances and consternation.

I will never forget my 30^th. high school reunion. I looked around me and saw my peers looking about 10 to 20 years older than they truly were, and worse yet, acting like it. Some had the audacity to look at me with a kind of derision, as if I were doing something purposely to make them look bad! But, I wasn’t doing anything of the sort: I was just being my age – which I began to realize at long last, with delight and more than a bit of pride, that I was almost a full two years younger than the rest of them! 

So, guess what? It may have taken me a lifetime, but I not only caught up to them, so to speak, but I remained what I always was:  younger than them! Because my life was full of problems that I had to learn to overcome (not the least of which is osteoncecrosis, a disease where bones and joints are dying or have died and have been replaced, and then a full- out battle with cancer), it toughened me and gave me resiliency. Instead of wearing me down, my challenges only made me rise up to meet each one. And, I discovered, this is the true ‘fountain of youth’, the ability to persevere and never to quit, no matter what life throws at you.

Very happily, I can now say with glee and a huge grin that I am almost ‘too young’ once again. I just joined our local senior center this week and, as I expected, I am one of the youngest there (age to join is 55 and up).

Oh, joy! – and pass the Mah jongg tiles, please!