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!

THTSL Manual - "Christmas Family Newsletters"

I would LOVE to send out one of those “Christmas Letters” to my friends, but honestly, I  don’t want to bring anybody down! This one couple we know has sent us a Christmas letter every year for the past 12 years and frankly, they are so depressing that for a while there I was considering changing my religion, or worse, moving and not leaving a forwarding address!

Each year, it was the same thing: their home-schooled (of course!!), piano-playing, karate practicing, Green Space champion award- winning, and smarter-than-any-kids-who-have-ever-lived children are nothing but divinely phenomenal. The whole family managed once again to travel all over the world, sometimes even two or three times in one year; either the husband or wife (or both) won an award for something, and it was nothing but blue skies and sunny days for their family, by gosh! It’s enough to give me serious gas, crossed eyes, and to make me consider turning in my membership card to the Human Race.

In my family, in any given year at least three of my four grown children are not speaking to one another. I consider it miraculous some of them have managed to learn speak the English language at all (REAL English, not that texting shorthand stuff – u no?) and that at least two of them actually know more words than merely, “I’m broke – please send cash”.  As for travel, with my husband’s and my physical challenges, I seriously applaud him for his continually getting up in the morning and going in to work every day, day in and day out. He’s a chain-smoking executive with some ugly breathing issues, and has high blood pressure, a foul temper, and more arthritis in his body than he has bones! And, as for me, it’s a red letter day when I can crutch-walk to my car and actually drive for a few miles before my legs go totally numb from the pain (Yeah…I know. Only those of us with AVN know what I mean!) . “Oh, wow! I made it to Shop Rite and back!” Now, that’s newsworthy in our house!

As for winning contests or awards, my family is right up there jockeying for the top spot. I can just see it in my family newsletter:

“I beat not one, but two traffic tickets this year! My prize hosta plant would have won a local gardening contest, but it got turned into a tossed salad by a furious groundhog being chased by my over-zealous dog.  My husband did not slap our well-meaning but foot–in-mouth young neighbor silly, the young guy who goofed and referred to him as ‘an older man’  Life was good to us in 2010!”

And, as for my kids and grandkids, well…what can I say? My kids have to answer for their own sins, mistakes, and what-not, but my grandkids are perfect! Now, I ask you: how can I put that in a newsletter? Who would believe me?? Hey…these people know my family!  I don’t stand a chance in the bragging department, even if it is really and truly true that my grandkids are perfect! There just isn’t enough else to hold people’s interest or to make it digestible. So, once again, it was simple snowmen or Christmas scenery Christmas cards that got sent out by me this year. They are safe – they say it all and simply that all is right with my family’s world.

I suppose it’s true that family Christmas newsletters do serve a purpose, however. They might be the motivators that keep us striving for that elusive quality called “hope.”  Each year I build up hope that someone in our family will do something simply amazing, something I can force down others’ gullets with a smug, self satisfied, “There! I told you so!” grin at Christmas-time: “Put that in your pipe, Santa, and smoke it!”

All I can do is simply wish others a wonderful holiday and just go on loving my family for who they are and for what they mean to me. If others can’t see the greatness in them without my having to say so, then that’s their loss. I know how great they are -- and just as importantly, they know how great they are -- and really, that’s what counts.

So, if this is your lot in life – getting those Christmas family newsletters which only missing feature is a diamond-studded, dripping, oozing 24 carat gold plating -- don’t let it worry you. If it makes others feel better seeing in print what they believe in their minds, then more power to them. If that’s what they need to do to convince themselves and make themselves feel good in their hearts, then in all seriousness, God bless them. As for me and mine, we admit we are human, and we are proud to be human. We will continue to take life as it comes and to muddle through somehow. We will take the bad with the good, toss out what we don’t need and keep the rest, learn from our mistakes, and then hope for the best. So far, it’s a system that has worked fairly well. It’s the only one we know and I can’t see writing that in a newsletter year after year. Besides, it’s not really ‘news’ – it’s just the way life is, and that’s good enough for me and mine. Honestly, if you don’t ‘get it’ or understand it by the age of 20, then you never will.

Please…put down the pen, and have a very Merry Christmas! 

Maybe I'll just send out a photo of my horse.....

Retired this message...

I changed my mind and 'retired' this entry.

Just didn't like it that much, ya know?