A long trip for two days.

Still, it was a chance to visit granddaughter Adela at college. College! Where the years went is still a mystery, but there she is... a freshman at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, Rhode Island.

She left in late August, but hubby and I were quick to lay plans to go up to New England to see her campus, hear about her courses and judge for ourselves how happy being there is making her.

We were joined in the trip by daughter Terri and our grandson Nate. We found a confident, happy young woman, preparing for a career in the hospitality industry, studying interesting things like public speaking, technology and intro to hospitality, where she is just scratching the surface of the field she hopes will allow her to travel and see as much of the world as she wishes.

While in Providence, though, I asked for only one thing (besides finding Adela happy). I wished to find and visit the grave of my father's brother John... the Rev. John Camillus Rubba, O.P., who graduated from Providence College from 1923 to 1925. In 1925 he entered the novitiate of St. Joseph’s Province at St. Rose Priory, Springfield, KY, was ordained at St. Dominic’s Church in Washington, DC. and pursued advance studies leading to the degree of doctor of  literature, which he earned in 1938.

That same year, he began his teaching career at Providence College. He was to go on for the next 60 years, teaching Italian and Spanish  to generations of students. He was a noted writer who authored booklets about the lives of the saints. He filled his life doing the kind of work St. Dominic envisioned: advocating for Cuban, Spanish, and Laotian refugee causes, working to assist in the rehabilitation of alcoholics and derelicts and gaining a reputation as an excellent gardener. He died on 2003 at the age of 96, with many who knew him well considering his life a saintly one.

Uncle John was a quiet, modest man who went about his daily ministry without fanfare or glory. I remember him as a steadfast supporter and counselor to my mother as she struggled with the Church's teachings about marriage after divorce. To this day, I don't know how he advised her, but she was able to find happiness with my stepdad in spite of losing her ability to receive Communion. I hope whatever he said gave her the courage to move on with her life.

Last time I spent any time with Uncle John was in the very early sixties. I had come home from college for a weekend and he was visiting his family in Hammonton. He managed to get to Egg Harbor for a few hours with my mother and me, and I ended up driving him to 30th Street Station in Philly for his return trip to Providence. We must have had a long conversation and I remember getting out of the car at the station to hug him goodbye. What we discussed has been consigned to memory, lost somewhere in the fog of age. But I know I admired him, even without knowing the impact he was having on those he taught and those whose lives were changed for the better because of him.

It took a bit of walking around the campus to finally locate the Dominican Cemetery where Fr. John is interred with other members of the clergy who taught at Providence College. The graves are all alike, differing only in the names inscribed on them. His is approximately in the middle of a long row, backed up to the fence surrounding that small cemetery almost incongruously now surrounded by the busy new college buildings with students scurrying around it, oblivious to the histories of the men who are buried there. Still, I had long wanted to see that place and in a matter of minutes I had done so. I hope he knew I was there.

Visiting two dear people in one day! Adela in the early afternoon, Uncle John later. Not bad for less than 24 hours.

Thoughts on being 80

 It happened really fast.

One day I was 20, an idealistic college student in love with love. Then I was 23, welcoming my daughter Terri into the world; then I was 30, when Erica joined and completed our family.

Then I was 31, mourning the death of my young mother.

The next I was 47, marrying again...the right guy that time.

Then I was 50, then 60...then 70. Life's daily events, tragedies, belly laughs, highs and lows going on at a lightning pace all around me. 

The 20-year-old, who'd set out to conquer the world only to be sidetracked by poor judgment, lack of preparation and total immaturity has never been far away. She lurks in the back of my consciousness, applauding when I achieve something worthwhile and chiding when she manages to pop up and do something stupid or thoughtless. 

Still, though, she's perpetually 20...until I look in the mirror

Staring back at me is an older woman (I refuse to say old lady) with silver streaks in her hair, deep wrinkles around her mouth and eyes and dark spots from years of sun worship before we knew better.

And now the number that is tacked onto that face is 80. Somehow, some way, I turned 80 years old last week and it happened when I wasn't even looking or preparing for it.

In retrospect, when anyone asks me about my feelings at 80, I can only say how blessed I am. By accident of birth, I live in what is, most of the time, the greatest country on earth. I have children and grandchildren I love and scores of friends. I don't live in Afghanistan or Libya where I fear for my life and the lives of my family. I eat good food without questioning how to pay for it or whether it's going to last for days or weeks until the next meal. My home is my refuge and my sanctuary. I don't wander deserts or mountains or dry, barren plains searching for shelter from weather or enemies. I consult a variety of physicians when necessary so my life can be preserved without suffering.

Accident of birth. That's really what has given me all those 80 years. Anywhere else, I might have been long dead or so impoverished I wished I were.

But neither of those things happened to me. I simply aged, in relatively good health with abundant happiness, until I was 80, a natural progression of one year after another, blessing heaped upon blessing. 

The older I've become, the less of the 20-year-old I recognize. She didn't put as much value on kindness as this older version does. She didn't take quite as much time weighing how her words might affect others as this older version does. She didn't recognize the fragility of the planet on which we live as does the older version and she didn't think about growing old. She hid behind the curtain of youth, self-absorbed and shallow. This older version has learned a lot in the eight decades I've lived. There are many, many regrets to acknowledge, most of which cannot be relived in a better way. There are many mistakes in judgment, many failures to greet events with the thankfulness they deserved. 

But at 80, it really doesn't pay to look too far back. There are limited days ahead and each has its own value. The friends still traveling the journey with me, the family making its own way in the world: the daughter soon to be happily married, the daughter overseeing the educational welfare of the children in her community, the grandkids traversing college years and careers ahead, the husband who will one day decide to retire and put up with even more time with me. Each day is a gift with all of them.

Eighty really beats the alternative and is rich and happy.

Thank you, Pfizer.

 It's been over a month since my second Pfizer shot. Three weeks since Howard's.

I'm still a little leery about supermarkets and definitely restaurants, but gradually I've ventured into some of the places that, until March 2020, were commonplace.

Still there haven't been many encounters with people...close up and personal. We've visited neighbors we love, invited friends we've missed dearly to dinner. But we had yet to venture out too far from the safety of home.

And then daughter Terri called. Would we go to her house for Easter dinner? She, Chris and the kids would like to spend some time with us.

There wasn't a nanosecond's hesitation. We couldn't wait to see everyone, particularly the grandkids. Time went by slowly until Sunday and the trip up seemed to be in slow motion, despite being on the NJ Turnpike with traffic zipping by at amazing speeds.

Then, the hugs.

It was all about the hugs. 

So much to catch up on... son-in-law's remote career, Terri's volunteer work.

And grandson's full beard, work to finish his junior year in college remotely. Granddaughter's lovely smile, news of college selection with a May 1 deadline to commit. Tentative graduation plans. We knew some of it already from phone calls and texts. Still it was better in person, almost like hearing it for the first time. 

We were there for a little over six hours, but time flew. With summer coming, we hope to see more of all of them, spend some time at the shore with them when they move down for a couple of months. We will call and text until then, but it will be the hugs we look forward to once again.

Thank you, Pfizer. The vaccine is a miracle...and a blessing...and the gateway to being more normal than we've been for so long. We'll keep wearing our masks when we're out among people and we'll keep our distance. Maybe those things will continue for an indefinite time as we adjust to a new way of living. 

But for now, there are the visits, the dinners and, best of all, the hugs.

Dinner conversation

 Our friends from Florence are excellent conversationalists.

We enjoy their company and the ease with which we jump from one topic to another, often about our respective families, grandkids and what's going on with all of them. 

Now that all four of us are fully vaccinated, we jumped at the chance to have them over to our house for dinner, and those long-awaited hugs we haven't had for over a year. We had a lot of home improvement projects to show them. Covid gave us a chance to use our abundantly free time to paint, purchase new office furniture and continue the rehabbing of the house we bought three years ago that has required constant upgrading. 

Our friends appropriately oohed and aahed over our work. They will be welcome to come back since we thrive on praise and compliments.

Sometime between dinner and the delicious dessert they brought, the conversation turned to our ages and what might be coming in future years. Don't know how it got started, really; perhaps talking about our homes and how long we might be able to continue to live independently in a house that requires care. 

Anyway, we discussed our respective plans for talking with our kids about how we want to grow older. It started when, not long ago and out of the clear blue, our older daughter and her husband asked when we would consider turning over our car keys, being unable to drive safely any longer.

I admit that question threw me. Yes, I'll be 80 in August, a really big number I still can't wrap my head around easily. After all, I think of people who reach 80 as weaker, less sharp and infirm in some ways. But 80 means nothing to me except another year gone by, another year of trying my best to stay healthy and keep doing the work I enjoy.

But the question did haunt Howard and me. We started thinking seriously that our kids needed to know how we wanted to live out our days when we could no longer remain in our home or when we needed help to do so. That's a discussion we never had with them. And frankly, we haven't talked about it much between the two of us, either. Not the happiest of topics.

So we are taking stock of where we are now...preparing to update our wills, storing our advance directives and other important papers in an easily accessible place known to the kids and finally telling them we would like a family meeting this summer to talk about the whole topic of being the children of parents who need them.

Covid made me think about that. I thought long and hard about contracting the illness and not surviving. Would the kids know where things were? Would they know to whom I wanted certain things given? What would Dad do? How could they help him?

Now, healthy still and trying to be proactive, Howard and I will have that meeting. Then everyone can breathe easier, knowing what their roles will be someday down the road. Certainly not at 80.

A Bushel and a Peck

 I've only been fired once in my life and it was all her fault.

After two years of a job I loved, guidance counselor at an area high Catholic high school, I was looking forward to the third...when "my kids" would be graduating seniors and the year would be filled with college recommendations, job choices, June festivities. I'd been with that class since they were sophomores and felt they were all a precious part of my life.

Then, in August, I discovered I was pregnant with my second child. In those days, way back in 1970, we didn't know boy or girl...just happiness at wondering which and making plans to take a leave of absence for a month, maybe less, when the baby came in April. 

The school principal had a different idea. No leave of absence. No coming back to the job. Just a terse notice of termination of my employment. Oh yes, he did help carry the box that contained my office material out to the car. Big of him, wasn't it?

Why did I lose my job? According to the priest who made the rules in that school, a pregnant guidance counselor couldn't be seen roaming the halls or occupying an office where students might see her. After all, how did she get that way? Should tender 17-year-olds know the facts of life? What kind of example would be set by a married school employee getting pregnant? With pursed lips and righteous eyes, he had no other choice but to let me go.

So my sweet Erica, born almost a month early on March 3, 1971, caused me to be fired. 

She helped me turn a new corner in my life, added a distinctly wonderful definition to our family and has always made me glad she happened along. 

From babyhood, she smiled. She found joy in everything, a veritable jumping jack when she was happy. I suppose her big sister Terri would recall times when Erica (Ricki, we called her then) wasn't such a joy, but as with Terri, I don't remember anything but gratitude that they were there.

 

She "taught" her neighborhood friends, stuffed animals and pets. Solemn and serious, she filled out the roll book she'd requested for a Christmas gift when she was four and held classes in the family room. At about that time, she began taking French lessons from a friend, who told me Erica must have been French in an earlier life, so easily did the language come to her.

Today, she turns 50. She still teaches, remotely of course, helping her students learn to love French and the French culture as much as she does. She's still got pets and still smiles most of the time as she plans her wedding to the guy who won her heart by giving his.

Happy birthday, Erica. You were more than worth losing a job. You are a treasure.

Remembering Michael Schreiner

 It was July, 1995 and I walked out of the newspaper office I loved and into a new job as Communication/Information Officer for the Lower Camden County Regional High School District #1. I'd been hired just weeks earlier to work with the administration to attempt to ward off an impending dissolution vote by the seven sending districts. We felt knowing about the educationally sound things happening in the four schools would reinforce the good opinion of the voters and keep the district intact.

When we lost the vote, no one was more devastated than our superintendent, Michael Schreiner. He'd begun his career teaching in the district, rose through the ranks and was as much a part of the district, its faculty and students, as anyone could be.

And he cared for each of us who worked with him. He recommended me for a position in another school district, where I worked for ten years before retirement. But on my first day at Lower Camden County, Michael had already shown me who he was and I will never forget his kindness.

I'd been a founding member of the Voorhees Township Business Association and been active in the group since its inception. Once I no longer owned or was affiliated with a business in that township, I had to step out. It was difficult, but the rest of the members were dedicated and, to this day, would keep the organization strong.

I had attended my first administrative team meeting in my new "home" that morning. When it concluded, Mike suggested we celebrate my first day by going to lunch. I gladly accepted, seeing a chance to get to know my new "boss" a bit better. The longer he drove and the further we traveled, the more perplexed I became. Where was lunch, I finally asked. He explained that he thought I might enjoy The Mansion in Voorhees, a lovely place to visit and dine. 

When we walked into the building, I saw several familiar faces. Everyone scurried into the dining room. And it was then I discovered the luncheon was a farewell the Association had arranged for me...and, with Michael's complicity, I was able to attend on a significant day in my new career.

It was simple kindness. Mike could easily have expressed regret when approached about helping get me to the luncheon. He could have put more value on the work to be done in the district than on my personal pleasure. But that wasn't who Michael Schreiner was. He wore his heart on his sleeve for many of us with whom he entrusted it. He wasn't just a superior, a boss, the head honcho. Mike was deeply committed to the students he loved, the district he helped shepherd through difficult times and the faculty among whom he considered himself an equal.

Mike passed away on Feb. 6. I saw his obituary on Facebook, courtesy of a member of the Board of Education who had hired me way back then. We'd kept in touch, Mike and I, every birthday through all the years, and I had no idea he had been ill. Reading the obit through a haze of tears, I said a silent thank you to the man who taught me a lot about kindness and caring. May he rest in peace.

 It was probably around 1976 or so, maybe a bit earlier. My partner and I had just decided to incorporate our newspaper business and expand to communities outside our own. He was a minister, I was a guidance counselor. Neither of us had a clue about running a business. We just knew we needed to keep going what we'd begun.

Doug Leonhardt and his partner, Bob Sisko, had begun a computer consulting service, Solar Systems, Inc. We agreed we needed their expertise for our bookkeeping, and our 21-year relationship took off like a rocket. Every Friday, Doug trekked to Berlin to pick up our raw sales data. First thing Monday, he came back with our ledger, receivables, payables... everything we needed to function as a business. In his spare time, Doug coached me in rudimentary bookkeeping skills. To this day, I can't let even a stray penny keep me from reconciling my checkbook. I hear Doug scolding me to find that penny before it multiplied in subsequent months.

In off hours, Bob took dance lessons at Arthur Murray and entered competitions. He was good. Often, I stood in for his dance partner and loved every minute. We polkaed, waltzed and swung, foxtrotted and two-stepped. Bob was a natural; I struggled to keep up.

We were good friends. When the Rocky Horror Picture Show came out, we bundled into our cars every Friday night and went to the TLA (Theater of the Living Arts) on South Street in Philadelphia. Bob dressed as Dr. Frank-n-Furter and Doug as Dr. Scott. We laughed until we cried, danced and pranced and acted with the characters on the screen.

Eventually, my paper went to new owners, not without a great deal of sadness and regret. Doug taught me how to balance my books but he couldn't teach me how to be a good manager. I had to walk away with virtually nothing to show for my years at a job I loved. 

Doug and Bob moved to South Carolina. We kept in touch sporadically over the years. About ten years ago, he traveled north to visit friends and we met for lunch. When he joined Facebook, he posted his high school graduation photo, with a smart remark so characteristic of him.

About a month ago, something told me to call. I already knew Bob had passed a few years earlier and I was concerned about Doug. It was then I learned he had congestive heart failure, was in hospice care at home and wouldn't live long. We talked for some time...well, he asked me to talk so he wouldn't tire and I told him all my family news. Then we reminisced about our friendship and the years we had together.

Last Thursday, I called again. Weaker this time, he wasn't able to say much. I told him I loved him; he said "You, too." He said he was waiting, ready to leave. At 84, he'd lived a happy life.

Doug passed the following afternoon. He went as he wished...at home, where he and Bob had lived for so many years. All I can say is rest in peace, my friend.

Now we can breathe easier

 It's over. It's been a long four years.

More like forty, I guess. It's been so painful, so chaotic, I haven't been able to put thoughts down that satisfactorily expressed my anger, confusion and distress.

I'm like many Americans in that regard. We woke each morning wondering what awful thing would happen next, what new tweet would rain destruction on someone's reputation, some cherished program adopted to help those who needed it or to protect our planet.

We weren't disappointed. The midnight rantings kept coming.

Now, I write this knowing some who read it will already be ready to trash it, label it liberal nonsense and go back to their own tribalistic way of thinking. Fine. You're entitled.

But, in light of what we've survived, I'm proud to say the liberal label is part of what defines me. All of the liberal policies and regulations and successfully adopted causes have made life better for the 98%. They've given equality to the LGBTQ community, worked to create jobs, strengthen unions, give women equality and the right to control their own health options, and a slew of good things too numerous to list.

Yep, I'm a liberal, so imagine how hard the past four years have been on folks like me. Thousands of lies and distortions (thirty plus thousand, to be exact), name-calling, insults to great Americans like John McCain and Gold Star families, roughshod treatment of constitutional laws and norms... again too much to list.

It's over. Oh yes, I'm sure the cult of this past president will surface on social media and perhaps foment more violence in our nation's capital city and the Capitol itself. He won't be gone until the trial in the Senate is over and the verdict is pronounced. He won't be gone until the only place we see his name is in the headlines from the New York State law enforcement people who have a laundry list of charges to level at him now that he's not protected by the office he tarnished.

It was a refreshing, sweet and solemn Inauguration Day. I even felt warmth for George W. and Laura, who have been good public servants. I was almost proud of Mike Pence for upholding dignity for the absent president, who only showed how small a man he is by being petty and sulking on Air Force One while a real president was taking the oath. Being a loser is hard for a man like him.

It's over. I, and others who think like me, can breathe easier. We can watch the news without cringing with embarrassment or yelling at the screen with rage. Perhaps our blood pressure will return to a healthy level. 

It's over. An honest and fair election, vetted scores of times by courts across the land, gave us a new lease on life. Whatever comes our way now has to be far better than what came before. 

Week Nine of pandemic life

It has become a way of life, this pandemic.
Checking stats each day to see if New Jersey's curve is beginning to flatten.
Looking out the window just to admire the greening of the trees in our backyard.
Walking around the neighborhood, saying hello to people I don't know.
Vowing to know more of them when this is over.

My life has been on the indoor side for years anyway.
As an editor, I spend hours at the computer, often losing track of the time of day.
So being in the house isn't hard for me at all.
But for nine weeks?
With only a trip to the drugstore or a ride in the country to break the monotony?

Having an appointment with one of my doctors seems like a real treat.
A few minutes spent, yes masked, but sitting a few feet away from someone else.

What I am having the worst time with is my anger.
Daily, I watch tv footage of people marching, often armed, demanding that states lift restrictions, go back to "normal."
I listen to the medical authorities who say this unusual virus has already mutated once and is more contagious than it was at first.
I don't want to stay indoors for another two months, three months or more.
I want our curve to flatten enough that we can move about, carefully and with common sense, without sheer terror of contracting the virus.

But every person out there who is chomping at the bit to go to a restaurant, walk through a supermarket or attend a sporting event, puts me at risk. Puts my family at risk. Puts everyone with whom he/she comes in contact at risk.

How dare they?
How dare they put their selfish demands above the well-being of others?
How dare they force this quarantine to last...and last... and last.

Their selfishness is disgusting.

Yes, I am sympathetic to those small business owners who are suffering the loss of their livelihoods.
Yes, I believe some can open safely if they follow guidelines and rules.

But many Americans don't do that.
They think they are so exceptional that rules and guidelines only stifle their freedoms, not keep them safe.

We raise our kids to be concerned with others, to take care of people, to follow the Golden Rule.
Well, being outdoors in large groups, unmasked, standing shoulder to shoulder, while a vicious virus is still circulating from person to person is simply stupid.

And as a lot of people have been saying lately, you can't fix stupid.
You can only hope stupid isn't contagious and that eventually stupid is forced to conform to smart.