After 21 years at work on the newspapers I'd helped found and finally totally owned, a big, bad recession hit and poof! it was all gone, sold for just enough to pay the bills.
I moved on. Working in education took my mind off those wonderful years at the paper. Well almost, and I only occasionally pined for what I had lost.
When I left "my office" for the last time in 1995, the only vestiges of my long career there were about 25 boxes of back issues... one of each publication for each week they came out. As soon as each edition was safely on its way to the post office or the stores where they were available, either I or one of the office staff would count out five copies, add a sheet of paper with the date and put them into a cardboard file box. When the box threatened to burst at the seams, I would cull out the copies, leaving one per edition, until even then not one more issue would fit. It took 21 years to fill those boxes, which were piled high in a back room of the office building.
The new owners agreed to retain custody of the boxes since I had nowhere to store them. I put them out of my mind as I ran away as fast as I could from the painful knowledge I'd poured 21 years of my life into those newspapers and didn't have the business acumen to keep them alive. As far as I knew, the boxes were being safeguarded for posterity and I left it at that... until last week.
A faithful reader and friend, now heading up the Winslow Township Historical Society, sent an e-mail inquiring after the back issues of what he thought would be a great archive of local history. I contacted one of the buyers of my paper, who put me in touch with one of the buyers of the buyers of his company, who would have known where the boxes had been stored. It took about four hours yesterday to get the phone call. He was sorry, the stranger said, but about a year and a half ago, the boxes had been removed from storage and recycled. Every last one.
At first, I accepted the news almost calmly. After all, it had been 14 years since I walked out of the office for the last time... out the front door, not the back where I would have seen my work stacked high in the back room. But in just a few minutes, the impact of knowing the concrete evidence of all that work had been destroyed without so much as a call to inquire about its possible importance made me want to cry. Indeed, the tears lurked near the surface, threatening, for most of the day.
I didn't sleep well last night thinking of all those back issues. Finally, my psyche came to my rescue, as it usually does. I imagined someone opening the storage facility and finding 25 sagging, moldy boxes of yellowed, crumbling newsprint. Not wanting to pay for continued storage of the useless collection, they did the correct thing and summoned a recycling truck to haul it all away.
Even that rationalization hasn't helped a lot. It was my own lack of good stewardship toward all those newspapers that brought about this final result. Now there remain only a handful of important back issues... the very first and the very last... to remind me of the joy of publishing those newspapers every week.
One less tie to the glory days.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
Water works
I used to be an easy cryer.
When I was a teenager, the slightest little blip in my boyfriend status brought floods of tears. In fact, high school was so miserable, I think I cried my way through it and don't for the life of me know how any academic work was accomplished.
College was a little easier, but a major crisis in my junior and senior years turned on the spigot again. I cried... a lot!
But then it seemed crying didn't fit into the crises that followed. Financial problems, a failed marriage, the loss of the business I'd loved and nourished for 21 years... none of that brought a lot of weeping. I saved that for people, like my mother, although I don't remember doing a lot of crying when she died... I was too numb, and encouraged not to show my emotions lest they embarrass my then-husband.
I can still well up just thinking of the loss of my dear friend Marie. My emotional attachment to her was akin to that of a sister/sister, sometimes mother/daughter or daughter/mother (depending on who needed whom the most at any given moment). I guess the easy release of tears whenever I think of her should clue me in to the fact that I never got over her death and the sadness is just an eye-blink away.
When my younger daughter was diagnosed with a pre-cancerous thyroid, I cried. When my grandchildren were born, I cried, but those were tears of pure joy.
But every now and then, just for emotional release, something cathartic to purge the pent-up sadness that lurks just below the surface, the tears come uninvited. My darling little cat hates it when I do that. She will hiss to show her displeasure. This, after all, isn't the Mommy she knows.
They don't last long, these little bouts of weeping. And I always feel good when they vanish. So this morning, as I scanned the tv listings to find something to watch while I ate breakfast, I watched the last fifteen minutes of The Bridges of Madison County. Uh-huh, my favorite tear-jerker and the one guaranteed to turn on the tears. It worked as it always does.
Now I can get on with my day.
When I was a teenager, the slightest little blip in my boyfriend status brought floods of tears. In fact, high school was so miserable, I think I cried my way through it and don't for the life of me know how any academic work was accomplished.
College was a little easier, but a major crisis in my junior and senior years turned on the spigot again. I cried... a lot!
But then it seemed crying didn't fit into the crises that followed. Financial problems, a failed marriage, the loss of the business I'd loved and nourished for 21 years... none of that brought a lot of weeping. I saved that for people, like my mother, although I don't remember doing a lot of crying when she died... I was too numb, and encouraged not to show my emotions lest they embarrass my then-husband.
I can still well up just thinking of the loss of my dear friend Marie. My emotional attachment to her was akin to that of a sister/sister, sometimes mother/daughter or daughter/mother (depending on who needed whom the most at any given moment). I guess the easy release of tears whenever I think of her should clue me in to the fact that I never got over her death and the sadness is just an eye-blink away.
When my younger daughter was diagnosed with a pre-cancerous thyroid, I cried. When my grandchildren were born, I cried, but those were tears of pure joy.
But every now and then, just for emotional release, something cathartic to purge the pent-up sadness that lurks just below the surface, the tears come uninvited. My darling little cat hates it when I do that. She will hiss to show her displeasure. This, after all, isn't the Mommy she knows.
They don't last long, these little bouts of weeping. And I always feel good when they vanish. So this morning, as I scanned the tv listings to find something to watch while I ate breakfast, I watched the last fifteen minutes of The Bridges of Madison County. Uh-huh, my favorite tear-jerker and the one guaranteed to turn on the tears. It worked as it always does.
Now I can get on with my day.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Where did 2011 go?
We were in the crush of people on the Palm Court at Tropicana in Atlantic City. It was so crowded we could barely move. It was so noisy we couldn't hear each other speak.
For the past 20 years or so, we've rung in the New Year at Trop. We've enjoyed a great dinner, shows that were both just okay and absolutely fabulous and the company of friends we've met there. So this year wasn't any different. Or was it?
As we listened to the roar of the crowd when the bewitching hour struck, it occurred to us that we'd just done this... we'd just rung in another new year. Could it possibly have been 12 months prior? Hardly.
After all, we had just endured a long, snowy winter and greeted the arrival of spring with all the rain Mother Nature showered on us. In spite of the wet weather, we managed to spend a week in Wildwood with the kids and enjoyed a lovely few days on the beach in Atlantic City, taking in the sun and sand. We had gone to a show at the Ocean City Music Pier and seen another Chicago concert at Caesar's. We'd marveled at the changing colors of the trees along the country roads we enjoy traveling, and we'd talked about the Halloween costumes our grandchildren were planning to wear. Thanksgiving was only yesterday. We spent it with our family, traveling up to Branchburg shortly afterward for grandson Nate's middle school 6th grade band concert. We'd gotten our Christmas shopping done early, figuring it would be great to have a couple of free weeks without the stress of holiday prep. But we didn't get those weeks... regardless of how ready we were.
What we got were mere minutes, flashes of time that zipped by almost unnoticed. Just like the rest of the year we'd just bid farewell.
They say time goes faster the older we get. I used to scoff at that notion, not imagining how true it would be. I resent the speedy passage of days, weeks and months and want to hold onto them, clasp them tight and refuse to let them fly past so quickly it's like they were hardly ever here.
I can't, of course, but as 2012 came in, loudly and with great fanfare, I promised myself to remember each day and try to make it last, find something noteworthy in every single one. That way, when 2013 knocks, I won't feel like I've missed out on what was probably a terrific year!
For the past 20 years or so, we've rung in the New Year at Trop. We've enjoyed a great dinner, shows that were both just okay and absolutely fabulous and the company of friends we've met there. So this year wasn't any different. Or was it?
As we listened to the roar of the crowd when the bewitching hour struck, it occurred to us that we'd just done this... we'd just rung in another new year. Could it possibly have been 12 months prior? Hardly.
After all, we had just endured a long, snowy winter and greeted the arrival of spring with all the rain Mother Nature showered on us. In spite of the wet weather, we managed to spend a week in Wildwood with the kids and enjoyed a lovely few days on the beach in Atlantic City, taking in the sun and sand. We had gone to a show at the Ocean City Music Pier and seen another Chicago concert at Caesar's. We'd marveled at the changing colors of the trees along the country roads we enjoy traveling, and we'd talked about the Halloween costumes our grandchildren were planning to wear. Thanksgiving was only yesterday. We spent it with our family, traveling up to Branchburg shortly afterward for grandson Nate's middle school 6th grade band concert. We'd gotten our Christmas shopping done early, figuring it would be great to have a couple of free weeks without the stress of holiday prep. But we didn't get those weeks... regardless of how ready we were.
What we got were mere minutes, flashes of time that zipped by almost unnoticed. Just like the rest of the year we'd just bid farewell.
They say time goes faster the older we get. I used to scoff at that notion, not imagining how true it would be. I resent the speedy passage of days, weeks and months and want to hold onto them, clasp them tight and refuse to let them fly past so quickly it's like they were hardly ever here.
I can't, of course, but as 2012 came in, loudly and with great fanfare, I promised myself to remember each day and try to make it last, find something noteworthy in every single one. That way, when 2013 knocks, I won't feel like I've missed out on what was probably a terrific year!
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
What a difference color makes!
We have lived in our little house in Pemberton nearly five years already. For the first three, we had only a few rooms painted; the others were still contractor white. Because of my lousy close-up vision, Howard gets saddled with most of the painting, so it had to wait until he could squeeze it in among all his other responsibilities.
When we did decide to finish the rooms, we picked some pretty bold colors: a deep forest green for one wall of the kitchen and all of the laundry room, a burnt orange for the office, chocolate brown and beige for the bedroom and a vivid royal blue for the entry and hallways. We're delighted with it.
Then came the outside. Landscapers we're not. Worse yet, I don't know an azalea from a hollyhock so I was no use in the planning of the plantings. Worst of all, anything I have ever planted or bought in a thriving state quickly succumbed to my black thumbs and withered and died. My daughters used to kid me and say I could kill an artificial philodendron. Not any more, my friends, not any more!
Now there are knockout roses. I guess they got their name from the fact that it takes so much effort to knock them out. Three summers ago, we planted three bushes along the back of the house. Two summers ago, we added three more and planted four in the front mulch bed. Some are bright red, some deep pink, some soft pink and some are a fragrant yellow and white. Now we can truly say, with apologies to the rock group Chicago, we have colored our world. We'll enjoy the explosion of blooms and color until November. Aren't they beautiful?
Sunday, April 24, 2011
A birthday wish
Easter was her favorite holiday... along with Christmas, Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July and just about any occasion that called for celebration.
This year, fittingly, Easter falls on her birthday, an occasion I always used to fuss over her and make her feel special.
So today, she is doubly on my mind.
We lived in a small ranch house not far from Atlantic City. My stepfather built the house himself, getting help only to construct the huge Jersey stone fireplace that filled one whole wall of the little living room. I moved into that house, the first I'd ever been able to call mine, when I was eleven. My room had been painted a beautiful shade of sky blue, my favorite color. The living room was light green, the kitchen a pale yellow. Unlike the homes of today, there was only one bathroom, also a pale yellow. When we moved in, the house was still bare of decoration. That was yet to come.
Little by little, precious antiques were added. The huge, upright piano that had been in my grandparents' home as long as I could remember, filled one corner, its worn walnut and mahogany finish hidden with a coat of faux antiquing. I spent hours every week practicing the lessons assigned by my gentle, cultured teacher, Helen Bozarth, with whom I sat for half an hour every Tuesday for critique, advice and music education.
When the holidays came, the house was transformed. At Christmas, one corner of the living room was dominated by a huge tree, almost always brought in from somewhere in our yard or a nearby farm by my stepfather. Under the tree, I could always count on finding whatever I had put on my list. I learned early on that it was wise to keep the list short, since we didn't have a lot of extra money and I knew no expense would be spared to purchase every item.
The front door of our house was never locked and people streamed in from lunchtime to bedtime. Relatives, neighbors, friends. Our house was always filled with laughter and love.
Easter brought the traditional egg hunt in the front yard. When my older daughter was little, her grandpop gleefully hid the eggs and then followed her around with a brightly colored basket to carry the treasures she spied among the bushes. There were always lilies on the cobbler's bench in the living room and everyone dressed in their finery, bonnets included, for Mass on Easter Sunday.
Sadly, all that's gone now. The house has had several owners since then and a second story has been added, making it all but unrecognizable. There are no relatives; most of the friends have departed and I'm sure the present occupants keep the front door locked. I no longer celebrate the religious holidays of my youth and my older daughter hides eggs in her own yard for my grandchildren to find.
But I can close my eyes and see that living room and the lilies. I can hear friends calling "Yoo-hoo!" as they come in the door. I can smell the fragrance of the flowers in the yard and see my dad cavorting around carrying that basket.
Most of all, I can see her face when we wish her a happy birthday and help blow out the candles on the cake I often made (never from scratch!). In spite of the long years of her absence, I can hear her voice and especially her laugh. This December, she will have been gone for four decades. Forty years is a long time to be without the comfort, the joy and the love of one's favorite person.
Happy Easter, Mom, and happy birthday. You are missed every day.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Visitng with Helen
We were connected from our very first meeting.
There are those kinds of people in our worlds... the ones with whom we feel an instant kinship, a soul-mating that tells us we've been connected forever.
Helen fit that description perfectly. She was principal at Marlton Middle School when I was hired as Public Information Officer for the Evesham Twp. School District and I, having heard of her no-nonsense approach to administration, felt more than a little trepidation the first time I stuck my head in her office doorway and asked for a minute of her time.
We've been sharing those "minutes" ever since, and when weeks or months go by without a chance to visit, I feel an emptiness that is like a part of me is missing.
Luckily, I caught her on Facebook last week and immediately snagged the chance to chat for a few exchanges. We set up a date for lunch at her house and I hoped nothing would get in the way of keeping the appointment.
When she was healthier, we met often, she and I and another soulmate, Carol. We solved the problems of the world, discussed politics heatedly (all three of us are committed, proud liberals), talked about religion and its place in our lives today (Helen was a nun for 13 years and her viewpoint on spirituality is unique and simply beautiful) and anything and everything that came to mind. Carol and I liked to regale her with funny stories about our grandchildren and she countered with tales of her many nieces, nephews and cousins. There was never a topic that could not be thoroughly aired.
Our lunch today was no different. Because Carol couldn't make it, I had the high privilege of being the only guest at her table. We started talking, taking a break for me to pick up lunch, from about 12:30 to 3:30, three hours that passed in the blink of an eye. There was much more to be said but Helen was tiring and I had a long drive home before dark.
Friends like Helen are precious. She has always been in my life even if I might not have known it at the time. In a previous existence, maybe, but surely always there. I love her compassion, her kindness, the way she relates to the world and people in it. I'm grateful she's still around and willing to share time with me whenever possible. I'm already looking forward to our next "lunch."
There are those kinds of people in our worlds... the ones with whom we feel an instant kinship, a soul-mating that tells us we've been connected forever.
Helen fit that description perfectly. She was principal at Marlton Middle School when I was hired as Public Information Officer for the Evesham Twp. School District and I, having heard of her no-nonsense approach to administration, felt more than a little trepidation the first time I stuck my head in her office doorway and asked for a minute of her time.
We've been sharing those "minutes" ever since, and when weeks or months go by without a chance to visit, I feel an emptiness that is like a part of me is missing.
Luckily, I caught her on Facebook last week and immediately snagged the chance to chat for a few exchanges. We set up a date for lunch at her house and I hoped nothing would get in the way of keeping the appointment.
When she was healthier, we met often, she and I and another soulmate, Carol. We solved the problems of the world, discussed politics heatedly (all three of us are committed, proud liberals), talked about religion and its place in our lives today (Helen was a nun for 13 years and her viewpoint on spirituality is unique and simply beautiful) and anything and everything that came to mind. Carol and I liked to regale her with funny stories about our grandchildren and she countered with tales of her many nieces, nephews and cousins. There was never a topic that could not be thoroughly aired.
Our lunch today was no different. Because Carol couldn't make it, I had the high privilege of being the only guest at her table. We started talking, taking a break for me to pick up lunch, from about 12:30 to 3:30, three hours that passed in the blink of an eye. There was much more to be said but Helen was tiring and I had a long drive home before dark.
Friends like Helen are precious. She has always been in my life even if I might not have known it at the time. In a previous existence, maybe, but surely always there. I love her compassion, her kindness, the way she relates to the world and people in it. I'm grateful she's still around and willing to share time with me whenever possible. I'm already looking forward to our next "lunch."
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The King's Speech
The summer of my sixteenth year was very bad in many ways.
My stepfather's friend offered me a job as a desk clerk in an old family hotel in Atlantic City, on Florida Avenue where now an empty lot stands. I jumped at the chance to work so close to the beach until my first day on the job, when the boss's wife explained my duties, one of which consisted of answering the switchboard and directing calls.
Sounds simple enough, no? It should be, except I had to say, "Good morning, Roma Hotel," and I stuttered too badly to get out the "R." After several "Ruh, ruh, ruhs," I usually managed to force it out, but was humiliated and angry at myself every time.
Then, I employed a trick many stammerers use. I found that, if I switched the name of the hotel around, I could push out both words without stumbling on the "R." Even though the management wasn't thrilled with my solution, no one seriously rebuked me for answering the switchboard with "Good morning, Hotel Roma."
Preparing to see the Colin Firth movie, The King's Speech, I read a lot about King George VI and his speech problems. I learned how different stammers can be, and how each afflicted individual finds ways to cope, but never really "kicks" the stammer. Now, as a adult, I find myself struggling occasionally when I'm trying to speak too fast, so I simply force myself to slow down and do just fine.
Sitting in the theater on Saturday night, I felt such sadness for the king. Not just because he stuttered so badly but because, in him I recognized myself... the frightened child who bore insults and ridicule from relatives who knew very well what they were doing but chose to follow their penchants for being mean-spirited.
In many interviews, Firth points out the heroism displayed by this king, who doggedly pushed on, taking on the unwanted burden of monarchy, fearing every word he had to utter. George VI was saved by a speech coach who was far less a clinician than he was a friend. In the end, it was simply friendship that gave George VI the extra courage he needed to face his demons and give his empire the wartime leadership for which it turned to him.
I will see this film again and again. To look at Colin Firth for two hours, certainly. But more importantly, with this Firth film at least, to relish the victory George VI achieves. I felt such pride for the way Firth portrayed this lovely man, since he brought to life the tender, kind and caring person "Bertie" really was. Friendship, dogged persistence and the love of a friend are the three main themes of this movie. Sure hope you get to see it!
My stepfather's friend offered me a job as a desk clerk in an old family hotel in Atlantic City, on Florida Avenue where now an empty lot stands. I jumped at the chance to work so close to the beach until my first day on the job, when the boss's wife explained my duties, one of which consisted of answering the switchboard and directing calls.
Sounds simple enough, no? It should be, except I had to say, "Good morning, Roma Hotel," and I stuttered too badly to get out the "R." After several "Ruh, ruh, ruhs," I usually managed to force it out, but was humiliated and angry at myself every time.
Then, I employed a trick many stammerers use. I found that, if I switched the name of the hotel around, I could push out both words without stumbling on the "R." Even though the management wasn't thrilled with my solution, no one seriously rebuked me for answering the switchboard with "Good morning, Hotel Roma."
Preparing to see the Colin Firth movie, The King's Speech, I read a lot about King George VI and his speech problems. I learned how different stammers can be, and how each afflicted individual finds ways to cope, but never really "kicks" the stammer. Now, as a adult, I find myself struggling occasionally when I'm trying to speak too fast, so I simply force myself to slow down and do just fine.
Sitting in the theater on Saturday night, I felt such sadness for the king. Not just because he stuttered so badly but because, in him I recognized myself... the frightened child who bore insults and ridicule from relatives who knew very well what they were doing but chose to follow their penchants for being mean-spirited.
In many interviews, Firth points out the heroism displayed by this king, who doggedly pushed on, taking on the unwanted burden of monarchy, fearing every word he had to utter. George VI was saved by a speech coach who was far less a clinician than he was a friend. In the end, it was simply friendship that gave George VI the extra courage he needed to face his demons and give his empire the wartime leadership for which it turned to him.
I will see this film again and again. To look at Colin Firth for two hours, certainly. But more importantly, with this Firth film at least, to relish the victory George VI achieves. I felt such pride for the way Firth portrayed this lovely man, since he brought to life the tender, kind and caring person "Bertie" really was. Friendship, dogged persistence and the love of a friend are the three main themes of this movie. Sure hope you get to see it!
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