Most of us have a lot of cousins. Often, we know them all because our families have stayed knit and there are frequent occasions on which to see them. Sometimes, though, families scatter and the time comes when we know only the ones with whom we grew up, not the subsequent generations beneath.
I was blessed to be Beverly Breder’s cousin. She and I had the common experience of spending our formative years in the care of our grandmother, although for different reasons, and we often reminisced about life in the small Pennsylvania town in which we lived.
Thanks to her love for my mother, her aunt Catherine, Bev was around a lot as I was growing up. She was the teenager I wanted to be like, with her beautiful smile and strawberry blonde, naturally curly hair. She was my sponsor at confirmation when I was 13 and she and her family were often in my parents’ house, filling it with the kind of love and laughter for which they were known. I remember always being envious of what Bev had… a husband who adored her and made her laugh and children who made her eyes light up when she looked at them.
But, we drifted apart, too, like family members do. Still, in the last several years, I was fortunate to reconnect with Bev, to travel with her to visit her husband Bart during his final illness, to drive out to Sweetwater to visit Aunt Bert and to just sit in a diner or restaurant or her apartment talking for hours, never seeming to find enough time to get everything said.
If there is one word that describes the Bev I will always remember, it is “love.” She loved her husband with singular devotion; she cherished her children, then their children and their children’s children. She loved her faith and the hours she gave to St. Nick’s. She loved her friends, old and new, and she loved to laugh and have fun. Her eyes crinkled with amusement when she smiled and her laugh was infectious. We joked that we felt more like teenagers than the old ladies the calendar told us we actually were.
The last time we were together, sitting in Mario’s enjoying Bev’s 80th birthday lunch on March 31st, we talked about our lives, how blessed we were to be surrounded by people who inspired us, valued us and made us feel loved. I don’t think I told Bev then that she was one of those people for me. After all, there would be plenty of time for that later, wouldn't there? There would be more lunches, more times to say “I love you.” We agreed, though, that, given our ages, it would be smart not to put things off any longer… to spend as much time as we could with the people who mattered.
Bev mattered very much to me and everyone who knew and loved her. Her passing leaves our world colder and less bright. I will miss her very much.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
On retirement
A friend and previous boss is retiring today after over 30 years in service to children. I've been thinking about her a lot in the past week or so, recalling the days leading up to my own farewell to a job I loved (and hated at the same time!). Don't know what made me do it, but I checked my files and found the following that I apparently wrote the day before my own last days. Thought I'd share it with you.
On Retirement
I’m officially retiring today. In less than an hour, the Board of Education will have a brief, unscheduled meeting to consider another district matter and, thrown on the agenda at the last minute, they will find the item that asks that they approve my retirement. My retirement.
I wonder if other potential retirees have such internal conflicts about the end of their careers. I wonder how long it took them to get to this point, where the letter is submitted to their boss and word gradually begins to filter through the building that, in less than 90 days, a new person will be sitting at the desk where once they worked.
It took me months. I vacillated between wanting not to do this job anymore and never wanting to quit, knowing I owed it to my husband, my children, my grandchildren and, most of all, myself to stop working, to be available, to pursue other interests. In the end, after a lot of internal discussions (that’s what I call talking to myself), I decided life is too short to spend it working, answering an alarm clock every morning, slogging through rain, snow or ice to get to the office, balancing a plethora of projects, completing them and moving on to the next. In short, the few negatives of this job won the argument and overrode the positives that kept me coming back, year after year.
That I’m tired of some parts of the routine is a given. I find the 6 a.m. wakeup harder each day. In spite of the beautiful farmland and livestock I pass on my way to and from the office, I’m tired of the commute. I’m tired of keeping up a professional wardrobe that spans four seasons. I’m tired of night meetings and being awake for hours afterward reliving every stressful moment.
Most of all, I’m weary of the disappointment that comes every year with the apathy and indifference of the people whose children get private school educations at public school prices from a staff that is top notch and an administration that cares more about kids than about getting enough sleep or taking care of their own health.
I dread another budget cycle with its countless meetings, graphs, charts, press releases and PowerPoint presentations, all geared toward trying to justify the cost of educating tomorrow’s leaders. It wouldn’t be so frightful if parents and school district staff thought it important enough to come out and voice and opinion. But for most of the years I’ve worked in public education, I’ve watched the numbers of people … real stakeholders … get lazy and surrender to the folks with an ax to grind or an agenda to promote and the budget is defeated once again. I’m frankly sick of the people, who benefit from their schools, refusing to pick up the tab for the cost and then watching as the municipal officials, with no idea of what it takes to fund a school district, slash huge amounts from the budget, forcing cuts in programs and services that, one way or another, impact their own kids. It is exhausting, infuriating and sad.
So this year, before that scenario plays itself out again, I’m leaving. I will read about the budget battles online in the comfort of my home office. I will learn who the new Board members are from profiles in the newspaper and I will hold my breath to see how both issues will affect such a wonderful school district. Not positively, I’m afraid. How do I know this? Reading handwriting on walls has become a secondary benefit of this job and all the signs point to big trouble ahead.
What I will miss are my colleagues, the people in my office building who have huge smiles and caring hearts. I will miss the bagels and cream cheese, the hot soft pretzels and mustard, the home-baked goodies that appear every day and the mountains of cookies at holidays. I will not miss the weight gain and the constant temptation for sugar overload just outside my office door.
I will miss the people, the teachers, the kids and the staff. I’ll miss talking politics with some and skirting the issue with others. I’ll miss feeling like what I do matters for something, makes a difference in the lives of those I write about. I’ll miss having stories to tell when I get home each evening. I’ll miss the interesting interaction and the challenges of the job.
But it’s really time to go. I’ve worked for 50 years, since my teenage years, and I’m ready now to do something just for me. No guarantees I won’t look back, maybe even drop in to say hello and catch up on what’s happening, but for the most part, I will be gone. I hope that doesn’t mean I’ll be forgotten.
On Retirement
I’m officially retiring today. In less than an hour, the Board of Education will have a brief, unscheduled meeting to consider another district matter and, thrown on the agenda at the last minute, they will find the item that asks that they approve my retirement. My retirement.
I wonder if other potential retirees have such internal conflicts about the end of their careers. I wonder how long it took them to get to this point, where the letter is submitted to their boss and word gradually begins to filter through the building that, in less than 90 days, a new person will be sitting at the desk where once they worked.
It took me months. I vacillated between wanting not to do this job anymore and never wanting to quit, knowing I owed it to my husband, my children, my grandchildren and, most of all, myself to stop working, to be available, to pursue other interests. In the end, after a lot of internal discussions (that’s what I call talking to myself), I decided life is too short to spend it working, answering an alarm clock every morning, slogging through rain, snow or ice to get to the office, balancing a plethora of projects, completing them and moving on to the next. In short, the few negatives of this job won the argument and overrode the positives that kept me coming back, year after year.
That I’m tired of some parts of the routine is a given. I find the 6 a.m. wakeup harder each day. In spite of the beautiful farmland and livestock I pass on my way to and from the office, I’m tired of the commute. I’m tired of keeping up a professional wardrobe that spans four seasons. I’m tired of night meetings and being awake for hours afterward reliving every stressful moment.
Most of all, I’m weary of the disappointment that comes every year with the apathy and indifference of the people whose children get private school educations at public school prices from a staff that is top notch and an administration that cares more about kids than about getting enough sleep or taking care of their own health.
I dread another budget cycle with its countless meetings, graphs, charts, press releases and PowerPoint presentations, all geared toward trying to justify the cost of educating tomorrow’s leaders. It wouldn’t be so frightful if parents and school district staff thought it important enough to come out and voice and opinion. But for most of the years I’ve worked in public education, I’ve watched the numbers of people … real stakeholders … get lazy and surrender to the folks with an ax to grind or an agenda to promote and the budget is defeated once again. I’m frankly sick of the people, who benefit from their schools, refusing to pick up the tab for the cost and then watching as the municipal officials, with no idea of what it takes to fund a school district, slash huge amounts from the budget, forcing cuts in programs and services that, one way or another, impact their own kids. It is exhausting, infuriating and sad.
So this year, before that scenario plays itself out again, I’m leaving. I will read about the budget battles online in the comfort of my home office. I will learn who the new Board members are from profiles in the newspaper and I will hold my breath to see how both issues will affect such a wonderful school district. Not positively, I’m afraid. How do I know this? Reading handwriting on walls has become a secondary benefit of this job and all the signs point to big trouble ahead.
What I will miss are my colleagues, the people in my office building who have huge smiles and caring hearts. I will miss the bagels and cream cheese, the hot soft pretzels and mustard, the home-baked goodies that appear every day and the mountains of cookies at holidays. I will not miss the weight gain and the constant temptation for sugar overload just outside my office door.
I will miss the people, the teachers, the kids and the staff. I’ll miss talking politics with some and skirting the issue with others. I’ll miss feeling like what I do matters for something, makes a difference in the lives of those I write about. I’ll miss having stories to tell when I get home each evening. I’ll miss the interesting interaction and the challenges of the job.
But it’s really time to go. I’ve worked for 50 years, since my teenage years, and I’m ready now to do something just for me. No guarantees I won’t look back, maybe even drop in to say hello and catch up on what’s happening, but for the most part, I will be gone. I hope that doesn’t mean I’ll be forgotten.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A friend I've never met
Can't be, can it? A friend I've never met?
I might agree, except for the many friends with whom I correspond online I've yet to meet and probably never will. In addition, there are those about whom I devour any piece of written information, long to meet but again probably never will.
Still... there's Carole Imes, one of the sweetest women I have the pleasure of knowing and how did I meet her, you ask? After about eight years of online correspondence with no hope of ever actually seeing one another! We finally met when Howard's business took him to Florida last year and I went along. Carole lives not far from Orlando, where Howard's trade show was held so I drove to her home and found this lovely lady who was everything I knew she'd be. We visited for a full day non-stop and then she and Walt joined Howard and me for dinner. It can happen.
Meg Tilly's most recent blog entry reminds me again how much I would love to get to know this delightfully talented woman. She writes about one of my favorite topics... the brilliant actor Colin Firth (Meg's ex and the dad of her son, Will). Actually, she stole the topic of what would have been my next blog post ... Colin's Best Actor win at the British Academy of Film and Television Arts (BAFTA) for his portrayal of George Falconer in "A Single Man." He's another person I would love to meet.
Sometimes I think we reveal ourselves more to online correspondents than to people we meet casually face-to-face. Our guards are down while we're chatting away at the keyboard and we don't filter our thoughts and feelings as thoroughly as we do in person.
So, thanks, Meg, for putting my admiration of Colin's work and my congratulations on his achievement in your blog. It's saved me a lot of typing and added to my strong belief that you would be a truly kindred spirit should our paths ever cross.
I might agree, except for the many friends with whom I correspond online I've yet to meet and probably never will. In addition, there are those about whom I devour any piece of written information, long to meet but again probably never will.
Still... there's Carole Imes, one of the sweetest women I have the pleasure of knowing and how did I meet her, you ask? After about eight years of online correspondence with no hope of ever actually seeing one another! We finally met when Howard's business took him to Florida last year and I went along. Carole lives not far from Orlando, where Howard's trade show was held so I drove to her home and found this lovely lady who was everything I knew she'd be. We visited for a full day non-stop and then she and Walt joined Howard and me for dinner. It can happen.
Meg Tilly's most recent blog entry reminds me again how much I would love to get to know this delightfully talented woman. She writes about one of my favorite topics... the brilliant actor Colin Firth (Meg's ex and the dad of her son, Will). Actually, she stole the topic of what would have been my next blog post ... Colin's Best Actor win at the British Academy of Film and Television Arts (BAFTA) for his portrayal of George Falconer in "A Single Man." He's another person I would love to meet.
Sometimes I think we reveal ourselves more to online correspondents than to people we meet casually face-to-face. Our guards are down while we're chatting away at the keyboard and we don't filter our thoughts and feelings as thoroughly as we do in person.
So, thanks, Meg, for putting my admiration of Colin's work and my congratulations on his achievement in your blog. It's saved me a lot of typing and added to my strong belief that you would be a truly kindred spirit should our paths ever cross.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Those eyes!
As a movie fan since childhood, I've had one so-called matinee hero after another... Father Ralph Bricassart (Richard Chamberlain) in "The Thorn Birds," Clark Gable in "Gone with the Wind," Cary Grant in "An Affair to Remember" and now, Colin Firth in just about anything.
I first met Mr. Firth (may I call him 'Colin?')a few years ago when A&E aired its series "Pride and Prejudice" and I, like millions of women everywhere, gave their hearts to Fitzwilliam Darcy. After that, it was one film after another, each different in its own way, each owing its appeal to the brilliance of the actor. He's been Mark Darcy to Bridget Jones, Jan Vermeer to the girl with the pearl earring and a poet who is faced with the imminent demise of his father. He's wielded a sword to rescue a Roman emperor, played a cad who despoils a schoolgirl and then leaves her carrying his child and charmed a daughter he never knew he had in "What a Girl Wants." I've seen them and now own them, bought one at a time, until I've amassed a reasonably decent Colin Firth film library. What's the attraction?
Those eyes. The face that he downplays as something less than beautiful, something on which characters can be painted. I say nay, nay! I think I know beautiful. And, be honest, Colin... magazines like "Manhattan" don't give pages of gorgeous head shots to people who aren't beautiful. Still, beauty isn't everything. In the case of Colin Firth, talent trumps everything.
His movie, "A Single Man," for which he's received an Oscar nomination, simply proves my point. A 52-year-old English professor teaching in 1960s L.A., Colin's George Falconer is a textbook neurotic who covers his homosexuality (hardly acceptable in that era) with fastidiousness and reserve. He has just lost his lover of 16 years to a car accident and is struggling to get through what just might be his last day on earth. We see his suffering, his loneliness, his despair. In one scene, he and Jim are curled at opposite ends of the sofa reading with one of their fox terriers resting between them. They are good-naturedly arguing about who will get up to change the record and their ease and comfort with one another speaks volumes about their relationship. After the death of Jim and one of their dogs, George goes to the bank to empty his safe deposit box and comes upon a fox terrier in a car parked outside. He goes to the window and, ever so gently, nuzzles the dog's head, remarking to the dog's owner that "he smells like buttered toast." That little gesture tells the viewer volumes about the depth of his loss. I was the only one in the theater who was crying out loud. In fact, there were only four of us occupying the auditorium, so difficult has it been to find this lovely film playing anywhere.
This Firth performance is brilliant and moving. It is sad and devastating, even as George begins to see the beauty of things around him and perhaps think of an optimistic future. I've seen the movie twice and am about to make it a trio. I am sad that, nominations aside, Colin was passed over for the Golden Globe and the Screen Actors Guild awards in favor of Jeff Bridges' portrayal of a has-been falling-down-drunk country singer in "Crazy Heart."
Any actor worth his salt can play that. Not many could infuse the face of George Falconer with pure grief and grip the hearts of those who come to care about his character. I'm afraid Hollywood will reward family heritage and run-of-the-mill acting while a superb performance like Colin Firth's will lose out. See the film, if you can find it. It's as beautiful as the man who stars in it.
I first met Mr. Firth (may I call him 'Colin?')a few years ago when A&E aired its series "Pride and Prejudice" and I, like millions of women everywhere, gave their hearts to Fitzwilliam Darcy. After that, it was one film after another, each different in its own way, each owing its appeal to the brilliance of the actor. He's been Mark Darcy to Bridget Jones, Jan Vermeer to the girl with the pearl earring and a poet who is faced with the imminent demise of his father. He's wielded a sword to rescue a Roman emperor, played a cad who despoils a schoolgirl and then leaves her carrying his child and charmed a daughter he never knew he had in "What a Girl Wants." I've seen them and now own them, bought one at a time, until I've amassed a reasonably decent Colin Firth film library. What's the attraction?
Those eyes. The face that he downplays as something less than beautiful, something on which characters can be painted. I say nay, nay! I think I know beautiful. And, be honest, Colin... magazines like "Manhattan" don't give pages of gorgeous head shots to people who aren't beautiful. Still, beauty isn't everything. In the case of Colin Firth, talent trumps everything.
His movie, "A Single Man," for which he's received an Oscar nomination, simply proves my point. A 52-year-old English professor teaching in 1960s L.A., Colin's George Falconer is a textbook neurotic who covers his homosexuality (hardly acceptable in that era) with fastidiousness and reserve. He has just lost his lover of 16 years to a car accident and is struggling to get through what just might be his last day on earth. We see his suffering, his loneliness, his despair. In one scene, he and Jim are curled at opposite ends of the sofa reading with one of their fox terriers resting between them. They are good-naturedly arguing about who will get up to change the record and their ease and comfort with one another speaks volumes about their relationship. After the death of Jim and one of their dogs, George goes to the bank to empty his safe deposit box and comes upon a fox terrier in a car parked outside. He goes to the window and, ever so gently, nuzzles the dog's head, remarking to the dog's owner that "he smells like buttered toast." That little gesture tells the viewer volumes about the depth of his loss. I was the only one in the theater who was crying out loud. In fact, there were only four of us occupying the auditorium, so difficult has it been to find this lovely film playing anywhere.
This Firth performance is brilliant and moving. It is sad and devastating, even as George begins to see the beauty of things around him and perhaps think of an optimistic future. I've seen the movie twice and am about to make it a trio. I am sad that, nominations aside, Colin was passed over for the Golden Globe and the Screen Actors Guild awards in favor of Jeff Bridges' portrayal of a has-been falling-down-drunk country singer in "Crazy Heart."
Any actor worth his salt can play that. Not many could infuse the face of George Falconer with pure grief and grip the hearts of those who come to care about his character. I'm afraid Hollywood will reward family heritage and run-of-the-mill acting while a superb performance like Colin Firth's will lose out. See the film, if you can find it. It's as beautiful as the man who stars in it.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Still crazy after all these years
He was about my age, maybe a little younger. Standing in the elevator, he came up to my husband's shoulder so he wasn't a big guy. Still, his face clearly displayed the displeasure he was feeling.
It was another Tropicana Casino "event," a beach party indoors (another rain casualty) and a drawing for one grand prize of several thousand dollars. Attendees all received one entry, deposited them in a revolving drum and then went about the merrymaking. Our host was dispensing popcorn while around the ballroom various stations handed out other beach party goodies.
Howard and I didn't stay too long and ended up on the floor playing one of our favorite joker poker machines.
We promptly forgot about the drawing at 6 p.m., but as we got on the elevator to go to the players' club on the 20th floor for dinner, we asked the gentleman if he knew who had won. Naturally, this one time we'd failed to show up, our ticket would have been picked. We were sure of that.
But our usual luck (or lack thereof) held and he informed us of the winner's name. She was also a Smith but no one we knew. Then he said the following:
"If that drawing had been held in the '50s, she wouldn't even have had an entry."
I asked if he meant she was so young she hadn't been born yet. You see, I didn't get it at first, but he made sure his point was clear.
"Nowadays it's different than it was. They wouldn't even show their faces back then; now they think they run everything."
"I don't understand what you're saying," I said, as I felt Howard drawing himself to his full height in preparation for a nasty comeback. I was still hoping to be wrong about the man's meaning.
"I don't have to make it any clearer," he said. "You know who got elected."
Before Howard could react, the door opened and, as we stepped out, I looked at the pathetic rascist and said, "We don't think that way. Besides, we voted for our president."
Not giving him time to react, we proceeded on into the club and didn't see him again.
Now I know there are people out there who still nurse the old hatreds. I'm not naive enough to believe we've made complete national progress.
But it simply amazed me that this particular bigot would voice his animosity and hatred to total strangers. I suppose he didn't care if we were offended, but he did risk bodily harm had not the elevator doors swung open. Okay, maybe not bodily harm, but a good tongue lashing was certainly on its way.
Did he assume because of our ages we would agree with him? Did he assume we, too, had learned nothing over the course of the decades since the '50s? Did he simply not care who witnessed his bigoted ridicule? We couldn't decide what prompted him to vent the way he did except to chalk it up to total ignorance.
Regardless, we were saddened that our paths had crossed and very glad his name wasn't the one called as the grand prize winner!
It was another Tropicana Casino "event," a beach party indoors (another rain casualty) and a drawing for one grand prize of several thousand dollars. Attendees all received one entry, deposited them in a revolving drum and then went about the merrymaking. Our host was dispensing popcorn while around the ballroom various stations handed out other beach party goodies.
Howard and I didn't stay too long and ended up on the floor playing one of our favorite joker poker machines.
We promptly forgot about the drawing at 6 p.m., but as we got on the elevator to go to the players' club on the 20th floor for dinner, we asked the gentleman if he knew who had won. Naturally, this one time we'd failed to show up, our ticket would have been picked. We were sure of that.
But our usual luck (or lack thereof) held and he informed us of the winner's name. She was also a Smith but no one we knew. Then he said the following:
"If that drawing had been held in the '50s, she wouldn't even have had an entry."
I asked if he meant she was so young she hadn't been born yet. You see, I didn't get it at first, but he made sure his point was clear.
"Nowadays it's different than it was. They wouldn't even show their faces back then; now they think they run everything."
"I don't understand what you're saying," I said, as I felt Howard drawing himself to his full height in preparation for a nasty comeback. I was still hoping to be wrong about the man's meaning.
"I don't have to make it any clearer," he said. "You know who got elected."
Before Howard could react, the door opened and, as we stepped out, I looked at the pathetic rascist and said, "We don't think that way. Besides, we voted for our president."
Not giving him time to react, we proceeded on into the club and didn't see him again.
Now I know there are people out there who still nurse the old hatreds. I'm not naive enough to believe we've made complete national progress.
But it simply amazed me that this particular bigot would voice his animosity and hatred to total strangers. I suppose he didn't care if we were offended, but he did risk bodily harm had not the elevator doors swung open. Okay, maybe not bodily harm, but a good tongue lashing was certainly on its way.
Did he assume because of our ages we would agree with him? Did he assume we, too, had learned nothing over the course of the decades since the '50s? Did he simply not care who witnessed his bigoted ridicule? We couldn't decide what prompted him to vent the way he did except to chalk it up to total ignorance.
Regardless, we were saddened that our paths had crossed and very glad his name wasn't the one called as the grand prize winner!
Monday, May 18, 2009
A little of this, a little of that
Wish spring would show itself for more than a day at a time. Howard planted knockout roses yesterday in the back yard and with a little luck we'll get some more flowering stuff out there to brighten the view from the porch. We are such novices when it comes to planting anything! Especially me, with my black thumb and reluctance to go outdoors except to walk to the mailbox! Howard's good, though. He weeds, rakes, fertilizes, herbicides and plants grass seed. He frets over the health of our tree (yes, one tree!) and plants. I simply trust they will fend for themselves and either thrive or die. With that attitude, I'm not surprised that most everything I plant dies.
I'm troubled by the incessant publicity being given to Elizabeth Edwards on the release of her book, Resilience. Yes, she's been wronged. Yes, John is a cad who broke her heart. Yes, she has a right to vent her spleen and rail against his infidelity. But.... she will leave this earth as soon as the cancer she's fighting finally wins. When she does, her beloved children will be left with their father, a man they only know as a loving parent. How will this public shaming help them cope when Elizabeth's gone? To what purpose does she put his failings into the public spotlight any more than they already are? In the end, we are all imperfect humans who make huge, hurtful mistakes. Too bad she couldn't have left it at that.
As I write, there are echoes of banging, slamming and other noises that accompany the installation of hardwood floors. Finally, we have rid ourselves of the carpet that came with our house and replacing it with beautiful oak wood. Packing up the breakables and moving everything from the room was a chore and we will be left with a terrorized cat when the job is done, but at least we will have what we've wanted since Day One ... easy to care for, beautiful wood floors. Good things come to those who wait.
Happy birthday this Friday to the dearest of friends. Carol Panella and I met when I began work at the Evesham School District in 1998. We became dear and close friends two years later and we adopted one another as sisters shortly thereafter. She's been the shoulder I cry on, the patient sharer of health woes, the grandmother who tolerates my stories and always has incredible ones to share, the companion who joins me in stretching lunch hour to three or beyond and a loving, caring, compassionate person who makes my life easier and brightens my days. She knows all this, of course, but it never hurts to have it affirmed. Many, many more happy birthdays, my dear sister. Enjoy this one with your family. We'll celebrate later!
Kudos to our president on his speech at Notre Dame yesterday. Sad that those with opposite viewpoints should mar the glory of the day for the graduates. To his credit, President Obama set the right tone for the debate on social issues that often bring out the worst and most violent in believers and proponents. He showed his talent for conciliation, for bringing us together in spite of our differences. I was a proud Obama supporter as I watched his address. He was worth waiting for.
I'm troubled by the incessant publicity being given to Elizabeth Edwards on the release of her book, Resilience. Yes, she's been wronged. Yes, John is a cad who broke her heart. Yes, she has a right to vent her spleen and rail against his infidelity. But.... she will leave this earth as soon as the cancer she's fighting finally wins. When she does, her beloved children will be left with their father, a man they only know as a loving parent. How will this public shaming help them cope when Elizabeth's gone? To what purpose does she put his failings into the public spotlight any more than they already are? In the end, we are all imperfect humans who make huge, hurtful mistakes. Too bad she couldn't have left it at that.
As I write, there are echoes of banging, slamming and other noises that accompany the installation of hardwood floors. Finally, we have rid ourselves of the carpet that came with our house and replacing it with beautiful oak wood. Packing up the breakables and moving everything from the room was a chore and we will be left with a terrorized cat when the job is done, but at least we will have what we've wanted since Day One ... easy to care for, beautiful wood floors. Good things come to those who wait.
Happy birthday this Friday to the dearest of friends. Carol Panella and I met when I began work at the Evesham School District in 1998. We became dear and close friends two years later and we adopted one another as sisters shortly thereafter. She's been the shoulder I cry on, the patient sharer of health woes, the grandmother who tolerates my stories and always has incredible ones to share, the companion who joins me in stretching lunch hour to three or beyond and a loving, caring, compassionate person who makes my life easier and brightens my days. She knows all this, of course, but it never hurts to have it affirmed. Many, many more happy birthdays, my dear sister. Enjoy this one with your family. We'll celebrate later!
Kudos to our president on his speech at Notre Dame yesterday. Sad that those with opposite viewpoints should mar the glory of the day for the graduates. To his credit, President Obama set the right tone for the debate on social issues that often bring out the worst and most violent in believers and proponents. He showed his talent for conciliation, for bringing us together in spite of our differences. I was a proud Obama supporter as I watched his address. He was worth waiting for.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Longing for sunshine
Even though this lethargic feeling has a name, Seasonal Affect Disorder, I'm not comforted enough to pull myself out of the doldrums and move! Every gloomy morning that presents itself when the bedroom drapes are opened motivates me in one direction: to the sofa under the afghan with an old movie on the tv.
I love movies. Not all of them, mind you. I'm not really into action stuff and don't like any films about boxing (which I believe should be outlawed). Every year when the Academy Awards are presented, I lament that I've not seen one film that's nominated. They are too new, thus requiring a schlep to the theater, the purchase of tickets and the gamble that I'm not sitting in front of folks who use the movies as a chance to catch up with all the local gossip or to complain about their lives. At home, I curl up on the sofa, usually with my cat next to me, and get lost in the story. Often, my choice is almost inadvertent... luck of the dial, so to speak. Like yesterday.
I had grand plans for the day. So much would be accomplished! There was laundry, ironing, some cleaning and grocery shopping. When I opened the bedroom drapes, darkness and rain greeted me and immediately sapped my energy for chores. As I pulled the sheets off the bed, I flicked the remote and checked the guide for a listing of what I could use as mind-numbing fare for the work ahead.
Instead, I found myself staring at Liam Neeson, one of my favorite actors, portraying Oskar Schindler in the famous film Schindler's List. I'd always vowed not to see the film, despite its awards and raves. Shame for what humanity can do to humanity, for the silence of those who could have prevented or stopped it, deep and disturbing sadness for those involved, including the descendants who have this doleful history upon which to build their lives... all of those emotions determined early on that I would not see the film. Until yesterday.
Needless to say, nothing was accomplished except for the clean sheets. Even when the movie ended at about noon, I was still there, still in the power and emotional aftermath of Steven Spielberg's work. There was nothing in it I didn't know from history except the actual work of Oskar Schindler and the results of what his courage prompted him to do. I couldn't help thinking, as I watched him at the end of the film, grieving that he could not have saved more people, of the world leaders who could have saved millions, not just eleven hundred, had they stood up against Hitler, taken action against his genocide and motivated the rest of the world to condemn that man for the evil he was.
The Holocaust wasn't all Hitler's fault. He instigated it, of course, but he has help carrying it out. Not just from the famed SS or the Hitler Youth or any of the groups about which we learned in history classes, but from the leaders in the western world, the Pope and other religious figures and ordinary people who heard rumors of the slaughter but stayed silent and did nothing.
Today, I see that The Jane Austen Book Club is on HBO. As an Austen fan, I would dearly love to lose myself in that one, too. Lighter, easier on the psyche, certainly. But the work still wouldn't get done. And we now need milk, cereal, cat food and loads of other stuff. Rain or no rain, I have to go out.
Maybe there will be something really good showing this afternoon!
I love movies. Not all of them, mind you. I'm not really into action stuff and don't like any films about boxing (which I believe should be outlawed). Every year when the Academy Awards are presented, I lament that I've not seen one film that's nominated. They are too new, thus requiring a schlep to the theater, the purchase of tickets and the gamble that I'm not sitting in front of folks who use the movies as a chance to catch up with all the local gossip or to complain about their lives. At home, I curl up on the sofa, usually with my cat next to me, and get lost in the story. Often, my choice is almost inadvertent... luck of the dial, so to speak. Like yesterday.
I had grand plans for the day. So much would be accomplished! There was laundry, ironing, some cleaning and grocery shopping. When I opened the bedroom drapes, darkness and rain greeted me and immediately sapped my energy for chores. As I pulled the sheets off the bed, I flicked the remote and checked the guide for a listing of what I could use as mind-numbing fare for the work ahead.
Instead, I found myself staring at Liam Neeson, one of my favorite actors, portraying Oskar Schindler in the famous film Schindler's List. I'd always vowed not to see the film, despite its awards and raves. Shame for what humanity can do to humanity, for the silence of those who could have prevented or stopped it, deep and disturbing sadness for those involved, including the descendants who have this doleful history upon which to build their lives... all of those emotions determined early on that I would not see the film. Until yesterday.
Needless to say, nothing was accomplished except for the clean sheets. Even when the movie ended at about noon, I was still there, still in the power and emotional aftermath of Steven Spielberg's work. There was nothing in it I didn't know from history except the actual work of Oskar Schindler and the results of what his courage prompted him to do. I couldn't help thinking, as I watched him at the end of the film, grieving that he could not have saved more people, of the world leaders who could have saved millions, not just eleven hundred, had they stood up against Hitler, taken action against his genocide and motivated the rest of the world to condemn that man for the evil he was.
The Holocaust wasn't all Hitler's fault. He instigated it, of course, but he has help carrying it out. Not just from the famed SS or the Hitler Youth or any of the groups about which we learned in history classes, but from the leaders in the western world, the Pope and other religious figures and ordinary people who heard rumors of the slaughter but stayed silent and did nothing.
Today, I see that The Jane Austen Book Club is on HBO. As an Austen fan, I would dearly love to lose myself in that one, too. Lighter, easier on the psyche, certainly. But the work still wouldn't get done. And we now need milk, cereal, cat food and loads of other stuff. Rain or no rain, I have to go out.
Maybe there will be something really good showing this afternoon!
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