Remembering Helen

 It was my first week on the job at the Evesham Township School District. There were seven elementary schools and two middle schools to explore, new faculty members to meet and a lot of learning to do.

I visited a few of the elementary schools first, especially the ones closest to the administration building where I worked. But then I carved out a chunk of time to tackle Marlton Middle School with its two wings, Yellow and Blue House, and a large group of teachers and administrators with whom to connect.

The secretary greeted me with enthusiasm and said, yes, Ms. Steward was in her office. Being the principal of such a large school is a demanding job and I was pleased she had made time for me. I walked down the hall to her office and found Helen Steward standing at the doorway with her arms out, wearing a smile as big as all outdoors. 

"You're finally here!," she exclaimed. To my somewhat quizzical expression, she continued, "I've known you for several lives and I'm so happy you're here in this one. I've been waiting for you." 

From that moment on, Helen and I kept connecting. She had a spiritual foundation in Catholicism, a religion I'd abandoned some thirty-five years earlier, but she embraced everything from Buddhism to the practices of the Native Americans she admired so greatly and whom she supported financially.

As a young woman, Helen had been Sister Theresa Edward, a member of the Peekskill Franciscans. She left the convent at 32 and devoted the rest of her life to the education of children. Most of the time, I called her Theresa, the name she loved and had proudly shared with family members who came after her. Ironically, Theresa happens to be my middle name.

Theresa was a kid magnet. Every time I visited the school, she was in the hallways surrounded by students. She radiated love and understanding and the kids felt it. Some years after she retired, she was called back into service at her original teaching home, Beeler Elementary School, to substitute for the principal who was out on maternity leave. Her health wasn't the greatest but she jumped at the chance to be back at Beeler. I stopped by there regularly to say hello and unfailingly, she would be in her scooter in the halls, little kids hanging on her arms, following her like the Pied Piper.

Theresa was love. It shone from her eyes and was communicated in her smile. Her sense of humor was legendary among everyone who knew her. She was kind, compassionate and caring. She didn't dwell on her own ill health, but relished the company and stories of others' lives, although she was a consummate storyteller herself.

We who knew Helen Theresa Steward were blessed. She left this life at 85 with the full expectation of being greeted by the God she served and then embarking on whatever adventure the afterlife held for her. 

Rest in peace, dear Helen. You are missed.

Patter of Little Feet Back Again

 My beloved Mitzi died on July 7, 2017, after having given me nearly 17 years of love.

Just me, mind you...she hated everyone else, even attacked my daughters when they would visit. When she was gone, I decided she'd be the last pet I'd raise, cherish and then mourn.

No more pets.

It's 2022 now and the house we moved into just months after Mitzi crossed the Rainbow Bridge has been quiet and occupied by two people, a few television sets, music and occasional company. 

It's been too quiet.

So, I started looking at pet adoption sites, all rescue to be sure. There are literally hundreds and hundreds of cats and kittens waiting for someone to take them home. Their little faces begged me to abandon my petless vow and adopt them.

One in particular struck me...right between the eyes and right in the heart. Selma, the shelter folks had named her. She was found on the streets and brought to the Burlington County Animal Shelter on December 27th. It was the end of January when I first saw her and February 2nd when Howard and I signed the papers and brought her home.

We didn't know what to expect. After all, at 7+ years of age, she had lived a wealth of experiences elsewhere. Had she been someone's pet? Was she on the streets for a long time? Would she accept or shun human affection? Lots of questions to ask of someone who can't answer verbally. We would have to wait and learn each other's habits, likes and dislikes.

Amazingly, little Selma, who weighs only 7.3 pounds, is a cuddler, a lap sitter, an affectionate little mite who begs for petting. She has a little tiny meow, barely audible when she wakes me at 7 a.m. She has beautiful coloring...dilute calico, the vet called her, and in the space of not quite two weeks, she's wormed her way into our lives and our hearts.

Our furniture is covered with fleece throws to discourage little claws from rearranging the microfiber sofa and chair that was delivered early in January. A spot has been cleared in the pantry for the cans of food. A litter box takes up a corner of our laundry room and is scooped out every morning. Life is different in the Smith household and we wouldn't have it any other way. 

A pet brings so much joy. My only regret is that I waited so long to bring one into our lives. 

 

 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.