Husband and Wife

It was Saturday, August 27th at 5:30 p.m.

There were occasional raindrops on the usually calm water of the Mullica River in Sweetwater.

The clouds hung over the wooden pergola festooned with a colorful swag of fresh flowers, the wooden walkway from the entrance and the grassy seating area were damp. 

Grateful as we were for the cooperative weather, nothing could have tarnished the joy of the day. 

Nothing.

For many months, daughter Erica and her family and friends had planned her wedding. Meticulous as she is, every detail was listed, followed up, crossed off and ready for execution.

Covid had spoiled the plan for a 2020 wedding, but when the big day finally arrived, the wait, the planning, the angst, the joy...all of it...fell neatly into place.

She was radiantly beautiful. The gown she chose suited her perfectly. Its train with a brocaded finish followed her every move. Her fingertip veil, clipped to a chignon hairdo, floated along with every turn of her head. 

Above all, her smile, the hint of tears shimmering in her eyes every now and then...they told the story of how deeply in love with Andy she is. 

We are very blessed. Andrew Joseph Wilson, a retired police officer and father to Miranda, came into Erica's life at Cherokee High School, where she has taught for 24 years. As a security guard in the high school, Andy's path crossed hers often. They discovered mutual likes (the Flyers, Star Wars, dogs and cats...mostly the beach). It didn't take long for them to know what everyone who observed them knew.

They were a rare, perfect match.

Howard and I often fretted over the possibility that Erica would be alone when we were gone. Now that concern is a thing of the past. Andy will be Erica's rock and her comfort, as she will be to him.

A mother wants nothing more than the happiness of her children. Sometimes, that isn't always in the cards and then we share in their struggles and pain.

But on a day like Saturday, when joy surrounded everyone who witnessed the marriage and the celebration that followed, this mom's heart was light and filled with gratitude. 

Erica and Andy, wife and husband, are bound together for life...a happy, fulfilling, rich and beautiful life.

Two spectral guests at the wedding

 My mother's best friend was Jean Stewart Thoms. She and her husband Bill, both flower growers in Galloway Township, closed out the sale of their farm and settled on the banks of the Mullica River in Sweetwater, NJ. I was probably about twelve when they made the move.

Aunt Jean and Uncle Bill were frequent visitors to our house, where Uncle Bill's booming voice and propensity toward colorful language always made me, good Catholic little girl that I was, cringe in disapproval. Still, I loved them both.

When Uncle Bill died in 2002, Aunt Jean had friends and family to count on, as we visited often. On later occasions, when my girls were grown and away, Aunt Jean and I would walk the few steps north to the Sweetwater Casino restaurant, an old standby for residents of the area. It was quaint, old-fashioned and beautiful, sitting as it did on the banks of the river looking at diners' boats moored at the docks.

I don't know the exact date, but sometime in the early 2000s, the Sweetwater Casino burned to the ground. I remember Aunt Jean telling me she could see the flames from her house. We all mourned the loss of the beloved landmark.

Aunt Jean died in 2010 of a stroke suffered in her doctor's office as she waited for a routine visit. She never returned to that beautiful cottage by the water and attorneys sealed the house and disposed of its contents. But that's another story.

Uncle Bill, Aunt Jean Thoms, Me and Erica

 Fast forward to 2020. Daughter Erica and her fiance,    Andy Wilson, had set a tentative wedding date (Covid  considered) and were searching for a venue to host their  nuptials. 

We visited several...from gorgeous homes in Cape May to windswept dune locations in West Cape May to an abandoned railroad yard converted to a wedding venue. Also another story.

But nothing worked. Too expensive, too big, too remote, too-something. 

On one of my sleepless nights, I lay awake wondering if anyone had ever rebuilt the Sweetwater Casino. It would be such a lovely place for a wedding! So Erica checked it out and, lo and behold! a young couple had purchased the site, rebuilt a new and modern version of the restaurant AND an event venue!We visited that weekend and fell in love with the beauty of the ballroom, the efficiency of the staff and, most of all, the stunning vistas of the river. 

Planning is over now. On the 27th of this month (August, 2022), Andy and Erica will exchange their vows and host a smashing party for their families and many friends. There's a beautiful balcony that extends the width of the ballroom and overlooks the river, the marina and the island across the span. If you stand at the southern end of the balcony, you can see the boat slip and front yard of the Thoms' house, now occupied by strangers.

But Erica and I know that at 5:30 on the 27th, my mother and dad and their best friends Jean and Bill will be standing on the dock at water's edge watching her marry the man of her dreams. Their names are not on the guest list, but they will be there and our family celebration will be complete.

Greed in all its forms

 Howard and I love the comedy of Sebastian Maniscalco. His Netflix specials have brightened many a night when television is terrible and the Phillies aren't playing.

We found him quite by accident while surfing for something to watch, something to make us laugh. We've enjoyed his shows again and again, never mind we know most of the lines by heart.

So when I read that he was doing 10 shows at the Borgata in Atlantic City in November, I was on my computer first thing when tickets went on sale. A presale, it said, artist's presale. There was a code to enter to get what I assumed were reasonably priced tickets from Sebastian himself. For enthusiastic fans like me.

We're familiar with the Event Center at the Borgata from years of seeing Chicago there. So I knew where I wanted to look for good seats...not on the floor but in the first set of risers above everything but not so high up we couldn't see the performer.

That's where I went for tickets. Two of them. Section C, row H. Perfect location. Our Chicago tickets had been $88 a piece last we saw them. Affordable.

I almost fainted when the price came up...$235 each plus all the fees Ticketmaster tacks on! There were cheaper seats, of course, but one would need to rely on the Jumbtron to see the guy on the stage and that just doesn't cut it.

Now, I love Sebastian's humor. I'd love to see him in person. But $470 goes a long way toward making a mortgage payment, buys a lot of groceries and gas and helps with our vet bills for little Selma. In a few weeks, I'll be 81 and every dollar counts for something in our household.

But in reality, Sebastian's tickets aren't the only things that are becoming priced out of range. Oh yes, I know people point fingers and blame President Biden for the rising inflation numbers we read about. 

Poppycock! No president is responsible for rising prices. Supply and demand, natural disasters, war, a myriad of things effect the costs of goods and services.

But too often ignored and not blamed enough is greed. Pure and simple greed.

Oil companies making record, staggeringly high profits off the backs of the motoring public. Manufacturers cutting the sizes of their goods (e.g. potato chip bags, cereal boxes, bathroom tissue rolls, even ice cream containers) and charging more for them. They try to excuse it away by pointing to higher freight costs and the demands for higher wages from employees. But the bottom line is: profit and good news for their shareholders. 

Sebastian is a multi-multi-millionaire. The venues at which he entertains can easily pay him well and still give his audiences a reasonable price to see his shows. Regardless, he sells out almost every single one, so some folks somewhere are doing without something in order to pay for his tickets.

Like so many others, I'm resentful of the way anyone who can is gouging the rest of us who pay the price. A Hershey candy bar shouldn't cost $1.99 (and be smaller and thinner than it used to be). Is there an answer? If so, I don't know what it is, but we're eating less candy and watching reruns of Sebastian's specials. Borgata can keep its $470. We need it in our bank account.

Once in a Lifetime (if you're lucky!)

 I don't remember under what circumstances I first met her.

But I know my first impression was of a true lady, a woman unlike any I'd ever encountered.

Isabelle Tamburri was, in a word, brilliant. She was a formidable presence from the first syllable she uttered, setting her apart from anyone else in a crowd. Her diction was crisp, clear and flawless, unmarred by regional accent or slang. She chose her words carefully so as never to leave in doubt exactly what she wanted to convey to her listener.

Eschewing the convention of taking a gift or token when visiting, she and I had our chats in her living room or mine, accompanied by the single bottle of filtered water we offered one another. Most of our get-togethers were supposed to be limited to a couple of hours, simply due to my work schedule. In reality, we usually got caught up in conversation and didn't keep track of the time, so often we sat for three or more hours, lost in any of the myriad topics we explored.

Isabelle loved art. And music. And philosophy. And religion. And Nature. And psychology. And...on and on. An observer might have commented that our conversations were all over the map, that we leapt from one topic to another, and how could that even make sense? 

To us, the conversations were seamless. One thought lead to another, often on an entirely different subject. When we talked about music, I discovered she and I shared a love of the work of Mozart, yet she had never seen the film Amadeus. So one afternoon, feet up on pillows and ever-present bottle of water at hand, she sat in my living room and spent the three plus hours of sheer enjoyment, sharing my love of that movie. At times, especially at the emotional, heart-rending end, we were both in tears. Yes, it was a fictional account and we knew it, but to us, it touched something deep inside and I'll always be grateful we were able to share that time.

After her 91st birthday, Isabelle told me she was aiming for 95. "Then, I think I'll have accomplished everything I wanted to do and I'll be more than ready to go." Her beloved husband Rick was waiting, after all, and she knew she'd be spending eternity with him. 

A series of falls derailed Isabelle's plan. Each one robbed her of more cognitive function and she struggled for the words that once flowed so effortlessly. But her sense of humor seemed sharper, her desire to be with those she loved even stronger. 

When Isabelle Tamburri finally slipped away in a small room filled lovingly by her daughter Sharon with artwork Isabelle either created herself or loved, she left behind sadness that she was gone, but joy that she had lived and given everyone who loved her so much of herself. She once told me she wouldn't be sad about going, only about leaving. Those of us she left are richer for having shared a snippet of Isabelle's life.

What's in a hand?

 Since June 15th, I've been without the use of my right hand.

I take that back...I can use it, but only in a limited way and not without considerable discomfort and a lot of awkwardness.

It was at least a month or so ago that I was diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome. It's been at least a year since my right hand began going numb during the night and not regaining its full feeling for hours after I woke up. Praying it wasn't diabetic neuropathy, I went through the motions of consulting first Google (my go-to source of medical information), then my primary care physician, then a physical therapist, then finally a hand specialist. 

That wasn't the final step, though. To obtain an accurate diagnosis, the hand doc sent me for an EMG. For those of you who aren't familiar with that test, let me just say you don't ever want to have one unless it's the last resort to finding out exactly what's wrong. EMG (short for electromyography), is a bear of a test. You're wired to a series of leads through which electrical impulses are directed. They zap away, measuring the health of muscles and the nerves that control them. Thankfully, the doctor who administered the test was a gem, a master of his trade who made the experience, if not pleasant, at least tolerable.

The EMG said it all: carpal tunnel syndrome. Solution: surgery.

That established, I had the procedure on an out-patient basis...a little drip of propofol, lidocaine to numb the hand (while I was blissfully unaware) and about six little stitches from base of the wrist to the middle of the palm. Then a big, bulky bandage which came off after three days (showering was a challenge!) and now a large band-aid that covers the incision. Stitches come out on July 1st.

 Until then, though, everything is a chore. Being right hand dominant, I find it excruciatingly difficult to do just about anything. From opening a pill bottle (which I've done a lot these past six days) to putting peanut butter on a piece of bread, it's a slow process. I've been exhausted from simply getting dressed.

But...a dear friend spends four hours three times a week in dialysis just to continue living. Another is marking the end of her days as she lies in the care of hospice. Another has lost her sight and is dependent on too-busy nursing home aides for the simplest of services. And my right hand hurts. Gee, what a pity!

You see, it's easy to whine and feel sorry for myself because I'm temporarily forced to alter my day-to-day routine. But when I consider the plight of others in my own circle of friends who are facing major, life-altering things every minute, I am reminded that my little complaints are trivial in relation to theirs. My right hand will heal; their calamitous health problems won't. Lesson: look outside yourself when you are tempted to believe you're the only one who suffers. Others suffer worse.

It's here again

 May was a festive month when I was growing up.

For my first 10 years, I lived with my mother in my grandparents' home, then the house my aunt and uncle owned, then back to my grandparents' again. But in 1952, Mom remarried, much against the rules of a church that didn't care about her happiness or her mental well-being. Thank heaven she had the courage to buck that medieval system and marry my stepfather, Martin, who loved her unconditionally and gave me the first security I'd ever known.

He built us a house, a little, two-bedroom ranch and, again for the first time in my life, I had my own bedroom, lovingly painted pale blue by a man who always went the extra mile to make me happy.

The biggest beneficiary of that house, though, was Mom.

She took to the house like a mother bird her nest. She selected furniture with warm finishes, painted her kitchen cabinets a bright yellow, lined inside with red. Many happy hours were spent at the kitchen table, and her spoon collection now hangs on the wall in mine. She chose a soft green for the living room and a neutral beige for the bedroom across the hall she shared with Dad. She planted flowers, decorated lavishly for each holiday and kept our house spotless, warm and welcoming for the countless relatives and friends who knocked once and then opened the front door which was never locked, ready for a few hours of Mom's hospitality.

She never spoke ill of anyone, even when it might have been justified. I never heard her raise her voice, including to me, even when she might have jarred me into listening to her sage advice and avoiding some mistake I was about to make. I loved her without reason or thought. 

She was just Mom...Mommy when I was little, then just plain Mom.

Her loss was incalculable. She was only 48 when the first breast cancer struck. I was just 23. Then, just when we were rejoicing over the five-year-mark of no recurrence, it was back and this time there was no fighting it. By the time she was 56, she was gone, mercifully, I believe, to be free of the excruciating pain she endured in the last year of her life.

Mothers' Day has always belonged to her, even when I became one myself. For more years than I can count, I couldn't go near the Mothers' Day card section in a store. No one for whom to purchase a card, just sadness.

Still it rolls around every year, bringing memories of Mom's laugh, her contagious smile, her courage, her warmth and compassion and her abounding love. I can say it now without tears...

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. You are missed more than I can say.

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.