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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now we can breathe easier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Week Nine of pandemic life

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their selfishness is disgusting.

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

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

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

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

Easter days of yore

Thanks to the blessing of pictures, I have a particularly good memory of Easter.
Probably the first Easter anyone photographed when I was a child.
My mother and I lived with her parents, Mary and Lou Rossette, after Mom and Dad split.
I suppose my grandparents were both in their early sixties, but I always thought them to be very old.
We moved to upstate Pennsylvania when I was two. This picture was taken when I was five.
My grandparents, Mom and my aunt Mary put a lot of effort into making sure I was a happy kid, so I'm not surprised at the bounty of Easter candy and the cute bunny.

When my mother remarried and my stepdad built a home for us, Easter was almost as big a deal  as Christmas.

My mother loved the holiday... from the hours spent in church from Holy Thursday through Easter Sunday, to the festive lilies and spring decorations she planned for the house, to the shopping trip to the Ideal in Hammonton for that special Easter outfit.

I dressed in a bonnet with long ribbons, white gloves and Mary Janes. Sometimes, Mom found a topper or a coat that went nicely with my suit and that was part of the ensemble for a chilly Easter Sunday.

My grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins came for dinner and it seemed there was an endless parade of relatives, friends and neighbors in and out of the house to visit and bring laughter and happiness.

When I was sixteen, my dad finally convinced Mom to let him take me to dinner to celebrate my birthday. At first it was awkward, not knowing exactly what to say to a virtual stranger, but Dad's obvious interest in my life helped me loosen up as well. He wasn't an ogre. He wasn't a terrible person. He was my dad and I began to feel whole.

Part of being a teenager at Easter meant singing in the choir. One of the best things I recall was standing at the choir rail watching people gather for Easter Mass and preparing for my solo. 

As a mom, I followed much the same customs... special outfits, the egg hunt, the baskets and chocolate bunnies. That all seems like eons ago, but it's part of who I am somehow, so it means a lot to remember the people, the places. My mom would be happy to know I still smell the fragrance of the lilies she always had on the fireplace mantel and the tulips and daffodils my stepdad planted in the front yard.

Nostalgia is a fine thing.

Remembering Doris Perry

It's Doris Perry's birthday today, April 2. No point in calculating how old she'd be now... she's been gone since 1992 and she was 73 when she died at her own hand.

You had to know Doris to understand the way she lived and died. She was unique, one of a kind, with so many facets to her personality she changed like lightning from mirthful and downright funny to somber and deeply sad.

I knew her well enough to know those parts of her. I was a 19-year old freshman at Trenton State College when Doris arrived on campus. She was 41, having just completed her Ed.D. in counseling psychology at the University of Florida in Gainesville.

She was 5'8", slender and beautiful. Hired to inaugurate a student counseling program at TSC, she needed a student assistant. I happened to be in the right place at the right time and eagerly jumped in. It was the best thing I could have done... then and later when times got tough and the Doris I knew and loved began to change into a stranger who alienated everyone who loved her.

But I digress. Doris was fashioning an experiment to be part of her post-doctoral dissertation... she had decided to prove the theories of renowned psychologist Dr. Carl Rogers, who posited that the first five years of life determine the self-image we carry with us for our entire lives and what we do to protect that image... we deny or distort experiences so they are congruent with it.

The experiment involved 100 student volunteers, who took two psychological tests to determine degree of neurosis and then donned several pair of glasses specially made to show their images in plain pane glass all the way up to fun-house distortions. The kids described themselves as they appeared in a three-sided mirror and were recorded providing their responses. The more profoundly neurotic students saw  no difference in their images, regardless of type of glass and the other kids varied in degrees, proving that we have fixed ideas of who we are.

I spent weeks transcribing those interviews... sitting at a card table in a corner of Doris's already tiny living room, using a typewriter and a Webcor tape recorder my parents had given me for high school graduation. What an experience! Trying to decipher Doris's southern drawl was often hilarious and we would laugh until we cried. I often got permission to stay overnight when our transcribing sessions ran late, so we hauled a mattress from the upstairs dorm down the steps to her apartment. Naturally, it got stuck midway and we ended up sliding down its length, laughing all the way. Often, when the work was suspended for the night, Doris would encourage me to talk. She was a wonderfully empathic person who allowed me to open my heart and soul about everything I needed to share. Her careful counseling let me see myself in new ways and as we grew closer, I felt she was making a profound change in my outlook on my the traumas I had undergone.

Simply put, Doris saved my life. I wish I could have done the same for her. As the years went on, the pain from a bad fall on the ice drove her to an addiction to pain-killers. She found a doctor who prescribed in excess whenever she asked. When she retired back to Gainesville, she was beginning the slide that eventually destroyed the wonderful mind and heart I loved.

I made several trips to visit Doris during the early years of her retirement. She had old friends, a lovely home with a pool and was happy to be back in Florida. But as the years went by, she became ill, both physically and mentally. In 1991, I got a frantic phone call from her... she was 88 pounds and weak. The next day, I flew to Florida and brought her to the hospital where she was treated for diabetic shock. I would not have known the woman who responded to my knock on her door. Nor did I know the woman who, I learned, had refused the help, love and affection of everyone in her formerly large circle. She was alone except for a wonderful housekeeper, and at the time, me and a man she'd mentored for decades. They were still in touch and I assume he remained a trusted part of her world.

When I got home, it was only a matter of weeks before she drove me out as well. Her bitter voice on the phone accused me of things I had never done and she ended the call by telling me she never wanted to hear from me again. I was stunned, hurt and devastated. Not long after that, her housekeeper called to tell me she had found Doris in her car, engine running, in the garage. It had been carefully planned, apparently, and there were only three of us left to mourn her loss.

Doris was complicated. She loved intensely and I never saw the capacity for hatred until the drugs ate away at her mind and left a shell of the woman she'd been.

I can't dwell on any of that. I can only visualize the smile, the infectious giggle, the warm, sympathetic eyes and the quiet voice that reflected my feelings as we sat for hours in her study. I can only feel the love she gave me for most of the 31 years I knew her.

That is how I will always remember Doris Perry.

Navigating uncharted territory

Almost sleepless night #4.
At 78, one would think I would be able to hear the news, read the newspapers and allow the news to roll over me like it usually does.
One would think.
But this time it's different.
This time I find the news frightening.
Threatening.
Downright terrifying.
If I were a science fiction writer, I would have this virus depicted as a dark cloud of suffering and death.
It starts out slowly, just rising in amorphous gray mists, moving toward earth.
As it nears population centers, though, it turns dark and menacing, descending on the countries with evil intent.
No one knows its name, so they call it COVID-19, probably corona virus ID 19.
No one knows where it came from, although the first cases were reported to be animal to human transference in Wuhan, China.
Some, who should know better, are still referring to as the Chinese virus, as if China invented it and her people are responsible for spreading it.
It taught health care professionals new ways to fight it, not always successfully, and at first it preyed on the elderly.
When I first heard of it, I never associated myself with it.
After all, I never think of myself as elderly.
Now I do.
It took a couple of weeks for it to make it to the US, the west coast first.
People got sick and died, often in such a rapid fashion it left everyone in shock.
Then it struck everywhere.
The dark cloud expanded, gathered speed and fell to the earth in places where human contact made it easy to multiply.

I watched the news and saw this happen.
Still not very concerned, my husband and I talked about our possible role in the devastation and decided to be somewhat proactive.
We stopped going to the casino on Friday nights. Too much closeness, not enough cleanliness.
We made lists of provisions we might need for a lengthy confinement at home and shopped before it was a crazed pasttime.
We didn't hoard.

And then New Jersey started recording new cases. Lots of them.
Some close to home, most to the north where our daughter and her family live.
It seemed time to worry.

Being in self-isolation isn't that hard for us. We both work from home and aren't joiners, so we haven't developed a large group with which we regularly gather.
Still, I envision the dark shadowy cloud swirling from house to house seeking unprotected souls to vanquish.

This will be a long difficult period. No end is in sight.
We need to be immensely grateful to those who put their own lives on the line to care for the sick and dying.
We need to acknowledge that it's up to us to help contain the deadly spread.
And then we have to find a way to achieve some measure of tranquility just to get us through our days.

Goodbye to Jeanne Howard Writes

I don't even remember the exact year.

It was during my tenure at Lower Camden County Regional High School in Winslow Township that I started learning the basics of building a website. So it must have been in the mid-90s.

In 2001, I published a romance novel, Seasons of Forgetting, using iUniverse as the company to produce the book. I thought it was a masterpiece that would bring me Nora Robertsesque fame and fortune.

It was no masterpiece. It went nowhere and no one knew it existed.

So I built my first website, Jeanne Howard Writes, using the pseudonym I thought was just catchy enough to draw attention. Never mind there was already a famous Howard, Linda by name, who was in a league far above mine.The site was pretty and so was I in the glamour shot I'd paid for. It was hard to recognize myself in that professionally made-up and dressed gal in the head shot.

When I wrote the second novel, Jared's Promise, and signed on with Wings ePress to produce the ebook and the paperback, I brought Seasons of Forgetting with me. 
It got a new cover and a fresh edit and was by far a better book than the first attempt.
My friends, and even a lot of people I didn't know, read both books and claimed they stayed up at night until the finished them, piles of damp tissues next to their chairs. Bless them, they kept my confidence in myself as a writer alive for a very long time.

But, I don't write novels any more. After the second one, whatever Muse that had visited me fled, taking storylines, ideas and new characters with her to gift to others. Instead of writing, I spend hours each day editing the writing of others, all of them more versatile, prolific and determined to tell their stories than I was.

But I kept the old website alive, reluctant to toss all the work it took to design it into the computer's trash bin. xUntil yesterday. Yesterday, I did it.

With one keystroke, I sent it into oblivion. It wasn't as sad an occasion as I thought it would be.

It was just necessary to turn the page, to look ahead instead of back.