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.

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.