My mother will turn 103 later this month, a fact I can't quite believe. But then, neither can she.
During my recent visit to the nursing home where she lives now, she told me she thought it was "kind of neat" the way people make such a fuss about her age. As they should.
She's lived through two world wars plus countless other wars, seen the emergence of television, watched men walk on the moon and witnessed the invention of everything from Twinkies to texting, among a million other things. She might not remember what she had for breakfast, but she can tell you in detail about the time she walked along a beach on Long Island in her new white shoes and got oil from a sunken German U-boat on them.
The year was 1917. She was five.
I try to imagine what the world might be like if I were to make it to 103. What inventions -- things beyond our imagining -- will have changed the way we live? Would I, as Mom does, recall the old days as better days, despite past hardships and disappointments?
Time will tell.
Just don't ask me what I had for breakfast.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Monday, July 13, 2015
Run like the wind
She had a pronounced limp and a scar on her snout when she became our dog. At just 12 weeks of age she'd already had a pretty tough life. She never complained.
A rescue pup from down South, she was everything I was looking for in the months after her predecessor succumbed to a quickly spreading cancer. She was friendly, long-haired (for some reason I'd always wanted a long-haired dog -- one too many episodes of "Lassie," I suppose) and cuddly. She was small enough to fall asleep in my lap as I drove her home for the first time.
Someone told us she was an English shepherd, and you can find out a lot about them if you Google that phrase. But a couple of people I met in England said there was no such breed. No matter. She was, to my mind, the best kind of dog: a mutt.
Despite a bum shoulder that the vet said was likely the result of an injury early in her life (I shudder to think how she got hurt) she could run like the wind and jump high to grab a stick out of my hand. I loved to watch her romp in the back yard.
Time passes too quickly in the life of a pet, but we know this when we welcome them into our homes. At 13 years of age, my mutt could, on a good day, manage a brief trot. No more jumping for sticks, though. Belly rubs were now her great joy in life.
I chose to put her through some heavy-duty surgery that I hoped would buy us time together, but things went south after just a few days. I was driving her back to the pet hospital when she decided she'd had enough. A hand to her heart let me know she was gone.
I cried my eyes out and wondered if I'd ever again feel ready to bring another pet into my life, knowing that one day I'd have to say goodbye. But that's the bargain we make, isn't it: That in exchange for their undying loyalty and love, we will be there for them until their time runs out.
I miss my dog. Miss her terribly. So maybe, in time, I'll find myself driving another pooch home for the first time, even though I know full well that one day we'll have to make another, sadder journey together.
Wherever good dogs go when they die, I hope there are big back yards to run in and sticks to jump for and someone, some very patient someone, to give lots and lots of belly rubs.
Run like the wind, old girl. Run like the wind.
A rescue pup from down South, she was everything I was looking for in the months after her predecessor succumbed to a quickly spreading cancer. She was friendly, long-haired (for some reason I'd always wanted a long-haired dog -- one too many episodes of "Lassie," I suppose) and cuddly. She was small enough to fall asleep in my lap as I drove her home for the first time.
Someone told us she was an English shepherd, and you can find out a lot about them if you Google that phrase. But a couple of people I met in England said there was no such breed. No matter. She was, to my mind, the best kind of dog: a mutt.
Despite a bum shoulder that the vet said was likely the result of an injury early in her life (I shudder to think how she got hurt) she could run like the wind and jump high to grab a stick out of my hand. I loved to watch her romp in the back yard.
Time passes too quickly in the life of a pet, but we know this when we welcome them into our homes. At 13 years of age, my mutt could, on a good day, manage a brief trot. No more jumping for sticks, though. Belly rubs were now her great joy in life.
I chose to put her through some heavy-duty surgery that I hoped would buy us time together, but things went south after just a few days. I was driving her back to the pet hospital when she decided she'd had enough. A hand to her heart let me know she was gone.
I cried my eyes out and wondered if I'd ever again feel ready to bring another pet into my life, knowing that one day I'd have to say goodbye. But that's the bargain we make, isn't it: That in exchange for their undying loyalty and love, we will be there for them until their time runs out.
I miss my dog. Miss her terribly. So maybe, in time, I'll find myself driving another pooch home for the first time, even though I know full well that one day we'll have to make another, sadder journey together.
Wherever good dogs go when they die, I hope there are big back yards to run in and sticks to jump for and someone, some very patient someone, to give lots and lots of belly rubs.
Run like the wind, old girl. Run like the wind.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
The opposite of love
During my senior year at my all-white parochial high school, my social studies teacher arranged for a handful of us to meet with a handful of African American students from the local public school. We met in the cafeteria of my old elementary school and talked about our lives. It wasn't long before we realized we had a lot in common.
But we also came to realize that though we lived in the same city, we lived in different worlds.
The story that sticks in my memory, all these years later, was of an African American family moving into a predominantly white neighborhood and, within days, losing their dog to some fool who wanted to scare them away. The poor dog was doused with gasoline and, well, you can imagine what happened next.
I still remember the stoic look on the African American student's face as he told this story. Things got pretty quiet after that.
A few hours later we went our separate ways, changed -- if only a little -- because we'd made a connection with people who weren't like us and had, perhaps, begun to let go of fear.
The other thing I remember about that meeting in the spring of 1968 is that it took place just days before the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down. It might have been the very same day, though I suspect that's just my memory playing tricks on me. The date doesn't matter. The lasting impression -- that we are all human beings meant to share this world -- does.
God rest the souls of those taken from this world out of fear, the opposite of love.
But we also came to realize that though we lived in the same city, we lived in different worlds.
The story that sticks in my memory, all these years later, was of an African American family moving into a predominantly white neighborhood and, within days, losing their dog to some fool who wanted to scare them away. The poor dog was doused with gasoline and, well, you can imagine what happened next.
I still remember the stoic look on the African American student's face as he told this story. Things got pretty quiet after that.
A few hours later we went our separate ways, changed -- if only a little -- because we'd made a connection with people who weren't like us and had, perhaps, begun to let go of fear.
The other thing I remember about that meeting in the spring of 1968 is that it took place just days before the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down. It might have been the very same day, though I suspect that's just my memory playing tricks on me. The date doesn't matter. The lasting impression -- that we are all human beings meant to share this world -- does.
God rest the souls of those taken from this world out of fear, the opposite of love.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Triple Crown
The sky over Lake Erie was slate gray when I heard the first rumble of thunder. I knew then that I wouldn't be going to the 5 p.m. Mass that Saturday. I wasn't worried about the storm. I was worried about my dad.
A stroke had left Dad a semi-invalid, but it was more his lifelong fear of thunderstorms that made me decide I should stay home and ride out the storm with him. Besides, the Kentucky Derby would be on TV soon. We could watch it together.
And we did -- with the volume turned up a bit to drown out the distant thunder. Dad was more animated than he'd been all day as we cheered on whichever horse he'd had his eye on.
I don't recall who won the Derby that year. I do recall that the storm stayed out over the lake, so Dad didn't insist, as he usually did, that we turn off the TV until the storm had passed. He had good reason to fear storms.
When Dad was a boy, his father used to love to watch the storms that passed over their Long Island home and would coax Dad to join him on their front stoop. One day lightning struck their roof and started a small fire, which was quickly extinguished. But the fear of fire would haunt my father the rest of his days.
Dad's been gone more than 30 years now, but that day comes back to me every time one of the Triple Crown races is run, as the Belmont Stakes will be later today. I'll be watching, cheering on the horse many hope will make history and become the first Triple Crown winner since 1978.
Somehow, I suspect Dad will be, too.
A stroke had left Dad a semi-invalid, but it was more his lifelong fear of thunderstorms that made me decide I should stay home and ride out the storm with him. Besides, the Kentucky Derby would be on TV soon. We could watch it together.
And we did -- with the volume turned up a bit to drown out the distant thunder. Dad was more animated than he'd been all day as we cheered on whichever horse he'd had his eye on.
I don't recall who won the Derby that year. I do recall that the storm stayed out over the lake, so Dad didn't insist, as he usually did, that we turn off the TV until the storm had passed. He had good reason to fear storms.
When Dad was a boy, his father used to love to watch the storms that passed over their Long Island home and would coax Dad to join him on their front stoop. One day lightning struck their roof and started a small fire, which was quickly extinguished. But the fear of fire would haunt my father the rest of his days.
Dad's been gone more than 30 years now, but that day comes back to me every time one of the Triple Crown races is run, as the Belmont Stakes will be later today. I'll be watching, cheering on the horse many hope will make history and become the first Triple Crown winner since 1978.
Somehow, I suspect Dad will be, too.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Mr. Zinsser
William Zinsser died last week. He was 92 and nearly blind, though from what I've read, age and infirmity did little to dull his quick mind.
Mr. Zinsser's classic guide to nonfiction writing, "On Writing Well," made me a better writer. It made me a better editor and teacher, too. I owe him a great debt.
Mr. Zinsser visited my university many years ago and said he considered it his mission in life to go around the country giving college students permission to be themselves in their writing. What a remarkably liberating message for young writers struggling to find their voices.
Mr. Zinsser believed in the power of brevity -- that when it comes to the written word, less truly is more. He could not abide the fluff and nonsense that clutter up American English. (The chapter in "On Writing Well" titled "Clutter" should be required reading for every high school and college student in the land. I can think of a few politicians and CEO's who might benefit from it, too.)
Simply put, William Zinsser respected the written word. He just wanted the rest of us to do the same.
Mr. Zinsser's classic guide to nonfiction writing, "On Writing Well," made me a better writer. It made me a better editor and teacher, too. I owe him a great debt.
Mr. Zinsser visited my university many years ago and said he considered it his mission in life to go around the country giving college students permission to be themselves in their writing. What a remarkably liberating message for young writers struggling to find their voices.
Mr. Zinsser believed in the power of brevity -- that when it comes to the written word, less truly is more. He could not abide the fluff and nonsense that clutter up American English. (The chapter in "On Writing Well" titled "Clutter" should be required reading for every high school and college student in the land. I can think of a few politicians and CEO's who might benefit from it, too.)
Simply put, William Zinsser respected the written word. He just wanted the rest of us to do the same.
Monday, May 4, 2015
Big brother
When you grow up with four older brothers, you get used to the jokes about having your own "army" of body guards to chase away anyone who hassles you -- and to screen the guys who show up at your house, asking to take you out.
My brothers might have chased away an occasional playground bully, but I spared them the need to discourage potential boyfriends by not having any until I went away to college. High school was, um, not much fun for me, but I got through it -- in large part because of one big brother and his fiancee (later his wife), who made sure this gawky, self-conscious, over-protected introvert wasn't stuck at home (even though that was often where I wanted to be because I felt safe there).
They spent time with me, took me fun places, made me laugh. And over time I began to break out of a shell that once threatened to suffocate me. They pretty much saved my life.
I hope I told my brother that. I owed him that much. All the things I wish I'd told him have been on my mind these past few weeks since he succumbed to an illness he'd been diagnosed with only a week before his passing. There's never enough time to say all those things we meant to say, is there.
I used to bemoan the fact that I didn't grow up with a sister, even though it meant I got to have a room of my own and didn't have to wear hand-me-downs. No, I had brothers. An abundance of brothers. It took me a long time to realize what a blessing that is.
My brothers might have chased away an occasional playground bully, but I spared them the need to discourage potential boyfriends by not having any until I went away to college. High school was, um, not much fun for me, but I got through it -- in large part because of one big brother and his fiancee (later his wife), who made sure this gawky, self-conscious, over-protected introvert wasn't stuck at home (even though that was often where I wanted to be because I felt safe there).
They spent time with me, took me fun places, made me laugh. And over time I began to break out of a shell that once threatened to suffocate me. They pretty much saved my life.
I hope I told my brother that. I owed him that much. All the things I wish I'd told him have been on my mind these past few weeks since he succumbed to an illness he'd been diagnosed with only a week before his passing. There's never enough time to say all those things we meant to say, is there.
I used to bemoan the fact that I didn't grow up with a sister, even though it meant I got to have a room of my own and didn't have to wear hand-me-downs. No, I had brothers. An abundance of brothers. It took me a long time to realize what a blessing that is.
Monday, April 13, 2015
A matter of style
One of my students writes a fashion blog -- sort of an anti-fashion blog, actually. One of her posts, in which she thought back to her personal style in high school, jarred loose a memory of a photo of me with some friends that was taken in a corridor of our high school. We look like what we were -- the "out" group.
No jocks or cheerleaders in our group, just a former seminarian, a student newspaper editor and assorted awkward young things in skirts that stopped below our knees, cardigans and blouses with Peter Pan collars.
Ours was, if you haven't already guessed, a parochial high school with a strict dress code. We girls were not allowed to wear pullover sweaters lest our flat chests excite the boys. Looking at that photograph, I doubt we could excite anyone with a pulse.
Within a year we would be off to college, set free to explore other ways to express ourselves. Still, I was a sophomore in college before I took the leap and bought my first pair of bell-bottoms. I shudder to think how geek-ily I dressed as a freshman. Old habits die hard.
These days I might be caught in a skirt once or twice a year. The rest of the time I dress to please myself, which is to say I dress to feel comfortable, to feel like me.
Getting older has its perks.
No jocks or cheerleaders in our group, just a former seminarian, a student newspaper editor and assorted awkward young things in skirts that stopped below our knees, cardigans and blouses with Peter Pan collars.
Ours was, if you haven't already guessed, a parochial high school with a strict dress code. We girls were not allowed to wear pullover sweaters lest our flat chests excite the boys. Looking at that photograph, I doubt we could excite anyone with a pulse.
Within a year we would be off to college, set free to explore other ways to express ourselves. Still, I was a sophomore in college before I took the leap and bought my first pair of bell-bottoms. I shudder to think how geek-ily I dressed as a freshman. Old habits die hard.
These days I might be caught in a skirt once or twice a year. The rest of the time I dress to please myself, which is to say I dress to feel comfortable, to feel like me.
Getting older has its perks.
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