Cecelia and I love words. Their origin, meaning, pronunciation and usage always are curious to us. What can we glean? That Cecelia can speak fluently and has a deep command of the English language, as well as her native Spanish, has always been impressive to me. Yesterday the word, 'mojo', sent us on an internet word-meaning spree. For the root words in Spanish indicates one thing, and its equivalent in English comes from of African a magical charm in the practice of hoodoo. (voodoo) ... the original Mother Earth rites, worship and rituals.
We learned a lot about the meaning and expressions of 'mojo' as linked to magic, creativity, music and a host of products including a magazine! What did we conclude? It means magic. As in, "Getting My Magic Back".
May all of you find or reconnect with your mojo in this season of renewal. I think that is the sun, I'm spying!
This happened back in January and it's just coming to the media's attention. Phoebe is not alone. She is not the first to end her life triggered by bullying and/or molestation by the Mean Girls and/or the Angry Boys. The casualties are high. How utterly alone and defenseless she must have felt. This is every teen's (and their family's) worst nightmare. It's time to rework that blog about Meanness and Depression in light of this tragic story. There are so many lessons to be learned from Phoebe's brief life. Suicide is NOT an option.
The following appeared on Boston.com: Headline: Standing up for Phoebe Date: Mar 30, 2010
"So, finally, an adult in authority in South Hadley stepped up for
Phoebe Prince. Her name is Betsy Scheibel. She is the district attorney
in that part of Western Massachusetts, and she also happens to live in
South Hadley. She grew up there, went to college at Mount Holyoke, just
off the town green, and has restored some faith in ..."
To see this recommendation, click on the link below or cut and paste it into a Web browser:
What is it about old photos and the memories they unlock or don't? Tara stopped in not too long ago bringing a bottle of wine and some old photos for me. You see, Tara is very special. She was in my class as a second grade student in 1982. Our paths crossed here and there but now we are neighbors and great friends. She's awesome.
We make each other laugh, talk seriously about our experiences, laugh
some more and drink delicious wines. In other words, having your
neighbors as friends does much to expand the concept of creating a
family of friends and community. We sit down on the sofa with glasses in hand and pour over the photos she brought. She recalls names and faces. Regrettably few names come to my mind. OK, that was a lifetime ago but some students are just like sunshine and remain memorable forever. Ours is a tight bond.
You can no longer take students out of the classroom for "field trips" like end of the year pool party here. Liability, cultural insanity and All. I left public education at a good point while I still loved the students and respected my colleagues. My opinion of the administrators had left me cold. It was at a time, when being an incompetent, male teacher meant being promoted-up the chain of command to the administration. Despite the fact that 90% of the faculty were women, it was still a "boys club". No wonder education came under fire.
The deterioration of the public school system had begun. I wanted no part of being around as it crumbled. So acting upon the good advice of my teacher friends, I took the risk of leaving education for sales. Risks take courage and a leap of faith. Sales was the route to business and onto a career. It was as if our generation, those women coming to maturity in the 70's and early 80's, were called to break down the gender barriers for all women across a number of domains. Our younger sisters and succeeding generations of women are the beneficiaries. That would include some of you, dear readers.
Breaking down barriers seems to be something I'm called to do. Thankfully, there are co-conspirators.
I surprised the man from Tennessee when I told him, "She (Sarah Palin) is very unpopular in the North/East among middle-class, educated women. He thought that because she was a woman governor, mother and all, we'd be in her favor. "Hell, no we can't stand her. We see right through her."
I simply don't like Sara Palin and what comes out of her fake, small town, angry, mean-spirited, self-involved, scripted mouth. I only wish I had added this last sentence to the conversation we were having, but I was enjoying listening to this conscious, thoughtful man from Tennessee. I didn't want to shock him unduly. Intelligent conversation is hard to find at this resort. A single woman learns to be respectful and acknowledging of any wife in situations like these. I forgot, she was just as happy he was talking to someone else but her. Whatever. The grass always looks greener on the other side.
Those of us from Massachusetts on our trip to the DR, discovered ourselves riding the crest of the wave of the upset victory of Scott Brown as the newly elected junior US Senator from our state. We were astonished to learn the election results made us heroes across this country. This was surprising and a bit hard to adjust to as a progressive and a history buff. Here we are on vacation, being transported in a 3rd world country and the whole conversation was US politics. Oh, Lord, there is a lot of thinly veiled arrogance and anger out here. Just what we need is Sara stirring up the pot with her sexy-kitten-come-on-to-men. This is when guys get stupid.
She makes my skin crawl. Yet I do acknowledge she is attractive, crafty, lacks depth and real experience but I get her appeal .... for all the wrong reasons, in my opinion. I'm definitely not jealous of her. Her personal and professional life makes mine feel extraordinarily blessed, rich, rewarding and humble. Let her have the spotlight. She needs it to feel good about herself. This is a woman who believes in her own PR.
Have you noticed this Tea Party is mostly white? Christian. Catholic. Yes, Catholics are Christians but not all religions agree on this fact. Something about the Vatican. Oh well, without Vatican Roulette many of us wouldn't be here at all. How many generations have been conned, abused, terrorized and manipulated? It's a damn shame. The truth is coming to the light.
The corruption in all areas of all institutions, small and large, is despicable. Disastrous consequences are at hand. The marriages of politics and religion inevitably denies citizens and residents of equal rights. The Supreme Court has now ruled that corporations have the same rights as individuals. That's the base conversation of conservatism is "I have mine. And I ain't sharing." I believe in the separation of church and state, now more than ever. Thank you, John Adams, for your sacrifice.
That Sara Palin has become the spokesperson of the Tea Party Movement is scary beyond belief.
Time to go see Alice in Wonderland because we all must be at the Mad Hatters Tea Party.
These rainy day bits of humor, come from Paula, a dear and lovely friend since college days. That Laura, whom you just met, has already graduated from college reminds me of how precious time is and the real meaning of the expansive nature of friendship. Thank you for always being there.
BLESSEDare the Cracked, for They Let in the Light!
1.My
husband and I divorced over religious differences. He thought he was God
and I didn't. 2.I don't
suffer from insanity; I enjoy every minute of it. 3.Some people are alive only because it's illegal to
kill them. 4.I used to have a handle on life, but it broke. 5.Don't take life too seriously; No one gets out
alive.
6. You're just jealous because
the voices only talk to me. 7.Beauty is in the eye
of the beer holder. 8.Earth is the insane
asylum for the universe.
9. I'm not a complete idiot -- Some parts are
just missing. 10. Out
of my mind. Back in five minutes.
16.Being 'over the hill' is much
better than being under it! 17.Wrinkled
was not one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up. 18.Procrastinate Now!
19.I Have a Degree in
Liberal Arts; Do you want fries with that? 20.A
hangover is the wrath of grapes. 21.A journey of a
thousand miles begins with a cash advance. 22.Stupidity is not a
handicap. Park elsewhere! 23.They call
it PMS because Mad Cow Disease was already taken. 24.He who
dies with the most toys is nonetheless DEAD.
25.A
picture is worth a thousand words, but it uses up threethousand
times the memory.
26.Ham and
eggs...A day's work for a
chicken, a lifetime commitment for a pig. 27.The trouble with life
is there's no background music.
28.The
original point and click interface was a Smith & Wesson. 29.I smile
because I don't know what the hell is going on.
30. Love Always Wins except in tennis.
Appreciate every single thing
you have, especially your friends!
Introducing Laura, the brilliant, creative, multi-talented and gifted daughter of Paula and Sal.
Laura is a petite, beautiful blond with sparkling blue eyes. She looks the part of a Boston/New York artist...which she is. Her skinny jeans are tucked neatly in stylish brown boots. She wears a blueish scarf tied artfully around her neck and over a blazer. They highlight her eyes and figure. She is striking in any setting but here she was joining us for coffee with her mother, Paula, and I at a local Starbucks on a Saturday afternoon.
The following is the animated documentary video she put together in
her senior year. Not one to shy away from controversial topics that may
make others uncomfortable, she tacked ECT (electro-convulsive treatment)
for patients with depression by focusing on two women; her grandmother
and Kitty Dukakis, who wrote a breakthrough book about her battle with
depression. Did Laura know the Dukakis'? No, she simply wrote a letter and developed a mutual friendship with this high profile couple who opened their lives to her.
ECT works. It's usually the last line
of defense against the failure of pharmaceutical treatment of deep depression. Patients and
their families grapple with a host of difficult questions and concerns.
Laura has produced an informative and inspirational documentary. I believe you'll agree. Applause, applause, applause!
Laura's specialty is animation and if Pixar doesn't pick her up soon, the competition will. One year out of college and her work is being shown at film festivals here and abroad. You can check out her other work at LauraPiraino.com
While I ventured out into the world beyond the confines of my hometown, Maureen remained firmly ensconced and rooted to Danvers. Everyone in town knows her or about her. Today she would be diagnosed as special needs but then, when we met in Junior High School, there was no such thing as special education. She, too, was called to break down barriers of discrimination. As I've stated before, I am a champion of the underdog.
Yesterday I received a phone call from her. I was already in a dither, given the up and down changes in the barometric pressure. I'm as sensitive to these changes in weather as I am to the stages of the moon and change of seasons. Yesterday, as I wrote, it was a beautiful, sunny 60 degree plus day. This morning it was snowing and made for a tricky commute as the snow clung to the trees giving it that fairyland appearance. Talk about a bipolar spring week.
Maureen's phone call startles me with her directness. I could take a few lessons from her about asking direct questions. She pegged me perfectly. Her memory is prodigious. She could name every concert she ever attended and who she went along with. She recalled where we met, when we met and she asked the most amazing questions. It was if she was able to fully capture and understood the pain of having a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. She knew enough to know that it was something I had, not who I was. She is friendly, smart, very smart, and deeply insightful. If you can allow yourself to get beyond the stutter and to concentrate, she respectfully yet powerfully emerges. Maureen never hid in the shadows and for that great blessing I applaud her. Her family and her family of friends and the faithful are her champions. Count me in.
This was not our first conversation but it was our first-ever phone conversation. It lasted an hour or so. There is no escaping her interests. Religion, politics, health care, townies, music, you name it, we covered it. Maureen makes friends and she has signaled that we are to be friends. I get it.
She opened my heart further than I was to realize. I knew it was occurring as we spoke because I could feel the sharp pain of an opening heart. I knew there was no escaping it. She knows who I am. Then she invited me to Mass (that's something no one has done in ages) and out to lunch. How could I not agree? Palm Sunday was always a favorite of mine. I no longer am a church-goer and don't expect that will change any time soon. The Church and I just absolutely differ about most subjects but its rituals endure.
I felt the tears welling-up inside of me as we talked, just wanting to escape. I heard my voice change accordingly. I felt the pit in my stomach rise and knew I was in for some trouble. Later that evening, the tears burst through like an overflowing dam. I found myself rocking back and forth to comfort myself. Where is everybody when I have a good cry? Where are those strong comforting arms of another? Do you ever wonder why women cry? We just do. Some of us are simply more sensitive than others. And that's a good thing, as Martha Stewart would say.
There are many in town that believe the property where I live is haunted. It once was the secluded grounds of a state-run mental hospital built in the late 19th Century atop a picturesque hill overlooking the crossroads of local and interstate highways and byways. It was, at a time, when not much could be done about people with a mental illness. Located at the edge of town it was a big employer of locals in this farming community. The grounds were cultivated like a park with blooming trees, flower beds, and a circular entry and roadway flanked by majestic oak trees. It was built in a red-brick, Gothic style in stark contrast to the modest homes of the town. An underground tunnel system moved people and goods from building to building to the outside world. The patients were the 'free' laborers.
Once upon a time the hospital was its own self-sustaining community. Back in the day when the state had acquired the property, the hill and surrounding farmlands, stretched along the borders of two small towns.
(There must be a story to this but its history has not reached me yet.) Ours is not the rich farmlands of the mid-west, but favored staples such as potatoes, corn, onions and other rooted vegetables. In fact, Danvers (a.k.a. Salem Village) was known for it's onions and adopted the name Onion Town. Once the town was also noted for its unique brick color and for the fact the small shoemaker shops made shoes for the slaves of southerners. So yes, the whole town and its history is spooky to me.
The state closed the facility and the decay of its many buildings set in as it waited at least a decade for a new purpose. The property is registered as a National Historic site given its unique architecture and setting. There are several small cemeteries scattered about the once expansive and under-utilized state land. Much of the area remains under the auspices of the state and is deemed open space so future development is unlikely.
People still whisper about the cemeteries here. I've taken many people down the curving overgrown path leading to the original cemetery. It leads down a hill to a secluded glen that only in the last decade has been "rediscovered." At the time, residents who died as paupers, were buried with a number marking their resting place. Due to the activism of Marie Balter and a host of former patients, they were able, with the town's help, to identify the names of people who lie at rest here. This cemetery begins with the number 1.
So is it "haunted"? I'll let you be the judge of that but I hear tell, the local police have lots of pictures of apparitions. As one of my former students firmly spoke, "The spirits are everywhere." Here it is no different.
My own connectedness to the property came early in life. My grandfather told us that his father, an Irish immigrant from Clarinbridge in County Galway, came to the States alone as a teenager. He was a big man, a hard drinker and a bricklayer. He walked the 5-7 miles from Lynn for this opportunity to work. He had a family to support not unlike this new wave of immigration. That Maggie, his wife, was at least 6 years older than him, brings out the cougar in me. I just love the fact that she shaved 10 years off her life as she reported in the 1900 census. Age is just a number. It makes no difference in the connectedness of souls.
Eventually, the Archdiocese of Boston built a chapel upon the hill. It's first priest, Father Joe Gately, married father and mother. His family and father's family were next door neighbors. How weird is that? The name of the chapel was Our Lady of the Hill. His ministry was to address the unique spiritual needs of the hospital caretakers and the patients. That was quite a calling, for it's well accepted that those with mental illness have some unique spiritual gifts. Something about the frontal cortex is what science is discovering. It takes a very strong spirit to survive any disease, never mind a mental illness.
As we head into Easter week, a holy time for Christians and pagans alike, I am reminded of the year(s) my brothers were called to serve during "Holy Week". There are a lot of Masses and rituals associated with the triumph and crucifixion and rebirth of Jesus of Nazareth. All my brothers were altar boys. That shouldn't surprise anyone and so they were called to serve at Our Lady of the Hill during the Easter vigil. I, being the good girl that I was, accompanied mother and my brothers to the chapel. It was a beautiful, petite structure with gorgeous stained glass windows and a ceiling in that familiar yet unique color known as Mary's or robin's egg blue. What I recall was its simplicity and an energy I had never experienced before. It no longer exists.
I also remember the patients. Everyone smoked. The tobacco companies made a lot of money off the addiction to tobacco. I suspect they still do. Right after Mass, mother and I were approached by a couple of patients requesting cigarettes. I took out the pack in my pocketbook and handed them out. It was the charitable thing to do. They knew enough to ask us. I was a hard-core smoker for a long time myself.
There was one young woman that I can recall that evening. She was an age contemporary of mine. She was easily spotted given her appearance dressed in an expensive coat and rocking herself to and fro for comfort. I would later adopt this method myself in order to comfort myself in distress. She sat alone along the far right hand aisle rocking herself all through Mass. My heart ached for her not knowing what troubled her so. She disappeared quickly at the end of Mass. She probably already had a pack of cigarettes in her pocket. Why this scene is indelibly marked in my mind is curious. Perhaps she wanted to be remembered or recognized by someone. I am the one who remembers.
Sometimes, patients came for "a rest" for days or weeks or years or a lifetime. Depression is serious stuff but so isn't mania. People lived here, worked here and died here. The horror stories be damned. There was a lot of mistreatment and stigma associated with mental illness even more so in those days. Is it improving? As more of us speak out or write-out, it does.
As for the chapel, Our Lady of the Hill, when the state closed the institution, the Archdiocese came in and "decommissioned" the chapel or whatever it's called. The stained glass windows were removed and stored where ever they store glass art. The altar and other religious artifacts were removed. So weren't the pews. She was stripped of her beauty in other words. It would have made Father Joe cry had he lived long enough to see it. Alas, he died as a young man of cancer.
Today I live here in a luxury apartment subsidized by the state and federal governments. I have become "Our Lady of the Hill" personified. Life is such a mysterious journey and I have come full circle.
So is the property haunted? I have a few more stories to share before you can be the judge of that. If it is, it is delightfully so.
This tidbit of news came along from one of the Marys....collectively known as the Hail Marys...because they constitute the most popular name in my phone list. This Mary is an ace and always is a source of remarkable information that I wouldn't otherwise get. She sent this along with her infectious laughter.
"About 6
months ago, the writer (not me) was watching a news program on oil and one
of the Forbes Bros. was the guest. The host said to Forbes, "I am
going to
ask you a direct question and I would like a direct answer; How much
oil does the U.S. have in the ground?" Forbes did not miss
a beat, he said, "More than all the Middle East put together."
Please read below.
The U. S. Geological
Service issued a report in April 2008 that only scientists and oil
men knew
was coming, but man was it big. It was a revised report (hadn't been
updated since 1995) on how much oil was in this area of the western
2/3 of
North Dakota, western South Dakota, and extreme eastern Montana .....
check
THIS out:
The Bakken is the largest domestic oil
discovery since Alaska's Prudhoe Bay, and has the potential to
eliminate all American dependence on foreign oil. (hmm) The Energy
Information
Administration (EIA) estimates it at 503 billion barrels. Even if
just 10% of
the oil is recoverable... at $107 a barrel, we're looking at a
resource base
worth more than $5.3 trillion.
"When I first
briefed legislators on this, you could practically see their jaws hit
the
floor. They had no idea.." says Terry Johnson, the Montana Legislature's
financial analyst.
"This sizable find is now
the highest-producing onshoreoil field found in the past 56 years,"
reports
The Pittsburgh Post Gazette. It's a formation known as the
Williston Basin, but is more commonly referred to as
the 'Bakken.' It stretches from Northern Montana, through North
Dakota and into Canada. For years,
U. S. oil
exploration has been considered a dead end. Even the 'Big Oil'
companies gave up searching for major oil wells decades ago. However,
a
recent technological breakthrough has opened up the Bakken's massive
reserves..... and we now have access of up to 500 billion barrels.
And
because this is light, sweet oil, those billions of barrels will cost
Americans just $16 PER
BARREL!
That's enough crude to
fully fuel the American economy for 2041 years straight. And if THAT
didn't throw you on the floor, then this next one should - because
it's from
2006! (U. S. Oil Discovery- Largest Reserve in the World -
Stansberry Report Online - 4/20/2006)
Hidden 1,000 feet beneath the surface of
the Rocky Mountains lies the largest untapped oil reserve in the
world. It is more than 2 TRILLION barrels. On August 8, 2005
President
Bush mandated its extraction. In three and a half years of high oil
prices
none has been extracted. With this mother lode of oil why are we
still
fighting over off-shore drilling? (Why are we fighting wars at all for that matter?)
They reported
this stunning news: We have more oil inside our borders, than all
the
other proven reserves on Earth. Here are the official estimates:
- 8-times as much oil as Saudi Arabia
- 18-times as much oil as Iraq
-21-times as much oil as Kuwait
- 22-times as much oil as Iran
- 500-times as much oil as Yemen
- and it's all right here in the Western
United States .
HOW can this BE? HOW can
we NOT BE extracting this? Because the environmentalists and others
have
blocked all efforts to help America become independent of foreign
oil!
Again, we are letting a small group of people dictate our lives and
our
economy.....WHY? (There is a pattern here.)
James Bartis, lead researcher with
the study, says we've got more oil in this very compact area than the
entire
Middle East -more than 2 TRILLION barrels untapped. That's more than
all the proven oil reserves of crude oil in the world today, reports
The
Denver Post.
Don't think 'OPEC' will drop its price - even with
this
find? Think again! It's all about the competitive marketplace, - it
has
to be. Think OPEC just might be funding the environmentalists?
(And the Others?)
Got your attention yet? Now, while you're
thinking about it, do this:
Pass this along. If you don't take a little time to do this, then you should stifle
yourself the next time you complain about gas prices - by doing
NOTHING, you
forfeit your right to complain. (I'm doing my part here.)
Maybe now we'll be able to fund universal health-care in the US without the acrimony we've been witnessing. I say, "Let's go. Grab the kids and visit the Dakotas, Montana and the Canadian Rockies before it's too late."
A lone crocus and a small clump of daffodils stand in stark contrast to the footsteps. The evidence of construction workers footprints do not mar their appearance as they push their way above the ground. There were years when the crocuses got an early start only to be crushed by a late arriving snow. Last year at this time, they had the shelter of bushes long past their
prime. This year, it's against the rains that these lone soldiers bloom in defiance. They no longer are in the shadows. All signs of landscaping have disappeared. How symbolic.
I recall the first season of recovery as when time slowed down to a near stop. Each day was an effort. Was it the medication or the bottomless depression? Who knows? So I planted bulbs. Gardening has always been recognized as being therapeutic and a sign of well-being. It gives me pleasure to nurture and put my hands into the dirt as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I've been praying and waiting for the transformation of this house since August 1962. That's a long time by any standards. As of today, all the walls are up and primed. The plasters have completed the ceilings. I heard the colors for all the rooms have been selected and were on site. This will be just as much of a surprise for me to see what the gals have chosen, as it was waiting for that first preview issue of Martha Stewart Living to come off the Donnelly presses. I imagine they'll be a few ohhs and awes of inspiration. Just the idea of fresh paint sets a smile on my face.
You have no idea the pure joy I feel watching this once-upon-a-disaster come together. Camera in hand, documenting an extreme makeover nearly 48 years in the making. Sometimes I wonder if we shouldn't have a 16 wheeler parked in front of the house for effect when the homeowners return. I know just the right person to ask to do the job for me...oops....us. If you're familiar with the television series Extreme Makeover then you get the point.
This home may finally meet the images of a childhood fantasy come true. All things come to those who wait. I've learned to be patient. It does not come naturally but I've taught myself to savor the wait.
The moment I put the key in the lock, I knew something was wrong. As I pushed against the door, the unmistakable sound of roaring water greets my unexpected visit. As I rush through the kitchen towards the living room I know in an instant the pipes have burst. As I step into the front hall, gallons of water have slashed through the ceiling creating a cascade of multiple waterfalls. Nothing remained untouched. Water had breached the hall way and then some. A quick peak into a bedroom spies another ceiling about to cave. I whip out my cell phone to place a call to one of the go-to brothers knowing this conversation was a call for Action.
"This is the sound of fucking Niagara Falls in the living room!" The words escape unedited as I hold the cell phone away from my body witnessing the scene unfold myself. Less than 5 minutes later he is on the scene executing damage control. No longer alone, immediately I enter the living room drenched beyond repair. Dashing and skirting the falls, I begin scooping up photos and memorabilia thinking of mother. This disaster was going to rock her world. I gather memories as my brother warns me to get out because the ceiling might collapse. "Not while I'm here." Within moments another brother is one the scene and we all understand we have a catastrophe on our hands. It's a good thing we're all excellent crisis managers.
I am transfixed by the complexity of the situation. Water is gushing everywhere, washing away, purifying and engulfing. The water meter is spinning so fast it makes one dizzy. It was going to be one hell of a water bill next month. Must shut down the water and check the heating systems. Frankly, I admit to not knowing anything about these crucial household systems but I'm not unwilling to learn as we go. However, my presence is not needed. I've done my duty. I made the discovery and the necessary call for help. Later I would learn that had I not stopped in to check on the house, the consequences would be even more severe. It's hard to believe.
Dear Readers:
I haven't posted a blog since St. Patrick's Day. This does not mean, I've had a hangover for a week nor is it a lack of ideas or motivation. In fact, I have 3 blogs in draft mode but they're just not ready to go.
March Madness is a term that has taken over our lexicon. Everyone is susceptible, you don't have to have a mental illness to be sensitive to the changes in seasons or to be praying for the end of snow and rain. Those were some heavy floods last week as traffic was rerouted due to the overflow of the Ipswich River. It took forever to go locally from point A to point B. It helps to know the back roads!
I was traveling a lot last week to visit with all my friends who are available to do lunch. I live like a woman on a champagne budget who forgets there's beer in the fridge. Am I high maintenance? Yes and no. Sure, I can have it both ways.
Anyway, there was a trip to Boston, a couple of trips to Lawrence and a trip to Seabrook, NH. As you may have gathered, my anxiety levels rise in direct proportion to how my 21 year-old Volvo is behaving or not. Now that it is back in my possession, it possesses me absolutely. While it sat during the rainstorms, I feared the windshield would leak and the drivers seat would become saturated. I was so relieved this didn't happen, a grin and an outward praise escaped from my lips.
Then I opened the rear door. In the back seat well stood about 2 inches of water.I recall the days when that would send me in a tailspin or a crying frenzy. I threw two old towels on the floor to soak up the puddle. Cars, especially aging cars are no picnic but they do call for creativity. A car is independence and there is no public transportation in the suburb where I live. Having a car is essential but there is no budget for a new or a used vehicle in my future. So with lots of travel, floods and rerouting I wasn't paying much attention to fuel consumption. You see, my fuel tank is permanently on "E" for empty. So like others, no longer in the middle class, I have to estimate and conserve my usage.
Well, Friday I got in the Volvo to go check on the state of the renovation of the house and detected something wrong with the car. I brought it to my brother and he said it sounded like it may need gas. OK but the fuel indicator light never came on. It is probably linked by a sensor to the fuel gauge but they are clearly not communicating. I made it about 5 blocks, the long way around due to the flooding, before it came to a complete stop. What did we ever do without cell phones? Brother to the rescue for the umpteenth million time. Yup, he was right. Out of gas!
This is a first for me. Especially in these days of GPS, talking cars and bluetooth steering wheels, how does one run out of gas? I don't know but I did. I'm also not the only American living like this. The difference is I can laugh at my foibles. The Volvo and I have history together. Maybe someday the Volvo will talk and tell you some of the adventures we've shared over the years.
Do you think the President of Volvo would be interested in our storied journeys?
As for the house....the sheet rock is up and now we have rooms again. The plasterers are on the job this week and soon the painters will arrive. The house is wrapped up in TYVEK like a present just waiting for the gift wrapping of vinyl siding. We're on time and on budget with the chosen contractor. There is no doubt "my" preferred, personable and hard-working contractor would undoubtedly be at the same point. I trust he has found other work to keep him busy. We are all anticipating the final product. Stay tuned.
It was just another day for the ladies who lunch. Now who would that be? Beibei and Lisa and I, of course. Yes, Lisa is back from Ottawa. I can't wait to meet this romantic man who last weekend drove to Ottawa to bring her back to New Hampshire...just because he missed her. This man didn't even have a valid US Passport until he met Lisa! Now, I believe we'll be seeing a lot more of her. Applause, applause, applause!
I feel the joy of being happy and laughing at Lisa's surprise, excitement and astonishment about this new relationship. We are a bunch of girls still giggling over boys and how happy they can make us especially when they treat us right. Today was a day of sharing her joy as she lavishly, spread it around her. Lisa is a fun, extremely smart, and a hardworking entrepreneur. We are the ladies who lunch. But we're also hatching a plan, not just for a conversational English class (that will happen) but a language school that includes teaching Chinese and Spanish. The ladies who lunch think big!
Tomorrow it is lunch with Galina. Hmm, perhaps this school can teach Russian, too. What do you think?
Will you, please, help me by signing the petition to Stand With Haiti? Will you pass the word around and forward the link to your friends? I make a special plea to my readers from the Dominican Republic. Haiti is much more important than you can believe. Stand With Haiti is a program of Partners in Health and Paul Farmer. Please sign the petition.
I never heard of Paul Farmer until I arrived in Haiti in 2004. Within moments of my arrival, my destination was challenged because our hosts were not inside the 'terminal' waiting for us. We had no address or hotel information to give. Rule number 1: Have a destination when traveling to the islands. I was escorted outside. It was already dark when I was greeted by a host of 'staring in disbelief' men. I could not find a woman among them. You've seen the same crowds on the video streams from Port au Prince. The immigration officer suggested that I call out to my friends. Trust me, there were no white faces in this crowd. I began calling out "Glenna, Michael, Where are you?" This was repeated for several moments as the crowd murmured and began to slightly imitate me. I wasn't afraid, just perplexed. My itinerary had been forwarded and confirmed. I looked at the immigration officer and we returned inside the terminal.
To call this a terminal is a misnomer. It is a former US milatary building. It has all the glamour of a barracks. All grim and bare. Processing tourists is not big business. Tourists are few. This was the land of missionaries and non-profits plying their trades in communities by providing basic needs inside and outside of the capital city.
By the time I returned inside, my traveling companion had a name of a hotel and a driver. The immigration officer examined my passport, spoke my last name, looked at me and waved me on. We got into a new car and gradually made our way out of the airport area. When we were no longer around the perimeter of the airport, the street lights vanished. It became dark and traffic snarled to a turtle's pace. It was a warm evening and the Haitian people were outside living. It was late but people still plied their market goods on the 'sidewalks'. Women with great bundles walked gracefully along the side of the road. An emaciated dog crossed our path. I felt as if I'd landed on the other side of the moon. This was unlike any mismash of store fronts, street vendors, and shelters I'd ever experienced in a third World Country. This was Fourth World and beyond description.Today it lies in ruin with millions of people homeless with serious injuries. It no longer holds much media attention.
Our driver asked our names or perhaps we volunteered them. It makes no difference. When I said my name, "I was asked if I was related "to the great man, Paul Farmer. He's a doctor from Boston." Now, many years later, he is simply known as Palo in Haiti and is one of the most respected men of the people. He is an Harvard University Medical Professor with a specialty in Infectious Diseases, treating HIV and drug-resistant TB. He, and the other PIH founders Dr. Jim Yong Kim (President of Dartmouth) and Ophelia Dahl, and their sister organizations are experts in creating free medical clinics with world-class technology and pharmaceuticals serving the poorest of the poor. They are the "go to" organization of the Melinda and Bill Gates Foundation, the Clinton Foundation, the Ford Foundation, the UN, etc.
Paul Farmer has been a social justice rock star for some time now. He speaks the truth and doesn't sugar coat it. He fills auditoriums on college campuses and other venues where he is invited to speak. Tracey Kidder wrote a best selling book about Farmer's early years in Haiti when he was proving all the naysayers wrong. It's called Mountains Beyond Mountains: The Quest of Paul Farmer, a Man Who Would Heal the World. If you haven't read it yet, it's an easy read. Now it's on high school summer reading lists. Farmer himself is a prolific writer who challenges reader's to rethink their stereotypes and assumptions. He is the human face and soul of Social Justice.
I've heard Paul Farmer speak on three occasions and hope to again. He'd be my hero if I had to chose one. He's the last person to leave an event because he'lll stay and shake everyone's hand and field questions. He is a social justice rock star on US college campuses across the country. There is a rush to the stage after his presentation and the students seek him out clutching his books. I'm not one for crushing crowds, but on this one occasion I knew I had to introduce myself, so I waited in the packed lines. By the time I reached him and asked him to autograph one of his books, we got interrupted. He held my hand for a long time while he responded to an acquaintance. Then he calmly turned to me. I repeated my name and he asked where I was from. "Here", north of Boston."
"Massachusetts. That's where my father's family is from. We must be cousins. My family calls me PJ and so can you. I'll inscribe it that way for you." And he did before the crush moved me on but, not before I told him I'd been to Haiti myself. This seemed to surprise him and he started to hand me off to one of the young Haitian doctors but we got separated. The next thing you know, I'm out the door of Memorial Hall into the sunshine.
If you are on a university campus and many of you are, you may have the chance to hear him speak. Arrive early or get your ticket early because there is standing room only when this man is around. Are we related? Quite possibly for Farmer isn't the most popular last name and certainly doesn't sound Irish. Let's just assume we are.
There is a story in our family that when I did our genealogy, proved to be accurate. That it was told like a legend passed orally from one generation to another, is fitting on this day before St. Patrick's Day. St. Patrick, was the Italian, who brought Catholicism to the island of Ireland. In the process, he chased away the indigenous religion of the people and possibly snakes out of Ireland. I don't know about the snakes part but Roman Cathoilicism took root easily enough without any need for warfare. They had been a literate people for eons with their own language and culture that celebrated music and dance and the art of storytelling. It was the English who added the mix of alcohol later on as they did with many civilizations that they conquered. There is an old joke that God gave the Irish the drink to keep them from taking over the world. I believe it's true and it still gets a good laugh.
As the story goes, Mary (maiden name unknown) and Patrick Farmer had 5 sons. They were from the tiny town of Roslea in County Fermanaugh. Today it is a border crossing gateway between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. It's located in a remote lakes district of Northern Ireland and it isn't on any tourist itinerary or bus tour. To my knowledge, no modern Farmer has ever been to their ancestral home town though many have journeyed to Ireland. I still dream of going to County Fermanaugh some day because I hear it is a beautiful area of lakes and islands dotted with ancient Celtic-Druid stone work. Perhaps it could make for a mystical setting for a novel....or a blog.
The oldest two sons, Patrick and Michael set sail for New York. They were probably 17 and 18 years old, not unusual at the beginning of the famine. There was no Ellis Island then and immigration though recorded, was less stringent in those days. They made their way to the New York/Massachusetts border area in search of work. The terrain today is still beautiful dotted with small villages, old mills, the rounded mountains of the Catskills and Berkshires and further east the expanding manufacturing towns and cities reaching the Atlantic Ocean.
The brothers worked and saved to pay the passage for their next brother, Terrance (my ancestral branch) to come to the States. He arrived in Boston, joined up with Patrick and they both settled in Lynn. At his point, Michael drops out of the collective consciousness. I suppose he met a striking woman, had employment and settled down to raise a family. I believe Paul Farmer holds the key to this missing link...Michael.
The three brothers then paid for the passage of two younger brothers, James and Edward. The age difference between the older brothers and younger brothers was significant. James and Edward arrived at the tender ages of 14 and 16 in Boston just in time for the beginning of the War Between the States. They enlisted in the Grand Army of the Republic. The Irish like a good fight but are best known for fighting amongst themselves. Michael is listed as serving from New York, as was James. Patrick enlisted later in the war. Terrance did not serve. Census records indicate that he owned a dry goods store and had a young family. I imagine the responsibilities of at least two families were his. Times are not easy during war though you'd be hard pressed to equate or blame the current economic depression to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The casualties of the Civil War, the sheer number of boys that died is staggering as compared to today. We got a glimpse of Civil War era medicine and technology just recently watching the Haitian people dig and amputate in the rubble. An entire capital lies in ruins.
Well, all those Farmer boys made it home safely. That in itself was a miracle. They've settled in Lynn and later the North Shore for the next six generations making them part of today's establishment. Doing the genealogy was easy. All I had to do was go to St. Mary's Cemetery and the City Clerk's office in Lynn. It was the project that kept my mind occupied and body busy when I first became disabled.
On this eve of St. Patrick's Day, my mind drifts to Mary Farmer of Roslea, County Fermanaugh (Fur- Ma) who gave up, surrendered, five sons to unknown fates, knowing that she would never, ever see them again. I suppose the alternative was worse, to have them unnecessarily starve to death. Many will celebrate the Irish tomorrow drinking copious amounts of beer, whiskey and scotch. Some beer will be tinted green. Some will dance, some will sing, they'll be parades, loudness and ballads will permeate the airwaves.
I'll turn my attention to Mary Farmer who sent her sons to Boston via New York. Her's was an act of faith and courage. In a time of war, her veteran sons would be unharmed. They would know employment and become American citizens. They would bring Catholicism with them into a country that professed religious freedom but delivered prejudice. They would take their place as the new immigrants. They had their heyday in politics but that time is now passing away. They distributed their gene pool widely, which I guess, is the reason why everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day. They have prospered and multiplied among the people ensconced in the middle class. As for Mary daughters? We know nothing. That doesn't mean that they
didn't exist.
Tomorrow I will give thanks for the great blessings endowed upon us as a clan and for the work of Paul Farmer in particular. I thank you, dear Readers/Leaders, for providing an audience for my words of healing.
This one is making its way around the Internet. It's that time of year when we celebrate what the Irish have brought to the American culture and gene pool. It's time to bring out your Irish humor and contribute a story in the Comments section. It's a simple copy and paste. We can all use a few laughs or am I speaking for only for meself?
An Irish Lent Story
An
Irishman moves into a tiny hamlet in County Kerry, walks into the pub
and promptly orders three beers. The bartender raises his eyebrows, but
serves the man three beers, which he drinks quietly at a table, alone. An
hour later, the man has finished the three beers and orders three more. This happens yet again.
The next evening
the man again orders and drinks three beers at a time, several times.
Soon the entire town is whispering about the Man Who Orders Three
Beers. Finally, a week later, the bartender
broaches the subject on behalf of the town. "I don't mean to pry, but
folks around here are wondering why you always order three beers?" "Tis
odd, isn't it?" the man replies. "You see, I have two brothers, and one
went to America, and the other to Australia. We promised each other
that we would always order an extra two beers whenever we drank as a
way of keeping up the family bond." The bartender
and the whole town were pleased with this answer, and soon the Man Who
Orders Three Beers became a local celebrity and source of pride to the
hamlet, even to the extent that out-of-towners would come to watch him
drink. Then, one day, the man comes in and orders
only two beers. The bartender pours them with a heavy heart. This
continues for the rest of the evening. He orders only two beers. The
word flies around town. Prayers are offered for the soul of one of the
brothers. The next day, the bartender says to the
man, "Folks around here, me first of all, want to offer condolences to
you for the death of your brother. You know-the two beers and all." The
man ponders this for a moment, then replies, "You'll be happy to hear
that my two brothers are alive and well. It's just that I, meself, have
decided to give up drinking for Lent."
