Suicide: The Transfer of Suffering

A meme came across my Facebook page recently that read, "Suicide does not end the pain, it gives it to someone else." I have had my foot on the edge before - I know all too well the sound of your own voice screaming so loudly in your head that nothing else can seem to quiet it.  In those dark moments, all a person can think of is ending the pain - but the solution that often comes to mind...taking our own life... does not end the pain, it multiplies it and spreads it to those we love.

On November 16, 2014, I lost my "baby" brother, Scott Lavey to suicide. I have been debating for some time to tell the story of that day here in this blog - not for my own sake - but in the hopes that someone thinking of taking their own life will stumble across it, read the story, and hopefully think twice about their decisions and how those decisions can impact not only them, but those whom they love.  

I had such a hard time putting my thoughts into words - expressing the jumble of images in a coherent manner that would make sense to the reader.  I wrote, re-wrote and edited this entry numerous times and still feel it is choppy and just plain... cold.... but it's the best I can do.  I can't make this story into a "good read" because it's not meant to be. It was the most horrific time in my life and there just isn't any easy way to say what's in my mind when I think back to this time or try to express what I feel in the present.

I would like to reiterate that the purpose of this entry is put out there into cyber space this story so others can hopefully learn from this tragedy and perhaps another tragic death can be prevented. 

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Since I wasn't there for the actual event, I can only tell bits and pieces from what I have been told by my mother. I'm keeping details of the actual death to a minimum as it is my own experiences dealing with Scott's death that I can personally speak of - and the events in Scott's life that may have led him to make this decision were his own.

My mother was on the phone with my Dad who was spending the weekend hunting at my uncle's home in the south towns.  A call was made to the local police that one of Scott's friends feared he may take his own life.  My bother Joe, who was with my father, and who works for the local EMT company got word from his co-workers about the call immediately.  My mother went downstairs and Scott was not asleep on the couch where he would normally be after a night of drinking.  Dad instructed my mother to look in the garage - look outside - find him.... She opened the garage door to find Scott laying on the concrete floor just behind the door.

Mom hung up the phone and immediately called 911.  She told the woman who answered that her son had shot himself - the shotgun laying at his feet.  He wasn't breathing.  The operator asked Mom if she would like to try CPR.  My mother agreed but didn't know how - before the operator began instructing her, my mother pleaded with the woman, "please... pray for my son."

Scott had taken a hunting rifle that belonged to my great-father and shot himself point blank in the chest.  He died immediately.

I read the coroner's report when my parents received it months later. It goes on to give his age, weight, height, distinguishing marks such as his tattoos and his vitals.  He was listed as an extremely healthy 25 year old.   My parents were advised by the coroner not to read the final two pages of the report as it went into great detail about the gun shot.  My parents and myself read it - I can't tell you why we felt it necessary, but we did.  I sat there reading in great detail the havoc that bullet did to my brother... to think something so small can cause so much damage.

It was Sunday morning and I was on my way to 9:00am Mass in downtown Buffalo.  It was a grey November morning, cold - hardly any cars on the road as I drove down the highway along the Niagara River.  As I was approaching my exit, my cell phone rang.  I could tell by the ringtone that it was my Dad.  As I reached for the phone I thought, "why on earth is he calling me.. he knows better than to call me at this time on a Sunday."  Then it hit me... Oh God.. maybe something happened to my Mom!

I answered the phone to the sound of my father crying on the other end.  I know I have seen my Dad with tears in his eyes before, but I can't tell you another time I heard my Dad cry.  "Mike - Scott's shot himself, he's dead."  How I did not hit the guard rail, only God knows.  My eyes were filled with tears and I was literally wailing when I hung up the phone.  I sped the entire way home -- a good 25 minute drive...praying to be pulled over in the hopes I could get a police escort or a cop might drive me home.

All I could think about as I was driving was getting home to my mother.  She was alone in the house and with Scott's previous bouts of depression and struggles with alcohol was horrified something like this would happen.  Now her worst fears had come true and in that moment of darkest pain, my mom was all alone in the house.  I wanted to hold her so badly and tell her everything would be ok - I wanted her to hold me like she did when I was little and tell me the same: it would be ok.  "Why, Scott?? Why, Scott?? I'd keep yelling as I tried to focus on the road - trying to see through the tears.

I drove down my parent's street and saw all the cop cars and emergency vehicles parked outside. There were so many that I had to park a few houses down from my parent's home.  I got out of the car and ran towards the house. There were police officers outside the garage - I never looked in, guessing that was where it had all happened. "Where's my Mom?!?  Where's my Mom?!?" was all I could say to the police officers.  They told me she was upstairs in the living room.

All during the drive home I kept thinking, "Mom is all alone.... I have to get home... Mom is by herself." My sister in law Katie who lives near by had been the first to arrive at the house and was with my mother. I met Katie at the top of the stairs and just hugged her.  My mother was on the couch, still in her nightgown, rocking.  I sat down next to her and put my arm around her and just cried.

As much as I wanted to hold my Mom and never let her go - I couldn't bring myself to stay with her - and for this I will forever be ashamed.  Even as a kid, the sight of my Mother crying has been hard on me.  If my mom was ever hurt enough to cry, something in me always shut down.  Seeing her - her face filled with pain - I couldn't handle it.  I walked over to the kitchen stools a few feet away, still wearing my coat, and hung onto the back of those stools and just rocked....leaning down, putting my head in my hands and squeezing my skull - thinking I could some how contain the pain and grief - I just stood there....rocking...sobbing into my hands... shaking.

I knew my older bother Joe was on his way home with my Dad.. but they were still a distance away.  I kept waiting for my sister Kristy to arrive.  I needed to see Kristy - I was told she was coming but I kept waiting for her.  I needed her to be in the room to know she was there.  She'd go to Mom. She'd do what I couldn't do in that moment.

I wanted to see Scott.  It was really bothering me that he was alone - no family beside him. The officer who stayed upstairs with my mother would not let me anywhere near the garage door.  We were waiting for the coroner, which to us, seemed like forever. I sat in Scott's room for a while until the police came in to take pictures.  This was, after all, considered a crime scene. Once reports were made and the coroner signed off on the paperwork, it was time for the ambulance to take Scott's body away.

I wanted to go to the living room window to see Scott put in the ambulance, but was again gently stopped by the police officer.  "You don't want to see that", I was told.  I knew what I would be seeing... I knew he'd be in a body bag... I knew it would be hard... but I had to.  Even from the window I had to be there, with him... how could he be taken from his home...our home... without one of us with him?  I wanted to argue my case with the police officer but decided that was not the time for a debate.  Back to the kitchen stool I went...hanging on as if for dear life as Scott left our house for the last time.

 I was surprised to hear that it was the family's responsibility to clean up any "mess" after an incident like this.  One police officer did offer to dispose of the blood soaked door mat for us which we were thankful for.  By the time the police had left, more family had come to the house and I decided to face the scene in the garage. I walked out into the cold concrete room and stepped over the threshold where Scott's body had been.  There were still traces of blood on the concrete even after the mat had been removed. I crouched down and laid my hands on the cold floor.   When I rose, I started looking through the shelves for paper towels and cleaners that I new my Dad kept there.  I was numb, but I had to do... SOMETHING. I knew I didn't want my parents to see any trace of blood, but I'm not sure why I felt so compelled to do it myself.  When Kristy's boyfriend saw what I was about to do, he stopped me and insisted he take care of the cleaning.  It was very kind of him, but again -- I just felt it was something I needed to do... just like I felt I should have been able to watch him be taken to the ambulance. Still.. I didn't have the strength or will to argue or explain my feelings - I quietly walked away.

In the laundry room was a pile of Scott's clothes sitting in front of the washing machine for Mom to wash that morning.  I thought at least I could do this - I could wash this big pile of clothes so Mom wouldn't have to.. thinking I'd be sparing her the pain of having to do his laundry.  Little did I know that I now was taking something away from my mother.... the ability to do something for him one last time.. just as I had wanted to do in the garage moments earlier.

I went into the downstairs tv room and sat on the couch Scott often watched tv from or would fall asleep on at night.  I looked around at all the reminders that he had been there - his slippers, his video game controllers and dvds, his pillow and blanket.  In that moment the numbness began to wear off and was quickly - and briefly - replaced by anger.  Sitting there I picked up his pillow and whispered, "you son of a bitch."

I've lost many people whom I loved over the years, but when a tragedy like this hits, your range of emotions seem all the more intensified.  You're devastated and shocked at what happened, fall into despair over the loss, filled with anger at the decision that was made, guilty for the anger you feel or for the things you "could have done".  The sadness would randomly hit you like getting punched in the stomach, and when the sadness subsided the throbbing feeling of emptiness remained.

A few days prior to that Sunday, my parent's decided to put up their Christmas tree.  They were going out of town soon and my Dad would be out at his bother's hunting, so my Mom wanted to get the decorating out of the way, but also give herself more time to enjoy the decorations since she would be away for a time in December.  Assembling the artificial tree had been something Scott and my Dad did together, and before going hunting, the two of them assembled the tree (no easy task!) and strung the lights.  That Sunday, while the house was empty, my Mom was planning on leisurely decorating the tree.  Instead, the tree stood in the corner of the room, empty, as our world came crashing down.

A few days after the funeral (a week after his death), I stopped off at the cemetery to visit Scott's grave. My parent's did not have any plots when Scott died and purchased a family crypt at the cemetery where most of my family was laid to rest.  He's in the same mausoleum where my Mom's parent's are interred.  Actually, he's right around the corner from Grams and Gramps - we had to laugh...  in life, my Grandparent's lived so close to our house (one mile away), and now even in death they'd still be right around the corner.  Scott's grave is located on the inside of the mausoleum which makes it nice to be able to visit - you don't have to worry about the weather. I pulled a chair over to sit, and prayed quietly for a while.  It was a bit odd to see my parent's names already etched onto the stone, but to see Scott's name there, with a date of death was - and continues to be - surreal.

I felt so drawn to go see him shortly after his burial for the oddest reason.  When my old brother moved out I went to see his new home.  When my sister moved out, I went to see her new home.  When I moved out people came to see my home (Scott actually was the one to help me move in). As crazy as it sounds, I had to go see Scott in his new...home. Stupid isn't it? I just kept feeling like a heel if I didn't go see him - pay him a visit.  Odd how our minds work.

The pain doesn't go away after a few days or even a few weeks.  My family and I are going through what I called "the year of firsts".  The first Thanksgiving without him, the first Christmas - The first Easter... etc..etc".  As much as we tried to keep Christmas as festive as possible, we all admitted that we felt as if we were just going through the motions.  We decorated our trees (I helped my Mom decorate hers), but it just didn't feel the same - and seeing Scott's stocking on the mantel, empty, will never feel right.

I go through life just as I did before and have found amazing support and love from my family and friends - but still the pain is there.  Sometimes the images of that morning flash into my working memory so vividly that it hits like a ton of bricks.  Other times I can be driving along and a song will come on the radio and my eyes well up with tears for no reason.

 What's been one of the oddest adjustments for me has been referring to my siblings and I as the "three of us" instead of the "four of us".  The set has been broken up.  Now every time we talk about a family photo or doing something together, it seems odd without Scott to complete the set... the default setting in our minds when we think of our immediate family.  We were all at my brother's for father's day and my siblings and I were in the yard sitting in lawn chairs talking.  Joe made the observation that there just happened to be fourth chair next to us.. empty.. as if waiting for Scott.... where he would have been, should have been.  We quickly laughed it off saying, "naw.. Scott would have left by now" and imitated him saying goodbye in the way only he could, but I knew I wasn't the only one who was constantly reminded that our set was incomplete.

No, suicide does not end the pain - it just transfers it to those we love.  I don't know the kind of fear, pain and despair Scott felt that morning, but when he made the decision to try and end his pain in that way, he couldn't have known in that moment that the bullet that pierced his chest pierced the hearts of all those whom he loved. I once heard a line in a movie that said, "Death is like learning to wear a pair of eyeglasses or a ring.  It becomes a part of you, but you never forget that it's there." A wound was made on all the hearts of the lives that Scott touched - his friends and family. Sometimes it becomes a scar, sometimes the wound opens up again and the pain comes flooding in... but it's always there and always will be.

If anyone out there has stumbled across this page to read this story and are struggling with depression and thoughts of suicide, I implore you to reach out to friends and family.  Call the National Suicide Prevention Line: 1-800-273-8255.  Talk to someone - know that you and your life matter.  I wish Scott had had the clarity to see and feel just how much he was loved by so many and what a strong impact his death would make on his family and friends - maybe knowing that would have given him the strength to keep going and make it through another day.

Eulogy for my brother Scott

I was asked to post the eulogy I wrote for my brother, Scott, who passed away on November 16, 2014. I thank everyone for your kind words, love, prayers and support during this especially difficult time!

Scott, you are loved.

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When you're a kid growing up, you see your siblings in a very different light then you do as an adult.  The annoying little brother gradually turns into a friend and confidant. You think that there is time to foster that friendship and strengthen that bond - to say things you never really said before - to do things together you may not have done before.  But sometimes, things don't happen the way you had planned... and time runs out.

Scott never had it easy.  When my sister Kristy was born we all went to the hospital to see her and hold her - take pictures together.  Scott was born blue - rushed from our mother's room and taken to Children's Hospital.  At the age of three he was diagnosed with a form of eye cancer and had to lose his left eye.   All this suffering in only three years of life.

Despite his hardships, Scott plowed forward in life at full speed - leaving the rest of us dizzy in his wake.  He was quite often a handful... needing all the resources my parent's could muster and even calling the grandparents in as backup when needed.  If  Mom kept a tally as to how many times one of us got into trouble, yea... Scott would have won... Though the rest of us did pretty well in our own rights too.

I have to say though, that as I reflected on Scott's life to write this eulogy, it was not the whirl wind of a kid he was but that man he became that keeps coming to mind.  The man who never considered himself as particularly smart, yet designed and built from scratch a home for a pet rabbit that had more thought put into its design than most human homes - and was probably far better constructed.  His capacity to love and his willingness to give 110% to anyone who needed him far surpassed his grades on any standardized test or exam.  Loving with his whole heart came naturally to Scott.
 
As he helped me to move into my apartment - just the two of us - carrying furniture and boxes up three flights of stairs he never seemed to grow tired and never complained.  I'd catch my breath and ask if he could help me take some piece of furniture upstairs -  he'd smirk and tell me he'd already brought it up while I was chugging my third bottle of water.  He was always the first to volunteer for the hard tasks and would never think of accepting anything in the form of payment. "It's for family" is all he would say.

Scott wanted so much to be a Dad and have a family -- and if you ever wonder what kind of father he would have been, just ask Collin or Brittney.  I don't know whose faces lit up more when they came to visit at my parent's house - the kid's or Scott's.  Like my Dad, he had a natural love for children and had no problem taking them in his arms - going outside to play - or just vegging out with a game console.  Though he was in their lives for a relatively short time, I have no doubt they will always remember with great excitement their Uncle Scott.

I will never know the heart ache Scott felt Sunday morning.  I will never know the struggle that he kept hidden behind that charming smile.  But I pray that now, as he rests in the healing embrace of Our Lord,  that he will finally see himself for the truly remarkable person that he was.  I firmly believe with my whole heart that someday - when God calls my name - that Scott will be there learning on the gates to Heaven - and with a hug and a simple: "Hey Mike", I will know that I am home. 

"Does anyone still wear a hat?"

"I'll drink to that!"

A friend of mine came over recently and commented on the hats I have hanging in the hallway.  "How many hats do have??" --- the only truthful answer to that question is: never enough.

Hats /fedoras - more specifically "pork pies" (both diamond and traditional - brim always snapped up) are my addiction.  Carrie Bradshaw had shoes... I have hats.

My Grandpa Lavey passed away when I was in third grade, and I have few memories of him.  What I do remember clearly were the times he would come to my house for some family event and I would meet him at the top of the stairs to take his hat and put it in the bedroom with the coats.  Grandpa always wore a hat - at least in the cooler months.  He either wore a tweed flat cap or a tweed trilby (fedora-ish) that were so popular among older men in the 1980s.

Grandpa's hats were so unique to me in a world of cheap baseball hats. This was the 80s after all.. think trucker hats with mesh backs and advertisements on the front -- Grandpa's hats were classy.  For some reason I remember can clearly remember examining his hats with the satin lining and thinking this was just too cool!  A young fogey was born!

When Grandpa died, my Grandmother gave his clothes to anyone in the family who could get use out of them.  My Grandfather had a small hat size compared to most men - but his caps just happened to fit eight year old me.. who probably had a big head compared to most kids.  I was given one of the tweed flat caps he always wore.  I was thrilled.

Not being a sports fan (at all!), it never felt right wearing baseball caps.  There was a year in college where I bought every color ball cap with my University's logo on it that I could find.. but it never felt right.  I didn't want to wear a hat so closely associated with something I personally didn't relate to (baseball) - nor did I want to be a walking advertisement for something.. even if it was my school.  I ended up giving all my caps to my father who to this day tells people that he helped give me an education and all he got was a hat with the university's logo on it!  :)

In the early 2000s I was shopping with a friend at a local flea market and came across a stand that sold clothing.  The stand offered a small selection of cheap wool felt fedoras in only one style - but multiple colors and sizes.  It was a religious awakening!  I had always so closely identified with the 1940s and 50s and here was THE symbol (to me) of men of that era.  I wore the hat home.

Initially I only wore the hat to Church when I was dressed in a shirt and tie - but as I learned more about hats (the different crown styles - materials - brim widths - etc) and expanded my collection, I decided to just make them part of my every day attire.  Once I got passed the awkward "everyone is starring at me..." phase - the hat simply became a part of me and my personality -and now people identify me with the hats I wear: "I saw this guy in a fedora today and I thought of you!"

I think a lot of people have safety blankets - a ring, a watch, shoes, hats, purses - whatever it is - that either consciously or subconsciously have become a part of their persona -- becomes their symbol and their own little shield against whatever bogeyman might be out there in life.  Perhaps those same items act more as an empowering attribute that just makes them feel damn good about themselves when they put it on.  I haven't gone out of the house without a hat on literally in years --- and if I do leave the house without a hat, the breeze on my bald head makes me stop -- "wait... something feels different... MY HAT!  Dammit!!" -- and then I have to rush up three flights of stairs to get one.

The irony of my obsession?  I don't think I look particularly GOOD in hats.... and I've tried many shapes and styles before settling on my signature stingy brimmed pork pies (with the occasional c-crown thrown in for good measure).   I adore vintage fashion, but being a larger guy, can't always pull off a modern-meets vintage look without looking like a train wreck (if I can find vintage pieces in my size at all) - and if I dress ALL retro I end up looking like Oliver Hardy (Google him).  But the fedora is something I can wear with anything from jeans and t-shirt to a suit and tie - a nod to the past that holds up well in the present.  There are very few times I pass a mirror (I am not one to linger in front of them for long...) and think "damn I look good" -- but every now and then if the perspective is just right and the hat is tilted just so - I smile and head out to face the world with a little more spring in my step.

Oh the odd conversations that have happened - the man who starting talking to me (rather excitedly!) at a red light because his 5 year old nephew wears hats just like mine - random compliments from people on the street or in the grocery stores which catch me completely off guard (though the compliment is indeed appreciated!) - the sales lady who wanted to know where I got my hat because she thinks they're sexy and wants her boyfriend to get one - the random stories strangers start telling about people in their lives who also wear fedoras - people asking me if I'm a fan of AMC's Breaking Bad (damn you, Walter White!) or those who inevitably ask if I like jazz (I do not like jazz).   I'll even smile at the regulars at the bar whose names I have managed to commit to memory, but who find "Michael" too difficult to remember and refer to me simply as: "the hat guy".

Beyond the warm fuzzy feeling I get from wearing them and the conversations they have started (both fun and awkward) - they taught me a valuable lesson about personality, personal style and individuality: if you love something, forget about what other people may or may not think about you - DO IT - BE IT - OWN IT and --- ok, I have to say it... WORK IT! :-P  With the right level of confidence, you can pull off almost anything.

*tips hat*

Number, please.

For years I haven't had cable tv... and honestly I was quite happy without it.  Gradually over time however, Time Warner kept increasing my Internet bill well above the $44 a month I started out with.  When I called to complain about the almost $20/month increase, I was told the best thing they could do was give me a bundle which included basic cable, Internet and digital home phone for basically the same cost as what I was paying for Internet only.  I reluctantly agreed.

I'm not impressed with having cable back.  There are only a handful of shows I watch -- and even those can be found online if you know where to look.  Every time I turn on the tv I find myself watching old re-runs of shows I've seen 1,000 times --- which are also available online.  Not impressed.

The home phone was something I was excited about.  I HATE talking on cell phones.  Even routing them through traditional corded phones doesn't help with the initial connection quality of the cell phone which sometimes can be an annoyance.  So now the "home phone" has become my default telephone system when I'm at home... saving the cell (and my battery life) for texting and use when I am out and about.

For the first time in years, I now had a new telephone number.  My cell number hasn't changed in a decade and it is one of the few numbers I still have committed to memory.  But as I would tell people my primary number had changed, I found myself struggling to remember the new set of 7 digits.  The solution?  I gave my phone number an exchange name.

In the first half of the 20th century, telephone numbers had words and letters in front of them known as exchange names.  The names/exchanges served a few purposes.  Back then, operators either manually connected the call (before dial service) or helped in looking up numbers and connecting long distance calls.  The exchange acted like a mini area code -- all the phones in a certain area would be part of that exchange...making the operators job easier for connecting your call.  The words also made it easier for people to REMEMBER the phone number (does anyone even commit phone numbers to memory anymore?) since words tend to be easier to remember than a long chain of random numbers.

Exchange numbers were made famous in popular songs and movies of this time.  Glenn Miller's PEnnsylvania 6-5000 was a hit song using the telephone number of the Pennsylvania Hotel.  The movie BUtterfield 8  starring Elizabeth Taylor is also a telephone number exchange.  The PE in PEnnsylvania corresponds to 73 on your dial.  BU in BUtterfield would be 28.  If you were calling the Pennsylvania hotel, you'd dial 736-5000.  But PEnnsylvania 6-5000 (or PE6-5000) is an easier way to remember the number...and lends itself nicely to a song.  :)

With the introduction of area codes and direct dialing, exchange names faded into the past... dropping names and numbers and using only their numerical counter parts.  There is a scene in the 1970s sitcom All in the Family where Edith Bunker has to make an emergency call to the doctor in the middle of the night.  She begins to dial and says (I forget the exact number she uses) "PL 4.....oh wait!  They're using numbers now!"  She grabs for her phone book, looks up the number and begins to dial again saying, "754....." before coming to the realization that, "It's the same thing!"  Oh Edith.. how I loved you.

Sadly my new number which begins with 260 doesn't lend itself to many great exchange names.  I ruled out any word starting with BO because I don't need people thinking of body odor when they called.  I thought about ANgelus 0  since I have a great love for Latin (and it is the name of a Catholic prayer) -- but the "s" sound in Angelus and the "z" sound of zero gave me an instant lisp when reciting the number.  I settled on "COmmodore 0".  The fictional exchange name did indeed make the number far easier to remember.

Being the vintage geek that I am, when recording my answering machine message (I wasn't paying $3.40 a month for Time Warner digital voicemail), I simply recorded, "You have reached COmmodore 0-1234 (obviously that's not the real number), please leave a message."  I figured anyone who knows me well and heard the message would laugh it off... and anyone I don't know will get confused (such as the telemarketers who began calling me the day after I got the number activated).

When I came home from Church this morning, the machine (for the first time) was blinking that I had a message.  Curious as to who called me so early, I pressed play.  Sure enough it was a telemarketer -- I could hear the call center chatter in the background.  Before the caller hung up, I could hear him say excitedly, "Oh wow!  He uses an exchange name!!" before the call disconnected.  Yes sir I do...but I'm still not answering your survey or buying your products.  :)

And one for Mahler! -- I mean... Elaine!!

There are certain gay genes I just did not get.  I don't have a compulsive desire to live at the gym and as a result do not have abs of steel.  I may have abs of at least copper, but if I do, they are buried under a protective layer of fat for safe keeping.  I also do not follow theater or musicals - for the most part...though I have been known to burst out into song at work - much to the dismay of my co-workers.


I was however devastated to learn of the passing of Broadway legend, Elaine Stritch, who took her final bow on July 17, 2014.  Though I had never seen her live on stage and knew very little of the actual theatrical performances for which she is best known, I got to know her through television and Internet. I developed an immense love and admiration for this woman's bold personality and contagious laughter.

The only stage performance of hers that I can say I have seen in its entirety was her one woman show Elaine Stritch at Liberty which comprised of her telling (and singing) her life story.  I saw it some time around 2003 when it aired on HBO.  I was channel surfing and came upon this program of a woman on stage wearing little more than an over-sized men's button down shirt and black tights.  Within five minutes of listening to the monologue about theater life in the 1940s and 50s, I was hooked.  This woman sure knew how to tell a story!

 Miss Stritch would make appearances in movies and television shows and I'd roar with laughter at her amazing comedic timing and unsurpassable  whit.  I actually tried to get into the series "30 Rock" in which she had a recurring role as Alec Baldwin's mother, Colleen.  After a few episodes I stopped watching and instead watched the "best of Colleen" clips on YouTube.  Hell, I was only watching it for Stritch, so I might as well focus on the clips she was in.  Look them up sometime.  They are hysterical!  As for the rest of the show?  I was less than impressed.


To me, Elaine Stritch represented a link to the era I have loved so much all my life.  The classic age of Hollywood and Broadway - most notably the 1940s and 1950s.  To see Elaine walking down the streets of New York (which I sadly had only done through clips and documentaries) was to see style personified.  Her billowing fur coats, her classic oversize glasses and modest, yet fashionable hats.  "Does anyone, still wear a hat?".  She was the complete opposite of the stained tshirt and pants down around your ass ensables and treated everyday as a chance to look and BE your absolute best.


The loss of Miss. Stritch was yet another reminder of the loss of that amazing generation and many of the values, styles and attitudes of their era.  Thankfully there will always be young fogies like myself to keep some of those trends alive, but there is no substitute for the original.... and Elaine Stritch was as original as they come.  Her determination, straight shooter, take no bull shit approach to life -- all while laughing -- stays at the back the mind. Once in a while I like to draw some strength from Elaine Stritch, whose persona has joined the many personalities that make up the chorus of voices in my head.  I think we all need a little Stritch to keep it real and keep ourselves (and those around us!) on our toes.


Through watching Elaine Stritch at Liberty on television and later online, I came to learn of the character for which she is perhaps best known: Joanne from Stephen Sondheim's musical comedy: Company.  Her signature song Ladies Who Lunch remains on my Iphone play list -- and my friend Bryan and I will randomly reference the lyrics to this classic in our many online chat sessions and text messages.  Our phrase of approval?  "I'LL DRINK TO THAT!"

As the entertainment world mourns the loss of this amazing talent, I must thank her for the lessons she taught her audiences --- not just through the characters she portrayed on stage and screen, but through the intimacies of her life which she shared in a very open way in numerous interviews and documentaries.  From discussing candidly her own fears and hangups -- how she constantly had to work to overcome them -- to her life long struggle with alcoholism (though she admits she had a great deal of fun thanks to the booze!), to boldly sharing her feelings on aging and diabetes.  She let the world know that everyone - no matter who they are or what they do -- has to deal with fear.  You just have to move on.  "As my husband used to say, everyone has a sack of rocks to carry."

So here's to the Ladies who Lunch -- and to Elaine Stritch!  Everybody rise!!

A Perfectly - Percolated - Pot - of Coffee

Some people are hardcore coffee drinkers.  It's as if their mothers had fed them coffee in their baby bottles instead of formula.  For me, although I loved the smell that wafted from my Dad's coffee can of Folgers, I could never get into drinking the famous morning elixir.... until I had to. 

I have always been a tea enthusiast.  Whether it be the frigid nights of January or the hottest evening of August, I will brew a pot (yes a POT) of tea after dinner.  For the mornings however, tea just wasn't cutting it.  Tea does not seem to give me that caffeine high that coffee produces - and despite being delicious, I needed something with a little more "octane" for my wake up time of 5:30am.  I decided it was time to MAKE myself become a coffee drinker. 

Then the question arose of how to make my coffee -- and what kind of coffee to use.  For those that know me or follow my blog, I am not a fan of modern technology.  Oh yes, I am addicted to my iphone and would be lost without my laptop and Netflix, but I prefer a time when things were done more by hand and weren't as disposable as they are now (my Iphone 5 is less than a year old and I am already seriously thinking of replacing it because I constantly have issues with it -- while my 70 year old rotary phones work as well as the day they were made).  Also being limited on counter space in my small apartment, I did not want a bulky auto-drip machine taking up valuable space.. and the ever popular Keurig machine is just way to Star Trek-like for my home which is perpetually stuck in 1947. 

The solution?  A percolator of course!! 

I had never personally seen a coffee percolator in use.  Growing up in the 80s, Mr. Coffee machines were the norm.  Through my love of old movies I was well aware of this former coffee making king which was dethroned in the 1970s thanks to the plastic auto-drip coffee revolution.   But what kind should I get?  Electric?  Stovetop?  Aluminum? Stainless steel? Glass?  How do I use one?  

I'd seen old commercials that would talk about a housewife's ability to make good coffee... but never quite understood this commentary, jokes about the wife's brewing abilities.  After all, the machine makes the coffee -- if you don't like the taste, just switch brands... why blame the wife?  It wasn't until I started using a stovetop percolator  that I realized it was very possible to make an awful pot of coffee - usually by over brewing it.

As I mentioned earlier I am not a coffee enthusiast, but have really come to look forward to my morning pot of miracle juice... that helps to keep me from killing my co-workers when I stumble into my office early in the morning.  There's something about the routine... the ritual of actually MAKING my morning coffee that I really love --- Turning the burner on -- measuring out the water for the pot - counting the table spoons of coarse (NOT fine!) ground coffee and waiting for that moment when the water starts to percolate in the glass knob... then watching the water getting darker as the coffee gets stronger.  It's like magic!!!

It surprised me how defensive and snobbish hard core coffee drinkers get about different coffee making methods. No matter what the topic is, if you are passionate about something, I guess  you're going to be very defensive of your ideas... Politics, Religion, Coffee.  It makes no difference.  When I was first learning to make coffee on the stove, I Googled "using a stovetop percolator" and found all sorts of snarky responses such as: There's no such thing as GOOD percolated coffee... and Step one, throw out the percolator.  Step two, but a Keurig.  Being a fan of all things vintage and retro - I plugged along with trial and error -- watching all sorts of youtube videos and learning all I could about the percolator.

Now I have become a wiz at making coffee in my stovetop percolator.  I feel just like Edith Bunker or Jessica Fletcher!!   After trying out many models and styles, I have settled on a neat vintage Farberware stainless steel model pictured here. It's from the 1950s and looks so cool.  I feel like a little kid as I wait for that moment the water starts to bubble and splash and love to hear the sound of it merrily perking away.  Yes, a percolator can make a very bitter cup of coffee... but if you know what you are doing, you'll have perfection in a cup!!

For all percolators, use COARSE ground coffee -- the pre-ground coffee in most stores is fine grind made for autodrop machines - which pass the water through the grounds once.  If you use this in a percolator - which passes water through the grounds multiple times - you'll end up with battery acid as it will extract WAY too much out of the beans.  You can buy whole bean coffee and either grind it at home or in the grocery store.

Keep the pot over high heat until the perking action starts -- once the water starts bubbling steadily, REDUCE the heat to low/simmer.... it won't take much to keep the perking action going.  If you have the heat turned up too high you will burn the coffee (which is where the poor housewife of yesteryear would get the blame).  Let it perk gently for 6-8 minutes on low heat until the desired strength is achieved (you can see the coffee getting darker through the glass knob on top of the pot to help determine its strength).  I personally don't like my coffee super strong, so six minutes is great for my taste -- but if you like high octane coffee.. let it brew longer.  After the coffee is done, I use a teapot warmer - a cast iron trivet with a tealight candle underneath - to keep the coffee pot warm while not on the stove. 

When done correctly, percolated coffee is delicious!!!  When making percolated coffee the right way, you'll get a smooth/rich cup of java.


For Christmas my siblings and I pitched in to buy my Dad yet another fancy Keurig coffee maker since his previous model died after two years of use.  My simple stainless steel Farberware stovetop percolator is still making amazing coffee after 60+ years... and barring me denting it or breaking the handle (which is entirely possible because I'm a klutz), it should be making many many more pots of wonderful coffee for years to come!

Click here to watch a vintage Maxwell House coffee commercial featuring the percolator

Through the eyes of children...

Yesterday I had my small family over to my apartment to celebrate Mother's Day.  I say small family, but when I try to cram everyone into my apartment it feels like hosting a football team.  I'm not sure how we all managed to fit into my dining room, but we did ---- only once you sat down, you had to stay there! 

My niece (2) and my nephew (5) were also there.  As my friends and family would tell you, I'm not exactly paternal.  My apartment isn't what you'd call kid friendly and I must admit... neither am I.  When God was giving out that nurturing gene that gives one the urge to get on the floor and play with kids and speak fluently in gibberish, I was too busy waiting in line for my "cranky old man" gene.   I put on my bravest front and pretended that I wasn't having mini strokes every time the kids picked up something that was sitting on a shelf or table.

My niece and nephew really are good kids - and my OCD aside, the night went very well.  My apartment has an interesting feature that everyone else but me finds fascinating.  It has a "turret room" off the living room.  It's called that because this part of the house is shaped like the turret of a castle.  Due to it's small space, angled ceilings and lack of heat in the winter... it's just used as storage for all my many boxes of... stuff.  To me it's just an attic space -- but for others it seems to be an area of intrigue.  In fact, when someone comes to my house for the first time I will politely ask my mother before they come to not include the turret room on the tour.  After all.. who shows off their messy attic when they have company over?  I slaved for hours to dust and polish the rest of the place... so don't look behind the little door off the living room to see where the real mess is hidden, please.

On the few occasions my nephew has come over I normally don't allow him into that room -- for two reasons:  1.  It's a mess in there.  2. Children break stuff (so the little voice in the back of my mind tells me).  Finally though, I relented and let Collin and Brittany go into the mysterious turret.

Collin behaved himself and left my piles of junk alone... but the kid was in amazement.  You could see and hear his imagination going at full speed.  My mother turned to me and said, "this is something he will remember for the rest of his life.".  I don't know that it will stay in his memory the rest of his life since my apartment isn't a regular part in his routine, but it got me thinking of when I was a kid and would explore the world... at least the world as I knew it... on my own.

Usually this exploration occurred at my Grandma's house.  There were two great "worlds" to explore there:  Uncle Vinny's room and the crawl space.  Like a child entering Narnia, the crawl space was a magical world hidden in the back corner of the basement...dark...and full of treasures.  Treasures left over from the "old house" (the house they had lived in a few years before I was born).  Treasures from the 50s and 60s that I am convinced helped to spark my love of anything relating to the first half of the 20th century.
Because I can remember my own explorations as a kid, I think I am all the wiser about.. and more leery of little kids.  I know your plots kids because I used to be you!  My older brother and I would constantly explore my Uncle's room -- the electric guitar tucked away under his bed, the treasure chest (yes - he literally had one!) on the night stand by his bed -- and the record albums of bands I had never heard of before (after all, he didn't have the Sesame Street Gang's Biggest Hits album...sadly). 

In my defence though, I was always very cautious when "exploring" Grandma's house.  Yes, I went into boxes I shouldn't have -- closets that were off limits (there's a joke there somewhere), but I was always very careful to preserve with the utmost care the objects I was - discovering.  For me it was like being Indiana Jones in some far off temple finding priceless artifacts of some other world. They were to be treated with care and respect.  Like Indian Jones however... there was always that element of danger lurking behind every corner... mostly Grandma who would firmly remind us when we'd present her with what we had found that: "you didn't find it, I PUT IT THERE."

Today my Uncle Vinny (whose room we routinely explored) turns 50.  Yesterday I became acutely aware that a new generation was beginning to explore the world as they knew it and using their imaginations to conjure exciting and fantastic adventures where we adults see only boxes and clutter.  Though I will still hold my breath the next time the kids come to visit -- praying that my own treasures survive their excursions as I'm sure my Uncle and Grandma did for us - I marvel at their imaginations and curiosity and remember back to a time when even a trip down to Grandma's basement could become the adventure of a lifetime!

Pre-Lenten Season

As a Catholic, I have always found Lent to be an extraordinary time of the year for me spiritually.  It is a time of self reflection, prayer and sacrifice in preparation for the time when we remember the ultimate sacrifice Christ made of himself on the cross as well as his Resurrection - which is the highest feast day on our calendar.  Even the seasons in which Lent and Easter occur seem to echo the meaning of these observances -- going through the final days of the  darkness and death of winter (Lent) while looking forward to the light and new birth of spring (Easter).

For "Traditional" Catholics like me (those of us who observe the customs and forms of worship prior to the changes made in the 1960s following Vatican II), Lent begins a bit more gradually than it does in the current Liturgical books -- still beginning officially on Ash Wednesday, but with a time of introduction known as the Sundays of Septuagesima, Sexagesima and Quinquagesima.

These Sundays loosely translated refer to 70, 60 and 50 days before Easter -- Lent being the 40 days of official penance and fasting in preparation for Easter.  Obviously they are not exact number of days, but the idea is that this season is so important that we enter into it gradually to prepare ourselves for the journey ahead which officially commences on Ash Wednesday.

 I always found the names of these Sundays to be just plain cool -- terminology in the older Rite always sounds so much more profound. I do admit however, that my immature American mentality does at times giggle at hearing the term Sexagesima -- and don't pretend you didn't too upon reading it.  It's ok -- as staunchly traditional as I am when it comes to the Liturgy, I think God has a sense of humor too and giggles occasionally Himself.

In the 1970s when a small group of Church officials decided to "modernize" things (that usually never ends up being a really good thing...) they wanted to stream line everything -- make it "simpler" and easier to understand.  This approach in and of itself confuses me -- we live in an age of smart phones and Google where any question can be answered by simply typing it into your phone.  This would be THE TIME then to dig deeper into such subjects, not keep them at a bare-minimum level of presentation or understanding.

This "simplification" also applied to other major feasts where the preparation and conclusion of these feasts were either scaled back or eliminated. -- Octaves after holidays are hardly heard of anyway -- meaning celebrating the feast for 8 days after the actual day -- giving people a time to reflect and enjoy the feast day.  Americans are awesome at practicing "simplifications" like this --- as noted by Christmas tress out to the curb on December 26th.

It saddens me that there is still a movement in the Church to simplify, simplify, simplify in an effort to make the faith more comprehensible to people.  I believe it has had the opposite effect -- we've watered things down so much that they no longer seem important at all.   Lent for example seems to mean little more to main stream Catholics than wearing ashes on your forehead to work/school on Ash Wednesday, enjoying fish fries on Fridays and maybe giving up something during Lent that you really didn't like anyway - and not understanding why you're giving up anything to begin with.

Personally, I think the Church would be far more effective if it simplified it's social teachings and went back more to the fullness of its spirituality.  Welcoming more diversity of peoples and better understanding their circumstances while worshiping in the amazing and inspiring living traditions of our ancestors passed down through the ages --- rather than white washing everything yet sticking to hard line social teachings that never seem to get updated or simplified.

*gets off soapbox*

By the way -- this Sunday is Sexagesima Sunday.  *giggles*

Lack of communication....

     Not having cable in a few years, I watch a lot of shows online.  I love it - with the right programs like Netflix, you can watch what you want when you want.  Recently I set up an HBOgo account and have been re-watching the series, Sex in the City.

     I wasn't a fan of the show when it started but the first guy I dated really got me hooked on it.  One of the few good things to come from that relationship.  Curling up on the sofa with Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha has been like getting in touch with some old friends.

     Actually, it's the friendship between these women that I find fascinating.  They live their own lives yet are so interconnected with one another.  As many friends as we can say we have on Facebook, how many of us actually have friendships like these women?

     Each television series is a glimpse into the time period in which they were created.  Sex in the City isn't really that old of a show, yet so much has changed.  The most striking thing I notice when I watch this show is how much the girls talk to each other on the phone.  Think about it... how often do you really have a long conversation on the phone anymore?  Probably not often... or at least not as often as you did a decade ago.

     My friend Katie and I were just discussing this in the break room the other day.  We all know someone who is the exception -- that person who is ALWAYS talking on their cell, usually in public where we don't want to hear their conversation. For most of us though, we don't gab on the phone anymore -- it's all texting.   I find it much easier to send a simple text message and get a reply than picking up the phone and engaging someone in conversation.  Though I admit this about myself, I must also admit that it is... well... wrong.

     Texting certainly has its advantages but it has also weakened our own communication skills (not to mention devolving our spelling and use of the English language).  People don't know how to TALK to one another or even hold a conversation.  People are so used to texting back and forth ALL DAY with what might amount to a few paragraphs of text - but put them on the phone and the conversation comes to a screeching halt within two minutes.  What intimidates us about a telephone call?

     Despite my love of classic rotary phones (which I am proud to boast that despite being technology impaired, I can use land-line free on a daily basis via my cell phone - thanks to a miraculous bluetooth router), I rarely actually use the phones.  I think I dust them more than I actually talk with them.  Except for calls to and from my Mom, my phone rarely rings.  To be honest, I'd love to have friends who aren't just close like Carrie and the girls when hanging out at a restaurant or enjoying drinks, but who gab on the phone from time to time... just to check in... sharing the laughs and the warmth of a human voice across the miles.  

     Don't you miss that too?  

     Still, as much as I lament chatting on the phone... if it were to ring right now, the first thing that would pop into my head would be - "why the hell are they calling me?".   -- I'll have to work on that and maybe "reach out and touch someone" more often.  

Merry! Merry!

I was surprised how many people commented in Christmas cards I received that they wanted to see my blog revived.  I have decided to merge my passion for journal writing with my blog - so you will notice a change.

I have become obsessed with using my old typewriter - and have made the switch to journaling exclusively via typewriter.  I find the use of such a machine to be very relaxing and creative - and just love to sit down and hear the clickity-clack of the typebars hitting the paper.  

I can no longer writer out journals "long hand" - after years of writing essays, I find it difficult to write long entries in a standard journal - so now my typed pages go into a binder for safe keeping.  

Why not just use the computer??  Too many distractions..I can never complete my thought process.  "Ooo.. I have mail! -- Gee.. I wonder if I can find that on Ebay.... What's on Netflix?".  With the typewriter, my thoughts flow freely and uninterrupted.  There is some sort of romantic and magical thought process that occurs when using one of these machines... so basically, it inspires me to write!!

The few stories and entries I would like to share with my cyber audience will be scanned and posted here.  I apologize in advance for several things (hahaha!):

- Poor scan quality.  My printer/scanner needs to be replaced.

- My formatting - I use a 1941 typewriter -- you hit a key, it's on paper -- formatting was always too complicated for me to properly understand and control.

- Type quality.  My typewriter needs to be cleaned -- years of typing have gunked up the typebars (what prints the letters on the paper) and I have been too lazy to properly clean them with denatured alcohol. -- I hope to have a "new" machine in the near future that will have been cleaned, restored and serviced by a qualified typewriter professional -- yes, they do still exist!!  Bear with me as I continue to use the unserviced and uncleaned model in the mean time (doesn't do that badly for not being serviced in over 40 years!)

- Grammar and spelling.  There is no spell check - no delete key on a typewriter...though I do end up using a LOT of correction tape. These entries are raw thoughts -- right from my mind to the paper via my fingers and the machine. I do not go back to proof read for spelling and grammar (I'd have to type the WHOLE thing over again to correct mistakes).  I actually find it liberating to sit down and just get the ideas on paper in tangible form without red lines under my words or going back and deleting entire paragraphs.   -- I do often cringe as I go back and re-read what I typed... my mind works faster than my fingers and it often shows in the final result!

I hope you enjoy these observations and stories - and I hope you can read them clearly enough through the scan and through my typos and errors  :)  Thanks for following my blog!!!

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Below is a short story about what Christmas was like for my Grandmother, Helen Trasciatti-Doxbeck who grew up in Hilldale (Plains) Pennsylvania during the great depression.  

A Tribute to a Friend

My blog is pretty much defunct – keeping it activated more as an archive of my past thoughts rather than use for current blogging, but I wanted to revive it for at least one additional entry.

Today I attended the funeral of my best friend, Anne Reed. She has been my dearest friend, closest confidant and “adopted Grandmother” for the past 15 years.  I am honored that she considered me part of her amazing family.

---

We met when we were both Religious Education teachers at the now closed parish of St. Joseph's in North Tonawanda. She taught the 8am classes and I taught the 10am classes, so we only saw each other in passing.

It wasn't until the Religious Ed. Christmas party that I met her formally and got to know her. We sat next to each other at the dinner and clicked instantly – though over the years as we'd reminisce, neither of us could recall many details about the actual event.... we'd joke that we'd both blocked out the details... but it just seemed to take off from there!

Anne passed away at the age of 84 – when I met her I was 15 and she was 69. What on Earth made two people from across the age spectrum become such good friends?? She was perpetually young at heart while I was born with the soul of a 90 year old... so we basically balanced each other out and met in the middle.

Over the years I got to know Anne's husband Vince and her immediate family including her sisters, children and grandchildren very well. Anne always had an open door policy so you never knew who was going to stop by when you went over for a visit. Her home was some times as busy as Grand Central Station with folks going in and out.. stopping by to say hello and to share a laugh. It was one of the things I loved about going there – the door was always open and all were welcomed.

---

Anne taught me many things over the years and was the only soul brave enough to be able to teach me how to drive. I had a few brief experiences behind the wheel of a car that never lasted more than a few blocks – and a deep fear of driving – hearing all the stories about teenagers getting into accidents and the high cost of insurance – all the things our parents tell us when they don't want their own insurance costs going through the roof. So, unlike most teenagers.. I dragged my feet getting a license until the summer after I graduated High School.

I'll never forget the day Anne picked me up for a driving lesson. She and Vince had just gotten a brand new Buick Century (part of why I love Buick so much).. came to my house.. tossed me the keys and then got into the passenger seat. I sat behind the wheel of the car when she informed me my first task was to take her up to the Riviera theater here on Webster Street in North Tonawanda.. one of those old town streets that have parking where you have to back in and out of your space into on-coming traffic rather than just pulling up alongside the curb. Anything out of my neighborhood could have been the equivalent of the Lincoln Tunnel to my nerves. I looked over at her asking, “Are you serious?”. She laughed and told me, “You can't drive around the block all your life. A car is just a piece of metal.. if something happens, it happens.” My Grandpa later asked her if she had a death wish.

A few years later I couldn't wait to call her and tell her of my experience driving the actual Lincoln Tunnel and the streets of Manhattan – something I never want to do again mind you – but something I did because I could! Each summer since I have thanked her for giving me the courage to have faith in my own abilities and giving me that one vital key to independence and adulthood... and I'm very glad I never killed her while obtaining that key (there were close calls).

---

As I grew older she moved away from being just the Grandmotherly figure and we became closer and closer – staying up into the wee hours of the night sharing our deepest concerns, what weighed on our hearts, and of course laughing – all the while consuming numerous pots of tea while her husband Vince passed out in the chair, comatosed from our endless chatter.

Anne lived for her family and got her wish of having a large one. She raised 6 wonderful children, a whole slew of grandchildren and even great-grandchildren whom she adored. She lived for kids!

Knowing she had the life she always wanted.. filled with family and friends, I had asked her once before what she would have done differently with her life should she do it over again. She told me she had always wanted to be some sort of counselor or social worker – helping people with their problems. When she was growing up, women were regulated to “pink collar jobs” like nurse, teacher or secretary... so the option for something outside the home didn't seem very real in those days - not that the opportunity for such work would have made her pass up the chance for the big family of which she always dreamed of having (It's not a coincidence Donna Reed and Anne shared the same last name).

I always reminded Anne that she really was a counselor to every person who came through her door who needed someone to listen to them or just be there. No, she didn't have a fancy degree or letters after her name – her kitchen was her office and a cup of tea/coffee along with a damn good laugh were her treatments of choice. I am one of the many many people who benefited from this therapy – and now, as I lament her passing – think of how it was she who'd I'd call just in times like these because I knew she'd be there for me.

---

Anne was quite the avid collector – not of commemorative spoons of shot glasses, but of people. She collected them everywhere she went and always took them into her heart. She had a way of making everyone feel so welcomed and at home in her house – in fact, she is the reason I am such a stickler for the little formalities when I have company come to call – always do it up nice... the little things mean a lot – always a cup and saucer (“my mother would be so ashamed if she could see me not serving tea using a cup and saucer!” she'd always remind me – it became a running gag if occasionally we'd use the pedestal mug instead of the china). People were worth the extras – they deserved to be treated special in her book.

Her faith in God proved to be a constant inspiration to me – especially as I struggled with my own faith so much over the years. She would often comment that she wished she was more “scholarly” in her faith (though she certainly knew more than the average Catholic) – but she had what really mattered... a genuine and sincere love of Christ and His Church within her heart... and SHARED that love with others. Though I could give you an in-depth history of the different Liturgical acts and share some insights about various Church counsels... I always seemed to be asking more questions when she simply lived by the motto: “Thy will be done”.

---

I have been to enough funerals in my life to know when someone dies.. they are automatically proclaimed a saint by those who knew them... even those who weren't well liked. In Anne's case, I think the personal canonization is fitting – for she is one of the rare and genuine examples of Christian “caritas” or love/charity that I have ever encountered. Not just going to Church on Sundays but living the message of the Gospels every day of her life. I know with all of my heart, when she approached the gates of paradise, she was greeted with open arms: “Well done, good and faithful servant”.

People of Anne's generation – and young fogeys like myself - are always lamenting that “they don't make things like they used to”. The quality is gone, the craftsmanship is gone, the pride is gone. The same can be said of people: “they don't make em like they used to”. Anne was a classic for certain and a reminder of the best humanity has to offer – kindness, compassion, empathy, true class and grace.

I will miss her infectious laughter and sense of humor – those long talks and that opened door of hers. I carry her in my heart and have become a better person for having known her these 15 years. I hope that in my own way I can take the lessons I have learned from Anne to be a better person and share the love she so generously shared with me.

Tick.. Tick.. Tick...

It is amazing how quickly time passes us by.  Remember when we were children when the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas vacation seemed to move like a snail?  And the time until the end of the school year always seems light-years away.  Now it seems as if I blink my eyes and days have passed.

I've already been in my new home now for over a month and it certainly does feel like home.  I've had some friends over for visits which has been a wonderful experience... having space to entertain and being able to have them come through my front door rather than through my parent's garage.

There is a peaceful quiet here - no one to start talking to me as soon as I walk through the door.  My thoughts are my own and things are done on my own time.  When I want company the telephone is always close at hand.

I can't help but still feel trapped though.. not in my parent's home (as wonderful and they were and continue to be I yearned for a place to call my own) but in the rut of a job.  While I do enjoy the work I do, there is always so much to be done - so few resources at my disposal - and very little pay.  Never would I have dreamed that at this stage in my life I'd be a low level cog in a retail machine - living pay check to pay check.

Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for being able to have had the means to move out into the world on my own, but there is no such thing as really saving for the future.  There is no room for significant growth.  I lay in bed after the alarm goes off remembering all the many things that await me on the desk when I get to work, and leave knowing how much more will be awaiting my return the next day.  And for what?  To eek out an existence?

There are times it infuriates me to know I worked so hard in school and spent so much money (and more to spend since the loans are not fully paid) to be doing what any person off the street could be trained to do... making far less than I ever imagined I'd be making after all that hard work and effort.

I feel like I threw my time and money away on a teaching degree - all I have left after years of sacrifice is a piece of paper known as a diploma.  Don't even ask me where it currently resides.. I have no idea.  All I know is it is a certificate that yields nothing.

A friend of mine was over for dinner this weekend and she is in the same boat.  She too has her teaching degree and has no leads on any substantial possibility for a job.  She spent this year as a substitute teacher and summarized the experience perfectly: "demeaning".  Here she is, late 30s, a degree.. has raised a child of her own - was a dance teacher for years and the best she can do with her degree is play babysitter in a classroom setting.

She (like myself and so many other substitutes) know how it feels when some of the faculty and staff look down their noses at you or talk down to you as if you were no more knowledgeable than the students you are there to teach.  Not to mention how it feels to be in front of a classroom of strangers each day, many of whom have made it their personal quest to get you to break down into tears by the end of the period.  All for $80 a day.

There seems to be no end to district downsizing in sight and no better options for those of us on the outside dreaming of being on the inside.  And with each passing day that dream fades into a cloud of bitterness and contempt for the whole field itself.

While I am so thankful (Deo Gratias!) for the new home in my life and making that New Year's resolution come true.. the idea of being stuck in this rudimentary position any longer makes me want to cry.  As my 30th birthday approaches in less than a month - I have to wonder what lies ahead for me -- especially since my 20s were not filled with prosperous change, but stagnant repetition.

The new home

People keep asking me if it feels strange to be living in my own home.  I guess I haven't really had time to just sit back and enjoy it -- almost every day for the past two weeks all I have done is move things to the new place, unpack and clean.  I never knew I had so much stuff!!

Today is actually my fist day of not leaving the apartment at all.  I did this on purpose.  I'm so tired of running errands and being in my car, I decided it was time for me just to enjoy being "home". 

It does feel nice to have my own place - though the full impact has still to set in.  My mind is constantly planning and doesn't rest until everything is done.. which has yet to happen with this move.  Every time I turn around I remember needing to bring something else over - or am ordering something and waiting for it to be delivered so I can set it up.  I keep telling myself I am not going to officially invite friends over to see the place until "everything is just how I want it", but that may take a while.  hahaha! They may have to settle for the unfinished product.

I am indeed very happy here.  For some reason I just HAD to be out on my own by the time I was 30.  There was no real reason for this other than I didn't like the idea of still living at home at such an...ahem.. "advanced" age.  There is a strong social stigma for men who still live with their folks.. and I wanted to break that - and be able to say I moved out in my 20s.  And I'm proud to say I made that happen.  :)

It's one thing to be the spinster of the family.. it's another to be the spinster living in his parent's "basement". 

Moving on up!

That's right... I'm moving on up! Literally!  This week I will be signing a lease on a small one bedroom apartment on the third floor of a beautiful Victorian style home here in the area.  It's actually on a street where I have imagined living since I was a kid.  To say I'm excited would be an understatement!!

As I said the apartment is small.. but it's a good size for just me - and the rent is in the ball park I was looking for.  It's also very close to home (my parent's home) so I will have easy and free access to laundry facilities. hahaha!

I have already been busy packing my things and trying to plan this move which I'm anticipating will be happening Friday.  There is so much to consider!  I'm trying to remember the layout of the place so I can try to decide what I am bringing with me and what would go where.  I'm also finding out I will need some new furniture.. but will be "making do" for now.  I shudder to think of the ugly old white (now getting kind of yellow) chest of drawers I will be using until I can find an affordable replacement.  We can't all be Donald Trump,

My sister in law stopped by today and dropped of a basket of supplies as an apartment warming present.. a laundry basket that is.  It has a lot of little things I'll need to get started, some of which I hadn't even thought of!  It really made my day!

There has already been a slight glitch in my moving plan.  I was planning on moving all the boxes (there really aren't THAT many) myself as well as some of the smaller furniture.. then having my two brothers help get the big stuff up to the third floor.  Well.. my older brother who was to be the power house in all this had to have minor surgery on his arm - leaving him unable to lift for a few weeks.  Grrr!  So... that means my younger brother and I will be doing the heavy lifting.  And for those that know me know this may be a comical sight indeed. -- I'm not too worried.. most of the furniture will be manageable.  The only thing I will really need help with is a large television cabinet -- I'm not going to even attempt to move that sucker -- that's what relatives and friends are for.  There must be one I can sucker.. I mean convince... to move it for me.  :)

I have mixed emotions about this move (which came a lot quicker than my original plan).  Naturally I'm super excited and anxious - but there is also a part of me that laments leaving the place I have called home for my whole life (ok.. since I was age 2).  It'll be funny to use another address - see the sunrise and set through different windows.  I'm also worried about finances.. money always being an issue. People keep asking me what I need for the new place.. my answer is cash or gift cards!!! haha!

Last year at this time I never would have thought this move to be possible... and although I am not moving into some huge-fancy apartment, I am very thankful to have found the place I did... and so quickly.  The future, even uncertain.. seems some what brighter than it did before.

Prejudice and Discimination - Have we risen above it?

Ask any high school student what it means to be prejudice.  You may hear about the 20th century conflicts over African American equality.  You may even hear about gays and lesbians, immigrants and even unfair work place practices towards women.

So often discrimination and prejudice are thought of in very clear cut terms.  There is a danger in this.  What happens when the prejudice is not part of the established curriculum examples we studied in school?  How do we as a society react? How do we as individuals react?

These questions have been popping into my mind a lot lately.  This week is Holy Week for Roman Catholics - one of the most sacred times of the year... as well as one of the times we as individual Catholics have to endure all sorts of prejudice from those who dislike our Church as a whole.

I can bet any reader right now can rattle off a litany of examples of how they or someone they know has been mistreated (by any definition of the term) by a member of the Catholic Church.  Such feelings and examples are not to be disputed here in this post.  What I do ponder are OUR responses to what we feel are injustices.

Many of the great civil rights leaders of our History textbooks achieved great change and cultural awareness in their life times.  Did they do this by attacking those who attacked them?  Did they fight hatred with hatred?  Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr advocated non-violence and peaceful dialogue over mud slinging and slander.  How do we react when we are wronged today?

Since the start of Lent, my Facebook wall has been flooded with disturbing pictures and sayings aimed directly at insulting the Catholic faith - the pope - the clergy - fill in the blank.  These examples of Internet graffiti do little to help one's cause but do cause pain to those who might already be suffering because of the struggles they endure WITH their Churches. 

When one feels wronged a response is expected, but the style and integrity of that response is what makes the difference.  Mud slinging and hurtful rhetoric do little good to anyone or any cause. 

On any issue I have seen that all sides are responsible for the same acts of immaturity and all equality capable of sinking to a lower level.  Who will take the high road?  Who will act as an individual instead of hiding behind the "movement".  Who takes ownership of their own actions and attitudes rather than just being one of the many?


In addition to enduring the anti-Catholic slangs and pictures that inevitably come about any time there is a major religious observance or holiday, many of my friends and I have become the object of racial prejudice as well.

"Racist" has become the defense of many co-workers anytime a white manager/co-worker tries to reprimand a black co-worker for any work infraction(s).  I use the primitive terms of "white" and "black" not out of offense but because I never hear myself referred to as European American - and the term Caucasian relates back to the old concepts of racial hierarchy: Caucasoid, Negroid and Mongoloid.  So naturally, I don't like those terms.

In these work related cases I don't think the racist in the work place are the white employees whose jobs it is to make sure EVERYONE is doing their jobs properly.  I think the racism can be placed at the feet of those who use race and color as a shield to hide behind and excuse them from accepting blame for their own actions or lack of actions (relating to their work performance).

There is no such thing as "reverse discrimination" or "reverse prejudice".  Discrimination and prejudice are not just one way streets.  Blacks can be just as guilty as whites.  Sadly, there is a strong cultural taboo from anyone lamenting these instances.... at least not out loud.

This entry was not designed to give a thesis of answers - but to ask a list of questions.  In what way do we as individuals respond to racism, discrimination and prejudice?  What are our individual prejudices that we ALL do have?  And how do we let them affect how we interact with each other?  Where is the difference between pay back, getting even or causing harm?  Is there a difference?

Perhaps our previous examples of prejudice and discrimination stemming from the 1950s/60s Civil Rights movements and Women's Rights movements are no longer adequate to address the models of today.  Perhaps our teaching and examples need to be updated and expanded upon - beginning not in our textbooks, but in our own lives.