A Love to Last a Lifetime

Nothing has touched me recently more than watching my husband's elderly aunt and uncle in the care facility which they call home these days.  They did not share a room, but got together every day through the kindness of nurses and aides in the dining area or hallway in their wheelchairs.

Aunt Louise had a stroke over four years ago and was placed into the care facility soon after.  Unable to speak more than just a few garbled phrases, and paralyzed on one side of her body, the once active Italian lady began to go downhill. 

In her day, I am told, Louise was quite the character.  When I first met her seven years ago, I was completely unprepared for the little, Italian lady who greeted me when my husband first brought me out to the town he lived in. 

A tiny, thin woman dressed in gaudy clothing, sparkles adorning her sweater, tight-fitted pants and spiky heels which I had never been able to wear in my youth, got out of a car and approached me.  Bangles glittered on her arms, earrings as long as chandeliers adorned her lobes.

Even though this wasn't the type of little, old Italian aunt I was used to, Louise and I instantly bonded.  Over the next few years, she and her husband, Hubert became more like in-laws to me, as I had never met my husband's parents since they had passed away years ago.

The night before she had the stroke, Louise was out dancing the night away.   Her husband, Hubert had found her the next morning slumped over the table where she had been putting on her make-up for the day ahead.

For the next several years I would bond even more with these two people as Uncle Hubert's own health began to deteriorate.  He visited her daily while he was capable, driving himself to the nursing home.  Then when driving proved too much for him, he would ride a small, local bus to see his sweetheart.  Then as walking became the biggest issue, I would pick him up to visit his darling for a few hours.

Over the last two years, his own health worsened, and Uncle Hubert was admitted to the same facility which housed his wife of almost fifty years. 

The care and concern even with his own health failing, never ceased to amaze me.  The love and tenderness with which he spoke to his frail wife, looking upon her like a young lover.  When he would take his leave of her for the day, he would glide his wheelchair as close to hers as possible, to kiss her tenderly.

They celebrated their fifty year anniversary in the nursing home surrounded by loved ones.  Last week, we said our goodbyes to Louise, as she passed from this life into the next.  As Hubert was wheeled into the funeral home to see his wife for the final time, the nurse helped him to his feet to give his beloved one more kiss before he will join her someday, in the eternal hereafter.

Childhood bullies

Recently I have been speaking to some people about their past.

This has got me thinking more than ever about my own childhood, especially the early teenage years.  I did an interview recently where I bared some of the feelings of insecurity I had while being "bullied" or made fun of.

What gives other children the right?  I ask myself this question now in my adult years.  I can still conjure up images and feelings of the pain I felt during those times.  The laughter, snickering, belittling.  The name-calling.  I was a victim.  A helpless victim of stupid children who may have not known any better.  Right?  For if they knew better, perhaps they would have stopped, put themselves in my shoes if even for a moment......

Each day, as I walked to school, I would hope: "Maybe today will be different.  Maybe today will be the day they realize I am just like them.  I am not some verbal punching bag."  But as the day began, the assaults would start, my stomach would clench and I would shut down.  Retreat into silence and humiliation.  I even remember one particularly bad day, I just left school, walking home without telling a soul.

I live my life with the adage "Everyone has a story."  I try to think about the young people who hurt me so badly, wondering if they truly did have a story.  Was there something going on in their own world, some reason they had to lash out at another?  Were they being victimized by a parent perhaps, or other children themselves? 

My brother, who had also been taunted in school, told me once of a fellow who had approached him a few years ago and had actually apologized for how he treated him back then.  I commend this young man.  It must not have been easy for him to admit.  But I think of countless others of us who may never hear an apology or reason for being the one singled out in such a cold, heartless way.

I can tell you this.  It is time to forgive them.  These stupid ghosts from our pasts.  We may never know why we became the victim of such heartless regard.  If we give it to Christ, knowing He is the true healer, the true vindicator of all our hurts, past and present, we can find healing.  Let's do it.  Lets together give it up, give it to the One who truly loves us unconditionally. 


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Times like these

     We live our lives in a hurry.  Our childhood rushes by in a blur of smudged sidewalk chalk, scabby knees and sleepovers.  The teen years flow into adulthood through acne covered angst and countless nights of wondering if the phone will ring.
     So when did I get to this age?  This so-called mid life age?  Wasn't my mother always supposed to be the protector, the grown up?  When did she become so fragile, so broken, salt and pepper hair thinning, skin beginning to crinkle?  Wasn't she always going to be there for me?  I need you now mom.  I am baking Easter Bread.  Don't you remember how many eggs go into the recipe?
     But she doesn't remember.  She is beginning to forget.  She needs her family, her children around her more than ever.  Now I am the parent, the comforter.  I am the grown up.  I didn't ask for this, but here it is in plain sight.   No escaping the inevitable.
     One thought rises above the confusion, the fear during times such as this.  My Lord God will provide.  He will be there to carry us through this dark, confused time.  He will never leave us nor forsake us.  I can rest in these promises.
     Allow me to slow down, Lord.  Allow me to enjoy every moment with Mom.  Allow me to be thankful for all the wonderful years with her. 
     The phone rings.  It is her!  And I can still make her laugh!  Yes, I am very, very thankful.

Little Italian lady

     It's been a long time since I thought of her.  The little, chubby Italian woman I proudly called Nonna.  Her head of white hair, curly from the permanent wave she always had done at the beauty parlor.  When I was younger, she flipped her hair tightly into a bun.  As she got older, she wanted  a more modern look.  She gave up the old house dresses and we saw her wear pants for the first time.
     She loved being photographed.  She would wear her full set of dentures for the camera, slipping the lower one out soon afterward.  She usually stood near one of her amazing rose bushes or some type of flowering plant.  All the memories I have of her in print have some sort of  colorful flower next to her.
     When I see pictures of her from Italy, when she was only eighteen years old, I see a dark beauty with haunting eyes.  A knowing smirk on her face, as if she had a secret which she wouldn't share.  Several small children surrounding her, my father, aunt and uncle.  Her whole life before her.
     She was a rock when I was younger.  When things were unstable in my own life.  She was always there, getting me ready for school when I had to stay with her for a while.  She didn't understand everything, and one day in school I opened my lunch to the strangest concoction.   On huge, fat, Italian bread, she had spread peanut butter, and folded chipped ham into it as well.  Arrrgh.  What on earth?  My little stomach was growling with hunger, so I dug into a sandwich that I would begin to eat daily.
     She baked orange box cakes and glazed them with a thin powder sugar glaze.  We would wonder where she hid them, when I spied her opening up a drawer in the kitchen one day and saw the cake in there.  Never again would she be able to hide them from me.
     You would not want to eat her steak.  The term shoe leather has new meaning.  But the meals of homemade pasta....now that was something we all looked forward to.
     I can still smell her Sunday dinners as if it was yesterday.  I can see her digging in her garden out back never tiring.  Canning countless jars of tomatoes in the cellar.
     Nonna, you were the best.  I still miss you and think of you.
   

Everyone has a story

     My mother has always said:  Everyone has a story. I found that to be true. Do you watch people around you, really watch them?  Do you listen though, as they speak?  This perhaps is  most difficult to do.  For I think when we pause, letting another person tell you their story, then we can truly walk a bit in their shoes, seeing where they come from.
     He was the strange man in the neighborhood.  People referred to him as "mildly retarded" in those days.  It was back in the late sixties.  I was eight years old.
     My girlfriend and I would be playing outside.  Whether it was bike riding, hopscotch, countless games of pretend, we would see him walking toward us in the distance.
     "Run," we would say in unison, "Hide."  For we knew to be cornered by Terry would mean at least an hour of his tragic, neighborhood stories.  He had no friends, nobody to talk with. 
     I asked my mother about him.  She was living in her own world of depression in those days.  Yet she said something which surprised me.  She asked if I would try being kind to him.  Let him talk instead of running away when he appeared.
     "Easy for you to say," I thought.  She wasn't the one who had to stand there and listen as he droned on and on about the sadness going on behind our neighbor's closed doors.
     No matter what Mom was going through in her life, she never failed to be compassionate.  It was something she instilled in me at a very early age.  She was trying to turn me into a listener.  An observer of the world.  In doing so, I would learn so much more than what outward appearances showed.
     The next time Terry appeared, I let him talk.  He hardly made eye contact as he told us about an old lady down the block, and the ambulance that whisked her away.  He seemed to only speak of the bad things going on around us.  But he seemed grateful to have a listening ear.
     The more I thought about it, Mom was right.  My young heart broke for this man, this tragic soul who had nobody except his family to care what he talked about.
     I stopped running, and started listening.  Daily he would rattle on and on with his stories of sorrow.   I saw the world as Terry was seeing it, through a heart and soul of a man who would never really be a man.
     Years later, I would think of him, wondering what had happened to him.  I know he changed me in many ways as a person.   He taught me compassion.  He taught me patience.   It was this compassion and patience that would stick with me all my life; truly listening when people tell their own stories. 
     I hope Terry had a good life.

He's the spirit of Christmas

      If I had a sentence to sum up my brother, Rick, it would be:  He truly is the spirit of Christmas.  This is a young man who takes time throughout the year listening to what people say about their likes, hopes, wants, desires.  He isn't the type to run into any old store last minute, trying to find a quick gift.  No, he begins a steady quest on the web, at estate sales, many different venues which none of us would think of. 
     He hears stories we all tell of special gifts we had as children, but had lost through the years.  The kind of gifts we held so dear to our hearts during the ups and downs of childhood.
      One year recently,  I was delighted to open a present containing my favorite doll from my youth, Beautiful Chrissie.  She had hair that grew long by the touch of a button, or you could wind her hair back into her head to create a shorter style.  This must sound strange to the young people of today of course, but she had the prettiest, happiest face, and Chrissie had gone everywhere with me once upon a time.  My own dear doll had been gone for many years, but there, in front of me, was that pretty face smiling up at me once again.
     Another time, I squealed with delight to find a favorite game of mine long gone, Voice of the Mummy.  It was an awesome game which had an Egyptian mummy as the main character which spoke cryptic phrases as you climbed the pyramid with your playing pieces.  I remembered hours upon hours with this beloved game, and here it was again!
     I once opened a gift containing that great, young adult game Mystery Date which first gave me the peek into the world of dating.  The pretty girls and handsome young men on the playing board were something I longed to be a part of.  My little girl's mind had many hopes and dreams to become as charming as they were.   My dear brother found this one at a yard sale, of all places.  I sit back and wonder, how does he do it?  How does he have the luck to find just the perfect gift, especially these collectibles which meant so much to me in my past?
     This year had to be the best though.  We have asked our parents to tell us about special gifts they had as children.  Our mother mentioned a dolly some person got for her one year, since her own parents never had the money to spend on three children.  Our dad said he never got toys either, usually some fruit and nuts in a stocking.  Yet there had been one year, when he was about ten, where his older brother had given him something which stood out.  Something he would remember all his life.
     Dad was a huge Lone Rangers fan.  He would listen to the program on the radio back in the era before television, hearing the amazing adventures of the masked man and his trusty steed.  To a young boy, back in the forties, this was one of the most exciting shows ever.  Dad's brother was several years older than him, and growing up, they weren't extremely close.   But one Christmas, Dad opened a gift which he treasured above all others.  It was a Lone Rangers watch.  The picture of the famous hero upon his horse, Silver as the face of the watch.  His older brother must have known how much he loved that program.  This was something Dad could really treasure.  As he grew older, he lost the beloved watch, as we all do when our attentions turn to more grown up things.
     Yesterday, on Christmas morning, we had finished opening our heaping abundance of treasures with everyone feeling content.  My brother reached behind the Christmas tree for a small, rectangular package.  This is also something he does.  Just when you think you have finished opening his piles of kindness, there is always just one more.  This year, Dad was the recipient.
     My son was ready with the camera.  Apparently he was in on it too.  Dad pulled the colorful wrapping from the small gift, opening the box inside carefully.  The look on his face at eighty one years old was priceless.  I choke back tears thinking about it even now.  There, inside the box,  was a Lone Rangers watch.  Not a replica, mind you, but an actual 1940's version.  My brother had done it again.  Dad couldn't believe his eyes.  Years melted away as the little boy inside him came to life once again with the most precious Christmas gift he had ever gotten.
     Thank you, Rick, from all our hearts.  You are truly the spirit of Christmas.

 

My mother's brush with death......

     It was February, 1971.  Snow had fallen the night before.  Dad was outside shoveling as I watched cartoons on a Sunday morning.  A huge noise from the room  above me, startled me.  My dog, Buffy, ran to the stairs, as I almost walked up to see what had happened.  I heard the strangest sound, a snoring, or gurgling from above.  My mother was upstairs, and it sounded scary.  I ran outside to tell my father.
     He came into the house to check on my mother, and called down to me from upstairs to phone my grandmother for an ambulance.  My eleven year old mind couldn't process what he was telling me, but I knew it was very serious.  I called my Nonna, who must have quickly dialed the ambulance service.
      A few moments later,  the ambulance crew arrived, quickly going up the stairs to see what had happened.  My mother had fallen, having a cardiac arrest, something we didn't know at the time.
     As they carried her out on a stretcher, she was conscious and spoke to me.  She told me not to worry, and to have fun.  My little mind couldn't process any of this.
     Years later, I heard details of her strange  hospital experience .  It seemed as they stabilized her for the night, my father was leaving the hospital to come home to me.  As he was walking down the hallway, he heard the code blue called over the loudspeakers.  He just knew it was for my mother.
     My mother had another cardiac arrest, this time much more serious.  She had to be revived, something I never knew at the time.
     The doctors and nurses were able to revive her after a few minutes.  When my father was able to see her again, she said something odd to him.  "Rich, I'm not afraid to die."  Then she told him her story.
     She felt herself being drawn down a long, dark tunnel.  The further and faster she went, she began to feel a profound peace settling about her.  She felt as if she was the only thing, only person that mattered in the world, and love was wrapping Itself about her.   She went no further, but was quickly drawn back to consciousness  and heard a loud "popping" sound as she came to.
      As I became an adult myself, I read many encounters of near death experiences.  They sounded very similar to what my mother had described.  She wasn't "out" as long as some of them, but long enough to have the experience she told us about.
      Mom has often shared this tale with people she meets, especially when they are grieving, or forlorn about a loved one who has passed.  Many times, she moves people to tears, and has often inspired others with her story.  I believe in what she says. 
     So, as St. Augustine said:  "God loves every one of us, as if there's only one of us."   I believe my mom had a glimpse of this.

     

A high school reuniting

     It is always fun to reconnect with someone you went to school with.  Recently I have had the privilege and pleasure of finding a good friend from my high school days, J. Michael Krivyanski.  Nobody could make me laugh like Mike did, back in my eleventh grade year.  He was a witty, fun, creative person.  It is no wonder then, my friend is a writer!  Hope you enjoy these interesting facts about a dear, old friend......Just don't tell him I said he was old!  Take some time and check out his books and blogs! 
    

J. Michael Krivyanski Writer, husband, father and all around interesting guy

BORN: August 17, 1959 at U.S. Army Hospital in Landstuhl Germany. (I’ll have to take people’s word on what happened that day. I don’t remember a thing and I really don’t look like that any more.)   MARRIED: July 25, 1987 – Present.   WIFE: Leatrice Elena. (Yes, her name is different. Her mother’s name is the same and she was named after the silent movie actress Leatrice Joy. There is also a flower by that name but it’s spelled different. When we moved into our home years ago my wife planted some of those flowers. I mowed the lawn one day and tore up her newly planted flowers. Unfortunately I thought they were weeds. OOOOOps. Still hear about that one when I go near the lawn mower.)   CHILDREN: Daughter, Alexandra born May 25, 1991. (Should you want to learn about her younger days purchase a copy of Family Illustrated. It consists of many humor columns I wrote and published about being her dad.)   PARENTS: James (No middle name) and Elizabeth Ann MacLean. (To my knowledge I only had two.)   EDUCATION: Ambridge High School (I barely graduated. Thank you to those teachers who couldn’t wait to get rid of me.)                           Point Park University, BA in Journalism and Communications. (I also barely graduated college. Thank you to those professors who couldn’t take my constant whining and couldn’t wait to get rid of me.)   FAVORITE THINGS (I’m always asked these questions for some reason.)   Movies: The Lord of the Rings Trilogy.                 As Good as it Gets                 Documentary about Poppa Neutrino (These are just a few. There really are many more movies I love to watch.)   Music: 70’s and 80’s Rock-n-Roll. Classical symphonies. (Gustav Holst “The Planets” is one of my favorites).   Authors: John Steinbeck, Art Buchwald, Erma Bombeck, Dave Berry and John Kennedy Toole.   Books: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. (No matter how many times I read this book I always laugh and feel better when I’m finished.)     WRITING   I began writing when I was fourteen years old. I saw a copy of Writer’s Digest and realized you could actually make money by telling stories. Up to that point I had only been punished for telling stories. I thought what a great way to make a living. I was not a good student. In high school I was usually in trouble for something. People in positions of authority were never impressed with the stories I had created.  They all seemed to have an obsession with the truth and reality. I wanted to write fiction. At sixteen I had a joke published in a magazine. I actually got a very small paycheck for it. I never cashed the check. I walked around with it for a long time telling people I was a published author.  Everyone seemed to think I had just created another story. After spending time in the military I started college and published poems and a few short stories. I met my wife and she became the focus of all my free time. We moved to Burbank, CA after getting married. Following several failed attempts at selling a screenplay I had written I tried to give up on writing. I was convinced I had no talent. I was a new father and enjoyed every moment of it. Unfortunately I couldn’t stop writing. I wrote essays about the different aspects of being a new dad and just let them sit on my desk in our house. A friend who visited saw the essays, read them and insisted I send the essays out to newspapers. I thought he was crazy. I felt I had no talent. He wouldn’t let it go. I sent out a few of them to a local newspaper called The Burbank Leader. About a week later an editor from the newspaper called and wanted me to write a regular humor column for them. I was overwhelmed. I instantly agreed. Most of the columns I wrote during that time are featured in my book Family Illustrated. We moved back to Pennsylvania in 1995. I continued to publish humor columns as well as various articles for local and national publications. I then began writing a humor column for Continental News Service which I still do today. I also continue to write articles for various publications. There are more books and even a screenplay in the works. I guess when you tell stories for a living the work never ends.

FOR FURTHER INFORMATION OR TO SCHEDULE AN INTERVIEW WITH J. MICHAEL KRIVYANSKI, CONTACT HIM AT: readmikenow@juno.com

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Morning Rays

 

    This is a little six sentence short story which I recently entered into some contests.  I didn't win, but it is a sweet little story you may enjoy reading.  There certainly is a challenge when one is confronted with the task of keeping a story to a minimum of words.  Lots of fun, not so easy, but definitely worth it!

     On a gnarled, oak bench, underneath a fragrant pine, sits my father, worn, leather prayer book open on his lap.  Jewel-colored hummingbirds dart to and fro suckling sweet nectar, when one flies near to whisper in my father’s ear.  Sunlight filters through the branches on this lazy morning.  He stands, stretching out the body, now bent from age, as his face turns upward letting the first rays of warmth course through him.  “Thank you, Father,” he says.  It will be a good day.

A move to the big city

     With that deer-in-the-headlights look, I began my first day at a new job over five years ago.  Twenty seven years at another job, and there I was starting over again.
     My husband  Jim and I had met at an online dating site.  After a few failed attempts at other relationships, my brother opened up my world to this type of dating.  Scary at first, it grew to be quite fun.  There were a few others I met in the cyber world, but Jim was the special one.  The one that could make me laugh.
     I had left everything behind, brother, parents and old friends to pursue my new life with this man.  We hadn't dated too long before deciding to marry.  I found myself moving to a larger city, and a strange, fast-paced lifestyle that was foreign to me.
     Oddly enough, I had practically grown up in a dental office, as I had begun my career as  a dental assistant when I was only eighteen years old.  There I was, forty six, and trembling at the thought of learning dreaded computer skills.
     The former dental office had been quaint, old-fashioned with a rickety, old typewriter that had been my daily companion.  Before me was a keyboard that didn't look anything like my dear old friend.
     Patiently, my new boss, dear Kathy sat by my side, encouraging me every step of the way.  She may never know the stomach pains which had gripped me in those first hours and days.
     Soon enough, I realized the bulky monstrosity was so much more than the old, Royal typewriter I had left behind.  It could do things I had only dreamed of.
     Maybe this new, fast-paced lifestyle was something that could be embraced.  Something to look forward to.
     The stomach pains faded as the days flew by.  Here it is, almost six years later.  The big city has brought so much more into my world.  Love, new friendships, a church family closer than anything I could have dreamed of.   And not only has the office computer become my friend, but my boss Kathy has too.