Heart and Soul

Gonna' Live 'Til I Die

2006-01-11T17:21:00.000-08:00

I am dying.

But then, that’s the ultimate irony of life, isn’t it.

From the moment we are born ….every morning we rise to begin again…everything we do…it all brings us that much closer to our final breath.

Yet for the most part, we humans put on imaginary blinders and pretend that life is eternal. We live in a self-delusional cocoon where death is something that only happens to others. And in adopting that mindset, we not only lose sight of our mortal reality, we tend to waste precious time in activities and actions that really don’t matter.

I was starkly reminded of that life and death reality during a post holiday dinner with a friend of mine. She is a wonderful person who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. This woman is a spirited and positive-thinking individual who more than once has served as my councilor and confidant in times of need. Yet on this particular night the tables were turned. This time, I was the one listening as she described the severity of the disease that has invaded her body and against which she is now waging a battle for her life.

As my friend detailed the various treatments she is undergoing and the physical and mental side effects she is enduring, I found it impossible to equate her words with her appearance. Outwardly she looks the same as always---attractive and healthy, with a smile that warms the heart. Yet, my friend has changed dramatically in the life she now lives since receiving her cancer diagnosis.

She has taken a leave of absence from work and now spends time each day painting and quilting, two of her favorite hobbies. Her husband, a man usually busily engaged in his own activities, has reorganized his schedule and become a marvelous caretaker and a compassionate ally in her healing battle. And her friends, myself included, are making an extra effort to call and spend more time together.

And so it is I wonder, why does it take something like a brutal medical diagnosis with an immediate life-threatening dimension to force us to treasure life and those in it?

Why do we insist on wearing those blinders that encourage us to believe that the life we cherish and those we love will endure forever and therefore can be set aside or put on hold?

Why do we continually fool ourselves into believing that offering a kind word, giving a special hug, reading a book, playing a game, taking a walk, sharing a meal, or simply enjoying time with family and friends is a luxury allowed only after fulfilling work and professional responsibilities?

Why don’t we get it, that from the moment we are born, we begin dying---and that we need to spend time enjoying who and what we’ve got, while we can?

Like I said, I am dying. Matter of fact, we’re all dying.

But more important then concentrating on that inescapable and depressing fact, we need to focus on the joyous option that we are also given from the moment we are born…and that is to live fully, each and everyday, until we die.

Making Changes

2006-01-11T17:20:00.000-08:00

MAKING CHANGES

“A New Year, A New You.”

As we turn the calendar to the New Year of 2006, many of us follow the trend of resolving to make ourselves over. We self-promise renewal in a continual quest to become thinner, richer, smarter, younger, healthier and, of course, better looking.

Never one to be left behind, I’ve made my list of New Year’s Resolutions with one central theme: to become “cool.”

I came to this resolve several weeks ago when my daughter and I were planning our family’s Christmas Eve Dinner. My “in-the-know” child suggested that “Tapas Style” would be a good way to serve this year’s holiday feast. I responded that I had no idea what “Tapas” meant, at which point she gave me a look that I clearly remember using on my grandmother when I talked to her about trendy subjects as bell bottoms and go-go boots.

It was at that precise moment that I clearly understood I had officially fallen into the out-of-touch generation. However, unlike my mother and her mother before her, I have since decided that out-of-touch is not where I want to be. So this year I’m dedicating myself to keeping up with all the latest trends and becoming “cool.”

As a lover of fashion, I decided to begin with my wardrobe. My New Year’s Motto a simple one of change and renewal. Out with full sized sweaters, high-heeled pumps and regular fit jeans and in with shrugs, uggs and low riders, baby!

So I set off to my favorite clothing mecca to shop for a new and trendy wardrobe, which now hangs in my closet, ready to wear. There’s just one small problem. I have no idea how to wear this stuff!

The uggs aren’t so bad. In fact, they’re downright warm and toasty. However, I must admit that I find the current fashion trend of pairing the oversized furry boots with dresses of satin and lace, a bit disorienting. But I’ve started out slow, putting together uggs with my best 3-piece suit and it seems to be working out ok.

Where I’m really struggling is in the shrug and low rider jeans department. Now every time I see a nubile young woman wrapped up in a body hugging cropped tee shirt topped off with a shoulder to shoulder shrug, I absolutely love the look. However when I attempt to pull off that same fashion statement, I end up looking like someone wearing a half knit sweater that’s unraveling as I wear it. Then when you add to that a pair of low rider jeans that not only fail to cover my love handles and healthy belly, but tragically over emphasize them and cause them to hang out from underneath my too-short shirt, it’s definitely a bad picture.

The good news is that I’ve found a solution to my fashion dilemma and it’s right out the pages of my grandmother’s stylebook. I’ve discovered that if I simply trade-in my cropped tee for a full-length model, I can wear the lowest cut jeans in the universe and appear as cool as anyone. I just have to add one simple undergarment…..a corset.

Yep, that’s right. I now put on a one-piece, shoulder to leg, hold-it-all-in, elastic body armor and I’m good to go for any fashion trend on the market. The only drawback I’ve found so far is that after about three hours, my internal organs start to feel as if they are being compacted and I have a little trouble breathing. But it’s a small price to pay for being cool.

Next on my cool resolution list… tattoos. I’m thinking maybe a cute little butterfly on my ankle.

Undoubtedly way cool!

'Tis The Season

2006-01-11T17:19:00.000-08:00

This week in the midst of the traditional Ho-Ho-Ho shopping frenzy, I find that I have experienced a personal epiphany. It’s a magical revelation related to the task of shopping for that perfect Yuletide gift. In a nutshell, I’ve come to realize that holiday shopping is an art practiced by two types of people. “The Listers” and “The Wanderers.”

Listers initiate their Holiday Shopping by creating multiple lists that encompass all of their gift giving needs. They categorize their lists into groups of family, friends, and neighbors, and then create appropriate subcategories of malls and plazas where they plan to shop. They know the exact store, aisle and shelf containing all of their gift items and, just to be on the safe side, they memorize the appropriate UPC codes, style numbers, and manufacturer’s names.

Well-prepared Listers also maintain a cross-indexed stash of neatly clipped coupons to compliment their gift lists. In addition, they create strategic GPS maps of various shopping excursion routes. These charts are precise and help to guide Listers from store to store in a perfectly ordered plan, which of course includes suggested stopoffs for lunch and snacks.

Traditionally, Listers are categorized as females.

As for “Wanderers,” they also start their holiday shopping quests armed with lists…usually prepared for them by caring Listers. However, these shopping guides almost always end up rebelliously stuffed into Wanderer’s back pockets, for this breed of shopper believes that lists are for wimps. And so they bravely exhibit their trailblazing spirits by surging into crowded malls and plazas and attacking their shopping tasks mano-a-mano.

As a result, Wanderer’s shopping excursions are often marked by multiple journeys up and down mall hallways, circling in a stupor akin to first time tourists in a big city. They rub their eyes, they scratch their heads and dazedly gaze up at storefront signs as if the words are foreign and unfamiliar.

Every once in a while Wanderers actually venture into a store in an attempt to capture the gift of their dreams. Yet, within minutes of entering a shopping wonderland, Wanderers often find themselves frightened and disoriented. In desperation, they blindly decide to snatch the closest object at hand. They then stumble to the checkout and shove the randomly selected item at the clerk, all the while feebly pleading for complimentary gift wrap.

When Wanderers finally emerge from the depths of their holiday shopping hell, they instinctively head for the nearest first aid station, where they find comfort in the administration of medicinal barley and hops.

Traditionally, Wanderers are categorized as males.

Yet the good news is that cell phone technology has provided Listers and Wanderers with a compromise means of connecting and achieving a much greater Holiday shopping success. With a flip of a phone and a flick of a speed dial, Wanderers have found a way to continue their proud tradition of shopping without lists, while searching the sky for Lister saviors to guide them step by step to the exact gift of their holiday dreams.

Not exactly a star, 3 Wisemen, and a baby, but definitely some essential Holiday Salvation!

A Hershey Kiss and Hot Chocolate

2006-01-11T17:18:00.000-08:00

Between the eggnog and the cookies, the tree and all the trimmings, the shopping and the wrapping, and my family’s 6 December Birthdays, this month is always a hectic one for me. Yet this year, I’ve even managed to ratchet up my holiday chaos to a whole new level by scheduling signings of my Chicken Wing Wisdom book on weekends and many evenings. The end result of this temporary insanity is that I am quickly becoming THE MASTER of multi-tasking.

For example, last Saturday while sitting in the middle of a local mall, meeting/greeting/signing books, I was also writing this Heart and Soul commentary. The topic was one I’d been chewing on since Thanksgiving and the commentary was shaping up as a real doozy. Basically, my Irish sensibilities have been totally inflamed by the current, “politically correct” demand to displace the centuries old, “Merry Christmas” with the new and insipid “Happy Holidays.” Personally I think the debate swirling around this issue insults people’s intelligence as well their valued personal traditions. If I want to say Merry Christmas, as I have done throughout the Decembers of my life, then I should be able to do so freely and without fear of offending anyone.

However just as I was rolling into paragraph three and really getting to the meat of the issue, my creative juices came to a complete and total halt as I heard a voice say, “My daughter is going to write our story one day.”

I looked up from my writing pad to find a middle aged woman standing before me, her appearance clearly defining her as a woman more of labor, than luxury. I immediately remembered her as someone who had passed by my signing table earlier in the day. Specifically I recalled that she paused only briefly, as she was pushing a man in a wheelchair and had 2 children tagging alongside. That poignant image, along with the directness of her statement, begged my undivided attention as she spoke.

“My husband is blind and my son is autistic. I’m the one who takes care of them. Since they take so much of my attention, my daughter, who is perfectly healthy, gets left out a lot. So we have this special thing that we do. When she needs time with me, she leaves a Hershey Kiss on my pillow. And when I need time with her, I leave a Hershey Kiss on her pillow. So when I see that Hershey kiss, I know that I need to make sure that we to have time to talk and drink hot chocolate.”

The woman’s words poured out so quickly that I initially found them somewhat stunning. Yet as I began to grasp the story she was telling, I found her spirit irresistible and her love for her family most remarkable. I also found that I was suddenly much less concerned whether people were wishing me Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Blessed Kwanzaa or Happy Holidays. For in her simple story, this worn and weary woman reminded me of the true message of the season…love.

So, I’ve decided to take a page from this wise woman’s life story and change my focus on “the acceptable greeting” for the holidays. Whether it’s Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, or Blessed Kwanzaa, who really cares? As long as the wishes come from the heart and are given with love, that’s what’s important

Just like a Hershey kiss and a big steaming mug of hot chocolate.

Gobble Til You Wobble

2006-01-11T17:11:00.000-08:00

While Thanksgiving is unquestionably a holiday all about the food, my personal turkey day traditions also include a focus outside the realm of, "Gobble ‘til you wobble."

Like many Americans, I spend days preparing my dining table with freshly polished silver, sparkling crystal, and fine china plates on which to serve our family’s treasured recipes. Yet I also find that each Thanksgiving, my day is defined by memories of two special people---my former mother-in-law and my mother---both women of determination and common sense, who occupy a special place in my heart, and in my Thanksgivings Past.

My former mother-in-law could easily be defined as a hard headed and tough German woman with a heart of gold. From the time I first met her in 1967, it was clear that family was her life’s sole focus. One of my strongest memories of her familial devotion occurred in 1971, when my former husband and I were new parents spending Thanksgiving 500 miles away from home.

That year, not only did my mother-in-law load her two younger sons into the car and undertake the long trek to spend the Thanksgiving Holiday with us, she also brought the entire meal with her. Yes, that’s right. From a 20 pound turkey to mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy and of course, her famous squash, every element of a traditional Thanksgiving dinner arrived completely prepared and, amazingly, still warm!

Being young at the time, I principally appreciated the dinner for its face value of excellent food and nourishment. Yet now, some thirty-four years later, I more fully understand and value the loving effort my former mother-in-law made that Thanksgiving, in bringing family and food to our doorstep. The memory also serves as an enduring reminder of the importance of family above all else. And for that constant tweak, I am eternally indebted.

As for my mom, she was a whole different story. She was a tough independent businesswoman who, while she loved her family, was also satisfied with the pleasure of her own company on holidays and everyday. However, on Thanksgiving Eve 1998, her solitary lifestyle changed.

Mom had been suffering from a variety of ailments for some time and that November the varied diseases and conditions finally got the best of her aging body. As a result, a doctor admitted her to a Senior Care Facility a week before Thanksgiving. However, the first time I walked through the doors, I knew I couldn’t leave her there.

So, that dark and rainy Thanksgiving Eve, I packed up my mother’s meager belongings, bundled her into my car and brought her home to live with my husband and me. Little did I know she would die a short four months later, and further, that my memories of her sitting at the kitchen table that Thanksgiving Morning---blanket shawled around her shoulders, glasses askew on her nose, polishing rag in one hand and silver serving pieces before her --- would be one of the most long lasting and affecting memories of the Thanksgiving Holiday--- and of my life.

So now each year as I rise early on Thanksgiving Morn and begin last minute holiday preparations, I hold a little gathering in the kitchen. Quietly and respectfully I call together the spirits of my mother and my former mother-in-law. I thank them for all the valuable life lessons that they've taught me and for being women of distinct value and honor. And I ask that they to continue to watch over our family and care for us on Thanksgiving and everyday.

My Father's Child

2006-01-11T17:08:00.000-08:00

Shortly after my mother’s passing in 1999, I started including a new line in my writer’s biography that I still retain today. It reads, "Christina will always be her mother’s daughter."

That statement is important to me because despite our many differences, my mom and I were close and, quite honestly, I miss her now that she’s not around to drive me crazy anymore. It was also my hope that those simple six words might serve as a comforting reminder to all readers that no matter how permanently death separates us from those we love, it cannot change the reality of people’s individual significance in our lives.

For instance, as I continue to age "gracefully," I quite often find myself replicating many of my mother’s mannerisms, phrases, and god help me, her Irish sense of humor. There are even moments when I purposefully use some of her favored sayings as a quietly reverential way of keeping her spirit alive.

I’ve also recognized that some of the professional traits that have furthered my career are directly attributable to my mother. Although she never earned more than a high school diploma, mom capably worked her way through the secretarial ranks into management, eventually becoming one of the first women executives of a prominent Western New York Bank. Her work ethic, coupled with her tough as nails can-do attitude, still provide an excellent professional template for any businessperson to follow.

And so it was, for all those reasons and more, that six years ago I officially adopted my "mother’s daughter" bio line.

Yet several months ago I was shocked by the discovery that while I may always be my mother’s daughter, I am, by nature, my father’s child.

This bit of wisdom came as a surprise to me, in part, because I really haven’t had much contact with my dad in more than twenty years. He and my mother divorced in the early 1980’s. From that point on, my father pretty much went his own way, using an occasional card or phone call to stay in touch.

However since my mother’s passing, my father has made somewhat of a return appearance into my life and this past January he requested that I visit him in Florida where he now lives. Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed.
During our three days together I began to realize the many similarities between my father and myself. Not traits that I mimic or mannerisms I have adopted, but talents and innate sensibilities that exactly match.

My father is a writer, a fact I never knew until he began sharing his poems and stories that he’d crafted over the years. The interior of the condo he now calls home reveals my father’s flair for decorating, a talent of his that I recall from my youth, and one for which I am also often given credit. My father is a lover of music, regularly playing a wide range of performers on his stereo , just as I do in my own home.

In between our Florida sightseeing trips and shared meals my father told me a number of stories about his youth and mine, in much the same way that I tell my children tales of our shared pasts. That particular similarity became even more startling when I recognized that my father and I are inveterate storytellers, right down to the common words and phrases we use. In browsing through his stacks of books and videotapes I discovered that my father and I share exact tastes in literature and movies. We also have the same likes and dislikes in food and drink. Most essentially, we are both ice cream and chocolate addicts….milk chocolate only, thank-you very much.

Since returning from my mid winter visit it has taken quite some time to process all that I learned about my father. It has also been somewhat disorienting to come to grips with the reality that the essence of who I am, the inner part of my being, is truly connected to my father much more than my mother. After so many years of his absence from my life, it’s been a surprising lesson revealed.

In the end though, I’m grateful that my father reached out and allowed me to learn something about who he is, which, in turn, has helped me to discover more about myself. While the experience had its fair share of challenging and even painful moments, by becoming re-acquainted with my father I've definitely formulated a stronger foundation from which to live the second half of my life.

And I have also reaffirmed the truth that despite all of my inborn talents and characteristics, I will always be my mother’s daughter.

Trick or Treat

2005-10-09T08:19:00.000-07:00

Devastating floods. Killing wars. Political upheaval. Economic downturn.

Everywhere around me these days the world seems so distraught.

So yesterday I took a break from the realities of life and went for an evening walk around my county block, far from the maddening crowds. What I discovered along the way is that the Halloween Season is definitely upon us, and further that it has become as prolific a decorating season as any Yuletide I can recall.

At almost every house I passed there were the traditional front porch decorations of pumpkins, mums, corn stalks and scarecrows. Yet alongside the conventional I also discovered the spooky and at times macabre adornments that definitely lent a whole new meaning to Martha Stewart's "good thing" ideal of seasonal home decor.

Strings of orange, black and purple lights highlighted archways, doorways, porch railings, lamp posts and fences, glowingly heralding the color based tradition of this trick or treat time of year.

Massive spider webs spread across porch walls fashioned from thick black lengths of yarn. Off center in the webs often sat my own worst nightmare ---multi legged, furry spiders with menacing purple glow eyes.

I saw skeletons, bats, and witches -- oh my -- all in life size proportions and all lurking menacingly around what I usually observe as cheerful and welcoming home entranceways.

Oversized nylon pumpkins, witches, and ghosts, of a scope so large that they requited tethers and stakes set in the ground, bobbled from side to side on front lawns, one after another. Their rhythmic motions made it appear as if they were engaging in some sort of spooky secret code of communication, known only to them.

Headless humans complete with detached craniums sat on usually unoccupied ornate park benches wearing their best and bloodiest attire. Alongside cardboard grave markers heralded the poor soul's RIP epitaphs.

And then of course there were the overachieving Halloween decorators who felt compelled to add ghostly sound effects and chilling howls to their overall outdoor displays.

I'm not exactly sure when we Americans made the cross over from trick or treat penny candy and dime store plastic masked costumes into a product laden Halloween season of Easter peeps morphed into Halloween pumpkins, commercially created costumes with detail and accessories to rival Hollywood's best designers, and of course those lawn decorations of a scope traditionally reserved for only Santa and Rudolph.

Perhaps the Halloween hubbub has its roots in the 1980s horrific outbreak of the poison candy/razor blades in apples that infiltrated our nation's protective radar. Sort of an anti-nasty reaction to the unimaginable defamation of the holiday.

Or maybe this recent explosion of Halloween mania has evolved as a result of the stress and strains of our ever evolving technology based world. Anything to distract our attention from the harshness of life and make it fun again.

Who's to say?

All I know is that inflated pumpkins and wild and wooly spiders aside, the singular element that will undoubtedly stir my Halloween Heart and Soul this year is when my one year old grandson puts on his brown and furry lion costume and issues his first official Halloween roar.

For my nickel, there's nothing that so truly defines Halloween like a kid in a costume standing at my back door, demanding in a voice loud and strong, "Trick or treat, money or eats."

Kind of makes you feel like bobbing for apples, doesn't it?

I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE

2005-09-14T14:30:00.000-07:00

I cannot believe what I just heard on a local news report. In fact, the words spoken by the broadcaster were so unbelievable that I waited for the next newscast to absolutely ensure that what I heard was correct.

Unfortunately, everything I heard was true.

The gist of the radio report is that a judge has decreed that reciting the pledge of allegiance in American public high schools is against the law because the word “God” in included in the pledge.

Is this some kind of bad joke?

Is it really possible that high school students across the United States will now no longer begin their day by reaffirming their loyalty to their homeland with words that generations before them have proudly learned and repeated?

There have been a lot of wacky court rulings over the last few years, but this one is absolutely the most infuriating and unacceptable that I can recall.

From what I understand, the reason for the ruling is a lawsuit brought against the United States by an attorney/physician Michael Newdow, on behalf of three parents and their children. Newdow previously brought the same lawsuit against the US on behalf of his own daughter. In that suit he was stonewalled by the US. Supreme Court who ruled that he had no right to sue as he is not the child’s custodial parent. So this time, apparently Dr. Lawyer Newdow borrowed three families to further his anti-pledge cause.

What concerns me about this whole muddled mess is that a lawsuit such as this can be seriously considered. I mean really---can the fact that the pledge contains the words, “Under God” really cause a high school student to suffer some kind of religious angst?

As I recall, most kids reciting the pledge of allegiance first thing in the morning were barely awake and hardly focused on anything other than standing up without falling asleep. I’d like to meet the young man or woman who finds the two word phrase so disturbing that they feel driven to beg their parent or parents to actively sue an entire country to change a century-long, revered national tradition.

At this point I don’t know what the long-term fall out of this judge’s ruling will be. Hopefully when the inevitable appeal of the ruling arrives at the US Supreme Court, the justices will again find a way to dismiss the messy suit. But if they don’t then I think the consequences could be disastrous.

At a time in our country when we are still trying to recover from the devastation of the Oklahoma City bombing and the 9/11 tragedies, we are losing valuable American men and women in Iraq everyday, and natural disasters like Katrina are rocking the very core of our nation, I think the last thing we need to do is divide our people even further over the legality of a Pledge of Allegiance to our homeland.

I hope when the time comes, the Supreme Court agrees.

A Flood of Emotions

2005-09-03T05:17:00.000-07:00

I am stunned, I am shocked, I am angry, I am frustrated, I am saddened, I am relieved, I am proud, I am grateful, I am prayerful and I am selfish---all in varying degrees, from moment to moment. And all as I watch the unimaginable tragedies of Hurricane Katrina’s aftermath unfold in Mississippi, Alabama and Louisiana.

I am stunned by the images of people laying dead in the Super Dome and bodies floating lifelessly along French Quarter Streets.

I am shocked by stories of helpless babies and handicapped elderly wasting away and dying from dehydration.

I am angered by the reports of thievery and rape, and worse, of snipers shooting at rescue helicopters.

I am saddened by the realization that when the flood waters finally recede it will be years before the tortured faces flashing across my television screen will again, if ever, experience normalcy in their lives.

I am frustrated by the incredibly slow moving delivery of aid and assistance, as our government seemingly has failed to do for our own what they have ably done so many times for devastated people and nations around the world.

I am saddened as I watch people rummaging through scattered shards of glass and strips of wood that represented the remains of their homes, searching in vain for scraps of personal possessions.

I am relieved that the people of America jump-started the rescue efforts that our government seemed incapable of undertaking.

I am grateful over and over and over again as I awake in my warm, dry bed, dress from an array of clothing and shoes within my closet, enjoy a bounty of late summer fruits and vegetables with every meal, turn on the tap for water any time I desired, and know that my family and my friends are alive and safe.

I am prayerful each time I see a mother begging for help for her dehydrated child, or people desperately waving from rooftops of their immersed homes, or tears streaming down the cheeks of seasoned police officers as they attempt to describe the flood of death and destruction.

I am proud of the people and corporations in Western New York and across the United States who have given so generously and caringly of money, food, clothing and supplies to help their fellow Americans.

I am selfish as I take comfort in the fact that this incredible tragedy did not directly affect me, my family, my friends, my community, my world.

And I am well aware that no matter how far removed this tragedy may be from my own life, the memories of this past week will unquestionably make a difference in the way I go forward, forever more.

WHY WALK WHEN YOU CAN FLY?

2005-07-20T05:18:00.000-07:00

There’s something about summer that brings out the kid in me. Hot sunny days arrive and I find myself thoughtlessly reverting to activities, clothing styles and even foods that suggest memories of my long ago youth.

My latest seasonal blast-from-the-past relates to a constitutional bike ride that I recently started taking each day. It’s an around-the-rural-block trek that amounts to approximately a five-mile journey. Now I have to tell you, it’s been a few years since I’ve undertaken bicycle cruises. Twenty to be exact. So the prospect of hitting the hilly country roads surrounding my rural home was initially somewhat daunting.

However, as June’s official point of summer demarcation brought forth festivals, and fun, it also set my mind to believing that the lengthy time lapse and considerable age span since my last cycling adventures were irrelevant. Suddenly, somehow I thought I was totally capable of climbing on my tortuously butt-busting bike seat and magically pedaling away with ease.

RIGHT!

Week one: I managed to accomplish each complete, around-the-block circuit without once dismounting and walking. It was an achievement in which, on the downside of age fifty, I took great personal pride. Although I will tell you that during this period, my husband several times made mention of the fact that I seemed to be walking a lot like John Wayne.

Week two: I began to recover my old muscle memory and recall the concept of power pedaling, to the point that by day ten, I was cranking my riding machine up into the double digits of its twenty-one gear capacity. Soon I was embarking on actual trips with destinations such as the post office, the supermarket, and town meetings.

My bicycle was no longer just an object of excruciating exercise, rather, it had become an open-air transportation option. As I set off on my trips with a backpack over my shoulder and a Walkman cranking out my favorite tunes, I was once again a kid again……at least in theory.

Week three: Having fully re-mastered the basics, I began to playfully consider the joyful challenges of long forgotten bicycle stunts. Hands free, pop a wheelies, spinning a 360. Eventually my more mature nature coerced me into pursuing the one stunt that posed the least danger to my aging, breakable bones…. hands free.

I chose a downhill stretch of my preset route, a point where the incline would minimize my need to pedal and allow me to concentrate solely on my balance. As I picked up speed I tentatively let go of the handlebars… and immediately re-grabbed them as I felt my two wheeler drift wildly out of control.

"Perhaps not a good move" my mature nature cautioned. To which my summer-child sense issued a "Don’t be a wimp" challenge.

Needless to say, I tried again.

This time, I succeeded in leaving the handlebars unattended for a thirty second span. Victory! Score one for reclaiming my youth.

The next day, at the crest of the same hill, I once again attempted to abandon the security of my bike’s handlebar guidance system. Thirty, forty, sixty seconds passed and I was still hands free. Then with the wind whistling through my hair and Mary Chapin Carpenter’s "Why Walk When You Can Fly?" blasting from my earphones I decided to go for the gusto.

Slowly I extended my arms up over my head inch by inch until they reached for the clouds. It was a moment directly relived from the best memories of my youth.

Who says plastic surgery and expensive moisturizing creams are the only way to look and feel younger? Give me a bike and a good down hill run anyday!

THE TRIBUTE

2005-07-20T05:10:00.000-07:00

THE TRIBUTE

I took a little vacation from life last week.

I didn’t cook. I didn’t clean. I didn’t grocery shop. I didn’t go to the office. Didn’t answer the phone, check e-mail, or watch TV. I didn’t even work on my newspaper, Internet or radio Heart and Soul columns. In fact, during my entire retreat I only put pen to paper once. And that was to write a eulogy for my Uncle Dave.

For long time Heart and Soul readers, my uncle may be a familiar character, as I have written about him a number of times. For those new to Heart and Soul, Uncle Dave was a man who went to great lengths to stay connected to me and my children after my father (his brother) vanished from our lives. He was also the man who, throughout his life, provided me with a true and valuable role model as a faithful marriage partner, an always-caring parent, and a visionary career person.

In short, he was more father than uncle.

When my cousin first called with the news of her father’s passing I was saddened, but not surprised. It had been 3 years since my uncle’s unreliable memory and questionable health forced the trade of his independent lifestyle for the security of a senior care facility. And though he dreamed of attending his grandchildren’s college graduations and one day dancing at their weddings, when we last spoke he intuitively acknowledged playing out the final innings of his life.

As my family and I headed to Virginia for his memorial service, I thought a lot about my uncle’s place in my life and his role in our family. In review, each memory provided a treasured moment always made better by his caring presence.

Yet upon our arrival in his hometown of Radford, a number of local and regional front-page news stories reminded me that my uncle was a man who made a difference in the lives of many, outside our family.

Uncle Dave was the Radford Recreation and Parks Director for twenty seven years and a part time Radford recreation employee for the twenty years following his 1978 "retirement." During that time, Uncle Dave pushed and pulled the small southern town’s rec program to a level of excellence that made it a recognized and honored statewide prototype.

He also diligently hammered away for a number of years at naysayers and non supporters of his dream to create a town park. His vision included playgrounds, picnic shelters, bike and jogging paths and a swimming pool, all set alongside the New River floodlands in downtown Radford. When my determined uncle ultimately won his park battle, he was rewarded for his civic vision by Radford town fathers as they officially named the land, B. David Bisset Park, in his honor.

Considering my uncle’s prominent role in the community, I expected his memorial service to be filled to overflowing with men, women, and young adults whose lives were touched and influenced by this wonderful man’s caring ways. However, as it turned out, only several dozen residents attended.

I was somewhat puzzled and a little frustrated that the people of Radford didn’t make a greater effort to recognize this man who had given more than half of his 86 years to their community. But then I began to recall the previous day, before my uncle’s memorial service, when our family set off on our own pilgrimage to Bisset Park.

As we turned onto the park’s entranceway, we were immediately halted by a long line of cars waiting to gain entry into the recreational grounds. As we slowly made our way into the park, we were surrounded by men, women and children of all ages, walking, biking, jogging, boating, playing on the slides and swings, picnicking under the protective shelters---fully enjoying every element of the park, just as my Uncle Dave envisioned. Ultimately, I realized that by enjoying Bisset Park, the people of Radford were paying their own form of tribute to this special man, not just for a few hours at his memorial service, but every single day, 365 days a year.

And I also came to the undeniable conclusion that, knowing my uncle, their homage was exactly what he would have wanted and most enjoyed.

LOVE IN BLOOM

2005-06-29T03:03:00.000-07:00

Ok, I know that there are a million and one earth shattering issues out there to be concerned about. And I realize that if I waste my brain cells on useless trivia I might very well deaden them permanently.

But I gotta tell you, I am fascinated with the red-hot love affair going on in full-blown paparazzi flash bulb passion between Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.

I’ve never been an overly devoted Cruise fan, although Top Gun, Cocktail, A Few Good Men and The Firm are some excellent films of his that I’ve enjoyed. As for Ms. Holmes, I didn’t even know the Dawson Creek star existed before the term "TomKat" was cleverly coined by sound bite media types.

So I’m wondering exactly why I’ve become bewitched with this hot and heavy romance that is flooding across televisions, newspapers and magazines around the world?

Perhaps it’s that I’m attracted to Tom Cruise, and secretly wish that he would leap frog from Oprah’s couch in public proclamation of his love for me?

No way…..I’m almost five feet ten inches tall and that height thing would drive me crazy. Although I must admit the idea of a guy buying me a three carat diamond and proposing at the top of the Eiffel Tower at 4 am in the morning after a romantic night on the town does hold a certain appeal.

Maybe I’m jealous of Katie Holmes, wishing once more to be young, thin, and hormonally in love?

Again, a big no thank-you. Every time I see Ms. Holmes silently fawning over her husband to be, I imagine her future shock as she one day outgrows her long held teenage dream of marrying Tom Cruise and wakes up to the reality of an old guy snoring in the bed next to her….an inevitable reality far removed from the hunky Hollywood posters she once taped to her bedroom walls.

Then again, maybe it’s all about the hype and hysteria surrounding their convenient coupling in conjunction with their individual blockbuster summer movies Batman and War of the Worlds?

Nah. These two may be a lot of things, but neither one appears to be a studio pawn type willing to carry out an elaborate charade just to sell a movie.

Could it possibly be all about the wonderful world of two people meeting and falling madly, deeply, passionately in love that has hooked my romantic heart and soul?

Not a chance. While some may consider this to be the love affair of the century, in my book it doesn’t come close to measuring up to Edward and Wallace, Hepburn and Tracy, or even Rhett and Scarlett for that matter.

So what is it?

I really am at a loss to understand why in the last few weeks I have taken to watching every Hollywood Access, Insider, ET, late night gossip show for Tomkat updates. Or why when I go to the supermarket I direct other shoppers ahead of me in the check out line, so I can scan the tabloids for my darling duo’s latest lip locked photos.

It’s gotten so bad I’m worried that I’m developing some type of addiction. Which brings up a whole new problem. Based on Cruise’s marital track record, I know that I only have between 3 and 10 years to cure my insatiable Tomkat mania.

But then again, maybe Bran and Jen will reunite soon and give me a reason to refocus.

Hey, a girl can dream can't she?

MY FATHER'S CHILD

2005-06-19T10:40:00.000-07:00

Shortly after my mother’s passing in 1999, I started including a new line in my writer’s biography that I still retain today. It reads, "Christina will always be her mother’s daughter."

That statement is important to me because despite our many differences, my mom and I were close and, quite honestly, I miss her now that she’s not around to drive me crazy anymore. It was also my hope that those simple six words might serve as a comforting reminder to all readers that no matter how permanently death separates us from those we love, it cannot change the reality of people’s individual significance in our lives.

For instance, as I continue to age "gracefully," I quite often find myself replicating many of my mother’s mannerisms, phrases, and god help me, her Irish sense of humor. There are even moments
I purposefully use some of her favored sayings as a quietly reverential way of keeping her spirit alive.

I’ve also recognized that some of the professional traits that have furthered my career are directly attributable to my mother. Although she never earned more than a high school diploma, mom capably worked her way through the secretarial ranks into management, eventually becoming one of the first women executives of a prominent Western New York Bank. Her work ethic, coupled with her tough as nails can-do attitude, still provide an excellent professional template for any businessperson to follow.

And so it was, for all those reasons and more, that six years ago I officially adopted my "mother’s daughter" bio line.

Yet several months ago I was shocked by the discovery that while I may always be my mother’s daughter, I am, by nature, my father’s child.

This bit of wisdom came as a surprise to me, in part, because I really haven’t had much contact with my dad in more than twenty years. He and my mother divorced in the early 1980’s. From that point on, my father pretty much went his own way, using an occasional card or phone call to stay in touch.

However since my mother’s passing, my father has made somewhat of a return appearance into my life and this past January he requested that I visit him in Florida where he now lives. Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed.
During our three days together I began to realize the many similarities between my father and myself. Not traits that I mimic or mannerisms I have adopted, but talents and innate sensibilities that exactly match.

My father is a writer, a fact I never knew until he began sharing his poems and stories that he’d crafted over the years. The interior of the condo he now calls home reveals my father’s flair for decorating, a talent of his that I recall from my youth, and one for which I am also often given credit. My father is a lover of music, regularly playing a wide range of performers on his stereo , just as I do in my own home.

In between our Florida sightseeing trips and shared meals my father told me a number of stories about his youth and mine, in much the same way that I tell my children tales of our shared pasts. That particular similarity became even more startling when I recognized that my father and I are inveterate storytellers, right down to the common words and phrases we use. In browsing through his stacks of books and videotapes I discovered that my father and I share exact tastes in literature and movies. We also have the same likes and dislikes in food and drink. Most essentially, we are both ice cream and chocolate addicts….milk chocolate only, thank-you very much.

Since returning from my mid winter visit it has taken quite some time to process all that I learned about my father. It has also been somewhat disorienting to come to grips with the reality that the essence of who I am, the inner part of my being, is truly connected to my father much more than my mother. After so many years of his absence from my life, it’s been a surprising lesson revealed.

In the end though, I’m grateful that my father reached out and allowed me to learn something about who he is, which, in turn, has helped me to discover more about myself. While the experience had its fair share of challenging and even painful moments, by becoming re-acquainted with my father I've definitely formulated a stronger foundation from which to live the second half of my life.

And I have also reaffirmed the truth that despite all of my inborn talents and characteristics, I will always be my mother’s daughter.

The Porch Swing

2005-06-11T08:57:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago this June I made a real estate deal to purchase the house of my dreams.

Ten years ago this June, everyone who knew me was sure I was buying the house of my worst nightmares…and didn’t hesitate to mention that fact…on more than one occasion.

However as time has passed, I’ve realized that the reality of my decade ago housing purchase falls somewhere in-between these two assessments. For there have been days when I’ve felt almost cursed by the challenges of renovating my one hundred and fifty five year old home. Yet for the most part, I arise every morning grateful for the life that I enjoy within this wonderful old house.

My favorite part of my home is the porch. It’s a full wrap around model that gracefully spans the front and gently encircles the side. From the first time I visited the house in 1979, it was the singular element that remained most strongly in my memory. It was also the main reason I decided to purchase the house some twenty six years later.

While I love the bead board ceiling and ornate turned spindles that define my open air living space, what really captures my heart and soul is the spectacular view. From almost any spot there is a vista of verdant grape fields, lush rolling hills, acres and acres of untouched forest land and a distant vision of Lake Erie on the horizon. Undoubtedly, a perfectly perfect vantage point.

When I purchased the property the former owners had already vacated the premises. So, once the required John Hancocks were inked, I was given legal permission to spend time on the grounds until the final closing.

Without pause, I went directly to a local outdoor store, purchased a white wicker swing and deposited it and myself on that porch for the duration. On warm summer nights I even slept there, lulled by the midnight lake breezes that kept my swing gently rocking in its cradle like motion.

Five years later the porch became even more meaningful to me as my husband and I married on its front steps. Following the ceremony, we proceeded to the wrap around side to greet our family and friends and bask in their good wishes. It was almost as if the old covered porch had been precisely made for our special day.

Yet, as so often happens, over the last few years my life has been overtaken with what has seemed like more pressing issues then whiling away summer days on a wicker porch swing. While each June I have made the effort to return my swing to its rightful place, for the last few years, it has gone greatly unused save for the occasional summer party or drop-in guest.

Then this week my grandson came to stay for a few days, and with his arrival the lure of my porch swing magically returned. This sweet child and I enjoyed his morning bottle, took afternoon naps and whiled away the evening’s twilight while rocking to and fro. And as he lovingly snuggled his head to my chest and tucked his tiny hands in mine, I remembered the reason that I fell in love with my house and its wrap around porch so many years ago.

Whenever I’m there, life is just the way I always dreamed it would be.
.

GABBING WITH GOD

2005-05-24T14:51:00.000-07:00

I have to admit that I was disappointed over CBS’s recent cancellation of their prime time drama series, Joan of Arcadia. While I do think that the story line has weakened, there’s a part of me that will miss the chance to watch Joan gab with God as she moves through her college years and into her adult life.

For those unfamiliar with the family oriented program, it is based on the premise that God (under the guise of everyday men, women and children) regularly appears to a typical teenage girl (Joan). These appearances are timed to deliver life defining messages and instructions to Joan, relative to problems she’s facing. When the teen wisely deciphers the messages and/or follows the instructions she is, in turn, graced with invaluable life lessons.

Now there’s no question that this show is for the soft of heart. Reality TV junkies, or cops and robbers fans need not tune in, for Joan is all about suspending belief in the real world and accepting the television "reality" that God chooses to walk, talk, and advise people right here on earth.

Being a romantic and Irish Catholic to boot, I have no trouble suspending my belief in the real world. It’s the part about God advising people, face to face, that has placed me in a quandary during the program’s two-year run.

In Joan’s initial season, I found the series interesting and often amusing in the way the show’s writers creatively intersected teen and Creator. Yet by year two, the idea that the Almighty might actually take the time to meet and greet people for the purpose of changing their lives started to settle into my brain.

Suddenly halfway through the second season I began experiencing "encounters" with people where, afterwards, my mind suggested that perhaps that person had been a messenger of God, or even God her/himself. On occasion these chance meetings almost seemed to be in direct answer to a question or problem with which I was struggling, really sending my thought process into overdrive.

Now being of reasonably sound mind, I never mentioned my "Joan type" encounters to family or friends. No sense giving them ammunition, I figured. Rather, I continued to keep my own counsel, thoughtfully analyzing each time it seemed that God might have appeared in my life.

Then last week, my daughter told me about a walk she took in her neighborhood. Along the way, a little girl she’d never seen before approached her. The child was followed immediately by a man who identified himself as her father.

Being a kind person, my daughter stopped to chat. Being in need, the father immediately and urgently began talking about his family and recent challenges they’d faced. As my daughter listened, she noticed that the man seemed to be lightening his emotional burden with every word. Moments later, when they parted company, the man then genuinely thanked her for her time.

As my daughter finished telling me this story, she said, "You know Mom, when I walked away I felt as if I was in one of those Joan of Arcadia shows. It almost seemed as this man and his child were sent to remind me how lucky I am."

Like I said, I’m disappointed that Joan of Arcadia has been cancelled….but then again, in the end, maybe the broadcast of a prime time TV show wasn’t really what it was all about.

MEMORIES OF A LIFETIME

2005-05-17T05:15:00.000-07:00

I have a very special cousin who lives in Kansas City. Throughout our lives the two of us have never been particularly close, due more to the distance between our homes than any other factor. So in an effort to become more connected, a few years ago we decided to regularly stay in touch, using e-mail as our steadfast communication form.

My cousin’s most recent e-mail started out in what has become our shared pattern. We apologize for the long lapse since our last correspondence and offer a litany of business and family obligations that always derail our best intentions. Then we generally launch into the latest batch of family news, which this time for my cousin included a rash of health problems suffered by her father, the most significant being the advancement of his Alzheimer’s.

In describing her father’s failing health, my cousin noted that once her dad’s physical condition stabilizes, he will be relocated from the hospital into a facility that specializes in Alzheimer care.

I stared at my cousin’s e-mail for a number of minutes, reading select passages time and again. With each review, I kept hoping that somehow her words would reveal a different message. That my brain would make a new order of her carefully scripted report that my uncle no longer recognizes his only daughter. That the whole thing was really my comprehension error, rather than her true-life reality.

Finally, I stopped reading and allowed my cousin’s words to incisively make their mark. Tears compassionately released the pain from my heart. Cherished memories comforted my soul. Images of my uncle surrounded me—summer days at Crystal Beach Amusement Park, backyard baseball games, twilight captures of magical lightening bugs, Buffalo Bills football games in sun, wind, rain and snow, Disney movies, silly jokes, joyous laughter, and, always, an ice cream cone along the way.

Yet more painful than recalling those special memories was the knowledge that the person who helped to create those moments that literally defined my life…the person who knew about my family -where we came from, how we evolved and even where we might be going…that one-of-a-kind person has been lost. No matter that his body is still with us, the part of my Uncle that made him so uniquely "him" is now locked away in a prison without keys and with no guardian aside from his own territorially defensive mind.

It was only a year ago that my husband and I traveled to Virginia to visit my uncle. He had just moved out of his home of over fifty years into a senior residence. As an aging widower it was a needed move. It was the right move. It was also a painful move, clearing out the home where he and his "bride" Irene once raised their three children and become pillars of the community, he as the town Recreation Director and she as the ultimate "mom" to all who knew her.
I can still see him, sitting in that small apartment that newly defined his shrinking world. He was surrounded by objects that held the greatest meaning—photos of his family, sports trophies, team memorabilia, and a baseball game playing on TV. After his family, sports were my uncle’s life. No matter how confused he might become over names and faces, he always knew the box scores and the latest Buffalo Bill’s updates.

As I re-focused my attention to my cousin’s e-mail, I briefly considered getting in the car and driving to see my uncle. Yet the words embedded on the computer screen before me clearly indicated that my trip would be largely in vain. So instead, I went in search of a blank journal long ago tucked away. Bringing it to my desk, I carefully folded back the cover and on the first page inscribed my uncle’s name. Underneath I began transferring my carefully preserved memories of this special man.

Since then, little by little, I have been working to recreate my life experiences with my uncle so that all of our family who know and love him, and those who never will have that chance, will be able to recall and experience his kind and caring ways.

While I can’t change the evolution of life I can at least create a lasting memory of a man who in his own quiet way always made an effort to better the life of every child he knew… including me.

THE TEN WOMANDMENTS ...PLUS ONE

2005-05-10T18:34:00.000-07:00

Recently while discussing a number of life issues with a college-age friend, I came to the realization that women are often sadly deficient in the advice department. While we instinctively possess a world of wisdom and are incredibly capable of learning and creating, generally we have been poorly taught and sparingly advised on ways to strategically plan our lives.

So after considered thought, I have come up with a list of life advisories that I’ve entitled, Womandments. And while clearly every woman has her own distinct means by which she lives, I think these eleven little gems are worth considering.

1) Listen to your heart and become who you want to be. Your dreams absolutely can come true.

2) Never allow anyone to diminish your personal value. No amount of money or power provides another human with the right to judge your worthiness.

3) In choosing a profession, always seriously consider retirement plans and pension options. If none are offered, then with that first paycheck, start your own. One of life’s greatest freedoms is having enough money accrued at age 40 or 45 to retire, or at least regularly shop at T.J Maxx with complete abandon.

4) Children are a choice, not a requirement. If you should choose to become a mother, know in advance that the job will be demanding and exhaustingly endless, but also know the years will fly by and your caring devotion will return to you in magical ways you could never imagine.

5) Do your best to avoid envy or jealousy in your life. Have confidence that you are a unique gift to the world, and don’t diminish your brilliance by demeaning the talents of others.

6) Who we are, the good and the bad, is greatly influenced by the actions of our parents. Yet at some point in our adult lives we need to acknowledge that mom and dad did their best and begin taking responsibility for our own actions, rather than blaming our parents for our faults.

7) Set goals for yourself, personally and professionally. Write them down and update them so that you are aware of the passage of time and the progress of your life.

8) Understand that behind every great marriage there is a strong and caring group of family and friends. Cultivate and cherish them for they are the direct path to years of happily wedded life.

9) Spiritual faith is integral to your well being. However a meaningful connection to the God of your choice does not necessarily require a steepled church or a holy preacher.

10) There are two things that will ensure a life well lived: laughing fully and loudly and giving to others, both on a daily basis.

11) Last but far from least, love can be everything, but it is not the only thing. If love should leave or never appear, make sure that there is enough of you to make your life whole.

And I guess I would be remiss if I didn’t include the two memorable pieces of advice that my mother shared with me throughout her life. First, to always realize how lucky you are. That glass can be half full, as easily as it is half empty. Second, to never go to sleep angry…at yourself, your significant other, your family, your friends, the world….life is short, don’t waste it.

THE GIFT OF LIFE

2005-05-02T19:25:00.000-07:00

Since my mother’s passing six years ago, Mother’s Day has served as a regularly painful reminder that for the rest of my life I’ll be without a mom. Further, the fact that my children are both grown and involved in their own lives often leaves me in a less than celebratory mood come that dreaded second Sunday in May.

Yet the good news is that this year my life has changed.

This Mother’s Day, instead of dealing with melancholy over the fact that I'm a motherless daughter and an empty nester parent, I will be celebrating the fact that I am a Nana. And so, for the first time in a long time, I am looking forward to the upcoming Mother’s Day Holiday with a true sense of joy and anticipation.

I’m not sure exactly what it is about my newly titled nanaship that has so completely lightened my heart and changed my life’s perspective. Obviously, there’s the delight of experiencing pure and innocent love from a child of my own lineage. Then there’s also the gratification factor of suddenly become a font of infinite wisdom in the eyes of my "new mother" daughter.

Yet there’s something more significant at work here. Something outside the realm of schmaltzy Hallmark Cards, thoughtfully crafted Popsicle-stick picture frames, and specially prepared-for-mommy dinners. It’s an intangible sense that somehow through my newly acquired Nana status, I’ve received a renewed opportunity to live my life.

Let me explain.

During my short stint as a Nana I have yet to make any mistakes, do any wrongs, disappoint anyone, or fail to keep any of my promises. Also, I have consistently made my grandchild smile, showered him with kisses and hugs, read aloud his favorite book five times in five minutes, and capably soothed away his tears simply by rocking him in my arms.

In other words, to this point, I’ve been perfect!

Furthermore, I believe I have a good shot at maintaining my perfect Nana status for quite some time, as I have absolutely no responsibility for this child’s life in any way or form, outside of my Official Nana’s sworn duty to provide him with all of the love I have to give, everyday of my life.

So while I am sure that this year on Mother’s Day I will still desperately wish for just one more chance to talk with my mom, and I will dream about fun filled days when my children were young and clamored for hugs and kisses from mommy, I also know that I will no longer spend the day in mourning for a past that I can’t change or relive.

Rather, this year I will spend the day kissing and cuddling my grandson, thoroughly enjoy every minute of the present and looking forward to the future, as a new-lease-on-life Nana.

I guess you might call it the gift of life, in reverse.

A SPECIAL PAJAMA PARTY

2005-04-25T17:31:00.000-07:00

Recently I attended a pajama party.

Ok, so maybe I was the only one in pajamas, but never the less it was still a party where women gathered to eat, gab, hang out and get to know one another in a truly fun and supportive atmosphere.

However, this particular conclave of Western New York women differed from pajama parties of my past in that all who gathered (excluding yours truly) are currently battling or are survivors of breast cancer.

Officially, the weekend was titled The Sisterhood Wellness Center Renewal Retreat for Breast Cancer Survivors. It’s an event begun 9 years ago under the leadership of Derby, New York resident, Nancy Timm Bowen, herself a survivor, diagnosed in 1994.

While undergoing treatment, the well known SouthTowns Businesswoman realized that little existed in the way of common sense support for women trying to manage the cancerous disease invading their bodies. So in 1995, Nancy began the Sisterhood Wellness Center with the express goal of giving those diagnosed with breast cancer a chance to associate with other women who have had the same experiences, and felt the same anxieties.

My entry into this group came via an invitation from Nancy to attend the retreat and share some of my Heart and Soul experiences with the women, to help them laugh. That was the crucial part, Nancy insisted. Laughter is essential to these women and, while tears are allowed, the central point of the weekend is to promote positive thoughts and feelings.

So, with humor in mind, I set off for the retreat location stylishly garbed in my pj’s, armed with my special stuffed bunny and copious amounts of chocolate. Upon my arrival Nancy introduced me to a group of 20 women of all ages and sizes. Remarkably, it was only minutes until we were all sharing chocolate and discussing families, marriage, sex, religion, shopping, friends….the typical topics women dissect when gathered in groups. We laughed and enjoyed getting to know each other despite having no real commonality other than our gender.

Then amazingly, in what seemed like only minutes, my allotted time with these women came to an end as it was announced that lunch was served. Never one to pass up a free meal, I accepted Nancy’s kind invitation to join my new found friends in their noon time meal. Once seated and served, these women and I again launched into conversations about everyday topics in a manner free and easy.

I could have been anywhere, with any women.

Yet slowly, the conversation wound it’s way to health, or rather to these individual woman’s health and the distinct battles in which they are, or have been, engaged. Suddenly I was adrift in a sea of medical terminology and prescriptive medications that were foreign to me, but completely second nature to the women surrounding me. As I sat and listened, they openly talked about their diagnoses, their surgeries, and their reoccurences. Some even showed scars as evidence of their surgical battles.

The "veterans" of the group questioned newer members about medications and readily volunteered side effects they had suffered. They also suggested alternative medicines they thought might be more effective or easier to withstand. The group conversed about smoking and the difficult task of quitting, even after being diagnosed with cancer. One woman quit while on retreat hoping that the time spent with other survivors would help strengthen her resolve. Another woman spoke of the recurrence of her cancer after ten years of remission, which in turn brought more stories of remissions, and even death.

Sitting and listening, as an outsider, I found these conversations somewhat frightening and even a little overwhelming.

However to the women with whom I had just shared a morning of laughter and bonding, it was life…their lives…. in the most real form. And thanks to the remarkable Nancy Timm Bowen, for one pajama party weekend, that reality was just a little bit easier to bear.

AS THE SEASON CHANGES

2005-04-20T18:58:00.000-07:00

Spring has finally arrived and summer is on the way. Here in the Western Region of New York State, that exciting bit of seasonal news means we New Yorkers are almost out of comfy, oversized, concealing winter wear and, soon, will be doing our best to wriggle into summer shorts, sleeveless tops and, dare I say it, bathing suits.

Personally, every year about this time, I go through the same painfully repetitive process. I get foolishly lulled into a false sense of fat security by long winter skirts and bulky sweaters, all of which ably convince me that I am as slim and svelte as Jennifer Anniston.

Then, the thaw hits.

Winter and wool are suddenly supplanted by spring and skin, wherein my Jennifer Anniston body is flabbily revealed as something more akin to a "pre-Trim Spa" Anna Nicole Smith. Accordingly along about April Fool’s Day I launch into my traditional "gotta loose ten-pounds" panic plan which calls for healthy food, regular workouts, and absolutely no chocolate, no fudge sauce, and/or no ice cream within three miles of my personal radius.

In discussing my annual winter weight woes with family and friends, I have come to realize that I am not alone in my springtime fat blasting routine. In fact, lately it seems as if even the media is evangelizing the need for Americans of all ages to trim down and lighten up.

Which makes me wonder, if most Americans need to take off a pound or ten, why is it that Burger King has just come out with a new breakfast sandwich weighing in at 700 plus calories (400 of which are fat) and 1860 mgs of cholesterol? Or that Hardee’s Hamburgers has given birth to a Monster Thickburger offering a calorie count of 1,417? Or that Pizza Hut recently began satiating our appetites with a Full House XL Pizza with calories too high to even imagine?

When asked about their role in cultivating America’s fat laden bodies, these fast food denizens simply turn the pointed finger around at we, their accusers, and unequivocally state, "It’s what the consumer wants."

So I guess the question, at this point, is how much fat will we Americans tolerate and ingest before the light dawns? How widely will heart attack and stroke statistics engulf our nation before we decide to put strong bodies before super sizing, and healthy eating habits before over-the-top, fat laden foods?

Personally, I’m fully aware that my extra winter weight is driving up my blood pressure and taxing my aging joints. As a result I have responsibly committed to exercising more, modifying my eating habits, and controlling my serving portions, year round. I know it’s important, I know it’s life saving, and I know it has to become a way of life.

I also know that as long as there’s a Reese’s peanut butter cup left on the face of this earth to consume, "healthy eating" will be a very relative term in my life!

A FOND FAREWELL FOR THE AGES

2005-04-13T14:15:00.000-07:00

It was a colorful pageant equal to the greatest Hollywood extravaganza. It was a major political summit uniting allies and enemies from around the world. It was a multi-cultural rally embracing citizens from all points of the earth. It was a world wide spiritual retreat from relentless global pressures and disasters.

It was a moment in time when the world literally seemed to stop… to pay tribute to the man known as Pope John Paul II.

In viewing the Pope’s funeral, it was somewhat of a challenge to define the singular element that made it so significant. Clearly the attendance of 70 world leaders, 5 kings, and 3 queens lent a quality of importance. The worldwide status and power of the Papacy also demanded a certain respect.

The flawless execution of the logistically overwhelming occasion, seemingly tailor made for terrorist tragedy, made it riveting. The Vatican’s picture perfect backdrop, complete with tolling bells and angelic choirs, made it entrancing. The pageantry and ceremony of the outdoor funeral mass, made it awe-inspiring.

Yet when all was said and done, Pope John Paul’s final farewell was compelling for the same reason that his papacy was so forceful…because of the people.

The sea of humanity endlessly flowing through Vatican City and into St. Peter’s Basilica was stunning, not only in it’s size and scope, but in it’s demeanor and purpose. Media reports detailed 24-hour line-ups, dehydration, exhaustion, and physical collapse, all willingly exchanged for a brief mourner’s moment and distanced glimpse of the man who touched so many, so often.

The hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who gathered provided the perfect formulary for possible jostling, fighting, rioting, and even stampeding. Yet, from start to finish, those who made the pilgrimage completely exemplified the spirit of humility and love that characterized John Paul’s papal reign.

From young to old, black to white, nationality to nationality, not a mourner gave evidence of self-importance or a demand to be considered before another. Rather they were united as one in the wish to simply share in their fabled pontiff’s last public moments.

What made this outpouring of devotion even more remarkable was that it was purely true. No director was organizing the tens of thousands gathered. No computer was enhancing their appearance. When a flag was waved, a cheer given, or applause delivered, the action flowed directly from the hearts and souls of the tens of thousands of total strangers, standing together in love and devotion to their Pope.

Without a doubt, it was one of the most amazing displays of humanity to occur in generations, if ever. Without a doubt, it was also evidence enough that during the course of his life, John Paul II truly earned the title of, "Great."

MULTIPLES OF THREE

2005-04-03T08:57:00.000-07:00

We Irish believe that significant events tend to occur in multiples of 3. It’s a bit of folklore that seemed especially prophetic this past week as Johnny Cochrane, Terri Schiavo, and Pope John Paul II all passed away within days of each other.

Now it may seem odd to link together the deaths of 3 such diverse people. Yet from my way of thinking the lives of these two men and one woman represent significant turning points in our society, past, present and future.

In the past, Johnny Cochrane was a man of distinction in his law career and in his always-immaculate personal appearance. He served as a relentless civil rights attorney from the mid 1960’s to the recent past. Yet the singular moment for which he will forever be remembered is that historic instant when a jury declared Orenthal James Simpson innocent of killing his wife and her boyfriend.

Who can forget Cochrane’s summary rhyme, "If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit" or the dramatic follow-up courtroom scene where Cochrane’s head dropped onto Simpson’s shoulder upon hearing the jury’s innocent decree. That trial changed the way the media pursued and reported such stories and it definitely forced the first crack in the pedestal persona of national sports figures. And Johnny Cochrane was a part of the process every step of the way.

In the present, the terrible tragedy and family feud surrounding Terri Schiavo’s life and death represents one of the most gut wrenching segments of American Life that I can remember. No matter which side you took, family or husband, the manner in which the whole disturbing struggle played out on a national stage, complete with questionable political involvement, was riveting and upsetting. It was also motivating as it stimulated many of us into attorney’s offices and online in search of living wills and DNR documents.

That death has not ended the dispute between Schiavo’s husband and family only further serves to painfully reinforce the fact that life is unpredictable and none of us can ever afford to rely on that irregularity.

As for the future, while Pope John was a remarkable religious statesman who definitely changed the world, his passing has me wondering about the future of the Catholic Church. John Paul clearly set a standard for the Catholic Faith that adhered to strict guidelines on a number of controversial issues, including that of the role of women. Basically he allowed women nothing more than subservient involvement, which alienated many with a desire to serve in more significant ways.

I wonder who will succeed this Pope and how the next man to wear the Ring and carry the Scepter will carry on. Will he continue the policies that keep women disconnected from the Church’s hierarchy? Or worse yet, will he further sink women away from the responsibilities and decision-making rights that would provide them a true role and a voice in their religion? I have no ability to predict the future, only a gut instinct that tells me that John Paul’s influence on this matter will carry on for a very long time.

Three people whose lives followed divergently different paths. Three people whose lives curiously converged at their deaths. Three people who, in living and dying, changed the world and ultimately our lives.

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A MATTER OF PERSONAL CHOICE

2005-03-22T07:52:00.000-08:00

Recently I contacted my attorney about revising my Last Will and Testament. While I was in the mood, (unquestionably one must be in the mood to consider one’s own mortality) I also requested that he prepare for me a living will and a health care proxy. Having dealt with such issues for my own mother while she lie dying in a hospital, I was bound and determined not to leave my family in the same painful lurch.

A few days later in my attorney’s office I read over the defining documents with pen in hand, ready to sign. That is until I got to the last paragraph of the living will ---the part where the legalese defined life and death.
What threw me for a loop was a supplemental stipulation. A simple statement that explained if the medical community should declare me legally dead while simultaneously force feeding me, an appointed family member can request removal of the nutritional life line.

I sat back and read the statement again. And again. And once more, for good measure. I then looked at my attorney and blurted out, "I’m not signing this. If being on a respirator is the only way to make my heart and lungs function, then unquestionably I cannot survive on my own. I am basically dead. However, if I’m being forcibly fed, that feeding tube is not a machine artificially making my body operate. It’s nourishment. So disconnecting the tube, in effect, starves me to death and that’s wrong. I won’t allow it."

My attorney’s response was simple. "It’s your choice."

That fundamental right of choice is exactly what I believe is at the heart of the current controversy surrounding Terri Schiavo. Schiavo never took the time to legally make her own life and death choices. Now sadly, due to an unimagined medical tragedy she will never have that chance. Yet equally distressing is the fact that since her combative family members cannot agree on how to best handle this situation, a battery of lawyers, judges, congress people, media, everyday citizens, and even the President of the United States all believe they’re now somehow entitled or compelled to make the choice for her.

In my opinion, this tragedy turned international news story shouldn’t involve the media, it shouldn’t extend to unrelated strangers and it definitely shouldn’t be used for any sort of political posturing or gain. Rather Terri Schiavo’s tragedy should serve as a reminder for us all that we have a choice to bypass our inate human fear of death and clearly and legally state exactly how our loved ones should proceed in the worse case scenario.

Perhaps if as a result of this controversy more of us willingly step forward and make that choice, then Terri Schiavo’s death, however it happens, will not be totally in vain.

Searching for a Cure

2005-03-20T14:48:00.000-08:00

To date, there are no emergency bulletins being issued by the American Medical Association. Shocking health reports aren’t being touted by the media. No Celebrity spokespersons are speaking out, no charity telethons underway.

Never the less, I’m here to tell you that there is an invasive malady worming its way into our lives. It’s a relentless illness attacking both men and women with a vengeance, often leaving victims disoriented, drifting, and unable to speak.

Currently there is no official name for this infectious disease, but as one who has suffered its effects I feel that it’s my duty to bring the medical affliction to light. So in an attempt to create public awareness and support, I have officially christened the endemic woe, "Parkinglatte Automobilum Missingus (PAM)" or more simply stated, "Hey…I can’t find my car."

This disease is generally transmitted in mega mall parking lots where it lies in wait below the blacktop for just the right moment to attack. As innocent men and women confidently emerge from their cars and securely lock their doors, PAM germs begin spreading in weblike formation. While unaware victims focus on their various mall missions, these insidious germs begin their warfare, slowly lifting cars and relocating them, rows and even entire sections away from where their defenseless owners left them.

PAM symptoms become full blown as unsuspecting car owners emerge from the mall and head for their parking spots, only to find their autos mysteriously missing. The immediate effect is one of cool disbelief wherein sufferers calmly stroll around the general area trying to appear as if in total control, while desperately searching for their vehicles.

As the malady progresses, increased body temperature causes beads of perspiration to form across the bridge of sufferer’s noses and rivulets to flow down their arms. The infected then exhibit preliminary signs of incoherence as their walking patterns evolve into circular paths and they softly begin babbling about the F1 lightpost under which they clearly remember parking.

As the affliction advances to the final stages, sufferers loose all sense of security and succumb to the ravages of disorientation, stridently pacing up and down row after row of vehicles. Within minutes, the fast spreading disease stimulates a delirium that forces victims to accost total strangers, loudly ranting what doctors agree upon as the defining symptom, "Hey…I can’t find my car." At this point the emotional variation among patients ranges from lopsided grinning, to tears, to unabashed anger. However, the good news is that all symptoms eventually diminish upon the sufferer’s re-discovery of their car, which fortunately, always happens.

Unfortunately, even though victims do manage to overcome PAM, research clearly indicates that this is a recurring disease which, once suffered, will not only continue but increase over time.

So I’m calling on my fellow disease ridden sufferers to join with me in forming a PAM SPAM coalition for the purpose of eradicating this terrible disease. The organizational meeting will be held Sunday at high noon in the nearby mega mall parking lot. Just pull in the main entrance and look for me.

I’ll be the one bungee tied to the top of my car with a bazooka….just in case.

IRISH MEMORIES

2005-03-16T16:33:00.000-08:00

March 12 marks the anniversary of my mother’s death. Like any sorrowful commemoration, this day is filled with melancholy and longing as I reflect on the passing of the woman who gave me life and provided me with the Irish backbone that has served me so well. However, as in all circumstances involving the Irish, there is always a strong thread of humor woven through my day of tearful memories in recalling classic "mom moments" that always make me laugh.

Mingled in with those favorite lighthearted moments is a tale related to my mother that actually occurred after her passing.

The story goes that three months after my mother’s death, my daughter and I traveled to the Emerald Isle. Our purpose was to try and locate our ancestors by relying on a notebook of family tree information my mother had long collected. We considered it our posthumous tribute to mom and also a means of remaining somehow connected.

As we made our rounds through the various Irish towns marked upon mom’s genealogy map, the pieces of our family’s ancestral puzzle gradually began to fall into place. Then to our delight, one brilliantly sunny afternoon, we made a connection with a farmer who knew of our family’s whereabouts. Further, this kindly stranger assured us that there were indeed two members of our clan still alive. Brothers, both in their eighties, spry and active.

My daughter and I speedily followed the farmer’s directions and within minutes were picking our way through the overgrown walkway leading to our ancestral homestead. As we approached the side entrance of the simple, whitewashed house, I was sure I could hear the bagpipe strains of "Danny Boy" wafting over the fields. There was no doubt in my mind that we were home and about to directly connect with those who came before us.

Brother number one, the younger of the two men at 81 years, answered our knock on the door. He was unshaven and unkempt, missing almost all of his teeth, wearing torn and soiled clothing. Needless to say, I was taken aback. Yet not wanting to give up on our "connect with the past" dream, I pressed on, explaining our familial quest. After a few minutes of exchanging ancestral information, this sprightly leprechaun of a man welcomed us as long, lost family. He then took us on a tour of our "family" farm, complete with barns, creeks and waterfalls.

Upon our return to the house, our newly discovered relative extended an invitation to come inside and meet his older brother, who as if on cue, suddenly appeared in the doorway to greet us. Now, brother number two made his younger sibling look like a model from the cover of GQ. As I assessed him from the top of his matted gray hair, through his toothless gums, down his waist length, disheveled beard, through his torn and stained pants, into his knee high manure-caked boots, I found it somewhat hard to swallow that I was, in fact, related to this man. Yet in the true spirit of family ties, I began moving toward the door to greet my long, lost relative.

It was at this exact moment that this older sibling caught sight of my lovely daughter standing behind me. To say that his aging eyes undressed her on the spot would be putting it mildly. Suddenly, the bagpipe strains of "Danny Boy" that I’d been hearing were morphing into the banjo tones of "Deliverance." As one brother came toward us, the other brought up the rear, both insisting that we come inside with them.

It was at this point, trusting my always-reliable Irish instinct, that I turned, grabbed my daughter’s hand and took off toward the car, with both brothers following us in hot pursuit… "hot" being the operative word. As we jumped in, locked the doors and sped away, the two brothers appeared in my rear view mirror like a couple of Irish gnomes furiously jumping up and down in the middle of the dusty dirt road, yelling "come back, come back."

So while our trip wasn’t exactly the "searching for our ancestors" fairy tale that we had hoped for, in the retelling, it has become a story that always makes us laugh… and remember mom…who we miss on the 12th of March… and always.