Five Life Lessons from My Dad

My dad has been gone for ten years now.  I think of him every day and today on Fathers Day 2013, reflect on these lessons his life reflected.

1.  He showed up.

He was a self employed, small businessman with no employees other that himself.  He had no sick days, paid vacation or pension plan.  He was a tailor and took in dry cleaning; he made money by threading a needle and sewing.  He did that for over 50 years, buying a home, raising a family and educating four children through college.  I only remember one occasion during my growing up years, seeing my father sick, in bed.  He got up and went to work -- every day.

2. He lived simply and within his means.

My parents had only one credit card -- from Gimbels Department Store.  He paid the bill in full in the rare times that the card was used.  He enjoyed the things of this world -- including cars (his '68 Buick Electra was a source of pride and enjoyment); but they did not control his life.   He was proud that he was free from the burdens of debt, that he was able to pay off the 15 year mortgage on our house in eight years by doubling up on payments.  

3.  He valued education for its own sake and as a path to a better life.  

Perhaps more so because he was an immigrant with limited education, he consistently emphasized to his children (all four of with with at least bachelors degrees) that education is important.  He respected it and any person who achieved through education.  He would be so proud to see what his grandchildren are achieving through education.

4.  He was a feminist.

This one took me a long time to realize.  In an era when most girls still became nurses and teachers, he did not make any attempt to steer me into any conventional educational pursuits.  He allowed me to make my own choices.  On the day of my law school graduation, I still recall his quiet pride.  And when I did not marry right out of college as was the custom at the time, he was content.  Even when I moved out of the house (none of my female cousins did anything like this), he was supportive.

5.  He loved unconditionally.

I remember saying to a friend just after my dad died, "No one loved me like my dad".  I still feel that way.  I think it's true that parental love is like no other.  But my dad loved me with an acceptance that had no strings attached, that was always giving and nurturing and nonjudgmental.  I aspire to that kind of love with my children.  

Losing a Sister-Cousin and Maybe Gaining a Message?

A week ago today, my cousin Karen died.   She died, as obituaries so often starkly state, "after a long, courageous battle with cancer".   This is a profound loss for her children, her father who is still alive, her extended family, her close friends and for me.  I think of Karen as a sister-cousin.  We only had brothers. 
We grew up in the same suburban neighborhood, her house was walking distance, one street up.  She was three years older than me, so up until last Sunday, she knew me for my entire life.   There are cousins that I rarely or never see due to barriers of age, language and geography. There are some I see only on special occasions, like weddings, graduations and funerals. Not Karen.
We went to the same grade school and high school; and both had our first jobs as waitresses at the Jewish Home for the Aged.  Yet sometime in young adulthood, our paths diverged as we were both busy with combinations of advanced education, school, careers and husbands and kids. 
Then slowly our lives began to converge again the past decade, over some mostly sad shared experiences, most notably with losses of mothers, my dad, Karen's husband (also from cancer) and the unexpected responsibility of figuring out care giving and housing for our never married Aunt Mary. 
Karen became deeply religious during that time period.  She spoke openly of her faith experiences, and built an ecumenical faith community straddling her Catholic parish and the United Methodist church where, for decades, she worked as the Director of its pre-school.  An unusual aspect of her obituary was that it listed her as a member of both St. Therese Parish and the Homestead Park United Methodist Church.  She planned her own funeral Mass and it combined aspects and people from these two faith communities.
Karen's struggle with cancer was painful from the beginning and the process of managing it limited her mobility, since the medications precluded her from driving.  She relied on a circle of family and friends to take her to work (which she continued to do until the day before she was admitted to the inpatient hospice), to chemotherapy and doctors' appointments and to family and other social events.
Sometime after Christmas 2012, Karen knew that her time was limited.  One of her wishes was to once again visit her daughter in Philadelphia to see her play hockey.  It was my privilege to accompany her on the train from Pittsburgh over Super Bowl weekend for a final trip before the last trip that we all have to make someday.  We got to see Emily play hockey, to visit my brother, go to Mass together for the last time in Drexel Hill and to talk for hours about our shared family history and experiences from childhood through our adult lives.  
At the hospice early one morning before any other visitors arrived, she asked me to pray with her and I did.  She spoke of being comforted by the voices and messages from two people close to her who had recently died and about seeing patterns that she interpreted as the hand of God.  I wanted to ask her one last thing, but I couldn't say it out loud.  I wanted to ask her to let me know after she died to let me know that she was OK. 
Karen died last Sunday morning, right around noon.  Her wake and funeral were crowded, a tribute to the many lives she touched.  The day after her funeral, I boarded a plane to Boston to help my daughter look for an apartment.  My connecting flight was canceled, so I had to take a cab and schlep my luggage to meet her for our appointment with a real estate agent. 
I left my suitcase in the foyer of one of the buildings as we looked at an apartment many flights up.  When I returned to retrieve my luggage, two cardboard boxes were there that had not been just minutes before.  On the side of one of the boxes in large black letters was printed the word 'HARTZ', Karen's last name.
I looked at Clare; she looked at me.  Is this my sign?  I could read a lot into this.  She's in transit?  She's arrived home?  Or is this just a coincidence? 
I took actual comfort from seeing that cardboard box with those letters.  And I don't believe in coincidences. 

Tastes of Thanksgivings Past

Living in the present moment is harder to do at the holidays.  There are those decorations accumulated over decades, that bring back memories of holidays past and thanks to our collection of ornaments gathered at countless vacation destinations, vacations around the world.  
And then, well, there's the food.  
This year I cooked.  Really cooked.  With help.  My daughter loves mashed potatoes and took charge of assembling an authentic version.  No skim milk, I can't believe it's not butter facsimile.  She got organic whole milk from Whole Foods, in glass bottles that have to go back to get a deposit refund.   Claiming to be "from grass fed cows on family farms", and mixed with real butter, the mashed potatoes were a hit.  
In Thanksgivings past, when I hosted dinner, I perfected the art (?) of the shortcut.  Stove Top stuffing, boxed gravy, store bought pies, and the infamous green been casserole made with canned fried onions and cream of mushroom soup (light).  
With real mashed potatoes, I vowed to be a bit more authentic this year.
Taking a literal page from the family cookbook (first edition), I made Aunt Edith's 'Zesty Corn Stuffing Balls".  I actually chopped the celery myself.  It was all worth it when my sister-in-law commented, "this stuffing tastes just like your mom's."   It brought back another holiday memory at my other sister in law's house, when she made pasta with sauce.  Upon tasting it, I said, "this sauce tastes just like my mom's".  
"I watched her make it one day and just wrote down everything she did", she said.  It was the real thing.  
Aunt Edith is gone and so is my mom.
Here's the recipe.

"ZESTY CORN STUFFING BALLS

1/2 cup chopped onion

1/2 cup chopped celery

4 T butter or margarine

1 17-ounce canned cream style corn

1/2 cup water

1 t poultry seasoning

1/8 t pepper

1 8 oz. package (3 cups) herb-seasoned stuffing mix (I like the plain seasoned croutons)

3 eggs slightly beaten

1/2 cup butter or margarine, melted

In saucepan cook onion and celery in the 4 Tablespoons butter or margarine till tender but not brown.  Add corn, water, poultry seasoning and pepper.  Bring to a boil.  Pour over stuffing mix; toss together lightly.  Stir in eggs.  Shape into seven or eight balls.  Place in a 9x9x2 inch baking pan.  Pour melted butter or margarine over.  Refrigerate if desired.  Bake in 375 degree oven for 25 minutes."

I confess to two shortcuts in this recipe -- the chopped onions came from Whole Foods and I skipped shaping the stuffing into balls, just pressing the mixture into a large baking dish.

It was good -- one serving of stuffing and the real mashed potatoes were quite enough.

Roots, Wings and Tears

Years ago at a home party that my cousin held to support a woman-owned business selling art, I purchased a print that hung in our house when my children were young.  The quote on the print reflected what I thought was one of my core beliefs about parenting.  In lovely hand drawn script, it proclaimed that "There are only two lasting bequests we can leave our children.  One is roots and the other is wings."
What was I thinking??  
The nest is empty.   Really empty.  While at least one child is still in college, you can cling to the notion that you are still tending the nest.  She graduated last May.  They both have truly gotten wings and flown.  Away.  They are both seeking.  Neither seems to be settling or settling in.  My generation had a more structured road or at least an apparent path to follow. 
My two children spent their college years on different coasts; now they are about to be on different continents. 
I find myself ruminating.   Should I have spent more time on the roots part?  Should we have done less traveling and confined our vacations to places like the Jersey Shore, Lake Chatauqua or Niagara Falls?  Should I have drawn a circle on a map like the one described to me by another mother who told her children that their college options were limited to an eight hour drive from home?  
I am shoulding all over myself these days.  Should I have worked less?  Should I have been a better cook, a better housekeeper?  We live in a wonderful city.  Even the National Geographic says so.  
And what does that saying mean anyway?   Does it mean they fly away and remember where they came from?  Does it mean they come back for selected holidays and call home once a week?
I am not handling this well at all.   Intellectually I know they have to go.  And I keep reminding myself that with all of the available technology we are still connected in ways that were not possible just a generation or two ago.  My own father's father died when he was a year old and he was raised by a step mother in a hill town in Italy for reasons I have never fully understood.  She sent him to the local tailor so he could learn a skill and when he was still in his teens, kissed him goodbye and sent him off to America.  She did not see him again for two decades and then it was for the last time.  He bought her a stove and when he went back in later years, a tombstone for her grave.
I find myself wanting to talk to her.  How did you do it?   Did you cry?  Maybe that's just the way it was and she stoically sent him across the ocean in a manner that was common in that era.  There was nothing for him there and she sent him off with hope. 
I find myself reflecting on Khalil Gibran's beliefs.
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.  
They come through you but not from you,
and though they are with you and yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love, but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday. 

Yoga for Grieving

Last Friday night, I attended a free 'Yoga for Grieving' class at Pittsburgh's Keystone Health Club.  It has a really cool industrial vibe, being located in an old Westinghouse Plant.  From the parking garage, the walkway into the club overlooks the vast expanse of a long-vacated manufacturing plant that once was part of the area's economic backbone.  Now it's just a lot of emptiness except for this jewel of a health club, tucked into a corner of this big open space.  Last June, I saw an ad from a local funeral home (Patrick T. Lanigan) announcing its sponsorship of this class as part of its grief support outreach.  I tucked it away, thinking that some day I would like to attend.  Since the class is only every other Friday night at 7:00 p.m., I kept missing it due to other schedule commitments. 
As part of our yoga teacher training, we are supposed to attend two classes a week.  It helps to observe different instructors and styles of yoga and to see how other studios are organized. 
With nothing better to do, I set off for East Pittsburgh directly from work.  It was not until I put the address into my smartphone that I suddenly realized that the route would take me through Braddock PA.  My parents and maternal grandparents are all buried in the Braddock Catholic Cemetery.   Probably almost a century ago, my maternal grandfather and his two brothers purchased cemetery plots on the same hillside overlooking this old industrial town.  My mother's family included talented stonemasons -- there were family monument businesses in Dravosburg and New Kensington.  The three family headstones are beautiful examples of their work.  My grandparents' is an artful representation of the Agony in the Garden.  My cousin tells a funny story that her mother did not want to be buried in Braddock, but she loved the design of the headstone.  They graciously accommodated her desire to be located in a more upscale city location, Calvary Cemetery, and replicated the exact design in what is now her final resting place. 
Thinking that visiting the cemetery was the thing to do, seeing as I was on my way to a yoga class designed to help grieving people, I arrived at the family gravesite as the sun was nearly setting in the sky. 

I always cry when visiting this place and arrived at the Keystone Commons in an appropriately grieving state of mind.  There are other blog posts on this site where I have reflected on how yoga has helped me occupy my time, mind and body at times of loss.  The class was very gentle, much of it done in a chair.   There was no conversation about loss or grief or mourning.  Just dim lights, calming music and soothing postures. 
Teaching yoga is not something I am sure I can do.  But I could do this kind of class. 

Aunt Mary's Secrets of Longevity

Today is my Aunt Mary's 97th birthday.  She has outlived her four sisters (even though two of them lived into their 90s also) and I have been thinking of how her most unique personality has gotten her to this ripe old age.   So these are my thoughts on Aunt Mary's secrets of longevity. 

1. Don't complain ever, about anything.
2. Walk everywhere you can.
3. Don't drive a car.
4. Don't get married or have kids.
5. Make friends with a bakery.
6. Don't ever go anywhere empty handed.
7. Correspond and especially remember the birthdays of those you love.
8. Avoid excessive entanglements, especially with doctors.
9. Don't worry. 
10. Never stop getting your hair done, permed or dyed. 
11. Don't talk about yourself.
12. Always have something to look forward to.
13. Don't criticize anyone, especially your family.
14. Leave yesterday behind. 
15. When in doubt, wear pink. 

Too Blessed To Be Stressed?

Yesterday,  I was privileged to attend a Baptist funeral for the first time.  It was a bit out of my comfort zone in several ways.  First, I felt like a true minority for one of the few times in my life.  Years ago, I attended a professional seminar and was the only female present.  Yesterday, I was in the racial minority. 
It was out of my comfort zone liturgically.  The order of the service was unfamiliar and it included elements that I had never seen before.  The program titled the service, "A Home Going Celebration" and noted the deceased's date of birth as his "sunrise" and his date of death as "sunset."  Letters of condolence were read from neighboring congregations and the obituary too was read.
There was a degree of raw emotion displayed foreign to my experience of controlled and choreographed Roman Catholic funerals-- not just tears, but hard, breathtaking, loud sobbing that could best be described as wailing.   
And there were multiple preachers (not sure if this is typical).  One of them spoke in a cadence that reminded me of the way that Jesse Jackson delivers a message.  Part of his message was that "I'm too blessed to be stressed" and "I'm not disappointed because I'm anointed". 
The preachers seemed less concerned about the spiritual welfare of the deceased and more concerned about whether those of us in the congregation were saved, inviting us to accept Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior and praying over those who accepted the invitation. 
The repetitive cadence of the "I'm too blessed to be stressed" phrase has been playing over and over again in the background of my mind, like when there is a song that I can't get out of my head.
I've been stressed lately over typical holiday dynamics and dramas; and over my over-consumption of the type of food that should be avoided but that is everywhere.   I am getting back on track; and I am blessed -- too blessed to be stressed. 

The Oldest Terrible Towel

On Christmas eve, my whole family watched the Pittsburgh Steelers shut out the St. Louis Rams at Heinz Field, 27-0.  Quarterbacked by hometown hero and perennial backup Charlie Batch, the Steelers provided a pleasant end to the regular season at home for the fans who were awaiting Christmas eve festivities.   Who knows what the playoff picture will bring, but it looks like home field advantage is questionable.  It is said that the Steelers are an 'old' team and I have to admit that yesterday, one of my favorite players, Hines Ward, wasn't smiling like he used to.  It could be one of his final games and one of Charlie's too.  I particularly enjoyed hearing the crowd chant 'Char-lie, Char-lie' as he engineered a win against a pretty lackluster opponent but a win nonetheless. 
As usual I took my Terrible Towel (pictured below).  But I am thinking it's time to retire this baby -- it has been with me since the late '70s and it's looking pretty old too.  Two people who have seen this antique have recently bought me new ones -- one with 'cammo' and one an Italian 'asciugamano terribile'; and I have a pink one from the October breast cancer awareness/NFL promotion. 

A woman can be dated by her hair color or style or by her fashion choices.  My Terrible Towel dates me because it is so obviously very old.  It may even be the original design.   When former Steelers announcer Myron Cope created the idea, at first he just encouraged local fans to bring a black or gold hand towel to Three Rivers Stadium to wave as a way of showing support.  One history I read said that the local department stores were miffed, because towels were typically sold as sets; and when fans bought only hand towels, the stores' inventory was out of whack. 
In what is certainly one of the more successful sports merchandising schemes ever, Myron Cope trademarked the 'Terrible Towel' and the rest is history.
There is nothing quite like the sight of thousands of people waving Terrible Towels.  The more modern versions are a more vibrant shade of gold and show well on national television not just at Steeler home games, but wherever the Steelers play since they have the strongest road following of any NFL team, courtesy of the Pittsburgh diaspora. 
I used to love listening to Myron Cope; his voice and his dialect are irreplaceable.  In addition to being a Pittsburgh and an NFL legend, Myron assured his place as a beloved son of PIttsburgh because his Terrible Towel creation is a force for good.  Proceeds from its sale go to support a school for special needs individuals.  Myron Cope signed over the trademark in 1996. 
And I love waving that old towel, at home or at the stadium.  But it's on my cranium (one of Myron's introductory queries to callers on his sports talk show was 'what's on your cranium?') that it's time for a new look. 

Christmas Cookies Past

Many families with Italian roots celebrate Christmas eve with an ethnic tradition known as the feast of the seven fishes. It was not a tradition we adopted in my Italian family. The Christmas season memory I have been processing and remembering the most this year is more like the feast of the seven cookies. I have posted elsewhere about my mom's cookie baking prowess as it manifested itself at our wedding cookie table. Her Christmas cookies were even better. My mom mustered her considerable artistic skill and her characteristic attention to detail to create dozens and dozens of cookies that could comfortably have appeared in a Martha Stewart magazine. Does anyone make cut-out cookies anymore?
I remember four particular designs that came out at Christmas - candy cane, Christmas tree, wreath and Santa Claus. She made dough in both dark gingerbread and white vanilla flavor.   She decorated those cutouts in ways that I can still see in my mind.  In the hundreds of family photos we have, there don't seem to be any pictures of these holiday delicacies.  
She dyed the icing, so that Santa's hat was red, his beard was white (and coconut on top of white icing made the 'hair' on his beard). She painted the Christmas tree and wreath designs with green icing, adding red candies as berries on the wreath and metallic looking candies as ornaments on the tree. On the candy cane, she alternated white and red icing.
Then there were the rum balls, iced anise cookies and pizzelles (chocolate and anise flavored). She boxed and plated her handiwork in a beautiful presentation and they became gifts to be offered to family and neighbors. And oh, yes for our eating pleasure at home too!  
She had a kind of cookie exchange going with my Aunt Gilda, who was also a master cookie baker.  Hers were different.  She did the roll out dough and made the horn shaped cookies stuffed with nuts or apricots. 
This Christmas I am trying to have these memories suffice.  I did not inherit the baking gene and yes, I know those carb and sugar laden delights are not good for me and they were not good for my mom either. 
So I am eating them this year in my mind only.  For sure by Christmas Day, we'll have a few (dozen) that will only be a unreasonable facsimile of what I grew up with.  And I keep telling myself this holiday season, "sugar is poison", "sugar is poison".  It's not working particularly well. 

Gift Giving Emotions and Economics

Twas the week before Christmas and much left to do!   My daughter and I were driving together today and she was having a hard time figuring out a gift for a special friend.  I too struggle with picking gifts for those close to me.  (I always remember one Christmas when JB and I were dating.  He said he did not know what to get me, so "how about a couple of shares of IBM"?) 
As an economics major, she told me that people often underestimate the value of a Christmas gift they have been given.  Barely an hour later, I picked up the Review section of this weekend's Wall Street Journal and there it was -- a headline screaming "Is it Irrational to Give Holiday Gifts?" 
Dan Arkiely draws a distinction between the rational school and the behavioral school of economics.  It is the rational school that my daughter was relating to me, and a particular study that concluded "as much as a third of the money spent on Christmas is wasted, because recipients assign a value lower than the retail price to the gifts they receive."   
Bah-humbug. 
But the behavioral economists know that it's not just about the dollars and cents/sense.  We want to show our love, express appreciation and thanks, make an impression and give something of value.  It's a tall order and I know that the things I pick out may fall short of those lofty goals.
More and more, I have begun to realize that the only thing of true value that can be given to those I care about is the gift of time and attention -- a shared meal, a trip, a concert, a memory of some kind.  And the thing I love most about the holidays is the opportunity to be with them.   
Years ago, JB and I were cleaning out the home of his aunt who in the last years of her life had to be in a nursing home.  She had been a public school teacher for over 40 years.   There were drawers full of Christmas 'teacher gifts' -- scarves, hats, gloves, Avon collectibles, candles.    The job of downsizing other people's stuff is one that I have done a few times now.  It's not fun and it's not pretty.
In reality, there is not much and I and those closest to me really need.  That said, who wants to have nothing to open on Christmas morning? 

Red Paint and Jesuit Humor

My friend Alice recently gave me James Martin's latest book, Between Heaven and Mirth, as a birthday gift. Years ago, my friend Karen gave me his first book, In Good Company: The Fast Track from the Corporate World to Poverty, Chastity and Obedience.  A Jesuit priest, editor at America magazine and frequent media commentator on religious and moral issues, he is a delightful writer and a pretty funny guy.  His first book told the story of his life as a young corporate management trainee, his unhappiness in the midst of a yuppie good life and his discernment of a vocation to the Jesuits.  The topic is serious.  He talks about sad things, like the death of a college classmate and his parents' separation.  But his wit and sense of humor come through, including his telephone conversation with American Express when he cancels his card just before entering the seminary or his description of a corporate boss mingling with the troops in an unconvincing way at a company picnic.  
His most recent book is an exploration of "why joy, humor and laughter are at the heart of the spiritual life."
One of the chapters is called, "I'm not funny and my life stinks".  He relates the common experience of interacting with someone whose life is a series of misfortunes, big and small and being in places where "a culture of carping and general complaining predominates."   
Then he provided an image that is resonating strongly with me this Thanksgiving season -- "searching for the drop of red paint in a white paint can.  The red represents your one problem.  You have an entire can of white paint -- let's say, a job, a roof over your head, a loving family -- and you choose instead to concentrate on the one tiny red drop -- the one thing wrong in your life"  He goes on to explain how cognitive behavioral therapy can help us to choose thoughts that are more positive, enabling us to focus on what is good and what brings us joy. 
There is a lot of Jesuit humor in the book. much of it self-deprecating.  My favorite is his description of a visit by a Jesuit superior who explains an event from the life of St. Ignatius.  It seems that he was riding on a mule and met a man on the road, also riding a mule.  The man insulted the Virgin Mary.  Ignatius was trying to decide if he should kill the man and let the mule he was riding make the decision as to whether he would take the road that would lead him to the man or away from him.  The mule turned away, sparing the man and also Ignatius of his desire to murder.  The superior concluded by remarking, "Ever since then, asses have been making decisions in the Jesuits."
A personal anecdote that demonstrates Jesuit humor:  JB and I were making conversation with Fr. Jack, director of campus ministry at the university our son attended.  JB was relating the story of our receipt of frequent solicitations by mail on behalf of a Jesuit school.  First the roof was leaking and in need of repair.  Then the van used to transport students broke down.   Then a storm damaged the grounds, uprooting trees.  Father Jack wryly commented that "perhaps they should fire the Development Director and hire a maintenance person."

Thanksgiving for Aunt Mary

My Aunt Mary, at 96, is a living lesson in how to survive. Last Sunday morning after finishing up a yoga class, I switched my phone back on to see missed calls and voice mail messages from my cousin Karen and JB. Immediately I knew that something must have happened to Aunt Mary.
In large Italian families, it is not unusual to have the last unmarried daughter stay at home to care for aging parents. Aunt Mary, one of five girls, did just that. She worked at US Steel, a career woman before it was commonplace. She not only never married, but she never even learned to drive, walking to work, taking buses to town and relying on others to drive her when she needed to get to a family event or holiday celebration.
Everybody should have an Aunt Mary.  She remembers all family birthdays, with cards and presents too.  I was the beneficiary of a great family birthday tradition as a child in which Aunt Mary gave us a dollar for every year of our life.  So getting older meant getting more dough -- and it was surely something to look forward to.
She was devoted first to her aging mother, and then to her siblings, nieces, nephews, and now great and great great nieces and nephews. 
As she and I have gotten older, I have come to realize that while all of those tangible presents and her very real presence have been such constant blessings, there is something so much more edifying about how she lives her life.
Aunt Mary lives totally in the present moment.
This is a lesson I have longed to learn.  In the firmament of magnets that have graced the face of our refrigerator over the years, this is one that can always be found and is attributed to Buddha -- "The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, worry about the future, or to anticipate troubles, but to live in the present moment, wisely and earnestly."
And so last Sunday, when Aunt Mary was taken to the hospital after a fall, she sat peacefully and was engaged in the Steeler game as we waited for the results of her X-rays.  After the ED physician said he saw nothing broken, she prepared to return home (while I am mentally obsessing about how I am going to leave her in her apartment).  It turns out she could not bear weight on her leg, so they ended up keeping her overnight.  That night and the next day when I saw her, her only seeming concern was that I remember to call her favorite bakery and order a birthday cake for my cousin Karen.  She must have told me five times to remember to get the cake and assured me that she would pay for it and asked that I get my uncle or a friend to pick it up. 
I was further reminded of her positive mental outlook when she was presented with her dinner tray of what looked to me like classically nondescript hospital food.  "Beautiful, beautiful", she kept repeating as she ate every bite of food on that tray.   Turns out her hip is broken. 
When I went to see her in the nursing home where she has gone to recover, she was waiting at the dining room table for her dinner tray to arrive. "Beautiful, beautiful", she again exclaimed, as she proceeded to consume every bite on that tray too.
She does not appear to be concerned about when or whether her hip will heal, when or whether she will be able to return to her apartment.  That is because she is not thinking about that.  She is only thinking of what in the present moment she can focus on that is positive.  She is helping me more than I am helping her right now.  Forget Buddha, watch Aunt Mary. 

Am I in Denial?

Yes, I am apparently in the throes of denial.  Following my most recent checkup and much improved A1C, my behavior could best be described as having 'fallen off the wagon'.   It has been downright awful.  The aforementioned family reunion, with its dessert table laden with 20 or so different varieties of carb and calorie filled delights, was a challenge that I did not meet particularly well. 
I had the opportunity to attend another family's 'family reunion' earlier this summer.  It was a wake-up call about the food culture differences between my family and the way other families might approach such an event.  It was a cookout --  burgers -- regular, turkey and veggie.  There were a few salads and one dessert.  Yes, truly, just one.  Dessert shells with blueberries and ice cream/cool whip.  Perfectly lovely and delicious.  The quantities of food were adequate for the numbers of people and there were healthy choices all around.
Contrast that with our most recent reunion.   There is an Italian word that was once the punch line of a commercial for something I can't remember -- ABBONDANZA.  Abundance, it seems, is the way we do food.  It you don't have a least twice as much food as you really need, then you are not really being a proper host or hostess. 
And in addition to quantity, we also have quality.  Remember I said that we had published two family cookbooks for previously family reunions?  If I close my eyes, I can recall and taste traditional family recipes like Aunt Rose's manicotti and my cousin Michele's fudge.   Carbs and sugar.  The best.
But in an effort to get myself back on track, I googled "Diabetes Back On Track" (how original).  One of the entries that appeared was a pretty direct essay about how easy it is to exist in denial.  And it is a family trait (OK, a human trait).  What I once judged my mom about is now clearly me too.  Diabetes is an insidious, slow, killer disease.   It is so easy to sacrifice long term health for short term satisfaction. 
I am only now beginning to fully realize how this is a moment by moment battle.  And it is about habits, not rules.  And how it is hard. 

Family Reunion

In 1973, my mom got the idea to have a family reunion of her brothers and sisters on the day before Labor Day.  The idea got legs.  This past Sunday we had the 32nd one.  We have missed a few years and some years we had a family event that was a surrogate reunion, like Aunt Rose and Uncle Ray's 50th anniversary celebration or Mary Lou and Bob's wedding. We have gathered 32 times in celebration of family on a September Sunday.   About half of the reunions were in New Castle, PA, hosted by one of my cousins in her home.   The rest were held in other PA locations, including Mars, Somerset, North Huntingdon and Indiana.  
Our reunions are mostly about reconnecting and keeping people connected.  There have been games (egg toss, badminton, sack races) and competitions (cookie bake offs, creative uses for zucchini) and group projects (a family quilt and two cookbooks) and songs ("Hello Aunt Mary" and "We are the Fredas").    We keep a 'family tree', with biographical details, up to date, thanks to one of my cousin's daughters. 
I love this family.  As previously written, growing up it was only my mom's family that I knew in any depth.  My dad's family was scattered and distant.  But on my mom's side, I have two first cousins that were born in the same year as me.  And of the 16 'first cousins', seven of us went to the same Catholic grade school and high school.  And two of my cousins married people we went to high school with.  So there is a lot of history and shared experience.
When the reunions started, it was my mom and her six siblings and their children and grandchildren.  Now my mom is gone and there are only two of her siblings left -- aged 96 and 92.   This year nearly 60 descendants of Nicola and Carina Freda gathered.  This year for me was a kind of watershed event.  The family homestead has been sold.  It was the house my grandparents bought in 1931 and it held 80 years of both memories and stuff.   I wrote and posted the reflection below on one of the display boards at this year's reunion.  
Thanks to my cousin John, a talented artist who created replicas of the family homes in Whitsett and Munhall, we can remember these special places that housed such special people.   

The Places of the Freda Family

Family histories are the stories of people and places.  In the case of the Freda Family, Nicola and Carina and their children, these stories are inextricably linked to three places on two continents – Rivisondoli, Italy, Whitsett, PA and Homestead/Munhall, PA. 

Nicola Freda was born on February 24, 1876 in Rivisondoli. 

Carina Adele Buono was born in Rivisondoli on June 28, 1881. 

Rivisondoli is in the province of l’Aquila in the Abruzzo region of Italy, southeast of Rome.  Thanks to the Internet, there is a site devoted to “leave a trace of the Rivisondolesi’s emigration in the United States, a True History that deserves of being handed down to the future generations, because they don’t forget and knows to give the just value to the work for which, supporting 

inexpressible renunciations and sacrifices, they threw the solid foundations on which it rests, for better of for worse, our today’s life.”

The website contains the “first ten recurrent last names of our country”.  One of the ten names is ‘Freda’; another is Iarussi (Aunt Irma’s maiden name).   It also includes a list compiled by the local parish priest of donations received from emigrants for the ‘Mother Church of S. Nicola’ in Rivisondoli in 1922.  That list includes the names of Angelo Freda (presumably ‘Uncle Angelo’) and Antonio Iarussi. 

Nicola (Nick) arrived through Ellis Island on January 16, 1900 via the S.S. Auguste Victoria (departed from Naples) with his brother Marco.  The date of Carina’s arrival is unknown. 

Upon arrival, Nick promptly got to work.  In his application for Railroad Retirement Benefits, he recaps his employment history beginning on January 20, 1900 as a laborer with the Union Railroad in Homestead, PA. 

He was employed by the P & L E Railroad on July 3, 1901 where he stayed until August 8, 1916.  He then returned to the

Union Rail Road

in Clairton until September 8, 1921.   The family lived in Wilson, PA – the exact dates are not certain. 

From 1921 to 1931, he returned to the P & LE as a Section Foreman in Whitsett Junction.   I remember a few stories my mom told me about Whitsett.   She said that Nonna told her when the truck arrived, she told them not to unpack it.  Nonna was apparently not impressed by the small, isolated coal mining town, having spent the early part of her married life in a more urban setting.  And the Whitsett house had an 'outhouse', not the indoor plumbing that she had in the city.

Whitsett is about 30 miles south of Pittsburgh.  Founded in1845 by Ralph C. Whitsett,Sr., the community is made up of mostly “company” houses that were built for workers that worked in a large coal mine located nearby, Banning #2. Most of the houses were ½ houses built to accommodate two families.

Now the Mon Yough Trail, part of the Great Allegheny Passage, runs through Whitsett.  The trail was built on the old lines of the Pittsburgh & Lake Erie railroad. Whitsett was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1995.

Then there is Homestead and the house in Munhall.    The family moved back to the Homestead area in November 1931.   This year, the house was sold. 

Homestead has seen glory days and hard times.  It was once the steel capital of the world, with U.S. Steel’s Homestead Works, ethic churches and a bustling retail core.  Today, a shopping and apartment complex called the Waterfront occupies the site of the former Homestead Works.  It also is on the National Register of Historic Places. 

Yet this reunion – of the children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and yes, great-great grandchildren of Nicola and Carina is a celebration, not of place, but of family. 

Grandma was an alien?

We called my maternal grandmother, Nonna (duh, it's the Italian word for grandmother).  Since my mom was the youngest of seven children, having been born when my Nonna was 40, and my mom did not get married until she was almost 30, I remember Nonna only as an old woman.
She was tiny, wiry and carried this black rubber cord called 'licorice'.  Getting licorice was not a good thing.  It meant getting your hands slapped.  She made great homemade pasta and meatballs (they were sooooo tender).  Her English was not great and we mostly communicated with her through my mom and Aunt Mary, who lived with her.
She was pretty stern -- she was not the hugging, laughing, building self-esteem type of grandmother.  I now realize that her life was not easy.  She left her mother in Italy and came to a foreign country.  She took three of her oldest children back to Italy for a visit and her oldest child died there from the flu.  Can you imagine?   I found her passport recently that showed her embarking with three children, with a notation upon her re-entry into the US that one had died.   Her husband died when my mom was a senior in high school, in 1938. 
I also found her alien registration card from 1942.  At that point, it is noted that she had lived in the United States for 35 years and 9 months.   We also found a notarized affidavit from Ann Street Radio in Homestead, attesting to the fact that her Zenith radio had its short wave coils disconnected, making "the radio completely dead and inoperative on all short wave bands." 
My brother remembers my mom telling him this story.  Apparently, my grandmother and her radio constituted a threat to national security.  What an indignity.  The Japanese, many of whom had been on American soil just as long or longer endured much worse. 
What a different life she had.  It would be so good to be able to have just one conversation with her to understand more.  Hoping to fill in some gaps in family history at the upcoming reunion. 

Sorting through Stuff: The Old (new) Scoop on Diabetes

Going through someone else's stuff is one of those paradoxical life experiences.  In Adriana Tragliani's book, "Lessons from My Grandmothers", one of their lessons is "Leave Your Children Your Values, Not Your Stuff."  
I have been on the receiving end of lots of stuff.  Between JB and me, we have inherited housefuls of stuff.   We are having a family reunion next week, and I find myself going through photos and documents that I would like to display. 
Yesterday I came across the 'PIttsburgh Bus and Trolley Guide' from 1937-1938.  It is a tiny compendium that includes the Pittsburgh Pirates schedule, lists of area parks and movie theaters, information about bus and trolley lines and yes, health information.  It is chock full of useful information like how to tell unhealthy from healthy urine and even includes a page in Polish and one in Italian for the then-dominant local ethnic population.  The primary sponsor/advertiser was the Varec Institute, which appears to be the forerunner of what we would recognize as today's retail medicine clinic.  It had daily (even Sunday!) office hours and "was organized by duly licensed physicians to provide relief from sickness at the lowest possible cost consistent with good medical treatment."
Curious about what this guide might say about our modern scourge of diabetes, I found the following:
"Acidosis and Diabetes are Twin Health Destroyers
Americans are rapidly becoming a race of Diabetics due to the excessive consumption of sweets and starches. 
We can offer prompt and permanent relief providing you will cooperate in following diet restrictions and coming regularly for office treatment and remedies.  When the patient has sugar constantly present in the urine, we have a fully developed case of diabetes.  We reserve the right to reject these advanced cases, for insulin is the proper palliative remedy and should be regulated and administered under the watchful care of your family physician."(my note -- yea -- dump the really sick people on someone else).

Doctoring

All families must have some unique expressions.  My mother would say, when speaking of someone who was ill, that they were "doctoring".  Outside of our family unit, I never heard that phrase.  It was a bad thing, this doctoring stuff.   In her experience, no one who was feeling well would ever go the the doctor.  None of this preventive medicine or annual checkups or vaccines for my parents.  Looking back, it may have been a result of their upbringing where there would not have been doctors around.  Or perhaps because we were uninsured.  My dad was self-employed.  For him, health insurance was a luxury, not a necessity.  And going to a doctor was an expense to be avoided. 
For years I pretty much felt the same way.  Oh, having babies necessitated having a doctor.   After that, I avoided them too.  Ignorance can be bliss, at least in the short term.
Now I find that I am 'doctoring', going for things like blood work, taking pills, and having regular doctor visits.  I have one coming up on Monday with Dr. Natalie, my PCP.  Facing reality comes with these visits because while she is certainly empathetic, there is an element of judgment that comes with the inevitable reporting of numbers.  A1C, cholesterol, weight, body mass index, blood pressure, etc. I dread these visits. 
Just came home from a birthday party in the neighborhood.  Social events now have an element of dread to them as well even when they are happy occasions.  I find myself engaged in a dialogue with myself about what I should and should not eat.   If asked to name my five favorite foods, without thinking the first two would come out as birthday cake and then ice cream!     Perhaps knowing that I will face the scale on Monday morning, I managed to avoid them.  Four diet cokes and a big cup of coffee helped fill my stomach and occupy my hands.  Hoping for some better numbers this visit. 

Running Away From Rome (Part One)

Looking forward to leaving the sweltering heat and humidity of the 'Burgh and traveling to Maine later this week.  My friend Dolly hosts an annual lobster fest at her family home that I have been wanting to attend for years.  This year it looks like the stars have finally aligned and JB and I will get to go and eat lobster and sit on Dolly's front porch.  She grew up literally across the street from where the lobster fishermen keep their boats (or whatever the correct nautical term is) with a view of the Atlantic Ocean.  She once showed me a coffee table book by Walter Cronkite that had an aerial view of the house and her quaint Maine village.  How idyllic. 
The place I grew up in was a suburb of a steel mill town;  my childhood memories are of hearing slag trucks drive by as they carried the remnants of steel making to another suburb to form the foundation for a new shopping mall.  There was not a lot of physical beauty.  We would take occasional trips to county or state parks and vacations to Boston, where my dad lived just after he immigrated to the US.   On those trips, I caught a glimpse of what people who grow up in coastal areas experience. 
St. Augustine is quoted as saying -- "The world is a book and those who do not travel read only a page."   I want to read many pages.  The book, "1,000 Places to See Before You Die: A Traveler's Life List" sits on a table in our family room. 
This week I get to go somewhere new that is listed there, Acadia National Park.  Since Clare is spending the summer in Maine, we will get to spend time with her too.  She suggested places to stay, and encouraged us to look beyond the Marriotts, at least for a few nights.  And so we have compromised and I have B&B reservations for three nights.  She further recommended Camden, Maine as a place to stay.  B & B reservations can be a little diffcult to come by for three people during Maine's high season.  After some online searching and phone calling, I found myself in conversation with a woman speaking with an accent I could not easily identify.  At first I thought it odd, since I expected to hear that distinctive Maine pronunciation that Dolly first introduced me to and that I have since come to recognize on trips to Maine with Clare. 
The B&B reservations person who happens to be the owner apologized for her difficulties and mentioned that she is Italian.  Italian??  How would an Italian end up running a B&B on the coast of Maine?  Through the joys of the Internet, I was able to read the story of an Italian couple's life in Rome, interest in US travel and decision to move to Maine.
It's pretty hard for me to understand how someone would want to leave Rome and relocate to a beautiful, yet seasonally challenging place like Maine (think sub-zero and snowed in for months on end).   
I am looking forward to meeting her and hope to post more soon about their travels and ours too. 

Simple Answers to Vexing Questions

Remember the Baltimore Catechism?  Those of us of a certain age sure do.  Written in question and answer format, we were required to commit much of it to memory, so we could readily cough up the answers to questions like, "Who Made Me?".  ("God made me", is the quick, semi-automatic response).
There was brevity and clarity associated with these crisp responses; but I can't say that I have been able to resolve the more challenging questions life has presented me by pulling out and applying memorized answers.  Lately though, some similar questions and the resulting knee-jerk responses have actually been helpful in this journey to better health and well-being. 
I once read a recommendation to avoid eating (or drinking) any food or drink that your grandmother would not recognize.  That feels right--wine's OK; Mike's Hard Lemonade, probably not.   Piece of fruit, good.  A 'gotta have it' treat from Coldstone Creamery?  Don't think so. And my grandmothers likely ate pretty good stuff -- bread, pasta, vegetables, fruits.  My maternal grandmother was a wiry, trim woman.  My paternal grandmother was a bit broader and my overall build seems more to resemble hers. I have previously described my strong family history of diabetes.  So maybe the 'grandmother test' isn't the best. 
I've been thinking more about applying the 'God-Baltimore Catechism' test to the "Can/Should I Eat This?" question.  I've been asking myself, "Who Made This?"  If God did make it and it is still looks close to the way He made it, then I'm thinking it's probably fine.  So, blueberries, yes; blueberry cobbler with ice cream, no.  Fish or meat?  Hey, I think Jesus ate those!  Pasta?  That's a tough one -- it is processed.  For awhile I am taking a pass.  And chocolate?  Don't think so.
That still leaves lots of options.  It's fresh corn season; tomatoes and cherries too.  And something is working, albeit verrrrry slowly. Down another pound this week.  Total of 10 pounds off now (pCR or post Canyon Ranch) and just over 27 in total.

Further Musings on Things Mediterranean

Frances Mayes, one of my favorite authors (Under the Tuscan Sun), has a new book  -- Every Day in Tuscany, Seasons of an Italian Life.  It is 20 years since she bought and restored her villa in Tuscany.  This new book has a sadness and a bittersweet reality about it.   Placi, her next door neighbor, is seriously injured.  Primo Bianchi, who was the capable restorer of her Bramasole, has died.  There is a terrorism scare, when a grenade (which turned out to be harmless) is found on her property.   And she is older now.   A grandmother who is enjoying it and thinking about passing on a legacy in words, buildings and experiences to her grandson.
I love her writing.  She has a way of putting words together that moves me, sometimes almost to tears.    Her descriptions of all things Italian and her love affair with the country and its people evoke such strong feelings because they build on and draw out insights from my own life and family.  More than that, I admire someone with the courage to so consciously create a life; and to live life.  
One of my most favorite sections of her new book involves a description of how Italians eat and drink and how it differs from Americans.  She writes, "There's no dreary talk at all about glutens, portion control, fat content or calories.  Eating in Italy made me aware of how tortured the relationship to food is in my country."
She also writes about the modest consumption of wine, and the practice of pouring water into wine, something I remember my uncle doing when I visited him.  Being drunk was an embarassment, and drining too much was simply not done.  I remember my dad telling me more than once that he was never drunk in his life.  It wasn't about drinking; it was about integrating wine into the meal, not overpowering it and not making it an end in itself. 
Her descriptions about hours spent at dinner tables reminds me of memories my dad would relate, with great fondness, of how he would do so too.  And to talk, and to eat, and to talk, and to eat.  Not overeating, not worrying about how much you were eating, just eating to live, as part of being alive. 
I would be a lot better off if I could emulate my dad's approach to food.  He would do things like scrape the icing from the top of a birthday cake.  This struck me as strange; my taste is that the icing is the best part.  And, in the summer, he would eat fruit, lots of it.  He loved figs because I think it reminded him of his youth, growing up in the Abruzzo.  He ate little meat.   He seemed to have an inherent wisdom about eating and food choices that I did not inherit.
I am tired ot thinking about counting carbs and ascribing moral qualities to food choices.  Is there a way to uncorrupt decades of screwed up eating and find a more rational voice within?