Once

Swift River Dam-Enfield, Massachusetts

There was a river named Swift

powering mills and factories

producing wool and hats

boxes and buttons.

William Gilpin Home

There were four towns

with churches and inns

cemeteries and farms

orchards and fields.

Enfield, Massachusetts Railroad Station

There was a railroad

connecting Athol and Springfield

bringing in news and mail

visitors and family.

Mary Ann Bannister and William Gilpin
behind their home in Enfield, MA

There were school children and farmers

bankers, and preachers

loggers and artists

merchants and blacksmiths.

Enfield Congregational Church

There were Catholics and Protestants

Jews, and atheists

Democrats and Republicans

independents and non-voters.

Enfield, Massachusetts Baseball Team

Winsor Dam, Quabbin Reservoir

There were scholars and the unschooled

There were story tellers and pie makers

pipe smokers and knife sharpeners

baseball players and motorcyclists.

There was a thirsty city named Boston.

Then there was a dam.

Janus

As I step cautiously into 2017, this unknown landscape laid out before me, and I as I read the predictions of what many "in the know" see out there in the wilds of the next twelve months, I am of two minds. I could attribute that to my Gemini nature or that two-faced god for whom this month is named, but I suspect it has more to do with the basic fight or flight response.

When I think of our new president and those that support him coming into power, I am truly frightened for our country and its people, not to mention myself (someone insured by Medicare). Part of me wants to march, write a diatribe, or just scream. The other part wants to turn off the news, watch the birds, and open up a pint of Ben and Jerry's.

I am trying to find a balance between these conflicting parts of my brain. I have always been committed to securing basic human rights for everyone, but at times, like today, the challenges can seem so huge, I become immobilized. To maintain my sanity, I need to withdraw from the battle, if only for a time.

My mother modeled the latter approach. Optimism was her response to the many challenges she faced, starting with losing her mother at five years old, followed by her sister and she being moved from one relative's home to another, sometimes with their father, sometimes not, until she was married. As a young wife she carried a baby to term only to lose it upon delivery. In spite of it all, or maybe because of it, she faced most of life's situations with a positive (some might say naive) outlook. For her, it was a survival skill, and considering she lived to be 96, I would say it worked.

Not infrequently, I found her Pollyanna outlook exasperating. That is not to say she was not sympathetic when I was upset. It was just that she was much quicker to sweep all the negativity away. When I was depressed after the end of a long-term relationship, she listened and supported me. Then a week later she wanted to know if I was all better.

I can't sweep away my fears about the year ahead, but I can't linger on them either. This morning as I was writing this, I read Steve Garnaas-Holmes’ daily reflection "Unfolding Light," in which he talks about angels--the ones in the Christmas story, yes, but more importantly those that we can become by encouraging others, by shining a light on individuals making a difference. It seems a good response to all the negativity that surrounds us.

So as I take my next step into the unknown year before me, I will try to encourage what is good and not get too discouraged by the rest of it, all the while hoping I meet a few angels along the way.

My Old House

I bought this house in 1982. From the moment I opened the front door, I knew it was mine. The modest size, the Cape Cod style, the East Forest Park neighborhood--all reminded me of the home where I grew up on Lancaster Street just a couple of miles away. Add to that, the fact that the house at the end of the street had once been my father’s boyhood home, and his grandfather’s farm had been just a ways up Allen Street. It seemed I was destined to call this place mine.

That’s not to say I loved everything about the house when I moved in. The garage was a problem. It was settling, and the door was rotted. Still I was happy to have a garage at all, never before having been able to shelter my car from New England winters. The kitchen was the worst problem. There were only four cabinets and very little counter space. The dropped ceiling hid water damage and dangerous wiring. Then there was the mural—a turquoise scene of peasants dancing around a pagoda. I’m sure previous owners thought it was beautiful, but it annoyed me every time I looked at it.

Little by little over the years, I fixed, repaired, revamped, and expanded.  Early on I had a new floor poured in the garage. That was after my father laid a new cinder block foundation, jacking up each wall of the garage as he did. My nephew Thomas re-tiled the bathroom and closed in the side porch. New wall-to-wall was installed, as well as new flooring in the kitchen.

In 2005, after living with this kitchen I really hated for 23 years and the inconvenience of one bathroom on the second floor, I took on a major renovation of the kitchen, as well as the addition of a family room and a downstairs bathroom. This meant the mural was finally gone!

With each new coat of paint, each redecoration, each new room, the house became more and more me. (Full of my stuff too!) Then one day as I was taking a break from cleaning, (I tend to break a lot when I clean) I started to think about the people who had lived here before. The house was built in 1938, and I knew at least three families had lived here. I had bought it from Mr. Christensen who had bought it from the Greenbaums who had bought it from the Jolys. Maybe there had been more.

Each owner likely thought of my house as their house, and someday, I suddenly realized, other people would come into my house and make it theirs. At first, this thought made me angry--as if some anonymous person would steal what was mine. But, of course, that was silly. When the next owner arrives, he/she will do so either because I have relinquished ownership of the house or my life.

Barring fire or other tragedy, this house will remain when I have moved on. Other people will paint the walls a different color, move in new furniture, and find aspects they dislike (But not the mural!). They will create their home in this space where I have created mine. I wish them and my house well.

But I’m not planning on leaving quite yet. I still have to fix the doorknob to the porch, and repair the threshold at the front door, and the find out what’s causing the water spot on the ceiling of the family room and maybe paint the family room a different color, and...

Thanksgiving 1950 Photograph

George Emil and Carrie Julia Rose Schneeloch

I was five years old that Thanksgiving, but I remember Alvin taking this picture as well as one of my parents at the same spot in front of the living room window on Lancaster Street. This is how I remember my grandmother--the tightly curled hair, the rimless glasses, the half smile. I have more memories of my grandfather who came to live with us just a year later when my grandmother died. She was 68 years old in this photo. I am taken a bit aback when I realize she is three years younger here than I am now.

I remember her too at their home on Allen Street where on overnight visits she read to me on the porch, made vanilla pudding with orange slices, tucked me into my father's childhood bed at night.  I remember Mr. and Mrs. Prouty and their friends who came to play bridge. There were lots of card games on the heavy brown metal card table that now is folded next to the computer in my office.

I have many other pictures of her too. There is the one of the young mother in the white dress holding the baby that was my father. 

Even earlier there are pictures of her and her brother Frank dressed in their Sunday clothes posing for a photographer in West Springfield whose name remains on the photograph but whose address no longer exists.

I look into those young eyes and try to see what she saw all those years ago at the end of the 19^th century. Could she see what amazing things would happen in her lifetime?

I try to see what she expected of her future. Did she imagine marrying on New Year’s Eve of the new century? I’m sure she never imagined that she would be a widow by the following spring.

Did she imagine meeting the gentle man that was my grandfather? The man who sits beside her in the Thanksgiving picture?

She had so much future that to me is invisible past, yet I keep looking in her eyes in hopes of finding it.

Hearing Difficulties

Listening is the oldest and perhaps the most powerful tool of healing. When we listen, we offer with our attention an opportunity for wholeness. Our listening creates sanctuary for the homeless parts within the other person.

~Rachel Naomi Remen, M. D.

Several years ago I called the electric company to report a buzzing sound I thought was coming from the utility pole outside. The repair man arrived, put on his belt, equipment dangling from its side, and climbed up the pole with his spiked shoes.

When he climbed back down, he told me he couldn’t find a problem. I was confused. Then,  after he left, I went back in the house. There I realized I could still hear the sound. Then it came to me--the ringing was coming from me, from inside my ears--Tinnitus.

Once I recognized the problem, I adjusted. Most of the time I don't even notice it, but it's still there. Right now, for example, because it's quiet, I'm very aware of it.

So all the time, whether I'm aware of it or not, there's something blocking my hearing things exactly as they are. From what I've read there's no good treatment for this malady. One must simply adjust.

It occurs to me that there are other maladies that block one's hearing things exactly as they are. I have an occupational hazard that affects me that way. As a retired English teacher, when I am listening to someone I am immediately thrown off-course when they make what, to me, is a glaring grammatical mistake.

A friend could be pouring out her heart to me, telling me a tragic story of a broken relationship, for example, but if she were to say, "Things between Mark and I have never been the same since we moved," my brain would be stopped immediately at the pronoun I, and never hear the rest of the sentence. Others may be distracted by an accent, a skin tone, a head covering, anything that moves one back inside one's head and away from the speaker.

To truly listen is a very self-less act. It means putting away all one's agendas, priorities, foregone conclusions and opening up to the other person. It is not easy. Truly, when I hear another person say something that disturbs me, I tend to either immediately “correct” them or walk away and ignore them. Conversely when I speak and someone seems not to be paying attention, I feel my temperature rise.

We all want to be heard. We want to know that what we say is important, so if I walk away when you speak, and you ignore me when I speak, neither of us is heard, and both of us will be angry

Some have said that listening is truly an act of love. After last week’s election, it seems clear that we need, more than ever, to listen and hear each other if we are ever to learn to live together peacefully.

Sliding into October

Anyone who knows me knows I love baseball, the Red Sox most specifically. I like football too. Last night when the Sox and the Patriots were playing at the same time, I was, thanks to modern technology, watching the Sox on television while at the same time watching the Pats on my iPad. It worked out surprisingly well, and they both won!

I know many eschew baseball for being slow and plodding, but that's part of what I like about it--that and the fact that you know who the players are and where they are on the field. In football, which I grant I understand less than baseball, too often they end up in a pile of elbows, butts, and helmets.

The men who broadcast baseball (are there any women?) fall into two categories--the play-by-play guy and the color guy. The former tells what's happening on the field, what the batter's count is, who caught the ball in the field, or whether a fly ball near the Pesky Pole (Fenway's right field foul pole) was declared foul or fair. The color guy elaborates on the plays, relates it to a player's history, or talks of a former player who did a similar thing. The moments between pitches or during pitching changes or while waiting while the umpires put on their earphones to await word from New York about a challenged play allows for conversation between the two of them.

The other night there was a conversation about sliding into base. One said that the experts (whoever they are) assert that sliding does not get a runner into base any quicker than if he were to run. The other disagreed. They proposed to set up an experiment to find out, but then agreed it was impossible, so each settled back into his own point of view. Like many of these conversations, it was amusing but not of much consequence. 

I do not have an opinion on the efficacy of the slide, but I do enjoy it. There's something about seeing all 5' 9" of Mookie Betts suddenly flying superman-like into second beneath (usually) the glove of the second baseman that is almost balletic, and his smile at having achieved this theft is magnetic. 

Then there is the dirt on his uniform--an orange brown stain that is clear evidence of how he literally throws himself into this game.

Not many games left now. Soon I won't have to watch two games at a time, but before that time there are the playoffs, and who knows what will happen! Fingers crossed here for more magic from Mookie, Papi, Pedey, and the rest of the gang.

Treppenwitz

Treppenwitz  is a German word for a witty comeback you thought of too late, literally a staircase joke.  It is a translation from the French "l'esprit d'escalier," the idea being that one may only think of a proper rejoinder after one has gone down the stairs and completely left the scene. In my case, the joke only appeared to me as I reached the bottom of the stairs.

This is the week when most kids are heading back to school and parents are posting cute pictures of their smiling kids in the new clothes. On Monday I watched my next door neighbor Emma holding a sign that read "Second Grade 8-29-16" as her mother took her picture. Then she posted it on Facebook next to last year's picture where she was about 2 inches shorter.

I enjoy seeing all these kids heading back to school. When I said that online, a former student said, "You miss it." To which I replied, "Only the smiles." Then I explained the two things I like best about being retired. One, that I don't have to get up and get myself ready and out the door shortly after 6AM. In the winter that frequently meant feeling like a mole as I went to school in the dark and came home in the dark. Now I get to see sunlight at all hours of the day.

But even more than enjoying daylight, I appreciate the absence of the never-ending pile of papers to correct. And my piles did get quite high. Being the procrastinator that I am, Tuesday's assignments got piled on top of Monday's assignments, and sometimes papers from the week before. My book bag was always full to bulging. No wonder I was a regular patient of the chiropractor. I felt bad about this, guilty that I wasn't getting my students' papers back to them as soon as I could.

Then one day as I packed up by bag to go home, I realized that at that exact moment I was caught up. I didn't have one paper that needed to be corrected, not one term paper waiting to be edited, not one set of quizzes that needed grades. I was a happy woman. I could have left my book bag right there in the English office, but I liked the feel of this empty bag on my shoulder.

I opened the door to the stairwell and began descending the familiar steps to the door that led to the parking lot. I began to think of how I had arrived at this pleasant place, and with each step down the stairwell, I became more and more convinced of the answer--I wasn't giving my students enough work. I was not the effective teacher who had completed all her work efficiently. I was the teacher who was short-changing her students by giving them so little work that I could finish it quickly.

By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was laughing out loud. I just couldn't give myself a break. The treppenwitz was on me.