Life Goes On, And The Mint Still Grows

 When I first heard that my mother's house had been sold, I cried. I wasn't sure exactly why I was crying. My mother is alive and well, and settled into her apartment in a beautiful senior community. I did not grow up in the house, so I never had an attachment to it. Truth be told, I never really loved it. Considering all of this, I thought my sadness was most likely related to it being the last place that I could connect my dad to.

My dad was an avid gardener. He would spend hours outside working in his garden. I can still picture him, in his favorite hat, out there happily from early morning to dinner time. He grew all kinds of things in his garden; tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, herbs. He had such a knack for it- I could never figure out how they grew so strong and healthy without being eaten by squirrels, chipmunks or bugs. He was so proud of his garden.

One of my fondest memories of him was when he would take my small children by the hand, and show them each of the items growing in his garden. When they were ripe enough, he would let them taste the fresh tomatoes off the vine. And, ALWAYS, he would tear off a mint leaf and let the kids smell the distinguishable fragrance. To this day, the smell of mint takes me back to those moments. The MINT...when I thought about leaving the mint behind growing in that garden, I sobbed. The new owners would have no idea of the history of that mint, and what it meant to my family.

You see, the mint in my father's garden was close to a hundred years old! It had been in my family for decades.

My grandfather first grew the mint in his garden in Amsterdam (NY). When my parents began their life together in the 50's, my father brought some of it to their home in Brooklyn. When they later relocated their family to Worcester (MA), some of my grandfather's cuttings were transplanted there. And finally, the mint brought with them from Worcester,  landed in each of our Albany (NY) homes with this current house being the last location.

Mint is a perennial that grows like a weed, sometimes invasively. It is relatively easy to grow. Clippings of that very mint have been given to neighbors, family friends, and even replanted at my brother's former restaurant- where it continues to grow. Yet, for some reason, I could never get it to root at my own house. The soil in my yard is just not conducive to it. I had tried several times, but gave up thinking there would always be time to try again.

But now, there was no time left.

The house was sold in late winter, and so I waited until the last possible moment before the closing in the hopes that the mint would have sprouted in the early spring weather.  Luckily, it was there , although sparsely. I pulled up as much of it as I could. I planted some in pots, and on the suggestion of a friend, placed the rest in water to see if it would root.

The planted mint has not done well. But, to my delight, a vast and healthy root system grew in the water, deeply intertwining the 6-7 shoots I had placed in the vase. They are so healthy and thriving now, that I am afraid to plant them!

A few weeks ago, my sister-in-law lost her mom, Santina. The priest who delivered the sermon is an old family friend.

He talked extensively about his connection to my dad, his history with my family- and later with my sister-in-law's family. He talked about the legacy of love and family that Santina had left behind. As he mentioned each one of Santina's grandchildren and great-grandchildren by name, it occurred to me that most of them were also MY parent's grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Here were two families, not at all connected in the past, but now deeply intertwined through current and future generations. A shared legacy of descendants so deeply entrenched that it can never be undone.

Not unlike the mint that I am so desperately trying to keep growing. The root system is so weaved together that I cannot separate the plants. I have on my kitchen windowsill, a plant that has germinated over and over again through the course of almost a century. The roots of this mint, from my grandfather's garden have been so strong, they have grown wherever life has taken them.

All too often, I think we cling so hard to the physical things left behind by those we love. It is our way of holding on to the them by having something tangible to keep. When those things are no longer there,  we fear that it symbolizes letting those that we loved so deeply, go. However, it is not the things that are passed down which connect us to them, but the things that cultivate forward.

I realize now, what the mint had represented for me.I felt compelled to keep the plant growing, so that the spirit of my grandfather and father will continue on. I was losing the house, but I could still connect the mint to my dad. I know now, though, that in as much as I treasure that mint, I will never truly lose any piece of my father. Although it may be described as an heirloom, the mint is not the true legacy that he left behind. My father had five kids, ten grandchildren and (now) nine great-grandchildren that he was never able to meet.

I need only to look at the faces of all of them to know that my father's roots continue on. His roots are strong roots, and they will live for generations to come.

Sometimes We Can't Ignore The Signs

 

Although it has been 11 years since my dad left us, there is no question in my mind that he is still nearby, watching over and protecting his family- just as he did while here on earth.

This became especially apparent recently. My mom, at 91, was reaching the conclusion that she could no longer stay in her home of 30+ years. It’s pretty amazing that she was still there as it was, I know, but the maintenance and the stress involved with being in the house alone were beginning to overwhelm her. She was trying to make the difficult decision of whether or whether not it was the right time to move to senior housing. 

The only place she would consider living (close to all five of her children) was beautiful and had everything she could possibly need. However, for the specs in an apartment that my mother desired, they also had a waiting list…of up to 2 YEARS!!! That would’ve been enough to dissuade her and put the decision off, but something incredible happened.

In working with the salesperson at the community, we found (coincidentally) that she had a connection to my father. It seemed a close family member of hers attended Siena College. While a student there he suffered a tremendous loss, and was in a very bad way. My dad had counseled him. This individual was extremely grateful for the help that he received and felt forever indebted to my dad for pulling him out of a dark place. He was of such a young age and my dad’s help truly changed the trajectory of his life at that time.  This took place over 30 years ago- yet he is still vocal to this day, in his appreciation of what my dad’s guidance meant to him. 

Remarkably, not long after we learned this, an apartment with the exact specs that my mom wanted became available- and somehow my mom wound up at the top of the waiting list! Both my mom and I were convinced that my dad- through a good deed done decades ago- was ‘calling in a favor’ of sorts, giving his stamp of approval and paving the way for my mom to make the change. She simply could not ignore the stroke of fate that seemed to be presenting itself, and decided to move forward with the process.

Oh…and if you think this is a stretch of a coincidence, there’s one more thing. When my mom went to see the apartment and sign the paperwork to reserve it- we were speechless to discover the apartment number was 276! Of ALL the apartment numbers in the entire community- it was the same number as my father’s childhood home!

I think there are at least two lessons here:

1. Continue to do good deeds and spread positivity in the world. You may not see the results immediately. But, you might just be setting your loved ones up to reap the rewards of your actions somewhere down the line. 

2. Love is a bond that never dies. Those that leave us behind are always there, watching over and caring for us from heaven. Just look for the signs.

Sometimes Traditions Just Need To Be Tweaked

There are all kinds of traditions. There are cultural traditions, religious traditions and family traditions to name a few. Often, the holidays are a time steeped in tradition. Maybe they are
carried on from our childhood or new ones we have created as we travel through
our own lives. Sometimes we miss traditions that meant a lot to us, but have somehow faded
away with the circumstances and people that surrounded them.
I have always been a sentimental person. And, I have always had an interest in words and
expression. For me, putting words down on paper makes them immortal...things
that can be read and felt for lifetimes to come.
So when my kids were young, I started the tradition of a Christmas journal. I purchased a
beautiful blank hardcover book and every year during Christmas week, I brought the journal with
me as we celebrated Christmas and New Years with my parents, siblings and their families. I insisted every family member who was present write in the journal. They could write whatever they wanted; what was going on in their lives that year, what they were looking forward to in the year to come or simply what they got for Christmas. In the first few years, I was met with resistance from various family members, but I was relentless. I stored it away with my Christmas decorations so that I wouldn’t forget it each holiday season. After a few years of keeping the journal, everyone was used to having it passed around. My nieces and nephews who were teenagers when I started would get a kick out of what they had written in previous years. The entries matured with the authors. They may have started as “I heard Santa last night” to “I am embarking to college life this year and I can’t wait to see where that journey takes me”. Some were funny, like my oldest brother who signed each of his entries with “ the oldest and wisest of the family”. Some were serious, like my parents who always wrote about the love they felt seeing their children and grandchildren all together. My own kid’s comments were so cute as their first entries were at ages when they were just learning to write.
As the years rolled by, my life took many turns and many changes were made along the way.
The holidays changed along the way. The extended family celebrations morphed as well, as my
siblings families both expanded and shrunk. I became a single parent with two small kids and
sharing them at the holidays became my new normal. The Christmas journal became a casualty
of this new normal. I guess ultimately I felt that this tradition could not continue because so
many of the players had changed...and the holidays just weren’t the same.
Recently, I came across the journal in my nightstand drawer. Opening it immediately became such an
emotional experience for me. The thing that struck me the most was to see my dad’s
handwriting and to read his lengthy entries. Over the years, he wrote about how grateful he was to experience another Christmas and how much joy he felt seeing his children and grandchildren
all together. And he always signed it “grandpa”.
I hadn’t seen my father’s handwriting in years. He passed away in 2011, several years after I tucked this journal away. Having his thoughts on paper and knowing he held that journal as he wrote made me wish I had more entries to read. As I absorbed what he said, it reminded me of how valuable certain traditions truly are.  His entries always had a consistent message;  how important it was to have family together,  and how appreciative we should be for each and every day. He stated that he not only loved his family- he liked each of us, too, and how he prayed for us all daily. To have these thoughts from my father in black and white on the pages before me was an invaluable treasure.
I realized then that I made a mistake in not continuing with the journal. Traditions don’t have to
die just because life as you knew it did. They can continue on to encompass new people in our lives and new situations. They don't need to be packed away because they don't seem to fit anymore- they can morph into extensions of your old traditions.
I have decided to buy a brand new book and resurrect the Christmas journal this year. There will
be some people sadly missing and there will hopefully be some new additions.
I have since remarried. In addition to my children, I have a terrific bonus son and a few more great extended family members. Those teenagers that once signed that book are now adults- some with spouses and children of their own. And, my brother- the oldest and wisest of the family- is now the one known as grandpa.
I want this tradition to continue because one day- I want my grandchildren and their children to have a priceless piece of family history to hold, laugh at, cry over and cherish.
Sometimes traditions just need to be tweaked.

Sometimes We Need To Celebrate The Smaller Milestones

There are many reasons why this time of year can be a bit challenging. One of those reasons is that it is often a time we reflect back on the year, as well as begin to set goals and resolutions for the year ahead.  This can be a source of frustration. Maybe this year has brought trials and tribulations. Maybe it was a great year. Or maybe you didn’t accomplish what you had thought you may by this point.

 For me, the year was one of tremendous ups and downs. I began 2018 engaged and planning my wedding. We set our wedding date for September 2- what would’ve been my parents 67^th wedding anniversary had my dad still been alive.  We spent the first four months of 2018 looking forward to a day filled with family and close friends. Our wedding day was amazing and one of the happiest days I’ve experienced in my 52 years. However,  the day also encompassed much grief and sadness-  as my husband lost three of his parents in the four months surrounding our wedding. As you would expect, I have very mixed feelings going into this holiday season as well as the new year approaching. 

As I focus on 2019 I find myself compelled to make it a spectacular year. We all make resolutions with the best of intentions- with almost child-like enthusiasm. Then undoubtedly months in (maybe even weeks) we become overwhelmed and let those goals go because they are just not sustainable for the long haul.

 One thing that remains constant for me this time of year is that my thoughts are always on family, especially my children. It is almost always a time when I reminisce about their childhood holidays and  reflect on how much they  grown and who they have become. When they were younger I diligently documented all their milestones. From the moment they were born, I tracked them monthly. I see it now on social media with young mothers I know. They post pictures of their babies at 1 mos, 2 mos, etc. When you have young children you are excited to celebrate each months development…..as it should be. But, at what point do those months turn into years? When do we stop defining our own progress in months and start focusing on years at a time? In reality, each second on the clock counts. Every day counts.  Every month counts…something I’ve been reminded of over and over in 2018.

This December 31^st I am challenging myself to keep this in mind. I will not look to the coming year as a whole, but merely the sum of many parts. I will make my resolutions one month at a time, changing them as I go. I will celebrate the smaller achievements once again-just like I did for my children and most likely as was done for me when I was young.  I will begin with January and my desire to finally schedule a honeymoon (even if just a long weekend) with my new husband. Circumstances beyond our control has prevented us from doing so as of yet. But its time…time to celebrate the milestone of our marriage.

I hope that you will follow suit. Set your sites on January. Celebrate the little things, small as they are. They are so much more valuable that way.

Happy New Year!

Sometimes Happiness Is A Lonely Place

I was recently at a work conference where I had the opportunity to listen to a motivational speaker. In his presentation, he described how he had turned his life around from a life of crime to living a life of tremendous success.  Interestingly, he explained how when he was a criminal, he was constantly surrounded by people that supported him; yet now that he was living a different life, there were not as many people that rallied around him. He felt less lonely in his times of struggle than he did when things were going well.

At that same conference, I heard a woman speak of her work with incarcerated women. When these women were asked why they behaved badly and acted out, they all seem to echo the same reason- that when they were good, no one paid attention to them.

This got me thinking.

There have been many times in my life when I went through my own personal struggles. I am fortunate that at these points in my life, I was surrounded by people who were supportive and helped me through the rough patches. These people I had considered to be my true friends... there  with me through thick and thin.

But were they? Every life has ups and downs. When looking back at the ‘ups’ of my life, there are definitely times that I’ve not seen the same people with me, applauding. I remember when I had my first magazine article published. At the time, I was a stay-at-home mom with no significant career accomplishments on the horizon. The call from the publisher left me on a complete happiness high. My bubble was quickly burst, though, when the person I thought would be the most proud of me said he was ‘embarrassed’ and refused to tell anyone about the publication. How could that be? I wonder now if he felt a little threatened or resentful of my achievement. Sadly, this can be somewhat of a pattern in life.

Fortunately, though, there have also been some consistent friends who were there for my celebrations. Like one who was a shoulder to cry on years ago when I experienced a bad breakup; yet so genuinely shared in my recent excitement and insisted on going to lunch the very next day after hearing I got engaged. These friends- the ones that are capable of sharing happiness (and not just misery) alongside of me- are the ones that I consider to be steadfast and true.

Is it possible that the old adage “Misery Loves Company” is more accurate, than not? Is it easier to be there when someone is not in a good place? Do we feel better when we are needed? Do we see another’s win as a loss for us? Do we let our own roadblocks overcome our ability to share in each other's jubilation along the way?

I think we must be willing to build one another up during times of happiness as equally as we do during times of tribulation in order to be the best friend we can be.

Instead of focusing on how someone’s else’s success is not ours, we should shift the focus on how it CAN be ours. After all, advancement into the joyous times of my life would never have been possible if not for those that were there along the way – encouraging me and lifting me up when things were difficult. In that respect, my successes are just as much theirs as mine.

Sometimes The End Is Just As Special As The Beginning

When my parents were about to celebrate their 50^th wedding anniversary, I invited my four siblings to my house for a planning session. We knew we needed to do something to mark the occasion, but we weren’t quite sure what to do. My parents were adamant that they didn’t want a big party. They just wanted us to all be together as a family. We all lived near each other and family dinners and barbeques were not uncommon, so these activities did not seem celebratory enough.

When I reflected about the importance of the anniversary, I wondered if my parents were sad at all….to have had so many years go by so quickly. A wedding day is such a happy occasion, the start of a life journey and I thought maybe they might feel as if the best years of their marriage were behind them. I ached for them. Reaching this milestone meant a long span of memories and entrance into the golden years of their lives.  My desire was to use this opportunity to bring them back to those early moments and the joy and hope they experienced at the beginning of their marriage.

We as a family, were transplants to the Albany, New York area. My parents met and married in Brooklyn and because of my father’s career they had lived across three different states during the course of their marriage.

My oldest three siblings were born in Brooklyn and often reminisced about their earlier years there. I had never really been there other than to visit my grandmother once or twice at the holidays and again for her funeral when I was in the first grade. My parents had not been back, themselves, in some time.

As we sat around my dining room table brainstorming ideas, I blurted out my thoughts. Why don’t we take them to Brooklyn, to the church that they got married in – and then out to dinner? As the words were coming out of my mouth I thought maybe it was crazy. But then a look of delight came over my older siblings faces. They, too, hadn’t seen the old neighborhood in many years. They thought it was a great idea.

After discussing the logistics, ultimately, we rented two stretch limousines to accommodate our 20 person family (my parents, their five children, spouses and grandchildren). We told my parents to be ready early one Sunday morning and we all met at their house. When the limousines arrived we explained  their agenda for the day and they were equally as excited.  We traveled the few hours to Brooklyn as a family, laughing, drinking and snacking all the way to New York City. Our first stop was to attend mass at the church they were married in.

We had notified the church ahead of time and so the priest announced my parents to the congregation. Later, privately, he spent some time with us and told my parents that the priest who married them was still alive, at a nursing home down the road and often came by the church to visit. As I sat in the beautiful surroundings of this old church, I imagined my mother walking down the long aisle a young bride at 21- eager to share the adventure of life with my father.

After we left the church, we took a tour of the old neighborhood where my brothers and sister shared what they remembered.  And, back in those days it was common for people to have an iron grate on their front doors with their last initial scrolled in it. We were stunned to see that on my parents very first home the “C” (for Centi) was still there.

We ended the day with a fantastic dinner in Little Italy then began our journey home.

I remember so much about this trip. How happy my parents were, how much fun my kids had with their cousins and laughing at the stories their aunt and uncles would tell. And to be in that church picturing my parents saying their vows and seeing their very first home as a newlywed couple was very emotional. It was a day that I will never forget. It was a day when I learned where my history began.

It was an amazing experience for everyone involved.

I thought what we had given my parents was a tremendous gift, to relive this most significant day, the moment that it all began for them. However, my father would surprise me later by saying (and maintaining until his death) that the day we celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary was the absolute BEST day of his life. Imagine that? 50 years of memories and this was the best day of his life! As I have grown older, having adult children and missing my father, I finally get it myself. My father, above all, valued most the family that he created. He said for him, to go back to the spot where it all began with my mother, his children and his grandchildren was the perfect culmination of the most important years of his life and overwhelmed him with the highest level of pride and joy.  I had originally thought that to relive his wedding memory would be what affected him the most- but, it was about his legacy. It wasn’t about the start.  All along, it was about the end.

We Can't Stop The Rain From Falling

This past May, I found myself very much looking forward to going on vacation. It had been a dark and gloomy Winter, and Spring was following the same path.

I had a bad case of cabin fever having been cooped up in the house for months. For every day of sun shine, it seemed as if there was six days of rain. The rain not only made me tired, it hampered any desires I had of partaking in the outdoor activities that I typically enjoyed.

I was certain that a few days in Mexico would cure my blahs.

So, imagine my dismay when lying at the beach on the very first day of vacation, I felt a rain drop.

As it began to steadily rain, my family and I packed up our belongings and begrudgingly headed back to our room. I was so irritated, hoping the rain would pass quickly. We decided to wait it out on the balcony of our room which overlooked the beach and the rest of the resort.

 My mood had grown as cloudy as the sky as I settled down into my chair, protected from the rain. But as I looked down over the beach I noticed something very strange. There were still people outside. People on the beach, people in the ocean and even people in the pool. They were going about their activities as if it wasn’t even raining. In fact, the rain was even coming down a little harder now, yet their fun never skipped a beat.

My initial reaction was that these people were crazy. But then it got me wondering…

Were they all just used to the tropical climate and the occasional rain that came with it? Or, did they know something I didn’t know?

I arrived at the conclusion that it was the latter.

These people were there to have fun and they were not going to let a rain shower hinder that. What a great attitude to have. As I contemplated their positive disposition, my mind began to refocus as well. I had previously judged the gray clouds to be ugly and dismal. But, now I began to see how beautiful my view was, even in the rain.

It made me question why I tend to put my life on hold just because of a little shower. After all, it’s just water and so what if I get a little wet. Rain may be a nuisance, but it’s certainly a necessity. Without rain, there would be no replenishment…no growth. Rain also purifies the air we breathe,  washing away pollutants as it falls.

I am reminded of the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow quote “Into each life some rain must fall”.

There will always be a little dreary weather in life, but we can’t let it dampen our spirits. Sometimes the rain is exactly what we need…a little annoyance that is not always a set-back, but rather a set-up for our own future advancement and growth.

It rained one more time during my vacation in Mexico, but that time I wasn't in such a hurry to seek shelter. . I stayed right where I was on the beach.…not letting a little rain spoil my day.

Put Others First And The Blessings Will Surely Follow

As with most kids, birthdays were a huge deal for mine. Both their dad and I had large extended families and so their birthdays were like their own personal holidays. I loved lavishing the attention on them and making their days special. But at the same time, I wanted them to be aware that their sibling may feel left out and they needed to be considerate of that.

From when they were very young, I started the tradition of having them buy a gift for their brother/sister when it was their own birthday. They carefully chose something special and presented it to their sibling before any festivities could start in celebration of them.

They carried this tradition through many years, even into early adulthood. I believe that instilling this awareness in them at a young age played a huge role in their relationship today. At 23 and 21, they are able to enjoy the blessings of having a sibling and continue to have great love, respect and empathy for one another.

One Christmas a few years back, I wanted to gift something small to my co-workers. It was a small office, but I still needed something that wouldn’t break the bank. I decided on some homemade treats with a $1 scratch off lottery ticket attached.  The evening of our gift exchange, I got a call from one of my co-workers. She wanted to thank me for the ticket. It seemed she herself, in the true spirit of giving, had donated money that she really couldn’t afford to donate. When she scratched off the lottery ticket, though, she won the exact amount it would take to replace the funds.

My father often told a story about his brother who suffered from alcoholism. At one point in my uncle's struggles, he was on a retreat in a convent when he went to pray. He spotted several nuns saying their daily devotions. He decided that instead of petitioning for himself that day, he would ask God that the nuns' prayers be answered. As they were all walking out of church together they struck up a conversation. My uncle told the nuns that he had been praying for them…that he petitioned for their prayers to be answered. The nuns simply smiled and said to him, “we were praying for you”. Eventually, he was able to control his alcoholism and went on to counsel others with the same disease.

My kids learned empathy for others early on, starting with their relationship with one another. They were rewarded by sharing a bond and love that has transcended into their adult years.  My co-worker extended herself to someone in need creating a deficit for herself that she wasn’t quite sure she could manage. Her return came back to her in the exact amount needed to replenish her budget.  And, in the moment my uncle shifted the focus of his prayers onto others, he unknowingly deflected that grace right back unto himself.

Put others first and the blessings will surely follow.

Sometimes On The Other Side Of Fear, You Find Joy

One of my most stifling and all-consuming fears evolved early on in my childhood, and I still remember the event that triggered it vividly. My mother had brought me to pick up my older sister from her piano lesson- and there it was. To me, the dog seemed like a giant; it was at least twice my size. As it approached us, I became frightened, and asked my mom to pick me up. As she held me in her arms, the dog jumped on my mother and tore the sleeve completely out of her coat and in the process scratched my legs drawing blood.

And that was it. From that day on, I was terrified of dogs. Terrified.

That fear became very crippling.  I would avoid walking by dogs, entering houses with dogs, and dog situations in general. Looking back now, I also instilled a little of that fear in my children by not allowing them to go near dogs, either. My son always asked for a dog. But we were of course, strictly a cat family.

Even later, well into my adult years, I found myself avoiding friends' houses if they had dogs. Sometimes I would own up to my fear and they would keep them away from me out of courtesy. If that didn’t happen, though, I would just find excuses not to visit. I wanted very much to control the fear, but any time I was near a dog, I began to feel the anxiety kicking in. And of course, dogs would sense that and always make a bee line for me…causing my stress to elevate even further.

I was forced to confront this fear recently when I entered into a relationship with a man and his dog. They came as a package. I knew if I didn’t tackle it head on it would be a relationship deal breaker. So, that’s exactly what I reluctantly did.

Little by little this dog spent more time at my house. Sometimes even alone with me as his caretaker, while my boyfriend worked. As I would feed him, walk him, and play with him, we slowly began to bond. He grew to trust me, and I began to trust him.  As it turned out, he is the most gentle, loving, loyal dog a person could ask for.

Initially my best hope was that I could simply co-exist with him, but much to my surprise, he has brought me complete joy…. a joy that I never knew existed. Now, I look forward to walking in the door to his wagging tail, miss him when he is not around, and love having the extra heartbeat in the house.

I could never picture my life without him.

I am so appreciative as to how he has enriched my life. He has made me more at ease with other dogs too, and thus, I have experienced things and can be present in places that I never would have otherwise. It has so drastically changed my perspective that he now has a new little brother who we adopted six months ago.

It is hard to believe that someone who had such an overwhelming fear is now a dog owner and dog lover…OF TWO DOGS!  And had I not faced my fears, I would’ve missed out on this amazing experience….a happiness that was missing all along.

 Now when I look back at this adventure, I can apply the outcome to other areas of my life.  And, when I am faced with something that makes me scared, I try my best to power through and remind myself…that sometimes on the other side of fear, you find joy.

You Never Know Who's Watching

During her senior year in college my daughter found herself on the painful side of a break up. They had been together for five years and it was an incredibly difficult experience for her. At 21 years old, five years is one-fourth of your life-- it's a long time to spend with one person. They were on the downward slide to college graduation and planning on attending graduate school near each other. As far as my daughter was concerned, they were going to begin their lives together.



There are ways to handle break ups with maturity, kindness, and respect. Yet unfortunately, this was not the case with the boy whom I had grown to love like a second son. He was incredibly mean and hurtful to my daughter, which was way out of the character that I knew. She was devastated and confused, to say the least, that someone she trusted could treat her in this way.



My daughter leaned on me quite a bit during this time. It was frustrating for me, since this was the first time in her life that I couldn’t fix something. However, she knew I’d been through a divorce and a recent breakup myself and would be able to share a lot of my own experiences with her. I tried to show her that in the times of my life that were difficult, I stayed strong, kept my head up and took the high road. And that ultimately, these actions, as hard as they can be, lead you to a better place.  I would be lying if I said that my strength never wavered, but for the most part, I tried to set an example for my kids. I was hoping that through my struggles they would learn how to maneuver through relationship problems of their own and know that you can come out of these troubles in a positive way- as a better person.



Through it all I was amazed at how tough and tenacious my daughter truly was -facing it on a daily basis, head-on. She, too, took the high road on many occasions when I knew that it would have been so much easier for her not to.



In his senior year of high school, my son was on the opposite side of a break up. He had spent a major part of his high school years dating her on and off- but decided to end the relationship.



Her mother came to see me shortly after the break up. She wanted to thank me. She said that my son had set the bar high for any future boys her daughter dated and went on to say that even in breaking up with her daughter, he treated her with dignity and respect and she wanted me to know how much she appreciated that. To date, my son and that girl are still friends.



These events in my children’s lives were not only learning experiences for them, but they taught me so much as well. Although it was challenging at times for me to stay strong in my own situations it was well worth the struggle because I had been an example for my kids on how to handle themselves at similar points in their lives. They both demonstrated to me that they were able to navigate these circumstances positively- and be better people for it.



I read somewhere that you should strive to handle the difficulties in life with strength and fortitude because you never know who is watching. I know now, my kids were watching.

We Are Always Exactly Where We're Meant To Be, Even If We Get There Kicking And Screaming.

My daughter has always been a great student. She was not one I had to nag about homework or ask about grades. She is very ambitious, and has a hard time accepting anything less than an “A”.

As her senior year of high school approached, I reminded her that this was about to pay off. With a 97 average, highest honors and ranking in the top 10% of her class, I told her she would write her ticket. So, imagine my disbelief when she only got into one college.

At $100 a pop, we only sent four applications. I learned later from her advisor that this may have been our biggest mistake. However, this was my first child through the process and it was never communicated to me how steep the competition truly was...until it was too late.

On several occasions through the process I suggested that she should consider applying to Siena College. We had a strong family legacy with the school. My father was one of the school’s earliest graduates (in the 40’s) and spent a good portion of his career at Siena retiring in the late 80’s. Several members of my immediate family were also graduates. Siena played a big role in my father’s life- he was very proud of the school and it had a special place in his heart. When he passed away a few months before my daughter’s graduation, she witnessed how great the Siena community was to my family. But despite my urging, she still didn’t want to apply. She was convinced it was too close to home and she wanted more independence. So, in the true ‘never a quitter’ spirit she possesses, she moved forward with her four applications.

As each rejection letter arrived my daughter became more and more distraught. It was difficult to explain to her how this could even happen. I was dumbfounded myself. On a daily basis lunch table discussions with friends and Facebook posts were a glaring reminder to her that others were having greater success than she was. I could see the disappointment growing each day. I wanted her to be enjoying the last few months of high school, but it became a stressful time. We put a deposit down on the one school that accepted her, although she was not enthused. She was not able to enjoy the experience of choosing a school, as it was her only option.  At the Freshman orientation that summer, I could see the sadness in her eyes. They separated the parents and the students and as I looked across the campus I saw that she was not engaging herself in the activities and it pained me to watch. The thought of leaving her there on move in day was breaking my heart. I couldn’t stand that she felt so defeated when she should be celebrating her accomplishments.

But again, she is not a quitter and was focused on sticking with the cards she was dealt. I knew it was a mistake, but I also knew that she had to come to her own conclusions.

One day- less than a month before she was to leave for college- she came to me and asked if she could bring her car to school. When I asked her why, she said it was because she planned on coming home as much as she possibly could. I explained to her that this was not a good sign. I told her that being away from home would be a big adjustment under normal (Freshman) circumstances and that if she already felt she couldn’t stay there she needed to give that some serious thought.

Then the next morning, I got a text.

“Do you think it’s too late for me to apply to Siena?”

I felt both relief and panic at the same time. It was late in the summer and it was possible they wouldn’t look at her application. I feared yet another bumpy road ahead and didn’t know if she could take it. Even if they accepted her application there were other hurdles; getting her transcript and other needed documents together in AUGUST, was there any aid left, would they give her an equivalent financial package at this late date?  I explained all of this to her but told her I would make the call. Ultimately, Siena did agree to look at her application and the call from the admissions counselor was just what my daughter needed to hear. “When we looked at your grades it was a no-brainer. We definitely have a spot for you in our incoming class.” The package they offered also made it possible for her to attend.

Remarkably, once she made this change everything began to fall into place for her- like it was meant to be from the beginning. There was a new enthusiasm inside my daughter and she was finally excited about the prospect of starting college.

Her four years seemed to sail by, smoothly and easily, from day one. Her experience was rich with opportunities I don’t believe she would’ve otherwise had. She had a fantastic work study job. She somehow fell into the best housing. She made amazing friends. There were no hurdles in her path and she graduated  Magna Cum Laude. A reluctant graduate I might add, because she didn’t want to leave the school she had grown to love.

We came so close to sending her to college kicking and screaming and here she was kicking and screaming to stay! 

I'm convinced from the very beginning; she was meant to be at Siena. Maybe it was what we came to call her Siena Angel (my dad- who would’ve been over the moon that she was there) but I believe it was supposed to be her college experience all along. She was so fixated on what she thought her course should be that she fought the glaring signals- in the form of struggles- along the way.

And all the while she was meant to be somewhere else.

Sometimes we are too focused on the trip when we just need to relax and let the journey unfold before us.

And, trust that we are exactly where we are meant to be – even if we get there kicking and screaming.

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Acts Of Kindness Are Never Wrong

When my first pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage, I didn’t think I’d ever recover. Signs of trouble early on resulted in an ultrasound displaying a heartbeat. This only amplified my devastation when at three months, just as I thought I was heading into the clear, I lost the baby.

It was difficult to return to work as I was surrounded by women at different stages of pregnancy. A few days later I was coming back from my lunch break when I found a card on my desk. Tucked inside was a guardian angel pin and a note from a co-worker. Barbra and I were only casual acquaintances. She worked down the hall from me and when we crossed paths, we would chat. Unbeknownst to me she had suffered the same loss I was now experiencing and wanted to offer me some encouragement.  Enclosed in the card was a guardian angel pin. “Now your little angel can be with you always”, she had written. This gesture had been a turning point in my grief and I could begin looking at things in a different way. Yes, I had lost a child. But I had made an angel; an angel that would be with me always.

My first Christmas divorced I was having a hard time motivating myself to decorate. I was not in a festive mood and the thought of sharing my kids for the holidays saddened me. I just didn’t have the energy to make the fuss, yet I knew that I should with two young children. Then a good friend called out of the blue. Having been through a divorce herself, she guessed that I would be having a difficult time. She remembered feeling overwhelmed her first Christmas alone and wanted to make things as painless for me as possible. She said that she and her boyfriend would pick the kids and me up that Friday with their truck and head to the lot. All we had to do was choose a tree and they would bring it back to our house…simple and easy. Her thoughtfulness brought a great sense of relief for me and as I decorated that tree with my kids, I thought of how miraculous her timing had been and how grateful I was.

My father’s first significant indication of dementia came suddenly one January evening. He had been irritated, argued with my mother, and stormed out of the house in a rage. It was the middle of the night, he was 87 years old, and there was a foot of snow on the ground.  By the time my mother caught up to him, he was a good distance away and walking directly in traffic on one of the busiest streets near their house. Just as she approached, my mother noticed that a young couple had pulled over. They were out of their car, one on either side of him, walking down the center of the road with my dad keeping him safe. They stayed with him until help arrived and then quickly disappeared. We never did find out who they were, but those kind souls showed up exactly when my father needed them to.

A few years ago, a friend unexpectedly lost her son.  After the funeral, I was out walking around a plaza meandering mindlessly in and out of shops. In one store, I was drawn to a huge display of rocks. Each had an inspirational word carved in it. From the pile, I pulled a rock that had the word “Strength” etched across. I immediately thought of my friend and a little voice inside urged me to buy it for her. In the moment, I felt silly, though. She had just lost her son- and this was a rock. How dumb an idea. So, I left the store. But the feeling plagued me, so much so,that I returned shortly after and purchased the rock. I sent it off to her in a little package and the day it arrived I received a text. “How could you know?” she said. “How could you know that every day I wake up, look in the mirror and tell the woman in the reflection- YOU ARE STRONG?"

I think sometimes when we want to do something for someone, we second guess ourselves. We are afraid of how our actions, even if heartfelt, may be received. We wonder if our gesture comes at the wrong time or if it may bring more pain. But whenever I hesitate, I remind myself of the many occasions when I was the beneficiary of another’s kindness at exactly the right time.  Barbra didn’t know me that well, but her small gesture helped me look at loss in a different way and begin the steps to heal. It was an assumption on my friend’s part about how I may be feeling about the holidays. That assumption was correct and led to my spirits being lifted. The couple just driving down the street had no idea who my father was, or anything about him. They just knew that in that moment he was someone who needed help and they acted.

And I could have never known that a small token I thought may be irrelevant would mean so much to a friend who was struggling to stay tough in the face of grief.

Whenever we choose to act in kindness, it is never the wrong thing to do.

What I Learned From Writing My Father's Obituary

A decade or so ago, on a beautiful summer day, my parents arrived for one of their regular visits with my kids. My father handed me a thick, sealed manila envelope labeled ‘obituary’.  With a puzzled look on my face, I turned to him for explanation. He told me that as the other passionate writer in the family, he wanted me to have this information so that I could draft his obituary when the time came. At that moment, my father stood in front of me in good health and his mortality was not something I was prepared to consider - so I took the envelope, placed it in a safe place and we went on about our visit.

On a cold February night a few years back, it was time for me to woefully retrieve that envelope. I was overwhelmed with the task at hand. I had read hundreds of obituaries in my lifetime and was certainly capable of writing one. Surely I could tackle his. In my state of grief, I would never have imagined that writing my father’s obituary would become a teaching moment for me.

Overcome with the emotion of having just lost my dad, I felt such appreciation for having this information compactly at hand, information that I otherwise would never have remembered in my state of sadness. As I went through the pages, it became increasingly important for me to create a tribute to my father that would communicate what kind of man he was and what was important to him throughout his life. The things he was most proud of; his family, his career, his education, his service to his country. It was too much information to include and had to be condensed as much as possible. In the end, it became I think, a fantastic narrative of his life.

I am the youngest of five children. One of us was always up to antics and so it was not uncommon for my parents to jokingly (and maybe sometimes seriously) pose the question ‘how is our obituary going to read?’ If a situation arose that may embarrass them, we would laugh and make light. But reading through the final copy of my father’s tribute, I finally understood what that question truly meant to them.

When was the last time you read an obituary that describes the deceased’s jewelry collection or what vehicle was parked in their garage?  Obituaries don’t talk about square footage of homes or labels on clothes. They don’t mention balances left in bank accounts or the change left in someone’s pocket. What they do voice is the legacy a person left behind in family, in work and in faith. My father lived an amazing life. At 87, he left behind a devoted wife of 59 years, five children and ten grandchildren. He had an extensive education that he had credited to serving his country and the GI bill. He built an amazing career that encompassed a lifetime of helping others. These are the things that a memorable life is built on….the things that obituaries are made of.

I once knew someone who measured self-worth with material items. I often teased him that when he was one day in a nursing home, he'd be lucky if they park his sports car outside the window where he could see or if they'd  place that expensive watch around his wrist.  To be clear, I am not against the finer things in life and certainly appreciate that some people work very hard to achieve and deserve them. But in truth, none of that compares to having someone who loves you hold your hand as you take your final breath. My father passed with loving family by his side, holding his hand.

It took writing my father’s obituary to consider what my own obituary will one day say. The question has challenged me to make important changes in my life and every time I am not sure which direction to go, I ask myself “how will my obituary read?”

What will yours say?

The $20 Bill

I placed the $20 bill on my lap as I sat in my car waiting for my friend to arrive. I was taking some things out of my purse and placing them directly in my pocket for quicker access.

I completely forgot that the money was there as I opened the door and stepped outside into a gust of wind. As soon as my foot hit the ground, I realized that the bill was missing. A quick glance around my car revealed that it was long gone… already blowing through the parking lot to land where it would later be found. The event was at a college campus, and the constant buzz of activity ensured that my $20 bill would eventually be in someone else’s pocket.

Normally, my reaction would not be good. I, like most people, am on a budget and something like this would’ve naturally caused me to obsess ALL DAY about what the money could’ve done (buy gas or groceries, etc). But lately, I am trying not to sweat the small stuff.

I have been reading the book “You are a Badass” by Jen Sincero  (a great read BTW) and a passage that stuck with me was about just this; that when we happen across life’s little annoyances, we should try and put a positive spin on them. The author suggests taking the situation and completing the phrase “It’s a good thing this happened because if it didn’t then…….”. Putting this positive spin on the issue almost always changes your mentality. As I felt myself starting to obsess and stress, I tried to apply this approach.

Flash back to my high school years. I was 15 years old and not yet able to work other than earning a few bucks here or there babysitting. Baggy jeans were the fashion (yes- I’m an 80’s girl!),  but at the $20 price tag buying them was not within my reach. I tried on the perfect pair- they would complete my outfit for an upcoming dance that I so badly wanted to look amazing for. Confidence is not an easy thing to find at 15, and these pants would do the trick.

I left the store defeated and bummed.

The very next day, as I am walking down the street, I spot it: a folded up bill lying on the sidewalk. As I pick it up and take a closer look I am astonished to see that it is a $20 bill. What luck!! Could this really be happening to me?? At 15, the whole world seems to work against you…so I was stunned at this good fortune. I was ecstatic and immediately returned to the store for the baggy pants and wore them proudly to the dance. In fact, every time I wore those jeans I felt special because of the circumstances that they came to be. But someone HAD to have lost that money- and in the 80’s, $20 was not small change.

There is something about finding money. It makes you feel lucky, even if it's loose change. When my father would take his grandchildren on walks, the kids would be so excited to find various coins along the way. They thought that their grandfather was their good luck charm and always looked forward to those walks. It was years before they realized that he dropped those coins as they strolled, when they weren't looking- to add a little ‘special’ to their day.

Flash forward again…I am standing in the parking lot of the event remembering how wonderfully awesome it felt to find that money. I am thinking about my father, too, and how he made his grandkids feel lucky and suddenly my positive spin comes to me. “It’s a good thing I  lost that $20 bill because if I didn't, I wouldn't have made someone’s day a little more special."

Maybe that someone needed a little luck.....

For the rest of the day I was smiling.

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 [

My Father's Flaw

He was always a very ethical person, my father. He was the type of person to drive back to the grocery store if he realized the cashier had shorted herself. He had high standards for himself and others. He was honest, straightforward and a very moral person. I had always put him on a pedestal in that regard. In my adult years I knew someone who did not have the perfect father growing up. My friend had great acceptance of that and told me that he had come to realize that parents are humans too. They are flawed not perfect. They come through life with baggage and issues just like everyone else and that this was what shaped who they were. I hadn’t given this much thought until my father’s health, at age 87, was beginning to fail.

The last few months were difficult ones. My father suffered with some sort of dementia thought to be vascular. His body was simply beginning to break down. It was painful to see. Up until that point he had been in exemplary health, and, anyone who experiences the dementia of someone close to them knows it’s agonizing to watch. With each declining degree, the person you know and love slips further and further away. I have four siblings. We read all we could about dementia and tried all of the suggestions to delay the progression….puzzles, labeled photo albums, notebooks, routine…everything. It was one Saturday of routine that brought me back to what my friend had taught me.

My son and I offered to go for a walk with my father. He was having a particularly good day and walks around the neighborhood were always something he enjoyed. We spent a lot of time talking. One place that my father always went to in his dementia was his time in World War II. He was in the army stationed in France. It was frightening at times and I often wondered if they were real memories or fantasy. This day, though, it was not frightening at all. On this Saturday walk, he talked with my son and me about being in France sharing many interesting stories with us.  When we arrived back home he took us to his study and to a big white binder on his desk. Inside the binder was page after page, yellowed with age- some handwritten some typed; poems. He just began reading from the pages.

My father had a knack for words, both verbal and written. One of the things that has been most missed since he passed are the birthday cards with the lengthy personalized narratives about how special we were. No one, from kids to grandkids threw them away. And it has been said by many that when we lost my Dad, we lost the family event speech giver. So when he began reading from these pages I was not necessarily surprised by what he wrote but I was certainly impressed about the depth and beauty that emerged from the pages. There, in this three- ring binder, were poem after poem written about Jacqueline, my father’s fiancée during the war. He had met her when he was stationed in France. She was from a little town called Epernay. My father was young when he was enlisted in the Army. He was sent overseas to France. While stationed there he met Jacqueline, a young translator for the French Army. Her family, like she, was warm and welcoming and took great care of him while he was there. He was lonely and homesick and they took him in. He fell in love and soon Jacqueline became his fiancée. He became great friends with her brother and her parents were elated at her marrying and returning to the states with my father. She was smart and educated and they felt the states would offer her much promise. She corresponded with his mother and got to know his family via cross continental letters. They planned that once the war had ended, they would come back to the states and start a family…and live happily ever after.

The war eventually did end and when it ended, so did their relationship. It was time for my father to return home. In preparing for this he came to the realization that even though he loved Jacqueline, he was not in love with her. He didn’t know how to tell her, so he did the unforgivable. He left France without saying goodbye. No explanation. No ending for her. He just left. He had kept in touch for a while with her brother who told him that Jacqueline had a bit of a breakdown after he left. She apparently, her brother reported, sank in to a depression. Growing up we all knew about Jacqueline. She profoundly affected most of his life after the war.  The mere mention of her name would always send him to a place of sadness and regret. It was obvious that he struggled with it even all those years later.

My father never forgave himself for the pain he caused her. For years, he would become visibly upset by the mention of her name. He imagined her devastated, broken and feeling unloved. He could not release himself from the guilt. I believe in many ways this molded who and what my father became. My father went on to have a successful career as a psychologist and helped many people get through dark times in their lives yet he could not forgive himself of the one dark time he created. He owned this as a great character flaw in himself and not the mistake of youth that it truly was. As he read these poems out loud I was awestruck at the love and sincerity that poured from the words. They were truly like something out of a romance novel; something I had never experienced with anyone myself. From the words that were etched on this paper it was clear that he was truly in love with Jacqueline. As he continued to read I wondered how this had all shaped his life, if this was what propelled him into his chosen career and devotion to consoling others.  I also wondered if she had truly known how deeply he cared for her, if she had in fact seen these poems and known that it was the sincerest form of young love. I felt sad to think that if she hadn’t heard these words she may have somehow thought their relationship was all a lie and spent needless time doubting her self-worth. We have all been there at some point in our lives, whether we are having our heart broken or being the one to break a heart.

In these words I found my father was not perfect. He was a beautiful person but flawed. He had hurt someone, someone he cared deeply about and he had carried that burden for most of his life. Things happen for a reason, though. He eventually met my mother and had the family he was meant to have. They would have been married 60 years a few months after his passing. I say that he carried that burden for the greater part of his life because in the 1990’s- some 45 years after my father had left Jacqueline behind he and my mother took a trip to France. They returned to that little place called Epernay and knocked on the door of what was Jacqueline’s family home. Her father who still lived there immediately recognized my father and opened his home to my parents. It was then much to my father’s relief he discovered that Jacqueline, too, had after all led a wonderful life. She was happily married with children. Her life did not end when he left. It had all worked out for her as it was meant to be. After 45 years my father finally received the closure he needed and was able to finally forgive himself for that mistake of youth so long ago.

Dementia patients often have flashbacks to significant times in their life. It isn’t the present they live in, but mostly the past. It is no surprise to me that at the end of his life my father spent a lot of time with the war and with Jacqueline. I pray, though, that my father’s death isn’t the end of this story. I am haunted by the thought that if someone had written such beautiful prose about me, I would want to know, to touch the pages. Especially if it was someone that I believed had never cared about me, unrequited love. I can’t be sure if Jacqueline is still alive but I am hopeful at least that her children and grandchildren are. If someone wrote those things about my mother, I would be elated to have them and awestruck to view my mother through a lover’s eyes. I hope that one day  through technology and God’s intervention I will somehow have the opportunity to place those beautiful words about Jacqueline in her family’s hands. Maybe somewhere, somehow they need that perspective on who their mother was and what baggage she carried through life.