An Old Saw

by Gail Balentine

I really, really want to eat M&Ms right now, a bagful.

It’s hard, trying to cope with some not-so-good-news. Actually, some bad news.

What to do?

M&Ms would taste good right now.

If I repeat the news over and over, will it make it less scary? Hasn’t worked so far.

M&Ms are my friends.

That old saw ‘Every cloud has a silver lining’, is it true?

If so, what’s the good thing here? How do I even find it?

What if I try asking: what good, no matter how small, comes out of this?

Actually, M&Ms are not really my friends. Yes, of course they taste wonderful, but then they stay firmly attached to my waistline – forever.

Yes, there is something small that’s good – I now know what was not seen before.

So, if I had not received this ‘bad news’, then I never would have noticed this ‘good thing’ about the situation. Right? Yes, that’s true.

Maybe the good doesn’t outweigh the bad, but thinking about everything from a different perspective brings up new options. Always good to have options.

M&Ms are great, but better eaten when a few are delightful and can be savored, then when I gulp them down in a frenzy.

Funny how those old sayings, often taken for granted, really were born of experience and hard-won wisdom.

Think I’ll save the M&Ms, mix in a few with nuts and raisins, and have them for a snack later - after I choose an option and follow through on it.

*****

My Italian Uncle

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

           I’ll always remember my “Uncle” Ernest.  He’s really my father’s cousin who came from impoverished Italy after WW II to work in our bountiful land.  He lived with my family sporadically for eight years.  I was only five but I can still picture him coming home afternoons with a bag full of fruit, different each time, depending on the season. I would climb onto his lap and with glee, dig my fist into the bag to see if there were bright tangerines, sweet strawberries, firm green grapes  or that bewitching pomegranate which we called an Indian Apple with its maze of cherry red seeds.   As I ate my fruit, I listened, wide-eyed, to stories of his farm in the Taro valley of Emilia-Romagna, with its views of the Apennine Mountains or to humorous anecdotes of the miller’s daughter, my mother, Laura.

           

         I was very proud of my Zio, which is Italian for uncle.  He was tall and stalwart with thick brown hair, tender brown eyes, an aquiline nose and a mouth on which a smile ever played. Zio was always very well dressed. He never scolded me and I always knew in my heart how much he loved me.

      

         I remember the many excursions we took. On a sunny spring Sunday, he would bring me to the Boston Common where the full-bloomed tulips transformed the gardens into a picture print of Holland. The thrill of riding beside him on the fairyland Swan Boats under the romantic bridges, around the miniature island, feeding the scrawny  ducks and scaring off the fat-bellied pigeons is revived when I walk through now.  In autumn, we would visit the Franklin Park Zoo and spend a delightful time shuffling through crackling leaves from one mysterious cage to another, with one of my hands clutching his and the other balancing peanuts, ice cream or Cracker Jacks. Finally, we would reach the monkey cage where Zio would pick me up and raise me higher than anyone so I could easily watch their antics.

        

       Whenever we have minestrone soup, the homemade aroma brings back his memory for it was a standard ritual for he and my mother to fuss over the thickness of the broth.

        

       Whenever I see a man flinch and squirm from being tickled, I think of him and how I wouldstealthily steal in back of him, then quickly run my small fingers up his side and escape, helter-skelter so he couldn’t catch me, but he invariably did and I would roll with gales of laughter and scream many “I give ups”.

           

       The years passed quickly for my beloved Zio and the sad words my mother told me about his need to return to his family caused me much heartbreak. I recall not believing her and trying to convince myself that he would never go. One of the saddest times in my life was the night he left South Station for New York, there to board the ship. The memory is so lucid, it seems as if I just returned from the crowded, noisy station with milling people, pushing porters and steaming trains. Zio said his good-byes to friends and then to my family. Lastly, he took me, sobbing from my father’s arms. I tried, incoherently, to make him promise to return one day. Not until the train started chugging did he painfully say he would. He knew then that he would not, but I lived on that kind answer for many years.

         

      Now, it would be up to me to visit him as he was getting old and could not return. Every time he wrote, my mother  would read his letters to me and I would go back to the days which my Zio made into a treasury of memories. Sadly, I was not able to visit him before he died but the joy he brought me lives on.

I wrote this story in 1959. Fifty-seven years later, the memory of my Zio still abides with me.

Charter Schools vs Public Schools

by Charlotte Savage

“Please hurry Mom; we want to get to school early.” These were the pleas I heard from my two grandsons when visiting their home in the 1990’s.   

My younger grandson attended an elementary charter School and the elder was enrolled in a charter high school.   The schools were half an hour from each other and equal distance from their home. I was extremely proud of their parents for making the commitment to drive their children to schools in the opposite direction from where they worked.  The parents also made the commitment to be active in the committees overseeing these schools.

It was the same for my friend’s granddaughter. The child did poorly in public school but excelled in a charter school.  

Prior to my elder grandson entering a charter high school his parents literally pulled him out of bed each morning and forced him to go to school. However, once enrolled in the charter school, he was awake and ready to leave for school without a wake-up call. His charter high school years were happy ones and made a big difference in his demeanor both in and out of school. 

My younger grandson, enrolled in an elementary charter school, was just as enthusiastic about his classes. Invited to attend my grandson’s recital, I arrived promptly at noon. At first I drove past the building.  It had torn window shades and looked in disrepair.  The interior of the school was even more shocking; it was literally falling apart. This charter school occupied an old elementary school the city deemed beyond refurbishing. Instead the city had built a new elementary school elsewhere. 

 In spite of the condition of this school, I observed happy, smiling, enthusiastic children who appeared to enjoy every moment of the time they spent there.

After visits to these charter schools, I questioned my son about the teaching differences between public school and charter schools. “What makes a charter school so special?” 

My son explained that the rules for public schools are dictated by each state. The schools have to follow a particular curriculum, which is sometimes modified by the local School Committee. While these public schools have advanced placement classes for the very bright student, those children that march to a different drummer are easily left behind-- even though their IQ might be on a similar or higher level than the advanced children in public schools.

I also learned that a charter school focuses on a particular forum such as music, technology, trade skills, etc. Each charter school is very different from the other and if the student is fortunate to find a school that specializes in his/her interests, it becomes a perfect match. 

After observing children of different ages participating in these schools, I saw that charter schools give their instructors free reign to challenge their students to excel in all subjects-- not just the subject that the student has a sincere interest in. It is a far superior method of teaching children. I am bewildered as to why state reps and school committees are not working diligently to change the way they operate the present public school system. We would not be voting on a referendum on charter schools if the school committees were doing their job and hiring principals from charter schools to assist them in revamping our present public school system.    

Unfortunately, it appears that bureaucracy is the culprit.    We probably wouldn’t have a need for charter schools if public schools were more progressive.   It seems the duplication of education is the fault of people who are managing the money of public schools; it is not the fault of the charter schools.  Until the red tape is resolved there is definitely a need for charter schools.  The first charter school to open in the United States was in 1992.  You would think in the twenty-four years that charter schools have been successful that school committees and teacher’s unions would have had their wake up call. It isn’t fancier schools children desire, but innovative teachers who are given the freedom to make learning so much fun.    I will vote for more charter schools in November because I found it amazing that my grandchildren woke their parents up, urging them to leave for school early, so that not one moment of their school day was wasted. 

© 2016 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved

Frances

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     It was an unseasonably warm October day and I delighted in the incongruence of falling leaves and flip flops as I ran my errands, while keeping track of the time to beat the school bus. I made it home with time to spare and pulled up in front of the garage to unload my groceries. As I juggled the bags and reached for the door, I saw a man’s head pass by the window. At least I thought it was a man’s head. I dropped my bags and stood back, unsure if I had actually seen something and if I should call the police. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse but instead of dialing I reached for the door. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light and then peered inside. Towards the back of the garage was a sturdy figure, at least six feet tall. My heart raced as I stepped through the doorway and I soon realized the tall figure was a woman! She was wearing elastic waist jeans and a flowered sweatshirt with a polo shirt underneath. Her hair was cropped short, the color of dishwater with grey strands interspersed.  She was mumbling while rocking back and forth in sneakers.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

     She looked at me in confusion and said “It’s not here.” I immediately recognized that confused blank stare. My mother had passed away the previous year from Alzheimer’s and I had been her primary caregiver for five years.

“What is your name?’

“Fran.”

“What is your last name?”

“Fran—Cess.”

“Where do you live Frances?”

    Her silence told me that my question was futile and I studied her face. Sweat was pouring from her forehead and dripping into her eyes and I wondered how far she had walked and how long she had been standing in my garage. I silently chastised the person who not only let her wander off but also dressed her in far too many layers for such a warm day. I told her to stay put and quickly went into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and some paper towels, and then went back into the garage.

‘How about we step outside and sit on the porch in the shade?”

     I took her hand in mine, marveling at its size while studying the bright shade of pink polish on her nails. I guided her out the door and coaxed her into sitting on my front steps. After blotting her face with the paper towels, I handed her the water, relieved that she knew what to do with it. Then I called 911.

“Hello 911.”

“Hi, I have a woman that wandered into my garage with dementia. She says her name is Frances but she can’t tell me her last…”

     The operator interrupted, confirmed my address and told me an officer would be there in less than five minutes. Apparently, there was a search party for Frances. I asked Frances if she was feeling better. The water was half gone and her cheeks were less flushed. The cruiser pulled into the driveway seconds later, and the officer jumped out.

“Her husband is frantic.” He said.

     I asked him where she lived and was comforted to know it was less than a ten-minute walk away. The officer approached Frances and she recoiled in fear, another emotion I had dealt with in the past.

“Frances, would you like to go home to see your family?” I soothed. 

She did not answer but I could tell she was considering what I was saying.

“This nice man will give you a ride home.”

     I held out my hand and she took it, pushing herself up from the porch step and following me to the cruiser while the officer held open the back door. I helped her into the seat, and handed her the water bottle.

“It was nice meeting you Frances.”

     The officer jumped in the driver’s seat and they were both off without a goodbye.

     Later when I told family and friends my story, they all chastised me for opening that garage door and not dialing 911. I don’t know what made me open that door, but I know that I was never afraid. Immediately after Frances left my driveway I felt my mother’s presence. I knew she had guided Frances to my garage knowing that she would be taken care of, while simultaneously saying hello and thank you to me.

Gratitude

by Gail Balentine

With all the negative attitudes and events that we encounter on a daily basis these days, I am grateful for a very positive encounter that happened recently.

            Years ago, when I was managing a surgical nursing unit, a young, bright, eager-to-learn nurse worked for me for about nine months. She was like a human sponge, absorbing all she could, and then asking challenging questions that I tried to answer, with varying levels of success. Throughout my career, I was fortunate to be in positions where helping new nurses learn was part of my job and, with Carol, it was easier than most. There was no question in my mind that she had a great nursing career ahead of her and I enjoyed my time working with her. Our career paths went in different directions, but a gift she gave me when I stopped being her manager sits on my bureau and so I have thought of her over the years, even into my retirement.

            Recently, I stayed with a relative in the pre-surgical area of a local hospital, not the one where I used to work. It was a busy place with all beds filled but the staff were friendly and efficient, explaining everything before they did it. Each member of the surgical team came in, introduced themselves, and asked the many questions necessary before any procedure. I found the changes in how surgical preparations are now done fascinating and tried to absorb everything.

One nurse (women in surgical scrubs and caps really do look different than when they are dressed in out-of-work clothes or even uniforms) recognized the last name on the chart, looked up from where she had been reading, saw me and smiled. I knew that face. She came closer and barely said her first name before I knew exactly who she was. I could feel my own grin spread on my face. I had been right about her future - not only had Carol gone on to gain further experience in larger hospitals, but she had taken the added training required to become a Nurse Anesthetist.  And, best of all for us, she would be in the operating room with my relative! I felt relief gently wash over me like a warm shower. For days I had been listing in my mind the reasons – all valid - to believe that everything would go well, but once I saw her, I knew it would.

            I doubt that Carol realizes the difference her presence made, but I do. I doubt many of us realize the impact we have on others, and they on us, but in today’s world I think that taking the time to appreciate the positive influences or occurrences in our lives is especially important. I thanked her for her generous gift – peace of mind.

                                                                

  ******

Autumn Haiku


1.
The wind whinnies, raw.
Dry leaves curl on brown limbs
That reach toward the house.


2.
It is October:
The ocean changes from blue
To steel-grey and cold.


3.
The roses struggle
Their last chance to bloom and shine
Plum, pink, velvet red.


(Ciampa, Liz.  Good for Everyday Use.  Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2012. p. 21. Print.)

Mailbox

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

       
   She stood at the mailbox, staring at the letter addressed to her as if it came from outer space. She saw it was not presort bulk mail and there was no return address.  Walking back to the house that she bought a few years ago, she felt the finish of the envelope.  It was mid-weight, more ivory than white in color, and she supposed it was a bit pricier than common stationery.

              Her life now was her own – simple and frugal – and if asked, she might admit she was lonely at times, but it was her choice.  There were moments she missed: her years as daughter, wife, mother,

friend.  So many of her family and friends were gone now – moved afar, died, relationships finished.  No one had contacted her since she moved.  She was content to be free of obligations.

              This letter was vexing and intriguing at the same time. Should she open it or just toss it away?   It didn’t appear to be a legal document as it was not typed but precisely handwritten in ink, but she did not recognize the script. She wondered if the postmark would provide a clue.  Entering her house, she turned on a bright lamp and donned her readers to discern the date and originating post office location.  Foiled by a blurred postmark, she threw it on the counter. She decided to leave it overnight and make her decision in the morning.