Saying Goodbye

by Terri Mcfadden

It’s safe to say that goodbye can be the hardest of all words to voice. The worst, of course, is when we are forced by death to say it. Almost as hard is when we say farewell to a dream.

Our dream, that of my husband and myself, started in 1990 when we took our four children on a trip to the mountains in western North Carolina. We fell in love with those mountains and there and then decided we wanted to live there some day. Quite unlike our usual deliberation, thinking about pros and cons, what goals and plans we had both for short and long-term, we contacted a real estate agent that very day. The next morning, we set out to look at property, He showed us three parcels. The drive to that third piece took us up a steep and windy gravel road; I thought we’d never get to the top. When we made it to 4400 feet, where the land lay, the views were so spectacular that we could only gasp.

That moment we fell in love with our own little piece of the Great Smokies. Years passed, the children grew up and left home. Now it was our time to plan our new retirement home. To take advantage of the views of the mountains we built a house with floor to ceiling windows – the ceiling soaring to 25 feet. When we moved in, late in 2001, the house wasn’t even completed, the builder deciding he had other projects he’d rather be working on. It became a labor of love for us to finish the house. With some help, we added an Irish pub in the basement, granite facing to the fireplace, built a stone wall and spent many hours landscaping our six acres. We scoured antique stores for the perfect furniture and decorative items. Our niece painted two huge paintings especially for the niche above the fireplace. Bit by bit the house came together. I even enjoyed house cleaning, it was so beautiful.

New friends and old came for parties. We hosted a family reunion for my extended family, enjoyed learning about Germany from exchange students who stayed with us. Sharing the house and our little corner of the mountains was one of the great pleasures of those days. While on our own we enjoyed ourselves, playing games at the table overlooking Mount Pisgah, and nightly pulling out banjo and guitar to take advantage of the Great Room acoustics. Our voices have never sounded so good again!

Times however have a way of changing. The home that we thought we’d live in for the rest of our lives began to seem a burden. Our first granddaughter was born and we were so remote from her little life and that of the rest of our family. We rented a small apartment in Beverly, and for a while the mountain house remained our main residence. But the 1000-mile journey three or four times a year became challenging. We started using the house for vacations only, but discovered it impossible to maintain a house in the country without living there. Finally, we were left with no true options. It was time to say goodbye. We sold the house in 2014. Most the furnishings were sold as well, with just a few items coming back to Beverly with us. I remember standing on the deck outside our bedroom, watching sadly as the movers loaded the elegant cherry table that had seen so many wonderful meals, knowing it was time to say goodbye. It was time to move on.

St. Patrick's Day

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

I grew up in South Boston and experienced many years of historical commemorations of Evacuation Day and St. Patrick’s Day. The day was a bright spot in the winter/early spring calendar bringing a holiday between Valentine’s Day and Easter, usually smack dab in the middle of the Lenten Season( on which day the lenten fast was lifted for resident Catholics).

Families prepared foods and beverages for their own and visiting relatives and friends. Crowds flocked the streets early to “reserve” choice spots to view the enormous parade.  Armed forces units and bands marched proudly along with police walking or mounted on their handsome steeds, firefighters on their gleaming red trucks, sirens blaring loudly. Schools, colleges, church and fraternal organizations had pride of place with their bands along with noted bands hired to perform. 

The “pols” were there, strutting down the streets with all the swagger they could muster, waving and running to the crowded sides to shake hands with their many supporters. For many people my age, the sight of John W. McCormack, Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives and John F. Kennedy as a young Representative and Senator was a highlight.The big political breakfast held each March 17th morning was broadcast on the radio and TV. The banter, jokes and ad libs were appreciated by most, but not all listeners.

My mother loved the day as a chance to open our house to visitors who could enjoy a special lunch and for dessert, her famous fruit tort, homemade brownies and Italian cookies or Irish bread from the local bakery.  Hot coffee, tea and hot chocolate as well as stronger spirits for the adults, plus a respite for many from the cold, snow or rain as often happened in mid March. 

Married and living in Beverly never prevented me and my family from heading back to “Southie” each year for the parade. One year in particular was special. Pregnant with my third child, I had prepared to go with my husband and two daughters. I never made it as I began to have intense labor pains and was taken to Salem Hospital. My husband returned to pick up the girls, five and seven, at our neighbor’s, and brought them to my Mom’s to watch the parade. My husband called the hospital at intervals to check on my progress until he left to bring the girls and Nana back to Beverly. A quick stop in Salem pleased my Mom - she was on tenterhooks and urged him to run in and see how I was doing.  A huge surprise for all - I had just delivered a boy. A memorable St. Patrick’s Day, but the parade had been postponed to March 19th due to inclement weather so it was March 19th - the feast day of St. Joseph!   We were happy with the fact that all went well and he was healthy! 

Celebrations continued in Beverly for there was a large circle of Irish American friends and neighbors who celebrated March 17th at wonderful dances sponsored by St. Margaret Parish and Hastings House (Community Center) in Beverly Farms.  Terrific Irish bands from Dorchester were hired and all enjoyed a lively, fun evening of Irish songs and dancing. We seemed to know the words to many classic Irish songs (at least I did, learning them in Southie) and were eager to learn more and to watch the set dances which were a performance unto themselves. Irish breads and many, like cakes, were set out, baked by the ladies from the “Counties across the sea”, so proudly offered, so unbelievably delicious. (I have a few treasured recipes which I do make). The Commodore Restaurant was the place to go for the  traditional corned beef and cabbage lunch and maybe to stay until evening for the non-stop Irish music. Many a Happy St. Patrick’s Day there!

The best of South Boston or Beverly was the camaraderie of all - no barriers existed. We were all striving to be good citizens, raise our families well and contribute our best in all we did.  We knew we were blessed to live in the greatest country in the world, the United States of America. Our commonality was and still is triumphant in this regard. So as it happened in South Boston or Beverly - on Saint Patrick’s Day, everyone was a wee bit Irish!

Image courtesy of www.ForestWander.com

March

by Beth Alexander Walsh

March is desolation,

And yet it is growth.

A lion? A lamb?

Perhaps it is both!

Today we wear boots and

Button coats to the top.

Tomorrow comes t-shirts,

No socks and flip flops.

We celebrate St Patrick

And soon after Easter,

But first we endure

Another nor’easter.

And so here we are

At a time in between

Of hills white with snow

That soon will be green.

Thirty-one days till

Winter becomes Spring,

So happy to see what

Warmer weather will bring.

A Winter's Wonderland

by Charlotte Savage

Gray skies, snow drifting slowly down in large flakes;
The first winter’s storm covers shriveling leaves of autumn.
Dry fall flowers in urns beside porch steps,
Now fluffy white balls, like cotton candy.

Snow blankets shrubs and ground.
Bare branches once laden with burgundy leaves,

Now covered with whiskers snow white.
A telephone call; my plowman is ill.

I dress in warm clothing.
My shovel awaits me; I clear a path.
It is a virgin snow, not one animal track;

Not even from the chickadees that nest in my neighbor’s hedges.

The snow, soft and light, moves easily before me,
I push the wide blade forward working steadily.
Peeling off my hat, I unzip my jacket;
Body warmth escapes as I clear the snow.

The sky lightens; will the sun make an appearance?
Moments later the sky darkens and the wind picks up.
I replace my hat, tighten my scarf and zip my jacket;
Before cleaning a path for the mailman.

Suddenly, a stinging rain rips across my face,
Both hat and coat is wet and freezing.
Hurriedly, I seek the warmth of home,
And a cup of tea to warm the chill in my bones.

The whistle of the kettle tears me away from my window;
Icy wind whips freezing rain against the glass.
Horns honking, drivers impatient to reach home,
Automobiles moving at a snail’s pace.

 
My tea poured, I inhale the aroma of jasmine.
Slowly sipping it, I again return to the window-- it is snowing again.
The wind howls, the snow deepens, visibility is a white-out;
No longer can I see the traffic lights at the corner.

I hear thunder such as one hears in a summer’s rain storm;

A flash, could it be lightning?
No cars are on the road-- there is eerie silence;
Except for an occasional plow.

Finally the snow ends;

I will put off shoveling until tomorrow.

Later, I remember the mid- afternoon rain,

It will freeze by morning.

The storm door is held fast by a snow drift.

Inch by inch I push the door free and shovel a narrow path;

The snow is heavy, I can go no further.

My cell phone rings; hurray! my plowman is sending a friend.

At sundown, I once more look out my window.

My neighbor’s snow covered roof is silhouetted against a fiery pink and yellow sky.

A wintery sky so different from anything seen before.
Like an embellished picture postcard. 

I reach for my ever ready camera to capture for posterity—

This magnificent Winter Wonderland.

©2018 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved

Landmark Housing: A Personal Tale

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

My father and mother emigrated from Parma, Italy in 1923 and 1929. Their first home was a third-floor, cold-water flat with a shared bathroom in a cold hallway on Stillman Street in the North End. Looking at photos taken on the roof, I see lovely al fresco dining and socializing spot with a great view (despite the hanging laundry) of Boston and the surrounding rooftops. Clearly the market value of a rehabbed penthouse condo in the North End is sky-high and the cost, exorbitant!

Due to my older brothers’ continuing respiratory and ear infections, the family doctor advised my parents to move. In 1938, they left friends who were like family - many from the same province in Italy –and moved to the newly built Old Harbor Village project in South Boston. My parents were doubly fortunate: first to be accepted into this landmark housing development, and second, to score a single-family row house, complete with the three floors, four rooms, a bathroom, a basement, a small garden in front with many trees, a quick walk to Columbia Park and –joy of joys—Carson Beach. As I was the youngest child, this was my first home. We children grew up surrounded by good neighbors of all nationalities, sharing old-world cultures and values, and forming new, lifelong friendships.

Summers meant days at the Carson and L Street Beaches. My mother trekked across Columbia Park to bring us lunch in her wooden picnic basket, filled with freshly steamed hot dogs in warm rolls, ice-cold drinks and yummy treats baked that morning. Papa ate only day-old, crusty Italian bread with coppa or salami- no “uncooked white bread” of frankfurters for him.

Winter brought ice skating on the frozen, flooded park, sledding on any available hill – too often a street—and listening to records on the Victrola in our toasty basement. Spring and fall were outdoor play times: we dabble in hopscotch, tag, double-dutch jump rope, releevio, hide and seek, especially at the statues in Sterling Square, and all types of ball games.

Living in South Boston made it possible for my father to walk to Andrew Square and travel by the Massachusetts Transit Authority to work. Papa was a salad chef at Warmuth’s Restaurant, known for its Boston scrod, B-Deck salad bowl, and scrumptious prune muffins. My parents never owned nor learned to drive a car. This necessitated living close to public transportation, so when we moved next, it was to another South Boston location close to St. Augustine Church. My parents purchased the former home of family friends who had “moved up”—and out—to Arlington, Massachusetts. Now my parents became homeowners of a rambling, old, three-decker row house, larger by far than our previous home, and with a bigger backyard that we shared with close family friends to whom our house and lives were attached.

Our lives were changing: my older brothers finished high school and went on to apprenticeships and college. I continued to commute to Girls’ Latin School in the Fenway, then to Codman Square in Dorchester for seventh through twelfth grade, and then to Boston College School of Nursing at Newbury Street and in Chestnut Hill.

Surely, this last home commands another sky-high price in today’s gentrified South Boston. However, by young adulthood, we have moved on, leaving behind three family dwellings, all with unique histories, and bringing with us many sweet and priceless memories.

                                                                       

Landmark Housing: A Personal Tale was first published on The Raconteuse Expose on August 2, 2013.

February Love

by Beth Alexander Walsh

February may bring a few snow storms but it is also the month of red paper hearts, roses, chocolates and a windfall for greeting card companies, all in an effort to express love! I have been lucky enough to be the recipient of all of these for many years. My kids have given homemade cards and gifts and my husband usually brings me pink roses (my favorite) and in return he would receive something from me to satisfy his sweet tooth. When my oldest daughter started learning to read, I instituted a poetic treasure hunt with each poem revealing a clue until their valentine gift bags were found. My kids looked forward to that every year until my youngest started middle school. Today, boxes of Valentine cards in the store conjure up wistful images of the three of them sitting at the kitchen table, filling out their cards to bring to school the next day.

These days I am content to find expressions of love in the mundane. A sleepy kiss on the forehead. New windshield wipers and solution in my car without me asking. An empty dishwasher and a laundry basket carried up two floors. I find it in parents cooing to their toddlers as they wheel their carriages through the super market and in my Meals on Wheels clients who show their gratitude to me every day when I bring their lunch. A rush of love emanates from my dog Albie any time I walk through the front door even when it has only been a short amount of time.

I also find contentment, peace and yes, even love, in the world around me. The dichotomy of a calm ocean or violent waves during a storm. The tapping of raindrops and the silent beauty of snowflakes falling to the earth while sitting on my deck. Watching the birds jockeying for a spot on the feeder while the wild turkeys feast on castoffs below, and the deer and rabbits frolicking in the twilight giving their best impressions of Bambi and Thumper. Everyday there is much to see and love.

This year I am celebrating with my Valentine on an extended weekend in Vermont. It is wonderful to be at a stage in our lives where children no longer dictate our plans. We will compromise in our activities; a trip to the fly fishing museum for him and the shopping outlets for me and splurging at some great restaurants at the end of our day. Together, we are taking a two-hour glass blowing workshop.

 Maybe our glass paperweights will be in the shape of hearts!

Reading Voraciously

by Terri McFadden

In my childhood home my favorite room was the cathedral ceilinged living room with its twelve-foot high bookcase. It was filled with volumes on myriad topics, reflecting my mother’s eclectic taste. There were books on everything from history to religion to science, and classic and contemporary fiction.   

I very quickly learned to read and soon read all the books kept on the children’s shelves in the play room. By the time I was ten I made the leap to Mother’s collection. She rarely suggested books and never censored them, she was just pleased to see me reading. Only once did she question my choice. When I was 11, Mother spotted me reading Hawaii by James Michner. There was a slightly racy scene in it that I had already read. She asked me about it and was relieved when I confessed I hadn’t understood it. Naturally I went back and reread it – it still didn’t make sense.

During those exciting years of learning about a world outside of our small-town, I read about dinosaurs in the Gobi Desert of China, I cried when I read about the dog found in Pompeii, frozen in its last agony. I read Gulliver’s Travels and Anne of Green Gables, Ladies Home Journal and Newsweek and the back of the Rice Chex box (which had a changing newsletter). In short, I devoured anything I could get my hands on.

It got so I preferred reading to playing outside. On a Saturday, after morning chores, I would find a nook somewhere in our large house and settle down to read. With luck I could stay undetected and read for four or five hours. Sometimes my sisters or my mother would roust me out and I’d be forced to go outdoors, leaving an unfinished story. The long dreary days of school were hard for me. I hated being separated from my books. Often, unable to bear not knowing what was happening in my book-of-the-day, I would sneak it into class. When I got caught I didn’t mind the punishment – it was worth it. Oddly enough, reading probably held me back in my school work. However, except for math, I believe I learned more of history, science and literature on my own. The problem was that the teachers weren’t testing me on what I was reading.

When I was old enough to ride my bike the mile to town to visit our small library, it was something of a shock. Although my mother didn’t mind what I read, the librarian most assuredly did! She wouldn’t even allow a child to look at the books in the adult stacks, which I minded very much. However, she did guide me to children’s fiction that I hadn’t read before. I especially loved the series The Black Stallion and Nancy Drew and I discovered that I loved mysteries. I still do.

It seems voracious readers run in the family. My daughter and granddaughter are from the same mold as my mother and me. When I visit their house, more often than not both are deep in a book. Ten-year-old Bella has the intense concentration that I used to have; she rarely hears what is said to her when she is reading. The other day her mother and I were having a conversation. I noted that Julie looked rather tired and she confessed that she’d stayed up late in order to finish a book. I suggested that maybe she read too much. Bella lifted her eyes from her book and said: “You can’t read too much!” I’d have to say I agree.