The Monica Chronicles

I choose the music on my iPod very carefully to insure my mind is  occupied and my body inspired to keep the beat as I warm up on the elliptical machine.  What I play depends on my mood, the weather and the time of year. This morning I was feeling nostalgic, and chose Bruce Springsteen’s Born To Run to keep me moving.

 

Springsteen’s early albums hold a very special place in my heart because he was just hitting it big while I was coming of age at Rutgers College in the heart of New Jersey.  His music could be heard everywhere on campus and his sightings at local haunts like “Greasy Tony’s” were legendary.  My roommate Wendy actually met him there the year before Born to Run came out.  She has long contended that her name was the inspiration for the famed “Wendy” of the song. Years later she actually received written confirmation of that possibility from “The Boss” himself.

I remember the first time I heard Born to Run.  It was August, 1975 and I had just moved into Brett Hall to begin my junior year.  Because I worked in the dining hall, I was able to move in with ahead of the crowd, affording me an early escape from the long, lonely summer break I spent in suburban south Jersey with no car, few friends and the two jobs I worked to pay my tuition.

That night before the freshman arrived, campus was quiet.  I don’t remember why but Dave was able to move in early as well. It was that first evening back he came over with his new Springsteen album and with all the reverence and ceremony befitting its premier, we sat on the floor in the dark in my dorm room and listened to the entire album; start to finish, without a break.  When it was over, I remember sitting quietly for a while, with tears streaming down my face, feeling so connected to the music and stories of coming of age in New Jersey. And, while my own story lacked the drama of the characters Springsteen so colorfully brought to life, I can’t recall any other time in my life when any music has so completely become as interwoven into the fabric of my being as if it had been written just for me with the exception of good liturgical music.  Until this moment, I never really thought about it in that way.  I suppose you could say, the music touched my soul.

So many years have passed since then. The young woman who sat on the cusp of adulthood, now sits on the cusp of her senior years and has only been back to New Jersey for a handful of weekends over the past forty years.  But somewhere, deep in my soul, the shadow of the Jersey girl remains ready to “take a walk out on the wire…”

 

 

 

 

 

At the risk of jinxing myself, I’m going to step out onto a budding limb and declare spring has arrived to Central Virginia.  As in any typical transition from winter, we have experienced some extreme weather changes.  One day the temperature is close to 80 degrees and the next we have snow flurries.  It’s difficult to what to wear and what to eat.

When the weather warms, just was I dress lighter, I also want to eat that way. And just like  eating turkey at Thanksgiving or stollen on Christmas morning, there are a few certain foods that I like to eat when the first whiff of clean, sweet spring air hits my nose.  One of these is egg salad sandwiches.  Even though hard boiled eggs go hand in hand with the celebration of the Easter Season, my connection to egg salad begins years ago with my friend, Terrie.

I met Terrie soon after I was hired for my first job out of college as a “management trainee” for Agway Gardens September of 1977.  Her husband Bruce was my first boss.   I don’t know why we hit it off, we had little in common except for being the oldest child of large Catholic families, but we did in a big way.

In the four years I lived in Syracuse, Terrie and I were as close as sisters.  She kept me grounded those first few years I was on my own.  She and her husband were my base family unit providing me with a landing spot when I was lonely and lots of meals.  For my part, I would occasionally babysit their toddler, Danny. After Dave finished grad school, the four of us were together most weekends playing pinocle into the wee hours with Bruce Springsteen blasting in the background.

Living in Syracuse, winters are long; much longer than even the longest seeming winters here in Virginia. To keep the cold air from blowing through the cracks in the windows in my apartment, I taped plastic over them at the end of October and didn’t dare take it off all of them until mid May.  So, when the first break in the weather came and the snow yielded to greening grass, it was something to celebrate.

After so many years, linear memory is almost impossible but I have a vivid memory of  one of those warm days when Terrie made egg salad sandwiches for us.  With her kitchen windows open, curtains dancing as the clean spring air cleared out the stuffiness of winter, she proclaimed egg salad a rite of passage from winter to spring.   Until then, I never really gave egg salad much consideration either way.

But the memory of that warm spring day so many years left such an impression on me that now, when the first warm day arrives promising the coming of spring, I make egg salad and remember my friend Terrie and the time we shared so very long ago.

 

 

 

Lately I’ve made a habit of scanning the Obituaries in our local newspaper.  Since we’re not natives, it isn’t often that I come across someone I know, but I find reading about the lives of those who have passed fascinating, especially when the deceased has led a long and productive life.  Yesterday I was saddened to see the smiling face of a person I didn’t really know but had encountered many times over the six years we’ve lived in Greene, Mr. Ronnie Lamm.

The first time I saw Mr. Lamm was at Anytime Fitness. I think it was in the fall of 2011.  I’d just started my biweekly training sessions with Lorenzo and was feeling a little shaky about what I’d gotten myself into.  I was not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination and wasn’t certain I was up for the challenge.  So, there I was, beginning my warmup on the elliptical machine when I saw the door open and in walked two men facing each other.  One was walking backwards, holding the hands of the other who walked stiff-legged in small steps through the door.  It was obvious that the leader was a trainer and the other recovering from a debilitating physical event like a stroke.  More impressively and equally as obvious was the positive spirit the weaker man possessed as his face shone with a smile that exuded a complete trust in his trainer as he inched his way to the recumbent bike.  I was so struck by this man’s cheerful determination that I decided then and there that if he could make such positive effort to workout and improve his physical condition, so could I.

As the weeks passed,  I looked forward to seeing Mr. Lamm at they gym.  It’s a small space so it’s easy to get to know the faces you see routinely.  Each time I passed him on his bike he gave me a big smile and said hi which I returned in kind. He may have thought I was merely offering kindness but I believe I received much more from him that I could have given him.  He became my muse, my inspiration to keep going.

When the spring came and I stopped by the local garden spot to pick up some annuals, I found Mr. Lamm sitting in a wheelchair on the front porch of the store.  I learned that his son ran the store and Mr. Lamm was a regular fixture, greeting customers.  Again I was greeted by his bright smile.  I stopped and asked how he was doing.  It was difficult for him to speak and it was obvious that was a major frustration.  Still he labored to tell me that he was doing well.  I shared with him what an inspiration he’d been to me at the gym.  I wanted him to know that despite the limitations of his medical condition, his vibrancy was still apparent and impactful to the world around him.  It made me a little sad and unsure if I should have shared that with him when I saw the tears welling in his eyes.

Eventually I didn’t see Mr. Lamm in the gym as much but I did see him and his wife occasionally out and about in the county.  Each time I was greeted by the same bright smile.

On Monday while at they gym my trainer, Lorenzo videoed a clip of me bench pressing two thirty pound hand weights for five reps and posted it on Facebook.  It was the first time I’d bench pressed the total of sixty pounds.  Over the years I’ve learned to trust in myself and my trainer, just was Mr. Lamm did was he followed his trainer through the door.  Because of it, I’ve grown stronger and more self-assured, choosing to be confident in attempting new things and changing my inner voice to be more positive.

There have been many factors that have made this achievement possible but I know one of them was seeing Mr. Lamm’s smile in those early days when I too was taking my first baby steps in the gym.

 

 

 

 

As the saying goes, “No good deed goes unpunished.”  Last week I participated in judging a National History Day competition at our local middle school where students present their studies on a topic they have chosen and researched within the national theme.  This year’s theme was “Conflict and Compromise.”

I was impressed by the number of sixth, seventh and eighth graders who spent countless hours researching and preparing their presentations.  As a judge, I was charged to critique a handful of the many storyboards set up in the cafeteria as well as interviewing the presenters to determine how well they understood the information they had on display.  So, each time I approached a storyboard, I held out my hand to the presenter, introduced myself and we got started.

The topics were rich and varied, covering instances in American history.  The one that impressed me the most told the story of the Meatpacking Inspection Act of 1906 where the storyboard was covered in brown paper and twine and had pictures of Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders and political cartoons of the time.  Displayed in front of the board was a stack of Armour Potted Meat and a copy of Sinclair Lewis’ The Jungle.  Clearly these gals had left no stone unturned as they delved into the topic of early food safety regulations.  The conflict was clearly stated but the compromise was a bit murky.

In fact, almost all of the projects displayed articulated a real crisis in American History but none was able to fully articulate a compromise with the exception of events like the Compromise of 1850, where the compromise was readily apparent.  I guess it’s really not a surprise that young people today have difficulty in detecting areas of compromise in American history.  Given the current situation in Congress, there has been little compromise to refer to as an example.

What I wasn’t aware of at the time was that a particularly nasty version of an intestinal virus was running its course through the school population or I would have used the antebacterial gel I carry in my purse.  A couple of days later I realized the result of my folly and have spent the better part of the week recovering, stuck on the couch with the television.

This morning, as I watched the morning news, I watched in numbing despair as the details of the latest school shooting in Florida.  Like most people, I am utterly frustrated with the level of gun violence in our schools.  It seems like there is a story about a shooting almost every day.  So, I did a little poking around on the web and the stats I found are sickening.  I learned that since 2010, there have been 207 school shootings in the US.  Since the beginning of 2018, there have been nine shootings with twenty children losing their lives  and just as a reality check, that is only six weeks.  Despite this, legislators are reluctant to work toward a ban on assault weapons, calling this attempt to restrict gun ownership a “slippery slope.”  Instead, there seems to be a focus on providing mental health care to those who might act out in violence or placing more armed guards on school grounds.

Maybe banning assault weapons isn’t the answer to the growing danger of gun violence in our schools, but it certainly would be a start; a start not only on limiting access of these dangerous weapons but also a start of demonstrating to our children what it means to compromise; where each side gives a little ground for the greater good.

 

I started a new knitting project yesterday that involves following a rather involved chart of stitches.  Unlike many of the patterns I usually use which have an eight to ten stitch repeat, this one has a repeat of 38 stitches, half of the stitches around the leg of the sock.

To make it easier to follow the chart, I started by coloring alternate lines with colored pencils.  This allows me to follow the line more easily as long as I remember what color line I’m on.  This works well as long as I have few distractions.

Today I decided to make a copy of the chart so that I can use my old magnetic board leftover from my counted cross stitching days.  The addition of the long magnet bar makes tracking along the chart much easier.  Twenty years ago if I’d wanted to make a copy, I would have grabbed a piece of graph paper and painstakingly copied the chart cell by cell.  This morning, with my Epson printer it took a matter of minutes.

I know you’re probably thinking; “thanks for sharing.”  But what I find so amazing about this entire process is that I am able to make a color copy of a chart in my own home in less than a minute, snap a photo of it with my iPad and upload it to this website in about the same amount of time.  I am amazed because I am old.

I’m not old in the sense that I have reached the point of not wanting to keep up with the every changing technology of our modern lives.  But there is no denying that at the beginning of my lifetime, which was at that time considered “modern” as well, life was much more mechanically understandable.  The technology of the time was based on simple physical laws.  Probably the big three things I didn’t fully understand as a child were electricity (Where did that power come from and how did it make things go?), the telephone (How did sound carry over wires?), and television (How was a picture carried through the air to the antenna on the roof and into that box in the living room?)  For the most part, everything else in the house was mechanical and when anything needed fixing, my dad made the repairs and I was among the peanut gallery watching him.  So, early on I had a basic understanding of household plumbing, wiring and construction.  This experience has served me well through the years, especially when Dave was deployed for months at a time.

Today, while I am able to use all of these modern conveniences; iPhones, iPads, computers, printers, scanners, wifi and the internet, I readily admit that I don’t really have a clue how they all work.  How does the key I press on my keyboard produce a letter on this screen and once I hit Publish, what will actually happen to allow it to appear on your screen?  I am in awe of the enormity of it and those who do understand what makes it work.

I may be old, but I believe I am growing in the wisdom that it just isn’t that important that I understand how these things work.  And, as long as I am able to learn how to use whatever new gadget comes along, that will be good enough for me.

For the past couple of weeks, it has been really cold.  It seems that no matter where you live, it’s been a lot colder than you’d like or expect for this time of year.  Traditionally, this arctic blast waits until the first half of February.

I could say that since I come from hardy upstate New York stock that temperatures in the single digits don’t bother me that much.  After all, I’ve experienced much colder temps.  Take the winter of 1981, when the mercury dipped so low in Syracuse that my toilet froze — twice!  Turns out that the waste pipe from my second floor flat ran along an uninsulated  exterior wall.  To correct the problem, my landlord hung an old army blanket over the opening of the entry way to my back stairs.  An unconventional approach for sure, and a little odd-looking, but it did the trick.

The extreme cold also caused havoc on my poor 1973 Plymouth Duster.  Many mornings in order to get it started, I’d have to pop the hood, unscrew the wing nut from the air filter and drop a screw driver down to hold the carburetor open.  A few pumps of the gas pedal and turn of the key resulted in flames shooting from the carburetor as the engine turned over.  Then all I had to do was get out of the car, remove the screw driver, reassemble the air filter and drop the hood.  Once the car was running and the engine warming up,  I would grab my little red shovel from my trunk and dig my car out of the pile of snow the plow pushed against it the night before.  Usually by the time I actually put the car in gear, it was warm inside but my toes and fingers were frozen.  Ah! Those were the days!

These days, the cold doesn’t affect me so much.  I am blessed with a well insulated home and sufficient clothing to ward off chills.  My toilets stay blissfully thawed and my car, toasty in the garage, starts with the mere turn of a key.  For me, the cold is just a topic of conversation; a commonality to be shared with others transcending all religious, political or racial views.  The simple fact is that when it is cold, it is cold and we all have to deal with it.

The news has been full of clips of total strangers reaching out to help someone in need, with jumps to get cars started, pushing cars out of snow banks, shoveling off walks and generally being nice to each other.  It may be cold outside, but there is ample proof that there are warm hearts beating beneath the layers of warm clothing.

 

 

 

 

2018 began with the awareness of the soft but persistent kneading of cat paws on my shoulder.  With a total lack of regard for holidays, Izzie was intent on making sure I was up at my usual time, insuring her breakfast was served at its usual time.

We hadn’t stayed up to see the new year in last night; the novelty of that ritual has long since worn away.  Instead, we went out for an early dinner with friends to mostly celebrate Dave’s birthday and then hurried home to change into comfy clothes; switch on the gas fire and cuddle under an afghan to watch a little TV before heading to bed.

The past ten days have been a whirlwind of activity for us.  Beginning with Andy’s arrival on the 22nd, we’ve been partying, decorating, cooking, entertaining, visiting loved ones and most of all; eating.  It was fantastic while it lasted but now that it’s over, I feel just a tad bit down.   We had a wonderful holiday celebration and were treated to having the whole family waking up together on Christmas morning to enjoy stolen and open presents just like in the old days – except now we start much later in the morning.

Our house and days were full for a week and it was glorious!  Toys littered the floor, laughter filled the air and cookies and goodies were easily within reach.  We had old and new friends come to call and later in the week, we went to visit our older grandsons, Seth and Caleb.

Each day was special.  We saw the newest Star Wars movie. We had a dusting of snow Saturday morning and went to the ACC conference opening game between UVA and BC (extreme nail-biter!) And just to add a bit of whimsy to our holiday, we spied an escaped billy-goat run down our street on Christmas day!

Today, though, it is quiet here in our house.  Everyone has gone home and like in The Night Before Christmas, on New Year’s Day, not a creature is stirring.  It’s really cold outside with nighttime temps dipping into the single digits. (Not impressive if you live in CNY, but here in VA, it’s unusual.) Dave and I are enjoying one more day of slothfulness before the workweek begins tomorrow and we transition back to ordinary time.

Tomorrow Dave will head back to work and I will get back to the gym (along with my other household duties) but today we will enjoy our time on the couch with Netflix and possibly a football game to keep our minds engaged as we savor the memories we made this Christmas.

 

Even though the season started a few weeks ago, last night was the first of this season’s UVA Mens Basketball home games I’ve been able to attend.  As happens each fall, from mid-September until mid-November, the gauntlet of activities and obligations tied to the various community and church organizations to which I belong resulted in a few lucky friends filling my seat for the first three games.  Last night was my first opportunity to again scale the rows of bleachers up to row T to take my place.   And I was so excited to finally be able to go.  That is until first I realized the game didn’t start until 9 PM (which is dangerously close to my usual bedtime) and second that UVA has instituted a new “bag” policy limiting the size of bags (including purses) are allowed in the arena.

The new size limit for “bags” is 4.5″ x 6.5″.  My wallet is larger than that!  The only exceptions are clear plastic bags.  Apparently this is not a novel idea, in fact according to the article I read, UVA has slowly followed the trend set my most of the larger stadiums and arenas including the NFL.  Bag restrictions like this are intended to keep us safe.  And, just to be extra safe, to prevent any clever would-be assassin from sneaking in weaponry on their person, all attendees must now walk through metal detectors upon entering the building.  As a result of all these new safety precautions, my tired cranky self had to go through another gauntlet similar to an airport TSA checkpoint just to attend a basketball game.

Having been deemed a non-threat, I was allowed entry and after hitting the ladies room and purchasing a bottle of overpriced water, I began my ascent to my seat.  I have to admit, moving around the arena without a purse was a liberating experience.  There were no worries of knocking a purse into someone or that I would leave it under my seat.  I also discovered I don’t need to carry a bunch of stuff with me at all times. I was still annoyed that the possibility of someone else’s malintent limited my personal freedom, but it was an acceptable compromise to make for the illusion of safety.

Perhaps it was the fact that I was at a heightened safety status that  made my danger antenea go up when  the UVA Dance Team took the floor during the first TV timeout.  Composed of fifteen very talented , well choreographed young women, the UVA Dance Team display a great deal of athleticism in their routines which are intended to entertain the fans and promote team spirit.  Unfortunately, in my opinion, last night they danced over the line between entertainment and objectification.  Especially when it seems like every time you turn on the TV either some woman is stepping forward to share her “me too” moment or seemingly a respectable man is charged with inappropriate behavior, it seems unwise  for any group of  young women dressed in short skirts shake  their fannies in front of an audience of potentially 15,000 to the tune of “Shake Your Groove Thing.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that the dance team should be disbanded or that their outfits should be more modest.  I  know for a fact that given the right combination of girl friends and wine I might find myself shaking my groove thing too. It’s just that I come from the generation of women that broke down many of the walls that kept women from even attending a major university like UVA.  We were taught to keep ourselves safe, lock our doors, walk with our keys between our fingers; to stay alert and at all times maintain situational awareness.

So to me, it seems incongruous that if attendees at a game are subjected to the scrutiny of bag restrictions and metal detectors to be kept safe from the potential danger of a crazed gunman or bomber that the same precautions aren’t taken to protect these young women from any pervert who somehow gets the notion that they are shaking their groove things as an invitation to them.  Are they making other young women vulnerable to uninvited attentions and advances of men because as representatives of the university they portray an image that promotes this kind of behavior?  Have men evolved to not be affected by women shaking their fannies?  Am I just too old to be objective?  I’d like to think that the same dangers on campus that threatened my friends and I are no longer around, but I’m not convinced.

I don’t know the answers to any of my questions.  If I did, they wouldn’t be questions.  Some might argue that I’m mixing apples and oranges that the potential hurt of a shooter or bomber in a crowd don’t even come close to those of a few cute girls dancing on the basketball court.  They may be right.  I would contend that the number of women who have been effected by the unwanted advances of a man would exponentially outnumber those of victims of the violent attacks we’ve seen.  But we’ll never know; because as women we tend to try to  “Shake it Off” and move on the best we can.

 

 

In the course of my lifetime I have celebrated Thanksgiving in seven different states from Connecticut in the east, west to Hawaii and on to Virginia as the farthest south.  Along with the variety of venues, this day of thanks has been spent with an ever-changing cast of characters, from members of my family to in-laws, good friends to not so close friends who didn’t have anyone to share the day with.

I suppose if you’ve always lived in the same place and have time-honored traditions of going to the same house and celebrating with the same people each year, this might sound strange.  You might think that I’ve somehow missed out.  I can assure you nothing could be further from the truth.

Although on some years, like this one, we didn’t have actual family members with us on turkey day, we were surrounded by them in spirit.  Our table was an altar of remembrance, complete with Dave’s mother’s crystal, my mother’s milk glass salt and pepper shakers as well as the ceramic pilgrims she made for me several years ago.  On the wall behind the table you can see some of the family photos that surround us when we sit and share a meal in that room.  Even the crazy quilt piece on the wall was framed by my mother as a gift to her mother.  So, even though we aren’t actually sitting with family, we are among them.

Joining us this year were newish friends, Bobie and Rusty who, like ourselves, were at loose ends this year.  Together we blended our traditions with theirs and celebrated a most wonderful day cooking and eating too much.  As we shared our meal, we shared our families as well through stories of holidays gone by.  This also draws us closer to our families and each other.

It was a delightful day.  Throughout the day I did actually speak to many of my actual family members and texted some of the others, so not all of my family time was nostalgic.  And, if I could snap my fingers and bring everyone I love together in one room to share a Thanksgiving meal, that would be incredible.  But, since that isn’t a possibility, having the opportunity to spend the day with good friends in remembrance and thanks is about as good as it gets.

Yesterday something wonderful happened.  After a five-year gap, Habitat for Humanity of Greene County, VA handed over the keys for a newly refurbished home to its new owners, the Morris family.

There is a popular misconception that Habitat for Humanity gives houses away to people.  This could not be further from the truth.  In fact, not only will Sandra and Jon Morris be paying on the mortgage for their new home, but before they ever received the keys, they and their extended family worked alongside our Habitat for Humanity volunteer work crew, completing more than 25% of the 1,500 + hours it took to bring this house back from its former rundown state to the comfortable three bedroom home it is today.

This was a combined effort, a labor of faith, trust and of love for everyone involved.  Beginning last November, working the first two Saturdays of each month,  70-some volunteers worked on this project; pulling down drywall, ripping out rotted flooring, crawling under the home to pull out old insulation, painting, caulking, replacing all the windows and exterior doors, gutting and remodeling the kitchen and bathroom and sprucing up the landscaping.  Supporting their efforts, members and organizations in the community brought lunches so they didn’t have to worry about bringing a lunch or going out and getting something to eat.

It was a long year pulling this project together.  Fundraising is a challenge in our community.  Our Steering Committee is small, whittled down to five volunteer members and a part-time Chapter Director but with dedication, long hours and our eyes focused on our partner family, we managed to get it done.

It was heart warming to see so many members of our community show up on a very blustery November afternoon to show their support for Habitat for Humanity Greene County and the new family as they joyfully accepted they keys to their new home.  I know I walked away with a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction.

We can’t rest too long on our laurels because we have another family waiting in the wings, who like the Morris’, have already worked alongside our crew with the understanding that their home will be the next one to be built.

Like other places in our country, affordable housing is an issue that has long been ignored by many.  Our national conversation seems to be centered on gun owners’ rights, immigration and same-sex marriage as threats to the American way of life, it seems to me that affordable housing is a more pressing problem.  More time and effort needs to be spent on finding ways to ensure that everyone has a decent, affordable place to live in this country of abundance and grace.  Over the past five years I have visited homes of folks desperate to live free of leaky roofs, rotting floors, and over crowding.  You might ask, why don’t they simply move?  The short answer is that there is no place for them to go.  Many of them are elderly or disabled and Social Security is their only form of income.   In many cases, that would barely cover rent let alone food, health care, transportation.

This is a problem I certainly can’t solve on my own.  At best I can recognize it and share my observations with others and keep plugging along with Habitat for Humanity trying to find the answer one family at a time and pray that others will join me.  If the six of us can organize the rehab of a home for one family, imagine what ten or twenty of us could do!

Here is the link to the NBC29 spot on our dedication:  http://www.nbc29.com/clip/13920142/habitat-for-humanity-renovates-home-for-greene-family