Stories Are For Eternity

An oasis in the tumult…

Whenever things get too much for me to handle, lately it’s the state of our society, I retreat and fall into things that give me respite. Often it’s as simple as looking skyward. Stopped at a traffic light the other day, I glanced up and beheld a hawk circling and catching updrafts. Such a majestic sight, so calm and soothing. As long as I don’t think about what happens eventually, the downward plunge to spear its prey.

And yet, this is all a part of the cycle. We soar, we fall. We achieve, we lose. We are joyous, we are sorrowful. Yes, there are silver linings in dark clouds. But finding them is a journey of survival.

I became aware of hawks when I was in college. One of my professors was a great fan of the poet Robinson Jeffers and waxed eloquently about the poem “Hurt Hawks.” I was still developing a maturity to understand poetry so didn’t really get it when I read it to myself. What struck me was the amount of emotion my professor conveyed when he talked about it.

That caused me to think about the word ‘passion’ and I began to understand what it truly is. And it struck me that passion was far more than lust between lovers. I became aware that there were times when I was outdoors and was overwhelmed by what I was observing. The movement of leaves in the barest whisper of wind, the drum of rain on a roof, the tide coming in with a crash.

I do become lost in moments that I find so remarkable and beautiful, moments that fill me with wonder and awe. I tend to feel things on a grand scale. While I love all kinds of music, at times I need to hear strong music. Don’t confuse strong with loud. They can be mutually exclusive.

As to our societal merry-go-round, I give you a bit of Robinson Jeffers to ponder. “Let boys want pleasure, and men/Struggle for power, and women perhaps for fame,/And the servile to serve a Leader and the dupes/to be duped./Yours is not theirs.” From “Be Angry at the Sun”

I’m not going to discuss what this means, I leave it to your interpretation. The last two lines are what is important to me at this point in time.

A sample of some strong music, sung with passion, is an excerpt from “The Eagle and the Hawk” by John Denver. “And all of those who see me, all who believe in me/Share in the freedom I feel when I fly.”

In these stormy societal times, take some time to fly. I hope it brings some ease to your mind.

March Madness saved me…

It’s funny to think of that one year when March Madness saved my sanity, but it did. In fact, it has enriched my life in a few ways.

In early March of 1987, I was working in banking (a whole other story, mostly unpleasant). Our bank was undergoing a software conversion and my department was responsible for training the bank’s employees on how to use the new system. We were working 70+ hours a week. Consequently, I guarded my Sundays as a rare treasure.

On that particular Saturday, I’d worked a mostly full day. As tired as I was, I pushed myself to go to the grocery store that evening so I could have the entire day free on Sunday. It had snowed lightly a few days prior to this so there were little snow mounds in the parking lot of the apartment complex from where we had brushed off our cars. A hint of spring was in the air as it had been warm enough that day to melt a little of that small amount of snow. Just remember, snow melt may create black ice.

I returned from the grocery store, in my 1983 Subaru hatchback, to find the parking lot full. I’d have to park across the street but to save time and effort lugging grocery bags, I let my car idle in the fire lane to be closer to my apartment. I’d unload my groceries and then park across the street. A moment of brilliance in my thinking proved to be my undoing.

As I made my second trip from the car to my ground-floor apartment, my world literally turned topsy-turvy. My right foot went out from under me. My ankle turned. The toes of my right foot headed to the left and the rest of me launched to the right. Our bodies are not built to withstand that sort of torsion.

I crashed to the ground and grabbed my right ankle as though to squeeze everything back into place so it wouldn’t hurt so much. As I looked around into the darkness, I realized I was sitting in the driving lane of the parking lot near the only entrance. If someone pulled in, they wouldn’t see me sitting there. I must move, I thought, and I was obsessed with moving my car from the fire lane so it wouldn’t be ticketed.

I managed to stand. My right foot felt weird and wouldn’t cooperate. It felt disconnected somehow. Hopped to my car and got in, thinking I’d move it across the street. My right foot rested against the accelerator. It would not do anything else. Since my car was a standard I really needed two feet. Later I would learn my foot technically wasn’t connected and all it could do was flop.

Long story short, my neighbors moved my car. I called my mom and told her I needed to go to the hospital. I’d had numerous ankle rolls in my past and I knew there was something very wrong, not a simple sprain. On one foot I put away the groceries and changed my clothes. My ankle was so swollen it cascaded over my sneaker. I kept moving because I knew if I sat down, that would be it.

One week later I was ensconced in my childhood bedroom, my casted right leg propped on a pillow. I was too weak to go back to my apartment. I’d broken my ankle. Worse than the fracture was I’d torn all of the ligaments. They screwed the piece of bone back on. My tibia and fibula were also screwed together to allow the ligaments to heal. The foot was still very swollen. My foot was in an extended position because it would not return to a normal 90 degree position. I wasn’t allowed to put weight on that leg. The pain was palpable.

Sleep was fleeting. I had a 19” black and white tv in my room. There was no remote. I learned quickly to do some modified gymnastics so I could hang off the end of the bed and change the channel. Then I remembered it was the first weekend of March Madness. I watched obscure games well into the middle of the night for the next few nights. It distracted me from the pain. It was addicting and I followed as many games as possible. The tradition of watching the tournament continues.

As for me, one hugely positive thing came out of this experience. I was forced to sit for 10 weeks which gave me the opportunity to ponder my future. I knew it didn’t lie in banking. I investigated the possibility of a Master’s degree in English Education through the local state university. As soon as the screw was removed from my tibia and fibula, I could put weight on my leg. I started night classes a month later. I was blessed to be able to teach for over 25 years. I loved it. So even though I have permanent damage in my ankle, limited range of motion, and difficulties with flexion, I was able to secure my future. It was far more satisfying and happy than what I’d been doing.

N.B.—-I was wearing my favorite sneakers when I slipped on the black ice and destroyed my ankle. I couldn’t bear to wear them again 😢

A Watery Sun…

It’s the beginning of March here in the Northeastern US. March is as fickle as any month, probably more so, meteorologically speaking. One day rain, the next snow, or even freezing rain. It could be 60 degrees or 12. The sun was out today, always a welcome sight, and breezing past me on a local road was a car with its top down. A quick glance at my dashboard revealed the temperature was 39 degrees. Brrr!

March sun is diffused. It’s recharging and getting ready for the splendor that is summer. My mind thinks of it as watery. Sort of a negative term implying something isn’t full strength, not giving its all. I see it as somewhat positive, almost like revving an engine in preparation for peeling out (is that still a term?). The sun is doing its best, it’s just somewhat hampered by sun angle, planet alignment, our unforgivable sins, Poor Richard’s Almanac, or whatever silly reason one might use. There’s the real trick. See it as YOU wish to see it.

It’s a hint of “the best is yet to come.” It’s a hint of future splendor in the grass. It’s a hint of hopefulness. Now, Edgar Allen Poe was not considered a writer who inspired hope. However, it’s all about how you wish to see his work. Tragic, yes. Depressing, much of the time. Passionate, always. Remember that passion doesn’t just refer to physical love/lust/desire. Passion is about strength of feeling in many different ways.

I’ve always loved reading Poe. His feelings are omnipresent in most any of his works, especially his poetry. “You call it hope—-/that fire of fire!/It is but agony of desire.” This is a line from Poe’s poem “Tamerlane.” Individuals may interpret this many different ways. I choose to think that desire doesn’t always have to end up in agony. For me the passion of spring changing to summer may lead to less than stellar feelings but I keep that in perspective so as not to be dismayed when things don’t go so well.

Watery sunshine may be perceived as weak, filtered, not full-strength. I choose to see it as a glimmer of promise. It’s similar to the thought process prior to making a decision. The watery sun may be construed as indecisiveness. Each of us has experienced that in life.

“I understand about indecision/But I don’t care if I get behind/People livin’ in competition/All I want is to have my peace of mind.” “Peace of Mind”. Boston. Hence, the watery sun should take its time to unravel itself. It may not shine as nicely as people would like but it will do it in its own time.

Another moody song I like when I’m feeling mystical, nostalgic, confused, is “Harbor Lights” by Boz Scaggs. Boz has a voice that can sound like he’s sung in too many smoky bars. It’s raspy, a little nasal, bittersweet. All like the watery sun or its cohort, the filtered moon. “Sailing shadows reds and blues/Curtains drawn but I saw through/The window to your soul And I found you.” We can muddle through the watery sun. There’s hope on the horizon. If we choose to see it.

Renaissance men…

Was speaking with a former colleague in a funeral home parking lot the other day. We were there to pay respects to a longtime educator. My fellow teacher left me with this remark, “those guys were Renaissance men. They don’t make them like that anymore.” That thought has been swirling around in my mind ever since.

According to the Encyclopedia Brittanica, the phrase was coined by Leon Battista Alberti (1404-1472) and meant “a man can do all things if he will.” In other words, men should try to develop their own capacities as much as possible. We are used to using the term in relation to men, but it also relates to women.

My colleague and I were thinking of the teachers we’d had through the 1960s and 1970s, individuals whose knowledge went far beyond the subject matter of the discipline in which they taught. These folks were teachers because they had a joy and respect for disseminating knowledge.

Not only did they love teaching, they embraced their fields of study. Teaching was not at all lucrative during those decades. Those teachers often maintained 2-3 jobs to provide for their families. They worked well beyond the normal school day attending workshops and classes to enhance their teaching skills. When they could, they traveled to enrich their knowledge of what they taught.

Also important to them was their sense of community. Many volunteered with service organizations, local politics, community theater or music organizations. They were anxious to be a part of the whole. They worked hard to allow us to be better people. They exposed us to ideas we were unable to conceive at a young age. They gave us the capabilities to become Renaissance people.

An individual who exemplified these ideals in every way left us for Heaven this past week. I paid my respects to the shell of the once robust and vital man I had known. His loss has affected me far more profoundly than I would have guessed.

This man inspired me to work harder as a student. I wanted to please him and have him respect my effort. He caused me to want to learn beyond just the basics of American History. And that was as a high school junior. It laid a foundation for my eventual love of American History.

Fifteen years after high school graduation, I began my teaching career at my alma mater. His was one of the first of many familiar faces I glimpsed on that inaugural day. He beamed at me and said, “Oh my God, they allowed you back in this building?” I hoped it was said in jest so I played along and replied, “they said I’d finally grown up.” A hearty laugh was followed by, “that remains to be seen.” Though it took me two months to feel comfortable enough to call this man by his first name (I was 32), this was the man I came to know as a mentor and friend.

Fast forward another twenty years and we’d become neighbors. We spent many a quiet morning at the community pool swimming laps, reading, and sharing conversations. After a few summers he announced he was moving to Florida and my heart sank, knowing I would miss my swim buddy terribly.

Add another five years. He’d returned to the area. This past summer he attended a cocktail party at the pool. Due to my COVID fears, I did not attend. Add several months and the shocking news appeared in a Facebook post. He was gone. He was unique and truly a Renaissance man. He was a father, grandfather, husband, teacher, administrator, mentor. But that was just a tip of the iceberg. There’s just too much to list here. He was an inspiration. I’m proud to say he was my friend. I will miss his strong presence, his hearty laugh, and his interesting stories. I’m so thankful to have known him on so many different levels. He is now reunited with his lovely wife whom he had missed desperately since her death many years ago. They have a lot of catching up to do.

Be well, Dom, until we meet again. You were the epitome of a Renaissance Man.

Dominick J. DeCecco 1936-2022

“I am the soft stars that shine at night./Do not stand at my grave and cry;/I am not there. I did not die.” Mary Elizabeth Frye

I wrote it, didn’t I?

I’ve had those moments when I’m driving and I’ve forgotten where I’m headed, I’ve gone to a room in my house and didn’t remember why. For me it’s my cluttered thoughts, but it’s so dang annoying.

I’m almost done with the rough draft of a book I’m writing. Some extra research produced more material. Looking at the last chapter on the computer today, I couldn’t understand why the newest information wasn’t in the chapter. I remembered writing it, didn’t I? In my head, I could visualize writing the info. Why wasn’t it there?

In a mild panic, I rifled through pages of writing. I’m old school and hand write before typing. It’s pleasing to feel my hand slide across the page as the words squirt out of the pen. I could not find the pages I’d written. Didn’t I write them?

My method of writing has always been to think about all of the information in my head. I may spend a few weeks organizing and “writing” stuff in my mind. I’ve never been one to jot down outlines or drafts. One challenge is to recall if I transferred the work in my head to the written page.

Though I could visualize writing it on paper, I believe I never wrote my ideas out. I found a few pages of notes taken from various newspaper articles. I will search once more tomorrow and then sit down to write if I can’t locate the pages. Because I wrote them out, didn’t I?

“I shuffle through my mind
To see if I can find
The words I left behind
Was it just a dream that happened long ago?
Oh well, never mind”. Who Wrote Holden Caulfield? Green Day

“Some are born to move the world
To live their fantasies
But most of us just dream about
The things we’d like to be”. Losing It. Rush

Sliding sports, yay or nay?

The Winter Olympics has begun. I’m a fan of sport and enjoy watching most any. I have to remind myself that each of us has a different definition of sport. Having watched the Olympics over quite a few decades, I never fail to be in awe of what the athletes are doing today.

I enjoy watching biathlon, the crazy combination of cross country skiing and shooting. It has its roots in Scandinavia and may be representative of hunting while on skis. Who knows. I find it compelling to watch. Watching them skate on skis is beautiful. I learned to cross country ski as a mature adult and never achieved the skating technique. I didn’t work at it so no surprise. Just imagine target shooting after you’ve been racing on skis. It’s like a set up for failure.

Any alpine skiing events are thrilling to watch, either men’s or women’s. As a young kid living in Vermont, I skied along with my family. I basically got off the lift and did my own version of the downhill. It’s one of my regrets that I didn’t continue skiing. Snowboarding would have been fun to try. Snowboard cross would have been my event.

Though I enjoyed ice skating throughout my youth, I never had any delusions that I could have been a figure skater. Hockey would have been my choice. Skating fast and hitting things hard is more my speed. Ice dancing is one of my favorite things to watch, it’s so graceful and there is such a connection between the partners. But I also love the speed skating. The short track stuff is intense but I prefer the classic version.

Mixed feelings about the sliding sports: bobsled, luge, and skeleton. As a kid I loved watching the bobsled competition, waiting for an epic crash. I just don’t get the luge and skeleton. Those people have a death wish. And there’s two-person luge! It’s like a double stack burger on a flexible flyer! I mean, seriously!

And there’s curling. It’s amusing. I do watch.

Twilight, not always vampires…

Twilight is technically the time period between sunset and full night, but it can also be the time between sunrise and full light. I’m thinking of the evening twilight. That time when the day becomes smudged before the curtain of darkness descends.

I find that time of day to be intriguing and, for me, somewhat sad. I’m always reluctant to let go of the daylight. With daylight comes hope. The temporary death of the light throws a weighty anchor around my shoulders.

My mom is in her “twilight years.” Whatever that means. It’s true. In her early 90s she is facing the multiple indignities of a long life. Now it may entail moving to assisted living, a discussion we’ve had over and over in the last several months. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose that feeling of independence. Her peers have pre-deceased her. Her only son left this realm more than twenty years ago, her beloved brother left seven years ago. She’s not ready to leave.

I’m not ready for her to leave. I will be the last living family member. Kind of daunting but thankfully I have wonderful friends. I know my mom can’t be here forever, some of her is already gone. Watching the decline is so difficult. A once proud and vibrant soul is now a shell of what she once was. I absolutely despise this process. But it’s life. I have to accept it. Gives me a new perspective of twilight, I can tell you that.

“Heavenly shades of night are falling/It’s twilight time”

To sleep…

I was always a good sleeper. There was never a problem for me getting up for school or work. But I’ve always been an active dreamer. I’ve read that we do dream almost every night, we just don’t always remember them.

The title of this post is stolen from Hamlet. “To sleep, perchance to dream.” Hamlet is thinking about death. I’m not. There was a great M*A*S*H episode called “Dreams” in which the character of Charles utters this famous line. Various dreams befall the main characters. It was unsettling but powerful.

Dreams may be calming and they may be upsetting. It’s their nature and the nature of the individual. Two nights ago I was visited by an old friend. The dream involved us working our day in the business world (it’s how we met) and then kicking up our heels after work. It was very pleasant.

We enjoyed taking short trips to Cape Cod. Hours spent sitting on the beach, walking, and talking endlessly were restorative. Many years ago I stumbled across Christmas ornaments, in the shape of large snowflakes, made from the sand of various beaches on the Cape. I bought two made from Nauset Beach sand. I gave her one and I kept the other. Each year when I put my tree up and take it down, I sit with the sand snowflake in my hand and reminisce.

My friend left this world, by her own choice, several years ago. I miss her. As with others who have left this realm, I think of her often. I chuckle at some of our past antics. Think of calling her on the phone. Wonder what she would think about lots of things.

It’s bittersweet. I smile and chuckle. I cry. Tears blur my vision now as I type. Overall I remember my good friend and that she truly embodied the qualities of a friend. I wish I could have done more to ease her pain. However, I know from watching my father’s alcoholism, it’s not up to others to “cure” a person. The individual must want to get better. She merely wanted to be with her loved ones in a better place. I can’t fault her for that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get frustrated because she chose to leave us. I get downright angry at times. Because I loved her and she was my friend. And she left.

But she visits me in dreams and I’m thankful for that. I have photos and memories, and an occasional chat at the nearby cemetery. Her smile and laugh are always with me.

“These dreams go on when I close my eyes/Every second of the night I live another life…”. Heart

Dream a little dream for me.

Winter at the cabin…

The cabin is a place that exists in my head but may someday be a dream come true. Time will tell. The cabin is out in the country and borders a wooded area. Over time, a large patio was added complete with a large rustic pergola. It was a great place for friends to gather. And I made certain we gathered often. At this stage of our lives, friendships could be fleeting.

On the last Saturday of the NFL regular season, we gathered. Some of my closest “gal pals” arrived a few days ahead of time to help with preparations. Cookies, sweets, and caramel apples were prepared. Crockpots worked nonstop filled with soups, chili, pulled pork, and meatballs. Loaves of crusty bread were baked. Homemade hot chocolate was prepared in advance, ready to be heated up. If time allowed, chunky marshmallows were made. But there were always bags of commercially prepared marshmallows on standby.

A couple of good friends hooked up a couple of large screen tv’s for those who wished to watch the games. The huge fire pit, made with rocks scrounged from the property, pulsed warmth fueled by fragrant wood. And for those who didn’t enjoy the fresh, crisp air, there was comfort indoors.

In the quiet of the evening a few of us hardier souls gather around the fire. The sky is inky black and loaded with bright stars. Tonight’s moon is a waxing crescent, throwing as much light as possible. We each cradle huge mugs of hot drinks. Rum toddies have been made complete with the use of a hot poker. Wistful sighs punctuate subdued conversation.

It’s a blessing to have friends and dreams. I will never give them up.

Music hath charms…

Music is magic and it’s transformative. I’m not any sort of music scholar. I just enjoy listening to it. Many of us have music memories, events we associate with specific music.

New Year’s Day to me is the Radetsky March and the Blue Danube waltz. For many years I’ve watched the concert fromVienna on PBS. It largely features the music of a couple of Strauss family members (remember, I’m not a scholar! Richard and Johann?), ballet, Lippizaners, and the beautiful scenery of Austria.

The dancers move to the music, either through ballet or waltz. They are elegant and graceful. Ballet is nice to watch. I’ve watched a great deal. It’s nice, as I said. I truly love watching skilled ballroom dancers. The college I attended had an international ballroom dance team. I often went and watched their practices because it was so enjoyable.

Ballroom dancing has rather run out of favor. I will say it was still a physical education elective when I was teaching high school. And the kids really enjoyed it. My brother (four years my senior) was very musical and also loved to dance. He taught me many of the ballroom standards and we’d practice at his whim. The waltz was my favorite.

Now, pair the waltz with my love of reading. Add in that I’m a true Romantic. I spent long periods of time daydreaming about waltzing with a tall, dark-haired stranger though the time period always seemed to be 19th century. My daydreams are very detailed. Long story short, my daydreams never manifested themselves in reality. No one I dated enjoyed dancing, even if they were tall and dark-haired.

I’ve said that I’m not a music scholar. I took piano lessons for a short time but detested them. None of this precludes me from enjoying music. And I enjoy so many different types of music. When I watch musical performances, especially classical, I’m always struck by how the music affects the musicians. They really FEEL the music. This isn’t to say that musicians of all genres don’t feel the music. Orchestra members are often disciplined and stiff-looking. I know there are protocols. But to watch them be swept away by the music they’re playing is moving and so powerful.

I understand how they feel. I feel it when I hear words, or observe a beautiful scene in nature. It can move me to tears at times, good tears. The annual concert in Vienna ends with a very upbeat, audience-participation piece named Radetsky’s March. Though a military tune, it’s very celebratory and fun, a good way to welcome a New Year!

Almost forgot the Lippizaners. They are horses, but not just any horses. They are highly skilled horses that perform incredible feats (dressage) called “airs above the ground.” I was horse crazy as a youngster and read all about them. Their heritage was threatened during WWII by advances of the Soviet Army. A group of American soldiers saved them. These events are chronicled in a book (and movie) called The Miracle of the White Stallions. I’ve seen these horses in a few performances and they are incredible. The Vienna concert often features a performance of the horses choreographed to the music.

The use of music in my life has become sparse. I need to incorporate it more for enjoyment and relaxation. But I’m glad I remembered to watch this year’s version of the concert from Vienna.