One Year Ago Today...

 …I started this blog.  I wasn’t sure what I wanted it to become.  I had been saying I wanted to write a book and my husband asked if I ‘had a book in me’.  I was not sure how to take that, but I thought I would start with a blog and see if I could keep up with the demands that it entailed while carrying on with my already over-booked life. 

I started out posting one entry a day. I thought of Julie in the movie Julie and Julia.  She cooked a total of 524 recipes in 365 days from Julia Child’s cookbook and posted about the meals each day.  I loved that movie but felt her stress.  Not only did she have to work each day, but she also had to come home and cook a new meal and then write about it.  Even though that was a fictitious story, I was up for the blog challenge and felt the need to finish up a full year of blogging.

At first, one entry a day was not a problem at all because I had so many stories bursting out of my head. I didn’t want my blog to be about one specific subject with a narrow audience.  This was appealing to me because I could write about anything I wanted, trying out different topics.  After a few months though, I slowed down to one post a week.  Life was busy and although I loved writing, it was getting stressful putting the pressure of one entry a day on my plate.  Being an English teacher, I don’t just write.  I write, edit, let it sit, re-read it, edit more, let it sit again …etc. until finally I post.  This all takes time.

So what did I learn in a year?  Looking back at my first entry, I learned not to shop at the outlet stores on the day after Christmas.  I learned that some topics elicit strong emotions (gun control) and others bring out similar childhood memories for my readers as they do for me.  I discovered that my immediate and extended family love reading my posts and I enjoy passing on what I think of as a public diary of events and thoughts, as I remember them. 

The most popular posts with readers were:

1. Twas the Day After Christmas (my first post): http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2011/12/twas-day-after-christmas.html

2. The Dalai Lama’s visit:  http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-dalai-lamas-visit.html

3. 12-14-12 (last week’s post): http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/12/12-14-12.html

4.  The Neighborhood Show: http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-neighborhood-show.html

5.  Finders Keepers:  http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/08/finders-keepers.html

The least read entries were:

1. Visiting a Navajo School: http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/01/visiting-navajo-school.html

       2. The Barbary Apes in Gibraltar: http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/01/barbary-apes-in-gibraltar.html

      3. The Earthquake I lived through: http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/01/earthquake-i-lived-through.html

       4. Slides: http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/02/slides.html

       5. The sense of smell: http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/02/importance-of-sense-of-smell.html

       6. Learning a second language: http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/02/learning-second-language.html

       7. The Sistine Chapel: http://mytwocentsct.blogspot.com/2012/01/sistine-chapel.html

It makes me feel good when I run into someone who mentions they enjoy reading my blog.  I also like seeing one of my posts shared on Facebook by a reader.  I enjoy reading comments that people post on my entries too.  

So do I have it in me to continue?  As long as I have readers, I will continue to write.  When I don’t have anything to say, I promise I won’t just post a junky entry for the sake of posting something.

As we approach 2013, here are the top 11 things I look forward to, in no particular order.  I anticipate some of them working their way into future posts.

       1. Our younger son’s graduation from Berklee College of Music (no more tuition payments!) 

       2. Leading my 5th student trip to Europe in June for 10 days to Prague, Vienna, Budapest, and Munich.

       3. Going on our second annual girls weekend to LBI with the girls in my family.

       4. Hosting my 4^th annual high school reunion party in September.

       5. Reaching my one-year anniversary for my new knee in March.

       6. Learning more Italian so my oral speaking skills get even better.

       7. Making more time for photography in my life.

       8. Continuing to lead RMAC (Ridgefield Music and Arts Center) in my 7^th year as its president, but looking for a replacement soon.

       9. Going to Sedona for Spring Break      

     10. Spending quality time with my family.

     11. Teaching my students…I am fortunate to love the work I do.

Happy New Year!

12-14-12

There really are no words for the horrific tragedy that happened yesterday in Sandy Hook, Connecticut, a beautiful, close-knit community two towns over from ours. 

As news began to seep into our school yesterday, teachers and administrators tried to find confirmed information, hoping that our worst fears would not be met.  My prep period was in the morning.  I spent it frantically searching the Internet and making phone calls to friends who could shed light on the ‘unconfirmed reports’ that were flying around. 

What started out as one dead gunman and one adult shot in the foot, shot to 27 dead, including 18 children.   A fellow teacher came into my classroom, which was filled with 11-year olds writing poetry. She was the one who delivered the news of the escalated count of those who died, confirmed by an official in Danbury.  I held her hand and we tried our hardest to hold back our tears. 

I do not know how I taught the last three periods of the day.  We are culminating a fun, light poetry unit with a celebration planned next week with parents.  The poems they shared today were recipe poems.  They were so proud as they shared them with the class, practicing their oral speaking skills.  The writing was so light and cute.  I held back my emotions as I listened to their innocence, which would be compromised when they got home and heard the news from their families.   

I had flashbacks of September 11, 2001.  When our principal delivered that numbing news to me shortly after 9:00, I was in my fifth grade classroom.  I had over twenty 10-year olds in my room for the whole day.  I was told to carry on and not tell the kids.  Not tell them what?  I could hardly grasp the concept myself.  That day I, as well as the world, tried to access the Internet, to try to comprehend what was happening.

Several teachers in our school live in Newtown.  One had children in Sandy Hook Elementary School.  The physical therapist that skillfully and wonderfully cared for me for three weeks after my knee replacement this past spring had her children in that school too.  Thankfully they were not among the fallen angels, but their lives will never be the same.  Neither will the lives of any of the children who were in that school yesterday.

The principal and other teachers and administrators who fell yesterday are among our heroes.  When you work with children and a disaster happens, you protect them before yourself.  That is our job and also our instinct.  Our professional community and the community at large mourn for their loss just as deeply. 

Our school happened to have had a lock down drill earlier this week.  Although this drill is no longer new to the children, it is still a little scary for them.  I scooped up an older student out of the hallway before locking my door.  As they sat silently on the floor in the corner of my room, I whispered to reassure them that it was a practice drill.  I had no knowledge of the drill, which is truly a drill for us as well, but I knew from our training that it was a drill. 

Afterwards, one student asked why we have the drills.  When they are younger one explanation is that if a wild animal accidentally got into the building, we would want to keep everyone safe.  As we all absorbed the dark news incessantly yesterday in disbelief, one innocent child said the same thing.  He thought a wild animal maybe got into his school; how right he was.   As the children grow older and hear more news, they are introduced to worse possibilities. 

Our school went into a modified lock-down yesterday, as did many of the communities near Newtown, until it was deemed all the perpetrators were apprehended.  Our building was locked, and no children went outside for recess.  In addition, a police officer was present in our building.  But I still felt better with my classroom door closed. 

The numbness is still with us all today.  As we grieve with our friends and neighbors, our coworkers and our families, let us all keep the little fallen angels and their families and friends in our thoughts and prayers.  Let us keep their six heroes in a special place in our hearts too. Nothing I write here can come close to the words needed for their comfort because this atrocity is beyond words.  Our hearts join in collective grief.  

Real or Fake?

Get your head out of the gutter…I am talking about Christmas trees.  If you decorate your house with a tree, where do you stand on the issue of real verses artificial ones?  Here’s my story. 

My parents used to set up a real tree on Christmas Eve, assemble the toys, and fall into bed exhausted, only to be woken by the pitter-patter of our little feet, not too long after they collapsed.  They wanted us to have the magic of Christmas, including the excitement of the tree, on Christmas morning.  

Clearly, we did not care if the tree was real or not...

I was more interested in my sister's underwear and my new doll.

For fun...recognize any of the toys?

When my parents moved our family from Yonkers to Yorktown, I was six years old  They made the decision to start using an artificial tree.  They could set it up earlier and reduce their Christmas Eve work to toy assembly only.  My mother admits they could have set up the real tree earlier, but with the new house, it seemed easier to set up an artificial one earlier in the month. 

One green tree was set up downstairs with colored lights and a variety of ornaments, including the precious ones we made in school.  This is the tree Santa visited without fail.  Upstairs in our living room, a white tree with only red lights and ornaments was concurrently set up.  This one was for ‘show’ and looked very pretty in a room that already had a red, white, and black theme going on.  I loved our trees and never felt slighted or deprived that the trees were not real.  My only memories are of the artificial ones.

My husband’s family always bought real trees.  Their tradition was to wait until a few days before Christmas to purchase the tree and then decorate it on Christmas Eve.  They didn’t move to a new house like we did and change their traditions.

When my husband and I started dating in the fall of 1984, little did we know we had different 'tree backgrounds'.  We decided to get a tree together for my apartment, which was a little bigger than his and could fit it better. He wanted to get a real one and I was totally up for the new experience.  I ran a 10 K race that morning in Venice Beach, and afterward we planned to find a place to purchased a tree. We had our close friends over that night for a tree trimming party.  I would have parties for just about any occasion, so why not to decorate a tree?

The first real tree that I remember.

Four years later, after our first son was born, we advanced to the chop-your-own stage. We drove 45 minutes north of Los Angeles to Valencia to a Christmas tree farm.  It was the beginning of a tradition for our son and for our family.  I was now hooked on the fresh smell of the pine and the silky feel of the bristles; I was completely in.

The funny thing about chopping down a Christmas tree in California is that you are NOT wearing coats and boots, nor is it snowy or cold.

In addition, you don't mind lying on the ground with your saw.

A tradition is born and he seems to approve.

Over the years we have maintained the real tree tradition, although we have alternated between cutting it and letting someone else do that part.  I do love the smell and the magic of the real tree.  Over the last few years however, I have had thoughts of an artificial tree.  But in the end, we still get the real deal.  Interestingly, my siblings all have artificial trees.

I was at the Christmas Tree Shop yesterday and spent $75 on Christmas decorations, none of which we needed.  One purchase was a 3-foot white artificial tree.  This should not be confused with a Charlie Brown tree.  It is actually quite pretty and will be even prettier when it is decorated.  I set it up on our black kitchen table.  The plan is to decorate it today with red ornaments, mimicking the black, white, red color scheme that I loved to much in my parents’ house. 

I feel excited about and content with my $5 tree, and it has allowed me to let my thoughts abandon the real or fake conversation for a while.  As we get older and more nostalgic, sometimes I feel like we tend to go back to the ways of our childhood or childhood upbringing. So what will the tree tradition look like for us in 10 years?  Decorating an artificial tree on Christmas Eve?  Or will our boys, who have been brought up only with real trees, sway the vote to maintain the pure pine?  Only time will tell.

The unevenness of the branches is one sure sign of a real tree...Wait...are you really looking at the tree, or the two cute kids under it?

How Music Can Affect You

There are many things in life that can have an effect on your mood.  The actions of other people rank right up there with the ability to impact you either positively or negatively.  Your health or the health of a person close to you can also influence how you feel.  Bad decisions, the stress of employment or lack thereof, bad drivers, and a lack of chocolate in your life can all have a bearing on your mood.  But today’s post is not going to be that deep.  Whether you realize it or not, music can definitely alter your mood.  Many people take music for granted, especially young people.  You don't even realize how often music is playing in the background until it isn't.

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How many times have you found yourself in your car alone, and a song came on the radio that made you either belt out the lyrics or even just tap your feet?  Perhaps it brought you back to another time…your high school or college years, a special event where that song was played, or in your own room playing that song over and over again?  You love that song for whatever reason and you react to it, physically and emotionally. There are many songs that snap me to action.  My hands start drumming the steering wheel, my feet tap the floorboard, and my voice tries to mimic the singer’s.  Of course if you are conservative like I am, you might reign in your rocking body when you get to a stop light with another car by your side.  And let's not even go to holding fake microphones or shower singing...

Let’s face it, there are some tedious tasks that we all must do.  Take cleaning the house.  It’s just one of those things that has to be done.  Most times I plow through the chore as my mind organizes my day or I just talk to myself.  However, it always seems to amaze me when I come home to my husband doing some mundane job like organizing the basement, clearing off the deck, or even raking leaves.  He takes the time to pipe some music to where he is to make it more enjoyable.  I love this idea, but never seem to take the time to do it when I do my tasks.

This got me thinking about Melanie Griffith in the movie Working Girl.  Do you remember the famous scene where she was vacuuming?  Music was blasting as she cleaned the rug, in a way only she could pull off.   Let’s leave it at that.

Music is so integrated into your daily lives.  You rely on music to relax and stay happy.  You use it to make a long commute enjoyable.  Some of you go as far as assuring you have your music ready to play on your phone or ipod.   You want to be in a certain frame of mind and having your set playlist facilitates this goal.  Music helps regulate your mood.

Think of the times you have heard live music.  It may have been a large concert at Madison Square Garden or a small concert at your child’s school.  Either one probably, or at least usually, resulted in a positive experience for you.  Seeing your favorite band in person is a fantastic experience.  Hearing the songs live while watching the actual musicians performing is exponentially better than any CD recording.  And for those of us who have sat through the annual third grade concert with the same recorder songs presented year after year, we were still filled with pride and joy at another child participating in the experience.  Music brightens the soul, sets the mood, and creates anchors for future memories.

Last night, our town held its annual Holiday Stroll.  RMAC, the non-profit organization that I head, provided live music by local students in the heart of downtown Ridgefield.  The sound of the music drew passersby to the tent.  Their smiles and tapping feet definitely showed how much they enjoyed the music and how it affected their mood in a positive way.

Her smiling face says it all, as she performed live for RMAC last night.

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Music can make you sad too.  Certain songs bring back nostalgic or just bad memories.  When that happens to me, I quickly change the station.  I don’t try to let music bring me down.  Music has this extraordinary force that can impact our spirit. 

Although there will be lots of holiday music playing on the radio this week which can be repetitive, try to focus on music for the next few days and see what it can do to your feelings and attitude toward your daily life.  Go ahead and tap away, screech out the tune, rock your head from side to side, and enjoy!

Watching these two grow up (the one on the left is mine; the one on the right a former student), develop as musicians, proceed to Berklee College of Music, and perform at many venues, has been an experience that has kept a smile on my face.

Being a Teacher

“I’ve come to a frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element in the classroom. It’s my personal approach that creates the climate. It’s my daily mood that makes the weather. As a teacher, I possess a tremendous power to make a child’s life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration. I can humiliate or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis will be escalated or de-escalated and a child humanized or dehumanized.”  ~ Haim G. Ginott

Making the decision to be a teacher is one that should not be taken lightly. While on a surface level, it may appear to some people to be a fabulous profession offering summers off; teaching really has to be in your blood.

Think of the challenging stages your own child has gone through.  Of course you worked through these phases with your child. (Think Terrible Twos, puberty, adolescence…) Now imagine that there are teachers who actually choose to work with children during these developmentally challenging times, every day, year in and year out. Teachers choose the level they want to teach: elementary, middle, or high school.  Although they can be moved up or down a little by their administrator, they and their administrator know what age child they work best with.

During my early years growing up, I have memories of playing teacher.  I would line up my many stuffed animals and dolls on my bed.  They would always listen attentively as I played teacher, telling them what to do or teaching them something.  When my younger siblings were old enough to play, I used them instead.  We had little desks that I would have them sit at and they willingly played along with their big sister. 

I loved being a student too.  I remember coming home from school in first grade and sitting at the kitchen table, eager to do my work.  I thought of it as a challenge to see if I knew the answers and I was always pleased that I did.  I loved learning and that did not change throughout my school-age years.

When I was in college and was home for break, I would come home well after my parents went to sleep.  My mother would always leave a note on the kitchen table.  It reminded the last one in to lock up, turn the outside lights off, and things of that nature.  As I read it, I couldn’t help but to make corrections if there were spelling or usage errors.  I know my mom wrote it when she was sleepy and not paying attention to correct grammar, but I couldn’t help myself; it was in my blood. 

When I had children of my own, I loved teaching them things, as all parents do.  They were very eager to learn from me when they were young and I relished every moment of it.  But at some point, they pull away from parental help.  I now know that it is a natural part of the process, but I had a hard time with it back then.  I would hear things like, “Just because you are a teacher, doesn’t mean you know what my teacher wants.”  They were right.

I work with 10-12 year olds.  For seven years I taught fifth grade (10-11) and then I switched to sixth grade (11-12).  I love this age.  I describe it best by saying that they ‘will still do anything for a sticker’.  I would not choose to work with high school students, nor would I choose to work with kindergarteners.  I find my fifth and sixth grade students easy and fun to work with.  Yet, when I talk to early elementary or high school teachers, they comment they don’t know how I can work with that age.  I return the sentiment.  Teachers have to find their niche, whether it is the level or the subject they teach.

The 11-year old mind thinks its own way.  When one of our students was moving to another state mid-year, the other kids wrote goodbye cards.  While most said they would miss him, wished him luck, hoped he would like his new school and make new friends, one student said ‘I hope your things don’t break.’  Although that is not something I would think of to worry about, that was a concern for him.  

Last year I gathered all my classes into one room to announce that I would be out of school for a while because I was having a knee replacement.  I told them my knee was worn out.  When we returned to our smaller classes, one girl asked what my knee looked like.  I looked at her with a puzzled look and told her it looked just like her knee and asked why.  She said she wanted to know what a knee looked like when it was worn out.  I then understood, and told her it was the inside that was worn out and assured her that the outside looked very much like anyone else’s knee.  I imagine she was picturing a disintegrating piece of flesh…  Teachers really need to understand the way the brains of their students work. 

When our sons got older, they and my husband had to endure living with a sixth-grade teacher.  I used to repeat a task multiple times, restating it differently, making sure they understood what I said.  I would break down simple tasks, draw maps or diagrams, correct spelling, and tell corny jokes.  They were all very patient with me, especially my husband.  He used to look at me and smile.  That’s when I realized I couldn’t turn it off.  I didn’t need to repeat and restate for him, but it just came out of my mouth. 

I finally realized I needed to acknowledge that my sons were growing up.  They didn’t want to hear the corny jokes or want me proofreading their papers.  They wanted to be independent in school.  It was very hard for me, but I had no choice.  I raised strong independent boys who were as stubborn as I was in some respects. “The object of teaching a child is to enable him to get along without a teacher.” ~ Elbert Hubbard.

Teaching is also the only profession I know that forces you to have an official photo taken each year.  Looking through the school yearbooks, you can reflect on your better hairstyles and have a good laugh.  You can also notice the subtle changes from year to year of the aging process. I'm not sure if this is good or bad...

Sometimes a profession is in your blood.  For me, I can’t help but being a teacher.  I love to impart knowledge and watch as light bulbs go off, paving the way to enlightenment.  I love making an impact on a child’s life.  I love when students come back to visit and a few of them tell me that they are going to become teachers because of me.  That is what being a teacher is all about.  

Although I miss my stuffed animals, I love having real students who can smile. 

Around the age I knew I wanted to be a teacher...

The Neighborhood Show

Growing up now-a-days is so different from growing up in the 1960s.  During my elementary school years, our entertainment consisted of playing in the neighborhood.  Depending on the time of year, this looked like riding bikes up and down our dead end street, joining in on a game of kickball in the court across the street from our house, swinging on the vines or riding sleds in the woods behind our house, collecting tadpoles from the stream along the side of our house, making snow forts, or playing with dolls or other toys inside someone’s house.  However, one of the greatest memories of all was the neighborhood show. 

During the summertime, I would organize a group of friends from our neighborhood to perform.  We had many acts to delight the younger kids.  I know my friend Robin and I sang.  We even wore matching short sets and white knee high socks.  LuAnne dressed as like a gypsy and did a ventriloquist routine with her ‘friend’.  Several of the girls danced while Dorothy played the accordion.  The accordion was a popular instrument to learn back then.  Not sure why its popularity went away.  Finally, some of my friends exhibited their artwork.

LuAnne, one of my best friends growing up, performing her act.  I notice here my cousin Kevin from Long Island, so I guess our guests came from far and wide to see the show!

No show would be a show without a great venue.  If you are wondering where this wonderful show took place, it was in our family’s ‘little garage’.  This is what we called the second garage that my father added to the back of our house, next to the main garage.  We created our own backdrop for the stage, which was my Twister board hung from rope to cover my father’s tools and lawn mower.  We added posters and artwork to the sides of the Twister board to add a special artistic touch.  More artwork and posters lined the side of the garage doors.  Visitors could look at all these fabulous masterpieces before and after the show.

Our fabulous stage...Also, performers were more interested in their peer's approval.  How cute are the girls clapping for their friend?? 

Part of creating the venue was also to create the seating area.  We lined the audience area with picnic benches, my parents’ folding chairs, and borrowed chairs from some neighbors.  If you rode your bike down the street as Jeff did in the photo below, you sat on your bike to watch.   If seating got tight, which you can see from the photo, little ones sat on laps or kids squished together.  

I love that we did this for the younger kids in the neighborhood. 

Publicity was easy.  We lived on a long dead-end road and we had a neighborhood pool.  When we were putting on a show, everyone knew it and not because of a Facebook event invite.  Back then word of mouth was all you needed, but we made and hung some signs anyway because it was fun making them. Plus besides, what else was there for the kids to do during the day besides going to the pool?  This was a nice event to look forward to.

One thing I remember is that the kids watched the whole show intently and behaved so well. Perhaps it was a combination of instinct and upbringing. This was a special event for the kids in our neighborhood and it was new to many of them.  There was no talking during the show, standing up or shouting out, or leaving after their friend performed.  These are problems that exist today with behavior at performances.

Although my mother was home, no parent chaperones were needed or seen in any of the photos.  Adults were not part of this at all.  They were not adding their professional advice or making sure their kids were the best.  It was not about being the best.  It was about having fun and doing something creative with our time.

In sixth grade, Robin, Mindy, and I performed in the Crompond Elementary School Talent Show.  Our group, the Forget-Me-Nots, played guitar and sang Mr. Tambourine Man by Bob Dylan.  I also loved art classes and took them throughout high school.  But as I got older, I drifted more to sports.  Unfortunately, instead of embracing both I allowed my artistic side to fade to the background. 

It is interesting reflecting back on this memory because in 2007 I founded a non-profit organization called RMAC, Ridgefield Music and Arts Center.  Its mission is to provide performance and exhibition opportunities for students. My sons were interested in music and I guess I sensed that I had the ability to create something like this.  I was not thinking of my ‘experience as a 10 year-old’ at the time, but I think it is kind of interesting now that I dusted off these memories and look back on them.  The shows RMAC puts on are organized by high school students under adult advisors’ supervision.  We have to think about renting venues and providing insurance, which means providing adult chaperones.  The age group is different too; my neighborhood shows were organized and put on by 10-12 year olds, so the concerns were different. 

My neighborhood friends and fellow artists.

Going back to my opening statement, times were different then than they are today.  I sure do miss those simpler times of pure creativity of the kids, by the kids, and for the kids.

A House in the Bronx

On Olinville Avenue in the Bronx, not far from Gun Hill Road, sits a three family house that was once shared and owned by my maternal grandparents and great aunts.  The family immigrated from Campobasso, Italy in the early 1900s.  As was the case for many families at that time, they chose to live together to help each other out and because they were a close-knit family.  Although my family has not owned this house for over 40 years, I have warm memories of it from when I was very young.

I remember the excitement that ran through me as our family drove from Yorktown Heights to visit.  We would have contests to see who could spot and count the most animals driving down the Taconic Parkway.  Sheep, cows, groundhogs, deer; they were all very exciting to see along the road.  As we exited at Gun Hill Road, we saw the familiar landmark of the elevated train.  Needless to say we were not in Kansas, I mean Yorktown anymore.  A few turns around narrow roads lined with cars parked on both sides led us to 'grandma’s house'.  Regardless of who owned it or who paid the bills, it was always about grandma.  My father would religiously point out which house he used to live in as well as other relatives who lived in the neighborhood.  We would hear the same stories each time.  Looking back, I am glad he drilled them into me because now I point them out to our sons.

Another new concept to me was watching my dad parallel park along the street.  Somehow there always seemed to be a little bit of space for him to craftily squeeze into.  As you approached the house from the sidewalk, there were two sets of steps to climb before a majestic wooden wrap-around porch greeted you.  It is here that I sat with my great Aunt Mary learning how to crochet when I was six years old.  It was a skill that she insisted I know and to this day I am happy to carry on some aspect of her creative legacy through the items that I crochet. There were some chairs on the porch looking out to a front lawn of greenery and flowers in the spring.

 

 My dad by the steps leading to the porch; my grandfather sitting on the porch.

As you entered the house you had a choice to ascend to the second floor or turn left.  Turning left took you to the ground floor apartment.  This is where my great Aunt Mary and Aunt Betty lived.  Neither of the sisters married, although Aunt Mary had several suitors. Born in Italy, she was the oldest of six siblings who survived.  She turned down a few proposals when the men wanted her to give up working and become a full time wife. She was an independent woman who would not compromise her career goals if that were what being a wife meant.  She was a seamstress who specialized in embroidery and had her own business in the Bronx.  She embroidered the inaugural gowns of two First Ladies:  Florence Harding and Eleanor Roosevelt.  Both of these gowns are currently on display at the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. 

As you entered the living room, there was a candy jar that was always filled with candy.  It was the first stop we made when entering the house and a welcome one at that.  The upholstered couches were now covered in plastic because there were so many little ones running around.  I remember their stiffness when I attempted to sit on them.  Big Italian family dinners were generally held in their dining room for the adults, while the kids were relegated to gather round the kitchen table in the next room over.  Above that kitchen table hung a beautiful Tiffany lamp that I always admired.  It was decorated with bright colored stained glass fruit. After all the kids cleaned their plates of the first course of homemade melt-in-your-mouth lasagna, we scattered off to play while the adults went on to their second course and did that boring thing called talking.

This was the only photo I could find of the downstairs dining room.  You can see the kids eating in the kitchen off to the left, being fed by Aunt Betty.

Downstairs in the basement was Aunt Mary’s workroom.  We couldn’t wait for Aunt Mary to invite us down, which happened most visits.  As we descended the steep cement steps, we entered a world of treasures.  She would take us to one of her many bead boxes and always gave us some beads or trinkets.  We would use them to make jewelry or for decorations.  Sometimes they just went home into one of our little boxes of gems from Aunt Mary.  We were like kids in a candy store and were in awe of all the amazing sparkly beads and sequins she had.  We had such fun excursions to that room.

Going back to the entry foyer and up the set of carpeted steps led to my grandparents’ apartment.  Since my poppy died when I was six, most of my memories of that apartment were with my gram.  This was my favorite place to have a sleepover.  When I was with one of my siblings or cousins, we slept in the end room.  Other times I got to sleep in one of the twin beds in my gram’s room.  I felt like I won the lottery when I got to be in her room.   I remember hearing the elevated trains running all night long along Gun Hill Road.  Gram said I would get used to it quickly and she was right.  My favorite memory was having breakfast with her in the morning.  It consisted of toast with lots of butter and coffee.  If felt like one of the adults when I got to have coffee.  Of course the ‘coffee’ was made up of mostly milk and sugar, which is why it was so dang delicious.  It is those warm memories that make me smile to this day.

Going up yet one more set of narrow steps brought you to Aunt Helen’s attic apartment.  Smaller than her sisters’ places below her, it was perfect for her now that her family was raised and on their own.  I would venture up there once a day to visit and see what fun things she had for me to do.  Of course I believed that my grandmother and all my great aunts’ number one priority was to keep me entertained.  Aunt Helen would show me her photo albums, books, and other interesting trinkets.  Before long, I was bounding down the steps and off to the backyard.

Although the yard was small, we would entertain ourselves for quite some time.  All it took was a small tennis ball or just running around the nooks and crannies of the property.  I remember the grape vines growing in the back of the house, which were used to make their wine. There was a narrow driveway on the right side of the house.  Although it was part of their property, none of them owned a car or drove, so they didn’t use it. 

From time to time when I am driving home from New York City and am not in a hurry, I pull off at the Gun Hill Road exit and drive past the house.  I point out the houses that my relatives used to the lucky person in the car with me.  The family house looks so small and compact now; not the grand mansion I remember.  I have never rung the bell to ask if I could peek inside or walk around the backyard, nor would I want to.  I need to retain the faint memories I have of how it looked inside without it being taken over by the new owners’ furnishings.  As it is, I am saddened to see that the porch is no longer there.

I feel blessed that I got to know so many of my older relatives well before they passed.  Many of them lived well into their nineties, but Aunt Mary enjoyed 107 ½ years.  Yes, that half-year is important to include.  Perhaps her long life can be partially attributed to the fact that she never did marry and to her nightly shot of vermouth.  Of course I wish our time together was longer, but I am the person I am today because of their influence on me as well as how they brought up my parents.  I miss my gram and my aunts and that big old white house on Olinville Avenue, which hosted many great memories.  I wish I had more photos of the house itself, but my memories will have to continue to serve as the visual.  It is the people and the feelings we have from a house that makes it a home. 

Should the Trees Go?

Last week, Superstorm Sandy wreaked havoc along the east coast with its wind, flooding, and chaos from downed trees and wires.  Lives and homes were lost, schools were closed, and cleanup cost millions of dollars.  Last year there were two other major storms, which also caused grief; Hurricane Irene in August and Snowtober in October, which dumped a boatload of snow on the leaves of trees.  Each of them also caused downed trees and branches, resulting in power outages for over a week in many communities and also a loss of a week of school.  Lots of criticism was made about slow response time, lack of preparedness and resources, and decisions made.    I am not looking to criticize any of those areas; I would like to talk about the trees.

Much of the damage in the storms is caused from the high winds, flooding, and downed trees.  There is nothing we can do to control the wind or the water, but we can do more about the trees.  Whether trees are ripped out by their roots or severed in half, they have landed on cars, buildings, and electrical wires.  They have blocked roads and caused long detoured rides to work.  The electrical outages make life unsafe, close schools and businesses, and cause people to be cranky when they have to live like a pioneer. 

Everyone loves trees.  What’s not to like?  People enjoy their shade, their rainbow of foliage, and their flowers in the spring. Trees provide beauty to our landscape and line our streets with character.   People get upset if their town has plans to take down trees, especially if they are old.  I love trees too, but I think those of us who live in the country need to rethink their boundaries.

I’ll start with our property.  Our house sits on just over an acre of land.  We have some trees on the borders of our property and a few on the lawn.  There are trees that have come down, both by storms and by us, over the last 22 years.  When it was our decision to take down a tree, it was because of its close proximity to the house.  There is only one large tree left that we fear, an old hickory.  It is 12 feet in circumference and towers about 100 feet high.  It is about 20 feet from our road and leans slightly toward our front yard and corner of our house.  We have left it there because of the characteristics mentioned earlier: beauty, shade and character.  But we have decided it needs to come down.  Each time we heard another crack or howl of wind during this last storm, fear ate away at the inside of our stomachs like a hyena cleaning a carcass.  We don’t want to go through that again. 

There are many things I would rather do with $3,000, but I know the responsible thing to do is to take it down.  Maybe it is time for others to take inventory of the trees that remain on their property, assess their potential danger, and create a timeline and budget for the ones that should be taken down.  This action could bring peace of mind and could also eliminate possible future insurance claims.   By no means am I suggesting that we all strip our properties bare, but as I drive around town, there are many trees that are a disaster waiting to happen.

Certainly cost is a factor in taking trees down.  In our town, if a tree is 12 feet from the street, the town is responsible for it.  If the tree is diseased or is at risk of falling, it will be put on a list to be removed if you let the town know.  We had one such large tree what was struck by lightening and was taken down years ago.  We certainly breathed a sigh of relief at not having to foot that bill.

But the decision to take down any other trees on our property is ours, as is the cost.   The hickory is now in our budget.  Perhaps it is time for others to create a budget and timeline for taking down some of the trees that jeopardize their homes and neighborhoods the most too.  Being proactive is generally better than having to be reactive after the tree comes tumbling down and does its damage.  Food for thought.

Hurricane Irene took down several trees on our neighbor's property.  This shows the root system of two trees.

When storms can knock down trees of this size, we need to be vigilant.