Saturday, suns out, great day to be out in the yard getting things prepped for the upcoming year. Love these times when bushes start to bloom, birds are tending to their young and the thought of planting tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers and herbs warms the soul providing anticipation of the crops to come. A day in the yard. It doesn’t get much better than this. Sunday morning waking up scratching, oh boy looks like I must have gotten a couple of insect bites. Boy do these buggers itch. Oh well, had them before, a little hydrocortisone cream should do the trick.

Monday and Tuesday, these nasty bites are still so darn itchy but it looks like they are less red and I’m on the road to recovery. No worries, just wish they wouldn’t itch so much. Wednesday morning beautiful day, get up, give a light morning wake up scratch to my mid section, head off to the kitchen for some juice, coffee and my morning reading. The weather is gorgeous so I spend some time out on the deck enjoying the Spring weather and thinking about getting ready to go to work. Off to the bathroom to get dressed, slip off my night clothes and… what’s this, a small rash on my mid section. What the heck could this be from? I know its not shingles because it the rash is on both sides of my body. Did I eat something different, no. Did I change laundry detergents, no. Did I use a different soap or shampoo, no. What the heck. I’ll call the doctor and nip this thing in the bud.

That afternoon, the rash seems to have spread around all the areas that had insect bites, two on the back of my right leg, one under my right arm and one on the back of my left leg. The doctor gives me some prescription ointment to calm the itching. It doesn’t seem like it’s spreading anymore. I put on the ointment and joyous relief. Ok, just need to ride out the healing process now. I sleep a restful sleep, no itching, yep nipped this thing in the bud.

Thursday morning I wake to some itching. No problem, got my cream and this will help. The day goes on, the itching becomes more intense. The cream appears to only be slightly working. What is going on? At night the itching seems to ease and so I go to bed with the hopes of a better tomorrow. I wake up five times during the night with itching that is about to drive me mad. Ok, this is getting crazy. When I get up in the morning, the rash has spread around my midsection to part of my back, down my one leg and up my right arm. This is nuts. I call the doctor, go in for another visit and it is steroid time. It is definitely an allergic reaction, but to what who knows. That remains to be seen.

The body is a strange and wonderful thing, but when an allergic reaction occurs it goes haywire. Every inch of the affected area is itching like there is no tomorrow with no guarantee that we have solved the problem. The steroids should do the trick, but if the allergen (and who knows what that is) is still present, the body will flare up again. If that occurs, the next step is a visit to the allergist. What fun. So here I sit typing away in the hopes that I will not be tempted to scratch praying for the steroids to take affect and hoping that this mysterious allergen is no where to be found anymore. It’s been quite a week. How was yours?

I am not gay, never have been, never will be. I always have been sexually attracted to men. It is who I am to the core of my being. Heck, I never even knew gays existed until I was in college (how I lived in such a bubble I will never know). But I do remember that fateful day I learned about homosexuality. I was in a play production at Northern Illinois University and sitting in the audience during a rehearsal of a scene I was not in. I was watching the actors on stage especially admiring a handsome young man in the scene. I turned to the guy sitting next to me in the audience and said something to the effect of “how gorgeous is he” and he said, “I know, he’s my lover.” I almost fell off the chair.

I went back to my dorm room and called my mom. I asked her if she knew about gays and she said yes. When I asked her why she never told me she simply said the subject never came up. I was floored. The thought had never occurred to me that someone could be sexually interested in someone else of the same sex. I remember at the time the thought of it did not repulse me, just confused me. As I was trying to sort out my feelings, I started thinking about my friends in the play. Up to this point they were my friends. Does it change now that I know their sexual orientation? What happened if someone decided not to like me because I was a heterosexual? Does any person have the right to make those types of judgments? I thought long and hard about it and decided that since I had no desire to be judged, liked or disliked because I liked the opposite sex, I was in no position to judge, like or dislike someone because their sexual orientation differed from mine. Defining moment for me. And from then on, I’ve had a wealth of friends gay and straight and do not or will not differentiate between the two of them.

Heck, I’ve even been propositioned by gay women. Once my husband and I were in our favorite restaurant in Chicago “Two Doors South” (a restaurant owned by two gay men on Clark Street that is no longer in existence) and I needed to use the ladies room. The restaurant had one toilet for women and one for men. The women’s bathroom was locked and so I waited my turn. A young woman came out of the bathroom and stopped in front of me. As I began to walk around her toward the bathroom she touched my arm and said, “I’ve been watching you all evening. You have the most gorgeous eyes. Would you care to meet me for a drink sometime?” I smiled and said to her, “The gentleman I’m having dinner with is my husband, but thank you, your compliment just made my day. I appreciate you saying such nice things but unfortunately it will not be possible to meet you for a drink. ” She smiled and said, “You can’t blame a girl for trying” and we went our separate ways. I remember thinking I was pleased that another women found me sexually attractive, but it did not change the fact that I wanted my sexual partners to be men. Being involved in theatre in Chicago I was propositioned many more times, always appreciating the compliment but it never changed from my sexual orientation. To this day, some of my closest friends are gay, the best man at our wedding was gay, I probably have as many if not more gay friends than straight friends. But I really don’t even put that monicker on them anymore, they are all my friends. What they do behind closed doors is their business. I love them for who they are and the friendship they bring.

So why are we so polarized about gay marriage? To me it is so simple. If two people love each other and want sanction that union legally, who are we as a society to say they cannot. Heck, if the straights have it so figured out, why is the divorce rate in this country so high? What is the big deal? Why is government compelled to interfere? If it is a religious conviction, then I think we’ve forgotten that a long time ago our forefathers made it very clear in the constitution that there is to be a separation between church and state. If a religious group, as part of their religious organization, wants to ban gay marriage – go ahead. It’s their purview. But government cannot ban something based on a religious conviction. So the way government tries to get around it is to define in legal terms the definition of marriage as a civil union between a man and a woman. Then they have the legal right to ban it. In my mind there are a wealth of other social issues that need much more attention.

I am so tired of all of this. Banning gay marriage is simply wrong. Those who oppose it need to get their noses out of other people’s business and concentrate on their own lives and relationships. It’s time to change this abomination. This issue, no doubt, will be on the forefront of the presidential election campaigns this year. Nasty rhetoric will fly and lies and half truths will be fed to the American public. Throughout all of this I have only one piece of advice for those who will be doing all the mud slinging: Judge not lest thee be judged…

Yesterday Saint Scholastica, an all girls Catholic High School on the North Side of Chicago, announced it will be closing its doors at the end of the 2012 school year. Since it would take an overall enrollment of 400 plus and additional $3 Million in donations to keep the school open, the board of directors comprised of 44 nuns with a median age of 77 voted to shut down the school.  Now doesn’t that say a mouthful!

I graduated from an all girls Catholic High School (Maria High School) that also announced this year that it will transition into a charter school within the next two years. When I graduated, we had over 300 girls in my graduating class. Now Maria doesn’t even have 300 girls in the entire school. To add insult to injury the grammar school I attended, St. Joseph and St. Anne, closed its doors many years ago and the building is now owned and operated by the Chicago Public Schools. So other than Northern Illinois University, all of the schools I attended when I was growing up are or will soon be gone.

I never liked going to an all girls Catholic High School at the time I went. I was like many other 13 year old girls, interested in boys and dismayed by the fact that they would no longer be in the classroom with me. My dismay was for all the wrong reasons, but I remember feeling repressed and angry that I would have to spend four years looking only at nuns and other girls. Of course there was the occasional lay faculty, but that was rare at the time. Now it’s rare to see nuns teaching in any classroom. And if they are still around, their median age is in the upper 70’s.

I didn’t realize at the time that I was actually being given a gift that I couldn’t possibly understand until much later in my life. There is a wealth of research out there showing how young girls educated in a same sex environment excel to a much greater degree than those in a mixed gender environments, especially in the teen years. Since there is no pressure to compete with boys, they develop a strong sense of worth and esteem that provides a solid foundation for them when faced with that competition in later years.  I never gave it a second thought when I got into college and especially when I got into the workforce. I never felt at a disadvantage competing with men, it was simply a given. I just knew that I could achieve whatever I set my sights on, and understood what it would take to get there and how to do it. Looking back now, I understand how important those years were and how they prepared me for the successes I had and the challenges I would face. I never doubted in myself and knew I would always find a way even during the darkest times in my life. And even though I could write a whole slue of “war stories” of things that happened during those high school years, I never realized how that educational environment shaped my opinion of myself and my belief in my ability to succeed.

It’s sad that systematically these educational opportunities are going the way of the dinosaur. But then again, maybe so am I.

This past week we all heard about the tragic death of Whitney Houston. So young, so gifted, what a waste to die at age 48. The news coverage was laden with who was responsible for her untimely death. Was it bad boy Bobby Brown who took the naive young princess and turned her into a wacked out crack head?  Was it the music industry more intent on selling records than on the health and welfare of a human being? Or was it Whitney herself who some claim was a “party girl” and merely showing more of her true self as time went on?

The more I heard these questions the more aggravated I became. Until the toxicology reports come back we will not have a definitive answer. But once again this situation sadly shows what the culture in this country has truly become – one of inability for taking personal responsibility. It’s always someone else’s fault, right? The doctors who prescribed the medication, the entourage comprised of “yes” people who let her drink and party, the drug dealers who provided her drugs and on and on until I literally want to puke. In reality if blame must be assigned look no further than Whitney Houston herself.

I attended a transformational training session about six years ago conducted by a man named Ted Willey who wrote the book “The Power of Choice” (a link to this book is at the bottom of this blog). Through laughter and innuendo he held up the mirror to everyone in the room and challenged them to take personal responsibility with a simple statement – “You are the product of the choices you make”, period. Sadly we have forgotten in our society how to be 100% responsible and to take 100% responsibility for our actions. Just break down the pronunciation of word responsible and you will get response “able”. Not response impaired, not response sometimes, but response “able”, able to take full responsibility for whatever choices in life we make. If you choose to eat more calories than you expend you will gain weight, period.  It’s not the fast food industry’s fault for not posting nutritional information in its restaurants. You made the conscious choice to put the food in our mouth and not exercise. If you get burned by spilling hot coffee on yourself it’s not McDonalds’ fault for not putting “caution this is hot” on the outside of the coffee cup. You spilled it on yourself and it was hot, period.  If you are late for work it’s not because the snow caused a major traffic jam. You made the conscious choice not to leave early enough to get to work on time, period. Plain and simple – we are the product of the choices we make.

Anyone who is an artist is plagued by insecurity and self doubt. Anyone in the Arts knows that to be true. It is one of the major factors that drives people to the Arts in the first place. Through theatre, dance, music, and all other forms, artists can transform themselves, if only for a short while, into something that they believe they are not and could never be. Through performing artists get the adulation and affirmation they seek by often becoming someone that is so far from the core of who they really are. It is both a blessing and a curse. To find a outlet that creates a reality so different from your own self image is a high all onto itself. The downside comes if you continue to question whether you are good enough or talented enough to continually perform at a high caliber. That was probably the downfall of Whitney Houston. To hear Kevin Costner relate how she questioned her talent and beauty when doing a screen test for The Bodyguard was heart wrenching. Her talent was once in a lifetime and her beauty was second to none. Too bad she could not see it or believe it for herself.

But regardless of that, she made the conscious choice to turn to drugs to relieve her pain and insecurities. No one held her mouth open and poured the pills down her throat.  No one forced her to inhale cigarette smoke and party well into the night. She was responsible for how she treated her body. It was no one’s fault but her own.

• The Power of Choice by Ted Willey

Big story on Google News today – inmate Dannie Robbie Hembree Jr., convicted murderer of Heather Catterton writes a letter from a North Carolina prison espousing how he has been living the good life since his conviction. In his letter he says”

“Is the public aware that I am a gentleman of leisure, watching color TV in the A.C., reading, taking naps at will, eating three well balanced hot meals a day,” Hembree asked in the letter. “I’m housed in a building that connects to the new 55 million dollar hospital with round the clock free medical care 24/7.”

The article goes on to say that the victim’s family is furious about the letter, and rightly so – but maybe not for the right reasons. I’m not sure we should prevent an inmate from doing something like this. If this is true, and somehow I don’t doubt that it is, someone who has been convicted of murder is sitting around living a life that many people on the outside cannot afford to do – watching tv, eating three squares a day, and what about that access to health care?  Many Americans would love to have that. And he goes on in the letter to say that the likelihood of him being put two death within the next 20 years is nil. So who is being punished here, really?

But one thing he says make me believe that by his actions he could help the change the system. First of all he is creating enough of a furor to heighten the awareness of the general public. For too long we have put our head in the sand regarding how screwed up the justice system in this country can be.  In his letter he challenges those on the “outside” to do what was decided in the courtroom and and murder him. Strong language, but sometimes we need the wet towel slap to wake up. He is doing an “in your face”  with the public and basically saying put up or shut up. He is challenging a justice system that tends to err on the side of puritanical civility by holding up the mirror on how we treat victims and criminals – ass backwards. This may be wisdom in its basest form. The system is a joke, the victim and their families live through torture for years and the person who perpetrates the crime gets three warm meals and state-of-the-art health care.  Mr. Embree is a genius as far as I am concerned. When will we ever learn?

Death Row inmate writes taunting letter

Can you feel it? Something is different, very different. It only happens once a year and it is magical. I don’t know about you but every Christmas Eve something changes. I’ve never been able to put my finger on it but it’s palatable. This year it could be the remnants of the 14 inch snowfall we had two days ago. Santa will definitely be maneuvering through the white stuff in Colorado tonight. Maybe it’s the wrapped presents under the tree or the neighbors stopping by with holiday goodies. Maybe it’s the smell the glazed ham or the stuffing baking in the oven while the cranberries are popping on the stove. Maybe its the anticipation of the ghosts visiting Ebenezer Scrooge or Clarence getting his wings or Bing once again singing White Christmas. I’m not exactly sure why today always seems so different but it does.

People are rushing but they’re smiling and offering holiday greetings. Scores of people are wearing Santa hats and reindeer antlers, lighted necklaces  and a wide variety of tacky holiday sweaters and socks. There’s last minute shopping for gifts, food and booze all in anticipation of the evening to come. For some families the main celebration is on Christmas Eve, for others its Christmas Day and some brave souls celebrate both in earnest. But regardless of the wide variety of traditions and beliefs, it all begins to start feeling different today.  Why?

As I was traveling out and about today I gave that some serious thought. Here I was in my car and once again feeling very different. Why does this happen every year at this time? And even though I’ve never been able to figure it out, something suddenly something dawned on me. Unfortunately as you get older you tend to get a little jaded about some things. You’ve been around the block a few times and seldom do you look at things with childlike awe and innocence… except on Christmas Eve. It is the day when you believe again, in angels, in people, in goodness, in family, friends and yes, even Santa Claus. The tree seems brighter, the presents shinier and there is the anticipation of reindeer on the roof.  I know there is also a strong religious implication with this holiday, and although I am not traditionally religious, there is also the belief that many years ago on this night in a stable in Bethlehem the Christ child was born. On no other day do these feelings occur making Christmas Eve perhaps the most special day of the year.

So on this Christmas Eve, I am thankful for my family and friends and grateful for the many blessings in my life. I am also missing my parents who instilled in me a special appreciation for this time of year, but am feeling them in spirit sharing with me the joys of this special day. And in the spirit of sharing, some past holiday memories of my family and me set to some of my dad’s favorite holiday music. Merry Christmas to all!

For as long as I can remember it has been the perennial argument at this time of year – are we jumping the gun on Christmas and glossing over Thanksgiving? Many people have very clear opinions on the subject and do not hesitate to voice them especially when they see Christmas decorations go up earlier and earlier every year. And to add insult to injury, retailers are upping the ante on Black Friday this year with some opening their doors at 10 p.m. on Thanksgiving night. So how does someone have dinner with the family on Thanksgiving and still go to bed early enough to get a good night sleep in order to adequately function during the 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. shift? Beats me…

Are we moving farther and farther away from celebrating Thanksgiving? My opinion used to fall on the side of giving Thanksgiving its rightful due. After all, we have plenty of time to enjoy Christmas and New Years. No need to parade them out before Thanksgiving. I mean, how can you have breakfast with Santa before you have turkey with the Pilgrims. It just doesn’t make sense… or does it?

Christmas time is my absolute favorite part of  the year – and whether you call it Christmas, Kwanza, Hanukkah or whatever, it is a season of warmth, love and giving. As a child, I remember feeling like it took forever for Christmas get here after Thanksgiving. There were the traditional holiday shopping trips, the holiday parties, the holiday movies and all the usual fanfare. There was so much time to revel in all of the festivities. But it doesn’t feel that way anymore. You blink an eye and it’s Halloween, then Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years and before you know it it’s Valentine’s Day. Where does the time go?

I’ve found that people, on average, are a little nicer at Christmas time. They smile more readily. They greet you more often. And even though there is a lot of hustle and bustle the overall spirit of the season seems to prevail. I’ve often thought if we could bottle and sell Christmas spirit all year long the world might be a more peaceful place. Let’s face it – the image of Santa makes people smile. Singing “I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas” makes people laugh. Reliving the plight of Ebenezer Scrooge reminds people of what is truly important in life. Smiling, laughing, cherishing what is truly important – these are things we should do all year long. But we tend to only make special note of them during the holidays. What prevents us for reinforcing it throughout the year?

So if elongating the holiday season helps to consistently bring front and center the importance of the simple things in life, I’m all for it. Bring on Christmas paraphernalia in  October! Don’t take the tree down until March! Play Christmas music in your car in July!  Bake some Christmas cookies in September! Keep some holiday decorations up in your house all year long! Let the true spirit of the season be pervasive in your life throughout the entire year. Then we won’t have to debate if we are jumpstarting the Christmas holiday too soon – it will have never left us. I’m all for that!

I am always amazed when a teacher, coach or anyone else in a position of trust uses the excuse of lapse of judgment when it comes to the emotional and sexual well being of a child. Maybe I was lucky, I don’t know. But when I was teaching children that was always foremost in my mind. And no one had to teach me to do that. It was innate – the feeling of treating others the way I wanted to be treated regardless of their age, recognizing that when you are in a position of trust you have the power to save or ruin a young persons life. I don’t remember anyone pounding that into my head when I got my teaching degree – it was assumed you knew. But I guess you know what they say about assume.

How a 50+ year old man can “assume” it is ok to “horseplay” by taking showers with 10 year old boys makes my blood boil. He has admitted to that and that in itself is an abomination. I know men tend to be wired differently and some have less inhibitions than women as it relates to their naked bodies, but children do not. Ten year old boys are children. Children are very easily taken in by adults, especially those who give them things they would not have otherwise had or enrich their lives with experiences they thought were never possible. Someone who does this for a child has to have pure motives, right? Someone who does this has to care, has to have a child’s best interests at heart, right? Someone like this would never hurt a child, right?  Alas, the trap…

I taught young children for fourteen years. In the back of my mind was always the thought to first to insure their safety, and then to provide them access to a responsible,  caring adult always making sure the line was drawn, however delicately, between adult and child. I was not their friend (in light of how they perceived friendship at that age), I was someone who was not their parent but cared for them as a pseudo-parent or older sister when their parents could not be around. I made sure they understood the ground rules and I also expected them to expect from me no less than what I expected from them.

I never worried about physical contact – I taught dance and that was part of the program. Showing a child how to position their leg to have correct turn-out, positioning their core so that they had strong balance, adjusting arms, shoulders and elbows for correct form – I never worried about this. But there was a reason. This was always done in class and always done with many other classmates around – this was never one-on-one in a private place away from everyone else.  Often I would demonstrate on myself if I sensed a child might be uneasy with any type of physical demonstration on them. And this was never done out of the context of the classroom. I made sure it was clear that it applied to the physical discipline I was teaching.

Then there was the hugging. Young children, and I taught mostly girls, love to hug. It was a demonstration of love and something they naturally did with their families and friends. To them I was family. But again I made sure hugs were not done when you were alone with a child, and however sad that may sound a teacher can never afford to have their motives questioned. One question and your reputation can be ruined for a lifetime. That is all a part of being in a position of trust – it is the best position in the world to be in but  it carries tremendous responsibility.

So as I think about what is going on now at Penn State I find it hard to swallow that a grown man can have that type of “lapse” of judgement with a young child. It angers and frustrates me to no end. And in the end it affects all of us by making the job of a good teacher even that much harder.

After my dad passed away in 1998 my mom continued to live in their home in Florida. In early 2004,  I finally convinced her to sell the house and move to Colorado. The house sold quickly, no surprise to me, it was a gorgeous home on a corner lot, and within six weeks of making her decision she had relocated to Colorado. My mom found a great place in Longmont, an apartment building that catered to people 55 and over but was not a traditional senior citizen complex. The building was owned by a wealthy couple who bought it specifically to provide housing for their aging parents. When you walked in you would never guess that it was a “seniors” residence. It made me realize how we, including myself,  pigeon-hole people into certain stereotypes and project certain images into that. I was expecting doilies, smells, tacky decorations. But it was just a beautiful well-kept building. What a concept! It had a small movie theatre on the main floor as well as a party kitchen. The owners planned a few outings every month and they transported those that wanted to attend the events in a limousine. My mother was in heaven.

We had some great times when she was here – going out to dinner, seeing plays, being tourists in our own state. We even did sleep overs. Quite often on a Friday after work I would drive out to her apartment and we’d go out to dinner. I would stay over night and take her grocery shopping the next day. My mom had macular degeneration and once she got here to Colorado it appeared to worsen rather quickly. After she was here for about a year it got so bad that she couldn’t drive anymore. She often told me that although leaving Florida was one of the hardest things she ever did, she was so grateful that she was near me and that she had the support she needed to deal with her failing eye sight. It was great for me to have her here. All of my adult life we lived thousands of miles apart – she in Florida, me in Chicago, Dayton and Boulder. We would see each other over the holidays and maybe one other time during the year. It gave me the opportunity to spend a good deal of time with her and get to know here all over again. I will always be grateful for that.

Right before the holidays in 2005 things started to happen. My mother was very health conscious (although she continued to smoke cigarettes and had all her life) and in her later years and worked hard at eating properly and working out. When she lived in Florida she went to the gym three times a week, walked at least two miles on the track and worked out on some of the machines. The apartment building she lived in in Longmont had a fitness room on the third floor just down the hall from her apartment and she kept up that regimen when she moved to Colorado. One day when we were talking on the phone she told me that she must have worked out a little too hard on one of the machines because she was experiencing a slight pain in her back. I thought nothing off it but would come to realize a few months later that it signified the onset of her lung cancer. She dismissed the slight pain as well and told me she would be more careful when exercising.

The next sign came when we went Christmas shopping. We were at the Colorado Mills Mall and at one point she asked if she could sit down for a moment. That puzzled me because my mother never asked to do that before when we were shopping. But she was still a cigarette smoker and sometimes the altitude would get to her. I just dismissed it as that and let her sit while I went into a couple of stores. Once she had rested she was fine for the rest of the day.

After the first of the year a friend of my mom’s in the apartment building called me and said she was worried about her. She was a former nurse and she told me she knew something was wrong but did not know what. When I called my mom she dismissed it – she said she was just tired but she was fine. I found out later she did not want to worry me but at that point she did not even have the strength to walk down to hall to drop off her garbage.

It all came crashing down one evening. My mom called me and admitted she was not feeling well. She kept saying she felt like she had something in her chest and it felt like all she needed to do was have a good belch and it would be ok. I took her to urgent care where they took an x-ray of her chest and gave her something that seemed to subside the strange feeling she had in her chest. She was feeling better and I took her back home. I found out the next day that urgent care called her to tell her that she had pneumonia and that she should see a doctor right away. My mom told them that she had a doctor’s appointment the following week and she would wait till then. I’m not sure why my mom thought that pneumonia was trivial but she did. And of course it is not and two days after that she called me to tell me she could hardly breathe. I called her doctor and begged her to see us, and fortunately she did. The doctor listened to my mom’s breathing and immediately said that she was going to admit her to the hospital. My mom kept saying “can’t you give me something for this and I will take it at home?” to which both the doctor and I both said no. Once she was hospitalized it was determined that it was much more than pneumonia, it was congestive heart failure. She needed to be on oxygen and blood thinners as well as a wide variety of other medications. We also got a nurse to visit her three times a week to monitor her progress and assist with some basic needs around the house. She appeared to be responding to treatment.

And then it happened… I was driving to work and I called her. I called her every day on the way to work. She was in pain, in tears, and hysterical. She said if she had to live with this kind of pain that she wanted to die. I had never heard my mom say that. I immediately called 911 and had her taken to the hospital. When I walked in to the emergency room she was lying on a bed looking frail and helpless. They had taken an an x-ray and noticed a compression fracture of the spine but could not see what caused it. They ordered a scan the next day, Friday.

I will never forget that Friday. At my mom’s request I had gotten a facial that morning. It had been a very stressful time for me trying to manage my mother’s care and a full time job. My husband was hospitalized at the exact same time and my head was in the clouds most of the time trying to juggle everything. The facial seemed to help and I was more relaxed than I had been for quite some time. I got home and decided to call my mom to see if she had gotten the results of the scan. I called her and she said matter-of-factly to me, “They told me I have lung cancer, but I won’t accept that.”

I rushed to the hospital and was fortunate enough to arrive just as her pulmonary doctor was visiting her. It was her primary care physician that had initially given her the news. My mom was not too fond of her primary care physician in the first place so it was easy for her to dismiss the diagnosis she provided. But she did like her pulmonary doctor and when he delivered the same news, she fought it first but started to realize that this was serious. I walked out into the hall with him and asked him how long she had. He stammered for a minute. I told him I was not going to sue him if he was wrong but that I needed to have some idea of what I was up against. He told me she had between three and six months. She lived for five.

My mom’s best friend was a woman by the name of Jean Rymas. It was through Jean that my mother met my dad. She and Jean would regularly go to dances at the Saint Agnes dance hall and it was over the holidays in 1942 that my mother and father first danced to the Kay Kaiser band. My dad knew his way around the dance floor and his charm and his dance moves swept her off her feet. When I asked my mom why she was attracted to my dad, she told me that initially it was because he looked like Tyrone Power – you can judge for yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their courtship lasted a few years mostly due to the fact of my dad’s military service. But finally on May 27, 1945 they were married at Immaculate Conception Church in Brighton Park on the South Side of Chicago. At that time my father and his brother owned a tavern, and that kind of business can be very hard on a new marriage. It requires a lot of hours trying to please drunken people in order to get return business. The times were very different then. No on cared if you drank yourself silly and then got into a car and drove home. There were no DUI’s no blood alcohol level tests. Televisions were not a common household items. Most people got news through radios. And because communication was so primitive, taverns and churches became the hubs of neighborhoods where people frequently gathered to feel part of a community. Taverns opened early and stayed open late. There were no holidays or sick days. A tavern was open every day, year-round, rain or shine. And that lifestyle is very difficult for a new family starting out.

They stayed in the tavern business until both my brother and I were born. My brother was born in 1947 and I followed in 1951. I almost didn’t make it into this world, though. Being in the tavern business both my uncle and my dad had guns in their apartments above the tavern to protect against violent customers or attempted robberies. One day when my mother was about six months pregnant with me my brother, who was almost four years old at the time, found the gun and thought it was a toy. He aimed it at my mother and said bang, bang but his fingers were to weak to actually pull the

trigger. My mom got the gun away from him, told my my dad and that was the driving force to get rid of the gun and get out of the tavern business. The night before I was born my mom was having a drink and a cigarette at the bar (remember, things were very different then), and all of a sudden got a taste for a fudgesicle. She told me she ate it and immediately went into labor. As I mentioned in my previous blog, my mom lived a very sheltered life. She once told me that when she was pregnant with my brother she thought he would be born through her belly button. By the time I came around she knew differently. She said she never had pain in child birth – she was not very stoic when she was in pain, and so she told me she probably would not have considered having a second child if the first birth was too painful. I’m glad she decided to give it a go one more time. And after all that on May 22, 1951 little Janice Marie arrived. My parents then bought a three-flat in Brighton Park and my dad opened a small neighborhood candy store. My mom’s mom lived on the first floor and we lived on the second floor. We would stay in that same building until I graduated from college my parents retired and moved to Florida in the early 1980″s.

Through the years I began to realize that mothers and daughters have interesting and complex relationships. In many ways I was exactly like my mom and in many ways I was the polar opposite. My life with my mom was loving, fiery and complicated and as I continue to recount these memories I am sure you will see that regardless of the ups and downs I would not have traded it for anything.