Now It Looks Like

 Yesterday, an interesting piece arrived in my inbox, incorporated into a daily drop called "Nice News".  The email author cited an essay written by author Amy Wheatherly that has now, via Facebook, gone viral.  In it, the mom-blogger humorously speaks to the thirty and forty-somethings about friendships and how they "change"over the years. For those of us who have been lucky enough, we certainly can relate. 

My immediate response was to forward a copy of the email to my friend Janet. She and I have shared a close friendship that has spanned almost seventy years. Along with Kel and Lori, we have been through every phase of our lives together, starting from grammar school in a New York suburb. So, of course, I had to run this by Janet and of course, I got a response that was priceless. We agreed that the dialogue has changed, that we have our own version of what we say to each other "nowadays" versus what we exchanged "then".  And, our communication system, maybe thanks in part to the wisdom of our children and grandchildren, has evolved into text messaging, replacing the old Princess phone on the Formica kitchen counter. I laugh when I think of how we whiled away the hours, and yet, we still managed to get a lot done as teenagers and then, as busy mothers. So much of our chit chat revolved around the need for more sleep, more money, more free time and more hours in the day. 

In the Amy Wheatherby essay, she features bytes of young women in exchanges that now typify their lives and how they differ from the chats of women a decade younger. How we navigate through friendships, changing over time. It's a fun little read but it does stop at age forty......Fortunately, friendships, at least some of mine, have not stopped at age forty. Nor, fifty. Nor sixty. Not even seventy. So, there's a whole new list of what we can and do say to each other, of words that have replaced those of young, energetic and yet-to-be real life- challenged women. Borrowing Amy Wheatherly's style if I may, here's what our friendships look more like now..........

Now it looks like waiting for messages letting us know that the tests are done and all is well for another year

Now it looks like "what do you do for the sore, creaky hands you wake up with?"

Now it looks like "is anyone still eating peppers?"

Now it looks like making plans to meet and plans ending like this: "I may have to cancel because I have a stomach bug" met with "I was going to call you and cancel because I have a tooth infection" coupled with "And Kel can't make it because she's exhausted from coughing"

Now it looks like "Was that really fifty years ago?"

Now it looks like "oh boy, if I day drink, I'll be out for hours"

Now it looks like "that waiter is very nice looking for a man of his age."

Now it looks like the day out being half a day

Now it looks like "I never hear from my children, forget about the grandchildren"

Now it looks like "days go by without......"

Now it looks like Words With Friends, Wordle and the Obits 

Now it looks like "could-nots and should-nots and will-nots"

Now it looks like "see-you-next-time...God-willing" 

Now it looks like "only if you have decaf "

Now it looks like "I don't drive at night"

Now it looks like "I've been taking it for twenty years and it hasn't caused dementia...yet"

Now it looks like "this may be the last time"

Now it looks like lipstick has been replaced by chapstick and concealer has become an out-of-pocket-expense

Now it looks like "did you ask for the Senior Discount"

Now it looks like travel insurance and aisle seats close to bathrooms just in case

Now it looks like "I had you on my mind all day today and forgot to text you"

Now it looks like "Seventy five? Noooooooooooo!!! It can't be"

Now it looks like "If not now, then when?"

In the Library

Last Thursday night, during my volunteer duty at the Dennis Memorial Library,  the very heart of the village in which I live, something extraordinary happened. Well, something memorable on one level or another happens there regularly, but this, to me, was extraordinary and an event that I shall never forget. 

A set of young women have been showing up on a regular basis each Thursday evening. They pass by our front desk, smile and exchange pleasantries with us before retreating to a quiet room where they sit together at a table. At first, it was assumed that they were studying together, perhaps working on a mutual assignment or maybe one was tutoring the other. The possibilities also included an English as a Second Language meetup.  But, as the weeks progressed, my library duties allowed me to pass by that room and observe the two women who clearly were just having a good time, enjoying each others company, softly chatting and laughing. A tea party, minus the tea. I never asked, nor did my fellow volunteers. Our library welcomes such meetings. It's not always about the books. DML is so much more in our community.

So, on Thursday, one of the  two women came in alone. She stopped briefly at the desk on her way back to the quiet room, and said that her friend could not make it this evening. She remained until about twenty minutes before closing time when she emerged and came up to our desk with a question. "Is it possible to become a member?" A huge smile crossed her face and her big brown eyes lit up when I told her that yes, she certainly could join our library. I  nearly burst from joy as I invited her with, "Would you like a card right now? Fill out this form and you will have your own in a few minutes" Her questions, to those of us who were born clutching our own library cards as we emerged from the womb,  might have seemed  naive. But to her, each answer brought remarkable pleasure as her eyes grew brighter and brighter. While preparing her spanking new library card, she asked if this would allow her to take any book home, And then, she selected a book and used her own card for the very first time. Out came the little slip of paper which tells patrons when their book is due back and again, a moment of joy. "I can really keep it for a MONTH????" 

I'm not sure why these women meet at the library. There are a host of possibilities. Maybe they live in homes where the noise levels are bothersome. Maybe they are escaping a reality and finding comfort and safety from being surrounded by books and people who share their love of the written word. Libraries have become so much more than they were during my childhood when the expectation was the keeping of a silence from entrance to exit, the presentation of a card and the promise to return the borrowed book within the two week allowed time. Infractions were not tolerated and "overdue" books were met with fines upon return. Failure to pay the fine resulted in the loss of future dealings until paid in full. If nothing else, the system taught us respect for books and  a good dose of responsibility, nevermind respect for those who were using the library for research. With the advent of the internet, fewer and fewer people are willing to give up an evening of mindless network t.v. for an evening at their local. Need information, you get instant information. So, the modern library is so much more than a hushed environment that caters to the serious, the quiet, the introvert. As in the case of the two friends who visit on Thursday nights, the library is also the place of social discourse, a safe haven, a book-lined hangout. 

I probably will take some time this week, if we are again visited on Thursday evening, to get more acquainted with the new card holder. My curiosity is raised. It's my turn to get some information. It's also an opportunity for me to gloat, to be proud and happy for having been the one who started what I hope will be a lifelong love story. You see, I totally get it. I'm still in awe, and have been since my childhood, of the very fact that such places exist, that throughout time, they have endured and remained on the scene in thousands of communities. I still get a thrill each time I cross a library threshold and I am still in love with the idea that yes, I can take a book, or maybe an armful at a time of books, home. And, yes, I can keep them for a month, or maybe more if I need to. Any yes, all of this is free, available and open to me and to you and to every and any one who wants to read, learn, watch. listen or just hang out.  

Scrapbook

 I unearthed what might be the most significant piece of what will one day be my "history", my childhood scrapbooks. We are finishing up a project at home, making what was once a standard basement, into what is now our "first floor". In the rear, we have carved out a storage area and I personally have been ruthless in clearing it out and saving only those things that absolutely must be.  I think I have finally finished gathering and stacking piles of useless items for dump runs and can remove the number of the lovely women who have done them for us off of my speed dial list. 

Remember that line in the movie "The Graduate" when William Daniels advises newly graduated Dustin Hoffman to remember the word "Plastics"?  I think of that just about every day and now, more than ever.  Plastic boxes with tight-fitting lids became the survival route for those things which, over my adult life, I had deemed worthy of at least attempting to preserve. So, wrapped in a large plastic sleeve, I found my two scrapbooks and carefully I turned ancient pages for a trip down the proverbial Memory Lane. 

Fear not, boring details will not follow.  In fact, I bored myself with some of them. I had a few silent laughs at my adolescent need to save straw wrappers and things I had most likely found on a random street and wondered what I had forgotten, what had been so meaningful to me at the time. By gluing it down, I had committed such items to a lifetime of meaning, relegated them a hierarchy, a place in history. But, for most of those pieces of ephemera, the meaning had been short lived. Why that straw wrapper, that little cocktail napkin, that toothpick or that unidentified half of a movie ticket made it into my book, I know not. I have to trust my self-of-long-ago and attach  some value to these little pieces of what was and is, my story. 

By the time one reaches the teenage years, it can be assumed that the formative years have completed, with the result being that at age thirteen, the sandwich years have stared and the bridge between childhood and adulthood is in the works. My book seems to have captured a big piece of that action. From what I can tell, it started in the hands of a starry-eyed romantic of a newly-chiseled teenage girl who thought life was going to be an adventure. It follows me as I weave through high school, attend concerts, take vacations, fall in love, feel the warmth of my young friends and my family. I also find so many "certificates", achievement awards from standardized testing. Those became my nemeses. Always the source of angst between myself, my parents, and the nuns who demanded more and more of me than I was willing to put across. After all, the tests revealed a high intellect but, my report cards (also glued down on these pages), told a different story. My story.

 Had I been born years later, perhaps my achievements would have been far more reaching. High school curriculums are enriched now, allowing room for creativity and choices.  Do they still have "Standardized Achievement Tests"? I wonder. I do know that the term "Attention Deficit" was unheard of back in the scrapbook days and I wonder about that too.  I really was born too early.  Instead of the tug between those things that I could have done better, my school reports might have revealed a me that was doing the best I possibly could, that I was achieving exactly what I had set out to and that the adventure that I had imagined was only beginning and would never end. I would have been allowed to travel down the path of creativity that I so clearly sought, with guidance and support along the way. 

So, I tucked my books back into their sleeves. I returned them to their place in the big plastic box on a shelf, back in the storage area, where they will reside for the rest of my life and where one day, perhaps my children and their families will find them and maybe even take a few moments to turn the old pages before dumping them into a dumpster. My life will go to a landfill, my story finding its way to incineration and sadly, the straw wrappers, the theater tickets, the silly notes and the vintage birthday cards will vanish from the earth as if they never even existed. 

Where Have All the Workers Gone?

 A few weeks ago, I had the idea that I might like to find a little part-time job. After all, there are maybe a million signs within a one mile radius, inches from my home, that clearly state that the owners need help. Most of the signs have been displayed for a very long time and, in fact, have become memos that remind locals to stay away unless one is willing to wait for service or receive less than expected. The lack of help being an indication that things are not going well in any given place of business. We get it.

I left my name at a coffee shop. One that has a name I would have changed or would never have used in the first place but that's not relevant to my story. It's a beautifully appointed shop, interior straight out of Pinterest. The owner is youthful, her eye is good and she produces not only a great cup of coffee but other yummy things to eat. Cupcakes and pastries nestle in amongst take away entrees, surrounded by a case of gelato. All the makings for a highly successful venture right here in the middle of our town. 

So, I got a phone call from the owner. Come on in at 7:30 on Monday and meet the manager. No discussion. Not a word about my qualifications or integrity or even a question or two that might vet me. Maybe that would come later? Surely there would be an interview, some way to authenticate my potential as an honest and hard working new employee? 

Monday came and I showed up at 7:30 and yes, the manager was there, smiles and cordiality, she was expecting me. Maybe she was going to do the anticipated interview? Sadly, this was not going to be the case. She got right down to the nitty-gritty as I observed her going through the steps necessary to open the shop for the day, almost single-handedly. She introduced me to her delightful daughter and told me that she was tasked with making the gelato and soon, she would be hanging up her apron and returning to college, leaving her mom to be butcher, baker and gelato maker as it were. Wow. These people really need help.

I chatted,observed, wrote notes in my head and asked my one very, very important question. "Where's the air conditioner?"

Well, suffice it to say that the shop owner would have been wiser to have met me onsite, rather than to have farmed the courting of a potential new employee to someone who actually works in the shop. Rather hard. Loyally. Honestly. Open and sincere. I hope the owner knows of these virtues and appreciates them. I hope she pays her one and only employee very, very well. She's not going to be easily replaced. And, she's not going to be assisted any time soon. 

My question, the only one between me and that little job, was answered. "There is none" and a lengthy verbal picture of a local "sweat shop" was drawn. She was honest and forthcoming, rare qualities, especially during this crisis in the world of employment. And I, well, I was equally honest when I told her that I would not be working at her side, that I simply could not work there or anywhere in which my health or happiness were not uppermost. 

I'm blessed, I don't require outside employment. I just thought that a few hours a week might be filled with something fun, the end result being some "fun money" that I probably would spend foolishly. But, the sad reality is that there are people, lots of them, who are less fortunate, who really need jobs. And, there are employers who have to meet expenses and feed families. I don't know where all of the workers have gone, but I will venture a guess. 

A paycheck is not the only thing people require. They also require safety, honesty, and general kindness as part of their employment package.  They need to know that their employer is aware of the work environment and that the environment is one in which they can spend the requisite hours each day, and that they will be valued, cared for and trusted. The days of the "Sweat Shop" disappeared by the time most of them were born. The expectations have been raised. It's okay to say that a place is "the best place to work" or an employer is "fair" or "outstanding". It's not hard to grasp this stuff. 

So, maybe the answer to where-have-all-the-workers gone rests in something very simple.The Pandemic woke them up. In the vast pools of lay-offs, something unique happened. Instead of rushing back to work places that were doing them a "favor", they sacrificed a bit longer with the hope of a better work place in which to return. Maybe, just maybe, there's a bar that will be raised, the result of government and employment meshing together for the good of all of us. Who knows, perhaps workplace health and safety will be raised to the level it always should have been, in the new Post-Pandemic era. 

If the installation of an air conditioner would mean improved working conditions and, I might add, improved customer traffic, (ladies who do coffee in the morning are a huge asset to coffee shops!), why doesn't that business owner take a step back and realize the loss and then step forward and make an investment rather than risk having her business fail? Could it be that this small local business represents what is wrong with the employee-job availability gap? 

Were I a business owner..........

Me, Myself and the Rest of Them

 

It is said that if you want to know more about yourself, write. Yes, it is true, writing allows for a lot of self-exploration and is a totally great exercise.  Over the years, I have learned so much about myself, about my reactions to situations, my place in society and my place on the Earth in general, simply by writing it all down, as it were. I have volumes tucked into desks and bookshelves in my home. It excites me to think that one day, after I have exited, my kids will find these and they will learn about all those things that they never took time to ask. Oh, how I wish my mother had done this.

 My learning pursuits don't take me to museums or historical sites (at least not in this country). I don't like to "stroll" through anything or any place and those marble floors are a killer to the back when walking on them at two miles per century. I mean, really, would a few yards of padded carpeting be too unreasonable a request?

I, instead,  like to learn through observation. I watch people. I savor places and look for the nooks, the tiny spaces in the big old walls that have plant growth in places where it should not be.  When I travel, in lieu of joining lines of deer-in-headlights tourists, I veer off and take a tour of the local cemetery, sit at the rickety bus-stop, drop in at thrift shops and local Uno Euro Stores and always, always, frequent the supermarkets. Of course, I've seen "David"... myself and just a hand-full of other tourists that day. Yes, I've spent time in the Sistine Chapel....along with my husband and about ten other people. I haven't missed much as I veered off. But I have danced on Dagliev's grave in a lonely cemetery in Venice and I've spent lots of time alone with Saints Francis and Clare at San Damiano and done solo hikes up to the Ermitage, high up Mount Subasio. I haven't exactly missed out in my learning experiences.

So, what's going to be my point? I'm still in the process of digesting one of the most spectacular visits to my "Motherland" ever. Ever. Fourteen trips to Italy and I can safely say, this was primo.  In too many ways to list. I have to add another highlight. I mean, Calendimaggio in Assisi was hard to beat.....but our two week stay in Puglia blew the roof off of my life. Yes, Puglia is drop-dead gorgeous. And, we made some absolutely wonderful new friends there but oh, there was so much more for me personally. In Puglia, I learned who I truly am. 

This was the second of our Southern Italian adventures. A few years ago, we did the Amalfi Coast and included a trip to Capri and the amazing Blue Grotto, on our itinerary. Our daughter had spent lots of time in the area during high school and had felt so at home in her tiny town of Cava, just south of Amalfi. We lived vicariously at the time, our kids travel experiences came first while we patiently awaited our turn. Being off-season travelers, we were able to actually drive up and down the coast without a problem (don't try it past April!). We loved every minute. smelled every lemon and orange on the trees that lined sidewalks. 

Puglia is on the opposite side of the country, nestled underneath the region of Abruzzo (my grandmother's birthplace), with its majestic mountains, and above Calabria (my grandfather's birthplace) with its rough mountains, gorgeous seashore and mysterious residents. Anyone can tell you that the regions of Italy differ from one another in various ways. Not only are the pastas and other foods different, the geography and the agriculture from one region to the next are oftentimes idiomatic. The language even differs, with accents giving away the secrets of where one was born, raised, now lives. We experience that here, don't we?  And, all too often, it is just that which gives rise to our prejudices. People are people, the world-over. 

So, every day, while at Casa tra i Trulli in Martina Franca, we had the great privilege of observing the daily lives of the residents, the families Fanelli and Parmisano, two generations combined.  We watched Theresa and Pietro from as early as six in the morning, until the sunset each evening, never stopping. Constant motion. Working in the garden, doing laundry, harvesting vegetables, setting up irrigation systems, birthing horses, tending dogs and cats, spending time with friends, and generally keeping busy, busy, busy every single moment of the day.....smiling.... happy.

Suddenly, I realized..... here, in between the birthplaces of my two grandparents, that I am a true Southerner. That I have traits that are so similar to the very people, strangers at first but not for long, who I studied. No, I am not crazy or "hyperactive".  Yes, I prefer to air-dry my laundry, to use the sun instead of a dryer. I'm not cheap. I know it takes a few extra steps. Yes, I like to cook with fresh ingredients. Sure, frozen vegetables are easier. And, had I a bit more patience and a lot more dirt to work with, I would have dirty fingernails most of the time. And gee, why ask for help lifting and toting when I can do it myself? And fashion, who really cares about it? I like black and wear it often. And, I love early morning and sunsets from my kitchen window send me to the moon. And when I finally do sit down, I love nothing better than a good cup of coffee with a good friend. 

I discovered that I am wired in much the same way as every other Southern Italian. That's who I am. I came to Puglia and found the Owner's Manual. It's all very easy to understand now.

 Basta cosi!

Return Thoughts

As I sit here this morning, wondering what to write and knowing that I have to write because it ultimately gives me such great pleasure, I sift through an assortment of recent memories and allow my thoughts to wander. I try to express my feelings about how, for three very recent weeks, I was in a different world and not one so defined due to geography. 

It's hard returning. Always has been. Especially difficult this time. It's literally as if I have been on another planet or two and have been dropped off on this one with a thud. As I emerge from my cocoon, my cozy condo, and have conversations with friends and neighbors, I answer the common query....."was it sad leaving Italy?".  My answer so far, has been "well, yes, it always is but it was nice knowing that we would be returning to friends and to familiarity". Having left at the very tip of Spring, we were literally jet-propelled into full engagement with Spring on steroids. Actually, we were met by the tip of Summer as we settled into Umbria and then, with more intensity, as we lived our Italian days in Puglia. And then, our return to our home and the advancement of Spring here, flowers and plants bursting from their former dormancy just at our doorstep. How did that happen? 

I honestly thought that the familiar would have a ring to it. But it did not. Everything, but everything, is changing, rapidly, everywhere in the world. The notion of familiarity and comfort from it, is gone, replaced by the sense of having to catch up, re-invent and reset moment by moment. Acute culture shock in one's own culture. Know what I mean? You do if you have been alive for the past almost-three years.

But, my thoughts do take me back a few weeks and the recollection of those days is still bright. I try to understand the difference. Why was every day there, in a "foreign" county, so much more "familiar" to me than here? What was the key ingredient to the sweetness and the feeling of harmony with the world? 

I think I know. The Italians have once again, as they have for centuries, moved on. They are wise, brave, and respectful of their surroundings. Every season brings a sense of order and purpose. Every day, a pattern of participation and engagement in life. Rural Italians don't have to do internet searches on what to do with what and when. They just do it. The cycles, they repeat over and over. They don't dwell on anything and they trust that if they just keep on living, all will eventually be well. Rarely does fear dominate. Joy comes easily, from the smallest of things. Nature figures prominently into their lives and they grow up understanding this. Love is big. Family is everything. 

So, for the past weeks, we zoned into a world that was free of the angst that we returned to. While the threat of testing Positive to Covid before flying back to the U.S. is huge, it only is because it is government imposed. The people have a respect for what has happened due to Covid, after all, they lost thousands of lives before we ever even donned a face mask here. But they don't let this, or any other outside factor, dominate their lives. And that, makes all the difference. 

It's sad to come to the conclusion that a war on our own soil would have made us a better country and I'm certain that the Italian lifestyle, the one of facing each day and really living it. is based upon their memory and that of their ancestors, of days when they were barely able to face five minutes once upon a time.

Farewell Party