Farewell, My Hero

There was no phone call. An email from my brother Bob late last night, subject: Uncle Tony, said it all. I knew he was gone. I remembered the last conversation we had. We laughed about how we reached our respective ages. He thought my becoming a grandma was very cool, but he found it hard to believe. We spoke about family. He always kept in touch with my mom and worried about her.

When I was growing up Uncle Tony and Aunt Dorothea lived close to my parents. We spent a lot of time together. They were married for fifteen years before my cousin, Janice, was born. They were like a second set of parents to me. As I reached my teens and things would get tense on the home front, I always knew I had a safe port with the Cincottas'. We would go to shows with them, long Sunday drives or just hang out and laugh. When I got snowed in on the job and couldn't get home because the roads hadn't been plowed in Queens, Uncle Tony rescued me in his big Buick and took me back to Great Neck for a good meal and hot shower.

We used to joke about portions Uncle Tony would serve. Coming from a large family, our portions were moderate. Our best friends' had eleven children in their family. Their dad, Uncle Charlie, could cut a slice of cake you could read through. Uncle Tony would cut huge pieces of cake! It became a family tradition to ask, "Do you want an Uncle Charlie slice or an Uncle Tony slice?"

A few years ago Uncle Tony wrote his memoirs of his WWII experiences. He had been promoted to lieutenant in the field. I remember hearing many harrowing stories, but he always reminded us how horrific it was. He performed many heroic acts. He explained he just did what he had to do to survive. He was proud of his narrative and of his men. The local paper did a story about him and his war experiences. He said "Vickie, they treat me like a hero, now." I told him he always was and will be a hero to me.

Uncle Tony was the bravest man I've ever known. He taught me to drive. I know he's with his beloved Dorothea now. I was blessed a thousand times over to have them in my life. One day we will sit at the table together again, enjoying a slice of cake, good conversation and laughing 'til tears flow.

Stellar Communication

General Weekly Love Horoscope Influences

We may be roaring like lions on Friday with the Moon in outgoing and outrageous Leo. But the mood turns more serious on Saturday when Luna enters cautious Virgo. This can be helpful for unraveling relationship complications as long as criticism is balanced with kindness

Sagittarius Horoscopes

(Nov 22 - Dec 21)

Next Week

For the Week of Mar 22nd, 2010 -- The Moon in a fellow fire sign should light you up on Thursday and Friday. But then it shifts into detail-oriented Virgo, requiring a bit more self-restraint during the rest of the weekend. Pride could be wounded when facing criticism, but actively listening and taking responsibility can heal a current partnership or bring some necessary realism to a potential new one.

When I feel confused or a mite upset I look to the stars for guidance. My horoscope helps me focus when my mind is spinning in too many directions. Technically, it's called overactive brain syndrome. I have endured this malady for my entire life. Even as a child I could not turn my brain off. It just kept ticking like that stinking pink bunny. I have come to accept that as a fact of my life. I'm cool with that, but it does frazzle me sometimes.

So, let's see what the stars say. Self-restraint--tough one, wounded pride--yes, but I'll live and criticism tempered with kindness--well, all right, I think we have something going here. Actively listening is also recommended. Now that might be problematic. Because of my thin-skinned wussiness, I'm not sure I can initiate the listening process, I'm a little skittish right now. If I slowly reach my hand out this time I know you can find me. It's a two-way street.

Some scoff at my affection for the stars and tarot cards. That's okay. I will use any crutch necessary to get me through the day...or night. It seems to work for me. It's quiet on the corner tonight. Only some cars and a few motorcycles passing by on the turnpike. That's a sure sign spring has arrived. It's a good night to relax and unwind. I think I will.

I Got The Fever...Spring Fever

Elliot and Monet were running wild today. At least they thought they were. They were tearing around the house, chasing one another, knocking things over, being crazy cats. It seems I was not much better. Only three hours sleep and I was feeling a little wired myself. It's either spring fever or we are possessed by the road runner. Meep! It is the first day of spring, the vernal equinox.

I find when the seasons change it is rarely a smooth transition. People and animals get a bit jumpy. That's certainly true for me. Last year was a turbulent one for our family. Lots of changes and rearranges and readjusting; then things finally settled into a routine. Life calmed down for a while. As we meander the road we call life, there are detours sometimes. That is not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes, the bridge is down up ahead and that detour will save you some serious damage. Going with the flow has never been my strong point, but I have learned it does work.

So many people I know and love are going through rough times right now. Their roads have lots of potholes and need some major repair, but that is the path they travel. Most are making the best of it. Some are not doing well. They've fallen and are having a hell of a time getting up no matter how many helping hands are offered. They don't even see the hands. They are focused on that mess of a road, but it's only a means to an end. Yeah, I know you know it's all about the journey, but it is! I don't know why this stuff happens to people. I don't have my Zen on today. Some tell me I think too much. Is that possible? I mean, it just happens, right?

No matter how twisted, bumpy, holey or messed up that road is, I'm on it. Not only am I on it, I will give you a hand whenever or wherever you need it. I may be shrinking...sigh...but I still have my strength. My strength isn't my muscular measure. My strength is my spirit. I mean, if you want me to carry you I will give it my best shot, but get real. If you let me, I will lift you up and walk with you on that meandering road to who knows where. You never know who you will meet along the way, but I know in my heart of hearts it will not be a dull journey. That's a promise. It's the first day of spring and I am on fire.

pic~first day of spring from my kitchen window

May The Road Rise To Meet You

St. Patrick's Day is one of my favorite holidays. Not so much for the raucous debauchery that occurs throughout the city, but because it has always been a family celebration. The Irish roots on my maternal side are deep and strong. They certainly have a strong hold on my psyche. My dad, whose family hails from the north of Spain, became used to the shenanigans after a while. Certain things did drive him over the edge. Green potatoes or green milk did not sit well with him. Nor did green hair, as I found out one year after being suspended from school for "improper school dress".

We always gathered the clan for a corned beef and cabbage dinner. It became a tradition to invite family and friends. Our German neighbors and our Italian neighbors joined us singing Danny Boy and Wearin' of the Green. My mom would fix the dinner while my dad drove her crazy helping in the kitchen. Irish coffee was always served in glasses reserved for the occasion. The house was filled to overflow with love and affection.

One year, I lost a good friend on St. Patrick's Day. We worked together for ten years, through strikes and parties and day to day dramas. Davey was born with cystic fibrosis. Most days were a struggle for him, but you would never know it. His sense of humor was razor sharp and on the money. I would dissolve in tears of laughter at his comments. Sometimes, just a look was enough to get the giggles going. He listened when I had my trials and tribulations. I did the same for him. All his coworkers came to love him dearly.

The morning he died, he tried to say goodbye, but sometimes we don't want to hear it. Dave had been hospitalized many times. Although he was thirty two he still was placed in the Adolescent Unit because, at that time, most cystic fibrosis patients did not live much longer than their teens. Dave was a fighter. He raised his younger brother after their father died during open heart surgery. He walked the picket line with us. When I became management, he would call to ask how things were going, make disparaging remarks about the bosses and leave me laughing even though I had cross the line every day.

When Kris and I went into his room he told us he was too tired to fight. These were words we never heard from him before, so we made some inane comments, told him we'd be up to see him soon and went back to work. A few hours later we got the call. "Come quick, it's Davey. Hurry!" I was seven months pregnant, but I outran Kris up the stairs. "He's gone, girls. I'm so sorry."

His brother was with him at the end. There is no easy way to say farewell.

I think of Dave when someone makes just the right comment about a politician or authority figure that has it all wrong. There are so many. His dry humor and acerbic wit still echo. The thing that still touches my heart is his affection for all of us, especially his brother and his family. So, on St. Patrick's Day, this one's for you, Davey...with a little scotch on the side.

May the road rise to meet you

May the wind be at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

May the rain fall soft upon your fields,

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

More Poets & Poetry...

Just a little addendum regarding poets and poetry...

Every day I count my blessings, and there are many. Some days I get my head wrapped around something and it is difficult for me to let it go. This may be a song, a conversation or an anxiety-provoking thought. As the day progresses many things occur to reinforce the anxiety level, which comes quite naturally to me. It is 99% in my mind. Intellectually, I get that, but it doesn't always prevent the domino effect of 'what if...'

Fortunately for me, a poem can take me to a safe place. Words soothe, they have my mind travel a different road. There may be a smile or a tear or both on the way. It is another blessing I count, as is the poet, who helps me put things in perspective...not an easy task sometimes.

Amen ;)

painting~addendum to 1985ish work

In Praise of Poets

Sirens, first one, then another, and, wait for it, a third. It is 6AM on a Sunday morning. All I want is a little more sleep. Now I am really awake. Well, not completely awake, I am just not a morning person. Like many of my peers, I must function to some extent in the early hours, but I am usually more comfortable later in the day. As I sit up in bed I can see the sun is rising. That's a good sign, but something feels a bit off. Maybe I had a strange dream...I don't remember. There has been some drama. Perhaps this is the residue. In my thoughts, out of my thoughts. Thought turns to coffee. Soon, I am holding a cup in my hand, wandering to the computer. It's quiet. My neighbors are not stomping and yelling at one another yet, a delightful reprieve from the sound of apartment living.

I check my email, reading my horoscope for the day first. There is an email saying I've been tagged by a poet. You may have visions of an early morning cybergame of hide and seek. Maybe, during the night, poets wander neighborhoods placing tags on people, much as you would band a bird. No, nothing like that. A tag is way of sharing information, in this case, a poem. I love being tagged first thing in the morning. This means the second thing I read is a poem. That is a wonderful way to begin a new day.

Let me explain, I am not a poet. I have written poems. In fact, I still write haiku a few times a week, exchanging words with a cyber-friend in Hawaii. We've done this for a few years now. Haiku suits my temperament and short attention span in the morning. Any more than seventeen syllables would be a total overload for me that early in the day. I enjoy reading poetry and listening to readings, live or recorded.

I fell into Facebook reluctantly last summer. Coincidentally, I fell in with the poets because of one book of poetry. I had been waiting for this book for a while. After hearing the poetry being read aloud, I was intrigued. I heard this book would be published soon, so I kept checking and found it in September. I read it through cover to cover. I carried it to work. I took it to Oaxaca, but I'm getting ahead of myself. After I received the book, it occurred to me the author might be on Facebook. He was, so I contacted him and we became 'friends'. Fortunately for me, he generously shared his poetry with me and other 'friends' by tagging us. As time went on, I was friended by other poets, to my delight. The many voices have their own unique way of singing out to us. For a few minutes early in the morning, during the day or late at night I am transported away from the personal drama that is daily life and taken to another place. It may be some one's home town, it may be a dark Gothic dream or maybe a waltz of words. I have had the pleasure of meeting a very wise dog and have been taken for a ride on a roller coaster of words.

If you asked me last year if I would be on Facebook I would have laughed. I'm told I have a suspicious nature. Paranoid may be the word. Not so, just careful. If you asked me if I would be reading poems every day I may have wistfully answered, no. Maybe haiku once in a while.

Isn't life grand?

picture~painted 1985ish ;)