July Jots And Musings

It's finally July again.  It is a month with lots of moments that mean something to me.  I wish I liked it more, but it falls right in the middle of summer and is always blistering hot.  And, hot and me?  Not a good combination.  I hate to be hot.  Hate. To. Be. Hot.  But, it's such a big month.  Birthdays for certain.  Canada Day and Independence Day here...major celebrations, parades, picnics, fireworks, (which by the way, Rory absolutely is phobic about which is another reason that July can work on my nerves.)

My next door neighbor Allen and I share the same birthday which is fun.  We generally get together for drinks and a "Cheers to us and our new year!" 

Vacations are a big part of July...and one can always look forward to that.  This year My Lion and I are headed to the New York Finger Lakes area.  We'll stay in a bed and breakfast and tour around on The Spyder seeing a new part of the country.  I am sure it will be fun.

I turn 58 years old on the 12th.  I  try reading that number and not wonder how I can be 58 when I'm certain that I'm really only 28.  There's a 30 year disparity there.  30 years....30 YEARS.  I know by today's standards that's not 'old' but it's mind altering to realize how different reality can be from the image and vision one holds in their head.

58; it's not old, but pretty substantial.  And yet, older as I am, I still remember Julys most clearly from my days as a kid on Howard & 27th Street in Baltimore.  The heat from all the concrete and asphalt.  The people coming out of their homes to sit on their front porches under the yellow glow of the many street lights.  Sitting and rocking, hoping to catch an errant breeze, talking over the low walls or rails that separated their porch from their neighbor's porch.  Rails low enough that you could throw a leg over to drop something off to them or borrow a cup of sugar.  Easily chat over if both were inclined. Large enough to respect the need of the other to simply sit and not talk.  Not eavesdrop on conversations that might be easy enough to hear but had nothing, whatsoever, to do with you.  Short enough to be neighborly; tall enough to be respectful. Such is life in row-homes.

Flower boxes on wide porch walls growing petunias or other mundane flowers that could withstand the heat of high summer in a city.  Or, in the case of my pragmatic grandmother, basil and herbs grown in an aluminum wash tub.  The sound of conversations or laughter more easily heard after the roar of rush hour cars had faded away.  Kids standing on the street corners in groups, laughing and being kids.  Until their noise got too big and then an adult would yell at them and tell them to move off.  Sometimes they did; sometimes they'd stand there in defiance.  At least until the beat cop strolled by and then they'd scatter.

For me as a kid, the 4th of July was a prelude to the much more important date of July 12.  My birthday was always way more important to me.  But one year, the year I was to turn 9, the 4th of July changed everything for me.

My Grand Pop got up and started his day as he always did, except for some reason, he decided to put on one of his good suites.  And, Nanny The World's Meanest Woman, chuffed at him for putting on his good clothes.  She strongly suggested he go change into something else because we were having a family picnic later and he was sure to get food on it.  But, he waved her off and went to sit out on the front porch.  He sat and waited for the time to pass until it was time for all of us to leave.

Nanny was on her way down the steps to get something out of the cellar when she felt as though she really needed to go check on Nick.  She thought it silly and started down the steps again, only to feel as though something was pulling at the back of her house dress.  She'd felt that before, when one of her six children turned out to be in serious trouble, but not for years.  Following her instincts she went back up and through the long house out to the porch.  She stood next to Pop who looked up at her and said quietly, "Mom, I don't feel so good," and he slumped into her.

Across the street Uncle Joe, Nanny's brother, happened to be sitting on his porch, a rare day off.  It being a holiday, his green grocery located across the alley from the back of our home was closed.  All the beautiful produce normally out on the steps locked tight inside.

Joe, saw and rushed across the street after yelling for Aunt Rose who raced out of their house.  Neighbors gathered and someone called an ambulance.  It came quickly.  But it drove away slowly to Union Memorial Hospital; no lights, no siren, no need because Grand Pop was gone.  Just that quickly.  Gone.  And the world changed for all of us.

Typical of a kid who has the myopic vision of one who has only been alive for a short time, I was totally angry with Pop.  His dying certainly meant the end of my birthday plans!  And, I never said a word to anyone about how disappointed I was in him for ruining my birthday, not to mention what I would always remember about The 4th of July!

I couldn't stay mad at him long.  Very shortly, my sadness over his leaving overtook any other thought or feeling.  I loved him.  And, his death was the very first one that I had experienced.  I knew other people had died, but he was the first person whom I loved and cared about that I had to process.

Shortly after his death, the family decided it would be better for Nanny if Dad and I moved in with her.  I didn't want to do that.  I liked our apartment over the restaurant!  We were just across the street from her, why did we have to move in?  But, I was a kid and had no say so we moved.  I had been all right with visiting with Nanny and Pop whenever I felt like it.  It was good to have another home to visit, like visiting with Aunt Rose and Uncle Joe across the street.  Or visiting with Aunt Rose and Uncle John on the other corner.  But, I sure didn't want to give up my home to move in with Nanny! 

Life went on again.  It always does.  And so many more Julys and Independence Days have come and been celebrated in my life.  Along with many more birthdays.  Now I'm glad that Pop went out with a bang on the 4th because I never ever forget him on that holiday and always stop to give him a thought and I love you.

But, this year it occurs to me that one of the reasons I don't always like the coming of my own birthday is colored by that 4th of July so very long ago when Grand Pop changed the world for me.  And, while I'm no longer sad over his passing, having the wisdom and experience to process it correctly, somehow, my birthday has never been as joyful for me.  That, I've never really been able to change.

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly aka Nicholas Dituri/Dietor's grand daughter

What Summer Tastes Like

This is what summer tastes like if you were grown on the succulents foods of the East Coast. This is what socializing on hot summer evenings consists of...this is what you wait for all year.

That is what my birthday meal used to be...before I moved a state away and further inland. That's it right there. It doesn't come any better than that. Maryland blue crabs done the right way. YUMMMM!

Here's one pre-crab pot! The Maryland blue crab, Callinectes Sapidus which means beautiful swimmer. My, when you watch them fluidly glide through the water, you know how appropriately they are named. They're feisty...snappy...a bit mean. They'll eat you first if you don't eat them, so you might as well not feel sorry for the little scavengers. Don't be deceived! There is nothing, and I mean nothing, like the taste of a Maryland Blue Crab. In a pinch, if you have to get crabs out of Louisiana, well all right, but only as a poor substitute. And, if you've never had them...plan a trip to Maryland's Eastern Shore in the late summer or early fall and run to a crab house. Do not walk...RUN!

We love them so much, we've even written books about them and the life-style and industry that has grown around them. If you'd like a good summer read pick up, William Warner's- Beautiful Swimmers: Watermen, Crabs & The Chesapeake Bay.

In Maryland, we do NOT use butter on crabs; that's for Maine lobsters. Many of the crab houses, heavily patronized by tourists, now put melted butter out with the crabs. But, that's some sort of freak of nature to those of us who grew up in B'More or the surrounding eastern shore areas.

Oh, we won't make you feel foolish or unwelcome if you like it...we'll just smile at you knowing you're not from around these parts and get back to eating our crabs the correct way...steamed gently with rock salt, occasionally some beer, and tons of this on them....

Old Bay! Yep...and if you're like us, in the dead of winter when you're longing for the taste of summer, you find that you flip this can off your spice shelf and put it on chicken or potatoes, or anything else that will hold up under its bold and flavorful self! You have to try this if you like spice and warmth in your cooking!

Along the Eastern Shore, over the Bay Bridge headed toward Ocean City, you pass so many small towns. They used to be sleepy, picturesque places when I was a kid, but now they're growing and becoming a bit too metropolitan to my taste. Still, I'd live there if I could.

You see the beautiful state flag flying proudly next to the American flag. Flapped by the stiff breezes that blow across the water. Boats anchored bobbing in the wind.

I love that flag! It's so medieval, isn't it? That Lord Calvert was quite the courtly gentleman! Did you know that Maryland's state sport is jousting? Yeah! Let's here it for the old ways! The Queen of The Universe is very pleased!

We start them young in Maryland...that love of the crab...the crack of the mallet...

It's all about the socialization that happens over the long time that has to be invested to pick a crab clean of its sweet goodness. You talk. You laugh. You drink beer or soda. You get dirty as you eat and eat until you're too full. And, don't worry that you don't know how to pick a crab. It's our duty as Marylanders to help you learn the ways of getting down to business. We love showing first timers how to do it!

But, don't take my word for it...here's a great article from The New York Times: http://travel.nytimes.com/2009/07/12/travel/12crab.html?hpw and read about how good summer can be...Summers in Maryland....along the Chesapeake Bay or the ocean areas.

Summers in The Land of Pleasant Living- Ahhh! I truly miss it and it's never far from my thoughts. Really, I can't believe that summer can be better any place else on earth. But, I'm willing to try. Because life is about finding the best in all situations and locations.

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly aka I'm From Baltimore, Hon!
All images today courtesy of the Internet

The Good In Friday

Is there a person who doesn't think that Friday is possibly the best day of any week? For most of us, it's the harbinger of time to ourselves. To do what we want. To sleep when we feel. To play. Have fun. Live life. Answer our own agenda; be the boss.

Of course, we waste most of each week hoping for Friday once Monday comes and we're back on the wheel working fo da man! We waste most of our lives hoping for two days out of any week...

Doesn't seem a good trade to me. But, I'll admit, there's nothing like a Friday to lift the spirits. There's a lot of good in any Friday.

Today, is the real deal. The actual Good Friday for those of the Christian faith. The day that marks the saddest of all days. The day that marks the death of The Christ.

Most Good Fridays I recall always seem gray and overcast. Much like the day we're having here in Western PA. It seems to fit the sombre mood of most as they consider the torment and death of their savior.

When I was a child, Good Fridays meant three hours at S.S. Philip & James sitting through the vigil. It was long. Sad. Silent. Full of expectation. And beautiful in a dark way.

Back in the day, during the 40 days of Lent, Catholic churches covered and cloaked the statues. Done to mark the seriousness of the Lenten season. To be a visual reminder of the sacrifices and consideration one should take on in the days leading to Easter.

At, our church, this meant that St. Joseph, St. Anthony, The Madonna, all were bundled into burgundy bags and remained covered until you came into the church on Easter Sunday. The church also had, in the left corner, the largest crucifix ever. The Christos was life-sized on the dark cross. And the face, eyes serenely closed, was beautiful. It suggested peace despite the horrors of the death you were witnessing.

I loved that crucifix. It wasn't tortured as many are depicted. It seemed regal. Kind. Gentle. Humanly frail. Victorious in seeming defeat. The bank of flickering candles that burned beneath it added a quiet beauty.

During Lent, this Crucifix turned into the biggest burgundy kite you're ever likely to find. We kids couldn't help it; it looked like a kite. Yep. We would sit through Mass and peer over wondering how it would look flying in the air. We felt it was wrong because we knew it was really Jesus on the cross hiding in its Lenten bag, but hey, doesn't it look like a kite?

Three hour Good Friday vigil was nothing to look forward to. Minutes in a church for a kid can be a lifetime. Hours? Yikes. Try not to fidget. Don't think of Jesus in the kite. Wonder if Mary and Joseph and Anthony have a hard time breathing in those sacks? Wonder who else is here? Do we have to stay the whole time? I forgot my rosary... Why aren't any candles lit....

I will never forget the Good Friday vigil when I saw part of a ceremony that made me aware of the true meaning of it all. Saw the reason Humans have rituals and traditions to help us understand big mysteries...

If you go into any Catholic church on any day, at any hour, even if you are the only soul there, you know that you are not alone. Because, in every church, in every tabernacle where the altar rests, you will see the Tabernacle Candle flickering. This light represents the living presence of The Christ. It's a grand mystery in a tiny flame. Mostly, these are red glass. I've also seen them flickering behind blue glass. Sometimes, they are clear and burn brightly. There's a constancy and familiarity the candle brings so that, even though the church might be unfamiliar to you, you still feel a sense of connection and understanding. A sense of belonging.

But, on Good Friday at 3 p.m, which is the hour traditionally marked as the hour The Christ died, the tabernacle light is put out. And, the altar remains dark until Easter morning. At my church, the Tabernacle Lamp was large, ornate and gold, suspened high above the altar from three chains. Beautiful. Elaborate.

There is a weight to witnessing the twinkling familiar light extinquished. The quiet and dark that follows feels deep and significant. Sad. A bit un-nerving. I'm not certain that Catholic churches even do this any longer. Like many of the traditions I grew up with, they've been eliminated. Viewed as no longer important to the practice. Which I find sad.

On that Friday, when the candle was snuffed out, I watched the wisp of smoke trail up. I remember becoming still; the desire to fidget evaborated. Suddenly, I had no wish to leave. I simply wanted to sit there in the darkened space and take it all in...

Yes, there is good in every Friday. But, this is Good Friday. And, I remember.

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly

The Boss Meets The Queen

"How old do you think he is," queried Jackie. Before I could take a stab at a guess, Judy responded, "I read it in the paper today; he's 60." All I could think was, "Holy crap...is that even possible?" But, thinking back to the day I met him, yeah, that's about right; I was 20 and he looked to be cruisin' close to 30. Glenn said, "I can't imagine moving around like that, hat's off to him!" Jackie, in her usual succinct way of seeing the world followed, "Well, he certainly looks much better and healthier than Keith Richards or any of the Stones."

Yep. Bruce Springsteen rocking out the Super Bowl half-time show. We all sat watching with slight smiles as we considered that another Rock icon is now in his 60's. As are the Stones. Paul McCartney is even older. Still rocking. Still succeeding at the music thing. I suppose it's not as amazing when a crooner is still singing in their twilight years. Hell, look at Tony Bennett still wowing audiences and in his 80's! But, a rocker? You have to give them their props!

As he started wailing Glory Days, it seemed the perfect moment to share my up close and personal glory day with The Boss. It was '76 and I was working on Towson University's tech crew for the Special Services Department. Mike Wicklein was the crew chief. We were a band of wild things who liked crawling on scaffolding. Didn't mind working in the middle of the night to set up a stage or strike one. It was long, hard, dirty, back bending work. And we loved it.

As part of the grand opening of the Rock & Jock as we called it, which was actually this massive sports complex, (well, massive in its day, not so much by today's standards,) the University made the smart marketing move to hold concerts there. The trick was, how to find entertainers who were reasonable for the budget and could attract a crowd.

That's how this guy and his band out of New Jersey, who was attracting a lot of buzz, got booked to be the headliner. Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band. So, at 0:dark:30 the morning of the concert, our crew gathered with his road crew to discuss how we would collaborate to bring this show together. It was their show, but it was our building.

Back in the day there were few, if any, female techs. As I stood listening to the tall, lanky, biker-looking thing, who was Springsteen's head roadie, I thought, "Wow, this is an interesting life style. Should be cool to see how all this comes together. He turned to me and asked, "So, Honey, what will you be doing for us? Fetching coffee and what not?"

I didn't respond, just leveled a gaze at him, Wicklein said, "No way. She's one of my best. And, I'll put her up against any of your guys, any day." He laughed and shot back, "Okay, tell you what. I'll bet you money on that. My guys are the best in the business and this isn't a job for a chick." I walked away thinking, "Assmunch." And, they shook on it.

The day was long and intense. Worked like Trojans, the lot of us. The two crews got along great together. Late in the day, Springsteen, his band, and the trailing entourage of groupies and other parasitic life forms, showed up. They rocked the house that night, too. It was a great time.

Around 2 AM when we were striking it all, which meant by then it was a 15 hour day, Head Roadie walks up to Wicklein and me and he shakes his hand. There may have been money pressed into palms, I'm not certain, Roadie says to Wicklein, "Damn, you weren't kidding. She's outstanding. Sorry I shot off my mouth!" And, I stood there thinking, "You're still an ass but at least you're honest!"

A little while after, I was standing alone coiling electrical cords. He walks up and offers me a pack of matches with a phone number written on the inside cover, "I could use someone like you on my crew. Here's my number. If you ever want a job, call me." Now, that was rewarding. I have to be honest, I really considered it. Very appealing offer. But, I didn't have the courage to leave school so close to graduation. And, I probably wouldn't be talking to you now. Most likely I'd be dead! But, it's interesting when you think about the paths your life could have taken. That whole roads less traveled, notion...

The band cleared the building. We get radioed that someone left a bag down in the holding area. Wicklein says, "Hol, go down and look for the duffel bag and run it out to the bus." I race downstairs of this- let me remind you, brand spanking new, multi-million dollar building, go in the room and stop dead. Are you friggin' kidding!!! When I say they were pigs, I'm being kind. They wrecked that room. Food smashed on walls; have you any idea what a Twinky looks like squished into a wall? Not pretty. Trash everywhere, furniture over-turned. Absolutely disgusting. We made certain it had been spotless when the day stared and they did this to it?!

I found the bag and took it to the bus. And that's how The Boss met The Queen. There he stood in his glory, two hard ridden chicks hanging one off each arm. Laughing and being all that. I walk up. I remember staring at him and thinking, "This is a rock star. A rock star. Idiot." He looks back a bit of a question on his face, as I say, "Mr. Springsteen? Here's your bag."

He was probably expecting the usual request for his autograph. As I drop the bag on the ground instead of his outstretched hand, I say very quietly, "This is a brand new building. It cost us millions to build. We invited you here. Paid you. What you all did in that room down there? It was unnecessary. You and your gang should be ashamed of yourselves. Shame on you."

I remember, as I turned away to get back to work, seeing a flicker of surprise in his eyes. I know from the look on the girls' faces, mouths hanging open in "o", that it wasn't what they expected. Who talks to The Boss that way? It was gratifying, but not for long; I was too exhausted.

I have no allusions of grandeur. I'm certain that my tiny verbal spanking didn't rock his world. If you asked him, he probably doesn't even remember playing at Towson State University. Even so, I don't regret saying it. Most likely, they've continued to act as they want, thoughtlessly ignoring the mess they leave for others to correct in their rocking wake. And, have been greatly rewarded for it. But, that's not my problem. That night, The Queen had her say.

Yes sir. Queen trumps Boss any day.

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly aka Queen of The Universe aka T Moose

N.B. The photo is me from my tech crew days. The end of another long day...taking a break with Mike Wicklein and Larry Durner, (supine).

Going Downtown

As a youngster on 27th Street, the way to the shops was via the Number 10 bus that stopped right in front of Nanny's house before turning the corner onto Howard Street. I'll write about the trials and tribulations of having a city bus stop just outside your front door another day. Just know, it's not generally a good thing...

I loved riding the bus. Since they ran on a pretty tight schedule, it wasn't unusual to know the bus driver. And, having the chance to say hello to a familiar person, made it seem almost as though you had your own driver.

Going Downtown was not a casual event. When shopping in the large department stores, you had to dress for the occasion. For Nanny, The World's Meanest Woman, that meant a black pillbox hat with a slight bit of veiling in the front. A hat pin was necessary to spear it to the bun of silver hair. Her good dress-but-sturdy, black shoes tied with little bows. Slight heels making her an inch taller, but still well under 5'. White or black gloves, depending on the season, completed the ensemble.

If it was cold, she wore her black wool coat with the collar of fox pelts whose little heads had hinged mouths to bite the next piece until a completed circle was secured about her shoulders. I was fascinated by that bit of fur. Who made those little fox heads? And how did they think to use the onyx beads as eyes so they'd shine so brightly? Creepy but interesting and incredibly soft.

We'd head to Howard & Lexington where the huge, and I do mean huge, department stores awaited. They were staffed by individuals who thought of themselves as privileged professionals. All said, "Good day," when you caught their eye. If they happened to know you as a regular customer, you would hear, "Mrs. Dietor, so nice to see you again, is there something I may help you find?" I always felt important being with Nanny, especially at Hutzler Brothers, because they all seemed to know her there. She was treated with equal deference at Stewart's, Hecht's, and Hochschild Kohn's.

After her selection, the question was, "And, will you be taking you purchase with you today, Mrs. Dietor, or shall I have it sent?" If it was something for me, I'd say, "I can carry it on the bus, Nanny," because what child can wait to get something new home? Often Nanny would direct, "No, just send it." The package then went to Baltimore Parcel Service, a courier for the large stores. Sometimes if you were lucky, the package would arrive later the very same day-no charge!

While she shopped, with her permission I'd go to the notions department where the most beautiful things awaited examination. Gold compacts with bright mirrors tucked inside. Cigarette cases with decorations on top. Jeweled hat pins. Sewing boxes with matching pin cushions. Nail filing kits. But, my favorite? The sparkling tiaras resting on velvet pillows simply begging to be placed on my head. I thought those tiaras where the most exquisite things that Hutzler's could sell! Even in those days I must have recognized that I am the Queen of The Universe. I still lust for a tiara, but I never purchased one. Probably just as well...what would the UPS man say if I opened the door wearing my regalia?

The massive fronts of all of these stores occupying the four corners of Howard & Lexington were entered through revolving doors. Some had uniformed doormen to help you when arms were loaded with packages. The elevators had uniformed operators. The lead attendant stood at the elevator banks scanning up and down to note which car was full enough to leave. Once identified, she used her 'clicker' and a nod of her head. With that, the doors clanked closed and you took the ride, hearing, "Second floor, men's wear; Third floor, ladies and lingerie...," and so on till you reached your destination. I thought that must be the hardest job of all, remembering where all the stuff was kept.

The stores invested mighty sums of money to decorate the sales floors and windows at Christmas. I'm sure they must have been in friendly competition, attempting to outshine each other and capture the most business. The decorations had themes and changed each year; not like now when you see the same things hanging in the mall for years. Automatons, lights, puppets, huge Santas. One year much to my amazement, in Stewart's front windows, Santa- the real, live one, dressed in gorgeous red velvet, sat on a gold throne all day waving to everyone rushing by! All displays beautifully rendered. Nothing cheap or tacky. Now, the only chance you're likely to see window displays like them, will be in New York City. I'd highly recommend that you do before you leave this earth. Truly amazing and beautiful.

When I was old enough to ride the bus alone, and by that I mean nine or ten since we lived in a kinder, gentler time when you could let a kid go safely Downtown on her own, I'd take my saved-up money, augmented by Dad's infusion of $20, to shop for Christmas gifts. Starting at Hutzler's, I'd walk to the counters with which I was most familiar. The clerks all greeted me and offered help. I'll never forget the one who said, "Well, hello little Miss Dietor! Is there something I may help you find today?" I thought I was the most special girl in the entire world. She walked with me making suggestions. And, even though I probably spent about $5, she wrapped it and treated me just as professionally as she did the society women she would wait on that day.

The gentleman who waited on me in Men's was the same. He helped me pick out the perfect handkerchiefs with a blue embroidered J for Dad, along with very expensive Gold Toe Socks. I remember him saying, "I am sure he will be delighted, Miss."

With my remaining money, I went to Reed's Drug Store to buy chocolate covered cherries for Dad and Nan. And, since Dad had given me money for lunch, I sat at the counter where waitresses dashed about wearing aqua colored aprons and matching waitress-points in their hair. A smile, "What can I get for you today, Hon?" My usual downtown lunch, "Grilled Cheese sandwich with a Coke, please." I still like grilled cheese sandwiches. But, none that I've ever had since taste as good as the ones while shopping on Howard & Lexington streets.

Shopping complete, tired, I'd wait with all the people at the bus stop; pigeons bobbing around pecking at the sidewalks. Adults generally made sure I got safely on the bus, first. I'd say hello to the driver as I dropped my 15 cents into the coin box. And, sit just behind him as directed by my father. He'd chat with me about my day in between calling out the upcoming stops, and 20 minutes later, I'd be dropped off at home.

Shopping in Downtown. Christmas on Howard & Lexington. Who could beat it and who doesn't miss it now that it's all gone? Merry Christmas, Baltimore. Merry Christmas.

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly

With Apologies To Marcy

Lorraine Avenue was around the corner from our house on 27th street. The part I knew was only a city block long. There is another part, but as it happens in cities, the road gets bifurcated by streets that cross it. If it's not the part closest to you, the rest is non-existent so far as you're concerned.

Lorraine was the best place because that's where the majority of kids in the neighborhood lived. On the porch fronted row homes that were wide and welcoming, people sat out in the evening and talked over low railings to their neighbors. They'd watch us kids as we raced about and yelled and carried on.

What I remember the most about Lorraine Avenue was its huge sycamore trees that leaned across the narrow street to entwine with its partner on the other side, creating a tunnel. In the summer, the trees kept us shaded and about ten degrees cooler than anywhere else. Wonderful! But, even then, the mighty trees were dying from smog and what was probably the beginnings of Dutch Elm Disease. "When the trees go, there goes the neighborhood," Dad said quietly as we watched the city workers bring one down.

His point being, as all the green and beauty of nature evaporated, so did the energy and interest of the inhabitants to keep it looking good. We aren't meant to live separate from nature; it takes a toll on the psyche'. If you look at inner-city neighborhoods barren of trees and the crumbling state of most, you'll have to agree that he was certainly on the mark. Very sad.

I always hoped to play with the kids on Lorraine. I say hoped, because I wasn't always 'allowed' to play with them. "Go home, Holly. You're not allowed to play with us today. We don't want you on the team." Or, I'd hear, "You can be on my side today. We're going to play hop-scotch. You can go last."

Kids in their own element can be so bossy. And, I'm a rules girl. So, I'd play when 'allowed,'; I went home when I wasn't. Once, I went to the Arduin's house to see if Karen would play. When Mrs. Arduin answered the door, I could hear all the Lorraine girls inside playing dress up. She looked at me with a bit of discomfort mixed with sadness, "I'm sorry, Holly. The girls don't want to play with you today." That day, as I walked home, I remember crying. These are the moments that begin to form a little person and they're necessary. Painful, but necessary.

When I started school at SS.P.J. I got to know girls from the neighboring streets. That's how Marcy and I met. She lived in the really large row homes on Maryland Avenue. Architecturally, it was a lot cooler than our house with a fire place, stained glass over the front door and a huge bay window. It was close to Wyman Park and Seton High School. A very pretty street...in those days.

Marcy had a loud, really messy, loving family. They weren't wealthy. Her Dad drove a Tastykake truck; there was always day old cupcakes, Tandykakes, you name it, to be had! Yum! How fabulous was that? The house always looked like a bomb had gone off in it. Stuff everywhere. Books, paper, crayons, jackets, skates, records, piano music, unidentified objects. There was always room for me at the dinner table. Most often when I called to ask if I could stay, Daddy would say, "It's time to come home, now." Mrs. Jones would jump on the phone and say, "Really, Mr. Dietor, it's no trouble. The kids will walk her home after."

Marcy was round and pleasant. She wore her chestnut hair in two long braids. Her skin was milky white and she had a moon face with pretty brown eyes. She laughed easily. We spent hours together. She had an older sister who 'was the boss of us,' and found us absolutely annoying. A brother, Johnny, who I very rarely saw because he was always out in the alley with his friends doing what boys do. We weren't welcome, thank you very much. Her littlest brother, Jimmy, didn't make a difference at all. He ignored us girls, and we sure didn't have time for him.

Mrs. Jones was kept busiest taking care of Casey who had Cerebral Palsy. At first Casey made me uncomfortable because of his special chair and his spastic movements. He used to bang on the piano and make a racket. On days when his nerves cooperated with him, he could actually pick out a simple tune. It made me squirm when he'd speak to me because I couldn't understand him. He never seemed troubled by someone in the family interpreting for him, though. He'd just wait and smile as they did.

Over time, I got used to the sounds Casey made and one day I realized I understood him as well as anyone I spoke with. Besides Marcy, I liked Casey the best of all of the Jones kids. He was always pleasant and sunny. He loved music and loved to sing; he'd listen and sing along with Puff The Magic Dragon repeatedly for hours. He always wanted a hug when you came in the door. But, he was so severely handicapped, poor Mrs. Jones had no time to herself what with all of them and managing Casey night and day.

While I was dealing with the snotty behaviors of the Lorraine Avenue gang, Marcy suffered the same trials in our classroom. There's always one kid who seems to bare the brunt of everyone's bad behavior, and for whatever unspecified reason, Marcy was that for our class. I'd try to defend her. When that didn't work, I'd simply stand next to her on the playground or try to make it known through my actions that Marcy was my friend. I didn't have much influence over the situation.

Some days Marcy was invited to play. Some days she wasn't 'allowed.' Most days I'd decline to play if my friend wasn't included. But, sad to say, there were times when I left her standing there as I ran to join the others.

We grew, interests changed, friendships fell away, new alliances formed. The one with whom you are tight one week, becomes the one you simply can't stand the next. God, kids are like weathervanes!

I'm not proud to admit this, but at a certain point, it became easier to not like Marcy, too. As I write this, I know that I felt that at the time, but I don't know why. In part it was because we started to like different things. But, mostly, it was because the rest of the class just didn't like her. I found myself, one day, making fun of her. Wow. How did that change and why? Survival, I guess.

I should have known better and acted better. I mean, after all, I didn't like how the brats on Lorraine Avenue treated me. It really hurt my feelings and made me cry. I knew what it was like to be ostracized and treated badly. So, why was I okay with doing it to Marcy? Shame on me. But, I was just a kid and most of us don't learn about feelings until we've pulled the wings off of a few unfortunate flies.

Marcy and I never were friends again even though we both went on to Seton High. When we saw each other, we'd chat and be pleasant but cool. I was all right with my choice to stop being friends, but there was a twinge of regret for what was lost. She went her way and I went mine. I'm sure she's fine. Still, I want to go on record, "Marcy, I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like the mean kids made me feel. I wasn't very nice to you at the end. You deserved better. You were a good friend and I loved being with your family in your big house on Maryland Avenue. I wish you well."

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly

On Your Mother's Side

Early this morning, I went to have standard medical tests done, no biggy. Readers, if you have ta-tas, make sure that you do the right thing and have the 'girls' tested regularly. Men, make sure your women do.

At any rate, while completing the usual history questions, the tech asked, "And, how about on your mother's side?" I never, never have an answer to that one. I'm sure the blank look on my face would make them wonder. Good thing they're generally too wrapped up in their paper work to see my struggle to answer that simple question, "on your mother's side..."

The facts are these: I could have been hatched for all I know. I never met my mother so far as I can tell. Wouldn't have known her if we passed on the street. Couldn't tell you what her voice was like; what color her eyes may have been. Except for a few random photos that survived the purge, I wouldn't be able to tell you what she looked like. Not sure much about her at all. Norma left when I was 18 months old. I desperately hoped, until she died when I was about 17, but I never got a card, a call, a letter, a visit. Nothing.

Norma had three children- one from each marriage. Glenn and I are very close; there's a younger half-sister somewhere. I've never met her. At this point, the fact that I haven't doesn't make a difference. As her middle child, I'm the kid that Norma forgot. My brother had the opportunity to know her some and the youngest was living with her when mom died. Me? Nothing is there for me.

Neither did I know my mother's side of the family. When she left, that part evaporated with her. Or, perhaps it was how my father controlled things in the wake of damage done. I did get to know my grandmother very briefly before she died. But, I was too young and not open to trying.

I went through most of life not trusting women because of this lack of a key relationship. Thankfully, I began meeting wonderful women who, through their acts of generosity and love, taught me the value and necessity of feminine energy. Through them, I've learned to embrace the glorious parts of being a woman. To all, I owe a debt of gratitude.

When I began trusting women, I also began to sense a change in my stand on Norma and her lack of ability to be a mother. I used to be dark and moody when I thought of her. The phrase, "I've known cats who were better mothers," easily came to mind. When I considered her at all, which I attempted to hold to a minimum, it would race from tears to, 'Screw you, Norma! If you don't want me, I sure the hell don't need you!!!"

I'm not sure what happened; one day, I realized that the only one who was hurting was me. Why was I missing someone I didn't even know? She's dead! There's no hope for anything now- she's got no worries and not feeling badly about her decisions as they relate to me. Just me feeling bad alone didn't seem to make much sense. So, I shifted over time into a neutral space when it came to mother. A live and let live sort of thing.

As I deepened my quest to know Spirit and who I am as a spiritual being, feelings about Norma kept bubbling up to be healed. Now I am able to see her as the troubled individual she was. I am able to feel compassion, if not love. I'm astounded by how young she was when she was married, with two children, to a very crippled man. Even more alarming, she was a teenager when married the first time to Glenn's father.

I consider the creativity she possessed. The wild nature that couldn't be tamed. The artist spark. The crazed woman who self-medicated with alcohol. The stunningly pretty woman whose sad eyes I share. The one who spent her life lost and searching so hard for something she could not name.

I also know now, with a bit of life experience, that there are always two sides to every story. And, the truth lies some place in between. You know how much I respect my father; I still maintain his view of the experience of being married for less than two years to Norma is accurate. I admire him for not sharing the horror stories or deliberately attempting to sway my opinion until I was old enough to hear some of it.

When you live with one who has saved you, it's natural to see life from their perspective. But, now without feeling disloyal I ponder, how much might Dad have prevented Norma from contacting me? How far will a parent go to protect or insulate their child from emotional hurt? I'll never know. And, without knowing, I can't be certain how my mother felt about leaving me or if she felt the loss of me. Without knowing, I find I cannot judge her- anymore.

I no longer accept, without question, the saga of Norma through Dad's view. I have to form my own opinion of it all. And, my opinion is that Norma was not a good mother or wife. Norma was a confused spirit who hurt the ones who tried to love her as she smashed through life. Along with all of that, she was also my portal of entry into life. I owe her respect and thanks, if nothing more.

I can't say I will ever understand feeling love for a mother; I know I'll never experience the gift of a mother's love for me. At least, not in this life time. Still, I can't say why- perhaps it's the time of year when the beauty of the story of one particular Mother & Child is so often brought to my awareness. For whatever reason, at this time of year more than any other, I'm able to say without being pained, "Sleep in heavenly peace, Norma...Sleep in heavenly peace, Mom."

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly aka Norma's Daughter

Rainy Days

It never got past twilight today. It never moved beyond steel gray this rainy day. Wet. Soggy. Drippy. Depressing.

As my father tells it, when I was a toddler and it was raining when he came to get me up and dressed, I would clap my hands saying, "Oh goody! It's waining!" He always found it fascinating that a little one could find such excitement in a day that caused most the blues. It was also a moment for him to give thanks because as a crippled man, he felt blessed that his child could stay still for hours instead of a very active child with whom he couldn't have kept pace.

After we worked to get me dressed, which took awhile since he couldn't bend to help and little fingers don't work that well, I'd hop down from the bed and go to kneel in the window seat of Dad's bedroom. I don't remember the getting dressed part, but I do have a shadow of a memory of sitting in that window seat and watching out the window onto the busy streets of Baltimore. Our apartment over the restaurant was a great vantage point to look down on the world. I still love that metal smell that blooms at the very start of a rainstorm.

The rain would blip against the window and splash on the ledge. I'd watch raindrops race down the glass. What I remember is the heat coming up from the window seat as it was actually the cover to a radiator. Toasty. I'd curl my legs under and watch as the asphalt morphed into black glass. The shine of brake lights making momentary red patches on the wet streets was magical.

I enjoyed the Number 10 bus trundling around the corner and making a quick fountain of the water standing in the gutters. I loved the rooster tails of water that followed cars racing to beat the red light. The swishing sound that each made when traveling by. And, it was always fascinating to watch what pieces of flotsam the rushing waters pulled into the storm drains. I saw a pinky ball disappear down the drain in a storm once...very, very sad! Those cost a whole ten cents!

On my long ago rainy days, people walked with galoshes on. Kids wore yellow slickers with brass clasps that snapped closed and matching hats making them look like miniature fishermen. Most couldn't resist stamping in the puddles occasionally. Large black umbrellas bobbed along. Proper gentlemen always wore hats and those helped to keep faces relatively dry. On really rainy days, you could watch water stream off the hats much like you see in cowboy movies....

There was always a lot to see on the corners of Howard & 27th Streets where I grew up. And, I consider how far I've come from that spot in Baltimore. I also wonder how far I've come in life to arrive at a point where it's harder now to find enthusiasm for a rainy day. Is it the process of growing older? Or, do I simply need to dig deeper to uncover my ability to find joy in the simple things? How do I find my way back to the place of, "Oh goody, it's raining!"?

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly

You Just Never Know

We go through life thinking, either, we know how things are, or being clever enough to realize we'll discover as we go along. I'm not always happy with the knowledge gained from some experiences. But, as I see it, another piece to the puzzle is still a piece. So, I keep moving along...

Today, I'm thinking of Dad's wallet. The source of economic stability. "Daddy, I need some money for the field trip." Out came the wallet. "Pop, do you think I can go to the movies with my friends?" Wallet, out. "Daddy, I am beginning to look at colleges..." The wallet couldn't hold that much, but still, Dad was there to help.

Maybe the best lessons were the times when the wallet didn't come to the rescue. When, "No," was the answer. Or, as Dad generally phrased his descent, "Not today." Learning that you won't always get what you want is a hard, but necessary, life lesson.

The wallet was my opportunity to learn the importance of honor and respect for other people's property. "Go and get my wallet," was the command I'd hear. I'd fetch it, bring it to Dad who opened it and dispensed the cash. Unless I was instructed, "Go and get the money out of my wallet," I never touched Dad's Wallet. Never snooped through its mysteries.

I'm not sure how he sat in a spot beyond my natural kid-curiosity; he simply did. My grandmother didn't enjoy the same privilege. I was often in her jewelry box, or riffling through the contents on her kidney-shaped dressing table. Ponds cold cream and jeweled hat pins were simply too hard to resist. But, somewhere I learned that I couldn't just take something because it caught my fancy. I had to ask the owner before I helped myself. I'm sure Dad and family must have instilled those things in me, but I can't tell you how. It's just always been there. Thankfully.

How often Dad opened that black leather wallet probably built my foundation of being a generous spirit. If you need it, I have it and you ask, it's yours. That was how Jimmy saw the world, too. He was not a man who said, "I love you," but making sure you had what was needed was his way of putting love into action.

The true miracle of Dad's generosity is that I had no idea how often there wasn't much in his wallet. When it might have been totally empty. I never knew that. And, not knowing means I did not grow up fearfully- what a gift. My world was kept on an even keel. Thank you, Pop! Also, thank you for recognizing when I was old enough to hear the truth about our financial situation when it wasn't very good. Those times when our discussions guided me through the lessons of learning how to manage money and expectations.

Although it modified as I grew and gained life experience, I hold a galvanized image of my father. Meaning, I have my idea of who Dad was as, Jimmy, the man. Often, how we see our parents is quite different from the way others might see them. I know my father was far from perfect, but he was a superior parent. I know that some people may have thought Jimmy was a real S.O.B. Some may think him a saint. Depends on who you are and what your experiences with him totaled. Regardless, I know how I see my father.

We hold our images of our important people, but we very rarely get to peer through the window that provides their view of us. It's hard to know how others see us. You can ask, but that doesn't give first-hand experience. Most of the time, their words are all we have to go on. Knowing how others see you might be as important to the equation as how you see them. Just a thought.

So, back to Dad's Wallet. Turns out the same leather that paid for experiences in my life, also held the secret of how my father saw me. My importance in his life story. After Daddy died, I had the sad job of going through his belongings and handling his affairs. I held some chores back; I guess to be more emotionally ready. P.S.- you're never ready...

Dad's Wallet was one of the last things I tackled. More because I couldn't get over the notion that I was snooping which made me uncomfortable. I took a breath and started in. There was some cash in there; not much. Tucked in another part, a neatly folded $2 bill. A social security card, although he told me NEVER carry my social security card in my wallet for safety reasons... Good advice!

A dry cleaning ticket. A credit card. And, then...a small black & white photo of a cherubic little baby; the very first photo of me. Several color photos of a sad-eyed grade school child as she changed through years of growth. My high school year book picture. A creased and folded letter I sent years ago from camp. A small envelope with a lock of chestnut colored hair- In spidery writing on the outside, simply- "Holly."

Dad's Wallet yielded one final payment- the true view of how Jimmy saw Holly. His unsaid, "I love you," stowed in leather. Imagine experiencing that I was as important to him as he is to me. All those pieces of me closely carried daily in his pocket. You just never know, do you? But sometimes, if truly blessed, you get a glimpse.

Namaste' Till Next Time,

Holly aka Jimmy Dietor's Kid

Pagan Babies & Other Oddities

Who didn't love Fridays at SS.P.J.? How could you not? It was the most fun in the week. SS. Philip & James was the Catholic elementary school where I spent eight years with the same 25 classmates. That would be rare now. The school is gone, but my memories linger and I'm certain I'll share when they burble up to the surface.

I'm thinking of Fridays and how we looked forward to them, not just because of the two days-off looming close, but because that was the day we received the Weekly Reader! They came tightly wound in a packing tube which Sister popped open and unfurled as she walked around handing them out. Oh, what delight those four pages brought. They were in color! Had great games. And, we took turns reading a-loud the interesting stories usually consisting of an animal, a spot of geography, and other fun facts that you just didn't know! I couldn't wait to show Daddy when I got home. Poor Dad, I'm sure it was really boring but I have to say, he always met the Weekly Reader with enthusiasm! Just love my Dad...

The other Friday festivity was Art Class. I adored art class! I'm not sure how those nuns came up with such interesting projects for 25 messy school kids, but I'm grateful they did. Crayola crayons came out of our cigar boxes, along with paste that smelled good enough to eat, and construction paper! Does it get any better than that? We'll talk about the great glitter debacle another day...

The joy of art class often carried over to Monday morning when we'd see our artwork hung about the room...tacked to the bottom of the alphabet chart on the side wall. It was sorted in order of greatness; the most proficient to the least. Happily, while my stuff didn't always land the coveted first spot, it was generally close to the front. That gave me a great feeling. But, it wasn't enough to counter the humiliation of usually seeing my math papers ruffling in lonely last place close to the cloak room. Math & Me- not good.

Did you have cloak rooms at the back of your classrooms? No room for lockers, we had assigned spots along a wide wooden strip where we hung our coats and placed on the shelf above, our lunch boxes and other bits from home that we had dragged with us. Umbrellas and galashes on rainy days neatly arranged on the floor below. I liked the cloak room, even on the days when it smelled like wet wool. Despite 25 children, in typical nunly fashion, it was always orderly, smelled of wood polish, and felt full of anticipation. I suspect it was the energy of being sprung loose at the end of each day; you could feel it. The only time I didn't like the cloak room was when one of us was banished to it in punishment for some infraction of the many rules.

We didn't have a cafeteria, so lunch was eaten at our desks under the watchful, Gestapo-esque eyes of two 8th grade girls- The Safeties! I dreamed of the day I could be a Safety and wear a white belt with its badge. Man, to be a Safety! But, I vowed I'd never be a mean Safety. I would work hard to be The Favorite Safety- I wouldn't yell and pinch. Oh, and if you needed a drink of water, I would let you go to the water fountain. No denying anyone water ever again! Just so you know, sadly, I never did get to be a Safety.

My brother was one of the fabulous 8th grade Milk Boys, though! I was so proud when he'd come with his crate to our classroom! He always had enough chocolate milk to go around. Not like some of those other milk boys with more white milk than we ever wanted- he did it the right way. If one of those chocolate milks was frozen, somehow, I'd be lucky enough to get it. If it was to be had, he'd make sure I got the coveted frozen milk. And, when he left, he'd always catch my little sister eye and give me a smile. Glenn was the best Milk Boy, ever.

Recess was held in the classroom, too. Somedays, if the Spirit moved her, Sister would lead us in silent straight lines outside for some fresh air. Generally, though, it was 10 minutes in the classroom. She'd go to the locked cubbie in the cloak room with an able assistant and they'd come back with the choices of candy, along with the Utz potato chip bags. And, pretzel rods; those costed less than the chips.

During certain months, recess was turned into the opportunity of learning the value of doing good Catholic work- Saving The World From Darkness. That's when we would have the choice of buying treats, or 'offering up,' our recess-money to buy our Pagan Baby. Yep, buy a Pagan Baby in a far-off land like Africa, mostly. Ours was not the only school to do this. I went to school in Baltimore City; Michael went to school in the country-side of Emmitsburg. He, also, knows about the Pagan Babies. Ask him!

Instead of eating candy and chips, we could be buying a baby! Who didn't want to buy a baby?! Money jar full at the conclusion of the Pagan Baby Drive, we'd have a drawing to choose the name of our acquired Pagan. If your name was picked, the baby would be named after you. One year, can you believe the luck, my name was drawn. I still have that certificate someplace declaring that there is a Pagan Baby in the world lucky enough to be named Marie Louise.

What do you mean, that's not my name? Okay,we had to add Marie or Mary because all the girl Pagan Babies had to have it. But, Louise? Sure, that's my name. It is! At least at SS. Philip & James. You see, there's no St. Holly- at least not yet. In order for me to be baptized, Dad was strong-armed into giving me a good Saint's name. It was either re-name me entirely or add one. So, he tossed in Louisa, after Nanny, The World's Meanest Woman. And, that's how I went through eight years of my life being called, Louise Dietor. Somehow the 'a' never got on my school enrollment papers to add further confusion to things. Crazy, I know. Nonetheless, there is a Pagan Baby in the world who is named Louise sort-of after me. So, it's all good!

Namaste' Till Next Time,
Holly, aka Louise(a): please, don't forget the ''a"