Christmas with Poppy

In order for me to recount my little story, I’d have to take you back a few decades, back to the 1960s. . . . .

I suppose I was a pretty regular kid growing up in the ‘60s, even if a bit inquisitive (which we’ll touch upon later). I grew up in a half Irish/half Italian family. Our town was comprised of either Irish, Italian or Polish people – were there any others? In this little world, you were either Catholic, very Catholic or extraordinarily Catholic and you’d either attend the Polish Catholic church or the Italian Catholic church. One token Jewish family was part of our larger neighborhood so we could all learn to eat matzos and realize we’d been jipped at Christmas. After all, Jewish kids got presents for 8 days in a row while we got ours only on the 25th of December.

I vividly remember kindergarten and first grade at the Roman Catholic school where we’d have monthly vigils singing Polish songs to the Polish patron saint, his large statue prominently placed in the parochial school’s foyer. I was always excited to get together with classmates one Friday night a month, wearing a ringlet of flowers about my head and a gold cape over my shoulders, parading with friends through the church, the school and the adjacent parking lot. This was the big time for a little kid like me, and I was relishing in the whole experience of being able to stay up beyond my normal 7PM bedtime.

I also vividly recall attending Sunday masses and one in particular. (Now this is where it becomes obvious that, as regular a kid I might have been, I was also very inquisitive.) It was the pre-Vatican II era, the “traditional” church era, when priests did everything with their back facing the congregation and spoke Latin just to be sure you’d never figure out what was really going on up in front of the church.

I’m not sure where the rest of the family was, but on this particular Sunday morning, my mother and I sat somewhere in the church balcony, obligatory hats atop our heads, and caught an aerial view of the service taking place below. My mother introduced me to the small, typewritten document that cited pre-arranged responses for us to repeat as a congregation. The priest would say something, and then we were supposed to retort. It was all very formal, very fixed, and very important that it be recited just right.

Whether it was the aerial view, the fact that I’d been introduced to this typewritten paper or merely my age, I’m not sure. But the opportunity arose for me to ask away. And ask away I did. (I’m not really sure how I got away with my queries, since speaking in church was not allowed – unless the words were written on that white piece of paper.)

“Why did the priest wear a long gown instead of regular pants?” I wanted to know.

“What was that gold cup he was hiding in that small box down there?”

“How does bread turn into Jesus’ body?”

“Does it taste bad?”(Little kids didn’t take the “host” till they had been prepared for their First Communion, one of several rites within the Roman Catholic faith, and I hadn’t yet attained to that age.)

“Why not?”

“Why can’t we touch it?”

“What do these words mean on this page?”

“Why are they in Latin?”

“What IS Latin?”

You get the idea . . .

* * * * * * *

Although I wouldn’t classify my family as particularly religious, I would say that going to church for us was a regular occurrence. (That, plus the fact I was later to find out that missing one of these Sundays could land you straight in Hell if you failed to attend and then died a quick death without getting the chance to confess this offense to a priest.)

That said, my religious life played neither low nor high priority. It just existed as part of a particular fabric of my childhood, taken for granted as being part of Life with a belief that there was a God overhead who watched over all of us below.

Since God was invisible, and known as Our Father, I found myself relating to Him through the one in my own life who most personified what I’d imagined a Good Father to be – namely, my beloved Poppy. Though my time with him was short, it provided sufficient experience and exposure for me to relate to the man. For one, I knew that whenever he’d come to visit, it meant always coming in from playing with friends outdoors (not always my preferred choice since it frequently meant interrupting game time, but one definitely understood that he had expected to see me). Aside from those visits at our first home, the other times with Poppy were just grand!

Many afternoons and overnights with Nana and Poppy included things like sliding along their bare wooden upstairs floors (lots of fun!); pony rides (also fun till I once fell off and decided it wasn’t so great after all!); lots of discussion and preparation of all kinds of food – both standard fare as well as Italian; pistachio ice cream floats served in specially-designed fountain glasses; lots of company coming through the house for chit chat and afternoon coffee; staying up late between Nana and Poppy in their king-sized bed (actually, twin beds put together which frequently got me caught falling in the crack!) and straining to keep my eyes open for the familiar “tick tock” sounds of the late movie on their portable TV set.

More than that, interesting – and fond – memories of Poppy prevailed. Like allowing me to sit in the waiting room of his home office where I could sit beside clients he’d represent as part of his criminal law practice (frequently inquiring if the one I’d be seated beside had a gun, the answer always being a decided ‘no’), sharing cheese sandwiches with his secretary as she’d type away on the familiar standard Royal typewriter that “popped” right out from its wooden cabinet; and watching Poppy’s good friend and book writer perform lots of exciting card tricks!

There were plenty of additional memories, like having to return what I thought were gifts from some of Poppy’s clients – like the big, multi-speed bicycle and $50 bill that was placed in my hand. Despite my 5-year-old pleads and protests, there was no question as to where these “gifts” were going – right back to the sender.

Lots of food – whether prepared lovingly and with detailed discussion, commentary and collaboration by both Nana and Poppy in the kitchen – or trips to local favorite restaurants for Chinese and seafood – also rounded out my memories.

For an older man who led an active professional life and traveled so frequently (I was convinced that with all his trips to Miami he must have been friends with Jackie Gleason who appeared weekly on my TV screen, “LIVE from Miami Beach!”), he always made sure that the two of us spent lots of time together.

On one particular day, while sitting in his familiar chair in the living room where he’d frequently review the evening paper, he asked me up to his lap and sat me on his right thigh. Bringing me closer, he invited my head to his chest and asked me to listen closely to the beating of his heart. Here in this familiar place of comfort, Poppy had something to tell me.

“I’m going to be going away,” he announced. “I’ll be going to live in Heaven.”

My understanding registered. Kindergarten at my Catholic School had taught me to connect Heaven with Death. “Oh, Poppy, you’re not going to die,” I protested.

Poppy didn’t dispute his destination, but he did correct my choice of words. Looking directly at me and pointing his index finger upwards, he repeated and refined his declaration. “I’ll be going to live in heaven with God and with Jesus. But I want you to promise me that you’ll never forget your Poppy.”

Though I don’t recall any tears being shed, there was one further exchange of note. I turned to hug him by the neck with the response, “Oh, Poppy, I would never forget you.”

That was certainly a long time ago. October of 1963, to be exact. Within days of his disclosure, on the Catholic holy day known as All Souls Day, Georgetown University’s Counselor at Law – Poppy to me – was gone.

* * * *

Well, that said, let me invite you back to my preparation for First Holy Communion as I continue to weave a back-and-forth story into some cohesion – for the reflections of Poppy are necessary to the whole context of this childhood story and the subject of God talking to people.

Shortly following Poppy’s “going away to Heaven”, we moved across town to Nana’s house and I started attending the local public school. As a public school child, it was now necessary to enroll in the Church’s Holy Communion classes. At the time, we kids would receive this “sacrament” of First Holy Communion and it was necessary that we memorize certain tenets of our faith.

There were lots of things to remember, and memorize we did! Similar to the Latin mass where the priest would say something and the congregants responded in unison, specific preparation for First Communion involved questions followed by very exact responses. I even remember the first one: Question – Who is God? Answer – God is the Maker of Heaven and of Earth and of all things.

Before receiving this First Communion, however, we experienced another major religious event. It was the sacrament of “Confession”, the time of telling our sins to the priest before being “absolved” or forgiven so we could take the communion bread or “host” as it was called.

There was a lot of anticipation leading up to this experience. Older kids shared their stories of what it was like to kneel on one side of the dark confessional and suddenly see a tiny screen opened by the priest in the adjoining dark closet.

“Don’t worry,” one of the older kids assured, “the priest doesn’t even look at you. He looks down at his lap or straight ahead. But he hears everything you say. Just remember to do the ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned,’ part before you start telling him everything you did wrong.’”

Other kids offered their suggestions as to which priest to confess to, since some ordered a longer list of “penance” prayers than others. Depending on who you confessed to – and how long and serious your list of sins – you would be assigned a number of ‘Hail Mary’s’, ‘Our Fathers’ and one or two other prayers to recite before leaving the church and knowing your sins were forgiven.

I remember the afternoon our particular class went to confession. It was within days of receiving our First Holy Communion so we kids wouldn’t have too much time to sin between “confessing” and “taking the host.” All lined up against the church wall, we quietly awaited our turn to enter the confessional box, glad someone else was in front of us to go first. Aside from braving the darkness of the unknown closet ahead of us, we were also required to review our comportment against the Ten Commandments, a part of our memorization for this sacrament.

Some of us had written down a list of our sins so we wouldn’t forget what to confess when we got inside the confessional: for example, lied 6 times, talked back to our parents 2 times (or was it 3 or 6?), missed mass 2 times last year, etc. What kid could remember back 7 years? Who knew to keep count? If we didn’t have enough sins to report, then perhaps we were looking too holy. (I know of more than one time when I added a few sins to beef up my own list.)

There were also special sins that were unique to Catholics that we’d also have to consider. For example, Catholics took communion on an empty stomach; you couldn’t eat after midnight on a Saturday night if you were going to take communion the next day. That meant breakfast came AFTER church on Sundays.

Another Catholic sin involved eating meat on Fridays. Friday dinner was famous as pizza or spaghetti (marinara) night, and kids ate peanut butter and jelly or cheese sandwiches on Fridays for lunch. Fish was also okay, provided you liked it, but if you ate steak or hamburger on a Friday, God was definitely not happy with you and you’d need to get to confession on this one.

Sins were also classified by category: they were either “mortal” or “venial”. Some sins were more serious than others, and these were the mortal ones. If you happened to commit one of these mortal sins (like killing someone or not going to mass on Sunday) and got hit by a car and died without first getting back to Confession before the priest, you were in serious trouble. On the other hand, committing a “venial” sin and not making it to confession before you got hit by the same car would land you only in Purgatory, the holding tank between Heaven and Hell. Purgatory was hot and fiery, but at least it had an exit door. Not so with Hell. Hell was a one way ticket to fire and brimstone and nobody wanted to go there – ever.

My first Confession with a priest was probably nothing out of the norm. I entered the tiny cubicle, knelt before the little screen window, dutifully made my sign of the cross (executed perfectly with the Roman way starting with the left shoulder and in perfect sync with the words, ‘Bless me Father for I have sinned, this is my first confession’), then joined my prayerful hands in the upward facing direction toward heaven (nuns carefully instructed that prayerful hands always faced up to God and not down to the Devil). The attending priest was nice enough to listen quietly, maybe ask a question or two, then give me a list of a few prayers of penance on the way out. Whew – it was over. What a relief!

* * * *

So . . . where is all this going, you might wonder about now. Maybe you didn’t grow up in the traditional Roman Catholic church and maybe you’re not Catholic or Christian at all. You might be Moslem, Mormon, Hindu or Jewish. Perhaps you’ve never even stepped inside a church and wonder why you’re reading a four decades old story that has nothing to do with you.

I bring you here because, despite differing religious, cultural and social affiliations, on some level most people have a desire and a need to know God. Is He real? Does He exist? Is there a reason why I’m here? I was just a little kid in the 60s inside an enormous and centuries-old institution, yet my questions led me to a very interesting experience that may shed light on your personal quest.
* * * *
The first time I had a “spiritual crisis”, I was about 8 years old. I don’t know where I got my info from, but it was reported to me from a reputable source that Jesus Christ was not Catholic – but Jewish. Yes, Jewish. Yet I was not Jewish – but Catholic! How could that be? For some reason, this new fact was sufficient to rock my little world. How did we get in the wrong place???

I don’t know where my mother was, but I ran home from school that afternoon and found Nana washing the kitchen floor.

“Nana!” I gasped, nearly out of breath, “I just found out something terrible!”

“What?” she responded, interrupting her cleaning, the wet rag still in her hand.

“I just found out that we’re in the wrong religion!”

“What!” she answered, now incredulous. “What do you mean the wrong religion?” she yelled back, as if picking up an argument. Nan was a feisty woman, full of emotion but also full of fun.

“I just found out that Jesus was Jewish! What are we doing being Catholics? We better find out what the Greenbergs (the only Jewish family I knew) can tell us, because we’re in the wrong religion!” I was clearly upset and ready to correct this most serious spiritual error. How could my family have missed the boat on so important an issue as God?

“Oh, Maura.” Nana flapped her rag in the air in a gesture that seemed to simplify and minimize my concern. Then she laughed. “Yes, Jesus was Jewish. But not all of the Jewish people believed he was God’s son. So his followers became Christians or Catholics.”

Now Nana rarely attended mass, but her answer brought some momentary degree of comfort. This was an explanation I could accept, but only after having her explain a few more questions, like why didn’t Jesus change his religion to become “Catholic”, too.

“He didn’t have to change anything. He was God’s son.”

The responses proved sufficiently logical to be valid. I rested.

By the time 1967 rolled around, big changes were taking place in the Roman Catholic Church. One of the biggest gatherings in centuries brought leaders from around the world to Vatican City in Rome. The council known as Vatican II would change many formerly established rules and update church practices for Catholics around the globe. Among the many changes were: masses no longer said in Latin (yippee for English!), priests facing the congregation (no more guessing what they were doing up there), and lifting the ban on eating meat on Fridays. It was no longer a sin.

You would think that this last change would be met with a positive response from me, but a threatening thought suddenly enveloped my heart. What happened to all those poor people who broke the no-meat-on-Friday rule before it changed, then got hit by a car and died before making it to Confession? (Obviously, this proverbial hit-and-run car accident was a familiar teaching theme back then.)

Would God count these already-dead people’s Friday meat eating as offensive, yet now let the rest of us chow down on Friday meatloaf? What a horrifying thought – to consider that some would be burning in Purgatory while others would not, all because the rules changed.

The rules changed. The rules changed!

THE RULES CHANGED!!!!

What if that were me? What if I were the one in Purgatory because I’d sinned earlier by eating meat on Friday and didn’t get to confession before getting hit by a car, while someone new could eat that same meat on a new Friday and God wouldn’t mind at all. . .

What kind of a God would do that? Why would God do something so unfair to people? The thought chilled me to the bone that a Heavenly Father could be so sneaky to His very own children (I didn’t have a word for calculating back then, but the revised face I suddenly imagined as God was looking very evil and very scary.)

While the rest of the Catholic world either moved on without considering the implications or merely celebrated the new dietary liberty that allowed for a juicy steak after work on Friday, I was rocking in my little 9-year-old world.

What was the nature of this God I’d always trusted? Up until now, I saw God as my spiritual Father, a Majestic but very loving Person in whom I could easily trust. I thought back to Poppy, the man whose character and heart I could rely on – right up to his kindness in foretelling me of his imminent departure and the promise he asked me to keep. I understood he was an earthly father, but could a Heavenly Father be . .. less in character and trustworthiness? Could God not only be less than an earthly model of Love and Strength; could he actually be Evil?

Maybe you’re reading all this and thinking, “Wow, this lady/girl is intense. Who thinks about such things? Who cares?”

Apparently, I did. Very, very much.

I wondered if there would be other changes along the way. Would God actually look to hurt me? Hurt others? For no real reason? These and other questions plagued my thoughts, leaving me in sudden fear and intimidation of the One in whom I would rest.

I made numerous inquiries among those I thought could answer my questions. Experts probably included adult family members and Catholic catechism teachers. Maybe even a priest or two. But nowhere did I receive a satisfactory answer to my innermost questions about the nature of this so-called invisible God in Heaven.

Until one day.

I’m not sure just how long I’d been on this rocky road of faith run amok, but a most unusual response hit me one afternoon.

I was walking through a parking lot after school. It could have been with a friend or two for all I know. Watching out for the cement runners and seeing my black wool knee socks below, something happened.

Was the voice audible, as in external? No.

Was it heard by anyone else within earshot? No.

But despite these facts, I heard a distinct message:

“I AM THE SAME YESTERDAY, TODAY AND FOREVER.”

Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

He didn’t announce His Name or even say Hello. He just entered those words, as if by sudden and powerful infusion . . . into ME. This was my Heavenly Father answering a question nobody else anywhere could answer.

He was THE SAME.

NOTHING ABOUT HIM HAD CHANGED – OR WOULD EVER CHANGE.

I COULD TRUST IN HIM – ALWAYS.

ALL WAYS.

The awareness of the GREAT ONE – my Heavenly Father – coming to answer me in that moment was so powerful, yet so private.

I never spoke a word of it. To the contrary, I kept walking along with whatever friends accompanied me that afternoon. I continued on my way, probably to rest in front of the TV with a few Oreo cookies to dip into a half glass of milk (who could eat Oreos any other way?). Nothing looked any different on the outside, but my insides were laid to rest in the confidence that though religious rules might change, MY FATHER NEVER DID.

So, does God talk to people?

I’ll let you judge for yourself.

Encore!

Competition – 1. A striving or vying with another or others for profit, prize, position or the necessities of life; rivalry. 2. A contest, match or other trial of skill or ability. 3. The rival of two or more businesses striving for the same customer or market.

When people think of competition, they often imagine the sphere of sports, the concept of playing against rivals for a specific title or prize. Yet for me, most childhood friends would recall the uncoordinated and myopic Miss Irrelevant during recess games at the elementary school playground; I was nearly always the last player picked by captains of opposing teams. And if I had to name my best sport during junior high and high school, I’d have to default to square dancing in Phys Ed.

Even later on in my adult working days, when coaxed by an employee to form a company softball team for a local area rec league and asked as his manager to participate, I conveniently slotted myself in the number 9 spot as last batter up and in deep, deep, DEEP right field where the ball and I were least likely to meet.

As recently as last summer, I was caught cheering for both the USA basketball team – and their opponents from the Dominican Republic – during an international masters basketball tournament held in Prague, Czech Republic.

“Nice,” sneered one of the players to my husband who was also on the court. “We work our butts off to compete at this level and Pollyanna’s out there clapping for the other players.”

My husband could only laugh along at the familiar but oddball behavior he’d come to know from a wife who advocates for everyone’s success – each in their own place and time – both on and off the field or court.

* * * * *

Okay, I admit it. I just wasn’t cut out to compete in traditional sports. So how did this crazy notion of “competition” pop into my head, the person least qualified to write? A bit of soul-searching provided the answer to my question. I wasn’t to write about competition the way the world viewed it. I was to write about competition the way I did! Competition with a capital C. The Competition of LIFE – with a longterm eye toward life’s ENCORE performance that others rarely think about or consider.

You see, when it comes to competition I’ve had only one rival in mind – Me. Yes, Me. That of my lower and more common self. As if engaged in some private game of talent, I’ve spent a lifetime finding new ways to exercise and grow against a previous version of myself.

For example, during my 6th grade summer I decided to teach myself to type. I’d clock myself in both speed and efficiency, always trying to better my stats. For another quest, I’d practiced staying under water to see how long I could go without breathing (real smart, I know, in response to which my Nana would bang furiously at the backyard kitchen window yelling as only she could, “What the hell are you doing down there so long? You’re going to drown and I don’t know how to swim!”).

Later on, I took up jogging (I’d advanced from inanimate amoeba to logging up to 11 miles per day, once completing a Gasparilla Race of 9 miles and, on another occasion, a half marathon of 13). I even responded to a biking opportunity, a Saturday morning event where I cycled the 70+ mile trip from Philadelphia to Atlantic City (or was it the other way around?).

I was always seeking to improve upon weakness. I can’t recall who else was participating in any of these treks, nor did I care to repeat them. I was merely intent on achieving the personal satisfaction of having risen to something previously – personally – unknown and unattained. Rising into my better self.

A few years ago, I leapt at the chance to take a 9-day trip to Africa, dwelling on an island so remote the natives were unaware of any society other than their own. The experience helped strengthen me beyond the ease and comforts of my American lifestyle. It was here that I slept on the floor in a self-pitched tent, used open fields as my out house and didn’t get to shower for a week. (Obviously, such “improvements” are clearly a matter of personal taste and one trip to the jungle was quite sufficient to convince me I was capable of hacking a crude environment. Also, as a matter of note, photos capturing the bad hair week remain safely under lock and key to avoid any potential threats of blackmail!)

* * * * *

Now that I’ve offered these rare glimpses into my background, it’s probably time to get back to the common version of competition and tie my commentary into something of import and value. To do so, I’m reminded of three specific instances and my responses to what I considered the world’s rather short-sighted and upside down version of this practice.

To begin with, I must have been a slow learner, like the child who believes in the Tooth Fairy long after her last baby teeth have fallen out. In truth, I’d somehow remained uninitiated to the rules of “competition” until I was almost 15 years old. At that time, I was a lowly freshman attending a prep school for girls somewhere in northern New Jersey.

My daily schedule included first period Algebra and second period study hall where I’d sit beside a fellow classmate who shared the same early morning math class. As a matter of course, this petite, well-manicured and highly purposed young girl would regularly and repeatedly seek my help figuring out problems to the day’s Algebra homework assignments. And being proficient in the subject, I was more than happy to oblige. Until one day when the tables were reversed.

“Zelda (obviously not her name), I don’t understand what we were taught today. Would you mind helping me out with some of these problems?”

“I can’t help you,” she responded flatly and returned, pencil in hand, to her work.

“You didn’t get it either, huh?” I’d asked rather innocently, looking for her agreement concerning the obscurity of the lesson.

“No,” she responded, “I’m not going to help you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, still not understanding.

As if to explain the obvious, Zelda huffed just slightly. “I’m not helping you because I’m in competition with you.”

“Competition for what?” I asked, still not comprehending.

In response, this young student explained that she couldn’t help me because it might give me an advantage over her in a future college application process.

College? We’d never even discussed college, I thought. And who said we were even going to apply to the same college? Even if we did, were colleges now accepting only one student per class, as if there weren’t room enough on campus for two?

Still dazed, I realized that in all my previous months of service to this pint-sized pup of prepubescence, she’d regarded me as a mere commodity to be used.

I must admit just how truly shocked I was at how this well-groomed and well-spoken young girl could behave in such low fashion. More than that, I was saddened for her. She’d learned this twisted life lesson on “competition” from her own mother, an insecure woman who’d rather teach her daughter to play dirty than encourage her to do her best.

Unfortunately for this school mate, the free font of mathematical tutorship dried up that day. From now on, Zelda would have to figure out Algebra problems on her own. What a shame she never understood the most basic premises of the subject: reciprocity and equality.

* * * * *

Whew! You’re probably thinking by now, “This woman called Maura4u has an awful lot to say. This is only one recollection; she’s got two more to go!”

Well, I probably do have lots to say but trust me . . .. there’s a bigger picture being developed. A Lifetime is a Long Time and the lessons aren’t acquired overnight. So go take a cup of coffee. A bathroom break. Go to bed. Doesn’t matter to me. I’m more than content writing for an audience of one:)

* * * * *

The next instance involving “competition” arrived around a dozen years later. I was District Manager for a national telecom company and one of my sales reps had just been promoted to the National Accounts division in Chicago.

A few months after his departure, I received a manager’s override check with an additional payment of about $3300. Knowing the check was in error, I quickly identified the source: all the former rep’s sales were being attributed to my account. Since he’d transferred during the middle of a calendar month, the commissions department tallied every order back to me – those made from my district (fine) as well as new ones from national accounts (not fine).

To remedy the error, I immediately placed a phone call to the corporate office. “Yvette, I’m calling regarding a manager’s override error on my commission statement.”

“Oh. Sorry, Maura. Can you give me list of the accounts we missed?”

“It’s not any accounts you missed. You paid me too much.”

“Too much? You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” I explained. “A few months ago, one of my reps was promoted to National Accounts. I’m still getting paid on sales he made here in my district, but there’s also an extra $3300 that’s attributable to his new manager.”

“Maura, I’ve been working in this department for four years. You know how many calls we get here every month with people claiming they’ve been underpaid? Cheated? Never once have I received a call where someone told me they were paid too much. Why would you ever do such a thing?”

“Because the money’s not mine. It belongs to someone else.”

“But . . . technically, this could be argued in your favor, you know. All sales made that final month would be attributable to you.”

“Maybe so, but the guy transferred North in the middle of the sales month and I had nothing to do with that last order. It belongs to National Accounts and the National Accounts Manager should be getting the override instead of me.”

“Maura, this is one for the books. Rip up your check and I’ll send you a smaller one in the overnight mail. This is gonna be the talk of the day around here – maybe the week. Maybe the month. Nobody’s going to believe this! “

* * * * *

Okay, okay, it’s time for my third and final recollection for this piece. It’s a few years later and I’m still in the telecom industry, just working for a different corporation. Two sales associates in my office, both of them wonderful women, inadvertently worked on the same account through their respective territories. When the order came in, it arrived as an individual order from the client and could only be processed as a single account. My call to the corporate office revealed that, though both reps could get paid their fair share for the business, the actual order could be credited to just a single person and a decision would need to be made on that score.

At first, the news was a mere blip to these professionals who, like everyone else in our office, were amicable team players. But somehow things got ugly. Amicable team spirit yielded to tension and tension yielded to conflict as each raised their case as to why they should receive credit for this order. I invited both women back to my office, heard each of them out and provided a few suggestions of my own – the last one of which was that they agree to resolve their issue or I’d resolve it for them.

Unfortunately, the tension did not abate; to the contrary, it only escalated – and fast. Passionate discussion about the infamous “order” quickly made its way around the sales staff, creating discontent toward the company and fomenting a rising tide of sales people choosing sides with each of the offended. As if by stealth, this simple “order” had arrived in our district office as a fast-acting cancer or fatal bio-hazard with a mission to destroy our previously peaceful environment.

Two and a half days of this growing insanity was sufficient. I’d called both women back to my office and asked them to sit before me again. This time, I picked up the phone and called my contemporary in Atlanta.

“Susan, this is Maura. I’m calling with a gift.”

“A gift?” she asked, both pleased and surprised at an unexpected gesture. “What kind?”

“It’s an order.”

“An order? Was it from an account up here?”

“No. It’s an order that we can’t agree upon down here. It’s not huge, but it’s a decent size new account and I’d like you to have it.”

Suddenly, the two women in my office turned white with shock. Then, as if the unseen cancer miraculously lifted, these two former rivals became instant compatriots engaged in rapid-fire, whispered discussion to remedy their previous dispute. But it was too late. Now they lost not only the coveted “order” – but the commissions they were both entitled to receive.

Conversation with the Atlanta manager continued. “Maura, why would you want to give this thing away? Don’t you realize you’ll be shorting yourself, too?”

“I don’t care. If that order stays in Tampa, it’ll kill us all. It’s not worth it. The only thing I ask is this: Give it to the rep who’s doing his or her best and be sure to award it during one of your sales meetings. Tell the rep ‘Congratulations and Best Wishes from the Tampa Team’.”

And so it was. The case was closed. The two women slipped quietly out of my office and the cancer lifted – immediately. Word of the disposal of the bio-hazardous “order” quickly made its way to the rest of the previously offended. By the following morning, peace was restored to Telecomland. Ahhhh. We never had another dispute.

* * * * * * *

Some final thoughts . . . .

Do I know what ever happened to Zelda, the young girl who needed to compete with me in Algebra? No. For one, I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. By the next year, I’d transferred to public school. Did Zelda learn reciprocity – and respect – for others? Or is she merely the next generation of her own mother’s insecurity, modeling small behavior to her daughters and teaching them to “compete” also? A good ending to Zelda’s Life story would be hearing she’s learned the only one worth competing against was her old self – and winning!

How about that $3300 check that was never really mine? It was never really mine. Period.

Finally, what about the bio-hazard “order” that provoked unnecessary egos, undermined positive working relationships, and threatened the health of an otherwise thriving group of professionals? Promoting egos at the expense of Peace was entirely too high a price to pay for any order – big, small or otherwise.

As a side note, someone in Atlanta was rewarded unexpectedly simply for doing his or her best.

So what’s competition the way the world measures it got to do with the Encore performance in life? Just about Everything.

To demonstrate, I’d like to recall the closing of a letter I’d penned to my then-boyfriend Jimmy during the summer of 1978:

“I think most people live their lives on the outside only to find that when they grow old, they’re unhappy. I’d rather live from the inside out, so that when I’m old, I can be happy. I might be wrong, but I don’t think so:)”

What’s my reward of a lifetime competing only with myself – to become the higher version of who I am? A single word comes to mind: Happiness.

My ENCORE Performance is all about Life Happiness.

What about yours?

I Rest My Case.

Ahhhh. . . The Winter Coat. That most practical and necessary piece of clothing.  Everyone living up North is familiar with it, but this particular form of apparel takes on a rather curious life, especially when viewed from my vantage point as a Florida resident traveling North with a reasonable expectation of maintaining some degree of fashion sense.

 It all began this past December while making preparations for a combination business/ personal trip.  Knowing in advance that anything I brought would need to be carried and/or placed within a 22” roller bag and transported by plane and commuter trains, I was focused on the idea – and ideal – of packing a single winter coat. Easy, right? Sure, if you’re living on some other planet.

Given the fact that fall had been rather mild, I started with a practical but reasonably fashionable choice. My black bomber jacket. It was crafted in beautiful soft leather, it was easy to pack and it was wonderful for jeans.  Wonderful for jeans but not so much else, thereby requiring a second coat and impinging on my ideal of just one Winter Coat.  The realization brought me just the slightest bit of irritation but that was nothing, I reminded myself.  I’m an avowed optimist. I could easily produce another option.      

Next, I vacillated between a long leather coat (more formal and versatile than the bomber jacket but, given the length, far too much black; plus, it could be easily ruined if caught in the rain) and a three-quarter- sleeve yellow trench coat  (a great choice, especially if it rained and, given the color, certainly fashionable – providing, of course, that everything else I brought along on the trip had sleeves of ¾ length or shorter,  coordinated with the color yellow, and my forearms  didn’t mind a potential winter chill). Now thinking about having to arrange my entire travel wardrobe around the color yellow, I started to hyperventilate but quickly replaced my frustration with positivism. I reproved a familiar voice inside my head telling me: “See how ridiculous this life is?” Defensively, I countered my thoughts with, “Come on, now!  You’ve handled major issues of import in your life; this little winter coat thing is just mindless silliness!”     

 Suddenly, an inspiring new thought arose.  Eureeka!  The answer was in front of me all along. It was my long sleeve, long- length, winter white wool coat! This earnestly sought-after garment was purchased last year after nearly a day of shopping for a fashionable alternative to my quilted black nylon all-weather winter coat. Now it could now enjoy its Northern debut!  And what a solution it was! Winter white could provide a pleasant contrast to the ubiquitous black of the Manhattan wardrobe, it could coordinate with nearly anything on the color palette, it could transition from casual to dressy and its woolen weight could really keep me warm. A perfect choice.

Seee…. I reminded myself proudly.  You’re above all this nonsense in the world. You can be  practical and fashionable.  

Before I could fabricate the next mental sentence of smug correction to the Nonsense Demon that had previously taunted my thoughts, I was slammed back to reality when my practical-minded husband walked into our bedroom.  

“Are you kidding?” he asked incredulously.  

 “About what?” I responded, returning to the moment.

 Pointing his long arm and index finger toward the winter coat lying neatly across the king sized bed, he attacked: “THAT.”

“That what? ”I protested.“It’s perfect! It’ll coordinate with every color and the wool is really warm.  I love this coat.”

“It’s WHITE.” he intoned resolutely.  Next, he quickly enumerated a litany of offenses against The Evil White Soil Magnet which he considered replete with all kinds of perils. “White attracts everything.  All it takes is for somebody on a crowded subway to sidle up to you in some grimy work clothes.  You’ll be stuck with an oil streak that’ll set you back 35 bucks at the dry cleaners.   And what if some mustard-laden napkin from one of those hot dog vendors flies away and finds its way to your coat?  Do mustard stains ever come off white?  Probably not. And what if you’re waiting to cross the street and some rumdum driver passes over a puddle? The whole bottom of that coat will be covered in dirty water splash-back. No, that white coat is definitely not a good choice. Bring the black quilted coat.“   

“The black coat?” I protested passionately.  “Jimmy, I’m looking to expand my wardrobe into something beyond the ordinary.  That black coat brings me right back to a uniform! “ I was still arguing the point but my belief in the white coat had already been compromised and I didn’t even believe in my own words. My quick trip to Euphoria had already detoured to Deflation. (I knew Jimmy never liked that coat from the moment he saw it. Still, I really couldn’t disagree with his logic.)

Jimmy by now had exited the room but my blood pressure began to burn and I began to pace feverishly back and forth.  “Is this not ridiculous!!!” I heard myself speak aloud to the universe. “A whole effort-filled day of shopping for a new winter coat and I can’t even get out of the closet! And surely I won’t be wearing it in Florida! Can this really be my planet?  Who designed this place anyway?”   

Collecting myself once again (I really am an optimist and an idealist at heart) I sought a second opinion from my  daughter. She was fashionable and practical and far less emotive than her mother. What did she recommend?  “Mom, just wear the black nylon coat.”

“The what?” I responded, my voice sounding more like squeaky hen than maternal role model. “Kaley, it’s so ordinary!  I’m trying to be fashionable!  I spent a whole day shopping for the white coat to get me away from that basic black one. Plus, it’s trimmed in fur. What if New York gets another warm spell?  I’ll look like an Eskimo.”

“Don’t worry,” she assured me, her easygoing nature unmoved by a near hysterical parental figure. “The brown fur collar offsets the black, it works perfectly with jeans, and it’ll keep you warm and comfortable.” 

Ugh. Two votes for the quilted black nylon settled the issue and this trusty, familiar overcoat became the one of choice for my trip.  

Fast forward to the trip.  Unexpectedly, temperatures in the New York area dropped precipitiously (obviously, both leather coats would have been nixed for their inability to keep me warm at these frozen temperatures).   Next came the rains, which would have ruined both my leather coats and certainly proved my husband’s prognostications about dirty water stains on the long white wool coat.  Who can possibly plan for every eventuality with just one winter coat? I mused.

Well, I was about to find learn that even the “trusty” black quilted coat had its own Achilles heel . . . .   

That next morning, as Jimmy and I were heading out to the Trenton, NJ train station bound for Manhattan I suddenly realized another Winter Coat dilemma: my familiar rain-and-stain resistant black quilted nylon coat . . . . lacked a hood!  With all of a moment to plan, it became immediately apparent that an umbrella would not suffice: I’d already used one the prior day and the wind turned it into an inverted fly-away danger device.

 The immediate solution? My 81-year-old mother-in-law produced it – one of her rain hats, a cross between a shower cap and a plastic slipcover.  Especially delightful to the eye when worn tied in a bow beneath the chin, these fashion darlings were quite the rage in the 1960s.  Grandmas and middle aged women intent on keeping their beauty parlor “hair-dos” safe from the elements were well protected in these clear-vue plastic gems.  Now, one of these gems was mine.

Now for those of you who might think me too vain, don’t.   Yours truly actually wore the mother-in-law bonnet for all of Manhattan to admire.  At one particular corner, a pleasant young woman standing beside me at a light couldn’t help but venture a double-take at the accessory to my winter coat.  Realizing her glance didn’t go unnoticed, she smiled and sheepishly offered, “My grandmother used to wear one of those.”

“So did mine,” I responded with a grin, tickled by the madness of the moment.     

Standing beside me at the same light, my husband announced to the woman, “Don’t look at me. I’ve never seen this woman before – or that hat!” 

Crossing the street, Jimmy and I laughed uproariously. Then we decided that I needed another winter coat – this time one with a hood! Is this not insanity???  Can something as simple as a Winter Coat possibly monopolize so much of one’s time, thoughts and  effort????

Later that day, meetings complete, we trekked over to Macy’s, New York’s flagship department store and home to a veritable sea of winter coats. Now shall I tell you what we end up agreeing on as the new ideal Winter Coat? Nothing less than (dah dah-dah- dah!). . . . another black nylon quilted coat! This one, however, came complete with a fur-lined hood that could keep my hair protected in both rain and falling snow.   

This new purchase seemed like a good choice, even if it did lean more toward the practical.  Ahem.. . .  did I say “practical”? Excuse me, but I made a mistake. A BIG mistake. It appeared practical until I attempted to put it on and suddenly realized the new black all-weather coat required an instruction manual and a running time of at least 12 minutes to assemble!

 Now to the cynics out there who remain unconvinced that there’s far too much Nonsense in the world or that I am the only sane person left on this planet, please allow me to explain.  I’ll personally describe the adventure of donning the new-and-improved “practical” all-weather Winter Coat.

First, one must zip up the coat’s inset zipper. Next, one must connect the outer set of snaps that provide the extra level of insulation between the wearer and the world.  Try to avoid connecting the second level of snaps and you cannot belt the belt.  Miss the step of belting the coat and the nylon belt will slip right off.  Try connecting the belt directly and you quickly realize that the belt is most likely twisted.  Untwist the belt and you find the belt loops magically unsnapping, thereby causing the belt to fall off the coat and down to the floor below. Finally, if you can successfully navigate through all of these previous steps, you’ll find the most stressful – and frustrating – step lays right in front of you. Yes, the Winter Coat manufacturer decided that each of the teeth on the belt buckle needs to be placed into their companion holes on the opposite end of the belt one at a time . . .  with surgical precision, I might add! That means that placing one tooth into its respective hole does not guarantee the next tooth will automatically find its companion hole. It could easily end up in the next set of holes, thereby throwing the symmetry of the belt right out of whack.  Now, if this is not insanity, please somebody out there . .. . tell me what is!

The epic story of the Winter Coat does not end here – how could it possibly? An ending right here might cause the reader to think that I was really exaggerating about the Nonsense known as The Winter Coat. 

The story moves to January when, as you might expect, the new black Winter Coat with the hood became the rather obvious choice for the trip. While away, we took the path from Manhattan to attend a morning breakfast meeting in Hoboken, NJ. Arriving early, my husband and I took a stroll along the spectacular waterfront boulevard known as Frank Sinatra Drive in honor of  the city’s hometown hero. Overlooking the Hudson River and out to the skyline of Manhattan in the distance, it made for a fabulous photo op.  

I prodded, “Jimmy, let’s take some pictures.  This is too beautiful to pass up.” I posed easily for the shot, the sparkling Hudson River and a pristeen Manhattan skyline in the background on this very clear day. 

As Jimmy readied to shoot, he noticed my belt was awry. “Maura, don’t you want to belt your coat for the picture? You’ve got it tied instead of belted.”

“Jimmy,” I retorted. “You’re not going to believe it. The teeth on the belt are now hidden inside the belt and they refuse to come out. I’ve tried a couple of times to find the teeth and, frankly, I’m no longer interested in looking.  If you want to invest another half-hour finding the teeth, placing them through the holes, only to find them slipping out again. . . . be my guest.  Otherwise, I’m good. Remember, I’ve already worn the plastic rain bonnet through New York City. Just take the  picture. It’s all nonsense anyway. “

I rest my case.

With Lily, the Ultimate grounding instrument!

I’m not a believer in absolute formulas or rules.  To the contrary, you’d probably find me singing verses from that 1960’s folk song made famous by the Byrds, with lyrics originally penned courtesy of  King Solomon: To everything (turn-turn-turn) there is a season ( turn-turn-turn). . . .

That said, I’ve been in a season of grounding for close to 50 years, and, while most of my contemporaries were focused on moving up, I was geared to the earth, the pavement, the grass and the sidewalk.  As the self-avowed expert on the subject of being grounded, I figured it was high time to share some pearls of wisdom on this generally unpopular topic.

Grounded – 1. In touch with reality; 2. Based on evidence; 3. Confined at home as punishment; 4. Connected to the ground.

Though definition #4 is what I’m generally aiming for here, I must admit I’ve often related to definition #3, the one about being confined at home and somehow feeling like it wasn’t my favored choice. In point of fact, I recall more than once telling my husband, “I need to get out!”

Always kind and supportive, Jimmy would eagerly respond, “I can make arrangements for you to fly to some exotic destination.  Where would you like to go?”

“Jimmy, it’s not that I want to travel to a particular destination, it’s that I need to GET OUT!” (OK, I am just a tad passionate.)

Abstract explanations would eventually stump this linear, logical and pragmatic thinker.  My oriental reasoning couldn’t communicate to my husband how GETTING OUT was more about a state of mind than it was  identifying  longitude and latitude coordinates on the world map.  Yet, for nearly as long as I can remember, I’d felt confined, sort of like someone dwelling inside a box.  Surely, I reasoned, if I could feel the sense of limitation,  there must also exist a life outside that box . . . somewhere!

Back to the original subject of grounding. Let me give you a few examples of how I’d managed to step down to the ground over the years while much of the world around me was seemingly climbing upward and onward.

Way back in the last millennium, as a transferring high school sophomore who realized I wasn’t understanding much of Spanish II (my previous teacher was a recent transplant from Cuba with no knowledge of the English language), I asked to repeat a year of Spanish I without credit – and I did. A few years later, though having served as editor of my high school newspaper, I was told during my first semester in college that I didn’t know how to write. As a result, I diligently met with my English Comp instructor for one-on-one tutoring sessions nearly every week for the rest of the school year.  

Later, in the corporate world, I declined two job promotions in Chicago and Manhattan, preferring   to remain in sunny Florida.  Still later, tired of the corporate treadmill and realizing I’d compared my self-worth with my income, I resigned to experience life without a paycheck.

There are plenty more examples of how I’ve stepped down to the ground over the years. I’d chosen to  be a stay-at-home housewife (ugh!), homeschooling mother (double-ugh!), and pooper scooper extraordinaire to the canine members of our household. These absolutely adorable pets included Buster, a 75-pound boxer beset by separation anxiety, and Princess Lily, the English Mastiff and 200+ pound ball of fur who my daughter and I were convinced should have made it into Ripley’s Believe it or Not!  for her scientifically impossible feats of shedding.

So, while other women in the neighborhood were tooling around in their Lexus sedans, playing tennis at the local country club, and trading up on their engagement rings, yours truly was the spectacle best known for her multi-bag maneuverings (Buster, the other  scientific and biological marvel, was a frequent  4-bag-a-walk poop producer). I was also notorious for an ever-present rag and spray bottle of Cinch, vigilantly armed for low-lying window pane slobbers and ubiquitous paw prints tattoed across a sea of seemingly endless floor tiles.

Right about now, you’re probably wondering, Is this woman going somewhere with this diatribe?

Absolutely! Remember, I’ve been grounded for nearly a half century. Indulge me just a bit longer while I relish in the absolute absurdity of these lowly dog years. They really were quite epic. Drivers catching me on a walk would often slow their vehicles to a crawl, frequently yelling out something like, Hey, lady! Who’s walking who?  Otherwise, they’d look for a saddle and wonder if the yellow beast I was walking might not really be a small pony.

Getting back to that grounding thing and those great pearls of wisdom I wanted to share . . . .

For one thing, repeating Spanish I so equipped me with the fundamentals of the language that I absolutely grew to love it! I went on to major in Spanish  while in college, spent a semester abroad in Madrid, travelled as a Spanish interpreter (for fun) and was once asked where I’d lived - since I spoke like a regular native!

That very humbling but earnest year in English Comp? All that tutoring yielded me a second semester B+, truly one of my greatest academic accomplishments, even if not counted among my best grades. My professor’s assistance with phrasing, symmetry and logic helped prepare me for a present  career as a publisher, editor and writer.

What about the declines in job promotions? They enabled me to maintain the sunny lifestyle I’d yearned for as a child. Even after 25 years, I still marvel at the incomparable beauty of our Florida West Coast beaches and realize no pay increase could ever have compensated for this home. 

The loss of a corporate paycheck?  What loss could there possibly be when I’ve found my self-worth!  Today, I’m just as comfortable sporting a Target outfit as I am the designer original.

And what about my era living out the role as housewife and homeschooling mother?  Turns out I had a lot of humble pie to eat, realizing I was one major (albeit it, blind) snob. Staying at home allowed me not only to educate my daughter but to further educate myself.  Believe it or not, I learned things I never picked up the first time around in school. (Did you know, for example, that there’s a whole spectrum of colors out there  – undetectable to the human eye?  How about the fact that President Woodrow Wilson employed some top Madison Avenue PR gurus during WWI to keep Americans physically, emotionally and economically engaged in the war effort?) Yes, those stay-at-home years enabled my daughter and me to read, travel, explore and bond as I could never have otherwise imagined.  

And, finally, what about those dogs - the ultimate credits to my grounding?  Well, Buster and Lily eventually took a walk into greener pastures (with hopefully someone else to shovel all their squishy manure!) to a place we lovingly refer to as Doggy Heaven. These beloved pets lasted just long enough to keep us at home till our daughter was ready to go away to college – and Jimmy and I were ready to fly! Now, as an added bonus, I feel like my lifelong box has been opened and I’m naturally, finally, GETTING OUT!

GROUNDING.  Not a bad thing after all.  The way I figure it, the Earth and I are pretty good friends right about now.  At this point, I can’t possibly be afraid to fall.

I’ve waited over fifty years for this moment.  Finally, it’s my turn to hold court. 

Yes, I’d long ago envisioned myself a foreign diplomat to Latin America. I’d be utilizing my beloved second tongue, attending august functions and carrying a document-laden briefcase filled with new treaties. I’d attend important meetings, dine at state functions, and bring North American ideas and ideals to our Spanish-speaking neighbors to the South.

Unfortunately,   the State Department hasn’t seen fit to tap me on the shoulder, the Obama Administration hasn’t called me for an appointment, and I haven’t the inclination to play party crasher to any White House events. (Truth be told, I never applied to the State Department, bare no political label and would really hate having to wear those boring navy suits again.)  At this point in my life, I’m far more inclined to attend the gala in my own fashions, speak  for myself rather than an institution, and make my mark trading pithy comments with world leaders over dinner. (Besides, my Latin dance moves might not jive with official State protocol.) 

That said, it’s now time for me to advance my own words with my own version of Foreign Policy.

While I’m at it, I’m appointing myself Ambassador to the World – unfettered by any term limitations.   

Welcome to my Salon – so glad you could come!

Marriage.

Ever wonder why  people get married?

A recent image of my husband, which nearly jumped out from among an envelope of photos last week, caught my attention and provided inspiration for this reflection. So, why exactly do we marry? And, in my case, why do we marry a particular person?  I’m sure you have your own thoughts on the subject, but here are a few of my own.

Growing up, I had very few thoughts about marriage.  The first was that I couldn’t imagine myself being married before I turned 30; the second was that I’d always remain self-sufficient, never needy or dependent upon a spouse.  

Despite these thoughts and plans, I found myself walking down the proverbial aisle just one year after college graduation. I was neither 30 nor self-sufficient; instead, I was 23, living back under my parents’ roof while I attended law school and saddled with $10,000  in student loans to support a future career I never wanted. It was the summer of 1981, just prior to the wedding, and my girlfriend Lori and I were chatting while splashing around in the backyard pool.  In a genuinely befuddled moment Lori inquired, “Maura, why do you want to get married?”  

My response totally bypassed my brain, immediately spilling out of my mouth:  “Because I want to begin a new life!” 

Even in that moment, the words caught me by surprise. Not just because they were lying there dormant, but because of their utter simplicity and astounding intent.  I WAS GETTING MARRIED BECAUSE I WANTED A NEW LIFE.

(Now don’t get the idea that I was the only one in the equation here; my fiancé-turned-husband was equally on board. But let me relate just how the idea of a  “new life” was revealed to me and how this apparent desire has had opportunity to express itself over the past 28 years and counting.)

The first time I realized my intended spouse was for me was early one evening in the late 1970s.  Jimmy and I sat on a curb, mid-campus, before we split to our respective upper- and lower-campus dorms. The subject of Tenerife came up as he shared with me the possibility of being able to play basketball that upcoming summer.

“Tenerife, where’s that?” I inquired rather innocently.

“It’s part of Spain, and it’s one of the Canary Islands,” he smiled.

Great.  I’m the Spanish Lit major, planning to study abroad in Madrid, and I’ve never even heard of Tenerife!

“Tell me about it,” I probed, and Jimmy proceeded to share vivid word pictures of a tropical Mediterranean paradise that was a million miles away from my rather limited and mundane existence at the university library.

Not long thereafter, a second conversation surfaced about another foreign destination – Yugoslavia – and the possibility of Jim traveling with a group of Big East all-stars to this locale.  Now, as far as I knew from my Political Science studies (I was a Political Science major, too), Yugoslavia was a rather liberal part of a communist block of nations. End of thought.  Yet, here was a guy who was speaking of another far-away destination like it was in his own backyard, and vividly real.

Whether it occurred during the conversation about Tenerife or Yugoslavia, I’m not sure.  But what I distinctly recall was this: this man had ADVENTURE written all over him. 

For a guy whose career goal was to teach at a prep school back in New Jersey and never  earn more than $50K a year, he was absolutely electrifying – and animating – to my soul. Whether he was aware of this fact or not, he was on the road to a life of adventure and I was magnetized for the ride!           

So, after 28 years of marriage, how has this intended “New Life” idea  expressed itself back to me? For one, I left law school and quickly repaid my student loans.  Secondly, I moved to Florida, a place I’d pined for since watching episodes of Flipper on TV as a little kid. Apart from an enjoyable career in the telecom business and time at home as both wife and home educating mother, my life has truly been lived. I took up two more languages (just don’t ask me about French!), helped my husband launch our first business, learned to cook Italian, and hosted guests from around the globe. I’ve traveled to five continents – like Argentina to investigate fall of their economy; Cuba, Costa Rica and Honduras where I served as an interpreter;  and Africa, where I spent 9 days dwelling in a self-pitched tent at an utterly remote place aptly referred to as Fly Island.

Right now, as if starting yet another “New Life”, my husband and I are building an entertainment company from the ground up. I’m publisher, publicist, executive music producer, and even back-up singer for some of our children’s properties (What a bonus! I used to dream about being one of Walt’s singing Mouseketeers!).  Plus, despite knowing absolutely nothing about sports (and I do mean nothing), I’m co-writing for a comedic sports microphone named MIKE. Finally, as if were icing on my own wedding cake, I’m having a blast learning how to dance – something I’ve yearned to do since Chubby Checker introduced me to the Twist!

While I always desired to expand my life experiences, it took a wonderful spouse with ADVENTURE written across his chest - not only to bring me along on his adventures, but to make sure I created my own.

As I close this column, it occurs to me that the photo of my husband inspiring  this article displays him on the magical island of Korcula – one of our family’s favorite vacation destinations and home to explorer Marco Polo.  Turns out Korcula also happens to be part of the former country of  . . . Yugoslavia!  Who would have guessed?

So, why did I get married?  To Start a New Life – and I see I got my wish. It might sound hokey, but I expect this New Life thing to continue onward and outward.

In marriage, may you recognize your magnetic calling . . . .  and get the ride of your life, too!

After a near lifetime of denial, failed attempts at conformity, and entirely too much under-cover hiding, I’ve finally emerged from the closet.

The all-too- many sleepless nights of trying to make peace with my true identity have finally come to an end.  I’m going public with the disclosure and officially reporting HEADLINE NEWS to the denizens of My Public Domain: My Name is Maura and I am an ODDball.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived outside the bell curve.  While my physical appearance stands within the norm, my thoughts definitely reside outside the solar system, even the galaxy.  Take for example the fact that my favorite book is the Dictionary (not just any dictionary, mind you, but the unabridged versions that offer full word etymologies with Latin and Greek roots so I can understand what words really mean to say).  Or the fact that I’ve questioned just about every conventional form of thought.  Even recently, an elder cousin reminded me how, as a young child, I was writing complete sentences in reverse (the only way she could interprete them was by holding my writings up to the mirror).  

Yes, while everyone else in the Western World read and wrote from left to right, yours truly had to start at the End and work her way backwards.  Made perfect sense to me  but certainly not to the outside world! As a result, I grew up keenly aware of my unseen differences and often fearful of societal rejection.  While my husband and daughter had grown accustomed to my unusual perspectives, I recognized my ODDball status was a societal atom bomb and learned to keep my thoughts sub-rosa.

But back to my story . . . .    

 I knew something was askew when I awoke that Saturday morning to the long forgotten strains of Robert Goulet’s voice crooning inside my head: “I’ve gotta be me! I’ve gotta be me! ” Surely he wasn’t singing about the ODDball, I mused. It would’ve been too far out for the cultural mores of the ‘60s.  Were ODDballs even spoken about in secret back then? 

A few hours later I made way to an exercise class at the local spa when my normal routine went awry. Descending the stairs, a previously unseen poster suddenly commanded my attention: The Resort & Spa Welcomes YOU to a Halloween Party! ME . . . at a Halloween Party? 

A familiar voice interrupted my rapidly disorienting thoughts.

“Maura, are you going tonight?”

“Oh, Evelyn!” I responded, quickly collected myself  and  waving off the suggestion in my all too familiar tone. “I haven’t dressed up for Halloween since I was little. Even back then I felt weird. What would I ever do at a Halloween party now?” 

Evelyn quickly countered, “Maura, you can’t believe what an incredible job the resort has done with the decorating! There’ll be free drinks, appetizers, great live music, two comedians, and even a DJ from an area radio station. Plus, you can get reduced-price tickets if you purchase in advance of this evening’s event.”

“Are you getting spiffed for attendees?”

“Certainly not,” she assured me.  Then, smiling  expectantly from behind the reception area, she picked up the phone for an inside line to the resort’s front desk. Armed with an expression reminiscent of the cat that just swallowed the canary, she extended the receiver to me, nodding her head up and down in yes-yes fashion. “Come on!” she encouraged. You can do it.    

Could I? I wondered, silently. Could I actually emerge from the shadows  and declare myself openly to the world? Wasn’t Halloween the day when freaks of every sort were not only expected to appear in public,  but even welcomed? Could this Halloween Party be just the place for my . . . Coming Out?   

I reasoned a bit further. With both husband and daughter out of town, I could declare my true identity while conveniently sparing them public embarrassment of a guarded family secret suddenly open to view. 

Oh, what the heck. I accepted the receiver from a still smiling Evelyn and pulled the MasterCard out of my wallet. “Reservation for one, please.”

When I returned the receiver her way, Evelyn was still silently clapping in glee. “What are you dressing as?”

“An ODDball,” I heard myself sound, the words falling out of my mouth before I could catch them.

It didn’t register. “A what. . . ?”

“An ODDball,” I replied, this time a bit more defiantly. “Haven’t you ever heard of one?”

“Well, yes,” she stuttered, forced to acknowledge this unmentionable moniker that even the most offensive internet sites refuse to publish.

“Well, I AM an ODDball,” I declared, hearing my words picking up strength now.

“Not you!” she blurted out. Then, trying desperately to regain herself, she pulled back just slightly. Struggling for composure and still wishing to remain open-minded to the person before her whom she thought she knew in polite society, Evelyn sheepishly uttered, “Maura . . . what does an ODDball look like?”

Heading out the door, I heard my confident voice respond: “I guess we’ll find out tonight!”

Now I know you readers are just begging for the sequel to this exciting and true story, but  suffice it to say that I actually did come out of hiding that Halloween evening.  Going stag, I braved the entry of strobe lights, thirsting vampires and cackling ghouls to enter a dimly lit cabaret-styled party room. Then, trying to get my bearings while adjusting to the low lights, I was relieved to discover a familiar face: it was none other than Evelyn. 

“Evelyn!” I called. 

Once she realized it was I the Oddball, Evelyn responded reluctantly, ”Ah, Maura. . . ” Then, in a goodwill effort to make conversation with the now outed ODDball, she politely asked, ”where are you sitting?” probably hoping the answer would indicate somewhere ‘far, far away’.   
 

A confident reply burst forth: “With you!”   

Surprised, she stumbled, “Our table is full . . . .  but you can pull up a chair.” 

In another moment of outright brazenness, I did pull up a chair, placing it right at the head of Evelyn’s table!   

Once seated, I immediately said hello to the cadre of guests donning  a variety of clever costumes. The first couple included Lou and his wife, recent transplants from the Midwest.  Lou, a gentle and quiet man, was clad in a huge orange sombrero and shared how tonight he was celebrating his 39th birthday for the 39th time.  His younger wife, a weekend clown, proved a fashionable compliment to Lou with her tangerine costume and giant grin.  A second couple included Sister Mary Virginia and her fun-loving spouse Sister Virginia Marie  (who, by this hour, was sporting a 5 o’clock shadow and a headdress requiring a bit of straightening). The two were visiting from the Convent of Perpetual Merriment and wore long black robes reminiscent from my grammar school days at St. Michael’s Parish. 

With introductions nearly complete, an inquiring Sister Mary Virginia asked, “And who, exactly, are you?”

 ”I’m an ODDball. Not a make-believe one, but a real live ODDball,” I confessed.  Studying my costume, a prop, a squishy round mass of shocking pink that looked like a cross between the Chia Pet and a curly perm gone mad, the group smiled warmly.  Then, cooing over her martini glass, Sister Mary Virginia  announced,  “I propose a toast!  A toast to the ODDball!”  The rest of the table added a here! here! and clinked their glasses to my debut.

The ease with which these guests welcomed my disclosure was remarkable! So confident did I become in my own identity that my shocking pink ball was no longer necessary.  I could go it alone. I passed my prop along to Sister Mary Virginia who was so enamored with my gift that she proudly placed it beneath her long black garb to add additional hilarity to her habit, even asking me to take some pictures of her now bulging belly. 

The rest of the night was spent sipping 7ups, munching on great appetizers and dancing to everything from swing to disco with the likes of Mr. Clean, Michael Jackson and a host of other notables.  Imagine . .  . I was finally having a blast just being me - The ODDball. As a perfect ending to my evening, I realized nobody even flinched when I left before the bewitching hour of 10:30PM. 

Hey . .. the long-feared Outing of the ODDball outing wasn’t so bad after all.

If Halloween could accept me, the rest of the world was only a whisper away!

Have you ever received a bad Christmas present, a real downer, but were too polite to refuse it? 

If you haven’t, let me introduce you to the FRUITCAKE. Yes, the FRUITCAKE . . . that 17 lb. heap of candied fruit, nuts and crushed barley that masquerades itself as a culinary dessert “gift”.  Sure . .  

I’ve not only been the recipient of this hideously dry rubble;  I’ve  prepared one myself.  Just once, I might add.  I was a mere school girl, thrilled with the prospect of having my deep-South neighbor teach me how to prepare – and bake – this “special” Christmas gift tradition.  I remember shopping at the local grocery for all the overpriced ingredients (none of which were in our kitchen pantry – the first clue that something was wrong here), taking a whole Saturday afternoon to prepare it, and hoping in my childhood optimism that the final product would exceed the sum of its precarious parts. WRONG.  

By the time we finally finished “baking” this thick, brown gravel, laced with a fruit called currents, it was already dark and too late to play outdoors with friends.  Oh, well, I reasoned. At least I made a special, homemade gift.   

Christmas Day arrived and, following dinner, I proudly presented this hefty gift of holiday grit to those gathered round the dining table. After commenting on the “lovely” spectacle known as the FRUITCAKE, some adults politely postponed the invitation.  “Oh, thanks, I’ll wait till later –  when I have some room!” Others opted to take ”only a sliver,” confidently declaring, “I’m dieting.” Finally, some others responded, “You know I only take coffee for dessert . . .I’ll just have a tiny taste of yours, Maura!”

Not to be daunted  by their reticence, I courageously asked for a large piece and dug right in. In my anticipation, I eagerly championed the first forkful. For the next,  I asked for a glass of milk. For the third bite, I added a huge dollop of vanilla ice cream, only to find that this baked bundt of yuletide joy had the utter audacity to swallow any and all liquid up for itself! (I was too young and inexperienced a baker to douse it with brandy.)  The rest of the FRUITCAKE just sort of sat there, alone, speaking louder than words, till I found a legitimate enough distraction to leave the table, never to return to it that night.  

I’m not exactly sure what happened to that FRUITCAKE . . . I think it was first returned to its vacuum-packed sleigh-and-holly decorated round tin. I do recall it making a brief public appearance on the kitchen counter through New Years Day (“in case anyone would like to help himself”).  Next, I think it was relocated to the kitchen closet where it remained front-and-center for a time. A few weeks later, it was probably shoved to the back of the pantry, later repositioned to some obscure spot beside the Special K with freeze-dried strawberries (anyone remember how big of a hit that product was.  . . .not!). Finally, a year or two later, it was  surreptitiously thrown out  while I was at school.   No one ever spoke about this FRUITCAKE again. . . including me!

Now. .. since this is My Public Domain . … let me declare:

1. There will be NO MORE FRUITCAKES!

2. If FRUITCAKES were so great, people would buy them all year.  Marketing-wise grocery chains would be regularly advertising Buy-One-Get-One-Free specials on FRUITCAKES . . .but they don’t.  And we all know why. 

3. There are fewer than a dozen FRUITCAKES in the world and nobody knows how to get rid of them.  They just keep getting politely accepted, regifted and recirculated so the next person can pass them along to some unsuspecting novice. 

4. These seemingly eternal cakes refuse to decompose. Rumor has it that the longest preserved FRUITCAKE dates all the way back to the Roman Empire. Even these ancient people knew to refuse them.

5. Rumor also has it that eBay, the purveyor of all things, has refused to carry “FRUITCAKE” as one of its products unless it’s accompanied by an all-expense-paid, first class cruise aboard the QEII, at which time  the FRUITCAKE can be discreetly disposed of in some back alley cannister in Southampton.  

6.  If you’re still too polite to say, “NO” to this poor excuse for a present, here’s a foolproof pass-the-buck response for you: “Oh, I’d love to accept . . .but I’ve been advised by my periodontist that FRUITCAKES would cause my teeth to pop out.  So sorry . . . .!”

Finally. . . , because I’m Queen of My Public Domain, let me be

PERFECTLY HONEST

I DON’T LIKE FRUITCAKES!

SAVE YOURSELF THE MONEY

Enjoy the Holidays!