February photo workshop

 

I went into the south end of Boston yesterday and took a workshop on composition and creativity.  Here's the best of the more than 80 shots I took.  We had to look for lines, textures, shapes, diagonals, and that rule of thirds.

Top of the world!

 

Okay, before anyone says, 'OMG, TMI!"  this isn't a sad post.  It's a discovery post.  I've had some big changes in the past few years, as everyone has.  Some I couldn't control and some I could.  What I discovered is that I could learn from these changes, or stay home and watch a lot of Law and Order reruns.  I decided to get out of the house.

My first lesson was how to be "on my own."  That lesson was more than how to grocery shop for one, but also how not to make the flat screen my best friend.  A common question I receive is whether I will ever date again.  Dating is really down on my list of priorities now.  I had to learn how to make new friends again, how to extend invitations, be flexible and available to invitations, know the importance of small talk (how about those Red Sox, the weather, the movies, books, and yes, that tv show).  I had been living with one person and working in one place for so many years the rut I found myself in was the size of the Grand Canyon. And it was lonesome inside that rut on my own.

The first move I decided on was to take an early retirement.  Some people cheered me on, some thought I would become too isolated.  What the latter didn't understand was that if I didn't shake up my life, I would have become the perfect couch potato, and locked in isolation.  There wasn't energy for anything else.  I had the type of job where I was never off the clock, and never meeting new people or doing new things.  While I appreciate the support my staff gave me through my troubles, the setting and routine was a constant reminder of what wasn't anymore.

So after my initial grieving period when I was starting to come up for air, I also wanted to get out of the house.  I have had the luxury of being able to take that early retirement, and try different outlets for new experiences.  That first retirement year I did a lot of volunteering, but I found that wasn't what I was looking for.  I was often alone doing something the organization needed done, when what I was looking for was company.  I'm being choosy now with how and when I offer my free service.

I picked up a small part-time job as an academic librarian.  It's just enough to keep my hand in my profession, and gives me lots of social contact.  I've discovered the pleasures of group outings through Meetup.com and the Appalachian Mountain Club.  I still have my book club, and we often have field trips as well as our meetings.  We go to museums, see movies and last summer went on an Essex River cruise in Ipswich.  I've discovered the priority on my list is to be a social being, and whatever follows from there I'll just let fall into place. 

My rock through all this has been my family, both through blood relations, and marriage relations.  You in-laws get gold stars for hanging with me.  My family relations are true blue.  I have tried to be connected yet not needy, and I hope I have succeeded.

The picture above was taken on the 86th floor of the Empire State Building.  I had taken the train down to Manhatten on my own.  I can do things on my own and have fun, as well as with others.  I feel right now that I'm on top of the world.  And I'm going to enjoy that feeling as long as I can.

Lighting candles

I was in New York City recently, to visit with a neice and break up the tedium of winter.  The weather was slightly milder than home, and Manhatten has many, many indoor venues to distract and entertain.

One tradition I have when I travel is to visit a Catholic church.  It's silly, as I am what I call a roamin' Catholic, one who has lapsed from the religion and doesn't follow the sacraments anymore.  But while you can take the girl out of the church, you really can't take the church fully out of the girl.  I grew up with CCD classes and mass and no meat on Fridays, and some of those ideas have probably helped make me the person I am today.

I don't attend mass when I visit a church, but I light candles for those who have passed.  Lit candles dotted both my trips to France, where even the tiniest village had the sweetest church.  I take a few moments to remember good experiences with those lost loved ones, take measure of the current moment, and use the few minutes for reflection.  When I visit New York, I stay near St. Patrick's, a large and imposing structure.  One good thing that can be said about Catholicism is the beauty of their churches. 

Wandering around towards the back of the altar one time I discovered a chapel devoted to the Madonna.  It is lovely, small and decorated with roses and thistles in the wood carving.  A statue of Mary is the focal point, and of course, there are candles to be lit.  This has become my spot for reflection when I visit New York; a quiet place in a congested, noisy area.

I'm not alone when I visit on a weekday morning.  There appear to be many that prefer the smaller chapel to the big cathedral setting on the other side of the alter.  All ages are there, and one very interesting type of worshipper.  More often than not, I will see a gangbanger in full colors, tatts and chains and heavy boots, kneeling with his head on his hands, praying to the Madonna.  He kisses the floor as he genuflects when he leaves.  I'm left to wonder where he is going, and why he also prefers the Madonna chapel, and praying to a sweet mother saint instead of sitting in the somewhat overwhelming main church.  I am reminded each time that while we all face unique challenges in life, we seek solace in many ways that are the same.  We have our differences, yet we share many of the same needs.

My New Years resolution this year, as it is each lately, is to be less judgemental and more open hearted.  And sometimes the universe offers me the perfect example.

Fish Tales

Many times when I run into someone I haven't seen in awhile, the first question I'm asked is "Do you have any trips planned?"  Traveling extensively has become a 21st century habit.  Earlier in life, Gary and I were getting by as many younger couples do.  We'd save our tax refund to pay for a car trip.

 

We covered New England from Bar Harbor, Maine, to the shores of Lake Champlain in Vermont.  We would stay in a vacation cottage near Arcadia or in the Green or White Mountains. Sometimes we would find a motel instead.  We always packed a camera, and as time went by, fishing gear and bait.  Gary put together a chart of the best fishing holes along the Kancamagaus Highway.  No, I can't share.  Fishing hole locations are secret, of course. 

 

We would find that zen quiet when sitting by a trout stream, line in the water, waiting for that little jerk telling us our bait had been taken.  With the sun peeking through the leaf cover, and the warm dry air of the mountains, we didn't care that it was the middle of summer and humid at home.  Work worries just melted away, and flowed down the Swift River.

 

These photos are from July, 1992.  Here we are, twenty years younger, thinner, and with much more hair.  We may have gone to more exotic places later, but none were any more fun than sitting by a river, catching fish and scenery, and letting the day flow by.

 

This Wednesday would have been Gary's birthday.  People have  been correct.  The hard edges of loss have softened with time.  I can look back and treasure those lazy summer days and be thankful that we had so many of them.  I can also look forward to more summer days, and making more good memories with the people in my life.

 

The one lesson I think I've learned is that the connections with people and the memories we make are what we can keep over time.  And are the things to be most valued.

 

 

 

Father Christmas ghosts.

The holiday season and the end of the year is typically a time of reflection.  I've been thinking of all the good Christmas's and family get togethers I've attended over the years.  And there's been lots.  For example, there were Christmas mornings when Santa was still real.  The biggest kid my house that morning turned out to be my dad.  He would wake us up and tell us that Santa had arrived, and would sit and watch with a smile as we opened presents.  He was a man of very few words, but his actions would often speak volumes.  He was a hard working, blue collar guy.  He didn't have a profession or career, but a calling.  He was the provider, as my mother was the homemaker.  Different times and different roles, but still important.

As I said, he didn't talk much.  He was often tired, sometimes grouchy, but he did work a zillion hours a week.  Once he retired, though, he opened up a little.  He was more relaxed, I was older and had learned men's small talk (did you see yesterday's game?) and he would sometimes share stories.

He told me one story of when he was a teenager in Saugus, and had a job pumping gas on Route One.  This was before the days of the major interstates, so anyone traveling from New York to Maine had to use "the pike" as all highways were called then.

He had a pair of famous customers who had a summer home in Maine  stop at the gas station one day, Bette Davis and her husband Gary Merrill.  It must have even more impressive back in the 1940's to see a movie star.  Without a 24 hour news cycle, instant tweets, and not even television, stars lived in a different universe than they do today.

He had a more homespun story that makes me smile even now.  Here he was, first generation American, born of Lebanese Catholic parents.  He had been set up on a blind date by his brother and his girl, who had a friend.  The friend was first generation American, the child of Sicilian immigrants.  Things were going well.  And of course, he was invited home for dinner to meet the parents. 

My poor mother was mortified by what her mother served.  Lentils, of all the greenhorn things to serve to someone my mom was getting serious about.  What would he think?  Immigrants back in the early twentieth century did their best to Americanize themselves.  Sofia became Sophie, Caterina became Kitty, and Rosa became Dolly.  The sisters had pride in their American style.  Oh, but the horror of serving lentils was not to be imagined.

My father laughed when he told the story.  He had been brought up on lentils and other similar Mediterrean food.  The subtext he didn't mention was his probable nervousness at meeting the family.  Whether intentional or not, my grandmother Lena put him at ease by serving a dish my grandmother Nady had served him his whole childhood. 

And then Sophie and George in turn served those dishes to their children, my brother John and I.  And keeping the tradition going, John has requested that I bring something Lebanese to dinner Christmas day.  So in a little bit I'll be cooking up some kibbee, and his children and grandchildren will have a little.  Sophie and George's legacy, and their parents' as well, are the dishes we still eat, and the memories we make around them.

Merry Christmas, dad.

French Fairytales

A Librarian's Pilgrims Progress

I've been around libraries all my life, starting with my mother bringing me to the bookmobile in Lynn when I was very small.  Our whole neighborhood would walk together, mothers and children, and it would be an outing for the ladies as well.  They would have a chance to catch up and speak with other adults, and the kids could skip along around the edges.  These households would have had just the one car for the father to take to work, so it was a special occasion for all involved to go out to the bookmobile.

When we moved to Salem, my mother brought both my brother and I to the library on Essex Street as soon as we could sign our names to get a library card.  I spent many hours there, so much so that when I entered high school, Mrs. Tomlinson in the Children's Room asked if I wanted to work there. That's where I started my profession, 14 years old, a page in the Children's Room.

After college I tried a variety of jobs, and none really seemed to fit.  Ten years after graduating from UMass/Amherst, I saw a posting for a Children's Librarian I at the Lynn Public Library.  I filled in the application, went for the interviews, and started shortly after.  Finally, I had found something that fit.

In the years between being a page at 14 and now, I had the chance to work in all departments at the public library, and now at an academic one.  I made my way to the big office with the ornate, antique furniture as library director, and then stepped back into the role that I have enjoyed most through my career, reference librarian.

But this time of year brings back a memory of my first days, and when I worked primarily with children.  I was at the Houghton Branch in West Lynn, and we had 16mm films we would show once a week in addition to craft making and story times.  There was a very popular book that had been made into a short film in the 1980's.  The hero was a girl whose parents had immigrated from Russia for religious reasons.  She had a Thanksgiving homework assignment, to dress a doll as a Pilgrim, with a capital P.  One of those people with the black clothes, and silver buckles on their hats.  She was having a terrible time of it, and went in tears to her mother.  The mother sent her to bed, and made a pilgrim, small p.

The costume she crafted was of a Russian peasant.  The teacher was upset, and told the girl she had missed the point of the assignment.  When the girl told her mother, they talked about the reasons the Pilgrims had come to Plymouth, and the reasons her own family had come.  The little girl then realized she also was a pilgrim, even without the silver buckle.

The Houghton Branch Library was situated in an incredibly diverse neighborhood.  We had families from all over Europe, Asia and the West Indies coming in every day.  What I remember most about my stay there is that after showing this movie, a Cambodian girl came up to me in tears.  She said, "Nadine, does this mean I'm a pilgrim too?"  Yes, I answered, you are.  She was a struggling student, both academically and socially.  That day, at least, she felt she belonged somewhere.  She fit in.

To all my fellow pilgrims, small p, Happy Thanksgiving, and may you find your special fit also.