“E” is for Easter 1960

This is a brief extract from the first chapter of my book Old McDonald Had a Funny Farm. Life was so fun and so simple back then…

Fifteen minutes later, Ross and Honey packed the kids into the car and headed off to Newport Beach for the church services. All four children walked demurely near their parents as they entered the church, which was beautifully decorated with pots of snow-white Easter lilies and bright yellow daffodils, just like the ones growing beside the McDonalds’ driveway. After the Sunday School lessons, Honey accompanied Melody to the choir room, and then joined the others in the front row of the chapel. Groups of people, in brightly colored clothing that vied with the beautiful sun-brightened stained glass windows illuminating the chapel walls, streamed through the doors toward the welcoming pews. Waves of joyous organ music accompanied the festive throngs. Feelings of hope and thanksgiving hung on the air with comforting warmth. It was a day for celebrating the resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ. The adult choir stood, divided, in the external aisles of the chapel, and began to sing the triumphal Easter hymn:

 

“Christ the Lord is ris’n today

Alleluia.

Sons of men and angels say

Alleluia.

Raise your joys and triumphs high

Alleluia.

Sing, ye heav’ns and earth reply,

Alleluia.”

 

It was so beautiful sitting between the two choirs as the voices echoed back and forth, and the triumph of the Lord rang in the congregation’s hearts. After the Pastor’s sermon, the children’s choir, seated behind the pastor, rose to sing, clutching battery lit candles in their hands. Melody was both excited and nervous at the same time and she fought to stand up straight as her knees wobbled and threatened to collapse from the emotion. She was singing in the choir for the first time, and it was wonderful, but what if she sang a wrong note there in front of everyone: she would die. But no, there was her family sitting there in the front row and she knew that everything would be alright. Mrs. Jarvis lifted her arms and began to lead the very young singers:

 

“When Israel was in Egypt’s land,

Let my people go.

Oppressed so bad they could not stand

Let my people go.

Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land

Tell old Pharaoh, Let my people go.”

 

Melody’s heart began to slow down. She had done it; she had sung the right words in the right rhythm on the right notes. It was wonderful singing in a choir and the congregation’s reaction made her feel like she could fly like an angel. At the end of the last service, as she and the other fifteen boys and girls of the junior choir walked in double file down the center aisle of the chapel with their candles shining brightly, the pastor loosed a cloud of snow-white doves. Just as the young choir members were leaving the chapel to take off their choir robes, one of the doves left its circling companions and settled on Melody’s shoulder. She wasn’t surprised—lots of birds landed on Melody’s shoulder (though not those pesky mocking-birds)—but this bird just heightened her feeling of peace and joy. Wanting to share this feeling, she turned around to search for her family in the midst of the festive crowd. Suddenly, she felt a hand clasp her other shoulder. Turning around, she came face to face with Grammy Jenkins. “I see you’ve found a new friend, Mickey.”

The dove flew off to join his fellows as Melody and her grandmother hugged each other.

“Grammy, you came to hear me sing. What a neat song, huh? Where’s Grampa? Is he here?

Are you coming to our house for lunch?”

“Oh, slow down; one question at a time. Yes, dear, the song was wonderful. Grampa is at work. You know the police have to work sometimes on holidays, unfortunately even on Easter. There are many more people here at Easter-time, you know. He’ll try to come later on, when he finishes his shift. Yes, I am coming to lunch and also to the Easter egg hunt. Then, if Grampa doesn’t make it in time, your Grandmother Mary will take me home.”

“Are you coming home with us in our car? Oh, please, Grammy. You can sit in back with me.”

excerpt from “Old McDonald Had A Funny Farm” © 2009 Mary Purpari

“D” is for the “Dream”

Today’s letter, D, is brought to you by my dearest friend, Russ Kelly R.I.P. He was a talented poet, and had planned on publishing his poems, accompanied by paintings done by another dear friend, but unfortunately his dream was thwarted by his untimely death. I would like to share this poem with you, in his honor, because I’d like for him to receive the recognition he deserves. He wrote this poem in 1971, when he was just 22 years old.

The Dream

I had a dream the other night

and dreamt of many things

I wenched with mighty emperors

and supped with splendored kings

and soared across the universe

with wide ensorcered eyes

to touch pulsating fabrics

of many fabled skies.

 

I flew on mythic Hippogryphs

across the galaxy

and soared through skies as yet unknown

with my eyes to see

the building of the Pyramids

and found Mycenaean Greece

and sailed with mighty Jason

as he sought the Golden Fleece.

 

I slew the Nemeian Lion

and Medusa of serpent hair

and sought out ancient Babylon

with hanging gardens fair.

I journeyed on with Prestor John

Searched for all that’s dead and gone

Mystic flower, ancient tower

all these things were in my power

but all these wondrous sights to see

meant but little else to me.

 

I went down deeper in my dreams

to find the magic key

that would unlock the deepest door

and solve this mystery

this mystery of longing and of turning

and of tears

and of learning and of burning

and of fears…

 

But lo! And then I found it

the key into the door

beyond whose portals I would find

what I’d been searching for

 

I found the hidden temple

the entrance in the floor

went down many flights of steps

that led me to the door.

 

I put the key into the lock

it opened, and I found

(the writing on the wall told me

wither I was bound).

 

For I stood in the hall of the Gods of Dream

and saw before my eyes

the great, inspiring Asawot

the god of seas, and skies…

 

“Come hither:, he boomed,”Unbidden guest”

“You are at the ending of your quest”.

 

I told him of my longing

and in answer to my dreams

he looked at me and smiled and said:

“Strange though it seems

you are a godlike mortal

to have surmounted slumber’s peaks

to the Golden Castle of the Gods

that no sane mortal seeks

 

you ask me of fulfillment

and in answer to your plea

I say, be gone! Oh, foolish one

that would ask such things of me

 

For I am great and mighty

and not of such maudlin cast

that I would give you answers

to such questions that you ask

 

Be gone! And find your answers

by the light of breaking day

search not in dreams

but while you wake

it is the better way”.

 

And Asawot boomed at me

“That is all I have to say”!

 

But as I turned and ran in panic

Quickly from the room

I heard him sigh,

and touch the sky

heard him softly boom:

 

“For immortal being I may be

There are other Gods than me

The greatest is reality…”

 

©2014 Mary Purpari and Russ Kelly

“C” is for Challenges

Right now, hundreds of bloggers from around the world, myself included, are involved in a month-long blogging challenge which involves writing twenty-six blogs in twenty-six days, one day for each letter of the alphabet. I’m really excited about it this year; I meant to register last year, but forgot until it was too late. I tried to do it unofficially, but life had a tendency to get in the way, so I wasn’t very regular in my writing. this year, though, I’m more organized and come what may, I’m determined to get through this challenge.

Another one of the activities that I enjoy doing (but haven’t had a lot of time for, unfortunately) is quilting. Quilting groups also have challenges, several of which I have enjoyed participating in. I never won a prize, but I did improve my techniques. There are also a number of jewelry challenges in which I might participate someday.

The above mentioned challenges are created to entice us to improve ourselves and to have fun while doing it. They also encourage us to learn how to do new things. A year ago, although I had already had quite a bit of writing experience, from writing my own book (which was a challenge in itself, with all the obstacles put in my way) to writing for an online magazine (also a challenge), I was a completely inexperienced blogger, so of course, I learned new things and greatly improved (at least, I hope) that ability.

Everyday, though, life brings all of us new challenges, giving us the chance to grow and to improve ourselves. If we don’t quite meet the challenge, this in itself should encourage us to try harder and to improve so that next time we will be able to do a better job.

I was born with only one fully developed hand, which is quite a challenge in itself, especially if you consider that I was born left-handed with very little use of my left hand. I was a very determined child, however, and with the greatest mother a child in my position could desire, I was truly not allowed to rest on what you could call a good excuse to not try, to give up. I was also very stubborn and when someone said “You can’t do that; you only have one hand…” that was the biggest challenge anyone could hand me, and there I would go. A lot of the stuff I did then, like climb trees, play tetherball, switch hit in baseball, play volleyball, play the trumpet, knit, crochet and quilt, were all the result of being told I couldn’t do them. (I guess I showed them! )

Today, I’m facing other, equally difficult challenges. Since my dearest friend died in December just getting up to face a new day is a challenge. As I lay in bed I sometimes ask myself, “Why bother? There’s nobody there who cares what you do, so just stay where you are…” Then, I hear Mr. Cardinal singing his beautiful song and I look up to see if I can find him, and behold! there is that silly little black feral cat doing her gymnastics routine next to my American flag in the window outdoors (she earns her keep by entertaining me) and I know there is a reason to get up, and once again that daily challenge is overcome. And I’m getting a little better everyday.

And of course, if I don’t get up, how can I meet the A-Z Blogging Challenge?

 

©2014 Mary Purpari

“B” is for Breast Cancer in Men

We’ve all seen the cute little Breast Cancer awareness ribbons and the little games that are passed around to help show solidarity in support of women’s breast cancer. I used to think it was pretty nifty until someone reminded me that women are not the only ones who are susceptible to this disease. I then began thinking that it wasn’t really fair that half the population should be ignored when referring to this disease, or series of diseases – there are more than one type of breast cancer, even in women.

Perhaps the reason that men are so often forgotten is that not everyone, including many men, realize that breast cancer is not just a female disease. However, statistics show that while the majority of those who contract the disease are indeed women, 1,700 men are diagnosed with breast cancer each year, or about 1% of all known cases; this is actually about 0.2% of all cancers in men. Of these 1,700 men, 480 of them (about 35.5%) will die from the disease.

There are a number of reasons that such a high percentage of men die from the disease, the most common being because it is considered by most to be a purely female form of cancer, and so men could be unaware of having the disease until it’s too late to stop the cancer’s progress. Breast cancer most commonly hits men between 60 and 70 years of age, although it can develop at any age. Another reason is that, because of the small amount of breast tissue in men, they rarely are candidates for mammograms, which is the most common diagnostic method for breast cancer in women.

As a general rule, men have more symptoms when they have the disease, and if you have any of the following, it would be a good idea to contact your doctor immediately. The most common symptom is a painless lump located right below the breast. Other common symptoms that might follow could include: nipple discharge (sometimes bloody), fixation to the skin or underlying tissues and skin ulcerations.

The most common form of breast cancer found in men is Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma (IDC) while the rarest form is Inflammatory Breast Cancer (Paget Disease).²

There are a number of risk factors that should also be taken into consideration, including age, ethnicity, geographical location, socioeconomic status, heredity and hormones. In fact, it has been suggested that men with breast cancer should have genetic testing done. While this won’t necessarily hinder future generations from contracting cancer or even guarantee that they might, it should be noted that 6% of male children of a male breast cancer sufferer will contract the disease, and that 40%-80% of female children will contract it; 50% of their children will also carry the gene.

Please, if any of you men who read this think you may have any of the symptoms listed above, please go to your doctor. Although a mammogram is not highly feasible, there are sonograms which are a great diagnostic method (and way less painful, believe me ). Take care of your health—it’s precious, to you and your family.

 Sources:

1. Breast Cancer in Men:The Warning signs
2. Male Breast Cancer

 

©2014 Mary Purpari

“A” is for Alcoholism

Disclaimer: Although the subject is generally considered on the medical and social levels in other discussions, today I would like to base most of my remarks on a more personal level, although I will throw in a few statistics, the sources of which are listed below. On this personal level, please note that most of my statements are my own opinion – based on personal experience, and may contrast with what professionals might consider “proper” behavior.

According to an article at Examiner.com¹ more than 65% of United States households are affected by the problem of alcoholism. This is the official data, but the percentage is probably higher; many households or individuals do not report the existence of the problem because of the stigma connected alcoholism.

The discussion as to whether or not alcoholism – the addiction to alcohol – is a disease is a moot point: it debilitates the body’s immune system, is the cause of diseases such as cirrhosis of the liver, heart problems, brain damage, kidney failure and can (and often does) cause the death of the addict. According to cdc.gov² more than 15,990 deaths were caused by alcohol-related liver diseases and 25,692 other alcohol related diseases in 2010, in the US alone. Again, these are the official stats, but it is probable that the real count is much higher.

I have known both family members and dear friends who enter into the statistics. They were wonderful people and their lives and subsequent deaths from alcohol abuse has had a terrible effect on all those who held them dear. I’ve learned a few things from my experience with them, and I’d like to share these with you.

First, alcoholics don’t all react in the same way to their drinking, just like not all alcoholics imbibe in the same drinks. Some become maudlin, others become violent, others yet disappear completely, until they have worn off their “binge”. Others yet may not show any particular signs of having gone over the limit.

Daniel* would go on a super-binge of drinking beer and then completely disappear for a week at a time. He lost his job, worried his family and in the end died of a heart attack. He had tried to quit and had been successful for a few years, but then, in a moment of weakness, he “fell off the wagon”.

John* successfully stopped drinking when he discovered that if he didn’t, he would only have a few more months to live. He lived for another five years afterwards, without drinking another drop of alcohol.

Many professionals promote the idea of tough love as a means of helping loved ones overcome their addiction; I agree that up to a certain point this could help them realize that they have a problem: leaving them tangled up to sleep on the floor where they have fallen, or refuse to bail them out of the drunk tank could lead them to understand that they do, indeed, have a problem. The next step, however, that of “inviting” them to leave and not come back until they have stopped drinking is not, for the most part, going to work.

Peter* found himself in this latter category. He was told to leave, and not come back until he discovered he loved his wife enough to stop. When he did stop, he would be allowed to go back. The problem was, although he loved his wife very much, he was unable to stop drinking on his own. He wanted to, but by then the choice was no longer his; the alcohol made the choice. In fact, instead of helping him stop, the eviction only made him drink more, until the day came that only a timely phone call from a friend kept him from “taking the bridge”.

If you have a loved one going through alcohol addiction, help them by pushing them to get help and support them in their efforts when they do. Alcohol withdrawal is neither easy nor pretty; not all survive the physical pain of withdrawal: approximately 25% patients will die during D.T.³ If you need to, apply non-violent tough love, but most of all, don’t threaten with eviction. The only lasting effect it will have is to increase the need to drink and also to decrease self-respect and esteem. It hurts, but it can be done, with help.

*Names have been changed 

Sources:

1. Examiner.com
2. Alcohol Use
3. Alcohol withdrawal, pg. 62

© 2014 Mary Purpari

Update on the Squirrels of Cypress Hills

Rock-a-bye baby in the tree top, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bow breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will fall baby, cradle and all. (said to be first poem written on American soil)

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote an article here about the squirrels here in my neighborhood, showing their newly renovated nest and added my thoughts that there would most likely be a new crop of little squirrels in the area. Of course, as someone who enjoys planting a vegetable garden on her porch, I had mixed feeling on the arrival of new little strawberry and tomato eating monsters (oh, all right: I know they’re cute, but there are plenty of other things they could eat, like the mulberries that grow in the tree where their nest was…)

Yes, you read correctly: was. Lately, Brooklyn has been hit by some pretty nasty weather that has, unfortunately, wreaked havoc with the squirrel’s nest in our backyard forest. The photo on the left is the nest at the time the first article was published. It snowed a few days later, with moderate winds, and the squirrels found themselves needing to reconstruct their home. (see photo at right). When they finished, it actually was restored to the same condition as before the storm.

The poor nest was rained upon and snowed upon, and yet, despite the soggy leaves and diminished space, the squirrels continued to brave it out. That is, until last week, when some fairly strong winds came through Brooklyn and scattered the leaves comprising the nest to the four corners of the neighborhood. (see photo bottom left), leaving (excuse the pun) a miserable pile of… just about nothing.

At first, the squirrels were in an uproar, racing about the tree branches, heading down toward the area where they had first gathered leaves to build up their “fortress”; their enthusiasm diminished somewhat when other “buyers” took a look at the offerings and quickly abandoned any idea of refurbishing the incapacitated dwelling. Three pairs of birds considered taking up residence (hoping to save time and energy, I assume) in the nest – catbirds, starlings and sparrows. All three decided against taking advantage of the bargain, and went elsewhere to build their own nests.

The nest has now been abandoned by all and sundry and sits forlornly all by itself. Even the squirrels avoid all contact with their former home. As to baby squirrels? I don’t know if they had been born and killed by the bad weather, or if they have been carried to another place by their hapless parents. Or perhaps, they weren’t even born yet. Previous activity would suggest otherwise, but my hopes are that they were spared any mishaps.

The Squirrels of Cypress Hills, Brooklyn

For the last three years, I thought what is portrayed in the photo on the left was a crow’s nest; it was a logical assumption because of the size and the fact we do actually have crows living in the forest composed of our neighborhood’s backyards.

Boy was I ever wrong! It is a nest all right, but it actually belongs to the little character in the photo on the right. Yes, a squirrel. Now, there are several squirrels in our neighborhood (yes, there are squirrels even in good old suburban Brooklyn, New York, along with several other creatures that one wouldn’t necessarily think of finding in a big city) including a pure black one.

We also have a very large bird of prey that comes to visit from time to time; I presume that this is why the squirrel population in our neighborhood hasn’t exploded – it’s certainly not because of the cats and dogs in the area, which have bonded with the squirrels and are more likely to be chased by the squirrels rather than the other way around.

I discovered that the nest belongs to the squirrels quite by accident; my desk faces our backyard and I love watching what goes on outside. There is always something to distract me from whatever I happen to be working on at the moment, and any distraction is an excellent reason to “run” outside with my camera and take pictures. I particularly enjoy watching the squirrels as they run up and down the trees, along the branches and jumping from one tree to the next without ever breaking their stride. The only time I don’t enjoy watching their antics is when they run along the fence and attack my vegetable garden, which they do the very moment my strawberries or tomatoes are ready to be harvested. Someday… well, that’s another discussion.

On this particular occasion, I noticed that one of the squirrels was heading toward the “crow’s nest” carrying something in its mouth. It’s way too early for that something to be from someone’s vegetable garden, since most of the backyards around here are covered with a thick layer of snow and ice. I was most curious because, as Alice would say, the situation was becoming curiouser and curiouser. Said squirrel, which just happens to be the same in the picture on the upper right, disappeared into the nest, emerging shortly thereafter, empty-mouthed.

The nest turned out to be formed by nothing more nor less than a conglomeration of soggy dried leaves – as I discovered later – that continually changes shape and size according to the circumstances. And, despite these differences the two photos are of the same nest, only two days apart. There has been a great deal of activity surrounding the nest today; there was a very strong wind last night and this morning and a large amount of the leaves fell to the ground. The photo here is of the squirrel leaving the nest after depositing the bundle of leaves, which were put into place by yet another squirrel.

Another reason for my suspicion about new members in the squirrel community is that one of the squirrels (again, I suspect it’s the mother) has been behaving in a very unsquirrely manner. If another squirrel should happen by, probably not so innocently, it gets chased off, and the nest’s resident quickly returns from whence it came. Now, in and of itself, running haphazardly is not uncommon behavior: a squirrel’s favorite pastime is chasing or being chased by other squirrels, and they will run for hours up and down tree-trunks, along branches, jumping from one tree to another, running up and down stairways, along fences while in the meantime getting into as much trouble as they possibly can. This morning, in fact, one of them found a bagel and began running all over the neighborhood with at least two other squirrels running in hot pursuit. The first squirrel’s progress was somewhat hampered by the fact that the bagel was twice his width. They provided me with much needed humor.

For some reason, there haven’t been a lot of baby squirrels in the neighborhood, and though the nest has been there for at least two years, it really is the first time I’ve noticed any activity involving it by the squirrels. In any case, we will probably be seeing anywhere from 2-8 baby squirrels in about three to four months. Baby squirrels are born blind and completely helpless, like most rodents, and depend on their mothers for 2-3 months before facing the world on their own.

Although the nest isn’t right in my own backyard, it’s close enough that when the babies begin to experiment the world around them, I should be able to see them. And, strangely enough, I’m excited about seeing them, along with the others we already know—Blackie, Blondie, Fatty, Scraggly Tail, and all the others—as long as they don’t eat all my fresh vegetables.