Obituary for Russell John Kelly

In Loving Memory of

Russell John Kelly

September 17, 1948 – December 28, 2013

 

Obituary

            __________________________

 

Russell John Kelly­­, 65, of Brooklyn, New York, passed away on December 28, 2013, following a cardiac arrest and subsequent complications, at the Brookdale Hospital in Brooklyn, New York. His best friend, Mary Purpari, was at his side at the time of death. He was born on September 17, 1948 to Jack Russell Kelly and Mary Jane (Newman) Kelly, in Orlando, Florida, although the family moved two months later to Brooklyn, New York.  He grew up in Brooklyn and Queens, with a brief stop-over in the US Virgin Islands. He resided in Brooklyn, New York for the last five years preceding his death. He was a tax accountant, but one of his greatest joys in life was sharing his vast knowledge on many subjects with his friends and acquaintances, and counseling and comforting those in need. His love and knowledge of all music types, from reggae to classical, from opera to jazz, and everything in between, was a joy to all of his many friends around the world, as was his love of sports.

 

Russ is survived by his son, Kevin Kelly and grandson, Joey Kelly; his sisters, Patricia Grace Kelly, Deirdre Kelly Rose and Vicki Kelly Forseth; his wife Silvia Santos Kelly; and his step-son, Jose’ Hernandez. His loss is mourned by hundreds of friends around the world.

 

He was preceded in death by his beloved parents, Jack Russell and Mary Jane Kelly, as well as his much-loved step-mother, Paulette San Marchi Kelly.

 

A memorial service will be held in his honor on January 25, 2014at 11:30 a.m.

Location:

St. Catherine of Siena Parish Church

339 Pompton Ave.

Cedar Grove, NJ.

http://www.scscedargrove.org

 

Russ was affectionately known by many names, such as Cute Guy, Flaquito, Compadre, the Music Man, Bro, Russ, E-lugs, Jovencito, etc. But the name he will be fondly remembered by, which illustrated his true nature, is the ROCK. We miss you, Rock!

          

Please, let us know you dropped by; just leave your name in the comment box. Thank You.

A Writer’s Christmas Tale

 

Three wise guys from the East Side went and found the baby dressed in swatting clothes and lying in a manager.

Meredith Soul, Vice President in charge of author relations at Disadvantage Publishers, was seated at her desk thumbing through the royalty checks that had been placed there for review several hours earlier. She stopped when she reached the one addressed to Melody McDonald. After three years of being on the market and selling only five copies, Melody’s book had suddenly jumped up to the 150,563^rd position of best sellers, out of more than 12 million books on sale at Silos & Common. The jump was amazing, since Publishers had done nothing to promote the book; the recent sales were due mainly to the author’s efforts among friends, family and their acquaintances.

Her reflections were interrupted by the sounds of carolers singing outside the otherwise quiet streets: “God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…” She stood up and closed the window; the noise was distracting her and she needed to think. The carolers, however, had reminded her that it was Christmas Eve; perfect – now she had two days in which she could work in peace and quiet.

After picking up the check addressed to Melody she looked at the e-mail on the computer screen; Melody had been particularly pressing lately. It was indeed true that the check from Silos and Common had been deposited into the company’s account a month ago, but Melody had already been waiting for three years to receive royalties for her book and Meredith was convinced that a few more months waiting wasn’t going to change a thing: what if there had been no sales at all? She wouldn’t have received anything anyway.

Meredith picked up the book in question and swatted at the unseasonal fly buzzing around her head; the annoying creature zipped out of her reach as the phone rang. She let the call go to voice mail – she rarely answered her phone because she never knew when an irate author was going to ruin her day by asking embarrassing questions about how things were going with his or her book, and it was best to let them think she was out of the office.

“Hi Merry, this is Ned Sugarsnak.” Ned had been one of the editors at the Publisher before the company had transferred from Park Avenue to Connecticut (less accessible to authors) and he had started his own publishing company. He was a nice enough guy, but she didn’t want to talk to him, either.

“It’s good to see you’re out of the office for awhile… I think. Listen I need to talk to you about one of your authors, so give me a call ASAP. Have a Merry Christmas, Merry.” She definitely didn’t want to talk to him – Ms. McDonald had been one of his favorite authors before he left Publishers and Meredith did not want to go there at the moment. “The name is MEREDITH,” she grumbled, “not Merry.”

She switched from internet to her excel files. The fly once more alighted on the screen, blocking her view of the numbers that signaled the rise in sales of Ms. McDonald’s book, How to Avoid Lunacy with Five Kids under Eight. The phone rang just as Meredith reached for the book so she could swat the fly; still staring at the fly, she picked up the phone instead. Flabbergasted, she stared blankly at the phone.

“Hello…hello. Is anyone there?” She continued to stare in horrified silence at what she had done, her eyes and mouth wide open. “Hello, Ms. Soul? This is John Dough, Ms. Melody McDonald’s lawyer; I am calling in her behalf. Are you there?”

Not that dratted woman, again, she thought. Rolling her eyes, she responded, “Uh…Hello. This is Meredith Soul speaking. How may I help you, Mr. Dough?”

“I have been speaking with our mutual client, Ms. Melody McDonald, and she is very distraught. It seems that she has written several e-mails to you regarding royalty payments that she feels she is entitled to receive. I have read through her contract with you and feel I must concur with her assessment. Our client has sold several hundred books, putting her well over the required fifty.”

Meredith was well aware of this; just before the fly had landed on the screen, she had seen that sales had arrived at 950 copies, and she wondered if it might not be a good idea to order a second printing. In fact, it had registered as a Top Ten best seller at Silos & Common one day in October…

“In fact, Ms. McDonald reached Best Seller status in October, earning herself the right to have that printed on her next book.” Was the man a mind reader? “At the moment, Ms. McDonald is in sore need of these funds, and since they are much overdue, we request immediate remittance of the entire sum. If nothing is received by January 2, 2013, our next conversation will be in court. Good evening and Happy Holidays.”

“Good Evening to you, too, sir. Good bye.” And good riddance to you. Happy Holidays, indeed. Slamming the phone back onto the hook, she walked back over to the window and glanced out. Obviously, the warmer temperatures that had kept the fly alive had plummeted; snow swirled relentlessly from the sky, covering the road below in a cold, wet, white carpet. She watched mesmerized as the wind, howling like a starving wolf, molded the snow into recognizable shapes that seemed to emerge from the flurries, before her very eyes.

She rubbed her eyes as one of the snowy shapes seemed to float toward her. She gasped: the figure now standing before her was Mr. Agnello, the owner of Disadvantage Publishers. He lived up on East Park Avenue in Manhattan, and had left for home hours ago. He tapped on the window, beckoning for her to open it up.

“Either I need to start wearing glasses, or I should start writing my own books,” she thought. She reluctantly opened the window as the tapping became more insistent. “Why doesn’t he just come through the front door? Maybe he forgot his keys.” As she turned toward the door to let him in that way, his voice echoed through the room.

“Ms. Soul, you must listen to me,” he thundered. “I had a car accident on the way home today; my car hit a patch of black ice and slid into the car in front of me, just as the car behind me slid into me. I was told to come warn you that the check will save more than one life and reputation.” He pointed toward another shape that had appeared in the snow-covered street. She jumped back, appalled, as she recognized the figure before her as a rundown version of herself.

“Remember, mail the check tonight on your way home.” His voice faded as he slowly floated back into the snow, leaving behind the memory of Meredith dressed in rags. She turned, shuddering, from the window.

That lingering memory stayed with her as she slid the check into an envelope and addressed it, slipped into her coat and opened the door. The pesky fly buzzed in a circle around her head, and then preceded her into the blustery night. The memory persisted until she reached the mailbox on the corner; as she dropped the envelope through the slot, she thought she heard the thundering voice of poor Mr. Agnello exclaim as the memory fled from her mind, “Merry Christmas, Ms. Merry Soul, and to you a good night.”

Prologue

Prologue

Tombstone, Arizona

May 16, 1919

A hefty gust of wind whirled down the dusty road leading to the Cochise County Courthouse, a solitary tumbleweed skipping crazily in its wake. Lengthening shadows from the Whetstone Mountains pointed towards the courthouse, where an unusually large crowd had gathered to soak in the warmth from the late afternoon sun while waiting for the deliberating jury to pronounce its verdict in the case of The State vs. Hale Chenoweth for the murder of Claud McDowell. The jury had already, on several occasions, attempted to declare themselves unable to deliver a verdict; Superior Court Judge Alfred C. Lockwood had, however, sent them back to continue deliberation in the hope that they would be able to reach a definite verdict. Regardless, today would be the day; Criminal sessions would be closed until the next criminal term at the Superior Court, beginning on September 29 and Judge Lockwood would be unreachable until that date, due to his vacation starting early the next day.

Defense attorneys W.G. Gilmore and Frank Doan conferred anxiously together until the courthouse door swung open and Sheriff J.F. McDonald announced, “The jury is returning with their verdict.”

A sudden nervousness charged the air as the attorneys for both sides, together with the witnesses and family members involved in the case, entered the building just moments before the members of the jury, accompanied by their bailiffs, reentered the court. Counsel for both sides waived the roll call and the jury advised the Court, through their foreman, that they were unable to agree upon a verdict.

Judge Lockwood, convinced at that point that an agreement among the jury members was indeed impossible, dismissed the jury from further involvement in the case. “The defendant is hereby remanded to the custody of Sheriff McDonald. This court is now…”

“Your Honor?” Mr. Gilmore interrupted the judge before he could finish the statement.

Looking at his watch, Judge Lockwood motioned resignedly to the defense counsel. “Yes, Counsel? Make it quick, please.”

“Your Honor, since the defendant was found neither guilty nor innocent, we request that the defendant be released on bail.”

“Bail is set at $10,000. Now, if there is nothing more, this court is adjourned until September 17, 1919 at 9:00 a.m.”

August 2, 1980: Lest We forget

“The memory of that massacre is engraved upon the Nation’s conscience.” (Giorgio Napolitano, President of the Italian Republic, 2 August 2011).

That Saturday morning, August 2, 1980, at 10:25 a.m. my husband and I, together with a few friends, had just begun to give our apartment a much-needed paint job. Just as Nino began to put the roller into the paint, we heard a huge rumble and the whole apartment began to shake. An earthquake, we thought. No way. Not here in Bologna. There had been no damage, so we just continued painting until my sister-in-law called asking us to go pick her husband up at the hospital.

We were more than a little surprised, as Vito was scheduled for surgery that morning and should already have been in the operating room, but when his wife told us that there had been an explosion at the train station, and that the operation had been cancelled at the last minute – every room available in every hospital in Bologna was needed for the injured – we finally understood the explosion.

Bologna, perhaps the most organized city in Italy, was in utter chaos. A 25 kilogram bomb, composed of TNT, C4 and nitro gelatin as a stabilizer, had been left on a small table in the second class waiting room at the station, timed to go off at 10:25 a.m., the precise time that the Ancona – Chiasso train pulled into the station on track 1.

Because of its central position, Bologna is a major stop, connecting Northern Italy to the southern part of the country. Add to this the fact that Italy’s tourist season was in full swing and it’s easy to understand why the station was jam-packed. That day, the station was left in rubble, eighty-five people were killed and two-hundred were more or less seriously injured. Some of the injured later died of their wounds.

And then, a sort of miracle took place: Bologna reorganized itself. There weren’t enough emergency vehicles to take the injured to the city’s various hospitals, so taxi drivers and bus drivers began taking helpless passengers. One bus in particular, number 37, was transformed into a giant ambulance where first aid was administered by health-care personnel; all doctors and nurses who were on vacation promptly returned home upon learning of the tragedy. Hospital wards that had been closed down were reopened to accommodate the large numbers of victims.

Travelers who were in the station at the time of the explosion stayed to help aid in searching for possible victims still under the rubble that was once a beautiful station. Bolognese residents shared their homes with the victims’ families, and visited those who were alone in the hospitals.

That afternoon, Italy’s President of the Republic, Sandro Pertini, arrived in the grief-stricken city; with tears running down his face, he addressed the public, “I’m speechless. We’re facing the most criminal action that has ever been undertaken in Italy.” Four days later, on August 6, he participated in the funerals of the victims of the massacre.

On August 26, 1980, warrants and the ensuing arrest of members of the Militants of the Italian Extreme Right-Wing were carried out. Among the arrested were Roberto Fiore, Massimo Morsello, Gabriele Adinolfi, Francesca Mambro, Valerio Fioravanti, Roberto Rinani, Massimiliano Facchini, Paolo Signorelli and Aldo Semerari, who was assassinated on October 1, 1982.

Bologna has not forgotten its citizens and visitors who remained victims of this senseless attack on innocents, Italians and strangers alike. Today, August 2, 2011, the city once again celebrated its annual commemoration, not only of its pain, but also of the courage and solidarity extended. I, too, remember the pain and sorrow, followed by hope and caring, and extend my love to the Bolognese, my friends and brothers and sisters. May we never forget.

Enjoying Strange “House Pets”

We have a new house pet; he’s a bit unusual, not exactly what one would normally consider as a “house pet”. Lucio flew into the house sometime between Monday and Tuesday and has no plans (or so it seems) of returning outside. Lucio is a a lightning bug or firefly, depending on where you’re from. 

I have always liked fireflies, although I had never seen one until I was almost eight years old; my grandmother had invited me on a cross-country journey and we were visiting some of her cousins in upstate New York, along Lake Erie. We had just gotten there from Boston and and we were sitting around eating roasted hotdogs after a heavy thunderstorm, when my attention was attracted by little flashes of light in the dusk. I was fascinated by what seemed to be fairies flitting around the yard. When I found out they were actually “bugs” my innocent tomboy heart jumped with joy – bugs were something I understood and loved – and, after obtaining an empty jar with a lid, I set out to collect as many as I could catch. They were somewhat elusive and my total catch amounted to… zero.

I missed out on fireflies for the next 18 years, until I moved to Italy. There was a lovely park not too far away where my husband, his brother and his wife, and I would go walking in the evening. Imagine my delight when, as we sat toward the back of the park enjoying the fresh evening air, I noticed a series of flashing lights flitting here and there in the darkening sky. I had found a new colony of my old friends, and decided then and there that I would bring along a jar the next time we went to visit the park. A week later, I found myself gazing happily out the back window at the “fairy lights” flitting haphazardly around the apricot tree in our garden. I was transported back in time for about a month before they either found their way to other backyards or died (I hope it was the former, although fireflies only live a maximum of three months).

Fireflies are actually a type of beetle (not to be confused with the singing group, the Beatles); they are nocturnal and come in about 2,000 species, most of which are winged. The bright light produced by the males, a mechanism triggered to attract females, is a chemical reaction that requires approximately 97% of their body’s energy to produce. Each species has a distinct pattern to their blinking lights. I discovered the presence of Lucio because of his lightning-like blinks, one right after the other in the corner nearest the bedroom window. Since there was a thunderstorm going on at the time, I thought nothing of it until he flew over my head and blinked a couple more times. Definitely NOT lightning. When I awoke the following morning, Lucio was resting on my bedroom wall, about 3 feet above my head and I was able to get his photo. The photo on the right was provided by National Graphic.

It would seem that fireflies are not particularly worried by the presence of human beings; a week has passed since Lucio made his presence known to us. He’s not alone; there are now two, the second being named Lucia. They disappeared for a couple of days, but reappeared last night in tandem – one on the wall, while the other flitted around – and before I went to bed (right after I turned out the light) I was once again awarded with a natural sparkler display. This evening, while preparing dinner, I discovered where Lucio spends his days: he has been hiding in my basil plants. I also discovered that if you look closely enough, the blinking lights are quite visible even under a bright light bulb.

And speaking of bright lights, another new discovery—perhaps quite unknown—is that fireflies will follow the light. Lucio was resting on the refrigerator door (white), but when I turned off the light to go into another room, he followed me and flew right in when I turned on the light.

Fireflies are attracted by moist areas, which probably explains why I didn’t see too many of them in my childhood home in Southern California. My home here in Brooklyn has very high humidity, and it is a wonderful treat when summer comes, bringing with it a wonderland of “fairy lights”, inside and out.

Sources:

• http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/bugs/firefly/

Mary and Sonia’s Big Tourism Mistake

Saturday, Sonia and I had intended to go visit Rockefeller Center, Times Square and St. Patrick’s Church. They’re all basically in the same area, so we figured we could see all three with no problem. I’ve seen then before and Sonia was really excited about seeing them. I usually get off the subway at the 42nd St-Port Authority stop, because I like to do a little window shopping at the bead stores along the way or staring at the ticket offices for the various Broadway shows, but it’s not exactly around the corner and I don’t usually visit all three at the same time; two, maybe, but not all three. I figured that if we got off at the next stop, we would be just a couple of blocks away. What actually happened, though, was that the next stop was not 52nd, as I thought it would be, but 59th.

Although I’ve been living in Brooklyn for almost 5 years, I was totally surprised at what I beheld as Sonia and I exited the train station in Columbus Circle. I’d never seen either the statue of Columbus, the sculptured globe in front of the Donald Trump hotel or… Central Park. I’m embarrassed to admit that I have never been to Central Park, although you can be sure that Sonia and I will not limit our visits to the Park to the one on Saturday—there is just way too much to see there.

After we took the obligatory photos on Columbus Circle, we crossed the street to enter the Park. A word of caution, here: you will be attacked by a horde of “service providers” that will do their best to rip off any money you might have. We were first approached by a series of Rickshaw drivers. Sonia and I had already decided that we were going to walk through the Park, so were immune to their bargaining; but, if you decide to take the rickshaw route, take advantage of the outside drivers, because they only charge $2.00 per minute for a 45-minute ride—the drivers stationed inside the Park charge $3.00 per minute. And the worst part is, you can’t really enjoy the wonders of the park, because if you stop, you get charged for waiting time.

If you fancy a more romantic style, there are also horse-drawn carriages. The cost for this runs about $90-$110 for a 45-minute ride; theoretically, the first 20 minutes cost $50, and up to 4 people may ride in a carriage at one time. It looks like fun but, as with the rickshaws, there’s not much chance to actually “see” the Park. Yet a third way, indicated more for the athletically inclined would be bike riding. The bikes offered by Citibank are free, and biking looks like a lot of fun. There are privately rented bikes, but since I have problems pumping, I have no idea how much they cost; anyway, I think free is better, myself. Bikes are allowed almost everywhere in the Park, although they must be walked on certain footpaths.

Personally, I think the best way to see the park is on foot; you can go where you want – at your own speed – see what you want, stay as long as you want and your hands are free to take as many pictures as you want or to eat a nice hot dog and pretzel. You can climb hills, sit under trees, have a picnic, smell the flowers (of which there are legion), even run, if you are on foot. You can also stand in line to go on the carousel or row a boat on the lake, without having to worry about being charged for extra time or losing your bicycle.

Sonia and I had the privilege of listening to a concert violinist as we were enjoying our lunch; she had a full concert planned, including “Summer” and “Winter” from Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons”. Further along, we met a pair of Reggae percussionists that had the two of us moving to their beat. Another musical entertainment was offered by a couple which combined “Baroque and native American”. They were very interesting to watch and listen to; the young woman had a rather lyric voice while the man, through the enhancement of a shot or two of helium, sang a vibrant counter tenor.

Since this Monday was Canada Day, there was a very interesting exposition on Canada, with a full calendar of events, including hockey matches, Indian dancing, product tasting, free Canadian flags, etc.

Our last stop – oh all right, the next to the last stop – was the turtle pond. It was full of, well, turtles. I also happened to learn something new about my camera: I can actually do super-zooming and get pictures of things I only dreamed about before. There was this turtle that was very camera-shy, but with my new-found knowledge, I caught it in the act. I also caught a dragonfly that I would never have been able to photograph before. The very last stop was Daniel Webster, a man of many words, literally.

Our visit to Central Park ended much too soon, and we can hardly wait for the next trip. There are so many things left to enjoy in this Park. And who knows? maybe we’ll see you there!

The “Best Health System in the World” Part 1: Appointments

Okay, I agree that once you see a doctor here in the United States, you probably WILL get the best service available. My little rant here is aimed at the system and the long, grueling process you must go through to see the doctor.

This morning I had a very chilling (and I don’t mean that in a good sense) experience when I called up the hospital to make an appointment for my roommate. That’s fine, I suppose, but I really shouldn’t have had to do it in the first place; Russ had an appointment scheduled for June 6, but they called him up the day before the appointment to tell him the appointment was postponed and that they would call him for a new appointment – they never called back. What made the experience so horrifying is the date for when the visit was set: October 29. Now, had HE been the one to cancel the appointment, I might not have fidgeted so much, but honestly! they were the perpetrators.

Last year, in July, Russ set up an appointment for an ophthalmologist because he has some serious visual problems; the soonest he could get an appointment was for August 13, 2013 – more than a year away. He has yet to get an orthopedic appointment for his back problems. sigh…

Regarding ophthalmology appointments: I had an appointment for 10:00 am with the ophthalmologist last June; I finally left at 7:30, without ever having seen the doctor. I made a new appointment for 3 days later, which had a much better result—I left after about 3-1/2 hours later with an appointment for a year later; all was well.

However, I might say that my recent personal experiences might top even the abovementioned experiences. I had a 7:00 pm appointment with my primary doctor on April 9. The hospital even called to remind me of the appointment. I arrived 5 minutes early and waited until someone came to the desk (I have no idea where they were…). When someone came in 15 minutes later, I was informed that Dr. P had left early. WHAT?! I was more than just a little ticked because I needed to have new prescriptions for my various meds and a paper filled out so I could start having my insulin again, but at least they gave me a Metrocard and a new appointment for the following morning at 9:00.

I got up somewhat earlier on a very rainy morning and caught a 7:45 bus (I take two buses to get to the hospital); when I was 10 minutes away from the hospital, I received a phone call from the hospital saying Dr. P would not be in that day. WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!???????????? I wasn’t furious; I was extremely very much more than furious—I was deadly. People that hadn’t planned on getting off the bus at the next stop got off anyway. And I went to the hospital anyway, and was in line at 8:55. There was no way I could NOT get at least my prescriptions, so I informed them that I was less than pleased; bad move, I guess, because I finally got out of there at 4:00 (a 7 hour wait) with, however, my prescriptions and an appointment for June 21. No insulin request, though.

The really offensive thing was the letter I received about a week later informing me that I had missed my appointment and that I needed to make a new one. I was also perplexed, to say the least.

The appointment on the 21st went very well indeed, even though Dr. P kept asking why I hadn’t done requested exams that I had actually done on the set dates; this definitely tied for being the shortest visit I’d ever had—it only lasted 3-1/2 hours, and was more the exception than the norm. They also set up an appointment with the dermatologist for a rather worrisome skin problem; the date: March 4, 2014. geez!  My question is this: why do doctors feel that our time is less important than theirs? Were patients to be paid for the time they spend in doctors’ waiting rooms, according to the money they lose waiting, do you think waiting times might be somewhat shorter? I’d love to hear your opinion on the subject.