To drug or not to drug December 28, 2009

For people who are in great pain and acknowledged by doctors to be dying, I find no moral problem in giving them drugs to induce sleep and also  keep them free from pain in the dying process. Such action seems justified. I don’t believe that our Maker who gave us the great gift of life would want us to spend our final days in intolerable pain. That would not make sense.

Football hero December 11, 2009

With all the concern being given to football injuries, especially blows to the brain and other vital parts, I  wonder why it  has taken so long. Way back in the 1920s, the son of my great aunt, Vincent Costantino, a student at William and Mary College in Virginia and a member of the football team, got a blow to the head during a game and died soon after at age 22. He’s an honored member of the family hall of fame. 

Finally today, football head injuries are no longer considered badges of honor but a menace to life. Personally, I  have always found football a savage game  and unable to accept the deadly dings and cracks that come with it.  I prefer baseball.

Natasha’s death March 19, 2009

Natasha Richardson’s death at 45 from a fall skiing brings back all the admonitions my mother voiced when we were growing up. She was always fearful of injuries caused by games the kids played,  like my brothers playing ball on he street (there was no playground nearby), or roller skating and falling, or bicycling and getting hit by a car. These were all within the realm of possibilities for serious injury in her mind and as a result, we grew up stodgy and unexercised and discouraged from ordinary games.  Skiing was out of the question then.

I feel crushed by Natasha Richardson’s death from a fall. Death, mamma believed,  was always at the door,  waiting to be let in. Death is the risk we take by partaking in sports–and in living itself.

Chinatown February 26, 2009

Chinatown in  lower Manhattan has an incredible lure that comprises fright with yummy thoughts of egg rolls, dumplings and chow mein. The name itself inspires fear, and mothers hold their kids’ hands tight when they walk the alleys and narrow streets. As if some Oriental dragon might emerge and suddenly pounce. The background of tenements, lonely and dark, is menacing.   People fantasize about the dreadful things that are taking place within.

Alas, this week a tragedy took place within. Allow me to quote a paragraph from the NYTimes news report by Christine Hauser (2/25/09, A23).

“A fire that swept through a Chinatown tenement early Tuesday, killed two tenants, injured at least 18 others and forced residents to stumble blindly through clouds of smoke, jump from windows and climb onto fire escapes in the bitter cold and darkness.”

Our imaginations could not top such a scene from hell.

Battles with no end January 30, 2009

As an average citizen in my plus-70 years, I am thoroughly shaken by the news that suicides of soldiers have reached a high of nearly three decades.

A memory of my growing-up years  during World War II is that whenever  mamma heard that a local boy was drafted, she stopped whatever she was doing and said a prayer. These prayers were offered to keep him safe in battle. My whole family remembers Teddy Kramarczyk, a  Polish-American boy who lived upstairs, who was drafted and killed in battle. When boys like him  returned from the war, we all said a prayer of thanksgiving.

It never occurred to us that their service and sacrifice were not over. The greatest ordeal was yet to come: the battle of survival after returning home. Seeing the horror of war, and men being blown up before your eyes, are not forgettable experience; it comes to haunt you. When a veteran readjusts to ordinary life, and puts the memories of war behind him, he will survive. But when he can’t and points the gun at himself, we realize we have not won the battle. We are also the losers.

Agebuster: movies January 10, 2009

After seeing The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, I prefer to call it The Disappointing Movie about Benjamin Button. By now most cineastes know it’s based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald and concerns a baby who is born an old man, lives in reverse and dies as a baby.

Lots of fun can come from this but, sadly, doesn’t. I’m sorry to report that BB is mostly about the l–oooo–n–g, l–oooo–n–g relationship beween Benjamin as a young man and his childhood girlfriend who madly wants to be a dancer but finally marries him after breaking her leg in 3 parts. The romance takes almost 3 hours to unfold.

For some action, I got up, went to the ladies room, walked back and forth in the lobby, read magazines on display, went back to the movie, praying for some telling bits about growing in reverse. Not to be seen. There were some scenes of Moscow, Paris, and dancers dancing on stage. One bit towards the end, when little Ben is shown having grown back to babyhood , is charming; he makes a delightful infant. But the promise of “BB” never develops and, frankly, I lost track.

Our Polish maid September 17, 2008

Our one-day a week housemaid, Maria, is a Polish widow of middle-age who dresses perkily and youthfully. She watches her weight, walks a lot, and as a result her figure tends toward slender but is well-rounded and sexy. She likes wearing clothes with color and prefers tight-fitting jeans, short tops that accentuate the breast, and sandals over bare feet, both in summer and, sometimes, winter. A mother of two grown children, she has a boyfriend who is also her vacation companion to Cancun and the Dominican Republic and other places with sun and sea. She lives alone in the Polish section of Greenpoint in Brooklyn.

Polish Catholic churches in Brooklyn are among the most crowded in the borough, and from my experience, Poles living in America are among the few who still practise church teaching. Except, that is, for sex. (I should know, having grownup in a Polish/Italian neighborhood.) They like sex, both marital and extramarital. These natural human appetites seem to go hand-in-hand with church practice, no problem.

This morning Maria appeared at our door, as usual. My husband and I were startled: she was dressed in black. I couldn’t help exclaiming, “Maria, you’re all in black! What’s wrong?” She held back a sob.

“My mother is dead. She died of a heart attack while I was away in Cancun. When I got back to NY, they had already buried her in Poland.” Although her mother lived a continent away, Maria was deeply attached. Separation increased her devotion.

Is that why you’re wearing black?

Yes. I will wear it for a year. I hate black, but I will follow our custom and wear it for her.

Not to see Maria in her colorful outfits was strange and discomforting. And for a whole year?

Oh, Maria, I’m so sorry.
I must mourn for my little mamma. I did for my husband for a whole year also. But for fathers, only a half-year is required.

Oh, the Poles! God bless them for their steadfast beliefs and humanity.

Big Eagle, Paugusset Chief August 13, 2008

I lived the first 21 years of my life in New Haven, in southwest Connecticut, a stone’s throw from the Paugusset Indians of Trumbull. And I never knew it. Through reading and schooling, I thought American Indians lived in the West, period, in states like Wyoming and Montana. Here they were practically next door to me! I am truly ashamed of my ignorance and the education that failed to inform me.

The tribal chief of the Paugusset, Aurelius H. Piper, Sr., 92, has just died on the tribe’s reservation in Trumbulll, the smallest reservation on record. He was known as Big Eagle. His mother, Chieftess Rising Star, named him chief in 1959 whence he assumed responsibility for the tribe’s quarter-acre reservation. The Paugusset (120 in toto) now live on two reservations in Connecticut, the second in Colchester, northeast of Norwich.

In mourning, I feel that an uncle, a family member, has died and I never knew of him. If I had had the honor of knowing him, I would have asked him, in all due respect,  wherever did he get that name, Aurelius H. Piper, Sr.

Tribute to Glynne Betts July 8, 2008

She met her oncoming death by celebrating life–lunching with friends, going to the Metropolitan Museum to see an exhibit, taking in a Broadway play. Although her legs were wont to buckle, she insisted on walking. One time walking at the Met with her brother, her legs gave way and she fell into his arms. She fell several times in her apartment in a single day, and gave me this news, nonchalantly, without self-pity, a woman of indomitable strength.

We met late in life, on a trip to India of all places. But our friendship was instantaneous and enduring and will give me nourishment for the rest of my life.