http://www.buffalonews.com Latest stories from The Buffalo News en-us Thu, 23 May 2013 09:42:37 -0400 Thu, 23 May 2013 09:42:37 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130523/OPINION/130529690/1120
Few of us personally know a celebrated hero. Fewer of us still will ever have the opportunity to save a life, find a cure for a horrible disease, save the world from another war or do anything that would label us a national hero.

Yet that desire for greatness lingers in all of us. We are all called to be heroes in lesser or greater ways.

I know many heroes. Their names will never make the news, yet to the people they serve their acts mean the difference between a desolate day – a need unfulfilled and the despair of loneliness – and a day filled with hope – a need recognized and met, and the blessings of a friend who cares and supports them.

They are your neighbors, your friends and hopefully even yourself. They are the countless “good neighbors” who are always there in the time of need to bring a bowl of soup to a sick friend, to visit a shut-in neighbor, to offer a ride for a stranded friend, to baby sit for a harried mother, to dog sit for a needed vacation, to provide an emergency shuttle to a doctor’s appointment, to cut the lawn or remove the snow from the driveway of an elderly neighbor, to stop at the druggist for a prescription refill or to pick up an extra bag of groceries for someone without transportation.

There are unseen heroes who donate that extra winter coat to a homeless shelter, the extra dollar in the collection baskets for disease research, the extra food to food pantries and the pint of blood at the Red Cross.

We live among real heroes every day. The caregivers who tend to the needs of their parents suffering from Alzheimer’s; the caring family members who remain constantly by the side of a terminally ill relative; the dedicated teachers who give added love and support to a struggling child; the single mothers juggling job and family; and the many who daily battle racial and gender prejudice to reach their rightful goals.

We have opportunities every day to fulfill our destiny as heroes. Offering a kind word to the hassled checkout clerk at the supermarket may be the only civil word she has heard all day. Holding the door for a frazzled mother with toddlers hanging from her arms may give her renewed faith in the kindness of strangers. Visiting a sick friend may be his or her only link that day to a normal, healthy world and a reprieve from the endless doctors, nurses and medications. Calling a “long-lost friend” may rekindle fond memories and brighten a humdrum day.

The heroes who run into burning buildings or toward exploding bombs deserve all of the acclamations we can give. They represent the best of us, for they have fulfilled their inherent destiny to be a hero.

Few of us will ever match their deeds, but we can all meet our destiny to be heroes, in a great or lesser manner. ]]> Thu, 23 May 2013 07:10:47 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130522/OPINION/130529863/1120
I’m usually told to “just wait” as my children are doing something sweet or dangerous.

For example, as my 2-year-old tries out the new-to-him words dump truck and forklift: “Oh, that’s cute now. Just wait until they start talking back to you.”

Or after my 4-year-old gives me a giant squeeze on the run: “Enjoy those hugs now. Just wait, soon they won’t want you to hug them, let alone be seen in public with you.”

Or while my child is running around the kitchen with a spaghetti pot covering his eyes: “Oh, he’ll give you a run for your money. Just wait until he starts playing [insert dangerous full-contact sport here].”

Here’s the thing, though: I don’t want to “just wait.” Indeed, my children are little right now. Which means our days are filled with trucks and crayons and bite-sized pieces of very specific foods. We watch cartoons, go to the library, run errands, take walks and go about the business of growing little people, bit by bit.

The short time we’ve been parents has zoomed by at warp speed. Wasn’t it just yesterday we came home from the hospital with our oldest – dumbfounded and shocked by our amazing fortune? No? Oh wait, that was almost five years ago.

Through those nearly five years, we’ve experienced joy, heartbreak, wonder, worry, frustration and fascination. We’ve tried to be fully present in each moment and phase. “Just waiting” for a rapidly approaching future isn’t really our style.

I do understand the full meaning of “just wait.” I’ve never been a wish-I-could-keep-you-little kind of parent. Sleeping through the night and a life without diapers? Both sound pretty awesome, no matter how cute and delicious-smelling babies can be.

It’s amazing and hard watching these helpless little beings build their independence brick by brick. Before we’re truly ready, our boys will be off to school, building lives that aren’t completely created by us. We’ll help them grow into caring, wise young men, their futures stretched out in front of them.

The parents who tell us to “just wait” are farther down the parenting road than we are. The tantrums and new discoveries our children experience now are a distant memory for them. Where their children are in life seems so much more daunting, and they remember earlier years with a hazy fondness.

I get it. The philosophy of “little people, little problems,” though, feels condescending to me. Of course my preschool-aged children aren’t experimenting with drugs and using the Internet. But their developmental stages are just as difficult and thrilling for them, and for us. Telling me to “just wait” takes the air out of our parenting sails, discounts the joys and frustration of learning as we go.

One Friday morning our oldest got himself dressed and ready for preschool, then joined his brother at our bedroom window. They watched the sanitation crew at the curb empty our garbage tote into the truck. Two little faces peering out a frosty window at men doing a hard job. Soon, I know, they’ll forego such excitement. All I can think as I look at those two perfect round heads is “just … wait.” ]]> Tue, 21 May 2013 15:38:44 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130521/OPINION/130529943/1120
The first day is the benchmark for establishing a good rapport with each student and setting the tone for an exciting year in the classroom. The last day is hopefully filled with excitement as both the teacher and students have reached their academic goals and summer vacation awaits them. For many teachers, however, it can also be met with a bit of depression.

From the first year that I began teaching and coaching high school sports, that last official gathering with student-athletes always led me into a time of reflection. The inward thoughts would open my eyes to the fact that once the school year or a sports season ended, that class or team you had become part of would never be together again.

However, there are times when a former student comes back into the life of a teacher and/or coach for various reasons. Most recently, I came upon two situations that put me in contact with former students whom I had not had any contact with in many years.

The first student graduated 30 years ago from the district where I coached and taught during her four years of high school. Her mother was the first person I met upon returning to my alma mater to begin a career in education. And although I had so little in common with both of them, we became good friends.

Over time, I lost contact with the family. But I recently learned of the mother’s deteriorating condition as a result of Alzheimer’s disease. I quickly searched out the former student’s address and sent a card with a message attached, hoping to lift her spirits. That gesture led to a few back-and-forth emails. It is my understanding that the renewed dialogue brought a bit of sunshine into her life during these dark days.

The second former student caught me off guard as she returned to the “old” high school to watch her son’s team compete against my son in a varsity baseball game. It had been at least 15 years since I had any contact with her. When she first said hello to me before the game began, I just exchanged the pleasantry and took my seat in the bleachers. Shortly thereafter, I realized that this young lady was also a former student that I had become friends with while she was attending college and quickly retreated to offer her a hug and an apology for not initially recognizing her.

As the evening wore on, we met each other’s son who both had a very good game. The next day, I sent her and her husband a copy of the sports article that I wrote about the game and a photo of their son that was submitted to our local newspaper. That also initiated an exchange of uplifting emails.

In hindsight, teachers and coaches do form a bond with their students and athletes. However, life is ever changing and both move on. I was fortunate to reconnect with two of those students and reminded once again of the importance and joy of being a teacher and hopefully remaining lifelong friends with the students and athletes who touched your life. ]]> Mon, 20 May 2013 16:16:13 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130519/OPINION/130519220/1120
My niece Saray, now 10, was adopted from Guatemala by my sister and brother-in-law as a baby. To look at her was to love her. She arrived in the United States with olive skin, a little round belly, lots of hair and a great sense of rhythm when music played. But for Saray, everything she needed to develop into a healthy child was difficult.

You see, Saray suffers from many problems that affect her health, speech, motor skills and development. Thanks to love, family and a school support team at Summit Educational, she will be blessed with a full life. However, simple things we take for granted, like shopping or making choices, can be very difficult for her.

Recently, my sister and Saray went to get dessert at the Village Bake Shop in Lewiston. The dessert was a promise for doing well in school. My niece was given the opportunity to select what dessert she wanted. However, she can be overwhelmed when picking one item from many choices.

The lady behind the counter looked on as my niece touched almost every part of the glass showcase as she searched for her dessert. When her decision was made, she asked the lady for the “pink dessert.” The lady began to pull out pink desserts one at a time for my niece without success. Staying patient, pleasant and adding humor to the situation, she finally came across the right one.

As they proceeded to the cashier, a gentleman walked out of the back room and began to converse with the lady. My niece’s attention was immediately directed to the man’s jewelry on his wrist and she began touching it. Before my sister could react, the man nodded to her acknowledging that he understood what was going on. Saray then noticed his smart phone and began to touch it. Without missing a beat the man began to show her the phone’s capability, including how it takes great pictures.

When my sister told Saray it was time to leave, the kind gentleman offered her a cookie if she listened to her mother. It was then that this gentleman informed my sister that he was the shop owner. My sister was emotionally overwhelmed. These people had shown compassion, kindness and understanding toward Saray. This is not often the case for my niece, where stares and glares usually take place.

Saray’s perception of people’s reactions is spot on with a unique ability to see good in others. Although she doesn’t know why people react the way they do, she often feels their reactions as negative. These business people, like others we have encountered, demonstrated empathy by paying close attention to her needs and reactions. These people, who display human decency and understanding, make you believe that your child will be OK in this world. It’s a comfort to know such people exist and share their kindness and understanding with those who need it the most. ]]> Fri, 17 May 2013 10:57:41 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130518/OPINION/130519076/1120
Unafraid, I saw the sun shine between the shades and the trees reaching for my window. Although no one was visibly present, I felt an excited crowd gathering and my soul was light with anticipation. Then I awoke, most certain of the immortality I was born to believe.

This lucid dream was a premonitory vision – a gift for a greater purpose. I was soon honorably selected as caregiver to my aunt for the years she suffered dementia and all of the physical maladies that occur when a 90-pound octogenarian doesn’t remember to eat. Strong coffee and country breakfasts temporarily boosted her memory, but Auntie faded into the past more often than not.

Sometimes I became her sister, the beautician who kept the true formula of her particular shade of champagne blond. We split lunch on Wednesdays at the Polish Villa, laughing about work and crying about men. I didn’t see the point in forcing her to remember me. It was disrespectful to a woman who was my feminist hero.

Maria Shriver, upon losing her dad, Sargent Shriver, to Alzheimer’s, lamented with great torment that her father didn’t know her anymore. Only our ego desires the recognition. Her father’s brain malfunctioned, but his heart and soul felt her as deeply as ever.

When pressing for memories we deem important, anguish and fear replace the peace and joy experienced reminiscing with our loved one who has become the patient. Auntie’s happiness was certainly more valuable than my name. Besides, I was collecting family secrets!

Love connects far beyond what science can explain. If we could simply ignore the medical community’s diagnosis of geriatric psychosis, eliminate the continuous demeaning memory tests and embrace the intricate journey our loved ones are taking to the other side, we might arrive more prepared ourselves. With patience and prayer, one day the curtain will lift and, if only for a moment, you will see yourself in their eyes again. Listen carefully, and you’ll hear your name.

In the end, Auntie and I rode in the ambulance together to Buffalo General. I called her that day like I did a dozen times before I arrived and she didn’t answer. She was wearing lipstick and barely conscious, and told me she was ready to go home. When the doctor revived her to a more comfortable stability, he asked, “Geri, who is that next to you?” She answered clearly, “My niece, Khimm, of course.”

I told her how much I loved her and she described the changing vista of the room, the familiar faces to greet her and the angels to guide her because God spoke through Auntie in volumes of love. We had time to say goodbye.

Everything we are is exaggerated when dementia slants our view of the world. The wonderful bits of our personality and the darkness of our soul contrasts day and night in a mental tug of war that is more maddening to the caregiver than to the afflicted, who is blissfully unaware.

To become the practical earthly guide – to keep dignity in check and harm from their hands – is a challenge that can change your life. But there are miracles even in illness, lessons in the passage of time and beauty in our own transitions. ]]> Sat, 18 May 2013 07:46:52 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130517/OPINION/130519238/1120
Our primary goal is to impart information, encourage critical and creative thinking and, for me particularly, to develop an appreciation for the beauty of language. Opening minds is our true reward. If that were not the case, we could not long endure the regimentation, confinement and stress of handling five classes with well over 100 kids each day.

I recall a day many years ago, teaching completers of verbs to my freshman class, when a boy blurted out, “I understand this! At last I understand this!” Embarrassed, he dropped his head and buried it in his arms. We all laughed and I wondered how many other students had ever had a similar epiphany but never expressed it quite so openly.

Recently, during an exchange on the Internet, I complimented a man for his many cogent and wise analyses of topics. Because Rick’s surname seemed vaguely familiar, I asked if he had ever been a teacher or a student in West Seneca. He replied that he was a 1973 graduate of East Senior High, and proceeded to tell me of a teacher who had instilled in him a love of learning he has carried with him all of his life. When he ended by saying I was that teacher, I was genuinely stunned. Even if only fractionally true, it was a soul-satisfying compliment beyond monetary value.

We teachers are too often haunted with the worry that our efforts are wasted and our words no more than senseless blather.

Long retired, I am no longer actively involved in education. Every week or so, however, I meet with a bunch of guys at a local Wendy’s, where we talk and argue the issues of the day. One of the group is Bob, a gas company retiree, and, at age 68, a kid among us. Having spent his life working, raising a family and coping with the mundane problems of life, Bob never had much time for intellectual pursuits. But recently, Bob has discovered within himself a curiosity and an eagerness to learn.

What an opportunity for me and for Chuck, another retiree in the group who enjoys teaching. Bob has already tackled “The Count of Monte Cristo” on his own, and has asked us to recommend other books. This gives us pause. Reading for pleasure is one thing; the ideal is to gain knowledge, as well. Because history and literature are inextricably bound, they must be understood together. Only in yoking the two can the various stages of the human condition be fully illuminated and understood.

With that in mind, it seems best to break in with American novels that are easier reading and entertaining, such as “Huckleberry Finn” and “The Grapes of Wrath.” Their themes, though important, are apparent and less complex than they are in books we may later suggest, such as “Brave New World” and “Lord of the Flies.” Our intent is to back up to “The Iliad” and work our way forward through the classics. As we do, Chuck and I will try to point out the universal themes, attitudes and other aspects of the novels as they relate to their times and to us today.

Knowing Bob, it won’t be long before he is self-directing. After all, isn’t that what education is all about?



James Costa, a retired teacher, lives in Elma. ]]> Fri, 17 May 2013 06:51:12 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130516/OPINION/130519389/1120
What kind of hairstyle is that? What kind of music are you listening to? You’re going to wear that? Have we not all heard these questions being thrown at us?

My grandmother once said, “Each generation of teens has their own style of clothing, music and hairstyles. Let them find out who they are, with limits of course.”

Let me tell you about some teens who deserve to be praised. My husband and I had the privilege of rising very early one morning to attend and be witness to one of the bravest, kindest deeds any teen could choose to participate in. I am talking about Bald for Bucks, a fundraising event for pediatric cancer research.

As we walked through the halls of their high school toward the gymnasium, we were met by boys and girls who had already sat in the “chair.” They were laughing, hugging and high-fiving each other for a job well done.

As we entered the gym, it was buzzing with activity. The school allowed the students to have friends accompany them for support. Parents, grandparents and siblings stood anxiously waiting for their teen to be next. Girls and boys were manning the register tables for the participants, while others were waiting to hand out the certificates and T-shirts these wonderful kids had earned.

As we watched, some of the girls coming into the gym were holding hands, some were laughing, some were crying knowing that their hair would soon be gone and some just looked like they were in shock. Two girls even had each of their long hair braided into one large braid locked together. Yet through all of these emotions, not one boy or girl walked away!

They had lobbied for sponsors to make a monetary donation and they were following through with their commitment. Both of our granddaughters participated. One lost more than 5 inches of her hair, the other lost it all. Yes, they shaved her head.

“Don’t cry,” she mouthed to me as I stood there with her mom, her papa and my camera. How could I not? Not because she was losing her hair, but because of who she has become at such a young age. Most of us at age 14 would never have done such a selfless act. When she was finished, the smile of her bravery lit up the room and the lens of my camera.

There was tremendous applause after each teen completed his or her task. There were also many pictures taken that day. The best one was of my granddaughter holding her certificate of completion and wearing her badge of honor T-shirt. This high school alone raised more than $48,000.

Because of this age of technology, our teens have become more educated and informed about the world we live in. They have become connected to the struggles of others not as fortunate as they are. They have no problem stepping up to try to make a difference. They volunteer for many causes by either raising money, donating their time or their physicality.

Teens these days are awesome, brave, kind, thoughtful and caring. They are our hope, our future. I believe we will be in great hands. ]]> Wed, 15 May 2013 17:07:43 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130515/OPINION/130519443/1120
Naturally, the first things you notice upon entrance to our area are the plethora of different varieties of trees and the bushes and perennials that bloom at various times of the year. The landscaping, like everything, is financed through our association dues and it is lovely. It’s not golf course manicured, but nonetheless, lovely.

After fixing up the inside of our home to our satisfaction, our happiness was enhanced by the daily outside visuals through the patio windows into the common, large, oval, tree-filled rear area. There, little squirrels were chasing each other and occasional rabbits hopped around. But most of all, we were in wonderment at the variety of birds, with their chirping, singing and pecking. So much so that we bought bird guides and put up several feeders and a water bath. I took monthly excursions for birdseed purchases. Early in the morning, one could even encounter deer, browsing at their leisure.

Sadly, that scene has completely changed. For the past few years, our pastoral area has been overtaken by feral cats. A resident or residents in our community allowed their house cats to roam outdoors freely, summer and winter, and to multiply. They allowed them to remain outside, I’m told, by patio feeding. Apparently, patio feeding wasn’t sufficient, because our wildlife is all gone. Squirrels that once literally tapped on our window for nuggets of corn or nuts are non-existent. They’ve either fled or been victims of predation. There are no more rabbits. We haven’t noticed deer, either. But worst of all, our bird-sighting manuals are stowed away and lie dormant for obvious reasons – scant sightings.

Management is understanding but helpless. It claims that someone is feeding these cats. Stop them! Whom are we to accuse? What are we to do? The SPCA can’t do anything. A call to the Feral Cat Focus group responds with, “you catch ’em, and we’ll neuter ’em.” That’s a nonstarter, for me.

I don’t wish any harm to these cat families. They are cute creatures. Not to mention, out of the mainstream, I see no sport in killing wildlife. I’d love nature to take its course, or perhaps get a little assist from neutering science, because these cats can no longer be domesticated.

Grievously, due to some misguided, thoughtless “pet” owners, the quality of our lives in this once fauna-filled community has greatly diminished. Unfortunately, its return remains doubtful.

My dog will be 12 years old soon. I’ve previously owned and loved my cats. But since I don’t breed, I’ve “fixed” every one of them, as well as leashing them while outdoors. Good pet ownership, good neighborliness, common courtesy and a little common sense shouldn’t cost that much and takes so little effort. ]]> Wed, 15 May 2013 06:29:52 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130514/OPINION/130519538/1120
But on a recent morning, I guess because the light is debuting earlier, I noticed something a bit intriguing. You have to drive slowly around that curve and it’s pretty much in your face, so I don’t know why I never noticed it before. There are about 10 properties sharing their border with the school, houses with the most artful display of wood, metal and vinyl fencing.

They are all so different, yet their purpose is very much the same. They all keep people out, maintain a perimeter and reflect the taste and/or the means of the homeowners within.

I pretty much view my life like that – surrounded by an enormous blend of people with varied agendas and attitudes, but who also share the same purpose. They live their lives the best they can by being exactly who they are.

The artist in me viewed that backyard scene as my palette, and I could envision what person symbolized each section of fence.

The vinyl “perfect” one enjoys the best of everything, would give it all away in a heartbeat and shines brightly when the sun gives her some reflecting power.

The metal chain link is an open book. She wears her heart on her sleeve, is open and honest, thin yet strong, and is all ears to listen.

The worn, wooden one wears well with age, steady and sturdy, and doesn’t need accessories to adorn her life.

The redwood has a way with decorating and using color and has seen some beautiful and colorful places in her life. She enjoys being a bit different with her opinions, making her memorable. She has weathered some frailties recently without curtailing her many tasks and still stands strong.

The picket is a perky old standard, simply maintaining her boundaries, while creating openings to reach out to others. There are no big walls here to shut out people, or animals either, for that matter.

I think we’re all like prisms that just reflect the sun differently. When I asked my 5-year-old granddaughter to help me color a poster I had created for a world hunger campaign at church, she colored the farmer’s overalls in a rainbow blend of bright hues. I clearly envisioned him with denim, but she saw it differently. It was the same farmer, still ready to do some farming, just a bit happier maybe in his new duds.

The point I’m trying to make is this: Validating and embracing “different” creates some new perspectives, giving us a renewed focus and challenge in this life that we may tend to take for granted.

We don’t all fit like a puzzle. We overlap, share and squeeze in our pieces in this world, like those non-conforming fences – standing rigid , individually, yet supporting shoulder to shoulder, withstanding the same pressures and forces from the outside, creating a binding force of strength.

T.H. White wrote: “I can find nothing more terrifying than an eternity filled with men who were all the same. The only thing which has made life bearable has been the diversity of creatures on the surface of the globe.”



Jessica Cronenberger lives in West Seneca. ]]> Tue, 14 May 2013 06:21:42 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130512/OPINION/130519985/1120
After the morning services and the Mother’s Day breakfast, it was time to go home and to celebrate Mother’s Day with Mom. Mom wasn’t feeling well, so I had prepared her favorite meal to take home as a surprise.

I lived only a half block from home, but this day I would drive the car and the cargo it carried: two buckets of lilac, Mom’s favorite flower.

As I entered the back hall of our family home, the wonderful aroma of roasting chicken filled my nostrils. I opened the kitchen door and, to my surprise, the table was set – potatoes were gently boiling on the stove, and chicken was roasting with some root vegetables.

Stunned for a moment, I thought Virginia, who lived in the upper apartment, might have done it. Looking for Mom, I found her in bed almost too weak to speak. She woke when I entered her bedroom, and I asked if Virgie had prepared the meal. She smiled and said it was her Mother’s Day gift to me.

Speechless, I didn’t quite know what to say. She could barely speak, and yet she had found strength enough to cook a meal and set a special table so we could celebrate her special day.

It would be another week until I knew this was to be the last Mother’s Day I would celebrate with Mom. You see, she was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and would soon go home to God.

How strong the love of a mother must be that a dying mother found strength enough to cook this last Mother’s Day meal. I ate that special meal sitting by her bed, telling her all that had happened in church that morning.

She didn’t talk much, but I felt her love and her happiness that I was there.

As a priest, I have often spoken about love and how as Christians it is a sign of belief in all that Christ taught us.

He tells us in the Gospel: “Love one another as I have loved you,” and “By this will all men know you are my disciples in that you have love for one another.”

If ever I learned what sacrificial love was all about, it was on that last Mother’s Day in 1986.

Love to the end – love without counting the cost – love is the greatest gift we can give.

At times in this life we admire great teachers renowned for their academic skills and knowledge. We look so often outside the homes we grew up in for the teacher who will make us great and wise. So often we fail to take a close look at those around us – especially good parents.

Looking back, I can recall the countless times that my parents taught me not by their words but by their selfless example what love was all about. There is a price to pay for loving and, at times, the price is very high – but if we truly love, it is never too much or too painful.

As her son and as a priest of Jesus Christ, I strive each day to share my love with all I serve and encounter.

This is truly the ministry of Christ taught to me on Mother’s Day by my dying mother.

I pray on this Mother’s Day that your memories of your mom are as sweet as mine. ]]> Thu, 9 May 2013 14:51:13 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130511/OPINION/130519904/1120
I glanced at the wide variety of cards, some religious in tone, many syrupy and sentimental, and my favorite, humorous messages that reflect those funny moments in our relationships. I felt overwhelmed, choking up as a flood of memories washed over me as I thought about my mother, Hilda, who died on Labor Day in 2010.

I miss my mother every day. She was 41 years old when she gave birth to me, the youngest of three daughters; in spite of the fact that she was an “old mom,” she and I could not have had a tighter bond. We talked about everything; no topic was off-limits.

So why now, at this moment, did seeing the cards and knowing I will never be able to physically give my mother one again hit me so hard? It wasn’t the first Mother’s Day after her passing.

No matter. I’ve learned that enduring the grief from the deaths of love ones – my parents and my sister – has no formula, no appropriate time frame for those flash of feelings to erupt at the slightest provocation.

After I gathered myself at the store, I thought about the enduring legacy my mother passed along to my siblings and me. We called her philosophies about life, “Hil-isms,” nuggets of information that she considered the rules of life.

My feelings of sadness started to lift as I thought about some classic Hil-isms. My all-time favorite involved Duchess, my mother’s beloved German shepherd. One day I took Duchess out for a walk and as the pooch and I were heading up the driveway, I shouted, “Duchess, slow down.”

Much to my surprise, my mom shot me a look of disapproval. Then it occurred to me: She was about to scold me for calling the dog by her name. By doing so, an unsavory character could be lurking around the area, hear me call the dog and break into the house at some point. Since the intruder would know Duchess’s name, it would be unlikely for her to rip him to shreds. Little did I know I’d have to think of an alias for my mother’s faithful furry companion.

Another Hil philosophy concerned the perceived danger of leaving home while washer or dryer is running. The rationale? Either of the appliances could go haywire and burn the house down. While we would logically explain to my mother how irrational that sounded and how unlikely it was, it did seep into our consciousness. One of our perfectly sane friends never dares step foot outside his house if his laundry isn’t finished.

Over the years, my husband, family and friends heard these theories, many of which we teased my mom about. Undaunted, she stuck to her beliefs and good-naturedly suggested how misguided we were. When I talk to my friends about these odd observances, they often had their own “Mom-ism”s to contribute.

Who would have thought a routine trip to the store would evoke so many memorable moments – at once funny and poignant – authored by the one woman in my life who is irreplaceable, the inimitable Hil. As much as I kidded her about the “isms,” I know in my heart that they are part of her enduring charm and legacy that none of us could ever forget. ]]> Fri, 10 May 2013 15:10:28 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130510/OPINION/130519990/1120
In 1964, a week after my Grandma Davidoff died from surgery complications, my Grandma Cohen, about to pay a shiva call, got hit by a car crossing the street and died immediately. I did not find the words, as I had for Grandma D, to write a poem.

Intensely social and conventional, Grandma C judged my quirky, misunderstood mother who struggled to fit in. Grandma C would come to our house for Friday dinner wearing a dark dress and long face, tighten her lips when we kissed her, and check in with Mom in the kitchen where a disagreement might ensue. At the table, she bragged about my country club uncle and the life he afforded his family, disapproving of my father’s preference for literature to making money, showing little curiosity about me.

On Sunday visits to Grandma D’s, I got hugs when Dad and I walked in. Then she put freshly baked kichel (sugar cookies) on a plate on the kitchen table. “Just for Nancy,” she would say, her eyes gleaming. Dad walked around, shoving one after another into his mouth. “No one bakes like you, Ma.”

At age 7, on a car trip to Florida, I listened to her stories of two Russian sisters, Mashington and Tashington, in the back seat with my head on her lap. After four days, she told my parents, “I never knew how smart Nancy was.” I reminded her I hardly spoke. “That’s why,” Grandma D said.

She did not drive. Once or twice a week after school, even as a teenager, I visited her while my mother did errands. We watched “Our Five Daughters,” our favorite soap opera. I hated when Mom picked me up. Later I called Grandma to continue our soap discussion, but really because she made me feel loved.

Every member of her clan felt that way. Anyone who did not think we were the smartest, most special people on earth would get a look from Grandma. Yet when my Aunt Dora, her younger daughter, came running to her with a suitcase and complaints about her husband, Grandma told her, “I bet he has something to say, too.”

The mutual respect and adoration between Grandma D and her brood comforted me. The tension between my mother and Grandma C hurt. I believe Grandma C suffered from depression and, feeling guilty she had passed it down to Mom, could not embrace her or her children. I understand now, too, that praise and affection did not come naturally to her.

She showed up when it mattered – to take me to the movies on Saturday; to take me clothes shopping when my mother was hospitalized; and to help me bury my turtle. When Myrtle died, I insisted on having a funeral. My mother, already sick, would not participate. I needed a substitute mom. “She’ll wear her dark dress and long face,” I said, asking Dad to call her. Sure enough, a half hour later, she appeared in our back yard wearing both. My father dug a hole in which I placed Myrtle in her bowl. Then my sister, Dad, Grandma C and I put dirt, daffodils and dandelions on my little turtle’s grave.

Should my grandson have and lose a pet for which he wants a funeral, I will be a respectful mourner and stand beside him. In the meantime, I will shower him with pride and praise and kisses and hugs, reminding him with a gleam in my eyes that he is the best. The brightest. Special. ]]> Thu, 9 May 2013 14:50:53 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130509/OPINION/130509325/1120
Like most older cars, though, it has picked up a few scratches over the years. A nasty “key job” by some rascal or other, a run-in with a shopping cart and a few other brushes with hard objects have left several noticeable scratches on the car’s exterior.

We will probably keep the car for a few more years, so I thought I would look into having professionals “touch up” several of the scratches to make it more presentable. We did our Internet research first and then set out to visit five collision shops in the greater Buffalo area.

In each location, a wizened professional critically examined the car’s exterior and then “put the figures into his computer.”

What that process meant was never explained to us. I guess it is the way these folks deal with insurance company claims. The car has no dents. It just needed some retouching. The estimates made us gasp. At each location, the formula called for a “touch up” cost of almost $850. Jeepers, I don’t think the Blue Book value on older cars like this amounts to that much.

What gives with this? Do people really pay these hefty amounts for paint jobs? I don’t even want to consider what working out a few dents would cost.

We mulled over the various estimates from the five collision shops for a few days, remembering a time when we had purchased our cars for less than this “touch up” estimate would cost us. It also gave us pause to think back to those days when money came harder and we, like most people, made do with what we had. When you have little reserve funds to address a problem, you just improvise a solution to a situation that didn’t cost much. It gave me the idea to try to solve this problem on my own.

The next day, I drove to a car parts store and purchased a can of metallic-blue spray paint. It cost $7.80. It wasn’t an exact match to the car’s color, nor was it meant for that model of vehicle. Still, it was close enough. In a nearby, abandoned parking lot, I lightly applied the blue spray paint to the car’s scratches. Darned if it didn’t cover most of the damage effectively.

It wasn’t a perfect match on the color, and up close you could still see that the paint job was blurry and uneven in spots. But from 5 feet away, it looked pretty good to me. And I had achieved this effect for $7.80, not the $850 quoted me by professionals.

I am not sure what moral lies hidden here. But I do know that we will probably take a three-day cruise to the Bahamas on the money that I didn’t hand over to these professionals. And I felt a lot better about that. Life sometimes does offer its small victories.

Maybe we all have to start rethinking such similar appraisals in life in terms of how we managed like we did when money was tighter. If nothing else, it makes you feel pretty good to thumb your nose at the various professionals who ask you to fork over your hard-earned money without even the decency of wearing ski masks when they want to hold you up. ]]> Wed, 8 May 2013 15:13:23 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130508/OPINION/130509412/1120
Within moments I heard “the girlfriend” is “just a nurse.” The woman was minimizing her son’s girlfriend’s career choice. First and foremost, I have to say that no matter what you choose to do in life, you are not “just” anything.

It was difficult not to personalize what I was hearing because I am a nurse, and I wanted to be one from my earliest memories. I began as a junior volunteer, graduated high school as a practical nurse and continued my education. This was my passion, and 36 years later I am proud to say it remains my passion. To be “just a nurse” means having the experience of our patients sharing a part of their lives with us.

One of my fondest memories that has molded my life includes Anna, one of my first patients. She was an elderly female who read me the newspaper every morning in Czechoslovakian. One summer, after returning from vacation, my co-workers informed me of Anna’s rapid decline, and said she was waiting for me. I couldn’t get to her fast enough. She was alone. And I was there to hear her last words and hold her hand as she took her last breath. What I didn’t know then was that this was the beginning of making a difference for others.

After supporting many patients and families through grief and loss, and shedding many a tear with them, I made the decision to dedicate my life to motherhood. What I learned about myself was that as much as I loved this period of my life, and love my family, I needed more. I missed my patients. Why couldn’t I have it all? Before long, I was working part time and, ultimately, full time.

Throughout my career, I have cared for many patients, in many facets. I am grateful for every experience I have had. I am the person I am today because of these experiences. And sometimes, as nurses, we have the benefit of caring for our own family members. My mother was proud to have me as her nurse, but the reality was, the honor was all mine. Today, my career continues as I advocate for children with mental illness.

Nursing sometimes requires being mandated to work when you have no relief, being on call 24/7, all while having a family and trying to take care of your own well-being. I have missed many holidays, family celebrations and tributes, moved my children’s birthdays, arrived late or missed events entirely. There have also been occasions when I resigned from positions for the betterment of my family. I strive to be a role model for my children. We have raised our children to have conviction. Conviction in themselves, and in what they choose to do. Should we not expect civility in one’s convictions if they are derived out of goodness, and in serving others?

My patients have taught me many things. They taught me about myself, how to advocate for the rights of others and to do what is just. To my family members, who have sacrificed so much for me, and to my patients, I am proud to be “just a nurse!” ]]> Tue, 7 May 2013 15:52:37 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130507/OPINION/130509487/1120
I sat in the church pew crying non-stop and feeling like a fool. After all, I was 40 years old. I should be able to control my tears, shouldn’t I? But they come when they want to, and not at opportune times.

Like last year at a Saturday prayer night, after finding out that the hostess was pregnant with her ninth child. How could such a joyful announcement make someone like me so sad? I cried most of the evening, though thank goodness I didn’t start until after my turn to pray was over. My tears flowed freely, and they didn’t stop easily. After all, it was about a week before Mother’s Day.

So here I am today, about a year later, and Mother’s Day is fast approaching. I can’t wait until it’s over. It is by far the hardest holiday of the year for me. I have been a mother only to my stuffed animals and dolls. I also had a dog once and I treated her like my little princess.

In August, I will be 42. My biological clock is almost tick-tocked out. My husband and I have our own health issues to contend with. Why would we even consider the possibility of having a child now?

There would be risks because of my age. I also suffer from a bad back, significant migraines, hypothyroidism and fibromyalgia. There are few days when I feel great. Why in the world would I want to add the stress of a baby in today’s hectic world? Would I?

Yes, there is adoption, but that can be both costly and timely. Some people my age are grandmothers already.

A lot of people throughout my life have told me that I would make such a wonderful mother. Maybe I have the luckiest stuffed panda bear in the world. You can see that love has been given to her ever since I got her, way back when I was in fourth grade. She looks like she has been through a war.

I love my many nieces and nephews, who range in age from 4 to 40-something. I think children are adorable, sweet, cute, clever, etc. The list could go on and on. I enjoy crafts and coloring and kids’ board games. I often stop to look at cute little outfits when I am in Walmart and Kohl’s.

I am an aunt, a sister, a daughter, a sister-in-law, a cousin, a godmother, a goddaughter, a granddaughter, a niece, a friend, a wife, a woman and a worker. And if I never have the title “mother” or “grandmother,” it is certainly not because I don’t love children.

So, as Mother’s Day approaches, along with my niece’s dance recital, another niece’s first communion and my cousin’s son’s graduation, I know my eyes will be wet with sadness and joy.

But I will survive like I always do, with Kleenex close at hand and the love for a lot of little ones in this world, even though they are not my very own. ]]> Mon, 6 May 2013 16:17:54 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130505/OPINION/130509830/1120
Twenty years ago, as I was facilitating a three-week adult education class, a distinguished-looking gentleman walked in. He bore an unusual name – Merville Button – and endeared himself to the class within minutes. A friendship started between us that has lasted well into Merv’s self-proclaimed “middle age.” He is now 87 years young!

On the final day of class, Merville came bearing a beautiful hand-made wooden bowl. It was a wonderful gesture of gratitude. He went on to share with the class that after retiring as a county agent for our local Wyoming County Cooperative Extension, he turned to another love and transformed one of his small barns into a woodworking workshop.

It is within his workshop that his imagination and creativity begin to take root. He chooses a piece of wood, which could be cherry, curly maple, walnut, butternut or oak. He looks at it lovingly. He caresses it with tenderness. He smells it and gazes upon its character. It is almost as if he is getting to know this piece of raw wood as an intimate friend.

Merville then goes about measuring, cutting, turning, gluing, sanding and polishing it until this raw piece of material takes on a life of its own. To me, Merv is very much like God because he begins to see all of the possibility of what can be when someone takes the time and love to bring forth a new creation.

Each Friday, Merv and I meet for breakfast. I sometimes refer to this time as “breakfast with Merv” – a spinoff of “Tuesdays with Morrie.” We seem to be able to share about anything, but interestingly, the topic of conversation so often goes back to Merv’s shop and what he is currently working on.

I suppose it should not have come as a surprise when, a few weeks ago, he began the conversation with, “I am working on a new project. But I don’t want you to think I am crazy or something.”

That statement, of course, intrigued me. “I am making my own coffin,” he said. Merv told me that he and his wife, Martha, had thought perhaps it was time to look into making some prearrangements at our local funeral home. It was then that he decided that he could, and that he wanted to, build the last place that his earthly body would lay.

I sat back in the booth at the restaurant and just smiled. It was so Merville. In life, he looked at all possibilities and choices. And now, even in death, he was still looking at all possibilities and choices. And the decision remained his.

Anyone who knows Merv knows that he is quite the storyteller. He has a tale for any occasion. But making his own casket? To me, that is the story of stories!

The only advice I have given to Merville is that he should refrain from putting the last nail in his coffin, because that which is not finished will not be able to be used.

Hats off to this man who delights in life itself. I hope he knows that he is one of those friends whom I “refuse to let go.” ]]> Thu, 2 May 2013 15:48:35 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130504/OPINION/130509717/1120
Spring is also a time of hope. Hope that I will have time to pot up the stock I’ve ordered and dig up and divide all the other plants that need to be done. Hope that the weather is warm enough that the plants will mature enough for sale at the start of the East Aurora Farmers Market in early May.

I have belonged to the market for more than 25 years. I look forward to its start each spring, because I will again see many of the friends I’ve made over the years and ask them, “how’s your family doing?” or “how are the kids?”

These are friends I’ve made at the market, friends who lived in my neighborhood 50 years ago, friends I worked with at my first job, friends I went to high school with and people I have crossed paths with over the years and thought I wouldn’t see again. Some of these people have become friends my husband and I visit with all through the year.

The East Aurora Farmers Market is an association run by its own members (vendors), which is very unusual for farmers markets. It has an elected president, vice president, secretary, treasurer and three board members. A market manager is in charge on market days. I am the secretary.

The market season starts the first Saturday in May and ends the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. It is open every Wednesday and Saturday in between. Some vendors are there the very first day; some, like the tree fruit growers, come later in July. Every week brings something new and I look forward to the first strawberries, peaches, tomatoes, etc. Some items are a constant; the sausage, the baked goods, the canned pickles. I could go on and on.

Vendors at our market have always been required to grow or produce the items they sell. So, you are buying from knowledgeable people. You are buying fresh, local products from the farmer, the baker, the sausage maker and so on. They take pride in the products they sell and, for many, this is their livelihood. Vendors will answer questions like how do I prepare swiss chard? Where should I plant this perennial? What is the difference between the dark and light amber maple syrup?

I have been very fortunate to be part of the East Aurora Farmers Market. It was started in 1978 by a group of people who were ahead of their time. Today so many people are looking to buy local, and farmers markets are the place to do that.

The market requires a lot of hard work in the spring, and at the end of each season I say, “I think I’ll cut back.” But the draw of the warm, friendly atmosphere and the great homegrown and homemade products brings me back every year. Even at the end of my season (July) at the market, I can’t stay away. You might see me buying fresh produce, baked goods or pickles or even helping at one of the fruit stands.

I feel good when I’m there, part of a great community of proud, hardworking people. ]]> Fri, 3 May 2013 14:50:37 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130503/OPINION/130509829/1120
Not so very long ago, I was teaching third grade. I had just taken part in a workshop on project-based learning through Buffalo State. When it came time for my water unit in science, we began by listing what we knew about water and then generated a list of what we wondered about water. The topics ranged from where does water actually come from to what happens to the water we flush. Then the students, either by themselves or with a friend or two, pursued their own particular interest.

Now this class was comprised of students with a wide range of abilities. They were actively engaged in research for their topic. They wrote letters to members of the community who could answer their questions. They read books and searched the Internet. One group found a folk tale about the value of water and chose to act it out. Another student built a model showing the pipes in his house and explaining their use. Some of my struggling students built an amazing diorama of the water cycle.

We worked on these projects in school, and the unit culminated in my students sharing what they learned with other students in the school. There was so much energy and excitement during those weeks. Not only did they learn about water, they practiced reading and writing skills; they worked in groups and cooperated with one another; they spoke clearly and confidently to visitors about their projects.

Could I give a standardized test to assess their learning? No, they went about their learning according to their individual interests and strengths. Could I assign a number to their learning? Not really. But could I assign a value? Priceless.

I believe the skills learned in working on this and other projects are more valuable to our students than learning to take tests. Eventually they will be out of school and in a world where they will have to know where to find information and read it on their own. They will have to work cooperatively with co-workers. They will need to move confidently through their world to be successful.

As teachers prepare their students for state-mandated tests, time for in-depth projects, field trips and other enriching experiences is practically nonexistent. The value of education has been reduced to a score of one to four. Students and teachers are stressed.

Most teachers begin their careers eager to provide those experiences they know will spark curiosity and foster a passion for learning in their students. Preparing for these tests saps teachers of their own passion for their profession. And wouldn’t we rather put the billions of dollars spent on the tests toward more rewarding experiences in school than in the pockets of the test makers?

Is there a place for assessments? Of course. We want to prove progress. But more importantly, we need to see an excitement for learning that will sustain our students throughout their lives.

“This was the best day ever.” Who would write this after taking a standardized test? ]]> Thu, 2 May 2013 15:48:38 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130502/OPINION/130509945/1120
After retiring, I took courses for Literacy Volunteers and began teaching in Florida. While I was there in early 2009, I began feeling a lack of energy. This was very unusual for me, because throughout my life I have been a super-charged individual. I visited my general practitioner, who sent me to Florida Cancer Specialists.

Through additional blood tests, I was diagnosed with JAK2. It took me three weeks to learn to pronounce the name for this myleproliferative disease, essential thrombocythemia, which is a fancy way of saying that my bone marrow creates too many platelets in my blood. I was prescribed a chemo medication, which began to rein in the platelet production.

As time went by, it took more of this medication to control the platelets and I became quite anemic. It appeared that my good red blood cell-making machinery had broken down.

In 2012, I returned permanently to my North Tonawanda home and am now under the care of Dr. James Thompson of Roswell Park Cancer Institute. I began to receive blood infusions every other week. A bone marrow biopsy indicated that I also had RARS-T, a Myelodysplastic Syndrome with Ringed Sideroblasts. Don’t you just love all of these big words? I was placed on an additional medication that would hopefully kick-start red blood cell production.

This short health history brings me to the crux of my story. On my weekly trips driving to and from Roswell Park, I see signs posted for blood drives. They remind me of the times in the 1960s and ’70s when my brother Jim and I donated blood through the Red Cross. Before we both had to stop due to medications we were taking, Jim had donated 31 gallons and I had donated 17.

My father, in his jocular manner, once said, “Who’da thunk it?” And indeed, “who’da thunk” that the giver would, in time, be the receiver? Studies continue to progress worldwide on this rare blood condition, but at the moment it appears I must continue to be infused until these studies find the right medication for either a control or a cure. I’m praying for the latter.

Each time I am prepared for infusion, I look up at that small bag holding a pint of blood and say, “Thank you to whoever you are who has given me this gift of life.”

So please, I urge you: Whenever you see signs for a blood drive, take a few minutes of your time and donate. If you have given on a regular basis and continue to donate, thank you. For those who have never given, just do it. It is not painful and takes about an hour of your time. You get to lie down comfortably, take a short nap if you wish and, the best part, you get cookies and juice when you are finished. You can then walk out proudly saying to yourself and to the world, “I have given someone the gift of life.” What a tremendously gratifying feeling.

You never know; you could someday be a “who’da thunk it” like me. ]]> Wed, 1 May 2013 15:50:28 -0400 http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130501/OPINION/130509993/1120
For many years, my wife has expressed exasperation at how my normally balanced disposition can easily become unhinged when my teams go on losing streaks or fail to live up to their early season promise. And the teams I have chosen to support, most notably the Red Sox, Dodgers and Bills, have inflicted more pain on me than I deserve in the form of bonehead plays, blown leads and woeful front office decisions.

But after many years of suffering as a winaholic, I have finally discovered the wonderful pleasure of enjoying athletic events for their own sake. It started when I attended a Bandits game a few years ago. I know nothing about lacrosse and have not bonded as a fan with any team. As a result, I simply enjoyed the experience of the game itself, even though the Bandits were drubbed by a mediocre team in a game described the next day by sports writers as their most lamentable performance of the season. But I was thrilled by the extraordinary speed of the game and marveled at the athletic dexterity of both teams.

So I now try to look at sports as something to be enjoyed rather than fretted about. No longer dominated by final scores, I can relax and see games from a fresh perspective that is much more rewarding. Attending several Canisius basketball games with my son during the past season, I did indeed enjoy the many victories, but was even more impressed by things I would not have even noticed in my winaholic past.

For example, while watching the Canisius women’s games, I observed a young girl sitting on the bench, assuming that she was the little sister of one of the players. But I later found out that she has a serious illness, was adopted as a member of the team and was even given a locker in the team’s dressing room. We often give lip service to the idea that sports teach valuable lessons of “team play,” all the while honoring individual “winners” and deprecating particular “losers.” But here was “team play” truly put into beautiful practice.

Freeing myself from crudely reducing athletics to final scores, I have come to revise my understanding of the most significant achievements in sports history. Whereas in my previous life as a winaholic, I had considered the Brooklyn Dodgers’ victory over the Yankees in the 1956 World Series as the high point in their team history, I now regard an incident in a game in Jackie Robinson’s early career as the shining moment in Dodger annals and perhaps one of the very finest moments in all American sports history. It crystalizes for me what all sports should teach us, how to be fully human in moments of great stress.

When opposing fans were pouring down the foulest racist abuse on Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, a white Southerner, called time and went from his shortstop position to Robinson’s slot at first base and hugged him, all the while staring down and silencing the rabid fans. I don’t know which team “won” or “lost” that game and I don’t care. American culture received a resounding victory that cannot be tabulated on a scoreboard. ]]> Tue, 30 Apr 2013 15:04:36 -0400