Month: November 2025

We were quite tired when we returned from our whirlwind one day trip to Paris and we were nearing the end of our vacation. I had purchased tickets to the Dickens’ Museum for the day after our Paris adventure and my husband was feeling squeamish about having to arise early in order to eat breakfast and arrive at the museum in the time slot that I had reserved. He rather meekly asked if I felt the need to go there rather than taking it easy in the morning. 

I suppose he saw the look of disappointment on my face when I reluctantly agreed that maybe it was a bit too much to ask him to rush around without a great deal of sleep. We were quite exhausted from rising before dawn to catch the the 6:00 train to Paris on time and it was after ten in the evening before we were back at our London hotel. Somehow what had seemed like a good idea on paper didn’t sound so wonderful in our exhausted states but I still hesitated and suggested that we play it by ear when we arose the following day. 

As would happen we managed to sleep like Rip van Winkle and awoke fully refreshed and ready for new adventures. After breakfast at our favorite cafe we we on our way to the Dickens’ museum as planned. Taking the tube would have required a great deal of walking so we used an Uber which turned out to be yet another wonderful interaction with Londoners. The driver was from Nigeria and his intelligent discussion of the world’s present situation including commentary on both the United States and Great Britain was like having a noted professor giving us a crash course in world politics. He was so interesting that I almost wanted to stay in the car even after we had arrived at the museum. Sadly he had another customer to serve and we needed to get inside to claim our reserved time. 

The Dickens Museum is housed in one of Charles’ Dickens homes and to say that it proved to be delightful would be an understatement. We began in the basement where the kitchen was housed and moved our way upward with delightfully crafted audio guides that explained the importance of each room as it related to the history and personality of Dickens. The information was interspersed with lovely readings from the novels that Dickens wrote. The whole experience made the house and Dickens’ time in it come alive. 

Some of the rooms additionally had live explanations from guides dressed in the clothing of the Dickens era providing personal details of what had happened there. One of the most touching took place in the bedroom of Dickens’ sister-in-law who died suddenly at a very young age with no real explanation for what had happened to her. She and Dickens had shared a very personal relationship and her death took its toll on both Dickens’ personality and his marriage. Some even hinted that he had been secretly in love with the young woman and that the tragedy was more than he and his wife could bear. Eventually their marriage fell apart. 

Each room was filled with wonderful stories as well as sources of the ideas that gave birth to the many novels that Dickens wrote. We learned about the hardships that he had endured as a child that lead him to have the great compassion for the poor that is reflected in his work. He was very much in tune with his times and so each book that he wrote seems to reflect the London of his era as perfectly as might be possible. 

The home itself was enchanting and there were moments when I fully expected Charles Dickens to walk in on our spying. The neighborhood around the house made us imagine what it would have been like when he was in his study writing the stories that have become so familiar. He would have known that Camden town where Bob Cratchit lived may have been nearby in distance but was hundreds of miles away in terms of difference. Dickens was haunted by his own success and its unevenness with the experiences of his youth. 

The top floor of the museum was dedicated to a study of all the times that plays, movies and television productions had turned to the works of Dickens for plots. He made his characters so human that their essences jump off of the pages and their stories seem as important today as they were back when they were first written. We sat for almost an hour enjoying clips of Dickens productions, making note of books that we want to read and shows that we want to view. It was with reluctance that we left even as we both agreed that it had been one of the most delightful moments of our trip. 

When I was in the second and third grades I became addicted to stories about saints in the Catholic Church. The librarian, Mrs. Martin, noticed my propensity to choose the books about saints and often set aside new ones that she had purchased so that I might be the first to read them. I must have gone through every such text that the school owned before tales about the early American pioneers began to tickle my fancy and steal my attention. 

For some reason I’ve always had a tendency to read everything in a particular genre until I suddenly have little interest and move on to new frontiers. I don’t actually recall many details about the saints that I found the most interesting other than the common trait of courage that so many of them seemed to have. If their personalities were too syrupy sweet I quickly became bored by them but those who bucked the system in the name of what they believed to be right fascinated me. 

At the time that I first encountered books about the lives of the saints I was a little mouse afraid of her own shadow. I would never have had the strength to speak out or buck the system so I suppose that I felt a sense of admiration for anyone willing to speak the truth as they saw it. Women like Joan of Arc and St. Theresa impressed me with their courage and their humanity which often included anxieties that made them question the status quo. 

I suppose such people, especially the females. have always seemed quite special to me. I loved a childhood neighbor who stood up to a man who had just murdered his wife in order to protect his children. All of the other adults were frozen in fear waiting for the police to arrive but she would have none of the reticence. She saw the little ones screaming for help in the living room window and dove into action. She pounded on the front door with all of the force that her tiny body allowed demanding that the murderer free the children into her care. I was only seven when I witnessed her audacity but I have never forgotten how impressed I was with her. I tend to believe that she is now one of those saints that remain unnamed but definitely worth remembering. St. Kathleen is my secret icon and I have never forgotten her.

I have known others who were willing to risk their jobs and even their standing in the community to do what they believed to be right. Each time I saw such a person I chided myself for not rising to difficult occasions the way that they had. I so wanted to be like them but never quite found the chutzpah I needed to overcome my shyness, I would be in my mid twenties before I found something deep inside of me that allowed me to openly sand up for what I believe. It eventually led me to become a Peer Facilitator for teachers and a Dean of Faculty. At the same time I stood firm in my defense of students who were being bullied or abused. 

The more often I spoke my mind, the easier it became to be an advocate for anyone who was in a dire situation. Perhaps it began with those books about the saints or with my admiration for certain women whom I had known. Maybe it was having to care for my mother when she became ill with bipolar disorder. I will never know for sure, but I found my voice and never again looked back.

I have learned to price of speaking my mind. I once enraged one of my bosses so much that I feared that I would be fired even as I knew that I had been fair in my complaints to her. What I saw was an insecure and power hungry woman who quite unfairly misjudged her employees seemingly to make herself appear to be more in control that she was. I stood my ground because I believed that with a bit of self reflection she might have become a decent leader. Instead she only became more and more threatening until her authority collapsed under the weight of her damaged psyche. She was eventually judged by her own bosses to be incompetent and they relieved her of her job, thanking me for attempting to right the wrongs long before it was too late to salvage the situation. 

I tend to think of my fortitude as good trouble but not everyone agrees. I have lost friends and been marked as a trouble maker for mentioning hard truths. There is a price to be paid for speaking one’s mind. Not everyone sees me as a heroine whenever I attempt to bring difficulties to light. I often remind myself that Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. I have slowly learned when my words and actions will do good and when they will make things worse. There is a balance that I must attempt to achieve but some things are so egregious that silence would be morally wrong under any circumstances. 

I have been surrounded by brave women for all of my life. My mother forged an incredible path in life in spite of her illness. My mother-in-law would raise her eyebrow and state her views when she witnessed someone being hurt. Both great men and women of integrity abound. They are the kind of heroes that I still strive to be. They are people willing to sacrifice for truth and justice. They are the living saints who keep me striving to live an honorable life. . 

• “When it is obvious that the goals are unattainable, don’t adjust the goals; adjust the steps” — Confucius 

I taught a lovely young girl who sat attentively in the front of the room during my first period Algebra I class. Next to her was a young man filled with energy who often had a difficult time sitting still, but not in my class because the students on either side of him made sure that he was always on task. Next to him was another outstanding young lady who would rise to the number one spot among her peers. Between the three of them there were many dreams which may have seemed daunting when they were freshmen but would ultimately come true because each of them set goals and then adjusted the pace and the steps that they would need to accomplish what many might have believed were unattainable dreams. 

One of the girls wanted to be a medical doctor. She had good grades and earned admission to an excellent college where she strove to graduate with a strong enough GPA to impress a medical school but to her dismay she just barely missed what most universities were looking for in their students. She went to work in a hospital as a medical scribe following doctors and writing down their diagnoses and treatments for the record while she recalibrated her plans. She had a knack for all of those medical terms that most of us would not know how to spell. 

Eventually she confided to the physicians of her longing to work in the medical community in a more challenging way. She was worried about what her grades on the MCAT exam might be, so while she was studying for that test she went back to college to earn a masters’ degree in hospital management. She graduated with honors and worked for a time until she felt brave enough to take the MCAT and apply once again to medical schools. She not only got a good score on the test but many of the doctors with whom she had worked enthusiastically wrote recommendation letters for her. This time she got an acceptance from Howard University and finally fulfilled her dream. This fall she will take the medical board exams to determine if she is soon to be called a doctor. 

The young man in the middle wanted to be an engineer so he went to a university of south Texas where he was not tempted to party or do so many of the usual college extra curriculars. He worked hard and earned a degree by taking classes step by step until he had earned enough credits to graduate. Sadly there were few jobs in his field when he graduated so he found work that was unrelated to his major. Eventually an opportunity arose out of the blue in a small town. He jumped at the chance to show his mettle, working long hours and on weekends until the managers of the company saw his work ethic and enthusiasm and began to mentor him for better things. This month he will take the test to become a Professional Engineer. 

The third young lady went to Syracuse on a scholarship and graduated with honors in four years but she was not ready to quit working toward a higher degree. To earn funds she drove an ambulance and took all kinds of little jobs here and there while plugging away at earning a Masters degree and then a PhD. Hers has also been a long journey during which some wondered why she kept working so hard. Now she is doing a fellowship at a hospital in New York City and she proudly bears the title of Doctor. 

I often think back to when those three students sat in the front of my classroom taking notes, asking questions, eagerly pushing themselves to get better and better at math. They became three of my all time favorite students and I somehow always knew that there was no question that they would be quite successful. 

The funny thing is that I actually had other teachers come to watch me instructing my students to discover how I inspired such studious behavior in these three and others in that class. The truth is that I had nothing whatsoever to do with their hard work. They were the ones teaching me. From them I learned the power of determination and patience. I watched them create goals for themselves that many of the adults in their lives thought were fantastical. They were never once derailed from the paths that each of them ultimately took. I admired them then and admire them even more now. They have surpassed me in every measure and I am honored to have known them and been a tiny part in their success. 

We all too often underestimated ourselves and those around us. We forget how tough the human spirit can be. These three showed me the power of sticking with dreams even if the ways of doing so had to change a bit. In the end each of them has scored an enormous victory and created a well lived life just by adjusting the steps one at a time.

We often speak of love but what is it really? What does it look like? How do we know it is there?

My mother often spoke of growing up during the Great Depression. She remembered how her father had carefully worked to pay for their home in small steps starting with purchasing the land with cash. Then he saved enough money to build a home one room at a time until it was large enough to lodge a family of ten people. When the worst economic downturn of the Great Depression came, the family was safe because my grandfather owned the house and the backyard where he had been wise enough to plant vegetables. He had also purchased enough land to serve as a pasture for a cow that provided the family with milk. His job at a meat packing plant was a source of meat and while the diet that each person enjoyed was sometimes meager, nobody ever missed a meal. This was love at its best.

While my grandfather was working all day long doing back breaking labor, my grandmother was mending clothes that were handed down from one child to another. Grandma repaired old shoes as well, keeping a stock of cardboard boxes to carefully line the worn leather of the soles that had become dotted with holes. All the while there were meals to prepare and budgets to stretch so that none of the children went to bed hungry. 

My mother often spoke of how her mother served everyone before she herself took a bite of food. Sometimes all that was left after the children had taken their share might be a few bits of meat clinging to a bone or the head of a fish. My grandmother would never complain as she sucked on the bone or ate the head of the fish. In fact she acted as though she had saved the best part for herself. Her love for her husband and her children was totally selfless.

My paternal grandmother was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer when she was in her eighties during a time when Medicare was not yet even a dream. The bills for her care were enormous and ate away at the savings that my grandfather had attempted to accumulate when he was still working. To pay for the doctors and hospital visits he went to work at the age of eighty eight installing rings for recessed lighting at NASA. When a manager saw the old man working on a tall ladder he was shocked to learn how old he was. He understood that my grandfather needed the money but still had to let him go for safety reasons. 

After that my grandfather ran out of funds to pay the doctors and the hospital. The powers that be sent my grandmother home after instructing my grandfather in the methods for caring for her colostomy bag and her wounds. He nursed her for many months, never telling her how dire their financial situation had become. He collected debts and lovingly did his best to keep her comfortable until she died. it was only then that he announced that he would have to sell his home and his belongings to pay all of the people and entities that he owed. He would spend the rest of his life in a rented room but mostly he was happy that he had able to keep my grandmother feeling safe and loved without ever telling her how close they had come to being unhoused while she was dying. His love for her was apparent until the day that he died at the age of one hundred eight.

I have been fortunate to have been inspired by people who showed me how to love in the most powerful ways. Their examples have been a guiding force for me even as I have never had to work as hard or endure as much as they did. Then, of course, there was my mother who courageously raised me and my brothers alone after my father died. it was a Herculean task in a time when women had fewer options for earning an income than we enjoy today. So many odds were stacked against her and yet she never let on how hard it must have been for her. She made me and my brothers believe that we should have no worries as she magically and proudly made sure that we lived in a sturdy home and never missed a meal. She took us to church on Sundays, sent us to Catholic school, kept us in touch with our extended family and somehow helped us to always feel safe and most of all, loved. She never missed her night time ritual of tucking us in and telling us how much she loved us. In truth she did not need to profess her feelings because the evidence of her devotion was visible in everything she did from dawn to dusk. 

Love is a beautiful thing found in small moments and sometimes big sacrifices that we may not even notice at the time. I often hope that my children and grandchildren understand how much they mean to me. I hope that they will see the legacy of love that has been handed down from one generation to the next in our family. We are certainly not perfect but the love is always there. 

My dear friend, Zerin, now lives in India. It seems so far away and yet I follow the progress of her life on Facebook. Now and again she gives me a call and I always think that I should return the favor but I can’t seem to get into sync with the time difference between us. Still, I need to make a better effort because when I hear her lovely voice my blood pressure lowers, my anxieties fade into the background and I feel more capable. She has always had that effect on me. 

When I first met Zerin at Revere Middle School I felt an instant connection. It was as though we had been meant to come together. We quickly settled into a deep and easy friendship in spite of, or perhaps because of, the many different journeys our lives had already enjoyed. We truly understood each other and always felt comfortable voicing both our joys and our worries to each other. There were times when we retreated to a tiny room to pour out the contents of our hearts, always leaving refreshed and certain that everything was going to work out and it mostly did.

Life sent us in different directions. I accepted a job at another school and eventually Zerin and her husband moved back to India. I thought I might never hear from her again with the exception of reading her posts on Facebook but Zerin as thoughtfully as ever made sure to call me now and again. In those brief chats I felt the full force of our kinship. We were two women talking of our families and our travels. 

Over the years that seemed to pass too quickly we kept in touch or at least Zerin did. Now we have found a way to communicate even more often with chats and texts. It seems a modern way of doing something old fashioned. As with letters of correspondence of old we express ourselves with printed words hoping that without the inflections of our voices we will still understand the feelings behind them. 

Our children are grown now, the same ages as we were when we first met. Our grandchildren have become young adults preparing for the future. While our lives have changed the bond that we feel with each other remains unbroken and I sense that it may even become stronger than ever before. 

We all need true friends who stay with us in spite of our flaws and gaffes. Friends allow each other to grow and change and even be imperfect. It is said that if you can never see anything that is a bit amiss with another person then that is an acquaintance. True friends see the good the bad and the ugly and still love each other. Nothing tears them apart. 

With Zerin I can be myself and she is patient. I can express my concerns and she somehow knows how to calm me. She seems to intuitively know when I need to hear her voice. I have often called her my angel because she is so gentle. I sometimes wonder how I was lucky enough to have her in my life. 

I have other friends who have been faithful over the span of many years. Cappy and Carol and Nancy put up with my tendency to talk far too long and with too much animation. They may not agree with all that I do and say but we are able to laugh about our differences and carry on. Somehow, just as with Zerin, our relationships grow ever more wonderful even when we are not at our best. 

There are people who enter our lives for a time and have a great impact on us but do not stay for the long term. They are important as well. They help through difficult moments or amuse us when we need to laugh. I am grateful for so many such individuals who influenced my thinking and facilitated changes that I needed to make. I have never forgotten them.

We humans are social creatures, even those of us who claim to be introverts. Each of us seeks the company of others who enrich our souls and with whom we feel as comfortable as a soft pair of slippers. We need relationships both deep and momentary. 

In today’s world it is all too easy to become immersed in a pace so fast that we lose the connections that bind us together. As we age we experience the loss of people who were important to our lives. We move forward and sometimes our friends become younger than we are, offering us alternative points of view that help us to keep growing and accepting the way of the world. People are essential to our lives and when we find the people who fit perfectly with who we are we should treasure and nurture them with all of our hearts.