FREIGHT TRAIN.

StickyApril 6, 2025Uncategorizedbad-music, church-preludes, music, short-story, writingruth ann scanzillo

She was running late – again.

Something about the broken downstairs bathroom vanity fixture, plus no clock upstairs where there was enough mirror light and she’d been cutting it close for pretty much every appointment, now.

This meeting, however, required punctuality. One doesn’t burst through the door in the midst of the Prelude to a Holy Roman Catholic Lenten service. No; beat every red light out the lakefront highway, to the outer county limits. Get there.

Parishioners had polka-dotted into their selected pews, some kneeling, others prattling in jeans and pink lipstick. She’d chosen an alternate entry which would lead her up a side aisle from the sanctuary, misstep in itself, fully visible as stranger in her long, putty colored skirt from the Poetry catalog.

Program in hand, she slid into a short window seat. The musicians in the loft above were warming up, on chants and interludes. Pitch seemed just under the constant of the keyboard assist. Her chest tightened.

Precisely at the time appointed, one cello could be heard checking its strings for intonation. Her heart fluttered. The piece intended had been beautifully arranged from an audio file, for three stringed instruments, by her stalwart adult student; in seconds, its musical worth would be realized in real time.

The trio launched its now familiar intro. So many lesson sessions working the cello part with its composer, she could now see and follow the musical staff in her mind’s eye as the performance unfolded.

The cello, itself, was in tune. Sigh, of relief, from the cello teacher. The cello part was also played in tune, even the shift to second position – especially the first time, in the solo section – and, her bosom swelled ever so slightly with the closest to maternal pride a barren spinster could muster. With this offering, her student had redeemed his first public attempt, proving to any keenly attentive ear his steady, determined commitment to the goal of good music making.

The trio, however, was its own story. Two other string voices, alto and soprano, while written well had been assigned to children not ready for prime time. Under the assault of tonal relationships so jarringly incongruent, all her Shinichi Suzuki sensibilities recoiled. Scientific studies having shown that both blood pressure, heart rate, and even immune system function were depressed by bad music, her whole body felt acutely sick.

The piece rendered to conclusion, she sat, staring down at the musical order for Mass printed in her program. The parishioners also sat, motionless, as if accustomed to what had just occurred, only one woman having given a tight-smiling side long glance toward her husband at the peak of the worst of it as if in empathetic apology.

With demure acknowledgement, she bowed her head and stepped into the aisle. Turning toward the rear of the church, hesitating at the last pew only to realize a gentleman’s intent to choose the very seat, she continued through the doorway toward a stairwell leading outside. Several more attendees were just entering, the last among them a man with a cross around his neck. Smiling quietly, he stepped aside as if in understanding as she continued out the door to the parking lot – both he, and all of these, choosing to arrive just after the musical Prelude.

She’d not been raised Catholic. Hers had been a modest, Protestant, non-denominational sectarian upbringing, its congregational music barely ever supported by the reliable pitch of a lone piano. Bad music, in the form of worship to God Almighty and His Son, Jesus Christ, had been the order of her every Sunday morning. Hymns, written by legends the likes of Fanny Crosby, had been butchered and nearly buried by woeful a capella singing, each stanza slower and lower than the one before, for as long as she could both remember and hope to forget. Driving thirty minutes against the clock, just to subject her entire body to this reminder, was not what she’d either hoped for or expected on such a fine Lord’s Day.

Perhaps human vanity, colliding with mediocre standards for beauty, yielded a level of acceptance inuring the masses to that which would otherwise be gloriously possible. Maybe somebody’s granddaughter had just done the best she could. Patriarchally, God Himself had been pleased in spite of it all. As for the music teacher, getting home as fast as she could seemed the only antidote.

The car radio cranked, hoping for anything but 50s rock and roll, Carole King was heard singing about something so far away. Always a little flat, she could never hold a candle to Carly Simon; down went the volume, on the car radio. Minutes later, enter the Righteous Brothers’ who’d Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’. By this time, she could only laugh, the tears coursing her face.

No ENYA in sight to soothe an aching heart, what was that sound now? None other than the Norfolk Southern freight, racing right alongside her highway route. Steadily rhythmic, train cars clipping railroad ties, all the way. Succor, for both professional vanity and a deep, profound need for fundamental wellness to heal her violated, broken spirit. Better late, than never.

Copyright 4/6/25 Ruth Ann Scanzillo littlebarefeetblog.com All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Sharing by blog TITLE exclusively, with due acknowledgements, and that not via RSS Feed. Plagiarists are bottom feeding sub humans. Thank you.

“DiD You Hear Me?”

StickyMarch 28, 2025Uncategorizedhealing, mental health; dissociative identity disorder; multiple personalities, mental-health, PTSD, split personality, therapy, traumaruth ann scanzillo

DiD (Dissociative Identity Disorder) is one of the many mental conditions which are known to plague humans. Extremely uncommon, it is nevertheless so frequently missed in the diagnosis of afflicted people.

But, how many have even heard of it?

Over the past few years I have delved deeply on the Tube, and even via printed documentaries and manuals, to learn as much as I can about this profoundly confounding disease.

DiD is thought to occur in those who have endured REPEATED psychological and physical trauma, and that from early childhood.

The brain itself moves through several developmental phases, the most commonly known being the passage from concrete operations to formal operations. Concrete operations represents the ability to comprehend the literal world; by contrast, formal operations = the abstract world, and its requisite reasoning. Young children operate within the context of concrete operations until they approach puberty; anywhere from age 10 to age 13, formal operations may kick in, but exactly when varies within each individual.

But, the development of PERSONALITY is far less understood, and it is this area of growth within the mind/brain/behavioral matrix which becomes “fractured” during repeating trauma.

Trauma causes a certain “shut down” mechanism to activate, as a sort of protective measure for the mind. But, when shutdown occurs, growth is also halted. The theory suggests that, during this shutdown, personality stops its otherwise normal developmental expression, and freezes wherever it is on the path of growth when the trauma is actually happening. Just like children report that, during sexual abuse, they let their minds go someplace else outside of that which is literally taking place, personality itself does the same kind of thing; it finds a cubby hole, and hides there – indefinitely, only to re-emerge when triggered as time moves forward.

As a result, within each phase of development which trauma infiltrates or invades, personality crystallizes; if a child is abused at age 4, then the 4 year old remains in the brain as its own, complete persona. Each time trauma reoccurs, a new personality phase freezes/crystallizes and becomes an Alter, or one of the number of other personalities which will ultimately manifest over time.

Therefore, a person who becomes afflicted with DiD will manifest between two and as many as a dozen (in extreme cases) different personalities, each able to “switch” on spontaneously when external pressures are brought to bear. Sometimes the behavior of another individual or group will “trigger” a specific personality to front, and that Alter will come forward – beginning to behave as itself within the context of the triggering scenario. Example: a fully mature adult might suddenly begin to act like a young child – speaking like a child, going through childlike rituals (“bankie”; favorite stuffed animal; hugs and kisses….) until another Alter comes forward to take over.

Alters can range between the infantile (as described, above), perhaps a 10 year old, then a teen, maybe a young adult. Gender might bend, as well — some females report alters who are male, and vice versa; others report a change in sexual preference between alters. Each Alter has its own chronological age, physical stature (some are short, others are perceived to be quite tall), introvert or extrovert, from mousy and shy to grandiose and theatrical. Some have different nationalities and verbal accents. Each has their own skills, as well – one might play the piano proficiently; another might be tone deaf.

In nearly all those with DiD, there is always one, core persona. One may be a Protector, coming forward to take care of the Child Alter; another may be an intellectual, preferring to retreat into solitude to read or study. But, the leader is the actual, fully formed personality which is the true adult; all other Alters must, in order to generate full mental health, ultimately FUSE with the core persona to become one complete personality.

Anyone who has been out socially with a friend who seems to present from one extreme to another over the course of a week, or even several hours, might be in the company of someone with DiD. If radical behavioral switches occur, it is best to be very gentle around such individuals as, in many instances, the DiD sufferer may not even realize a switch has taken place. When there is awareness, a degree of humiliation might be present. Great care should be taken, if switches are either observed or experienced.

DiD sufferers lead exhausting lives. Each Alter has its own wardrobe, culinary preferences, and choices for social and private activity – even groups of friends are assigned, per the persona as manifesting. Unlike manic-depressives who, during mania, may travel to exotic destinations and play characters who get involved in multiple relationships, DiDs have DISTINCT lives per their various Alters’ traits and behaviors, and these manifest consistently every time they come forward.

If you think you might have DiD, or know someone who fits the description, there are resources. Go to YouTube, and Search DiD; you will find both delightful and agonizing personal testimonials as well as case studies provided by therapists. Everyone deserves to both feel whole and BE whole; professional therapists trained in DiD are out there, and their goal is to help the DiD sufferer INTEGRATE ALL his/her personalities into one, healthy, whole human.

Here’s to mental health!

Hear! Hear!

.

.

BODY PARTS.

StickyMarch 6, 2025creative writing, original poetry, Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

[ formerly titled “Stinkbug.” ]

You tear out

the muscle cells of her heart;

she carries them home,

so like mussel shells,

in the palms of her hands

You wrench apart

desperately clasped arms

and nail them to your crucifying cross

kneeling beneath

her feet

you cast lots on the discarded fabric

of her hope

as she hangs

crooked bent and breaking

The demented

would marry her at once

mocking every deathbed sacrament

while Bohemians

who leave the upper crust

in dust

all turn their chins

away from ebbing breath.

Hot urine

comforting her lurching thighs

the bedsheets swaddle them

in wracking dreams

You, just and

just again beyond her reach

One stinkbug

on its back

and soil sustaining worms await

Her finally succumbing sleep.

Copyright 3/6/25 Ruth Ann Scanzillo littlebarefeetblog.com All rights solely those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for being honest.

The Fixative.

StickyJanuary 1, 2025Uncategorizedanxiety., mental illness, mental-health, OCD, psychologyruth ann scanzillo

It came in cans.

To any “artist” of the 1970’s who didn’t paint or silkscreen, fixative was an essential tool in every materials kit.

Sprayed across the surface of any graphite, charcoal, Conte crayon, or pastel drawing what otherwise smudged easily at the slightest touch would be rendered impervious.

I can’t recall what toxic cocktail was required to formulate the product – probably a solvent, some silicone and, of course, a drying agent; but, once the potent smell dissipated, each finished piece was sure to be protected from all invaders, both foreign and domestic, and into perpetuity.

Yes. The smell.

During that era, there were plenty of aromatic fumes. Mineral spirits, the chief deterrent to painting for me, was nauseating and, used to clean both paint and silkscreen ink, produced headaches and diarrhea. Permanent markers would be found decades later to cause kidney and liver diseases. Spray paint was probably a neurotoxin. And, the list went on. In order to make something beautiful, artists had to descend into the pit of outgassing poison.

Enter the digital age. Now, the only real known contaminant is blue light, emanating from the screens of any number of painter products. Even the coloration was now ensconced inside the ever increasing sophistication of the all-in-one printer.

But, back in the day, any work of art not incorporating actual paint was produced by hand using concrete, earthen substances and preserved by a single, aerosolized, rattling can of fixative.

I’d made my share of what were called “finished” drawings. Most of these took hours to complete, under the watchful tutelage of college level instructors. Give me a nude human in the middle of the room, and I could stay focused, first for seconds, then minutes, and finally however long it took ’til completion. I was a twenty-something – virginal, naiive, impressionable, and gullible – but, I had no known emotional problems. My ability to concentrate on completing works of art was just driven by what anyone might call selective, heightened desire.

Enter obsessive-compulsion. That would appear, a decade later, after the Swine flu vaccine and its subsequent panel of allergic reactions.

Dad had expressed symptoms of OCD. But, we’d hardly given them a serious nod; his need to check the door lock five or six times, well, that was just Dad, being quirky. Repeated visits to the bathroom mirror to feel and examine his nostrils; again, probably boredom on that one day off from cutting hair at the shop.

I wouldn’t know that OCD could sort of smolder in the first decades, provoked only by stressors. I couldn’t know that life itself would intensify these, in spades.

But, my first serious relationship break up would set a spotlight on obsession like something out of a horror movie. Could I stop circling his block in my car, accelerating faster each revolution, vitals escalating? Pre-ceding email and text, how many letters would I draft and copy and stamp and send? And, well before answering machines, how many times would his phone ring before he’d yank it from the wall?

OCD invades every aspect of interpersonal exchange. Every business arrangement. All social plans. It lies in wait, to sabotage anything worth sustaining.

Lately, instead of ruminating over the more typical repetitious thoughts, I’d been taken to dwelling on the syndrome itself. What caused obsessive compulsion? Were there catalysts? If so, how to intercept them? Perhaps, if confronted, there could be some welcome neutralization?

I’d read a paper, awhile back, and written about it. There were brain chemical deficits, but whence had they arisen? Rather than replace what was missing, why not get at the root cause?

My primary symptom, of recent date, had been fixation. Something, or someone, would captivate my imagination. Accompanied by mild euphoria, I found joy in riding this. But now, as the much older woman, I could recognize that the object of my fixation was neither responsible either for my actions as motivated OR for defining them; in short, the object, including any desirable traits my mind had assigned, was actually secondary. It was the fixation, itself, which both fueled my energy, drove my behavior, and provided the sought after experience. I had become slave to the fixative.

The conventional kind still comes in a can. For sale at any craft store, their supply can be updated anytime.

Fine art restorers likely have a product which unfixes the surfaces of ancient finds. For something that will liberate me, and release whatever is worthy deeply embedded beneath, I’m still waiting.

Here’s hoping it smells like candy.

Copyright 12/7/24 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. No copying, in part or whole or by translation, permitted without written release by the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for writing your own story, instead.

TAKE THE GUN.

StickyJanuary 1, 2025Uncategorizedbook reviews, book-review, historical-fiction, music, reviewruth ann scanzillo

Every year, at this season, so many of us enjoy “The Sound of Music”.

We marvel at the love story between Baron Von Trapp and Maria, his employed governess to the children. We also recognize the historical significance of a true tale, set during Hitler’s rise to power, of life saving escape.

But, at recent airing, having tuned in late to witness only the close of the final act I was struck by what just might be the single most powerful gesture in the entire account, and that by the true hero of the story.

Successfully absconded from the clutches of military police intent upon their capture, the Von Trapp family finds a hiding place in the graveyard of a nearby monastery. Huddling behind a monument, they hold their breath as, flashlights finally turning, the police head away from their lair. Then, Baron Von Trapp deftly motions for Maria and the children to run toward their awaiting car, leaving only two – himself, and Rolph, eldest daughter Leisel’s former flame turned Hitler’s army.

Rolph stands, alone, gun drawn. Stepping out of the shadows, Von Trapp faces him.

How many an American Western had set this scene: two men, facing off, both armed. But, in this instance, Von Trapp appears defenseless, staring into the eyes of he who holds the only loaded weapon.

With absolute, self possessed courage, Von Trapp speaks. His tone is quiet, but firm. Eyes fixed on his assailant, he begins to step toward him. Slowly, in approach, he continues to speak words of persuasive power and reason. Within seconds, the two men are inches apart.

What happens next is the stuff of legend.

Baron Von Trapp reaches for the gun and, clasping it, releases the weapon from Rolph’s grasp.

How he manages to do so is the point.

Throughout life, each of us reaches moments of psychic confrontation. Whether we both acknowledge and seize upon them determines, in many ways, our destiny. Threat is palpable, but other manifestations of force are more subtle, like subjugation, subversion, or suppression. Becoming aware that the gun is aimed at us is step number one.

The next move is critical. Do we name the daemon*, and look it squarely in the eye, or scuttle off in some form of obedient submission? What convinces us to allow our spirit to be diminished by any other, and to what purpose?

Von Trapp used reason to bend the warped mind of Rolph, even as he got closer to that which could annihilate him.

If we are to save the music, protect all love stories, and survive that which encroaches on our right to freedom, we need to nourish our power to disarm.

We must take the gun.

* “Love And Will” – Rollo May.

Copyright 12/17/24. Ruth Ann Scanzillo. No copying, in part or whole or by translation, without sharing the source. Thank you.

RADIO AHEAD.

StickyJanuary 1, 2025Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

In 1986, life changed.

For a lot of people, I would discover.

(Did the Earth tip, maybe?)

That was the year I left the restaurant scene for public education. And, the 50s-60s oldies band for the Philharmonic. And, exchanged happiness for professional productivity.

But, as the music teacher, I would not realize until decades later that, due to my new life of constantly preoccupied motion, the car radio would go silent.

When you stop listening to pop, you lose something.

You become disconnected to the vehicle which encapsulates your emotional memories.

A couple days ago, somebody sent a flash mob through TikTok. This one was a group of random voices, singing in lush harmony, some of them still / others walking, in the basement of a Brooklyn building…..and, the song was CREEP, by Radiohead. (But, you, of course, know that.) Yes; released in 1992 — the year I met Paul, my intended if short lived husband.

Paul listened to the radio.

NPR, to be exact.

And, he – a former commissioned USArmy officer and gifted aural learner from New England, who played and sang and memorized entire libretti at the first hearing – preferred talk stations. We’d awaken not to the latest Top Ten single, but to Breaking World News.

My first hearing of CREEP was when Billie Eilish sang it at an awards show. I thought she’d written the thing, she with her brother, the two lyrical geniuses of our age.

I’d made a mental note to GET that song, along with everything else she’d been producing, fully aware of having been at least five years behind the whole Eilish phenomenon.

But, that flash mob.

This time, I really heard the lyrics.

And, I was astonished. Where had they come from, and why had I not realized there’d been a theme song for me in the wings, all along?

Today, I am a RADIOHEAD convert. Twenty years too late, you say.

Well, in terms of social and cultural awareness, for me that’s about right.

I’d been so busy teaching school students how to use their voices and play instruments, I’d stopped hearing music.

From the end of Disco through U2, and beyond, I’d missed everything – apart from Rufus, completely removed from pop culture.

So, let me sink, awash, into the music of this band. Laugh, in amazement, if you will. Everybody grows at their own pace. OK, Karma; it’s my turn, to play catch up to the rest of you.

12/8/24 Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

From Start To Finish.

StickyDecember 1, 2024Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

So, I open my program at the Phil concert, and here is the bio of Eastman’s own, Rich Thompson. I check the program rep. And, then I look up at the stage, and I text him.

“Did they drag you all the way from Henrietta, to play snare, for BOLERO??”

Sure, enough – he texts right back! Brad will play Bolero, but Rich is actually in the concert. Haven’t seen him, in YEARS.

Then, I glance over at the trumpet section, and spy my former 5th grade trumpet student Jay, and he looks out and actually sees me and waves, just before the Concertmaster takes the stage.

The performance unfolds. I recognize Les Preludes, by Lizst. We’d played it, possibly twice, back in the day. I choke up, at the lush melodic interplay between celli and violi. I look around at all the instrumentalists filling the hall with music we’d all shared together, for three decades.

Then, the guest flute soloist with the same last name as the step father of my old boyfriend from Lake Ronkonkoma launches into THE most demanding flute solo ever written, and everybody roars to their feet, ending the first half.

Intermish.

When the Ellington sets up, I realize Rich will be right out on stage edge, at the kit, directly in my sight line. He plays like he always did – assuredly, forthrightly, and with dazzling style. I’m proud of my old friend.

Then, Jay plays a trumpet solo, and it’s absolutely perfect. During applause, I look at him and he sees me again and I give him two thumbs up. I’m so proud, again, of the boy who started in my brass class back at Grover Cleveland in, what, ’99? and then, in high school, competing with me at the keys on the Arutunian trumpet concerto.

Bolero is equally flawless. I’m so thrilled by every soloist, beginning with the intrepid, unflinching Brad Amidon, a man I will love always, and moving to flute, gorgeous oboe d’amore from Danna who introduced me to my one and only husband, bassoon from Fredonia’s darling, two very fine clarinetists, Allen Z on a wailing soprano sax, and then those trumpets, all of them, Gary and Jay and also Riley, for whom I’d played piano for his impeccable concerto decades before, and then the killer trombone solo, and the orgasm, and done.

Rich texts that, due to a suspension malfunction in his car he needs a ride, so Barb and I agree to pick him up at the French stage door and take him to his hotel. As the hall empties we speak briefly from the stage edge, solidifying our plans.

And then, up comes Jay, walking right directly to me, and I’m so honored to get to speak with him after his wondrous performance, and he reminds me that I DID set his embouchure and that he never did change it and THAT reminds me of Chris Dempsey, whose trombone embouchure I’d also set and who went on to win a solo award at the Monterey Jazz Festival. Two brothers having played trombone, plus Dad having been lead bugler in his army outfit and playing Reveille for us, when we were kids – yes; these were my first brass “teachers”. But, Jay is particularly attentive toward me, which warms my heart and makes it grow big and fill my whole body. I ask if his parents are here, and he tells me about his mum’s back problems so similar to my own, and then says his dad would rather sit at a bar and watch a game, and my heart pricks for Jay who plays so beautifully and who also knows the absence of those close to him. I want to stay a bit longer, talking with Jay, but we have our plans and we must attend to them.

Rich and Barb and I head to Oliver’s where we drink wine and I get to have my gluten free flatbread pizza with caramelized onions and sun-dried tomatoes and balsamic. And, we stay til almost midnight – me, my friend Barb, and my old friend Rich, the two of them making an instant connection over high end cars and the entire California coast.

I drop them both off, and head home to write this recap of an evening filled with nostalgia and affirmation, in the midst of heartbreak and isolation so many reminders that the old girl does have plenty about which to be both thankful and assured, newly convinced that, even if left with only sad stories to tell my life work has been of benefit to at least two boys, who grew to be young men at the peak of their professional performance.

The most mystifying part remains just how many times Rich has actually come to mind, over the past couple of days. And, now, here he’d been, riding in my car after the Phil concert tonight.

Taking a few moments to let my mind spin down and my heart find its center, I end the evening feeling gladness, grateful just to have been remembered.

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— with Ruth A Scanzillo.

The Wrong Thing.

StickyNovember 30, 2024family history, Good Food, sociology, Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

Being single and solitary can provoke a state of bliss.

Nobody to answer to; any number of open choices, at any given time; no constraints, no deadlines; the essence of freedom.

Except on Thanksgiving.

It’s really about the math. I despised learning about ratios as a kid, primarily because they escaped my comprehension. Now, in chorus with every reviled math teacher, I can’t deny how they figure in my life.

The degree of extended family connection we experienced in the early years is directly proportional to the effect its absence has upon our level of comfort during “the holidays.” Add to that the impact of memory on our psyche and, depending on how visceral or visually vivid these are, you have the recipe for loneliness.

Mammy, our grandmother, had been second maid to a wealthy Jewish family (likely a brewer) in eastern PA. Responsible for the cleaning and cooking, she grew to become quite the master of “Pennsylvania Dutch” cuisine – pressure cooker prepared pot roast, steamed rutabega and fried parsnips, peas and carrots soaking in their own juices, boiled lettuce salad, and apple, cherry, and rhubarb pies. The table was a grand oak, and round, but with a leaf for the big dinners. The overflow sat at linen clothed card tables, in the livingroom and we kids (Timmy, Frannie, Bonnie, Paul, me and Kathy) at ours in the sewing room beyond the kitchen.

English, Danish and married into Irish were as noisy as a wake at a Baptist funeral. Take the aroma of roasts and pies and add constant talk and laughter until somebody said something, and your quotient was the classic American holiday.

Most of us lived across the street and a few doors down from our grandparents’ house. The rest came from Ohio, bringing their wide “o’s” and their board games (Risk; Probe; Battleship). As a child, I learned that watching the aunts, uncles and cousins was as entertaining and satisfying as any attempt at immersion. I would grow to become this writer, capturing as much of what I had grasped after during those years as could be retrieved. Even now, staring out the windows at the stillness of impending snow, not a soul in sight, if I sit quietly enough the voices filter back and fill the air, the occasional flitting bird moving aside just enough to allow them space and I feel in the center of me just behind my heart the ache of remembrance.

Last week, as a sort of personal therapy I determined to head all this off by baking a pie and gifting it to someone other than myself, family, or friend. The recipient was to be a former student and various work associates at a nearby grocer. That milieu, with its casual prattle and the inherently brief nature of each encounter had served to cheer me out of what had become a rather frightening crisis of confidence. I had found myself, for the first time in several decades, depressed enough to define the state and feel nearly frantic in its clutches.

To my mind, with its freeze framed fears of a future in isolation, choosing an act of kindness was supposed to yield the respite of comfort. Give, with no thought of taking. Hadn’t we been so carefully taught?

Predictably, the process itself – baking the pie – was the therapy. Packing it, still warm, freshening my face, choosing shoes and coat able to withstand November rain, I headed south to the store.

Timed as precisely as possible, my arrival was to be unobtrusive, during the final minutes of a shift, most customers fixed on grabbing that last minute lemon, jug of milk, or bag of ice, all sent by those in charge of the impending gathering at home. Surely, my act of the hour would be swift, yet meaningful and appreciated.

Herein lieth the lesson.

I’d worked many a holiday in the past, serving happy people in the American family restaurant. This was a different scene, entirely. The store was congested – traffic, like so many wireless beams. The staff, including the intended recipient(s) of my gift had been there nearly eight hours, withered by the fatigue of public demand. Where to put the pie was problem number one. More would follow.

Being single isn’t a problem. Missing the counsel of family, those one or two who have your back and appear right when you need a reality check, can be. I could have used my younger brother, touching my shoulder in the kitchen just as I’d been ready to pack the car, gently asking what I was doing and why. Mum would have had plenty to say, mostly with her ironic scoff in tow, embarrassed at her daughter’s bold transparency. Dad, seated napping on the couch, and smiling in his sleep, would have said nothing.

But, they weren’t there. I was alone, doing the wrong thing, yet again.

And so the sun had set, to rise on another annual day of celebration.

Making good out of hapless misstep was God’s job.

For that, I could be thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

11/28/24. Ruth Ann Scanzillo. littlebarefeetblog.com Originally published on FACEBOOK, Thanksgiving Day.

“In Drive.”

StickyNovember 26, 2024health and wellness, human behavior, love, medicinecher, comedy, hormone-replacement-therapy, hormone-replacement-therapy, post-menopausal-sex-drive, sociologyruth ann scanzillo

Driving had always set the creative juices flowing. Was it some law of metaphysics — or, something else?

Heading home from an egg pickup in the outlying county today, I let the local “oldies” station cue up Cher. Setting aside her familiar anthems and dance tunes, they chose a real antique:

“The Way Of Love.”

Translated from the French (“J’ai le Mal de Toi”, by Jacques Dieval, English lyrics by Al Stillman), Cher hadn’t been the first, to record it; Kathy Kirby had done those honors – in 1965.

As the lyrics unfolded, carried by Cher’s throaty moan, and the music swelled into its sweeping, orchestral fill I realized that five months of estradiol and progesterone had finally hit their Full Monty stride. That long, surely lost connection between the popular song and blood flow to the groin had come roaring back. I was, in a word, flushed .

About a year ago, my older friend Sally had urged me to resume bioidentical hormone therapy. And, she’d said, go whole hog – get the full formula. Recent studies had shown that, for women over 65, the bone loss halting benefits of estradiol greatly outweighed any overblown health risks cited by one, since discredited, paper.

But, she forewarned. I’d feel so good, she said. And, my drive? Ohboy. Yep. That.

Now, so many months into the trek toward Mojo renewal this song didn’t just bring back remote, abstract memories of a first crush in Kindergarten. No; this time, I was embodied.

By agony.

Oh, hadn’t I missed that agony.

Hormones make longing for the object of your heart an aching pain for which you yearn uncontrollably. They capture all your senses, and render you jelly in the fetal position. They send you, raving, out into the public like a pimply fourteen year old screaming in the front row of a Beatles concert. You are utterly un-repressed. And, you love every minute of it.

I’d been remembering those decades past, when the body was still producing hormones naturally. Always heavy on testosterone (still), at the low end of the progesterone scale (convenient birth control), when the estrogen ran hot I was a hyper nympho. Add to that a determination to remain the last virgin (and, failing), one might have regularly witnessed any number of spontaneous if cyclic emissions from any physiologic orifice. Had I a whale’s spout, only the Queen of the Deep would have surpassed my combustive, projectile power.

But, this all came (npi) with immense frustration. Having only rare release for a relentless rush to the cadence every month, there were sprints of manic obsession (with men), episodes of sobbing into the full length mirror and, facing professional deadlines, near catatonia until the last monthly trickle brought those few, precious days of regulating relief.

Once menopause had closed the cervix for good, years of comparative peace ensued. I loved looking at men, and feeling, well, nothing. The occasional exception being the one in a hundred “drop dead” stud I’d give him at best a fleeting, ironic glance, merely remembering the power he would have had over me, now grateful to be free of its clutches.

But, Time, father of the Mona Lisa smile, eventually found me wanton.

On cue, I’d taken the bait.

Now, you’ll spot her a mile away. Overdressed, including boots, at every event. Freshly made up at midnight, the newest additions to that kit the eye lash curler and waterproof mascara. No matter the discovery of 500 ppm of aluminum in the dark brown Henna used to mask encroaching grey; now, she wears her salt and pepper locks like a boss. She is me. Welcome to Shangri-la.

I’m in drive. Either move, or stand and receive.

The law of attraction rules this road, and I have a destination to reach before the big sleep.

Copyright 11/26/24 Ruth Ann Scanzillo * originally titled “Hormoaning.” 11/25/24. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying – in part; whole; or, by translation – permitted without either direct request of the author or by blog sharing exclusively. Thank you for respecting individual intellectual property rights.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Under the Waning, Crescent Moon.

StickyNovember 21, 2024brain research, Christian fundamentalism, human behavior, Uncategorizedaries-moon, astrology, caul, creative writing, crowning-birth, human behavior, moon, moon-sign, sociologyruth ann scanzillo

The age of the Android had descended.

She, always a good ten years behind the moment, was ever the last to know.

Now, emitting from her phone, the luring words of an astrologer. Today’s topic? the Moon Sign.

She remembered reading about this, awhile back. Unlike the Sun’s vague profiling of character and propensity, seems the Moon Sign was the real marker for actual, motivated behavior.

The voice, likely AI, prattled on, knowing as it does in the world of preconceived algorithm that the longer it held forth without relent the greater the likelihood the hopelessly impressionable human would take its bait.

Perhaps to prove herself a real person, and with reluctant acknowledgement of her own weakness, she plucked the fruit from its tree.

What was her exact TIME of birth? This was the key to unlocking the all-knowing.

Well, that would be its own story.

Mum, wide of pelvis, already having endured the truest of natural births at home ( marched in circles around the oak diningroom table by a first born sister during that which the latter’s narrow hips were sure was just phase one of labor, only to plead to be allowed to give her impending child birth ) had all too vivid memories of which stage her now second born was presenting as she lay in the hospital, flanked by a flock of nursemaids. The year, 1957, the obstetrician having delivered an entire generation already, this scene was as predictable as a day in the life of an episode of Happy Days.

Except that it was night, on a Friday, at primetime, and raining; the doc, at the bar; and, the clamoring newborn was crowning.

She, that hapless infant, would finally see natural light a good fifty minutes after cranial compression in the vaginal canal had suffocated the entire lobe responsible for numeric application. The doctor ultimately appearing, gurney raced to the delivery room and she was out, screaming bloody murder, her grandmother later describing a baby completely covered in “dark hair”, the harbinger of as yet unrealized import, a caul*, never to be acknowledged by the Christian Fundamentalists.

Said Christians would, however, have plenty to say about astrologers -soothsayers all, demon-infested, poison in its purest form. Having raised her to be above all God fearing, she now fulfilled her latent visit – pungent of residual trepidation – with the significance of the Moon Sign.

Rather removed from the glowing attributes of the Taurus Sun Sign, her Moon Sign was Aries – and, appeared a totally different mammal. Passion; anger; a struggle to both form and maintain human relationships; the driver of all action, the bearer of opinions and insights pronounced unpopular, and the leader of everything worth any effort. Even the sight of a waning, crescent moon was the least likely to draw a crowd, that final phase before disappearing entirely from the eye’s capacity to see.

How familiar obscurity had become. Once a life lived under nearly constant public eye – from the stages of orchestral performance, to the fields at half time, to the classrooms of hundreds of singing and dancing children – hers was now expressed seated well inside her own domain, either through written word, recorded offering, or framed within the precious teacher-student private music lesson scene. Now, with this new awareness, her potential for passion, anger against injustice, and independent insight finding a new context for both realization and display.

All now rise and rest in the blue glow of radiating technology. Contrived voices and devised apparitions fill the firmament. Gazing up to the sky, she would still ponder the physical universe, within the only dimension currently apprehended, and wonder how it could be that revolving orbs were in place to both describe and influence every thought. Perhaps both thought and intention had a single source, and she were just their open vessel.

What would the Android say, to that?

Time to ask the waning Moon.

* Margaret Fletcher, unsolicited, confirmed this many years ago. She has since passed.

Copyright 11/21/24 Ruth Ann Scanzillo All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying – in part; whole; or, by translation – permitted without either written request of the author or by blog sharing link. Thank you for maintaining intellectual honorability.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Waiter.

StickyNovember 19, 2024Uncategorizedfood, gluten-free, italian, italy, travelruth ann scanzillo

Why Do We Dig In Our Heels?

StickyJune 30, 2024Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

By now, those who are determined to see the Democratic ticket through to triumph in November and who also viewed the June 27th debate have, whether openly or covertly, recorded their reaction.

What troubles me most is why many of these won’t acknowledge that which their actual contemporaries in the political fight already have, and that very publicly: their emperor is, quite possibly, naked.

The real question, in my mind, is: why not?

Why do humans, in the face of what can only be termed the glaringly obvious, turn away?

Is the reason similar to why many straight people shudder when they are confronted with accepting the sexual orientation of those whose chromosome cocktail is dissimilar to their own?

Or, is it really about something as basic as the need for stability?

Babies are born apparently helpless. They cannot hold up their own heads, an inability which – under certain conditions – could kill them. Beginning with the base of their necks infants need to be stabilized, and that by way of a supporting adult’s careful embrace.

Developing further, young children require an environment which cocoons them within clear parameters defined by safety and security.

Once established within such clarified conditions, the child reaches adulthood allegedly intact, on every level – physiological; mental; psychological. The human is considered: stable.

However……if one begins life without the necessary support, even to endure its absence into puberty, destabilization becomes the norm. Does this lead to profound disturbance?

Or, what of those to whom stability is pressed upon them, enforced as a value, made a requisite for every intended act within society? To what end do such become DEPENDENT upon feeling stable in order to, in turn, feel whole?

The converse would be a freely permissive scenario, few boundaries, the absence of any rule. Do these grow to become dependent upon the absence of structure in order to feel stable?

Finally: does stability factor, at all?

My mother gave birth, three times. Her firstborn was raised by several adults, at once – herself; her parents; her sister, all within the same household. I was her second born, the first child of her reunion with the same husband who had sired the elder child. By then, a newly independent household had formed – a home built; a new, distinct familial unit, with two parents for the children.

But being head of her own, independent family, my mother felt… unsure. Her own stability had been both created and produced by both her parents, who worked out of the home providing multiple services for hire. Now, with a husband who went to work every day in his own shop, she was alone in her own house – with a precocious 10 year old, who freely came and went, and a babe in arms. Could she do this, all by herself?

I remember the red, plastic rectangular bars surrounding me on four sides, and the sticky vinyl cushion beneath my bare thighs. This was a playpen, and it limited both my world and my reach. I learned, from infancy, that there was the space wherein I was permitted to to move and the infinite space outside of it from which I was prevented access.

To what end was this limited range of reach capable of confining my perceptions within clear parameters? Would I learn that reality depended upon such specifically outlined limits ?

I don’t know what will happen within the Democratic Party of the United States. I only know what I am capable of perceiving, at this moment. I must carry out my intellectual and social responsibilities within my capacity to do so, as a free citizen — heels, dug in.

What President Biden is capable of perceiving, and then defining, as his own multi-faceted responsibility toward the American people remains to be seen.

The fact that we as a people can no longer be sure about any of this is, in a word, destabilizing.

Copyright 6/30/24 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for being the better person.

littlebarefeetblog.com

—- Ruth Ann Scanzillo 6/30/24.

Comments, on this blog!

StickyOctober 2, 2023blog site access problems for littlebarefeetblog.com, blog welcome, Formatting questions, grief, letters to readersComments Awaiting Approval at Wordpressruth ann scanzillo

Dear Readers of littlebarefeetblog — occasional; random; and, regular:

Many months ago, I used the Sweep feature on my email to redirect messages I didn’t want to receive in my Inbox. Unwittingly, ALL WORDPRESS.COM “COMMENTS AWAITING APPROVAL” ENDED UP in my DELETED FOLDER.

I THINK it happened when somebody who was regularly Commenting in a politically slanted/rather derogatory and “pestery” fashion had to be dealt with by a means made available by WordPress. Since I couldn’t Block this reader, I chose the “Comments Awaiting Approval” feature.

Consequently, even those I would have WARMLY WELCOMED – you know, lavishly complimentary (!) or otherwise respectfully supportive (or, even legitimately challenging) – were all SET to “AWAITING APPROVAL.”

And, WordPress chose to notify me of said comments (awaiting approval) via: you guessed it: Email…

ERGO.

So, I’ve missed MOST – if not nearly all – of your Comments, over the past several months to maybe a year?!

THANK YOU, Readers, for sticking with me — even if your Comments have appeared to have gone completely unnoticed, by me. I have missed them, and the dialogue they so often generated!

MY PROBLEM: Outlook won’t let me change the status of receipt of WordPress notifications. I will have to remove the “Comments Awaiting Approval ” feature, from the blog — and, hope no harassing elements return.

Please. Forgive this mess.

Thank you!!!!

I MISS YOU!

ever,

R.A. / littlebarefeetblog.com

The Search Engine Hack.

StickyJune 7, 2023blog site access problems for littlebarefeetblog.com, blogger theft, plagiarism, plagiaristsruth ann scanzillo

This search engine appeared in my stats, yesterday.

When I clicked to open it, I was aghast to discover my blogsite attached to the search in the search bar as if there were some direct association with the engine.

Having written original essays and poems for the past nearly ten years, and publishing them at my blog site, I am incensed to discover how vulnerable my work has actually been to thieves and hackers.

If I were to self publish all my work, what would happen? Would some Chinese entity come after ME, citing plagiarism? And, most importantly, would WORDPRESS PROTECT MY AUTHENTICITY IN COURT?

Here’s the suspect search engine result:

You tell me !!

littlebarefeetblog.com

Ruth Ann Scanzillo, author.

6/7/2023

La Graisse Faciale.

StickyFebruary 26, 2023healing, health and wellness, videosruth ann scanzillo

*Please, activate CAPTIONS/SUBTITLES [ CC ]

RuthAnnTALKS, sans makeup, sans directed lighting, about restoring facial fat and the product which seems to be working!

Ruth Ann Scanzillo, blog author and moderator.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Sil Caggiano SPEAKS!

StickyFebruary 19, 2023blog welcome, CANCER TREATMENTS AND CURES, education, grief, healing, health and wellness, human behavior, medicine, political commentary, psychology, public education, Questions, Quotes, social commentary, sociology, truth, UncategorizedEAST PALESTINE OHIO, NEWSNATION, OHIO DERAILMENT TOXIC CHEMICAL SPILL, SIL CAGGIANO, Tucker Carlsonruth ann scanzillo

I don’t CARE WHAT you think, of Tucker Carlson. This 39 year veteran of Hazardous Waste Management tells the real, comprehensive story.

Ruth Ann Scanzillo

littlebarefeetblog.com

There Is Fire In Our Crowded Theater, by Adam Gaertner.

StickyFebruary 18, 2023addiction, arts education, CANCER TREATMENTS AND CURES, civic commentary, coronavirus, education, Good Food, grief, healing, health and wellness, medicine, notice, political commentary, psychology, public education, scientific theory, social commentary, sociology, the power grid, thoughts, travelogues, truth, Uncategorized, vacation destinationscontrolled burn in Ohio train derailment, ohio chemical spill, Ohio train derailment toxic spill, phosgene, vinyl chlorideruth ann scanzillo

EXCERPTED from his substack article:

The primary concern is unburned vinyl chloride. The uncontrolled, open-air fire is very highly unlikely to have burned even a majority of it: whilst it is flammable, like any other fire it requires oxygen, and there were no accelerants in the crash. The cars leaked for days before they were set on fire, and holes were made in the tankers: that is plenty of time for vast quantities to have seeped into the ground and surrounding water, which has been confirmed thus far to have contaminated the Ohio River, and will very likely be confirmed to have entered the Mississippi. The intense heat and lack of oxygen at ground zero means that the majority of the vinyl chloride, which boils at 8°F, is highly likely to have been lofted into the air unburned, and is currently being rained down again everywhere from Canada to NY to Kentucky.

It’s Not Just The Wind

The fact that acid rain has been reported as far north as Ontario, and as far south as Kentucky, constitutes something of a confirmation of another worst-case scenario: the chemical, which was leached into soil, rivers and groundwater, is evaporating and raining down again, far outside the area which could have possibly been reached by the winds, which are blowing east-northeast. Vinyl chloride takes months to denature when dissolved into water or leached into soil.

Paulsboro train derailment, chemical spill caused health problems in half of residents, DOH reports - nj.com

A much smaller spill in 2012 in NJ. They managed to avoid setting that one on fire.

The Ohio and Mississippi River basins permeate most of the eastern side of the country. There is a smaller area covered by the Tennessee River basin around Georgia; while the contaminated water may or may not directly reach those areas, the prevailing winds are still likely to push the chemical to the east, even that far south. Southern FL might be lucky enough to escape the devastation, but I would not be waiting around to see.

Vinyl chloride is toxic in extremely tiny amounts. Specifically, the metabolite chloroethylene oxide binds to guanine in our DNA, completely and thoroughly destroying any affected DNA. It only takes the tiniest of exposures to be practically guaranteed severe cancers, particularly sarcoma of the liver, which is where that most toxic metabolite is first produced. Untold quantities of dioxin have also been produced: if vinyl chloride is the silver medalist of carcinogenicity, dioxin is the gold, and it is far more persistent in the environment than even the vinyl chloride.

A gigantic bonfire of millions of gallons of vinyl chloride is the single worst chemical and environmental disaster imaginable. If the entirety of Lake Michigan had magically turned into VX gas – a rapidly lethal World War II nerve agent – it still wouldn’t be anywhere near this bad.

Furthermore, there is mounting, albeit strongly circumstantial evidence, that this may have been a deliberate attack after all.

A Deliberate Chemical Weapons Attack?

Video on Twitter

Green water has been reported in East Palestine. Let’s review the chemicals released and produced by burning, and the colors they will turn water upon mixing:

Vinyl Chloride (VC): Colorless water (primary product) and colorless to light yellow water (combustion product – hydrogen chloride)
Ethylene Glycol Monobutyl Ether (EGMBE): Colorless water (primary product) and clear to pale yellow water (combustion product – acrolein)
Ethylhexyl Acrylate (EHAA): Colorless water (primary product) and clear, colorless to cloudy water (combustion product – formaldehyde)
Isobutylene (i-C4H8): Colorless water (primary product) and clear, colorless water (combustion product – formaldehyde)
Butyl Acrylates: Colorless water (primary product) and clear, colorless to cloudy water (combustion product – formaldehyde)

None of these products produce bright green water. How could bright green water possibly have been formed?

3082 is the label for nickel oxide. Fifteen tanker trucks labelled 3082 were seen heading to East Palestine on the 15th of February, and the next day, there was reporting on residents’ bright green tap water. Nickel oxide – up to 150,000 gallons of it, given the capacities of the tanker trucks – produces nickel chloride when it is mixed with vinyl chloride, at atmospheric temperature and pressure, which certainly does turn water green. Nickel chloride is also extremely toxic and carcinogenic, and dissolves in water much more readily than vinyl chloride: if that is indeed what took place, which is not yet confirmed, but seems likely, then it’s that much worse.

Why, for the love of God, would anybody mix fifteen tanker trucks of nickel oxide into the spill? It is not a fire suppressant or dry powder agent like sodium bicarbonate. It is used as a flame retardant in small amounts for plastic mixtures (of which vinyl chloride is a precursor, to PVC), but absolutely not for anything approaching this scale.

Poisoning half the country and destroying a majority of America’s farmland would be a great reason.

Netflix released a movie in December (“White Noise”), playing out precisely what’s taken place here, down to being filmed in the very same town, East Palestine, in which it occurred.

The CDC also “updated” the data on vinyl chloride in late January, before the crash, and after 17 years untouched.

The EPA has also been very obviously falsifying air and water tests, and let’s not forget the reporter that was arrested for trying to investigate.

The conspiracy theorists are 60-nil these days, so I think Hanlon’s Razor is inverted until further notice. There’s no coincidences anymore.

Also notable is Deagel’s 100 million population prediction. This is the first event that could conceivably reach that number in the allotted time, by 2025; with 250 million people east of the Mississippi River, and the untold devastation knocking on to affect the rest of the country, this could easily do that.

Deagel Makes Mysterious Changes To 2025 Population Forecast For America As Bill Gates Launches 'Grand Challenge': The 'Holy Grail Of Influenza Research' And 'Bridging The Valley Of Death' | Algora Blog

Do I Want To Live Forever?

StickyJanuary 10, 2023arts education, brain research, Christian fundamentalism, contemplation, creative writing, Deep Questions, Deep Thoughts, faith, human behavior, mystical experience, personal testimony, philosophy, prayer, proverbs, psychology, religious belief, sectarian Fundamentalism, sociology, thoughts, truth, UncategorizedBlossom McBrier, born again, canyoudigit?, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1811, decompensation, Eternity, North Pole, perspective, possibilities, powerlessness, rebirth, redundancy, twilight yearsruth ann scanzillo

Do you want to live forever?

*Author’s Note: After 800+ essays and poems, WordPress asks this old girl the question – to prompt her reply, we assume. As if, after 800……but, you know the tune.

******

Last Sunday, in the second row of the Unitarian congregation of Girard, Blossom McBrier announced her latest impending venture: she, having just turned 99, would celebrate her 100th year by traveling to the North Pole. Seems there had always been thousands of tiny lights in her firmament, and Blossom would seek their source in the Aurora Borealis – even if, as she declared, she froze to death en route.

When I was a kid we, in our family, were raised to face eternity. The sectarian fundamentalists, Christian variety, were into that. Still are, in fact. Life everlasting, after all.

Not to sound glib, the reality was: from birth, the dogma were clear; know that your soul was infinite, and the direction of its path open to the power of free will.

The Bible taught us that God the Father had provided, for lost mankind – gripped by original sin and enmity from its Creator – a way, toward redemption. The source was Jesus the Son, Christ, whose sacrifice on Calvary’s cross paved the way for total forgiveness. Just by confession and acceptance: personal absolution.

And, beyond mere verdict, the reward: eternal life – with God, and the Saviour Jesus, in the Heaven of holy provision. The body would return to the dust whence it had arisen but the soul would continue, forever. World, without end. Amen.

I remember trying to wrap my head around this inaccessible phenomenon, as a toddler. The concept, and my attempt at grasping it, actually made me nauseous. Physically discomfited, I became acutely disturbed by the idea. Comprehending endlessness left me frightened by something even more foreboding: utter powerlessness. Things which had a beginning, a middle, and an end were familiar and comforting and, to a degree, subject to control. Beyond end was a chasm, a black void. I was averted.

Yes. At that particular stage of, for lack of a better word, growth…from that which had no end, I recoiled.

Perhaps growth, mental/emotional let alone physical, would account for a shift in the affect of that perspective. Now, in the “twilight years” or, if the psychics are both real and accurate, the final third of my presence on this planet I can say that my sense and view of eternity has definitely evolved. Everlasting life? Yeah. I can dig it.

Why?

Always driven by creative curiosity, this spirit derives joy from seeking out and finding the new and different. New ideas. New flavors. New places. New experiences. If left to the familiar, I quickly stagnate, even regress. Decompensation, swiftly enacted by the body, even attacks the mind; soon, I am but a slug, repeating tasks like a robot with an excretory system just because it’s handy. Being alive becomes redundant.

But, moving forward allows me reach. Searching yields a banquet of possibility; and, possibilities, they say, are endless. So, why not? Like Blossom McBrier, driven by her teeming need to know, turning in the direction of the North Pole and thermally clad I press on. If life is the absence of decay, or decay just a phase on the brink of rebirth, then being born again – and, again – sounds like a plan.

Yeah. Live forever. Ever, something new, right around the next corner.

Can you dig it? Then, everybody sing!

Hallelujah!

Copyright 1/10/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose thoughts appear and whose name likewise, above this line. No copying, in part or whole including translation, permitted. Sharing by blog link, exclusively, and not by RSS. Thank you for accepting and respecting original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Kathy O’Keefe Linger.

StickyJanuary 4, 2023CANCER TREATMENTS AND CURES, Christian fundamentalism, Christianity, education, family history, grief, healing, health and wellness, love, medicine, memorials, personal testimony, prayer, public education, relationships, religious belief, sociology, tributes, truth, UncategorizedKathy O'Keefe Lingerruth ann scanzillo

The name Kathy used to be the cool girl’s name.

This meant that, if you were named Kathy, you’d be born among your contemporaries into a sort of automatic class, like Jen or Ashley, who were just a few years ahead of the Carries, Caras, Carlies. You get it.

Only those of us named strangely felt this. The Frannies. The Ruth Anns.

Kathy.

Each of the Sweet girls, four sisters, daughters of Mae and Henry produced their brood post-WWII; and, the third born, Frances, absconding from the Plymouth Brethren to put down roots in radical Parma, Ohio, would be blessed late in life with Kathleen, the last of the grands, circa 1962.

And, our Kathy embodied cool like nobody.

Oh, not because she was a social follower. Kathy O’Keefe was anything but.

The Sweet genes, formidable enough, bestowed their lion’s share upon the daughters of their daughters. And, Kathy, the only “carrot top” in the bunch, was not to be overlorded or overshadowed by any of them.

From her earliest days, sending her signal through the whole extended family like a current, we would learn that Kathy had been born with a life threatening abnormality. Before anyone could comprehend “transplant”, some cutting edge surgeon from the trending Cleveland Clinic installed a replacement porcine aortic valve into her heart muscle.

Kathy wouldn’t just live. She would thrive, with a pig valve, for many years. Naturally energetic, loving the outdoors and as much physical activity as her teeming mind would allow she threw herself, headlong and whole heartedly, into everything – camping; hiking; and, especially, water skiing on Lake Chautauqua. She could water ski before the rest of us had learned to swim.

Heading toward college, equally determined to use her frontal lobe to its fullest, Kathy became a math teacher. And, not just a math teacher, she was a mathematics and economics whiz, rising to the top of those respected among her ilk. Inheriting the shrewd, critical thinking intellect of her mother, a strong work ethic its corollary, she made highly organized productivity into a lifestyle.

We among the family would get to see her at Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings, when the O’Keefe clan would make the extra effort to tool east to meet the rest of us at Mammy and Pappy’s on East 29th. Her intensity was always palpable ( and, audible – talking is what the Sweets did ) – from the moment she burst into the room until the final, equally driven departure. Kathy was purposeful; there was always a motive to act, because there was a reason for everything. When it was time to go, it was time to leave. On to the next thing, the next reason to keep on living.

Her second heart valve surgery came around age 21*. The pork valve may have had its own shelf life, but she did not. However, this replacement was man made, mechanical, and bore with it a lifelong ticking clock which could be both heard and, mostly, felt. Kathy would now live by that clock, the ever present reminder that, to her, each moment was the gift.

Childbirth is toil for any woman but, for Kathy, the reality would prove confrontational; right as she approached the date of her own daughter Kristen’s arrival (yes; she was married) that valve would signal its own, looming demise. The CC team of surgeons gathered, obstetrics and cardiology; Kathy would give birth, naturally, even as her second aortic valve was about to die, and receive the third and final prosthetic in the months following.

For me, when the cousins married they slowly retreated from my view; I was the last to tie that knot, and the first to let it slip loose. But, when Kathy’d met Rob, they were bound forever. Theirs was the deep, abiding friendship built on common outlook, interests, and activities that makes marriage true. Part of a family whose society was determined by close proximity and faith-centered commitment to each other, they lived out their own place therein in the finest of form.

But, the baby of any family has a special spot to occupy. Kathy’s relationship with her Dad, a Baptist minister, was both admirable and endearing. She regarded him with absolute, Godly respect, and he toward her with complete encouragement and acceptance. As he aged, enduring heart health challenges of his own only to survive them against unheard of odds (massive coronary, age 80? subsequent infection, triple bypass surgery, and still living to age 98?), Kathy would come to expect that indomitability was both inherited and learned.

Maybe this indomitability both informed and drove the decisions she would be forced to make when, just a couple years ago, her symptoms finally led to the sobering diagnosis of a cancer which carried with it erratic statistics; multiple myeloma was “manageable”, treatable, potentially less than life curtailing. Kathy of all people could most definitely fight and win against this level of foe. All she had to do was, well, be Kathy O’Keefe.

Enter the silent enemy, the ever-wielding unknown. Powers, those that both were and those that aspired to be, dictating the courses of treatment. Everything distilling down to the perceived sources of trust and trustworthiness, and those who embodied each. Like her mother before her Kathy would make clear to everyone and all; decision making was her domain. Her devoted husband, perhaps he only, fully understood this. At every point, juncture, even apparent impasse, Kathy would ready herself to choose.

The latest news had rendered a sort of last gasp euphoria, in recent weeks. Inexplicably, after struggling to sustain the stem cell replacement therapy which had been effective for so many, she’d survived the only remaining chemo protocol, including an infected gall bladder; now, the latest, most “promising” treatment regimen, just FDA approved, was finally in her hands. The Cleveland Clinic had the whole thing ready, and her body seemed equally prepared.

We’d all watched, through the lens of social media, as she took her first, second, third dose, only to marvel at the ever present grin and thumbs up outcome of each tentative step. Suddenly, it was Christmastime and, discharged from the Seidman Center, Kathy and Rob and Kristen were allowed to go home. This news, alone, was an extra special reason to celebrate the joy of the season.

Silence was less familiar, to the Sweets. To us, when you didn’t talk, something wasn’t right. And, this time, something wasn’t. Kathy had been full of life, playing (and, winning) board games, running at her familiar nearly frantic pace; but, just beyond the fully decorated Christmas tree, a quiet cloaked the scene.

The promise of a final protocol which was heralded as life sustaining had failed. Kathy’s body curled up, giving its spirit over to the God who had governed the O’Keefe clan from go and its soul into the arms of her father, Pastor George, who welcomed her with transcending relief. The woman who had run so hot, her body cooled by death, was ever the embodiment of a life lived on terms that would challenge even the most arrogant women and men. Kathy had withstood; she had persisted; she had run a course most would merely observe, and that with awe.

Kathy O’Keefe Linger. Not just another Kathy. Loved by so many. Admired by more. In a class, by herself.

*precise chronology on these surgeries still in edit/awaiting clarification.

Copyright 1/4/23. Ruth Ann Scanzillo All rights those of the author, whose story is hers, and whose name appears above this line. Please respect the family. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Alienated Stranger.

StickyDecember 16, 2022addiction, drama, education, grief, healing, health and wellness, medicine, personal testimony, psychology, relationships, social commentary, sociology, Uncategorizedalienation, emotional disorders, mental illness, NAMI, OCD, social media, strangersruth ann scanzillo

Obsessive Compulsion is a marauding demon.

The Interweb consolidates. “Many investigators have contributed to the hypothesis that OCD involves dysfunction in a neuronal loop running from the orbital frontal cortex to the cingulate gyrus, striatum (cuadate nucleus and putamen), globus pallidus, thalamus and back to the frontal cortex.” You’ll get this search result at the top of Google.

Happy looping!

There’s more. “Research suggests that OCD involves problems in communication between the front part of the brain and deeper structures of the brain. These brain structures use a neurotransmitter (basically, a chemical messenger) called serotonin.” Yep. That old, familiar, feel good goodie, wrecked by one nasty migraine med, Imitrex, taken for far too many years unawares.

Serotonin reuptake inhibitors are being prescribed, to treat OCD. But, Imitrex is a triptan, which interacts with serotonin (probably causing the OCD, long term.) You got it. Ya cain’t mix duh meds.

Even more currently (2011, these things move slowly) “Recent evidence suggests that the ubiquitous excitatory neurotransmitter glutamate is dysregulated in OCD, and that this dysregulation may contribute to the pathophysiology of the disorder.” Glutamate > Gluten. Sure enough. Gluten intolerance > drug dysregulated neurotransmission > OCD.

Anyhoo…….

So, my hapless grieving partner, alone at home – weeks after his mother’s death – making dinner and drowning his sorrows ends his convo with me on the Messenger phone App. Only, he thinks he can just hang up a Phone call, and leaves the Messenger line open.

For the next twenty odd minutes I listen in, picking up kitchen utensil sound effects and an increasingly persistent, if garbled, female voice continuously talking with no audible response from another vocal source. This could be the TV, but the demon thinks it hears his name spoken. Then, his voice, clearer, making a declarative vulgarity into a complete sentence, and I am captured. Captured, by the devil in the details.

By the time he finally discovers his phone status, our satan in the eaves has created the whole scenario: he’s having another female over for tacos, she’s on her phone until he proclaims the Italian classic: “Let’s eat!”, and they plan their intimate hours directly following dinner. My hollering to Hang Up The Phone! finally draws her attention, he asks What are you doing?, silence ensues, he frets This Is Bad and the phoneline cuts out, me with my conclusion in tablet stone.

But, the demon is tenacious. (They all are; categorically doomed, they persist in the pathetic hope that hanging on will somehow alter their fate. ) My mind now in its full control, the hell’s minion’s story must play out; I must pummel him with decision based texts, including the announcement that all his things will be in a bag at an undisclosed location, and ending with a prophetic Bible verse from the Book of Proverbs about dogs, vomit, and fools.

The clincher: way beyond the normal pale, OCD sends its victims into the realm of the stranger. I contact Suspect #1, a woman with whom my partner has history and who has recently surfaced on his birthday to call him Babe and post a telling salutation. She and I are not acquainted. Devils don’t care who’s been introduced.

I tell her she can have him. I pass judgment on her character. I condemn her to the rubble.

By the time the demon scuttles off, content to have ravaged all reality, she – neither suspect, nor person of interest, according to him – has blocked me. And, given her higher than my level of social intelligence, already gathering her covy of girlfriends to further condemn me to the pit of the Hades by which I have already been entertained.

OCD is a killer. All demons are. They don’t care how many Friends you have on Facebook, or see out, or hoard in, or keep in your pandemic bubble. By the time you’ve been wreaked with the havoc, you’ll lose friends you’ve never even met.

Get thee behind me, Lucifer. You may be son of the morning, but that sky is as red as a sailor’s warning. I’m staying out front, on my wire, scoping you out. My life, and the diminishing few humans who remain in my real and/or imagined realm, depend on such vigilance.

Selah.

Obsess on that.

Copyright 12/16/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, the afflicted, whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole or part including translation, permitted. Sharing only by blog link, exclusively and directly; no RSS, either. Thank you for hanging on.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Cry

StickyDecember 13, 2022original poetry, Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

A woman needs

an idol

too long pushed down

by dogma

told to be demure.

and, why

give her a man

to lust after

that she cannot have

then, try

to tell her

how to feel

and, who to be.

No.

Just

let her

Cry.

Copyright 2016/last edit 12/13/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose work it is, and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in part, whole, or by translation, permitted. Sharing by direct blog link, no third parties, exclusively. Thank you for being honorable.

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George W. Bush is Coming To Erie.

StickyAugust 14, 2020arts education, civic commentary, commentary, human behavior, political commentary, politics, slum culture, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, truth, UncategorizedAnderson Cooper, automatic weapons, Barack Obama, Bayfront Convention Center, Bill Clinton, black shades, Bob Merski, Bush Dynasty, Erie PA, George Dubyah, George W Bush, Hilary Clinton, Laura Bush, marching bands, Michelle Obama, military bands, military marches, Nostradamus "village idiot", Presidential rallies, Republicans from Minneapolis, Save the music teachers!, secret service agents, snipers, Swedish American Republicans, teleprompters, The Decider, The Jefferson Educational Society, the Pacific Rim, Veteran's Memorial Stadium, Zem Zem Shrine Circusruth ann scanzillo

I can still feel that sun.

Hot, from high up at the Veteran’s Memorial Stadium, Erie PA. Hotter still, because of the reason the seats were packed 10,000 strong. Incumbent President George W. Bush was headed down the State Street Boulevard, on his bus. This was his Presidential rally, and I had agreed to attend.

This would also be my first encounter with high security, perhaps since that flight to and from Scotland via Toronto back in 1984. But – this time – I’d be outside, passing under a tent on 26th Street to be checked for weapons by a lithe, young, lean, muscular agent with sandy curls. He was a tad cocky, smiling amusedly at my full on confident air – and, the straw hat on my head, which he eyed specifically.

I’d decided to accompany my friend, an ardent Republican from Minneapolis, just to witness the spectacle. My political leanings were already soundly Independent, not because I’d planned to skew the election results with my vote but because the two party system had already proved ripe for cell division and I could not see myself, either then or later, at either end of its fragile membrane.

We had seats, however, at the south end of the stadium, just near the descending aisle already canopied for grand, if obscured, entrance of the distinguished guests. Those behind and all around us smelled like active military, plenty of brawn and boister, leaning forward on their haunches in eager anticipation of the one man who assured them job security, a solid pension, and multiple Middle Eastern tours – possibly one to the Pacific Rim, notwithstanding.

As with all intentional congregations of such massive size, commencement delays only heightened the tension and collective imagination. Was he still in the bus? Was it idling, or parked? When would we see him disembark, from our choice position? The stage was set, about fifteen yards ahead of our section, microphones and seating facing north toward the lake; once he, his wife, and the rest of his contingent would appear on the erected boardwalk just beyond the canopy, we’d be watching and listening from behind his back.

But, well before that moment, there was much to occupy my attention. I soaked the sight from every visual angle. Secret Service agents, heads shaved, ubiquitous black shades, rotating from their own axes on the stadium turf. Wooden platforms, the entire storehouse I recognized from the school district garage, those I’d likely walked upon myself herding hundreds of students into seasonal performance. Stage and sound crew, all on autopilot, totally unaware of the locale or its unique surroundings, the stadium staff at their earnest beck and call. And, the ever burgeoning crowd, so many unfamiliar faces from all points further south, east, west, rural farmers, entire families of soldiers with their spouses and children from our Commonwealth, plus Ohio and New York and maybe even West Virginia. Our long-standing Democratic local leadership nowhere to be found on this day, nor so many of my fellow public school educators. None of our urban poor. I was momentarily aware of being out of my element, about to turn inward for reflection.

Then, I spied them. Off to the right, around the bend of the track and up about as high as our row was the small, uniformed “pep” band, organized and led by my very able colleague and friend in the music biz, Dave Stevens. They sat, in the grey pants with the red side stripes I’d ordered for the same high school during my maiden years as their music teacher, playing the occasional military march, waiting like the rest of the throng for the next cue produced by the unseen Oz in charge.

I, however, was emboldened.

Raising my long, thin, uncovered arms high over my head, I waved them back and forth in grandiose attempt to catch Dave’s attention. Calling out, hollering some shout of affirmation in the direction of the band. No matter that my piercing soprano would land about seven feet shy of the quarter mile between us; I was getting my mojo on, ready to conquer the power of this whole event and all those determined to re-elect the man half of America had labeled “George Dubyah.”

Perhaps it was a reaction from directly behind us. Perhaps my friend’s doleful, straight ahead stare of disapproval, her Swedish reserve and poise decidedly set to counter my “ethnic” brashness. Perhaps some signal, of dog whistle proportions. But, something provoked me to turn around and look, upward, toward the concrete bannisters at the very top of my old high school.

There he was. Black head of curls, arms the size of my entire torso, automatic assault weapon cocked, ready — and, aimed right at me.

My straw hat had likely already been marked by the smaller, more wiry reception agent. Not nearly as brown as it had been in childhood, my dark complexion also part of a deftly registered profile, locked and loaded and transmitted via walkie talkie to the snipers positioned at intervals covering the entire periphery. No matter that I’d chosen my all-American cherry printed denim blue sunsuit with the midriff ruffle; in the city of my birth, at the stadium where I’d marched my own students in competition, on the bleachers where I’d sat to see the Zem Zem Shrine Circus perform every summer, at the Presidential rally of George W. Bush I was a suspect, for having covered my raven hair with a straw hat and waved my arms above everyone else’s.

I can’t tell you what the incumbent President said, that day. I watched him talk, with the eyes of a creative director of [ childrens’ ] drama, the ears of a musician, the mind of a constantly evaluating sometimes critical and always diverging thinker. He was taller than expected. His wife was trim and perfect. His stance was assured, his tone and inflection all too familiar. And, from where I sat, if there were teleprompters they were not visible to the audience seated behind him.

As he closed his speech and moved toward the boardwalk and its canopied ascent, my friend and I could see him clearly. As in all such breaks with fantasy and imagination, the moment was surreal. Just as he might have reached the level of our row, unseen beneath the canopy, I called out to him. “Save the MUSIC teachers, Mr. President!!!”

To this day, I return to that moment, for a whole host of reasons. Was I temporarily insane? Would he have heard me? Would his wife, Laura Bush, have made note of my plea? Was it all for naught, one life and its specific concerns rendered completely void, subsumed by the mob effect and a political system intended to serve the people in theory but lost in increasingly corrupt practice?

So many of us, myself included, had already decided who The Decider was that year. He was, to us, an entitled elite, the next in line to the Bush dynasty, fully buoyed by the monied and mercenary, a figurehead for those aligned with a mentality determined to maintain notions of a brand of conservatism tested mightily by time and circumstance.

It wouldn’t be until his administration had run its course, the next two following, that the harsh, blinding, burning light of realization that is our present would mark us all. Now, each of us lands in the sights of the automatic weapon poised by the true village idiot of Nostradamus prophecy. We only thought we knew who that was; but, we were all soundly mistaken.

The Jefferson Educational Society, our local moderator of all things frontal lobe, has secured our former President’s attention. This time, he will speak in both retrospect and reflection, date yet to be announced, at the Bayfront Convention Center as part of the Jefferson’s annual Global Summit. The sun, instead of beating down, will illuminate our path to the front door and, while likely positioned outside, there will be no need for snipers in the room.

Perhaps now it might be time to lean forward and really hear what George W. Bush has to say. Here’s hoping he’s prepared to tell us what we should be willing to know.

I’m feeling ready.

“Do Not Be Afraid.”

StickyFebruary 6, 2016Christianity, classical music, classical musicians, faith, Judaism, Judao-Christian theology, love, mystical experience, sociology, tributeschoral music, District Chorus NWPA 2016, Dr. Christopher Kiver, live choral concerts, Philip Stopfordruth ann scanzillo

“Do not be afraid………..
you……are mine.” — Isaiah 43.

Choral music used to be a given in mainstream American life. From the patriotic holidays through the public school concerts, the sound of people singing in four part harmony presented by a collective larger than a family around a piano seemed impermeable by any shift in the cultural wind.

Little would any of us in arts education realize that the times, and the weather, would change so profoundly. In the five final years of my public tenure, I had to endure being told there would no longer be time in the daily elementary school schedule for a chorus class. And — my students! Two part harmony, among primary aged children. But, oh. Yes. Better, so said the powers that assumed authority, that time be spent bouncing a ball around or chasing another – or, eating soy patties on roll with boiled vegetables. Time, and money, going instead toward that which bailed on a vital source of nourishment.

Nourishment, you argue. Singing with other humans as anything more than a casual diversion?

This past Friday night, I’d been invited to perform as cellist with the northwestern Pennsylvania District 2 Student High School Chorus. My instrument, a clarinet, and a horn, had been added to one of several pieces of music programmed for their public concert. And, we enjoyed our collaboration, immensely. The students had come from among the very best their schools had to offer, and their guest conductor was nothing short of a marvel.

Happy with our performance, we’d left the stage intending to take in the remainder of the concert. Waiting at the auditorium door for the signal of applause, we’d stepped discreetly into the back of the hall. The temperature elevated by a packed house, a rush of body heat flooded us. And, the room was dark. But, what was about to emanate from the fully illuminated stage would render all senses irrelevant.

I’d been impressed by Dr. Christopher Kiver, from the moment we’d been introduced. He had 200 + high school students in the palm of his hand. A Brit, his dry, observational humor infused his every breath, capturing the students’ imagination as he wove them from rhythmic riffs through the contours of phrase. Further investigation revealed that Dr. Kiver had proved his worth far and wide, known for his work with students at Penn State University and beyond.

But, what happened to me in the moments about to ensue as I stood in that dark auditorium I owe only in part to his expertise. The rest I leave to the reader, and the mysteries of the universe.

Dr. Kiver had chosen the program. A panel had chosen the soloists, from among several auditionees, one of whom had just completed her offering. The order of selections sat in my bag on the floor, unreadable in the dark. Two female choristers took their places across the front of the stage, and Dr. Kiver raised his baton to the choir.

Their pure unison tone began, hushed, absolutely controlled. Each syllable measured, the opening phrase emerged in one, clear, enveloping voice:

“Do……not………be……..afraid……………………………………….”

The harmonies expanded. Their sustain was seamless.

“Do…….not………be………afraid……………………………………..”

Without any warning, whatsoever, the choir became one voice in the firmament.

The verses unfolded; I recognized them as scripture. But, the music had transcended thought, to become the vehicle of the oracle of the divine.

Standing in the dark, I was a child again. The world around me, and everyone else, all of us terror-stricken, shell shocked, every institution threatened, all future expectations uncertain, but this voice. It were as if the God of my childhood were speaking directly to me, my eternal protector, the loving Creator who had promised me everlasting safety.

Tears poured down my face. Everyone around me was spellbound, as well. We were all collective witness to the deepest of human power, manifesting the very message for which we were starving, through the only art form that could possibly have carried it to us. We didn’t have to fear. We had been redeemed. We were still loved, perfectly. And, our God had just sung us a lullaby.

“

……………………………………

….When you walk through the waters,
I’ll be with you;
you will never sink beneath the waves.

When the fire is burning all around you,
you will never be consumed by the flames.

When the fear of loneliness is looming,
then remember I am at your side.

When you dwell in the exile of a stranger,
remember you are precious in my eyes.

You are mine, O my child,
I am your Father,
and I love you with a perfect love.”

“Do Not Be Afraid” — Philip Stopford.

littlebarefeetblog.com

THE EMPTY SEAT.

StickyNovember 10, 2014grief, human behavior, mystical experience, nostalgianostalgia; spiritual experienceruth ann scanzillo

December 5, 2009 at 5:29pm

(published December 25, 2009 in the Erie TIMES-NEWS)

Dad slowly lowered his once-nimble body onto the hardwood pew. First row was best for him. As Bronze Star-awarded forward observer under Patton, he belonged close to the action. Placing his cane nearby, I checked to see if he was comfortable and turned to begin preparations for the evening’s musical performance.

This was my 23rd year as ‘cellist with the Erie Chamber Orchestra. Our annual Christmas concert, always held at the local Romanesque jewel affectionately known as “St. Pat’s”, was well beyond its 30th year and everybody planning to attend knew what they would get when they arrived: a nice medley of orchestrated carols; the sweet youth chorus from a nearby cathedral; more nostalgic if redundant medleys of all the holiday favorites; a visit from Santa for the velveteen children, home again, home again, jiggedy-jig, Merry Christmas!

Yes; everything would seem to happen as predictably tonight as ever before.

But, this year and every year since Mom’s passing, I was ever more eager for the moment when our conductor, Bruce Morton Wright, would take his place at the front of the orchestra. Because, at that moment, I would be turning my gaze to the sixth or seventh pew on the opposite side of the center aisle.

Mom was as different from Dad as pudding from cake. She had been raised by sectarian Protestant fundamentalists, and the dogma which bound her were legion. Fiercely loyal to the purity of the Lord’s Table for communion, all those in the fellowship were indoctrinated to shun all forms of Christendom represented by the “organized” church. As such, any Catholic church, therefore, was completely off limits; one was never to set foot inside the domain of the “pagans”.

My career evolution, that of performing with a professional orchestra, was particularly difficult for Mom to digest. Rehearsing on Sunday afternoons. Playing concerts in Catholic church sanctuaries. Expecting “true” Christians to attend these performances. Too much for the aging brain of a steeped-in-the-Scriptures devotee to the doctrine of separation, of touching not the “unclean thing.”

But, not, apparently, for Mom. I was never sure what turned her toward me instead of away, but once that first tentative toe stepped into St. Patrick’s Irish Catholic Church it brought the rest of her with it and she never missed a concert thereafter. And, she always chose a seat at the end of the sixth or seventh pew, in full view of the ‘cello section.

She’d spent most of her life as a dressmaker. A “seamstress”, as they were called in her day, she forsook a career in New York when the Great Depression descended, married my father, and raised three children. Mom loved to sew late into the evenings, after the house had gone quiet. I was especially touched when, mysteriously, she’d set aside her favorite passtime to dress in her Sunday best for me on concert night.

The year she died, playing this and all concerts was a mixed blessing. Music had always been my solace, through all hardship, through every transformative and dissonant episode of my life thus far. But, I was missing Mom in her special place that first year, and couldn’t help noticing the peculiar empty seat at the end of the pew. So, at the end of that concert, I walked over to make myself known to the man, woman and young girl who had chosen to sit beside it.

I asked them why they had left that spot empty at the end of the pew. When they disclosed that a friend who was to join them had not, I told them about my mother – her life, her death that summer from cancer. I described her early years as a sewing student of my grandmother, how she had begun to earn money as early as age 11 doing alterations. To my astonishment, their young daughter spoke suddenly: “I’m 11 years old”, she declared. “And, I sew, too!” Her parents confirmed. Indeed, she was a budding seamstress.

I left St. Pat’s that night in serendipitous, amazed solitude. The glistening snow was no match for the thousand points on the stars in my universe. Mom had visited me; of this I was absolutely certain.

And, visit me she would again, every single year at St. Patrick’s for the Erie Chamber Orchestra Christmas concert and every other concert held there during the season. Right there, at the end of her pew, where nobody else dared appear.

Here we were again, 15 years hence. Instruments tuned, the concert about to begin. The harsh winter not yet having descended, I turned to view an absolutely packed house. Yes; standing room only – except for one, lone seat at the end of pew seven by the aisle. Unbelievable. Not an empty seat in the entire church, but for the place where Mom had brought her spirit. I smiled the private smile reserved for this moment alone, and sailed through the first half of the concert toward intermission.

Had I wings, they would have flown me to that spot. Did the man, woman, and young lady know why there was an empty seat at the end of their pew? Would they mind a story about it?

The guests were very gracious. They listened without interruption as I held forth about my mother. I told them, too, about that first year — the young girl who had disclosed her love of sewing. Thinking that I had shared my lone miracle with appreciative if silent concertgoers, I finally stopped narrating. The woman, who had been riveted to every word, spoke. She said: “ I, also, am a seamstress. I make ball gowns, and costumes for the Historical Society.”

There was no snow tonight to compete with the glistening shimmer in my soul. Dad and I headed home together, to reminisce each in our own personal place. Looking at him now, I could see ahead to a time when he might also speak to me from beyond the limits of this present world.

Since Mom was alive, dressmaking has long since become a lost art. Soldiers now scope out the enemy from remote location and electronic transfer in cyberspace. Our world is whizzing toward an uncertain future, perhaps more indefinite than ever before. Our traditions, and the very institutions that founded them, seem at times perilously close to life-altering annihilation. Our disciplines, and the skills that make them possible are challenged by the formidable, mind-replacing machine at every turn. Paradigm shifts notwithstanding, much of that upon which we have depended for sustenance, nourishment, encouragement, and security is in serious question. Predictability has nearly vanished.

But, there is life and hope and future beyond this still-pale frame. The Providential Power of our universe reveals something precious every second – perhaps, waiting right beside each of us, in the next empty seat.

************************

[RETIRED]music teacher/drama coach, Erie City public schools

professional ‘cellist, Erie Chamber Orchestra

PO Box 3628

Erie PA 16508

BEST Friend.

March 9, 2025Uncategorizedfaith, family, life, love, relationshipsruth ann scanzillo

When I was about 10, I met a girl through my family’s church association who would grow to mean alot to me. For decades, I called her one of my two best friends.

To me, she met the definition because I enjoyed how and what we did together. It appeared, to me, that we had similar interests and outlook. We could talk, about anything, and our shared understanding was immediate. I thought she enjoyed my company, and most of the children I met at school did not. So, though we lived a few miles apart in different states I began to choose her company as frequently as life allowed.

Many decades later, I would discover that everything about how I assigned human value to her was a mirage. She became apparently so able to summarily discard me. So deep was the devaluing that it created pain in me and so profound was the pain that I, for my own emotional survival, had to completely extract from all association with her.

So much is said in our society about the importance of human connection. Seniors especially are constantly being reminded that relationships are what generate both physiological health and longevity. But, people fail one another. They use each other, sometimes without even realizing this is happening. One becomes surrogate for the one missing in another’s realm; he or she appears to be giving to another when, in actuality, that one is being treated as a mere convenience – a seat filler, or place holder – while the first awaits the appearance of the object of their true affections. In our own most authentic moments, we are forced to admit that we have done this ourselves to those who likely care very much for us.

There is so much about the life we have been given to live that remains a mystery, even into old age when one would expect to have achieved insight and wisdom. At any moment, pain is possible. So is joy, even if purely imagined.

Though I am well past the age of 10 now, I hope that my own life can bring grace and hope to even one other person. Ideally, that person will be someone for whom I feel love. But, such a convergence is both rare, and precious. So often, I have observed others experiencing this gift instead of myself, and continue to wonder why. I witness and recognize two people loving each other equally, so I know it to be possible; but, more often, I see inequities and have only experienced these, personally. Perhaps my own structural misalignment predilects me toward imbalanced relationships. Could there be a lesson inherent in these, I wonder? if so, God teach me.

Be good to yourself, first. To me, this means getting out of bed each day and asking your body and mind what you can do to self nourish. Most importantly, do this without adding another actor to the scene. Become your own best friend. There just might be joy, in your relationship – with yourself.

Copyright 3/9/2025 Ruth Ann Scanzillo littlebarefeetblog.com All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for respecting original material.

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