The Drug.

Last year, one of our local metabolic disease specialists decided that, since my A1C was 5.8, I should begin Metformin immediately. Now, those who know me recognize my hesitation with regard to most all pharmaceuticals. But, being as thorough as he is passionate and enthusiastic, my doctor eagerly presented a fascinating feature of this drug; apparently, one of its unexpected side effects was a remarkable capacity to reverse cell aging; in short, the Fountain of Sustained Youth. “Everyone should take Metformin!!”, he joyously exclaimed. I was reluctantly, but curiously, convinced.
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After taking the drug for about ten days and, rather than any noticeable reversal of jowl or jiggle, enduring two Bouts of the Bathroom I started researching the drug myself. What I unearthed was startling.
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Apparently, like more and more pharmaceuticals of our outsourced age, Metformin was formulated and manufactured both in Europe and in the US. And, the batch from Europe had not so recently been found to contain a chemical, perhaps a by product of the process, perhaps an unsourced contaminant, known to be carcinogenic. European drug makers had ceased dispensing the drug, until it could be determined with certainty that their formulation was clear of any contamination. But, with regard to its own manufacture, the US showed no intention of doing the same.
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With increased curiosity, and much concern, I contacted the doctor’s office. In short order, and second hand, I was told that his position held that the suspected risks were outweighed by the known benefits. Nevertheless I chose, after further research and a second opinion, to substitute Metformin with the naturally derived Berberine.
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Why am I telling you this?
[ because we’re sick of self-aggrandizing videos ]
[ because you write better than you talk ]
[ because don’t care ]
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Ever since it burst upon our scene from the lips of our current POTUS, Hydroxychloroquine has enjoyed a horrible notoriety. From Cause Of Death to dangerous heart arrhythmia, we’ve been urgently warned by the press to shun it. Some believe this rejection a political move; others hold that science has rendered a verdict.
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But, what of countries like Poland, and even certain sectors of the US, where this anti-malaria drug is available over the counter as easily as aspirin? According to the friend of a friend, herself a Pole, most of the citizens of Poland took the drug during the Italian viral scourge at the first symptom and have maintained very low covid-19 death stats to the present.
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And, what of specific cocktails, i.e. Hydroxychloroquine + Zinc, the latter mineral known to halt coronaviral replications, touted by the admittedly radical Dr. Stella Immanuel? She was emphatic; her cocktail worked, saving the lives of 350 of her own patients.
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I can’t vet Dr. Immanuel. Nor can I vet the story of the Polish woman. But, I can say that, given the fact that so many individual drug formulations are manufactured in multiple countries – particularly generic equivalents – I can fairly speculate that Hydroxychloroquine may be a safe formulation in Europe and one sketchy at best if manufactured elsewhere. Or, perhaps, taken in combination with certain other drugs already part of a given patient’s protocol (those with pre-existing syndromes or conditions) may very well provoke the heart arrhythmias/electrical problems disclosed by the press.
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My final analysis, given the limited information currently available to me, is that the verdict on the efficacy vs. the alleged threat of Hydroxychloroquine is decidedly n.o.t. in. Here’s hoping some group from within the legitimate scientific community can hasten to investigate. With increasing urgency, our lives appear to depend on it.
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© 8/8/2020    Ruth Ann Scanzillo.   Please share liberally, with credit to source. Thank you.
littlebarefeetblog.com

Telling The Truth About PROJECTING!

 

 

©7/29/2020    Ruth Ann Scanzillo

Feel free to visit more of RuthAnnTALKS   at YouTube – Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

Thanks!

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

To Really Walk Away.

Epiphanies have been coming, fast and furiously, lately. Maybe it’s that Neowise comet — a rush of cosmic energy. Or, the newly introduced blend of acetyl-carnitine and citicoline. Whatever.

But, here’s another. Lean in.

I rarely walk away.

Having suction cups for intentions, tenacity for a middle name, and persistence as a driver, I’m pretty much hopeless when it comes to letting go.

To my mind – and, apparently, constitution – holding on is a soul purpose. Holding on equates with staying alive.

Perhaps it’s an ingrained fear of the water. I can remember in childhood feeling frantic the first time the sandy lake bottom escaped my feet. Large motor coordination a profound deficit, not knowing how to float let alone swim, and the pain in my arched neck as suffocating droplets teased my nose and gasping, gaping mouth…..then, somebody bigger, stronger, reaching out with a large, hairy arm or a smooth, slimy preserver……”Hold on! Just hold on! I’ve got ya!”

Water is life. Without it, we die. Except for when it finds its way into the places where we can’t let it go.

So, I’m a tenacious little bitch. I’m the barnacle on your back, the bug in your ear, the text(s) on your phone, the car in your driveway.

I’m there, just one more time, with just one more breath, one more pocket of air.

Take it, while you can. It’s you, or me.

Wear a mask.

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© 7/24/2020  Ruth Ann Scanzillo.   All rights those of the author, your worst nightmare. Please respect original material; no copying, in whole or part, including translation, permitted without permission. Thanks, again.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

Telling the Truth About the TWO AMERICAS.

 

This is a Part 2, of sorts, born of Time To Lead the TWO AMERICAS – and serves as a PRIMER, expanding commentary using an x/y axis to address Utopia and the “Deep State” theory. CAPTIONS/SUBTITLES are REQUIRED to view the entire piece as presented. If you are using a PHONE, search your pull down/drop down menu to find the Caption activation button; if on a computer/laptop, look for “CC” in a white box across the footer of the video, and be sure it is underscored in RED. If it is not, click on the “CC” to activate the red underscore. Enjoy! and, as always, thanks for visiting littlebarefeetblog.com

p.s. Neither plagiarism nor copyright violation is either intended or evident within the body of this video presentation with respect to “Scientology the cult of disbelief”, Daily Telegraph/Australia – Cazzolino, July 2007. The use of the subheading applies not at all to the Church of Scientology, and no reference thereto appears in the presentation.

 

 

© 7/22/2020   Ruth Ann Scanzillo.   The presentation above is original created material, and viewers are asked to respect that fact. Please do not extract, copy, transform, or translate in part or whole any of its contents without credit to source. You are free to share the YouTube link, as you wish.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

The Donald Trump Syndrome.

 

  • Please be sure that CAPTIONS [ CC ] are highlighted/turned ON. They are ESSENTIAL to the message of the piece. [ Captions Option is located in the Pull Down Menu, on most PHONES; on laptops/PCs, the button is at the bottom along the footer of the video (CC), and must be underscored in red to activate. Thnx!

 

© 7/19/2020   Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Faux Class.

 

Brass and glass.

Remember?

Gilded, shiny — and, ubiquitously outsized.

The age of the 80’s wasn’t just colored by Pantone. It was catered to us, on plated gold, by its self-rising dictator.

Ever leaning into the camera, to be sure his too long tie preceded him, the glint in his eyes told the tale. He was increasingly there, to deliver a unique brand of nouveau riche and snatch up every piece of real estate lying waste in his path.

And, the poor and wannabe scratch off culture ate him for breakfast, every morning.

Whose fault was it, that America let this happen?

Did we have too many disenfranchised, too many entrenched in the assembly line system, too many without vision or dreams for a future?

Some historians considered the German people impressionable pawns in the hands of Hitler. Were they? Why?

What happened to us, America?

This pandemic is only widening the political divide. We can’t be influenced in person anymore, seated with our ilk next to those of differing opinion; we have only our news outlets, dispensing their contending views, volleying with our minds and hearts.

But, somehow, millions of Americans rallied behind the voice of the Emperor, the one with no clothes, their blinders slipping over and obliterating their sight.

And, now, here we are, dying by the day, the week, the month, waiting interminably for the end of the deranged reign of the king of the faux class.

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© 7/16/2020    Ruth Ann Scanzillo.       All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. No copying, in part or whole, including translation or transcription, permitted without express permission of the author.   Thank you for your respect.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

How To Help Your Child with Online Learning.

 

FEEL FREE to Share, liberally. Nothing in this video is copyright protected. Parents need our help! ❤

 

as ever,

Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Telling The Truth About The Truth.

 

Just two seconds shy of 12 minutes on a subject of increasing importance in American society. Note the date of origination, June 12, 2020, and proceed. Thank you. ❤

© 7/10/2020  Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

Thank you for visiting littlebarefeetblog.com

For more video, check the Tube under the author’s name.

 

Chopin, Prelude No.4 in e minor.

 

Largo.  (*wear earphones, and adjust volume to minimize distortion — sorry!)

Ruth Ann Scanzillo, piano.

*Recorded at the ZOOM platform, as a test of the dynamic parameters.

July 9, 2020.

Thank you for visiting littlebarefeetblog.com

 

The Ninth Stage.

An essay by Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

NarcissismChart

 

© 9 Stages of Grieving the Narcissist, from Dr. Ramani, Licensed Clinical Psychologist 7/2/2020.

She shifted in her seat, squinting a bit as if to bring the second generation photo of a photo into focus. This nine point list was a treasure; she had to put it someplace where it could not be lost to the ether.

That Master Class with Dr. Ramani on Narcissism in Romantic Relationships was a gift. Where else could she have obtained a point by point reminder to assist in identifying the rush of emotion [ euphoric recall ] that was impossible on the late afternoon of a hot summer day alone? How else could she be gently comforted by the suggestion that meaning could be found in suffering  [ point nine ] , when suffering was a nagging Catch-22 otherwise? (Never let him see you suffer; it just adds to his Narcissistic Supply – and, emboldens the new conquest likely small and stupid enough not to fit into your pajamas.)

She’d sat out on the stoop again, earlier, in spite of what she now knew to be UVA rays, forking down her spinach sweet potato salad, wondering how many times he’d be missing her desserts and dinner companionship, all the groceries she’d stocked for their shelter in place. [ Anger and rumination, point two.]

There’d be no bartering for the return of goods and services, this time. The reach in freezer he’d crowed about providing, the only object too heavy for her to set out for convenience retrieval was replacement for the one he’d refused to bring up from the cellar and just clean. Laziness was never justification for grandiose gift giving, not on her turf, after all the throw rugs and sheet sets she’d brought him following total kitchen clean up. [ Point three – or, four? ]

Gaslighting [ five ] no longer overwhelmed her. That was its own relief. Persistent denial was its own evidence, no matter how irrelevant; he’d run out of tactics that weren’t predictable.

But, the late afternoon sun was a tough competitor. Right up there with the first moments upon awakening, feet twitching, the struggle to name the upcoming day’s purpose. Five days of reading out there on the stoop had rendered her Vitamin D within acceptable limits, finally and, with it [ point six ] a lift to only residual Depression.

The future wasn’t revealing any of its secrets, this evening. Fear [ point seven ] would remain in her back pocket, burning a hole where she’d otherwise have kept peace and contentment; but, she resolved, he was never to know. No more Narcissistic Supply, last chance to gloat from his position kneeling behind the latest willing agreeable.  Important to carry no regret when walking away.

Point eight was the hardest to accept. [ Acceptance ]. The narcissist was never to change. Too many AA meetings, its companion Al Anon, over one lifetime; too many recovery success stories on audio, playing in the car en route to northern destinations, entirely too much goddamned hope. No return to the inns or the B&Bs, no forever claim on Room 1, Rogue’s Harbor. Worse – no replacing the time spent there with productive, self affirming activities. Hope may have made no one ashamed. Perfect love still waited to cast out fear. The Narcissist, defying no odds, was destined to live forever.

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*With profound gratitude to Dr. Ramani, licensed clinical psychologist, and her 9 Stages of Grieving the Narcissist©.

© 7/7/2020   Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of Dr. Ramani, and this author, whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole or part, including translating or transcribing, permitted without written permission of  the authors. Thank you for respecting original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Preoccupied Sex.

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[*Note: this piece is rated PG.]

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In matters of gender, Billy Joel had already drawn his conclusions; Catholic girls started much too late.

The fact that she had never been Catholic and hadn’t qualified as a girl for at least forty eight years gave rise to her current contemplations.

All the junior orchestra students were already actively in high school when she’d joined their company and Ron, percussionist from the west side, had produced the first erection ever to have its effect upon her; the fact that he did so from a standing position, feet apart, bound by denim, to the right of the mounted snare was significant. She wouldn’t see a live one for another nine and a half years.

Christian Fundamentalism was all over itself about f~~king. In fact, the most venerated among their entrenched patriarchs were known to equivocate on matters of condemnation by spelling sin: “s-e-x.” In spite of rampant gossiping, slander, and generalized gluttony among its ranks its young were, from infancy, indoctrinated to revile the flesh and anything which felt of it. Subliminally led by Barbie and Ken who, though molded in malleable plastic and shaped to accommodate exterior attire bore neither nipple nor shaft, she would gradually reach her own realization – peaking at the image of a naked Christ on the cross. The Romans weren’t just bulky barbarians; they’d specialized in humiliation. Crucifixion was their preferred mode of execution precisely because it rendered the penis of their perceived subordinate fully engorged. (1)

Art and religion, by rolling definition, would romanticize this harsh reality across the centuries. She was not immune. Christ and any of his images, rendered or imagined, never aroused in her anything but pious empathy for suffering, and dutiful obeisance, and the inspiration of awe. And, none of them were any help when it came to the overtaking ruminations on coitus and its mechanical apparatus. What one cannot know becomes precisely that about which one broods incessantly. 

Mr. Kranz taught history; Mr. Connerty, earth space science. Her classmates seemed distinguishably able to separate the valued from the dispensable. She, on the other hand, spent most of her energy surveying them. Which ones were doing it? With whom? How did they manage? Why did the boy she liked so much seem to want to touch girls who weren’t even smart? The other boys found her a curiosity; a couple of them looked at her with wet, squinting eyes, one in particular, dark, with small cauliflowered ears, a body so big that his legs opened outside of the desk into the aisles. But, most of the time, she fought to remained focused on taking notes and doing the dutiful things which would earn the high grades, for which purpose she had not yet determined. Actually engaging her frontal lobe for such things as critical, let alone divergent, thinking wouldn’t be happening, anytime soon. Art, and the half semester cycle by senior year, allowed temporary respite from all this anguish; the teacher recognized her abilities early, producing all manner of human body parts, cast in plaster, for her to render. The parts located between the thighs were not among them.

By the autumn of her nineteenth year, enrolled on portfolio scholarship in the fearlessly secular SUNY College at Fredonia the universe, ever ready, had ordered a proper introduction. Darren Small’s Drawing II model was godlike in proportions, of the rarest coloration auburn and green eyed and, gently flexing and stamping his feet, appeared before her with no warning at all.

Loincloths had long since been dispensed with by the life drawing community, even in the educational setting. The man was nude, from the curls on his head to the balls (of his feet). She was enraptured, forevermore.

Curiously, however, this idealized sensibility regarding beauty of form and face didn’t translate. What she had finally seen never reached out to touch her erogenous zones. Aesthetics were stubborn like that, not having been designed to meet need. 
 
And so, she resumed in the manner to which she had become accustomed. History of Architecture, for whose Ivy League professor she would, as work-study, mount slides ; Energy and Man, the latter a by-product of the conserving 70’s, taught at night by a bearded pot belly likely housed in the hills with, she calculated, a penchant for Spam and farm animals; and, Western Civilization, required after the registrar had determined that she had enrolled as a freshman without having completed sufficient high school credits to graduate. The professor for this course was, she decided, the homeliest man she had ever seen; yet, on a bus trip with the class to the Buffalo museum, she noted his exiting alone at a gated piece of gentrification and, in the next block, the girl with the long honey hair who had always sat closest to his desk and who had brought a large historical volume to share with him getting off next, neither of them returning to the bus en route back to school.
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Her daytime lunch partner was a muscular ruddy who’d been to Hull and back on an exchange, he and she sharing the distinct title of being the only two in the entire department who could actually draw. He’d daily recount his nightly escapades with each young woman as she appeared in the Union, describing just short of what they actually did once he’d seen the fine hair all over her body. He lived in one of the old houses in town, with a girl who had big eyes and no chin and who baked cookies every day, again no word on how he might’ve done with her what he may.
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By the next semester, she’d moved off campus with three dear Fundamentalists, one of them fancying herself liberal, allowing her strapping rock climber hunk to actually spend the night one weekend and ordering a glass perfume bottle shaped like a ghost the size of a man’s thumb from Avon to “give to her mother.” Of the other two, one would regularly entertain her fiance on the living room sofa after dark, the plywood walls separating her bedroom from the sounds emitted therewith utterly useless as any barrier to unbearable and unrequited imagination.
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Perhaps it was time to take a transfer to another school.
Her portfolio deemed strong by the drawing instructor, she submitted it to one of the Big Nine and was accepted in short order for the following semester, 3rd year. A tour of the Cleveland campus and its population of costumed characters provoked images of avant garde couplings seen in late night Grade B movies, their unrated references fleeting but memorable. Had the financial aid office of that institute not already bestowed its last penny of loan monies to, as her elder brother loudly accused in person, “minorities”, she would have certainly found out whether half of this could have been true.
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Instead, she remained on hiatus for the next two years, working and saving money and maintaining her hymen as intact as it could have been, given the painful injury caused by the steel painted child’s toy on the floor outside of the infant’s playpen for which a doctor had to be consulted. During those two years, she replaced glasses with contacs, got a Farrah Fawcett cut and perm, and had her eyebrows plucked away from center. Men in the office supply store now looked back at her from the front check out to the rear station, strikingly handsome men from the rich suburb, even a prisoner and his escort. She had two dates, one with a boy who took her to a dance club and sat arguing that dancing wasn’t like sex at all, that he never even thought about sex when he was dancing though she would not dance with him or anyone.
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The other was a trip to Indianapolis, to be hosted by her elder brother’s college friend who had become a doctor. He had invited her to visit specifically for her 21st birthday, to take her virginity, and he’d said so in no obscure terms. But, as she lay beside his half clothed body, the reality of his heretofore undisclosed debauchery was overtaking as was the large raised mole in the middle of his back, and she came home still wondering about the mechanical apparatus and how the whole act was managed, knowing only that she would have to be provided with some aesthetic allure in the future were she to even reconsider.
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By the following fall, she had returned to school, the same one from which she had taken leave two years earlier. This time, her thrust would be music, with the goal a teacher’s degree. Those who can, do; those who can’t do, teach; and, those who have never been told how fend for themselves, grasping blindly in the dark.
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Music History was presented in the recital hall auditorium by an already aging professor whose materials included a stereo turntable, a multitude of long play records, a standing microphone, and the magnificent capacity within his cranium for aural detail. Again, she sat, gazing around the room at the college students who played musical instruments, all of them having sex, all of them knowing how, all of them with a clear view of their own goals for the future. Some of them even knew how to play jazz. The imagery was almost too glorious to comprehend.
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The number of hours she sat in that class, the number of masterpieces of the musical literature which passed between her ears, the number of opportunities to actually hear and reflect upon the nature of the evolution of the form and structure of music as fine art, the golden chance at actual scholarship, all squandered at the feet of unwitting nymphomania.
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Perhaps that about which she would finally know so little was what kept everyone in institutions of higher learning together for one more year.  It had certainly sharpened her powers of observation to the razor’s edge. Instead of absorbing the chronological history of civilization, or the principles of higher maths and sciences, she had become a master of human behavior, a doctor of the art of the human condition.
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Whichever the ultimate, ascribed value, by Billy Joel or any number of other commentators hers was the embodiment of a lost generation of unfulfilled women, lives sacrificed at the altar of obsession with that which had been held just beyond their reach.
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p.s. to my Christian readers: this piece is neither an indictment of Christ (God forbid), nor people of faith; it is a third person account of the effect of male dominated dogma on the life of women.
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© 7/4/2020       Ruth Ann Scanzillo.      All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole or part, including translation or transcription, permitted without express written permission by the author. To request permission, please contact: littlebarefeet@msn.com
littlebarefeetblog.com

My Mammy’s Touch.

Mae Elisabeth [Learn] Sweet was my maternal grandmother. Her first grandchild, Alan Marshall, called her “Mammy”, and it stuck; she, and her husband, would be Mammy and Pappy to all 19 grandkids, thereafter. Let me tell you about her.
Image may contain: 1 person, eyeglasses and closeup
Mammy (seen in this photo, at about 95 years) was widely regarded by all who knew her as a human saint. She was the absolute sweetest, most loving, most gentle, most prayerful, hardworking, resourceful, generous, forgiving person anybody knew. Her character made most men whither. She prayed, daily, for everyone she knew, whenever they “came to mind.” I am not alone in believing that she was nearly psychic, able to attune to the slightest and most immediate needs among her brood, and beyond. And, when mum met dad on the train and began to write letters to him, placing those letters in the iron mailbox just outside the front door on the porch wall for the mailman to pick up and deliver, Mammy would discreetly take those letters and cross off the final two syllables of dad’s surname. Mum told me this, having discovered the act. Why did Mammy do that? Mammy did that, not because she wasn’t a loving, caring, forgiving, generous, prayerful, hardworking, resourceful mother and grandmother, but because systemic racism had borne itself out, in her; dad was Italian, and he was a source of shame to her. She had to remove the final two syllables of his last name, to make it appear different than the identifying  ” – zillo” which appeared naturally.
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Was it Mammy’s fault, that she behaved this way? Did her actions arise out of some corrosive gangrene in her soul? No; it did not. It emerged because she had been taught by her Eastern Pennsylvanian, Danish/English/Germanic societal roots, to regard Italians as second class citizens, as shameful members of American society.
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And, it is just such deeply rooted, largely subconscious behavior toward people of color which those of American “white” society have and continue to portray, however subtley however fleetingly however rarely, in their actions throughout the generations.
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In 1944, mum married dad. Almost ten years later, after a nearly decade long divorce, they remarried. I was their second child, and favored my father; my hair was black, my skin was dark. And, Mammy was fond of stroking my face, doing so every time I would sit beside her. She would regularly exclaim at the beauty of my skin, its softness, and smile with deep fondness into my eyes.
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It’s my belief that my birth changed my Mammy, ever more; she realized, and thereafter made conscious effort, to appreciate that which she had been taught to shame. And, in just such the same manner, only when we reach out and touch that which we are taught to revile will we ever hope to heal from hate.
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© 6/28/2020     Ruth Ann Scanzillo.     All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Thank you for respecting the rights of authorship.
littlebarefeetblog.com

“CHAPTER ONE.”

 

OldLadySat

 

” The old lady sat

       on her side porch stoop

With a snack and a book

      in the sun

Which was low in the sky

      burning hot on her calves

so the lap cloth she moved

     ’til it hung

Just below both her knees

      shading ankles and feet

Which she tucked underneath

       her chair;

Then a bee smelled the ginger

      ‘tween thumb and finger

And, her afternoon read

      was done. “

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© 6/17/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo.    p.s. Homage to “The 100 Year Old Man….”  by Jonas Jonasson — a truly hilarious read.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

My Letter To Alcohol.

Most letters open with “Dear ….” ; this one will just begin

You are the nemesis, my arch-enemy, the demon I pray God to damn;

You lure, seduce, then rob me blind.

Mocking love, devotion, loyalty, and commitment, you mortify;

Masquerading as joy, you destroy.

You poison every plan, contaminate every climate, compel every crime;

Master of your motive, you hasten death

Or market as mind game, then cheat to win.

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© 6/14/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

The Wine Glass.

The wine glass sat on the countertop

White wine bottle beside

Each half full like a theater prop

Waiting for groom and bride.

But no one there took sup of the cup

A thief was due at dawn

Neither bride nor groom were in the room

Now the bottle, and the glass

Are gone.

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© 6/6/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for respecting original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Where is the LEADER?

© 6/3/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All readers are invited to visit Ruth Ann Scanzillo at YouTube, for more ranting and raving. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Minneapolis.

I remember so much about Minneapolis.

The first visit, winter. The year, 1978. My elder brother’s college buddy had come to town, charmed our mother, and swept me off my feet. Tall, ruddy, he was the one who’d applied himself – getting the grades, being accepted into med school and, now, establishing his own clinic in greater Minneapolis/St Paul. He’d even just purchased his own white cottage, complete with hardwood floors. I, being almost 21, couldn’t have been more willing to submit to the fantasy of a lifetime.

Well, almost. But, I did fly out for a visit. With him, I did eat banana pancakes, drink Cold Duck, and inhale a reefer, all for the first time ever; alas, a list of firsts which omitted that which he’d most anticipated.

But, I did see the city.

Winters in the midwest were fabled for their dry cold, the kind you didn’t feel, unlike those frigid to the bone affected by the Great Lakes. The first thing you noticed was the absence of significant snow. Oh, there was a certain whiteness, but it was hard, frozen, packed down like pavement. The only thing betraying the season was the cloud of breath coming from your mouth, as you made your way downtown; once you stepped inside the massive mall pavilions, the strip, chain restaurant nooks, or the concert venues, all was warmly lit and wonderful.

I remember thinking, months later, drawing comparisons to New York’s Manhattan and the likes of Cleveland, Ohio that what distinguished Minneapolis was its pace. People moved more gracefully through this city, nothing propelling them either from behind or within. Enjoying all the amenities and style of its contemporaries to the east or west, nobody there seemed driven; everyone was settled, content.

Returning, on or about 2015, this time in the fall to visit a dear old friend – herself, a native Minnesotan – we again spent time both in her suburb and the city itself. An antique store, where I acquired four carnival blown milk glasses; a bakery, serving large loaves of German breads. Again, I marveled at the elegant design of the wood framed downtown center, the grand foliage, the parks and, yes; the pace of the people. Nothing appeared to disturb their peace.

Today, I endured another realization.

Recalling both of these visits, separated by decades, I was now able to recognize one, unavoidable feature through the incisive view of hindsight; nowhere had I ever remembered SEEING a black person.

In fact, I wouldn’t have been able to tell if Minneapolis had any minorities, at all, among its residents. If they were there, they must have been miles from wherever I had been.

Now, I wonder. How many of those miles separated me from what, back home, could only be termed an integrated community? How far apart, instead, were its residents from one another – black to white, Latino to Caucasian……………German to Swede……..

How carefully crafted, by city planners, the American heartland. How many decades of suppression veiled deep bias, among its peoples.

Minneapolis. The heart of the midwest. Today, aflame.

False peace; deeply disturbed. Vastly entrenched racisms; exposed raw.

Fond memories, nevermore the same.

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© 5/29/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is, and whose name appears above this line. Thank you for respecting the authenticity of another’s experience.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Telling The Truth, About Women + Men (and, Vice Versa).

A duo of so many talks on truth, from yours [truly] littlebarefeetblog author, Ruth Ann Scanzillo. Set aside about 30 minutes of, say, reading time………<3 and….thank you.

[ blog referenced is Just White. ]

 

And…..

 

 

© 5/26/2020   Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Telling The Truth In The Dark.

PART 1:

 

 

PART 2:

 

 

PART 3:

 

 

EPILOGUE:

 

 

©5/19/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo/ YouTube.

For more meanderings through the truth, and even some good music, feel free to visit RuthAnnTalks at the Tube.  Thanks. ❤

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Master.

 

Strange, unknown books, voraciously read;

Sleeping ’til noon, every day in bed;

Blaming the dog for sneaking out thrice

Though not so, at home,

Where traps catch mice;

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Waking, walking the dog, heading west

Without her, though in her house a guest;

Driving to mother’s, on the east side

But returning due east, direction

Defied;

Picture perfect, the story, revealed

In the way

The lips are now sealed, pressed tightly

Betraying

What really has happened

Yes, nearly complete. The lies,

Merely servant; the master:

Deceit.

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© 5/23/2020    Ruth Ann Scanzillo.   All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Rip me off, and I will cut you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hog In The Road.

 

My boyfriend and I fight.

It’s no secret to the few who know us as a couple.

He’s a petulant Aries, insisting on running his own show (the only show); I’m a stubborn Taurus, refusing to be led by the nose, with – thanks to migraine med, Imitrex – a streak of OCD, just to pepper the picture.

Yah. We’re a hot mess.

Today, in the midst of what much of the world is calling the downward slope of the first coronavirus pandemic, our town spiked for the second day in a row and, with only as many contact tracers as tested positive, we’re in for some tenuous coming days facing Memorial Day weekend on the lake.

He was to have spent today with me, at my house. He’d take the truck to inspection by 9:30, walk the dog up State St, and get to his mother’s across town before I woke up. But, the truck service center had its own inspection schedule to delay so his plan, to dig weeds at her place, got protracted into late afternoon.

I’d made a stop over, to take him a small snack and a water bottle, then another and, by the time the case count had come in he was physically exhausted and I was fit to be tied – by floating anxiety. Did he know about ticks, in the overgrown foliage in the backyard? I did; been bitten and infected, at least once. Had he brought his hat? Would he take a couple disinfectant wipes, for the truck when it was done? Would he soap the dog, after?

Sheltering in place, between our two properties – his a spacious country idyll with gardens to till, mine a corner lot in the burgeoning hotbed known as Zone 1 – had felt like a workable plan. And, for about 34 days, it had been. He appreciated the change of scene and close proximity to his mother’s; I appreciated his share of the cooking skill, as close to five star Michelin as any man I’d ever known. Together, we’d weathered it better than our usual score; only two major blow outs, and a couple fleeting grouses. I was sure that, when this was all over, we could make a set of How To videos. You know, for couples. Who fight.

But, once the weather finally broke he’d felt the farm calling and I’d run out of re-organizing brainstorms. Time to seed; time to rent the rototiller; time to acquire more laying pullets. So, he’d been spending more time at his place and I’d been spending more time proclaiming on social media.

Today, he’d gotten stuck and so had I; his day would become about weeding and waiting, mine about wondering and fretting. Then, his phone died.

Being ten minutes apart is nothing, until the phone goes out. By the time the truck was ready, he had reached his limit of tolerance of everything imposing on utter fatigue, including and especially my increasing need for communication. Could I drive him to the dealership? Nope; not even that was within his scope of acceptability. Weren’t we going to spend time? Nah. Change of plans. His. Always his. His show, you know.

He’d called me pale, on my first stop in the full sun. I flipped through the rack and found my best red sweater. Perfect for a warm day without a jacket. And, for the first time in two months, a little under eye concealer and foundation with blusher fixed the aging face. No matter the double mask; I felt ready to present to my man, no matter his sweaty, foul moodshifting self.

Heading back out, I grabbed a can of coconut milk and the container of Clorox wipes he’d given me. We could spend our evening at his house, over a little dinner, and check on the laying hens and the lone chicken’s dog bite in the pen. The drive was one part compulsion, one part commitment; I wanted to finish this day far better than it had begun doing what had always worked for us, in the past – being together.

The drive was its usual 23 minutes beating all the yellow lights. People, everywhere, without masks, a troubling cloud over a beautiful sky. Reaching his driveway I was quietly amazed; the garage door, shut, empty of any vehicle – and, the trailer for bark nowhere to be seen. Hadn’t he planned on getting a haul? What exactly, was going on here?

I left the can of Clorox where he could see it, checked on the injured hen, and headed back into town.

This return trip was always an opportunity for clarity. I could face myself, head on. Compulsive obsession only overtook me under intense externally imposed stressors, and this virus lockdown had tested it mightily. On this drive, I mulled and pondered and ruminated; how could this relationship survive everything that had been happening to us? When would any notion of “re-opening” allow us to resume, and to what degree would we be forced to contemplate our future without it? Where was he, anyway, and why did he leave me adrift on such a lovely day?

Heading north on Cherry was always the final leg, a coast all the way to my street provided the lights cooperated. Now, what was this stopping traffic?

I braked, and peered around to find out. Horns, from behind me; a pickup, off the berm southbound, finally resuming speed. Nobody moving. I waited, for a siren, wondering how I’d heard nothing to provoke it.

Finally, the car in front of me turned out around. The big reveal was upon us all. Right in the middle of old Erie town, former industrial mecca turned faltering resort, and next to the newly glistening facade of our lone, enduring city high school was the biggest, fattest, black hog I’d ever seen.

HogInRoadOnCherry

The thing had just taken two dumps, and was waddling in all directions, sniffing the unfamiliar asphalt wondering why nothing moved under its snout.

As soon as I could, I grabbed my phone for a capture, best possible in that lighting from the restrictive distance of the Pontiac hood, and then proceeded around the animal.

No sooner had I passed through the next traffic light, but this: a monstrously wide semi rig, backing for a turn right in front of me.

TruckInRoadOnCherry

Yes. Apparently, even the convenience store had to take a moment during the coronavirus pandemic and refill its steam table. Stop, again; wait, again.

The next intersection was the top of the final hill. Its light remained red long enough for realization to gel. Even OCD and generalized incompatibility were no match for these two gems, little gifts of stopped time, levity in the midst of the grandest test of human patience and understanding I could recall over life as I’d come to know it. Perspective was the objective, after all; where would we go, from here, and who really cared if we did?

Surviving had become both the end and the means to it. Either we did that together, or not. But, better to avoid allowing any more roadblocks to reason, acceptance, forgiveness, and a reach toward unconditional love.

Worth the fight.

 

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© 5/21/2020   Ruth Ann Scanzillo       All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line.   Thank you for respecting the life of another.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

No Limits.

Somebody has to say it.

Most trained educators will attest: those of limited intellect m.u.s.t. be led and protected by responsible minds. When I say “responsible”, I mean the kind of minds which comprehend the scope, nature and implication of such limitation.

Trained educators understand that those of limited intellectual capacity usually have the most difficulty comprehending abstractions. Theirs is a literal world, populated only by concrete objects which they can see, hear, touch, taste, and smell. Likewise, they react only to that which expresses concretely.

What is also important to realize is that those who are limited react as collectives; they either seek their own, or manifest genetically in large percentage within extended families. Next, while they do possess an occasional degree of awareness of their limitations they usually, if “outed” (and, given the opportunity to do so), express via angry or defiant outburst. When found in large gatherings, these are a palpable force. Even more critically, they react according to the limits of their understanding, and this point cannot be overestimated.

No child will obey unless either forced to do so by some perceived threat, or made to understand thoroughly the consequences of refusal. Those of limited intellect behave in similar fashion to children – but, have a far greater impact both on their surroundings and those who inhabit them.

Enter the kind of threat posed by the novel coronavirus, Covid-19. This threat is far from concrete, as perceived; it cannot be seen, touched, tasted, smelled or, apart from its symptoms, felt. Its power is abstract, and respecting that power REQUIRES comprehension of its unseen, undetectable properties.

I do not feel that those in current power within our government have behaved responsibly toward such individuals. Either policy or statistics wonks, they have failed to comprehend the nature of this percentage of our population – its inclination to band together, its almost complete lack of abstract reasoning potential, and its resultant stubborn refusal to comply with what seems to the rest to be simple orders restricting behavior.

I feel the threat of this absence of accountability toward our weakest population. It affects me every day, either by means of verbal retaliation or by actions which show defiance against orders laid out by our leaders. When a child doesn’t understand the consequences of action, such a child will go about his or her merry way, acting according to desire or preference. This is what we are seeing across our country: people who don’t fully, completely realize what is happening, and who are acting accordingly. It is this population which poses the greatest threat to public health, both to itself and that representing the rest.

Somebody, please; take a moment to sound this alarm. Make the Covid-19 pandemic rules clear enough for a fourth grader, and be SURE to include cause and effect on every point. Provide graphic representations, and post them on telephone poles and exterior doors of public places. Create sound bytes for radio, 15 second public service announcements, billboards – and, flood the communities which are underserved with them all. It only takes one insufficiently cognizant person to infect thousands and, when that happens, no limits are too great.

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© 5/20/2020   Ruth Ann Scanzillo.      Sharing permitted upon request of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for accepting responsibility.
littlebarefeetblog.com

The Present Mind.

 

It’s not that I never saw what Mum saw.

It’s that I never saw as she did.

My view of Mum was always from behind. Her back ever turned, either standing at the kitchen sink or seated at the sewing machine, this was a mother intent upon managing the household. And, fulfilling this charge was the daily commitment – task by utilitarian task. Born likely of deferred dreams, to her the home was more about its daily upkeep and less about the living beings who occupied the space.

But, occupy I did.

Whether sprawled across the davenport, face embedded in the corner behind the pillow, or planted at the piano, or poured into a novel……I was there. And, what I saw while known to be was driven by the images which first appeared in my mind. Pictures; stories, entire narratives, from a single seed of thought. Though my body lived in her house, I dwelt well outside of it — inside my head.

But, to Mum, whose immediate purpose was home maintenance, anything worth vision was populated by that which dictated the next, practical move. Dishes, crusted with drying food, waiting by the sink. Dust, coating the coffee table. Cluttered magazines, sleeping with newspaper. Dirty clothes, lounging about. These, she clearly saw, every day of the week and Saturday, too.

On the unavoidable occasion which brought us both into the same room, her raised voice would sometimes penetrate the air around me. In tones of exasperation:

“Are you just going to sit there, all day?!”

There was “work” to be done. Didn’t I see it??

No. I did not.

Oh, I saw the coffee table. I saw the sink. I saw the magazines, and the newspaper, too. These were all props, in a delectable scenario which morphed every time my eyes rolled back and to the left, never requiring my interaction. But, if they captured my fancy, I might consider the contour of the sofa pillow, or the crisp leaves of paper, or the outline of the scalloped table’s edge. Perhaps I would grab the sketchbook, and draw them into the still life of a given afternoon.

But — clean them? Straighten them into regimented rows? Why spoil a good lay out? Why wreck the whole picture?

Some fifty years have passed, since Mum moved about around me in the house we called home. Now, the novel coronavirus has been upon the planet for at least eight weeks of our current lives. None of us, whether absent or present of mind, can see it in any form. All we know is its power to manifest, in potentially life threatening proportions. And, because we are nearly defenseless against such invisible, yet diabolical, intent, we must gather our senses as if to battle. We shield our noses and mouths, attacking only that which must afterwards be thoroughly washed. We count the number of steps between our feet and those of the person approaching us on the sidewalk. We stare through the windows, instead of going outside at all.

And, as we look, we are called upon to see our surroundings as our mothers did, as they appear before us demanding our command. The layout of our lives has changed, fundamentally, for as far into the foreseeable as we are able to imagine. We exist framed in an entirely new panorama, one to which we must be accountable nearly every minute. With each blink of our eye we must be present of mind, lest we be found absent, forever.

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© 5/14/2020    Ruth Ann Scanzillo      All rights those of the author, whose perspective it is, and whose name appears above this line, literally.  Thank you for respecting original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Newer Normal.

Admit it. None of us, not even the radical bell ringers, knew we’d all be living like this. Not masking and hibernating, counting the daily dead. Not three months ago.

Yet, when the whole thing finally levels out and we attempt a return to “normalcy”, I have a prediction. I think there will be a major paradigm shift in the mentality of our entire society. I foresee entire groups of people who are inclined to turn their backs on information, who actually prefer a level of denial because it’s more comforting  (because denial can be very comforting; we’ve all lived in denial once or twice and everyone knows what it feels like to choose it), those who have been openly defiant in dialogue with others and are now facing the gravity and the grim statistics of what is upon us might finally find themselves in a minority, as we move forward. And, I don’t mean because of mortality, God forbid; I mean that those who affect, even dominate, the social discourse might be among the very ones who were shunned or dismissed prior to this catastrophe. And, one of the positive outcomes might be a return to respect for the kind of authority that is based in fully informed mindset. Those who seek out information that is factual might finally become the ones to whom others refer for advice and counsel.

Naturally, some might say I’m being self-aggrandizing, hoping that people might finally listen to ME. But, the whole thing is SO much bigger than me – and, you. Nevertheless, I do predict a shift. Those who’ve been clamoring out loud, those in parts of the southern coast who are still beaching, malling, partying and pooling…….still people in this country who are turning their backs, while the Pentagon is busy ordering up 100,000 body bags in anticipation of the need to separate the dead from the living – a hard reality to face, but these will have to be fearless; and, the way to be fearless is to be prudent, and the way to be prudent is to become fully informed, even when the information you glean perhaps defies your politics, even your religious beliefs. The way we protect each other is by being prudent and caring about the kind of advice that is sound – based in measurable information. We really, really do need to care that much about one another and, in so doing, risk the derision and mockery which is often a result of such attempts to actually demonstrate care. We might learn to redefine what it means to love one another.

And, maybe that’s the point.

Maybe we’ll learn how to love each other effectively – openly, with trained skill in communication and a willingness to be receptive to anyone who provides this kind of care. I hope our prayer will be for everyone, including those who have laughed at and derided us. We have to pray for our enemies – not pray for their demise, but pray for their protection. Because it’s all about changing hearts. I was trained on fundamental Gospel preaching, trained to believe that hearts have to be changed – that people have to change from the inside out. And, I’m still laying hold of that. We really do have to change from the inside out.

Here’s to loving effectively and caring authentically. Be well; be safe; keep your ears open, and your eyes wide. If you face reality, head on, you might discover that you seek out only those who will tell you the verifiable truth. 

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© 5/3/2020     Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

Skewing The 2020 Annenberg Election Study Panel.

“Motherhood begins at conception.”

 

 

© 3/27/20     Ruth Ann Scanzillo.       Please visit the author’s YouTube channel for further pompous assertions.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Bare Feet.

CHAPTER 42.

Surely he could feel the peeling, dead skin on her heels.

His hands, wide and thick, had never reached for her feet before and, to her, the nearly thirty minutes of gentle massage seemed out of character; generally self absorbed, he would more typically nestle, head in her lap, whenever they would share the couch.

His sofa was leather, and lacking in any spinal support; hers, much cheaper kettlecloth, had the firmest foam rubber money could buy – a lesson from the faux suede Oxford grey which had slept herself and so many from ’86 to ’99, its cushions heavenly soft until morning told the aching tale.

She was surprised the old faux grey had remained, after the divorce. Its presence had become a nagging reminder, not of waking lower back pain but of the curious ritual which would stain it thereafter.

Her mother in law’s visit, while uninvited, had been endured as part of a special delivery; she’d found them the perfect dining room table with six cained chairs and completed the compulsion by dismantling and packing the entire set, piece by piece, into the back of the Isuzu for the nearly eight hour trip from Vermont in time for her son’s birthday. Their inextricable bond was soon confirmed when, hardly twenty minutes after unload and assembly, the two of them settled onto the sofa for what had become a familiar session of mutual foot rubbing. Baring their feet, each took turns providing the other massage, oblivious of the intrusive third party who actually owned the house and all furnishings already found therein.

Decades hence, the old grey’s frame moved to the curb and only a cushion or two salvaged for floor seating in the loft, its Carolinian love seat substitute since replaced by her current, scarlet red she’d learned to recognize ritual behavior. Now, her own feet in the hands of one living out his own subconscious fantasy, she’d felt like an object – not of affection, but of surrogate need. The same one with whom he so vitally had to meet earlier that very day, herself worthy of his deceit, had been described by another, who knew, to enjoy end of day, hour long foot massage; as such, he’d spent the beginning of his first hours of official retirement in search of her company. Only a global viral pandemic could stand between his hands and her feet. The one already exposed would have to serve, instead.

No more romancing, real or imagined, in this house. Self preservation was Job #1.

She was by herself, at home today. Leaning forward on the firm foam rubber, she stood. The house had plenty to say, were walls and hardwood floors to talk. Time for her lone, bare feet to add their prints to the story.

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© 3/26/20     Ruth Ann Scanzillo         All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in part or whole or reconstituted alteration, allowed.  Sharing permitted only by permission of the author. Thank you for respecting original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

On Being ELIZABETH WARREN.

There’s something about a woman, a man will say.
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But, a woman will say there’s something about b.e.i.n.g a woman.
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Elizabeth Warren, in particular.
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It might have been Jon Stewart’s DAILY SHOW, where many of us first laid eyes on her. What struck me was the quickness of her physicality. Her body ever reacting to the mind’s impetus, Elizabeth was rarely still – sitting forward, leaning in, using her core to generate every declaration. And, of these, she had legion.
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Here was a person who transcended all notions of gender to be driven solely by the workings of thought, reflection, analysis, purpose, and the kind of imagination which fueled creating practicable solution to the world’s biggest problems. And, ever verbally fluent, she was able to express all this with enthusiasm and confidence.
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But, she also had a bright optimism about her, something I envied. Let’s admit it; regions of our vast country do produce certain behavioral profiles. The West coast is laid back; the East, intense; and, the Mid-West is transparent. Warren was born in Oklahoma. People out there are straight ahead, no nonsense, unpretentious. They have little notion of class, or class consciousness.
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Unfortunately, minus the optimism our politics still hold all those notions, in spades.
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And so, embodying irony, here was an American Midwesterner who fiercely opposed everything class based, and every bias toward it. Yet, America couldn’t buy in, because we wouldn’t accept that we were indicted by it. Even America’s women. We couldn’t trust that a woman who hadn’t donned even the female mantle of the business class executive could lead all of us toward major restructuring of our entire society. Our collective subconscious was still entrenched, steeped in those notions which declared that only a deeper voice and a smarter suit could carry us to where we needed to be.
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I really feel Elizabeth Warren. Especially today. I can taste the tears, likely cried into her husband’s shirt. I can hear the rallying cry of that contingent who saw through it all and remained loyal to the end. I can see honest, determined, conviction stagger in the face of harsh confrontation with the kind of raw power that defeats. My heart, and especially my mind, cries out with her. As only a woman’s can.
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© 3/5/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

To Care Enough.

Because Valentine’s Day without the Valentine part, I took myself over to the Whole Foods Cooperative for a self-care treat. On the way in, a guy was just leaving with that familiar, flat pizza box in hand. “Aha!” said the solitary single girl, ” the GF pizza Binnie Decrease mentioned earlier. Just the ticket!” So, upon entering, instead of heading directly for the reach in I walked to the soup line; serving myself a cup of the navy bean veg, I turned to the cafe counter.
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After dinging the bell, I waited for service. Soon, a girl came around from behind me, expecting to ring up my sale. “Oh, no, I’d like to order a Gluten Free pizza!” She grabbed the pad. “You have the GF pizza crusts?” I said, expectantly. She said: “Cauliflower? Yes; we do.” Then, she asked me what kind I wanted. As quickly as I could, I squinted and chose the Athena from the chalkboard – remembering it by name, from Binnie’s post. While the girl wrote, I asked if it contained soy. She went back to check. No soy – would that be all?
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I said I would continue shopping, so she handed me the due bill. Moving across to the reach in, I spied my macarons, and something new: strawberry salsa. Then, I went to Thad’s cash out and set these selected items on the edge away from the belt, telling him I was waiting for pizza. We got into a pretty intense convo, about how cayenne helps heal the stomach’s replaceable lining and all, related topics. So deeply were we involved I missed hearing that the pizza had been put out, done already. By the time I walked to take it, a woman was entering Thad’s line with a basket full, so I discreetly moved my purchases to Johnny’s line. Thad? or Johnny? asked if I wanted the pizza due bill and, when I said it would all be on the check out slip, he discarded it.
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Arriving home, I dug into my pizza. It was sumptuous, if lukewarm, so I heated the last three pieces in the oven. Somewhere between the first slice and the warmed pieces, the itching started. It was pretty persistent, and I soon realized that, though I hadn’t had one in well over three years, this was a reaction.
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I pulled up my clothing, and found the first of the hives on my bodice; then, more, under each arm. Historically, this would have been when I would panic and grab the Benadryl – and, the carkeys. This, again, I did. Popped the shell of one, and swallowed it; also, this time, I took phone photos of each of the hive sites that I could reach. Then, I called the Co-op.
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HivesBodice2020
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Jess answered. When I asked if the due bill was retrievable, she hastily explained that it had already hit the garbage and that the garbage was likely in recycle.
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“Jess”, I said. “This is a health issue. I’m in a hive outbreak, caused by something I just ate from the cafe.” Immediately, she retrieved the due bill, reading it to me:
“Athena – dairy” was all it said.
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And, I did what everyone who has ever had a near- anaphylactic reaction does. I became emotionally upset. My voice elevated. I said: “That confirms it…….I just consumed gluten or soy, I’m having an allergic outbreak, and will be sick for two weeks because the CO-OP hires stupid people who don’t listen to the customer’s requests!”
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Hanging up the phone, I jumped into the car and headed for ST V ER. En route via the 2 block square around the Erie Cemetery I called the Co-op back, demanding to speak with the manager on duty, as I was “en route to the ER.” “Chet” answered. When I explained what had happened, and what was currently happening, adding that I expected a refund at LEAST, HE began to accuse me of “talking down to everyone”……..!? saying that my behavior was unacceptable/wrong. I responded, in kind and in tone, that it was HE whose behavior was wrong. Then, because I had arrived at the valet pull up, I hung up the phone and got out of the car.
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After explaining to the intake girl what was going on, I sat in the chair nearest the registrar window and waited. The itching and welts were still going strong; fortunately, my heart was already calmed by the instantaneous response to the Benadryl. I texted David, and then found the Co-op executive director’s name in my addressbook. Her daughter had been in my studio, but was allowed to leave. I sent the whole thing, albeit more condensed than this detailed account, in several texts to her.
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40 min later, my head getting heavy with pre-comatose/peaking Benadryl, I got up to check with the registrar. The shift had already changed; a new girl was in her place. She said the previous girl had explained why I was there. I thanked both her and the hospital for letting me use the premises as my Safe Zone, and paid the valet fee, and came home. Though I’d had at least two bouts of it, both in ERs, both nearly 15 years ago before I was diagnosed, all from pizza dough that contained gluten/soy, thankfully, no anaphylaxis. This time.
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The Benadryl affect will last longest. It will put me to sleep for the rest of the night (my eyes are closing as I write this), and cause short term memory deficits which interrupt my retrieval of information as I continue to learn one of the most challenging musical scores my hands have ever encountered. Happy Valentine’s Day to, well, everyone else, I guess; I’ve spent mine in emotionally draining emergent health crisis, reprimanded for reacting as most anyone would under potentially life-breath threatening circumstances. All at the hands, and the mercy, of people who, as David would often intone, just don’t care “e.n.o.u.g.h.”
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© 2/14/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo.      “I can’t breathe.”
littlebarefeetblog.com

Time For You To Go.

 

My last day as a public school music educator was not a celebration.

Although much anticipated, many times over the years, when the day came I was only aware of a couple, key feelings: exhaustion – and, readiness.

In the years one would have called my prime, I would arrive every morning in full, theatrical costume. Every class was its own creation, my body frequently the illustrated lesson. My students and I were perfectly attuned; discipline was a non-issue. If I didn’t have every child, mouth agape, in the palm of my hand, I wasn’t doing my job.

Time cloaked me. Over the years, the scene changed; once too often my perceived role was marginalized. My dear father, well into his ninth decade, moved in to be under my care. Well past my own half century mark, I found myself counting the months, and then the weeks. The Land of Diminishing Returns had worn me out.

Taken in totality, my contribution to public related arts education had hardly been scant or sparse. Ten fully staged extra-curricular drama productions; 250 beginning violinists, en masse, across several grade levels; instrumental ensembles of every conceivable permutation; competitive marching band; adjudicated concert choir and choruses; general/vocal music, K-8; mixed elementary chorus; focused curriculum for the hearing support. But, 25 years was a good, solid run; on June 9, 2011, I was done.

Today, Jared Kushner was interviewed by Fareed Zakaria on GPS. As President Trump’s senior advisor, he outlined the litany of accomplishments achieved by his father in law’s administration. Seven million new jobs. Trade deals, unprecedented. The dollar, strong. The endless war between Israel and Palestine reaching an also unprecedented mutually satisfying potential for resolution.

What makes related arts teachers distinct from the rest of their colleagues is the sheer measurability of their efforts. Everything they do with their students is readily observable by anyone. Art teachers produce student work which lines the walls of the school; music teachers create and direct performances open to everyone connected with the district. Their product is the direct result of their daily effort.

But, any teacher working past his/her point of positive affect becomes a liability. Good intentions are overtaken by fatigue; good judgment loses its edge. Children, ever intuitive, begin to resist them; administrators try to find ways to move them out of the building.

Given the past two years of the present Presidential administration, the glaring allegations, the deceit, the endless self-contradictions, the blatant lies, and the swarm of negative emotion generated, a great divide is now fixed among the American people. A clear half of the population of citizens wants nothing whatsoever to do with this President. Far beyond mere political ideology, the man himself is openly reviled. There is palpable hatred afoot, across wide swaths of the nation – hatred, for the President of the United States, by just under a majority of his people.

The recent impeachment trial has left half of America emboldened, and the other half utterly slain.  People can hardly look each other in the eye, fearfully wondering what is in the mind and heart of another. The climate, the prevailing mood is one of enmity. Were we at the mercy of the horse drawn carriage and musket, very little would restrain man from taking arms against man, woman against woman, child against child. All of this, over the person of the President of the United States.

Perhaps, instead of charging ahead like some Roman conqueror, President Trump should stop. It might be time for him to pull the lens back, expand to panorama, and take a candid look at the America his presence has created in the minds of its people. If he cannot do that, either because he is unable or unwilling, then he negates the very lives of those who are repulsed by him. He expresses virtual ethnic cleansing, reducing half of the population to zero value.

If he were not to stop, preferring instead to lead his faction into a future fraught by his own amoral, craven appetite for supremacy, the rift between himself , his following, and the rest of the nation would only grow wider. He would, by remaining in office, entrench the divide between the two Americas – perhaps beyond repair. In the face of and in spite of economic prosperity, he would single handedly destroy the soul and spirit of the entire country.

President Trump, don’t make us wait until November. Collect your laurels; accept your prize. Take your once in a lifetime lucky strike, and put it on the shelf with the rest of your shrine to self.

It’s well past time. Time for you to go.

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© 2/2/2020   Ruth Ann Scanzillo.   Please respect the rights of those who produce original material. Do not copy, reconstitute, extract, or otherwise dismantle and distribute this piece without express, written permission of its author. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adopting The Better Graces of The Opposite Sex.

 

 

 

© 1/2/20    Ruth Ann Scanzillo.    Please also visit Ruth Ann Scanzillo at YouTube for more indulgent pontification.

littlebarefeetblog.com

What’s Worth Resolving?

 

Thoughts on preparing for another year of change. Take what you can use; discard the rest —  Much love, to all fellow bloggers and you, our readers ❤  Happy 2020!

 

© 12/31/19    Ruth Ann Scanzillo/YouTube.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Paul Yoculan Younger, Epic Prince of Entertainment.

Pop was never my thing, back then.  But, I secretly wished it could be.

Raised on two part a capella worship music, performed by the untrained, first listening to my father croon into my ears while he fed me the bottle I always had an affinity for a grown man who could really sing.

Paul was definitely grown. His skin betrayed his age, but he still wore a shag to the shoulders as if it were the coolest, and a denim jacket same.  And I think, but I’m not sure, that the day I stepped into Larry’s basement for my keyboard “audition” he might have already been there.

The Classmates were a vocal quartet of high school friends circa 1957, which was the year I was born. Frank, Jim, Larry, and Ronnie, three out of four second generation Italian and one black American with voices to blend. But, Paul was their friend, and became a final set fixture at nearly all our gigs. The reason he was in that set was because we always closed with “Peppermint Twist”/”SHOUT” – and, these were his signatures. Paul had spent his heyday singing them with his band, The Epics, both in Vegas and at the “World Famous Peppermint Lounge” – in New York City. The Epics were the band The Beatles came to see and hear after they played New York. It’s true; look it up.

I’d always had a solo voice, of sorts, suited for weddings and funerals, a solid Debby Booner. But, when our tenor couldn’t quite carry the Frankie Valli leads, and Frank asked me if I could, these became my own semi-signature tunes from behind the keyboard for the second set. “Big Girls Don’t Cry”; “Sherry, Baby”; my choice, the Ronnie Spector “It’s My Party” and, nod to the Beatles, “Twist and Shout”.

To Paul, I was probably the furthest cry from a female singer. I didn’t dress the part and, worse, I didn’t carry it. Frank had saddled me in the shoes of the same name when I produced my own pair and, when he acquired royal blue bowling shirts with white cuffs and collar for the guys, I got one too – along with one each of the violet and pink ruffled tuxedo long sleeves to match with black pants.

Never sure if this were on consult or his own idea, but one day Paul had me come over to his house and meet him in his basement. He wanted to coach me into singing lead. Out front. Like a real girl singer.

His wife, sweet and accommodating, provided iced tea on a serving tray. I squirmed. This man sucked on a Throat Disc and wailed like his life depended on it; how could I possibly learn from him? Ah. The arrogance of youth.

I actually don’t remember all of what happened during that session. He told me stories of his days in the circuit, and we listened to some forty fives and he talked about style. I concluded that I was probably the only female singer he’d ever met who would not be groomed for the front. He must have been convinced; we never met again, over iced tea or anything else.

But, what we did do was play out. Paul got us the best work in the big bars. He’d always be our finisher, and he was so good at it – stirring the crowd into a frenzy, pushing his cords until I thought they would just splinter out every time, I was content to crank the keyboard bass until the woofers jumped from the floor and ride all the way to the end on that Roland Hammond B3 preset like a boss. I was so happy just to be part of his show.

Paul’s show kept on, too. Long after I left that band to accept my first public school teaching job, he’d still be found singing. Few of us musicians knew he also coached baseball, and well enough to do so for major high school programs in our region. But, he would not stop singing. That voice which, to my ear and experienced vocal nodes, was always on its last legs just never gave out.

I don’t know what happened, really. Something about a heart problem, requiring major surgery, and complications, and the ICU, and then death. How does that occur, in our time, anymore? Yeah. Paul was 82. But, from the first time and every time I’d seen him over the years he was always, already older than me, old – but young. Younger than all the rest. Paul Younger.

Rest in Peace, you old crooner. Or, keep on wailing. It’s your call, Paul. You were our prince of Pop.

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© 12/29/19    Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose first hand story it is, and whose name appears above this line. Please respect this tribute, exactly as it is written. Thanks.

The Good Eve.

CHAPTER 41.

She would have been far worse than just Adam’s wife.

First off, not a fabled blonde.

Nor Raphaelian, either.

And, always poking around. Nope; no Finishing Schools for this rib.

Her brow furrowed by perplexed curiosity, she’d be turning this way and that, searching out the limits of the verdant garden like a ferret loose in a zoo. Picking every berry to taste; running her hands through the moist earth; climbing every tree, if only to see beyond…..

As for the forbidden tree, her compelling need to know would have taken her squarely there as soon as restrictions were imposed. Enough with this nakedness, anyhoo; shame made the cooler nights more tolerable, what with as many fig leaves as could be woven before the sun went down.

Giving birth was a royal pain; remind her never to do that a third time.

And, where was God’s voice coming from, for His sake? Everything else audible had a mouth or a beak, save the wind, in this place. Why, if her nakedness was such a shame could He not show His Face?

God might have given up on her entirely to focus on Adam and the serpent.

Perhaps it was high regret at creating her, in the first place. Surely He would have known, already being All Knowing? What did He want her to do about it? The blood in her veins pulsed, its omnipresent reminder that her body was alive and she within it. The drive to move was inescapable. Where would she go, on this, the seventh day?

The word among the crawling things was that expulsion was imminent.

That thought alone was stimulating. The world outside of this garden? Would there surely be more to explore?

The two boys would already be bickering over their offerings. No meddler, she’d let them duke it out. Best for their own quest, for autonomy, after all.

Dusk would already be settling in. The serpent, slithering off, long dismissed as boring, its endless taunts a redundant yawn. Yes; the Tree of Life would remain, rooted, in the midst of the garden. She, however, would have long since tasted of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. This Eve was way ahead of that snake.

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© 12/25/19     Ruth Ann Scanzillo.  All rights those of the author whose name appears above this line. Neither copying, in whole or part, nor translating permitted in any form at any time. Being the good person will be rewarded in the next life.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

The Marketing Machine as Mind Control.

Scientists often crow that anecdotal evidence isn’t valid. They demand peer reviewed journal articles, or nothing at all.
I challenge that.
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My friend Cindy, who lives in Michigan, was talking with her son CJ in the living room. CJ announced that his zipper had broken; minutes later, an ad for Fix-A-Zipper popped up on Cindy’s Facebook Feed.
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Down in Apollo, PA my cousin Bonnie and her husband Doug were talking about not being able to find more snowball Christmas decorations. Five minutes later, snowballs for sale appeared in Doug’s FB News Feed.
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A couple weeks ago, my friend John was talking on his landline in Maryland with a vendor about obtaining cloud services. That same day, he started getting ads for Microsoft Azure in, you guessed it: his FB News Feed.
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And, back here at home, a matter of days ago my friend Karen went to visit an elderly relative. Together, they spoke about their knee problems, comparing notes and types of injectable medications. Karen’s phone was in her purse. When she got home an ad for Euflexor, for knee pain, showed up in her Facebook Feed.
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Today, I made a YouTube video for my channel. Since I’d only been up out of bed for a few minutes, I skipped the make up. When it posted, I shared the video at my blog, adding a copyright date and the comment: “No make up.”
Minutes later, at MSN’s homepage, the photo essay:  “Stars not wearing make up in 2019.”
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In every one of the accounts stated above, there was no direct interaction with social media happening at the time. Phones were on, but neither in hand nor being used; laptops were logged on, but social media sites were not being scrolled.
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A couple of us own Smart TVs but don’t engage the feature. Most of us do not own Alexa or Siri devices or Apps.
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And, we think the marketing industry isn’t practicing mind control?
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I wonder what will happen when I post this piece.
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Shall I report back?
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© 12/21/19   Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name is not a bot and which appears above this line. Neither copying nor translating, in whole or part, permitted.
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littlebarefeetblog.com

The Last Trombone.

 

© 12/21/19     Ruth Ann Scanzillo   AF of M Local #17  Member since 1986.  No make up.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Bloodstone.

 

Dad never knew his parents.

Uncle Gabriel and Aunt Marietta told him stories.  Raimondo was a foreman, a tenor, a brute and a womanizer; Giovina, defenseless, speaking only Italian dialect, had been committed to a sanitarium by her husband. Tony, her third child, was born there.

Dad would be taken from her, at birth, to live alternately at the Bracchi’s foster home or the Walter E Fernald School in Waverly, Mass.  But, on or about age 15, to bolt, literally running away, he with his institutionally bequeathed harmonica and trumpet trained lip, caught the freight cars and rode them all the way to Louisiana.

From the deep South, this rambler would take odd farmhand jobs and then head West, learning life and copying a cigar box set of “spoons” by carving a John Deere plowhandle into his own hand held rhythm section. Together with harmonica in his right, bones in the left, he became a bona fide panhandling drifter, his travels reaching their ultimate end at the California coast. After a week invited to stay with a touring big band, he joined the US Army.

The Army would send him back east, to Fort Riley KS.  Training there for the impending war, he would ride yet another rail, this time a steamer to New York on a final R&R, and meet Mum, with whom he sat and sang and played out his life story all night. By the time the fighting broke out, they were already married.

Deployed to Germany, where he would serve under Patton as a forward observer, reach Corporal as lead bugler organizing a parade for the dignitaries, and earn the Bronze during the Battle of the Bulge Dad had many interactions with every walk of life. Somehow, along the way, he acquired mementos: two decorative swords, of fine silver; a German luger pistol; an emerald cut topaz from a fraulein named Kitty; and, a bloodstone pinkie ring, set in gold.

When I was eleven, Dad gave me that bloodstone as a reward for learning his favorite piano piece, “Alpine Glow”. I have worn that ring, nearly every day, for the past fifty one years.

In spite of everything he did tell us, there was still so much we never knew about Dad. There were gaps, in time, for which there was no clear explanation. There were the repeated AWOLS, and the stint on Pearl Harbor day (his birthday) in the guard house, and one more memento, that oval silver tag with the name Tony Marino bearing his social security number which he wore as a cabbie.

Still, there was his sister Frances and her husband Al, who played clarinet for Artie Shaw, first cousins, same surname; his brother whom he’d met at the Fernald, Luigi, whom everyone called Tom, no physical resemblance, living as an electrician in Hartford. There was his niece, Rhonda Lee, who died tragically at age 51; his nephew, Richard, whom we’d only seen once; and Rima, beloved to Mum, who actually came back with her husband Ange to see Dad in the year before his death. These were those we did know, only as we did know them.

Research reveals that the bloodstone is claimed as an excellent blood cleanser and powerful healer, heightening intuition and increasing creativity, grounding and protecting against geopathic and electromagnetic stress. My memory speaks that Dad’s bloodstone was acquired in exchange for a pack of smokes. It’s owner never revealed anything about the ring to him, as far as we ever knew.

My hand, through which his blood still flows, bears Dad’s ring to the end. What Dad never knew, and what we never knew about him, are in God’s.

 

Bloodstone

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© 12/18/19   Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is, and whose name appears above this line. Neither copying, in whole or part, nor translation permitted by anyone at any time. Thank you for being the better person.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Good Family.

 

The best of families live.

In denial.

They have memories of storybook clans, or those they knew from afar. In more recent years, many have taken TV sit coms as models. But, whatever the persuasion, families which remain intact enough to celebrate a holiday together know the meaning of turning a blind eye.

They look the other way when the drunkard shows up. Nobody talks openly about the homosexual, particularly if any one of them can’t see the point. The children who wreak havoc and break things are found to entertain their grandparents’ peals of laughter.

The single young adults who arrive late and forget presents are praised for their hairdos and shoes. The sloppy and overweight are given the best easy chairs, the nervous the napkins and silverware to arrange, and the most chatty the smiles and nods of oblivious disregard.

The best food gets all the praise because why bother, otherwise? Everybody flies in to eat, after all, and all those outside of strict Fundamentalism to drink. Any thoughts of hierarchy of importance, i.e. whose children are the smartest, the prettiest, or the strongest are kept quite private, to be discussed later in hotel rooms or upstairs at the homestead.

The best families tell jokes, and with very great finesse. All debate or disagreement is soundly tabled in favor of palate pleasing platitude. Hugs are felt, peculiar smells at close range tastefully ignored, chin hairs noted in stoic silence.

And, somehow, by the time the plates have been filled, the dinner consumed, and the left overs packed in take home carry ons, all are convinced that theirs was the best celebration ever. All are immensely proud of their own comportment,  their positive attitude,  their polite if pretensive compassion, their wit, personality, and enthusiasm for life.  Each one hopes to be thought of by every one present as the friendliest, warmest, most desirable relative in the room.  Each one’s wish is that theirs will be the family which endures to survive another year.

They all know this, each in their own hearts because, without a willingness to carry on, the alternative is unthinkable. They opt, in a world which breeds hatred, violence, loneliness, and isolation to pretend that, at any moment, they might all be saved from it.

Whatever it takes, theirs will be the good family.

And to this they hold on.

For dear life.

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Happy Holidays!

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© 12/15/19    Ruth Ann Scanzillo.    All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Neither copying, in whole or part, nor translation permitted. Thank you for respecting original creative material. You are the better person.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

The Sweet Thanksgiving.

 

The brisk breezes would stir the “whisker” tree’s fist sized tumbleweeds, scattering them between our feet as we scrambled up the steps and took the path between the rock gardens to the front porch at Mammy’s house. In summer we’d take the lazier, flat wide stone walkway from the drive, parallel the porch, the potted geraniums and succulents snuggled side by side along its railing under the broad, royal blue canvas awning flapping in the wind. From that side path, we could almost look Mammy in the eye, cushioned into her steel porch rocker in the far corner awaiting our appearance, smile alight.

But, come fall, we’d hasten past the battened down and molting toward the warm yellow light framed by the front door, halfway up the porch already hearing Aunt Martha’s belly and Pappy’s booming laugh, rising out of the maelstrom of chattering chaos already testing the outer walls of the entire house. Grasping the round, brass doorknob, and leaning into the glass paneled hardwood, we’d push and burst through, hardly noticed by the throng until one face turned and then Pappy, arms above his head, hands curled from hard work, roared out his raging welcome and everyone except the aunts who never stopped talking turning then to gather yet another of us into their arms.

Kicking the snow from our overshoes onto the multilayered hooked rugs, we’d stack them and take the short diagonal between the twin bookcases past the round oak dining room table and the African violets in the east window through to the kitchen, passing the ceramic cookie jar setting our paperbagged salad fixings carefully on the kitchen-turned- server table next to the apple, mincemeat, pumpkin, and rhubarb pies, where Mammy stood over the stove in her rick rack trimmed cotton apron, stirring a pot of gravy with a wooden spoon, the pressure cooker’s indicator bobbling and sputtering over the back burner like a steam train waiting in the station. All the aunts took their wide hipped turns in the kitchen, two of them diligent about the food and the other two appearing to inspect and taste test, the youngest with a wink toward a niece or nephew as she licked her finger.

Pappy was loud, and three of his four son in laws quiet, each quick with a joke or a witty comeback, Uncle Frank sitting with a closed eyed smile, Dad who was called Uncle Tony with his hands in his belt, napping already in the only scene where he would not command the center of attention, Uncle Bud standing tall near a corner already giggling through a long, spun yarn for the home movie camera, and Uncle George, egging Pappy on with his bright, Irish bell tenor.

We grandchildren were fifteen in all, the firstborn Alan, a brilliant artist and pianist, rarely able to come home anymore being married in Michigan, his four other siblings Philip, Lydia, Lois and Frannie often present, living only two doors down, the elder girls wearing their engagement rings dressed in wool sweaters and straight skirts and pointed pumps, Frannie in keeping with her other, younger counterparts in winter wear warm enough for playing outside if there were enough snow later. Then, cousin Bonnie and half brothers Butch and David from Lawrence Park because Uncle Bud worked at GE, and me and my two brothers, Nathan and Paul, having walked from around the corner and across the street and, finally, our four cousins from Ohio, Becky, Beth, Timmy and Kathy, the latter two with flaming red hair. Being either the first or last to arrive, once all were in house the card table would come out, and the floral painted linens, we among the smallest cousins relegated to the workroom where the rugs were braided and the clothes sewn and the toybox waited and, while the piano took turns being played and songs chosen for singing, the family like a choir from an old country church, Pappy the only tone deaf voice among them, the potatoes were mashed, the boiled bacon drippings poured over the salad, the parsnips and rutabaga and peas and Lima beans and corn ladeled into their divided serving dishes, the silver plated forks knives and spoons set on each soft, embossed linen napkin, tomato juice poured into the slender tulip glasses and set at the center of each China plate, head lettuce leaves placed on each smaller one for salad, fruit filled Jello squares lifted onto each leaf, one half teaspoon of Hellmann’s to dot each center, the gravy poured into the boat, the butter set in its silver dish, the roast carved and, finally, the Parker House rolls, ready and hot, in the round, linen lined bowl basket to table.

Pappy could be heard from any room in the house, but usually Aunt Dora Mae or Aunt Betty would call all to the dinner table. Aunt Dora Mae was hands down the better cook among them, Mammy’s eldest, but Mum’s voice was the most penetrating on account of her hearing loss and Aunt Frances was likely in earnest discussion with another of equal intellectual bent and Aunt Martha busy, laughing in a far corner, her nephews gathered around her ready audience testing their latest comedic mettle.

But, the food drew us all, to the oak table round circled by both Dora Mae and Betty as they’d labored the delivery of their firstborn, to the card table in the living room where Risk, Monopoly, Probe, and Life were won and lost, to the child’s table and chairs that Pappy made in the workroom just beyond the pantry and we, the Sweet family, sat our chaos down to the warmth of hot, family style Thanksgiving dinner and bowed our heads while Pappy thanked the God who brought him all the way across the Commonwealth to build cranes at BuCyrus-Erie, to the street corners to preach, to the City Mission and the Gospel Assembly Hall to settle his family in the east side neighborhood at 923 East 29th.

Then, everyone filled their faces, still all talking at once, Mammy finally sitting down at the kitchen end of the table, laughing with her mouth full, Pappy hunched over his plate, gumming his food with his teeth out, the aunts and uncles and cousins all tasting the same food with their own unique manifestations of the family DNA, all together, the whisker trees’ tumbleweeds flying about outside the east windows, as remnants of the feast wafted throughout the house to leave behind its everlasting aroma in the wallpaper, the white silken window curtains, the ceiling plaster, the floor underfoot, and the dark wood framing each room in the house, the collective spirit of nourishment sustaining life on one small, thankful speck of the planet as the world spun around once more.

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© 11/27/19    Ruth Ann Scanzillo     All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line.

From the heart of Sweet gratitude: Happy Thanksgiving! from littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

Open Letter to Mayor Schember, City of Erie PA:

Open Letter to Mayor Schember, City of Erie, PA:
Dear Mayor Schember:
When, and why, was “Event Parking” instituted in the City of Erie? Who benefits? And, why are there no ATMs in the ramp stairwells?
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Last night, I drove downtown to attend the Erie Philharmonic’s symphonic concert. Having been a regularly performing member for hire as both a section cellist and orchestral pianist from 1986 – 2013, I knew that parking for musicians of record with large instruments was still likely the bank lot south of the 9th Street stage entrance; but, I followed the caravan of those planning to attend, east on 8th toward the two public parking ramps.
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My friend had offered me his extra ticket, and said we could meet in the Warner lobby, so I was among those arriving after 7:30 and the first ramp’s placard already read FULL. I continued east on 8th to the second ramp, opposite the arena. Having parked there more than once in the past for other reasons, I knew that newer ramp to be equipped with card readers upon entry.
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Pulling up to this ramp, however, I noted not one but FOUR uniformed parking attendants, all of them male, posted two each at the double entryway. One of the two posted at the left motioned to me to enter on their side and, while I waited for the two cars ahead to move forward so I could turn in, I rolled my window and called out: “For a minute, I thought maybe you were a street crew? Haha! Not digging any holes, tonight!”, or words to that effect. They seemed to get the joke, without visible rancor. Finally able to maneuver my car up to meet the two attendants on the left, I asked how much?, reaching for my credit card.
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” Five dollars – cash only!”
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Startled, I squinted back: “What? I’ve used my card here, before?!” But, they wouldn’t budge. “Cash only – didn’t you see the sign?!”
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NO — the sign, positioned at the curb on the right drive up which he’d motioned I not take, was totally obstructed by the vehicles moving ahead of me. I had not seen it – and, I had no prepared cash.
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I looked around, hemmed in by the steady caravan of vehicles. What was I to do? “Look, I played in the Phil for 27 years — can you give a girl a break, here?” (I failed to note that this ramp was serving the hockey game directly across at the arena). “Nope! Cash only! Drive up, turn right, go out the exit….” I had to move my vehicle out of the ramp; other people needed to park.
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Moving forward, I followed his insistence and turned right into the ramp proper. About 25 feet east, cars merging my lane from the parallel entrance, I spied what appeared to be the exit he referenced, with its accordion pleated door closed to pavement. I slowed, stared at it, thinking: “ What, exactly, is the set up, here?” (I’d never taken such an exit, facing 8th, from this ramp, in the past). It did not APPEAR to me to be the kind of exit door which would be electric eye triggered to open and, furthermore, the steady line of cars behind me was pressing to park.
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Soon, it became apparent that I’d coasted beyond any option to turn and attempt to take that alleged exit. (I’d actually entertained an additional notion: what if this was NOT a working exit, and what would happen if I got stuck there, completely unable to back up to escape it – thereby being late for the concert, my first priority to avoid?) All this having been considered in the twelve seconds so described, I kept moving, bearing left and up into the next level of the ramp. I reasoned that I would park my car, and figure out how to pay the 5 bucks on foot, thereby saving myself time and allowing the rest of the drivers to continue moving through.
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Finding spots on the 3rd or 4th level, I pulled into one and then saw a sign reading “Parking for TLC Only”. Good Gourd – what was that all about?? I got out of my car, just as both the woman pulling in next to me asked the very question of me and my former ECO cello section member appeared, parked two spaces up, in full tails removing his cello from his trunk. The three of us decided to leave our vehicles in these [marked] spaces, and we walked down toward the street together.
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During this walk, I suddenly remembered that I might have some cash in my purse! At some point, I removed this cash, discovering only two dollars. Perhaps the attendants would accept this as a downpayment, and trust me for the remainder after the concert. After all, I’d already told them I’d played in the Phil for 27 years. I was confident of my veracity and trustworthiness.
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But, as we approached the pedestrian exit point, the meanest attendant was already positioned to accost me. No, I would not get out/sneak out on foot, I would go back and get my car and drive it out of the ramp, as instructed. I extended my hand, which was holding the two dollars. Would he accept this much, for now, with a promise I’d return after the concert with the remainder? No, I’d have to get the cash, or move the car.
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Frantic, I said again that I’d played in the orchestra for 27 years, and added that I might very well be the only honest woman he knew. There were two of them now, and the second one said they might have done me a favor, had I been “nicer to them.” “Nicer?” How had I not been “nice”? Oh, I’d been “very rude!!” The other one shot back: “ If you had played for 27 years, you’d have known the rules for parking here!”
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I realized, then, that telling him we’d always parked in the bank lot behind the theater was futile. My history had preceded his; I was totally unknown. Where was Dave Mazzone, or Ray Reilly? I didn’t know any of these guys, and they were all bullying me. Furthermore: none of them knew where I could go to get cash, only one of them pointing up toward French Street, several blocks away!! Then, one of them asked the head attendant, who was receiving money from steadily entering drivers, if I could give my two dollars. That attendant said no, that he “had to account for every car in the lot. “
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All of this was unfolding in full view of people entering the ramp in their vehicles. At that point, 30 years of civic contribution on my part lit my mercury. I’d had it with these people. I said I’d go get my car, and park on the street someplace, calling my friend to tell him the whole ridiculous story, him saying there was a spot — by the police station, four long blocks away. It was well past 7:30, at this point. Suddenly —  one of the attendants approached me, dripping with condescension: “See that building, over there? You can go in there, and get cash out of the ATM, in there.”
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My head spun. I began to walk toward the building. Then, the meanest one actually called to one of his guys to ESCORT me to the arena, “in case she tries to skip out on us.” Me! 25 years of service to the Erie School District, 34 years as an orchestral musician! Being treated as if I were some vagrant, just because I didn’t have three dollars in my purse?!
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Mortified, I crossed 8th with the attendant escort, in full view of all the drivers entering the ramp. Tears were in my eyes. I wailed: “I knew I should have stayed home from this concert!!”
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When we got into the arena lobby, here was a Do Not Cross tape blocking access to the ATM. I turned to the attendant, pointing this out. He said to go ahead and reach across and use it, anyway. God help me if that machine was compromised.
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The smallest denomination permitted at that ATM was $20. I removed the $20 bill, walked toward the attendant, handed it to him…… and, kept walking. Reaching the lobby door, I leaned against it to exit.
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He called to me. “Ma’am? I have your change, come get your change….”
I said: “Keep it. You need it more than I do!”
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He protested. “Nope!” I said. “Keep it.”
“But, be sure you tell your buddies I gave you a twenty.”
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He said: “I don’t lie!”
And, I repeated, with finality:
“Neither do I. ”
Then, I was out of the arena, and heading across the promenade toward the Warner Theater.
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Mayor Schember, one more time: Who benefits from Event Parking/CASH ONLY, at parking ramps which are fitted with card readers, and why on earth can’t these card readers be used when drivers approach the ramps without five dollars in their pockets seeing as there are no ATMs in the ramp entryways? Is it worth the chaos and humiliation, just for yet another source of city revenue at the expense of civic minded professionals who pay their taxes?
© 11/17/19 Ruth Ann Scanzillo.   All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line.
littlebarefeetblog.com

The Closet Politik.

PappyAndTheGirlsAtTheBeachCirca1929
L to R:  Dora Mae; Lydia Elisabeth (“Betty”); Henry Thomas Sweet; Front row, L to R: Martha Louise; Frances Magdalene;

My grandfather was a closet Republican.

Harry Truman was his hero.

Born in Wilkes-Barre, PA, of parents who’d hailed from Cornwall, England, he’d brought his young wife, Mae, across the Commonwealth on or about 1915 to build cranes at Bucyrus-Erie. Yet, Erie, newly founded, was up and coming and this move – for a working class conservative – was, at its heart, progressive.

But, after having attended a tent meeting led by Christian evangelist Billy Sunday, this naturally gruff dogmatist had experienced a conviction of belief which would solidify his politics for life. He brought with him to Erie a Bible thumping, street preacher’s passion and, after meeting two elders of the Plymouth Brethren at the City Mission, would join their fellowship at the Gospel Assembly Hall on East Avenue.

But, Henry Thomas Sweet would not register to vote.

He and the rest of his fellow fundamentalists would populate a small, but ardent, segment of this growing town. Their teachings were the most extreme among conservatives; preaching that only those things due Caesar would be rendered, the rest would be left up to Almighty God – who would put into office whom He will.

Still, Henry Sweet taught his family all the values upheld by the Republican party. Hard work having yielded sufficient income, all resources would be put toward the sustenance of family and a tenth toward “the Lord’s work”, all capital kept close to the vest for just such purposes. The downtrodden were to be regarded as slacking, irresponsible, vagrant, and were admonished – from the street corner pulpit – to “Get up out of the gutter, repent, and get a j.o.b.”

What Henry and Mae did was work. Raising four daughters, they used their hands – baking bread, and delivering it door to door; hooking and braiding rugs, from old, discarded wool coats rescued from the Salvation Army; planting vegetable gardens, and fruit trees, gathering their harvest (had poultry been permitted inside the city limits, they’d likely have had hens and chickens); “slaving” over the stove, preparing meals for the entire, extended family for every holiday and birthday celebration. Mae also sewed, repairing and altering all manner of clothing, and creating from remnants everything from pajamas to suits and spring coats, draperies, and furniture slip covers. Henry, after a long day at the crane factory, maintained every inch of their humble property on East 29th Street, as well as their royal blue Chrysler.

In his final decade, disaffected and excommunicated from the Brethren for “railing”, sunken into his harvest gold La-Z-Boy recliner in the northeast corner of the livingroom reading his National “Geographs” and his Bible, listening to talk radio (and, calling in daily), he would brood.

Sympathy was not part of his lexicon. Compassion was merely a concept, to be contemplated while meditating upon the person of the Christ. Weakness was not to be indulged; one was given a life, and one must take up the reins of it and serve the Lord with all one’s might. Paying income tax was the bane of existence.

Three of the four daughters carried on the traditions of his closet politics. All honorable citizens they, nevertheless, also never registered to vote – raising their children to accept having come out from among them, being separate, avowing to touch not the unclean thing. There were us, the elect bride of Christ, and there were them, the reprobate, damned to hellfire lest they repent and believe the Gospel.

I don’t know what happened, but something did. Time, and its inevitable evolution. Being Republican of mentality used to mean such noble (if self centered) intent, even if it appealed to the most narrow minded among them. One wonders if the GOP was forever affected by those who would only vote for he or she whom their God had ordained. Being a Democrat came to defy such selfish, belief driven ideals. In between, I now find myself – a registered Independent, caught, without a closet in which to hide. We are all part of America, a nation of so many countries, fighting to stay socially intact, more exposed than ever before, members of a globe of earthly peoples pushing and pulling and hanging on.

And, the world’s eyes are still on our family.

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©10/15/18  Ruth Ann Scanzillo.  All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Must You Be So Beautiful?

 

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Must you be so beautiful

Must your eyes be blue

Must their pupils widen

When I look at you?

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Must you stand so near to me

Must I smell your skin

Must you be here now, if

We can’t meet, again?

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Must the years that came between

Must the time that’s passed

Must the choices made then

Melt away so fast?

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Must have been we were too young

Must have not yet known

Must be no one told us

What we’d know when grown

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Must a feeling’s memory

Motionless in time

Must a need yet unmet

Search for words that rhyme?

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Must we be so dutiful

Must the things we say

Must their trust belie us

Must we walk away?

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  11/28/15

All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. No copying, in part or whole, permitted. Thank you!

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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