The Award.

Stickyarts education, creative writing, drama, education, Encouraging Thunder Award, film reviews, gratitude, human behavior, performance, psychology, public education, scenes, short stories, sociology, truth, Uncategorized, , , , , ,

CHAPTER 51. Epilogue.

The girl was dark.

I couldn’t put my finger on it. Something about countenance, posture, contraction of the forehead muscles.

There had only been one other student, over the two decades, to carry the color; a penchant for asking that his photo be taken next to the American flag he’d been arrested, in recent years, for going door to door impersonating a police officer.

I’d taken over the after school drama club, established by a beloved fifth grade teacher who’d handmade racks of full body felt and taffeta. Frustrated at the keyboard with the small tape recorder of musical selections played back stage I’d begun to provide live underscoring, followed by interruptive vocal coaching……within two years of dealing with me, our fearless leader – the long line of framed photos across the back of the auditorium her legacy, plus that room full of costumes – retired. By the next school season I’d given the club her honorary name, and assumed the position.

There were no kits, from theater companies, in my sphere of awareness. I’d been driven, as a child, to write, produce, cast, direct (and, star in) school plays; soon, I would be adapting classics, then shorts from Spanky and Our Gang DVDs, and casting dozens.

The auditorium stage, our classroom, had a band of colors – hot, directly above our heads. Blue; green; red. Lights, I would discover, set every mood and greatly supplanted the absence of scenaric backdrop.

Though self conscious and introverted in character, the girl had an eye. Beyond assigning a small walk on part wearing a hat with ribbons, I made her head of the lighting crew.

As leader of illumination, she was stellar. I could rely on her to flick those switches precisely aligned with the action. That countenance proved fully aware of every aspect of the scene and its underpinnings. Though only one other parent would ever play the role of backstage manager through some ten productions, behind the curtain this girl ran the show.

The drama club ballooned into an all consuming undertaking. So many students auditioning, the shows would be double cast. The district having chosen to consolidate school enrollments, progressively adding 6th, 7th then 8th grade to our building, within a few years those who’d repeatedly starred from childhood would reach middle school graduation. It took this tunnel visioned creative a couple of seasons to realize awards were both earned and deserved.

Menopause, care of one 90+ year old father, my response was dismal; only mustering one set of drama club certificates that can even be recalled, seems I’d promised lapel pins but had no memory of their ever being received by the office in mail. What repeats in a loop was the day, during class, I’d announced the winner of Most Outstanding Female, Drama Club.

Presiding in front of the students seated before me in the auditorium, I declared one of the other girls who’d played lead in a few productions the winner. One, singular reaction still plays in that tape. Expectation; momentary hopefulness; furtive glancing about; then, disappointment and, fleetingly, resentment. I had failed my best stage manager, the girl gifted in scenic lighting.

During the days following that moment and well past the graduation ceremony, curious events unfolded. My Gund hand puppet, a gopher, role played across all grades during music class, turned up missing. Parked in the school lot, my car was keyed. Unsettled, I mused; only one face floated into the firmament of suspicion, all too familiar.

In the decade following retirement from public ed, I would search out former students on social media. Amongst the thousands, dozens would appear. Astonishingly this girl, the only one from our entire history of cast and crew, would attend NYU. I perused her albums, discovering that she had focused on photography and stop motion animation. At the Friend Request button, my finger paused.

Black out.

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Copyright 6/8/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, who published moments ago before adding the copyright and whose name appears above this line. No translating, copying in part or whole, permitted; sharing by blog link, exclusively, with credit. Thank you for protecting original material. Cut!

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The Search Engine Hack.

Stickyblog site access problems for littlebarefeetblog.com, blogger theft, plagiarism, plagiarists

This search engine appeared in my stats, yesterday.

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

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

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

Here’s the suspect search engine result:

You tell me !!

littlebarefeetblog.com

Ruth Ann Scanzillo, author.

6/7/2023

EUPHORIC Recall.

Stickyaddiction, drama, healing, human behavior, love, psychology, relationships, sociology, Uncategorized, ,

Last night, CNN aired a special on legendary Hollywood icon, Elizabeth Taylor. Along with references to her many films and philanthropic efforts, she was encouraged to recollect, and comment upon, the numerous men with whom she’d had affairs and had married.

When she reached Richard Burton, the nature of Ms. Taylor’s narrative changed. She could not stop favoring him and their time together with every conceivable compliment. Though they’d notoriously fought throughout both their marriages he’d been, hands down, the love of her life.

Euphoric Recall.

The last point, on the list of symptoms in codependent “relationships” with addicts.

To my mind and heart, it’s the killer.

The biggest stone in the road. The greatest force of resistance.
The devil’s favorite device.

Driving home from Ohio this afternoon, encountering construction and being forced to submit to reduced speed single lane, I had plenty of time to allow this phenomenon to percolate.

So much about failed attempts to establish mutual trust and nurture between myself and the afflicted had been relatively easy to discard: the brutal verbal abuse; the erratic mood ambiance; the gaslighting..; but, walking away from the precious moments – quiet, contemplative evenings; ravenously satisfying gourmet meals; gifts of warm clothing; and, sharing the love of an adorable dog….even the occasional, fruitful conversation, and memories of a physical passion that had always smoothed over everything else in its path…..all this brought the heartache.

Mathematicians are sometimes reviled for their lack of emotionality; but, tonight, I’m betting they have a much easier time compartmentalizing their feelings of longing up against the multiple factors working against what should otherwise nourish and sustain.

One gifted in the numbers might design a pie chart. You know, cutting the diagram of the proverbial dessert into various sized pieces, tabulating and then establishing percentage values for every offense – how many times hurtful words were weaponized; how many hours between good moods and tantrums; how many binges displaced intimacy; how many instances wherein memories of what actually happened were questioned, challenged, or reconstituted until reality warped…..and, lastly, assigning a small sliver of pie to complete the circle, representing euphoric recall.

For those of us not so blessed in the numerical equivalent department, the emotionally hopeful component balloons in our consciousness. Looming lasciviously, licking its lips lying in wait for us, euphoric recall lures us back into the lion’s den. And, no; the Biblical prophet Daniel is most definitely not going to appear to calm the beasts, though we are so SURE we think we see him…..

In one big gulp, euphoric recall swallows up every negative second of however many months or years we’ve devoted to exhaustive misery, leaving us bereft, devoid of any resolve to remain free. This not so little demon convinces us that the addict is truly worthy, a classically good person who wants desperately to both care and be loved. The translation is complete.

The only way we reach any realization to the contrary is to do the very thing we are convinced must be done: return. We cave. We go back, for more.

And, that’s exactly what we get.

I don’t know how Elizabeth Taylor felt the day Richard Burton passed. I wasn’t there. I never knew her, and she never told me. I do suspect that she felt a whole pie chart of emotions, from rage to devastation to grief to relief.

I said relief. I said it, because I meant it.

Years later, reflecting on the whole of their life together, she remembered only what she loved about him, about being with him, about their life as man and wife. To the interviewer, she insisted; they’d had a world of fun, and she’d do it all again.

I’m not at all sure how I’ll feel, in my own retrospect. Perhaps I’ll pass before he does, and he’ll have the story to tell. I do know that, tonight, I’m no Elizabeth Taylor and he’s no Richard Burton. Strip away the glamour, the glistening, and the guise; we’re just two crippled people, addict and codependent, and if there is anything at all to remember about us I hope our feeble memories can retain something good.

The love of my life?

At this point, I just cannot recall.

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Copyright 5/15/23 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 by translation; sharing by blog link, exclusively. No AI lifting of contents. Thank you for respecting original works by humans.

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Betty’s Daughter.

StickyChristian fundamentalism, dreams, faith, family history, Good Food, healing, human behavior, love, memorials, psychology, relationships, religious belief, sociology, tributes, Uncategorized, WWII,

Mum always had her back to us.

This wasn’t deliberate. She was just always busy doing something.

Whether the dishes, the laundry, the floor sweeping, the yard tending, the endless sewing……this was a woman who valued staying on task, until the work was done.

Or, at least, this was how we came to understand her.

In the weeks leading the swift decline from the glioblastoma which took her life, I would modify that conclusion.

Mum had always been a dreamer. A child of the Great Depression, she loved imagining what life would be like outside of the constraints of the reality dealt to her. And, she would indulge these fantasies, with her hands to the plow.

Reaching the end of her life so abruptly, the diagnosis roaring in a rush after vague symptoms not observed by anyone but Dad (whose comprehension of their import were never translated), I imagined that everything Mum had figured she would eventually do would now come sharply into the focus of regret. There was clearly no more time left, to go to France or England. Time would soon be replaced by eternity, and the scope of a state minus any literal framework seemed far removed from anything she could grasp with the view she had learned to accept as vastly finite. Far more appealing to simply ride out on the wings of unrealized dreams.

Like my mother before me, I stood at the kitchen sink this morning, scrubbing away at the countertop beneath the strainer tray, getting down to the stuck on grit neglected for so many months. As I worked, I could see and feel her, doing the very same. Even on Mother’s Day, Mum would gather the bones of her arthritic body, rise up out of bed, the Sunday dinner already prepared the night before, get dressed, wake the rest of us, place the beef roast in the oven, and scurry us all off in the car to Morning Worship, Dad walking alone the two and a half blocks to our mutual destination. Upon our return, the cards and potted plant gifted to her following dinner she would – after a brief, precious nap – resume her work, scrubbing the sink, wiping the stove of its drippings.

On Mother’s Day, to our mother being acknowledged was secondary; she, head of her own household, embodying both commitment and self sacrifice, had already determined that this day, like every other, was her own to spend exactly as she deemed important. And, that she did, to the glory of God, until her final breath and beyond.

Back to work.

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Copyright 5/14/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, Betty’s Daughter, whose name appears above this line. Please, share via blog link, exclusively and, if you quote, please cite the source. Thank you. Happy Mother’s Day, Mothers!

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If The Elephant In The Room Could Talk.

Stickybrain research, Christian fundamentalism, commentary, coronavirus, education, Fundamentalism, healing, health and wellness, human behavior, medicine, psychology, sectarian Fundamentalism, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, truth, Uncategorized, , , , , ,

Elephants are really smart.

Actress Kim Basinger, not long after her published financial struggles, took on a very noble cause: saving the endangered breed. Her celebrity drew worthy attention to the plight of these grand, lumbering creatures. I remember paying special attention, for two reasons: 1.) Kim Basinger had been raised among Bible-believing Christian fundamentalists, as had I; 2.) Ms. Basinger, a woman after my own heart, seemed to know something the rest of us would need to learn.

Re: Wikipedia:

“The elephant (both Asian and African) has a very large and highly complex neocortex, a trait also shared by humans, apes and certain dolphin species.

Asian elephants have the greatest volume of cerebral cortex available for cognitive processing of all existing land animals. It exceeds that of any primate species, with one study suggesting elephants be placed in the category of great apes in terms of cognitive abilities for tool use and tool making.[11]

The elephant brain exhibits a gyral pattern more complex and with more numerous convolutions, or brain folds, than that of humans, other primates, or carnivores, but less complex than that of cetaceans.[15] Elephants are believed to rank equal with dolphins in terms of problem-solving abilities,[9] and many scientists tend to rank elephant intelligence at the same level as cetaceans; a 2011 article published by ABC Science suggests that, “elephants [are as] smart as chimps, [and] dolphins“.[7]

Other areas of the brain

Elephants also have a very large and highly convoluted hippocampus, a brain structure in the limbic system that is much bigger than that of any human, primate or cetacean.[16] The hippocampus of an elephant takes up about 0.7% of the central structures of the brain, comparable to 0.5% for humans and with 0.1% in Risso’s dolphins and 0.05% in bottlenose dolphins.[17]

The hippocampus is linked to emotion through the processing of certain types of memory, especially spatial. This is thought to be possibly why elephants suffer from psychological flashbacks and the equivalent of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).[18][19]“

So, along with their obvious dominance in size among Earth’s living creatures, elephants apparently carry formidable capacities for comprehension.

Ergo the one stuck in the room, as it were, of our current public health aftermath. What would the elephant say, about the steadily increasing number of sudden deaths among our population?

The press releases had been identifying numerous cases of cardiac arrest; now, we note, the reports merely indicate death by “natural causes.” The latter phrase is usually employed to distinguish between those found under suspicious circumstances, i.e. homicide or suicide. Natural causes, however, cover a specific range: a.) massive stroke; and, b.) cardiac arrest. When one is found unresponsive, alone, at home, expired neither expectedly nor due to progressive deterioration, this is classified as a sudden death.

And, sudden death does occur. But, statistically, how frequently, and why do we now see reports of these daily?

The question is fundamental.

If only the elephant could speak.

Maybe a trip to the zoo is in order. My ears are open.

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Copyright 5/13/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Sharing by blog link, exclusively; no copying – in whole/part/by translation. Thank you for considering the questions.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Living The True Story.

Stickyarts education, commentary, contemplation, education, healing, human behavior, musicians, performance, plagiarism, plagiarists, professional musicians, psychology, slum culture, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, The Independent Party, truth, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

A guitar player I know just posted a summary of his life, on social media.

Guitar players being legion on this planet, many of us tend to pigeonhole these ubiquitous musicians. We not so subconsciously sort them into: 1.) Great! 2.) Solid. 3.) …not so hot. And, then we go about our lives.

This man, however, was a breed apart. He’d done what our generation would have called “everything”. His fingers traveling so far beyond the frets had been in so many pies, professions, callings. And, because we all KNEW him, we also accepted his life accomplishments as valid. True. No question. They all really happened.

Now, why would we not challenge his veracity?

“We” are the generation that birthed the music of the ’70’s. The last intimate ballad. The recording that just was – no gimmicks; no video enhancements; no synthetic percussion; no studio production. And, we couldn’t have known how important this would become, to that fading value: history.

Oprah Winfrey recently spoke, at a Tennessee commencement*. Her topic? The Impostor Syndrome. By now, we all know its definition: “Fake it ’til you make it.”

And, what has this errant directive birthed?

George Santos.

Liar, extraordinaire. Now, facing the music of his masquerade.

Time was, if you did it, you could prove it; if you didn’t, no way could you find acceptance among the self respecting.

“We” aren’t sure who came up with the outlandish idea that faking anything in order to reach status of any worth was the way to go. One thing is certain: the service industry, just to name one, is rife with its following; how many phone calls to customer support yield “I’m sorry for the inconvenience” and “let me put you on hold”? Too many.

Entire enterprises are populated by the oblivious, whose only observable skills include Googling Wikipedia, submitting a screen grabbed report, taking a long lunch, and leaving early. Gone is what used to be called “toil.” Sweat, and blood. Feeling that good kind of tired, at the end of a highly productive day.

On the other hand, jumping on the treadmill of the masses, striving to achieve, hoping somebody notices – that led our generation to the Land of Diminishing Returns. A life really well lived used to be its own reward; now, we lean back in our proverbial rockers and watch the vastly under-experienced sail past us, some of them actually flying, never breaking basal body temp, and swinging from one brass ring to the next like a cage full of monkeys.

Enter the devices of man, as catalyst. Robotics; artificial intelligence; pre-programmed machines, replacing live workers. Perhaps the current generation in charge feels obliteration nipping at its heels; maybe the going motivation is just getting through the day without losing grip on the ledge.

Yet, the glimmer of hope pulsates. Vinyl records are back. Being able to touch something made by another human, without threat of its virtual presence vaporizing in the next second….

In our collective gut, we sense that returning to authenticity is our only survival. Living the true story – the only path which will lead us away from extinction.

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*I didn’t listen to the entire speech; any thoughts verbalized in this piece which resemble statements she made therein are entirely coincidental (or, channeled?).

Copyright 5/12/2023 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is(inspired by guitarist et al, Joseph Popp) and whose name really does appear above this line. No copying – in part; whole; or, by translation – permitted; sharing by blog link, exclusively. Thank you for being real.

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The Sins of the Culture.

Stickycontemplation, faith, family history, grief, healing, human behavior, Judao-Christian theology, memorials, personal testimony, psychology, relationships, religious belief, sectarian Fundamentalism, social commentary, sociology, tributes, truth, Uncategorized, , , , , ,

NEWLY-EDITED/FINAL EDIT.

Three weeks ago Tuesday, an earnest man died.

While raising his family, he and his wife lived socially separate from the “world”, ascribing to a set of beliefs which dictated that they “touch not the unclean thing.”

Such a system of belief came to include his relationship, familial though it was in real time, with me.

That man was my cousin. Though we’d grown up literally around the block from one another, in recent years I would be shunned — never contacted; never included in family gatherings, though remaining the only [ and, solitary ] blood relative still living in the same county.

Apart from one conversation with his wife, circa 1995 (the year mum died, she paying several visits to the house to help with Mum’s hospice care) – I had never actually told him anything about my life, directly. As a couple, they did provide great kindness to my father, inviting him several times for dinner after mum died, and supported an orchestra in which I had performed for many years; but, upon my retreating from that organization in the wake of both a horrid harrassment scene and failure to secure a contract, I could not recall any further voluntary contact from either of them.

In fact, following the final four years of my father’s life, most of which were spent as live in caregiver at either his house or mine, the next time I would see them in person would be when we all attended his nephew’s wedding reception. Though we’d been seated together at one of many round tables, no eye contact was returned and no conversation entertained. Only one comment, from his wife, remained with me, to replay over and over in my head: “You LOOK like somebody I know….?!”

At the time, I remember thinking afterwards that perhaps they’d been repelled by the black, Grecian-styled gown which I’d worn as professional dress at another wedding having just completed performance; typically, the garment was sleeveless, with two bands of stretch jersey meeting at an Empire waist, securely covering both breasts but, by a certain standard, a “plunging” neckline. Though no aspect of my body’s private parts were at all exposed I was, possibly, inappropriately attired for their company. By attending that wedding reception wearing that dress I had committed an offense, against them.

Sin.

Enmity from God. Disobedience against laws and precepts, as outlined in the Holy Bible.

To the Roman Catholic system, sin is clearly delineated within a hierarchy: Venial, or “lesser” offenses, which include transgressions; all the way to Mortal, those grave, serious and, frankly, felonious. Accordingly, punishments are doled out by means of penance requirements, after the requisite confession.

But among the Christian church’s innumerable outgrowths, from conservative to liberal, sin would come to carry a remarkably malleable definition – and over time, I would learn, subject to a legion of interpretation.

Herewith, the school of my own life.

Back in the late 1970’s, Mum hosted a German boy in our home. Not the typical exchange student, Roland hailed from the Schwelm assembly of our sectarian, fundamentalist Plymouth Brethren fellowship. He had secured a tool and die apprenticeship, of sorts, with the local Penn-Erie Schober, a machine shop owned by a wealthy, Swiss shipping magnate who himself was a member of the Zurich fellowship. Roland worked at the shop during the day, staying with our family nights and weekends and, invariably, attending the Gospel Assembly Hall with us both on Sundays and for every weekday “meeting”.

Roland was tall, blonde, and quiet. His English was halting, most notably his “v” sounds always slipping into “w” like Elmer Fudd. But, unlike his bold, cartoon counterpart Roland blushed, easily. And, he avoided eye contact with most everyone – especially me. I, on the other hand, on the cusp of college swiftly developed a crush, which would last until our tearful goodbye the following year.

My first alarm sounded during one of the earliest Gospel meetings held on Sunday evenings, at the Hall. Arriving just in time, I’d slid into an empty seat just beside him at the end of a row. His countenance ran crimson, his head elevated, nostrils flaring; clearly, my presence beside him was excruciating.

Later, he would disclose: German Christian men and women, both single and as married couples, never sat together during any meetings of the Plymouth Brethren. Men occupied one side of the worship room; women, the other. And, all ultimate relationships were, even still as late as the 1970’s, discreetly arranged by parents of agreeable families.

I was s.t.u.n.n.e.d.

This was the ’70’s. Granted, women’s liberation had not touched the Assembly of the Plymouth Brethren; but, arranged marriages had gone out with the advent of indoor plumbing!

Oh, but no; Roland was quick to intone that the Lord did not condone flagrant socializing between male and female adolescents. And, like all serious brothers of the Brethren, he had a Scripture to support his position.

I don’t remember the Scripture. I do remember his face, his skin, his averted gaze, and his physical discomfort which I had caused simply by sitting beside him.

Eventually, Roland returned to Germany. A few years later, Mum took in yet another German boy from the Brethren. Again, this young man would also work at Penn-Erie Schober. Hans-Jorg was completely different in both appearance and carriage, from Roland. Always smiling, happy, loving the outdoors, his English was fluent; we all enjoyed him, especially Mum who could, at last, carry on lengthy conversations about so many topics for which she was starved. I, however, was away at college, so my interactions with Hans did not include sitting beside him for any reason.

In 1984, I took my first trip overseas, traveling first to Scotland and, from there, across to the European continent. My visit at Roland’s home was brief, toward the end of my time in Germany; but, meeting up first with Hans-Jorg in the town of Remscheid, I’d been entertained at two eateries, one for “spaghetti ice” and the other a classic German pub.

As we sat, awaiting our sumptuous brunch of omelet and salad, Hans ordered a mug of beer. As it turned out, Germans were very keen on their beer, at virtually every meal except breakfast! (In Paris, I’d also been offered wine with dinner, which I declined.) Furthermore, Hans told me that cigarettes were very common in Germany; during the short social time between Morning Worship/Communion and Sunday School, all the men would stand outside, and smoke!

Regardless the decade across American history, the assembly of the Plymouth Brethren in the United States condemned both drinking and smoking. To them, along with s-e-x, these were sins – and, their offenders, living “in sin”. In fact, if one among the closed, accepted fellowship was found to be indulging in either, said violator was “put out” of the fellowship – no longer permitted at “the Lord’s Table” to accept communion.

Yet, here I was, in both France and Germany, among members of the same fellowship, the wine and beer flowing freely, the cigarettes puffed and inhaled at will.

At this juncture, my notion of sin began to evolve. How therefore, I mused, was God to judge anyone, and by what standard? And, if God’s standard was flexible, how could mere humans pass pronouncements of any kind upon one another, Christian or infidel?

Being obedient to the Almighty God takes conviction, determination, and a harnessing of the human will. Knowing how and when one is displeasing God, apparently, depends entirely upon where one lives on the planet.

My cousin is now where he knows, even as he has already been known by his Creator. The place is Heaven, where God sits on the throne and Christ beside him, they one and the same. Easier now to accept three in one, let alone two, in these times of quantum and string theory and non-locality. With God, all things are possible, after all.

One day, time will become eternity. Apparently, repentance is still the order of the day for humans, forgiveness the modus operandi of the Divine and, finally, acceptance.

Given time, how might we mortals hope to define what we can and should mean to one another?

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Copyright 4/8/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole, part, or by translation, permitted; sharing my blog link, exclusively, and that not via RSS feed. Thank you for respecting the history of someone other than yourself.

The Poppy.

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The pacasandra had choked out everything on the corner leading to the porch. Frantic, I took to my steel rake to dig out, searching to find the frail giant poppies which had survived a mindless mow-over years ago, now desperately needing sun to flourish.

Thank God, there it was. The poppy sapling unearthed, I kept up my frenetic pace — and, NO! — tore one poppy leaf. Then, inexplicably, another. This was not happening. Not this.

I called Stan’s. Will was so kind. He said if even some portion of one leaf survived my onslaught, the poppy could still take sun and bloom. I went back, to look. Yes; one leaf remained, as did the stem, still curled above the soil edge ready to open. I cleared about five inches around and, following Will’s advice, stuck a couple nitrogen spikes into the dirt to help the poppy along.

Then, sun setting, I went inside.

This morning, early for me, I was outside by 10:15. My first visit: the poppy patch. Aghast, I could not believe my eyes; there was NO SIGN of the sprout, at all – and, the dirt looked fresh, as if somebody or some creature had deliberately and completely c.o.v.e.r.e.d. it.

A walking dog? A feral cat? A skunk? Kids?

My fingers small but deft, they scrambled around in that spot, desperately hoping. Finally, the frail sprig emerged – still rooted, it’s one remaining leaf weighed down by soil. Dusting it gently, I spoke to it, righting the stem of the leaf.

Then, I set to work. Running to the backyard, grabbing three white picket fence pieces intended for the raspberry patch, SOMETHING had to protect this flowering treasure! In minutes, I had them hammered around the border of the sidewalk corner leading to the porch. Then, the Cutco scissors, to trim back even more of that choking pacasandra.

Here’s hoping people with their walking dogs have both mercy and respect. There’s already a dead spot, right at the corner, and another up close to the hydrangea around the side of the porch. I’ve rapped on the window at the offender, and actually spoken to him. He wears a brimmed hat, and walks a white toy poodle. The guy snarked at me, calling me Karen, like some lowlife scumbag.

How can we maintain what we love, with attitudes like this among neighbors? What if somebody were to threaten his poodle? I love dogs; I don’t love all dog owners. It’s really hard for me to forgive people. Life is a challenge, every day.

But, it’s spring, for God’s sake. Let’s live, LET live, and treat every living thing – including what grows on the land belonging to those other than ourselves – with enduring care. If we do, then the whole earth really will be ours to share and enjoy.

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Copyright 5/5/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. Photo also that of the author, whose name appears above this line. Please respect original material, written and captured by actual living human beings.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Martian on the Attic Loft Floor.

Stickyaddiction, contemplation, creative writing, drama, grief, human behavior, love, psychology, relationships, short stories, social behavior, sociology, truth, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

[ formerly titled: The Top Stitched Blue Denim Dress. ]

The old, bright red stuffed Martian doll with its assortment of Velcroed noses, mouths, and googly eyes stared up at me from its cast off pose on the attic floor, resembling a mutated flounder soaked in Red Dye #4.

This attic treasure, unearthed alongside equally ancient, Spanky and Our Gang hand lettered school musical posters, cheap heeled shoes, the chunks, pieces, and too-skinny stems of a long discarded Shark vacuum, seemed to taunt me. I, on my birthday no less, had trudged up the too-steep stairs to tackle my loft’s hoard with only one, elusive find in mind: my precious sleeveless, top stitched denim dress.

Mum had made all our clothes, growing up. A master tailor and expert dressmaker, she’d created pleated cuffed slacks, purses, hats, fully lined three piece suits, wedding and ball gowns, drapes, sofa slip covers, and bedspreads. When I moved out at the tender age of nearly 26, most of my wearables came off the rack and not without accompanying angst; diagnosed with adolescent ideopathic thoracic scoliosis at age 13, I would forever be forced to buy ready made clothes that never quite fit.

Never, that is, with one exception: my favorite denim dress.

Mail order catalogs populating my PO Box for so many decades, this garment had likely originated at Newport News or some similar bargain outlet. But, the fabric was solid, hardy, stretch denim; the dress wore well and, most importantly, it seemed designed with my warped body in mind. Boat neck, vertical top stitching slenderizing the line and belted with a slim, faux alligator belt at waist, the dress hugged my wide hips only to flare out toward the hem in a flirty skirt just meeting midway through my knobby knees.

But, because my hips were wider than my compressed, crooked upper back, the excess fabric above the waist served to blouse out over the shoulder blades, masking their uneven protrusion to the right of my spinal curve. So few pieces of clothing – be they sweaters, blazers, or vests – so effectively concealed the deformity I grew to favor this frock, appearing in it everywhere all summer.

In recent years, and largely due to the pandemic, most of my clothes had hung unworn. Now, I’d been sorting through by color and cut, and noticed that my favorite denim wasn’t on any rack. Neither could it be found folded among the rest of the jean jackets and pants. And, this being the one outfit I always chose first, its absence was baffling.

Until today.

Let fate on the day of birth remind an aging woman of her mortality. Add to that one orphaned at the vulnerable age of menopause, celebrating alone after yet another fractured, intractable disagreement with the man who couldn’t love her, I had plenty of time to contemplate and reflect. This dress, its absence looming with prescience, filled the firmament with telling import; I could trace back one wearing, to Miami, in 2015 and there’d been no man in my life since until he who had sent me tearing home from his place twenty odd minutes south, aborting our plans for the day. I calculated, realizing that dress had been in my possession from 2015 through til 2017 until now. From whose house had it disappeared?

We’d spent the past six years breaking up, reuniting, wrenching free again, meeting to eat. His mother ailed; his mother passed; he returned, this time to stick. Over all those years, more than one strange article of clothing had tempted question – tossed casually on an unmade bed, folded in clean laundry, or stuffed under a sofa cushion during a drunk. Had my best dress been flat out stolen, or just relegated to the suspected cheat heap?

Seven hours remained, of this solitary birthday. Carol Burnett was turning 90, and the world of celebrity had a big TV party planned for the evening. Carol was my kindred; she’d famously declared, on The Tonight Show, that yes, she’d be more than happy to get married again – as long as he lived in his house, next door.

I’ll crawl back up to the attic, then back down through the bedroom for one, last meticulous treasure hunt before curtain time. If the missing denim does turn up, he’s off the hook; if it doesn’t, I’ll finally have all the proof I’ve been seeking for so long that the truly loving man I deserve is somebody else, out there, dressed and ready.

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The Martian on the attic floor won’t have to say a word.

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p.s. but if, this summer, you see a sleeveless denim with flirty skirt and a sq………. call me.

(I think it’s an Allegra K.)

UPDATE: Pulled out the last plastic bin, known to contain only dad’s old things. Hanging behind it – in the dark – was the denim dress.

Thanks, Mum. You’ve done it, again.

Copyright 4/26/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. Happy Birthday, to Carol, to Channing, Melania, and me. All rights reserved.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Disease of Compliance.

StickyCANCER TREATMENTS AND CURES, civic commentary, commentary, education, family history, grief, healing, health and wellness, human behavior, medicine, personal testimony, political commentary, politics, psychology, Questions, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , ,

She’d given me the look.

That look, of doleful disapproval, on my mother’s otherwise silent face will never leave me.

I’d spoken with authority, against those to whom she had submitted. My efforts were in her defense – her immediate creature comforts, her broader sustenance, what she deserved from those to whom humane treatment was allegedly a priority.

My mother’d given me that look. She did so, because she could no longer speak. My mother was dying, of terminal brain cancer.

The medical center to whom she had relinquished her vulnerable body had – as far as my eye, ear, and remaining senses could perceive – utterly failed.

Her diagnosing surgeon had gone on vacation, to publish his new novel. The PA in whose charge she had been placed had us on hold, instructed to reroute her past surgical options to the latest chemo protocol still on the shelves at the local cancer center. That facility sent its physicians on rounds, to speak with us in the hospital room, check her vitals, and determine when the chemo port should be scheduled. The chemo port procedure failed. Her lung was punctured; she wheezed; I tore around that ward like Shirley MacLaine in “Terms of Endearment” until a portable xray machine was located and a technician to take the image. The nurses assigned to her charge were surgical, moved to the cancer floor to cover for short staffing, and had no idea how to operate her chemo infusion machine. Her veins rolled; the caustic solution, intended for the chemo port in her sternum which hadn’t found its destination dispersed through her tissues, never reaching her brain. She likely stroked out, losing what little ability she had left to either speak or press the call button, and filled a toilet feces collector tray which sat for hours on a hot August afternoon until I, returning to my watch after a brief lunch, sourced the choking odor. The nurses who were assigned to periodically turn her in the bed were absent; when asked to appear, one of them jerked her body so abruptly the lung tube came out and had to be reinserted. Finally, the surgeon returned from his vacation, took one look at her, pulled me out into the hall, told me she “didn’t look good”, and assigned Hospice to convince us to take her home. Two weeks later, the sun streaming in the bedroom window, my mother took her final catch breaths as I held her hand. The date was August 4, 1995.

Little has changed, at that medical facility, except for a magnificent expansion of most all departments and building additions. The nurses are still short handed; the bedside attention completely dependent upon the availability of qualified individuals; and, patients are still subject to a level of care that is based entirely upon their willingness to comply.

Compliance.

An agreement to do whatever one is told, without argument.

Life, and its counterpart – death – notwithstanding.

In generations past, principally the one within which my mother was raised, people were trained to care. And, the professions dedicated to helping others attracted the truly compassionate.

What changed?

Enter the “model.” Such is a behavioral plan, designed and then applied to both institutions and corporations. Because of the veritable size of contemporary enterprise, management of such breadth has required a top down approach to containment – the goal being to maintain order. Without order, systems collapse.

But, hierarchy has its own, inherent weakness. Power, established at the top, while appearing to solidify structure ultimately produces imbalance. How, and why?

When there is power at the top, the distribution of decision making becomes diluted. Multiple departments are created, over which each has its own manager; this produces compartmentalization, which becomes not only a pattern of action but a mentality which infuses perception. This, in turn, births insularity.

When insular thinking pervades, everyone existing within its cocoon learns to believe that what happens in their comparatively tiny world defines reality everywhere. Any notion of standard, whether intellectual or moral, is completely subject to thinking which is increasingly ruled by opinion rather than fact. Accountability diminishes. One answers only to one’s immediate superior, who may or may not have a cogent grasp on anything.

What’s worse, those who actually do possess the cognitive mettle to interpret situations functionally are so far removed from each compartment that assessment is reduced to remotely accessed paperwork.

Enter the health care institution. At the very bottom of this malignant monstrosity is the bedside caregiver. Whence does valid authority rule? And, most importantly, who cares?

Tyrants look at this picture and choose depopulation. Reduce the volume; solve the problem. Oh?

The word “money”, both its acquisition and domain, has yet to enter this discussion. Perhaps the reader carries awareness of its power, in silence; by now, most regardless of socio-economic status know those at the top seize enormous salary and, with it, the power to determine the hourly wage of their counterparts on the bottom rung. In the medical field, those who have direct interaction with the most vulnerable receive the least in compensation.

The model which has informed the structure of health care institutions comes from big business. In my day, the theory driving its application was called Total Quality Management – TQM. This idea birthed the meeting room, wherein all employees from a given level were called together, allegedly to air all grievances, and given a promise of follow up action. Over time, all learned to expect from these pretensive scenes little to nothing beyond status quo. Those in charge selected the appropriate form, filled in data where required, and filed it in a slot marked “Reports.”

To date, I have been “dismissed” from three medical practices. I am no longer a good “fit.” As the patient in pain, I am documented as alternately defiant, my tone lacking in “professionalism”; whereas, my transgressions have included identifying both irregularities and errors, naming them, questioning why, and asking for further assistance. As the patient, I have been non-compliant.

Theoretically, we in the United States have an advocate. It’s called Congress. Should I appear before this body, stand from my seat, be recognized, and speak, be forewarned.

Those who seek to silence me can expect the look.

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Copyright 4/21/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying – in whole; part; or, by translation (except you, Hans-Jorg!) – permitted. Sharing by blog link, exclusively, and that not via RSS. Thank you for respecting the truth.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Dear BARD:

Stickyarts education, blogger theft, brain research, civic commentary, commentary, creative writing, plagiarism, plagiarists

Please, stop extracting my poetic phrases and implanting them into your software for use in AI.

I prefer to live out my days on Earth actually writing my own poems and essays. Go, and find somebody else from whom to steal data.

Thanks.

A Real Human, Who Writes By Herself.

Copyright 4/16/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo, the actual author of both this piece and this blog, littlebarefeetblog.com No RSSing shares; no copying, in part or whole or by translation, permitted. Let people be real.

The Caliber.

Stickybrain research, civic commentary, commentary, Deep Questions, education, grief, healing, human behavior, musicians, philosophy, political commentary, psychology, public education, slum culture, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, thoughts, Uncategorized, , , ,

I know three important people.

One is an acquaintance; the second, an old friend; and, the third, my beloved.

All of these are individuals of high caliber. Together, they present to all of humankind in this country we call America the beginning, and the end, of the most important argument society faces today.

My acquaintance’s name is Martine. She is a gifted orator, a devoted mother, and an all around creative. Martine was the first to declare to me that statistics show some 80% of those diagnosed with mental illness are non-violent.

My old friend’s name is Joe. Joe is a lifelong performing musician, and dedicated teacher. Joe owns weapons, and publicly defends his right to keep them.

Both of these are law abiding American citizens in my corner of the Commonwealth of PA.

Two days ago, a man with “mental health challenges” who was undergoing treatment for the disease legally purchased an assault weapon, entered the bank where he worked in Louisville, KY and killed 5 people in seconds – critically injuring the first police officer to arrive on the scene, along with 5 more defenseless human beings.

My response to this life-defying impasse is finally clarified. Please, lean in, and hear how.

My beloved’s name is David. Though his life took a far different path, many years ago David trained at the college level to become a police officer. In conversation, the other day, David taught me about what I consider one of the most pivotal points in this national discussion.

Caliber has multiple definitions and applications; but, in the context of this discourse, the term refers to the relationship between the diameter of the bullet which fits the firearm, and the diameter of the bore through which the bullet exits the weapon. Handguns — shotguns; pistols, et al — are high caliber. High caliber causes the weapon to produce strong kickback/recoil, upon firing the bullet, requiring training to control; additionally, such weapons can only release one bullet at a time, only holding a limited number of bullets in their casing.

Assault rifles, by contrast, are very low caliber. They are designed to fire off multiple rounds as quickly as possible without having to reload, such purpose being to neutralize large numbers of enemy combatants during active warfare. And, because of their low caliber, there is no kickback/recoil; the shooter, requiring no highly developed skill controlling the weapon can repeatedly attack – with multiple, automatic rounds of ammunition – in a matter of critical seconds.

So, what did I learn from all three of these important people?

Taken together, they taught me that a mentally ill person who has access to an assault rifle has the potential to use it senselessly (meaning: out of coherent, responsible mind) and, with the ease of its low caliber, kill dozens of people in less than a minute. And, that’s not all.

Readers, hear me: just because most mentally ill are non-violent does not rule out that the remaining minority – some 20% – of those afflicted won’t become a spontaneous threat. Likewise, if a mentally ill individual has legal access to a firearm capable of easily taking the lives of several people in mere seconds, what does this tell US about how laws should be legislated?

What is the caliber of your intellect and moral capacity? I think you can answer both questions, yourself.

Please, do.

It’s important.

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Copyright 4/12/23. Ruth Ann Scanzillo. Sharing by blog link, exclusively, and that not via RSS feed. Thank you for spreading the word.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Elegant Conversationalist.*

Stickyrelationships, grief, tributes, family history, faith, religious belief, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

[ formerly titled: Philip Charles Marshall. ]

He was the quietest, and most handsome, man in the whole family – next to his father, my Uncle Frank.

Phil grew up in the house across the street and around the corner, on East 29th, with his four siblings: Alan, the eldest; Lydia, after him; then, Lois and, finally, Frannie. They were the Marshalls – and, the whole neighborhood knew the Marshalls.

Phil and I had one thing in common. We lived in the shadow of our older brothers. Alan, his; and, mine, Nathan — these were big shadows. Major extroverts, each of them, and outstanding in both intellect and talent, we would become their keen observers, he far earlier than I and definitely much more wisely.

Phil minced his words. He spoke only when necessary, and always with careful placement. And, like his father before him, he walked. Fast, head down, with that purposeful gait. He walked wherever he didn’t have to drive. And, when he did drive, he selected the avocado green Ford Galaxie 500. The whole family marveled. It was a winner, at $500.

Instead of the wild world of commercial art and marketing chosen by his elder, Phil went to Behrend College to study to become a draftsman and, ultimately, an engineer. Clean; precise; well planned. Like his father.

I don’t know why or how it happens, but beautiful people find each other. Phil was a natural stunner; he looked like Bill Bixby, only with dark brown hair. And, he’d smile only when you’d earned his grin. So, inevitably, he fell in love with Sue. Susan Johnson, RN, the most beautiful woman in the world. That is, according to me, the gangly skinny gawky clumsy cousin, the one who always spoke before thinking, never shaved a single syllable, and clamored like a warped dinner bell for all the attention she could muster. Remember. I said we only had one thing in common.

The day he married Sue, I stood out on the sidewalk of Holiday Inn South, waiting with a pouch of rice like everyone else for the two of them to re-emerge from the hotel room on the second level overlooking the pool. Mum had made Sue’s entire trousseau, aqua was the color that season and, when she finally appeared, bursting with silken floral boat necked Barbie doll sheath beneath that radiant, luminous aqua coat……..Sue was drop dead gorgeous, a star among us.

Phil already knew it. He said not a word. He didn’t have to.

He was taking the prize, on a honeymoon no less.

But, unlike any other man more than willing to objectify a woman, Phil was steadfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord. Humility was his middle name, and he wore it proudly. And, the commandment to love his wife even as Christ loved the church and gave Himself for it? Phil was already there.

Together, he and Sue would vow to raise a family putting their savior, Jesus Christ, first in everything. Jennifer came soon, a brownie like her father; then, Amy, blonde like her mother; and, lastly, Nat whom, Sue said, she dreamed vividly of before his birth.

After a year or two in Oswego, NY where Phil had found first employ, Sue teaching herself the art of the gourmet from scratch, they would become the first in the family to find a house in Frontier Park; typically, they chose a humble bungalow, on Shenley. Phil was at Hammermill Paper Company, now, getting promoted to site foreman and traveling to Selma, Alabama to supervise a huge mill build. Soon after, they’d move to Wager Road, their green thumbs converging to create a flower garden like no other for miles. And, when big, franchising business wanted to spoil their idyl with some noisy corner truck stop, Phil and Sue spear headed a public protest to protect their way of life – and, won.

Years later, after the kids were grown, Phil would find their ultimate dream: a big old farmhouse, on Rte 5 in Northeast, PA. Sue pretty much died and went to heaven, in that place – wallpapering complete with border print and hand painting from bird houses to decorative chairs until the whole place was as pretty as a B&B in upper Michigan. In fact, when Hammermill was sold to International Paper, they who wanted to move Phil to the midwest, he took early retirement from the paper industry – and, a job at Better Baked Foods* – just so they could stay in the house they’d made into their heaven on the lake.

Though Sue was the “creative”, Phil was not without imagination. The job at Better Baked was a good one but, upon official retirement, he felt a hankering to generate supplemental income and “keep busy”, as our grandmother Mammy always advised. Phil’s neighbor operated a limousine service, so Phil became a driver – chauffeuring all manner of prom dates, wedding parties, and the occasional celebrity to and from the whole county. An excellent listener, along the way among his most memorable cargo would be none other than actor/comedian, Danny DeVito, in town to make an appearance at the annual Tall Ships Festival on the Bay. Methinks Danny found him, equally worth remembering, an elegant conversationalist.

Most of all, Phil wanted to please God, with his every breath.

He did.

He was careful, thoughtful, faithful, and resolute to the end.

And, the end came far more quickly than any of us born of longevity would have imagined. His own mother had succumbed to a cerebral hemmorhage, at age 65 and, while both he and most of his sibs had experienced migraines throughout their lives, his had ceased decades ago. I, for one, would never have guessed that Phil had inherited his mother’s genetic predisposition. He wasn’t like her, in any other way.

But, today, after the very same deep brain event last evening which took his mother, away to attend a wedding in Baltimore she was that year, his spirit escaped a body which could not recover and crossed the bar to greet eternity.

We are all stunned, like every human at sudden death. One day, here; the next day, gone. But, Phil Marshall left this plane just like he lived — quietly; swiftly; efficiently; and, to the point.

We live; we die. Whether we live, or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. That’s what Sue would say.

Phil would have said it, first.

Quietly.

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* Given that there is significant factual information about Phil that should be included in this mini bio warranting yet another edit, please allow this addendum:

Phil graduated from the esteemed LeSuer Conservatory of Music in Erie, PA on TRUMPET – performing, according to those in attendance, “Flight of the Bumblebee” to PERFECTION! As a professional musician throughout my own life, never having HEARD him play trumpet is my singular regret! Here is an excerpt, from his obituary; clearly, his life was highly productive, nearly continuously – and, way past retirement age. Read:

“Phil graduated from the Erie Conservatory of Music in 1957 with a certificate in Trumpet and Harmony and Theory. In 1960, he was in the first senior class to graduate from the new Tech Memorial High School (now Erie High). After high school he enrolled at Penn State and then was employed at Hammermill Paper Company / International Paper where he enjoyed a rewarding engineering career for 30 years, and the opportunity to travel throughout the U.S. and Western Europe. Following that, he was engineering manager for eight years at Better Baked Foods in North East. Upon retirement he worked part-time, first as a chauffeur for a limousine service and then for several years as a part-time engineer for Quantum Consulting Inc. where in recent years his work was mainly at BASF in Erie, where he continued into his 78th year of age.”

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Philip Charles Marshall 1942 – 2023. God bless Sue, Jen, Amy, and Nat; Alan & Bev, Cheryl & Mark, David & Michelle; Lydia & Richard, Richard & Connie, Charles & Holly, Philip & Rebecca; Lois & Bill, RuthAnna & Micah, Daniel, Andrew, Joel, Ian, Willie, Jamie; Frannie & John, Jacob, Stephen, and Jesse.

Baidu Search Engine is Onion Skinning Links to My Blog Site.

Stickyblog site access problems for littlebarefeetblog.com, blogger theft

When I saw the Baidu search engine, at my Stats, I clicked on the arrow to be directed toward it. Imagine my astonishment to see MY blog site address, a photo NOT mine/ NEVER appearing at my site, and a link to a single sentence lifted from one of my pieces, keyword highlighted “lovely.”

Clicking there, I was instantly redirected TO MY SITE – to the Home page, to the entire site itself! Does this qualify as “Sharing by blog link, exclusively”?!

Furthermore, since I was logged in, there was direct access to my DRAFTS page as well!!!!!!

Directly beneath my link were several more blogsite links, with attached cursory photos, and single lines of type with the keyword “precursor” highlighted.

I just messaged help@wordpress.com We shall see what kind of excuse is made, regarding this clear and alarming breach of site security.

WATCH OUT FOR BAIDU.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Heavy Metal.

Stickybrain research, classical musicians, education, healing, health and wellness, medicine, personal testimony, scientific theory, slum culture, social commentary, sociology, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The man was a breed apart.

Ray* had spent his entire adult life head of maintenance, for the local General Electric plant. He swept floors, it’s true; but, he also repaired just about everything when it broke. Trained as a welder, this included soldering thick pipes.

Always resourceful, Ray taught himself to use a sewing machine. Most of the shirts he wore he’d made himself, complete with top stitching, buttoned cuffs, and added pockets. He also built a deck on the back of his house, and inlaid floor tile.

Outside of work, the man had a rich, cultured experience. He’d met his wife, a native of Rome Italy, at Karate – where they each achieved the 3rd degree black belt, and could both break brick. She a tax accountant, during her off season the two of them would travel the world on expensive cruises, usually for two weeks at a time. By the time Ray reached retirement age, he’d been just about everywhere.

Nevertheless, Ray wanted to learn cello. His goal was to play for the angels someday, in the realm to come. A lofty aspiration, no pun intended, I decided he deserved the opportunity to prepare.

Unlike most beginners, he’d had no musical background. No singing, in school. No church, in childhood. No rhythm sticks, hand bells. No records playing, at night before falling asleep. No piano lessons.

By contrast, I had been surrounded by music making since infancy. Its aural patterns played in my head, regularly and easily. How to get these into Ray’s cranium would become MY ultimate challenge.

Apparently, he’d played for a few years already before we met; Ray came to me after all three of his preliminary teachers had, for one reason or another, set him aside.

So, we began at the beginning. Solid first position set up. Bow arm trajectory. He had the basics well established, mechanically; minus a tendency to play finger to finger, all Ray really needed was an ability to hear and match pitch.

This would prove his ultimate contender.

The man was my most devoted student. Everything I advised he do, he did – to the absolute best of his ability. A self described “slow” learner, nobody knew better than Ray how much effort and repetition would be required to master the tasks set before him.

He’d been my adult cello student, for over ten years, before – post pandemic – Ray spontaneously lost the hearing in one ear. We both postulated that, surely, exposure to continuous loud interior shop noise was the likely culprit.

The ENT examined him. His ears, the doctor declared, were fine.

An MRI was scheduled, next. I kept mum my encroaching concerns; auditory tumors were not uncommon, anymore. He’d be sure to inform me, of the results of the scan.

The day came. Ray described with his customary, easygoing narrative his experience at the MRI test. The technician, he said, kept coming back out to check him – for metal. No; no earrings, nose rings, implants. No metal. But, there was metal, the tech said. In his head.

The test complete, there was no metal on Ray’s body. But, there was metal in. his. head.

Ray wracked his tired, aging brain. He’d never been in the military. Never shot a gun. Never endured a traumatic, penetrating head injury. All he could blame were those days at the G.E., welding pipes. Had he inhaled metal dust, and had particulate reached his brain?

This made sense, to both of us. To me, it explained much. Jay, always struggling to both grasp and retain teaching concepts, would make exhaustive effort to get them into his longterm memory. Even then, if enough time elapsed, invariably he’d need to relearn some of what he had already demonstrated.

Yet, when taken as a whole person, simply put: Ray was not a slow learner. He’d reached the maximum skill level, a master of the art of self defense. He’d made half of his own clothing. He could still fix whatever broke. This was evidence of giftedness – not a feeble mind!

Rock and roll music evolved, in my lifetime. From simple chord progressions topped off by an innocent melody, life and its increasing assaults would birth a genre devoid of nourishment – angry, screaming, pounding, thrashing. Called heavy metal, this was music for the abused and poisoned.

Now, Ray fights back, against the very infiltrate of this evil residue.

May the angels reserve his seat.

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*to respect his identity, my student’s name has been changed for this account.

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Copyright 3/13/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. No RSSing copies. All rights those of the biographer, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Sharing by blog link, exclusively, and not via RSS feed. Thank you for respecting the true stories told by others.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Sil Caggiano SPEAKS!

Stickyblog welcome, CANCER TREATMENTS AND CURES, education, grief, healing, health and wellness, human behavior, medicine, political commentary, psychology, public education, Questions, Quotes, social commentary, sociology, truth, Uncategorized, , , ,

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

Ruth Ann Scanzillo

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Reader.

StickyUncategorized

Last night, after seven years of relative anonymity, my blog was finally read.

I mean, really read.

Some 89 of the over 850 pieces were selected from the anthology, appearing by name in the stats.

As I clicked through each of them for a re-read as author, silently noting each among my best I had to acknowledge that, whomever the equally silent visitor, he or she had chosen the printable list. You know. The stuff worth publishing.

I’d begun defiantly enough. Other would-be authors, with the gene for driving forward, would seek agents and press on until their own work reached the shelves of the best book stores. I would not be among them. Taking the path of quasi-humility, I would merely write; if my work were worthy, somebody would eventually just find it. Ah, the naivete of insularity.

Predictably, years passed. Nine, if one counted these past couple months. Ideas kept erupting. My fingers kept grasping them, preciously carrying every one to the keyboard to reach fulfillment. I’d remain there, editing endlessly, until each was set to “publish”, that rather pathetic facsimile provided by the hosting site for the far more powerful reality.

Friends would pass by, for the occasional visit. Even fewer among them would find reason to compliment the efforts. Then, the stats began. Soon, they declared regions and nations well beyond the United States. I counted them. Could it be? Had my one, anonymous blog really garnered a world wide readership?

I grew to believe, in my private heart, that I could write. Should it matter, therefore, if anybody actually paid hard-earned money for the privilege of a read?

Somebody finally told me, several years hence, that those visitors I fancied coming from every country on the planet were no more than web travelers choosing to appear incognito; one could sign in, citing any remote province on a given continent. My suspicions commenced.

By the time I realized that my work was likely being lifted, copied, pasted, parsed, reconstituted, translated……I’d passed the 500 mark. Five hundred plus finished essays, and poems. Who would care, anymore?

Last night, somebody did. Somebody hailing from “Poland.” I hope to God whomever this is will, at the very least, attach my name as author to each saved selection.

Everybody needs identity. We all deserve, okay desperately need, to believe we’ve made something of our puny lives. Perhaps you, my reader, will rise above mere plagiarism and be worthy of your own, as well.

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Copyright 2/19/23. Ruth Ann Scanzillo. Oh, what the hell.

littlebarefeetblog.com

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

Stickyaddiction, arts education, CANCER TREATMENTS AND CURES, civic commentary, coronavirus, education, Good Food, grief, healing, health and wellness, medicine, notice, political commentary, psychology, public education, scientific theory, social commentary, sociology, the power grid, thoughts, travelogues, truth, Uncategorized, vacation destinations, , , ,

EXCERPTED from his substack article:

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

It’s Not Just The Wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Deliberate Chemical Weapons Attack?

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Video on Twitter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Le Catalogue.

Stickyaddiction, arts education, contemplation, drama, film reviews, healing, human behavior, psychology, relationships, social behavior, sociology, Uncategorized, , , , , , , ,

Mel Gibson was probably the biggest.

Always late to the party, her fancy had been caught a good decade after his own run up to stardom. Averted by poster boys, she’d decided – likely due to an inborn resistance to popularity trends – that anybody celebrated should be shunned.

The trigger appeared to be trauma. Back then, the loss of her mother so swiftly to aggressive, blindsiding brain cancer just over five weeks from diagnosis, the grief was two fold. This abrupt departure would predicate divorce, from a husband in absentia. Emotional abandonment rendered her isolate; she would cocoon, death and divorce birthing escape into creative fantasy. Enter the surrogate, larger than life, to appear as hero.

Braveheart was released, that summer. She sat in the theater, transfixed by fearless, brute strength and a warrior love for the ages. Then, out she went to find the VCR cassette set. Thereafter, endless return trips to the video store for every movie in Gibson’s repertoire, she couldn’t settle for idol worship. This was serious succour; the actor in all his characters, whether conqueror, lover, or martyr, had to supplant her every unmet need. Two years hence, she submitted a completed screenplay intended for his perusal to the Library of Congress.

In need of nothing, she’d been the last innocent of her generation. Well, almost. Preserving her honor in the name of “godliness”, a trait reserved for zealots and virgins, she’d sacrificed intellectual focus at the feet of chastity, squandering potential for a life among the most highly qualified creative academics for the sake of saintly character. This would require its own unique liberator. Appearing at the front door in Sex, Lies, and Videotape, James Spader rang that bell. His penchant for soft porn splayed across her imagination with such magnetic allure, she spent months draped over the davenport, arrested by agony.

Bradley Cooper embodied what had thereafter become her lifelong persuasion: love, and the addict. Hers, seemingly benign, sugar sweetened chocolate; his, any manner of substances, Cooper’s Jackson in A Star Is Born knocked her flat out, so stunned was she by recognition. Of all these figments, he’d come the closest to stepping right into the frame of her actual reality. Perusing his catalogue, however, proved truncating; other characters were less relatable, at times too ambitious or clamoring. In Cooper, she’d responded only to the tragic, already plenty of pathos unfolding every day in her world.

Likely the last, Timothee Chalamet emerged gradually. Bones hardly reaching full growth, yet a gaze so arresting, clear pools reflecting a depth almost daring descent. Add to that French mystique, unbound by any convention, and you had the perfect pseudo paramour for a woman of any age, certain or unnamed. He would, among them all, likely outlive her. In this, she found comfort.

Every generation had its zeitgeists, so said Edward Enninfel. She wasn’t about to bow to mere adoration. Hers was a trauma bond. What the realm of cinema provided was an alternate reality which spoke far more poignantly than its art form alone. Her roster of personal therapists had played their roles worthy of prestigious award; what she gleaned, these had offered freely.

Fixations predictably fade. Every catalogue ultimately closes. By whatever name the value of each, in the end, is priceless.

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Copyright 2/18/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, lifting, screen grabbing, pilfering, parsing, or translating permitted. Sharing by blog link, exclusively, and that not via RSS feed. Thank you, personally, for representing professional integrity.

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AGEISM.

Stickyblog welcome, blogger theft, commentary, creative writing, drama, education, Uncategorized, , , ,

Whatever happened to the voice of experience?

In nearly all Eastern cultures, the older you get the more respect you deserve.

America, 250 years in, still so stubbornly adolescent. Noisy; recalcitrant; ignorant; willful.

I’m old and, well, as a lifelong American, I’m embarrassed.

Don’t cancel me. You’ll regret it.

At 33, I’d just gotten started. At least ten years behind my contemporaries, thanks to a host of wind up toys and stuffed animals deciding my alleged fate, I had to clamor and scramble to catch up. And, catch up I did. Was anybody looking? Maybe.

Now, people see a baby boomer and they just turn their heads. Not so fast, my starlings. Don’t leave adult authority to the news pundits and old money. We’re everywhere you show up. And, our stories are real, not the stuff of cloistered fantasy.

Oh; and, don’t dismiss a boomer because of small town locale. The human experience is at once vast, and preciously specific. Cumulative affect tells its own tale. Lean in. Listen.

This blog opened in 2014, with a handful of pieces created in high school and college, and then began birthing its own. To date, there are 850 essays and poems, 99% original to the author: moi. Somebody who signs in from “China” who never likes or comments is likely screen capturing and translating, for some sleazy steal. I suggest you read the English versions, starting now.

Now is the best time. Now is where old people live. Some of us still have 30 years left on the planet and, last I checked, that was a generation.

And, because my generation was taught to show appreciation and gratitude, I say: Thank you.

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(Shieh Shieh.)

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Copyright 2/13/2023. Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, blah blah. Thank you, she says. To you, because you respected reading this far.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Perceptor.

Stickyaddiction, drama, Good Food, healing, human behavior, love, psychology, relationships, scientific theory, sociology, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Little Henry loved dinosaurs.

He loved them so much that, during his cello lessons, he named the four cello strings Carnotaurus, Gigantosaurus, Dilophosaurous, and Ankylosaurus.

She was somewhat of a raptor, herself. Gliding across all she surveyed, her enormous wing span covered just about everything and everybody visible below. By virtue of her fantastic size, she could see alot.

Childhood fantasy was a wonderful tool, enhancing the learning process by stimulating affective arousal and a host of synaptic responses the brain engages to receive, sort, and retrieve information. The problem emerged when adults got lost in its grandeur.

Nearly three weeks ago, she’d paid a surprise visit to her beloved. He had never been keen on these unsolicited appearances, telling her so in no uncertain terms; but, afflicted with not only a vividly overactive imagination she was also obsessive compulsive and, well, sometimes, found herself merely a passenger in the vehicle driving her behavior.

Such was the case on that evening when, ringing the doorbell, she stood on the front landing awaiting entry into his livingroom. By the time he did appear she could already tell that he’d chosen his own preferred mode of escape, having reached a state bordering on surly. But, still polite, he did let her in and stood, sluggish and squinting, as she strode into the kitchen to see how he’d spent his last eight hours.

No beer cans, anywhere; how deftly they’d been hidden. But, now, a homemade flatbread pizza slice left on the stone, one large unrecognizable bowl, emptied of what looked like guacamole and, as referenced in a previous recounting, a single recipe card – pristine and alone and bearing completely unfamiliar handwriting – on the opposite counter.

She moved back toward the livingroom, asking for the whereabouts of the ivermectin stash; this anti-parasitic had recently been found to prevent red blood cell aggregation, and might they….he had no idea where he’d put it. Okay. She would search, herself.

Re-emerging from the bathroom, she caught him stuffing something under the sofa cushion and then, spying her, dramatically smoothing its surface.

The pair of black workout pants discovered there would become the subject of her fixation, therewith. She would challenge him with their size, seemingly too narrow for his muscle bound legs. She would ask him to put them on; he would refuse. She would leave – declaring him a liar, a cheat, a thief, and God knew what else. And, he would laugh.

Down the steps of the front porch she’d fly, raptor wings flapping ominously all the way home. Predictably, gathering her huddle of equally willing grand jurists, they’d pronounce him precisely as described: liar, cheat, you know the tune, with the finality of a flock of buzzards circling over the county landfill. By the time they’d reach their verdict, he’d be toast.

Enter the Creator of all living, the Almighty Omnipresent and Omniscient. One perspective; one overriding view.

God would take her pea brain, fraught with its own traumas, and remold its perceptions. Within ten days, she would be graced with not one, but three pairs of black workout pants, at least one of them appearing to relax after the wearing and, most critical to the cause, a wooden box filled with recipe cards. Most relevant there were several, among those clearly bearing his illegible penmanship, which had been written by the same, unknown scribe who had produced the salad recipe used that fateful night.

While he may have been visited by the mistress demon who haunted all addictions, there had been no stranger in that house sharing in his misery. There was only albeit inebriated he – and then his addicted, raptoriously soaring above reality to snatch up the residual bones in her ancient, creaking beak and reconstruct a definitive archeological find out of the whole scenario for an eagerly awaiting army of self-appointed anthropologists.

Little Henry was progressing. He’d been growing, too. His legs were now too long for the prototype cello, and he’d moved far beyond the four strings toward completing his first song. Would that all would evolve beyond perceptions of a given delusion to wrench free of the dinosaurs lying wait to capture that final hope for psychic and emotional survival.

After all, there was really only One all-knowing.

And, that One had created the dinosaurs, too.

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Copyright 2/2/23 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 or by translation, permitted; sharing only via blog link, exclusively, and that not by RSS. Write the script for your own story. Thanks.

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The Horror of Armie Hammer.

Stickyaddiction, contemplation, creative writing, drama, film reviews, healing, health and wellness, human behavior, love, medicine, psychology, relationships, Uncategorized, , , , , ,

My parathyroids were having a fit.

A cascade of alarming symptoms had followed me since September beginning with the second of two kidney stones, roiling its way south to exit, followed by uncontrollable OCD, crushing anxiety and, per the secondary results of the CT scan nearly culminating in that most reviled of all diagnostics, the colonoscopy. BUT!

The second of two 24 hour urine captures told that tale. Calcium levels were the kicker. Not to be outdone by actual medical professionals, I pored over the interwebs until, honing in, I’d settled on the glands in my throat. Seems at least one of them was throwing out hormone like gangbusters; and, who knew? My endocrinologist, a Peruvian with a penchant for the latest peer reviewed papers, called me from two hours outside Lima to discuss the whole thing.

At such a juncture, one needs diversion.

The Bachelor season wouldn’t commence for another, unendurable week, and the guy who’d played boyfriend on the flat screen of my fantasy was AWOL again; so, if succour was the craving of the hour the most available (and, delectable) appeared to be an Oscar nom’d film, Call Me By Your Name. Unaware of its actual theme, I was drawn in by what had always turned my head: ineffably. pretty. boys.

And, this was a twofer: the most heavily promoted ingenue, Tim-O-Tay Chalamet – and, one Armand Douglas Hammer.

The story played out as a heady, Indy-European hybrid, flavoured with English subtitles whenever our Elio preferred les Francais and steeped in languid, sun swathed Italian countryside. We followed the young musician and his scholarly Oliver, as they stepped out their bee dance toward coupling, predictably enough; yet, what carried this old girl was the sight, sound, even perceptible scent of perfectly lovely men.

But, reverberating in the back of my refractive lens was the distant undertow of what used to be termed the society page story – on Hammer. As I watched his godlike, Aryan body travel across the frame, I noted a distinctive impetus that seemed almost borne of compulsion. Unlike his convincingly thoughtful counterpart, Chalamet, he didn’t muse to move; Hammer, as Oliver, almost vaulted forward, suddenly, as a cat might pounce.

Could the nature of the man have informed the character he portrayed? Even when the two were in rapt embrace, I was never warmed toward Oliver by any notion of authentic sentiment. He seemed rather to be calculating, to the end, loosely referencing discretion as some sort of caveat for deliberate restraint. At times, he toyed with lovesick Elio, even taunting, then cold. While performing therapeutic foot massage, he appeared to be inflicting authentic pain. In their final scene, departing by train toward a life of alleged responsibility he was ever in his head, as if always having known the end from its beginning.

Is this not the mark of the predator?

I decided that both, as actors, were effortless, immersed in their story. But, what of Hammer, in his?

Born into a family dynasty marked by both industrial megafortune and some alarming, dark demons, “Armie” appeared to have it all – beauty; physique; intellect; and, sexual magnetism. But, too much evidence had mounted, far more often than he would in occasional infidelity, and of a kind which made even a rebel startle; multiple women were testifying to relentless, physical brutality.

In my recent, protracted attempt at relationship I’d become accustomed to giving latitude where likely undeserved, forgiveness where none could otherwise be found. But, my brain stretched, on this one; what, or who, had poisoned the mind of this young man toward an established pattern of relational violence? Was it genetic weakness, true affliction? Or, had he grown to expect absolute dominance over all, both those haplessly appearing in his path as well as selected prey?

I’d sought mindless entertainment, of the evening. I tried valiantly to submit to escape. But, reality encroached – and, won. This wasn’t just a movie about two gay guys falling in love; this was a study in the strength of suspension of disbelief. And, regarding any ability to relax into a story played by actors, even viewing it twice I’d failed. All I could see, or feel, were the raw edges of biting teeth and the tearing flesh of penetrating assault.

Current reports indicate Hammer is financially destitute, in debt, foundering in a menial job as timeshare concierge. The shadows cast by his persistent past still follow him, a true diagnosis for the disease haunting him elusive.

In a matter of days, I will likely reach the point of definitive diagnosis, for my own: Hyperparathyroidism. Four tiny glands, set just below the hyoid bone hammock of the human throat, and capable – with the advent of just one, benign lesion – of wreaking havoc over the entire physiological constitution, at its most pathological achieving psychosis.

Maybe Armie Hammer could use a pursuant blood test, of his own. Whence the darkest deeds of man, anyway? The heart may be deceitful, desperately wicked; but, perhaps the source of all bad human behavior can at last be found, couched in the tantrum of one, small handful of rogue cells.

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  • Please find “HOUSE OF HAMMER” on Amazon Prime or Discovery+

Copyright 1/24/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, who has consumed four double chocolate chip cookies in cocoa flour and whose story it is. No copying, pasting, editing, transcribing, or translating permitted; sharing by blog link, exclusively, and that not via RSS. Thank you for visiting, and remembering, and subscribing.

littlebarefeetblog.com

He Said, She Said.

Stickyaddiction, arts education, contemplation, Deep Questions, education, grief, healing, human behavior, love, medicine, musicians, personal testimony, psychology, relationships, sociology, The Independent Party, thoughts, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , ,

He said God didn’t interact in the lives of humans.

She was sure that God did, though she wasn’t clear on exactly how, or when, or what God was doing.

He was a Democrat, but didn’t vote. She was a registered Independent, voting whenever she could choose a viable candidate.

He believed in abortion as part of a woman’s right to choose, and had encouraged women he knew to have them in the past.

She was fervently pro-life, and considered the right to choose a foil for the right to abort.

He had chosen vasectomy as his means of birth control. She’d used the sympto-thermal method, which had included periodic abstinence.

She loved to walk outdoors, but her profession kept her inside 90% of the time. When he wasn’t cooking, he was outside.

He loved dogs, cats, and birds. Her cat allergy was prohibitive and, though she’d always wanted a dog, both her neighborhood and property were not amenable.

He was built of short, bulk muscle, and preferred large motor activities like weight lifting, sailing, and heavy land maintenance. Hers was a small motor gift, expressed on musical instruments and utilizing the tools of visual art.

He was open ended, preferring to go with the flow. She needed closure, almost obsessively so, not resting until achieved.

He enjoyed hip hop and other contemporary music styles. She would choose country over hip hop, every time, but preferred everything from the classical masterworks to ballads to blues.

He was a medical professional. She was a creative and educator.

Her love expressions were gifting, problem solving, and verbal encouragement. While his love language included gifting his was almost exclusively physical release, and she could count on one hand after six years the number of times he complimented her even if strangers lavished praise.

He liked the house cool to cold, often complaining of feeling hot. She had a bit of Reynaud’s, and required a warm indoor environment to keep her fingers fully functioning.

He was a recreational alcohol and drug user, and self medicated regularly. She took prescriptions to treat migraines, one of them with a history of altering mood.

He was an introvert. She was an ambivert.

He regarded talking as a one sided means to vent. She preferred productive conversation and active dialogue.

He enjoyed reading about history and the care of animals. She preferred reading about the current states of society, health, and the cosmos.

He addressed multiple tasks as they came to mind. She made lists, and crossed off tasks as they were completed.

He preferred keeping his personal life details private. Her imagination led her to question the veracity of his disclosures.

He was fiercely in need of making all decisions on his own, including those which she believed were her exclusive domain. She was the most independent woman she knew.

He preferred to live within a small sphere of his own influence, rarely seeking answers. She was constantly curious, attracted to the speculative universe of unexplored possibility.

He resisted all forms of perceived control. She perceived his resistance as a stubborn need for absolute power.

His behavioral standards were focused on self comfort and sustenance. Hers were built around self protection and preservation.

His, from early childhood; hers, from every aspect of her social realm, theirs was a trauma bond.

He said. She said.

In spite of everything and against overwhelming odds, they had found themselves unable to break free of that which had kept them intersecting in each other’s lives.

To call this a relationship was to stretch the limits of human definition. Only God could name it.

He said God wouldn’t. She was still waiting.

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Copyright 1/21/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo . All rights those of the author, whose personal story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole, or part, or by translation. Sharing by blog link exclusively, and not via RSS feed. Thank you for valuing the rights of original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Recipe Card.

Stickyaddiction, contemplation, creative writing, drama, Good Food, human behavior, psychology, Recipes, relationships, short stories, slum culture, sociology, truth, Uncategorized

CHAPTER 50.

His was a gourmet’s gift. The slurries, alone, always subtley balanced. The rubs, same. You never wanted for naming a dominant spice; rather, the synergy.

And, he loved the prospect of a new “dish.” Let the plan gel, and then heartily get to it.

Yet, the scenario this time was different. A certain clarity pervaded the usually hazy atmosphere. The house had been cleaned, recently, reorganized too. No longer the customary chaos usually accompanying his binges when she rang the doorbell, unannounced, on a night he’d learned to expect her to be otherwise occupied giving private music lessons.

She’d lost count how many times over the years there’d been, oh, two bowls instead of one, an odd wine glass, fried chicken all but gone in the skillet. Then there was the bright yellow stethoscope draped hastily over the livingroom chair, as if somebody other than she had entered via the rarely used front door.

No; this time, the pizza stone nearly empty of more slices than even a fat man could consume, the large, antique China salad bowl oddly cleaned of its contents but, what was this?

A recipe card. For “Linguini Salad”.

Sitting alone, on the opposite counter. Handwritten, in rather large, round, legible script and clean, as if just penned that very day. Not a speck of cooking grease, not a corner turned, fresh as morning. And she, with her annoying visual memory, immediately identifying the writing as unrecognizable.

It had come from his ex-wife, he slurred. Oh; really. All those thirty odd years ago, still untouched by so much as a drop of oil.

And, calling for artichokes and “Paul Newman’s Own” dressing, the latter underscored with proud emphasis.

Why a natural chef would choose a salad recipe from the ex-wife which called for pasta and bottled dressing, to accompany a mammoth flatbread homemade pizza. Why, indeed.

Moving through the livingroom to the bathroom ( in search of the stash of Ivermectin ) and, re-emerging sooner than he was ready, she caught him stuffing something under the sofa cushion and then, spying her, deftly acting to smooth its surface.

Ah. What had we here, then. Black Nike workout pants, far too narrow for his overdeveloped calves. They were his, were they. Would he put them on, to see if they fit? No; he would not. Nor would he tell her how he’d spent the afternoon. He owed her nothing. In nearly six years of endless forgiveness for countless infractions, she had earned no explanations of any kind.

Two degrees of separation, and swift resolution: No; the ex-wife had never used Paul Newman’s Own dressing. On anything.

(Sorry, Paul.)

They say the secret is always in the sauce.

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Thus endeth the lesson.

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Copyright 1/18/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole, part, or by translation, permitted; sharing by blog link, exclusively, and not via RSS. Thank you for being honorable in a sea of filth.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Do I Want To Live Forever?

Stickyarts education, brain research, Christian fundamentalism, contemplation, creative writing, Deep Questions, Deep Thoughts, faith, human behavior, mystical experience, personal testimony, philosophy, prayer, proverbs, psychology, religious belief, sectarian Fundamentalism, sociology, thoughts, truth, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Do you want to live forever?

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

Can you dig it? Then, everybody sing!

Hallelujah!

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

littlebarefeetblog.com

Kathy O’Keefe Linger.

StickyCANCER TREATMENTS AND CURES, Christian fundamentalism, Christianity, education, family history, grief, healing, health and wellness, love, medicine, memorials, personal testimony, prayer, public education, relationships, religious belief, sociology, tributes, truth, Uncategorized

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

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

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

Kathy.

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

And, our Kathy embodied cool like nobody.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Alienated Stranger.

Stickyaddiction, drama, education, grief, healing, health and wellness, medicine, personal testimony, psychology, relationships, social commentary, sociology, Uncategorized, , , , , ,

Obsessive Compulsion is a marauding demon.

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

Happy looping!

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

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

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

Anyhoo…….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selah.

Obsess on that.

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

littlebarefeetblog.com

Cry

Stickyoriginal poetry, Uncategorized

A woman needs

an idol

too long pushed down

by dogma

told to be demure.

and, why

give her a man

to lust after

that she cannot have

then, try

to tell her

how to feel

and, who to be.

No.

Just

let her

Cry.

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

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Junior League.

Stickyarts education, civic commentary, creative writing, family history, human behavior, musicians, performance, professional musicians, psychology, public education, Uncategorized

Mum was a seamstress, a dressmaker, a tailor of the finest order. She could take any off the rack dress, jacket, pant, gown and make it fit any body assigned. She could make three piece fully lined suits from Vogue patterns, ball and wedding gowns, even curtains and upholstery covers. And, she did all this, from her sewing room at home.

While I was growing up, Mum would often ask me to go to the piano and perform for her customers. I would comply, choosing the flashiest solo piece I’d most recently prepared. All the ladies would rave, and compliment Mum on her daughter’s talent .

Marlene was among the most vociferous.

Her family lived a couple blocks down the steep hill, on East 28th Street, in a brick house with a porch. Marlene and her mother, Emma, were very close, coming to the house biweekly for their fittings. Most of Mum’s customers were from the same extended family of second generation Italian-American ladies, working clerically or teaching but, during my high school years, Marlene grew to become a business administrator, community leaders increasingly recognizing her efforts and accomplishments. All the while Mum dressed her, impeccably, Emma duly proud.

Perhaps a gesture intended to give back to Mum, after the decades she’d spent keeping Marlene looking sharp, whatever the motive the day came when, out of nowhere, Marlene declared her intention to sponsor Betty’s daughter to the Junior League of Erie.

Founded in New York in 1901, the Junior League was formed to instill social responsibility and a spirit of volunteerism among community women. Over the years, however, the charitable organization had become a vehicle for debutantes, a class marker for the up and coming young. Being sponsored to join the League was an honor with huge implications for future social and professional connections, not the least of these eligible men of the same rank and level of social recognition.

The act generated by Marlene was directed as a gesture toward her treasured seamstress. In the spirit of the relationship between Marlene and her own mother I was to accept the gift by joining the order, in turn bringing my mother pride by association.

But, I screwed up.

I said no.

******

A few months ago, in the middle of the summer, both of my brothers were able to come through town for a single evening. The younger, now a traveling quality control representative in the health care field, hadn’t been home since Dad died ten years before, and the elder, former divisional medical director turned director/consultant for a major diagnostic laboratory, almost as long away. Both were in town to do inspections. Both lived in southern states, raising their families and working thousands of miles away.

I remember feeling ecstatic that they could both be here, at once. I only had two siblings, no sisters, and no offspring of my own, so any feeling of family I’d ever known had to come from my vicarious association with their sons and daughters’ lives. But, having them both actually here together would reunite us as brothers and sister, like when we were growing up.

We’d planned to eat at a nearby Italian restaurant. Both of them loved Italian restaurant food, both having been to Italy – the elder, several times – each of them working on the road; but, my upstairs wall HVAC unit on the fritz, they also booked hotels. They booked hotels because they also liked staying in hotels, don’t get me wrong; but, had the upstairs loft been temperature controlled, I’d have loved having them both here together for the weekend, in my home.

They arrived, entering via the shed door, and greeted each other in my music room. The elder was shorter and greyer than I’d remembered; the younger, wider. I took their picture. Moving to the kitchen, we addressed my need for construction advice on a household addition; then, we piled into the vehicle assigned to the elder, and headed to the restaurant.

For well over fifteen minutes, both of them charmed the hostess. She was most gracious. I have no idea if she needed to do other things, but she remained in conversation with them without even a hint of distraction. I, with my five year history as a hostess and waitress, was proud of her professionalism.

We’d chosen to dine outdoors on the restaurant patio. I sat in the seat closest to the dividing wall, and they sat opposite each other. Once we finally placed our orders, they continued the conversation they’d begun in the front seat of the vehicle en route the few blocks to the restaurant. I watched them, thinking about how the pandemic and age had overtaken us. I spent a lot of time sitting there thinking, before we got our food, when our food arrived, and after we were finished eating. I was able to do this, because they asked me no questions of any kind. I asked them no questions, either, principally because there was no break in the conversation the two of them were enjoying.

After probably two and a half hours, I invited them to present me with any questions they might have. My elder brother said nothing. My younger brother asked me if I had any friends here, and my answer included a reference to my students and their families as my friends – much like Mum’s customers were, to her. Then, I mentioned the elder’s former wife, with whom I’d had a reuniting phone conversation only days before after fifty years of no contact. The response to this offering was a ten minute dissertation directed at both myself and my younger brother on the woman’s character, as expressed in her past behavior.

Thus ended the dinner.

Returning me to my home was swift. We stood chatting on the sidewalk for a few minutes and, dusk settling and mosquitoes emerging, I said my goodbyes. Entering my house, I watched as the two of them stood at the curb for another half hour, talking with each other in the dark.

******

It’s true.

I’d said no to the opportunity provided me by Marlene, now CEO of a major, burgeoning health care and educational facility in the region and already-former bank president. She didn’t marry until later in life, but had a daughter who would become my piano student. Emily was 10, then, and probably hated those lessons. Maybe she never really wanted to play piano. Or, maybe she just didn’t want to slum it over to my house, on West 22nd St, hauled there every week by Aunt Lena.

No; I never accepted Marlene’s sponsorship into the Junior League of Erie. I was afraid to become an elite member of our community. I didn’t think the other girls in the League would accept me, a daughter of blue collar skilled artisans. And, I wasn’t sure I wanted to become a member of an exclusive strata of society, either.

Had I said yes, I’d have probably met and married a doctor or lawyer, raising my children on Southshore or near the Kahkwa Club. My brothers’ families and I would likely have shared holidays, each of us making sure our children spent time together. We’d have compared notes, throughout our lives, bragging on our childrens’ IQs, their grade point averages, their excellence, their ranking, their accomplishments, their spouses, our grandchildren, and how much the Lord had loved and bestowed His blessings upon us.

But, I didn’t. I married a transplanted, white collar New Englander, a man who would leave me nearly three years hence and continue his rise in the technical world of computerized software. Divorced, I would continue to work, pay off my house and car, establish a music studio, accept performance opportunities with the Union orchestras, and teach public school. My private piano students morphed into cellists, many of both the students and their parents becoming integral to my list of those still endeared to me.

Marlene’s daughter would become a litigating lawyer, and marry a local political figure; Emma would live to be nearly 101; Marlene would continue to oversee the health care facility, long beyond retirement age. And, the Junior League would breed its own, filling the coffers of the needy and establishing multiple community facilities for the arts, for education, for enrichment across the four corners of the region.

I would remain in the periphery of all these, a solitary creative, an observer of the life unfolding among those just beyond my reach. My brothers would recede into the margins of my world, feeling neither obligation nor need with respect to me.

Mum’s mark on the world she served remains. Marlene, at the time of her Betty’s blindsiding death, would stand at the casket exclaiming: “This is not. happening.” So many women would need to find somebody else to take in the seams of their garments, to let the rest out, to form the bodice, measure the hem, and fit them for the stages of the most grandly acknowledged.

From whatever league, as with my two brothers I affect their lives in absentia. Unless otherwise required, I’ll be in my music room, at home.

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Copyright 11/9/22 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, permitted. Sharing by blog link, exclusively, and that not via RSS. Thank you for respecting integrity.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Meaningful Al.

Stickycivic commentary, contemplation, creative writing, humor, medicine, musicians, philosophy, political commentary, politics, social behavior, sociology, The Independent Party, the power grid, Uncategorized,

My friend Al just wrote a thing.

Like most writers, who buy the books but rarely read them – largely because they are too busy writing – I rarely read what others write on social media if it smells like a piece. This is true because, like Al says tonight, what’s on others’ minds is rarely relevant to what is on mine. Because, of course, vice versa.

But, I’d just come from cramming the Kabalevsky orchestral reduction ahead of my prize student’s lesson on the subject and, perching at the screen, Al’s treatise was what the newly uncensored FBK algorithm chose to present first in my Feed. Call me ripe for a break in the metronomic mind bending; I was ready to receive.

First off, Al reminded us that all we think about is ourselves. Roger that. Or, he clarified, we think about ourselves and that which directly affects only us. Hence, our American politics, about which he held forth along with the economy with vivid cogency, ramming home his points with an uncharacteristic drive seeing as he would most readily be described by those who say Hey as a laid back jazz drummer sort.

I read the whole thing, I did. He kept me from go.

Then, I set my cursor.

“Apart from the occasional, charming (she said, condescendingly) misspelling, I find this the most comprehensive and cogent commentary on the world situation to come moseying along social media since, well, the last time I read what anybody else had to say on the subject. That would be rare, in and of itself, seeing as I only ever think about myself. OH, wait. NO. I think FOR myself, but ABOUT a multitude of issues yet, admittedly, as they affect me or those who have power over me.

My obsession? Those who have power over me. That would be the mediocre minds who decide a.) what my copay will be for the next medical test; b.) how much of the remainder of the bill will be covered by that old, rusty Cadillac, MEDICARE, into whose back seat I have recently been thrust, kicking and screaming, only to be gang raped by the legion of mediocre gremlins lurking in wait to remind me that NOBODY CARES ABOUT OLD PEOPLE IN AMERICA AND, TO PROVE IT, THE SYSTEM IN PLACE PAYS TO WATCH US SLOWLY DIE. OH, wait – yet, again. Proactive preventive medicine also lurks, deep underground, binding together its mindful and careful constituents, but for a price determined only by market demand. And, demand we will.

So, whichever Party hosts the next shindig, and whichever President raises that toast, here’s to the flagrant hope he/she/it will give a nod to the Otherwise Healthy (minus kidney stones and a penchant for hoarding excrement) among us senior members, and send that Cadillac to the metal crushers.

Tax me? I’ll pay it, to avoid the boot on my front end; but, expect the Mouth to step to the next podium and make a much louder noise than that which can fleetingly be heard sliding through the media feed.

Selah.

p.s. I’m with ya, Al, not against ya; but, don’t rub my butt unless I ask first.”

*****

Now, in order to make anything I just said worthy of the read, I’d have to get Al’s permission to share his thing. And, well, he already technically did – but, only to his Friends on the Book. My only recourse would be to paraphrase, but that would ruin the inherent value, especially were I to commit the venial sin of correcting his albeit phonetic spellings. Next, I could reveal his full name but, again, a violation of the sacred trust of Settings on Facebook.

So, I guess you readers with nothing better to do than plagiarize unpublished (you think) bloggers will just have to search for all the Alans on social media, then pinpoint his exact location, and you know the drill.

But, this Al is a woodsy man, Thoreau’s baby dinosaur, and one is never quite sure where on the planet he rests his sometimes weary, wary and bewildered head. We who know and luv him, myself being among his platonics, are content to be with him in spirit wherever he lights after a long day chopping wood. Winter is coming, yea, even at the doors; he’ll be ready, like he always is. And, he won’t have to write a thing.

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.Copyright 10/13/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, and her friend Al, her name appearing above this line and his only referenced herein. Be smart, not sneaky, and write your own things, you thieving foreigners.

littlebarefeetblog.com

*Addendum: Here, for those who know him, is Al’s insightful piece, reprinted with permission from its author:

“What’s on your mind , what’s on your mind ? ……You don’t care; you only care about yourself. 🙈🙉🙊

Obama didn’t brag about the improvement of the economy during his time in office. Trump bragged about the economic gains that came from the Obama era, mixed with the short term volatile stock market boost that came from company stock buybacks, knowing that that tax breaks were coming. No one ever mentions how the financial media played the leading roll in this illusion. But financial media has always jumped on the most bullish sounding narrative because that helps to feed Wall Street sentiment. In my opinion, that was the media hyped illusion that everyone missed .

Since that first year or two of Trump , the world economy has felt the hit from covid (which at first was treated like a hoax by Trump who played into his base, which still thinks it’s a hoax)

Of course Republicans have no progressive ideas/vision, so they’re just play on the world economic problems because people don’t generally see world economics. They only see their own problems. Personally, I dread the next presidential election, as much as I hate seeing the election of insurectionist, anti abortion rights, racist, Trump train opportunists… I’d like to see both Biden and Trump step away from re-election. I don’t blame Biden for the economy any more than I would have blamed Obama for what Bush handed to him, but it’s time to give the job to someone else. Trump can only be trusted to work for Trump as usual, and why would we invite that shit show back in ?

The future looks weird. I need to become obsessed with music and art again, and take measures to fend off seasonal depression. I might have to put my stuff into storage and go away for while . Hope you can follow along with my adventures on the World Wide Web.”

The Snooze.

Stickycontemplation, drama, family history, human behavior, humor, psychology, relationships, scenes, short stories, social behavior, sociology, Uncategorized

CHAPTER 49.

Her niece was getting married the very next week. A lovely young woman, about the same age as she was when the body clock sounded its first alarm.

Instead of retiring “at a decent hour” as her beloved departed father would have insisted she decided to succumb to the more customary, post midnight mania and try on her intended outfit in front of the full length mirror. Her gut was talking; should she look frumpy, maybe last minute flight cancellations wouldn’t be the only reason to stay home.

The sleeveless jersey A line with its graduated greens to blues seemed a fit; thank God, becoming scrawny again still bore up under generic M sizing. Her faded greying hair, freshly trimmed and styled, seemed the right length for the scoop neck and bangly geometric necklace. Bohemian fabric ankle boots held up well around thick, multi colored socks and the olive stretch leggings, their color chosen to complement the bridal party palette, would likely work nicely to hide untanned calves. By all appearances, she was cleared to take off for the much anticipated event celebrating the last single child of her eldest brother’s brood.

Then, facing the glass, she saw them. Bubbles, and ripples, cascading down her forearms and over the tops of her hands. What?

Blood vessels. Every vein, bulging, like a 3-D map of the Interstate highway system. What? She stared, recoiling. Is that why she looked so old in the candid front porch photos beside the beloved little 4 year old music student? She’d thought it the bright sun, meeting the digital phone lens designed to capture detail beyond that which the human eye could see. But, this. This? This was how her arms looked – in real life?

Having melted all the midlife fat the previous pandemic year, she’d devolved to wrists the width of twigs. But, this was a different animal. This was a topography heralding the unmistakeable, unavoidable hallmark of old ladies everywhere. This was age.

At least, that’s what Google said. Skin, thinning; vein valves, weakening; blood, wearily making its endless, return trip back to the heart like some army of tired ants.

She’d remembered touching her grandmother’s skin, the part of her neck draping the throat, marveling at its velvety texture; was this nature’s way of making that which could barely be seen anymore in the half light of the old fashioned boudoir something to be felt, instead, tactile pleasure displacing what could no longer entice the eyes?

She wondered if a man would bear such a preference.

The gathering was a destination event, pulling all family members from the four corners of the continent to meet their new in-laws for the first time. As such she, the most remotely connected of any among her own kin, might put a kink in it. She’d stayed “home” to build her life; the rest had moved miles away. Career choice, and time commitment, plus the absence of proximity had formulated an equation, the opposite side of its equal sign a brand to a relationship void of social attachment; she would be as much a stranger as the whole lot of those awaiting their guests’ arrival.

Add to all that, age. Who’d want to talk to the old, childless aunt? Only those trained in the art of polite exchange would muster up. Could she adopt character, be the jester, an angle proving workable in the past? Oh, wait; in this clan, that would be the patriarch’s domain. Rob him of his coveted role she would not, lest he be named naked Emperor in front of all.

These were anticipating their first opportunity to establish extended family connection. Energy was to be focused. Best not to distract, by provoking extraneous noblesse oblige. Detach; observe; record, like the ubiquitous camera filming the reality show. Would anyone notice?

She’d been 36, the year of her own wedding; her niece was now 38. Twenty four additional months spent deliberating, in quiet expectation. Like ten minutes of Snooze on the alarm clock, more time to resist the inevitable.

Maybe the airline would discover a staff shortage. Perhaps maintenance, or an empty terminal bay, would send the schedulers in a mad dash through their Rubik’s Cube of impossible variables.

She’d let reality play, sans voyeur’s lens. Wedding days came, and wedding days went. Marriages were supposed to endure. Time to take ten, and wait it all out.

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Copyright 9/4/22. Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, the old aunt, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole, part, or by translation. Sharing by blog link, exclusively. Thank you for sitting with your own family.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Longest Week.

Stickycontemplation, Deep Thoughts, human behavior, philosophy, psychology, relationships, sociology, Uncategorized

Today was the eighth day.

Jehovah’d created the whole world in six, and the next day rested.

She was worn out.

Age made time move faster, she’d been told. But, she believed otherwise. State of mind, that’s what governed time. The degree to which mind attended to detail across the hours determined how quickly they were perceived to move. That, and resistance, the force designed to provoke action.

Back in the day she’d committed every waking minute, including those spent asleep, to action. Forty five of these, unassigned to task, was a vacation. Add to that the fertility cycle, applied to a body in constant motion, and you got what made a whole day take eons to end. That, and resistance, the force designed to prevent progress.

Now, she’d made every moment of these eight days deliberate. Wariness, the state of awareness heightened by foreboding expectation. She had to monitor her mind, across time now; it had become her adversary.

That, and resistance, the force with the capacity to frustrate.

Her thoughts always in charge, these days had been consumed by them. Intricate; hyper-conscious; fixated. Not on a single subject, but the juxtaposition of two. Then, convergence. Dissonance.

Thoughts driving action, she’d become skittish. Intent upon fulfilling predictable patterns, obligations, but determined to move through the newer resistance.

The two subjects were seemingly opposed. One, give; the other, take.

Each carried their own assigned actions. Were they mutually exclusive? Should she give or, instead, take?

Her existence had become about these questions, more poignantly now than ever before.

Notions of reciprocation having dissolved with a decaying fantasy, she was left only with the task of defining need. Her own.

If she continued to give, would doing so provide inherent satisfaction? Whence would the signal to take arise? If she chose instead to pursue the latter, would there be anything there to receive?

Would that the source of either be singular; but, historically, she hadn’t been so blessed.

Eight days hence, the decision to choose remained.

Thank God for the first day of another week.

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Copyright 9/4/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose thoughts these are and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole, part, or by translation. Sharing by blog link, exclusively. Thank you for thinking, first.

littlebarefeetblog.com

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AVERSION.

Stickyaddiction, arts education, classical musicians, healing, health and wellness, love, musicians, psychology, sociology, Uncategorized, , ,

Two magnets opposed cannot touch.

Or, we humans lack the strength to bring them together.

But, what of the psychological forces which repel?

I have no memory of what could have provoked the first episode, nor can I recall the manifesting scenario. All I do know is, my tendency to be easily averted has been lifelong.

Basically, aversion is turning away.

As a force, aversion seems to drive me to move in a direction opposed to that which I would otherwise choose. I can avoid tasks, events, even people, for days to weeks, cause not immediately named. And, my emotional connection to the activity or the person doesn’t seem strong enough to prevent this.

Rejection, or its potential, always lurks as a catalyst.

Often, the behavior of a single, key individual affects whether or not I turn from something toward which I would normally run. It’s as if some negative power or influence attaches itself to what I love, rendering it hostile. Like a poisoning.

Several months ago, I was displaced as pianist by another available candidate who had actually been nominated by me to serve temporarily in my stead when I could not. I made this recommendation on the basis of another’s reference, something I rarely do without knowing the quality of the player. But, ultimately, I lost my seat to this person, the panel in place to choose having determined availability to be the sole criteria in line with their needs.

While all these appeared satisfied with their decision, I was fairly well demolished by it. Gradually, I lost interest in my association with the group and, even more astonishing, my desire to play the piano. Now, every time I so much as look at my beautiful Steinway grand, aversion grips my soul.

The initial emotion was, invariably, anger; how dare anyone infiltrate my precious relationship with the music I made on this magnificent instrument?

Yet, the anger gets directed toward that from which I’m averted! The piano itself embodies the negative force exerted by those who have expressed their rejection of me, as if to become a tool of their power.

The dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed, seize me similarly. If I do not wash them immediately, they become increasingly capable of averting me until not a single clean plate or bowl remains and the task demands attention.

I use the term “lifelong” because I cannot return to a time when aversion was not played out in my realm.

Psychologists posit that trauma is the originator. Pain, and the fear of pain, cause us to do everything in our power to prevent its recurrence. Somehow, trauma causes pain and pain becomes associated with that which we hold dear.

Childhood trauma has many aspects – physical abuse; sexual abuse; emotional abuse. Being beaten; being violated; having love and care withheld. Our brains make connections. A single event can permanently associate the pain it generates with any number of experiences in the future which trigger its memory.

Likewise, the source of the aversion attaches itself like a barnacle to that from which I’m averted. They meld. The source seizes ownership.

Many, many years ago I did experience a memorable trauma, one which can be isolated and named. That episode caused PTSD, a phenomenon still manifesting residually all these years hence. And, what did this affect? My other musical instrument, my priceless cello. The ghosts of the nefarious surround me every time I look in its direction.

My conscious awareness of the cause, plus my love for my students, are the only forces which overcome this realization; I deliberately penetrate the veil of hate every time I choose to grasp hold of that instrument.

Aversion isn’t just a psychological neurosis. It’s the power of hate to command control over that which is loved, very well one of the demons about which the ancients speak.

We must all rise, and stand against such a force. “Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.” – Song of Solomon 8.

Nothing should touch that which is loved except love itself.

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Copyright 8/28/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Plagiarists, take your hate and turn away.

littlebarefeetblog.com

By Name.

Stickycontemplation, coronavirus, creative writing, healing, human behavior, medicine, musicians, personal testimony, psychology, relationships, sociology, Uncategorized, , , , , , , ,

People might ask how it is that I never believe what others say, about somebody, until I’ve either heard or spoken with that person.

I think it’s because of 1999.

Don’t worry; that story is already chronicled, in a piece called No Excuse. Yes; after seven years of continuous avocational compulsion To Write, although this may be the first week I’ve actually listened to my Christopher Parkening duo CD all the way through, in print we’ve reached the blog recycle stage.

It takes having been the subject of public slander.

Once you realize that entire chunks of multiple demographics believe you to be the aggressive perpetrator of your own fleshly failings, you discover that what people say about anybody is forever tainted.

Tainted, by rumor, innuendo, the men who manage and their ladies who lunch about the lives of those to whom they only aspire.

Once you endure, first acutely and then forever, false characterization of your very self by remote strangers, you learn. You learn an even stranger magnanimity, a broadly stroking latitude, a prisoner’s forgiving heart.

And again, even this will be subject to the panel of self-assigned scrutinizers, those who remember or think they do, as if your very act of acceptance is an indictment.

To the world, your judgment is warped, your worth relegated, your life to know its place.

This is how, therefore, I came to actually hear Pierre Kory, MD speak about his bedside Emergency Room treatment of actively infected covid patients. To most paying him any attention at all, he’s right up there with RFK Jr on the list of those condemned to the social trash heap. But, I’ve been listening to him talk every week for several months, live online, along with his colleagues in the fight. And, just yesterday, he replied to my direct email. If we met in an airport, we could say Hello like old college buddies.

I listen to Richard Fleming, too. And, Dr. Mobeen Syed. And, Suzanne Somers.

If you don’t hear people, first hand, you won’t get their testimonies. And, personal testimony isn’t reserved for court. It’s what we are.

Anymore, the personal testimony of those who really do have our health and vitality at heart, while they still breathe air, are waiting to be heard.

Go, find them, and sit at their feet. It’s the way Jesus’ disciples learned the Gospel. They didn’t wait for somebody else to tell it to them. Granted, that Gospel has endured endless iteration, but we wouldn’t have the Good News at all were it not for those who listened, first hand.

Thanks to the wonder of audio technology, Christopher Parkening repeats his Recuerdos de la Alhambra as many times as I request him. I wasn’t there when he first recorded the piece, circa 1993; but, returning to a time when who I was had not yet been defined by those who still don’t know, I meet and revisit him, through his music.

People might say I know him, by name.

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Copyright 8/22/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name is real and appears above this line. No copying, translating, or quoting without sharing the blog link, directly. Thank you for your first hand attention.

littlebarefeetblog.com

SHORT STORIES: A Category.

Stickyscenes, short stories

Most writers derive from personal experience. Those who do not admit to doing so are lying. This category of the blog became its own, after several pieces had already hit Publish and seemed to stand alone as fictitious “Chapters” or stories unto themselves. In this author’s case, some so called Chapters are essential fantasy; still others are based in thinly veiled, frequently embellished, reality. If referenced, no actual identities are disclosed. Should you think you recognize anyone as you read, keep your suspicions to yourself. These pieces, as written, are fiction. Fiction is designed not only to entertain, but to teach.

Thank you!

Ruth Ann Scanzillo, author.

*Click on Short Stories, in the category banner at the top of the Home page.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Ships In The Night.

Stickyaddiction, grief, psychology, short stories, Uncategorized

CHAPTER 48.

The white Pilot approached head on, swung in front of her, and slid into the first spot.

She backed up. Was this the church lot where she’d parked, last year? Music had just begun wafting from the main stage, and every pedestrian was headed toward the sound. The scene was strange. Cues were missing.

She leaned onto the wheel and braked, waiting. A young woman with long, thick honey hair exited the Pilot, walking purposefully toward the sidewalk and crossing the street. Covered in short culottes, a high, wide pelvis and strong legs drove her torso forward like the back end of a camel.

The white Pilot bore a New York plate.

The young woman was alone, moving as if on a deadline, her comportment in stark contrast to the two and threesomes heading down the sidewalk anticipating an afternoon of live musical entertainment. And, in from New York state by herself, no less.

Removing her foot from the brake, she turned and parked a space away, only to think again and pull out around toward a closer vantage point for audio. Something wasn’t right. Spying a posted Restricted notice, she knew then that this was not the lot she’d chosen the year before; in fact – wrong church – she would need to head one full block further east.

Sure enough. Pulling into her now recognizable north/south alley between the college library and its neighbor, the cathedral, she stopped her car and shut off the engine. Windows open, cross breezes flowing, the music – soaring above the historic homes on 6th and wending between the overhanging trees – could now be clearly heard, right from her driver’s seat. Lowering the visors and adjusting her shades, she settled back to sit alone for the private concert which, this year, would be her consolation prize.

He’d been the single source of hopeful anticipation wrought by the whole, sorry pandemic, he with his keen curiosity and teeming desire for discourse. She’d been riding on his wavelength for weeks and then – with no warning – shut out, bereft, absorbing whiplash like a crash test dummy. Now, her only recourse to move through the stages of grief, she would plant herself within earshot of the very thing which had captured her in the first place: his music.

Familiar treble strains carried their opening tune. Looking off, her eyes half closed in reverie. Momentarily startled, she turned. Here came the white Pilot, yet again, pulling up through the alley and passing her on the driver’s side.

The young woman’s profile was now visible, softer and more youthful than she’d appeared from the rear. What had moved this woman to reposition her own vehicle, on such a fine afternoon? She watched through the mirror as the Pilot continued in search of a place to light. What might be directing its travels?

Her phone vibrated.

“On my way.”

She stared. This was her ex, an hour ahead of schedule. In the care of his dying mother, he needed to borrow her printer to prepare urgent nursing home intake forms.

Irony flooded the parking lot. This was a moment produced and directed by the Universe, Providence at the helm. Human will. The power, of choice. The fork, in the road.

Wearily, with the impetus of a grandmother whose alarm clock heralds breakfast for the child in her charge, she placed the key in the ignition and turned on the engine, its hum attempting consonance with the concert filling the air. Putting the car in gear, she headed down the drive, turning westward. The music swelled, almost plaintively after her retreat, calling, calling. She kept driving.

Theirs was a fraught intersection. Lasting, in her mind, nearly five years he was yet again in need of her efforts. And, with the regularity of familiar habit, she obliged. Documents forwarded, printed, rudiments accomplished, they headed to the beach to walk the dog. This time, he would dissolve into his own grief, anticipating an emotionally absent mother’s death, and she would embody empathy. To any onlooker, minus any familial resemblance he could be her brother.

The dog was older now, tiring earlier and, after a momentary stop at the clearing to test a flock of Canada geese they were headed home. She noted the time. The main stage had long since released itself to the festival’s next act.

Across on the bayside berm, a bright blue compact caught her eye, the newest car color to trigger her since his lone visit just three weeks before.

Parked directly behind it was a white Pilot.

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Copyright 8/20/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Please write your own songs. Thanks.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Just Say Nothing.

StickyDeep Thoughts, grief, psychology, relationships, sociology, Uncategorized

She had to blame something.

For sanity.

Nobody wanted her to find any happiness at the expense of the loss of their proprietary claims.

No mother, sister, old friend, ex girlfriend wanted her to take or get or receive or even be offered what was theirs to protect. How did anyone ever reach the conclusion that she was any kind of threat? How did she get labeled toxic? What was wrong with those who clustered in corners, conniving to exact pain upon her?

Was it the men, appealing to their women for advice? And, if so, why? Did she have too much testosterone? Was it because she wasn’t young, anymore? Was it because she spoke her mind? How could she not communicate how much she needed somebody, when she did? How could she fail, so completely, in this?

Was it the gifts? Did she have too many? Was she expected to accept her lot, and find fulfillment without being loved? Who knew what love was, except to say that having a need unmet was its absence?

There was so much more left, of life. She could inhabit her body for thirty more years. What would the response be, to her presence? Would she be wanted, in the room?

Action produced reaction. This was unavoidable, like every other law of physics. Move, and cause motion; speak, and generate word.

Best to remain still, and say nothing.

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Copyright 8/18/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights reserved. No copying, pasting, stealing, pilfering, translating, or profiting. Go be your normal self.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Deal Breaker.

Stickylight verse, original poetry, Uncategorized

There was a young man on the phone

Who, tired of feeling alone

Himself, he invited

To see her, excited

To let her disclose the unknown

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In person, they side eyed and skirted

Their senses, all highly alerted

Would he make a move?

Would they find a groove?

[ Both would have rather they’d flirted. ]

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The next day, his silence was stark

Up the wrong tree did he bark?

Was it maybe her nose?

Or, rather, her toes?

Her atoms? an aberrant quark?

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Whatever the reason, he balked

Though for six weeks, at least, they had talked

A foreplay of words

An affair for two nerds

Now, away from the woman he walked.

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No matter the timbre or tone

Breathy alto, or bass-baritone

Favor fun, as you must

Savor fellowship, too, just

Don’t fall in love on the phone.

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Copyright 8/16/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole, part, or via translation, permitted. Thank you for respecting original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Mood Mole.

Stickycreative writing, relationships, scenes, short stories, sociology, Uncategorized
Pappy, Mammy, and Exhibit A.

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CHAPTER 47.

She was never big on beauty marks.

Born with a large, round, dark nevus covering the base of her right thumb (the offender having been xrayed away before she could walk), she was subliminally repelled by them. Add her mother’s life curtailing melanoma to that mix, and you had a recipe for acute trauma at sight.

His was flesh colored until, the blood running during elevated pressure or arousal, it morphed black.

They’d not yet met. He’d found her on LinkedIn, the safe social space for working professionals. Rapid fire texting between two profile pics led to two hour plus phone convos, each voice pouring forth an obvious need to feed from the other’s fierce intellectual curiosity and creative drive. Apparently they had everything practical in common, as well; he played hockey, she played soccer and, furthermore, each had a passion for aquatic life. His, deep sea and hers, tropical fish; no matter. They’d work it out.

Box checking was the deceit.

She listened, pacing the house with her cell phone. He talked. He talked far more than most men she’d known. Her preference for the silent type taking a backseat to recognition, this was a man after her own heart.

And, he was polite, empathetic, saying Thank you and How’s your day? and, promising to review selected videos or articles on every topic which she shared of interest to them both.

Finally, after adapting to a lifetime of social expectation, she’d found her kin. That last, neglected hormone wide awake, she was back in college, throbbing with thought and theory deep into the night. There was reason to thrive alive, again.

It was during one of his newsbyte reels that she spied it.

Just below the right cheekbone, raised, inherited, a proud moniker. Infused with color in the midst of play, for her a persisting distraction.

Six weeks had already transpired. Pandemic induced isolation protracting the phone phase, now he insisted he was “interested” and also “hurt.” Why had she not yet come to any of his games?

They met.

He arrived at her place, for a light supper and live conversation. Big, sweaty, and exhausted; the schedule’d been relentless, he said. Assuredly, she understood. The mood mole was pale, smaller in person, and asleep. Should she make a move?

After about an hour of platonic exchange off he went, again thanking her for an enjoyable time and good food.

The next day: silence.

She fretted. Was the absence of under eye concealer and lipstick to blame? Had she fussed, over the meal? Expectations, not realized?

Vowing to rectify all these perceived disappointments, and tenacious to the bone, she confronted the situation. His response was startling. They’d grown close, to be sure, but were just “too different”. She should…[ insert: a litany of instructions from a seasoned mansplainer, backpedaling furiously, evoking the image of ET’s bicycle ascending the starry night. ] Should she scream, or call his mother?

Instead: Hair. Makeup. Smart outfit, dress boots. She showed up. At half time, they spoke. His smile was bright. His pupils were dilated. The mood mole was black as pitch.

Why the small talk now, when he hated it, he’d said? Why the suggestion that she paint the town? And, two days later, why the same sing-song about just who was so different from whom? Now, skipping texts, or reading only the first line, missing the point…

Nothing was computing. None of it.

He could sing or say what he will, protestations be damned. She was calling out third party interference. Time to fire the self-appointed director of this production.

Nobody would beat the power of blood flow.

There was beauty in that mark.

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Copyright 8/1/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the sole author of this piece, whose name appears above this line. Plagiarists be condemned to the fiery pit.

littlebarefeetblog.com

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George W. Bush is Coming To Erie.

Stickyarts education, civic commentary, commentary, human behavior, political commentary, politics, slum culture, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, truth, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I can still feel that sun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I, however, was emboldened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m feeling ready.

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© 8/14/2020     Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

Pickleball.

Stickydrama, human behavior, psychology, scenes, short stories, social behavior, sociology, Uncategorized, , , , 
# break out of frames
<IfModule mod_headers.c>
	Header always append X-Frame-Options SAMEORIGIN
</IfModule>

CHAPTER THIRTY.

Even from the track above her silky voice could clearly be heard, carried away by self-critique, salting the stuffy air more accustomed to beads of human sweat than the constant caption with which she underscored every volley.

In just one full lap, two of their doubles’ foursome had left the gym court. Alone with the man who had been her partner she sat, then, over under the basketball hoop, he in a preferred squat, and segued to conversation.

Her voice was the kind one would associate with a bedside nurse, light, childlike. One wondered if these were born to sustain such tones, or cultivated in families where being unbearably kind was the order. Hers, incongruous with the acoustics inside the gym at the YMCA, a sound unexpected.

Reference was made to the care of an elder, possibly her mother or father, and from the track above she could be seen demonstrating the method by which hers utilized a mobilizing walker, describing its function in detail. The man who had been her partner, from his squatted position, offered well placed affirmations, watching her talk.

She wore grey flared slacks and a light, cream colored knit long sleeved sweater appropriate for office work during the transition from fall to winter; the man who had been her partner was clad in gym shorts and a sleeveless, hooded boat jacket. Her elder was 97 now, she said, and he listened as she expanded her narrative to speculate about what could or could not be expected of someone who had reached such an age. There was so much to say. Was he married?

He was, he said.

Her head bowed slightly, rendering her words less intelligible, and she looked from side to side as she spoke. The man who had been her partner stood. One of them suggested returning to the court. The other obliged.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  11/17/16    – All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for the respect. Your volley.

Please continue to visit littlebarefeetblog.com

“Do Not Be Afraid.”

StickyChristianity, classical music, classical musicians, faith, Judaism, Judao-Christian theology, love, mystical experience, sociology, tributes, , , ,
“Do not be afraid………..
you……are mine.”   — Isaiah 43.
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Choral music used to be a given in mainstream American life. From the patriotic holidays through the public school concerts, the sound of people singing in four part harmony presented by a collective larger than a family around a piano seemed impermeable by any shift in the cultural wind.
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Little would any of us in arts education realize that the times, and the weather, would change so profoundly. In the five final years of my public tenure, I had to endure being told there would no longer be time in the daily elementary school schedule for a chorus class. And — my students!  Two part harmony, among primary aged children. But, oh. Yes. Better, so said the powers that assumed authority, that time be spent bouncing a ball around or chasing another – or, eating soy patties on roll with boiled vegetables. Time, and money, going instead toward that which bailed on a vital source of nourishment.
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Nourishment, you argue. Singing with other humans as anything more than a casual diversion?
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This past Friday night, I’d been invited to perform as cellist with the northwestern Pennsylvania District 2 Student High School Chorus. My instrument, a clarinet, and a horn, had been added to one of several pieces of music programmed for their public concert. And, we enjoyed our collaboration, immensely. The students had come from among the very best their schools had to offer, and their guest conductor was nothing short of a marvel.
Happy with our performance, we’d left the stage intending to take in the remainder of the concert. Waiting at the auditorium door for the signal of applause, we’d stepped discreetly into the back of the hall. The temperature elevated by a packed house, a rush of body heat flooded us. And, the room was dark. But, what was about to emanate from the fully illuminated stage would render all senses irrelevant.
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I’d been impressed by Dr. Christopher Kiver, from the moment we’d been introduced. He had 200 + high school students in the palm of his hand. A Brit, his dry, observational humor infused his every breath, capturing the students’ imagination as he wove them from rhythmic riffs through the contours of phrase. Further investigation revealed that Dr. Kiver had proved his worth far and wide, known for his work with students at Penn State University and beyond.
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But, what happened to me in the moments about to ensue as I stood in that dark auditorium I owe only in part to his expertise. The rest I leave to the reader, and the mysteries of the universe.
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Dr. Kiver had chosen the program. A panel had chosen the soloists, from among several auditionees, one of whom had just completed her offering. The order of selections sat in my bag on the floor, unreadable in the dark. Two female choristers took their places across the front of the stage, and Dr. Kiver raised his baton to the choir.
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Their pure unison tone began, hushed, absolutely controlled. Each syllable measured, the opening phrase emerged in one, clear, enveloping voice:
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“Do……not………be……..afraid……………………………………….”
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The harmonies expanded. Their sustain was seamless.
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“Do…….not………be………afraid……………………………………..”
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Without any warning, whatsoever, the choir became one voice in the firmament.
The verses unfolded; I recognized them as scripture. But, the music had transcended thought, to become the vehicle of the oracle of the divine.
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Standing in the dark, I was a child again. The world around me, and everyone else, all of us terror-stricken, shell shocked, every institution threatened, all future expectations uncertain, but this voice. It were as if the God of my childhood were speaking directly to me, my eternal protector, the loving Creator who had promised me everlasting safety.
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Tears poured down my face. Everyone around me was spellbound, as well. We were all collective witness to the deepest of human power, manifesting the very message for which we were starving, through the only art form that could possibly have carried it to us.  We didn’t have to fear. We had been redeemed. We were still loved, perfectly. And, our God had just sung us a lullaby.
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“
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….When you walk through the waters,
I’ll be with you;
you will never sink beneath the waves.
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When the fire is burning all around you,
you will never be consumed by the flames.
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When the fear of loneliness is looming,
then remember I am at your side.
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When you dwell in the exile of a stranger,
remember you are precious in my eyes.
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You are mine, O my child,
I am your Father,
and I love you with a perfect love.”
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“Do Not Be Afraid” —  Philip Stopford.
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© 2/6/16 Ruth Ann Scanzillo   — Thank you for your respect, both for the created work of Philip Stopford, the interpretation of Dr. Kiver and this, my piece.
littlebarefeetblog.com

THE EMPTY SEAT.

Stickygrief, human behavior, mystical experience, nostalgia

December 5, 2009 at 5:29pm

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 12/5/09

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

professional ‘cellist, Erie Chamber Orchestra

PO Box 3628

Erie PA 16508

all rights reserved.