Category Archives: social commentary

Marshall’s.

“Oh, God. My God. How excellent is Thy Name, in all the earth.”
.
Among his endless list of attributes, the new boyfriend has a far more evolved sense of style than the woman he calls his, these days. He’s left for the evening, calling back a shopping spree for later on tomorrow but, as the evening wanes, something fixates me: the Persian blue print maxi dress at Marshall’s he’d selected that just didn’t fit last week. Maybe I could alter it like mum always did, he’d suggested, reminding us both that we still had a long way to go before we could say we truly knew each other.
.
Finally, I can resist the compulsion no longer. After sufficient Reese Cup consumption, I jump into the car at, what, 8:50pm? and, cruise all the way up Peach Street in the increasing dark to the Best Buy plaza.
.
Marshall’s. Where the dressing room lighting is so flattering, you buy everything you try on. Unlike Gabriel’s where, even though the merchandise was designer fare, the sight of yourself under poorly directed, cheap fluorescence made you break down and cry and go home with nothing. Gabriel’s is out of business, is anybody surprised; Marshall’s lights are still on. The place is mercifully empty. I love slow close hour; you get the whole room to yourself.
.
Sure enough, as expected, the dresses are no longer in the front rack. Marshall’s. They know how to mix it up. I look around. Over by windbreakers and sportswear, a stash of flowing fabric beckons.
.
No Persian print.
.
The girl with the laniard and the perfect skin tells me all the rack rounds have dresses. I am nothing if not tenacious. Me, the spider with the suction cups for fingers, I am.
.
Thwap, thwap through the rack. Several other deep blues – stripes; solids, with flirty bodices. Suddenly, could it be, I see the Persian. Glory Hal, there it is – in a.l.l. t.h.r.e.e. s.i.z.e.s (S;M;L). I grab eight hung garments and drag ass to the fitting rooms.
.
In the immensely enhancing golden glow of the Marshall’s ethos, it takes me only as long as dress on dress off; seventeen minutes later, four dresses, and three sets sleepwear/clearance, I am beating the clock to the check out.
.
Now, why does the lone, spectacled African American beauty behind the counter look familiar? Do I dare ask her the Usual Question? Have I not struck out at least twice in a week with that socially jarring: “WEREN’T YOU MY STUDENT??” No; I would let her be. This was go time. I was the Purchasing Person at 9:15pm on Thursday. This was go time.
.
Patiently, and with grace, she gathers all my hangers and my garments and my TJMax Reward Card Application because she is just that good, and then she says it.
.
“Didn’t you teach at Grover Cleveland?”
.
DANG, how’d I miss this one?? I am slipping, for sure. Old Ms. Scanzillo never overlooks a single one, especially not the stand outs. Hearing her name, it all comes rushing in like it always does, because it always does, every face, every personality, every student, all four thousand of them.
.
Tamara Baker.
.
Fourth grade violinist.
.
Front row. Top of the class, always on it. A real future.
.
And, she says it, too. “I always wanted to continue, but there was nobody to teach me.”
.
I am already there. She graduates this year, from high school. And, this summer, there will be a violin in her hands again. I am already there. No student of mine gets passed over. Not by God Almighty.
.
***
.
Last week, adult student, Title I Reading specialist Kim, yearned for a string quartet. Was there anybody? I knew an attorney she heard me say, a violist, named Zanita. We’d look into it.
.
The next day, driving up the hill to Sacred Heart auditorium, I’d prepared to cast my vote in the local Primary. Again, the room was mine, only one other person outside of the staff at table. And, behind that table sat Elva who, every year, greeted me with the reminder that we’d played in the Jr Phil string section together back in high school. But, might I be interested? This year, her piano trio needed a ‘cellist.
.
Who was the violist?
.
“Zanita”,  said…..well…..God.
.
~~~
.
Kismet. Serendipity. The Persian blue print, size S, fits. The boyfriend, who comes to me again tomorrow like a bolt just like he did a bit shy of nine weeks earlier, after twenty five years distance and nearly five years of increasing resignation that life is meant to be lived out alone unto death, will embody the surprise, too. Somehow, and only by our Creator, even the hairs on our heads are all numbered.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  5/18/17      All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Be a good person. Thanks.
.
littlebarefeetblog.com

BEDSIDE.

 

 

 

When Andrew Rainbow isn’t conducting, arranging, playing piano, or directing the pit orchestra for the Erie Playhouse, Andrew Rainbow is a nurse – for a team of cardiologists. Decades running, Barb McCall, who raised two, strapping drummers, has been a nurse – in a hospital burn unit. My sister in law, Linda Barnes Scanzillo, mother to five wonderful sons and, herself raised in Nairobi the child of a missionary to Kenya, is a nurse – on a church campground. Jean Claar Bassett, wife to a mitochondrial disease researcher, is a nurse. My student, Allisandra, percussionist and budding cellist, is a nurse – in a hospital ICU. Nadine’s father, Jay Sherman, is a nurse – in critical cardio care. Marian’s husband, Kerry Byard, is a nurse. My boyfriend, who shall remain anonymous, is a nurse – in dialysis and ICU. These are RNs – registered, trained, and committed people.

Throughout my life, I have been known to challenge nurses, to make their lives difficult – asking obscure medical questions, behaving in an arrogant and sometimes defiant manner, me with my “patient-centered” approach to my own healthcare. When mom was dying, there were nurses assigned to her care who did not know how to operate the chemo infusion machines. These were those who, overworked and understaffed, challenged me – as I sat bedside for seven, 24 hour days with her.

There were also nurses, on my mother’s floor, who were assigned to run the entire wing alone – and, who still had time to talk with me and answer questions. There were nurses in the ER who monitored me during near-anaphylaxis allergic reactions. And, there were nurses who cared for my father in a loving and dedicated way, those who came to the house, and those who served him in both hospital and nursing home who, even with their mound of paperwork, had time to spend bedside. And, there were nurses who worked for Hospice, who traveled all the way into town from the outlying county to treat mom in the middle of the night.

For the past twenty five years in Erie County, PA there has been a shortage of nurses, particularly for bedside care. If you know anybody training to be one, currently working, or retired from the profession, please honor these this week. The medical profession, especially surgeons, would be nowhere and nothing without them, and sick people need them every day.

NATIONAL NURSES WEEK — MAY 6 – 13.

 

 

 

.
.
.
.
© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 5/9/17    littlebarefeetblog.com

 

Betsy.

 

The sight of her, and the hearing of her, and the discovery that, though she plagiarizes from others the White House, no less, is  “100% likely” to be confirming her as Secretary of Education,  reminds me of the kind of [female] I once knew.

Perhaps you have also known such an one.

QUALITIES:

  • Posture: Nose in the air, yet always a condescending smile toward those who can act as servile or subordinate;
  • Attitude: Hostile, and two faced, toward those who threaten power of position, and/ or possess innate qualities which cannot be bought (i.e., talent, intelligence, etc.)
  • Backstory: Descending from money, generally inherited rather than earned;
  • Social Behavior: Moves within those whose code: ” You have it. I have it. They t.h.i.n.k they have it.” (“it” being money, i.e. “class.”) dictates their social circle, which is extremely tight, populated by their own blood, others of perceived similar social class, and a handful who are effusively encouraged to come/brought in to entertain, usually because of their blatant, if charming, idiocy. (Starlings are, on occasion, carefully selected, but can be dispensed with as fleetingly as a moment on the toilet.) Energy is spent selecting the finest garments and accessories, and twisting ones ankles from side to side in the seated position to demonstrate superior footwear.

I suppose I have taken this moment away from the gruel of my woodshedding at the piano, today, to bring these observations to the general public.

If you are in support of Betsy DeVos, and her ilk, none of these observations will make a dent in either your opinion or position; if you are not, perhaps I bring you a moment, in kind, of welcome levity. We are not, in fact, all alike, and we certainly are not all equal.

.

Vive la difference!

Play on, thou minstrels – play on!

.
.
.
.
.
© Ruth Ann Scanzillo, starling and proud. 2/4/17    – All rights those of this author, from whom these observations come. Come Prima.