Thank you, Professor Wood.

I did not set out to be a writer.  I was forced into it. 

Ok, maybe that is a bit strong, but it was not a conscious choice of mine. As a kid, I loved to read, and then when I was a teenager, I liked to write poetry and keep a journal, but I didn't want to make a career out of it. In the back of my mind, I thought it would be cool to write a book one day, but it was something that maybe I would get to down the line. 

I decided late in my sophomore year in college, I would be a communications major. To be honest, I didn't know what I wanted to major in, but I knew I could communicate. That was my story, and I was sticking to it. As part of the communications class selections, I signed up for Journalism I. The course was taught by a tried-and-true newspaper man - old school. He did not pull any punches and was the perfect person to help a kid hone their writing skills. He was not a person who would coddle the next generation of journalists. 

The course description included the caveat that students would have the opportunity to write for the college newspaper, The Advocate. This did not seem like a mandatory obligation to me. I thought I would learn a thing or two, tighten up my writing skills, and possibly, if I chose to, contribute to the campus rag. That is what I thought. 

A little back story, I never wrote for my high school newspaper. A good friend of mine was the editor and she encouraged me to join The Red and Blue staff, but I just didn't have the time. Marching band was a big commitment, along with my schoolwork, and various jobs, as much as I wanted to contribute to the paper, I just couldn't. College would be my first introduction to writing for print media. 

It has been more than 30 years since I was in this journalism class, so some of the details are fuzzy. I do remember starting out slow and doing the assignments as they came. I really liked my professor and the class was engaging. Looking back, it was one of my favorites of my college career. My roommate and I were inseparable on campus and when Professor Wood saw us, he always referred to us as 'Bishop and Brown'. He never called students by their first names. 

 

It wasn't long before I was working on a substantial assignment. I had to write an article about race relations on campus. This was a heavy hitting piece. On a campus that had a majority white population, this would be an interesting story to tell. It would be a good read for my professor, and I wanted to do a good job. 

I was able to get interviews from students and one prominent faculty member. I had some thought-provoking conversations, and the story started to write itself. I worked hard on this assignment, and I was proud of what I turned in. 

 

As I expected, my professor liked the story, in fact he liked it so much, he wanted to put in the next issue of the campus paper. I told him I didn't want it in the paper, because none of the people I interviewed were told it was going to be published. My professor told me I had to go explain this to everyone I interviewed and find out if they were ok with this new development. The staff for the campus paper was so small, students in the journalism classes were needed to help fill the space. It made sense. 

As I expected, some of the people who contributed to my story did not what their comments printed. My prominent faculty member pulled out of the story. Some of the students I spoke with were not comfortable either. My story was falling apart and I was frustrated. I started to run out of time before the paper was going to press, and I was trying to track down every last person. There was one person I did not get to talk to personally; he was a member of the basketball team. I tried to explain my situation to his teammate and hoped I smoothed everything over. 

The next day, I was shocked at what transpired. My article was on the front page of the paper. I expected my first printed story to be hidden in the back pages. I wasn't sure how to feel about it because I knew the controversial subject matter could upset some people. 

 

The one person who I didn't get a chance to personally speak with before the article was printed was not happy, and he and his teammate confronted me in the student union. This was a tough lesson to learn but it laid the groundwork for a future reporter.

 

Through this experience,  I learned I needed to be honest and respectful of my sources.  I learned how much I enjoy asking questions and getting the answers. I also gained an appreciation for the art of constructing a story. To me, a story is like a puzzle and putting one together has always been something that came easy - the words just flow.

I owe a career in media to my teacher, Professor Lee Wood. It is a privilege to still be writing today, using the skills he taught me. In fact, he helped me post college as well. After spending time writing for television and radio, two very difference styles from newspaper writing, I sent him a few stories back in 2009 to critique as I was trying to brush up on my skills. Instead of sending them back to me via email, he printed them, marked them up and mailed them to me. 

 

When I have having some challenges with my newspaper job and I reached out to him, back in 2015, he took the time to email a very thoughtful response. "I am happy you are working in the field. Each day adds to your knowledge and status."

Last week, a friend messaged me to let me know Professor Wood passed away over the summer. His memory will live on in all of the students he influenced over the years. 

I hope I've made him proud. There is a part of him in every single story I write. 

 

   

 

 

  *My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror each week in the On My Mind column. The Valley Mirror Newspaper covers the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities. 

 

 

Don't Dream it's Over

 

It's never too late to make a dream come true. 

This particular dream was more than 30 years old, and it went back to my freshman year in high school.  I remember going with my mom and a few friends to see my high school's spring musical, which that year was Anything Goes. This was the first time I had seen a high school musical, and I was amazed. 

 

I had never seen kids my age singing and dancing on stage. Everything from the costumes to the choreography made an impression on me and it became something that I wanted to do. I didn't know how that was going to happen, but I had three years to figure it out. I needed to be on that stage performing with my peers. 

Three years came and went. My dream did not come to pass before I graduated from high school. I did end up on stage but as a musician in the band and orchestra, not as part of a musical ensemble. I remember some of my friends being part of a musical song review we had at our school, but I could never recall the name of actual musicals performed after Anything Goes.   

 

Memories get fuzzy, the older you get. All this time I thought it was just a matter of being too shy, which kept me from being on stage, but after talking to a former classmate of mine recently, I learned that our school didn't do any musicals during our time in high school, after our 9^th grade year. 

This made me feel a little better - knowing that it wasn't just my personality that kept me from making my dream come true. I had a lot to overcome during my high school years, including coming from a small Catholic school to a big public school and trying to make new friends. I also had a speech impediment that didn't quite improve until my junior year. At that time, I wasn't quite ready to put myself out there to possibly be ridiculed. 

My musical dreams did come true post high school. I made a pact with myself to try as many new activities in college as possible. I wanted a high school do-over and Pitt Johnstown was the place to be adventurous. Plus, by this time my braces were gone and  my confidence had increased. 

 

I signed up to be a DJ for our campus radio station and after seeing my first college play, I inquired about helping with the theater program. My involvement with the theater was mostly stage crew work, helping with props and costumes, but it did lead to two small roles. I played an inquisitor in Man of La Mancha, and I was Snow White in Into the Woods. 

 

I can count on one hand how many words I said on stage - two. (Well, two and a half if you count a yawn as a word.) But either way, I was thrilled with both opportunities and I felt I had accomplished one of the big dreams of my life, up to that point. 

A few weeks ago,  my dreams of being in a high school musical finally came true. I have been helping out for the past four years with my kids' high school musical productions. Ironically, my daughter and my youngest son have had big parts in recent shows. This year, I didn't have a kid in the cast, but I still volunteered to help with behind-the-scenes jobs. During one of the dress rehearsals, I was sitting in the audience, and I was approached by the director and led to a different seat. 

I knew there was audience participation in this particular show, Spamalot, but I didn't know what it was. I sat there nervously awaiting what I would be tasked to do. Towards the end of the act II, one of the student actors came down to my row and discovered an item the cast had been searching for. Then I was led on stage. 

 

The only line I had to say was my name, but considering the number of lines I had in my college productions, I was prepared to deliver. Looking out into the auditorium, I couldn't believe what was happening. As the cast members sang a brief song, I just took the moment in - my long-lost dream had come true. 

I was walking on air as I was led back to my seat. A couple people had taken a photo of my moment on stage, so there is proof this actually happened. 

Dreams don't always come true in the way we envision them, but they can resurface in ways that make us truly appreciate how amazing life can be. 

 

Photo courtesy of Amanda Rosco

  

*My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror each week in the On My Mind column. The Valley Mirror Newspaper covers the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities. *

A Day in the Life

 
"Death and life. And death and life. Right next door to each other! There's like, there's a hair between them. "

That is a quote from one of my favorite movies, "Elizabethtown". Two guys are in a hotel room hallway, where a party is taking place. They literally run into each other and after they introduce themselves, we learn one of them is about to get married and the other is about to bury his father.

Death and life. And life and death.

My husband and I use this quote often because there are many instances where this happens throughout our journey. One door opens and another closes. One chapter ends and another begins. But this quote was in full effect a few weeks ago when in the span of ten minutes my joy turned to tears.

I was lying in bed at the home of some friends in Houston, Texas. My husband and I travelled there for a quick Memorial Day weekend getaway. Because of the hour time difference, I was up a little earlier than usual and, of course, had to catch up on my social media. Scrolling through the posts I learned my son's best high school friend gave birth to her first child. The little one was not due until June but decided to arrive a few days early.

The post filled me with joy as I learned, in the course of a few hours, a couple became a family. A mom became a grandma. Brothers became uncles. We had just attended the baby shower and it was such a lovely day of joy and anxious anticipation. No one knew if it would be a boy or a girl. The post announced that a boy had entered the world and "he is perfect!"

I nudged my sleepy husband, and I told him the news. He smiled and said, "Yay!" I told him he would have said that if it was a girl too. He rubbed his eyes and got out of bed. I decided to crawl back under the covers and see what else was going on in Facebook land. There were tons of wonderful graduation pictures and the usual tons of ads but then I saw a post that stopped me in my tracks. "How do you say goodbye to your hero?"

These words were written by a schoolmate of mine about his dad who had passed away just hours before. I was instantly brought to tears.  I ran into this friend just the week before at a local ice cream store. I hadn't seen him in over a year at least. Our families had been going to the same church and we would see each other there. My dad and his dad went to high school together and then, as their families grew, us kids ended up going to Catholic school together.  Our families have known each other for a long time.

Recently, my dad was talking about his friend, Joe, and told me he really wanted to go visit him. I told him he should but since our families had lost touch I really didn't know if he was up to having a visitor that wasn't a close relative.  Joe had been placed in hospice and we hadn't seen him in a long time. A few days after this conversation with my dad, I ran into Joe's son. I didn't think it was random. I felt it was for a reason. He said his dad would love a visit and told me to encourage my dad to go.

My dad didn't waste any time. After I gave him the room information he went to see Joe the next day. In the evening, I got a call from my dad to give me the recap of the visit. He said it was great and the two had a wonderful time catching up on the kids and grandkids. 

Joe's hearing wasn't the best, but he had a device that would translate what my dad would say and print it out on a screen. It helped facilitate the conversation and no one missed a beat. Joe said that he liked to pass the time by reading mystery books and my dad said he would bring him some new books the next time he stopped.

Within one week Joe passed away. It seems to me God was working behind the scenes to get these old friends together before it was too late. I know my dad would have deeply regretted not seeing Joe before he died. I am overwhelmed by how a random meeting at an ice cream store was not so random after all. I am humbled by my small role in the last days of Joe's life.

Death and life and life and death.  These events unite us throughout our journey on Earth. And sometimes these events bring us together in ways we cannot predict.

  *My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror each week in the On My Mind column. The Valley Mirror Newspaper covers the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities.

 

 

                                                    

The Bed The Bear Likes

 

How often you do this depends on who you ask.

Some say every five to seven years. Some say eight. Some say ten. There is no magic number.  But one number that is not thrown around is 25. A mattress is not supposed to last 25 years.

My husband had moved to Virginia before our wedding.  He got a new job but I was unable to join him right away. We picked up a few pieces of furniture from his sister who lives in Maryland with a U-Haul we rented to move him to his new apartment. She had three things to give him, a couch, a bed and an ottoman. That's all you need to get started, right?

His sister's mattress was temporary. New marriage. New bed. I remember shopping for our first bed because it was our first huge purchase. We started our search in a mattress warehouse type store, and it was overwhelming from the start. So many choices! It was sensory overload from the minute we crossed the threshold.

We hadn't even bounced on a bed yet before a saleswoman started talking us up. We proceeded to thoroughly explain our situation. We were young and naive and didn't know we could use the phrase 'we're just browsing'. It didn't take long before she uttered a sentence that would stay with us for two decades of marriage. There was a large bed advertisement poster near where we were standing and she said, "This is the bed the bear likes."

In the poster, there was a large brown bear laying on bed. I guess the message was since bears are in the business of sleep, during their hibernation period, they would know what a good bed was.

But here is the weird part. She said that to us in all seriousness. She didn't let out a chuckle after she told humans to choose the bed an animal would pick. She said her line and expected us to say wrap it up we'll take it. I looked at my then fiancé, but we hadn't been together long enough to have a look that conveys everything without saying a word. I think we told our salesperson we wanted to keep looking and that we were only on our first stop.

We ended up splurging on the bed we finally picked, and I remember signing up for the financing - zero interest if we paid if off within a year. We had never bought anything that cost more than $100 and it seemed very daunting to try and pay $1000 off in twelve months. We had no idea that bed would last us 25 years. If you break it down it's $40 a year. Not a bad price at all.

Until a few months ago, we thought we were keeping our bed for another 25 years. The box spring was in bad shape but the mattress was doing just fine.. that is despite being moved to six different dwellings throughout the decades of our marriage. A few months ago, my husband and I noticed we were waking up feeling sore. Based upon the state of our box spring, we knew it was time to get another mattress.

We went to a nearby department store and visited their mattress section. We laid on so many mattresses it was hard to keep track. There is so much to choose from and there are a lot of foam pillow tops these days. When you have a mattress that has lasted two decades, we wanted to find something similar to last the next two. We went from bed to bed until we found the one we thought could stand the test of time.

Our new bed was delivered last week. I was not home at the time of delivery and that was a good thing. I am very sentimental these days and I bet I would have cried 

when they took the old bed away. My husband had the new bed made up when I got home from work. It looked nice but sleeping in it would be the true test.

 

A week in, I am not convinced this bed is the one for us. It seems a little firm for my taste but who knows. Maybe some time is all it will take to adjust and since we are hoping for another 25-year run, I think we just have to take it day by day.

 *My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror each week in the On My Mind column. The Valley Mirror Newspaper covers the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities.

  

A Christmas Story

 

It was my favorite sweater.

It was long, black and it had buttons up the front. It had a belt I could tie around my waist. I could wear it with a t-shirt, and it was thin enough to not make me sweaty. In the winter on really cold nights, I would wear it to bed to stay warm.

It is embarrassing to reveal how old that sweater was. I think it was nearly 20 years old. I know my mom bought it for me and she sure got her money's worth on that one. A few years ago, I noticed it was a little too worn to wear outside the house. It had a few holes around the collar but nothing that prevented me from still wearing it. I lost the black belt that went with it but that was ok. Since I wasn't wearing it out, I used other belts I could find.

I don't know what I was thinking on Thanksgiving, when I wore that sweater over to my parents' house. I had been wearing a short-sleeved blouse and since it was warm that day, I only needed something light just in case. I immediately took the sweater off when I got to my parents' because it felt like a sauna since the turkey and sides were cooking in the oven. I put my sweater on the back of a chair.

Later that evening, when the oven was off and the indoor temperature finally reached a comfortable degree, I put my sweater back on. I did not know I had a large run going down the back. It was so long it extended past the collar and was clearly visible. My dad noticed it right away and quickly pointed it out.

I assured him I had other clothing that did not have holes. I said I just grabbed the sweater quickly when I was on my way out the door and I don't normally wear it out of the house. I thought the case on that subject was closed.

Once the house filled up with guests for dessert, again the temperature warmed up and I removed the holey sweater. Again, I put in on the back of a chair. My dad appeared and said, "I'm just going to take this sweater and put it on my bed in case someone wants to sit here."

I thought that was odd since there was no room for anyone to sit in that particular chair. It was part of the small dessert table and since there were so many desserts to choose from, the table was filled. A few minutes later, my sister and I noticed dad in his room inspecting my sweater. He was really giving it a thorough review and we weren't really sure why. I thought he might be interested in getting out the thread and needle.

The very next day, I called my parents to thank them for hosting Thanksgiving and I asked them how their day was. I expected them to have taken it easy since they had to be exhausted from the day before, but my dad said he just got home. He had been out all day. I asked him where he had to go, and he brushed it off and said he had some errands to run. My dad never goes out on Black Friday so I thought this was strange.  He sounded tired, so I wasn't going to keep him on the phone.

As we were saying our goodbyes, he said, "Make sure you check your side porch."

I went to the porch and there was a wrapped rectangular box leaning against the wall. There was a card attached to the box which looked ready to burst, like something bulky was hidden inside.

My dad wrote in the card, "Well, I think Santa's getting a bit senile. I thought it was Christmas Eve." Inside the box was a new black sweater. It was different from the one I had, but it was long and had buttons going down the front. My dad assured me, in the card, I could take it back if I didn't like it. He had asked for the advice of fellow shoppers to ensure his purchase would be ok. He had called my daughter to get her opinion as well.

 

I didn't take the sweater back. It seems like even after almost 50 years, my parents can't stop taking care of me. Maybe this sweater will last as long as the other one did.

*My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror Newspaper each week in the On My Mind column. The weekly publication covers the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities.

 

 

77 Is The New (I don't even know)

 

She had everyone's attention in an instant.

"Oh my gosh!" My sister yelled out from the other room.  "Check out Dolly Parton!"

Dolly performed during the halftime show at the Thanksgiving game between the Dallas Cowboys and the Washington Commanders. It was one of those moments when you just didn't know where to look. I felt weird looking up top and then I felt weird looking down below. My eyes were blinded by sequins, glitter and skin.

I remember seeing those iconic Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders when I was a kid. They were up there on the list of things I wanted to be when I grew up: Wonder Woman, Solid Gold Dancer and Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. (Of course, that was pre-Catholic school. By the mid 80's my sights turned to nun, Laura Ingalls, and Debbie Gibson. More clothes, less dancing.)

The average age of the most famous cheerleaders in the world is 25 but women can audition when they are 18 years of age. The oldest lady to put on the two-piece blue and white outfit was 37... not 77.

My mom was not a fan. Only a few years younger than Dolly, my mom could also rock that little two-piece outfit with the modifications Ms. Parton added. She wore a glittery leotard and hosiery that eliminated any bare skin being displayed. I am not sure she could have pulled this outfit choice off without those but maybe she could have? With that being said, what we saw is what Dolly has "touched up and tweaked" over the years. She is open about her plastic surgeries and use of Botox and Juvederm.

Here is the issue on my part. Dolly looked good. She really did. You could disagree with her choice, but she didn't embarrass herself in front of millions of people who were in a tryptophan comma after their turkey meal. But the debate at my parents' house was passionate and was an eye opener for my 19-year-old daughter. She sat in disbelief wondering why all the women in her life were so negative about Parton's outfit choice.

She and I talked about it the next day and I explained to her my point of view. It is not that I am against a 77-year-old dressing sexy, but knowing what I know about Dolly, it says to me, "If you have millions of dollars to spend on plastic surgery, you can look like this too." As I am approaching age 50, it is harder to find women in the public eye to relate to. I find it hard to believe chemicals and surgery are the only way to look fabulous at 50, 60 or even 70. 

I see the AARP magazines in my parents' house and there is no way these people look that good. Photoshop is amazing but it is used selectively. I compared two recent covers, one with "The Fonz" Henry Winkler (age 78) and the other with Diane Keaton (age 77). Henry looks his age. You can see the visible wisdom wrinkles on his face and his natural white hair. Diane on the other hand, her photo appears to be lightened to not draw attention to the wrinkles on her face and she is wearing a hat to cover up the wrinkles on her forehead. "Eh, where's Fonzie's hat?"

As a parent, I want things to be different for my daughter. She is already way more liberated than I was at her age, and I love her attitude about style and fashion, but she has pushed my limits as a conservative parent, especially last year when she bought a pair of black leather pants for her high school homecoming festivities. The Catholic girl in me was hyperventilating when my own personal Sandy from Grease arrived for the parade. (To be clear, her pants weren't skintight, and she had a sweater on instead of an off the shoulder low cut top.)

I was raised by Boomer parents. My daughter had hip Gen X'ers showing her the way. But these Boomers have turned the tables on aging and what we have come to expect. My parents look much younger than my grandparents did at the same age, and maybe I should adopt their playbook in aging gracefully and naturally.

The debate on ageism will continue but if somewhere there is a Solid Gold reboot in the works, I am not ruling out auditioning. Maybe Dolly can give me some advice. Anyone have her number?

 

*My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror Newspaper's On My Mind column. The Valley Mirror is a weekly publication which covers the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities. *

 

*Photo courtesy of People Magazine

 

Now and Then

 

History is being made today.

Thursday, November 2, 2023, is a day like no other. Something no one imagined would happen again, in our lifetime, has happened.

The Beatles have released a new song. Their final song ever. But how is this even possible? The band broke up in 1970. Two of their band members are deceased. How are we still getting new material?

Of course, die-hard fans like me are extremely skeptical. Other "new" material has come out over the years, including the song "Free as a Bird" which was released as part of The Beatles Anthology 1 in 1995 and "Real Love" which was released as part of the Beatles Anthology 2 in 1996. These were pretty special considering John Lennon had been dead for 15 years.  Decades ago, Paul McCartney asked Lennon's widow, Yoko Ono, if she had any unreleased recordings of John's. "Real Love" and "Free as a Bird" were two of the four she handed over. "Grow Old With Me" was untouched by the remaining Beatles probably due to it appearing posthumously on the album Milk and Honey in 1984.

Those songs were able to be completed with 1990's technology which included clearing out background noise from the vocal track and, as was the case for "Free as a Bird", adding more lyrics. When the songs were released as singles, both made it to the top 10 of the Billboard Top 100 song chart. It was exciting for a younger fan, like me, to hear a "new" Beatles song on the radio.

The final cassette Yoko had handed over with the song "Now and Then" required more help to reach radio quality than the 1990s could provide. It was left on the shelf, but thanks to artificial intelligence, of the 2020 variety, a lot more is possible. This kind of AI technology (sound separation technology) made the recent Get Back documentary possible. Director Peter Jackson was able to teach a computer what a particular instrument sounds like and then strip that sound away from audio recordings of The Beatles in the studio. This made conversations between the band members crystal clear, whereas prior to having this technology, those conversations were masked.

After the surviving Beatles got wind of what Jackson had done, they decided to re-think "Now and Then". Paul McCartney has stated that nothing "artificial" was created for this recording. He says, "It’s all real and we all play on it."

I am still a little skeptical. I mean who wouldn't be? I want to believe Paul and the story he's telling but I also see what is out there. Just go on YouTube, and search AI covers, and you will find many classic songs being done in a different way. Whitney Houston singing "Bohemian Rhapsody", Frank Sinatra singing "Thriller",  The Beatles singing David Bowie's "Space Oddity". You can teach a computer how to sing in a particular style and it will do it. Did the boys rely on this technology, just a little?

I want to have faith in Paul and Ringo because we all know they don't need the money. But it seems like every year, just before the holidays, there is something new that is released. This year, it is the newly remastered Red and Blue compilation albums, which will include the new single. The actual vinyl albums are so cool. They are actually the colors blue and red. There was a hot minute when I told my family members if I didn't get those for Christmas I was going to move out. Then reality set in. My record player is packed away and I already own the Blue and Red albums.

Regardless, I want to leave my cynicism at the door as I eagerly await the moment, I can hear this song. I am going to listen to it once and then again and again to fully immerse myself in the music. I want to imagine a world where the Fab Four are still recording and sharing their talents with the world. For the 4 minutes and 8 seconds it takes to listen to the track, all of that will be a reality.  If current technology can be source of happiness at a time when there is so much sadness, then.... let it be. 

 

*This blog is featured in this week's edition of The Valley Mirror as the "On My Mind" column. The weekly paper serves the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities.*