Saints Are Among Us...Really

Now that we have jumped head first into the Christmas season, there is a lot of talk about Santa Claus' alias - St. Nick. Growing up Byzantine Catholic, looking at ornate icons of the saints during liturgy each Sunday, I could never quite understand how the man we know as Santa originated from St. Nick but as long as there were presents involved, who was I to question it.

St. Nicholas Day (December 6) was celebrated each year when I was little by putting our shoes by the door the night before in hopes of receiving small treats and money. There was nothing extravagant about St. Nick Day but I remember fondly the chocolates, coins and sometimes dollar bills that would be waiting in the morning. (Tradition has it that St. Nicholas once secretly threw bags of dowry money into the window of a poor family to save the daughters from being sold into slavery which morphed into the shoe custom of today.)

As a young girl I attended a Catholic school in McKeesport which was named for St. Nicholas. December 6 was celebrated first by going to liturgy, then special lunch in the cafeteria with a visit by the saint himself. I am not sure who had the honor of dressing up in the bishop's vestments (appropriate for Nicholas who during his lifetime served as a bishop in a small Turkish town) but once he arrived we would stand and sing the Hymn to St. Nicholas in both English and Church Slavonic.

I was a painfully shy child and I did not like it very much when I was called to "perform" in front of people. Once I started taking piano lessons, I became the reluctant Liberace whenever someone came to visit. "Kris, play that new one you just learned. You know that one I like with the da-da-da and bab-bab-baaa." Yes, my parents were proud just to hear me play but I was so nervous I could hardly read the notes. I tried to get through a piece as quickly as possible so I could be done.

One day when I was six, we went to visit my grandpap Nick in the nursing home and I was once again called to perform. This time I was asked to sing the Church Slavonic version of the St. Nick hymn. Obviously, I did not want to do this. I could muster my way ok enough through the English but seriously, another language? Plus, my grandfather was suffering with Alzheimer's disease and did not recognize anyone in the room that day. Not my mom, not his wife and certainly not me. 'So why did I have to sing,' I thought?

I did not want to disappoint my mom even though I was troubled by selfish thoughts. It did not occur to me at the time how painful it must have been for her to be there with her father who was not present - or so I thought.

I began singing and within the first few words, I had accompaniment. My grandfather joined me without missing a beat. He did not remember his family but he remembered the words to a song he probably sang countless times on his name saint's feast day. As you can imagine the tears flowed freely from the eyes of my mother and her mother, once again catching a glimpse of the man they knew. At the tender age of six, I was not able to fully comprehend what was happening at that moment and could only wonder why these ladies, who had asked me to sing in the first place, were now obviously upset. Six-year-olds do not know how to recognize tears of joy.

Now decades after that beautiful memory, I have my own Nicholas, named after his great-grandfather. He has a special meal each year on his feast day and even though he is a teenager, he did get excited this week when I asked him what he would like me to prepare. And yes, he and his siblings will put out their shoes the night before.

At church on Sunday my dad will  play the part of St. Nicholas for our Sunday School students. Once again I will hear the words that gave my grandfather a voice in the silence of his disease. Centuries ago, St. Nicholas may have secretly brought gifts of money to the poor but in the 80's he gave my family the sweetest gift when two unlikely voices joined in his name, bringing joy to our world that Christmas season.

The Theory of Rela-tail-vity

Not many people know my dog's full name. Yes, he goes by Albert but his proper name is Albert Von Pupsley III. My husband and I came up with that gem shortly after we brought him home 15 years ago. He was just a little tan beagle, with sharp teeth and a lot of energy.


Albert was my 9/11 impulse. Right after that tragic day I started taking stock of my life. I was thinking of the things I wanted to do and just hadn't got to. I was a newlywed, two years into this thing called love, so at that time my thoughts included my husband's wants and desires too. He had talked about getting a dog, like the ones he had growing up. Since we were interested in starting a family, we wanted to see if first, we could take care of something of the canine variety.


I had the pleasure of meeting his final boyhood pet Dixie, a beagle mix. She was an old dog when we met and loved to bark. She was always trying to get food off of the table and did not pipe down when company came to call. I remember how annoying I thought she was but I also remember how cute she and my husband (boyfriend at the time) were together. They had a special relationship obvious by their endearing cuddle. It was sweet.


In October 2001, we were just days away from our second wedding anniversary when I suggested going to an animal shelter. We didn't make it past the first one before meeting Albert. He was one of three siblings: Madame, Albert and Einstein. (Clever, huh?) It dawned on me recently that the Madame was probably for Madame Curie, another well known physicist, but for us it wasn't about science. It was about the white patch of fur that only Albert had, the one thing that set him apart from the others. We fell hard. Ok, to be truthful, I fell hard.


I am not sure how things are today, but back then the shelter had to do a background check on Albert's prospective family. How was our apartment? Was there room for him to run? Would we provide a safe environment? We were worried that we would not make the cut because we lived on the 3th floor of an old Victorian house converted into apartments. There really was no yard but luckily we lived next door to a dog park.

The night of our anniversary we got the call - we could bring Albert home in three days! We rushed through our "romantic" dinner so we could hit the pet store. Nothing was too good for our puppy - decorative food and water bowls, squeaky toys and a long leash. We were ready.


I remember picking him up on a beautiful Virginia fall day. When we got to our apartment, he jumped out of my arms, ran and hid under the car. He was scared and shaking. My husband crawled under the car to get him out and from there our adventure began. Of course, as it would work out, within eight months we had another little one, the first of three kids that would spend their childhood with a beagle - the only pet they've known.


Fast forward ...Albert is now 15 and definitely in the autumn of his life. He has certainly slowed down and most recently has been suffering from the affects of arthritis. He is more like a cat in some ways because each time we think this is it, he bounces back. Although he may not have nine lives he has had quite a few.


A couple of weeks ago he would not get out of his crate in the morning. This is a dog that goes outside at least 10 times before everyone leaves for school/work in the morning. I believe Albert's number 1's and 2's are completely treat motivated which makes going outside a rewarding experience on many levels. But the day he wouldn't get out of his crate, we knew something was wrong.


A few days later he had a seizure. This was a bad experience and one that I was so thankful for divine intervention. On a normal day, at the time the event happened, my husband would have been at work. That day he was off - he handled Albert for hours until he was right again. All I could do was sit in the living room and cry.


For days afterward he could not get around without stumbling. He looked like cartoon Bambi when he slid across the ice. All fours stretched out. I wanted to know if this was it. Was he going to break a leg? Was he in pain?


We took Albert to the vet a few days later to calm our fears. Yes, the arthritis has gotten worse, but to find out what caused the seizure would take hundreds of dollars of tests. The vet could pick up on our pathetic vibe, wanting to do more, but limited financially. She gave us some medicine, assured us that we were still good pet owners, despite not going further with the testing. She said animals do not indicate pain the way humans do. Their pupils may dilate and that is it. She said from experience, beagle mixes are stoic in response to pain. After examining Albert he was as she predicted - a very stoic canine.


It has been a few weeks since that visit and Albert has been doing better. In fact, I caught him this week up on the kitchen table reaching for one of the kid's lunch containers to rescue the remains of a peanut butter sandwich. It warms my heart to see glimpses of that puppy from years ago. Because his legs still give out from time to time, I could not get mad about the table incident. I was actually
impressed and may have said, "Way to go, buddy."

But Ronald Reagan Looked Old

Turning 70 is a big deal and then again it isn't. It is sort of like how babies are born every minute of every day, but we often overlook the miraculous things that have to happen in order to hear that first cry. Turning 70 is like that but without the crying or maybe with the crying depending on the person.

The two presidential candidates we were stuck with this year are hovering around 70. Donald Trump is actually 70 and Hillary comes in close at 69. Maybe there were too many other important issues floating around this election like who was grabbing what and who was sent security secrets from a Hotmail account, but their ages took a back seat.

Regardless of who I voted for, I never personally thought, "Wow, Hills is too old to be taking the presidency seriously." (Although her grasp of the email thing might have been a tip off.) Or, "Wow, Donald's comb over is not working for his 70 year old head." (He still wears it as well as he did when he was 40.)

I read an editorial recently about the ballot question to extend Pennsylvania's judicial retirement age to 75. The author pointed out that Baby Boomers have  successfully redefined the word old. Ronald Reagan was the same age as Trump when he took office in January of  1981. Although at the time I was only 6, Reagan seemed old, like my grandpaps. Even looking at photos of him, he looks...well, old.

I run across many Baby Boomers because of my job and to me they don't seem old. (Although my point of reference has changed now that I am old-er and no longer a kid.) They have a vitality that inspires me. I know a hard working lady that put in an 8 hour shift at her job after her chemo treatments. These boomers are tough cookies.

This brings me to another Ronald, not as famous, but every bit admirable. This Ronald is my father. He turns 70 on Saturday. This is an amazing feat on many levels. He was drafted at the age of 17 and spent time as a corpsman in Vietnam. He overcame addiction and is 24 years sober. He has managed heart disease and diabetes to become the oldest living male in generations of his family. (His father died at age 64.)

But while 70 is the new 50 these days, just 100 years ago the life expectancy rate for males was only 49.6. So with that perspective 70 is a big deal and one to celebrate although I am sure advances in modern medicine and Chick-Fil-A's push to 'Eat More Chicken' have been contributing factors.

Although both my grandpaps were gone before I turned 12, I do not remember them being as active as my dad has been in his role of 'Pappy.' Even after calling it quits 4 or 5 times, the simple request from his grandson to throw just one more pitch to hopefully 'get that homer' will keep the game going.

Yes, there are days when my dad gets tired but that lasts only about an hour until his second wind kicks in. Even on days when he doesn't feel 100% he pushes himself even when family members encourage him to take a break today. My mom will say, "You know your Dad."

I do know my dad and I know a lot of what makes him tick makes me tick. I am happy to know that because of my DNA, I'll be more likely to keep fighting than to give up. I'll be more likely to act out a funny story instead of just telling it and I will go to ends of the earth if ever one of my kids needs me to. There is no limit to the love my father has for his children and there is no limit to the love I have for my father.

Don't Panic

I am a struggling Steelers fan. I have been for about the past five years. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Black and Gold and root for them each week, but the players' off-the-field antics over the years have made it hard to be the fan I know I could be. The fan I am when Landry Jones plays.

Growing up in the 70’s near Pittsburgh, I felt like I knew Terry, Lynn, Jack, and Franco. We referred to them using only first names in my parents’ home. Photos of the team were hung on the walls intermingled with family photos. Commemorative I.C. Light cans were the equivalent of anything ordered from a Home Interiors party.

My dad hosted Steelers parties, traveled to Super Bowls - truly enjoyed the excitement of those 70’s teams. The excitement spilled over to us kids and while I did not really understand the game, I was under 6, I did like the snacks, camaraderie and Steelers Polka. We played that 45 until the grooves wore out.

I took some time off from being a fan during college until my senior year when the Steelers went to the Super Bowl. The guys who lived next door were diehard fans. They painted the Steelers’ logo on their living room wall, stacked up their couches like bleachers on game days and made sure there was plenty of I.C. Light on hand.

I don’t remember much talk back then about the players’ off the field character or extracurricular activities. Even if there was, I wasn’t a parent trying to raise three children in a society where positive examples are often few and far between. I was a fun loving 20 something, voting for Perot, listening to Dave Matthews, living on a diet of Oodles of Noodles, Pop Tarts and Coca-Cola. (Talk about the good life!)

There were some shaky times with Big Ben but it appears he has turned his life around and now has a beautiful wife and family. No one can deny he is one of the most talented quarterbacks in the NFL and at times when he throws the football it is truly a thing of beauty – and this coming from a girl who would much rather spend an afternoon at the Carnegie Museum of Art wondering what an artist was thinking than at Heinz Field wondering what Tomlin is thinking.

But then there is Landry. Ok. Maybe I have a slight crush. His hipster look and attitude is nothing short of what my husband brings to the table. Landry’s ‘Don’t Panic’ speech is something I need to hear daily. I go from 1 to bonkers at the slightest hint of a diversion from the plan. I am working on this by repeating the mantra – “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and doggone it, people like me.” Yeah, so what if I stole it from Stuart Smalley. It works.

Ok, back to Landry. We all know he does not have the precision of Ben Roethlisberger but he has talent. He made some pretty gutsy throws last week, which had me holding my breath. I love stories when people are up against the odds and go out there and do their best when they could easily crumble.

I am drawn to a good underdog story, probably because I have one of my own. I spent a few years of my childhood getting the business because of my speech impediment. I could not make a clear “s” sound to save my life. Braces and speech therapy would later correct this defect. I wish I could go back to that little girl and tell her one day, your voice will be broadcast over both television and radio airways when you become a reporter. Yes, there was a time when that seemed highly unlikely.

A win last Sunday was also highly unlikely but if a bad call, missed field goals and interception weren’t mixed in with those gutsy throws he would have gotten that W.

I want Big Ben to be strong enough and come back to the game as quickly as possible. The team needs him if there is any chance of making it to the playoffs, but I hope Landry gets one more chance to come out there and get that win.

He is not of the caliber of Mr. Roethlisberger but for this gal, rooting for Landry is like rooting for a friend – a friend who may not be the biggest, strongest or most adept for the job but one who has enough heart to inspire us to do our best and to never give up – no matter what the odds makers may say. 

My Edible Glass Slipper

The gorgeous night skies of late have reminded me of when I was a kid growing up in McKeesport. As much as I hated knowing summer was over, the orange-pink and purple sunsets were a pleasing consolation. Standing on our back deck looking at the trees, almost void of leaves silhouetted against the colorful canvas made me…happy.

I remember walking home from school, crunching leaves beneath my feet, daydreaming about – candy. Fall meant Halloween and Halloween meant candy but not just any candy. Delicious Swiss chocolate made with care and precision in a chocolate factory next door to my home.

Now don't get the wrong idea. My next door neighbor was not Willy Wonka and no Oompa Loompas were involved - only a white haired lady named Dorothy. She and her husband operated a candy store that was located on Versailles Avenue but they made their chocolate on Lafayette Street.

This was a dream come true for this little girl who loved and continues her love affair with chocolate. When you have had the best chocolate money can buy within the United States – of course my frame of reference does not go farther west than Ohio or farther south than Virginia – I assume that this chocolate could hold its own worldwide.

Being that Dorothy lived next door, on Halloween I could have just gone to one house and been done, but I was not stupid. When talking about chocolate I wasn't going to turn anything down. I enjoyed a good Hershey Bar as much as the next guy and we're talking about bar size treats not these bite size rip offs from today. But going to Dorothy's was saved until last because we knew, being her neighbors, we were going to get something special.

Bags of foil wrapped chocolate, molded chocolate on a stick, samplers - yeah, we got it all. Sometimes we would need a separate bag for the goodies that Dorothy would be handing out. She was a very generous lady not just on Halloween but on all holidays.

On the days leading up to Christmas I anxiously waited for her to walk up the sidewalk, which for her was no easy task. She needed two canes to get where she wanted to go. Dorothy would have a white paper bag with handles, balanced carefully on one of the canes, weighed down with what she called ‘mistakes', but that just meant they did not meet her high standard of excellence. We could never understand why they didn't make the cut because they looked and tasted ok by us. In fact we would sample a few at time to see if we could detect the imperfections.

At Easter she would bring over her fruit and nut filled eggs, which in honesty were not my favorite, but were a delight to my mother. The Easter Bunny could not compete with Dorothy, which was probably frustrating to my mom who had to think outside the box to fill our baskets. Having anything that resembled the yummy goodness from next door would blow the bunny's cover.

My Grandma Dorothy would walk to the candy shop a few blocks away from her home each Easter to buy our gifts. Mine was a chocolate glass slipper, like that of Cinderella, filled with caramels, melt-a-ways and nut clusters. The slipper was always eaten last, once everything else was gone and I would break it off in sections. I savored the heel – the final and thickest chunk of chocolate.

Although Dorothy and her husband have been gone for decades, her chocolate lives on in a spacious store and factory in White Oak. It is refreshing to be able to walk in, smell the smell that used to envelope my swing set and buy candy that tastes the way it did when I was little.

I was disappointed this past Easter when I filled my kids' baskets with Dorothy's candies and some remained days after the holiday - wrapped and seeming unappreciated. I channeled my frustration into opening each piece and I ate $40 worth of chocolate myself. Sometimes being a grown up needs a grown up dose of sweetness and that day couldn't have tasted any better.

Run Forest Run

We have all heard the phrase you’re not getting older you’re getting better. Someone in my family (I think it is my sister) writes that in my birthday card each year. Yeah, it is nice to read, but with the negative stereotypes that revolve around aging in our youth obsessed society, I’m not sure many people believe it.

Before I turned 40 I was in a panic. I could not say the number, look at the number or write the number. I was frantically searching for people who did monumental things who were around that age to show myself I could still be relevant even though I was going to be “old”.

For my 39^th birthday, my father got me a framed photo of Pittsburgh Pirate Willie Stargell. Willie won the MVP Award, League Championship MVP Award and World Series MVP award back in 1979 when he was 39. He was the only player ever to win all those awards in the same season.  So his nickname was “Pops” – he was still at the top of his game, literally. This was an inspiration for me.

Once the madness wore off and I comfortably sunk into my 40’s, I realized I had temporarily gone crazy and was ready to commit myself to greatness. Before I could commit myself to greatness I had to be physically fit. I was very proud of my husband who had been running and completed a few 5Ks and I thought maybe I could do that too.

It seems like the trendy thing to do these days. Get a cute outfit, colorful shoes, a Fit Bit and run like the wind. I have never been a trendy kind of girl but I did have running experience. I ran track in high school for one year.

This experience was atypical for me because it involved athleticism. Yes, I come from an athletic family but I was not an athlete. My dad tried out for the Pirates when he was a teen, my brother excelled at every sport he ever tried and my sister played softball and tennis. I blew into a clarinet. I was the musical one and that was ok, but something inspired me to jump hurdles in my junior year.

I look back on my track year with mixed emotions. I was not that fast or good. The coaches did not put a lot of time into me because well, they knew it too. I got a 4^th place ribbon once because someone didn’t show up and another runner had the flu and went the wrong way. This was a high point for me. I got a ribbon for a sport! Take that siblings!

John Lennon had his 'lost weekend' and I had my lost track year but the feeling I felt when I completed an event stayed with me. I felt good. I felt like I accomplished something. I earned each drop of sweat that fell from my forehead and whether I was first or last, I put myself out there. I was ready to do that again but was it possible? I am in my 40’s.

This past September marked my one-year anniversary of running. I started small – just running at the local high school track after dropping my son off at school. Getting to one mile was tough but I knew this was a work in progress and in time I would be 5k ready.

I became an all season runner. 'I’ll come running…Winter, spring, summer or fall' like the lyrics in the James Taylor song 'You’ve Got A Friend' but it took everything I had on those cold winter days when the track was unfriendly and there was ice and snow.

I have not run a 5k yet but I will. I run 9 miles a week and each time I run I am reminded that life does start at 40. Here I am doing something I couldn’t even do in high school. If I can do this what else can I do? I may not be the fastest or most graceful but I am 42. My age is no longer a negative thing to say. It is my excuse to - Just Do It. (Sorry, Nike!)

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

Sometimes I think I was born at the wrong time. If you know me you know my affinity for the music of the 60's, especially the entire Beatles' catalogue. Yes, I missed out on Beatlemania by a little over a decade, but quite frankly, I think the excitement would have killed me. As much as I love listening to their music, I am not sure if I would have been one the screamers, but just being at one of their concerts, being in their presence and among other like minded fans, would have been beyond exhilarating.

This past weekend I was finally able to watch the much touted Ron Howard Beatles' documentary ‘Eight Days a Week - The Touring Years'. I really wanted to see it in the theater but the only local one that was showing it was in Dormont, with only one daily showing. I couldn't wait any longer to shlep out to the South Hills so I did what many people have done, sign up for a free trial of Hulu, a Netflix wannabe, but with more current programming.

The documentary was being promoted as having new revelations about the Fab Four. After 52 years since their U.S. debut, how could there be anything fans don't already know? Yes, I knew there was never before seen footage unearthed, but considering all the books, articles, liner notes and anthologies, I was skeptical.

From the moment we, yes - my family watched it with me, pressed play, I was entranced. The concert footage was incredible, even if the Hulu version is missing extras from The Beatles' 1965 Shea Stadium performance. I loved seeing the guys play together and enjoy playing together. Watching the early shows, before the monotony of touring began to weigh on them, you are transported to a simpler time when music was fun and an escape from the troubles of the world.

While I was watching I couldn't help think of my co-worker Ernie Spisak who frequently makes colorful references to the music of his youth in his weekly columns in The Valley Mirror. I always pick up on his references, because like I said, I was born at the wrong time. Ernie lived through this and boy, am I jealous. I also think of my dad who was on a date the night The Beatles first performed on Ed Sullivan. He lost the girl because, for that night, four lads from Liverpool were a little more important than stealing a kiss in the living room.

I have been listening to The Beatles since I was five. I remember walking into my parents' bedroom and hearing this amazing noise coming from their clock radio. You know, I don't even remember what the song was, but I remember hearing the KDKA radio DJ saying, "And that was The Beatles!" From that moment on John, Paul, Ringo and George, became a fixture in my life and would provide the soundtrack for my youth, teenage years and beyond - decades after they were no longer a band.

Years ago on WRRK, they would air Beatles Christmas. Starting at 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve the radio station would air 24 hours of straight Beatles' tunes with limited commercial breaks. I made so many mixed tapes trying to compile a complete catalogue of all their songs…even the odd ones like, "You Know My Name Look Up The Number." While everyone was singing "Silent Night", I was outside lighting luminaries listening to my Walkman singing "Sexy Sadie". I can only hope God likes The Beatles too because, well, maybe there should be some penance due for that?

With that being said, even though I wasn't around in the 60's, I've had my own little Beatlemania, and now it is continuing through my children. We've had Beatle themed birthday parties and just last year, my oldest and I went to see Paul McCartney in State College. (It was my son's first concert.)

While watching Ron Howard's documentary can teach fans a thing or two about the ‘touring years', at this point for me, it is about sharing my passion for the greatest band in rock n' roll history because The Beatles had something that captured a generation. Although I was born too late to live it first hand each time I hear one of their songs I am once again that little girl, who in an instant, began a love affair that will last my entire lifetime.