Author Archives: Marianne On a Mission

Over There: Remembering A Veteran of The Great War

06 Thursday Nov 2014

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Poppies growing in a field in France

Poppies growing in a field in France

In 1918, at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the guns in Europe went silent. The Great War, the war to end all wars, was over, taking with it almost an entire generation of young men. But some came home. My Uncle Jim was one.

This year, the 100th anniversary of the beginning of World War I, I remember him in particular.

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James Aloysius Lynch, second son of Thomas and Hannah Lynch of Philadelphia, was born in October 1888.

A big, handsome Irishman, he was drafted into the United States Army in 1917.

Uncle Jim, a master electrician in the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers (IBEW), soon found himself on the way to join Gen. Black Jack Pershing in France in a Repair Unit in St. Nazaire.

After the war, he came home, married our wonderful Aunt Irma, and built himself a small farmhouse across the river in New Jersey. Built it himself, with friends from the building trades and our relatives, all by hand.

It was his weekend retreat, where he grew grapes, pears, apples, and flowers–lilacs, roses, Lily of the valley. When he was old enough, my brother spent many a weekend tagging along with Uncle Jim on his adventures. It sure was different from the city.

Jim wasn’t one to talk much about his Army days. And when I was a little kid, there had been two more wars, World War II and Korea, that were the ones I remember hearing about.

One thing I will always remember, though, is Uncle Jim’s enormous generosity and his efforts to support the soldiers then fighting in Korea. Two little kids, my brother and I, loved climbing up to the dining room table to help Uncle Jim make boxes of treats to send to the “boys overseas.”

First, tape the box together with a lot of packing tape…those boxes had a long way to go. Then the fun part: stashing the loot inside. Bags of hard candies, razor blades, soaps, powder, toothpaste, tobacco and cigarettes…..all the reminders of home. Week after week, we packed those boxes and he mailed them off. Good memories.

Uncle Jim worked as an electrician in Local 98, IBEW, in Philadelphia until he was 74. We thought he would be antsy in retirement, and we were right! But he chugged along, making up his own routine and spoiling the kids in the family whenever he could. He and Aunt Irma never had children of their own.

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Miss you, Uncle Jim. You, too, Aunt Irm. Thank you for all you did.

1914: Some of the fellows from the unions. From left, J. Molloy, Bricklayer. J. Lynch, Electrician. J. Kelly, Bricklayer. W. Clark, Carpenter. Herrman, Bricklayer. Dewey, Scotch Terrier

1914: Some of the fellows from the unions. From left, J. Molloy, Bricklayer. J. Lynch, Electrician. J. Kelly, Bricklayer. W. Clark, Carpenter. Herrman, Bricklayer. Dewey, Scotch Terrier

J. Kelly, standing beside Jim, is the father of Grace Kelly.

Postcards from training posts

From New Rochelle, New York

From New Rochelle, New York

From Jacksonville, Florida

From Jacksonville, Florida

The French government gave the doughboys this little book to familiarize them with the French language.

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I’m Welcome! Now Leave Me Alone!

05 Wednesday Nov 2014

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I made a post about this on my Facebook page and it generated a lot of chat. Let’s see if you Musings followers agree.

I went into the drugstore to pick up a few things. Here’s how it went:

As soon as I walked in, a voice said, “Welcome to XXX.” I smiled and waved in the general direction of the voice.

About ten more employees continued to Welcome me. After the first Welcome, I’m good. I feel welcome. Okay? Still smiling.

Another five or six relentlessly cheerful people almost followed me through the aisles, making sure I was Welcome and checking to see if I needed help finding anything. All smiles stopped together.

No. I’m browsing. And suppose I was shopping for, say, Heavy Duty Odor Eaters or Maximum Strength Depends? Again, I’m fine. Thanks.

At least two more, after making sure: 1) I felt Welcome and 2) did not need guidance, made sure I was aware that I could get a flu shot, or even shingles vaccine, at the pharmacy, should I be in need of such.

I appreciate your concern for my health. But stop. I got this.

I know this is a marketing strategy, and the corporate marketing powers think this approach makes shoppers feel, well, Welcome. Instead, it is SOOOOO ANNOYING! I feel like I’m being stalked. No, really.

Welcome to my blog. Can I help you find the perfect post today? Oh, sorry, no flu shots here.

When I made this post on Facebook, it immediately generated ten ‘likes’ and comments from everywhere!

A Friend from Jersey, UK, has the same experience when clothes shopping. ‘Can’t I just browse?’

From Virginia: ‘I’d like to know whose master’s degree thesis in Marketing generated this idea.

From New Jersey: ‘Take them by the hand and say, “Oh, yes, I’m looking for the industrial strength Wart Remover! “‘

I don’t mean to criticize the employees so much as I mean to take a swipe at the policy of customer intrusion.

What do you other Musings followers think? Have you had this experience? Is it helpful? How do you respond?

Followers in countries outside the USA, do you have this when you shop? Tell us by commenting here in the blog.

I’m finished the rant now. You are Welcome to reply.

In Fourteen Hundred Ninety Two….

12 Sunday Oct 2014

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Columbus Sailed The Ocean Blue!

And discovered America! And he was Italian! Everybody knows that, right?

Wrong, o history revisionists. Here, in my own words, is what actually happened:

Cristoforo Colombo (AKA Columbus) lived in Genoa. Which at the time was not Italy as we know it. He noticed that if he walked around the city in a circle from the west side, he would wind up on the east side at some point. Mamma Mia! This could work on the Ocean Blue. If you sailed a ship west, you would show up in the east. That’s where the spices are, the kind that you put in food so it’s hard to tell how old it is. The food, not the spices.

So he pitches the idea to the Genoese government, Genoa being a seafaring nation. We could make some money here.

Genoa says No, Che Pazzo. You’ll fall off the Earth.

Colombo heads to Spain, another seafaring nation, taking the West Is East idea with him. Long story short, Their Catholic Majesties Ferdinand of Castile and Isabella of Aragon like it. They buy in. He gets three ships (extra credit if you remember the names) and sails approximately west from Spain. Bring back spice.

Instead of falling into the abyss, Colombo and his men bump into…..well, it must be India. What else could it be?

Now we know it was one of those lush Caribbean islands. But then, nobody knew. So India.

No spice. But the weather is great. He claims it for Spain. All of it.

To summarize: an ex-pat from Genoa, a state in Italy, sailed under the auspices of Spain to an island somewhere well south of the large North American landmass. He had no idea where he was. His native land had brushed him off. Spain adopted him, bankrolled the operation, and then owned the New World.

With apologies to my Italian ancestors, it was a Spanish thing.

So anyway, half a millennium later, North America marks October 12 (or 13, if you want a three-day weekend) with Italian themed parades and mattress sales. To tell the truth, neither of these means Discovered America. Come on.

In Philadelphia, hundreds of miles from Colombo’s landing place, we have a monument to Columbus, as he is now known, touting his discovery. It’s on the riverfront. Why Philadelphia? He didn’t sail up the Delaware.

Even worse, to take the myth a step further, the city was convinced to change the name of the wide thoroughfare that borders the river from Delaware Avenue to Columbus Boulevard.

The Native American Indian tribes in the area were the Delawares. Not the Columbuses. How insensitive…. They were here, he was not. Ever. So what’s the honor? Why?

I’ll never understand and I’ll never say Columbus Boulevard, either! My personal defiance.

Enjoy your holiday, Americans all! Go to a nice Italian parade, buy a mattress, honor the lost Genoese mercenary who gave us the day off! Accuracy need not count! Most of all, have a little chuckle on me!

One last thing…
My fellow North Americans in Canada and Mexico….do you also get the day off, have Italian parades, and buy mattresses? Just wondered.

One more last thing….
My Irish ancestors were here first.

So Why Not Herbs?

05 Sunday Oct 2014

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If you read my post on my grandmother’s stellar gardening abilities (Gardening With Gram: Anything Grows, September 18) and how I do not take after her in that regard, you can grasp the significance of this next venture of mine.

I will grow an herb garden in my greenhouse window so I can have fresh herbs. You know, for all the gourmet cooking I do. No, really.

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I’ve been told I need to get closer to the Earth, walk barefoot in the grass, dig in the dirt, grow stuff, and all that. But the Earth hates me. The entire Great Outdoors hates me.

Tried the barefoot in the grass thing many times. That’s not just grass down there. That’s thistles and sticks and bugs and rocks. They know I’m there. I don’t know they are there. I tread on them. Not good.

And dig in the dirt? I’m not sure what they have in there but it makes my hands break out in a rash.

Trying to deal with leafy and flowering plants turns me into a big itchy mass of insect bites. Bugs love me. They bite me. I’m on their special menu all the time. Then I stay away from the plants and: they die.

So I try to know my limits when it comes to growing and gardening and go with it. But I noticed something this past summer that might be the answer to this whole ‘get close to the Earth’ thing.

Herbs appear to grow when they are in my custody. I know this because I had several pots of herbs lining my deck and as of this very day……they still live.
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I took the major leap of faith, transplanted them into smaller pots, and arranged them in my sunny, warm garden window. As you can see, they are perky and happy.

So here’s the deal. You, my readers, will encourage me to nurture and cultivate these pretty plants because I will post photo updates every few weeks. I’m making a big commitment here……putting it out to the entire world…….so I’ll need to be diligent.

I will remember to water them, trim them, feed them…….even chat with them. They will reward me with fresh chives, rosemary, oregano, mint, parsley and basil!

My family will revel in the fresh new flavors that infuse my cooking with new life!

Omigod, what have I done! The pressure is on! Let the growing begin!

Sunday, October 5: all is well.

Sunday, October 5: all is well.

The Rosh Hoshannah Kid

22 Monday Sep 2014

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Soon it will be my birthday.

Happens every year, right around this same time.

I’m not Jewish, despite the title of this post. But I was born on Rosh Hoshannah (never mind the year, in either the Hebrew or Julian calendar) and delivered by Dr. Nathan Steinberg, an Orthodox Jew, who, as he ought to be, was in the synagogue when I began my entry into the world.

I was my parents’ first child and both grandparents’ first grandchild. My mother was the oldest daughter in her family and Dr. Steinberg was their family doctor. Family doctors did everything then, bringing lives into the world, easing lives out of it, and everything in between. To mom’s family, Dr. Steinberg was a godlike, all knowing figure.

My mother always told me how very important it was that Dr. Steinberg was called out of the synagogue on Rosh Hoshannah and came to the hospital to deliver me. He was in “church” praying on a most holy day and he came because he was needed.

I had no what it meant, this Rosh Hoshannah, synagogue, Orthodox Jewish thing. To me, “Jewish” was a nationality like “Irish” or “Polish” or any other “ish” and I knew Dr. Steinberg as an austere, soft spoken, serious man with a mustache, to whom I dared not speak one word.

But mom emphasized how special it had been for him to leave his Rosh Hoshannah for me.

As I grew up, I didn’t know much more about this holiday that I didn’t celebrate but was always aware of it, even though the date was different from my birthday each year. But I learned.

On Rosh Hoshannah, Jews begin their New Year. Tradition requires that they review their lives over the preceding year, contemplate their successes and shortcomings, and prepare to enter the next year with a purpose of amendment for their wrongs and determination to continue with their righteous behavior.

A good day to be born

I learned more about Dr. Steinberg, too. He was a true humanitarian who held a deep reverence for life. No matter who the patient, no matter what the need, he tended the sick and needy in a practice that extended not just to those who could afford it, but to the inner city poor people who could not.

Now I know a little more about being Jewish, what Rosh Hoshannah means, and how the Jewish reverence for life was embodied in Nathan Steinberg.

So thanks, Dr. Steinberg, for being with me on Rosh Hoshannah so long ago. If you were here, I would still be afraid of you, but thanks. And L’Shana Tovah….

Sincerely, The Rosh Hoshannah Kid

Yes, I have the same haircut! Born with it! I was about two weeks old here....mom had only just been allowed home from the hospital. Two weeks!

Yes, I had some great hair! I was about two weeks old here….mom had only just been allowed home from the hospital. Two weeks!

Gardening With Gram: Anything Grows

18 Thursday Sep 2014

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I recently received an invitation from a Master Gardeners group to join them in learning how to make my garden beautiful. Couple of things wrong with this idea.

First, I don’t have a garden. I have a few pots of herbs, which, miraculously, have not perished.

And second, I have the quintessential black thumb. Nothing will make me a Master Gardener, but thanks anyway.

My paternal grandmother, Leta Neal, was the opposite. She grew up on her grandfather’s farm in Cumberland County, New Jersey, and even though she spent most of her life in the city, she never lost her talent for growing things.

In her urban garden, she grew marigolds, mint, lily of the valley…even roses, in the not so fertile soil of downtown Philadelphia.

She could grow anything. Give her a dead stick, and snap, she resurrected it. It bloomed anew. Plants loved her.

Which brings me to a Gardening With Gram story renowned in the annals of family history.

Gram and the Tropical Plant

Gram lived in the old family home on South Second Street well into her eighties. I brought my kids to visit often. She loved having them, they loved the alien urban world she lived in, and we could visit Uncle Harry (my brother) and Aunt Sis, who lived next door because they had two cats, Queenie and Squeek, to play with.

We drove in one sunny Saturday. The kids headed to the back yard to explore the old shed and maybe check in with the cats, and Gram and I sat in the living room with cool drinks.

I noticed she had a new plant on the windowsill. It was thriving, of course. She had trash picked it a couple of weeks before, she said, when someone discarded it, apparently dead.

Wow, it looks great. You saved its life. Really bushy and so green…full and lush…..and….what unusual, glossy, five-fingered leaves….

I’m no expert, but I was pretty sure my eighty–five year old grandmother was growing marijuana.

I went next door. Harry, I think we have a situation at Gram’s.

He took one look and quirked an eyebrow at me. Yep, Gram was growing cannabis. In her front window.

And wasn’t it a good thing I noticed it before the cop on the beat!

Now what? We hatched a plot.

I told her I had a friend who loved tropical plants. Would she let me have this one to give as a gift? It was really unusual and my friend would love it.

Long story short, I drove home with a cannabis plant and my two kids in the car. And as much as I hate to destroy living things, I had to let this plant die. Not difficult for me. RIP.

Nowadays, with all the changes in marijuana laws, I think Gram could have had a nice little cottage industry for herself.

We would have to tell her what the tropical plant really was, though.

Sir Arthur

12 Friday Sep 2014

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Sir Arthur Conan Dog is a bulldog of my acquaintance who lives with one of my By Marriage relatives. Let’s call her my daughter’s sister in law Jen.

Arthur is darling rescue of a boy whom Jen adores. Mostly. This week, Arthur has his Special Lady, McKinley, another bulldog, staying over. Here’s what happened, as told by Jen:

Walking two bulldogs is like this:

Me: Come on.
Dogs: No.

Me: Let’s go.

Dogs: Nope.
Me: Get moving!
Dog 1: Okay.
Dog 2: No.
Me, to Dog 2: Come on!
Dog 2: Okay.
Dog 1: No.

Staring contest.

Pedestrian: Oh, bulldogs! Omigod, I love bulldogs! Can I pet them?

Petting, chatting.

Guy in car pulls over and yells out window: Bulldogs are the best dogs! I grew up with bulldogs! Hey, buddy! Hey, guys!

Just me and bulldogs again.

Me: Come on.
Dogs: No.

And so it goes. Jen says, “I started bringing treats and giving him (Arthur) one after he does his business…but he doesn’t do it any faster now. He just makes awkward eye contact with me while he poops so he knows I see him doing it for the treat.”

I hope to have more Sir Arthur Conan Dog stories soon. I’m liking this guy.

Sir Arthur (front) and houseguest.

Sir Arthur (front) and houseguest/squeeze McKinley.

September 11, 2001

10 Wednesday Sep 2014

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The twentieth century had more than its share of shocking, defining moments in history. My grandparents’ generation endured the stock market crash of 1929. Pearl Harbor stunned my parents’ generation. My generation’s world changed with John F. Kennedy’s assassination.

Those times when the world stood still. When things happened that couldn’t possibly happen. Not in the United States of America.

You always remember where you were, how you heard, the disbelief, the fear, the panic.

On September 11, 2001, the twenty-first century experienced a moment so defining, so horrific, that it changed not just our world, but the whole world.

These are my memories of that day.

I was working at home, in my sunny office. It was a gorgeous late summer morning, warm sunshine, blue sky, quiet, lots to do and a great day to do it.

I went downstairs to get a cool drink. As I passed the morning newspaper, I noticed a story I wanted to read…I glanced at the clock to see if I had time to read it now before getting back to work. It was 8:45 a.m. Plenty of time for a short break.

Only later did I realize that was the exact moment the first plane hit.

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I went back to work, made a few phone calls, left a few messages when no one answered, and then got a call from a friend. She was in a traffic jam on the Schuylkill Expressway, nothing moving anywhere, and how about that plane crash in New York? Really? Yes, at the World Trade Center. Didn’t I see it on TV?

I never have on radio or TV when I’m working. But I turned on the television just as the second plane hit the tower. Stunned, I sat and stared.

My brain raced. Attack on the United States! What? Why? The news anchors reported more and more horrendous news: hijackers, other possible targets, more crashes, and……I watched as first one, then the other World Trade tower crumbled into dust.

Where are my family? Where are my kids? Are they traveling? At work? My sister in law works for the federal government in Philadelphia…..is she okay? My friend works for an aviation security research firm in New Jersey…what is happening there? What do they know? Where is everybody?

Phone lines were all busy….can’t contact anyone. Emails: let me know where you are as soon as you get this! The Pentagon is under attack. Fighter jets have scrambled. Oh, my god. What is happening?
By then, every television in the house was on and the awful news continued. A plane crashed in a field in Pennsylvania….not clear why. The president was on board Air Force One headed for a secure location, with heavy fighter protection. U. S. airspace is closed. The White House was evacuated. Also the Capitol. New York was in lockdown. First responders raced to the crash sites. imageThe destruction and death…just horrific. No idea yet of why, the reason this happened, who is responsible, where else might they attack.

Eventually, my family all contacted me, I told everyone to go home and stay there, and I paced from room to room listening to the televised updates, still not entirely sure it wasn’t all just a series of accidents, completely at a loss what to do.

We all know the stories now, the bravery, the toughness, the sacrifices made. The eerie silence in the skies for weeks after. The resilience of the American people in the face of an attack on their homeland. The whole world knew.

And we will never forget.

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