Writing Reality

  ...Anymore.  As I  prepared Christmas meal for my now shrunken  family of three, I began to peel the skin off an onion.  As I did, I realized for the first time that I hadn't cried peeling, nor chopping an onion in over a year now. I paused and stared at the now mostly peeled onion in my left hand, "Huh." I sighed. Then stated outloud, "Onions don't make me cry ...anymore.". I pondered the statement for a moment.  I again repeated the thought outloud to myself.  "Hmph." Had I been so pushed, that I disregarded the reaction an onion had ALWAYS  had on me? Then, I reckoned deeper. I thought back to my first thoughts laying in bed this Christmas morning.  As I reflected to earlier this morning laying there in bed, now alone. I then reflected further back to my husband's and my conversation a year ago. The two of us laying there in bed, staring at the ceiling. As the new consciousness of his inevitable death was on our minds and in our conv

  Growing up, I recall multiple times my Dad had to use a cane to standup. This happened for about a week once a year. He was a hard labor worker. I was born after he had turned age twenty-five. So, I was well aware of when this crippling occurence would arrive in his life, throughout my childhood. As well, he suffered a deeper wound. One that no amount of alcohol, pot, cigarettes,  nor cheery wife nor child could abate. If one observed close enough, quietly, the deep rumble could be heard... It was what I call a sickness of the soul. He had polio as a child. It arrived on his eleventh birthday.  But you see, apparently according to what his mother said to him prior to that, and the stories he told me, well he was always just THAT way. A disgruntled employee  of the earth. There were many comments passed privately on that... I heard them from my Mom and he himself would repeat what others said to him in anger and he would then smirk, or perhaps give a chuckle. It wasn't always

  “When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.” ---Ralph Waldo Emerson There are many ways to shed light on seemingly impossible situations or what we would consider obstacles to our daily living. It is not always in our daily intake and output that is the measurement of a human being. It is the grind. Some people struggle with miniscule grinds; while others have bus loads to grind through. Some don’t make it. Few do. Making it, is not, not dying. It’s progressing through even when there appears no light at the end of the tunnel. That there may not even be a twinkle of a star in the nights ahead. And the human that faces that, knowing full well that they can’t change the ending to their earthly story. Yet, they consciously go through the process, has made it. They’ve lived. No matter their age, I believe that, to be one of Life’s truths. As this year has progressed, the pandemic actually blessed us. Yep. Many would not agree with that. But then, they weren’t us. They weren’t our

  “Hope gives tremendous positive energy --- Prayer gives strength---” Nina Bovio June 12 th,   2020 It has been a quite a while since I have produced a Holiday card and/or letter. Mostly because I’ve been writing books, screenplays, while raising children along with house duties, running my full-time business taking care of people, keeping my training in fighting and running going for the most part. What prompted me to consider writing a Holiday letter, was that I received a Christmas card from Norman’s and my first landlord. Whom we rented from 1984 – 1990. They were a fun couple with three children. They were hard-working immigrants, right off the boat from Sicily. They were fair, seemingly non-judgmental. People, who you could be yourself around. Both worked in Paterson, New Jersey, piece-meal type work they did. He, seemed to be able to fix anything. She, an amazing cook and great house-keeper. A caring wonderful mother.   The two of them indeed a fantastic team, and I think

        I look back now over forty-five years of regular organized competitive sports in my life. Staying in shape has it's own dilemmas, when you have minor birth defects and are uncoordinated. I began competing in sport by the spring/summer 1971.   A time when the Billy Jean King's of the world struggled for recognition and funding for women's sports not only at the collegiate level, yet on a professional level as well.      As much as I've not been a tennis player, as I've been a runner, a grappler and a fighter; I have always appreciated people like tennis star Billy Jean King. She pushed for Title IX.  And WE. Yes WE, us girls and women finally received the recognition we had always deserved. Billy Jean and others like her saw to it.     I met Billy Jean King, on a Monday night in a corporate center, in and around the area of Somerset, New Jersey. She spoke before the five kilometer race was to begin that night at seven. That was over twenty years ago. But I st

The other day, my niece texts me… “Do you have shovels I could borrow…” I replied, “Sure.   I’ll check what we have. But I’m certain we have a snow shovel you could use.” After responding, I go out to our garage. I open our door to the garage and there to my right near my cross-country skis are not one, not two, not three…but five snow shovels. As I look across the garage, I see another one hanging on the wall. I go back inside and text her, “I’m bringing more than one snow shovel.”   I know her daughters are going to want to help. One of the shovels is light enough for a small child. Over the next couple of days, after I dropped off the shovels at her home, I begin to realize how overkill six snow shovels are.   I mean, we do live in the mid-Atlantic state area. As I chuckle to myself.   It’s not New Brunswick Canada or upper Vermont or Maine. We live in New Jersey. So, ‘how in the world did we end up with six shovels?’ I wondered. Then I realize my now deceased husband was in c

One day about seven years ago, I saw a woman who lived on our block out walking.  I'd seen her here and there, walking once in a while. She had a nice figure. I would say she was a 'well-figured' woman. Having all the curves tip to toenail women usually strive for,  in order to be considered beautiful,  healthy, so forth. And when you're in you early forties, you may still be holding onto the figure that you had before children, as she appeared to have. When she saw me, ready to run by her, she called out my name. I paused my running watch and jogged in place. She continued. "I want to know how come you are so fit. I walk..." She basically felt she did as much as I did physically... and that she should have my 'ehhh hmm' figure. I was stunned, to say the least.  Partly because I don't have the well-endowed figure. Rather, my aim is at being lean, spartan-like, and healthy. Here she was a stay-at-home mom, not doing all the cleaning in her ho

  If anyone reading this can recall, the notorious “Cabbage Patch Doll” frenzy of the early 1980’s. As you may know, every little girl had to have one. My husband, Norman at the time worked as a manager for the drug retail chain, Genovese . The higher-ups of Genovese made certain they were in stock. Yet, before they could get the dolls on the shelves, they soon ran out.   So, here the Cabbage Patch Dolls were selling… well... like better than ‘Hotcakes’.   They were selling beyond a capacity that at the time was beyond what anyone could imagine… that was how many children would be begging their parents for a Cabbage Patch Doll for Christmas. Norman being compassionate and caring, knowing that it was truly an ‘in’ thing to have as a little girl. He   had been trying to figure out; how to get one for my little sister who was age seven, and our one niece age five then December 1983. He knew it would be next to impossible for my Mom, as well as his sister to accommodate either child. A

Recently, when speaking with a friend, who has and is NOT in the same political vein as I. We discussed what areas our country would need in the future after this pandemic has dwindled. The topic of medicine was the discussion. Right now, there are areas of medicine that are becoming nearly obsolete due to the attention the pandemic has drawn; and the extra personnel needed from other areas of medicine. As well, as the excessive hours of involvement needed from many individuals in the medical fields. Our first response to one another in that conversation, was that… at least one of our children needs to go into medicine on some level.   The future for our teenagers is distant for the needs that are required now, and within the next five years for the United States.   The next five years, medicine, I will venture to say will be on the decline.   This would be due to burn out, early retirement, and the changing parameters of how we treat immediate illness, infections, and mental illne

  Recently,  as I was having a friend on the phone helping me fix a computer glitch. He told me this story about his 97 year old father, an Italian immigrant. Many years ago his father  escaped from being held captive and murdered by Nazi soldiers in Italy. He and his friends two friends refused to join Hilter's army. For some unknown reason...even to this day, this spry 97 year old doesn't for the life of him know why he wasn't shot, after such refusal.   The Nazi soldiers involved holding him at gun point. Rifles readied decided to let the three young Italian men go.  He thought then as they walked away, they would be shot in the back.  When they weren't, to say the least they were stunned to have been let go without a scratch. Soon after the man escaped and came to America with nothing. As well did his future wife, mother of my now friend. Both became citizens. Eventually the man worked for our government. The other day with this 97 year old Italian immigrant s

 He began, "So, I got this deal..."  Me, "Yeah?" Norman,  "I went up on 23, and saw her. " Me, "Where did you go?" Norman, "Sport Spot on 23 South.  And there she was." Me, "Uh oh."😊 Norman,  "I'm graduating to a BMW.  She was sitting there. 1986, an R80RT. A touring sportster... " Me, "What about the Yamaha, Norm?" Norman, "I'll get a buyer before I have to pick up the R80RT." It was 1987, we'd just had a semi long motorcycle ride up North together for a week. New England that'd be.  Norman was all enthralled about the open road. Married just over three years at the time, and he rediscovered a new love.  Me wary, yet curious.  'Maybe she'll ride easier.  Less bumpy on certain roadways of upstate New York'. Norman even had me considering getting a motorcycle license.  I'd driven nearly every style, engine from small military jeep to tractor trailers...