Janice Monahan Rodgers's Blog, page 2

WRITES OF PASSAGE

Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group – 2021 Anthology

Writes of Passage, an anthology by the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group, has been awarded First place in the BookFest Spring 2022 Book awards, anthology category.

Writes of Passage is a poignant collection of essays, poems and short stories.  It is a treasure trove of life’s altering events, those sudden perceptions that illuminate the moments that can change our lives. 

Moments like one family’s Thanksgiving, or a glimmer of a simple September yard clean-up, the flash of a game of Red Rover in the school yard, the aching hope of a child’s longing for a real birthday cake, or the transportive sound of the whir and click of two IVAC machines delivering life’s blood in a quiet hospital room.

The talented authors of the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group have delivered a courageous, humorous and emotional compendium of those moments in our lives that have the power to transform. 

Two of my works, The Wearin’ O’ the Green and The Tunnel are included in this book. 

I am proud to be a part of this award-winning anthology.

Janice Monahan Rodgers

THE SIXTH SENSE

Recently I visited a sick friend. I didn’t know what sort of gift to take him. Newly released from the hospital after a serious illness, he was on a strict diet, so no goodies of any kind were allowed by his doctor. 

Since he’s not a book or magazine reader, that too was not an option for my buddy.

So instead, I decided that just spending some quality time with him would be best.

I wasn’t sure how my visit would be received since he had been so ill. 

But the minute I walked in the door, he greeted me as he always had. With boundless enthusiasm and affectionate joy.  I admit I was a bit surprised by his resilience after the difficult time he had just had.

I expected him to be a bit disoriented and perhaps a little unsteady on his feet.  But he ran to welcome me with energetic enthusiasm, as though we hadn’t just seen each other days before. As he has always done since he was just a puppy.  

Yes, my little pal is a black Labrador retriever mix.

His show of affection despite his illness was a genuine reaction to my visit. I thought about that as my buddy launched himself practically into my lap to give me a few kisses. 

It has taken me a long time to understand that our pets, no matter how ill they may be, will always make that extraordinary effort to show us this loyalty and affection, and I have learned to appreciate that singular devotion for what it is.  Love.

I have a theory. It being that the more that we domesticate our pets, the more they read our human emotions as their own. 

And, they can read our emotions quite well. Sensing when we are feeling low or sad, they will come over to us for a special nuzzle or be sad and comforting with us instead. Or jumping in raw abandon when they know we are happy and they want us to know they share in that joy.

Indeed, some of our pets will even intuitively recognize when we are ill or about to become ill, sometimes long before we ourselves do. 

Is it because they have a sixth sense that allows them to know these things?

Perhaps.

So, why can’t we as humans sense their immediate discomfort or pain as they know ours.

I have owned and known quite a few dogs and cats over the years. I thought I knew my pet pals quite well.  Yet, I know there were times when I failed to recognize their immediate distress, simply because they couldn’t articulate their problem. I will admit though, that a few years and a few dogs and cats later, I have gotten better at understanding them.  

Our pets give us their loyalty, obedience, service, and unconditional love like no other species.

It’s time we returned the favor.

Be still. Be quiet. Watch.  Listen. Feel.

And find your sixth sense.

TWO LITTLE ANGELS

Christmas is that time of year for celebrating the birth of Christ, for reconnecting with family and friends, for traditions, and for making memories. 

This year, after dealing with Covid and all of its other incarnations, I think lots of folks were reluctant to let go of Christmas. And I was no different. 

Each year according to our tradition, we buy a live tree. This year we got the most perfect Concolor from a tree farm nearby. 

Reluctant to part with it as Christmas came and went, I kept my live tree up a tad longer than I usually do. But sooner or later, I knew it would have to come down. Needles were starting to drop. Not too many, but I didn’t want a repeat of last year when the only thing that got taken out was the bare branches of what was once a pine tree.

I started with removing the tinsel like I always do. Yes, I am one of those people who recycles their tinsel. Mostly, because you can’t buy it anymore. Plus, it is gold tinsel instead of silver and I doubt I would be able to find gold tinsel come next year.

Then it was time to remove all the ornaments. Like so many of us, most of my ornaments are old, collected over the years, gifts from friends, or simply too dear to ever part with, regardless of their condition. Removing each ornament, I reminisced about each one, where it came from, who gave it to me (old friends or family) mistily enjoying my trip back to yesteryear.  

And then I came to the last two. My favorites. But for two little ornaments that mean so much, I suddenly could not for the life of me remember where or when I acquired them. And then I was reminded that my sister-in-law purchased them for me when my daughters were toddlers.

One ornament is a kneeling angel, her long white hair matted now after hanging around for so many Christmases. And the other is her younger counterpart, a flying cherub with a short white-haired bob. Two little angels that have graced my Christmas tree for more years than I care to remember. Except for white hair grown wispy from years of zipping through my many Christmas trees, they are in remarkable condition.

The ornaments have become a tradition. Each year they are among the very first to be placed at strategic points on my tree. Just to make sure my two daughters can see them. Because for some reason, they are a reminder of my two daughters as they once were so many years ago.

My cherubs, my babies, my children. 

So, I will take my angel ornaments, brush their wispy hair, wrap them in tissue paper and pack them away for another year, until they can fly once more among strands of gold tinsel and rainbow-colored lights, alighting on branches of pine.

Life Before Seatbelts

It’s here. Just in time for the Christmas holidays.  Tales of flying sleds, flying sedans and flying footwear. You’ll never know what adventure lies just around the corner in Life Before Seatbelts! Enjoy these short stories of life in the forties and fifties and how we survived it all.

Available now on Amazon.com in ebook and paperback format.

Amazon (https://amzn.to/32jTmyn)

IT’S A SIMPLE THING

It’s a simple thing. A piece of cloth, measuring about seven inches by eight inches. It covers your mouth AND NOSE. You can find it in all kinds of fabric and fashion statements.

And here’s the best part. It can save your life, or for sure, someone else’s.

I have a lovely pink floral one with a pocket in it to slip in a paper coffee filter, should I feel the need for more protection. 

Yes, on occasion it does tickle my nose and sometimes my glasses don’t sit properly on top of it. The elastic bands can be wearisome after a few hours, but fortunately, I don’t have to wear mine for too long, unlike a nurse, a doctor, an EMT or an essential worker. 

When COVID 19 reared its ugly head, there was so little we knew about it. But from the beginning, it was apparent that wearing a mask could slow the spread.  Washing your hands frequently, ditto. Staying well apart from people, same. Perhaps if we heeded the warnings then, thousands of lives could have been saved.

Now, however, there is also evidence to suggest, that aerosols, those micro droplets coming from your nose and mouth, spread Covid.  As recently as September 20, the CDC acknowledged that Covid 19 can be spread through the air.

And, we know that simply wearing a mask can help prevent it. 

In an article I recently read by USA Today, after the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in Sturgis, South Dakota, at least 61% of all counties in the United States had been visited by someone who had attended the Rally. Statistics are still being compiled and traced as the number of Covid cases become available to the health care community and scientists. 

Yet, even as doctors and health care workers continue to point out the need for masks and social distancing, we have seen photo after photo of people gathering at rallies, partying on beaches, gathering in bars and other functions, all mask-less, all packed close together.  

Sadly, more and more people are still becoming infected, while our death toll continues to rise. 

According to statistics compiled by Johns Hopkins University, out of twenty countries most affected by Covid 19, the U.S., as of June 30th, has the 5th highest observed case fatality rate and the second highest per capita death rate. (FactCheck.org)

We recently passed the grim 200,000 mark of Covid deaths. Just since January, over 200,000 of our people are gone. 

Sobering statistics, one would think.

So, what’s the problem?  Why are some of us still so resistant to wearing a mask? 

Why not do the right thing? For your families, for your neighbors, for your country. 

It’s a little piece of cloth covering your mouth and nose.  It will save your life and possibly the lives of many others.

It’s a simple thing. 

WHEN SUPERMARKETS CAME TO TOWN

 

When I was a little girl, my family lived next to a grocery store. Since I was barely four at the time, I just naturally assumed grocery stores were always within skipping distance.

Whatever we needed was literally just a few steps away. Run out of butter, no worries. Just pop over to Mr. R’s grocers with a few coins. Shoes laces ripped, no problem. Shuffle next door and get a new pair.

And, oh joy, if I had a few extra pennies, a hop, skip and jump away was a fully stocked candy counter, ice cream freezer and racks with bags of snacks, like pretzels, potato chips and a new thing called Korn Kurls.

Now, with COVID 19 stalking us at every turn, our world has been turned upside down, no doubt about it. Things we once took for granted, have all changed.

Shopping at the mall, a stroll in the park, dinner at our favorite restaurant, have been altered, possibly forever.

But grocery shopping, never one of my favorite activities, has suddenly become more of a challenge, what with mobile apps, and reserved time pick-up and delivery schedules.

Out of stock, a term I never expected to hear regarding Taco kits and garbage bags, is now the norm.

In fact, there are a whole host of terms and phrases that I’ve become accustomed to in a short span of time.

Such as social distancing, don’t forget your mask, where are my rubber gloves, and suiting up.

For those of us of a certain age (ahem) however, time at home has us reminiscing, and longing for, that simpler time.

Growing up in the inner-city, my neighborhood boasted three or four grocery stores, not to mention the best bakery in the world ever, just up the street.

We called them Mom and Pop stores, because like the one next to my house, they were generally owned and operated by a couple, in our case Mr. & Mrs. R.

They pretty much had, at least one of everything you needed to make a meal, plus shoe laces, milk, light bulbs, fuses and candy and ice cream for us kids.

Then the supermarkets came to town, rolling in on a tide of post-war consumerism.

One by one, our little corner grocers disappeared and with them a part of Americana.

It was too late and too bad for them because we had fallen head over heels in love with the new kid on the block, the SUPERMARKET. The one that had, oh can you believe it, more than one brand to choose from, like Halo and Breck shampoo, Duz and Tide detergents. They didn’t have penny candy, but we overlooked that failing in our lust for more, more, more of everything.

With wide aisles and bright lighting, rows upon rows of fully stocked shelves were crammed with canned goods, breads, produce and pastas.

It was jaw dropping. There was this new stuff called frozen foods, with an even newer frozen offering, TV Dinners.

Oh, and cake mixes, where you just added eggs, oil and water. Although, quite often the cake ended up looking more like a crater.  But we ate around the edges and thought, wasn’t this new cake mix stuff just too grand!

How lucky we were to have this Taj Mahal of provisions only eight miles away.

While nowadays my supermarket is a bit closer, it is certainly not within skipping distance, like Mr. R’s was.

However, thanks to Covid 19, our now limited supermarket choices may be closer to our old Mom and Pop grocers than they ever were.

Wish I could just pop over to Mr. R’s for some whipped cream. I know he’d have at least one can.

Looks like my reminiscence of a simpler time may become a reality.

Be careful what you wish for!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SOLITUDE

 

I will never take a trip to the Isle of Iona, that rugged island off the shores of Scotland.

I will never know its craggy terrain or rest among its prehistoric stones.

Nor will I ever walk its ancient paths where St. Columba and his monks established their abbey.

But tucked away on the wooded side of a mountain in Pennsylvania, rests a rare gem, a part of Iona brought forth from a dream.

An unexpected delight…part parkland, part megalith mystery, it is called simply, Columcille.

The park was the brainchild of William Cohea, Jr., who constructed it over many years as a tribute to what he experienced on the island of Iona.

In a terrifyingly beautiful dream, where he was surrounded by a haunting circle of stones, Cohea experienced a deep spiritual and mystical awakening.

His dream was all the more puzzling since there were no stones on Iona like the ones in his dream. But Cohea returned to Iona again and again, beckoned by the energies of the ancient isle. He resolved when he left to create his own place of solace, fortified with the energy of ancient stones.

He found that place, in 1975.  A place whose craggy, mountainous terrain is as old as the stones on Iona.  Twenty plus acres on the slopes of the Blue Mountain.

His spiritual encounter on Iona gave rise to stonework projects like the Glen of Guardians, Thor’s Gate, St. Oran’s Bell Tower and more, on those wooded acres.  It is now called the Stonehenge of Pennsylvania.

Filled with a circle of standing stones, trilithons and dolmens, a chapel and bell tower, the Celtic eye and other megalithic mysteries, Columcille Megalith Park is a place of wonder and solitude.

Follow its meandering trails over the side of the mountain and feel the mystery of the place.  Enjoy the scope and beauty of its ancient stones, quarried from a spot nearby.

In this time of pandemic uncertainty, when places that were once our refuge are no longer safe, Columcille offers another option. It is a place of reflection. For one seeking answers to primordial questions, or someone simply in need of solace, Columcille can provide the answer to both.

From the tallest menhir, to the smallest pebble, Columcille is a place to excavate and reveal your troubled heart, to look inward and find a stronger foundation on which to build a better self. Much like Cohea did when placing his mystical megaliths on the slopes of Blue Mountain.

Or, one can simply enjoy its peace and tranquility and let serenity wash over your parched souls in the sylvan setting.

Savor the solitude.

 

The Quiet Man

 

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The Quiet Man

 

The stranger alights from the train and looks about. “Can you tell me the way to Inisfree?” he asks the station master, who is soon joined by the conductor, the engineer and several curious onlookers.

“The way to Inisfree,” he replies. “Well now, do you see that road over there?” Well, don’t take that one. It’ll do you no good.”

And, so begins the now classic film directed by John Ford, The Quiet Man, starring John Wayne, Maureen O’Hara and Barry Fitzgerald in the leads.

One of my favorite movies, The Quiet Man is, for me, a must see in March. For one thing, it provides outstanding entertainment in an otherwise oppressive month. It is my personal harbinger of spring, signaling the imminent approach of the greening of my world.

The story is told that Wayne and O’Hara had long wanted to do The Quiet Man, but other problems got in the way. They finally decided that if they didn’t do it soon, they would both be too old to play the romantic leads.

They needn’t have worried. Certainly, they were big enough names to guarantee a good box office draw. But, given the Irish propensity for marrying late in life, they picked the perfect time in their careers to make this story believable and work so well. And the actors, who were all friends, created an ensemble cast that produced a timeless classic that audiences still enjoy today.

Set in the fictional village of Inisfree, which is peopled with characters like Michaleen Flynn (Fitzgerald), Mary Kate Danaher (O’Hara), Father Lonergan (Ward Bond) and Squire Danaher (Victor McLaglen), The Quiet Man displays the cultural and social customs of a bucolic Irish village during the 1920’s. And woven throughout, like a single gold thread through a tapestry, is the subtle Irish wit, coupled with the soft but often volatile Irish temperament.

Wayne, as Sean Thornton, ex-steelworker home from America with secrets of his own, gives a remarkably restrained performance. Each time he does a scene with Flynn, the village matchmaker and gadabout, he lets the humor of this bowler-hatted leprechaun envelop then both.

“Is that real?” Thornton asks Flynn when he sees Mary Kate for the first time.

“Ah, forget her, Sean, forget her. That redhead of hers is no lie!”

And the red-headed O’Hara is perfect as Mary Kate Danaher, spinster sister of Squire Danaher. She runs his household and cooks for their farm hands with the efficiency and rigidity of a four-star general.

In one scene, while she is serving them supper, Feeney, the Squire’s foreman, gossips about Thornton. Furious with him, she drops a hot potato the size of a small boulder on his plate, calling him a ‘squint’ and ‘tattletale.’

But when Thornton engages Flynn as matchmaker to present his proposal to Mary Kate, we see the softer side of her emerge as an eager, prospective bride.

Even Flynn’s obvious tipsiness when he presents Sean’s proposal doesn’t disturb her. She offers him a drink and then begins to notice that he’s already had a few.

She asks, “Could you use a little water with that?”, to which Flynn replies expansively, “When I drink whiskey, I drink whiskey. And when I drink water, I drink water!”

Trouble, however, starts almost from the out-set when Thornton buys back his ancestral cottage, enraging Squire Danaher, who wanted the property.

Furious, Danaher warns Thornton, “I’ve got you down in my book!”

Later, at home, he throws himself into a chair and yells, “Feeney, get your book!”

“Have you written the name I gave you?” he asks.

“I have,” replies the toady Feeney.

Pouring himself a glass of whiskey, he gives Feeney yet another order.

“Well, strike a line through it!” he growls, and knocks back the drink. “That’s for him – Sean Thornton.”

Watching Victor McLaglen in this film, I marvel at his absolutely superb performance. McLaglen never disappoints his audience. He is the loudmouthed oaf, almost pathetic in his attempts to win the Widow Tillane (Mildred Natwick), and stubborn and heavy handed in his dealings with others.

All this of course, puts him on a collision course with Thornton.

With such strong actors seeming to dominate the film, it would have been easy for peripheral characters to become overshadowed. Instead, they are an integral part of the story.

Like the Rev. Dr. Playfair, who is the one man who knows Sean Thornton’s secret. The one who knows, even before Thornton does, that you can’t run away.

And so, when Sean Thornton finally makes his stand, the entire cast of the film, from the railroad station master to the inhabitants of Innisfree, join him in this rollicking finale to a tale of a man pushed too far.

 

La Fheile Padraig Sona Dhuit!     Happy St. Patrick’s Day to You!

 

The, uh, Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

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I grabbed a bag of chips and some cold lemonade and sat down in front of my television to watch Turner Classic Movies. Today’s offering was Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948) with Humphrey Bogart. Ah, you can’t go wrong with Bogie, I figured.

As I sunk into the sofa munching my chips, I watched as Bogie and cast devolved into a pack of stricken, desperate men in search of ‘the treasure’. Great acting by Bogie. It was awesome. Then it happened.

One cunning, toothy Mexican bandido looks into the camera and says “Badges. We ain’t got no badges. We don’t need no badges. I don’t have to show you any stinking badges.”

There it was. My ‘Ah Ha’ moment. Because, despite the poor grammar, the line resonated. It had been hijacked by local teenagers who just substituted whatever they liked following the word ‘stinking.’ Up until then, I had not realized the impact movie lines had on our language. And, I sincerely doubt that those teenagers even knew where the line originally came from.

So that bit of dialogue from a 1947 movie, with some modifications, was still going strong.

Old movies. I just love them. Of course, ahem, when I say ‘old movies’ I mean 1930’s, 1940’s, and some 1950’s.

During those golden years, Hollywood churned out picture after picture.

In 1939, it seemed the ‘stars’ literally aligned to produce some of the most significant and memorable movies (and one liners) of all time, all in one prolific year.

That year gave us not only one of the best pictures but one of the top movie lines ever.

The movie was Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind, starring Clark Gable and Olivia de Havilland.

And that most famous line, uttered by a fed-up Rhett Butler, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” became history.

Since those golden years, movie line after movie line has worked its way into our lingo.

Where would we be without the proverbial, anytime toast, “Here’s looking at you kid.” (Casablanca, 1942). Or, “Elementary, my dear Watson,” which was written solely for the movies and never appears in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s books.

Hundred’s, probably thousands of lines like “You ain’t heard nothing yet!” (The Jazz Singer, 1927), “There’s no place like home” (the Wizard of Oz, 1939), “What a dump!” (Beyond the Forest, 1949), “It’s alive!”, Frankenstein, 1931, and “I’m shocked, shocked…”, (Casablanca, 1942), are still relevant today and vie with other more modern movie lines.

In today’s modern world, “Houston, we have a problem,” (Apollo 13, 1995) can mean anything from clogged drains to the car’s on fire. And the challenge, “Go ahead. Make my day,” (Sudden Impact, 1983) can fit a Mom warning her four-year old or a hard-nosed cop. Or, the gruff voiced, “I’ll be back!” (The Terminator, 1984) easily competes with “You talking to me”, (Taxi Driver, 1976), so “Snap out of it”, (Moonstruck, 1987).

While I thought about all these wonderful lines floating in and out of our daily dialog, The Maltese Falcon came on next. I still had more chips, so I settled in.

I watched Bogie, Sidney Greenstreet, Mary Astor and Peter Lorre (as the curly-haired Joel Cairo), engage in some of the most devious, duplicitous maneuvers ever employed, trying to beat each other in their quest for the elusive Black Bird. It was worth every minute.

When it looks like all is lost, Lorre loses it and in a teeming tirade, rounds on Greenstreet, calling him an imbecile, a bloated idiot and a stupid fathead.

Gee, crooks were so much more fun back then.

Now my chips were almost gone as Ward Bond and Bogie stare down at the Bird. The movie is coming to a close and I wait for the best line ever!

“Heavy”, says Bond holding the statue. “What is this?” he asks.

Bogie grasps the Bird and replies, “The, uh, stuff that dreams are made of.” (The Maltese Falcon, 1942)

Author’s Note: Just like “Elementary, my dear Watson,” the line “The, uh, stuff that dreams are made of,” never appeared in Dashiell Hammett’s novel. Humphrey Bogart suggested adding it.

CHRISTMAS IS A ‘COMING

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Christmas – a time of joy and wonder when the child within us emerges.  A time of year when the smell of cookies baking or the heady scent of a fir tree can send us reeling back to our childhood.

Take a trip back into the 1940’s and 1950’s and see how we celebrated the holidays beginning with Halloween and ending with Christmas Eve. When each day brought with it great expectations, carrying us ever closer to the big day.

Follow the Monahan clan as we began our frenetic round of preparations. Perhaps you will see your own family mirrored within the pages of Christmas Is A ‘Coming.

Christmas Is A ‘Coming, my third book of short stories, is now available on Amazon.com in e-book and paperback format.  Wonderful fireside reading, terrific story-time with the family, and makes a heart-felt Christmas gift.  Happy Christmas and Happy Reading!