Family Fare

Family farewell

2009-02-16T14:04:00.000-08:00

I feel like I should tug on my ear or something. The last six years have been a joy to share with the readers of the Mountain Democrat. We went on a journey together that commenced on a Monday in May 2003 on Memorial Day. I remember it was the start of the summer and I had nothing to write about except swimsuits, three kids and JD’s proclivity for air conditioning.

Since that weekend, I have shared my life with you, the ups and down, the seasons of my family and the people who shape my life. My kids grew up. I went from homeschooling to nursing school. On father’s day, you read stories about my husband, my father, my father-in-law, & my grandfather. On mother’s day, I wrote about my mom, momaher, grandmother and aunts. You read about weddings, family reunions, and family funerals. You read about the families in Jersey and the Barry's from Nebraska. You soon came to know my friends and my neighbors. You got to know my choir director, my pastors and my study buddies. My college friends and professors, colleagues and teachers still talk to me despite being the fodder for my musings in this column. I wrote about extraordinary people, young and old. I wrote about what was special to me and in a way, it was selfish of me to think you would be interested in that.

You read about my godchildren and my children. You read about Clare, Jordan, Maddie and MaryJane. You met Adam, Wally and Frank, extraordinary people who were special. You read about people I loved, who lived and then died; my Gram “Betty Boop,” Aunt Carol and Grumpy Jack. You read about my father Tom, who died serving in the air force, before I was born. You read mostly about my life long-father “Pop-Pop” who raised me and whose survival propelled me into the nursing profession.

You read about wood whittlers and communists. When my family was in a crisis, I shared it with you and when times were good, you read about that too. The Italian cousins and MoMaher were major ingredients of Family Fare…lucky me because they are so lovable. You read about my children Shannon, Conor & Birdy, the main ingredients of my life. I suppose in the kitchen, the big spoon is JD. You see, in life as in the kitchen, the big wooden spoon in the family is the one that ensures the consistency of everything. My husband has been the salt of the column. He flavored it all.

Golly, it was fun writing about the films I liked and the books I read. Mostly, I enjoyed writing about the people in this community, particularly those involved in the hospitality industry. It was a pleasure to meet and write about people like George Rupp, who works as an usher at the Regal in El Dorado Hills, Giovanni & Shari Gaudio who created Boccanato Trattorio; about Cindy and Daryl at Lucinda’s and the Kathleen & Bob Ash who own Bella Vista B & B. We live in a beautiful place. I love the intimacy of this newspaper. The stories of the locals, the schools, the teams, and the people are the vibrant tapestry of El Dorado County. For 150 years, you have been the fabric of this newspaper.

Writers must write because inside themselves they are constantly writing. I wish I could count the conversations and letters I have written in my head to people I care about, while driving the car, but have never had the time to send. Even though the Thursday edition of the paper is ending, there are a few things I want to leave you, not that I matter, but the editor of this paper read a couple stories about hamsters and children and let me write for you. What a privilege.

My family and people I met along the way, they are your family too. Your friends, your pastors, and loved ones shape you in ways you can never measure. You have had adventures in your life, you have stories to tell and share. Your thoughts are important; so is your faith. I believe inside every person is a story. Share it.

This column was about memories; long ago and those from a week ago. In a way, the diary was mine, but the readers had the key. Sometimes I said too much. I wish I could say more. I was able to share my faith, my friends, my family and I thank you. I served it up whether you liked it or not and you were a gracious guest. Sometimes readers write to tell you a thing or two and you had such nice things to say. You let me know you were reading. I often met in you in the line at the grocery store and it meant a lot to me to know that what I wrote meant a lot to you. Thanks for the space to park all the words.

Tammy Maher will continue to write on her blog www.familyfare.blogspot.com and sends many thanks to Pat, Michael and the Mountain Democrat community for the experience. It was a lovely ride.

Farewell Grumpy Jack

2009-01-20T20:17:00.000-08:00

My grandfather was a quiet man who was not much on words. I remember meeting him when I was a kid and thinking he was about the scariest thing I ever laid eyes on, but then again, the Cameron family has a knack for rendering ‘the evil eye’ and I guess my Pop learned how to give us the look from having been raised in a house ruled by Grumpy Jack. He passed away Monday night after a short illness. I guess the person I am most worried about is my grandmother, married to him for more than 65 years, who possessed the only set of keys to him, who now has to carry on without him.

Grumpy Jack, or the “Old Man” was a first generation Scottish immigrant tradesman, a World War II Army Air Force combat veteran (Purple Heart) and father of seven children. If you count my cousin, Cameron, he raised eight kids. He leaves behind a plethora of grand kids and great grand kids scattered around the U.S., and if you were to give him a pop quiz on all their names, I am sure he would give you the evil eye.

My memories of him thinly span 40 years and the memories can be best categorized as intermittent and few (there goes my nursing cap). Several things stand out. Grumpy Jack liked to work outside with his hands and so did my Pop. Since he taught my dad all there was to know about auto body restoration, I guess you could say he was an artisan of sorts. He ran his own auto body business. In his middle years, post retirement, he was a vocational teacher. I say I was scared of him, but there were times I challenged myself to talk to him, cracking a hard shell where inside was a soft nut . He loved to show us around his tropical backyard when we were young. He raised and bred orchids and loved living in the hot humid climate of south Florida. During the Category five hurricanes, he hunkered down and refused to leave his homestead. No one could tell him what to do.

My memories of conversations with him are vague. Being a man of few words, we would usually be on the receiving end of his declarative short statement about something we said or did; or a question he wanted you to answer. I always felt that I had the wrong answer but sometimes he would throw you off with a grin that had you believing he actually liked you.

Grumpy was stalwart in maintaining his personal space and protecting my grandmother. I suppose he was reluctant to trust, something characteristic of having survived the depression years, a World War, fighting Communists and raising children in uncertain economic times.

The finest thing Grumpy ever did for me was to get on airplane (something he absolutely abhorred) to fly out for my wedding twenty years ago. It felt like a singular privilege, given that he was not one for flying anywhere to see anyone. I pray that he knows he was loved and that somewhere in heaven for him, is a nice patch of beach, a few of his orchids, a cold glass of beer, and a warm breeze, like home.

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Me Matey Skip!

2009-01-06T01:53:00.000-08:00

When JD brought home Skipper eight years ago, I was perplexed, because he was never the doggie sort of guy. Even though I tried to convert him early on, he just wasn’t a person who adapted well to critters in the animal kingdom. I don’t know what the issues were, as I came from a long line of dog lovers on my mother’s side so for me, the addition of a canine to our growing family seemed only natural in the mergers and acquisitions of marrying each other, and having children and raising them in their formative years. After all, these delightful creatures taught children the importance of nurturing, responsibility, life skills, caretaking, dog walking, dog waking etc. The best pet funeral I ever attended was the one officiated by my Dad for my hamster Snuffy, one night in the rain when I was 10 years old. Pop was quite the serious undertaker. I learned some of my best life skills prepping that rigor mortis ridden rodent in a hair dryer box for his final resting place in the backyard while Pop worked up the sermon on the Mount. So, imagine my surprise when my dear hub spontaneously showed up one day after school with a rather large puppy in a box, after absolutely refusing for four long years to get a dog inciting reasons such as the transmission of fleas, rabies and the possibility that a dog could substantially ruin his life and his furniture.

What really happened was that one of JD’s favorite students had a litter of mutts and not being particularly astute at the mixes and breeds and temperaments of any non-Bassett Hound type looking dog, agreed to adopt a cute little puppy. I almost laughed at the cute ‘little’ Belgian Sheepdog, Lab, Cocker Spaniel-Red Fox mix with paws the size of small dishes. This was no lap dog, it was a small horse. Skipper’s name was undeniable. He was in charge from day one. He painfully cried away his first night of residence with us, whimpering in the kitchen until be broke free of his cardboard bondage whereby jumping up onto 9 year old- Shannon’s bed in what scientists aptly refer to as “imprinting”. She took over conservator ship of the 8 week old puppy and she’s been his mommy ever since.

I’d like to argue the point that the last person to walk Skip, drive him in the car with the wind beating on his head, and whoever so hath delivereth the best table scrap to his drooling chops, to be his master du jour of the moment, but it’s me talking here so what do I know? But, I swear that big old dog smiles at me. Maybe it’s because I’m his grandmother. There are limitations to my state of responsibility however, as anything regurgitated out of either end of that dog is promptly referred back to the mother to pick up and she never complains about the dooty duty.

So in honor of all creatures Great and Small, and in celebration of Birdy’s birthday last Saturday, we met the family in Sacramento to catch John Grogan’s book to film version of “Marley & Me”. In essence, it’s the story of a young couple, their growing family and how indelibly situated their dog; Marley was in the center of it all. I have to warn all my dog loving friends out there, this film is not for people who hate to laugh and cry at the same time. Shucks…it might as well have been titled, Me Matey Skip, or my grand dog Skipper….or in technical terms, my daughter & Skip. Shannon was the only person who refused to see the film. She simply could not face a future reality of a world without Skipper in it.

If you have a fondness in your heart for your animal friends who bring you unconditional fury and joy at their antics and intuitiveness, you must read the book and see the film. So much of Grogan’s story is your own tale; you will find it difficult not to see the Marley in every pet you’ve ever known.

While Skipper is still rather youthful at age 8, known to take and carry his leash to the front door in his teeth and telling us in his grunts and whines that we need to get going in that Skipper dog dance that he does; often twirling around excitedly like a pony, we know that our years remaining with him are less than we’ve had thus far. In his own little way, no matter who is responsible for the next step out the door, he always makes you feel like you’re his Matey and he’s your Skipper and that all dogs, no matter what, go to Heaven.

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Christmas in the ordinary

2008-12-22T16:36:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve & Day are the most special days of the year for me, primarily because no matter where I am, there is a different feeling in the air on these two days, unlike any other days I've experienced throughout my life. Expectation, joy, peace, all emotions I've felt on December 24 and December 25. It's a mystery to me...and it repeats year after year. I've also had years of sadness and loneliness on these days, dealing with loved ones who were ill and in crisis. My grandpa collapsed on Christmas day and died four days later when I was nine years old. Thirty six years later, it's still a prominent memory for me. My Dad was in the hospital three years ago and now his best friend is there, a man who sat with us for three months...patiently waiting like us, for Dad to come home.

To equate this time of celebration with love and grief is unavoidable because the emotions are so interconnected...We grieve those whom we have loved. God comes to us gently in His example of His birth because I think He knew and understood the world He had created, one in which joy and fear shared seats in concert, with passion, love and anger. How can one not stand in awe of the fragility and beauty of a newborn infant? In the midst of chaos, the world did not stop. The world celebrates simplicity in extravagance. He was/is a contradiction. Being born in the bleakness and beauty of humble surroundings, via a vessel of grace, we had among us the Godchild, a Light in the darkness.

We are celebrating Christmas this year, grateful for the blessings we've received and will receive in the coming year, worried about extended family members dealing with a devastating diagnosis, a good friend in the hospital recovering from a fall off a roof. Life is a circle of joy and suffering, gain and loss. In the midst of running around this Advent, it was important for me to lie low and hang out with the kids. My sisters and I decided we wouldn't exchange gifts. We thought it best just to help each other with the dinner preparations. We wanted to welcome friends we haven't seen in a year. They are Jewish friends who want to experience Christmas and they asked to share it with us. It wasn't about what we bought. I know, I know. The stores opened early and closed late with discounts and deals beyond belief. Someone reminded me that a good deed is better than 80% off anything that is usually discarded soon after it's opened on Christmas. We filled up our gas tanks with loose change. When was the last time we could do that?

Who needs you? That is what this Christmas is about. Does a friend need a lift, a kind word? Does someone need a ride, a meal, a shoulder to cry on? Better than that cashmere sweater, or Blu-Ray DVD player, how can you give your time? What about having everyone in for a movie night, a home-cooked meal, a night out with a babysitter? Who needs me? My family is about to lose me to a 12 month nursing program and I have to remind myself that I need to set aside time for them. Sometimes, just hanging out in the kitchen baking with my kids is a gift.

When Christ was born in Bethlehem, He came as an infant, in secret and in love. He revisits us in the sacraments, in other people and even sometimes challenging us by coming to us in the people we don't care for too much. God comes to us through our family members and friends. As quietly as He arrived...he stays patient for us to recognize Him in the ordinary. Cook something nice, be present to your loved ones, take the phone of the hook, go to church, even if you haven’t been there in a while, open a bottle of something to share and have a very Merry Christmas.

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Put me in coach...

2008-12-09T09:54:00.000-08:00

It feels like a very long baseball game is finally winding down after extra innings. After what seemed like an interminable amount of time in school preparing for a nursing program, this old bench warmer is finally having to step up to the plate and hit something, because everyone wants to go home, darn it! I say that tongue in cheek because after being so worried about getting into school, rejected by lotteries and retaking classes I had B’s in for A's,I was too tired to be happy about it when it finally happened…in a trio of acceptances into two bachelors program and one masters program.

I narrowed it down to two. One costs as much as a loaded Lexus and lasts 12 months, the other is much slower paced, less expensive and is a 2-year program. At my age, I should be practical and take door number 2, but I am Bob & Sally’s daughter, so I always do things that are risky and so I go for what Monty Hall is holding in his left breast pocket, which is a roller coaster ride to hell and back.

Luckily, misery loves company and my old pal Trudy decided to jump on Hell Ride 2 with me. She’s just as a nervous, but we’re old broads with moxy and we’re just gonna jump on the ride, fasten our seat belts and scream. In the process, we hope we lose a few pounds.

I tried on my nursing uniform last week and my son laughed at my shoes. “Are you going outside in those?” I know this is going to be one of those experiences not unlike what my nephew went through at Basic Military Training. There is no glamour and glory in being a student nurse. There will be times when I will feel stupid and probably do something wrong. I know I will have to swallow my pride and get ready for the boot stomp, but at the end I will be a different person. I will be a nurse. In the meantime, I hope to have the stamina it takes to endure cramming what most students study in 2-3 years, into an accelerated 12 month 2^nd degree program. Knowing the family won’t see me much, I have started to build of arsenal of support. Carpool plans, study groups, buying books early (reading). I’ve had parental help with books and supplies, and I’m on a first name basis with my loan officer. Note to self: Consider hiring a housekeeper to prevent mental breakdown in the middle of the year. JD and the kids assure me they will be waiting for me at the end of the ride. So I go.

We went to orientation last month and a faculty adviser suggested we keep a journal of the year, only because so much will happen during the program, we’ll want to look back and see how we’ve changed. I decided to keep an on-line diary which I will blog for anyone interested in reading about student nursing or the nursing profession in general. The blog journal can be accessed at www.rntrainingwheels.blogspot.com

A friend of mine who graduates tonight from the same program I will begin on January 5, is not the same person I went to Folsom Lake College with. He’s been through a process that redefined him. I saw what it was doing to him last summer when we met him and his wife for dinner. I thought to myself, “I will never do it that way” and in true Tammy fashion, promptly signed up for it in November. He is so much happier now, like the end of the roller coaster ride that made you really sick, but elated to come out the other side, or the really long baseball game that never ends. His first job will be working in the Operating Room as an OR nurse so I guess you can say he hit a home run. Put me in coach.

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com or www.rntrainingwheels.blogspot.com

Parla come magni

2008-11-25T14:09:00.000-08:00

“Speak the way you eat” or something to that effect, is something I pulled out of a book I am reading titled “Eat Pray Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert. At moments in the book I find nothing and everything in common with the author, whose journey through Italy, India and Indonesia puts her on a journey of self discovery and one might argue her path to loving God. I had a similar journey about 10 years ago, but most of it occurred within a 20 mile radius of Sacramento. So boring, and I doubt anyone would really want to read my memoir about it. I am convinced this Thanksgiving that life is simply a journey where we are required to eat, pray and love; in the process however, it would be nice to leave something worthwhile behind. Parla come magni, at the end of the day means “Keep it simple”.

Parla come magni…I remember a similar journey in the summer of 1983. My parents decided that the family should see Europe in a manner of weeks, much in the tenor of the film “Its Tuesday, it must be Belgium”. I have some great memories from that trip. Sometimes a moment becomes a mantra and there was one event in Holland that indelibly defined my family. We had exited the tour bus in Amsterdam and my mom wanted to see the home of Anne Frank. The rest of us were hungry and disoriented after standing in front of Rembrandt’s famed ‘Nightwatch’. Mom was irritable and probably LBS (low blood sugar)…so she took off in a fit. Being a woman who is perimenopausal, I thought my mom was nuts back then (little did I know at age 20). Realizing that we should all probably follow her, we all sort of stepped into the pace, except we did it in single file, sort of spontaneously. Mom, Terry, Tricia, Dad and Me all walking single file down the street…when suddenly to break up the tension, Dad started to quack. Like a duck. “Quack..quack…quack…” with each alternating step we took, looking ridiculously American in the process, the spectacle of it became quite funny. I think at one point Mom couldn’t be mad any more. We were all laughing hysterically. It stuck. In later years, when Pop walked us all down the aisle at our weddings, he quacked. Whenever we found ourselves in line anywhere, the quacking would intuitively start. We were forever known as the duck family. We’ve added a lot of ducks since then and everyone has been initiated. Yeah, it’s a weird family thing. Families can be that way.

I am thankful for a life where eating, praying and loving is part of the recipe of my family. This thanksgiving, give thanks for the good times, the bad and all the in-betweens. My own family, that being JD, Shannon, Conor & Birdy have sort of followed me, lock, stock and barrel through some hair brained ideas, absolute demands and long term commitments. Whether it was whether or not, we were going to continue homeschooling, where we would go on vacation, go to Mass on Sundays or eat dinner, they always went along with the Mama Duck. When I took time off to take care of Pop and as I start my year long nursing program this January, the kids have always honored and stepped into pace with the disruptions in their lives. I asked Shannon to take on some major responsibilities now that she is all grown up, and she has complied with each request, without too much quacking and Birdy and Conor have done the same. I guess I am the luckiest mother duck on earth. No one complains much. I guess the duck family was born, long before Amsterdam 1983 somewhere in the genes of some Irish people with a sense of humor, or some Italians too mad to come to blows.

J.D. is willing to support his crazy wife who wants to be a nurse and has always been there to walk beside me in this journey of life, like a great spouse and best girlfriend. With a journey that involves simplicity, complexity and sometimes insanity, this Thanksgiving, I wish you joy in eating, praying and loving your family. It’s an insane and wonderful life. From my duck family to yours, Happy Thanksgiving!

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

All shall be well

2008-11-11T22:23:00.000-08:00

Next week my Dad goes back to the hospital for surgery. It was three years ago this month that he faced a similar situation and we almost lost him. I know things are going to be better this time because I have faith that ‘all shall be well.’ It would be a waste to worry and fret. We’ve done that before and it made us crazy. I was cleaning out my old desk in my bedroom and noticed a card a friend had given JD a couple years ago with the words “All shall be well” inscribed across the card. I tossed it to JD and said that we should hang onto that. Reminders are just that…little urgings from the past telling us that everything is going to be OK. This brings me to a column I wrote a few years back during Lent and I wanted to revisit it again because I need to remind myself sometimes to stop fretting. Some things are just beyond my control.

The reminder is for those who might be going through a rough patch right now. Whether you are grieving the loss of a loved one or suffering some insurmountable loss of health or bad news about a loved one. You know who you are. You are the ones that suffer mostly in silence. You try your hardest at work and at home to put on a happy face. When people ask how you are doing, the only words you can find are, “Everything’s just fine…thanks.” But when you get into the shower or collapse into bed at night, you let the tears fall. In secret you are suffering because you have a lot of things on your mind and you know you need to keep going. Maybe life has dealt you some hard blows and bad cards. Perhaps you are suffering the loss of a job or financial woes. I see those of you who are not sleeping at night, maybe because you are losing your home or your job and you are wondering how bad it’s going to be, now that the Holidays are approaching. Maybe your business isn’t doing as well as you expected, or that home renovation project is driving you crazy. Some of you are struggling with managing it all…school, work and home. Perhaps you are failing to meet expectations you and others have placed on you. It’s very difficult. Hard times happen and we don’t always understand the reasons why. A friend of mine who is a priest reminded me today that there is the hardship of carrying a cross (a mystery), but our hope is in the glory of bearing it well.

Some of you have loved ones who are far away from home. The worry is getting to you. Your teenager might be having emotional or scholastic problems. Maybe your marriage has fallen into a rut. Perhaps you are lonely or have suffered a betrayal in a close friendship. Without becoming absolutely too maudlin in outlining common problems many people suffer in days like these, I offer you a few thoughts, only because you’ve been on my mind.

You are not alone, even when it seems as if you are. This too, shall pass….and no problem is bigger than your own strength to bear it. Don’t give in to despair. Try and persevere. Sometimes, the highest thing we can do to beat problems like these, is to be absolutely dedicated to helping others with a kind word or deed. Maybe you can’t do much right now. Perhaps picking up the phone and calling someone you haven’t spoken to in a long time, mending a fence, delivering a meal to a neighbor, or writing a letter to a loved one would give you a brighter outlook. Finding a kind word, hugging someone who needs one, lending an ear and listening well, make our own problems seem less significant. Negativity breeds contempt and bitterness. Make time for family. Try to relax and slow down.

If you are ill, the very idea of usefulness escapes you. But your work is valuable and has meaning. Perhaps your primary job is that of using your own suffering as a means to sanctify those around you. Perhaps you are teaching patience to others by your own example of suffering. Your virtue is your patience.

So much is changing besides the season. Be patient and unafraid. Sorrow is seasonal, like a rough and cold winter. If you are in the throes of a difficult time, this, too shall pass and Spring is only a few months away.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Same Old Story

2008-10-28T13:24:00.000-07:00

At the end of the story, everything is not OK; no flowery declarations or speeches, no parades, weddings or celebrations. There are no toasts, dancing, or gift exchanges. There is no food, wine or drunken stupor “I love yous”. There is nothing. All is the same as it was before the end of the story, nothing has changed at all. The same characters are there, the same problems, joys, triumphs, disappointments and setbacks. What’s with the same old story?

Which begs the question, why go through the process at all? Why tell the story if it doesn’t have a happy ending. If change is not brought about and problems aren’t solved, why go to all the trouble? Why waste the time and the money of putting the story together, piecing together the transcript, submitting it to editorial scrutiny, marketing, advertising, critique and then release? It has served no real purpose. It’s slick and attractive on the cover. It’s polished, charming and seductive. It tells tales of courage, hope and cunning. It promises surprises, lots of surprises. It even serves up a scandal or two. It’s dicey, racy and sometimes foolish. Sometimes, the story stumbles over itself, and many times the story is just repetitive and boorish. When the story is lagging, we just skip and skim it…seeking out the page where the story starts up and tells us what we want to hear, just how we like to hear it. The pace of the story is like a marriage that at first seems like a ball that was hit out of the park, only to land in the foul zone, time and again in the same old mundane Saturday afternoon routine of blah.

The story is played out on television, on radio talk shows, books of the week and internet blogs. It’s the rants and raves, the scores and the misses, the “who bought what where” and the “who said what when.” The story loves to paint pictures where illustrations are needed. The story makes a lot of promises it will never be able to keep. The story associates with utopian principles without understanding the meaning of what is true and beautiful. Most importantly the story gives rise to bitterness and ill will, when good humor and patience would suffice. The story slings about accusations and ridicule and insinuates itself between friends and family. The story points a finger and wages indifference. The story loves to hear itself every day, debated and discussed. It will participate in activities that reduce the story to a mockery and a joke. In the past the story has performed for the amusement of others only to score points but the story is not as funny as it desires to be. By this time the story is getting tired and old hat. The story has been repeated so many times, the story hardly knows itself because in the end it changes nothing because it only seeks power. "This is the most important story!" Even that is getting a little redundant. Because no matter how the story ends, there will be four judges somewhere that will burn the story or toss it away. There will be a lawyer somewhere that will disagree with the story and how it ends and want to change or rewrite it.

I thought this story was important when I first picked it up, but as Gordon Sumner once wrote, "You could say I lost my belief in politicians, they all seem like game show hosts to me"

Next Tuesday the story will be told once again. Wake me up when it’s over.

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her on the web at http://www.familyfare.blogspot.com/

Trudy, my sister from another mother

2008-10-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

I have a friend that I go to school with that is much like a sister. I can say this with all reliability because I have two sisters. I say it confidently because of the sheer amount of time we spend together. Law students and medical students know where I am going on this. Nursing ‘wannabes’ have certain tenaciousness in their drive to do well, because failure is simply not an option when you are competing against the brilliant minds of straight ‘A’ students in subjects such as, microbiology, anatomy & physiology, pharmacology, and pathophysiology (these are meat and potato subjects, hardly fluff & bluff.) It’s within this context, that I sort of fell into Trudy’s world. She didn’t push me out, so I stayed; much like a stray dog.

I met Trudy in Anatomy and Physiology, and I doubt there’s been a week over the last two years, that I haven’t had a cram session, taken a test, had a conversation, or meal without her. Yeah, we spend a lot of time together. She’s simply part of the ‘day-to-day’ in Tammy world.

Studying with this kind of intensity breeds bonding that isn’t present in other types of work. The bonding is cultivated in a trust shared by common goals. You realize that the scope and sequence of success in a profession like nursing, requires that one sacrifice a little or much to support those who are taking the walk with you, and that support ends up being the paramount training ground as to the kind of nurse one will be when the finish line is crossed. I know the military cultivates bonds like these; I think I know why some people cry when they finish long roads like medical school, law school, seminary, or a marathon for that matter. It’s hard to contemplate the journey you’ve taken, the stumbles, the triumphs, a mini crises. At the end of the nursing journey, there is something called a capping and pinning ceremony, in addition to graduation. But like lawyers, there’s not much time to celebrate, because we’ll be taking licensing boards. In the stress of going through the process of completing pre-requisites, there’s been the agony of waiting…waiting for notification, an end to signal another beginning; usually just a form letter that says “Thanks for applying, you didn’t make the cut this time, but try again next time-Good luck!” We shared a few of those wait periods. They are stressful. But we always seem to pull each other out of the trenches. Frozen yogurt helps with that, so do cosmopolitans (depending on the class we just finished.)

My experience having a relationship with Trudy over these last two years, has taught me a lot about myself, about what I can accomplish if I set my mind to it and also what limitations I have, because like a spouse, a study buddy gets to see the worst and best parts of you.

We’ve applied to programs, taken the same classes and been a resource to each other when needed. I have to say this friendship has been the wisest investment I’ve made in going back to school, and despite any philosophical, or religious differences we may have, I consider our shared experience stronger than anything that separates us. I’ve made a good friend for life and the reason I know this to be true is because she has given more than I could ever reciprocate in being a study partner who cares about the success of others. These seemingly endless hours of study partnering also involve sharing food, news, joys, cares and concerns.

So, in the spirit of Trudy, I want to wish her a happy birthday. I am planning on cooking dinner for her family, because I think we’ve eaten at every restaurant worth going to and a home cooked meal is something we both miss. In short order, it’s the least I can do to thank her for her friendship. Some friends are always like family, so on your birthday Trude, I wish you joy, happiness, success in all things. Mr. Johnson, our hypothetical patient would also like to wish you a very happy day, hence his contribution to this tribute. Most especially, I pray I get into the same program you’re accepted to, because I don’t know anyone else who can put up with me, your sister from another mother.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat.

The audacity of hard work

2008-09-29T11:12:00.000-07:00

People are complaining a lot these days. So much to harp about too. Gas prices, the economy, the election. We’ve been busy working so darn hard; it’s been hard to get a pulse on all this. JD is working three jobs. I am tenaciously trying to pull off the best grades of my life in order to study to become a nurse. I can’t believe what this has pulled out of me emotionally and I am not even in a program yet. Forget about “hope”; hope has nothing to do with it anymore. I lost hope a long time ago and it had nothing to do with George Bush (can you believe it?). Hope is a virtue that no one can give or promise, not even Sen. Obama. The government wasn’t set up to provide hope. Somewhere in history, I thought we already learned lessons from politicians promising “hope”. Hope isn’t going to fill my gas tank, fix my car, pay my mortgage, do my laundry, and send my kids to college. The only thing that is going to do that is hard work.

It makes me think about the job my Dad had for over 30 years with the same employer. He never jumped ship because he had a “bad” boss. He never left his employment because he didn’t get the raise he was looking for. He didn’t quit because times were tough or he lost his ‘job satisfaction.’ He just did what he signed on to do with the same insurance company for over 30 years. He worked hard.

It also makes me think about my Mom. She could have done a lot of things. Gone back to school, looked for a side job to supplement Dad’s income, she could have hired babysitters, housekeepers, daycare providers, nannies and Au Pairs. She decided to work at home, when working at home meant changing the diapers, cleaning the toilets, washing the windows, doing the laundry and (gasp) ironing. She cooked almost every night. Housework was her “workout”. She even broke a sweat. While working hard, she paid the bills, stretched and saved the dollars and didn’t buy anything on credit.

As a result of hard work, they paid off the one and only house they ever bought…on time. They didn’t have a second, third, fourth or variable loan with an astronomical balloon payment. They never signed papers they couldn’t honor. They were never “late”, “bankrupt” or “default” on an obligation. They never sat around and “hoped” for anything.

My parents were the rare breed of people who had the audacity to work hard, pay their taxes and live within their means. No one “bailed” them out ever. My parents never expected nor demanded a rescue.

The audacity of hard work. If everyone had that kind of fearless daring approach to not only self sufficiency, but charity and restraint; we wouldn’t need people like Barack Obama, or John McCain to sell us virtues we already possess.

Himself...the 'Cos'

2008-09-16T15:39:00.000-07:00

It had to be over 25 years ago that I first brought home a VHS copy of Bill Cosby’s Himself to watch with my Dad. Dad was a huge Cosby fan, so I thought he would enjoy it. Mom was asleep and Pop decided to stay up late and watch it with me. It was the first time I saw my Dad laugh and cry at the same time. In short, it was hilarious. Real life can be that way. I have to hand it to the Cos, he knows how to make the everyday seem insane and the insane seem like every day.

Because of this old 1983 performance, JD and I always board an airplane looking for that irritating little “Jeffrey” and the visits to the dentist have never been the same since the Cos talked about it on Himself. His takes on the middle years of marriage with gusto and the feeding of his children with chocolate cake, as ‘coping’ with fatherhood. I know the Cos is a true father mentor because my Dad did this once with the grandkids while he was babysitting them.

There is a lot about my Dad that has evolved into the Cos over the years. Cos loves to wear sweats and sweaters and if my Dad had a uniform, this would be it. I don’t know if it’s the dry demeanor, the facial expressions or viewpoints on the “mother”, but he has a gentle way of poking fun without being insulting. The man simply has to look at you when he speaks and I dare you not to giggle. It’s something about the face…I can’t put my finger on it, but the mannerisms are definitely there. My dad is a guy from Jersey and Bill is a guy from Philly, so that must explain it. It’s an East coast thing.

When the Ponderosa Bruins played in Fernley, Nevada for their first pre-season football game, we decided to stay in Reno for a couple days and catch a show at the Silver Legacy. When we discovered that Bill Cosby was performing, we knew we had to take the kids to the show. They have all seen Himself and old reruns of The Cosby Show, so we knew they would appreciate it. When we entered the ballroom at the Silver Legacy, the chairs were all pulled close to the stage. On the stage was his signature Queen Ann style chair with a tee-shirt draped over the back that said “Hello Friend.” The words, "Hello Friend" belonged to his son, Ennis, who was brutally gunned down on the streets of L.A. in January of 1997. A charity of the same name "Hello Friend" was founded in his memory. I often wondered how he has managed to carry on, and in true 'Cos' fashion, he is helping others. I always thought Bill Cosby was a man of faith; when he disclosed that he, a Methodist, married a Catholic in a Catholic church, I finally knew why I admired his wife Camille. You can’t appreciate the ‘Cos’ until you know Camille. She must be a living saint to put up with that after all these years!

The chair was saddled with a little table to hold a bottle of water and below it stood a small waste paper basket. That’s it. A chair, a side table and garbage can. Before I knew it was running late for the show to start, a gentleman came on stage wearing sweat pants and a tee-shirt and slippers. I thought he was stage hand, until he sat in Bill’s chair and the lights came up! There sat the famous Bill Cosby, himself. Printed on the tee was a picture of his family, with the words “Homeland Security” scribbled across the chest. There was no mistaking the face. Four rows from the stage, it felt like we were all having coffee.

Just 'himself' sitting there looking at us, we all started laughing. He certainly knew how to handle the drunks and the hecklers. He threw the zingers right back at them and he was funny. There is something about a seasoned professional who is comfortable in his own skin, telling his own stories from his own perspective of being over 70 years old. My only regret was that my Dad wasn’t there to see his African American twin brother. You can’t help but love the Cos and his whole family because he opens the doors, just a little, to allow a glimpse into his real life. It’s something everyone in the audience can relate to, because it’s not much different from your own. All the material in this show was brand new, except for the last bit, recited word for word, the insanity of going to the dentist.

As my whole family recited the routine along with him, we all wiped tears of laughter from our eyes, marveling at the timelessness of a man who simply feels like an old friend.

Fabulous Fairplay

2008-09-01T22:44:00.000-07:00

We wanted to mark our 20^th wedding anniversary with a big trip this year, but with the kids starting school early, Bruins football and work deadlines, we stayed close to home to make sure everyone made it to school, practices and meetings. JD insisted we get out of town even if it was a short drive so we decided to head to Fairplay, simply because we had never heard of the place, and we wanted to see what we’d find in our own ‘backyard’. Fairplay encompasses the back roads of El Dorado County, near Mt. Aukum, Somerset and Omo Ranch. Honestly, I had never heard of it before.

This little rural wine town does not disappoint those looking for good wines and relaxing surroundings. With the top down on the Z, we drove around Somerset and Fairplay noting the many wineries on Perry Creek and Fairplay Roads. We found ourselves at Lucinda’s Country Inn for the evening. What an amazing little place this Inn has become over the last several years. Daryl & Cindy Sullivan’s retirement project is quite the luxury bed and breakfast. All the suites are unique, spacious, newly furnished and carefully appointed with all the little accoutrements one needs when you have an overnight bag and a short amount of time. One can easily note that the Sullivan’s hearts are in their business, because of their wonderful hospitality. The fully cooked breakfasts were amazing and we enjoyed a lovely cocktail hour with them in the great room before heading out to dinner at Bocconato Trattoria, another Fairplay hotspot.

What is amazing about Fairplay is the local warmth and sense of belonging one enjoys whether you are visiting a winery, a local restaurant or having lunch at a roadside café. The people who live in this area and run their businesses treat customers like family. At every winery we visited, we were able to taste at no charge, and the owners were available to discuss their wines and the surrounding area.

Perhaps the most pleasurable dining experience we had while in fabulous Fairplay, was our evening at Bocconato’s. The owners, Giovanni & Sheri Gaudio, are a husband and wife team who love and live Northern Italian cuisine. They present their food and wine pairings as culinary gifts, each course of the meal a testament to the authentic Italian heritage they embrace. Giovanni and JD talked about the areas in Italy they share in common, JD’s family residing in the Lombardy and Valtelena; Gaudio’s cuisine centering on the foods and wines of the Piemonte and Toscano regions of Italia. Gaudio knows his stuff, he travels to Italy regularly and he looks like one of the locals you’d run into while touring around Como. Our maitre d’, Nicola, was fun and engaging, the staff welcoming us like long lost cugini. Chef Giovanni Gaudio has this down to a science. If you like authenticity in your Italian cuisine, you will love Bocconato. They love their local wines, but they also feature regional Italian wines. We had been tasting the local vino all day, so we settled on a wine from Montepulciano, a red Toscano that went well with everything we ate.

The only decision we made that night was whether to sit indoors our outside on the patio, but since the weather was lovely, we enjoyed the evening on the patio, sharing stories with ‘Nicolino’ and wondering what chef would send out next for us to sample. If you leave it up chef, he will not fail to disappoint the palette.

For a special occasion or a quick getaway, the secret little area of Fairplay was the retreat we were looking for, and with gasoline prices keeping us closer to home, it was the perfect midweek getaway to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Simply fun, fabulous…not far away, Fairplay- we’ll be back soon!

Your signature

2008-08-12T00:19:00.000-07:00

What does it mean to write well? I've come across several things lately that have inspired me to believe in the importance of writing. It's our signature, a legacy of memories, a picture of thoughts, impressions and a self portrait. Through the process, it becomes an adventure lived by others; when we allow others to read what we have written. Much like painting or singing, we give someone perspective when we allow them to read our words.

I am finishing Julia Child's last book, "My Life in France", a book co-authored in 2006, two years after her death, by her grandnephew, Alex Prud'homme. He finished something she had already started, a memoir of her beloved years with her husband Paul Child, living in France after World War II, and learning to cook. Her style, like her cooking, is relaxed and warm. She is as refined and bohemian as I always imagined her. Lord, this woman loved to live, and lived to love well. The book honors her relationship with her husband, as much as it honors the country they lived in together. She simply writes a visual and olfactory memoir that makes your mouth water. One lesson gleaned from her reflections is that ideally, we all need to slow down a bit and take in the people and culture that surround us. Our daughter, Shannon, recently spent several weeks in Italy, and this was one of the impressions she came home with; savoring surroundings, people and time.

In that same vein, I've admired the attempts of my friends and family as they chronicle their own lives in the blogosphere. One friend close by is chronicling the emptiness of her house as the last child in her house begins his senior year and her two oldest move out to attend college. Likewise, my sister in law is exploring her own empty nest ambitions of writing for her local newspaper. A friend of ours who recently lost his wife, used to keep us informed as to how she was faring in her final days, and my fondest wish is that he continues to write, for himself and for his grandchildren. I find that those of us who are getting older need to put our thoughts down in words, and it's a beautiful thing to read what others write, and the common bonds we have at this time in our lives. Writing is truly our signature.

At the suggestion of a fellow blogger, I logged onto a moving photo essay a few days back, and was literally spell-bound by the beautiful photographic tribute of artist, Phillip Toledano, to his aging father. If you are looking for inspiration today, it falls into the "don't miss this" category. You will be touched beyond words-at the depth this man has for the remaining days left with his Dad. A sheer tribute of love and grace. Toledano's father is photographed, but the pictures tell the story of the relationship. See the website at: www.dayswithmyfather.com

Randy Pausch's Last Lecture stirred quite a discussion in our house, after news of his death last month. We not only watched the Carnegie Mellon lecture online, but we are passing around the book in our family. When someone is facing their final exit, especially someone as young as Professor Pausch, the words he imparts are more about living than about dying. That's the message he left. His signature indelible, his legacy secure.

How are we to signature our lives? I'd like to think we do it with our children, our charity, and by our example. As I finish Julia's last incomplete book, I am satisfied that she was 'signed' off at the end. So impressed was I by her casualness, joviality and love for living, that I promise myself when I have a little extra time this Fall, I'm going to dust off my old copies of "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" and try my hand at a few of the recipes she perfected while living at the Roo de Loo, as she affectionately called her old Parisian apartment.

I'd like to continue my own promise to journal as I've done with Family fare, as I believe it is the one place where I can express what is most important to me; much in the manner that Toledano's father's signature is manifest and sculpted in the heart of his son. Our signature may be all that's left us, like a book that has been shared, well worn and ear marked with favorite spots where the coffee spilled and the crumbs piled high; as evidence that one was there and simply loved the ride.

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. She can be reached on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Bass Lake Grade Blues

2008-08-06T09:08:00.000-07:00

Brandon just bought his new motorcycle. A beautiful day, it was his inaugural ride. He comes from a family of motorcycle enthusiasts. Unfortunately, a Honda Civic driver not paying attention to the road, spoiled the day for the new motorcycle owner last Friday. I was driving down the Bass Lake Grade with the kids in the car when I noticed a truck parked off to the side of Highway 50. One of the solar call poles was down and a motorcycle was spilled on its side with its young driver lying curled up next to it. Pulling off to the side of the road, I told the kids to stay in the car and went to check on the injured motorcyclist. He was a mess, but thankfully, he was alive.

The two nice gentlemen who stopped after the biker went down, moved him out of the roadway and in the confusion of trying to reach 911 with two cell phones, we kept getting busy signals. Exasperated, I tried to reach someone at my house to call 911. The young man gave me his mom’s number and in trying to keeping him alert, I used the number he gave me and instructed his mom to call 911 from her land line, explaining that Brandon was conscious and I thought he was going to be OK but he needed medical attention. She summoned the paramedics and we waited. I prayed and counted the seconds.

I found out that night that the Honda Civic driver either wasn’t aware of what happened after merging into a lane with a motorcyclist, or left the scene of the accident. In any event that person ran Brandon off the road. He flipped off his bike sustaining multiple injuries and fractures. His motorcycle took out the solar call pole. With a guardian angel working overtime, Brandon was lucky his injuries weren’t any worse. Holding onto him, I tried to assess his injuries, wishing I had been more prepared with blankets in the car. He obviously was going into shock. Luckily the awesome El Dorado Hills Fire and medic team from Station 86 arrived and initiated care on the scene, transporting Brandon to UCD Medical Center, where top notch trauma care could be rendered. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen someone off the road coming down the grade. People are just driving too fast and not paying attention.

The team at Station 86 was prompt, professional and caring. The El Dorado Hills Sheriff department was also on scene and I am reminded of how amazing these people are who serve our community. You are the real heroes in our midst.

Brandon is on the mend, thank God; and for those two guys in the truck, the good Samaritans, it’s nice to see people who stop and care. Station 86 I’m proud to be your neighbor and feel so much better knowing you all are close by. Drivers, pay attention, slow down …after staring into that young man’s face, I thought about what could have happened, what could have been lost, and it caused me to shudder. Take it easy out there…

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at www.familyfare.blogspot.com or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

The Three Faces of Me

2008-07-21T13:47:00.000-07:00

In my summer psychology class, my portion of our group presentation involved examining psychological disorders, specifically multiple personality disorders. The themes of multiple personalities has been explored in many films and television shows. Pop culture books examine the nuances of people like “Sybil” and “Eve”. As I delved into the mysteries of dissociative identity disorders, I became suspicious of three particular people: Me, Myself and I. Yikes. I think I have this disorder.

First, there is Tammy Jo, the ideal woman that JD married: that would be the woman who goes to church, cleans her house meticulously, cooks 5+ course meals for her guests, and operates a small hostel for the family and friends who often show up for visits and extended stays. This woman is usually congenial, fun-loving and likes to entertain. Socially she is comfortable and enjoys being around friends and family. When she is engaging, she can be the life of the party. This woman has not been seen since 2005. There is an ongoing manhunt to find her. If you see her, please phone J.D.

Second, there is Tam, the nursing student wannabe: this person is a hyperactive student who stays up all night, preparing papers, lab reports, and group projects. She is often attached to the internet, leaves much of the housework undone for months at a time, and laments that while she has perfection in her academic life, she loathes the idea of cooking and laundry. She is prone to impatience, fits of worry and anxiety about the last set of applications she has mailed out to various nursing schools. She waxes and wanes between feeling superior and utterly despondent about her station in life. Tam has good grades but feels she is discriminated against because of her age. While self confident, she thinks there is no end in sight, and can be seen mumbling in the corner “I just want to be a nurse”. She escapes from her non-reality of being an actual nurse, by voracious reading of books having nothing at all to do with nursing. She consumes massive amounts of caffeine, hangs out with other women who do this and is generally a cynic when it comes to most things. She thinks that Tammy Jo will be found when she finally becomes a nurse. Ha! What a farce. Despite her evil tendencies to be fiercely competitive, she will make an exceptional nurse someday.

Lastly, there is the Mrs. Maher, the Mom, the woman who has three teenagers of varying

temperaments and complexities. She can be seen driving up and down the freeways all during the day and night, taxiing her children to their social engagements and educational pursuits. She hasn’t had her hair done in three months and periodically checks her toenails to see if the polish from June still looks good. She has no use for pantyhose or closed toed shoes, and thinks a good meal can be found at the loft at Nugget Market in Town Centre. The Mom laughed louder than anyone else at the movie “Mamma Mia” and sobbed her guts out during the scene when Meryl Streep painted her daughter’s toe nails. Mom needs hormonal assistance in Thyroid world, and thinks that losing weight will solve all the world’s problems. She can be seen occasionally enjoying a glass of wine and frequently will kiss her husband on the cheek and pat him on the back. He puts up with that. She thinks he’s a saint. He is still looking for Tammy Jo…if you see her, don’t forget to call him.

Tammy Maher is a bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Hot Hot Hot!

2008-07-08T18:31:00.000-07:00

I rarely ask JD about the weather and being married to a weatherman doesn’t necessarily mean I have any lowdown on what the weather is going to be. I am one of those people who go outside and see whether it’s warm, hot or raining and plan accordingly. Others need the information a week ahead of time because their livelihood depends on it. That’s where the meteorologist can really make sense. Coming out of the nirvana that was Independence Day, seeing the blue sky and feeling the Delta breeze, I thought we had this hot, smoky air business under control. The Big Sur, Santa Barbara and Butte fires changed all that. We’re in for the long haul I think. I don’t remember it ever being so bad and I’ve lived in California my whole life. Venturing to the other side of the track here, let me make a totally unqualified prediction…it’s hot hot hot!

What to do? We went into defense mode. Windows and shutters battened down, the dog shaved down to his nubs; plenty of fluids in the fridge and car, we brace the day when temps soar into the 80’s at 7 AM. The winter installation of the roof top solar panels proved to be worth their weight in cold hard cash, as they now soak up the electricity bills for the house air conditioning expense, what a relief because the price of gas is killing us! I have no doubt we’ll get through these triple digit days. However, reminded that others are not faring as well, we all need to be aware of the people around us who might need a helping hand. I am speaking of the elderly and shut ins who may or may not have the constitution to withstand this hot dry heat; and the little ones who need our constant attention as they enjoy cooling off in the water. We also need to be aware of parked vehicles on hot days where animals and small children can fall prey to the exponentially high temperature increases. What is 103 degrees outside may mean 130 degrees plus on the inside, all death traps. Beware.

Whether it’s stopping to check on those stranded on the roadside, to be sure they have the means to summon help, or throwing some water bottles their way while they wait, the little things help during the scorching days. Perhaps you live near someone who is living by themselves and could use a hand with outside chores. I think I’m going to send Conor to check on a few of the retirees in our neighborhood who might not be able to run their lawn mowers this week. He’s been outside practicing with the football team and comes home saying that even the limited amount of time that the guys are outdoors can be hard; imagine what it can do to the elderly, the young and the homeless. Heat exhaustion and heat stroke are big summer risks in these 100+ degree days.

Flip flops and sunscreen aside, people also need to know that the more time you stay in the pool to keep cool, there are several things that you need to watch out for besides the sunburns. A fellow nursing student friend of mine sent me some information last month about a phenomenon called “Dry Drowning”, a condition one can develop from a sudden laryngospasm of the airway, causing it to snap shut (caused by a sudden rush of water into the airway). Another condition is sudden heart failure in sensitive groups who jump into extremely cold water. Whatever the cause, the person stops breathing and essentially asphyxiates without taking any water into the lungs. Another phenomenon, known as Secondary or Delayed Drowning can be caused when people swallow water in the pool, with subsequent small amounts settling into their lungs. These victims for a short time appear to function normally, long after they left the pool. Their slow onset of symptoms of fatigue and loss of bodily functions (like defecating on themselves) can prove to be fatal. The signals of secondary drowning are multifaceted and come later on as a result of the lack of oxygen being transported throughout the body. The CDC doesn’t differentiate between wet and dry drowning, but statistical data suggests that about 10-15% of drowning deaths are dry downing events. Last month, media reports quickly spread about a 10-year old South Carolina boy who went home and died in his sleep, after an unremarkable day in the pool. He apparently had the secondary drowning symptoms but his mother was unaware of such a possibility.

One thing is known for sure. Drowning is normally a very silent killer. While it’s mostly myth that people flail about and signal others they are in trouble, most victims slip under the water’s surface without a word, especially young children. This is why it’s vitally important to train one’s eyes unceasingly on those enjoying the water, because it only takes a second to lose track of swimmers enjoying the summer fun.

Stay the course, summer is underway, have fun, be smart, plan ahead, drink plenty of fluids and watch out for your neighbor, because while JD says we’re in a period of record breaking temperatures, I say it’s hot hot hot!

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her on the web at http://www.familyfare.blogspot.com/

Chi Squared my arse!

2008-06-24T15:09:00.000-07:00

I tried to take a statistics class last semester and unfortunately, my first exam results weren’t so hot, so I ultimately had to drop the class. I literally had bad dreams about that class. My calculator and I couldn’t get along to save my life. There simply wasn’t enough time to put into the class. I had a rather good teacher, but he wasn’t one to let you have any helpful study aids for exams. Math, you see, has never been my friend. It has been my foe for decades. My first math teachers in elementary school made sure I memorized my math facts, but for some reason, I could never solve for “x”. Moreover, I never knew why it was so darn important for me to learn to solve for “x”, where to put it while I was solving for it, and why I had to put other stuff on both sides of the problems, in an attempt to solve for it. Moreover, it made little sense where or how in the real world I would ever need to do to one side what I was doing to the other in any situation I found myself in…you see my dilemma. It never made sense to me.

When I ventured into the mysterious world of general and organic chemistry a couple years ago for nursing, I had to learn dimensional analysis all over again. The rusty wheels in my brain started to churn and with a little oil from the tutors, the light started to illuminate in my head. Things convert to other things for a reason. This would be important in pharmacology and the procedures we would be implementing in nursing. It was essential to overcome my phobia, once and for all. My math switches being rusty, however, I had to make them operational. My future career as a nurse depends on it. Enter Mr. Hild (pronounced like Wild).
A couple of the nursing programs in the valley require that I have statistics, so with my trusty fifteen dollar calculator by my side and my pal, Trudy; we drove to Rocklin 3-days-per week for 7-weeks. There we met Mr. Hild for the first time. Mr. Hild teaches high school mathematics at Colfax High School and has been teaching at Sierra College for the last two decades. He managed to take this very old phobic math student and turn her into a statistics student. With an approach to teaching from a worksheet and practice method, we were able to drill ourselves through chapter problems, rather than use a textbook. Trudy and I would do the problems repeatedly until we had a good handle on each one. When it came time to take the exams, we were allowed to use our formula sheets and make notes to help us complete the tests. If one practiced as he suggested, one was essentially set up for success on the exams.

Chi squared problems, Poisson distributions, ANOVA problems, binomial probabilities…yeah, I know that stuff now and can solve not only for “x”, but I can find the mean, median, mode and standard deviation of a bunch of numbers. I can draw a bell curve in my sleep and no more bad dreams.

Teaching is about showing your students the map, giving them tools to unlock learning and giving pupils what they need to be successful. Ultimately, when a teacher can unlock the doors and turn on switches, then that teacher has created a learning environment where a student can be successful and overcome obstacles in learning. For the first time in 40 years, I enjoyed a math class and obtained grades I never thought possible. Mr. Hild, you opened rusty doors in an old brain that was closed for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It finally makes sense. Thanks a bunch!

Years may come...

2008-06-12T14:25:00.000-07:00

Son, tomorrow you graduate from the 8^th grade. In about ten weeks you start high school. I know it’s not much of a summer vacation, but there is a lot to do before you go to high school. But first, a few words of advice from your old mom. What lies ahead Son, are primarily choices. It’s now up to you.

Many years ago, as I walked at my eighth grade ceremony at St. Vincent elementary school, I remember getting excited toward the end of the Mass, because Mr. Jarrett had taught us to sing an Irish Rovers song “Years May Come” and we were to perform this in musical rounds for our parents. I thought it was such a hip song. Yeah I was pretty much a dorky kid. A lot about elementary and middle school was learning the nuances of how to get along with others. My middle school years were the hardest years of my life. It was a relief to get out of grammar school. You, however, went from homeschooling to public school and made a success of all the changes you had to make to adapt to new learning environments. You made it all look so easy. Your fun loving nature, kindness and compassion towards others will be the recipe you need for success in high school. Don’t lose that good nature. Peers can help you be a better person or they can break you down. Choose good friends. Be a good friend.

Years may come where you have to make hard choices. You know this will be the greatest challenge in high school. Map a good path from the start. It will be an easier journey. Be a good example to others by being a person who is a friend to all. Choose the road less traveled.

Don’t let others define who you are. Everything you are right now will suffice. Let these next four years be about working hard and ‘making good’ on the fine goals you’ve set for yourself. Let music and sports be about contribution and teamwork. Don’t succumb to the pressures to be like everyone else, especially when you know that something is wrong. There is so much time for everything that will be put on your plate. Remember the virtue of patience. Choose to persevere.

Embedded in my memories of your growing up are the birthday interviews we did on videotape, the insane laughter you bring to carpooling and the inability I have to stay angry with you very long. Your volunteer days, the times you served others, most especially those Sundays you served Mass; these are the treasures you’ve given to others. Like your sisters, you care for your friends deeply. Don’t be too devastated when you are let down. Remember that forgiveness heals most things. Choose your battles and let go of the rest. It’s such a waste of time. Integrity will always win over popularity.

As you venture into the exciting world of high school, remember to honor yourself by respecting your teachers and coaches. Remember that we’re always here for you. Work hard and have fun. Congratulations on all your accomplishments. And like that old Irish Rovers song, “ Years may come and years may go… for each one…Thank the Lord that we have been...together through the years..”

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Air Force Aunt

2008-05-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

The United States Air Force made it possible for me to come into the world. I know, it sounds like a bit of a stretch, but for the most part, it’s true. I was born in 1963 to a USAF navigator, Thomas Joseph, who perished in a B-47 aircraft over South Central Minnesota during a Cold War training exercise 7 months earlier. He had just celebrated his 23^rd birthday. Two days later, while coming out of LABS maneuver, in a twist of fate that would change the lives of four families, a piece of the engine’s turbine wheel broke off and sliced off the wing of the aircraft, putting the plane into a unfortunate spiral which jettisoned the crew into the fields of Comfrey Minnesota, a small farming community in Brown County.

Forty five years later I’ve come to know that the most important people in my father’s life were people he met in basic training and the navigator cadet programs in Texas; men who came from all over the United States to serve their country and start their careers during uncertain times. Not much has changed since the 60’s given that our military is still very much on alert and war is still part of our National experience. As much as these men are all now retired, they’ve adopted me as ‘Air Force Uncles’ and I get a greater sense of who my father was because of them.

Tomorrow morning, my 20 year old nephew, Joseph Paull, will graduate from Basic Training at Lackland Air Force Base and begin his new journey. Over the last six weeks he changed from a boy to a man. Anyone who has been through what he has experienced knows this. You go to ‘boot camp’ or ‘Basic’ idealizing certain things, scared, confused about what is about to happen to you and when the finish line approaches, you can hardly believe what has happened to you emotionally, physically and spiritually. I got a call from him last week, an unexpected surprise for me. He has been on my mind a lot these two months, recalling stories that my air force uncles told me about what it meant to get through this process, I would think about Joe and what he was going through. His voice on the other end of the phone was different…amazed at how much he had changed, who he is becoming. I get it. I’ve never been so proud. It’s hard to convey pride over the phone. I just know that this journey he is taking is not easy. It’s damn hard. Although Lackland AFB's motto boasts that it begins with them. “Where the 'Blue' really begins", is in the heart. So in rejoicing over this accomplishment, I am flying to San Antonio today so that I can be at Lackland Air Force Base tomorrow. I can’t be anywhere else. As Joe’s Godmother, I’ve prayed for him as much as I’ve prayed for our kids. My air force uncles, in recalling these important milestones to me, talked about graduation and what it meant to have the support of family and friends, as they took these next steps forward. The path involves commitment and sacrifice; something only military men and women understand. As Joe’s circles tighten up, with the type of specialized training he will receive as he moves onward and upward into the USAF family, I hope he knows how much those of us outside the circle admire and appreciate his sense of duty and service to his country.

I am an Air Force daughter who has become a proud Air Force aunt. For this rite of passage, I will need to check at the airport, a cargo bag loaded with Kleenex , to see me through the ceremonials tomorrow, knowing that 48-years ago at Harlingen, Texas, a young airman with a red Buick; one I never had the privilege to know, led the graduation march of his aviator cadet class at his own commencement. There’s not much that has changed in 48 years. Both of these men who share the same name Joseph, have both shared hope for a peaceful future while looking toward the promise of opportunity. I pray that one will watch over the other, and that God will keep His keen eye on Joe as he moves forward. Protect him from enemies both seen and unseen.

Make way for ducklings

2008-05-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

For some reason driving lessons came to me this week and what it was like learning to drive a car. Coincidently, my 17 year old is doing the same. We are two different beasts, or maybe not. I am trying to relax and enjoy the ride; after all I am paying a fortune for the gas.
A man, I can only call “Mr. Sweating” was my “behind the wheel” instructor in high school. He was a nervous sort. If memory serves me right, my friends, Lisa and Scott piled into the car with me; back then we did everything in groups of 3-4. I think Mr. S was a P.E. teacher who was forced at gunpoint to teach driver’s education. He reluctantly went over all the features of the car much in the way one would revel in eating earthworms for breakfast. The only thing on my mind was getting the steering wheel of that government issue car in my hot little hands and thinking as a side note “the brake is there in the middle… what a peach…ok, I can do this.” As we hummed along a little winding back road in Petaluma (turning left from Corona Road to Adobe Road, I picked up a little speed). I could hear Scott whispering to Lisa in the back seat that I was driving too slow or words to that effect. I hit the gas, imagining in my mind’s eye flying over the next hump in the road. I looked over to Mr. Sweating. He was wincing and shifting in his seat with his foot positioned like a hovercraft over the instructor brake . “You can let up a little” he shouted as we approached a bluff in the horizon. Scott and Lisa stopped giggling. A mama quail appeared on the road in front of us with 13,000 baby quail behind her and my first reaction was to hit the brake as hard as I could, sending the car into several dove tails and swerving motions that put us on all points of Old Adobe Road, luckily with no traffic behind us or coming from the other side of the road, I ended up on the side of the road or therebouts. Mr. Sweating exited the car stomping his feet, demanding that I get out of the car into the back seat. With the veins in his neck standing promptly at attention, he shouted in his best boot camp voice “NEVER….ever….NEVER….brake for animals while driving a car!!!” After that incident, although totally humiliated in front of my friends, I eventually passed my driver’s test. Secretly, I rejoiced that I had not massacred the quail family that day on Old Adobe Road.
Shannon is a much more conscientious driver than her mom. So I try not to hyperventilate as she talks her way through whatever route she is driving. More worried about others than herself, she wonders if she is driving too fast or too slow. I try to keep my comments to minimum, knowing how considerate she is, advising her that the honks and shouts of others mean nothing when it comes to driving safely. Last Friday, in a twist of fate, that delivered me promptly back to 1978, I was driving us all home on Bass Lake Road when the kids and I spotted a lovely young turkey Mom and 4,000 little turkeys trailing behind her as they made their way across the road. Slowing down, we laughed at them as they entered the grassy area when not 50 feet away, a mama duck and eight little tiny ducklings were also doing the same thing. Forgetting Mr. Sweating…and coming to full stop in Bass Lake Road. I put on my flashers and told my kids to stay put. I stopped the car coming from the opposite direction and shooed the whole family across the road (with one little guy overturning on his back, but eventually making it to the other side). In the spirit of Robert McClosky, I secretly looked up to heaven and told Mr. Sweating that if it was safe to do so, I would always and forever, make way for ducklings.
Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her on the web at http://www.familyfare.blogspot.com/

Mornings & Pigs' Ears

2008-04-29T14:30:00.000-07:00

In the midst of getting the kids to school on time and thinking about my endless list of stuff to do, I tend to talk myself into my day while driving the kids to their points of destination in the morning. Our daily driving route puts us from El Dorado Hills to Placerville every day of the week. My three have gotten so used to it, they just assume that Tammy number 2 is figuring it all out and they hardly respond to my morning utterances anymore. We are not exactly morning people. I think all of us were born under the sign that blinks “Open all night”, because we all tend to solve the world’s problems after 5 PM. The first thing on my mind in the morning is where I can plug myself into IV drip of caffeine. I know every café from Town Centre El Dorado Hills to Main Street Placerville. I know all the Goth kids at Habit, hang out at ‘It’s a Grind’ in Cameron Park, and have ran into a few Tibetans at Cozmic Café. But mostly, I know where good coffee reigns supreme and where free internet access can be found. I’m that old lady in the corner with the pink laptop who can easily do 5 shots of espresso, but am desperately trying to cut back.

One particular diatribe with my interior self found me on South Shingle Road, picking up lunches for Conor and Birdy and passing by Lee’s Feed. “Remind me to pick up some pig’s ears for Conor!” Huh? That engendered a few giggles. “Ugh, I mean for Skipper.” Skipper is our dog. But I’m sure you can deduce that without me. Brain death approaching, I catch myself. Why can’t I get these kids’ names straight? Thinking about Conor chewing on pig ears really lit up the day. I’ve caught that contagion of my parents’ own brain damage. I remember the litany of names called out by Bob and Sally when they were thinking about something else, but wanted our attention; Deep in a place obviously somewhere else but trying to be present, it’d go a little something like this: “Tammy, Terry, Tricia, Teddy Bear? Whatsurname?” Drat. We’d give my mom the same blank stare. “Ugh, that’s the dog, mom, I’m the oldest…Tammy…remember?” “I know that!” she’d reply in exasperation. “I just get so mixed up sometimes!” It’s not exasperation. I know for a fact that until the caffeine is pulsing through my arterial system, I’m just not gonna make any sense in the AM and the kids’ names are gonna be fair game before 5 PM because in the real world of middle age, the brain synapses are just beginning to fire around dinner time. I honestly think the profitability of the entire nation would go through the roof, if our day started around noon.

Last weekend, I was inducted into the honor society at Folsom Lake College and the president of the college called us “the brightest of the bright”, my kids were choking back the loud chortles, while my husband held back tears. I could just hear him thinking out loud “so that’s why the housework is a little behind, and I cook more than she does now.” Honestly, it was embarrassing. I wanted to congratulate the other 4 people standing with me (who were all under the age of 21) except there was two other people around my age and I wanted to ask them, “Do you forget your kids’ names ever?” I just stood there, thinking I hadn’t yet had my morning coffee and I was starting to fade. It’s tough. Maintaining a high grade point average doesn’t always mean perfection in the day to day. I’m always a work in progress.

I’m convinced that the answer to this early dementia is to play more cards on line. It is an idea that I got from my Life Span class, learning about the Mankato nuns and the brain studies they’ve done on them. Apparently, they’ve avoided dementia and Alzheimer’s by playing cards, doing puzzles and crosswords. I really like spades. I also will indulge in a little Sudoku now and again. Today, while on Yahoo games, my card partner hurled some insult at me and I laughed. “Yeah, go eat some pig ears…I haven’t had my coffee yet.” That shut her up.

Arrivederci Cugini

2008-04-16T00:18:00.000-07:00

Pictured: (Elena, Papa Maher, MoMaher, Matteo, Francesca & Fulvio)
We all gathered for MoMaher & Papa’s Golden Wedding Jubilee last weekend. The cousins from

Italy

surprised MoMaher by flying into SFO under stealth conditions. Family came from all around the country to celebrate the occasion and the pictures tell a story of what family means after 50 years of wedded bliss. The theme for me was Cugini or “cousins” – surely the spot light of the weekend. As mom and dad celebrated their milestone, one of my nephews was packing to leave for the U.S. Air Force. I am proud of him. Another nephew is headed to Dominican College in the Fall, a niece to a Design School in Seattle, and another taking first place with her crew team at Lake Natomas over the weekend. Having said all that, it seems like yesterday that they were all kids. Where do the years go? All these young adults springing into their lives faster than I remember them growing up…oy vey! These are cousins who have lived apart for most of their lives, but firmly bonded in this family of Joseph Luzzi and William Maher

JD spent several days on the video we showed at the party of people who were at the wedding 50 years ago. A junior bridesmaid, another cousin, hasn’t seen MoMaher since the wedding and they spoke over the weekend on the phone. Hopefully these long lost cousins will reunite in person soon.

Aunt MaryElla’s mother passed away the morning of the party and her funeral is tomorrow. She lived into her late 90’s...leaving a legacy of children, grandchildren and great children. She left a large family, filled with cousins and they took care of her until her last day.

Having had a late night supper with the Lake Como contigency on Tuesday night, seeing the young cugini ‘girls’ JD visited in 1995, now having children of their own, it’s amazing how time has passed. The laughter and stories are the same. Two year old Matteo delighted us all with his charm and sweet disposition. Fulvio, Francesca and Elena honored everyone with their presence, and knowing that it won’t be long until we see each other again, we simply hug and kiss our farewells all the way out the door, ciao caro, ciao cugini..buon viaggio! Ricordarmi! Remember me... Fulvio & MoMaher

The weekend was filled with local cousins, Italian cousins, and out of state cousins. Some had surprising and good news, a very special one was recovering from surgery (thankfully with very good news), some were a little too far away and sorely missed. We wish them much love; and to those who spent a little time with us this last week, we say simply “Arrividerci Cugini… Finché incontriamo ancora…Dio la benedice! ” Farewell Cousins, until we meet again, God bless you!

Golden Jubilees & white dress shoes

2008-04-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

My sister-in-law, Cindy, has a birthday today. I wonder if she knows how much I miss her. She lives out of state with JD’s brother, Pat and their two daughters. It was sad when they moved from Sacramento years ago; both having careers closely connected with engineering and government contracts. When they first started out their married life together, we lived about 5 miles away from them and our oldest girls were just starting school. I have so many great memories from that time. There is something magical in the beginnings of family life. I remember the window of opportunity, encouraging Pat to travel to South Dakota to propose to Cindy and the telephone call he made to us on that same trip telling us that they had eloped or in his words “gone to Deadwood.” I’ve missed the years of cooking dinners, coffee klatching and wine tasting, but life has a way of taking families on journeys. The joys now are found in the cross roads when you come together to celebrate family milestones. Speaking of which...

It was a little over 21 years ago that JD proposed to me at the Cliff House in San Francisco. We were having dinner with a couple who were celebrating their Golden Wedding Jubilee. I always wondered about the special luck and blessing it was for us as a young couple to celebrate the night of our engagement with two people who had already spent half a century together. They were a couple crazy kids; teenagers really, who were married by a Justice of the Peace in 1937 in Deadwood, South Dakota. Reflecting on that a little further, I wonder if there was something in that South Dakota water, given that JD’s brother did the exact same thing almost 60 years later! It was simply amazing to hear the story of how Gene and Delores swept away in the middle of the night to get married. If Delores were alive today, they’d be married 71 years this September 25th. I remember them dancing at our wedding. There was a lot about that wonderful day that is a blur to me now, given that 20 years has come and gone. However, rock crystal clear in my mind, was Gene, all decked out in his white dress shoes and driving the red Cadillac; his wife of half a century next to him, still very much remembering Deadwood, but a thousand miles and 50 years away.

Next week, JD’s parents are celebrating their own 50^th wedding anniversary. I’ve known them almost half their marriage. The day will be crowned by an amazing party to celebrate the occasion with many family and friends coming from all over to celebrate the milestone of a half century of marriage. It’s the occasion that one has to see as a blessing... in counting the years like bars of Gold; because marriage to one person for half a century is a rare achievement nowadays. The ear-marks of such rarity being the memories; of joys and sorrows that sharing your life brings, like an investment that has had its ups and downs, shortfalls and yields. Most importantly, marking something irrevocably sacred and meaningful.

MoMaher, 50 years ago, April 12, 1958

The Golden Wedding Jubilee bring people together to celebrate a part of life that few couples ever reach, the half century mark. Considering that I’m not even half way there yet, I will be watching the days closely and taking notes. The South Dakota contingent will be there. It’ll be nice to wish Cindy a belated Happy Birthday in person and I am looking forward to seeing Gene again after all these years, hoping beyond hope that he’s wearing those white dress shoes and saving a hug for me.

Tammy Maher is columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Small things

2008-03-18T16:58:00.000-07:00

My son seems to know when my moods are down. His bear hugs are the reward for the nights spent in the glider chair, rocking him back to sleep when he was a baby. My two daughters clean up around the house, knowing that when I walk through the door, it makes me feel better just knowing that there is some order around the house; no doubt a generous return of a few small motherly moments of taxi cab service, meals and laundry. I hope their memories of me will always bring smiles. It’s hard being in the midst of small things, completely cheerful all the time; and that is where my husband comes in- he’s provided miles and years of small thoughtful things. So despite my mood swings, they are always there for me. I think my patron saint, Therese, would be scolding me right now, knowing that it’s only in the smallness of being, that we find real love.

That’s nothing really and yet it’s everything. The small things add up to days and months and years of small great things that when the sum of them is counted at the end of the audit, a treasure is revealed; of sacrifice and love. It’s easy to buy someone something-a card or token of affection that says ‘I love you’, but it’s the day to day that counts in the end. It’s the getting up every day and going to work, day after day, year after year that says from a parent to a child “You matter and I am taking care of you.” It’s making meals, folding socks, driving hither and yon, listening. I don’t do all these things well, but I try. I certainly appreciate the amazing women in my life, my mom, my sisters, my aunts and my grandmothers, first setting the example for me; they are legends. I trudge along after them hoping to fill in part of their footprints.

I am a person of relative insignificance, except that I matter to my husband and kids and they show this to me every day in small ways. I don’t need to be famous, perfect or satisfied; I think I’ve always just wanted to be needed and in that, I have all that is necessary and every good thing. I have a few close friends who have stuck with me, despite myself and my failings. I tend to wander to and fro from this to that, disappointed when I miss my mark but keenly aware of where I fall short. Self-deprecating, is how an acquaintance described me last year and she’s right. Call it meno-maudlin-madness, I fit in and yet I don’t anymore. I wish I could skip this middle part and jump to the wisdom and insight of my parents and grandparents who don’t sweat the small stuff anymore. It’s hard to look back and look ahead at the same time, wondering to myself, “Will the small things be enough?”

So on the sunny side of things, this is a typical Thursday; yet it’s not. It’s Maundy Thursday or Holy Thursday; probably one of the most hopeful days of the year besides Easter Sunday. I will go to church with my family tonight and try to straighten this all out before Easter, this ‘out of sorts- funk’ I’ve been in, and when Sunday comes, it will be better. I know this because some things are just reliable, like the love of a husband of 20 years and three of the greatest kids ever. The narcissus bloomed last month, right on time, their little yellow heads popping up to say hello, having been planted in secret by my Dad and youngest daughter three years ago, the year that literally changed my life. It’s funny that they planted them right where I would see them, next to the front walkway steps, next to the front porch. I think that Pop planted those with Birdy for her benefit, doing a small thing with and for his granddaughter. I don’t think those two realize or know how much those flowers mean to me, when I see them pop up every year; they are small reminders of people I love and in the smallness of them, I know why I am here.

Happy Easter!

Tammy Maher is a columnist for the Mt. Democrat. You can reach by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Shower her with roses

2008-02-19T14:37:00.000-08:00

When some people give to others, it seems to come so naturally to them that they go through life almost unnoticed because those who routinely give so generously hardly draw attention to themselves; their minds resting easily on the needs of others. This week, one of those wonderful people has passed away after a courageous battle with a complicated cancer, and the hole she seemingly left in the world is vast. However, never to let anything go undone, she left it filled with a legacy of love.

When I first met Jonan and her husband, Bill, at church several years back, I marveled at their ability to balance their life together. I never saw one without the other. They took on several volunteer projects. Both gave of their time greatly by taking on the tasks of cleaning the church (not just surface cleaning, but deep cleaning the inside and outer buildings, including the bathrooms. As if that wasn’t enough, she was the person who beautifully decorated the interior of the church with fresh flowers each week. She and her husband were taking on retirement by going to work; the example they set for those of us in the middle of our lives left an indelible impression. Together they worked with the zest and zeal of artisans who also happened to have the hearts of Clydesdales; happy and cheerful, knowing they were serving a higher and more important need, not only for others, but for God. She was always about the business of cheerfully staying busy, stopping occasionally to chat about the most important people in her life, her family; comprised of eight children and over 30 grandchildren. You would never know that she came from a life of hardship and loss. Jonan was a woman who listened, rather than complained and was willing to offer advice if you asked her for it, never imposing herself on others. She was simply a woman of grace.

In the greatness of small things, she was creative. Whether it was sewing, crafts, entertaining or arranging flowers; her talents were wide reaching. Always, the mother and grandmother; she embodied the woman of Proverbs 31, reminiscent so much of my Aunt Carol; both women to be emulated. Many women live their lives honorably and justly, few do so in seeming anonymity. When she first was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, it was humbling to watch both she and Bill tackle the business of fighting the cancer, much in the way that they cleaned the church or she arranged the flowers; with great tenacity and grace, always seeking the will of God, surrounding themselves with those they loved and even unto the end, she had her mind on others.

When JD & I stopped by to see her a few days ago in her final days; she seemed to grow ever more beautiful, taking on her youthful countenance again. Cancer may have robbed her of a certain quantity of days, but it would not deprive of her of the quality of them, because as she suffered through those last few days, love seemed to grow ever more present in her home, with her husband and children near her side day and night. I have been very few places where I felt an overwhelming sense of love; but never so much as was in their home the night we visited her. Wanting to reassure her, she reassured me. Wanting to tell her not to be afraid, she trusted in God’s will all the while asking after the kids who resided in her heart. As a Proverbs 31 woman, she has lived with dignity and goodness. It was an honor and privilege to have known her. My prayer is that she be showered by the saints with roses as she enters the heavenly gates.

“Who shall find a valiant woman? far and from the uttermost coasts is the price of her...with the fruit of her hands she hath planted a vineyard....She hath put out her hand to strong things, and her fingers have taken hold of the spindle…She hath opened her hand to the needy, and stretched out her hands to the poor...She shall not fear for her house in the cold of snow: for all her domestics are clothed with double garments…Strength and beauty are her clothing, and she shall laugh in the latter day…Her children rose up, and called her blessed: her husband, and he praised her. Many daughters have gathered together riches: thou hast surpassed them all. Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain: the woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised…Give her of the fruit of her hands: and let her works praise her in the gates.”

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Pop's 7th Inning Stretch

2008-01-29T00:00:00.000-08:00

Dad turned 70 years-old January 29^th and for all the hype that milestone birthdays bring, it’s no wonder that people plan parties, reflect on decades of living, achievement and the legacy that life brings when you have a portfolio 7 decades long.

My dad, AKA 'Pop-Pop' was born in New Jersey 7 innings ago, as Robert Howard Maher (yeah, with the same surname as yours truly). During that month, Franklin Delano Roosevelt established the March of Dimes. Benny Goodman performed in Carnegie Hall in New York City and the first ski tow opened in Vermont. So much has happened in the world since then; some were milestones and others are black marks on history.

For instance, the year 1938 was marked by several important historical events pertaining to the Nazi holocaust. German troops entered Austria, the Mauthausen and other concentration camps opened, Winston Churchill condemned Hitler in response to the Munich agreement, which allowed for German occupation of Czechoslovakia, and November’s Kristallnacht occurred (being the first night of large-scale violence against Jews by the Nazi regime). These dark spots on the year 1938 were only precursors to the darker years ahead marking the economic hardships of the Great Depression and the sorrows plaguing the emergence of World War II.

On the lighter side of history, in entertainment, 1938 saw the debut of Porky Pig, Daffy Duck & Bugs Bunny. Disney’s version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs premiered. BBC’s production of the first science fiction program for television aired and RCA & NBC were born. Baseball introduced helmets for all batters at the plate, Pearl S. Buck won the Nobel prize for Literature, and Orson Welles’ version of H.G. Wells’ “War of the Worlds” was broadcast on the radio, creating a national state of chaos and panic. 1938 also marked the first time that Kate Smith sang her infamous “God Bless America” live on the radio.

Invention and innovation entered the world stage in 1938 with the discovery of oil in Saudi Arabia, DuPont's marketing of the first nylon toothbrush, Douglas’ test flight of the DC-4 airplane, and the maiden voyage of the Queen Elizabeth out of Glasgow. The Thousand Islands Bridge, connecting the US and Canada over the St. Lawrence River was dedicated by thenPresident Roosevelt.

It was also the year that a 450 metric ton meteorite struke an empty field in Chicora, Pennsylvania, Howard Hughes achieved a world record by completing a 91 hour airplane flight around the world and the Mallard steam train broke a record speed of 126 mph. Transportation changed all around the world in 1938. My... how things have changed throughout the world in 70 years' time!

At the age of seventy, one has lived to see many things both personally and historically. Like a consecutive tri-marathon, or a very long baseball game, Pop has endured being a child of the Great Depression who was the oldest of seven children. He survived a two-year stint in the US Army, a 30+ year career with the same employer, the tedious raising of three precocious daughters and marriage to the same woman for 42 years. As a result of the endurance, his legacy boasts eight grandchildren and a treasure chest of friends. He has enjoyed tenure as a high school tennis coach, a hobbyist who loves working with his hands, and a resume of rebuilding vintage sports cars and fixing a lot of stuff. His landmarks in the community include being a volunteer all his adult life. He is a member of the Knights of Columbus and the Elks. He is a Catholic who prays everyday and loves his family. For all that and so much more; Pop, you owe yourself a couple victory laps.

Congratulations on batting a 1000 and Happy 7th inning stretch. Let's party...woo hoo!

There ought to be a law

2008-01-15T10:50:00.000-08:00

October 1980 marked a significant month that has since returned to haunt me. It was the last month I was eligible to take the SAT exam prior to college application deadlines. I remember the day well because it was the bleakest day of the year. Reluctantly, (I say this because I knew I was setting myself up) I stayed out late with friends the night before, succumbing to peer pressures to stay up late…stupid. Oh, how I wish I knew then what I know now. As a result of staying out late, I was tired, rushed and late for my SAT exam. Consequently, I didn’t eat anything, felt a cold coming on and could barely see the road in front of me driving to Sonoma State University to take the exam (it was so memorable, I hardly remember checking in, with barely a pencil to my name). This one day and the scores that ultimately resulted from it set the course of my future in ways I never expected. My scores were laughably average in so many ways. They told the story of the night before, being late and the terrible October weather. They told the story of a student who had storm going on in her brain because the questions might as well have been in Greek.

I was an AP student at a private high school. When the scores showed up, my parents asked what the numbers meant and in my head I responded “well, they mean that I will be applying to the junior college and maybe a state school; however Notre Dame is just going to have to wait.” “These aren’t too bad” was what I actually said. My epiphany in the experience of taking the SAT exam was simply this; standardized testing had nothing at all to do with intelligence. It has everything to do with how much money one spends on fancy test prep books, test prep courses and sheer luck. Of course, the sleep factor is important, as well sharpened #2 pencils, good bubble technique and a clear head. Good weather helps too. I hated that test and have since developed a strong opinion on standardized testing as a way to single out clever people who may possess little if any common sense. I worked in my careers with people who were book smart, but bad managers. They may have scored high on their HS SATs but they had little sense about people or good business decisions. Ah, but I digress.

I know there are many people who are largely Einsteinean, attended Ivy League schools on the heels of their awesome SAT scores and I congratulate them all. Good for you. Please don’t take offense at my disdain for standardized testing. It obviously has measured many things; but it doesn’t measure ability, character or the willingness to work hard and achieve greatness in themselves or motivate others.

It’s been a long time since 1980. Middle agers returning to school (that would be me) want to be nurses. We’ve had a lot of life experience. We’ve raised families. In the midst of this we returned to schools and enrolled in hard science classes. We studied hard, often late and into a state of exhaustion, in some cases to the detriment of our real lives. Knowing that hard work pays off, lo and behold we earned high grades. We are so excited about the possibility of becoming nurses, helping to ease the pain and suffering of those who need our compassion and knowledge, our caring and concern, and our smarts, we earnestly apply to wonderful, local accredited nursing programs, where we know the training will be excellent and the experience worthwhile….but wait! No, say it isn’t so…there is a little test we need you to take. It’s called the TEAS test. Huh? It’s just a little assessment test. I thought I just took a whole bunch of tests (you know the ones that I took in chemistry, microbiology and anatomy and physiology)?

Sacramento State University has decided that if one desires to obtain a 2nd bachelor’s degree, one now needs to take a Graduate school record examination (the GRE exam- the exam that kids take to get into Master and Doctoral programs) Excellent grades simply aren’t enough. Standardized tests carry as much weight as the grades and the performance of a single exam on a given day (in a single testing environment) will determine whether or not you will be admitted to a nursing program. I thought that’s what the boards were all about. I was expecting the NCLEX, but not this, not now. I thought I put this behind me 28 years ago. So history repeats itself once again and as I stare at my GRE scores in disbelief and anticipate the TEAS test this week, I study hard but I’m not sure it will be enough.

The weather is better this time. I don’t succumb to peer-pressure anymore, not since turning 40, and I have plenty of #2 pencils. My eraser is 6 inches long and I am mad as hell. My hypothetical patient, Mr. Johnson, is waiting in the wings for me to scale this Everest. Ok. I'll try Mr. Johnson, only for you. Standardized tests don’t define the kind of nurse I will be. There ought to be a law.

Let's get it started now

2008-01-01T23:49:00.000-08:00

2008 marks twenty years for us as a family and as I watch the years go by, I feel like the first years of raising our kids were in super slow motion and the later years can only be described as the “don’t blink, you might miss it” years. That toddler who was a King in the epiphany pageant is about to enter high school in the Fall, the little girl with the long flowing hair is gearing up to drive a car and the baby girl is gearing up for the middle school years. I’ve been so busy trying to catch up with the backlog of laundry that I hardly notice that all three kids are about to surpass me in height. Our discussions are longer, the topics more interesting, and the disagreements a little more heated, but the years of parenting are golden. I hardly can imagine what it will be like when they are on their own. When my son wraps his arms around me, it’s a bittersweet reminder that it wasn’t that long ago that I was rocking him to sleep in the glider chair with my arms encircling him. The time between then and now is a quick blur. On New Year’s Eve my son turned 14 years old and Bird turns 11 today. My kids are growing up. I’m so happy and yet it hurts so much.

We haven’t had a real baby in our house for 11 years so every time I lay eyes on a little infant, that old longing comes back “I wish we had more”. These sandwich years are difficult because in a sense we are fast tracked towards trying to launch our kids into adulthood, while noting new concerns about the health and wellbeing of parents who are getting up in the later years of life. Every year JD and I remark on how the year has been for us; both the good and the bad and the surprises that each year brings whether they are setbacks or success, sorrows or joys; there is nothing that can prepare us for the changes we encounter year to year, only the expectation that whatever comes our way, we’ll handle it but by the grace of God. Usually when we talk about these things, it’s late on New Year’s Eve after all the reverie has died down, and the conversation starts out a little bit like this, “Did you ever think that this year we’d (fill in the blank) or that (fill in the blank) would happen?”

Uncertainty about the future, the economy, politics, education, coupled with the nuances of life and death; these are the things that prompt us to face the New Year with not only a slight trepidation, but renewed energy, recommitment and hope. Knowing that as we enter the first months of 2008, some of the people we know and love will not be with us by this time next year and there will be new relationships around the bend, people we have yet to meet. Perhaps the coming year will involve finding and rekindling friendships with old friends we haven’t seen in many years, who really knows what’s around the corner for 2008?

More than anything, we see 2008 as the year we prepare for the changes in our own lives, including the kids getting ready for college and high school, helping our parents when and where we are needed and seeking our own vocational goals. Becoming a nursing student at this stage in my life has opened my eyes to the importance of life long learning. It’s never too late to go back to school, to learn something new; to start over again.

So in these uncertain times, it’s better not to know what the future holds, rather it’s a time to start over, in a sense and make changes, while holding fast to the important things such as faith, family and friends, knowing that while some things are just passing, the important things are everlasting, no matter what year it is. Let’s get it started now…Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas Clare

2007-12-11T18:58:00.000-08:00

Clare was born in February of 2001, a day we never forget, because on the day that she came into the world, JD’s brother died suddenly of a heart attack. Clare is our goddaughter, a gift from heaven, and as a small side note, she was born with cystic fibrosis. When Clare came into the world, we had no idea that she would be afflicted with this chronic disease. Her older siblings were all perfectly healthy however cystic fibrosis is an inherited condition that causes a mutation on chromosome number 7 and its protein product. If both parents carry the gene, the odds are greater that the child will inherit it, even though it’s a recessive gene. Genetics are the recipe of us, our phenotype is our characteristics or flavors that make us all unique. From our coloring to our size, our physical characteristics, genetic pre-dispositions; even our flat feet; these are all what makes us super special. If everyone was the same, well, life simply would be a little boring. Clare is one of the funniest little personalities I’ve ever met. I just adore her. She is bubbly, energetic and cute as button. This Christmas, her Auntie Tam wants to tell her truly special she is, so I am writing this open letter to her and sharing it with readers who might also know someone with CF.

Dear Clare:

You are growing up so fast. I hardly believe it every time I see you! Your smile is so infectious, it makes me smile too. I know you know a lot of things because you are a super smart little girl; but I had to tell you this Christmas how much you are loved by us all. I guess the lesson with living with CF is realizing that each day is important and life is a precious gift. Discipline is important too, because when you live with a chronic condition like CF, you have daily routines that involve taking medications that help keep the bad bugs away. Your mom and dad work so hard to make sure these things stay away, and as you grow up, you will see how important your daily routine is to your health.

I don’t want you to ever be too discouraged. I hope you have lots of strength and courage to see you through the bad days, plus I hope you always have laughter to make your good days even better. It’s important to stay happy Clare because it’s part of who you are and why you bring so much joy to others. I know how much joy you bring to your brothers and sisters and all who know you.

People are more than numbers and statistics Clare, so when someone tries to fit you into a box, I want you to tell them that God broke the mold when he made you. Each person has a trial to go through or little setbacks here and there; even the healthiest person has bad days too. When your bad days come, never forget that these things are passing and do not define who we truly are on the inside. All your sparkles inside you make up who you are. You are a special child created by God who has so much to give to those around you. I expect that like other people you will finish school, maybe have a family of your own someday or do something else that God has called you to, but the most important thing for you to hang onto and hold fast to, is your beautiful faith, because that is what will sustain you in every thing. I know you pray a lot and I hope you pray for me.

This Christmas I wish you joy Clare. Your life is a gift from the little Infant whose birthday we celebrate. One day when you are able to go out into the world on your own, I hope your share your joy and zest for life with others who might need a little light. You make me laugh. I love you. Merry Christmas Clare!

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at http://www.familyfare.blogspot.com/

"John Hewitt's pupils do pretty well.."

2007-11-26T21:52:00.000-08:00

Twenty five years ago, this was the tag line of a news package reported and written by Mike Hegedus, a reporter for the CBS station in San Francisco, KPIX. Mike is now a feature reporter for CNBC. Back then, while still reporting feature news for KPIX, he reported a story about a college professor working at San Francisco State University in the Broadcast Communication Arts Department (at least that’s what it was called back then.), an extraordinary man teaching broadcast journalism. Hegedus’ report went behind the scenes of our college campus television station, interviewing the professor, observing his students in action at school and around San Francisco as they worked “in the business” in paid positions and in internships. Many of these students are well known television and radio producers, writers, editors, anchors and reporters today, and so the tag line goes…

I am not sure if we fully appreciated back then, the impact Professor John Hewitt would have on our lives both professionally and personally. What endeared him to us was his candor, humor and honesty. John Hewitt was one of those professors in college you never forget. I never saw him particularly angry; except for the time I put together a package on Pier 39 that could have been a movie of the week in three parts. He was patiently serious about television news, about how carefully crafted it was written, its’ accuracy and relevance. In the midst of the seriousness, he was able to laugh with us and at us. He was the sculptor and criticism of technique and none of us wanted to miss his class. It’s the course where we put in more hours than was required. It was the class where we shot stories on huge cameras we lugged on our shoulders, with microphones bigger than our hands, hopefully covered with windscreens that looked like koosh balls. Our tapes were ¾’’Beta and the editing decks were these huge monstrosities that you had to reserve time to work on. When we checked out equipment from the “cage”, we signed our lives away and all our cords had to be coiled a certain way “or else!” It wasn’t just the cameras we checked out. With that, we needed to lug light kits and batteries. Yeah, I learned how to coil cords at State. When we were at State, the studio cameras were still black and white and sat on these huge ‘Ed Sullivan Theater’ pedestals. Lord, in today’s digital world, it seems downright ancient.

A graduate of U.S.F and Columbia University, Professor Hewitt taught for over 30 years at San Francisco State University, scattering his students far and wide into television markets all over the world. He's authored several books, is a television journalist, documentary writer/producer and Emmy award winner. One can say that on a professional level, he prepared his students for the hype and insanity of little garage news operations to major market newsrooms, but I’d like to think that he taught us to look at the world objectively with fresh eyes, both for what was newsworthy and hard hitting, versus what was sensational and sheer fluff. His experience wasn’t something he kept to himself; he shared it greatly and generously.

John and his wife Annette put on an annual Christmas party at his home in Marin County for his students; a tradition that started not long before my class graduated in 1985. Going back to John’s house the year after I graduated was like going home to see old friends, and it was at that party that I met J.D. 22 years ago. We were married almost three years later and his presence at our wedding was important to us. I have no idea how many of his students married and started families, but I know of two from the classes of 85 and 86, including ours. He was a professor who was a mentor and vicariously a part-time yenta, only because we spent so much time together.

We haven’t seen John or Annette since our wedding and we recently received word that he is now retiring, officially. A part of me is sad to hear this news, since he is really an icon of what is now known as the BECA (Broadcast Electronic Communication Arts) department at SFSU. We are grateful that we will be able to be part of this celebration, one in which a man’s legacy in education, his professional and personal impact on a small group of kids spans over three decades. Our good friends from college were all his students; people we still love to keep in touch with after 20+ years. Wishing him well as he retires and thanking him for all he has done for us will be an honor for those of us who were his students. His courses, although spanning only a few semesters for us, was such an integral part of sending us out into the world, and as the old Hegedus addage goes, “John Hewitt’s pupils do pretty well.”

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Sisters & sneezes

2007-11-12T15:43:00.000-08:00

My great Aunt Agatha was an enigma to me. I can only picture her as the nun with a black habit and Whipple that circled her soft smiling face. She had the same smile my grandpa Chet and Great Uncle Horace had, being that they were all siblings. If any three kids looked alike, they did, being completely and totally Irish. All three of them are buried in the family cemetery in Alliance, Nebraska. My memories of them involve only childhood flashbacks of her black habit, Grandpa’s old car, Horace’s small house in Alliance that he shared with his wife Agnes. Every single one of them was short in height but I didn’t notice because I was a kid and I was short too.

Sister Agatha must have been smart as a tack because she was a nurse anesthetist back in the day when they were rare. I think of her while I study and I wonder if I will ever get close to being the kind of nurse she was. One of the most irresponsible things I ever did without my parent’s permission, was give away her habit rosary that encircled her waist. When I was around 11 years old, I gave it to this little old lady named Rose, who used to attend daily Mass at St. Vincent de Paul church, because I felt sorry for her. She had severe arthritis in her hips which made it hard for her to sit, stand and kneel. I figured if she had Aunt Agatha’s rosary, maybe she would feel better. I am sure someone in this person’s family is wondering where Rose got that really big rosary. I did stupid things like that when I was a kid.

I never would have been accepted into Catholic school had it not been for Great Aunt Sr. Agatha. She was visiting us at the time my parents were trying to enroll us at the school (without much success), and apparently she went down to the school and mud wrestled Sr. Nan, the principal, for a 5th grade slot for me. I learned about the discipline of Catholic schools the very first day of school. Sr. Mary Antonilda, my 5th grade teacher, threatened to cut off my tongue with a pair of scissors if I didn’t turn around in my seat and stop chatting with another girl named Tammy, sitting behind me. I swear I thought she had scissors for this purpose and I never talked to my neighbor again while she was teaching us. I loved Sr. Antonilda. She was this wonderful short little nun who had this silvery wig and this incredible sense of humor. Whenever someone in the class sneezed, she would pace the floor in the classroom asking in a sergeant’s voice “WHO sneezed?” and when no one in the first row answered she would mimic “machine gunning” the first row on down until she got to the person who finally admitted they were the one who sneezed. Then, she would smile and say “God bless you!” Every time she did this, we would all burst out in a fit of laughter and couldn’t wait for the next time someone in the class sneezed.

Sr. Mary Antonilda allowed us to go to daily mass during Lent in lieu of lunch. I would walk down the hill to church and watch old lady Rose in her pew struggling to get up and down. I finally got the courage to sit next to her (every day) and dutifully helped her stand, sit and kneel with the crook of my arm. When my classmate, “Murph” noticed what I was doing, he used to race down to the church ahead of me to snatch up Old Rose before I could get to her, and when I snitched on him to Sr. Antonilda, she admonished "Murph" to find another old lady to help (in those words exactly because when I told on "Murph", I told Sr. A that he stole my old lady). I still laugh remembering those days in catholic school; the impression all these nuns made on me and how they fostered my sense of responsibility and my faith.

I hope that Great Aunt Sister Agatha realizes that the day she mud wrestled or negotiated for her precocious niece to go to Catholic school was the day that started a long journey to becoming a nurse, just like her, and but for the discipline and drill imparted by Sr. Mary Antonilda, I would not be the kind of student I am now; and when someone sneezes, a little stern voice with "a slight twinkle to it," goes off in my head and it makes me smile.

"Bella" A film...a story about real love

2007-10-30T10:40:00.000-07:00

There is an independent film showing in theaters in Roseville for the next few weeks that is worth seeing because its message permeates dismal cynicism is ways most films never touch. It tells a story that is universal but hardly acknowledged. Its reverberating heartbeat sounds off like a clanging bell waking Hollywood out of its collective mediocrity. Yeah, it’s good. You should see it.

“Bella” favors the audience and leaves its critics scrambling for a reason not to like it. When a filmmaker decides to make a film that is artistic, delivers a positive message, a happy ending while touching at the heart and emotions of human conflict, Hollywood is generally not too interested, which is why the Toronto Film Festival awarded its “People’s Choice” award to the production and every other national film festival followed along with their collective thumbs up.

Despite its PG-13 rating, it’s a film that the whole family should share together and discuss. Much in the genre of “Life is Beautiful”, the film examines the beauty of why we are here, despite all the bad stuff that happens to us. The film makers decided that they wanted to make something worth seeing and worth sharing. A true cinematic gift comes along with this film. Isn’t a nice to see something on screen that speaks to the heart of the audience and not the “business” of films?

Press reports indicate that the momentum of the film is truly independent of the press it has not received. Truly, the internet and word of mouth has lent a hand toward ensuring that people see this movie and because of that, you know it has to be a really fine film.

Director Alejandro Monteverde weaves an emotional tale of self-discovery. Eduardo Verastegui (Chasing Papi) and Emmy award winning Tammy Blanchard (The Good Shepherd) deliver performances worthy of Oscar (even though we know that Hollywood won’t like them very much- reminiscent of Jim Cavaziel’s performance in another well known movie) but who cares, the ovations of the viewing audience as the credits roll are satisfactory enough. Those who experience “Bella” get it, even if Hollywood doesn’t. We haven’t seen the last of this cast or this director. It’s what makes the idea of Indy films truly a breath of fresh air.

A film that examines two people whose lives are changed forever in a single day in New York City, this film is about a simple discovery. Perhaps losing it all is what one needs to finally appreciate the things that truly matter.

Bella is a heartwarming story about life, family, relationships and the capacity for real love in the face of the unexpected. It’s playing at the Century 14 Theaters, off Eureka Blvd. in Roseville. Go see it this weekend and don’t forget to bring those you love and a box of Kleenex, I might need some.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at http://www.familyfare,blogspot.com/

Leave it to Birdy

2007-10-16T11:06:00.000-07:00

I had to smile listening to my 11 year old daughter laugh while watching Season One of “Leave it to Beaver”, the original classic television show starring Jerry Mathers, as the Beaver. She’s hooked. I was too as a kid. Eddie Haskell’s monologues and digs remind of a child I know at my kids’ school. The themes in this show are as timeless as human nature. Birdy likes this show…No wonder at all. She’s my “lemonade stand” kid.
I asked Birdy what some of her favorite dialogues were from the show. She just loves the main character. He is sweet. Beaver is the epitome of 'purity of thought' in childhood. Come to think of it Theodore Cleaver reminds me a lot of my 11 year old. Beaver’s formal name is Theodore. Birdy’s name is Bridget (but we call her The Bird). One of the first episodes features some kids teasing Theodore when he goes to school about his nickname and they asked him who named him “Beaver”. In his little boy voice, he replied “yeah…my brother Wally named me that and it kinda stuck.”
No one is more hilarious than Eddie Haskell’s multiple brown-nosing comments to Mrs. Cleaver “Hello Mrs. Cleaver, you look lovely today. Your hair is particularly beautiful. Where do you get it done?” and in the same breath he punches Beaver in the stomach and mutters under his breath “Scram dog breath or get lost in traffic you little squirt!"

Birdy has her own ‘Eddie Haskell’ at school; a real ‘chumster‘ who also happens to be equally charming whenever I visit the school. What would the world be without the Eddie Haskell’s, the Lumpys, Whiteys, Tooeys, Chesters and Larry Mondellos…Everyone knows a Larry Mondello….Moreover, where would we be without the moral dilemmas of the Cleaver clan. Any fan of the series will remember great episodes like Captain Jack, Beaver gets ‘spelled, Water anyone, Wally’s girl trouble, New neighbors, and the all-time great “The Haircut” and “Short pants”. The series spanned 234 episodes…I readily admit that I never get tired of watching them, aw shucks.

June and Ward Cleaver are a sociological study all by themselves. The show’s repetitive moral messages would stand up easily today: obey/trust your parents, tell the truth, develop self-esteem, have pride in your family, help (or don't hurt) others, and accept responsibility for your actions. The parenting techniques incorporated in the series writing were right out of Dr. Spock’s “Baby & Child Care” handbook. The show was completely built around the importance of family, occupation, marriage and education. Ward wasn’t the only family sage. Wally had his words of wisdom for his little brother occasionally. One of my favorites was the following Wally speech from the episode, “Miss Landers’ Fiance”: Said to Beaver in a serious tone…while folding his sweater carefully on his bed.

“In a couple of years, you'll go to high school, and then you'll go to college and meet a whole bunch of girls. You'll probably marry one. Then you'll have a whole bunch of kids and a job and everything.”

Wally was master and commander of great words like "stuff, neat, gee whiz, golly, scram" words that definitely need to be resurrected and soon.

However, nothing could be as eloquent as Beaver’s ad in the paper for a dog he found:

I found a dog. The dog is brownish with no hair. I got the dog from my friend Larry but it was not his because Whitey found him in his garbage pail. If the dog you lost is the one I found, I'm the one who found it. Signed Beaver Cleaver

As we watch for the rest of the series to be released on DVD, I am sure Birdy will be watching much more of 'Leave it Beaver'…because so much of it smacks right in the middle of her 11 year old chops. The nice thing is that it is completely predictable. Ward is always home on time for dinner. Dinner is always on the table. Ward and June always agree. June is perfectly coiffed , Ward always wears his tie to work, the boys manage to get their homework done, their prayers said and their teeth brushed and the Cleavers will always come out on top, no matter what, because they have each other. Finally, kids will be kids forever and the toils and struggles of kids are what make adults. Thank God for that.

Tammy Maher is resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@scbglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Halftime

2007-10-02T22:59:00.000-07:00

Let’s say my life expectancy is 88 years old. That’s a nice number. Double digits, couple of eight balls. Not exactly 90, a little after 85. I like it. I think my life will come to a final curtain when I’m 88. If I’m thinking in these terms, then this Tuesday, I’m at the halfway mark. In the immortal words of the pastor who called the Sunday night bingo games, in his thick Irish brogue, “G- farty-far….G-farty-far, does anyone have that lucky number?” I’m about to be officially 44 (farty far) years old. It’s halftime. Where does the time go? Death isn’t something I think about much. Maybe I should. If I did, I’d make some special requests for the end of the game, if possible.

If I had a choice, I’d order a nice early bed-time, a cup of Chamomile with honey, a soft warm blanket; my rosary and I would simply fall asleep after saying my prayers and never wake up. Hopefully I would die with a smile on my face after dreaming something really wonderful. I would recall when my kids were born, or when J.D. and I were married…these would all bring back great memories that would make me smile. But perhaps, at that age, I would be dreaming about the day my grandchildren were born and the very first time they called me “Nanny.” But we don’t really know the day or the hour, do we? I’m just speculating on all this because in my ‘Life Span’ class I had to take a life expectancy test this week, and based on my lifestyle and my medical history, the test told me that I would live to be 91 years old! I find that incredible. The double eights make much more sense. I never thought I’d live that long. When I was in the insurance business, the tables always told me I was checking out around 74. That’s entirely unacceptable. That’s young!

I was amazed to realize that as we are getting older, the whole population seems to be living longer, much longer than the generation of my great grandparents. My dad’s parents are still alive, both of them and he will be 70 in January! That’s phenomenal and it should take into consideration several things, not the least of them, advances in modern medicine, fitness, diet and nutritional advances.

As I enter the halftime, I can’t believe the changes that are ahead. Going back to school gave me new perspective on how beneficial life long learning is, especially in the aging population. There is nothing more encouraging than to see people in my parent’s generation returning to school and learning for the sheer joy of it. Most of the women in my study groups for organic chemistry and anatomy and physiology are my age or younger. The conversations at home are a little more intellectual now that Mom is in school too. It makes us all think a little more about the world around us.

As I age, I find that the older I get, the younger the old folks appear to me, not only physically, but emotionally too. The conversations get more interesting with the life perspective broadening. When I was young, I used to laugh at the silliness of my grandmother and all her mannerisms. I can still hear her voice like it was yesterday. She had a simple life, but I think it was rich because she shared so much of herself with others. I hope I achieve that kind of openness and willingness to meet people where they are at. I hope when I am 88, I can look back on my life and say, “everything’s just fine” and then slowly step into the next life, with God’s grace. If I’m meant to suffer, I hope I can still have that smile.

The first half of life was a great. The game was full of touchdowns and setbacks but, since its only halftime, I guess I’ve got a little more time left. In the meantime, I’ll get on with it. There is still so much to see, so much work to do and at least farty far more in the bag.

Wood whittlers & Communists

2007-09-18T19:41:00.000-07:00

Robert was born in 1938, four years before Vladimir’s family was slaughtered by the communists occupying Slovenia. Robert will be 70 years old in January. Vladimir is living as a retired priest in Pine Grove and is close to 90 years old. Vladimir came from a family of 12 children. He lives with and takes care of his sister Draga who is also in her later years of life. Vladimir and Draga were present when the communists broke into their home and killed their parents and handicapped brother, leaving their bodies brutalized in the basement of their home in Zapotok. One week prior to the house invasion, Vladimir’s brother Frank was killed because he was a Catholic lay leader and resisted joining the communist party. The story of Vladimir’s experience with communism is told in his book “Communism as I know it” by Vladimir Kozina. It’s currently in its eighth printing. It’s a book I’ve asked my children to read, after they read “Animal Farm.” His life’s sorrows and joys are carefully etched in his face. He is a beautiful soul.

Robert was born in New Jersey and ultimately settled in California raising a family. I am his oldest daughter. He always earned a living but was constantly crafting things with his hands. For my birthday this year, I received a wood carving of St. Francis with five birds. It’s prominently sitting at my front door. I love it. My Dad’s heart is in that wooden St. Francis. I will always treasure the labor of his knife, the paint, and sandpaper the softened the edges of the wood.

Piero is JD’s second cousin. He is in his 60’s and living in Como, Italy. He is known for making homemade nativity scenes out of something as small as a walnut, to as large as a hollowed out television set. His life hobby is working with his hands and honoring God at the time of His incarnation. Piero is a gentle soul. I just love him and am so honored to know him. Some of my heartiest laughs have been around his kitchen table.

Joseph was born in Germany and came to the United States speaking no English, he settled in Alabama as a Benedictine Monk. Joseph Zoettel spent 50 years crafting cement, stones and junk into a miniature city of the world's most important religious structures. Born in 1878 in Bavaria, he was maimed in an accident that gave him a hunchback, but miraculously did not impair his ability to bend over and build tiny things. Brother Joe died in 1961, and all 125 of his buildings still stand, protectively nestled on the campus of St. Bernard Abbey in a place called Ave Maria Grotto. You cannot visit that place without feeling the love of Brother Joe. Brother Joe feels like a member of my family. He created his wonderful grotto with 4 crude tools. He was a man constantly in pain but constantly expressing his joy with his art. His life of toiling and prayer are testament to his artwork. There wasn’t anything lovelier to me than walking amongst his creations in his grotto, where he left the pain of the world behind. He knew the horrors of communism such that he never saw his family again after his arrival in the United States. Below is a picture of his replica "Vatican City" in miniature. It was created from the junk he refused to throw away.

Today, Vladimir is a retired priest whose life was spared miraculously during the home invasion of 1942 because he parents and siblings refused to tell the communists where he was hiding. At the time of their murder, he was lying prostrate in the attic of his house, listening to the torture of his family beneath him. I’ve known Father Kozina for the last nine years. He is man who not only has a deep abiding faith, but he is a man who works with his hands, created beautiful wood sculptures and religious tributes. He uses common “junk” and makes creations that move and are gloriously lit up with common house bulbs, Christmas lights and thingamajigs.

Nothing is junk to these four men. They all have come from lives of hardship, pain and joy. Their creations speak volumes about their faith. I often imagine Father Kozina praying or whistling as he works, Brother Joseph doing the same. I often wonder what my Dad or Piero might be thinking as they assemble their creations. As long as the communists are far away, I guess it doesn’t really matter.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Papa's Heart

2007-09-04T22:52:00.000-07:00

J.D.’s dad is a generous soul who likes to shop; but more than that he enjoys the giving and the gifting. He has his favorite haunts where he shops in his spare time and many people, whether family or friend, find themselves the lucky recipients of his generosity. He has a good memory for the interests and activities of others and he particularly bears this in mind while he investigates his favorite shops and warehouses.

He’s always been that way. I’ve known Patrick for over two decades. Whether it’s a book he thinks you might be interested in reading, or whether he is hosting a rehearsal dinner to welcome you to his large family, he gets a twinkle in his eye when he knows “he got you.” I suppose “Papa’s” heart of generosity was born from not having everything when he was young, much like my own parents and their generation. He had Irish immigrant parents who worked hard and scraped together a “living” to raise their family during the Great Depression.

I’ve watched Pat’s generosity through the years with friends and acquaintances and he has never changed. He has a soft spot for the down trodden and has “adopted” people into his extended family with financial as well as philosophical support. He is generous with advice, concern and support. Both of J.D.’s parents are huge advocates of the power of education and encouraged their family to pursue all their educational objectives. Pat loves to write. His hobbies are writing, history, politics, religion and giving. He is certainly one of those special people who should always have a pedestal. He has a lot to share with others.

You would think that this is a Father’s Day tribute to J.D.’s dad, and in a way, it is a very belated one, but as I sit and write this column, Pat is being prepared for heart bypass surgery. I remember writing a column such as this almost two years ago November for my own dad. I was scared to death and so was my family. This isn’t any different. Pat has been “Dad” to me as long as J.D. & I have been together. In essence, he has been a huge part of my life and I can hardly remember the years before him because as the years go on, he has been part of my family, as much as I’ve been part of his. Parents shape who we are as people. Pat’s influence is so broad, there isn’t a canvas large enough or broad enough to encompass the lives he has touched.

These are the times when we wish we could adequately express what a person has meant to us, the times when we feel certain vulnerability about them and their well-being. They only serve as reminders that when we are loved so much and generously by people with big hearts, it’s easy to forget to say “You are important and loved in return!”

Dad Maher, this is one of those times. We are praying for you, the skill of your surgeons, your recovery and the health of your new arteries and for the strength you will need in the days ahead to come home. God bless you and MoMaher and give you a speedy recovery.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Saint Barth's & Bella Vista Bed & Breakfast

2007-08-20T16:58:00.000-07:00

Almost 20 years ago, J.D. & I were married. Looking at the pictures I see a couple of kids with a beat up old Ford Tempo and a two bedroom apartment. After our wedding reception, we took off in the old Ford to San Francisco to spend our first night at the Portman Hotel (now known as the Pan Pacific). If you haven’t stayed at this hotel, we highly recommend it, as one of the very best hotels in San Francisco, even to this day.

For the rest of our honeymoon, we flew out of the country to a little island in the French West Indies, called Saint Barthélemy. It was a little nerve wracking to fly in a little four-seater Piper plane over a large ocean and landing on a driveway on a small island. I guess it was the wedded bliss that veiled the fear of flying with a pilot who looked like Captain Bligh, hung over after a late night binge. He boarded us while carrying a steel case marked “Emergency tool kit” and we boarded the plane anyway. It was like being in a small sports car in the sky.

St. Barth’s is an island only realized in one’s dream. We had reservations at the Hotel Le Manapany, situated prettily on the north shore’s secluded Anse des Cayes. We had our own cottage and access to a private beach. I still don’t remember how we afforded it, but we had an excellent travel agent at the time. She put the whole deal in a honeymoon package that cost roughly $3,000 including airfare, meals and a Mini Moke car (think golf cart) which easily transported us around the small island paradise. Isle de St. Barthélemy is located in the northeastern corner of the Caribbean Sea, 4400 miles from Paris, 1700 miles from New York, 125 miles east from Puerto Rico, and 15 miles southeast from St. Maarten. A little more than eight square miles, its steep hills divide the island into several valleys, usually open on one side to the sea. Each valley is distinctive, with unique variations of topography, flora, density of settlement, and character of architecture. I remember driving our Mini Moke up one peak where we noticed a yield sign for air craft coming over the hill into the airport.

Since the island was name for St. Barthelemy (St. Bartolomeo), the feast day celebration is a big deal August 24, so we were lucky to be around on that day. The French Navy also docks there on such occasions and you see them wander around the village, where natives and visitors come into contact daily. The native peoples resemble Dutch sheep herders. I know it all seems so surreal. The primary languages spoken on the island are French and English, although most residents come from France and Portugal. We spent ten days there absorbing the wonderful cuisine and people of St. Barth’s vowing that someday we would return.

For this nineteenth wedding anniversary, we opted for a local getaway that I wanted to share with readers as a beautiful way to celebrate a wedding anniversary or special birthday. Once you are there, you feel like you are truly “away” and we only traveled 20 minutes. Some wisdom just comes with age and experience.

Our destination was a new bed and breakfast that opened in Placerville off Cold Springs Road near Coloma. Bella Vista Bed & Breakfast sits on an oasis overlooking the Coloma valley on carefully landscaped grounds. The owners Bob & Kathleen Ash are the perfect hosts in a lovely home that they’ve created for their guests to enjoy. Just down the hill from Gold Hill and David Girard Wineries, this was a wonderful getaway that allowed us to feel as if we had gone away, much in the way we did for our honeymoon. Kathleen and Bob take very good care of their guests and treat them like family. Each room is tastefully decorated, with no detail left to chance. The evening wine and appetizers made us want to stay in for dinner.

The next day we took our whole family to brunch at Sequoia Restaurant, another local treasure situated in Placerville on Bee Street that boasts a lovely atmosphere in an old historic mansion and a chef who keeps the brunch and dinner menu very interesting and delicious.

You don’t have to fly out of the country to celebrate special occasions; sometimes the romance and the ambiance can be found in your own backyard! We wish Bob & Kathleen every success with Bella Vista; it’s truly a beautiful view and one of Placerville’s newest “hot spots”.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Work in progress

2007-08-07T20:01:00.000-07:00

School’s back?! "Wah...." Not fair. I just finished summer school last week and without taking another breath, I cleaned out Walmart’s school supplies early Tuesday, because the kids start school next week. Reality bites. Without sounding like too much of a whiner, I feel a little overwhelmed. In a last ditch effort to say I participated in summer fun, I am packing the kids, heading north and doing the roughing it kind of camping for 2.5 days…no running water, no electricity. If it wasn’t for good friends, coconut rum and Phase 10, I’d say I was crazy. I should consider medication but who needs a shower for 3 days. Not me. I’ve been overzealous in the sterile arena for the last eight weeks in my microbiology class. Now it’s time to go meet these little creatures, up close and personal in nature. I praise God for the person who invented handi-wipes. You rock.

I just want to say how much I admire all you people that appear to be in master control of your lives, that I desperately try to be you. I see you out there. You have your Franklin Planners, your kids play on traveling teams. You make all your meetings and are home for dinner. Your kids are on honor roll because I see your bumper stickers. You look like you work out and you sure look good. You obviously are carefully tuned up at the hair and nail salons regularly. You amaze me. Yep. I’m pretty jealous. I’ll get over it. You wouldn’t know a flat tire, an IEP or a bad hair day if it smacked you upside the head. You probably see me out there and say “that woman’s messed up”. I’m not really. I am just a work in progress.

I know Bob Billingsley has got the patent on bullets, but I have a few declarations to make, so that I don’t lose my mind this semester, so bear with me as I make a few Fall resolutions.

· JD & I will have a couple date nights this semester. I will talk about something other than the kids and school. I will go to some of his work parties.

· I shall not fall behind. I will carry a planner. I will look at it once or twice instead of pretending.

· I will stay within my budgeted cell phone plan and not go over my minutes. I can stop talking. Really, it’s as simple as “I gotta go, talk to you later...bah bye”

· The kids will not fall behind. They will not grow accustom to loud sighs and repetitive “Did you….?” Fill in the blank. I will try to keep my cool. This requires a straight jacket and a muzzle, but I hear they are on sale right now.

· I will not require medication…yet

· I will go to the gym. I will. I promise.

· I will try to make it to church more than once/week (this is to help with the fifth one above)

· I will make every column deadline. Pat, stop laughing.

· I will attempt to cook more this semester and not from a box. Ha. Funny.

· laundry will be folded occasionally and put away- maybe- well, we’ll see.

That last one makes me dizzy.

After reading this over, it doesn’t seem too hectic. I haven’t put in all the homework I’m going to have for statistics, physiology and human growth & development. I also haven’t included the carpools I’ve signed up for, but hey…if my planner knows about it, it’ll get done by that other woman named Tammy Maher. She always manages to help out in a pinch.

In the meantime, I continue to be a work in progress. So bear with me.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Remembering an old friend & colleague

2007-07-25T01:00:00.000-07:00

It’s been 20 years since I worked at the ABC owned and operated, KGO-TV in San Francisco. As a young college graduate, I “cut my investigative teeth” in the newsroom for three years as a production assistant, enjoying the fast paced environment of meeting deadlines, breaking stories and working with a few ‘legends’ along the way. The memory of these former colleagues still makes me smile after all these years. The legends in broadcasting don’t necessarily seek legendary status, we simply bestow it on them because they are the folks who come into our living rooms each evening to share the day’s news with us and in a sense they become like family.

One of those legendary folks was anchorman, Pete Wilson. It was hard to miss Pete in Northern California if you’ve lived here for any length of time. He was on the air in Sacramento and the Bay Area with an audience that spanned several decades and hundreds of miles of viewing area from the South Bay to Lake Tahoe to the Oregon border. J.D & I knew him while we were at KGO; specifically my role was as his production assistant for the 11 PM news. He was real newsman and a mentor for us both.

He passed away last Friday night after heart complications from a routine hip surgery. Pre-operative tests did not show evidence of the arterial occlusions that caused his massive heart attack on Thursday during his surgery. I can only imagine the efforts the medical team at Stanford University made in their attempts to save him all through the night and the following day. His last television and radio broadcast Wednesday (the day before the surgery) were upbeat but maudlin at the same time. He discussed his own mortality and his fears going into this latest surgery. (“I am having hip replacement surgery tomorrow….I did this once before, 13 years ago when I was 49. This time I am driving myself nearly nuts with anxiety about this and I don’t know why…what’s different? …maybe it’s that I’m older and a lot closer to the tail end than the front…mortality is now an actual thought on occasion…) Through the personal reflection, he waxed humor about his Irish Catholic heritage and nightmare surgery stories being shared with him by folks at the gym. One can only feel a haunting sense of his own premonition while listening to the last hour of his broadcast Wednesday afternoon. I feel most sorry for his wife and son. Pete was 62 years young.

The Pete Wilson I remember loved to talk to people about everything. He was constantly engaged in what others were doing and loved to debate all the issues that he perceived important to the community. As much as he enjoyed celebrity, he never let it go to his head. Chapin Day, his close personal friend, colleague and family spokesman found a piece of hate mail from a viewer dated 1994, while cleaning out his office this week and wasn’t surprised by the fact that Pete had hung onto it all these years. He was simply self-deprecating and endearing while twisting your arm to see things his way. His passions were his family, golf, landscape painting and his career. It seemed he had finally found his niche returning to KGO after a 12 year run at KRON, settling back down at his old home, anchoring the evening news and hosting his own talk show on radio in the afternoons. Pete was a looming yet comforting 6’5 presence in the newsroom. Much like a teddy bear, he could easily turn into a hurricane if someone pushed his buttons. He was a pontificator always but seemed at ease both on and off the air. J.D. has a memory of being in the newsroom with him doing an interview about how broadcasters show their bias through their facial expressions, and Pete gave him an earful with both feet propped up on his typewriter and both hands behind his head. He wasn’t about being perfect or being pretty…he was about getting it right and making it interesting.

Pete Wilson was the first person who showed me how to golf. I was in my early 20’s and didn’t have a clue what I was doing. He had the patience of a saint and the competitive spirit of Russian gymnast. When he first arrived at KGO from Fox40 in Sacramento, he was fish out of the river, arriving in the Tenderloin district, young, energetic, and a future bright with prospect. It was never a dull moment when Pete was anchoring the news. He could pontificate....all the way up to air time. Sometimes he was still talking when he got his cues and I wouldn't dare try to keep up with him on the teleprompter - because he would take off on a tangent that would completely mess up the back timing of the show and drive the producers nuts. When he got a bee in his bonnet, the best thing to do was sit there in amazement and watch him cut loose. He probably doesn’t realize what a news legend he had become to those of us who had the pleasure of working with him, and those who simply watched him on the air.

He was a fire cracker and we loved being around him. I can’t imagine the newsroom being the same without him there to fill the huge void he has left. Surely there are lush greens in heaven and perfect weather for golfing and painting. Mr. Wilson, you will be sorely missed.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

Solar man to the rescue

2007-07-11T13:15:00.000-07:00

J.D. has decided that solar is the only way to go in our ongoing battle to reduce our PG & E bill. We have fluorescent lights, gas appliances and have pretty much returned our spa to it’s dormant state. When you have a couple refrigerators, plus a hot tub, you can expect to pay, with or without the A/C running. Since we like to live in a refrigerator all summer (we are true psychrophiles), we pay dearly every year and yet we have little to show for it, except empty pockets and long bills with kilowatts coming out our ears as well as the meter which runs incessantly into the hundreds of dollars each month for our family. Solar panels on your house will convert energy from the sun into electricity for your home. Why didn’t we think of this before? For example, a family of five living in a 3,200 square foot home with 3 refrigerators, 3 computers, a 220V well and lots of landscape irrigation just received a PG&E bill for only $4.61. Wow! Those kinds of statistics grab you by the shirt and say, “Wake up!”

With the advent of pending legislation, both at the state and federal levels, consumers will get tax incentives and rebates for their commitment to solar energy, both commerical and residential. We are now turning to the power of the sun to sell our energy back in addition to turning our meter in reverse. Solar energy has been around a long time and after having lived in sunny California all these years, we seem destined to explore this new technology. Many people who went solar haven’t seen electric bills that curl their toes for years. There is a limited amount of time to take advantage of the tax incentives, so if you want to know more about it, I would suggest you contact my husband for more information and contact your legislators encouraging them to pass these bills that will protect your pocketbook, plus conserve our natural resources. JD is being schooled in the technology of solar energy and while I am interested in the subject, I am distracted by the staggering number of people who are interested in jumping on the solar band wagon. Perhaps it’s the combination of staggering gasoline prices in conjunction with the heftiness of our energy bills. Nothing comes cheap, some things are predictable, like sunshine on a cloudy day, when solar panels are still loving you. Why didn’t we consider doing this sooner?

We are turning greener as our money is flying into the pockets of energy monopolies and their fat portfolios. Consider several salient points. In 20-25 years you will save over $250,000.00 in energy costs using solar energy, plus getting rebates for being environmentally conscious. Commercial businesses stand to retrieve 30% of their costs up front with the government saying yes to solar technology.

I told my husband that he needs to start blogging his adventure and results of converting to solar so that we share with others the evidence we see in dollar and cents savings. We hope this will represent true economic return on an investment that will pay for itself over and over again. Renewable energy is the wave of the future. Here comes the sun…yahoo!

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

If Lost...Return to Folsom Lake College

2007-06-26T16:42:00.000-07:00

My home away from home (Folsom Lake College Library)

This sums up what was inscribed on the inside cover flap of my chemistry tutor’s textbook. It still makes me laugh one year later every time my friend Laura and I remember him; not so much for how remarkable it would be for him to actually retrieve his book in this manner, without so much as a single reference to himself, but the faith it takes to believe that somehow that book would make it’s way back to him come hell or high water.

It also sums up what I should have written across my forehead in Sharpie purple wide point, in case anyone wants to know what to do with me should I lose my head one day and find myself wandering aimlessly along East Bidwell Avenue in Folsom. I have spent the last year of my life in school preparing for nursing school. For every five unit lab class, I probably spend triple the amount of my time in the library studying with the kids who will hang out with me or on the computer where all the great mysteries of unseen life are solved, if you simply log onto http://www.microbiologyplace.com/

I have learned more in the last year of my life, than I did in four years of undergraduate work as a youngster. So much applies to my real life that I now am petrified to go home where many of my new microbe friends live, play and reproduce exponentially. I wash my hands like an obsessive compulsive person and I’m learning really big words about why I should buy more bleach. My teacher is a cross between a really hilarious Ernie (My Three Sons) and the Cheshire cat of Alice and Wonderland fame. I can’t even make this comparison to my fellow classmates because none of them (well, maybe Laura) has ever heard of the television show “My Three Sons.” When you have a knowledgeable professor in a subject like microbiology, it makes all the difference in the world; like the difference between chamomile tea and 5 shots of espresso. Science courses are fascinating and wonderful when the teacher is passionate about what he/she is teaching. This summer school is no exception. I love it.

I keep thinking about the things I will accomplish after I graduate this winter. Things like laundry and scrubbing. Dusting the ceiling fans is the first thing I will do before I shop for uniforms for school. I can’t shop for uniforms for clinical unless I am accepted into a nursing program. The one I want to attend is an excellent one for grown up people who are still fascinated by learning and passionate about small things they can’t see, like diseases. Helping people feel well again or helping them when they will not recover is a vocation. I am still the oldest person in all my classes, but I continue to find my younger self while I am in school. My classmates who don’t know me probably think I am a freak when I talk too loud or show amazement at the e.coli or other icky stuff I’ve grown on streak plates and in test tubes. I feel like a kid again, learning something new for the first time, except this time, I appreciate it so much more than when I was younger student. A lot of it makes sense now because I’ve been around longer. This ‘going back to college thing’ is something I wish my parents would do. I know my dad would enjoy a history course. My mom would probably like an art class or sculpting class. She is so creative.

In the meantime, JD and the kids cheer me on, my parents put up with my telephone calls when I call them with the latest grade report. I never wanted my parents to know my grades when I was young, now they are forced to endure my boasting and strutting like a little peacock. At the end of this year, provided I get accepted to the nursing program I applied to, I will be leaving Folsom Lake College, not like a lost textbook, but a woman ready to become a nurse, finally. If for some reason though I appear to be lost, return me to Folsom Lake College. I always find my way home from there.

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at http://www.familyfare.blogspot.com/

Every business needs a 'George'

2007-06-12T17:55:00.000-07:00

Last week, J.D. and I decided to venture out to the movies and wandered over to the Regal El Dorado Hills movie theater. It’s been a while since we’ve gone to the movies and it was a slow night, no lines, and plenty of room to park. We grabbed a bite to eat before deciding which movie to see. We settled on “Pirates of the Caribbean”, but more on that in a minute.

As we purchased our tickets and entered the lobby, the man who took our stubs and directed us, greeted us with a huge smile, demonstrative hello and theatrics that woke us both out of our collective sleep. “Welcome to the fabulous Regal Stadium 14 El Dorado Hills Theater, where tonight you will be seeing “Pirates of the Caribbean” showing in theater number eight, which you will find to be located on your immediate right hand side, right over there (pointing to the right)…and how are you this beautiful evening?” As he gestured to the right, he did a little dip and a bow, like an old time movie valet. “Wow!” I exclaimed. I wanted to hug him. George looked like and reminded me so much of my Grandpa Chet, it was uncanny. J.D. & both instantly bonded with him. J.D.: “Can you do that again?” George without missing a beat: “Welcome to the ….” and he repeated the whole thing without missing a word or a gesture. We all laughed and I thought to myself, “I love this guy…”

Ushers from the 30's

As we walked into theater number 8, I mentioned to J.D. that I wish everyone who worked in a face to face customer business had the same pep and enthusiasm that George gave to us as he greeted us at the door. When the pre-show slides were out of focus, George went and fetched the head projectionist and we all had a nice conversation about digital versus film photography. OK, so it wasn’t that exciting, but the fact that George went to get the projectionist and brought him back to talk to us was a first in the 40 or so years that we’ve been attending movie theaters.

As we complimented George once again on his cheerfulness, helpfulness and genuine personality, a guy piped up behind us “I love that guy! Last time we were here he told us all about the incentives, popcorn Tuesdays and all the stuff the other employees never tell you about.” George was not only friendly, but modestly humble, because as we sang his praises in unison, he turned a little shade of bashful pink.

Here’s the deal. As J.D. & I sat through the movie, a couple things occurred to me. First, the movie wasn’t that great. It missed out linking the other two stories together in a way that my 44 year old mind failed to compute and I was bored out of my mind. Secondly, that sweet gentleman in the lobby probably has a much more interesting life story and I wish we could have sat and talked with him more. Lastly, people just aren’t that nice in real life, unless they have perspective. In a single moment, that nice older gent turned my mood around with his wonderful friendly demeanor. How many times a day am I turned off by people in the “customer care” business because they are sour, moody and unhelpful. George could teach a class to all the employees at Regal about what it means to sell and market your business. His “attitude” is his best commodity and he definitely puts on the best face for that theater, I’ll keep going back there probably just because he works there. This is the secret whether you work in a movie theater or at a gas station; be nice, be friendly, act interested, be helpful. Young people listen up – you could learn a lot from George. Business owners I have a tip for you too; it would behoove you to hire retired people because they exhibit a lot of qualities missing from today’s marketplace, that being level headed maturity and real comportment. It doesn’t take much to put on your best face for the customer. Bring on the people who have a little life perspective.

George, you brightened our evening more than the silly movie showing on the screen. Our only regret was that you were working. J.D. & I would have liked to take you out to dinner to get to know you.

Regal El Dorado Hills, you have a gem in your midst. Hang onto him – have him train the youngsters. If every business can’t have a George, than every business ought to learn how to be George.

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

I'm Feeling Good

2007-05-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

Feeling good

My sister, Tricia and Michael were married May 19. It was a celebration of so many things. As Monsignor Whelton pronounced them ‘husband and wife’, I turned to Michael’s two daughters and gave them a hug and said, “It’s official! You are my nieces and I am your Aunt”…in a single moment, my parents became grandparents of two lovely little girls and my kids had two more cousins. It took a ceremony of two families coming together to gain a brother. My sister became a stepmother; but more than that I witnessed a commitment she made to Michael’s two daughters that I will remember as long as I live.

The nuptial Mass was beautiful because it was intimately a family affair. The smallness of the wedding made it more personal for all assembled. I completely lost it when Pop walked Tricia down the aisle with two leg braces and a crutch. Symbolically, it was a miracle. Who would have thought two years ago that Dad would come so far, yet he was his old self; taking his ‘baby’ down the aisle. For our family, it was a victory lap. We all had run the race.

The words to their first song & dance “It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life…and I’m feeling’ good” was so appropriate for the occasion. It was a day of grace. How many family weddings evoke feelings such as this; that no matter how sad life can be or how many blows and disappointments come along, that some things are just sacredly joyful in their essence and meaning. I saw cousins I hadn’t seen in a decade. Michael’s parents hosted a fabulously fun rehearsal dinner the night before and it was as if we were all one family. That’s how weddings should be.

As they ventured out to their honeymoon, my sister Terry and I left a picnic basket in their honeymoon cottage, along with their favorite champagne and treats. The photographs I loved from the day are of the new “family” and the parents in a group hug huddled together at the end of the evening.

Tricia has been bi-coastal for the last two years trying to finish her doctoral program, while planning this wedding and securing two teaching positions that wait for her return from her honeymoon. I’ve never witnessed my sister in overdrive; and was even more impressed with her patience and understanding when advising me on my own Master’s application for nursing. She has been more than my sister; she has been a true friend. As the youngest sibling, it was she who took me by the hand, probably for the very first time.

As I watched the happily wedded couple dance their first dance to crooner, Michael Buble’s rendition of ‘I’m feeling good’, I watched the circle of friends and family around them. Their joy was infectious. Everything about the day signified that these are the days worth remembering and cherishing. It was an honor and a privilege to witness it.

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

The Heels & Wheels Club

2007-05-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

I made it though Anatomy & Physiology class at Folsom Lake College this spring due to the wonderful friendships forged with my study group and the support of a teacher who rewarded our efforts with understanding, compassion and a decent amount of extra credit.

Community college is for everyone who has the desire to learn, no matter what else might be happening in your life. Case in point: Two women in my class had babies in the middle of midterms. While learning about the structural and anatomical miracles that make up the human body, a baby boy and a baby girl were born to Biology 430 students Trudy and Adena in the middle of the Bone and Nervous System chapters. What could be more miraculous than that? A third baby, a girl, is due to be born in July to a wonderful mom who was part of our study group. They don’t know this yet but I’ve aptly named our little group the Heels & Wheels club. Heels for the shoes some of them wore, and wheels for the backpacks we lugged around campus like a group of stewardesses stuck between La Guardia and LAX.

Tracy is a brilliant woman who will be a wonderful nurse to the patients she will care for one day. She took this incredibly intense class while carrying her second child. Once her baby is born in July, we are going to carry her through the rest of the prerequisites because we know how capable she is of accomplishing her goals. Karoline is the consummate 'fashionista' of our group. She wore Dolce & Gabbana, Chanel and animal prints on days when I showed up in the same old tee shirts, jeans & crocks. She basically revealed to the world what a fashion dolt I really am. She is more lovely on the inside than outside (if that were even possible) and I know whatever career path she chooses, she will forever be the exhorting & calming “Lily” of her profession. Jennifer is a kindred spirit. I marvel at her ability to maintain a 100% average, raise her daughters, maintain a marathoner’s physique’ while completely absorbing the technical aspects of muscle physiology and neural pathways. I would try to approach her action potential, but my synapses don’t snap that far, nor could I hope to reach the mile high pedestal she sits on, ah.. but I digress in a sea of envy.

Perhaps the sweetest ladies in our Heels and Wheels club were the younger ones. Jhanvi lived and worked at the library and never have I known a more conscientious student and study partner. Her sweetness and brains were like a Venti Quad Extra Hot White Mocha with whip cream on a rainy day. She was always snapping me into action with a cell phone call and a shout out to get myself to the library to study with her. Andrea bailed me out of a homework crisis before a big test, by running home before class (a sacrifice I shall not forget); my only regret is that I missed her insightful presentation on the subject of Rabies. We were in chemistry together last summer and she often had to put up with my lame jokes and terrible complaining. She, Karoline and I shared a common bond with our lab cat (named, “Smelly Cat”) and they endured my terrible singing and equally distasteful methods of memorizing muscle groups. While I was the “Lab Mom”, they were ‘my girls’. I claimed them all because I grew so fond of the hours we spent studying the integral systems of the human anatomy and their interrelationships to one another. I shall never forget the neumonic of the muscles of the lower leg nor the one we were handed by our teacher for the cranial nerves. Laboratory practical examinations were that much more bearable because of our tremendous insights into memorization. Blue humor goes along way to help alleviate anxieties about the cranial nerves and whatever foramen they might be running through.

The Heels & Wheels club consists of a cross section of women I would gladly work side by side with in the nursing profession or anywhere else for that matter. I hope I can convince them to hang out with me next fall. It’s going to be a long summer without them.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Sweet 16

2007-05-07T00:21:00.000-07:00

Shannon Elizabeth was born three minutes after midnight Tuesday April 9, 1991. I remember it well because I was there in the biblical sense. With labor going into the third day I was kind of hoping for the resurrection because I was starting to get a little tired of the pitocin pushing through the IV induced contractions. My doctor was normally a very happy-go-lucky, “the glass is half full” kind of guy, but at this juncture we were both getting a little worried. This was probably due to the fact that my doctor’s wife was also in labor on the same floor at the same time, so let’s just say his attentions were completely divided. It would have made for a great Lewis & Martin movie. He was convinced I was delivering a 10 pound baby. I felt like I was having a buffalo. Either way, Shannon did not want to born until she was ready. Not much has changed in 16 years.

The last word’s I remember the OB saying to me were “I’m not kidding around Tam…look at me…we need to get this baby out NOW!” Where were the jovial comforting reassurances? “OK”, I muttered…and with every ounce of strength left in me, she entered into the world with one final push. Feeling like Lance Armstrong or Forrest Gump somewhere near the Grand Canyon on the last pass, I looked into the eyes of this child and just wept. “You are so beautiful”! “I’m your mom and this is your Dad”. Honestly after three days of labor, I thought I was delivering a dinosaur. It was such a relief to behold such a small and delicate precious baby girl. She weighed less than 7 pounds and was the most amazing sight I had ever beheld. She was the complete likeness of her blue eyed father. I had nothing to do with it at all. I was only the vehicle by which she arrived and she came with her own blueprint for living. I’ve been watching the Architect work on her for 16 years and He isn’t through with her yet.

So much has happened since that day at Mercy General Hospital 16 years ago. Gram has been gone for two years now and I’ll never forget the hours she held Shannon as a newborn in her arms those first days after she was born. She would be proud of her namesake if she could see her now. I made sure I had a first year portrait of the two of them together and I’m so glad I had that done, especially now that Gram is gone. It hangs in a prominent place as a reminder of the legacy from which she came.

I would walk through fire for this child (as I would for her brother and younger sister), but the oldest “breaks you in” as a parent. Her first high fever freaked me out, the first fall off the bed darn near sent me into a tailspin, the first time she rode a bike, read a word, got lost at Disneyland, received a spanking, and just held my hand; they were all the firsts for me and she taught me more than I taught her. I learned a lot about patience, praying and loving from my firstborn. I learned how to diaper, breastfeed and take a temperature from this child. She was the one who hid from me in the middle of the clothing racks at the department store and thought it was funny when the security guards were searching for her with Code Adam’s blaring on the loudspeakers. Her tears would stop me in my tracks and her smiles melt my heart like butter. She brings me more comfort than I could possibly give her. I am humbled by her ability to make others happy, and encouraged by the friendships she has fostered. I am blessed to call her my daughter.

She is now learning to drive with her Dad. I’ve watched her become a young woman and she still takes my breath away. I see goodness in her that is not from me but from a higher place. I can’t wait to see the rest of her life unfold. Happy Sweet 16^th Birthday Shannon! Your father and I love you more than words can express.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

Frank, Wally, Sara & Joey

2007-04-17T10:38:00.000-07:00

Twenty seven years ago I worked in a convalescent hospital as a certified nursing assistant. Typically when you work in a facility such as this, you expect to take care of elderly patients. Petaluma Convalescent Hospital was a mixed bag of patients though. In the midst of the elderly and the dying, there were the young people. Since I was only 17 years old at the time, I wasn't aware of the disparity. I only saw the disability. Perhaps the most perplexing placement in that hospital was Frank. Even at my age, I knew he shouldn't be there. He was able to walk, feed and bathe himself. He could have come home with me and I thought about it all the time. It bugs me even to this day.

Frank was a young man, prematurely gray, who suffered from cerebral palsy. As a young teenager I couldn’t begin to fathom the depth of what imprisoned him. I am just now starting to comprehend it.

Cerebral palsy is a neuromuscular developmental disorder of the central nervous system. Its causes and effects are complex. It can happen before, during or after birth. Its origins have been linked to the genes and yet its effects can be as a result of an injury to the brain (such as lack of oxygen at birth). Some people with CP have gross motor impairment and paralysis, yet have brains that function on a cognitive level equal to you and me.

In my life I’ve known several people with C.P. Frank was someone I looked forward to seeing everyday. He had good days and bad days. His frustrations were mostly about being misunderstood. He would try so hard to communicate something and just resign himself to the fact that on some days he just couldn’t get his point across. I worried about him because I sensed he was resigned to his “prison”, where he was left alone with his thoughts, feelings, wishes and desires. These would remain bottled up in his mind because he lived in a body that wouldn’t allow an outlet for them to come out. On really bad days he would simply cry. I have tears in my eyes as I write this.

Wally is a man I was introduced to in an independent film, produced and directed by his friend, Bob Fink. He was 56 years old when his parents passed away. He lived with them all his life. He had no education and no real prospects. His life was centered around the family who loved him and the lawnmower he operated on his property. His story is compelling. Wally reminded me so much of Frank. As I watched the documentary about the conflicts his family was facing with regard to his future. Bob examines a common dilemma facing most families with members who require extended care; whether they suffer from C.P, Autism, or Downs Syndrome.

It is a film about the enormous complexity of loving and being loved. It’s a compelling and haunting. The films message says more about being “normal” than about what the obstacles are to being “disabled”. http://sweatyboyproductions.com

Joey Deacon and Sara didn’t know each other. I met Joey through his autobiography. His mother instinctually knew he was brilliant. Unfortunately she died before it could be realized.

Sara is a friend with triumphs and sorrows. Despite her “disability”, Sara graduated college with a bachelor’s degree, married and had four children. She overcame tremendous obstacles with her disabilities, but she continues to face prejudice and abuse because she suffers from the obvious affects of C.P. One assumes because she is ‘clumsy’ that she is somehow incompetent. She no longer resides with her family. Her story is still unfolding and it haunts me.

Joey Deacon was institutionalized most of his life. Because he was unable to communicate freely, he was “assumed” to be mentally retarded. However, with the help of his friends Ernie Roberts, Tom Blackburn, and Michael Sangster, he was able to write a book.

All four men had cerebral palsy in one form or another, yet cooperatively, they were able to open the channels for Joey’s words to flow. One couldn’t speak, so the other became the mouth, one couldn’t type, so the other became the fingers – like a fine oiled machine they became Joey’s voice. It is one of the most compelling books, I’ve ever read. The proceeds from Joey’s book released all four men from their institutional setting. Unfortunately, Britain both embraced and crucified Joey. I’ll leave it to you to figure out why. I love Frank and Joey (both have since passed away) and I worry about Wally and Sara. I hear from Bob Fink that Wally is coping well with his changes but I'm not so sure about Sara.

Frank, Wally, Sara & Joey possess part of my conscience. I look up to them in ways that people admire their heroes. Their lives are as important as any other. Their hopes, dreams and desires no less. We owe them something more. Perhaps our attention, our time, understanding and respect. They are simply prisoners in bodies that are locked. I pray we find the keys to unlock their doors because they have so much to teach us.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Holy Thursday

2007-04-05T06:55:00.000-07:00

Why do Catholics spend so much time in church this week? What’s with the ritual? Why do they commemorate everything? The answer is Holy Week. Next to the Incarnation, or the birth of Christ, the entire answer lies in the triduum or (three days) of this week.

The disciples had already asked Jesus where he would eat the Paschal supper. Today before dawn the Lord sent for Peter, James and John, spoke to them at length concerning all they had to prepare and order at Jerusalem. Everything was preordained.

It was a night that would precipitate the following days of sorrow, despair, confusion and ultimately joy. It would be crowned with great awe and relief for the dawn of the Lord’s day would be forever redefined after this exceptional weekend. The Old Law would be replaced with the New for the series of acts initiated by Jesus initiated a New Covenant with God. The church would be conceived on this night and confirmed 43 days later at Pentecost. Holy Thursday was the matrimony of the Church, the institution of the priesthood, the Eucharist (Christ’s perpetual presence and sacrifice represented on the altars of the world until the end of time) and the ultimate initiation of His Love. The following is an excerpted explanation of this day from Fr. Thomas Keating who writes about the significance of the day.

“The texts read in the liturgy during Lent provide us with the means to understand the sacred mysteries of Holy Week. We think of the penitent woman who washed our Lord's feet with her tears and of Mary of Bethany who anointed his feet with the perfumed oil. It was the custom of the time to wash the feet of a guest, to offer him a kiss of welcome, and to anoint his head with ointment. It was not the custom, however, to kiss those feet or to wash them with one's tears; nor to place precious ointment of great price on the guest's feet rather than upon his head. Why such extremes on the part of these two devoted women?

They evidently wished to show that He was no ordinary guest. Surely the Divine Goodness, which praised the extravagance of these two women, would not do less than offer you and me the ordinary courtesies, if He invites us to His banquet table.

With this background in mind, we can understand why Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. They were to be His guests at the first Eucharistic supper, just as Christians are His guests at the commemoration of it. This sharing in the body and blood of the God-Man is the pledge of a still greater banquet: the eating and drinking of immortal life and love at the eternal banquet of heaven, where our nourishment will be the Divine Essence itself.

But as guests at the banquet table of the Lord in this world, and as recipients of the divine hospitality, the disciples had to receive at least the ordinary marks of courtesy; that is, the washing of the feet, the kiss of welcome, and the anointing with oil. These three acts form an organic whole. Omitting any one of them would have been to fail in courtesy, something the Father would never do to guests invited to His supper. These three marks of courtesy correspond to the three stages of Christian initiation.

First is the washing of the feet, symbol of baptism, which must precede the Eucharist. The Eucharist represents the kiss of welcome, the intimacy of union, and the mutual sharing of deep love. The anointing of the head with perfumed oil suggests the grace of the sacrament of confirmation. Jesus did not anoint the heads of his disciples on this occasion because the Spirit had not yet been poured out. After his passion and resurrection, however, this crowning courtesy was bestowed at Pentecost.

Catholic belief is that it is being bestowed in each reception of the Eucharist, especially in the yearly renewal of the Paschal mystery. We have seen John resting in Jesus' bosom at the Last Supper, a symbol foreshadowing and anticipating this grace. The anointing of Jesus by Mary of Bethany pointed to the outpouring of the Spirit upon him and upon all his members, especially those taking part in the supper. But John was given the reality beyond the symbol. Resting in Jesus' bosom, John received the grace of which the anointing of the head with ointment is the external sign.

These reminders of the divine hospitality, of the inconceivable courtesy that God has extended to us, make us approach the Paschal mystery with humble and grateful hearts. How can we thank the Lord for his invitation, for the incredible depth of his sharing?”

Have a joyful Easter weekend!

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

Teeter & the bees

2007-03-20T20:45:00.000-07:00

Friends are like flowers. Some are lilies, some are sunflowers and some are more like roses. While some flowers are thorny, others are just sweet. J.D. and I are lucky to have great friends in Teeter and Brian. We just wish they lived a little closer to us. To see them we have to drive about three hours. It’s worth the drive though.

Teeter and Brian have five kids ranging in age from 13 to 19 and they run a large milling operation in Northern California. I marvel at their ability to run a large family, a labor intensive business, take care of all their friends, plus home-school their kids. Like us, they like to entertain, and when they do, it’s always a great party. I was so excited that we were able to drive up to their place for St. Pat’s weekend. I knew we could kick back and take it easy because we were staying the night. It felt good to get away. The kids were in ‘fun mode’ and J.D. was excited to get away from working for a few days of relaxation.

Before we cracked open the first bottle of wine and appetizers, Teeter suggested that she and I take a walk around the orchards. It was a great idea given the long drive, the gorgeous day and the fact that I had never seen the mill or the orchards although I’ve heard about them for several years. As we drove out to the orchards with the dogs tailgating in the back of the truck, we talked about family and friends. That morning their family had all gone to a funeral of an old friend and we talked about him. This topic led us onto talking about other people who were close to us who had died in the last year that we missed. I reminisced about my Aunt Carol and she talked about a girlfriend she loved that passed away last summer, a woman who was like a sister to her. Every time Teeter talks about this woman, she laughs, so I know they were close friends and shared a lot of good times. As we talked, our discussion turned to the deeper topics of our fears. I related to Teeter an absolutely bizarre dream I had just had, and she told me that she was deathly afraid of bees. I asked her why and she told me a story of being attacked by a swarm of bees while out walking with her good friend. As she described in minute detail every moment of the bee attack, she said the only thing that bothered her was that her good buddy did nothing to help her when it happened. She just stood there. As we laughed (I, a little more nervously…thinking that I’ve never been stung by a bee, so I have no idea how it feels to have a bunch of them trying to sting you at once nor what I would do if I saw someone else being attacked)…she went on to talk about how bees target a person, leave a scent and attack all at once.

“Huh?” I said, “I’ve never heard of that before…” I tried to imagine how awful that must have been…and we arrived at the orchards. Hmm….well I couldn’t see a bee for miles, so I was excited to get the lay of the property, see the orchards, the pond and enjoy the views of Springtime in a walnut orchard.

As we exited the truck, the dogs took off running in familiar territory and I followed Teeter down the dirt road into the area of the orchards. Blooms only come from trees that are pollinated and of course, you need bees for that and as we got closer, Teeter pointed out the hives and mentioned that one of their foreman warned that the bees might be angry in the evening because they had just been moved in the morning. She redirected me around the area where the hives were “just in case” and we walked away from them. The dogs chased a chipmunk or a squirrel and were ahead of us when we noticed “Beebee” (Yep, the dog’s name was Beebe) running in circles, whining and biting herself…”Oh no!” Teeter shouted….”it’s the bees!” As she ran to help her dog, the bees started to swarm Teeter! As Teeter ran around screaming that the bees were all over her…she cried out for help. I could hear them in her hair and as I ran my hands through her hair, I demanded that she take off her shirt…”Take off your shirt now!” I repeated it…I could hear the bees but couldn’t see them. “Get them off me!” she cried. As she took off her shirt and we swatted them away, we ran across the field with the dogs and the bees behind us. DejaVu set in as we contemplated in amazement finishing a conversation about history that repeated itself within seconds of discussing it.

A single dying bee lagged behind her ear the entire time we walked back to the truck and as I flicked it off from behind her ear, I saw stings all over her neck and arm. She was clearly marked. I’d never seen anything like that in my life. Hugging her, she reassured me as having passed the friend test. For some reason they didn’t sting me once. I concluded it must be partly due to the combination of my Irish luck and my English blood because they clearly love the sweet people. Teeter is sweet…one of the sweetest people in the world. I know it and the bees do too.

Are you smarter than a 5th grader?

2007-03-06T19:28:00.000-08:00

Yeah, OK...so we watched the premier of “Are you smarter than a 5^th grader”, the new FOX show, hosted by Jeff Foxworthy The new format features bright, articulate animated young geniuses, purportedly real life 5^th graders, although I am more apt to believe they are Cal Tech midgets. In the three night premiere, all of the 5^th graders answered every question correctly. Amazing…simply amazing; or maybe not.

Our family waited around after American Idol to watch this latest spin off from Fox, primarily out of curiosity more than anything else. After all, we live with a Fox40 meteorologist who also happens to be a 5^th grade teacher. Armchair producing results in brilliant observations in this family.

The show launches with 40 year old Seth, a UCLA History graduate, who, when posed with the first grade Social Studies question, “In what month do we observe Columbus Day?”, crumbled under the pressure of it and resorted to taking one of his 3 cheats. Yeah, let’s just say old Seth got off to a bad start. I was horrified. So was my 10 year old. Most pre-school kids know that one; at least the Italian ones.

For the most part, the questions were set up for the first through fifth grade student, but somehow the adult college graduate contestants struggled with simple answers to mind bending questions such as “How many e’s are in the phrase “pledge of allegiance?” Yeah, Larry, the Worcester University Graduate, answered incorrectly, but luckily his “5^th grader” bailed him out. Larry went off the episode failing to calculate the number of teaspoons in 5 tablespoons. Worcester University assumes most of their students know the answer to that by the time they get there; however somewhere in Massachusetts sat a retired third grade teacher very disappointed in Lawrence’s performance.

It really became too much for computer consultant, Lakisha, when faced with the really hard question “How many decades are in two millennia?” She decided to opt out. Good thing. Her answer would have been 20. That puts her only into the second century…about 1800 years short. She also had a very difficult time determining whether the Canadian border was longer than the Mexican one. Yikes.

Just when you think things couldn’t get any worse for the grown-ups, along comes Susan, the real estate agent who indicated quite confidently that only “three states bordered the Pacific Ocean, Washington, Oregon, California and Mex…wait…not Mexico!” She forgot about Hawaii and Alaska…but hey, who’s counting? 5^th grader Spencer bailed her out and we’re left wondering if she knows anything at all about real estate, let alone geography.

Are the fifth graders smart? You bet. Are the adults a little dim? Well, that’s debatable. J.D. thinks they freeze when the camera’s rolling which can sometimes happen to people, like Jan Brady. I wax a little more skeptical. Surely they test potential contestants, take all the airheads and their wrong answers and formulate a show around them.

Perhaps the worst part of the show for me was when the UCLA, Worcester, and Oregon State graduates “flunked off” by officially declaring as they stare into the television camera, “I am not smarter than a 5^th grader!” I’m thinking that if you are smarter than a 5^th grader, then you probably can’t be in the show. Poor Lucy.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at http://www.familyfare.blogspot.com/

We were Seinfeld

2007-02-22T10:20:00.000-08:00

J.D. and I just returned from a mini college reunion this last weekend in San Francisco. The weather was fantastic. Our buddies from college are like a tapestry of the best characters in a sitcom that preceded a very famous one, you know the one that starts with a “S”. I hearken back to the days in the dorm, the weeks living off Serramonte Boulevard in Daly City and on Funston Avenue near Golden Gate Park and finally graduation. Little did we know that we were an all-star cast in a comedy about nothing, yet about everything. We still star in this comedy. How did that happen?

When you major in Broadcast Communication Arts with a bunch of people it’s just funny, no matter where you are, whether in school or out, you’re always “on the air”. Our sitcom has been running for the last 22 years – one of the longest running sitcoms in history. You are probably wondering “what the heck is she talking about?”

We were all bound together in a little society of students that ran the news operation of the college television station back in the early 80’s. It was broadcast on cable channel 35 in San Francisco to about 4 subscribers, including our teacher who watched us on the air and then ripped us apart afterwards for our clichés, bad grammar and very long news packages. (I think I broke a record for the longest “short” in news35 history – a mini series on Pier 39). Anyway but I digress. We were so serious about our future careers in television that we took trips to Tahoe when it snowed just to get video tape (yeah right – we went because our friend’s family had a cabin up there). Dispersed in our attempts at serious journalism, we cooked, we drank and we made tapes. Those tapes turned into mini series primarily because when you major in broadcasting, your friends are comprised of writers, producers, directors, floor managers, talent (ah yes, we all wanted to be the talent) and people who generally loved to watch themselves doing nothing at all. Does that sound like a famous sitcom you know?

Anyway, this last Presidents weekend, after a long hiatus, we ventured back to the City and congregated at a lovely little house in Pacifica with an ocean view and had a lovely steak dinner with the old gang. The conversation always light and friendly and the camera rolling always…we had ourselves a lovely little trip down memory lane. In the “better late than never category’ it was nice to finally hand over videotapes to our buddy whose wedding was 13 years ago. He is a famous morning drive radio personality in San Francisco and yet he neglected to videotape his own wedding. Since we never go anywhere with these people without a video camera, the whole day (along with our insightful commentary) is now preserved in four hours of videotape that for some reason we held onto all these years and were now able to deliver to him and his wife. I hope they enjoy reliving their wedding day all over again.

Our tapes of each other go from college to vacations to weddings to projects and back. Our lives and friendship is chronicled in VHS and BETA format and sometimes these are edited with sound and music. Some parts are funnier than others and probably most of it would be boring unless you knew us; nah…you’d probably laugh. In our group we had our Elaine, our George, our Kramer and Newman. Yes, we had them all.

Our college class was special. We enjoyed being with each other, we enjoyed supporting each other’s careers and watching some rise high than others from local news and production to the networks. Our best man is now a network cable news anchor. One of the nicest compliments I can pay to our old friends is that they are really down to earth people. We all met in a little cubby hole on the campus of San Francisco State University in a classroom with a fantastic professor who taught us the essentials of good writing and editing, while at the same time encouraging us to be ourselves and follow our dreams. It was at this Professor’s home at Christmas time in 1985 that J.D. and I met for the first time and the rest is history.

In our heads we’re still those youngsters, a little grayer, a little older, more mature; our reunions a little more contained. We hold mortgages, second & third careers, marriages and families now, but when we’re together we’re still those kids, because in a twist of irony only we understand, we were Seinfeld before Seinfeld was Seinfeld and our series is still “on the air.”

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

The mini monsters

2007-02-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

Published February 8, 2007

"The mini monsters are a team of three spies who are no bigger than my little pinky finger. The first monster’s name is Go-Go. He is funny and smart. He knows that 2 X 2 is 4. He goes to school and says “it’s so much fun!”

The other monster’s name is Jo-Jo. He is always sad but he loves being a spy. The only problem is that he sometimes cries in the middle of an investigation, which makes people wonder if he’s right in his head. He has been a spy since he was ten years old. When you are only about 2 ½ inches tall, it’s hard to tell if you are 10 years old or one hundred.

The third monster’s name is Ko-Ko. Ko-Ko likes to watch TV all the time and he is weird when it comes to command of the remote control. The remote is five times as big as Ko-Ko, but he doesn’t notice it at all. Ko-Ko’s strength cannot be matched. He is the mini monster who does all the heavy lifting in the team. Ko-Ko likes art too. He draws and paints the big people, especially the ones who are always into trouble when they think no one else is looking….and so begins the adventures of the mini monsters…..”

My daughter’s fourth grade essay starts out interesting and after reading it, I see potential for a cartoon series or a Pixar movie release, but then again…Monsters Inc. was already done. Oh well, at least I was able to share it with you.

We were at my parents for Dad’s birthday last weekend. The grandkids were unusually occupied for a gathering at my parents. They simply weren’t around. I opened the door to the garage and heard voices coming from the upstairs room my Dad built when I was a kid. It’s been a place where my father cuts hair and carves wood, but in the olden days it was an official neighborhood clubhouse with furniture, a small kitchen and cubby holes to put stuff in. For admission to the clubhouse you had to fulfill a set of requirements. Since I was the oldest sibling, it meant that my friends were all “in” and my sisters were officially “out” of the club. We made signs that declared who was in and who was out. These were posted carefully on the walls for all to see. We had secret passwords for entrance and secret meetings, much in the genre of “My Gang.” If there were any mean teenagers in the neighborhood and there were a few; they were officially declared to be “out” of the clubhouse. You can still see evidence on the wallpaper in the clubhouse of our time there.

And so history and imagination took over once again, 35 years later. As I listened to the thuds of the feet upstairs in the old clubhouse, I knew that some things just capture the imagination of a child in ways adults can hardly remember. Except this time it was the younger kids (the mini monsters) who had commandeered the clubhouse. In a twist of irony and revenge, the children of my younger siblings and my youngest daughter reclaimed their birth right, complete with home made signs that declared who was “in” and who was “out”. Their first official act after making their home made signs was to clean up the place and make a little couch out the cushions that were in storage in the cubby spaces. If you were a teenager in this family, it was clear you were not welcome. Well, some things never change.

The imagination of a child is untainted in their ability to believe or see things that adults lost long ago and far away. In thinking about what it is that attracts kids to cubby holes and upstairs rooms where their imagination and creativity unwinds, I am comforted by the fact that some things might just be generational, and that eventually the mini monsters will prevail.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

A day of activism in San Francisco

2007-01-22T11:01:00.000-08:00

We left early Saturday morning to participate in the 3^rd annual West Coast Walk for Life. My oldest daughter participated the first year and enjoyed her inaugural attempt at political activism. As a child of the 60’s, I tried to explain to my child of the 90’s that she might encounter some opposition to her activism, but if she truly believed in her cause then she would derive a great amount of satisfaction from having stood up for her beliefs. The only advice we could give her for the first year was to be peaceful, even when those protesting against her confronted her. While it may not be politically correct to admit it; as a family we’ve always tried to support the notion that from the moment of conception to natural death, a person’s life is a sacred gift, even in crisis, disability and suffering, that each person has inherent value and that like all rights, the fundamental right to life is the foundation for all others. We respect those who disagree with us.

This year our family was able to venture to the event. This West Coast Walk is considered the bookend March to the Washington DC event which is held annually every January. Like all Washington marches, the March for Life draws more people every year from all over the country. I wasn’t too surprise when I met a nurse and her husband who had flown in from the Virgin Islands to participate because they felt the weather here would be much better than the usual freezing weather conditions that the Washington marchers endure. She looked to be about my mother’s age and we talked about nursing students who enter the profession in the middle of their lives. She is someone I would love to stay in touch with as a mentor. I hope we become fast friends.

The day was unusually gorgeous for a winter day in San Francisco. The sun greeted us at the start of the walk and seemed to hang around to warm the 35,000 or so walkers as they made the five mile trek from Justin Herman Plaza to the Marina. It was an upbeat occasion that started off with many dynamic speakers, including speakers representing Democrats for Life, the Black Genocide, the Orthodox and Catholic churches, the Lutherans for Life and nurses for Life. There were also two exceptional speakers who represented a group called “Silent No More”, a group of post abortive women. These women were incredible speakers who talked of their own experiences and each delivered a powerful message of hope to the thousands of people assembled. There was a very moving presentation in the middle honoring a Napa couple who had delivered their two anacephalic children despite pressures to terminate them before birth. The Gianna Molla award was presented to them honoring them for their faith, dignity and courage in the face of a terrible trial of losing two children to anacephaly. While the walkers waited to make their trek along the embarcadero and marina, friendships formed, people connected and old friends found each other while they walked with their groups, their signs and their families.

I would encourage families to adopt a cause and embrace it together, no matter what your political beliefs may be. Like other Walks we’ve participated in for the Arthritis Foundation, Diabetes and Breast Cancer, this particular day in San Francisco was a special occasion, one that will remain with us as an important day in which we all stood up together as a family and walked for Life.

Must have really been something...

2007-01-10T12:37:00.000-08:00

It was like a huge hang over. I gathered up the Christmas tree plates, Christmas cards and Christmas lights and started the pack up. It hurt, like a tired achy hurt. It came so fast and now it’s gone. “Bummer”, I thought as I dragged the manger scene off the lawn into the garage where J.D. will take them on their final lap up to the attic, “the Kings just got here and now Christmas is over”. I wonder what the 1000 mile journey home was like 2000 years ago when the real kings came to worship the newborn King. Must have really been something…

We had a few “go backs” that needed to be returned to the stores because of sizing issues, but for the most part, everything fit, and everyone was happy. I could hardly stomach the thought that what was now on sale for 70 percent was essentially 70% marked up in the first place. I never remember 70% sales when I was kid. Some items were supposedly marked down 75%. Really. Even the shoppers looked hung over. To imagine the 'Super Sale' people lined up outside the store doors before the pre-dawn hours with their pup tents and sleeping bags…must have really been something…

Now that the kids are plugged into their iPods (it’s never been so quiet in our car I swear) and now that the December/January birthdays have passed me by, it’s back to school for everyone (including me). This semester it’s Anatomy and Physiology. I ordered my school books early and discovered that we will be dissecting a cat. As the mother of three children and a few animals, this ought to really be something. As a person who gets attached to things, I will be naming my cat something dignified and respectful since it has given it’s life for science. Suggestions are welcome. Last month was incredibly busy with my teenager and I both studying for final exams. I’d like to formally acknowledge that had it not been for St. Joseph of Cupertino, I would not have made it through my final in Sociology. He’s the Saint from Italy who made his priesthood being tested on the only preposition he knew. Let’s just say he wasn’t the best student in the world, but he was a great saint. Can you imagine not knowing seven years of theology and going before your examiners who questioned you on the only piece of scripture you ever memorized? Must have really been something..

My favorite soldier in Tikrit is home for a few weeks and nearly missed a roadside bomb two days before his leave began. As his family welcomed him home at Sacramento International Monday night, I’m sure they grabbed him hard and fast and were all sleeping a little easier that night knowing he was stateside. I can see Michael coming down the escalator in his Army dress. Must have really been something…

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

MoMaher tears and stretchy pants

2006-12-27T12:14:00.000-08:00

My mother and father in law came by early to celebrate Christmas last weekend. In true Italian style, we abandoned ourselves to drinking wine and eating Mama Anna's pizza and antipasto. My MoMaher cried her eyes out seven times, which is lucky I guess because she was so chock full of love recalling the events of the past year; the visits to and from Italy, the times spent here with the Italian cousins in October, I guess it's OK to be a maudlin at Christmas. She does that a lot. I call it the MoMaher kind of cry.

I was a little maudlin too. Not the bad kind of maudlin but the good type, because it's this time of year where J.D. and I reflect on the past year and see where the joys and sorrows have taken us. It's always a journey and in it, we usually bear the marks of the year in different ways. Sometimes, we're a little more fit, sometimes we're a little more plump. This year, we're a little more lean, but not much because I made peppermint bark and fudge for Christmas and the prime rib was really good! However, there was those six months of walking that helped a lot. The good times can best be categorized as the good jeans months and the bad can be left to stretchy pants.

What really got to me this Christmas was seeing Dad walk into my house with his walker and short leg braces. He walked all the way from the car into my house and just to see him vertical.....it was a thing of beauty...it was a gift for Christmas. Then when he lifted his arms from the walker like a little kid letting go for the first time :"look ma, no hands!" Well, it doesn't get any better than that. When he toasted mom and all the family for seeing him through his health crisis last year...we all had a MoMaher moment. He's a different person now, as we all are. We've learned to appreciate each other on such a deeper level.

J.D. & I have two married friends who've been married as long as we have. He's a teacher and she's an artist. They are two of the most wonderful people, giving in every way imaginable, who have suffered the heartbreak of never being able to have children. Their hearts have longed so much for a child and after several years of waiting, the adoption route seemed to be drying up for them. On St. Nicholas Day, their son was born and delivered into their arms just a few days before Christmas. In that respect, the world seemed to finally smile on them and of course, they are over the moon with joy...that really made me cry this Christmas...not the bad of kind of cry, but the MoMaher kind of cry...

When my Aunt Carol died this last year, there was a part of her that left me forever, but her spirit seemed to arrive this Christmas in a package from her sister, my Aunt Mary and my favorite cousin, Jeanne. It was a Christmas care package of love with little gifts that had big meanings. They brought a few MoMaher tears to my eyes because I realized Aunt Carol bonded us all closer together as a family.

As for 2007, that's up to God. He will be there, despite the joys and the sorrows; and this time next year we look back at the year with the same wonder and awe at what has changed about us and those we love. My sister is getting married...that'll be cause for MoMaher kind of tears. We will bear the marks of the year because things happen; it's inevitable. There will be more changes and more MoMaher kind of tears on the horizon. It's OK though. I have my family with me and stetchy pants.

O Holy Night!

2006-12-15T09:18:00.000-08:00

December 14, 2006

Christmas…In the early dawn after Christ’s Birth the three chief shepherds came from their hill to the Cave of the Nativity with their presents, which they had gathered beforehand (could it have been the brightness in the sky that led them to this place?) What about the star. It was a sign, greater than they had seen in the sky on any other night. They were accustomed to watching their flocks by night. Their vision was never so clear. This night was like no other. It was a sacred night.

These presents were little animals not unlike tiny roe deer. If they were kids, those in that country look very different from ours here at home. They had long necks, very clear beautiful eyes, and were very swift and graceful. The shepherds also had strings of dead birds hanging over their shoulders and they carried live birds under their arms. When they knocked shyly at the door at the cave (whatever that was made of, a rock, stone or board) St. Joseph came towards them with a friendly greeting. They told him what the angel had announced to them that night, and how they were come to worship the Child of the Promise and to present their poor gifts to him. Joseph took their gifts with humble gratitude, and made them take the animals into the little chamber (the entrance of which is by the southern door of the cave). Then he accompanied them into the cave itself and led the three shepherds up to the Blessed Virgin Mary, who was sitting on the coverlet on the ground by the Crib, holding the Infant Jesus before her on her lap. The shepherds, holding their staffs in their hands, threw themselves humbly on their knees before Jesus, weeping for joy. They had remained a long time speechless with happiness and then began to sing the angel’s hymn of praise which they had heard in the night, and as they prayed and sang the psalms of joy, they felt an inner peace they had not known before. When they got up to take their leave, the Virgin put the little Jesus into their arms one after the other. They gave Him back to her with tears and left the cave forever changed by this night, this place, their experience and the touch of the baby’s skin against their hearts, His Heart only beating on earth for less than 12 hours touched theirs inexplicably.

What they came away with was a Gift greater than the small gifts they bore, however the most acceptable gift they presented was their faith. In that holy place, on this Holy Night, they bore their faith and laid it at His tiny feet. It was the most acceptable gift and as they laid their hearts bare, He blessed them and changed them in an instant and though their visit was brief, His impression on them was eternal.

May the Infant bless you and your family this Christmas and may the humble joy of the Holy Night remain with you throughout the New Year. Merry Christmas!

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

If He Did It... and Oops, She Did It Again!

2006-11-30T14:13:00.000-08:00

O.J.’s book deal went down in a ball of flames last week. Hats off to the hoards of people who hounded the network and publisher. Obviously both came to their collective senses in nixing the O.J. interview and book deal. Do I detect a smidge of decency in a sea of sewage and waste? Since we already know that he allegedly “did it”, many people , including the families of the victims, were highly offended at his narcissistic approach to capitalizing once again upon the savage murders of his ex-wife, Nicole Brown and bystander, Ronald Goldman. It’s a wonder the man can look himself in the mirror everyday with thoughts like these running through his ego maniacal and monumentally sociopathic brain. It makes me wonder what little regard he has for his own children; to peddle such useless garbage on the American public. It would be best if he kept those thoughts to himself.
Never to be told no, we can expect the usual from O.J., who will likely find another publisher. With money getting tight, he desperately needs to keep up his membership at the country club, where the search for the real killer continues. This man is definitely a national embarrassment.

Oops, she did it again. Does anyone give a rat’s phooey about Britney Spears, other than People Magazine? The little spoiled brat marries a do nothing like Kevin Federline, makes babies with him and decides she’s had enough already. So what are we supposed to do? She did it again and how many more times will this stupid little girl make the same mistake? Feel free to set your watches by the next nuptial fiasco of Britzhername.
What is amazing to me are the hoards of people who worship at the altar of Britney Spears.. Whatever. I’m sure. I’m like really irritated. These are two people who have no sense of shame so they would probably be thrilled to find their dirty laundry once again strewn across the yard of this magazine or that late night talk show.

Apparently the plague of our culture is a failure to set ourselves aside for anything or anyone. We’ve lost a sense of sacrifice. Why were my parents and grandparents able to make sacrifices and yet there are kids today who will stand outside Wal-Mart and Target for three days waiting for the PlayStation 3 to be released. Tents and sleeping-bags on the pavement for PS 3’s? Are you kidding me? How many employers lost their employees to the sick days they took for the PlayStations?

I am taking a sociology class right now and I’ve learned a lot about what is socially acceptable today versus what was socially acceptable when I was 19 years old and in college. Pretty much everything is socially acceptable, in case you were wondering. Not much is off limits anymore. We’ve pretty much accepted every little thing as a fundamental right, even a fundamental right to be wrong, stupid, careless and criminal. Right and wrong, good and bad…these are only a matter of perception. When our perspective changes, then we can change our minds, call in sick, write a book, sell our story, sell out, sell up and move on. The whole concept of sacrifice is completely lost on today’s cultural elite. The relativistic approach to life is a matter of what one values or simply doesn’t value at all. Marriage, divorce, murder, life, the right to die, free speech when the speech is politically correct, race cards, and the right to the very first PlayStation 3 darnitall anyway.

I’m waxing skeptical here folks, but the whole idea behind the “I and the Me” being fundamentally first are what plagues us more than terrorism right now. It’s the Almighty Me that put forth the O.J.’s and the Scott Peterson’s of the world onto the center stage of national debate and media sensationalism. The fact that he’s short on cash and sitting high on his pedestal is the driving force behind his “tell-all” story, “if he did it”.

O.J. write a book? Britney’s marital woes? I’d rather buy myself a nice root canal. So he did it, and she did it again. They’re made for each other and as the song goes, “they’re not that innocent.”
Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Photos: Googleimages.com

Truly thankful

2006-11-23T12:19:00.000-08:00

I want to be a rebel this Thanksgiving. What does that mean? I don’t know. There are just some years where I’m sick of turkey. I’m not much for ham either. What’s wrong with me? I usually love the whole turkey, stuffing, cranberry, potato, and gravy thing….I like it when it gets all mixed up. Not this year. I’m thinking seafood this year. I’m thinking the Italians got to me. They always do that.

J.D.’s Italian cousins visited from Como in October and you would know they were here because of several evidentiary points. 1. We went through approximately 2.5 liters of olive oil, 2. We drank approximately one case of wine, 3. Two blocks of parmesan are missing from the refrigerator, 4. Several jars of antipasto are missing, 5. The grappa bottle is almost empty and 6. There are wine corks with toothpicks everywhere in this house and the card decks are missing a few face cards.

I know none of this makes any sense to non-Italians, but those of you with two milliliters of northern Italian red corpuscles running through your veins know exactly what I’m talking about. Many of you know I claim this heritage by contamination only, but when it comes to cooking, drinking and celebrating, I’d go Italian every time. When the cousins left, my kids were in tears, my broken English sounded horrible and my broken Italian worse. If someone actually recorded the way we all talked while they were here, it could be a sitcom. Golly, it was fun.

Piero returned to visit with his son Mauro and daughter-in-law Sara. Mauro and Sara had never been to the U.S. before so it was their inaugural visit. MoMaher had a reunion festa to end all festas and even the Irish relatives became Italian for a day. J.D’s brothers flew in from Utah and Washington and the cousins were together again. The bittersweet moment for me was in greeting Piero again for the first time since his wife Guiliana passed away in 2004. I cannot describe in words what that wonderful woman meant to me, so I will leave it at that. She was here in spirit because I felt her the whole time they were here.

J.D. pulled out the old pictures and videos from the last time they were in California in 1998. It was the first trek for Piero’s family to the United States and like their pilgrim cousins who immigrated here in the early 20’s; they made the journey with the faith that something exciting was on the other side. American cousins came out of the woodwork for that reunion, including Lenny and Ronny with their accordions and the music was fantastic. I looked back on that time as such a great family memory. I’ve never seen my mother in law look so youthful and happy, while the rest of us slowly succumbed to the inevitability that we were all truly Italian. It was the start of a decade of travel exchanges to and from Italy with MoMaher and her sons. It took almost 80 years, but hey, who’s counting. Nonno Giuseppe is smiling from heaven.

I know I won’t be able to talk my parents into eating fish this year for Thanksgiving, so as we sit down to our traditional Thanksgiving meal, I am reminded of why I am truly thankful. I want to thank the readers of this newspaper for the time you took over the last year to express your encouragement and prayers for my Dad’s recovery. I am happy to report that Pop is getting close to not needing his wheelchair as much, and he emphatically plans to walk my sister down the aisle next May for her wedding, even if it’s with his walker. He is truly a survivor. I expect miracles, perhaps a golf game in ‘07 because God has been so good and gracious to us. These are the rare priceless times of life to be truly thankful; and I am most thankful for my irreplaceable family.

In that vein, enjoy your Thanksgiving with friends and family, eat whatever you want e rendiamo grazie a Dio.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Would you want to know?

2006-11-02T21:35:00.000-08:00

Does it make you uneasy to consider the possibility that in California today, your daughter could be removed from school by a “counselor” you’ve never met, who has secured financial arrangements on her behalf, to procure a surgery you do not “know” about? Would you want to know?
That is the fundamental question facing voters next week when confronting Proposition 85, otherwise known as the “parental notification” proposition. The subject of this proposition deals with fundamental legal issues involving the protection of minor girls, not a woman’s right to choose an abortion. Don’t be fooled. Proposition 85 involves minor children, not legally adult women seeking a legal abortion. Opponents of the proposition stand to lose a lot of tax money if it passes, so their “business” is at stake. What is being requested in this legislation is a law to ensure that a parent of a young girl possesses a legal right to know when surgery is being performed on her and/or whether abortive medications have been administered to her. Before you vote on Tuesday, I would urge you to consider a single question. Would you want to know?

If passed, nothing changes, except maybe the amount of cash pocketed by abortion mills. A parent could technically get notified and consent to an abortion for their child. Nothing is changing as far as “abortion rights” for children. If a minor in an abusive home is seeking remedy from parental notification, there are waivers which are afforded to these minors by the courts within this proposition. The opponents of the proposition don’t want you to know that. They’ve launched a costly campaign to defeat your right to know on Nov. 7 because they stand to lose money. For children in an abusive environment, three protections within the proposition are in place. First, if the court determines that a child’s parents would abuse her, the court will order an abortion without parental notification. Secondly, if the court determines that a minor girl is mature enough to give informed consent, the state will waive notification. Lastly, if there is a medical emergency, the abortion can be performed immediately. There are no loop holes here, just a law that would make it a requirement for abortion providers to notify you when your minor child is seeking an abortion. Would you want to know?

What does it mean for you to know that most abortions performed on minors are paid for by the state or other adults not legally responsible for the health and well-being of your child? What opponents don’t want you to know is even more disturbing. Technically speaking, child abuse and statutory rape can occur in cases where abortions are secretly performed on minors and parents are the last to know because the abortion provider is not legally required to notify a minor’s parent. Planned Parenthood claims to be fully compliant with mandatory reporting of child abuse crimes, but one need only to listen to the tape-recorded telephone conversations which are available on the web at www.yeson85.net between their clinics and a “13 year old girl” to understand how little protection is in place for a child in this situation. If you’re not disturbed, then something is wrong with you.

Post operative complications from performing abortions on young girls include infections, infertility and in some cases, death. The child suffers the consequences of a decision made in fear, and the parent is unable to help because they have not been notified. Opponents vehemently want the status quo because of money and the politics over legal abortion.

Let’s suppose you work full-time with two daughters attending the local middle and high schools. Tomorrow one of them will be taken by someone you’ve never met to an abortion center for surgery. Pre-operative pelvic examinations and lab tests are done on her, IV’s are started, general or local anesthesia is administered to her, invasive gynecological surgery takes place and then it’s over. Your daughter is transported to and from school to this facility and discharged with little if any post operative care because all of this happened in a single afternoon. What if she developed an infection? Would she have the presence of mind with a high fever to know that she needed to be in the hospital because of a terrible post op infection? How many girls neglect their health because of “their secret”? Who loves your child more than you do; a school counselor, a school nurse, or the abortion provider who sees her one time? The abortion center stands to gain between $300- $400 for surgery funded entirely by your tax dollars and mine. What do they stand to lose from not notifying you? That’s the real question.

My daughter was hospitalized last year after two knee surgeries with unexpected complications from secondary health issues, including the surgery. It wasn’t even a question of our participation in her care; it was expected. Her father and I were her primary advocates. Why are we excluded in a crisis pregnancy? Follow the politics, follow the money. At least 30 states in the United States have “notification” laws in place to protect minors. Why is California among the last to adopt these protections? It’s because the largest percentage of abortions performed on minors are performed in New York and California and abortion providers are the strongest lobby against your right to know.

In a state that has laws prohibiting minors from taking aspirin at school without parental oversight, we are still not allowed to know when that same child seeks a surgical procedure that could affect her health physically and emotionally for the rest of her life.

Prop 85 is not about consent. Your “Yes” vote is about your right to raise your own child. Read through the rhetoric and make an informed decision next week. Would you want to know?

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

So you wanna marry my sister?

2006-10-19T23:52:00.000-07:00

Published October 19, 2006

Michael- I heard through the grapevine that you want to marry my sister. There are a few things that I think you need to know before you ask her. Not that you asked me, but hey, you know this family, we have our noses in everything.

Tricia came into the world not waiting for anyone to deliver her. She wasn’t waiting for our mother, and she wasn’t waiting for any doctor, no, not her. She arrived on her own terms and made quite the entrance. So expect a lot of drama and adventure in your marriage. Not the bad kind, but the spontaneous kind. For instance…”Honey, I booked us this nice little adventure in the outback and we’re leaving tomorrow morning”, or “Merry Christmas, we are all going hiking in Tibet!” I know there is some crazy Southern European blood coursing through her veins, which is probably why she ended up with the mysterious brown eyes and great hair, so you have one wild woman on your hands, but let me tell you something, she’s all heart. If she loves you, it’ll be forever. So guard that heart with your life. We know where you live.

Some pointers, not that you need them… but make sure you take the lead in this relationship. You’ll want to be romantic because she is very romantic. Her happiness is in being with you and making a life with you. Be thoughtful because she is very thoughtful. Take care of her, because she cares so much for you. One of the things I most admire about you is that you have put God first in your relationship with my sister. That will sustain you both through the years as you build your life together. So in that regard, you are out of the ballpark. Good job.

It might be none of my bees wax, but when you ask her to marry you, be sentimental about it. She’ll love it, plus it garners all kinds of extra points with us. You see Michael, when you make our sister happy, you make the whole family happy…I’m not trying to go all Corleoni on you, but we’re watching you. Make that marriage proposal worth talking about at Christmas, because we’re all tired of talking about the Europe trip of ’83.

For the record, when you marry my sister, we’re family…blood and guts…until the end, which means that if we show up at the delivery room with the video camera and pizza, don’t be too offended. We’re pretty loud and we like a good party. We’re usually around for holidays, baptisms, weddings and funerals. We’re pretty good about potlucks, and we’re big on dessert. When it comes to the valleys of life, we’ll worry about you if you get sick and one or more of us will be on the internet trying to figure out the best course of treatment for you. If something really bad happens, we’re usually on our knees praying, and don’t be too alarmed as we tend to cry.

As you probably already know, my sister is eclectic. She loves nostalgia, old music, great coffee, fine wines, lazy days, good books, being in, near or close to the water, new projects, and shopping (ugh….sorry). She has great taste, great ideas, and a twisted sense of humor. She can be very opinionated. She’ll contribute more than she expects from your relationship, so try to keep up with her. She tends to pour herself out, so remember to fill her up frequently by stopping at Starbucks.

Most importantly, my sister loves you and your girls more than life itself. One thing I’ve learned about the women in my family through the years is that we don’t go down without a fight and we’d pretty much throw ourselves in front of a train if we knew it would save the family, so in case you were wondering, there’s no divorce in the family dictionary, just death. Finders-keepers buddy.

She’ll stand by you for your whole life, she’ll fill your house with joy and laughter and then she’ll redecorate. Be prepared for adventures in fine dining and weird films. She’ll make sure your children are well rounded in their education because she values education as much as she values family. She’ll grow with you in faith and as you grow old together, you will grow deeper in love because like you, she appreciates what she has found and she will treasure your marriage and your family.

Lastly, if you eat her ice cream or her chocolate, be very contrite or beware. Ok, Michael, now that know all of this, yes, you can marry my sister.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Aunt Carol, the Proverbs 31:10 Woman

2006-10-05T21:40:00.000-07:00

Published October 5, 2006
Aunt Carol, a Proverbs 31:10 woman

(Who shall find a valiant woman? Far and from the uttermost coasts is the price of her). That woman was 62 years young, born in Hatfield, PA, raised in Bloomfield, New Jersey and lived her life in the Jersey Shore area of Manasquan and Wall Township. The testament to her life are her three sons and daughters-in law, three grandchildren and loving husband of 42 years, all whom adored her, the valiant woman, whom I called Aunt Carol. She was so easy to love because she loved greatly. She was the proverbial, Proverbs 31:10 woman.

My Aunt, Carol Ann Megill, passed away September 10. It came as a complete surprise to me because she preferred to keep her suffering private. Over the last year, while going through chemotherapy for an aggressive form of cancer that had metastasized to her liver, she continued to work at her grandsons’ preschool; a job she held for the last 16 years. She started a weekly correspondence with me by email, giving me family updates about the pending wedding of her youngest son, Tom and his bride Natali. These weekly emails included news about the grandkids and always asking after us, how we were doing; never hinting at her health crisis. In a bittersweet twist of fate that only God understands, Aunt Carol left the world six days before the wedding. She was so happy for them. Every reminder of her on the day of the wedding brought tears to my eyes.

(The heart of her husband trusteth in her; and he shall have no need of spoils). Aunt Carol looked after Uncle Earl with a warm home, loving smile and good cooking. She loved broadly and deeply. When it came to her life, it could not be measured by its length, but the width of her love to her family and friends. She completely poured herself out to others, taking care of her own family and her mother who passed away in January 2005. When over 400 people showed up to the funeral, coming out from all layers of her life, one only had to notice what an impact she made on others. I’ve seen Aunt Carol twice in the last three years, once in 2004 and then in 2005 when I returned for my grandmother’s funeral. I noticed that my Aunt, a beautiful woman, became even more beautiful over the last two years of her life. Cancer may have robbed her of her life, but the beauty of her soul manifested completely in her physical appearance. She was truly a beautiful soul. As she became more incapacitated, she armored herself for a battle to win, mostly to make it to Tom’s wedding, but also to watch her grandchildren grow up. My uncle says she never uttered a single complaint. She worked every day, helped plan the wedding and then developed a sudden and severe blood infection, which ultimately cost her life September 10.

(Strength and beauty are her clothing and she shall laugh in the latter day. She hath opened her mouth to wisdom and the law of clemency is on her tongue). One of the things I most loved about Aunt Carol was her ability to forgive the faults of others, see only the good in most people, and leave them where they were at, without judgment or harshly reproach. When she smiled, her eyes smiled too. Her home was always open to friends and family. One only needs to know my cousins, Doug, Dan and Tom, to know what an incredible mother she was to her sons. My cousins married loving women, obviously based on the loving example of marriage they had in their parents, a compliment to the love they received from their mother. Her daughters in law were her daughters and they were loved by a mother, not a mother-in-law.

The greatest love of her life was her only love. My Uncle Earl held up his entire family the week of the funeral and the wedding, just the way his wife would have wanted him to. He managed to be a gracious host, a wonderful father, Pop-Pop, uncle, brother-in-law and friend to all who came to the wedding. Seeing him kiss her goodbye the day of the viewing broke my heart. I never could imagine one of them without the other. They brought out the best in each other.

(Her children rose up, and called her blessed: her husband, and he praised her). Saying goodbye to Aunt Carol is still something I am getting used to. I will miss her emails, her voice on the telephone, her cards at Christmas and birthdays, and her smile…that is something I hope I’ve inherited from her. I hope I can carry her spirit with me for the rest of my life. (Give her of the fruit of her hands: and let her works praise her in the gates.) The hole Aunt Carol has left in the world is huge since God has taken her back to Himself. I’ll never forget her.

Her last words before saying goodbye were always, “I love you”. Aunt Carol, I love you too.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

Lost in translation

2006-09-21T21:04:00.000-07:00

Published 9-21-06

Learning a second language requires a certain amount of discipline to be successful. My daughter likes her Spanish teacher. She had two years of Latin before starting 9th grade and finds Spanish much more enjoyable than doing the declensions that weighed down her studies with Latin. I guess I don’t blame her. There’s not much opportunity to converse in Latin, unless she’s talking to God at Mass on Sunday. What makes the Latin so helpful is that it is a root language and all the other romance languages spring forth from it. To hear is to listen. I can’t do either, which is why I only speak English. My Spanish would translate something like this, “Paco and Maria have a house on their birthday and it’s blue. Paco lives in a refrigerator. They are very happy.”

How to immerse Shannon in Spanish? She has some tapes, but then there’s always television. JD and I talked about the Spanish language television stations and agreed that the soap operas are a little too racy; thus she’d get more than just a language education from watching Spanish television. Overall, the fluidity with Spanish makes it one of the most enjoyable languages to speak and listen to. Sometimes I’ll click through the sports that are in Spanish and I’m mesmerized by the energy of the Spanish announcers; kind of like Marv Albert on 10 shots of espresso.

A prime example of being lost in translation is the year 1978, when Mom and Dad took us on one of those cross country RV trips that I always talk about. Dad met this German man in the campground at the Grand Canyon. Being polite, Dad extended a visit to the German man, should he ever “hypothetically” make it to California. We weren’t home two weeks when a knock came at the door. “Gunther” stayed on the couch at our house for three days. Dad’s two years of German from his days in the Army failed him miserably, and we had no ability to converse with our unexpected guest. My best friend next door was in a high school German class and he came over to translate for us. The first night went something like this: “When is your birthday?” “Can I borrow a pencil?”, and the really engaging conversation ice breaker, “What is your Mother’s name?” These three questions filled up about two minutes of the entire three days he lived with us, and for the next two days we stared at each other until he left. What a great memory. Dad never used his two years of German again.

Some other things just get lost in translation when the music is really loud. I was working at this pizza joint in San Francisco, while I was in college. The music was turned up a little, when I tried to take a customer’s order. It went something like this:

Me: “Hi, welcome to the Front Room. What can I get for you?”
Customer: “Do you have pickled herring?
What I heard: “Do you have difficult hearing?”
Me: “Ugh… sometimes…..”
Customer: “Do you have some now?”
Me: “I hope not!” “Can you speak up?”
Customer: “Huh?”
Me: “What?”

I hope Shannon masters her studies of Spanish. I look forward to her thoughtful and engaging conversations with my buddies at La Fiesta Taqueria in Folsom. Last time I tried it on one of the fellows there during the lunch rush, he thought I was taking an exercise class. Maybe I looked like I needed one. There’s a lot lost in translation.

Learning good Spanish will open all kinds of doors, plus it’s the next best step to learning Italian and of course she will need immersion to master Italian. That would mean bi-annual trips to Italy, visiting the relatives and seeing the countryside. She might need a chaperone to take her there. I will certainly volunteer to go. The sacrifices we parents make for the sake of our children. I’ll be sure to bring along my hearing aid.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

So long American Idols

2006-09-07T20:57:00.000-07:00

Published September 7, 2006

If you didn’t watch American Idol last season, forgive me for this little pop culture digression. We watched the television show last season and became hooked after the first episode of auditions, primarily because two girls from Sacramento were featured as contestants. As a family, it was one of the only shows we looked forward to every week. I must be losing my mind to admit this in print. On top of planting ourselves in front of the television to watch it last season, we forked over an enormous amount of money to see the American Idol Tour at Arco Arena last week. We had so much fun with the kids. I didn’t have to worry about foul language, drugs or booze. My daughter, Shannon, had a homemade,” We Love Taylor” sign that one of her friends made for her, which was really sweet. These family friends went with us to the concert, and they, of course, were witness to my bizarre over-40 dance techniques. Our son Conor danced through the whole concert. He loved Chris Daughtry. I guess we all did. Aw shucks.

Our youngest, Birdy does a pretty awesome impersonation of Ace Young singing “We Will Rock You”. It’s hilarious. Birdy is 9 years old. So you can see we are not talking about serious culture here. As an old broad, I quickly became a Taylor Hicks fan last season. His entrance at Arco was hysterical. He came out from under one of the upper bleachers and danced his little “Taylor dance” all the way to the stage singing the Doobie Brothers song “Takin’ it to the Streets”. The crowd was on their feet right along with him. Yeah, me too. What a geek.

Most memorable was Mandisa, opening the show in her hometown, telling the crowd that it wasn’t too long ago when she sat in the upper deck of Arco Arena watching Janet Jackson belt out her favorite songs. Mandisa’s voice, large and soulful, commanded the stage with her rendition of “I’m Every Woman”. It was far better to see her perform in person than on television. She mentioned that her mother was in the audience. I wondered what she was thinking seeing her daughter perform in front of a sold out crowd at Arco Arena. Must be surreal. When Paris Bennett sang “Midnight Train to Georgia”, I got up for a little boogie stretch. Lisa Tucker was in rare form with her tribute to Elton John on the keyboard along with her Jennifer Holiday piece “I am changing” that won her over to everyone on last season’s show. Her Mom was in the audience too. I guess all of the parents in the audience were proud of these kids.

One of my favorites from last season was Elliot Yamin, the young man whose mother followed him to Idol after a serious illness. This is the same lovable Elliot, who is deaf in one ear and a diabetic. Yep, that Elliot, who has a voice like Stevie Wonder and a face only his mother could love. We loved him too. I probably voted for him 100 times.

Bucky Covington looked like he was enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. He interacted with the audience like a kid in a candy store. He took the show outside in the parking lot afterwards and made sure he met and greeted everyone who was willing to shake his hand. Kelly Pickler hugged everyone outside like a bride at a wedding reception. It was hilarious to watch all of us old folks with our kids waiting for them all to come out of the Arena to their motor coaches. Our kids met Kelly, Bucky, Kat and Taylor Hicks. Birdy will never forget when he touched her thumb. The kids talked about the concert all the way home. I was just happy our kids got to met celebrities who are real people, even if it’s all just a bunch of hooey.

In the meantime, we’ve shut off the television, to get back to school and to life. The time we spent with the American Idols last season reminded me of the days when I was a little girl and my whole family sat down to watch The Carol Burnett Show.

Photo of Taylor Hicks courtesy of Tami Esling- who had really good seats at the concert!!!!

“I’m so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh and sing a song. Seems we just get started and before you know it, comes the time we have to say “So Long”.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@ sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com