Small things

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

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

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

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 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

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.."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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