Brookvalley's Blog

I Miss My Friend

2012-02-10T06:40:00.000-08:00

I Miss My Friend

On February 7, 2011 my family suffered a devastating loss. My mother, at the age of sixty-three, passed on. Three days ago, marked one year of time since she was not actively at the core of our lives, our advocate and antagonist, our counsel, and our deepest well of courage, strength and love. Three hundred and sixty eight days ago, my family suffered a loss. Three hundred and sixty eight days ago, I lost my longest and my best friend.

Not too long ago, I was presented with the challenge to write a piece that moved back and forth between time periods that focused on one person and one situation. I had no idea what to write about, or how to even begin, so I wrote, I just wrote. As I have for the past year, I continue to reminisce and reflect. In doing so, I came across my response to that challenge and I now wish to share it with you.

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I can do this. Write a lyrical passage that moves from past to present or even into the future focusing on someone other than me – which shouldn’t present a problem because I really don’t like to write about myself anyway – with a singular situational element. But my brain is stuck. I can’t seem to wrap it around any idea, concept, person or element that fits. Can’t develop an inkling of an idea on which to expand. For days it’s been keeping me up at night clenching my teeth in frustration, waking me up with a headache, and otherwise angering me beyond words. Exactly – beyond words! The whole idea is rattling around aimlessly inside my head bouncing off the walls of my skull much like the little white square bounced on the television screen when I played Pong on our Atari 2600 back in the 70’s.

“I’ll write about my daughter,” bounce.

“I’ll write about my father – surely there’s something I can reflect on that will carry me through this challenge,” double bounce off the paddle and into the corner.

“I’ll write about my husband, my sister, my brother, grandmothers, grandfathers – Mom, help me here!!”

No answer, as the ball floats off the screen.

“Mom? Come on, help me out. You’re the lover of English, the one who corrected all of my sentences and showed me how to diagram one because they never taught me in school. You taught me how to speak properly so I wouldn’t sound like dumb country bumpkin. You’re the one who reads all the time. What should I write? What do you want to read?”

Silence.

“Why won’t you answer me?”

She’s gone. She’s not here. She left last February. Damn infiltrating maliciousness of life-sucking, tissue-eating, organ-destroying evil of evils. Damn cancer. A fellow writer once wrote a story about her aunt who also died in the twisted hands of cancer. Her aunt owned horses and at one time she entertained the idea that perhaps a horse caused the disease. Maybe she was right. We had horses too. Maybe it was a horse that kicked her and gave rise to the tumor, like the horse that kicked Lori’s aunt. Maybe she’s somewhere right now breaking that horse of his nastiness and training him to be gentle, training him and teaching him to be a good, respectable, well-rounded horse the same way she taught and trained me. Or, maybe the horse never existed.

My faith in a higher power lets me believe that she can hear me, lets me find comfort in the notion that she and my father are back in each others arms where she’d wanted to be for the twenty six years since his death in 1985. But I want her here too, I want him here. There must be some metaphysical plane on which we can all exist forever as the happy family I remember growing up. Some existence between here and there, between past and future, living and dead. Maybe Justin Moore was on to something when he sang, “If heaven wasn’t so far away, I’d pack up the kids and go for the day…” Maybe I could visit just to see that she’s happy. Just to know that she’s safe. Oh, and while I’m there, maybe she can tell me which shade of blue will look better on the bedroom walls? I like the cool, grey undertones of Mystic Light, but my husband is leaning toward the green undertones in April Winds.

“Who cares?” I used to say to her when she’d ask my opinion, “It’s paint. If you don’t like it, you can paint over it.”

“I care, damnit. I don’t want to paint over it. I want you to answer me. You left too soon, I’m not ready to be alone. I don’t want to cry anymore. I just want to know what color to paint the God damned room. You can’t leave me here alone!!”

Great, now I’m crying – again!! I cry, but never feel like I cry enough. I scream, I yell, I surround myself with memories but it hurts. It comforts and calms, but it hurts. Pictures, so many pictures. There’s one of her with her first horse, Freddy, that I found the other day. She was so happy.

She always loved horses and was thrilled when my husband, Steve, and I filled the barn again and started our horse drawn carriage business. When I was a kid, she used to take my sister, brother and me to Madison Square Garden to watch the equestrian shows. Thoroughbreds mainly, lean and muscular, tall and distinguished bays with braided manes and tails. Grace and elegance soaring over fences under the expert guidance of their riders.

“I’m going to ride like that one day,” I dreamed out loud.

I did ride, and I did soar over fences, but I never performed in the Garden.

“Heels down, toes up. Keep those knees in. Shoulders back. That’s it – now turn her into the fence – give her her head and don’t lean too soon.” Her expert advice to a teenaged me on my first horse. I’d only ridden ponies until then . Brookvalley’s Whimsical Lady, a sixteen hand bay beauty was being passed down from my mother to me. Whimsy and I won a lot of ribbons and trophies together. But not without Mom there to guide and cheer us on.

Steve and I went to the Horse World Expo a couple of weeks after she died. We watched the Parade of Breeds and when a Friesian pranced into the arena to perform – jet black splendor and power, a long flowing mane and tail with a rider in black tails, crisp white shirt sleeves and red bow tie that exquisitely matched the horse’s leg wraps – I grabbed my camera with tears in my eyes. Tears because I was so touched and moved by the animal’s beauty. Awe inspired tears that turned to tears of heartbreak when I remembered that she would never see the pictures I was taking for her.

I don’t think I can do this. I don’t have enough tissues here at my desk. Plus, it's lunch time and I’m in my office, and if someone walks in how do I explain what I’m doing? I’m most definitely not crying over enrollment statistics and ethnicity breakdowns. How many adult learners do we have here? No! How long will it take to be able to talk about her without blinking through tears to do it? Without welling up with pride and pain every time I try to share with others how wonderful a person she was. I know, I know everyone thinks their mother is wonderful and they should. Mothers are wonderful! Well, most of them anyway. There are those that should have been denied the job, but mine wasn’t one of them.

Somehow I’ll get through this. Somehow I’ll find a way to wipe away the tears and participate in life as a living, breathing, fully functioning member of society. But when? Why don’t I remember it being so bad when Dad passed? Was it because I was so young? I was only seventeen. I miss him too and have so many good and fond memories, and so many of the skills that he taught me before the scum-sucking cancerous tumor took him too. That’s right, what are my odds? Father dies of brain cancer at thirty-eight, mother from breast cancer at sixty-three. Average that out and I’m looking at a good fifty – only six years to go. Oh, stop it! It doesn’t work that way. Nana, my grandmother, is ninety-three – I’ll aim for that. Or is it because the bond I shared with my mother was welded tighter because he died so young? Is it because of the fact that as I grew up, I grew from being her daughter to being her daughter and her friend? A best friend. The first person, after my husband – and sometimes even before him – I would turn to with good news, bad news – hell, any news at all.

I ran into a couple of her friends the other day at the grocery store – I say her friends, but they, too, have become my friends over the years. They said they missed their friend. So do I. We talked for a while about her time near the end, about how she was going out on her terms – she refused chemotherapy and radiation treatments. About how she didn’t want to spend the rest of her days hugging a toilet and watching her hair fall out. She wasn’t going to greet my father like that; she was going to do this her way. She had found peace. Peace in her decision, in her fate and with God. She was going to, once again, hold the hand of her best friend. She was going to be with my father.

I know it’s what she wanted. I know that, through her and because of her, I will find that same peace. And I know that she loved her children and grandchildren, and her mother, but she was leaving us behind. She missed her friend, and I miss mine.

-Laura Duda (originally written 11/28/11; edited 2/10/12)

Memories: Eternal life achieved

2011-08-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, members of the Locker family, the Lackawanna College community and many others were reminded, once again, how fragile life is. No matter our size or strength, or the heart and vigor with which we live, we cannot escape an inevitable end. But when that end comes to one so young, we are left floundering, grieving, holding on to memories that in such a short time are many, but still too few. We struggle with the concept of moving on although we know that's what must be done, and what those who have gone before us would want us to do.

We often tell ourselves that, despite our troubles, we should be thankful for each day and live it to the fullest, but we also frequently forget to do so. We need to remember. We need to remember to be thankful for each day with family and friends, we need to remember to laugh, we need to remember to recognize that something positive and good happens to or for us everyday even amidst despair, we need to remember to cry and mourn our losses, and we need to remember to love. Life is fragile and often too short, but while we're here, life is all we have.

As I sit here writing this, memories of my mother and father and others who have passed on are flashing through my head at so fast a speed I cannot keep up. Things they've said and done, the love they showed and gave, the joy they had for and with each other and the joy they shared with us. Somehow, in death, even the bad times take on new meaning because I can look back and see that through it all there was a lesson to be learned, a message to be heard, a memory to be made, and the realization that no matter what we survived. Life's lessons and memories forever ingrained in my head, in my heart and in my soul. A part of me, as much now as they were then. A part of them given life eternal in my heart and mind and in the hearts and minds of everyone they've touched, a part of them that will be passed on from one living soul to another and never left to die.

To mom and dad, to Kyle and all those who have gone on to a life we've yet to know...we miss you, we love you, and we will always remember you. You have made a lasting impression on our lives, and for that we thank you, for that you have achieved eternal life in the memories that we will share and pass on. You have, if even in a small way, helped us to grow and you continue to help us learn that life is a precious gift. A gift that we will come to cherish and one that we will share with you again in a time and place yet unknown.

Laura Duda (20 August 2011)

Welcome to our Brookvalley Farm Blogspot: Carbondale, PA - Pioneer Nights and Ethnic Heritag...

2011-08-18T07:50:00.000-07:00

Welcome to our Brookvalley Farm Blogspot: Carbondale, PA - Pioneer Nights and Ethnic Heritag...: Carbondale Pioneer Nights - Ethnic Heritage Festival Celebrating Our City's Rich Heritage What? Really? Kudos, Carbondale on a wonder...

Carbondale, PA - Pioneer Nights and Ethnic Heritage Festival

2011-08-18T07:49:00.000-07:00

Carbondale Pioneer Nights - Ethnic Heritage Festival
Celebrating Our City's Rich Heritage

What? Really?

Kudos, Carbondale on a wonderful idea, but since when did Carbondale's primary heritage belong to only the Italians (with a slight nod to the Russians)? In doing just some brief research, and I do mean brief, one can easily find that the English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish and Germans had a much larger role in the establishment and growth of Carbondale. The founders themselves, William and Maurice Wurts, are of German decent. When visiting the pages of the Carbondale Historical Society, you will find the names of several prominent Carbondaleans, none of whom are Italian. Not that the Italians do not have a place of prominence in the city, they absolutely do, but how can you label a festival as one celebrating ethnic heritage without including the others that played a more major role?

Some of the surname origins to which I am referring:

Astor - German/French
Avery - English
Cannon - Irish
Colville - Scottish
Cornell - German/French
Dickson - Scottish/Irish
Elbrecht - German
Halstead - English
Hendrick - Dutch/Scottish/English
Kenendy - Irish/Scottish
Levison - Jewish
Low - English/Scottish
May - English/German
McDonald - Scottish
Morgan - English/Scottish
Morton - English/Scottish
Powell - English/Welsh
Russell - English/Scottish/Irish
Taylor - English/Scottish
Ward - English
Wurts - German

I probably have more to say, actually I know I do, but I'm a little set aside right now. Do you realize, also, that 5 out of the 6 Pioneer Nights committee members are of Irish, English or Scottish decent? Perhaps Italian as well, but why were the other ethnic groups to whom we should pay homage forgotten? All of those who turned this little coal-mining, railroad town into a city and called it home? If you are going to label Pioneer Nights as an Ethnic Heritage Festival, you really do need to include more of the city's heritage; if you are going to highlight only one, then perhaps a separate festival is warranted, something like Carbondale's own La Festa Italiana.

Academic Purgatory?

2011-07-19T08:25:00.000-07:00

Response to:

Academic Purgatory: An illegal immigrant earns a Ph.D. Now what?

(http://chronicle.com/article/Academic-Purgatory/127970/)

In the July 1, 2011 edition of the Chronicle Reivew, section B of the Chronicle of Higher Education, the cover story by Ilan Stavans, Academic Purgatory: An illegal immigrant earns a Ph.D. Now what?, highlights the plight of a young man, who, through scholarship, hard work and oversight, attains his Ph.D., but is unable to secure employment. Sadly, this is the reality for many graduates at all levels of postsecondary education; the job market and the economy are in a very weakened state right now. This is a very unfortunate situation, and I might even be inclined to feel an extra twinge of sympathy for this seemingly well-educated man but for the fact that he is an illegal immigrant.

Now, before anyone gets up-in-arms, I have absolutely no issues with immigration regardless of state or country of origin, creed or color, religion or sexual orientation; that is, after all, the foundation that this great nation is built on. I do; however, have a problem with immigrants arriving illegally and then choosing (yes, choosing) to remain as such.

Early in the article (paragraph 8), the author would have us believe that Jorge, the student on whom the story is based, was “brought illegally to the United States as [a child].” However, later in the article we learn that this was not the case at all. In fact, Jorge twice tried to enter the country of his own accord, but was jailed and deported, before successfully landing state side on his third attempt. After a rocky, but determined start, he found himself in the Fresno, CA area at the home of an Aunt where he began attending high school and where he began his trail of lies, deceit, illegality and abuse of the system.

According to Stavans, the cost to educate an individual student within the public school system is $10,792. It is unclear in the article how many years Jorge spent in the public K-12 school system; his first attempt to enter the country was in 1996 and he graduated from high school in 1999. By this, we can determine that Jorge was educated in the public school system for at least two years, putting the cost of his high school education at $21,584 in government and taxpayer dollars. He then moved on to acquire his Bachelor’s, Master’s and eventually Doctorate degrees – at least another eight years of education – at the average cost of $9,000 per year, bring the total for his postsecondary education to $72,000, part of which was funded by scholarships both academic and private, scholarships that by being given to him were denied to other students. Ah, but, Jorge is grateful for his education, and how is that the author believes that we should find comfort in the fact that he is grateful? He should be grateful; he was illegally taking money from qualified, deserving, law-abiding citizens. Perhaps, worst of all, the colleges and universities that he attended allowed him to commit this robbery; they covered for him and fueled his criminal fire allowing him to continually steal monies never intended for him. Sure, he worked hard and achieved good grades, but so did multitudes of other students, some who sat right next to him, who did it as legal members of society and this country and in accordance with the missions and visions of the universities they attended. Jorge is far from alone in his struggle to achieve academic success; there are more students than not who rely on scholarships, grants and funding outside of the typical federal and state grants, and student loans to be able to remain enrolled in college. The issue here; however, is that Jorge was awarded monies that should have gone to legal citizens or legally attending foreign students - these students were denied funding as a result of his receiving it. He was awarded private scholarships and grants, and was employed at these institutions all at the expense of the universities, their communities, and their tax-paying, law-abiding, legal populaces.

While his lack of attainment regarding citizenship is appalling, even more so is the fact that university officials, at more than one institution, turned a blind eye to the crime and assisted Jorge in his deceit. Covering for him, offering him employment and scholarship money makes them just as criminally liable. These are educated people – Jorge is an educated man – how is it that no one found this to be an injustice to our legal system and our country’s core values and foundations? How dare they feel that the time and money they spent is a “significant waste of investment (paragraph 29),” when the investment never should have been made in the first place? If these people and these institutions wanted to help, they should have helped him pursue, study for, and attain his citizenship in order for him to have attained his education legally – the investment, then, would have been worth it!

I understand that citizenship is not easily achievable, but this man has been in the country for fifteen years; I should think that to be more than sufficient time to at least begin the process! According to the article, Jorge did not feel that he could leave his homeland via legal means, but has he ever even applied for citizenship since taking up residence in the United States? Has he considered every avenue, pursued every option, and exhausted all other means by which he could reside legitimately within the United States of America and enjoy her liberties free from the reported abuses he experienced in Mexico; avenues, options and means by which he would be able to take advantage of the many opportunities afforded to American citizens?

The immigration laws are in great need of reconsideration and evaluation by our government, yes, but in the meantime, the law is the law. There is a right and a wrong, it is black and it is white, and there are no shades of gray where laws can be bent to sympathize with the difficulties of one over another. Jorge has illegally resided and received his education in the United States. Period. He should not be employed in the United States. Period. He should; however, have to repay every dollar he was given on his educational journey. He should, also, offer a very heartfelt apology to, and ask for forgiveness from each and every student who may have qualified for that money, but was denied it. He should, then, apply for citizenship, or return to Mexico and reenter the United States via the appropriate legal channels, or simply return to Mexico - he is employable there.

Words of Wisdom

2011-07-11T12:49:00.000-07:00

A classmate from my CW 501 R course recently asked for our favorite quotes on writing to aide her in setting up a productive writing room. Because there were only a couple that came to mind, and because they were from some of the author's that we heard from throughout our week long residency, such as:

"Writing is between yourself and the page; I wrote it to be able to read it (Christine Gelineau)."

"If you can't dance, get out of the revolution (Rashidah Ismaili Abu-Bakr)."

"Don't run from a poet because he speaks the truth (Rashidah Ismaili Abu-Bakr),"

and, one that I can't remember which of our very proficient and talented mentors, J. Michael Lennon and Nancy McKinley, for the week said:

"It's good to remember who you used to be - keep all versions/revision; save each edition,"

I turned to the internet in search of the perfect quote to submit for her wall. There were a few that I found from one of our pre-residency readings, On Writing, by Stephen King:

"Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s."

"You can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will."

"Just remember that Dumbo didn't need the feather; the magic was in him,"

and some others from the famed author:

"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win."

"I write to find out what I think,"

but the one that I would like to share here is actually a little more than a simple quote, an essay perhaps, by Bob Moorehead. It inspires and motivates while it reminds us to remain grounded, reminds us of what things we have gained and lost and their value or lack thereof. It reminds us to be human, to feed those hungers that we so often neglect such as empathy, understanding and compassion, and to express ourselves by giving time to emotion and sharing:

"The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but
shorter tempers, wider Freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more,
but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and
smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees
but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more
problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little,
drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too
little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our
possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and
hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to
life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but
have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer
space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom,
but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but
accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more
computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we
communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small
character, steep profits and shallow relationships.

These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but
broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway
morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything
from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the
showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can
bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share
this insight, or to just hit delete...

Remember, to spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not
going to be around forever. Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks
up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave
your side.

Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the
only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.

Remember, to say, "I love you" to your partner and your loved ones, but most
of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from
deep inside of you.

Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person might
not be there again. Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to
share the precious thoughts in your mind."

AS, this might not be exactly what you were looking for, but I just felt the need to write it down!

Laura

Brookvalley Farm - Keeping up with today

2011-05-06T07:14:00.000-07:00

We have always considered ourselves fairly modernized and computer literate. That is until we met Facebook, Twitter and blogging. While it seems that this is the most effective and efficient mode of communication and presently the most appropriate way to reach the masses, we’re still more at ease with a pen and paper or, heaven forbid, a telephone – yes, we mean one of those things with a cord connected to the wall that doesn’t rely on electricity, a monstrous tower and silently uncertain emissions in order to properly function and doesn’t weight heavily in our pocket everywhere we go. Despite all of this, we are discovering just how small our world can be, and how big, and how spectacularly wonderful it can be to reach out with such ease and directness to those who may not be a part of our everyday lives – at least physically.

Now, what do we do with this newfound knowledge and ability to speak to the masses?

Well, we are in the business of offering horse drawn services and no matter the convenience or efficiency, none of this means that we’ll be trading in our grain guzzling furry friends for ones of virtuality, hanging up the harnesses and jumping on the e-highway, or forgoing our cherished carriage ride for one of high-tech comfort as we bask in the emitted rays of satellite communication on our cushy Farmville ranch. What it does mean is that we will continue to bring the romance and nostalgic memories of old to life as our team of Belgian draft horses pull our 19^th century vis-à-vis carriage or our pioneer-inspired covered wagon to take you on a journey back to a time when travel and communication were much less complicated, where air pollution was merely caused by nature, a handshake was a valid contract, and when, if we had something to say, we said it out loud or hand wrote it in a letter. Of course, we will also take advantage of some of today’s modern comforts such as shocks, brakes, barium studded horseshoes and music.

As for the handcrafted jewelry and BarnYard art, well, most of that is already done the old fashioned way – hand hammered and worked, flame soldered, and painstakingly polished – but, electricity is truly a handy addition, almost as handy as You Tube instructional videos and an e-marketplace.

So, while our business is to offer you an escape from today, our methods of communication will try to keep up with today. We’ll see you on the internet; on Facebook and on Twitter and on our blog where we’ll keep you updated on coming events, happenings, and life on the farm.

Laura & Steve

The Brookvalley Farm Blogspot

2011-05-04T14:33:00.001-07:00

Coming Soon...