Author: mferra

Mother’s Day Thoughts from Cramer Hill–and thinking about the pizza, too…

mferra 2 Comments

Dear Readers,

It’s Mother’s Day.  Facebook is buzzing.  Happy Mother’s Day posts from children, co-workers, and friends abound. Some posts are sad–thinking of the moms who have passed or moms who no longer is able to recognize their children.

Lots of thoughts about mothers today…  I hope that your thoughts are good ones…

I still have my mom who lives next door to me in Cramer Hill.  What a woman! She is ninety, feisty, yet melting when she sees her first great-grandchild.  We’re going to take her out to lunch.  She enjoys dressing up and still loves clothing, jewelry and hats.  She’ll probably order the child’s portion of Chicken Parmigiana and will have a Bud Light.  (We asked for the beer in a small wine glass the last few festivities–a mug is too much for her now.)  Sometimes she is amazingly clear and discusses childhood friends, annuities or going to dances at Fort Dix during World War Two.  Other times she is sadly forgetful and asks if she is in her own home.  (She is.)

Today I get to go out to lunch with my daughter, Kim, too.  All the family will be having pizza for Mother’s Day. Or, cheesesteaks or stromboli or something South Jersey.

Ah, I am so happy to be Kim’s mom.  I re-posted her super hero photo because she’s super.  She’s a good sport.  Why else would she dress up like that for Halloween with the other teachers at her school and to be photographed as she starts to fly?

She’s been my heart for thirty-two years.  I cannot say all the things that I love about her because she will read this blog (maybe!) and say, “MOM!”  She’s modest.

Maybe I could sneak in one sentence.  I’m happy this Mother’s Day because my daughter is sweet, hard-working, loving, creative, kind, generous, loyal, down-to-earth, funny, athletic, and not a picky eater.

She’s smart, too, because she married a fine young man.  Good choice.  I love you, too, Lon. TWO WONDERFUL CAMDEN KIDS!

Kim will bring her baby girl, just one month old, to our luncheon at Carollo’s Pizzeria in Pennsauken. It will be Kim’s first Mother’s Day.  She’s practical.  She turned down my offer for a piece of jewelry to celebrate this day, but said that she needed batteries for one of those fancy baby seats that vibrates.  She’ll never be a selfish mommy.

Next year, I’ll teach the baby to say, HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!  I’m smiling, just thinking about it.

I’m blessed this Mother’s Day.  Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.  Happy Mother’s Day, Kim!  Happy Mother’s Day, everyone!  Happy Day of Appreciation to all the women who love and nurture children in any situation!

Why not take the time to remember ALL women who nurture others?

mferra 3 Comments

Dear Readers,

Mother’s Day is a great holiday for many, but I remember when I didn’t have a child and I felt a little weird and left out.  It seemed that only moms were important and honored, not anyone else who had mothered a child in some way.  I haven’t forgotten that feeling of being less than the moms on Mother’s Day–so hyped by commercialism.

Let’s not only honor “traditional” mothers, but all women who have mothered or nurtured.

So, I want to say to all of you who have helped a child, HAPPY DAY!  You are appreciated.  You are valued.  You might not think that you are appreciated or valued, but any kindness to a little person influences that child for the rest of his/her life.

Over my many years, I’ve witnessed aunts, cousins, sisters, neighbors, friends, teachers, nurses, guidance counselors and principals who have nurtured a child.   (And more.)  You know them, too. Who are they in your life?

It’s special if a child came out of your body or if you adopted a child.  But, it’s also special for all the women along the way who help or who have helped a child.  Hey, it’s also wonderful if you nurtured an adult who needed help, if you rescued an animal or if you sent money to help someone learn to read or to help them survive after an earthquake.  HAPPY DAY to you on this Sunday!

If you aren’t recognized on Sunday, you should be.  Celebrate yourself with a card, a bracelet, a new book or a day to someplace new.  Don’t feel a little sad if no one gives you a bouquet or a card this Sunday.  What you did or what you do —that’s what is important.  You are a blessing.

And, if some woman helped you in your life, let her know.  It doesn’t have to be on Mother’s Day.  Any day of the year would be a welcomed surprise.  A real snail mail letter, a card, a text, an e-mail, a phone call or TA DA!  a real visit, person to person!  Don’t forget the women who have mothered or who mother without the title.

Happy Day to all the women who have nurtured someone!  Keep up the good work.

God bless you.

Brief thoughts about hot weather in childhood Camden

mferra 3 Comments

Dear Readers,

Last night seemed too warm to sleep well and we haven’t put in the window air-conditioner yet.  So, yawn, yawn, yawn, I feel groggy this morning and I remember hot summer nights when I was a kid in North Camden and here in Cramer Hill.

Do you remember how a window fan in your childhood bedroom was a treat?  The hum of the fan and the relief from the heat?

But, it  didn’t seem to help much on those really hot city nights.  I’d get up in the middle of the night, get a drink from the red aluminum bathroom cup and put a little of my mom’s Jean Nate talcum powder on the sheet.  Then, I’d get up again, get another drink and wash my face.  The water tasted delicious and cold, but also a little metallic. Hmm.  Did that metallic water do anything to my brain?  I am getting forgetful.

Sometimes I’d take a wet washcloth and put it on my pillow.  I couldn’t wait for the morning.  The hot nights seemed to be the longest nights of the year.

What I loved on hot summer days was to go to Lit Brothers Department Store in downtown Camden with my mom and brother and to have a hot fudge sundae in the basement restaurant.  Talk about air-conditioning?  I felt that I was inside a glacier.  Well, what I imagined it was like inside a glacier, to tell the truth.  The temperature of the air and the ice cream seemed to be the same.  I still shiver in delight when I think of those occasional cold hours in Lits restaurant.

And homemade iced tea?  It made the summer heat worth it.  I remember my mom putting the glass pitcher on the table and how the pitcher  would “sweat.”  My mother made it sweet, but there were always wedges of lemon to cut the sweetness and to make it extra good.

It’s not summer yet, but waking up this morning not refreshed from a warm night made me remember how summers felt and still can feel here in Camden.  Where’s the iced tea?

ACK! My 47th High School Reunion? Woodrow Wilson High School, Camden, NJ

mferra 3 Comments

Dear Readers,

My 47th reunion coming up made me excited. It also made me nervous. Would I recognize people? Would they recognize me?  Would it be fun or awkward?

A classmate told me how she once went to a reunion, peeked into the room, didn’t recognize a soul, turned around and went home. This would be a funny anecdote,

but she didn’t even recognize me. Or, I could have been in the ladies’ room because I couldn’t have changed much over the decades? I decided to go because I knew some people for sure. Needed to think. Number One: Should I cut out all desserts? Number Two: What about my hair? Number Three, and most importantly: What should I wear?

My daughter, Kim, frowned when I voiced these questions. “Why, do you NOW care about these things?” (I haven’t been that superficial in the past.) “Well, I’m retired and have time to think about these things and at this age, I have to think about them. Can’t coast by on the beauty that is youth. Youth is beautiful.” I sighed.

I charged ahead with preparations—ordered an embroidered shirt from Amazon. I had my hair trimmed. But, what was going to help? (Short of false eyelashes, liposuction and plastic surgery?) Aha! Maybe new make-up. How about a new blush without that big hole in the middle? A new tube of liquid makeup? Perhaps I could get wild and get a different lipstick color?

I needed tips. I Facebooked my concerns to my godson, Alex Tang, New York makeup artist. He suggested that we Facetime. I impressed myself because I had jumped into the world of technology. My husband, Carlos, set up the I-Pad and my dog, Finn, bounded into the picture. Since he’s already a cutie and doesn’t need any help, he had to leave the room. No photo bombing, puppy.

But, I did allow Reina to stay since my godson and I are cat lovers. Alex and I held up our cats: his lovely rescue kitty, Lo Mein, and our tortie rescue kitty, Reina. Lo Mein smiled sweetly. Reina squirmed and peed on my favorite blanket to protest. (I discovered this act of protest later.)

I had my first makeup lesson from Alex and he showed me twelve steps to beauty—or, at least, to a great improvement for my face. Two days later, a box of carefully chosen make-up arrived from him. Am I a lucky godmom or what? Hugs to Alex. Fed Ex.  The ultimate!

My friend (the one who didn’t enter the previous reunion) texted me to make sure that I was attending. I said yes, but that I was feeling fat. She replied that I could join the crowd.  But, she would look great.

The big evening approached rapidly. My daughter, Kim, painted my nails. She read the twelve steps to beauty that I had jotted down from Alex’s lesson and I followed them to the best of my ability. His lessons and choice of make-up did improve my appearance. Now I know why the stars love Alex.

Off I went in my son-in-law’s silver Altima with Kim driving and my grandbaby in the car seat. When I got into the banquet room of Vitarelli’s in Cherry Hill, I was relieved and pleased to see so many people that I knew or recognized. How could I almost forget how many wonderful people had graduated from WWHS with me?

My new shirt and my makeup gave me confidence in the room of stunning Woodrow Wilson gals and handsome Woodrow Wilson guys. Durn! What a crowd of lookers we were…

Lots of talking, lots of eating, lots of hugging fabulous people… I was glad that I decided to attend. There was no loud band or DJ music so we could talk to each other without screaming. People made a real effort to make each other feel welcome.

I didn’t win the fifty-fifty. I was crushed, but I did win a baby book, TIGER, because I had the newest grandchild at my table and someone gave me a plastic tiger to take home for her. Nora is only three weeks old, but she’s going to love when I sing the Woodrow Wilson alma mater to her.   She won’t care about Rock-A-Bye Baby.

Finally, it was time to bid my friends good-bye. My daughter texted me that she was on the way. I kept peeking outside Vitarelli’s banquet room door. Where was she? Perhaps the baby needed a diaper change or she got caught up in a basketball game on TV? Two young men, Bruce and Jim, were talking to me near the entrance and said, “Someone’s beeping the horn, Marguerite.”

“Yes, I saw that silver Altima for a while, but my daughter has a blue car, a blue Sonata.”

I looked again. Oh boy. It was my daughter in my son-in-law’s silver car. I said my good-byes again and popped into the Altima.

“Mom, you kept looking at me! Didn’t you know it was me?” She laughed.

I said, “I’m so sorry. I was looking for your blue car.”

Thanks to everyone who made the reunion such a nice affair.   Thanks to my friends who encouraged me to go.  You know who you are.  Love you.

Life is amazing…four generations

mferra 3 Comments

Dear Readers,

What?

Me, a young mother of sixty-five, now has an adult daughter who has a newborn daughter?  Me, a young daughter of sixty-five, now has a mother of ninety?  Sort of amazing, isn’t it?  I know that this happens all the time, but to me?

Yesterday four generations of fearless (mostly) women from ninety years to three weeks met in my mom’s Cramer Hill dining room.   Marguerite, Marguerite, Kim and Nora–my mom, me, my daughter and granddaughter…

Great-grandmother met her great-granddaughter for the first time and cooed in delight. She sang songs that she made up on the spot for her first great-grandchild.  Nora blinked and slept.  My daughter busied herself in the kitchen when my husband, Carlos, and I wrestled on the dining room carpet–the winner to hold the baby first.  (Nah, that’s a joke, but not by much.)  My brother, Bill, smiled proudly at his first great-niece and joined us in the photo.

When I moved from North Camden to this row house in Cramer Hill in 1961, age eleven, I never thought that I’d be there in 2015 as Number Two of four generations getting our photo taken.  I never imagined that I could write about such a day and put it out for all the world to read.

Dang!  Life is amazing.

Our boy, Finn A happy dog in Cramer Hill

mferra 2 Comments

Dear Readers,

I hate to read the news. World, national or local.  But, I read it.  Most of it is sad.  Earthquakes, riots, murders.

Reading about these events makes me think how blessed I am.  However, I do realize that who knows what life holds…  Who’s to say that I won’t be a victim today of Mother Nature, political events or crime?  Ack.

So, I skim some articles and turn off the TV when the news tells the same sad stories over and over..  I long for some good news or something funny.

I turn to the parts in my own life that are happy or funny and I think of my dog, Finn.  He’s not quite a year old.  He’s still working on manners and not pestering the cats.  However, he infuses energy and fun into our staid lives.  Less energy might be acceptable, but he’s a young lad…  We accept his bounding energy and perhaps envy it.

Yesterday my brother, Ken, was cutting down dead branches from the tree in front of our Cramer Hill home.  When I watched Finn see that huge pile of potential toys (sticks), he quivered with joy.  He found a good one, long and thick, and carried it around on our walk around the block.  I had to laugh at his pride in his good fortune.

Finn was one of the rescue dogs of All They Need Is Love and came from the island of Sint Maarten.  I don’t know if he is grateful, but he sure is happy.

I wish everyone in the world could be as fortunate–his very own loving (doting?) family, cat siblings, special food and treats, two dog beds and accessibility to human beds, PetSmart toys and good surprises–like the pile of sticks.

Finn is a bit of good news in Camden.  A little bit, but nice.

What could be more precious?

mferra 4 Comments

Dear Readers,

I’m back.  Been busy.  Why?  My daughter and son-in-law had a baby girl, Nora Anne.

What could be more precious?  I’m still overwhelmed with joy to be a grandmother, overwhelmed with thankfulness that mom and baby are fine and overwhelmed with wonder that life can be so good.

All babies are cute, precious and gifts from God.  Miracles.  But, it’s hard to believe until you really have your very own grandchild.  Wow.  I still can’t believe it.

Since this is a blog with lots of Camden stories, I’ll tell you a little one.  My daughter grew up here in Camden (Cramer Hill) until she married and deserted CMD for CH–Cherry Hill.  My son-in-law came to East Camden from South Vietnam when he was about eight and lived there just a mile away from us until he deserted CMD for CH!

Two nice kids from Camden.  One graduated from the University of Pennsylvania and the other from Rutgers University.  One is a teacher and the other works for corporate America.  Both love their families.  Both are avid athletes.  They have great friends. Down-to-earth, kind and funny…

They’re both private people so I dare not say more.  I’m in love with Nora Anne, my first grandchild and I love her mommy and daddy, too.  Nora Anne might not grow up in Camden, but she’ll have her parents’ and family roots from Camden.

I’ll be back soon, but I have to go kiss my precious granddaughter and bring the parents’ lunch.

Lots of wonderful people grow up in Camden

Are you starting to forget? If so, you’re not alone.

mferra Leave a comment

Dear Readers,

I’m going to show you the ultimate poem for those of you who suspect that you are becoming more forgetful that usual.

Today I bumped into a fellow luncher at a local pizzeria.  This was the second time that we talked–at our first conversation, we realized that her sister had been my Woodrow Wilson High School teacher.  I wrote a quick note to my former teacher to be given to her by her sister, my fellow luncher.

When I saw my fellow luncher for the second time, she said that her sister enjoyed my note very much, but didn’t remember me.  Well, it was ALMOST fifty years so I wasn’t insulted and as a former teacher myself, I suspect that I may have forgotten some of my students.  Anyway, don’t you think students always remember teachers?

I forget a lot, but not my teachers.

So, here’s my favorite poem about forgetfulness and let me know if your memories retire to little fishing villages where there are no phones…

Forgetfulness

 1941 Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Billy Collins, “Forgetfulness” from Questions About Angels. Copyright © 1999 by Billy Collins. Reprinted with the permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.

Source: Poetry (January 1990).

Dream Variations by Langston Hughes makes me remember…….

mferra 2 Comments

Dear Readers,

This beautiful poem makes me remember a boy who came from Puerto Rico and who was learning English for the first time.  I can’t remember his name, only his face and determination to enter the poetry competition at Lanning Square Family School many years ago.  He came on his lunch and my lunch and ESL teacher and student learned the words to Dream Variations.  He loved the words “fling” and “whirl” and mightily enjoyed “flinging” and “whirling” as he practiced.

He didn’t win the competition, but he was great, saying his poem in English and “flinging” and “whirling” on the stage in front of the entire school.

He is a man now.  I hope his life turned out fine and I wonder if he remembers his ESL teacher and this following poem:

Dream Variations

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening…
A tall, slim tree…
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

Sharing with you in this month……

mferra 2 Comments

http://allpoetry.com/I-Have-a-White-Rose-to-Tend-(Verse-XXXIX)

Dear Readers,

This is National Poetry Month and …boo hoo!  I love retirement, but I loved doing poetry with school kids.  Last year the kids wrote poems and the parents came in to hear the kids read them.  They snapped photos with their cells and wow…  No one can tell me bad things about Camden kids and families.

The above link will bring you to one of my favorite poems by Jose Marti.  It is as beautiful in English (almost) as it is in Spanish.  It’s about forgiveness.  Sometimes it is good to be reminded about forgiveness—at least, for me!

Many of the bilingual students memorized the poem in English and some memorized it in English and Spanish.  They stood proudly and nervously to recite it and to win a little prize.  Ooh, I miss that.  I hope they keep this poem with them always .

Hope you enjoy it and hope you forgive someone today!

Revisiting morning rush hour to Philly from Camden

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For about a year in the seventies, I commuted to Philly on the PATCO High-Speedline and I loved the practiced hustle bustle of the passengers rushing to the train and then rushing up stairs to the streets. Invigorating.

I still take the train to Philadelphia sometimes, but rarely commuter times so when I took the train yesterday from the Walter Rand Transportation Center in downtown Camden, I revisited morning rush hour.

I hopped on the last car called THE QUIET TRAIN and I stood because there were no seats. I observed my fellow passengers.   No one spoke a word.

People texted and played games on cell phones.

They read books on I-PADS and Kindles.

No one hid behind big newspaper pages as they used to do, but a few held the free small newspaper in their hands.

One woman stood holding the pole near the door and read Anne Lamott’s TRAVELING MERCIES. I was too far from her to catch her eye and to ask how she liked it. I wanted to tell her that I saw Anne Lamott in person—well, from across a crowded auditorium at the Free Public Library of Philadelphia. I don’t know if she would have been interested, but I would have tried to talk to her.

When I got off at 16th and Locust Streets, the quiet ended. People almost ran from the train to get in line to get up the steps to the street. It was every man and woman for himself and herself. You’d better stand by the wall if you needed to tie a shoe or put on your gloves without getting knocked down.

The commuter aggression that I remembered from the old days had not been eradicated from sitting on that civilized quiet car.

I waited for some moments for the line of passengers going up to start to move and I prepared myself mentally climb up those cement steps without pause. People needed to get to work on time and they weren’t going to walk up to the street in a leisurely fashion because I’m not as fast as I was forty-some years ago.

The line of people teeming down the steps stopped. The line of people going up the steps stopped, too. No one said a word.   It was the QUIET TRAIN atmosphere again, but here the cease of activity and noise seemed weird.

What was happening? We stood in the damp cold and silence for what seemed a long time. So much for a day out in Philly… I’d never seen this situation. What my husband calls my writer’s imagination took over. I imagined the worst scenarios.

Finally, a man in a down jacket with a serious face and a cane walked down the stairs and his dog followed him. Step by step, they made it to the bottom of the stairs and dozens of passengers stood like statues, waiting on the “up” side of the stairs.

When the man and his dog got several feet away from the stairs, the horde came alive and surged to leave the station or to get a train.

“The Irish Wedding Song” in Camden

mferra 1 Comment

Dear Readers,

This morning I woke up and remembered teaching “The Irish Wedding Song” to my adult English as a students in the 1980’s and 1990’s. I smiled at the memories.   “There they Second Language stand, hand in hand…”

These newcomers hailed from mostly from Vietnam, Cambodia and Haiti and were brought to Camden by USCC—U. S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, an organization that helps refugees.

Some students had arrived a few days from their country or a refugee camp and some had stayed in the class for a year or so.

Can you imagine the different levels of English? Always a challenge for this teacher… Add to that different cultures, countries, levels of education and ages!

Even more daunting was the constant changing of faces, constant entrance and exit of students—new people arrived shyly and tired, often unexpectedly for me. Students left unexpectedly to move to other parts of the country or to go to work or to go to college or to technical schools.

Every March I made a week of lessons about St. Patrick’s Day. Sounds crazy, but it was fun and brightened up the often dull and depressing lives of newcomers in Camden…

I told my students that my ancestors were German and Irish. I explained that many Irish had worked and lived right here in Camden. Many came to Camden to build railroads and others to work in the factories. Others came as clergy. My students from Asia and the Caribbean felt included in the long line of people who came to Camden to start a new life.

Frankly, initially, shamefully, I didn’t know much about the Irish, but I did a bit of research. I found “The Irish Wedding Song” and hand printed the lyrics and copied them for the students to read. I bought a CD with the music and hoped this idea wasn’t too corny.

But, he relatively simple English words and the sweet sentiments made the song a hit. It brought back memories of their own weddings or weddings that they’d attended in their own countries.

“Here they stand, hand in hand, they’ve exchanged wedding bands today is the day of their dreams and their plans and all we who love them just wanted to say. May God bless this couple who married today.”

I made up “Irish Bingo” and I taught words that they could use in their lives in the USA: green, potatoes, dreams, plans, work, music, wedding, religion, politics, immigration, country of origin.

We had a St. Patty’s Day party with chips and pretzels and soda and we sang “The Irish Wedding Song” in Camden, New Jersey.

A few years later, I bumped into one of my older Vietnamese students who told me that he was working in a factory. “I have something nice to tell you, Teacher,” he said.

“My boss is Irish. I sang him “The Irish Wedding Song.”

Response to blog about life in Camden! Wowee!

mferra 1 Comment

Dear Readers,

Hey!   Did you read Friday’s blog?  The numbers of  viewers of Friday’s blog about a bit of ordinary life in Camden surprised me!   More than one hundred…  Why?   I mentioned my blog on Bruce Smith’s Facebook site about Camden.  Thanks, Bruce, for your site that connects Camden people, past and present.

People like to remember the waffle man, the clothes prop man, the pony ride, stick ball, panzarottis…  All are part of my North Camden/Cramer Hill childhood memories, too.

However, I get to make Camden memories every day because I live in Cramer Hill.  This afternoon I’m taking a break from paring down papers and possessions.  How excruciating it is to throw away copies of essays and stories written by my little English as a Second Language students or copies of their poems.  My Camden City Public School elementary students stay in my mind and their handwritten papers stir up the love that I still have for them.

Or, the letters that they wrote me…   Throw them out?  Some are from years ago, but, I’m retired and I can’t keep them all.  One bunch of letters that I just retrieved from the wastebasket showed how much English that they learned in the year or two or three that they had been in the English-speaking USA.

Here’s a bit from a shy, frail girl that I had maybe three or four years ago.  She whispered  and I almost was ready to get a hearing aid to hear what she was saying and I remember that she wanted to be a vet.

   I want to say thank you for all the things that you had teach me.  You were always nice, kind and good to me. so that why I was always nice, kind and good to you.  You always talk to us about your cats.  How bad they were and good.

A homesick boy new from Puerto Rico wrote:

  You are a good, not old teacher. Your mother might love you, but I love you more than your mother does.  If you come to Puerto Rico, you can be friend with my mother. What I like of you is when you talk it is beautiful, more beautiful than a beautiful woman.

An often grumpy boy from a cheerful Mexican family who claimed he didn’t like to write wrote a long letter telling me about his summer plans with his family ended his letter saying:

I’m going to never forget you.

All elementary school teachers get these kinds of letters and notes.  They usually keep them because they make up for the hardships of teaching and there are many hardships.  I guess I can’t throw them out, not all, at least.

I love these Camden memories.

Sincerely,

Marguerite Ferra, retired from Wiggins College Preparatory Laboratory Family School, Camden

PS  How do you like that long name?  Ha ha.

]

Writing for Riches

mferra 1 Comment

Here’s a wonderful blog by Maria Casale and I love what she says about being a writer.

mcasale2014's avatarBookworm Rrriot

Sometimes the gift you get isn’t the gift you were hoping for.

I’m sure every writer dreams of fame and fortune. The three-book deals, the book tours (although it’s just as well I haven’t gotten those, as I am a lousy traveler), the general Stephen King/Barbara Cartland wealth and riches of it all. Back in the day, that dream typically included Oprah’s Book Club, until a couple of writers burned her and wrecked it for the rest of it. In my daydream, I am convinced that, if not for those writers (you know who you are!), The Caregiver would certainly have been chosen, and I would have had to go through all the stress and bother of figuring out what to wear on TV and how not to melt under those lights, which I hear are quite hot and probably not kind to ladies of middle years who tend to…

View original post 594 more words

Aw, those awful Google Alerts about Camden!

mferra 5 Comments

Dear Readers,

I read Google Alerts for the City of Camden and they are awful. Mostly very bad news about some people in Camden. Bad and sad news.

But, how I wish that people who don’t live here in Camden know that thousands  of good and ordinary people live here. Believe me. 

Listen!   Here’s a typical Camden slice of life for me, a retired teacher..   Yesterday morning I took my ten-month-old dog, Finn, for a walk in Von Neida Park in the Cramer Hill section of Camden. As he dragged me down the hill with his forty-two-pound puppy energy, my neighbors laughed and waved to us…

My neighbors were outside enjoying the sunshine—not selling or buying drugs, nor shooting each other, nor doing anything that was not lovely. They swept the little patios and driveways, they washed cars and they scrubbed barbeque grills. They welcomed grandchildren into their arms. They asked me about my dog and said he was beautiful. (True.)

Most neighbors weren’t home, though, because they were working to maintain their family and property.  Their kids have nice manners  when they play outside and have often shoveled our walks. My neighbors care for little gardens.

Don’t think I am a Pollyanna about living or working in Camden—I’ve had my car window broken twice as a teacher in Camden City Public Schools, once across from the former Lanning-Fetters building and once across from Wiggins College Preparatory Laboratory Family School. I had my purse snatched twenty years ago in front of the former Kim’s Market—if you’re from the old days, it was an appliance store on 27th and High Streets in East Camden.

In 1983, someone stole my new red (sob!) Toyota Celica in front of my mom’s house in Cramer Hill. Going back to the days of my youth, my purse was stolen at a party in the Student Center at Rutgers Camden…1969!

Frankly, lots of bad things have happened here, but Camden seems to be safer with more police officers—at least, here in Cramer Hill where I live.

However, please know that thousands of decent people live in Camden—ordinary people who work, take care of their homes, worship, take good care of their children and elders and even walk their dogs on sunny March days.  Ordinary good people who never make the news.

Wild geese in Von Neida Park, Cramer Hill

mferra 3 Comments

Dear Readers,

Don’t think that my life is exciting ALL the time–baby shower for first grandchild, gas leaks caught in the nick of time or good people jumping up to give clothing to the homeless….

No, today was an ordinary day in the life of this Cramer Hill woman.  After early morning food shopping, I walked next door to have toast, coffee and a clementine with my mom.  Mom, ninety years old, read the Courier-Post, and I played on my computer. The afternoon did get more exciting because we shared a Tastykake Krimpet….butterscotch…Tastykakes, one of the perks of living in this part of the USA.

Then, I went home to take Finn, our puppy, for a walk to his favorite place, Von Neida Park, in Cramer Hill, down the block.   Finn sniffed around and I thought that I’d like to take photos with my cell.  I asked Finn to sit and he did on the damp sidewalk, although for just a moment!

I was quick and I took a pic of the geese enjoying themselves in the park.

Seeing these wild geese made me remember when my husband, Carlos, first came to the USA more than ten years ago.  We ate at the Lobster Trap located in Cooper River Park and then went outside to enjoy the early fall evening.

Carlos drew in a sharp breath.

“Call the police.  Someone has lost his geese.  Maybe those people,” he nodded toward a family fishing on the river banks, “will get them.”

“What?”

After a short talk, I found out that in Cuba those geese would have been snatched up for dinner by very hungry people.  It took my husband a long time to realize that few people in America were that hungry.

These Cramer Hill geese remained in the park peacefully, just as the Cooper River Park did. Even Finn didn’t blink an eye.  Too busy sniffing.

Hope your day has been as peaceful.

Good news day!

mferra 2 Comments

Dear Readers,

I have two pieces of good news.  I stopped for lunch at my favorite local pizza/restaurant Carollo’s at Route 130 and Cove Road in Pennsauken.  One of the servers thanked me for a bag of clothing that I had given her some weeks ago and said that the folks at a Camden shelter were happy to get it.  I said that I was happy to clear out my closet.  Then, I remembered that I had another bag for her in my trunk.  I stood up and then, a woman in a nearby booth stood up.

“I have a bag of nice used men’s pants and jeans that you could have,” she said.

In less than two minutes, Shannon put my former teaching clothing and the men’s pants and jeans in her trunk.  All three of us smiled that we’d been able to do a little bit of good.  Good news that there are good people to be found everywhere…

My second piece of news?  Much more dramatic…   I didn’t get blown up.  Honestly.

I came in the house and smelled gas.  PSEG sent out a worker immediately.  He called another man and he came right away.  Three little leaks that could have been quite dangerous.  They took care of it right away.  What good news!

The little bit of “bad” news is that I need to replace my 1961 oven and stove.  It’s not the worst news in the world.

However, thanks to some great people who made my day—Shannon who takes clothing to the shelter, the anonymous woman in the restaurant and the two knowledgeable and polite PSEG employees.

My first baby shower as grandmother

mferra 5 Comments

Dear Readers,

Who ordered yesterday’s cold, snow and ice?  Not me.  I’d scheduled March first for my daughter’s baby shower.  Hey…it is difficult enough to have a baby shower without bad weather.  I wanted to invite a few hundred people…all the people we know, but that was not feasible.  1.  Kim doesn’t like to be overwhelmed.  She’s tough, but shy.  2.  There wasn’t enough space in the house.  3.  I just couldn’t bear to write on a few hundred pink tennis balls.

Happily, about twenty-five people made it to the shower in spite of icy roads.  We played three games–the first, “What Do You Know About Kim?” and many people said that they liked knowing that Kim and her husband met when they were eight and what Lon first liked about her was that she could run really fast.  The second game was to guess the price of five items, sort of “The Price Is Right.”  I did stink at that game–haven’t bought baby wipes or diapers for a long time.  The last game demanded that people write suggested baby names and so far, Kim has rejected them, especially Bernice and Hildegaard.

Then, we proceeded to nourish our bodies with healthy foods–homemade cream puffs, homemade personalized cookies, cake, potato salad, fried rice, hoagie slices and salad.  Salad.  Of course, we had a big green salad, in spite of all those leafy calories.

Kim’s third-grader niece, Gina, helped Kim open gifts so that the guests could leave before the roads got worse.  Oh, the darling baby outfits and bibs!  The many big and little things that new mommies will need!  How thoughtful and generous were all the guests.

People asked me what name the baby will call me.  Grandmom?  No.  I have a few other names in mind.  Let’s see.

Guests put on their coats and left with hugs and good wishes and the baby shower favor–a pink tennis ball personalized with a Sharpie by yours truly.

A happy time!

Sixty-five! Still alive! Happy Birthday to me! Yay!

mferra 3 Comments

Dear Readers,

The GEICO gecko sent me birthday greetings before anyone else did—I didn’t even know he knew me. I have a sneaky suspicion that he is trying to curry favor with me and get me to leave Allstate.

Here I am in Cramer Hill, surprise, surprise, at sixty-five! When I moved back to Cramer Hill in 1983, I intended to stay a year or two. Still here and celebrating my birthday today…

Sixty-five! As I told one of my friends, I feel like an adolescent with a sixty-five year old body.

Not complaining about the age of the body. I made it this far!

Filled with gratitude for today! Thankful for great memories! Looking forward to making many more good memories!

Thank you, God, for everything, especially Your love. Thanks for my mom, my brothers, my daughter, my husband, my son-in-law and his family, my godchildren,  friends, my former students, my dog, my cats,  my GLEAM kids, health, retirement, books, music, Facebook posts, hot tea with lemon, blog readers, dark chocolate, movies, writing groups, my car, jokes, future granddaughter babysitting days and the sun that shines through my blinds to wake me up every morning.

Happy Birthday to me! Happy Birthday to my dear husband, Carlos, whose birthday is tomorrow! Happy Birthday to us!

Hooray for today! Hooray for life! Hip, hip, hooray!

The great thing about life is that every day is a story…

mferra 2 Comments

Dear Readers,

I know all of you are big readers–if not, you wouldn’t be reading this blog.  Maybe some of you are writers or storytellers.   Sometimes when something happens, I think–this is a story…  Every day something happens, so….wow!  stories every day.  Some better than others.  But, you know what I mean.

Yesterday my friend, Maria Casales, took the Riverline from Trenton to Camden, hoping to get off at the 36th and River Road Station, verrrrrrrrrrry close to my house.  I was excited because Maria is a great writer, author of The Caregiver, and she had consented to talk to my writing workshop, Woodland Writers.  When she didn’t get off, I phoned her and she answered immediately, “Yes, I missed my stop.”

Being a Camden native, I knew how to pick her up at the Walter Rand Transportation Center, the next stop and there she was.  Maria said that the train stopped so briefly that she couldn’t get off and that happened to another woman, too, who said a lot of expletive-deleteds that Maria would never say to the train operator, nor anyone else.

My Toyota Camry flew to the writing group and we made it by one minute.  Everyone introduced themselves and we found out each others’ favorite sounds– rain, ocean, brook… I was relieved no one said rap because that is my least favorite.  Then, we wrote and read to each other.  It’s amazing (no kidding) what great stories everyone has.  Nothing better than a good story, I say!  I must add we also have great poems created in the group.

Of course, we eat on the break and food is up there on the good list.  What is better?  Good food, a good poem or a good story?  I guess it depends how hungry you are for a chocolate chip cookie, or a poem about……….. or a story about …………  Oops, I never tell what others write.  That’s the premise of our group.

After we ate, Maria talked about how everyone’s discipline in writing was different.  She told us that she had set a goal to publish her book by the end of a decade in her life.   She explained how she decided to self-publish her book and why?  You can find out in one of her blogs, bookwormrrriot.com.

At the end of the afternoon, we went to the 36th Street Riverline Station and a solemn man twice as tall as Maria and me put together and twice as wide (slight exaggeration) saw us shivering.  He said, “Here.  This spot is sheltered and warmer.”  We protested, but he insisted and we moved into that less windy spot.

Maria and I bid each other good-bye on that platform warmed by kindness.  I watched Maria enter the car and, dang!  there was not even a pole for her to grab, much less a seat.

Then, a teen-age boy stood up and motioned for Maria to take his seat.  The train whizzed away and I felt happy that the people coming from Camden and the man on that platform would leave Maria with a good feeling about my city.

Hope your day was a good story!