While it is a generalization to conclude that the behavior of all immigrants followed a pattern of anonymity once they arrived in America, there is considerable evidence to support that claim as it apples to my ancestors, particularly those who came from Sicily. There are a number of possible scenarios which may explain this phenomenon. The essential quality of the peasant farmer’s life in Sicily was geared toward overcoming adversity so that he could eke out a living for his family. Land ownership was a marker which signified one was in a different and better social class. I don’t believe my grandfather enjoyed any such luxury although he and his family owned the house in which they lived when he left Sicily in 1906. Work was often drudgery and difficult to find if it existed at all. Men had to travel out into the country in search of work while their families remained behind and did what they could until the men returned. This migratory practice figured prominently in my grandfather’s life when he left Sicily and came to this country. A letter I found written in Italian from one of his friends while the family was living in Philadelphia indicated that many Italians including my grandfather–and probably his sons when they were old enough–commuted to South Jersey to work as a day laborers and field hands on one of the local farms. The processes involved in this migrant workforce was not unlike that which plays out in immigrant communities today, only the ethnicity of the laborers has changed. Another letter I have describes an incident in which my grandfather had been directed to pay a fee to a certain man, probably the American equivalent of the padrone in Sicily, for the work that he and his sons had been given. As a child, I do not recall my grandfather speaking English so it is all the more plausible that his ability to secure work depended on either employers who spoke Italian–and Sicilian dialects were not familiar to all Italians which made communication among fellow Italians difficult as well–or relied upon the skills of an interlocutor who could speak for him to an employer, for a fee, of course.

Another factor may have figured prominently in the relative secrecy which appears to have shrouded some of the family subsequent to their arrival in this country. I recall anecdotes from different sources that hinted that my grandfather wanted to distance himself from the mafia which was apparently active in his native Sicily particularly in Belmonte Mezzagno–his birthplace–and San Giuseppe Jato–my grandmother’s birthplace. My grandfather was also leery of similar influences lurking in the teeming streets of south Philadelphia during the first quarter of the 20th century. It is an eery coincidence that known mafiosi from Belmonte Mezzagno and San Giuseppe Jato share a few ancestral surnames: Spera, Martorana, for example. I can add two personal accounts from my childhood that contribute to the mafia mistique. Although my father isn’t Italian he seemed to be the designated driver who chauffeured my grandmother and other family members–as children we were brought along despite our protestations to do something more interesting–from South Jersey into south Philadelphia to visit family and relatives ranging from my grandmother’s mother to her brothers and sisters and their children. It happened on one of those trips to visit an aunt who lived in one of the multitude of row houses bunched together like a line of old men while young men gathered in noisy pockets to shoot craps on a nearby street corner. My cousin Tommy–I think everybody was a cousin back then, even if they weren’t–with his slick hair do, black and shiny, sitting regally behind the wheel of his car motions for us to come over and have a look. The interior of that automobile was fine; however, everything about that car would have dissolved with age had my cousin not exposed the contents of the special compartment he had built into the console of his car. As we leaned in through the rolled down windows for a closer look, Tommy opened that compartment with a flourish and revealed a cache of weapons, one of which I believe to this day was a Thompson submachine gun. One Sunday morning as she was reading the Philadelphia Bulletin my mother called out in surprise that one of her uncles was on the cover of the Parade section. When I asked her what she meant she pointed out a man in the photograph standing on a street corner in Philadelphia. The caption read that the photograph was taken as part of an investigation of organized crime activity and the man on the corner was arrested as a numbers runner. A fertile imagination might account for the speculative nature of these incidents had it not been for all the times we’d stop by a bootlegging operation in a large brick factory building in south Philadelphia to buy Dago Red in gallon jugs before we’d slip back to Jersey over the Ben Franklin Bridge were much too gritty only to be the rambling dreams that a tired kid has nestled in the backseat of an old sedan between his grandmom and his siblings.

With the uncertainty of iFamily’s future as an actively developed genealogy program becoming a greater possibility, I downloaded Reunion 9 as an option should I decide to make a change.  Reunion enjoys a large following of active and devoted users as well as being cited by many genealogists as the premier genealogy program for Mac.  The Reunion forums, at first glance, seem to be very active, responsive, and helpful both regarding the specifics of using Reunion and diverse topics involved in genealogy itself.  When technical issues need to be vetted the developers post on the forum as well.

While I am more than disappointed with the way progress on iFamily has unfolded, there are several reasons for not abandoning iFamily for Reunion 9 immediately.  I find iFamily’s interface more aesthetically pleasing to me than Reunion which may be attributed to the fact that I have used iFamily for a few years now.  I prefer iFamily’s generated HTML for web sites to the web cards that Reunion outputs.  I do find that Reunion’s documentation is a strength that iFamily would profit from if it were incorporated into its development regime, in fact, iFamily’s lack of adequate and readily available documentation is a glaring flaw despite the archived Q & A’s, and FAQ’s on its forum boards.  Price is another factor since Reunion 9 is three times as expensive as iFamily; however, if a program is no longer actively developed, the issue of price becomes moot.  I am not a seasoned genealogist so I found iFamily’s evolving nature to my own personal tastes; with Keith gone, that approach may no longer be possible or viable.

Reunion doesn’t offer limited GEDCOM file importing in its demo version which is very troubling as I would like to test the software with my own data rather than rely on the Royal Family or manually key in data.  I have discovered from Reunion’s various online forums that unlinked sources are not transferred into Reunion when a GEDCOM file is imported which has prompted me to recheck my iFamily data should I take the plunge and switch to Reunion 9.  Reunion has been around for a long time and its future as a Mac only genealogy program appears to be secure.  There is an old adage that a leopard cannot change its spots but I am willing to be patient for a little longer in hope that a snow leopard will–or at least until I can get a proper GEDCOM file prepared to export/import.

If a health care bill is signed into law and does not include the popularly dubbed public option, we may well have to edit The New Colossus–huddled masses cower with the tired, poor, the wretched refuse crumbling from foreclosures, the homeless, and the tempest tossed abandoned and alone beside a darkened door.  So soon have bankers, hedge fund managers, the rank and file of financial investment firms returned to their old practices: bonuses as entitlement, excessive profit taking and the resumption of the use of derivatives, which are still unregulated despite the governments best pantomime of posturing to the contrary; the stigma of greed has become once again a badge of honor–at least among certain classes of thieves– while men of power opine and do nothing except hint that somewhere, somehow, they will staunch the flow of executive bonuses.

The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan continue, almost as persistent as the practice of bloodletting, which finally faded from our lexicon of medical treatments after an ignominious run of 2000 years.  Want money for health care?  Withdraw our troops from Iraq and Afghanistan–it is a given that we should not send more.  We have a splendid history of supporting corrupt governments: Saddam Hussein, Musharif, Karzai, Reza Pahlavi, Fugencio Batista.  How can we ever doubt our leaders’ perspicacity to evaluate the motives of foreign governments when there are such fine skills exemplified by our own beloved W looked into Putin’s soul and thought he saw the heart of the man but unfortunately we learned later that it was only a reflection of Dick Cheney.  Sadly, the rubric now being bandied about is that any decisions regarding Afghanistan will be determined, at least in part, by the outcome of the run-off vote following an egregiously corrupt election orchestrated by the even more egregiously corrupt Karzai family and its hegemony of cohorts.  Every drop of blood is precious regardless of national origin; however, our actions suggest that we are willing to sacrifice our way of life and values to maintain the façade of a democratically elected government in Afghanistan.

Following our government’s policy in Afghanistan, it should come as no surprise that the same indifference is manifested in the area of healthcare and education.  Certain members of Congress pontificate about the pitfalls of the government’s involvement in the administration of healthcare insurance yet none decline the healthcare our tax dollars purchase for them–As far as I am aware no one has volunteered to pay for their own insurance–it comes with the work, if you are lucky enough to get it!  There is no ignominy in broadcasting misleading advertisements sponsored by private insurance companies or the conspicuous and unrelenting pressure powerful lobbyists exert upon every elected official at every level of government.

Less becomes the new more, especially in education.  Titillation has supplanted effort reducing learning to a state of tingling and jangling nerves.  Everyone succeeds, in his own mind; however, all too frequently, failure is a matter of national tragedy.  The success of Plato’s Republic was based upon a noble lie about our fundamental nature, the categories into which each of us are bound.  Whether we repair our aging Republic or build a new one, perhaps we will reveal our true selves by our penchant for or our aversion to deception regardless of its lineage.

A couple of years ago or so I had an issue regarding a section of vinyl siding.  I contacted the company to have someone come out, inspect the situation, and repair or recommend what needed to be done–all of the materials were warranted for life.  Perhaps it was an oversight or maybe scheduling was really a problem, but I got no response until I wrote a letter to the owner, who, by the way never responded although a “supervisor” eventually appeared and grudgingly made some adjustments to the siding.  While he was on site he regaled me with anecdotes of the incompetence of the installers who worked for the company years ago, when the work was done on my house.  Unfortunately, there was some truth in his tale as I was informed later by an official from Duke Power of a code violation because there was vinyl siding covering the electrical service where it attaches to the house and connects to the meter.

A little more than two months ago, while my wife and I were cleaning the windows, we noticed a problem with one of the windows.  The problem is that the part of the window where the sash attaches to it has come detached from the window and remains at the bottom of the track when the window is raised.  So I called Pike’s and described the situation with the window.  I was greeted with what appeared to me was the usual truculent, defensive maneuver that so many companies resort to instead of simply ascertaining what the problem is and how it can be resolved.  After a considerable amount of time explaining, then establishing that I was a customer, etc., I was transferred to a another person in the company.  I repeated what I had told to the first person–I confess that my explanation may not have captured the problem as clearly as either I or the company representative would have liked–and suggested that it would be best if someone came out and inspected the window.  A date was set, an estimator arrived as scheduled, looked at the window, declared it a manufacturing defect, stated that his company no longer had that window, etc.  Defense again.  I produced my invoice from the installation and the records associated with it, which he reviewed.  I told him I wanted the window repaired or replaced.  Interestingly, when the estimator first looked at the windows he remarked that they were in really good shape!  I thought it odd that he would expect them to be in any other condition.  I’m not in the habit of destroying that which I have worked hard to afford!  At any rate, he told me that he would research the manufacturer of the windows and contact me in about two weeks.

Two weeks became two months.  I called Pike’s to find out the status regarding the problem with my window.  Once again I had to jump through hoops until I became just a bit warm under the collar and probably upped the decibel level of my voice whereupon I was handed off to another person who was considerably more adroit at recognizing there was such a thing as a customer and customers pay the bills.  Apologies all around and excepted.  I get transferred to the guy who came out to inspect my window; he tells me as others have told me that there was a miscommunication–of course there is always a miscommunication, remember Cool Hand Luke: When Strother Martin defines life’s biggest problem for Paul Newman!  What we have here is a failure to communicate! He says he will call me once he verifies the manufacturer of the windows, etc.  I’m told the company that manufactured my windows was sold about two years ago to another company.  Fine, just gather all the pertinent information and get back to me. I give him my cell number in addition to the land line so that he can call me at any time.  I get a call on my cell a day or two later while I am in the middle of something and can’t really talk but suggest that he either call me later or email me the information and I verify that he has my correct email address before I hang up.

A few days later I call the telephone number provided in the email I’ve received.  Ah, the wonders of technology!  Nowadays, all companies virtually guarantee that no customer will ever talk to a sentient being.  After navigating a maze of pre-programmed telephone options, none of which was categorized appropriately for my particular problem, I simply choose one, and then another, until I manage to find a living being to talk to.  All’s well that ends well, but the Bard be forgiven, that cliché is not applicable to my situation although one has to admire the novelty of customer relations:  I was told to Google the series number on the gold label on one of the bottom rails (maybe on the upper half or the bottom half) of my window and that would tell me who manufactured my windows because she was absolutely certain that her company was not the manufacturer.  I felt a sinking feeling come over me like an overweight mastodon strolling through the La Brea tar pits.  Google, despite many who believe that it is the font of all truth, the be-all and end-all of all that is, isn’t, but, I do the search anyway.  No manufacturer, not even close–maybe I should have given Bing a try.  Maybe next time.

So I call Pike’s once again.  I am regaled with menu of automated messages.  There is no live person available despite being informed by one of those messages that the hours during which the business operates coincides precisely with the time my call has been placed.  I leave a voice message.  I send an email.  Now another week has passed.  I suppose that my next step is writing to David Pike once again; however, my last experience seemed less than fruitful, in fact, he seemed to ignore it.  It appears that my only value to Pike’s occurred years ago when I wrote them a check and paid them in full.  Apparently the company was not seeking to build a viable, long-term, community-based, business relationship.  Owning a house is not a static proposition; maintenance and upkeep are constants; roofs need replacing.  Why would any company spurn or discourage paying customers?  Is it arrogance or incompetence?  Even when the economy is blushing with work and ripe with funds ready to be invested in divers of projects, the best businesses–large, small, local, international–will attend to customers rather than disregard them.

One should always carefully scrutinize any business before one enters into a relationship with that business and it is no less axiomatic because that company happens to be locally owned.  We thought we had taken the right step when we decided to support a local business but apparently we were mistaken.  Lifetime warranty is a euphemism if the company which stands behind it is a façade.  I’m not implying that all local businesses are taboo.  As a matter of fact, I think very highly of Talley Water Treatment Company which continues to provide the kind of service and quality that was pivotal in my decision to retain them.  I suffer no delusions that my venting in this blog will repair or replace the defective window; the three people who read this blog probably don’t intend to replace their windows or cover their houses with vinyl siding, but, I hope they’d contact me first if they were considering Pike’s for the job.  The only thing I can say for sure is that I paid for the window once; and, it looks as if I’ll have to pay for it again, only this time it certainly won’t be Pike!

The apparent failure of the majority party (can you say Democrat) to guarantee the inclusion of the single payer option in any healthcare legislation brought to the floor unfortunately is both predictable and indicative of the massive buying power of the insurance lobby.  I wish that simply being more self-aware was a solution; perhaps, then, George Santayana’s famous quotation would be appropriate:  Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.  Our elected officials are not unconscious–their motivations are self-driven and only complex because we allow them to be presented as such–but they lack even a whisper of conscience and are devoid of the slightest measure of courage.  We, the people, run from our intellect, flee reason, and embrace ignorance and fear, tremble at the mere mention of loaded words, the shibboleths of definitions: socialism, socialized medicine, government intervention.  We have forsaken individualism, stifled innovation, and surrendered our rights as citizens to corporate and private greed.  A pragmatist runs the risk of becoming ensnared in the open-endedness of his construct of truth especially if what works, works only for the privileged minority.

Santayana also said:  Only the dead have seen the end of the war. George W Bush failed to comprehend the philosopher’s meaning; perhaps, that is a curse that all of our presidents must suffer.   And now, Afghanistan, has become Obama’s albatross.  If only one person had to wear this necklace decorated with the failed charms of opprobrium–war, greed, economic chaos, environmental ruin, a debauched healthcare system, political and social injustice–then the sacrifice might parallel the Christian imagery which mocks us as it hastens our decline.

A pragmatist may stumble bearing the weight of our national character.  As Santayana noted in Character and Opinion in the United States:  You must wave, you must cheer, you must push with the irresistible crowd; otherwise you will feel like a traitor, a soulless outcast, a deserted ship high and dry on the shore … Perhaps, our president finds himself shipwrecked and in need of a man Friday to bolster his resolve.

Perhaps it is unfair to assume that the best intentions cannot realistically be expected to translate into that which they intend.  Perhaps, but the development of iFamily has been stalled since Keith’s untimely passing and there are no tangible signs that development is ongoing, or, if it may ever be revived.  I had hoped that iFamily’s code base would be taken over by either another individual who was an avid genealogist or by a firm similarly committed to genealogy so that Keith’s efforts would continue to grow and flourish from the fertile foundation he had laid.  Unfortunately, in nearly nine months not one revision has been made to iFamily, not even the last revision Keith had scheduled for release around the end of October 2008.  I am not a software developer and I harbor no secret desire to become one although I had been a programmer for over 20 years (retired); however, there is an implicit professional mandate not to let a viable code base languish; it is not good for business and it certainly is not very considerate of customers who have purchased the product and spent long hours filling its database with genealogical data.  It would be kinder and wiser to announce the end of development for that software.  Situations arise when it becomes necessary to end product development; unfortunately, such casualties are not all uncommon in technology.

While I have hoped that I was mistaken and that my judgment was faulty, action or inaction seems to confirm my doubts.  On June 9 2009 I raised a query in the iFamily forum regarding Apple’s newest operating system, OS X 10.6, dubbed Snow Leopard, and compatibility issues, if any, with iFamily.  It was said that there were no expectations for any conflict or problems for iFamily running under Snow Leopard.  Sadly there are: iFamily does not run under SL.  Apparently, iFamily was never tested by the developer to confirm that it would or would not run under OS X 10.6.  The developers of Reunion 9 did test their software and issued a warning prior to the release of Snow Leopard so that the users would know in advance that upgrading the OS would cause Reunion to fail.  Meanwhile, they are working to release an upgrade to address the problems which they have identified.

My personal preference is to continue to use iFamily as my primary genealogy program and I am willing to be patient for the short term as long as there is a definite commitment made to the active development of iFamily and not long periods of inactivity and promises which go unmet.  One of the realities involving of computers is that operating systems will continue to improve and change.  Developers have an obligation to keep abreast of, and, in some cases, ahead of the sharp technology curve that these improvements promise if they want their products to remain viable.  I hope that coding issues with iFamily and Snow Leopard will be resolved in a reasonable time, on the other hand, I am beginning to take a closer look at Reunion 9 as it appears to have a solid user base and a track record for longevity–not a bad quality when one is involved with genealogy.

At the Oreck store we tried out the full line of vacuums as well as inquiring about the half-priced model listed in the advertisement.  As I expected, the vacuum on sale didn’t measure up to the various models I tested but that was due more to my specific requirements than the performance of the vacuum itself.  In the end I opted for the Oreck XL Platinum Plus which comes with a 15 year warranty that includes yearly maintenance on the vacuum and its parts as well as a canister vacuum–I chose the mid-line canister model for its combination of features and portability.  The initial outlay for the Oreck  that I chose was substantially more than I had considered spending for a vacuum; however, the life expectancy of the appliance and service contract added sufficient value to the primary feature of the product (its excellent performance as a vacuum) that it offset the cost.  Besides, there was a thirty day trial period which included a money back guarantee.

I did hold onto the old Panasonic while I put the XL through its paces and for one scary day I was beginning to think I would have to revert to my aging dust creator again.  The week we bought the Oreck an emergency arose and we had to make a quick trip north to see family so I didn’t have the opportunity to test our new vacuum thoroughly until we returned.  Shortly after I commenced vacuuming in earnest, an ear-piercing squeal  developed.  The sound only occurred during the backstroke, when one was pulling the machine back toward oneself; however, the effect of the squeal was almost nauseating.  It is probably an understatement to suggest that there are occasions when I tend to be more reactive than on other occasions.  I can tell you that each time that Oreck squealed at me it sounded as if dollar bills were being shredded in a modified trade of cash for toxic assets deal.  So I called the Oreck Store immediately.  When I finished my description of the problem, I was told that a shipment of vacs had come into the shop that had not been properly lubricated at the factory.  Apparently other customers had reported similar experiences as the Oreck representative was familiar with the problem.  I was told to bring the vacuum by the shop and it would be fixed/adjusted while I waited.  The vac was adjusted in a matter of minutes and we were on our way.

I don’t often go for the warranty gambit offered with most products these days as they do not appear to add enough value to the product for the cost.  I’ve read that engineering has become so refined that manufacturers can produce products with specific failure rates built in which are accurate to within a week of the projected point of failure, which, can conceivably allow the fees from warranty contracts to be applied directly to the bottom line.  Costs for certain replacement parts exceed the purchase price of a new item, e.g. one can buy a newer model laser printer for less than or equal to the cost of the old printer’s toner cartridge.  So why bother with a vacuum from a company that includes service as an integral part of its business model?  For starters, there is something appealing about resisting the waste produced by the throw-away attitude which is so prevalent today.  Caring for whatever one used–without consideration of ownership or value–had been an implicit code of conduct in general society; it certainly was drummed into me as a kid.  Of course, the notion of caring may have had its roots in everyday living where a certain frugality was necessitated by the limitations of one’s resources.  Until the recent global economic collapse consumption and not conservation was the dominant mindset of the average individual.  We became short-sighted in our estimation of value, misled by a faulty system of cost analysis where the constant churning of production was an insatiable maw that cannibalized itself.  Complicit with the unending cycle of producing was the concomitant drive for entrepreneurs, large and small, to create need where before only want stood day-dreaming about the imaginary world it was constructing.  I’m not implying that all novelty is a matter of ulterior motivation or that creativity is merely a process of deception; however, while both statements contain the seeds of truth, it is the growth and the yield which are often the source of ambiguity.

Of course, I am extremely pleased with the Oreck; it has performed as advertised.  I may not feel the same way in 2019 or 2024, two-thirds of the way into the service contract and at its end, respectively, which, returns us once again to the topics of obsolescence and longevity.  If the present climate has taught us anything it is that businesses, even those considered too big to fail, can in fact fail; and that obligations, promises, and contracts are as transitory as the organizations that offered, issued, or underwrote them.  Oreck, as a company, may not survive the bargain it has struck with me as a customer.  Fifteen years can be an eternity these days, besides, in a year or two some better product may (will) come along that will offer more for the same cost or less, or be more green, as we are inclined to say to show off our global view and environmental awareness.  It is both confusing and perplexing; it is even seductive, this surplice of green cloth which at once protects us and our environment and blinds us from our own self-centered ratiocination.  Perhaps the solution depends upon not what we have but how we have it; not what we do but how we do it.

Theory

I am what is around me.

Women understand this.
One is not duchess
A hundred yards from a carriage.
These, then are portraits:
A black vestibule;
A high bed sheltered by curtains.

These are merely instances.

—Wallace Stevens

The hurt of reality can become a constant agony if we are unable to accept the endless flow of life and not rejoice in its variety and celebrate its creative advance into the unknown.  My mother was alive to me in the reality with which I had wrapped myself; that world burst as the family entered the funeral parlor.  I had dreaded this moment; the penultimate things that we humans feel the need to say to each other were already said and understood by both of us–I had always loved her and she had always loved me; there was something so elemental in our relationship that more addenda was simply superfluous.  So I did not want to evaluate the beautician’s or the mortician’s skill; I did not want to view a hollow shell that bore no resemblance to the living whirl-a-gig that was my mother.  The first half-hour in the funeral home was torment for me; as I entered I was unable to breathe, my breath felt as if it had been sucked out of me, and I was overcome with emotion.  I hurt all over, every part of me wept and would not be consoled.  When I thought I would never recover, I did, in time to stand and speak about my mother, to color our memory of her with authenticity bereft of cliches that so often are uttered in eulogies and have no connection to the life being celebrated.

This has been a season of mileposts for me.  I became a grandfather on our nation’s birthday and subsequently, in a little over a month’s time, my mother died and I turned sixty-four–today, in fact.  We often are seduced by the notion of infinity–a delicious prospect on many levels and just as daunting and dismaying on others–but we fail to comprehend the freedom and limitations of finitude.  Probability ascribes to me a remaining longevity that can be reasonably calculated by the addition of all of my digits(fingers, toes and thumbs) with the caveat that scientific discoveries may require something more extensive than digital enumeration: this little piggy went to market…might embark on a journey slightly longer than we anticipated.  When I extend my hand, in truth, there are times I see the wrinkled, spotted hands of an old man, but more often I am reminded of persistence even in the midst of the ephemeral nature which is our life long habitat.  There are so many tasks left undone; many are daunting, but they are all the obligation of the living.  We’ve endured so much how can we not be intrepid as we shape the future?

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it

– Omar Khayyam

Morning brings renewal whether or not we approve; it brings a perspective that we may accept or reject but it always provides us with a moment of innocence, a moment in which all that ever was can be remade in an inexplicable alliance of possibilities. We cannot undo what has come to pass or unhook the world from its orbit; we cannot perform a cosmological legerdemain and revivify the matter which has spent itself or master the soul’s surcease with an esoteric alchemy. Life begets death and death begets life, a tarantella we must all dance and, none or few of us, depending on one’s perspective, ever master.

I found myself strangely like the daydreaming student in Reed’s poem, gazing out on an imaginary Eden, constructing a haven of memories as the world droned on about the parts of its machinery, ineluctably, mechanically, methodically, routinely–dentist appointments, dental insurance claims, car inspections. What war demands is fomented from genius which has not bridled passion to bear witness to love; and, instead, sees itself as the object of all affections. Breaking down a rifle is not a paradigm for a life, not even if my mother, was by some reckoning, a cocked, Sicilian pistol; however, the process by which we compartmentalize a life may very well differ only in the naming of the parts: she was born on… her parents were… married on.. she worked for… retired… is survived by her husband… her children… her grandchildren… her great grandchildren… family will receive at… in lieu of flowers…

In my reverie I construct a thousand scenes, all of which paint her differently, portray her with loving tenderness but do not censor the salty repartee with which she could deflate the puffiest ego–mine was not exempt and suffered an occasional bruise as I tumbled from an untenable and precarious perch. When we draw near as friends and family to pay our respects, to honor her life, to share our memories, try as we might, there will remain an emptiness within the fullness of our remembrances for as the poet reminds us of the fragility of balance: for this we have not got.

While I wrote this poem nearly a decade ago on mother’s day, it remains faithful to the life and spirit of my mother, the indecipherable bond between parent and child, the inextinguishable flame which is implicit and guides us in all of our journeys.

Millennial Mother’s Day

I dialed several times before you answered
and several more before I got the number
right.
Hello
the voice as distant as it was dulcet
labored from years stashed away
like pennies in those glass bottles
lurking in the corners and dark places
of your rooms with their thin necks
stretched like cranes swallowing fish.

Of course you were surprised,
sometimes, the voice eludes you,
runs behind your memory like
the child you recall used to play
hide and seek beneath the street
lamps poking holes in summer nights.

Hi Mom, happy mother’s day.
How are you? Our conversations
have the regularity of our age,
spaced as the years increase,
they have become brief but epic
paeans to codify our strange chronology.

I’m OK. My back hurts when I lift
anything; walking’s hard but I
ain’t getting no operation on my back
at my age. The time in between my calling
sheds all forms of mechanism. There is no longer
any duty left, no rancor at being forgotten,
at least in my own tightly spinning universe,
until the next time I tap out the number
of my home, by rote and heart. She answers
if she’s there
and if she has made the trip
to her Mecca by the sea, Atlantic City, balancing
bouncing bus rides and the kalaediscope
of neon lights, spinning wheels, and the incubi
who whisper hoarsely to her of precious maps
to unimaginable fortune; or weighing how much
flesh she has left to barter for this respite
which requites the sacrifice of youth made
much too soon; he answers. Lucid now
when medicated, strong & powerful in my
memory of him. I see him mostly this way;
weak only when I measure my own fragility
against the encroaching ages of my children.

But she is there this time and we pause,
a reflection of distance and resignation
rushes by like a pleasant memory
which distracts but does not color
itself with time or place or people.
Our voices evoke an unspoken trace
of parent, child; something lingers,
her heartbeat in her breath, the young
woman in photographs, the rasp of
tobacco and hot nights of shift work
in factories since she left high school,
a girl’s dreams of field hockey exchanged
too prematurely for the secrets of adults,
something palpable that cannot be bound
with words.

As the specter of drought inches closer, it is difficult not to cast about and recognize similar periods of inactivity or diminished productivity in other areas.  For nearly the last year I have been disengaged from genealogy research which I had pursued with such single-minded zeal that I became the bane of relatives who tired of my litany of questions and who cringed at the thought that my next breath was merely a brief interlude in preparation for another extended family anecdote.  Although the intensity of my genealogical research had ebbed from its former state, I continued to follow the activity on the various forums I had joined and posted whenever I could contribute meaningfully in the on-going discussions.

One forum that I found quite enjoyable was associated with the genealogy software I purchased to maintain the data that I collected as a result of my research.  In fact, I bought the software for a variety of reasons: quality, price, and, perhaps more importantly, the developer of the software was a man with a vision, had extensive experience in genealogy, displayed a passion for the subject of his software, and had the vitality to enter into a vigorous discussion with any and all of his clients.

Sadly, Keith Wilson died in November of 2008.  The software that he created is a notable memorial to his talent and passion for genealogy; however, the vision that he embraced and expressed in the software he wrote is now languishing, inching nearer to a similar fate–nearly nine months have transpired since the most recent version was released.  While the loss of any individual is an incomparable tragedy, watching the monument carved from Keith’s fertile imagination slowly deteriorate from inattention is still painful.