Author Archives: Sandi LoConti

Trains

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It was unusual for my sister and me to find ourselves parked along the railroad tracks recently.  So suggestive of days lived so long ago.  Our father was a train enthusiast; no he was a train nut.  We have been watching trains our whole lives and to this day the sound of the whistle stops us and brings us back to sitting three across in the front seat alongside the siding.

One of my fondest memories is playing in the park in Weehawken that overlooks the railroad yard. Back and forth on the swings, the wrought iron fence, surveying the long drop down to where the trains came in and out.  Hearing the wheels clack along the rails, watching for the signals to change, and the whistle…love the whistle.  When I lived on Oaktree Road and was unable to sleep the sound of the freight train going through early in the morning gave me comfort.

How many engines pulling the train was a good indicator of how long you’d be sitting at the crossing, the engineer on the caboose, back when there was a caboose, waving to us, knowing what freight movers the boxcars belong to and then watching the train pull all the way out of sight.

Toward the end of his life one of the small pleasures my father had was taking a ride.  Inevitably we would wind up along a railroad track or stopped for a train.  You could see the kid in him light up and the wanderlust move across his face.  I’m pretty sure my sister and I have inherited some of the kid light from him as we rolled down the windows and beeped the horn to hear the echo under the old trestle as we left to go home.

Happy Father’s Day Thomas, we miss you every day.

 

Be Clenched

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I’ve been trying to post some ordinary wisdom each Wednesday on the Ordinary Legacy Facebook page and this week’s ordinary wisdom was from Susan Sontag:

“Do stuff. Be clenched, curious. Not waiting for inspiration’s shove or society’s kiss on your forehead. Pay attention. It’s all about paying attention. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. Stay eager.”

I was intrigued by the words “be clenched”.  How does one do that?  I get curious, I get paying attention, and I get eager.  Couldn’t wrap my mind around being clenched.  But I love the sound of it, I love the idea of it, I love the way it makes the right side of my brain spark.  I began wondering where the quote came from, one of her books, some off handed remark, and so through the magic of Google I found this:

Susan Sontag, Vassar speech, 2003

Despise violence. Despise national vanity and self-love. Protect the territory of conscience.

Try to imagine at least once a day that you are not an American. Go even further: try to imagine at least once a day that you belong to the vast, the overwhelming majority of people on this planet who don’t have passports, don’t live in dwellings equipped with both refrigerators and telephones, who have never even once flown in a plane.

Be extremely skeptical of all claims made by your government. Remember, it may not be the best thing for America or for the world for the president of the United States to be the president of the planet. Be just as skeptical of other governments, too.

It’s hard not to be afraid. Be less afraid.

It’s good to laugh a lot, as long as it doesn’t mean you’re trying to kill your feelings.

Don’t allow yourself to be patronized, or condescended to – which if you are a woman, happens, and will continue to happen, all the time.

Do stuff. Be clenched, curious. Not waiting for inspiration’s shove or society’s kiss on your forehead… Pay attention. It’s all about paying attention. It’s all about taking in as much of what’s out there as you can, and not letting the excuses and the dreariness of some of the obligations you’ll be incurring narrow your lives. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. Stay eager.

You’ll notice that I haven’t talked about love. Or about happiness. I’ve talked about becoming – and remaining – the person who can be happy, a lot of the time, without thinking that being happy is what it’s all about. It’s not. It’s about becoming the largest, most inclusive, most responsive person you can be.

Oh this is rich.  This short speech delivered to the graduates of Vassar in 2003 is full of wisdom.  Sadly, she was fighting for her life at this very moment, only to lose that fight a year later. What a gift from such a renowned intellectual to put forth so succinctly a manifesto for life.

But I’m still drawn to the “be clenched”.  I find it interesting that in all the versions I’ve seen of this quote the eluding to the “taking in as much of what’s out there, not letting the excuses and the dreariness of some of the obligations you’ll be incurring narrow your lives” part is always missing.  What a mistake omitting the very thing that serves as the juxtaposition needed to “be clenched”.  I think I get it.

To be clenched is never to put the blinders on, no matter what you’ve seen.  To be clenched is to feel, the hair rising on the back of your neck.  To be clenched is to savor food for thought and moments in time.  To be clenched is to learn, differently than you’ve learned before from interesting and non- traditional teachers.

To be clenched is to know like you know that you don’t know what you don’t know.

 

Ding Dong, You’re about to be Robbed

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When I moved to Stowe Lane almost five years ago, I was mourning the loss of my garden more that I was mourning the demise of my marriage.  So, with the help of some wonderful people, I began the recreation of a garden on my little plot (if you can call a barren couple of square feet a plot) of land.

If you are a gardener, or you know a gardener, you know full well that things will inevitable get away from you.  In my case, any walk around the neighborhood resulting in impromptu weeding, whacking back and donation of any spare clumps of whatever needed to be split.

At the beginning of each season I could miraculously make stakes appear so that whoever’s whatever wouldn’t fall over and fail to bloom.  I could coerce the landscapers into weeding and the kid hired to remove the weed fabric into NOT removing the weed fabric so I wouldn’t have more weeding to do.

Bit by bit little ole me is transforming our little Stowe Ln, either on my own or by shaming (merely by example of course) some of the neighbors into putting pots of colorful whatever on their porches or decks.   Many times I wind up watering those pots but OK I asked for it, kind of.

What do I get in return, a beautiful street, a way to get dirt under my nails and the opportunity to ring someone’s doorbell to let them know they’re about to be robbed of some of their peonies.  Their reaction to such a bold statement…”They’re not my peonies they most certainly belong to you, help yourself any time.”  I know like I know that I certainly will.

Ordinary Surprises

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Seems counterintuitive to use those words together one being the everyday the other being a wonder or a shock or an amazement? But I found a recent business trip filled with them.  Brene Brown, author of Daring Greatly and TED talk on vulnerability gone viral fame says…we’re all so busy chasing the extraordinary that we forget to stop and be grateful for the ordinary.

Not me, I love the ordinary it’s amazing to me, it presents itself in such a quiet and thoughtful way that you can’t help but be in awe of it.  It surprises me constantly with “of course” moments.  See what you think:

The morning of my trip to Boston I realized I hadn’t received a confirmation from the hotel so I called. Rose on the other end assured me that the rooms I booked for my colleague and I were indeed ready for our arrival and that they had mistakenly misspelled Sandi in my email address as Sandy.

The ride up which, had I listened to the news, was supposed to be nothing but torrential rain, possible tornadoes, and aggravation turned out to be partly sunny and filled with interesting conversation. Arriving a bit early left time for a quick sandwich made by hand by a woman who thought it important to pull a tomato from the stand and slice it fresh.  Of course she did.

The meeting was perfect. More teaching than preaching.  More interesting questions from people who were truly interested in the answers. Some levity, some sharing of information, some friendly good natured scolding all to the end of greater understanding and refinement of the “way it’s always been done processes.”  A couple of hours that seemed like minutes later, not your typical grey suit meeting.  Whew.

Work day done, off to the hotel. Lovely, on the water, near a wonderful part of the city we were greeted warmly, upgraded to King, and began our off time with an exhale.  I was so surprised to find my room number was exactly the same as my address on Stowe Lane.  My beloved Stowe Lane.  When I exclaimed I had great hotel Karma the woman behind the desk went on to fill my heart by saying I seemed a person with great Karma in general.  How wonderful, what a terrific way to set the tone for an evening with friends.  Of course it did.

I love a delightful dinner with friends, the people who nourish your soul while you nourish your hunger.  Conversation that is at once animated and relaxing offering up the chance to learn more about each other while cementing the commonality that brought you together in the first place.  The food was delicious and among friends everyone could pick at the other’s plate.  The wine a perfect pairing, the dessert light yet indulgent.  Saying goodbye afterward was difficult but full of promises to meet again as soon as we could.  One last walk through the square to pay tribute to the tragedy of the marathon and we were on the train back to the hotel.  We got off the train about a mile from the hotel to truly experience the night doings in the North End.  The people, the smells of the food wafting from the restaurants the hub bub, then a night cap and a very nice night’s sleep.flag

Morning in the North End is bustling with a different kind of energy. Workers repairing roads, firemen with their coffee outside the stations, restaurants getting ready for the day, and the bakeries sending the smell of Italian cookies and pastries out into the streets.  But first I need my coffee and where better to enjoy a latte but at a tiny little place that had old Italian men at the bar throwing back single shots of Guglielmo espresso.  Relatively new in the US (the brand of espresso that is) these veterans of the single shot were enjoying it so why wouldn’t we.  Why wouldn’t we indeed, with a very charming Italian behind the bar making us feel at home and pulling shots with the finesse of the former Roman barista that he surely was.  Sitting at one of the few tables, listening to the Italian chatter, enjoying the latte made exactly the way the barista wanted to make it (there is no string of types of milk, foam, no foam, etc. necessary here) with just a hint of sweetness from the sugar and the bitterness from the espresso it would be the only coffee required until I got home.

Naturally we needed to head over to Mike’s for pastry and, unlike the night before, it was empty.  The sfogliatelle wasn’t going to be out of the oven for another 20 minutes so we decided on breakfast first but where to go?  The best part of being in the North End early morning is the time people can devote to conversation, Theo’s was the overwhelming recommendation by the staff at Mike’s.  And of course they were spot on.  Now back at Mike’s, with boxes filled with pastry tucked safely out of reach in the back seat we headed home.

I know like I know that the ordinary surprises we encountered, the upgrade, the room number, the ease of the meeting, the loving preparation of the food and the company in which we dined, the friendliness and resiliency of the people, who just recently had been harmed, all made what could have been just another business trip an extraordinary adventure that left me most grateful.

Thank you Boston.

 

 

 

Little League Musings

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I had the honor of attending my friend Daniel’s Little League game the other night and it was so reminiscent.  The beautiful green field, the dust, the bugs, the bleachers, the parents (Yogi said it best, “Little League baseball is a very good thing because it keeps the parents off the streets”) and the bench.  I haven’t been to a game in about a hundred years, probably not since himself was coaching, and really not much has changed but then again so much has changed.

The bench was filled with all manner of equipment.  The usual bats, balls, helmets, protective equipment for the catcher, and Gatorade bottles.  One of the things I remember about going to the games with himself was lugging the big orange cooler with the spout everywhere we went.  We’d set it at the end of the bench with a stack of waxy Dixie cups and the kids would go through gallons of water laced with Gatorade at every game.  Who knew plastic bottles filled with the stuff was in our future.

And then there was a girl on the team, not only on the team but on the mound, oh was that fabulous.  Hadn’t seen that before but how would I, not having kids of my own, there was no way for me to know the progression of girls in sports.  My understanding is that girls were formally permitted to join the teams in 1974; we didn’t see it in 1977 when we were attending the games it was far too early.

My friend Daniel was playing first base but he would later find himself behind the plate catching.  The kids were moved around, everybody batted and even though they took quite the beating the coaches were supportive and patient and the kids looked up to them.  To this day, I’m sure that many of the kids who played under himself remember him fondly.  He was a hell of a coach, the wonderful mix of discipline, educating and fun.  They might not remember me, I just kept the book, but I know like I know they remember him.  It never failed that we would be having dinner somewhere and one of them, all grown, would come up to us with wonderful and thankful greetings for himself.

In all the games I attended in the “old days” I don’t ever recall hearing the kids being told it’s still a live ball.  Of course it’s a live ball, what else would it be?  Well apparently a few of the kids get easily distracted.  The live ball thing was a given back then.  Maybe because the kids had only one or two extracurricular activities not the nonstop schedules they have today.  Maybe because the prevalence of ADD/ADHD (or recognition of ADD/ADHD) was pretty much unheard of the kid’s heads were in the game.  And there was practice, there were the endless drills, there were consistent coaches.   Dads weren’t working the perpetual over time hours that are needed today to make ends meet.   Whatever the reason everybody knew the ball was live.  Could not stop chuckling about that all through the game.

And it’s funny how it all comes back to you.  Just watch the ball hit the bat, just hit your cutoff man, don’t try and be a hero, just get on base, singles.  The barrage of baseballisms came back in a flash and so did my Jersey girl.  I can get loud, no surprise to anybody, so when things were really looking grim and everyone got quiet I don’t have to tell you what happened.

I did notice there is now a covering behind the plate so you can’t stand behind and see the pitches coming in.  Oh that used to be fun to second guess the ump, gone are those days.  You can’t yell “swing” now when the pitch is coming in to spur the opposing batter on.  Sorry, I couldn’t help it back then.

I had my camera with me and got some wonderful shots, all easily downloaded and up on Pinterest http://pinterest.com/slc1toby/a-night-of-little-league/ , no such thing as Pinterest then and the film from my Nikon FE had to be developed.  Oh boy…

I must say I had a moment’s hesitation about going to the game, not knowing what might be stirred up in my still adjusting head after my divorce.  I’m so glad I decided to go, for Daniel’s sake and for mine.  Even though there is a K in the book for my marriage,  the further from the later years I get the more I am able to appreciate the wonderful person himself was back then and how his legacy will be cemented for those boys.  I know like I know they were good times worth savoring again.