Author Archives: Susan

TOMORROW

When I was a little girl, my mother used to tell me every day that tomorrow may never come, enjoy today. I wasn’t sure what she meant, and I was afraid to ask? Perhaps she knew something that I didn’t know. Did I have some sort of terminal illness that I didn’t know about? Can she see into the future, and knows I’m going to die in some sort of horrible accident? I was a shy and nervous child.

Little girl eating ice cream -Pixelbay by Lucas

I ‘m preoccupied with worrying about what terrible event might take place tomorrow. I’m easily startled. If someone comes up behind me and says boo, I ‘ll jump and shake and then scream at the top of my lungs. After the kids at school found out how I was easily startled, they would sneak up behind me at least once a day and yell boo. And then all of my classmates would all start laughing. After a while, I didn’t want to go to school anymore.

My mother made me go to school. She comes into my bedroom and kneels down next to my bed and whispers, “Darlene, it’s time to wake up for school. You don’t want to be late, do you? If I don’t wake up right away, she starts tapping my shoulder, “Darlene, Darlene, wake up, wake up.” You’re going to be late.” Her final attempt, she yells as loud as she can,” DARLENE, GET UP, NOW.”

I jump out of bed, and then she whispers, “Enjoy your day, Darlene, tomorrow may never come.”

I started having difficulty sleeping because I don’t want my mother to come into my room and waking me up. I’m so tired of not sleeping. I have an even more difficult time waking up. And when I do wake up, I worry about what’s going to happen to me. It’s all I can think about. Will I get hit by a car, run over by a bus, trampled by the boy’s football team if I didn’t get off the field fast enough, or choke to death on a hotdog. The possibilities are endless.

I’m failing all my classes in school. I’m so exhausted from not sleeping at night that I fall asleep at my desk. My teacher sends me to the school nurse several times a week. She’s a kind woman. She lets me lie down on the cot in her office, and says, “Darlene, can you tell me what’s going on at home? Is someone hurting you?”

“No, Mrs. Pritchett no one is hurting me. I have trouble falling asleep. Sometimes, I fall asleep but I can’t stay asleep. Sometimes, when I do fall asleep, I have terrible nightmares. I wake up crying, and then I don’t want to go to sleep because of the nightmares. “

“What does your mother say about this problem?”

“She tells me to take a hot bath before I go to sleep. She thinks that might help me relax. But sometimes I fall asleep in the tub. One time I woke up and my head was under the water. Then I was afraid that I would drown in the tub, and I told my mother, “I only want to take showers from now on.”

She said, “Oh, Darlene, that’s silly. You’re not going to drown in the tub. But if it will make you feel better you can just take a shower.”

“Darlene, did your mother take you to the doctors for a check-up?”

“Yes, she took me to Dr. Hartman. He took my temperature, and weighed me, and listen to my heart. He said, “everything seems fine. Do you have any pain anywhere?”

I said, “No, I don’t have any pain. I can’t fall asleep, that’s all.”

He gave my mother a paper that said I should start taking vitamins since I was a little underweight. And he wants me to start eating better. Then he went into the other room with my mother and talked to her alone.

When my mother and I left she said, “Darlene, why don’t we stop at Friendly’s and get some ice cream we haven’t done anything fun for a long time. Would you like that?”

“Sure Mom. But I’m not that hungry.”

“Oh, come on, Darlene live a little, you only live once. Let’s enjoy today, tomorrow may never come.”

“After she said that, I lost my appetite. I thought the doctor might have told her some bad news. Then we went to the ice cream parlor. My mother got a root beer float with vanilla ice cream and all the toppings. I wasn’t hungry anymore, but my mother insisted on me at least eating a scoop. She said,” come on live it up, Darlene, how about some chocolate too or whipped cream on top.”

“Ok, Mom.” As we sit there eating, I look at my mother. And sure, enough she’s eating like there’s no tomorrow. Really shoving it in fast. I keep staring at her. Finally, she says, “Darlene, it’s impolite to stare at someone who eating.”

“Oh, sorry mom. Can I ask you a question?”

“A question, of course, you can ask me anything.”

“Did the doctor say I was sick or if anything is wrong with me?”

“Wrong with you? No, he said physically, you are fine. He thinks you are a little high strung that’s all. And you need to eat better and get more sleep.”

“High Strung? What does that mean?”

“Oh, it just means you seem nervous, that’s all. I told him that it was ridiculous that you are a normal kid who has trouble sleeping. He seems to think that having trouble sleeping indicates that something is bothering you.”

My mother looks at me for a moment after she says, “Darlene, is something bothering you? You can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you?

I don’t know if I can tell my mother why I can’t sleep or about how the kids tortured me in school. And I’m really afraid of what she might say. Am I going to die suddenly? Is something terrible going to happen today or tomorrow?”

After we left the ice cream parlor, my mother said, “how about if this Saturday, we do something fun? Is there anything that you would like to do, Darlene?”

“Fun, like what Mom?”

“What would you like to do, Darlene? We could go to the movies or the petting zoo, or we could ride bikes around the park, what do you say? Do you have anything you would like to do, Darlene, anything at all?”

“Well, I don’t know. I guess it would be fun to go out to lunch and then go to the movies on Saturday afternoon. You haven’t taken me to the movies since I was a little kid. I would really love to see the Dark Knight Trilogy. I hear the kids at school talking about it all the time. It just came into the theaters about a week ago. And we could get popcorn and candy and sodas. I would really love to do that.”

“Well, Superheroes are not really my thing. But who knows, maybe I’ll enjoy it? But maybe you would rather see that with your friends?”

Darlene stares at her mother and wonders how she could be so clueless about her. “Mom, do you know any of my friends? Did anyone ever come over to play or just spend time with me? “

“Well, Darlene, I can’t say when I remember the last time you had some of your friends over. Why don’t you ask them to come over?”

Darlene looks at her mother with her mouth open, nothing comes out. She starts feeling extremely angry at her mother. She doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. Her mother stands there and stares at her. Suddenly, Darlene yells out as loud as she can, “Why, why don’t I ask my friends over. Because Mother, I don’t have any friends. And I never have. Why didn’t you ever ask me before where all my friends were? The kids at school hate me. They think I’m weird. The teachers hate me too. Everyone hates me. Because I’m weird. You hardly even talk to me, and you’re my mother.”

“Of course, you have friends Darlene. Why are you always so overdramatic?”

“No, no, no. I don’t have friends, no one at school likes me.”

“Why do they think you’re weird?”

“Because I am weird. I’m afraid of everything. I’m afraid I might get a horrible illness, like cancer, and die. I’m afraid of crossing the street. I could get hit by a Mack Truck. I’m afraid I will live my whole life, and nobody will love me or even like me. And you know why mother, do you know why?”

Darlene’s mother looks at her and says,” No, I don’t where do you get all these crazy ideas anyway. It’s nonsense. And Darlene, I do love you with my whole heart. I want nothing but the best for you.”

“Mom, you never tell me you love me. You never tell me how smart I am, or how pretty or how kind. The only thing you say to me every day when I get up is, enjoy your day, Darlene, tomorrow may never come.”

“Oh, Darlene, I say that because I want you to make the most of every day of your life. I never had any idea that might make you think you were going to die, or that something horrible was going to happen to you. I’m so sorry I don’t tell you I love you, or that your pretty and smart. Because I do love you with my whole heart. I want nothing but good things in life to come your way. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize how sad and lonely you are. But I’m happy that you were finally able to tell me how you feel. How about we start with a little hug.” Darlene’s mother puts her arms out for Darlene.

Darlene hesitates momentarily and then steps into her mother’s arms for the first hug she has had in years. Tears start rolling down her face. And then she realizes that her mother is crying too. And they hug one another. “I love you too, Mom.”

They stay like that for a long time. And then Darlene’s mother says,” How about we start every day and end every day with a hug, Darlene?”

“Yes, Mom, I would love that. And then you can just say,” Good Morning, or Good Night.”

“Ok Mom, let’s go home now, I’m tired maybe I could take a little nap. And dream bout going to the movies tomorrow.”

“Ok, Darlene why don’t we head out. This is the best day I’ve had in a long time; I love you, Darlene, with all my heart.”

Darlene looks at her mom, and says,” I love you too mom, let’s go home now.” And the two of then set off on their walk home hand in hand.

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GROWING UP CATHOLIC IN AMERICA IN THE 1950-1960’s

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I was born in 1951at the height of the Baby Boom, which followed WWII. Hence the name Baby Boomers. I was one of a pair (of fraternal twins) Baby B was born seven minutes after my sister, Karen. Catholic families often had many children due to the fact that the only form of birth control that was allowed by the Catholic Church was the” Rhythm Method. Not a particularly reliable birth control method.

Susan Culver- high school graduation picture

We were a part of the ever-growing number of families in the working class. My father was the dispatcher for SEPTA the public bus company in Philadelphia. I grew up in a neighborhood of similar but not identical homes. We all had big backyards. We always had food on the table and clothes on our backs. I was the youngest so it was not uncommon for me to get the hand-me-downs. As did all the youngest in large families in our predominately Irish and Italian neighborhood in Maple Shade, NJ.

There was no “extra money.” However, since most of my friends were in the same boat, I did not consider it a big deal.

Being Catholic in a Catholic neighborhood also meant attending Catholic School. All other kids who didn’t go to Catholic school were called “The Publics.” And for some reason, we were told that this was a fate worse than death. If we misbehaved, we would be threatened with being sent to public school. Something akin to being sent to the third circle of hell.

The Classrooms were often too small for the large numbers of students occupying them. We often had to share books and desks. In first grade, I didn’t have my own desk right away and had to sit on a windowsill.

We were taught by nuns. Who considered themselves to be “brides of Christ.” In elementary school, I had St. Joseph nuns in high school I was taught by Franciscan nuns. The Saint Joseph nuns were a particularly strict order of sisters. They wore heavy woolen habits. Made from yards and yards of fabric. Their “habits” were fitted at the waist with voluminous skirts and a “belt’ that resembled a large rosary with a huge crucifix that hung down in the front. It clicked and clacked as they floated by seemingly without touching the ground. On their foreheads, they wore a “wimple” which was stiff as cardboard. And another piece that covered their chins. And a huge, white bib, that covered them from their necks to their chests, shoulder to shoulder.

I often wondered if they had hair underneath their veils. We were told never to touch the sisters for any reason. They were untouchable. I often wondered if they had ever been regular human beings or entirely another species. We were never brave enough or bold enough to question their words or their behaviors. No matter how unfair or unfathomable it seems to us.

Part of my Catholic School experience was wearing “uniforms.” The Our Lady of Perpetual Help uniform (OLPH) for girls was a maroon jumper with a white short-sleeved blouse, and saddle shoes, which were black and white. And a “beanie,” which was a maroon wool cap with a maroon wool-covered button on the top. Girls had to keep their heads covered at all times, especially in church. The boys wore dark pants, a white shirt, and a tie. The wool uniforms were itchy and uncomfortable especially as the weather became warmer. In the winter, girls were allowed to wear pants under their uniforms outside. But once inside, we had to take them off.

We were expected to stay neat and tidy at all times. My mother was kept busy washing and ironing our uniforms. The nuns kept order in the classrooms at all times. We were not allowed to talk back, or ask questions. Or heaven forbid chew gum in school. If anyone was caught with gum, they were forced to wear it stuck to the end of their nose for the rest of the day. If your behavior was out of line, you would sit in the corner. Your name would be added to a list on the blackboard. It was on there more than three times, you would be in for a world of trouble. And you warned it would go on your “permanent record.” Which we were told would follow you around for the rest of your life. The final threat was you would be expelled and never heard from again. This would be the ultimate embarrassment for your family, of course. What would the neighbors think? The sisters were not beyond using physical punishment, either. Rapping the knuckles with a metal-edged ruler, slapping, knocking the more rebellious boys down a short flight of steps. And name-calling, such as stupid, or lazy, was all too common a punishment.

There were some rewards in Catholic School too. You could become a hall monitor. Or you would be given a responsibility such as clapping the blackboard erasers. The greatest honor was being the child who crowned the Blessed Mother statue in the May procession.

On the first Friday of every month, we were all marched up to the church for Confession. There was a lot of pressure involved in going to Confession. Which was considered a Blessed Sacrament. Coming up with good sins to tell the priest, aside from the usual I got in a fight with my brother or sister, I lied. I was a quiet child and didn’t always have good “sins” to tell the priest. Sometimes, I felt compelled to “make up” more interesting transgressions. After Confession, we all had “pure souls.”

On Sunday mornings, we all went to the Children’s Mass at 9 am. During the Mass, if you were foolish enough to commit a transgression, the sisters would come up to the aisle where you were sitting and click a little metal clicker they had in their deep pockets.

My aisle often got into trouble because I always felt a compulsion to make all the girls in my aisle to start laughing. I would do this almost every Sunday without fail. Make a face or fart and cause a domino effect when my friend next to me would laugh, and then each girl next to them to giggle. The nuns would be clicking like crazy. We would be kept after school and punished by having to diagram sentences. Over fifty years later, I can still diagram a sentence.

In Catholic School, the curriculum was basic: reading, writing, arithmetic, history, spelling, science, spelling, English, and, more importantly religion. We had religion every day. In this class, we were given questions and we had to memorize the answer. If you weren’t good at memorizing your career in Catholic School was at risk. It turns out that I have an excellent memory. And I always received straight A’s in Religion and History and spelling. We’re not permitted to question these Religious beliefs. You were expected to believe on Faith. Anything less was considered a sacrilege.

Another important skill all good children needed to learn was the Palmer Method of Writing. We spent endless hours writing in blue books. We filled these books with strokes and ovals. It was tedious and a waste of time, and I was terrible at it since I was bored. We were using dip pens in bottles of ink. By the fifth grade, there were cartridge pens.

At that time there was a great deal of excitement about the Space Program. And a TV was brought into the classroom so we would all observe a space rocket being launched from Cape Canaveral. Not everyone had televisions back then. It was exciting to watch.

As far as sex education, in the eighth grade, we received a lecture. Of course, the boys and girls were in different rooms. The girls learned about menstruation. A very vague explanation was given and pictures of something (supposedly sperm) swimming towards a waiting ovum. No questions were allowed, and we were warned not to discuss this with the boys. One girl was assigned the important task of smuggling the little booklets out of the room under her jacket.

God knows what version of the truth the boys were told. I was still trying to figure out what a hickey was, let alone how someone got pregnant. No one bothered to tell me about the physical manifestations of menstruation, and I had three older sisters.

When it was time for my sister and me to attend high school, we had to take entrance exams. We were both accepted into St. Mary of the Angels Academy and Holy Cross High School. My parents made the decision that we would attend Saint Mary of the Angel’s Academy because it was an all-girls high school.

I was a shy girl all through my high school years. St. Mary’s was located in Haddonfield, NJ. Which was a higher income area than Maple Shade, NJ, where I grew up. There were some benefits to attending an all-girl school. One was girls didn’t have to fight for attention because there were no boys. In grade school, the nuns always called on the boys. Girls were told it was a known scientific fact that we could not comprehend Math or Science. Many girls at St. Mary’s found out that they were quite intelligent. In fact that they could excel in both Science and Math. We also had a basketball team that competed with other girls’ teams throughout the state of NJ.

The Catholic School system taught me many things: reading, writing, math, history, and basic knowledge of Science, French, and a smattering of Latin. It also taught me self-control, discipline, and determination.

However, it took me years to overcome the lack of self-esteem and inhibitions that sometimes overwhelmed me. Catholic high school did protect us for four additional years from the harsh realities of life. But I don’t know if they did us any favors considering the turmoil of the seventies that awaited us.

ANCORA

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Ancora State Mental Hospital, NJ

When I was twenty-one years old, my boyfriend, Jimmy dumped me without any explanation. He just stopped calling me and wouldn’t answer the phone when I called him. I drove over to his apartment numerous times. He never came to the door. I drove to his parent’s house down the shore in Wildwood. Their summer home was right on the bay. Jimmy loved to fish and to sit on the peer and drink beer.

The first time I went out with him, he said, “Kathy, I want to tell you out front that I drink too much. And I got a dishonorable discharge from the military.”

I said, “dishonorable discharge, what does that mean?”

“It means, that I tried to frag my commanding officer, and they threw me out of the Marines.”

I stared at him and finally said, “frag, what does frag mean?”

It means that me and a bunch of my fellow enlisted buddies decided to get rid of him because he didn’t know what he was doing. And he was going to get us all killed, so we tried to kill him first.” One of the guys ratted us out to the commanding officer. And we were thrown out of the Marines.”

“You tried to kill someone?” I said with wide eyes.

“Yeah, that’s right. Now you know, so if you have a problem with me, then now is the time to leave.”

I sat there silently in the front seat of his car, and thought about it for a few minutes, but not too long. “But you didn’t kill him.”

“Yeah, that’s right we didn’t but not for lack of trying. We just weren’t successful at it.”

I looked at him with his big, blue eyes and sandy blond hair and thought, he didn’t do it, so he’s innocent. Yes, I know that doesn’t make any sense. I should have said, bye, good luck, don’t let the door hit you on the but on the way out. But I didn’t. I just said, “alright, do you want to go out and get something to eat or what?’

We went out to a drive-up called Stewards, and we had hamburgers and fries. Then we went to the movies. He never mentioned it again and neither did I. There isn’t any explanation for why I responded in this way. Other than, I just really wanted to have a boyfriend. I wanted someone to love me. I look back on that decision and realize I’m embarrassed by my choices, especially since not too long after that, he dumped me like a bad habit.

After I was dumped, I spent a good seven or eight months depressed. So depressed that I quit my job and stayed in my bedroom and cried and cried until I didn’t have any tears left. I thought my heart was broken. I felt broken. My parents didn’t know what to do with me and so they did nothing. Eventually, I tried to decide what to do with myself. I realized the first thing I had to do was get a new job.

I talked to my older brother, John. “John, I need to get a job. I would like to work with children. Do you know of any jobs?” My brother recently worked as one of the therapists at Ancora, the state mental hospital. He lived on the grounds in a little house.

“Yes, I do, there are always openings at Ancora. You know the state mental hospital where I used to work. They have a children’s ward there. Anyway, I’ll give you her name and phone number if you’re interested.”

Of course, I know that he lived there and worked there. Apparently, he forgot that I used to drive all the way down there and babysit his kids for him. When he and his wife went out for the evening, before they would leave, he always said, “make sure all the doors and windows are locked after we leave. Some of the mental patients escape sometimes and can be dangerous. “

“Oh yeah, sure,” I said and nervously laughed. My brother was always joking around all the time. At least I hope he was joking. But you could never be certain with him. All the same, after they left, I locked all the doors and checked the windows.

When my brother and his wife returned from their night out, he wrote down the woman’s name and phone number who worked at Ancora and her name and number on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “You can use my name as a reference.”

“Thanks, John, I appreciate your help. See you later.”

The next morning, I called her up. “Hello, Mrs. Coffey, My name is Kathy Bernard. My brother gave me your name and number. My brother’s name is Dr. John Bernard. I’m looking for a new position I want to work with children.”

“Oh, so you’re Dr. Bernard’s sister. We think highly of John. We were sorry when he left. Do you have any experience working with children or mental illness?”

“Well, no not really, but I love kids and would appreciate the opportunity to help kids.”

“Well Miss Bernard, first you will be required to take an aptitude test because Ancora is a state facility, and you will be a state employee. The next available test date is in two weeks, it’s in Trenton. Will that be a problem? And also, if you pass the test, you will have to take eight weeks of training and be tested at the end of completing the course. If you pass you will be a certified Psychiatric aide. “

“No, it’s not a problem.” Although the idea of driving all the way up to Trenton frightened me as I lack a sense of direction and often get lost, I would have to take the turnpike. The average speed driver on the turnpike is 75mph, and mine is 50mph. As it turned out following the NJ turnpike to Trenton was not that difficult. I found my way to Trenton without any problems. However, once I was in the city limits, I got lost and had to pull over and look at the street map I had brought of Trenton. Luckily, I can read and follow a map and somehow made my way to the state testing facility without any real issues. Of course, I arrived about an hour before the test was due to start. As I allowed myself extra time just in case, I became lost. I decided to wait in the car until I was supposed to sign in for the test.

At 9 am sharp I walk up to the state-building and through the double doors to the front desk. I sign in and take a seat in the waiting area and observe all the people who begin arriving to take the test. I ‘m shocked to see how many there are. There are people of all ages, male and female. I realize the competition is going to be tough. I try to remain calm.

The test monitor begins calling people by name. I ‘m called in with the first group of people. Everyone is asked for two forms of identification. I provide mine. The man in charge of testing gives us instructions and tells us the test will be timed. And we have to stop when we are told to, not one second later. I finish the competency test. I hope I did well. I really wasn’t sure how I did. I ‘ll just have to wait for the results. First, I have to find my way home.

About two weeks later, I receive a letter stating that I had passed the competency test and can report for training at Ancora State Hospital the following Monday at 9 am.

I arrived one hour early to start my psychiatric aide training. I find the classroom that I was told to go to almost immediately. I’m the first to arrive. Nine people arrive soon after I do. The first person to arrive after me takes one look at me and comes over and sits at the desk next to me. She smiles at me and I smile back. She says “I’m a little nervous about this.”

I respond, “Me too.” And we both laugh. She introduces herself to me, I’m Joan Hall.”

And from that day forward we stick together like glue. On the last day, we take a final test. And Joan and I score the highest grades. Joan scores slightly higher than me because I didn’t know the visiting hours for Ancora. The teacher asks us to stay after class to talk to her. She recommends that we both consider going on to become psychiatric nurses. As we scored high on the IQ test and high on the final test.

The classroom portion of the course isn’t difficult. When we are put on the wards to be trained. I admit I’m a bit nervous. When I was looking for the ward I was assigned to a young woman comes over to me and asks,” Do you know what time it is? I was somewhat taken aback by her appearance. She’s covered in what appeared to be small tumors all over her face and body. She’s young about my age. I look at her and say, I think it is about 8:45 am. Are you alright?’ She says, “do you know what time it is? Do you know what time it is? Do you know what time it is?” I have to admit I was a little shaken by her appearance and what she said. Most of all, I just felt pity for her. And wondering why she had to have the misfortune of being born this way. I feel sad for her. She walks away from me but keeps asking loudly for the time.

There are other patients walking around, shuffling their feet with seemingly no real purpose or destination in mind. Then I realize that they must be medicated. And the shuffling was some kind of side effect from a drug. I wonder if that is all they do all day—wandering from one hallway to the next. I wave at or said, “hello” to all the patients I pass. Occasionally, one of them responds, “hi,” and keeps walking. I wonder if any of them ever recovered or if they would always live this kind of half-life. As I walk down the hall, I notice there are giant highchairs lined up against the wall. And sitting in the highchairs are adults wearing diapers. They are strapped into the highchairs. They are silent. I can not comprehend what I’m seeing. Some of them have helmets on their heads and keep banging their heads against the wall. I admit I’m shaken by the sight of these unfortunate souls.

The first day Joan and I are assigned to work in the ward for bedridden patients with dementia. As we come onto the floor, I hear an old woman screaming, “I want my applesauce.” She screams this over and over again at the top of her voice. “I WANT MY APPLESAUCE.”

Joan and I look at each other. I was the first one to start laughing, Joan follows. Finally, I say. “Well, damn I’m going to find this poor woman some applesauce.” We start laughing again. I admit it was out of nervousness.

The dementia patients are either screaming at the top of their lungs or look catatonic. I have never been around anyone who has dementia before so it came as quite a shock. We’re going to spend a week in each one of these wards to find a good fit.

I want to work with children, so I’m sure this isn’t where I want to work. By the end of the week, it’s clear to me that I don’t want to work in the ward with dementia patients. Joan likes it there. She has a calming effect on these patients and decides to stay and work there. I ‘ll miss her, but I’m glad she found her niche.

The next week I ‘m assigned to work in the active psyche ward on the first shift. As soon as I enter the ward, I find the day supervisor. “Hello, I’m Kathy Bernard. I’m new to this ward, here are my papers I was told to report to you first thing.

“Oh good, I’m happy that you’re on time, I can’t tolerate people who are tardy. Your first responsibility in the morning is to supervise the woman’s showers. Here are the people you are to call for the first showers. Let me show you where the showers are located. As she walks with me to the shower room, she explains that I was to stand in the room and watch the patients while they are in the shower room. And make sure that order is maintained and that there isn’t any physical contact allowed between the patients.

I look at her. Perhaps stare with my eyes bulging out of my head at her would be a better description. And I repeat once maybe twice, “supervise the woman’s showers.” Keep in mind that I’m twenty-one years old and have zero experience with naked people or communal showers for that matter. Then I say, “ok.” And follow her to the shower room. It’s one big open space with showers spaced about four feet apart with a drain on the floor and a towel rack between each shower. And a shelf for the patients to place their dry clothes.

“Alright, here we are. And as I said the patients aren’t allowed to have physical contact for any reason.”

I repeat, “no physical contact.” Inside my head, I’m screaming, run, run, run away Kathy. But don’t. I stay there and wait for further instructions. There aren’t any.

“Alright, get busy; we don’t like to get behind schedule. Go out there and call the first ten patients in, keep it orderly.”

“Alright.” I say, and walk into the next room and yell out, “Alright, ladies, I want the people whose name I call out to go into the shower room and get a shower. Take off your pajamas and wash thoroughly from top to bottom, dry yourself and get dressed, and, most importantly, do not touch anyone else for any reason.”

And unbelievably that is what they do. The patients walk into the shower room and undress and get a shower, dry off, and then put their day clothes on. I only had one patient engage me in any way. She looks about twenty years old and has Downs Syndrome. She comes over and points down at her crotch and tries to hand me the soap. It takes me a moment to realize what she wants. And I calmly said, “What’s your name?” She says, Mary or Marta. I’m not sure which. “I think you know Mary that there isn’t any physical contact allowed in this room. Please return to your shower and then dry off and get dressed.”

She did just that. I’m shocked that I ‘m able to handle this issue with such calmness. And that I didn’t run away. At that moment, I recognize that I ‘m stronger than I ever knew. I stand in the doorway of the shower room and observe the patients. After they’re finished, I take the next ten women into the shower room, and all goes well. I realize that these are people just like me. They have mental health issues. And that I’m here to help and guide them and learn from them. I don’t know if I’m up to the task, but I’m going to do my best while I’m here.

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POCKET

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I franticly pull on my favorite pair of black dress pants and a white silk blouse. I overslept yet again. I have been plagued by insomnia for the past three weeks. I didn’t fall asleep until 2:30 in the morning last night. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and so does my mouth. I rush toward the bathroom. And stub my toe on a pile of books I left on the floor yesterday. I scream out an expletive. I have never been able to figure out why it hurts so much when a toe is stubbed. I lean over and hold my toe, hoping it will stop throbbing.

Silver Dollar 2211438-Pixabay

When I finally stop cursing, I hop over to the sink on one foot to wash my face, brush my teeth and gargle mouthwash. I brush my red curly hair into a bun. I rush to the kitchen and grab my keys off the kitchen table.

I head out the door to the garage. I shove the garage door up. God, how I wish I could afford an electric garage door opener. I back out of the garage. Put the emergency brake on the car and get out and slam the garage door shut.

I jump back in the driver’s seat, and off I go. As I drive down the street, I can see that Route 50 is absolutely packed. I’ll probably have to sit for five or ten minutes just waiting to make a left turn. The traffic on Route 50 is unbelievably crowded if you are heading into the city from the suburbs.

I finally manage to edge my way onto the highway. I‘m off, going ten miles an hour. Why you ask? Because someone has had an accident somewhere ahead of me on Route 50. I’m going to be in hot water if I’m late again. I already had a warning last week.

Oh good, it looks like the accident in front of me is clear. I’m on my way again. I put some music on to calm my nerves. I reach into my purse for my change purse and blindly search through the change for my lucky coin. It never fails me. Whenever I’m under the gun, all I have to do is keep my lucky coin in my pocket and everything turns out perfectly.

My Uncle Pat gave me this silver dollar for my tenth birthday. He promised that it would bring me good luck whenever I really needed it. And it always has from that day forward. Whenever things are difficult. All I do is put the coin in my pocket and rub it. And sure enough, by the end of the day, things will have improved immensely.

My Uncle Pat lived in Philadelphia, and we lived in a small town in Southern New Jersey. I loved it when he came to visit us. He would call ahead and let my mother know what time his bus would arrive at our corner. I would wait until it was almost time for his bus to get to our street, and then I would run as fast as I possibly could down our street to Main Street. And sit down on the bench at the bus stop and wait for his bus to get there.

When the bus pulled over to the curb, I would be waiting there for him with a big smile on my face. “Hi Uncle Pat, I’ve been waiting for you. I missed you.”

“Hello, Jenny, how are you?’

My Uncle Pat always said the same thing to me every time I saw him. He would say,” I have a surprise for you. Guess what it is?”

He always gives me the same thing, a coin. Sometimes it’s a quarter, and other times it was a dime. Either way, I’m happy because as soon as I walked him down the street to my house, then I would run down the street to buy some penny candy at the candy store.

“Come on, Jenny, guess.”

And then I answer, “is it an elephant?”

He looked at me and says,” how do you always know what’s in my pocket? You must be a mind reader.”

Then he hands me a coin, and I smile from ear to ear. Because nothing made me happier than seeing him laugh. My Uncle Pat was tall and had a huge belly that bounced up and down when he laughed. His hair was bright red and wavy. He laughed a lot. He was such fun to be around, always laughing and telling silly jokes.

But that day, he pulled a silver dollar out of his pocket. I’ve never seen one before. I thought it must be worth a fortune. “Uncle Pat, thanks so much. This is the best present anyone has ever given me.”

“You’re welcome, Jenny. But don’t spend this silver dollar because it isn’t an ordinary coin. It’s magic. When you are having a tough time, put it in your pocket and rub it, and soon your problems will be gone. Whatever you don’t lose it. And don’t give it away. It will only work for you, no one else. The magic is just for you, Jenny. We better keep moving, or I’ll be late for lunch, and your mother will have a bird.”

He always says, “your mother will have a bird.” It just means she’ll be upset.

As we walked down the street, my uncle kept stumbling. I began to worry that he’ll fall. And I‘ll never be able to pick him up. He’s really big. By the time we arrive at my house, I‘m a nervous wreck. Because I kept thinking he’s going to fall. But thank goodness, he didn’t.

I yank open our front door and yell at the top of my lungs,” Uncle Pat’s here, Uncle Pat’s here.”

My mother calls out from the kitchen, “dear god, Jenny, are you trying to wake the dead?” Stop yelling. My mother walks into the vestibule and says, “Pat, come in, come in and take a load off. I have the coffee on, and your lunch is almost ready.”

Ever since the day that my Uncle Pat gave me the silver dollar, I always kept it in my pocket. And if I was really having a tough day, I take it out and rub it. And think about what my Uncle Pat said.

And it never failed by the end of my day; whatever I was worried about would seem small and insignificant. And I would stop worrying about it. As I grew up, I began to understand that I couldn’t control all the things in my life that didn’t go perfectly. I was able to control most things. While I was still in school, I realized that if I studied and prepared for my classes, I didn’t have to worry about failing. If I planned ahead. I wouldn’t have to worry about something that might happen. Of course, you can’t be prepared for everything that might happen. But I was lucky because I had my lucky coin. Sometimes, I rubbed it so hard for so long that I realized I was wearing it out.

As I grew up, I needed my lucky coinless and less, but I still keep it in my pocket, just in case. I know it will always be there for me if I ever need it. I’m an adult now, and I realize that the magic that coin held for me was self-confidence. That no matter what problem I face in life. I will be able to handle it. And I have. My Uncle Pat was a wise man.

RAIN THEN TEARS

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I barely make it on time to the Greyhound Depot to catch my bus. It starts to rain about five blocks from the depot. I‘m thoroughly soaked through by the time I arrive there. My hair is dripping wet, and rain has somehow found its way inside my jacket. I run towards the bus depot; my backpack is bouncing up and down on my back like a snare drum. The bouncing has the added effect of inducing a migraine headache. I step onto the bus and hand the bus driver my ticket. “Oh, sorry, I’m sorry. I got a late start. “

Greyhound Bus-Peter Wolf-Pixabay

I take one look at the bus, and I see it is packed to the gills. “Shit, shit, shit,” I look at the driver and shrug my shoulders. “There aren’t any seats left; I purchased this ticket two weeks ago.”

“Yes, mam, there is. It’s in the second to last row on your left, next to the window.”

“Oh yeah, sorry, I see it. Thanks.”

I make my way halfway down the center aisle and trip over some guy’s foot that’s sticking out. He all but shouts at me, “Hey lady, lookout, are you blind or what?”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see it sticking out. I didn’t expect someone to have their foot sticking out in the aisle so they could trip someone. And I give him one of my biggest smiles and flutter my lashes at him. And walk on. I mutter under my breath, “asshole.”

I notice as I cruise down the center aisle that all the other passengers have their heads down for some reason. Huh, I think what’s this all about? I try and catch someone’s attention, but no one looks my way. Then I think, oh maybe they’re all mad because I was late. Oh well, nothing I can do about that now.

I finally make it down the gauntlet of sad, distracted faces to my empty seat. I hear a weird noise. First, there is a sniffing sound. I think someone has a cold. And then I realize it’s the person in the seat next to mine. Great, now I’m going to catch a cold for crying out loud. I look at her. Tears are streaming down her flushed cheeks. I hear three loud sniffs, and then the crying starts and steadily increases until she is full-out sobbing. I take a step back. I look from left to right. I see no other course of action, no place else to go. I look at the people on the right and the left. Then I do an about-face and look at the passengers in the middle and the front.

About half of them have plugged in their headphones and have their heads down. The rest are staring out the windows. Probably wish they were anywhere but here on this stupid bus ride to hell. I turn back around and look at my seat.

“Excuse me,” I say to the crying young woman. “But this is my seat next to you. Could you move over so I can sit down?”

She slowly raises the armrest and blows her nose a couple of times on a tissue she has tucked up her sweater sleeve. I hear a honk, honk. I think, dear god, what is that noise? Then, I realize it’s the young woman blowing her nose. She slowly gets up, and I mean slowly, and moves over to the window seat. She doesn’t say a word, nada, anything at all. She just slides over and continues crying, with her head hanging low. Her chin is almost resting on her chest.

I pull off my backpack and unsnap one of the side pockets and pull out my headphones. I put my pack on the rack above my head with some difficulty. I’m not the tallest person in the world, and I have short arms to boot. I finally shove it in and plop down in my seat. It’s only 7:55 am, and I’m exhausted. And there’s a thirteen-hour and fifteen-minute bus trip ahead of me. Oh well, I, think I’ll just take a nap, and that way I can get some rest and kill some time.

And that’s when I realize that I don’t have my migraine medicine with me. And I know that this is going to be the most interminable trip of my life. It was a mistake flopping down in my seat, too, as that has made my migraine pain even worse. I start to feel nauseous. My head is pounding as if it might explode. I begin worrying about how often they clean the bathroom on these Greyhound buses.

Somehow, I manage to fall asleep over the road noises and over the sobbing of my bus companion. As I’m about to drift off, I think, what in the world has happened to this girl to make her cry like this, non-stop and within hearing distance of everyone on the bus? And also, why am I so unlucky? Why did I end up sitting next to this weeping young woman? And then I realize it was my fault for being late leaving and being the last person to get on the bus. And that’s all I remember until I woke up about an hour later.

As I started to wake up, I hear a weird noise. I don’t immediately remember where I am. And then I hear a honking. Honk, honk, honk. It’s my seat companion. Blowing her nose once again. Dear god, is she still crying, I think? I look over at her. Her eyes are so swollen from crying. I can hardly see her eyes. Her nose is red. She starts pressing her fisted hands on her eyes and rubbing them back and forth. I stare at her. She seems to have forgotten that I’m sitting next to her. I try and decide what the best course of action is. Short of throwing myself out the window. Or at the very least, getting on a different bus at our first rest stop.

I stare at her red and puffy eyes and think. What would I want someone to do if the circumstances were reversed, and I was the one who couldn’t stop crying? Would I prefer people just ignored me or someone asks me if I’m alright?

“Excuse me; my name is Marilyn Carter. I know it’s none of my business, but you seem so upset. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

She looks over at me with a surprised expression on her face that says, where did you come from? She is still sniffling, and tears are running down her cheeks, but she isn’t sobbing anymore. I see her gulp. And then she clears her throat. “Oh, I didn’t even notice you were sitting there. And the short answer is no; I’m not alright. Four days ago, I was laid off from my job. Well, they called it a layoff]. But I won’t be called back. I loved that job. It was the first job I had where I felt I was making a real difference. I moved away from Raleigh to take the job. A place where I had spent my whole life. All my friends live there, and so does my family.”

As she mentions family, she starts crying again. I wait for her to continue. “And that morning before I got to work, I got a call from my father. He told me that my mother had a heart attack, and passed away. So, today I’m going home for the funeral. And while I’m there, I’m going to decide if I should go back to Philadelphia and look for another job there. Or if I should just go and pack up all my stuff in my apartment in Philly and move back to Raleigh and try to find a job there.”

“What did you say your name was, dear?”

“My name? Oh, of course, I’m sorry. I told you my whole life story, and you don’t even know who I am. My name is Candace Mickleton. I’m not in the habit of crying in public. I know this sounds dramatic, but I feel like my heart is broken. It hurts to keep breathing. Just the very act of breathing is painful. I love my mother so much. I called her every day. She always believed in me even when I struggled for so long, trying to find out what I wanted to do in my life. She was always there for me, telling me she knew I will be successful and not to ever lose faith in myself. And then to lose my job so unexpectedly. It’s too much. I don’t feel like I can go on. I can’t think of a reason why I should go on.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I call you by your first name Candace. Please call me, Marilyn.”

“First, please let me say how sorry I am about your mother passing away. I remember when my mother died and how her loss made me feel broken, empty. I couldn’t imagine going the rest of my life without seeing her. Every day for weeks, the first thing I thought about was my mother and how I would never see her again or hear her voice, how I would never hear her tell me how proud she was of me. And how much she loved me.”

“Over time during the day, I started thinking about how my mother would not have wanted me to feel this bereft because of her. She only wanted the best for me. And whenever I started feeling bad, I thought about how lucky I was to have such a wonderful mother. And I started to do things that made me feel happy; I concentrated on all the good things I had in my life. I moved forward in my life instead of being stuck in that moment of loss. I decided that from that moment forward, I would be happy and successful in my life because that is what my mother would have wanted for me.”

“As for losing your job well, that was bad timing. Perhaps you need this time to heal from your mother’s loss. Take the time to recover and consider what you want your future to be. You said that your job was the first job you loved and were doing well. You could use that experience as a springboard to something even better. While you are in Raleigh, you’ll have the opportunity to talk to all your old friends and relatives. And who knows one of them might be aware of an opportunity in the Raleigh-Durham area. That you aren’t aware since, as you said, you haven’t lived here in quite a while.”

Candace gradually stops crying as she listens to Marilyn. And she realizes she’s right. Her mother wouldn’t have wanted her to stop living her life. She would want her to move forward into her future with her optimism. “Thank you, Marylyn, that is what I needed to hear. I feel like I can breathe again. My mother would want me to go on with my life and be happy and successful. I don’t know what I’m going to do about finding a job. But I will talk to my family and get their advice. I love living in Philadelphia. I have made so many friends there. And there is always something going on downtown. On the other hand, I don’t like the idea of my father living alone. “

“Candace, why don’t you give it a few days and then talk to your father? He is probably in shock right now. You might find that he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. And wouldn’t want you to give up your life in the North East. Since he knows how happy you are there.”

“Thanks again Marilyn I’m so lucky that you were late getting to the bus station. And that you ended up sitting next to me.”

“Thanks, Candace, life has a way of bringing the right people into our lives when we need them. I think I’m going to take another little nap now. But if you like it at the rest stop what say I buy you a nice lunch. I know I didn’t take time to eat breakfast, and you probably didn’t, either.” And with that, Marilyn’s eyes close, and she falls fast asleep and begins snoring loudly.

Candace looks at Marilyn and smiles. And closes her own eyes and falls fast asleep as well.

CORONA VIRUS- JUNE 6th, 2020

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Another week has passed. Spring is nearly over and Summer will arrive in two weeks. I can’t imagine that this summer will be similar to any summer I have experienced during my lifetime. It’s true the heat and humidity will be here and extended daylight too. But few people will be taking vacations at the beach or anywhere else I imagine.

Cows cooling down in the pond

In my travel to my volunteer job at Animal Edventure, I have been fortunate in being able to observe the beautiful farmlands of North Carolina come to life. Two weeks ago, I noticed that the farmers were plowing their fields and that because of all the rain we receive, the grass was greener, and the wildflowers were appearing along the side of the roads.

NC rural farmlands- photos by Bob Culver

Yesterday I noticed that the crops that were just planted a week ago were about ten inches tall. I was amazed at how quickly they grew. Thanks to the hardworking farmers and the Latino migrant workers that come here every year to do the backbreaking work to provide food for our tables. I have never lived in a rural area before, and I have come to have a real appreciation for this landscape.

We will appreciate our friends and family because we now understand how essential they are to our lives and our happiness. And appreciate them all in a new way. We will no longer take anything for granted. Because we realize that any of it or all of it could be lost in a moment.

We know life seems to slip by quickly as we get older. And every moment of our lives should be treasured. Now is the time for all of us to tell people how much we love and care for them. From my own experience, I can tell you that time passes quickly. It seems like yesterday when my children were young and playing in the little blow-up pool in the backyard of our first house. And now they are both adults. It seems in the blink of the eye.

When I was a child, Summer was my favorite time of the year. It was a magical time. I had complete freedom, no school, and so no homework. Endless days of playing with my friends, riding my bike all over town and swimming in my neighbor’s pool, roller skating, walking downtown and going to the 5 & 10 Store, and going to the Matinee downtown every Saturday afternoon. The only bad memories I have was being eaten alive by the mosquitoes.

So no, this won’t be the idyllic Summer we would all love to have. But we can enjoy watching movies with our children or grandchildren, swimming in our backyard pools if we have one. Riding bikes in our neighborhoods or even hiking in the woods if there is one located near where you live. We can still create good memories. It is up to us.

It is strange that with all the unrest in our country that the Corona Virus has barely been mentioned even though it is clearly still here. And the death rate has continued to increase. And we will a surge in the number of people infected because of people protesting and more people attending churches and not observing social distancing or not wearing masks while among crowds of people.

I believe that because of all the pain and loss we are all feeling at this time, we will learn a new appreciation for we took for granted all these years. The violence that has been visited upon American citizens for lawfully protesting the death of yet another black American citizen by police is difficult to digest. There have been rallies across the world to support Black Lives Matter. There have been riots.

I do not support rioters destroying private businesses or looting. This type of action is not acceptable at all. It hurts everyone in the community. But I do understand the emotions behind the looting and rioting. The anger, the frustration, the resentment they have experienced by being treated as less than white people over many generations has an accumulative effect.

As your lives return to normal and you return to your jobs, please keep in mind that the virus is still very much alive and among us. Please continue to social distance and wear masks. I know it’s easy to forget doing to do this. I enjoy talking to people and often have to suppress my inclination to walk over to people and start talking to them. I miss that interaction. I wave at them from a distance and yell out,” Hello, how are you doing?” It feels weird and artificial to me. But I continue to do so because I don’t want to inadvertently become infected or infect someone else because I wasn’t careful enough. We must always remember to first do no harm.

Some day I hope that all of this will just become a distant bad memory. But there are lessons to be learned here. That all lives have value and make a contribution. A contribution that perhaps we never valued before and, now we do. I hope we remember this when all is said and done.

That in order for us to continue to have a free country, there is a price we all have to pay, is to guard that freedom. That our actions have consequences. That every person’s life matters. Regardless of their race, religion, gender, or sexual orientation.

__________________________________

THE INCREDIBLE MUTTER MUSEUM IN PHILADELPHIA

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“I‘m about to embark on the ultimate goal of my lifetime. It’s such an incredible opportunity that I’m almost tongue-tied. Tongue-tied, that’s funny. If I were actually tongue-tied, I would no doubt fit into my position on yet another level. Let me explain further.

My name is Henry Aloysius Caldwell, the Third. I’m third in line to inherit all that my grandfather Henry Aloysius Caldwell left to his heirs. Which, even I admit, is considerable. I have amassed a small fortune myself. And so, my grandfather’s inheritance, although a tidy sum, is not something I need or necessarily even desire. But what he has left to me and me only is the opportunity of a lifetime.

Mutter Museum skull collection

The first time I entered the hallowed halls of the Mutter Museum and Library, I was about thirteen years old. Mutter Museum’s location is at 19 South 22^nd Street in Philadelphia, Pa. The Mütter Museum of The College of Physicians of Philadelphia was donated by a surgeon Thomas Dent Mütter who was hell-bent on improving and reforming medical education. Mütter made it clear that by accepting his donation of 1,700 objects and $30,000, the College is required to hire a curator, maintain and expand the collection, fund annual lectures, and erect a fireproof building to house the collection.

What collection, you ask? Well, I was just about to explain just that. Basically, the museum is dedicated to the study of human anatomy. The collection includes both normal and abnormal specimens. They’re stored as wet and dry specimens. But, my area of “interest” is the anomalies. Some have called it an obsession, but I, well, I call it passion.

Conjoined twins plaster cast Mutter Museum

Conjoined twins plaster case- Mutter Museum

Why do you ask? Well, it is merely this. I’m an anomaly. Oh, you don’t see anything about me that is odd or peculiar? Some differences are not apparent to the human eye. I may look normal enough at first blush. But I’m attracted to all things different, strange, off the wall, bizarre, weird and eccentric, and unusual. I’m a collector of sorts too.

And since I have the resources, I have spent the entirety of my adult life collecting. I have traveled every nook and cranny of the earth, no matter how remote. I have collected human oddities, not living ones. But those who have passed from this mortal coil. Their final contribution being their human remains. And their families are generously compensated for their contributions. And their hope is at least they will contribute to preventing future generations from suffering the same fate as their loved ones.

As I was saying and I hope you will forgive my slight transgression. I tend to go off track. It is one of my little foibles. The first time I visited the Mutter, as I fondly call it, I was about thirteen. And upon entering this bastion of knowledge, I was utterly transfixed. It was as if I had died and gone to heaven. My grandfather brought me there as a surprise for my 13th birthday. He considered age thirteen to be the age when a boy becomes a man. And he knew only too well my love of all things otherworldly, offbeat, strange, alien even.

So, there I was on the precipice of becoming a man. Then I walked through those doors into my version of nirvana. The building from the outside seems small but somehow impressive, carved in stone.

As I stepped inside the exhibition room, I was confronted by a wall. And on that wall were cabinets with glass doors, and within those beautiful Victorian cabinets were human skulls. I was transfixed. Each skull had a description of who the person was, whose head now inhabited the shelf. I read each and every classification. I stepped back from the skulls and took them all in. In my mind, it was the most beautiful sight I had ever beheld. A powerful image that remained in my memory from that moment until this moment.

The next exhibit was so incredible I found it challenging to find the words to describe it. A physician whose name was Chevalier Jackson was a well-known and respected otolaryngologist. This is a fancy name for a doctor who specializes in ear, nose, and throat problems. He developed methods and tools for removing foreign objects from human airways. Jackson’s collection includes 2,374 inhaled or ingested foreign bodies that were extracted from patients’ throats, esophagi, and lungs during his almost 75-year-long career.

Most of the items are on display. Can you imagine having the compulsion to swallow objects that are not meant to be digested? I saw objects such as buttons, pins, nuts, coins, bones, screws, dentures and bridges, and small toys, among many other items. Can you picture it? How fascinating. Not just the fact that people had the compulsion to swallow these indigestible tidbits but the fact that Dr. Jackson was driven to spend his life keeping painstakingly keeping records of not just the patient but each object that was swallowed. And here it is now for all to see.

And this will blow your mind, just as it blew mine. The Mutter has dissected sections of Einstein’s brain. They studied his brain to try and discover why Einstein’s brain was so advanced. It was found that they were unable to find anything out of the ordinary about his brain. In fact, they discovered his brain was slightly small than the average brain. And yet, he was one of the most brilliant men known up to that time. It goes to show that humans and how our individual brain works is still a mystery.

During my first visit to Mutter with my grandfather, I experienced a revelation. And that was that I could create a life for myself that was both satisfying and engaged my curiosity about people and their inner workings. And that I different as I was from everyone, I ever knew that I could contribute to the world, to science, and to humankind. And in that way, I would not be considered a weirdo or outcast. I would be accepted as “normal.”

And from that moment, I dedicated my life to understanding the true nature of man. I have come to realize that we are all more similar than different. We all have gifts that can benefit the world.

And so here I am, opening these grand old doors at Mutter and embracing the life that I have long dreamed of as President & Chief Executive Officer of the Mutter Museum. Who knows what mysteries will unfold as we hold back the fabric of time. And discover all the secrets of humanity as yet unknown? Please come in, won’t you?

CORONA VIRUS-MAY 30,, 2020

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Here in North Carolina this week, we have had more than our share of rain. It has rained nearly every day during the past week. I’m an avid gardener, so I realize that if I want to enjoy flowers and vegetables growing in my garden, rain is necessary. Today it rained so much that the ground in my back yard is sodden. In NC, if you dig down to about ten inches, you will find red clay.

Calla Lillies- photo by Bridget Culver

The clay inhibits moisture from going deep into the soil. And the accumulated rainfall after a week of rain just sits on top of that clay. When I go to my back yard, I wear boots. The first Spring after we moved here, we planted several young trees. One week it rained so hard one of the young trees, a beautiful dogwood just floated up out of its soil and fell over. I’ve never seen that happen before. We replanted it, but it didn’t survive.

Some people love rain, the way it sounds on the roof as it falls, the fresh smell after the storm. I, too, enjoy these things. But still, I love a sunny day so much more. I feel so happy when I look out the window and see the sun shining. It lifts my spirit.

Jalapeno – Photo by Bob Culver

Today it started to drizzle on my way to Animal Edventure. A thunderstorm is predicted at about 10:30 AM. I arrive at about 7:15 AM. And so, I think I can accomplish my work done before the rain starts. But the rain starts early. The bird building I work in has a metal roof, and the sound that the rain makes on the roof is tremendous. The parrots and Macaws love noise, and they increase their volume as the rain hitting the roof becomes louder. I have to go out of the building several times, and I am thoroughly soaked.

By this time, I accept that it will probably rain all day. I stop letting it bother me. I turn the radio on in the building. The only station that I’m able to tune in is a Country Station, not my favorite kind of music. But I go with it. The birds, including three Macaws, three cockatoos, and twenty parrots, all begin to chime in. They love the rain. And would probably love nothing more than to be out in the rain taking a shower. So all and all we had a good morning in the bird building, singing, and some screaming, screeching and talking.

After I took care of my parrots in the bird building, I go outside to feed the pheasants, chickens, and doves. They don’t seem to mind the rain either. I cleaned out all their water dishes and checked who needed more feed. And I rake out the waste, and I’m finished. I put all my tools away and walk out to my car. The sun shows its face. I was happy to see it even if it is only for a little while.

I hit the country road and start home. When I ‘m about one-half mile from Animal Edventure, I notice a Red-Tailed Hawk sitting on a post of a split rail fence. And flying over the hawk’s head is a wren who is repeatedly dive-bombing the hawks head, hitting it over and over. I realize the wren wants the hawk out of his territory. Possibly she’s protecting her nearby nest. I want to stop and take a picture, but I realize they would both fly away if I did. So, I just slowly drive by them and watch the show. The hawk ignoring the wren as if were little more than a gnat. And the wren unafraid and unrelenting in her desire to protect her nest and babies.

Nature is continuing to do its job, rain upon the earth, offering us the occasional glimpse of the sun, the wren protecting the future generation of wrens.

When I arrive home, I fill up the bird feeders in my yard while the sun still shines. As long as we live upon this planet, nature will continue to provide for the cycle of life. About an hour later, the heavy rain returns, and I watch the storm from the safety of my porch.

As I sit there on my porch chair, my dog Douglas jumps up next to me, and I pet his head. He’s happy that I’m home and is content to lie next to me and continue his nap.

As I sit there, I contemplate all the things that occurred during the past five days, and some of it is heartbreaking. A man’s life was lost because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and his skin was not white. The city he lived in is in turmoil, and his community is angry and reacting.

It is a heartbreaking event, one that we have all heard too many times. I can’t imagine how this will resolve. I wonder how much longer it will take for America to recognize that the color of one’s skin is one small aspect of that person. Would you define a person’s worth by their eye color? This man’s future is forever gone. His family and friends will miss him for the rest of their lives.

The number of people that have died from the virus in America has risen to over 100,000 people. A number so large it’s hard to comprehend. But every single digit represents a single person who is forever lost to their family, their friends. Anything that they could have contributed to our society, to our planet is forever lost.

Anyone who states that the “numbers” aren’t that bad, is a person who does not value human life. A person that values “things” more than life. The accumulated loss of all that this 101thousand lives could have accomplished and could have enriched our lives is incalculable ways and will forever remain unknown. But the loss will be deeply felt for generations to come.

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COMING OF AGE

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In May of 1989 I turned 38 years old. In July of that same year I celebrated my 14^th wedding anniversary to my husband, Bob. I had two young children Jeanette, who was seven years old, and my youngest daughter Bridget was almost four.

Susan Culver- Tyler School of Art ID

In September of 1989 I entered Temple University at Tyler School of Art as a full-time Freshman. I was the first and the only adult to begin undergraduate studies as an adult at the Tyler Campus. I looked young for my age, but by no stretch of the imagination did I look seventeen or eighteen years old.

In 1987 my mother passed away from congestive heart failure. My father died eight months before her from lung cancer. The years that my parents became ill and eventually succumbed to their illnesses were the most difficult and painful I had ever experienced. Their absence from my life was almost unbearable.

But I learned many lessons from those experiences and the most important one I learned from my mother. She revealed to me in the last year before she died that her biggest regrets were not the mistakes, she made. But the things she had not done in her life. I made a vow to myself that I would not make these same mistakes. I didn’t want to come to the end of my life regretting the things not accomplished. I wasn’t going to allow anything to stand in my way for any reason, including fear and money.

I also learned what a strong woman I had become in the years between eighteen and forty. I learned to trust myself as a person with strong values. I realized I had courage and intelligence. It took all those years to believe in myself. I made a conscious decision to not allow anyone to dissuade me for any reason. And that is exactly what I did. I did not listen when I was told I was too old or didn’t have an art background.

Once I made the decision to go to Art School, I spent almost a year building my portfolio. And ultimately, I was accepted into all the art schools I applied at including Temple University and Hussian School of Art and Moore College of Art which is a women’s college.

I chose to attend Temple Tyler School of Art, which was then located in Cheltenham, Pa. I felt this school offered me the opportunity to not only attend a prestigious art school but access to all the classes at the main campus in Philadelphia. Pa., I wanted to learn more than art but also history, science, women studies, and literature.

At one point before I decided to major in art, I also considered becoming a writer. The second reason I choose Temple Tyler School of art was the University offered me full financial aid for the entire Freshman year. This offer was based on my being a woman of a certain age. And the scores I attained in the University entrance exam. And I believed my determination to go to this school played a big part in my acceptance and financial aid.

The first week as a full-time student was a momentous one for me. Here I was in the mid-point of my life and I was a college Freshman.

The First Day

I leave Bridget in the car seat while I walk Jeanette up to the baby sitter’s front door. The baby sitter had a child had in Franklin Elementary School as well. Her daughter happens to be Jeanette’s best friend. She’s one year younger than Jeanette. I have been babysitting her during the summer months for years since she was a young child. They agreed to walk Jeanette to school along with their own child. The school was just down the street. “Bye Jeanette, I’ll see you after school. I love you.” Jeanette was so happy to be spending time with her best friend Laura, she didn’t look back, she just yelled, “Bye Mom see you later.”

I jump back into the front seat behind the wheel. I look at Bridget. She’s smiling as usual, always a happy little girl. Her eyes were as big as saucers. “OK Bridget you’re going to the First Baptist Christian Day School. And you are going to make a lot of friends and have tons of fun. You’re so lucky.” She smiles at me. I have to admit I felt a little guilty. But I had spent seven years being a stay at home mom. And I thought they would benefit being with other children and adults. They both had a tendency to be somewhat reticent with people they didn’t know.

I held Bridget’s hand tightly as we walk into the school, and into her classroom. I met her teacher, Mrs. Miller. She looks as if she is about seventy-five years old. And I think, Oh how is she going to handle all these little kids?

“Hello, Mrs. Miller, I’m Susan Culver and this is my daughter, Bridget. She’s starting pre-school here today.”

“Well Mrs. Culver don’t you worry Bridget will be just fine here with me.”

“I’m sure she will, however, she has never been in school before or even had a babysitter before now.”

“Yes, yes Mrs. Culver not too worry, she’ll be just fine, be on your way now.”

“Oh yes of course, let me say goodbye first.”

“No, it’s better if mothers don’t make a big fuss when leaving their little ones here.”

“Oh, alright and I walk to the door and then turn back and took a final look at my little girl. Thinking, oh I hope I haven’t made a mistake doing this. “As I look across the room, I see Bridget sitting in a circle with the other little kids singing like she’s been coming here all of her life. She looks happy. I feel the knot in my stomach loosen a bit.

My first day at school was about to begin as well. And I was feeling equal amounts of excitement and fear. I had graduated from high school in 1969. And so, it had been a long, long time since I was in a classroom as a student. But this was the first time I wanted to go to school. I’m excited about learning and being challenged. All the teachers at Tyler wanted the students to learn and grow as an artist. They were all artists as well.

As I pull out into the street next to First Baptist Christian Day School. I am about to meet my first challenge. I have to drive from Merchantville, NJ to Pennsylvania. And that meant I had to cross the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge to North East Philadelphia and then on to Cheltenham, Pa.

What challenge is that you may ask? Well, the challenge is my fear of bridges and heights. The Tacony Bridge is a drawbridge that allows large ships to go under the bridge to the port at Philadelphia. And I am terrified of bridges. Why, because one time when I was young, under five I was in the car sitting on my mother’s lap. And we were going over the Walt Whitman Bridge. I leaned against the door and the door swung open and I fell out onto the bridge. Luckily my father was at a standstill waiting until the drawbridge closed that was allowing a ship to pass under the bridge.

Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, NJby Arorlin 55 2009

I don’t remember much more than this. Except how angry my father was at me. Even though obviously it wasn’t my fault I was a child, the door wasn’t locked and I was sitting on my mother’s lap and not in my own seat in the back. Of course, back then there weren’t car seats or seat belts for that matter. And my father was mad because it scared him witless when I fell out. And ever since that day I was afraid of going over bridges.

I found out that the first day that I drove over the bridge was I wasn’t afraid anymore. Why, because I was the one doing the driving. Before this, I had always insisted that my husband drives to Philadelphia. Now I had control of my car, and I was safe. That’s the day I overcame my fear of bridges. And it was a good thing because for the next four years sometimes I had to go back and forth twice a day. So, I met that first challenge.

My second challenge was getting to the Tyler School without getting lost. One of my shortcomings is a complete lack of a sense of direction. Never had one, still don’t. My husband Bob wrote clear and precise directions to and from Tyler. And he drew a map. I taped the map to the dashboard to the right of the steering wheel. Thanks to him, I made my way to school and back without getting lost once. Of course, at some point I remembered the route without the map. Although for some reason my brain often has difficulty figuring out how to go home even though it is the same except for the direction I’m headed. It always takes me longer to learn the way back from just about anywhere I go.

As I made my final right turn into the stone walled parking lot of Tyler, I was torn between excitement and trepidation at making it this far in my dream of becoming an artist. Spending a year getting my portfolio prepared, applying to the art schools and participating in the portfolio reviews, and waiting for news of whether I was accepted or not. I was thrilled when I was accepted by all the schools where I applied. And even more thrilled to get financial aid and grants.

As I sat in my car in the parking lot, I look around I realize my car was the only one there. I look at my car clock and I realize that I was once again I would be the first one to arrive. This is a life-long habit, arriving early. After twelve years of Catholic School I was neurotic about being late. As this was practically considered a “Mortal Sin.” And for the next four years I was always the first student to arrive in every class. Which was of benefit to me because it gave me time to study. Time is valuable when you in college. I scheduled every minute of my day. Especially for me a Freshman student who was married and has a house and two small children to take care of. In addition, I made the decision to have two majors, graphic design and art education.

As I walk out of the parking lot, I realize I had no idea where I was supposed to go. I broke out in a sweat. Then I remembered I had a campus map in my backpack. My first class was the Freshman Graphic Design Class. I look on the map for the building and found my way there. I walked over to a man who was trimming some bushes and said,” Hello, my name is Susan Culver. I’m just starting here today. Can you tell me if this is the Graphic Arts Building?”

He said, “yes, it is right through that door at the top of the steps, but you may be a mite early.”
“Thanks so much, I’m a bit nervous this is my first day here. What’s your name?”

“My name is Patrick. I’m one of the groundskeepers here. I worked here for years.”

“Oh, really it’s nice to meet you. Thanks for your help.”

“Your welcome, good luck, Susan.”

After that morning I made it my business to say hello to Patrick every time I saw him. He was my first friend at Tyler. Always pleasant, kind, and welcoming to me and all the other students.

I made my way to the top of the steps and down the hall and found the right room number, no one else was there. Surprise. I sit in the first seat of the front row. I didn’t want to miss a thing. As the students start to arrive almost every one of them asked me if I was the teacher. And I responded, “No, I ‘m a student.”

And they each gave me a funny look and found a seat. One of the students came up to me and said, HI, y name is Lynette Brown.”

“HI Lynette, I’m Susan Culver. My mother’s name was Brown and she was born in Philadelphia. Maybe we’re related.”

She took a long look at me and said,” Somehow I doubt it.” We both laughed. She was a young black student. She was eighteen years old. We both laughed and we started talking. It turns out that we had almost identical class schedules and she was also majoring in Art and Art Education. We spent the better part of the next four years together. We became great friends despite the age difference. We even did our teaching practicums together in our junior and senior years. She was extremely talented, and intelligent. She even enjoyed my sarcastic sense of humor.

One of the promises I made to myself before I started my student career was to make friends with as many people as I could while I was a student. This was not an easy challenge for me since I spent my entire life up to that point being quiet and reticent with people I didn’t know. But starting from that first day of school I made it my business to introduce myself to every student I came into contact with and most of the staff at the campus.

When I went to the student lunchroom for break or lunch if there wasn’t an empty table, I would walk over to one of the tables with an empty seat and say,” Hi, I’m Susan Culver. Would you mind if I sit here and have lunch with you?’ They always said, “Yeah, sure.” And then I would ask everyone at the table, “what class are you taking?” And this is how I became acquainted with every student at the school.

The teachers kept it professional at all times. Even though quite a few of my teachers were about my age. They soon realized that I always had my assignments done on time. And they would call on me to put my artwork up to be critiqued first. And they showed me no pity. I believe all the other students benefited by these critiques because they didn’t want their work to be so harshly critiqued as mine was every day. They learned what not to do, and what was expected by my mistakes.

That first day was only a small taste at what I would experience as an art student. But by far Freshman Life Studies Drawing class was the most challenging for many reasons. It was four hours every day. You had to draw standing up at an easel and the models were mostly young people male and female. One time one of the maintenance workers modeled for our class and he was about fifty. I had a hard time talking to him when I met him in the hall after that. The models had to stand for hours in the same position and they were nude. About five of the Freshman students dropped out of class that first day because they were not prepared to draw nude models. After a time, I started looking at the models as just one more object to draw that reflected light and shadow. And it stopped bothering me altogether.

And so, ended my first day. It was a day that challenged me and changed me for the better.

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Corona Virus- May 23rd, 2020

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Writer's Blog by Susan A. Culver

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