Tag Archives: California

THE BELLS OF ST. VINCENT’S

The older I become, the more I find myself looking back on my past instead of looking forward to my future. I suppose that’s normal to some extent, given my present age. I will give you a hint: I retired at sixty-two. And that was ten years ago. I enjoyed working, but unfortunately, I developed a health issue. I was diagnosed with Congestive Heart Failure, and the left side of my heart was enlarged.

Apparently, this heart problem can be an inherited trait. My mother had the same heart issue and still lived to see seventy-seven. My mother was one of the most caring and unselfish people I have ever known. She always put everyone’s needs ahead of her own. I never heard her say a hurtful word to or about anyone. 

I am a person who has spent a large portiion of my working life working in Social Services. In my own way, I think I have always tried to emulate my mother. At the beginning of my work life, I was a dental assistant, and at one point, I was an oral surgeon assistant when I was living in California. I worked with Doctor Snyder. His office was a long distance from where I was living in Lompoc, and so I looked for employment that was closer to my residence. In 1977, I found a job working at Robinson’s Department Store in Santa Barbara. I have to admit it was not a job that I enjoyed, in point of fact I hated it. I was selling hats and wigs. It was by far the most tedious and isolating job I ever had. I had to stand in the middle of four long glass display cases, style the wigs, and keep the counters and hats free of dust. I had no place to sit down and no one to talk to.

However, I did meet several people who I befriended, and one of them told me about a residential school for mildly mentally handicapped children. It was within the Santa Barbara boundaries. I had talked to her about how much I enjoyed working with children. And that I had come from a big family and had many nieces and nephews. Who I always enjoyed spending time with when I was living in my home state of New Jersey. I contacted St. Vincent’s School to find out if they were hiring counselors. And they said that they were and I requested an appointment for a job interview.

The day I showed up for the interview, I was surprised to find out that Catholic nuns were running St. Vincent’s. They were the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent DePaul. It seemed to me at the time that no matter how old I was or where I lived, the “Sisters” and I would find our way to each other. I say this because I spent twelve years in Catholic Schools, first with St. Joseph’s Sisters and then with the Franciscans.

I grew up two houses away from Our Lady Of Perpetual Help Church and School in Maple Shade, NJ. So, not only did I attend eight years of elementary school there, but I was basically on-call along with my twin sister to come and work at the school. But also at the convent where the Sisters lived, which was about a ten-minute work down Main Street in Maple Shade. In the Summer, I had to cover all the students’ textbooks so that when School started in September, they would be ready for the students. The rest of the year I had to go up to the Convent at least once a week and clean the pantry that held all the canned goods and dry foods that the sister’s ate. My sister Karen had to iron the Altar Vestments for the church’s altar.

I was glad that I didn’t have to do the ironing.; I absolutely hated ironing. I saw my poor mother bent over an ironing board every day of her life. This was before permanent press clothes were invented. Everything had to be ironed back then. Unless you wanted to walk around looking like you slept in your clothes. My mother also had to hang our family’s clothing out on a clothesline. This was back in the day before there were dryers for clothes. My mother had an old washing machine that had a wringer on it. The clothes had to be pushed through the wringer and then hung out to dry. This was an all-day job. In fact, if it rained, you would have to go through the whole ordeal again.

So, here I was again, face to face with one of the dear sisters. Only this time I was an adult albeit a young one. I was volunteering to apply for a job as a counselor at a Catholic facility to work with children. Who came from many backgrounds. Some of the kids were mildly retarded or what is now called Intelectual Disability. The school had children of many age groups, and it housed both boys and girls. Luckily I was hired and as a “counselor’ in the Laboures Group. I worked a split shift, first shift where I woke up the “girls” and prepared them for the school day, they got dressed, and made their beds. And ate breakfast together in a small dining room. Then, I went home and came back when it was time for the kids to get out of school. I walked over to the school and gathered up my kids. It was all girls from twelve to sixteen. After school, I gave them a snack and helped them with their homework. I was relieved when a night proctor took over at 11 PM.

All the kids had chores after their homework was done. I, with the help of one of the girls, set the tables for dinner. After dinner the girls had free time and most often would watch TV. I always watched with them.

I can not express how much I came to love these girls. And how much they meant to me. Every weekend, Bob and I took one of the girls out for the day. Sometimes, we went hiking or swimming in the pool that was at the apartment where Bob and I lived. Once in a while, we went to the movies. They loved to go out clothes shopping just like any young girl would. At night, after dinner, I often helped them write letters to their families. In my heart of hearts I could not fathom why their parents didn’t want them living at home. Perhaps the schools in their area were not prepared to teach children with learning disabilities. I don’t know for sure. This was about 1978.

Bob was attending Brooks Institute ( a Photography School), and he also worked part-time at night. So, we did not spend a great deal of time together. When Bob finished school, we decided to move back to New Jersey with the hope that Bob would be able to find employment as a photographer.

It was tough to tell my kids at St. Vincent’s that Bob and I were leaving and moving far away. But, we couldn’t afford to live in California any longer since there weren’t many jobs available for photographers at the time. I left a big chunk of my heart with my kids at St. Vincents. It was so hard saying goodbye and knowing that it was highly unlikely that I was ever going to see them again. They wrote me for a couple of years after we moved. And then I didn’t hear from them from then on. As some of them had gotten jobs, or moved back with their families. And life moved on for them as it did for me.

Bob and I bought a small house in Pennsauken, and I proceeded to have a baby, who we named Jeanette, and three years later a second daughter, named Bridget. They filled in that big hole I had in my heart and then some.

Life throws us many curves, and we don’t always know which way to turn. We have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and hope for the best outcome.

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THE BEST AND WORST MOMENTS OF MY LIFE

I have arrived at that time in my life when I reflect on the most important and life-changing events I have experienced. One of the biggest challenges I have faced in recent years is acknowledging that I am no longer young and have arrived at the final years.

home in Pitman, New Jersey, 1994- 2016

Over the course of my life, I have had ups and downs. I have suffered losses, and I have experienced successes. At the end of May, I will be celebrating my seventy-second birthday. I often find myself wondering how time passed so quickly. I can say that I have few regrets about my decisions and choices.

When I graduated from high school, I found a job as a dental assistant through my school counselor. Back in the day, in the ‘70S, dentists hired inexperienced young women and then trained them to be chairside assistants who ran the office, answered the phone, made appointments, and confirmed appointments. In addition, I developed the xrays and was responsible for sending out the bills and cleaning the office. Occasionally I even babysat the dentist’s children.

I was given a great deal of responsibility for an eighteen-year-old girl. But as it turned out, I proved myself to be highly efficient at running the office. And I enjoyed working there for a number of years. I worked for Dr. E. G. Wozniak in Haddon Township, NJ.

I was able to purchase a brand new 1970 yellow Volkswagen, rent my own apartment, and live on my own. That job taught me so much more than the skills it took to be a dental assistant. It confirmed to me that I was able to meet any challenges that came my way. I was a confident young woman from that point forward.

When I was twenty-two, I started dating my best friend’s cousin, Bob. And  I decided I wanted to move to Florida, where Bob lived. We got married when I was twenty-three, and he was twenty-five. I was laid off from the insurance company the week after we came back from our honeymoon. I wasn’t able to find a job. And made the decision to go to a hairdressing school, the West Palm Beach Beauty Academy. After completing the eighteen-month program, I was hired to work at the Collonades Hotel, located on Singer Island.  I did hair and facials.

Bob decided that he wanted to attend Brooks Institute in Santa Barbara, California, two years later. Brooks was a school for Photography. We lived in California until he graduated from school three years later. My first job in California was at Robinson’s Department Store selling hats and wigs. I can not tell you how boring that job was. However, I made a friend named Terry Ropfogel, and she told me there was a residential school, St. Vincent’s School, where she volunteered. She told me that they were looking for full-time childcare workers. I loved little kids, so I applied for a job. I kept calling them once a week until they agreed to interview me for a job. I was hired shortly thereafter.

Working at St. Vincent’s turned out to be one of the best decisions of my life. The kids were mildly retarded, and some of them had behavior problems.  I must admit that I came to love them like they were my children when Bob graduated from Brooks three years l after we decided to move back to the Philadelphia, New Jersey, area. I wanted to move to the New York City area because I believed Bob would be able to get a job as a photographer there. Bob decided he wanted to buy a house, and he got a job as an electronics technician. And at that point, we purchased a house with the assistance of the Veteran’s benefits that Bob earned while he was in the Navy.

Picture of me and one of my co-workers Stacy Smitter at St. Vincent’s School in California

A year later, Bob and I had our first child, Jeanette. by then, we had been married for seven years. Three years later, I had a second daughter, Bridget. I had always loved kids and wanted to be a mother. And it turned out to be one of my most challenging life experiences. We lived in that small, three-bedroom house in Pennsauken, New Jersey, for thirteen years when our children were young.

My parents passed away eight months apart in 1986 when my children were five and two years old. My dad had lung cancer, and my mother passed away from a complete respiratory and coronary arrest. My mother told me before she passed away that she didn’t regret any of the decisions she had made during her life but only regretted all the things she hadn’t done. Her words had a profound effect on me. The year after she passed away, I decided that I would go to college, which I didn’t have the opportunity to do when I was of college age since I had to get a full-time job when I graduated from high school.

And so, I prepared a portfolio of my artwork and applied to the Hussian School of Art and the Tyler School of Art in Philadelphia. I was accepted at both schools. But, I made the decision to attend the Temple Tyler School of Art because they offered me a full scholarship for the first year and financial aid for the second, third, and fourth years.

Tyler School of Art

And so, at the age of thirty-six, I began college as a Freshman, the only adult student. The rest of the Freshman students was seventeen or eighteen years old. Some of them hadn’t even gotten their driver’s licenses yet. I could write an entire book about my art college experience, and perhaps I will someday. Needless to say, it was a challenging and sometimes difficult four years. I graduated Summa Cum Laude at the age of forty with teaching credentials. My class stood up at graduation and clapped when my name was called out as a graduating senior. I have to say going to college was probably the best choice I ever made. And although it was challenging, to say the least, I never regretted it for a single moment. My children were ten and seven when I graduated.

After graduation, I applied to every elementary, middle, and high school for an art teacher position. Unfortunately, it turned out that the New Jersey public schools were eliminating the art programs in their schools, and I wasn’t able to find a public school teaching position.

After about a year, I realized I could create my own private art school. And my husband and I started looking for a house that could accommodate our family and several rooms to be used for my art classes. And after several months of looking at residences, I found a house in Pitman, NJ, that had been owned by a neuropsychologist that had been empty for several years since his passing. After several months we were able to purchase it. It had been empty for several years, and we spent the first several; years repairing it and had to put a new roof on it. We lived there for twenty-four years. And I taught art there for many years to kids from four through high school and adults in the evening. Overall it was a wonderful experience, and I met and befriended many of the people who lived in Pitman while teaching there.

When we were ready to retire, we spent the last year we lived there preparing the house for sale. We loved that house so much, and it was difficult to leave it, but it was necessary to sell it since we couldn’t afford to keep it after we both retired from working.

We chose to retire to North Carolina and bought a house about forty-five minutes from Raleigh, NC, in Willow Spring. We have been living here for seven years. During those seven years, I have been doing volunteer work in the Guardian ad Litem in the NC Court. The Guardian Litem are citizens that volunteer to investigate at-risk children and make decisions about their care and where they should live if there is a problem within their homes. And in addition, for the last seven years, I have been volunteering at an animal sanctuary caring for Parrots, Macaws, and Pheasants. The sanctuary is called Animal Edventure, and it is located in Coats, NC. I have always loved animals, and it seemed a perfect match for me at this time of my life. 

In addition, five and a half years ago, I started this blog and write short stories and memoirs for WRITE ON. I write one new story a week. I also continue to create my artwork in my free time. Who knows what the future holds for me? I am a person with a high energy level, and I hope that in the future, I will continue to contribute in some way for the rest of my life. I can not imagine not doing so. I have always had the desire to do good in my life and be kind to the people I met along the way. I can not imagine wanting to do else wise.

So, here we are, living out our lives in North Carolina. Our youngest daughter lives with us. And although the last several years have been challenging because of the pandemic and inflation, we keep moving forward from one day to the next.

I can not say what lies in my future and that of my family, but I hope my good health will continue, life will give us challenges to meet, and we will succeed in all our endeavors.

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THE HITCHHIKER

It‘s the last week that I‘ll be driving to Santa Barbara from Lompoc. Because I’m graduating from college next week. I’ve been living in Lompoc, California for the last three years.

It’s a little over fifty-mile drive from Lompoc to Santa Barbara. But I‘ll miss the breathtaking mountainous landscape. The air is intoxicating. I would even miss the Santa Ana winds.

The Masked Man in a black cape

The people are friendly in California. I’ve made a great many friends while I lived here and I would miss them terribly. I hope that we’ll keep in contact with one another. But I know that our lives would be busy once we started working and move back to our respective home states.

When I was about halfway to Santa Barbara I see a lone figure on the road in the distance. I can’t imagine who would be hitchhiking at this time of the day because there is rarely any traffic. And the chance of getting a ride is unlikely. I rarely pick up hitchhikers because you just never know what might happen. Especially if it is an isolated area like it is here in the mountains. But I thought why not? I could not imagine passing this guy and leaving him to walk nearly fifty miles on foot. I’ll be fine.

As I get closer I realize that the hitchhiker is wearing some kind of long, black cape. And the cape is blowing and flapping in the Santa Anna wind. He looks like he might take off at any minute? Maybe I need to just pass on by him. He’s probably some kind of serial killer or something. I was within thirty feet of him and he turns around and looks straight at me. And that’s when I saw he was also wearing a black mask over his eyes. I almost step on the gas to speed by him. I mean who the hell goes out dressed in a cape and mask in the middle of nowhere?

But my curiosity is greater than my common sense as usual. I can not bear an unsolved mystery. If I don’t find out what this guy is all about it will drive me crazy. I’m the type of guy who is nosy and curious. And I just have to find out what this dude is all about.

So I start to slow down and pull over to the side of the road about five feet behind him and honk my horn. I’m certain this guy knew I was behind him the whole time. He doesn’t stop immediately, but he slows down and turns his head in my direction and stares straight into my eyes. It felt like he was burning holes right through me. I felt my body grow hot than cold. I felt like this was my body telling me that this guy was bad news. I was about to slam my foot down on the gas hard. When suddenly this guy was at the passenger side of the front seat and he pulled the door open and pulled it closed, hard. Then he reaches over and locks the door.

I am almost afraid to look away. In fact, I find I can’t look away even when I try. I feel like my eyes are locked onto his and I can’t turn away from him. And then just as suddenly he turns his head to stare out the front window. He doesn’t say a word to me, no hello, no thanks for picking me up. Nothing, nada. Zip, zero. So I take off the parking brake, and put the car in drive, and take off.

After about twenty minutes of driving in silence, I try to summon up the courage to say something to this freak. I clear my throat about five times and manage to squeak out, “so what’s your story?”

He ignores me completely, it’s like he doesn’t see or hear me. I start to sweat big time. I’m having an adrenaline rush, first the sweats, then chills, and now my throat feels as dry as the Sahara Desert. I decide I will just have to try and calm down. I know it’s my own fault that I found myself in this precarious position. I’m always doing things that all common sense would tell anyone else no way, no how. But not me, I jump in the deepest creek or even worse the shallow water without a second thought. It’s like I have some sort of death wish or something. I’m an impulsive guy. And that’s not a good thing. Ever.

Another ten minutes goes by. I turn my head and look at him and he’s still sitting there as if he has turned into stone. No expression on his face on what I can see of his face. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.

I decide to act casual as if this is an ordinary occurrence for me. Like I pick up masked strangers wearing long, black capes every day, all day long. I try again, “so are you headed for Santa Barbara for any reason in particular? I’m going to college there. This is my last week and then I graduate and I’m moving back to the Philadelphia area. Where are you from?”

He doesn’t say anything. This has got to be the weirdest guy I’ve ever met or maybe met isn’t the right word? Maybe encountered is the right word. I hope I don’t have a problem getting rid of him at some point. I pray this doesn’t turn out to be the worse mistake I ever made. “Hey buddy, I’m going to have to stop at the first gas station along the way. Do you want to get out then? I’m kind of in a hurry I have to get to school, exams this week. So, I definitely think you should find another ride when I stop for gas. I look at him, he is like a black hole, no reaction. I start sweating.

I see the gas station is up on the right. “OK, buddy we’re here. This is where you get off. I pull into the gas station and ask the attendant to fill it up. I have to go to the bathroom. So, good luck buddy.” I give him one last look and turn and head toward the men’s room.

As I open the men’s room door I look right and left and don’t see my weird masked hitchhiker. Gone, he’s gone. Good riddance buddy, good luck you’re going to need it I mumble to myself. Maybe, just maybe I have learned something from this experience. I walk toward the gas pumps. And I see nothing. My car is gone and so is my masked companion. Gone with the wind and took my freaking car with him. That is when I realize that I left my keys in the ignition. And I had just used the last of my cash to fill up my gas tank.

I run over to the gas station attendant that waited on me. “Hey did you see that masked man take off with my car?” If I wasn’t on the edge of losing my mind I would have laughed at what the words that just came out of my mouth.

The gas station attendant said, “oh yeah he left about five minutes ago. Was that his car? What’s with the mask and cape? I’m surprised you would hitch a ride with that weirdo. You should be more careful.”

At this point I feel like the top of my head is about to explode. My face is burning up. I scream, “that was my car, he stole my car. And you’re right I should have been more careful. Can I use your telephone to call the police? I don’t have any more money I used it all on the gas.”

“Yes, go ahead. How did he start your car?”

“I left the keys in the car, yes, I’m that stupid.”

I run into the gas station and grab the phone. “Hello, my name is David Stein.” I’m at the Sunoco Station on Route 101 ten miles north of Santa Barbara. My car was just stolen by a masked guy wearing a cape he is driving my car which is a Pontiac Firebird. It is Cherry red. I gave the guy a hitch and when I was using the toilet he stole my car.”

I stood there at the gas station for a good hour and a half waiting. I didn’t know what to do. After a while of standing, I sat down on the curb and covered my eyes. I was afraid that I was going to start crying in front of the gas station attendant and anyone else that happened to be there. I was mentally beating myself up, telling myself over and over how stupid I was. My last week of school, and now this happens. I feel like throwing up.

The gas station attendant comes sauntering over to me, ever so slowly. “Hey buddy, the cops just called, they said they caught your guy. He made it all the way to the outskirts of Santa Barbara and one of the local cops noticed your weirdo in the mask and cape getting out of your red car and arrested the guy after he couldn’t show proof of ownership. And then he checked your plates and it was your car. They arrested the guy and he is on his way to the slammer. They are on their way here to pick you up. You will have to go with them to show proof that the car is yours. And then he turns and walks away.

At this point, I don’t know if I feel like crying or laughing. So I do both. Wow, this day has been one for the books. I plop down on the curb again and wait and wait. Finally, the cops show up. I walk over to the car and say, “yeah, hi. I’m the guy whose car got stolen by a guy with a black mask and cape on? Is my car alright?”

The two cops look like they were on the verge of laughing at me. But hold it back. Probably because they could see the tears staining my dirty face. “Get in the back buddy, and we’ll take you to the station. Do you have proof of ownership?”

“Yes, it’s in my wallet.”
“You know you shouldn’t have picked up that weirdo, right? And you should never have left the keys in the car with a hitchhiker was in the back while you went to the bathroom, right?”

“Yes, I do. It was a mistake. Believe me, I have learned my lesson. Never trust a man wearing a mask and a cape. And who is that masked man, do you know?”

“Yes, we know who he is. His name is Michael Splain. He escaped from the Federal Penitentiary in Lompoc. They can’t explain where he got the mask and cape but they did say he was a total nut job and you’re lucky that he didn’t do more than steal your car.”

“Yeah, I’m lucky. Lucky he didn’t kill me. I know I will never pick up another hitchhiker as long as I live.”

“Ok let’s go we’ll take you to the impound lot and you can get your car back. They might charge you for having it there if it stays there overnight so we better get going.”

I jump in the back seat of the patrol car. And my internal dialogue begins, when will you ever learn to not trust everyone you meet, stop being a sucker, stop being a bleeding heart?  And on and on and on.

When we arrive at the impound the cop that talks to me says,  “so you’re the guy that got robbed by the masked marauder?”

I hang my head down. I realize that I am never going to hear the end of this episode of my life and didn’t know how I would top it. But I knew that somehow, someday I would.

 

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