Photo by Nicolas Panetta on Pexels.com To deter a young skunk roaming my yard at night, looking for new den and intimidating and spraying tiny dog of my neighbor, I placed twinkling multi-colored solar lights low across the border of her fences, my patio and my garden beds and my yard perimeter, pulsing at variable rates. Since then, no rabbits, skunks, or racoons have been chomping on my plants. The dog is safe when my neighbor lets him out to do his business. It is Christmas in our backyards until the unwanted critters return to their dens.November cannot come soon enough.
The pulse of life beats strong,
beset by all that is wrong.
Animals prey in the yard at night,
entering as we lose the light,
to eat the crops and uproot the flowers,
creating destruction hour by hour.
Every effort seems for naught.
Undermining all we’ve been taught.
No respect for decades of effort
to create a safe space for all who enter,
a space free of willfulness, woes and want;
a space where diversity and beauty abound,
where seeds breed and reseed in dark ground
so readily that we forget the dangers around
every corner, and under every rock.
It is imperative to finally take stock.
To pay attention to those lurking in the dark.
To those who would steal our garden’s wealth
with deceit, lies and stealth.
Single spotlights, motion sensors for lights,
individual porch lights and flashlights
have not been enough to stop the raccoons and skunks.
The unseen predators who hide beneath
that which bloomed from our labors,
until we finally notice what has been lost.
We cannot count the cost
although we desperately try.
Our pulse beats strong as we cry.
I think we have found a solution
to the critters who invade like pollution,
unsightly, unseen, willingly mean.
Faerie lights of all colors with patternless pulse
WWII Era Bark Print from Tonga, Tonga. Photo by L. Annarino
These war buddies who mourned those buddies who died in combat, and who treasured those who sat with them in solidarity at our kitchen table, shared more than stories. They shared themselves. Mom and I quietly listened, staying in the background, granting them sacred space.
My dad did not collect war trophies. He collected books and papers, which I read and pored over. My favorites were a book telling the history of the USS South Dakota, and one illustrating the flags of every nation. The first spoke of valor and patriotic duty fulfilled by every sailor aboard. The second helped Dad identify incoming planes, separating enemy from ally. I considered this a most useful tool; one I employ to this day, always searching out tell-tale signs of enemy incursion into my life and the lives of others. It may be one reason I eventually became a lawyer whose favorite tool is cross-examination. I am always looking for the “false flags” flown by lawyers, newspersons, politicians and servants of the people. There have been too many lately.
I read Dad’s folder containing assignment memos and his letters of commendation, held his battle ribbons and medals in my hands, marveling at the battle stars gleaming dully after being carried through the war. I have the Tongan Island bark tapestry he bought from the King of Tonga in exchange for a case of beer he hauled from his ship onto the beach where Tongan women were making such artistry.
My father fought his way through WWII. When he finally returned to his Ohio hometown, my pregnant NYC Mom in tow, he had a new fight on his hands. The fight of all first generation immigrants to find a way to support his family, and protect other such families living in pockets of real estate abandoned by earlier immigrants; along industrial-polluted rivers, smoky rail-road tracks, and industrial waste areas.
Dad and his brothers, who had served in the US Army as cooks joined their brother, excused from duty because of tuberculosis, and a cousin; and opened a restaurant. This restaurant was not a food truck as today’s start-ups. No, they found a vacant alleyway between two buildings, put sawhorses covered by planks between the two buildings, collected a grill and started cooking. They hung supplies held by ropes strung between the two buildings. They soon had enough money to add a roof, then a floor. Eventually they had a full-service restaurant a block long and alley-wide with a half-block long bar and side booths. the space behind held two separate dining rooms, a butcher shop, walk-in freezer, walk-in refrigerator, kitchen and dish-wash area, and storage rooms above and below.
These Italian-American men supported their families; and fed the homeless, emergency workers in the event of community storms, floods, and fires. They cooked for the church and seminary fund-raisers. They contributed in every way they could to the welfare of every person in the community. New immigrants are grateful and hard-working in ways earlier arrivals to our shores have long forgotten. I remember.
My cousins and I spent hours at the Center Cafe, sitting in the family booth or behind the bar talking to our great-uncle with a cauliflower ear about his award-winning boxing career. Dad hung a boxing bag inside our garage and bought us boxing gloves. I sparred with my older brother and punched along with the boys. As a female lawyer, when that was a rarity, I happily and effectively sparred with boys in and out of court. Sicilian and Italian men love their women and make sure they are safe and can defend themselves.
Sitting behind the bar selling candy bars for my Catholic elementary school was fun. Dad instructed me to count how many beers a man consumed, and not to approach him until he had had 2-3 beers. He concluded I would sell more candy that way. I always won a prize for selling the most candy. Dad knew how to buy and sell. Living on a salary of $50 per week his entire work life meant he had to stretch every penny to rear 4 children and send them all to Catholic school. We kids all worked from childhood on to buy comic books, ice cream and penny candy. Later, to pay tuition, go to the dentist, buy clothes, books and phonograph albums. We all contributed because we were a family.
The best part of hanging out in the restaurant was listening to patron conversations, especially listening to the men at the bar. All classes of people ate there. Families felt comfortable bringing their children to a place where drunkenness was not allowed. Dad and his brothers knew their customers who became family to them. I watched Dad order cabs and send men home after ‘cutting them off’. He called wives to explain what to expect, assuring them the salary earned that day was still in their husband’s pocket.
I listened to lawyers, judges, CEOs, insurance agents, grocers, plumbers, factory workers, mechanics, gas station owners et al whose faces and voices I recognized because they came every day for breakfast, or lunch, or after-work drinks before heading home. What a cacophony of human behavior and community thoughts were shared between booths and bar. All orchestrated by Dad and his brothers. The music of the masses sang out for all to hear, if they were listening. It still does. If we listen. And we must listen, looking and listening for false flags.
Dominican Sisters taught me in grades 1-12. Sister Robertine was my Latin teacher, but so much more. She was the woman who taught me what feminism looked like. She could outwit and outplay our male principal, the priest who thought he ran the school. He did not. She did. She explained, “It is a man’s world; but, a woman’s heaven. Still, you can make it yours.” When we heard clicking rosary beads (we heard her before we saw her) we knew to stand up straight and behave ourselves. She gave no quarter. I wish I had her photo. I wish every child had a Sister Robertine to love them into goodness and greatness. She has been gone many years but her words still resonate; as she explained, words always do. There were two cornerstones at our grade school read: “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.” “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” Sister Robertine struck that fear in us; then told us only the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it could be.Thank you, Sister!
Words create the reality we fear,
or one in which we can rejoice, and hold dear,
and spend our lives, seeing more clear.
Words have power to describe us,
inflame us, excite us,
or kill what is inside us.
Words can kill when taken in
by others’ hearts mired
in grace or sin.
Sister Robertine said:
Be careful what you read,
what you see at the movies, or on T.V.
Garbage in is garbage out.
That is what words are all about.
She knew A. I. before it was accelerated
by techno wizards, not the Divine
who works at a slower pace
to afford human-kind much-needed grace.
Sister Robertine said:
Dress how you want to act,
How you hope to be,
how you want to be seen.
You can create each day,
play the part in your own play.
You will soon become
whom you hope to be.
Dress with self-respect
and respect you will get.
Sister Robertine said:
only “X” or “BIG X”
when our answer was incorrect.
No rewards nor praise
for getting it right.
Working hard to get it right,
to see it through
was the least we could do.
Our reward for seeking knowledge was integrity.
Our reward for dressing well was respect.
Our reward for working hard was strength.
Our reward for seeking hard truths was character.
We could then write our own play,
play our chosen roll, on our own stage.
We could live lives that mattered,
live lives in which lies were shattered.
We could live in the spotlight of grace and power
to change the world for good, hour by hour.
Like all good teachers, Sister Robertine directed the play.
I am grateful for such a teacher every single day.
annarino writes 
BORN IN THE USA, Part 2
These war buddies who mourned those buddies who died in combat, and who treasured those who sat with them in solidarity at our kitchen table, shared more than stories. They shared themselves. Mom and I quietly listened, staying in the background, granting them sacred space.
My dad did not collect war trophies. He collected books and papers, which I read and pored over. My favorites were a book telling the history of the USS South Dakota, and one illustrating the flags of every nation. The first spoke of valor and patriotic duty fulfilled by every sailor aboard. The second helped Dad identify incoming planes, separating enemy from ally. I considered this a most useful tool; one I employ to this day, always searching out tell-tale signs of enemy incursion into my life and the lives of others. It may be one reason I eventually became a lawyer whose favorite tool is cross-examination. I am always looking for the “false flags” flown by lawyers, newspersons, politicians and servants of the people. There have been too many lately.
I read Dad’s folder containing assignment memos and his letters of commendation, held his battle ribbons and medals in my hands, marveling at the battle stars gleaming dully after being carried through the war. I have the Tongan Island bark tapestry he bought from the King of Tonga in exchange for a case of beer he hauled from his ship onto the beach where Tongan women were making such artistry.
My father fought his way through WWII. When he finally returned to his Ohio hometown, my pregnant NYC Mom in tow, he had a new fight on his hands. The fight of all first generation immigrants to find a way to support his family, and protect other such families living in pockets of real estate abandoned by earlier immigrants; along industrial-polluted rivers, smoky rail-road tracks, and industrial waste areas.
Dad and his brothers, who had served in the US Army as cooks joined their brother, excused from duty because of tuberculosis, and a cousin; and opened a restaurant. This restaurant was not a food truck as today’s start-ups. No, they found a vacant alleyway between two buildings, put sawhorses covered by planks between the two buildings, collected a grill and started cooking. They hung supplies held by ropes strung between the two buildings. They soon had enough money to add a roof, then a floor. Eventually they had a full-service restaurant a block long and alley-wide with a half-block long bar and side booths. the space behind held two separate dining rooms, a butcher shop, walk-in freezer, walk-in refrigerator, kitchen and dish-wash area, and storage rooms above and below.
These Italian-American men supported their families; and fed the homeless, emergency workers in the event of community storms, floods, and fires. They cooked for the church and seminary fund-raisers. They contributed in every way they could to the welfare of every person in the community. New immigrants are grateful and hard-working in ways earlier arrivals to our shores have long forgotten. I remember.
My cousins and I spent hours at the Center Cafe, sitting in the family booth or behind the bar talking to our great-uncle with a cauliflower ear about his award-winning boxing career. Dad hung a boxing bag inside our garage and bought us boxing gloves. I sparred with my older brother and punched along with the boys. As a female lawyer, when that was a rarity, I happily and effectively sparred with boys in and out of court. Sicilian and Italian men love their women and make sure they are safe and can defend themselves.
Sitting behind the bar selling candy bars for my Catholic elementary school was fun. Dad instructed me to count how many beers a man consumed, and not to approach him until he had had 2-3 beers. He concluded I would sell more candy that way. I always won a prize for selling the most candy. Dad knew how to buy and sell. Living on a salary of $50 per week his entire work life meant he had to stretch every penny to rear 4 children and send them all to Catholic school. We kids all worked from childhood on to buy comic books, ice cream and penny candy. Later, to pay tuition, go to the dentist, buy clothes, books and phonograph albums. We all contributed because we were a family.
The best part of hanging out in the restaurant was listening to patron conversations, especially listening to the men at the bar. All classes of people ate there. Families felt comfortable bringing their children to a place where drunkenness was not allowed. Dad and his brothers knew their customers who became family to them. I watched Dad order cabs and send men home after ‘cutting them off’. He called wives to explain what to expect, assuring them the salary earned that day was still in their husband’s pocket.
I listened to lawyers, judges, CEOs, insurance agents, grocers, plumbers, factory workers, mechanics, gas station owners et al whose faces and voices I recognized because they came every day for breakfast, or lunch, or after-work drinks before heading home. What a cacophony of human behavior and community thoughts were shared between booths and bar. All orchestrated by Dad and his brothers. The music of the masses sang out for all to hear, if they were listening. It still does. If we listen. And we must listen, looking and listening for false flags.
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