Thoughts on Being Sold

The condo is sold. In less than one month, the family will no longer call New England home and Charlotte will not remember living in Massachusetts.

Ever.

I’ll be driving around with a New York license plate. At least the new gold plates are better looking than the old blue and white ones. 

I won’t be able to watch regular season Bruins games on t.v. It will be all Mets/Yankees/Rangers.

The area where we’ll be living has no discernable accent. Small miracle.

No matter what “they” say about Massachusetts as “Taxachusetts,” New York dominates the Bay State on taxes. It happens when you spend more than you confiscate.

99% of our belongings will go into storage and I’ll bet you I’ll won’t miss a thing. Funny how that is.

I want to go to O’Connor’s one last time. I’m sure to find a favorite new watering hole.

I’ll miss Papou’s veggie pizza. There’s time to discover a great pizza pie in Saratoga County.

No more perambulations in St. Cecilia’s cemetery. How many miles of road in Washington County will do the trick?

I’m dealing with losses and, as yet, undiscovered gains. That’s how life is.

Widower

I’m slowly getting into an exercise routine, post partum. I’ve returned to St. Cecilia’s walking the perimeter. The first time I did it last week, I went very slowly. (Another thing you don’t hear much about is the hemorrhoid problem, post delivery. Very uncomfortable.) I’m gearing up to start jogging next week. Slowly…

"and I miss her everyday."

Yesterday during my perambulations I saw one of the regulars. Usually I see the same folks walking but this retired regular visits  his wife’s grave. He shovels the show around the headstone in winter and plants flowers in the spring. (I wrote about him in 2008.) I’ve always nodded and said hello to him but this time he wanted to talk.

He held a shovel with a mix of snow and dog poop. As I walked by he started railing against dog walkers (which are verbotten in St. Cecilia’s.)

“It wouldn’t be so bad if they picked up but when they don’t it shows disrespect.”

From that topic, he talked about his wife who passed six years ago, “and I miss her everyday.”

The rest of the conversation was about his wife and family. He just wanted to talk and I was a willing listener.

What’s the Date?

Date: October 16, 2009.

Place: Leominster, Massachusetts.

Time: 7:00 am – 9:20 am.

Unusual Event: Snow.

Yippee!!!

Small Treasures

I’ve written about St. Cecilia’s Cemetery many times. It’s an unassuming Catholic burial spot in the middle of a working class neighborhood. The cemetery is the place of my (almost daily) constitutional and it’s been that place for nearly a year. Yet, I find new images that catch my eye. Perhaps it’s the slant of sunlight hitting a statue just so or it’s just my eyes pointed at the right place, at the right time. I kick myself for not carrying a camera.

Today I got smart and did just that. Here’s what I saw:

Adaline Panquette's Medieval Messenger

Overgrown Angel

Faded Madonna

Pomarium Visitavo

Delectable Cortlands

Impressed with my expanding Latin vocabulary? Honestly, I had to look up the imperfect past tense of visitare. But I think it correctly reads, I visited an orchard. Cicero would be proud…

It’s the veritas…Hubby and I went to Sholan Farms in Leominster, MA. Believe it or not, the Plastics City isn’t all concrete jungle. The area alongside Sterling is lovely and that’s where the orchard is located. Going on a Friday morning is the right time…not too many folks.

This was only my second time apple picking. You would think being a native New Englander I would have done it since my wee childhood. But, alas, that’s not the case. (I don’t like lobster, either. I’m THIS close to surrendering my New England citizenship.)

We picked a peck of Cortlands, McIntoshes and Golden Delicious. I have visions of apple crisps and squash/apple soups coming out of my galley kitchen. Ask me in two weeks how sick I am of apples.

In the meantime, check out my Flickr site to view apples in their native environment.

The Visitor

The plot is near the back. The grass in the 10×3 f00t rectangle is greener than the surrounding lawn. At the head is an overload of garden paraphernalia: solar-paneled glow lights, pinwheels, and non-military flags. The plot is too new for a gravestone yet there is a picture of a young man in his late teens smiling into the camera. 

And she’s there nearly everyday around noon. She sits cross-legged on the edge of the plot, head bowed, picking the dark green grass between her fingers. Sometimes a man is with her. He leans against the car, arms folded, looking down at her. Is he tolerating her visits or is his grief not as visible?

This tableau is not unique to St. Cecilia’s in Leominster. It’s repeated in every cemetery.

Cool Nature Thing

In the midst of my daily constitutional around St. Cecilia’s cemetery, I saw a hawk totally eviscerate a squirrel.

Cool.

Squirrels need this to survive the St. Cecilia hawk.

The Living

Some people scratch their heads when they hear I jog in a cemetery.

“Creepy”

“Morbid”

“Scary”

Honestly, I have more stories about the living who roam St. Cecilia’s than I do about those resting peacefully.

Case in point:

Earlier today I took my morning constitutional and was enjoying having the whole place to myself. Then I noticed a car crawling slowly around the outer loop. That didn’t catch my attention since most cars move slowly among the gravestones as the drivers search for a loved one, childhood friend or work colleague. What caught my eye was the driver side door was open while it was in motion.

Since we were in a intersecting projectory, my curiosity was soon satisfied. A woman in her late 50′s was WALKING HER FREAKIN’ TOY POODLE. She had one hand was on the steering wheel and the other hand holding the leash.

I thought that perhaps she was handicapped. But I noticed no handicap plates or signs. Then I remembered…

There’s a $125 fine for walking dogs in St. Cecilia’s.

Sometimes I prefer the Dead to the Living.

Respects

For the past week, the flags in Leominster have been at half-mast for Pfc. Jonathan Roberge. This local boy was killed in Iraq on February 9. Watching an interview on NECN, I’ll never forget a younger brother of Jonathan, who looked all of 10, crying, wishing his brother was back. It broke my heart.

Attended by Governor Patrick, the funeral was held yesterday at St. Cecilia’s and Jonathan was buried at my cemetery. No jogging that day. I drove by to see two fire trucks flanking the street beside the cemetery, with a large American flag hanging between their extended ladders.

Today I was jogging in St. Cecilia’s and saw the flower covered gravesite. It was the most colorful spot in a day that was gray and cold. During my 35 minute jog, I noticed a steady stream of cars make their way to the gravesite.

Leominster was paying its respects to one of their own who gave the greatest sacrifice.

St. Cecilia Tableau

On Gaudete Sunday I was running in St. Cecilia Cemetery. There was no one except myself and a few hundred gravestones. Near the end of my run, a truck entered and parked in a section with recent interments. As I drew nearer, a gentleman in his late 60s climbed out of the navy blue, GMC truck and walked over to a plot closest to the pavement. He made the sign of the cross and readjusted the Christmas wreath draped over the stone.

My next loop around was the cool down. I noticed the truck and gentleman were gone. I walked over to the stone and read that Lorette passed away in November 2003. Her husband, George, had no death date. Just a blank space.

Was that George? To lose a beloved spouse…I’m not ready for that reality.