October 20th…..a good day to share a favorite poem by Jenny Joseph…

WARNING

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Well…..I guess I am old.  Age has crept up behind me and, annoyingly, keeps tapping on my shoulder.  Tap away, unwelcome intruder; I’m far from ready to give up the ship and become an AARP member, flash my senior discount card or go out to dinner at some buffet joint, armed with containers or baggies. 


Nay, nay….say I…..




Today, I shall wear Purple in support of every single young gay person who has been bullied into ending their life because of their sexuality.  I shall wear Purple to support those who struggle in a world that, too often, treats them with ridicule and disgust rather than embracing the human being just trying to survive.  I shall wear Purple to spread a message to Stop the Hate!!


So, put on a little Purple, wear it knowing that you may just make some young person feel understood, supported and maybe gain a little strength that will help them when faced with taunting bullies.  Maybe, they will remember seeing strangers wearing Purple on this day, and not feel so very alone.


                                          

May the purple, and all of the other colors of the rainbow, shine brightly this Wednesday, and every day moving forward.

People frequently ask me just what the first symptoms of Alzheimer’s/Dementia are; frankly, in its beginning stages there is no perceptible difference in the individual under siege from this vicious disease.  I outlined this in an earlier post where in Stage I of the disease, behavior and memory often show no signs of impairment.

That was the case with my mother who was able to recall, at length, a cherished memory about one of her four siblings who tragically died at a young age.  Mary Patricia never forgot the details surrounding her favorite brother, Peter, and his untimely death when she was just 14 years old. 

What follows is a story she related to me many years ago and one I now share with you.

Let’s go back to 1933; a good year for people like “Machine Gun” Kelly and Ruby Keeler; gangsters and movie stars managed to thrive, even in those difficult times.

America was in the pit of the Great Depression; the only Senators in Washington who made claim to a pay raise were those who donned knickers and won the American League pennant, a feat never to be repeated.  The New York Yankees weren’t in the money; they finished second.

Peter Strollo, who loved the Yankees, turned 13 that year.  His admiration was only natural because his father (my grandfather) was the manager of the boatyard at New Rochelle’s Hudson Park at that time.  Lou Gehrig, who lived only a few blocks away from the boatyard was an avid fisherman and owned a motorboat named “The Water Wagon”.   Peter’s father, who Gehrig called by his first name, Frank, often accompanied the slugger on fishing trips. 

This was right up my grandfather’s alley as he took any opportunity to have a good time being the consummate “man about town”.

One excursion had Babe Ruth joining his teammate, and Peter’s father, for an all-day fishing and drinking jaunt out on Long Island Sound.  The good times rolled along with all three men falling overboard, fishing gear in hand, laughing like fools; fortunately, no one was hurt. 

The New York Yankee’s friendship with Peter’s father landed the young boy his most prized possessions…a bat, baseball and glove given to him personally by Lou Gehrig and which the boy slept with each night.

Then, one day in 1933, Peter fell sick with Strep Throat.  (My mother recalled that in those days illnesses like that were more serious and the family doctor just didn’t know how to properly treat the boy).  As the family watched helplessly, Peter’s condition worsened almost overnight…. and he died.

Peter’s mother placed his cherished Gehrig gifts in the coffin by her young son’s side.  Not so much an act of sentimentality as it was a mother’s instinctive knowledge that, to a boy, heaven as a spiritual concept need not be paved with clouds but simply a well-oiled patch of infield dirt. 

Surely comfort could be found in the afterlife with the working tools of a modest man known as “The Iron Horse” who batted cleanup for the Yankees and never called in sick for 13 straight years.

                         

What’s wrong with being “special”?

Somehow, society continues to dwell on those who are deemed “different”,  people who are not part of the twisted perception of what many feel is “normal”.  This delusion creates a sick need to lash out, using excessive torment and ridicule,  in an effort to control or even eliminate that which makes too many of us…….uncomfortable.

We would like to believe that each of us is special, in our own way; nothing wrong with that.  That attitude fails to prevail where others are concerned; people with special mental or physical needs or who have different political, religious or racial backgrounds.  This is where the endless debates begin.

The news, of late, has focused on the tragedy of a promising young male college student who committed suicide after he was exposed for being gay.  Unfortunately, stories such as this are the focus of media attention week after week with one more recently taking place in New York City that involved a militant street gang’s horrific abuse of young men they “thought” were homosexuals.

It’s elementary, and of no surprise, that the seeds of such intense hatred have been implanted in the minds of people for centuries.  Civilization has made great progress in many ways but still manages to remain in the dark ages where coping skills are concerned.

Some believe that those who are grouped into categories should not receive special treatment; I disagree.  Most who were born handicapped, or gay, fight for their survival while others stand back and hurl obscene labels in their direction as if they were criminals.  All special people share a quest to live an average life and should not have to deal with copious amount of human ignorance that results in unspeakable situations.

Coping skills?  Direct that effort at all the supposed “normal” people who bully and persecute those who don’t fit their bill of what a human should look or act like…..or who they should fall in love with.  Stop the hate of others because they do not conform to your limited perceptions of normal human behaviors. 

Don’t hate because…..it’s the accepted thing to do; tolerate and support the truly special people out there.