New Year's Resolutions

Ok, I don't make New Year's resolutions. Sure, every year I intend to eat a little better -- not that I eat bad -- very little red meat, virtually nothing fried, no baked goods to speak of (I really only eat bread where there are fresh tomatoes for sandwiches -- but a little better. And I intend to get to aerobics more than twice a week. But, inevitably, when I decide to get to aerobics an extra time a week, the car blows up or something. You think I'm kidding? I've had things break in my cars that I would have sworn don't really exist. And, I intend to call random family members more often. Which lasts for a couple of weeks. And, I only call the random family members I really like. Which doesn't count, does it? But, the point is, I don't write down resolutions. Making that list sets you up for failure. I don't believe in being set up for failure. We can fail enough without assuring it ahead of time. Happy New Year. And New Decade.

To Sir With Love

Father Frank is what we called him. Not to his face, of course. In class we called him Mr. Militano, because that's what you called teachers, especially back then. But he was so much more to his students than any other teacher. He was that teacher whose classroom was always the meeting place for kids after school or before school, or whenever we could be there. And there are times, even today, more than 40 years after the junior year American Literature class at Jefferson Township High School, when I am still that high school girl with hair nearly to my waist and paisley dresses that just barely met the dress code, writing probably very bad poetry, deep inside. Sometimes I just don't feel any older and I remember those days so well. I always loved to read, but Frank Militano taught me to love literature. He taught us the standard curriculum of junior English: American Nobel laureates, Harper Lee, Thorton Wilder, Robert Frost -- not the cutesy Frost of "Stopping by Woods," the surprisingly deep and cutting Frost of "Home Burial" and "Fire and Ice." But in his hands, the standard curriculum was far from mundane. Our class discussion were intense. No one's contribution was unimportant. No student was unimportant. Macbeth is the Shakespeare play juniors all read in those days and he had us perform scenes for each other and really understand that Lady Macbeth was really just a teenager, too. So much of what I learned about putting words on paper, I learned in that classroom from that wonderful teacher. And so much more. We could talk to him about anything. Many of us returned on college vacations, to thank him and to tell him how he prepared us not just for college English classes, but also for the new life we were discovering. We always knew we could talk to him. The essence of a great teacher, the reason great teachers should be paid as much or more than great doctors or scientists, is the ability to connect with every student, every day. And those students never forget. Which is why, when my mother called me yesterday to tell me Frank Militano had died, I was once again that 16-year-old in that classroom and I felt such a deep pain in my heart. He was a religious man and I know he is still that great teacher, watching over all his former students. Goodbye, Father Frank. This is my way of writing a thank you across the sky.

Death Comes for the Curmudgeon

Martin O'Shea died this week. A self-proclaimed curmudgeon, Martin dedicated the last years of his life to keep government honest and open. He attended municipal meetings like some people attend hockey games, but refused to be called a "gadfly." His only agenda was to make sure local government obeyed its own laws. The Sunshine Law, known formally as the Open Public Meetings Act, and the Open Public Records Act, were so important to Martin that he spent hours and hours of his time and much of his own money to keep municipal governing bodies following them. Martin filed lawsuits when necessary. He wrote letters, spoke at meetings and occasionally chased council persons toward their back rooms demanding they continue to meet in public. Many people paid attention to what he did, but many others did not. Some of those who did not benefited greatly from his actions. Sometimes they realized that and sometimes they didn't. It didn't matter to Martin. He was working for the people whether they knew it or not and whether they liked it or not. Martin didn't play well with others, but those of us who called or emailed him frequently have lost a true friend.

The Age of Ignorance

Just how stupid are we these days? It's bad enough some idiots think the point is not to do something worthwhile and possibly become well-known as a side effect. They think the point of life is to be on TV regardless of what they do or how dumb they look while they're doing it. The worst thing is that people actually keep reading about it and watching the "news." Those two gate crashers at the White House were just the most well-dressed of the recent folks who haven't a clue what fame is all about. I thought the sari was a nice touch, didn't you? As for that American Idol loser who has no sense of decorum and could use make-up tips from Alice Cooper, the sooner his 15 minutes of fame are over the better. He's proof you can have talent and still ruin it by acting like a fool.