Service Please

S

Service Please

 

Or perhaps title of this piece should be “stress” because that’s what I am experiencing right now.

I recently received a letter in the mail from the

E-Z Pass Service center. 

E-Z Pass-you know, the toll thing on highways, bridges and tunnels.

Actually, the letter was addressed to my husband Ross.  Ross passed away two years ago.

The purpose of the letter was to let Ross know that he would be receiving new E-Z Pass Tags in the mail. 

The letter states:

“Included with your replacement tag(s) will be instructions and a postage paid envelope to return the old tag(s) to the E-Z Pass Customer Service Center. You must return your old tags within 15 days of receiving your new tag(s) or risk violation notices.”

The letter goes on to request that Ross verify his mailing address.  It states that if the mailing address is incorrect, he should log on to his account or call the 1-800 number. 

There are several issues with this letter.

1.         The letter was sent to my address.  Ross never lived here.

2.         I don’t have his old tags. 

3.        I don’t have his login or password.

4.        4. And I’m quite sure his phone number would also be needed…which is no longer in service.

Since I did not want to deal with having the tags come here and then have to send them back, I called the 1-800 number.

I explained the situation to the agent.  My husband passed away two years ago, blah, blah, blah. 

The agent replied that there was no way she could prevent those tags from being sent out. 

She assured me that the tags would be sent to my old address… not here.

HUH?

What?

So, the person who bought my house may have to deal with sending the tags back or have them forwarded to me?

She also said that if the tags were not returned Ross would be charged for them.

Ohh-kayy? And?

Can you feel my frustration with Service? Can you tell I’m stressed?

I was going to ask to speak to a supervisor, but I just thanked the agent and told her to have a nice day. Because in the grand scheme of things, dealing with a couple of tags pales in comparison to the losses I've experienced recently.

Rachella

R

Rachella

 

Family lore tells the story of Michelangelo, my great grandfather, who left his wife, two daughters and a son to travel to America from his remote mountain village in Italy.  His promise to his family was that he would send for them once he settled. 

Research shows that he would have had to travel by donkey or on foot to get down the mountain to reach a larger town. The journey would be an arduous one, taking several days.

From there he most likely would have boarded a steam engine train that carried him to the large bustling chaotic city of Naples. 

In Naples he might have had to wait days before boarding a steamship. His accommodations on the ship would have been steerage. 

The journey across the Atlantic Ocean to Ellis Island in America would have taken a long hard 10-12 days. 

But Michelangelo is not the main character in this story. 

No, this tale is about his eldest daughter Rachella. 

At this point, I’m going to assume the time frame because the facts are a little hazy. Communication would have been handwritten letters, which, could have taken up to three weeks travelling between a small Italian town and America.  

I would imagine that after several months had passed since his departure from Castelnuovo di Conza, with no word from him, his wife Asunda, would have begun to worry. 

That must have been when she made the scariest decision of her life-to send her daughter on the same journey as her husband had taken several months before. 

Rachella, age 16, was to go to America to find her father. 

I do believe there was a strong family bond and deep love among them. How must Rachella have felt leaving her mother, sister and brother behind? 

I knew my grandmother, Rachella, to be strong and loving. She raised ten living children and grieved the loss of three babies. She was grandma to 33 of us. She made each of her children and the grandchildren who were fortunate enough to have known her, feel special and loved. 

Sunday dinners were exactly what you would imagine an Italian Mama would cook and serve. 

As long as they lived, each of her children would tear up when speaking of their mother-my dear grandmother Rachella. 

Although Rachella’s mother, sister and brother never made to America, she remained close to them through letters, packages and financial support. 

My mother, aunts and uncles would tell me that Rachella never spoke of her father. They only knew that she came to America to find him. 

Since she was so reticent to speak of her father, we assume she never did find him.   

But that remains a mystery to this day. 

Although we may never know what became of Michelangelo, the story of Rachella is one I intend to pass on. 

 

Quiet Talkers

Quiet Talkers

My children have been bugging me for years to get my hearing checked. They say I am constantly asking them to repeat themselves.

I admit I may have some issues.  It’s true, I do use close captions when watching TV.  

But here’s the thing. These kids whisper.  They are all quiet talkers. They remind me of a Seinfeld episode called “Low Talkers”. "Low Talkers" Seinfeld

Funny, though…when I ask them to “say again?”, they somehow manage to raise the volume a smidge and suddenly, I can hear them perfectly.

I finally gave in couple of weeks ago and went to a hearing center.  

Turns out, I do have mild to moderate hearing loss.

So now I have hearing aids.  And I still can’t hear these kids when they talk. 

To be fair, though, the doctor has the hearing aids set to sixty percent of where they should be.

He wants me to get used to them before turning them to the full range. 

Still I’m not entirely convinced the problem is all me.

How’s your hearing?  Do you use close captions?

 

 

 

 

Pigs

I used to collect pigs. Of course I don’t mean the real ones. 

Here’s how it started.

Once upon a time, when I worked in a corporation office, I had a desk. I used to keep little knickknacks on my desk and a jar, which was always filled with candy.  

Unintentionally, but not unwelcome, the candy jar made my desk inviting and approachable.

One of my frequent "visitors", who would stop for candy and a chat, told me that his wife was into ceramics. He showed me photos of her work.  One of the items was an adorable pink pig.  

I purchased it and put it on my desk.

By the way the pig was also symbolic for me for another reason which I will not get into here. 

And that’s how it started.  Co-workers, friends and family began to gift me pigs.  People going on vacation would bring me back souvenir pigs. 

Over the years my collection grew to probably at least 100.

Two years ago, when I was down-sizing to prepare to move, I sold or gave away most of my pigs. 

I did keep a few for sentimental reasons. 

 The remaining ones were gifts from my kids, and the tall stacking pig was one was given to me by my mother.

Now my gifts tend to reflect whatever hobby I am immersed in at the moment.  

These days, that means art supplies.  

Have you ever been known for a particular thing that makes gifting for you easy?

 

 

 

 

Letter O - Opening

 Opening

I live in an age restricted gated community.  It's that time of year where we have to get our 2026 pool passes because they are "opening" the pool.  

Last year was my first summer living here. 

I was informed that in order to be able to use the pool, I had to go to the office with proper ID and get a pool pass.  

At the office they gave me a temporary pass until the annual permanent one was printed.

Being new in the community and not knowing anyone, it took me a couple of days to get up the nerve to go to the pool.

It was July 4th weekend.  I got myself together, packed all the gear...towels, suntan lotion, my knitting, and a book.   I was stepping out of my comfort zone, but I thought, maybe my knitting might spark up a conversation with someone.

There was a table set up at the entrance to the pool area where I was greeted by a young woman who asked to see my pool pass. 

I had my temporary paper pass ready to show her.  She looked at it for a few seconds and proceeded to tell me that the pass had expired a day earlier.  I was confused because I didn’t realize there was an expiration date.  She showed me where it was clearly stated.

She said I would have to go to the office to pick up my permanent one. “But it’s closed today,” she added. 

With a sigh, I thought, of course it was. 

I told her I had a community ID with my photo on it.

She said, “Sorry, I can only admit you with a proper pool pass.”

I was angry.  But I kept my cool and left.

 I couldn’t help but wonder why she couldn’t have bent the rules a little on that particular hot and sunny July 4^th. 

Logically, I understand, there are rules and she was just doing her job. But that experience stayed with me.  It made me think of understanding and empathy.   

We never really know what someone else may be going through,  

Here I was newly widowed, new to the community, stepping out of my comfort zone and this young woman had no way of knowing any of that. 

After that, I was a little turned off about the whole pool thing and didn’t use it much that summer. 

So next week we can go pick up our new pool passes.  Since I already have a permanent pool pass, I just need to get a 2026 sticker put on it. 

I will probably give the pool another chance, especially on one of those hot, humid, New Jersey summer days. 

And Maybe I’ll find a knitting buddy. 

What do you think?  Should I have been allowed to use the pool that day?

 

Neighbor

Two years ago, I moved from a single-family home to a duplex style house.  The design is clever because the two units are only connected by our separate garages. 

From the street, you see my front door. 

The entrance to my neighbors' is on the side of their house.  So, mine looks like a single-family home. 

I don’t hear any noise from them and, hopefully they don’t. hear any from me. 

Since moving in, I’ve only spoken to George and Cathy a handful of times.  

We’ve exchanged phone numbers, just in case we ever need one another.

Even though we don’t socialize, they’re nice and it’s comforting to know they are there, 

We each have a small backyard space. But because of how the houses are positioned, I have a direct view into their sunroom, and they have a direct view of my patio. 

Cathy mentioned they spend most of their time in the sunroom. 

In other words, not much privacy.  

Last year I bought planters with trestles. 

 I filled them with lovely plants which do provide a small amount privacy.  

George told me they are thrilled with the planters. 

One afternoon, Cathy, who told me she rarely leaves her house, walked over to my patio to tell me she enjoys looking at the flowers. 

As she was heading back toward the sunroom, she stopped, turned around and said: “We have binoculars. If you see us using them, don’t worry, we are bird watchers.”

I was a little taken aback by that. But I’m quite sure they are not spies.  

Or are they? 

 

Money

Growing up my parents didn’t specifically talk to us about their financial situation.  

My father was a construction worker.  That meant seasonal work.  He would be without work in the winter for months at a time.  

During those times I remember my grandmother bringing us groceries. 

We wore hand-me downs from cousins who were never quite the same size as us at the time they outgrew their clothes.

The dresses were always a little too big.   Even though my mother would hem the pants, they never fit quite right. 

But we were always excited to see what was in the bags my aunt would bring. 

The dishes my mother would prepare were simple meals using ingredients that would stretch.  And they were always tasty.  

I don’t remember ever being hungry. 

We never went without a meal.  

Although the tension between my parents was obvious, we didn’t quite know why.

I really didn’t understand “money” until I was married with children and with that came a mortgage and car payments. 

I quit work after I had my first child and didn’t go back to work until my third child was in first grade.

Our income was half of what it was when I was working. We started to live beyond our means by using credit cards. We didn’t want our kids to have to wear hand-me-downs. We made sure they would always have the hottest Christmas toy. 

So yes, money or I should say lack of did cause some tension in our marriage. It was more about differences in spending priorities though.   

My relationship with money is much different now.  I live on a fixed income and lead very simple single life

I have figured out that I don’t need anything, really.  I understand that buying new art supplies or pretty yarn, is just a temporary fix for when I am feeling low.  

My money worries now are whether I will have enough in the future to able to afford decent care if I need it.

My sister and I had a discussion yesterday about money.

She asked me if I regretted my spending habits.  She wanted to know if I was sorry that I didn’t save more.

To tell you the truth, I was never wealthy and at this point I never will be. So, if I had saved a little more, I don’t think it would have changed my life in any meaningful way 

No, me and money, we are getting along just fine now. And for the first time, it feels like enough. 

Lasagna

Lasagna

My heritage is Italian. My children are half Italian, half Hungarian.  Any kind of ethnic cooking I prepared, I learned from my mom and mother-in-law.  They were both excellent cooks. 

My mother learned all of the Italian dishes from my father’s mother who immigrated from Italy.

Yes, every Sunday we had pasta with tomato sauce made with sausage and meatballs.  We called it “Sunday gravy”.

There is a little bit of controversary surrounding the word “gravy” to describe tomato sauce.  In the region my ancestors are from it’s called gravy because the base of the sauce is meat.  

On special occasions my mother would make lasagna. 

It was a detailed, time-consuming process. 

First, she would prepare the gravy. This entailed many steps.

Brown the Italian sweet pork sausage links. Take the links out of the pot, drain most of the grease, then sauté a few cloves of garlic. “Don’t burn the garlic!”

The meatballs are a process all on their own.  No exact measurements, though. I think she just knew by sight and feel what the right ratio of meat, (pork and beef), eggs, breadcrumbs, parmesan, chopped parsley and minced garlic, was. 

Once the meatballs were formed, she would take a half of an onion, whole, not chopped, and cook the onion along with the meatballs in an iron skillet. 

She would stand over the meatballs, turning them when they “looked right”.  We used to tease her that she was “tending the meatballs.”

While the meatballs were browning, she would begin opening up cans of whole Italian tomatoes and tomato paste.  She would put the tomatoes into a blender along with fresh parsley. After blended she would add the tomatoes to the sauce pot that she had used to brown the sausage and garlic.

The tomatoes had to be cooked just right.  She’d bring them to a rolling boil until they started to foam, “look, she would say, when you see the foam, you can lower the temperature.”

She would let the sauce simmer for about an hour and then she would add the meat into the pot.

After the sauce with the meat cooked for another hour, it was time to assemble the lasagna,

She would prepare the ricotta mixture the same way she did the meatballs, no exact measurements.  Some parmesan cheese, an egg or two, salt pepper and the secret ingredient of a touch of crushed dried mint.

The lasagna noodles would be boiled until they were al dente.

Next, layer sauce, noodles, ricotta mixture, mozzarella, parmesan cheese and smashed meatballs. Repeat for another two layers. 

Top with sauce and sprinkle parmesan cheese.

Bake at 350 with tin foil cover.  After 20 minutes, take the tin foil off.  Let it cook more until it’s bubbling in the middle

You also you can do the knife test.

Insert a butter knife into the center, take it out and touch it to your tongue.  If it burns your mouth, it’s done 

I think the biggest secret my mother taught me was to let the lasagna settle out of the oven for at least 10-15 minutes before cutting and serving. 

As a single person living alone, I don't cook much anymore.   I tend to stick to the same foods.  Preferably, meals that require little fuss.

But I do make lasagna on special occasions.  And I do make “from scratch” gravy.  

My process is a little more condensed. For instance, I buy already crushed tomatoes, so no need for the blender step.  

For the meatball mixture I use flavored panko breadcrumbs, so I don’t add any extra spices.  Therefore, no need to chop parsley or mince garlic. 

But I admit I do “tend” the meatballs. 

I also take the time to simmer the sauce for 2 hours.  

There are no short cuts for assembling the lasagna.

I may have simplified a few steps here and there, but taking the time still shows in the results. 

Family sitting around the table, content, patting their full bellies, “Delicious Mom”. 

And every time I make this dish, I think of my Mother, She taught me well. 

  

Ken

 

Ken

We met 59 years ago. I was 19, he 24. It was my second job out of high school, and my first experience working in an office for a large company.

He worked in the engineering department.

The culture there included many single young people just starting their careers.

He was a quiet person, with a dry sense of humor and a sharp wit. I found him a little mysterious. He drove a big, shiny black 1965 Chrysler 300, and somehow that car seemed to add to his mystique.

At the time, he was interested in one of my co-workers, and I had a steady boyfriend.

But I was quite taken with him.

I remember one day he passed by the doorway of my office, saw me, and gave a small wave. I found myself blushing. Someone else noticed and said, “Hmm… I think you have a bit of a crush.”

One day he asked me to lunch. He wanted to show me his new red 1967 Corvette convertible.

My boyfriend was away at school, and his interest wasn’t interested.

We began to spend time together as friends. Lunches, a movie here and there.

Personality-wise, we were very much alike. Quiet, reserved, a little introverted, sharing the same sense of humor. Part of my attraction may have been that he was five years older. He had served four years in the U.S. Navy, and I thought him more “worldly” than I was.

It took a while, but eventually one thing led to another, and we began to officially date.

We shared the same goals—marriage, a home of our own, a family.

By then, the Corvette was gone, replaced by something more practical—a wagon.

Like our personalities, our marriage was steady and quiet. I still found him a bit mysterious, not one to reveal too much.

But I knew he was kind—someone who would do anything for me, for his children, for a friend or neighbor.

Our marriage didn’t last. I think I understand why now.

Our paths were different.

But we remained friendly.

I married Ross a few years after our divorce.

When Ross became ill, my ex-husband—the father of my children—reached out and said he would “do whatever you need.”

And in the two years since Ross has passed, he continued to be supportive and caring.

Yesterday, Ken passed away.

He suffered through the last seven weeks of his life, trying to recover from heart surgery.

I visited him a couple of times in the hospital and in rehab. Seeing him ill and vulnerable brought back so many feelings—of our early years, of the loss of our son, of the life we shared as partners and co-parents.

My heart aches for our children and grandchildren.

And for the young man in the black Chrysler, who once made me blush with a simple wave.

Rest in peace, Ken.