Tan Moriarty

Author: Tanja Buzzi Moriarty

  • Mom’s Girl Scout Sash and the Legacy of a Good Mother

    Mom’s Girl Scout Sash and the Legacy of a Good Mother

    As evidenced by Mom’s accomplished life (in her obituary), she used her God-given gifts wisely as a teacher and leader, a woman of unwavering faith and most importantly how to be a strong mother. She loved her life, loved nature, and loved her family with all of her heart.

    In her later years, Mom was still engaged in her world. Instead of being “out in the field” with scouts, camping, church, and travel, her home became her headquarters.  She stayed connected with loved ones and lived her life purposefully.

    Each morning, she’d rise at 7 and start her day. After a light breakfast, she’d read her daily devotions, then flip open her laptop to visit family and friends on Facebook. She’d post a line each day on her own Facebook page, who visited or called.

    Mom then extracted the puzzle section from her daily Hartford Courant. She discarded all the rest of the paper into her recycling pin. Then Mom would read. She often had two or more books going at once, in totally different genres from her extensive book collection. Once she was bouncing back and forth between “Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm” and “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”. She read everything from the Bible to contemporary writers to the classics.

    She’d have lunch, read, and play solitaire for hours. She’d gaze at some of her favorite mementos. Among her treasures was a framed photo of the four of us as adults, with an old snapshot of the four of us as small children tucked in the bottom corner of the frame. Her table was laden with an array of knickknacks. She had her Swedish horses, gnomes, fairy lights and a tray of tea candles. In the evenings, she’d sometimes tune into Jeopardy if family were home. On Sundays, she’d dial into her church worship service via Zoom.

    After Mom passed, I came upon her amazing Girl Scout sash. It was hanging on a shelf in a recessed closet, near the place where she sat at her dining room table. Festooned with 35 neatly arranged badges, a “Be Prepared” patch, Troop number, her fly-up wings into Junior Girl Scouts, and a host of trefoil pins—This sash, struck me anew, that it is not only a treasure, but a testimony to who Mom was throughout her youth and the rest of her life.

    Mom earned all these badges and wore her sash in the mid 1950s. Some badges are easy to identify— cooking, sewing, nature, babysitting.  But many more are obscure and our family cannot wait to identify each of them when the 1955 Girls Scout handbook arrives. Thank you, Ebay!

    The sash had probably hung in this closet for years, just within her reach or for her to peek at. Because it was only a few feet away from where she sat, and not stuffed in a box or a drawer somewhere, means it was very special to her.

    Mom never brought out her beautiful, well-adorned sash to say, “Hey, look what I accomplished. Look at all my badges!” That wasn’t her style. She never bragged or brought attention to herself. Even when Brenda and I were in Girl Scouts, she had us focus on our own endeavors.

    I hope this incredible sash brought Mom quiet affirmation of her many accomplishments. Reminders of her sturdy, foundational years, growing up on a farm with supportive and stable parents, loving Swedish immigrant grandparents, in a houseful of siblings, out in the middle of Higganum woods. Her scouting years and years of faith helped her to truly Be Prepared with all of life’s ups and downs.

    I’d like to take a moment now and share a make-believe badge that I think Mom would have easily earned in her adult-years, The Good Mother Badge. I picture it a green circle like the other badges, here, with an embroidered mother bird, her wings spread wide over a nest of four baby birds. The birds of course, are named Tanja, Brenda, Eddie, and Andy.

    Let’s imagine the requirements mom would have easily met to earn this badge of honor, The Good Mother Badge.

    1. Badge Requirement one: Enrich Your Children in the Arts: An easy one. Mom read Greek and Roman literature to Brenda and me as toddlers, as she balanced quality time with us and studying for her master’s degree. More age-appropriate reading matter included “Peter Rabbit” by Beatrix Potter, “The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh” by A.A. Milne, and Johnny Gruelle’s, “Raggedy Ann Stories” and “Raggedy Andy Stories.” She turned us on to Aesop’s Fables, Bible stories, and Walt Disney stories in books and record sets.

    On Saturdays, she drove us to (Middletown) Junior Matinees to see live productions of Peter and the Wolf and other children’s plays. Working as a library assistant, she’d come home with the latest children’s books and records for us to enjoy.

    • Badge Requirement Two: Encourage Simple Pleasures:

    Mom found affordable fun. We camped at state parks—-Hammonassett Beach on Long Island Sound, and Wells State Park in Massachusetts. We’d stop by Sturbridge Village and visit Aunt Edna and Uncle Ward on their working dairy farm.  Every time a new kids’ movie came out, she’d load us into the old blue station-wagon and we’d head to the local drive-in! She’d pop tons of popcorn and mix a jug of Kool-aid. We saw first runs of classics including “Escape to Witch Mountain”, “The Apple Dumpling Gang”, and “Herby Rides Again!”

    Mom was director of Camp Higganumpus, a fantastic Girl Scout day-camp in town.  We’d trek the big hill to the Girl Scout cabin in the woods on Hull Avenue. She and other leaders showed us how to make sand candles, macrame owl necklaces, and make ice cream. We also had capers like cleaning out the outhouse with lye!

    • Badge Requirement Three, “Raise them with Faith.” From an early age, Mom taught us about God and Jesus. She led us in nightly prayers, and we’d say grace before we’d eat, even if it was over a peanut butter and jelly picnic.

    She brought us to church, “making us” go until we were 18 years old.  She lit advent candles and read Luke 2, every Christmas morning before we opened presents. When we’d come to her with a complaint or worry, she’d always say, “Pray on it.” As we grew older, she never pushed us or guilted us into practicing her style of faith. She simply modeled grace, forgiveness and personal devotion. 

    • Badge Requirement Four: Teach them Good Manners Mom had class. She instilled in us to always use good manners. “Please,” “thank you,” and “excuse me,” were standards. We were not allowed to swear or even say the word “f-a-r-t.”

    While we always had good food and decent clothing, Mom taught us the importance and necessity of sharing.  Brenda and I shared a hairdryer she’d worked hard to give us one Christmas when she was a single-parent. She’d split a Hershey bar into four equal pieces when there was just one to go around.  All in all, we never really noticed what we were missing.  Her her love and strength made it good. Above all, Mom never played favorites. We all felt her love for us equally and unconditionally…always.

    Julia Radko, my son Chris’ fiancée made the Good Mother badge and gave it to me this past Christmas.

  • Nevertheless, She Persisted

    Nevertheless, She Persisted

    Shared at the Celebration of Life of Melissa J. Schlag, October 18, 2020 at Eagles Landing State Park in Haddam, and published in the Haddam Bulletin, December 2020.

    By Tanja Moriarty

    Twenty years ago, I brought a plate of cookies to welcome our new next-door neighbors. A beautiful young woman with dark brown eyes eagerly invited me and my two young children inside.  

    Right away, I was drawn to her warmth and her convictions. 

    While she lived next door, we organized block parties, wine-tastings, and game nights. We even started a town-wide book club together, Booksom Babes, which still meets to this day. We laughed a lot, talked a lot, and shared life’s ups and downs. She was one of my very best friends. 

    As time went on, some of our neighbors became disenchanted with the shenanigans in the two-party political system in town. In 2007, Melissa helped a few of us renegades start a third party, A Better Haddam. She agreed to become the party’s treasurer, saying, “I don’t know how, but I’ll do it.” 

    That’s how she rolled, jumping right in and rolling up her sleeves. We shook some folks up and made some waves with this party. That was the intention.

    From there, Melissa just took off with the political scene. She began to flourish.

    To promote more open town government, she began video recording every Board of Selectmen meeting from 2007 on. She lugged what would be now considered very antiquated, over-sized cameras and wires from the local public access cable television station to the meetings. Officials got nervous and I think it made them to sit up a little straighter knowing they were being broadcast to the masses. As time went by, others started video-recording the same meetings. As a result, more and more people began tuning in to local town government proceedings. 

    When Melissa moved across town to her soulmate, I felt the loss of her immediate presence in the neighborhood. But I knew she was truly happy and fully living life by her own lights. We stayed in constant contact with our numerous political activities and treasured our get-togethers where she’d blow us away with one of her new, designer cocktails. 

    She ran for the 33rd District senate seat on the Green Party ticket, making great inroads in Hartford that would later help benefit Haddam and the environment. She was endorsed by the New London Day and the Norwich Bulletin and garnered nearly 9 percent of the votes, which was pretty amazing for a third-party candidate.

    She also began working on the Haddam Bulletin as a designer, journalist and one of its editors. She did this for 11 years.

    Using her State Capitol connections and communication skills, Melissa made the perfect director as she spearheaded the Stop the Swap campaign. She was instrumental in saving from development a 17-acre state preserve abutting Eagle Landing State Park on the Connecticut River.    

    She led the Haddam Democratic Town Committee which grew in membership. We campaigned vigorously for her race for First Selectman which she won and served in 2013 through 2015. I was so proud of her accomplishments as our town’s leader. 

    Through her networking with DEEP and EPA, she championed the cleaned up the Higganum Cove. She was also instrumental in the DEEP purchase of the 42-acre Kuiaski parcel which became a State park for everyone to enjoy instead of housing lots. 

    I have to tell you, since she passed so suddenly, and because she always deflected accolades and praise, I worried that because there was to be no formal obituary, that her incredible accomplishments might go unsung. 

    But within just two short weeks since her passing, her momentous accomplishments had been featured in major newspapers, on television news, by Connecticut’s lieutenant governor, and state and federal representatives. 

    Our own Haddam town government proclaimed Sunday, October 18, 2020 Melissa Jean Schlag Day. On that day, over 100 people gathered at Eagle Landing to celebrate her extraordinary life and irreplaceable friendship. 

    I can rest now that the world has fully and fairly acknowledged the accomplishments of one Melissa Jean Schlag. She’s been rightfully portrayed as a passionate, self-assured and uncompromising public servant. A tireless leader crusading for open government, fairness, and saving our vulnerable planet. 

    On a more local and personal level, she also was the ultimate Girl Scout, “Always leaving a place better than she found it.” 

    She was a fixer, a female MacGyver, a carpenter, a roofer, painter, floor installer, anything she put her mind to she become an expert. She was also a computer whiz and if she didn’t know how to do something, she’d look it up.  She was a planner, a consummate researcher, stone-turner, fact-checker, journalist, mover and shaker, an environmental heroine. All of these qualities made her a brave and passionate, public servant.

    Melissa showed such incredible strength and tenacity to all who knew her. When she told me four years ago, she had cancer, she said so nonchalantly you might have thought she said, “I have a hang nail.”

    She lived well, passionately, fiercely, making everything count, defying and denying the damned cancer. She never complained. She never showed weakness. 

    That’s how she wanted it. 

    Many had no idea she was dealing with Stage 4 cancer. Those of us closest to her didn’t even realize how sick she was until the end. 

    The last few precious texts we shared while she was at Yale Hospital informed me that she still had no intention of letting on how the cancer was progressing. Or that she was giving up. She was clearly ticked off that she was still there after a long stay, expecting to be home the Monday before she passed away. 

    The last text I sent her was on Friday morning, Oct. 2nd —the day I would later learn was the day she passed.  The text was a copy of someone’s cheeky Twitter post, that was going viral after the announcement of President’s Trump’s Covid-19 diagnosis. It read, “Looks like RBG (Ruth Bader Ginsburg) successfully argued her first case before God.”

    I don’t know if she ever got to see that on her last day on Earth. I like to think she did and that she may have grinned before she took her leave. 

    I also like to imagine her now, communing with other great, brave souls who inspired, sacrificed, moved and shook us to higher thoughts, actions and standards.

    Like them, Melissa made history with her convictions and actions in her short life. In my humble opinion, she belongs right up there with RBG, Susan B. Anthony and Joan of Arc.

    For those of us who had the precious privilege of knowing her, we will forever be in awe of a woman who accomplished more in 46 years, than people twice her age. 

    May her legacy of promoting democracy, protecting the environment and so bravely living an authentic, uncompromising life continue to inspire us to do the same. 

  • Get Baked!

    Get Baked!

    Tray of chocolate chip cookies beside a cup of tea on a wooden table
    Baking cookies makes me feel saner.

     by Tan 9/28/26

    I could pull the covers up over my head thinking about what’s going on in our country, in the world. My hands could bleed from constant wringing about what may happen next, or how long we have left as a race with or without artificial intelligence interfering. I could ruin my day dwelling on the fact that I continue to be ostracized by my limited and hurtful siblings.

    So, what can I do besides meditating, journaling and praying to be OK in this moment? When in doubt or I’m feeling down often the panacea to peace, however temporary for me is to bake cookies!

    Chocolate chip, mostly. 

    Often when I feel jangled, I finding it calming and satisfying to make a batch. The process is meditative, though precise. I feel like I have some control. I measure accurately, often using a food scale, and follow a tried-and-true recipe, with extra egg yolks.  I deftly wield a metal, spring-loaded Pampered Chef cookie scoop (right tool for the job) and position the dough in neat rows on parchment. Bake for 12 minutes at 325, turning the trays halfway. I set them out to cool, then transfer them to racks. Depending on their destination or purpose, I load the alligator (more on this below), plate and wrap them, or put them in the freezer.

    I’ve probably made thousands.  I don’t have actual stats, but it’s safe to say I’ve made cookies on the average of at least once or twice a month, for most of my life. At first, helping my mom at a very early age. By ten or so, I’d be making them solo. I’d make them for my boyfriend turned husband. Then more often when my kids were growing up, as a lunch box or after school snacks.

    Making them has become an extension of who I am for outside of our home, too. I bake cookies for church coffee hour, fairs, our open mic/coffee house, for my book club. I bake them in appreciation of neighbors who’ve helped us tackle some mechanical issue on our travel trailer, lent us tool, or those who’ve watched our cat.

    I bake them for plumbers, dirt diggers, painters. Even though they get paid (handsomely) for their job, a plate of fresh cookies for the crew is an extra thank you. 

    People seem to appreciate homemade cookies to nibble on. Some coo and make yummy sounds. “You make the best cookies,” they say.  It is nice to hear.

    My late father used to quip, “Nothing is better than a home baked goodie.”

    I, of course, am a cookie snob. I can’t imagine buying store cookies except maybe Oreos or Milano’s. They’d be hard to replicate. I also blanche at the cost of singular cookies I often see for sale. Recently, I saw a solitary chocolate chip cookie (homemade or bakery made?) at the Big E, priced at $5.50. My batches could make bank if I chose to go into business. But no. 

    Years ago, my late mother-in-law gifted us with a fantastic cookie jar that my husband and I still enjoy today. It is loud, as in it is a bright green and yellow alligator holding a red sign that says, “Cookies”. But it’s also audibly loud. There’s no sneaking a cookie with this cookie jar. When you lift its head back by the snout, it says in a deep, loud Louie Armstrong-type twang, “Yummy, these cookies suuurrrre taste good!” 

    It in no way matches our kitchen décor, but we will probably never part with it. Over the years of love and wear, the hinge on its mouth broke. Now we must lift the top half of its head off to reach in for a cookie.  We laugh because sometimes the voice studders, “Ya-ya-yummy, (like a rapper). These cookies sure taste good!” 

    Green alligator cookie jar holding a red sign that says Cookies
    Green alligator cookie jar holding a red sign that says Cookies, When you lift his head, he says loudly, “Yummy, these cookies sure taste good!” A wonderful gift from my late mother-in-law back in the 1990s.

    My adult kids and their partners meander their way to the alligator when they come to visit, so I try to keep it filled for their arrival. When my husband finds it empty, he’ll say, “There’s a distinct lack of cookies in this house.”

    I get the hint. Even if it’s not for therapeutic relief, I might make a batch just to fill the alligator.

  • Good American Booed

    Good American Booed

    by Tan Moriarty

    I scanned the crowded room of people sitting at wooden tables and benches in the pub at the hiker’s lodge during a recent trip in Glencoe, Scotland.  The musician in the corner, a graying man in his early 70s, donned in plaid, flannel shirt and worn khakis, was asking his audience in a heavy Scottish accent, where we all were from. 

    “Let’s see who’s come the farthest?” 

    A young woman volunteered she was from New Zealand. Another person was from France, another from Italy. 

    “Anyone from the United States?”

    My hand shot up, and two men standing the bar said, “Texas.” 

    There was low, but audible booing! 

    Booing!

    Wait, what?

    I felt kicked in my gut. I didn’t even bother pipe in that I was from Connecticut.

    Then I registered anger. Not for those who showed distain for my country, could I blame them? But, yet again, for the awful leadership of my country and the mess we are in especially because of the current administration.

    Part of me wanted to shout out, “I do not represent him or those who are giving us a bad name. I am a good American!”

    But I sat there, my pulse racing, sipping my Scottish cask drawn beer.

    My husband said, “I knew that was going to happen.”

    One of my kids added, “I just tell people I’m from Canada.” 

    How sad that my thirty-something kids feel this sort of, what? Disgust? Shame? Even my veteran husband was affected and chose to keep still. 

    Maybe I am just naïve? Being booed as an American visiting other country these days shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. We didn’t stay long that night to listen to the music. While we had hiked several miles through beautiful mountain trails that day and were tired, the booing also dampened our evening. 

    Thankfully, that remote lodge was the only place and incident throughout our ten-day trip where we encountered anything disparaging being Americans. We found the rest of Scotland to be warm and welcoming. 

    The incident has made me think, though. I recalled my first experience of people’s perception of me as an American. I was in northern Italy, becoming acquainted with relatives in 2005. 

     “You are not loud like the Texans on the show Dallas,” a cousin said. She explained Americans were portrayed as wealthy, brassy and toting guns.

    I laughed then at that TV image stereotype. 

    I am not laughing now.  Instead, I am thinking of how to celebrate our country’s 250th anniversary, despite the current leadership, the divisions, and the general malaise. 

    A friend sent me a photo from 1976 of happy Americans gathered at the Reflecting Pool in D.C. to celebrate our country’s bicentennial.

    Reflecting Pool, 1976, 200th Birthday

    I remember my own town turned out to celebrate. There was large production at the local high school with pageantry, singing and dancing. Some of my fellow fifth graders and I were chosen to dance an 18th century minuet, complete with gowns and white wigs! Of course, there were picnics and fireworks. 

    Compare these images to Trump’s Freedom 250 Great American State Fair farce in D.C. today. A complete bust with very little attendance because of the sad state of our union.

    On our nation’s lawn, 250th birthday

    Yes, there will be other local celebrations on the 4th, but this is a big birthday for us! Things seemed much more subdued.

    I don’t want to add more sadness, anger or misery by dwelling on our current government and country’s serious troubles. Nor do I want to come off as a complete Pollyanna saying that everything is great, when clearly, we’ve had better times as a country. All I can do is keep thinking, “This too, shall pass.”

    So, despite it all, I plan to focus on things that still make me proud to be an American this July 4, 2026.

    1.     Our beautiful lands, parks, mountains, oceans, lakes, rivers and streams.

    2.     Our freedom of religion, separation of church and state, free speech

    3.     Free public libraries

    4.     Our good people: neighbors, organizations, clubs, schools, houses of worship that raise people up and help people in need. 

    5.     Our forefathers and foremothers who fought and sacrificed for us.

    What can you add to this list? 

    Wishing you, and our 250 -year-old care-worn country a happy birthday and healthier future! 

  • Sonja (my mom) Unsung…Until Now!

    Sonja (my mom) Unsung…Until Now!

    Written in 2023.

    My mom, Sonja, with her customized walking stick, 2017.

    Although my mom almost never wears makeup or even lipstick, I think she’s one of the classiest women I’ve ever known. Class doesn’t necessarily come with cosmetics, money, fancy clothes or other adornments. It also comes with what you do with what you’ve got for the greater good, and especially for your children.

    Born in 1942 and raised in a rural Higganum, Connecticut, Sonja Deloris Granat grew up in a small farmstead with her parents, four siblings, and Swedish, immigrant grandparents. They weren’t dirt poor, but I remember mom saying each child received just one gift at Christmas. On the farm, they grew and sometimes sold their own produce, meats, and homemade cheese.

    At an early age, mom loved nature and influenced by her grandmother, she learned about God. She prayed once as a five year old to see a turtle. When she stepped outside there was one right by her feet! Mom recalls loving to go to elementary school, though she was a bit of a wallflower throughout her high school years. After graduation, she and one of her sisters commuted to Central Connecticut State College where mom pursued her bachelor’s in elementary education. Her college girlfriend introduced mom to her brother, whom she married in 1963.

    While mom worked several years after my sister and I were born to earn her master’s degree in elementary education, twists and turns in life prevented her from teaching in a public-school setting. She did, though, use her skills and passion to lead girls and boys through scouts and 4-H. She taught Sunday School and was superintendent of Sunday School for many years at her Methodist church. 

    As I look back, I see how mom did an exemplary job raising four kids in the lean years before and after my parent’s divorce in 1977. We always had enough food. Though we often wore hand-me-downs until we were old enough to work to buy more trendier clothes, mom kept what we had clean and mended. But she gave us so much more than this.

    Mom always read to us. As toddlers, she read Greek and Roman literature as she balanced quality time with us and studying for her Master’s. More age-appropriate reading matter included “Peter Rabbit” by Beatrix Potter, “The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh” by A.A. Milne, and Johnny Gruelle’s, “Raggedy Ann Stories” and “Raggedy Andy Stories.” She turned us on to Aesop’s Fables, Bible stories, and Walt Disney stories in books and record sets. On Saturdays, she drove us to (Middletown) Junior Matinee’s to see live productions of Peter and the Wolf and other children’s plays.

    Working as a library assistant, she’d come home with the latest children’s books. She introduced us to Judy Blume. I devoured “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret?”, “Blubber” and especially, “Deenie,” a girl I longed to befriend. 

    Mom co-led a wonderful Girl Scout day camp in our town in the summers. We’d learn crafts like sand candle making, macrame, ice cream making. We’d have haunted houses in the cabin!

    Mom found affordable fun. We camped at state parks—-Hammonassett Beach on Long Island Sound, and Wells State Park in Massachusetts. We’d stop by Sturbridge Village, an 1830s living museum, and visit Aunt Edna and Uncle Ward on their working dairy farm.  

    She inspired us with the Teddy Bear’s Picnic (melody by American composer John Walter Bratton in 1907, and lyrics by Irish song writer Jimmy Kennedy in 1932).  We often picnicked at roadside parks like Seven Falls, or at Haddam Meadows on the Connecticut River. 

    Some of the best times of times was going to the local drive-in! She would pop tons of popcorn and mix up a jug of off-brand Kool-aid. We’d pile in the back of the old blue station wagon and catch the latest kid movies—-Escape to Witch Mountain, The Apple Dumpling Gang, Herby Rides Again!

    Through all her many trials, mom always kept her faith and keeps her faith. She took us to Sunday School every Sunday while we lived under her roof. Sometimes, to my chagrin, it meant having to leave early on weekend camp trips with the Parents Without Partners Group and our teen friends. Growing up, mom would read Luke 2 every Christmas morning before we opened our presents. 

    Mom also could not and does not stand for swearing or even saying the word “fart.” It’s kind of amazing Mom was/is this way with her own father, the king of “Pull my finger” as a lifelong influence. Trying to instill class in us, she’d instruct, “Say excuse me, when you blow a poop.” As we got older, we’d laugh at this substitute for the common expression, but something stuck with me later with my own kids. They were raised to say, “pass gas”, not “fart.”

    Mom loved her crafts and was quite the seamstress. She made Brenda and I matching skirts, vests and jumpers. Mom made my senior prom gown in 1983 and later wedding gown in 1988. As I look at wedding pictures, I am still so in awe of the wonderful job she did on this elaborate and gorgeous garment.  I believe it was the best item she had ever sewn. 

    My beautiful mom and me on my wedding day in the gorgeous gown she made.

    Mom was front and center the whole time Sean was in Desert Storm and when our babies were born. She was gleeful, blowing bubbles and was such source of support and encouragement. Mom and second husband Ernie were always so happy to babysit and even took our kids on a cross country trip. She instilled her love of nature and fun in her grandchildren. She introduced them all to the joys of swimming. As toddlers she’d encourage them to, “kick-kick-kick!” and “reach-reach-reach!” as she played with them in her above ground pool.

    Mom with grandson, Chris, 1993.
    Mom, in retirement at her place in Maine, 2016. She fished and picked tons of wild blueberries, keeping track of how many fish were caught or cups of berries picked.

    Today, at nearly eighty, I still see so much class in my mom. She is less ambulatory than her early days, but I still see her classiness in motion.

    She starts her day with one of her daily devotional readings. She moves on to her daily crossword and jumble in the Hartford Courant.  Then she moves on to her novel reading.  Mom often has two or more books going at once, in totally different genres from her extensive book collection. Kate Douglas Wiggin’s, “Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm” and Stieg Larsson’s “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” were two titles she recently bounced back and forth reading. She’s on John Steinbeck’s “The Pastures of Heaven,” right now.

    Mom still plays a mean game of Florida Rummy and is a formidable Scrabble opponent. She crochets Afghans and can whip up a new dishcloth in a half hour. Mom looks forward to celebrating Christmas Eve with an authentic Swedish smorgasbord and glogg at her house. Mom keeps up with the goings-on of her grown grandchildren. She and I still have meaningful discussions about faith and life. She treasures when family visit, especially when all four of her unique children are there together.

    Sonja and her children. On left, Tanja, behind her are Brenda and Ed.
    Andy is to her right.

  • This Flag is Your Flag, This Flag is My Flag

    This Flag is Your Flag, This Flag is My Flag

    I love OUR flag       Revised                                                   Tan  5/27/24

    Whenever I see an American flag, my spirit swells with reverence and pride.  It started in early childhood reciting the Pledge of Allegiance at Haddam Elementary School.  In Girl Scouts, our meetings held at the Higganum United Methodist Church started with a small color guard presenting the colors and we’d say the pledge. We closed the meetings with lowering the flag, singing Taps.  We learned the proper way to fold the flag, keep the flag off the floor. We carried flag in our town’s beloved Memorial Day Parade. 

    Into my adult life, I always felt great love for the flag. Being married to a man in the Army and Gulf War, who is former police officer, made this banner evermore personal to me. Coming home from traveling abroad, I am comforted by our stars and stripes in our homeland.

    I know our country is not perfect.  Yes, we are divided, especially in politics. Who knows what the November election is going to bring?  What I do know is that I love our flag. OUR flag.

    Admitting that I love the flag might make some think I am part of the far right or a faction of our country who some believe have somehow commandeered the American flag as a symbol for their “side.” 

    I saw another one today at our town’s Memorial Day Parade, “Disrespect this, (picture of the flag) and get a boot in your ass!” Oh, how I cringe driving past flags tacked on plywood signs with a former president’s name scrawled beneath in spray paint!

    I hate that such a ubiquitous, aggressive display of our precious flag has enough people refusing to fly the flag, or at least worried about it for fear of being identified with a specific faction. 

    I met a young man selling plants from his greenhouse in area where many of his neighbors were prolific flag fliers and posting MAGA messages on their lawns. After we had chatted for a while, my husband and I mentioned we were on a Democratic Town Committee in our home town. Thinking he had to appease the neighbors by flying the flag, and by that he might have offended us, the young man apologized for his American flag in the front yard. 

    “Don’t apologize,” I said. “It’s your flag, too!” 

    He is not the only one bowing to the pressure. My in-laws attend an “open and affirming” church that took down their American flag hanging beside the rainbow flag over their front entrance. “Some thought the American flag would be seen as offensive,” my father-in-law said, disgusted by the change.

    What can we do? 

    Short of an ad campaign on TikTok (A Chinese company!) declaring the American flag belongs to all of us, and not just a faction, we dismantle the perception by EVERYONE flying the flag. Fly it as an American Republican, or an American Democrat, or an American Independent, an American Believer or Atheist, and an American Straight or LGBTQIA+ person. Display it at your home, on the road, at your campsite. Carry it in parades along with all other multi-colored, meaningful banners. Fly it fearlessly at your business, church, synagogue, or mosque. 

    “I pledge allegiance to OUR flag, of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible with liberty and justice for all.” 

  • Sandy’s Song: COVID-19

    Sandy’s Song: COVID-19

    Since the pandemic started in March 2020, I’ve flip-flopped working from home, then going back in the office, and now back at home until I am full vaccinated. I felt too anxious with co-workers who in a vulnerable building, were not wearing masks, or at least not enough of the time. Some didn’t think COVID-19 was real or that the virus could “happen” to them or their loved ones.

    Well, COVID-19 did happen to us. Sean’s mom, Sandy, 74, was living in a small and seemingly very COVID-careful convalescent home of 55 beds. For the longest time they had stayed COVID-free. Precautions were such that we could only visit Sandy while sitting six feet away from her, sitting outside on a porch, wearing our masks. Then the last time I saw her, right before Thanksgiving, the convalescent center was even more stringent. Sandy was sitting indoors, six feet from the open window leading to the porch. She was in her wheel chair, behind a wall of Plexiglas-glass, wearing a mask. Sean and I were outside on the porch looking in the open window, wearing masks. A little much, we thought.

    That last visit, Sandy seemed the best I’d seen her in a while. Bright, joking, looking forward. I remember telling her to stay well so when things calmed down she could come and stay more weekends with us like she had before COVID hit. We had hoped that after COVID-19, she and Sean could resume looking into Sandy getting into her own apartment with visiting nurse assistance.

    Then we hit a wall. A few weeks before Christmas Sandy and a few others had come down with COVID-19. Rumor was that someone (a doctor?) had come in to the building who was infected, without symptoms. At first it seemed Sandy, who was moved into an isolated area, only had a mild case. We prayed she would be OK, but COVID attacked. Her lungs were in such rough shape; she had COPD, emphysema, and was already on oxygen at times. Her blood oxygen dangerously low, Sandy was sent to the intensive care unit at the hospital. She and Sean, who is her conservator came to the anxious conclusion that she would need to be put on a ventilator. Sandy told Sean she was scared, and Sean did his best to assure her that the doctors said she really needed it.

    For 17 days we prayed that the medicines they were treating her with would pull her through. At times it looked like she was improving, ever so slightly, but then Sandy’s regular pulmonologist would worn us. If she didn’t turn around soon, she’d have to come off the ventilator. Being on it too long was causing pneumonia and infection.

    We kept praying and tip-toed through very low-key, half-hearted Christmas. My daughter and her son were down from VT after testing negative for COVID. Sean, my son and I were negative, too. We did NOT see any other relatives.

    On December 27th, Sean made a hard and heart-wrenching decision, after consulting many times with his aunts and uncles and with the doctor, to have Sandy removed from the ventilator. She was getting worse, not better. She would need to be let go. Sean had found a priest who would give his mom last rites, a priest who was subbing in for the hospital’s chaplain who had contracted COVID-19! We were told by the attending pulmonologist that once taken off of the ventilator, Sandy would pass in about ten minutes. Poor Sean was with his mom and the priest when last rites were given. He said his goodbyes and then he and the priest waited in the family room for her to pass so they could go in and offer “prayers for the dead,” in a half hour or so.

    In that time, I reached out to my prayer warrior mamas and some family via text that Sandy was off the ventilator and assumed that she passed around four p.m. That’s what I had been told would happen. NEVER AGAIN will I make that kind of assumption. About an hour and half later I text Sean asking where he was thinking his mom had passed and if he was alright. I could picture him in his truck, distraught, crying. He might have gone for a beer, but where? No bars were open. After another half hour with no response from my text, I called him.

    “Where are you?”

    “I’m with my mother.”

    “Oh, honey, will you be home soon?”

    “I am with my mother! She’s is looking around the room. Do you want to talk to her?”

    What? At first I thought he was SO distraught that he had lost it. “What? How?”

    “She’s here. She’s stubborn.”

    “She’s alive?”

    “Yes.”

    “Um, OK.”

    “Do you want to talk to my mother?”

    “Yes. Hi Sandy. I love you.”

    “I love you.” She sounded so weak. So far away.

    “It’s OK, Sandy. I will take care of Sean. I love you.”

    Sean said he’d call me a little later.

    From the waiting room, Sean told me the attending nurse said this it going to be a slow death. That Sandy could live on a few more days. “The nurse said the other pulmonologist never should have told us she’d pass in a few minutes after they took her off the ventilator. They just don’t know.”

    “Could she still turn around from this?”

    “It’s not likely, but you know my mother! She has always done it her way!”

    All I could think was, Oh, my God. Please. Not that I wanted her to die, but I didn’t want her to struggle. For Sean to be in this agony, too.

    After I got off the phone I freaked out. I video called my good friends Bobbi and Jops and just blared, “She’s still alive! She didn’t pass yet like I thought, like I told you …and other people. Oh, My God! I feel so—crazy!”

    For the next three days we prayed for God’s Will Be Done, and hopefully meaning a complete recovery for Sandy. She had been on the brink more than once over the past four years or so with extreme pneumonias and infections. It astounded us at first how she rallied in the past. My son had said, “I’ve said goodbye to Grandma Sandy at least three times. ” But here she was, off the ventilator, and still with us. She had always been such a headstrong woman, a fighter. I could just imagine her thinking, “The doctor said I’d die after ten minutes? I’ll show him! I’ll go when I’m damn good and ready!” In the past 37 years of knowing her and all of the hard times she’d endured and survived, I was thinking that she might just overcome this!

    For the next 48 hours, Sean kept vigil as the ever-dutify son. He explored every option of medicines that might help that hadn’t already been tried. The doctor explained that his mother was dying and all that could be done was to keep her comfortable, any other medicines would just prolong the inevitable. Sean, in spite of COVID-19 restrictions that originally allowed just one “compassion visit” to loved-one who was terminally ill, was able to suit up head to toe and visit his mom two times. He said they were able to talk, but very little. Mostly I Loves Yous. He told me he asked his mom to say hello to his sister (who passed in January 2020).

    At home and every time Sean’s phone rang, my heart raced and I froze waiting for news. Sandy was comfortable, but fading. On December 30th around 3 p.m were were sitting in our living room when Sean received a call from a nurse. She said that she had just gone in with the pulmonologist to check on Sandy. They were in the room when she passed, peacefully. Sean thanked her for the call and then got up and walked down the hall to our bedroom where he made the calls to relatives.

    I stared out the window at the subdued afternoon light and felt numb. It was surreal as it is always surreal when someone you love dies. I knew and loved Sandy and all of our crazy ups and downs for 37 years. She never ceased to amaze me. Even up until her passing.

    That evening, Sean, Chris and I ended up in our rec room with a fire going in the wood stove, toasting Sandy with Guiness as we listened to albums. The very next day Sean retrieved Sandy’s belongings the convalescent home left outside in bags on their front porch.

    He spoke with his aunts and uncles and decided we would hold a celebration of Sandy’s life in the late spring 2021 due to COVID. Maybe by then, it would be safer for his elderly relatives to travel to Connecticut, they’d have their vaccines by then.

    Speaking of vaccinations? Two weeks after Sandy’s passing, residents at her convalescent home began receiving the first of their two COVID-19 shots.

  • Rounding the Bases

    Rounding the Bases

  • A Booksom Babe Goodbye: We’ll Miss You, Diane!

    A Booksom Babe Goodbye: We’ll Miss You, Diane!

    Diane had stopped coming to our bookclub soon after her diagnosis. She’d had brain surgery and was on an intense course of chemotherapy. We were at a loss. Diane had been a “Booksom Babe” for 13 years. We loved her wit and her insights as we discussed literature, sipped wine and shared bits of our lives.

    She is only 59, we lamented. She just retired from a successful career in nursing.

    We felt numb and inadequate as we continued to meet as a bookclub the past 18 months without her.  Care baskets of hand lotions, cards, books, and food were assembled and delivered. Some of us wore tie-dye, psychedelic, cat tee-shirts and brought hand drums to cheer her in her living room. We wanted to make her laugh. We all wanted to forget for a little while.

    Because there were few options available, Diane opted for experimental medicines. For a while, the tumor was at bay. We all were a little hopeful. Maybe she’d finally catch a break.

    Though she never complained to our bookclub, we were fully aware of all she had endured in such a short time. She lost her husband to lung cancer in 2005. In the past year she’d lost her mother and then very tragically, her son. How did she manage to go on at all? Her wonderful 26-year-old daughter “A” was  her “rock”, she said. We marveled at the young woman with so much tragedy and weight on her shoulders.

    The tumor came back with a vengence. Soon Diane was moved to Hospice care.

    We kept up with her progress feeling all the more helpless. Some of the Babes brought meals to her daughter to warm up after long days at the Hospice center.

    Then Diane died. We knew it was coming, yet I think we were all a little stunned. We’d lost book club members to moves or people opting out, but never to death.

    Bookclub was scheduled at my house just two days later. I decided we’d still meet, though I wasn’t sure we’d actually talk about the book. Would we be grieving as a group, too distraught to discuss it? I prayed before the women came over that we would find comfort that night. The five who came over greeted one another with the usual hug, but then we each just shook our heads and sighed. As usual as we assembled in my kitchen around the counter. This time, we raised a glass to Diane.

    As we sat in my living room,  we skirted around the topic of our own mortality. We vowed to travel more. Do the things we’ve been putting off. Ever a practical group, we brainstormed what might do in memory of Diane, and how we might help her daughter.

    After a while, someone enthusiastically suggested we discuss the book. Everyone was up to it,  so we discussed it late in the evening. I don’t think we were being irreverent or callous.  At times of grief, I think people tend to grapple for normalcy. We’re a bookclub, so it was normal to discuss our book, even though Diane had just died.

    After everyone left, I ran the night through my head. It was good to get together for bookclub, but I felt a little odd that no one cried.

    A week later, four of us Babes attended Diane’s Celebration of Life. The priest remarked to the full church that we all “showed up” because Diane had showed up for so many throughout her life. Her daughter reinforced this in her eulogy giving poignant examples of Diane “being there.” Diane was there for A’s long recovery after her life-threatening ski accident.  Diane had argued with reluctant doctors that they needed to perform yet another surgery on A to alleviate her daughter’s constant pain. One time Diane called the high school where her step-daughter attended and demanded the girl be assigned a new partner to walk with in her graduation procession. The kid with whom she was originally paired had bullied her. As a Girl Scout leader, Diane jumped off a bus in Boston on scout field trip so she could apply her medical skills to a bicycle courier who was hit by a car. The list went on and on.

    We Babes sat in renewed awe of this strong, vigilant woman we were proud to know and privileged to call a fellow Babe. Our hearts were burning at the total unfairness of her untimely death.

    At the end of the service, people were filing out of the pews in an orderly fashion ahead of us making their way to the back of the church.

    Suddenly, I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to Diane. She had been cremated and her beautiful pearl-colored urn sat on a small table surrounded by purple Irises at the front of the church.  I leaned to the Stacey on my right and told her I needed to go to Diane’s ashes.

    “Do you want me to come with you?”

    I said it was up to her, but I had to go. As I approached the table, sunlight streamed through the ceiling windows casting bright rays around Diane’s island-altar.

    I rested my hand on the cover of the Diane’s cool, smooth urn and closed my eyes.  I thanked God for the privilege of knowing this awesome woman. Then I whispered “Goodbye.”

    At that moment, I felt a warm hand atop of mine. I opened my eyes and saw it was Stacey’s. She had decided to go against the tide and join me. My throat tightened and I started to shake.

    I opened my eyes a second time and saw that Ann and Theresa had now joined us. Through bleary eyes, I gazed down at the pile of Babes’ hands stacked on Diane’s urn. Ann’s hand was on top of  Stacey’s, and Theresa’s hand on top of Ann’s. This impromptu gesture of solidarity, collective loss and admiration hit us hard in our hearts, right then  and there at Diane’s urn.  We were crying as we turned to make our way down the aisle toward the receiving line.

  • Eccentric Neighbor’s Halloween “Antic” Unnerves My Mother

    Eccentric Neighbor’s Halloween “Antic” Unnerves My Mother

    Every town or hamlet has one. A colorful character. A dare-devil denizen.  A legend-slash-loon. We had Hiram Walters (not his real name). He lives in my memory as a bit of all the above.

    This Lilliputian neighbor stood about four-foot-six in his steel-toed farm boots. Soaking wet, he probably weighed in at 85 pounds. He was always clad in what looked like boys’ size 10 faded, denim overalls. His salt and pepper hair and matching scruff framed his small face. His deep-set eyes and slightly crooked nose reminded me of a turtle.

    Hiram made up for his small stature with larger-than-life antics that even decades after his death, are still regarded with awe and headshaking.

    Hiram and his wife owned a beautiful, antique, two-story, red colonial. “Oakridge Farms” also included several acres that ribboned behind four or five houses across the street from my childhood home.  His son and family lived in the ranch-style house directly across from ours. Behind it was a big hill on which we neighbor kids often played. We were not allowed to go under the wire fence at the top that led to the barns where Hiram kept his cows, horses and sheep. We kids were too leery of this ancient yet spry, scary leprechaun to disobey.

    Hiram put most of our county on edge because of his impulsiveness. The rare times he’d come to church, he’d ride down the street and cross the busy main road on his horse. He tied his nag on the black iron fence leading up the stone steps. Parishioners made a wide berth around the horse to get inside. They’d look at each other with, “Oh, boy, what’s going to happen next?” expressions. Eventually he’d say something off colored during the service, if he stayed for the entire service.

    Hiram rode his horse to my grandparent’s house, five miles from town. He didn’t tie his horse to the fence post or even bother to dismount. Instead, he rode right up the front steps. My irritated grandfather met Hiram at the front door and hotly told him to back down.

    Hiram came to our door once, invited himself in and took a seat at our Sunday dinner table. His own dinner would be ready later, he explained, but he was hungry now. We were stunned, but my mother made got a plate for him.

    Legend has it that Hiram flew a rented airplane underneath the Arrigoni Bridge in Middletown. The span includes a four-lane highway and is just 89 feet above the Connecticut River. He also threatened a female state trooper with bullwhip when she pulled him over on a stop. 

    Somehow, Hiram escaped ever being arrested (or worse) for his many questionable behaviors. People would laugh and say, “That’s Hiram Walker for you.”

    Hiram could go too, far, though, as if the above hasn’t already qualified as too much.

    On Halloween night 1971, my mom was leading my younger sister and me around our immediate neighborhood for trick-o-treating. I couldn’t see too well out of the pinprick eyeholes of my witch’s mask. It smelled like my cousin’s Lite-Brite® set, heated plastic. Wind whistled through the sides as the elastic strap held it tight to my head. My face was sweaty, but I kept it on because it was part of the costume.  I relied on Mom, who guided us as we scuffed through crisp leaves on the side of the road and into neighbors’ yards.

    As Mom led us back to our own front yard, I was excited to get in the house to check out the candy I had collected. Despite limited visibility, I had been able to make out that a few bright orange Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups were in my bag.

    Suddenly, Mom yelled, “Get down!”

    The next thing I knew I was face first in the big pile of leaves we had been playing in earlier that day. The maple syrupy smell rushed into my nostrils.

    “Stay still!” Mom whispered. She pulled my sister and me under each of her arms and close to her sides. Too stunned to speak or cry out, we just lay there.

    What was going on? Was this mom’s idea of a funny game? I could hear my breathing loud and fast inside my witch mask.

    In the quiet, a vehicle rolled by behind us.

    “Quick, run to the house!” Mom whispered low and fast.

    I stood up but then felt like I was flying. Mom had gathered both my sister and me under each of her arms.

    “My God!” she said, out of breath as she set us down on the kitchen floor.

    We took off our masks and looked up at her.

    “That felt like a carnival ride,” I said, not exactly sure if I was supposed to laugh or be serious.

    “What’s going on?” my father asked, emerging from the back hallway into the kitchen.

    “Hiram Walters just drove by with a shot gun pointing of his pick-up window!” my mother explained. Her eyes were big. She had her hand on her chest.

    “What?” he said. “That crazy old coot!”

    What happened next?  My mother made a phone call to Hiram’s son across the street.

    She shook her head as she replaced the phone on the wall receiver.

    “Hiram was mad because some kids were trespassing on his back forty,” she said.  Apparently, he was just trying to scare them if he saw them on the street.

    “He scared the daylights of me!” my mother said.

    But that was that. ‘Ole Hiram Walters is at it again.’

    My sister and I adjourned to the living room and sat on the braided orange rug and began sifting through our candy.

    Do you remember a colorful character from your childhood?