Writing the Next Chapter

 In early January 1988 Joe packed up his black Nissan 200SX (a new purchase befitting a recent college graduate with a job offer) and took I-95 south towards Augusta, Georgia. While he had job offers from several companies during his senior year at Penn State, a generous offer from SRS, as well as the presence of numerous golf courses within a 50-mile radius, helped him make the decision to move south.

Joe arrived in Augusta without knowing a single person. He signed a lease on a 2-bedroom apartment just off Washington Road. His apartment,14P, was on the second floor, and he furnished it with items passed down from his parents. In his closet were five white dress shirts (one for each day of the week) and on his dining room wall hung a professional dart board worthy of any pub. With his first paycheck he purchased a state-of-the-art stereo system. He worked during the week and played golf on Saturdays, after which he went straight from the golf course to evening Mass at St. Teresa of Avila Catholic Church (still wearing his golf clothes).

 After one year of working (and golfing), in November he purchased a ticket for a spaghetti supper at St. Teresa’s, which is where we met. We dated six months, got engaged, and six months later (exactly one year from our first date) we married in that very same church. Just before our wedding, we closed on a tiny patio home … our first mortgage.

Over the years his work continued at SRS; there was still the occasional golf game, but not as often because our family was growing. One son, then two, then three. And with a growing family came the need for a bigger home. On May 22, 1998, we sat with lawyers and realtors around a huge conference table and reviewed contracts and transferred funds and signed on the dotted line, after which we took the boys to McDonald's to celebrate the fact that we had just bought a house, the one in which we still live in today.

Years went by, and life was full of responsibilities: Catholic school, mortgage payments, house repairs, car loans, college tuitions. Joe continued his 45-minute daily commute, waking up at 4:30 am (two hours before the rest of us) and changing in the closet so as not to wake me up. At separate times during the ensuing years our sons had summer internships out at the site, and Joe loved driving in with his sons.

When the older boys were in grade school, Joe was promoted to Program Manager and started travelling for work—to Oak Ridge, Kansas City, Albuquerque, Los Alamos, and Livermore. He lived by a self-imposed code: book your travel, prepare your slides, and arrive on-time (or early)! Over the years he boarded over 1400 flights, using the same carry-on which, today, has one wonky wheel and one non-turning wheel. All offers to replace it have been turned down because that bag has become a badge of honor for him. Joe still had that carry-on when, in 2021, he achieved One Million Miler Status with Delta.

Thirty-seven years of working and travelling. Of occasionally bringing us with him on his trips (never complaining that while we explored he had to work). Of sacrificing to provide for our family.

But if you know Joe, then you know he is also a planner, and he has worked and planned and saved so that he could circle the month and year of his retirement: August 2025.

This year. This month.

Today.

The weeks and days leading up to this moment have been celebratory: a farewell luncheon, emails and cards with well-wishes and funny stories, and our 9-day trip to Scotland. But there have also been moments of nostalgia, accompanied by the harsh reality that Tempus fugit; however, the absolutely wonderful thing is that this is not the end of a chapter, but the start of a new one. Yes, the blank pages may seem daunting, and we will have to find our new normal, but we are incredibly grateful for the chance to branch out, try new things, travel more, and in Joe’s case, cheer for the Nittany Lions, build his dream home, and play golf during the week.

Also, he is looking forward to staying up late and NOT having to get up early.

In a farewell email to his colleagues at SRS and across all the sites, Joe ended with these words:

I will leave you with one recommendation. Find your World to Rule.

Maybe it’s as the W80-4 LEP Program lead, or the 1K conical polishing operator, or the Receipt Inspection engineer, or a Sunday school teacher, or a Habitat for Humanity volunteer.

Take ownership, and Rule your World. Best wishes!

I think these are words to live by as we write this new chapter of our lives. Thank you, Joey, for all your hard work, sacrifice, and dedication. Sleep late tomorrow. You deserve it. 

All my love,

Bia

Going, Not Going

Going up: New windows. It was time. Every single window is being replaced in our house and, as you can imagine, chaos reigns supreme. Banging, pounding, hammering. Vacuuming. I am holed up in our family room—the one room where windows do NOT need replacing (only because those were replaced post hurricane).

Going: To Scotland. This is meant to be Joe’s retirement trip—all those golf courses in Scotland called his name whereas Jamie Fraser called mine. Ha!

Not going: At least not this month. Originally, Joe had planned to retire this week, but the Powers that Be convinced him to stay until the end of August. So, what was supposed to be Retirement then Trip, is now Trip then Retirement.

Not going: Me, to the bathroom. With a person at every single window, I cannot GO. This may turn into an issue.

And on that note, I leave you with this because it pretty much goes with all the above ...

Speak to Me Sunday: Write Me a Poem

His name was Cameron.

Nestled among vendors selling grilled kebabs and beaded pens and farm-grown vegetables, his booth had a quietness about it.

A chair and table. An honest-to-goodness typewriter. A banner that read: I’ll write you a poem!

How, I ask, could I not be intrigued?

And so, I let him write me a poem.

At first, he sat with his fingers poised over the keyboard, contemplating our conversation about writing and poetry and love of travel. When he began to type, among the market noises of conversation, laughter, and a musician with a microphone, there was the staccato tapping of an honest-to-goodness typewriter.

Later, when he handed me the finished poem, I recognized the vulnerability of having a stranger read something you had just written, and I respected him for it; there is also vulnerability in having a writer watching you read it.

But that is what poetry does, it pulls you out of yourself, and there was an awareness about his finished poem, an intuitiveness because it was so … me.

We had not talked about my love of books, but his poem mentioned me as both a reader and a writer. I did not tell him about my two-shoebox-full postcard collection, or that I use postcards as travel journals, but he somehow knew. I did not mention that given a choice between the beach or mountains I would pick mountains every single time, and yet it was in the mountains his poem placed me.

But that is another thing poetry does, it creates magic. For there, among vendors selling grilled kebabs and beaded pens and farm-grown vegetables, I found a poet.

His name was Cameron.

And he wrote me a poem.

my poem

A View on Perspective

Do you know what I find discouraging? There is no perspective anymore. As a society, we are spoon-fed by the media and the stories written and images projected only offer a telescopic view of what is America. And what is even more discouraging is that the rest of the world is offered this same narrow view and thinks, “That is America.”

But it is not.

According to the latest statistics (2024), there are 340 million people living in the United States.

According to the latest statistics (2019), there are 19,500 incorporated cities, towns, and villages in the United States.

Every night Headline News claims that the United States is in a crisis and that political, social, and economic division is ripping the country apart,

that systemic racism is rampant in all levels of our society,

or that every city is plagued by riots and civil unrest and looting.

But chances are, despite all these things, you listen to news anchors, watch the news clips, and think, "That's not my experience. That is not my country, or my city. That is not me."

Because most of the 19,500 incorporated cities, towns, and villages in the United States are NOT Chicago, Seattle, Los Angeles, or New York City. 

Because most of the 340 million people living in the United States are citizens who work side by side, play together at recess, socialize at parties, and worship at churches, synagogues, temples, or mosques. They rebuild each other’s houses after a hurricane, bring food to a neighbor, volunteer at homeless shelters. And they do all this despite differences in economic, social, political, racial, or religious differences. 

This does not mean that problems should not be acknowledged and that we should not step forward to be part of a collective change. As citizens, we carry the responsibility to not only promote the ideals of our country, but to remind each other (and the world) that we are not defined by large inner cities, strident politicians, famous movie stars, or media news outlets.

We are the “rest of the story.” The one not told.

Ultimately, we are all imperfect parts that make up the whole, but focus through a telescopic lens on the former and you lose sight of the latter—a country which covers 3.8 million square miles, its land as varied, complex, colorful, and complicated as its people. 

This is America, from sea to shining sea.

Holy Saturday: Come to the Quiet

On March 27, 2020 our family gathered around the television to watch Pope Francis give an Urbi et Orbi blessing. Translated from Latin (to the city [of Rome] and to the world) this blessing is usually given on three occasions: when a pope is elected Successor of Peter, at Christmas, and at Easter. On this date, however, the Pope delivered an extraordinary blessing as he prayed for an end to a pandemic that had brought the world to its knees.

That night it was raining in Rome. We watched the Pope walk to the sagrato of St Peter’s Basilica and, facing an empty square, addressed the world. It was hauntingly moving—St. Peter’s Square, glistening in the evening rain, and a solitary figure calling the world to prayer. His was a lone voice, echoing throughout the quiet piazza. After the blessing, the Pope then spent time before the Blessed Sacrament.

And there was silence in Rome. Silence from our television. Silence in our home.

It was a moment that profoundly moved me.

We live in a noisy world. A busy world. There are jobs to do, problems to solve, goals to reach, children to raise; there is sickness, unemployment, and doubt. There is worry and fear.  

And yet, it is in the midst of all this—the problems of the world—that God whispers, “Come to the quiet.”

Recently I watched the movie Paul, Apostle of Christ. There is a scene in the movie of total bedlam—Rome is burning, Paul is imprisoned, the Christians are being persecuted, killed, or thrown into Nero's Circus, and Luke and the Christians are debating whether to flee Rome, stay and minister, or take up arms and fight back. Then Luke, who stands strong on his belief in front of others but privately expresses his doubts to Paul, reminds them that Christ's love. "We live in the world,” he says. “But we do not wage war as the world does. Peace be with you."

There among the fires, fear, indecision, death and agony, the early Christians found the quiet and, subsequently, God’s peace. They may have had to dig through the rubble and roll aside the stones of fear, doubt, loss, and feelings of abandonment, but the only way they could move forward was to seek the silence and find God’s peace.

As humans we don’t always do what is best for us: we like to complain about our busy lives even as we pencil in another event on the calendar; we feel burdened, and then add to that burden by doing unnecessary tasks; we allow ourselves to get so caught up in the noise and confusion that we become part of it. What to do?

“Come to the quiet,” God whispers.

It sounds simple, but sometimes the way to find silence is to carve it out for yourself—through prayer, a walk in the woods, staying home—and allow yourself to be cocooned in God’s gift of silence. Stillness. And in that silence, removed from things of the world, you will find the gifts of hope, faith, peace, fortitude.

Such blessings, from a little silence.

something, nothing at all

i can sing a silly song

of sixpence

or croon a lullaby

ignoring high notes

or really low ones

half mindful of sharps and flats

 

i can dance a dance

of two-step or four-square

with someone

or no one at all

twirling and twisting to a rhythm

or the drumming of my heart

 

i can draw a drawing

with ink on parchment

or do a pencil sketch

color curlicues of flowers

or starry starry nights

with crayola crayons

 

i can weave a tapestry of words

long sentence-threads

climbing and looping

into paragraphs and pages

essays and stories

this poem

 

i can do many things

but no thing well

 

i’m a songbird in my mind

a ballerina in my head

caravaggio stirs my soul

and shakespeare my thoughts

a jill of all trades

master of none

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

Happy Birthday to the Bambino on His 21st Birthday

Today, my bambino turns 21. I should probably stop calling Timothy “my bambino” but I’m the mom and I can do what I want😉; besides, how is it even possible that I am a mom to a 21-year-old?

So. Twenty-one. I could write an introspective post on what a mature, responsible young man he has turned out to be. Or that he is still holding a 4.0 grade point average, all while being involved in campus activities, the Catholic Center, and intramural sports. Or how he keeps us entertained, knows everything there is to know about cars, and would like to meet the guys from Top Gear. I could also mention that he does NOT like to read fiction (a definite flaw in an otherwise stellar young man) but you know that already.

What I really want to talk about is Timothy, my Travel Buddy. He may be Joe’s Sports Buddy, but he is my very own Travel Buddy. Whenever we accompany Joe on one of his work trips—Washington DC, Kansas City, California, etc.—Timothy and I are on our own while Joe attends meetings. We take the subway into DC, the train into San Francisco, and a rental car through the serpentine roads of Lake Tahoe. We map out our days, plan our meals, and look for adventure. He (begrudgingly) takes a selfie of the two of us. He has excellent navigation and map skills.

He is also a good sport because in his role as Travel Buddy he has been dragged to many an art museum—ALL the art museums in Washington DC, the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City (this one TWICE), the outdoor sculpture garden in New Orleans, the High Museum in Atlanta, and many, many more. Excluding myself, he has probably been to more art museums than anyone else in the family. See? A good sport. Of course, each visit comes with assurances of lunch, a souvenir (usually a Lego), and a promise that we will leave at a predetermined time. 

And yes, he groans and he moans and he complains but we manage to have fun ... especially with modern art because it makes us laugh. That red triangle on canvas? A piece of pizza! That rope sculpture? A brownie! When he is not associating artwork with food, Timothy is the most articulate art critic and uses words such as stupid, dumb, boring, and idiotic. 

All this to say that I love my Travel Buddy, whether or not he loves art museums.

So, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Timothy!