Category Archives: Life lessons

Life lessons

Hello Old Friend

Years ago, Jeff found me on classmates.com. I only registered on the website, but he paid money to contact the people he knew. I hadn’t seen Jeff since we were 14 and freshmen in high school.

I was happily married with a large family. He was married with kids of his own. This wasn’t that kind of a thing anyway.

We emailed back and forth, catching up what we had done with our lives via long messages. He had done well with his. And then, he hit me with this revelation, “I have cancer.” Jeff wrote he had cancer before and now it was back. The prognosis was not good. Jeff told me his parents and brother all died from it. He said it was his family’s curse.

When Jeff was a boy, he had polio. He wore metal braces on his legs, and at times, used a wheeled chair he propelled by hand.

I first met him in fifth grade when I and other kids attended advanced classes in one of the town’s schools for science and writing on Wednesday afternoons. Then, I got to know him better in seventh grade when we were in the same classes at the town’s junior high.

When it came to Jeff, I didn’t hold back, joking with him about silly stuff. I remember once when he was teasing me, I hit him over the head with my books. Not hard, of course. But he laughed his head off. He liked that I didn’t treat him with kid gloves.

Once, I even got him to dance semi-fast with me at a school event.

Yes, I had a crush on Jeff. I knew he liked me. But coming from an overly protective family, I was timid to act on it. One time, when a group of us had gathered at a pizza place, I didn’t realize he had begun following me as I walked home. After all, we both lived on opposite ends of the town. But he fell. I honestly had no idea that happened. He and my classmates misunderstood. I felt so badly.

Jeff ended up going to a private boarding school his sophomore year. We lost track of each other until decades later.

After Jeff found me on that website, we emailed back and forth for a couple of years. He spent time in South America. He kept bees. He was interested that I was a newspaper editor, and that I wrote fiction, so I mailed him the manuscript of the first novel my then-agent was trying to sell. For Christmas, he sent me a package of grapefruit from Florida, where he and his wife had moved. I still have the special knife that came with it.

Then, he wrote his health was declining.

We spoke on the phone only once. By then, Jeff was bedridden. Although it was February, I stepped outside the newsroom so I wouldn’t be interrupted. For that hour, we shared our old and familiar connections. I tried to offer him words of comfort and to make him laugh. He told me he kept my manuscript beside his bed.

I didn’t talk with Jeff again. When I searched the internet, I found his obit. He had died a few days after we had spoken. He was only 53.

Good-bye old friend.

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Life lessons

I Should Have Said Hello

I don’t have many regrets in my life. I can think of a few things I’ve thrown away I wish I still owned, but no biggies there. There’s some stupid stuff I’ve said. I will admit, also, to mistakes I’ve made with relationships. The one experience that bugs me still happened when I was a child.

I was eight or nine, perhaps, and a Brownie Scout. That’s a picture of me above, looking awfully skinny in my uniform. One year, I found out I could go to a day camp for free if I sold enough Girl Scout cookies. My enthusiastic parents, especially my Dad, went into full gear, hitting up the people they knew, including those my father, an autobody repairman, worked with at the Ford dealership. They sold enough, so I could go.

It was my first experience being away from home and school. I didn’t know any of the girls, but as the week went on, I got close to one. I will also note she was Black, which shouldn’t make any difference, but it does later in this story. We did all the activities and ate lunch together. We acted like the silly little girls we were.

Later that summer, I was with my mother and sisters shopping in downtown New Bedford — a lively strip then of department and other stores during those pre-mall days. We were walking along the sidewalk when I spotted my camper friend and a woman I presume was her mother.

I remember the girl was happy when she recognized me. But what did I do? I passed by and pretended I didn’t know her. I recall distinctly she asked the woman why I didn’t say hello. I didn’t hear her response.

I knew then I did wrong. I should have said hello. I should have told my mother the girl and I went to camp together.

But I didn’t. And I wish I had.

Yes, I was a shy girl then. (That might surprise some folks who know me now, but I worked on it.) I lived a sheltered life in a small town. Also, being fully Portuguese, I am more brown than white. But still … I ponder today what stopped me then from doing what should have been a natural thing.

Compared to what is happening now in the world, my snub may seem rather small. But I believe it’s one of those lessons I learned as a kid that helped shape me as an adult. When it comes to my fellow human beings, I try to look for common denominators. I want to know about our different experiences. Certainly, living in big cities, small towns, and in multicultural Northern New Mexico has given me numerous opportunities.

But when it comes to that little girl, I honestly wish for a do-over, but sadly that’s not possible. Lesson learned.

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Life lessons, Teaching

The People Who Teach Us

I was in my mother’s room at the convalescent home recently when a woman’s voice behind a curtain said, “Is Joan Livingston here? There’s a man here who says he knows you and your mother.” Intrigued, I left my mother and in the hallway found a man wearing a mask (we all have to wear one there) who identified himself as Dennis Duval. He was my ninth-grade history teacher.

I gave the man a hug although I hadn’t seen him since my last day in that grade and I then moved onto our high school. That was a very long time ago.  

Mr. Duval, as I called him way back then, was visiting his brother who was also a resident of the home. On the sign-in sheet, he saw my mother’s name and my first name, so he put the clues together. He could have left it at that, but he decided to seek me out.

Like me, Mr. Duval grew up in North Fairhaven, Massachusetts. His father had a pharmacy in that part of our oceanside town. Mr. Duval was the youngest of ten kids, he told me.

I remembered Mr. Duval as an energetic, dark-haired teacher not long out of college who made history relevant to us kids. I was a member of the first ninth grade at what is now called Elizabeth Hastings Middle School. And as we spoke that day, I thought of the other great teachers I had. I even mentioned a few.

Mr. Mignault, who taught geography, lived in Boston and stayed in a motel in our town during the school days. It was my first exposure to the counter culture — he wanted us to understand the message behind “Puff the Magic Dragon” and told us those drills we were doing in case there was a nuclear bomb were useless. Unfortunately, he left us that year after a bad car accident.

Mrs. Lima, my freshman English teacher, recited Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream by heart. She stood in front of the class or sat on a student’s desk, holding a finger in the page but she didn’t look at the words. Decades later, my mother mailed me a box with clothing she bought at a tag sale, and at the bottom was a slim blue volume of Midsummer Night’s Dream, the Yale Shakespeare version, 1923, edited by Willard H. Durham. The blue cloth is mottled with something white, perhaps from moisture. Susan Lima’s name is written in perfect cursive on the second page. I still have the book and fond memory.

Mr. Piche had a difficult time talking due to a past injury, but he brought American history alive. At the end of each lesson, he would say, “You know how I know? Because I was there.”

We brought up others like Mr. Hughes, who also taught history, and Mr. Cardoza, my math teacher.

I remember so many of the teachers I had during those three impressionable years. To be honest, a few were not among my favorites. But I would say I got a great education, and thank you Mr. Duval for reminding me.

ABOUT THE PHOTO ABOVE: That’s Mrs. Lima’s copy of Midsummer Night’s Dream.

LINK TO A FABULOUS MYSTERY: I want to let Kindle readers know that during the month of June they can buy my friend Teresa Dovalpage’s latest mystery for $2.99. Death under the Perseids is the third in her Havana Mystery Series. (Teresa was born in Cuba.) I will tell you more about Teresa and her book it in my next post, but for those who can’t wait, here’s the link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08Y8DT7GL/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1&language=en_US

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Life lessons

Friday Was The Last Day

By that, I mean my last day as an editor-in-chief overseeing three daily newspapers. Yes, I am finally leaving journalism after over 35 years in the business.

Retiring? I guess I could say that. But it’s actually my second time.

The first was in 2016 as editor-in-chief of the Taos News in New Mexico. I kept my hand in it doing book reviews, but I also helped adults working to get their GED and taught creative writing to kids in fourth grade. After we resettled in Western Massachusetts, I saw a classified ad that the Greenfield Recorder was seeking an editor. A couple of months later I was leading the daily newspaper, then later that year, I picked up another. And over a year ago, I was asked to lead the company’s papers in Northampton. That’s when I became the Pioneer Valley editor-in-chief. I only intended to continue for one year and that’s what happened.

Jan. 7 was my official last day although I will stay on four more weeks to help in the transition for the person taking over my role. I want him to succeed. I want the papers to thrive. People need local journalism, these papers’ forte.

Now I will concentrate on my own writing — the novels I write — and do some freelance editing. I have other plans.

When I was a kid, I never thought I would be a journalist although I will admit a fascination with newspapers. But being a reporter, columnist, and editor taught me a great deal about writing, and frankly, being an author has always been my dream. As a reporter, I had to pay attention to what people said, how they said it, and the way they behaved. I practiced writing nearly every day. My lessons continued when I became an editor. Journalists are supposed to be fair, objective, and accurate. Fortunately, I can abandon that in my fiction.

The best part of being a journalist for that long was the people I’ve met and certainly, the ones I worked with. I have a treasure trove of experiences.

Along the way I learned how to be a boss. I recall being sent to a one-day conference. The one useful thing I learned was that when employees were asked what was most important to them, the number one response was feeling appreciated. A light went off.

Making the people that “work under me” feel appreciated has been a goal ever since. I am fiercely protective of my staff — I joke I am the mother wolf and these are my pups — but naturally a few times, I have had to deal with serious internal problems.

Then, there are the readers and sources. For the sake of objectivity, I may be friendly but they are not my friends. How have I dealt with those who are unhappy with coverage, in particular rude and/or threatening people? I will listen. If they’re right, I will admit it. If it’s a standoff, well it’s that ol’ we will have to agree to disagree. The one thing I will not tolerate is someone swearing at me. I hang up.

On Friday, I removed the last bit of personal items in my old office and moved to a desk in the newsroom. As I worked on the Saturday paper, I joked it was more fun out there. We had pie — thanks to the news editor. I was presented gifts and a card with touching comments from the staff.

Yes, it has been a great run. Thank you.

ABOUT THE PHOTO ABOVE: Paul Franz, photo editor for the Recorder, took that photo of me for a story.

 

 

 

 

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Life lessons

One good turn

When my job as editor-in-chief for one paper was expanded to two in January, it meant meeting and learning about the people who worked in the second newsroom. One of the first things I noticed was the paper towel dispenser in the women’s room. Huh, you say, but please stay with me.

When COVID-19 disrupted jobs, I still went to the office most of the time, as did a number of people. We just followed safety rules. That means anything from wearing your mask everywhere except at your desk to staying six feet away. And then there’s washing your hands a whole lot and drying them, which is how this story twists back to that paper towel dispenser

When it was time to wash and dry my hands the first time in the women’s room, I noticed somebody had thoughtfully left a couple of feet of paper toweling hanging down, which meant I didn’t have to use my wet hands on the lever. Instead, I got paper ready to dry my hands, and then I used the lever (with a towel) to leave paper for the next woman who would need it.

No, it doesn’t happen all the time because not every woman in the building does it although it is rare when I don’t see paper hanging. And sometimes I catch someone doing it. I always thank them.

My parents taught me good manners like saying “please” and “thank you,” which I find goes a long way. You give up your seat to someone who is a lot older. You hold the door for others. You find something nice to say about somebody. I believe I have passed that onto our kids, who are very good human beings.

But back to those paper towels. I make sure I leave toweling for the next person. Actually, I’ve started doing it in the women’s room of my first newsroom and will see if it catches on. It isn’t a big deal, but it is in a way, you know, because one good turn deserves another.

WRITING UPDATE: I am nearing the two-thirds mark for the fifth book in the Isabel Long Mystery Series. This one is called Working the Beat. You can check out my books on Amazon at this link: Joan Livingston books

 

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