36. Life’s Little Surprises
Mr. Power
I wrote this acknowledgement in my Ashore on Stony Beach novel.
I would like to mention and thank my junior year, high school teacher, Mr. Andy Power.
I think it is fair to say Mr. Power expected much from his students.
I know he gave much in return.
My personal Mr. Power story.
I showed up for class, having forgotten a writing assignment at home. When he finished walking the classroom collecting the students’ work, he singled me out, “Miss Sneade, you didn’t hand in your paper.”
“No, I didn’t, but there’s a really good reason.”
“I doubt it, but please stand and tell the class the reason.”
“I was reading my paper on the way to school, and when I got to Beaver Brook, this enormous, foul-smelling, swamp monster jumped into my path, drooled and spit, then grabbed my paper and sank back into the murky water.”
“Well, that is a really good reason. Rewrite the paper and submit it tomorrow. The highest grade you can receive will be a B.”
On the day Mr. Power handed back our papers, he neglected to give me mine. My hand shot up, “Excuse me Mr. Power, you didn’t hand me my paper.”
“No, I didn’t, but there’s a really good reason. I was reading your paper on the way to school, and when I got to Beaver Brook, this enormous, foul-smelling, swamp monster jumped into my path, drooled and spit, then grabbed your paper and sank back into the murky water.”
The class erupted in laughter. Mr. Power gave me my paper the next day.
I received an A.
Thank you Mr. Power for all that you brought to your classroom.
You demanded respect.
You easily earned it.
I recently received a call from Joyce McTigue saying she read my Ashore book (and she raved about it — but that’s not relevant to this blog — but it sure the hell is relevant to this author).
Anyway, Joyce asked if I knew that Phil McTigue was very good friends with one of the Power kids — and Joyce wondered if it would be alright if Phil shared the acknowledgement with his friend.
“Share away,” is what I think I said.
I’ve since heard that Mr. Power’s children were pleased and touched to know that one of his former students thought highly enough of their father to include him in the front matter of a novel.
For those who don’t know Mr. Power, this is why I think so highly of him.
Andrew J. Power, 87, passed away on June 8, 2021. I learned of his passing when a former classmate of mine, Karen Flynn, took to Facebook to express her sadness. I joined in with so many others with red heart emojis as a sign of love for the man and for her personal sentiments.
I immediately pulled his obituary up online and read about Mr. Power — a beloved husband, father, and grandfather. I learned about his Syrian heritage, and that he served in the National Guard at the age of 14 because his friend forged his father’s signature.
I remembered smiling at that bit of knowledge because I never would have thought Mr. Power was a rebel — with or without a cause — but apparently, I was wrong.
I learned Andrew Power attended South High School, graduated from Holy Cross, and received a master’s degree from Worcester State College. I already knew he attended South High because he was a classmate of my uncle, Al Thomas, who was very much like Mr. Power — men of a generation who answered the call of service with little regard to themselves.
What I didn’t know about Mr. Power could fill several blogs. But I knew this — he was the best teacher I had in high school. He didn’t just stand in the front of the room and lecture, he moved about — I think it was his way of getting and keeping the students’ attention. He could have stood as still as a statue and kept my attention — not because he was lecturing, but rather because he was teaching. Not only about the topic at hand, but also about life. He always found a way to connect the past to the present — the prologue to the epilogue.
I carried many lessons from my junior year English class. Words Mr. Power spoke that year have come around and around during my attempt at writing books. The words that are coming around now, as I push hard at writing this blog about cancer and dying are these.
"The written word is only part of a writer's story.
The most important part is what moved someone to write it in the first place."
Surprise #1: isn’t really a surprise at all.
Mr. Power is still teaching me.
Marjorie
My sister walks through life in service of others. She spent many years as an elementary school teacher putting in long hours doing the ABCs of learning — spent oodles of time cheering-on or pitching-in at after school functions because she wanted her students to know she cared about all parts of their lives — and she spent money she didn’t always have on kids’ school supplies, and Christmas coat drives, and giving trees, and, and, and.
As a kid, whenever anyone asked what Marjorie wanted to be when she grew up, she’d say, “A mommy.” That was the constant in her life — it was her dream and her passion. And when life didn’t just hand her the opportunity for motherhood, she became a certified foster parent. And when a little girl named Nicole, was placed in Marjorie’s home and heart, my sister became the adopted mommy of the little girl who needed her — the little girl of Marjorie’s long-held dream.
After the passing of our stepfather, Roland, a truly wonderful man who left this world without warning and way too early, Marjorie expanded her home by adding an apartment for our mother. I’m not sure how many years Marjorie and Shirl have cohabitated, but I’d venture to guess it’s been at least fifteen years.
And when Shirl slowed down a bit and stuck closer to home, Marjorie became whatever Mom needed or wanted her to be. And when Covid hit the elderly with a vengeance and Marjorie was still working outside the home, she set a decontamination center in the mudroom where she stripped to her skivvies and disinfected herself before entering the inner sanctum.
Marjorie has always done for others – and she would most assuredly be in servitude to me 24/7 if she could be. But there’s really nothing she or anyone can do by way of fixing things. So, my kid sister tends to my mother’s broken heart, as she does her own — and then she finds ways to lift my spirits and remind me that I am way more than a hospice patient. With increasing regularity, my sister texts photographs from when we were kids — from the time when we played together and looked out for one another — the time when she took care of her baby dolls and idolized her older sister.
Surprise #2: isn’t really a surprise at all.
My kid sister is caring for me through little acts of kindness.
Hadley
Saturday morning brought with it a knock on the door from the light of my life.
“I’m here,” she shouted from outside.
“Thanks for the warning,” I shouted from inside — as I have most every time she’s announced herself.
She ushered in a blast of frigid air, kicked off her boots and headed toward my chair, “Can I sit on your lap and we can cuddle under the blankets?”
I shook my head, “No, I’m sorry we can’t, but let’s do this.” I called out to Tim, “Can you bring Hadley’s bench in.”
“Sure. Where do you want it?”
“Put it there for a minute, then move this end table away from my chair ……. okay, move the bench next to me ……. okay, Hadley, hop onto the bench.” She got onto her knees, leaned over the arm of my recliner, and hugged me tight. Tim covered us with a big blanket. “There, now we can cuddle under the blanket.”
She kissed my cheek and tried to hide her wet eyes.
“You okay, kiddo?”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s on the agenda, today?”
“I’m going to Daddy’s for an overnight.”
“I bet you’ll have fun.”
“Yeah. I’m bringing my Barbies. Do you think I can take the monkey game I gave you for Christmas?”
Yes, my granddaughter gave ME a monkey game for Christmas.
We both screamed the word ‘monkey’—
it’s something we started doing years ago whenever we heard the word.
Neither of us intends on stopping any time soon.
I answered her previous question, “Of course you can take the game.”
“Daddy will love it.”
Hadley went to the kitchen table when she learned her Silly Saturday breakfast was ready. When she was finished, she and I played several games of Snaps and Buckets — she whooped my ass and had way too much fun doing so.
When it was time for her to leave, she extended her hand, I pushed the lever, and she commenced on giving me thirty hugs. I gave her a kiss for each one. As soon as the door closed behind her, I took the recording device I’d turned on at the knock on the door, pressed rewind, and relived my morning with Hadley. I plan on leaving the recordings for her — so she can have me near — sort of.
Surprise #3: isn’t really a surprise at all.
Hadley is the greatest gift of my life.
Dr. Wonderful
I got a text from my doctor on a Saturday afternoon saying he was just checking in on me because we hadn’t spoken in a couple of weeks and reminding me that I could contact him if I needed anything.
Surprise #4: isn’t really a surprise at all.
My doctor is what all healthcare providers should aspire to be — caring people.
Donnie
I got my Sunday afternoon phone call from Don. We took a verbal stroll down memory lane — one that had twists and turns and a few surprises here and there. We shared stories we’d never told one another.
My favorite of his was a tale about an act of kindness he did for a family member who was battling addiction — his favorite of mine was a tale about an act of kindness I did for a complete stranger who was battling addiction.
Neither of us set out to discuss those stories, but we ended up at that place — and I’m so very glad we did. When we ended our call, I spent some time reflecting on who Donnie, Sheryll, and Marjorie grew up to be — three very caring individuals who find ways to help others without seeking praise, or even thanks.