Our Lady of the Roses in Presale Now

Thursday, November 4, 2021

The Great Equalizer

 As a teen growing up in the 1970s, I went to a lot of rock concerts from Bruce Springsteen and Styx to Foreigner and Tom Petty to Kansas, Queen and many others. Back then there was little access to rock stars. There was no following them on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. They made very few appearances on television outside of The Midnight Special or Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert. Most news about rock stars came through magazines like Creem, Circus, and Rolling Stone. Consequently, rock stars were treated as . . . well, as rock stars. They were lionized, placed on pedestals, and lived larger than life in the minds of most fans.

For instance, graffiti in London in the mid-1960s proclaimed about Eric Clapton that “Clapton is God.” John Lennon of The Beatles stirred controversy when he cheekily stated in March 1966 interview that The Beatles were “More popular than Jesus.” Led Zeppelin’s lead singer Robert Plant was proclaimed “The Golden God.”


Fast forward four decades, and many of these rock stars are still touring. Several years ago, Jergel’s Rhythm Grille in Warrendale, brought Lou Gramm, Foreigner’s lead singer, to town, and we happened to get tickets. Before the concert began, I went to the Ladies Room, and as I left, I had to pass through a vestibule and glass doors to get back into the main room. And guess who held the door for me? Lou Gramm. When I got back to our seats, I told my husband about it and laughed that had that happened 40 years ago, I’d have been delirious, but now he was just an average-looking middle-aged man, and I just said thanks.

We saw The Who about five years ago, and although Pete Townsend didn’t jump as high while strumming his guitar and Roger Daltrey laughed about how his voice would probably crack when he screamed on We Don’t Get Fooled Again, the concert was great. 

In 2019, Phil Collins came to town. He can no longer play the drums for health reasons, and on the big screen with his glasses and bald head, he looked like my dad singing In the Air Tonight. But Phil still had it and made the concert fun and amazing.

Rod Stewart came to town a few years ago too. Everyone in the crowd had a good laugh, when on the big screen, the cover of a Rolling Stone issue with a picture of him in 1978 appeared. It was published when his song Da Ya Think I’m Sexy came out. He quoted the article back then where he said he didn’t want to be in his 60s and still singing that song. It would be ridiculous. He laughed, and said, “Guess what, I’m 72 and I’m singing it tonight.”

This past October 4, I saw The Rolling Stones for the first time at Heinz Field, and although Mick Jagger is nearing 80, he still strutted, posed and rocked the stadium. At one time, I looked at my husband and said, "Forty-five years ago, did you ever think you'd be in your sixties and watching Mick Jagger still performing?" 

 The view from the cheap seats.

But with all these concerts there was a difference from the ones I attended when I was in my youth. From Phil Collins to Mick Jagger—all of them seemed to be more humble, relaxed and happier. In fact, Mick quipped, that sadly, he hadn’t had much time to spend in Pittsburgh; he didn’t get a chance to go “to the Warhol and gaze at myself.” It’s not often that an entertainer who comes to town has a portrait hanging in a museum. But rather than being haughty about it, he seemed to be amused by it all. 

Time catches up with everyone.  These rock stars are no longer gods but mortals just like the rest of us. Aging is the great equalizer. And I find myself liking and appreciating these performers even more now that we have become acquainted with their human sides. 

This article originally appeared in the November issue of Northern Connection magazine.

Thursday, October 7, 2021

Lessons from Alaska


Last month, I went to Alaska on vacation. Before I went, nerd that I am, I scoped out where we were going and learned some remarkable facts about the state. Alaska has more land mass than the next three largest states of Texas, California and Montana combined. Alaska is so huge, if you superimposed a map of the state onto the center of a map of the continental U.S., Alaska’s Aleutian Islands would fall on San Diego in the west and the state’s eastern islands would reach to Jacksonville, Florida, in the east. Alaska is so far west, portions of its islands are technically in the eastern hemisphere. It has more than 3,000 rivers and 3 million lakes. It is also the least-populated state.


Last Christmas, I was given Kristin Hannah’s fantastic novel The Great Alone, which is set in Alaska during the 1970s, and it illustrates how remote the state is, how great the emptiness there is, so much so that it has a sinister aspect. I knew all that going in, but that is nothing compared to experiencing Alaska’s vastness and aloneness in person. We probably visited one percent of Alaska, but for the most part, we saw nothing but mile after mile of mountains and eerie desolation. While talking to residents, several emphasized that to survive an Alaskan winter, you must get into the sunlight and maintain social contact, or you could lose your mind or die.

For the last nearly two years, many of us have been living our own “Great Alone;” we’ve been isolated from one another, and that’s not good as the rising suicide rates and mental health issues have indicated. Many of us have started to venture out, but for others, the world is still a frightening place. I understand that; I used to suffer with anxiety. But I have a greater fear.


While we were in Alaska, my husband and I ziplined for the first time at Hoonah. It was billed as the tallest and highest zipline in the world. It sounded like a good idea when I booked it, but when we got there and saw how high up in the mountain the launch site was, I was thinking this may have been a mistake. It was a loooong way down.

We took the 45-minute bus ride up the mountain to the launch site, where we were dropped off to hike about a quarter mile down to the zipline site. On the way, we met a woman who was having some difficulty navigating the steep hill down to the site. We struck up a conversation and learned that she was 76, from rural Massachusetts, traveling alone because her husband had in her words “turned into an old curmudgeon and didn’t want to go anywhere,” and that she’d just had a hip replacement surgery in January. 


The Launch Point at Hoonah, Icy Strait Point, Alaska

                                                                        The Zipline

When I expressed that I was a little bit apprehensive about descending from what was equal to the height of the Empire State Building to the ground in 90 seconds at 60 miles an hour, she said not to be afraid, enjoy it. She’d ziplined six times in her life already.

I did enjoy the zipline. In fact, it was the highlight of the trip, and I’ve thought a lot about that woman since. She also told me that during the lockdown, she made 200 quilts for charity and intended to travel as long as she could, saying “I’m running out of time.”

I know life can be scary; it always has been, and it always will be. But you can’t crawl in a hole and hide. That will kill you as well—maybe not physically, but it will kill that spark of life in you. We’re all running out of time. We’re all on the clock, and we don’t know how much time any of us have until the buzzer sounds. So, do what you can, take necessary precautions, evaluate the risks, but get out there and live. We’ve already lost so much; how much more can we afford to lose?

To me, the only scarier thing than dying, is not having lived.


This article originally appeared in the October edition of Northern Connection magazine.

Tuesday, September 14, 2021

Comforter or Killer?

 A few days ago, my four-year-old granddaughter stuck a pompom up her nostril, and it got stuck. This necessitated a trip to her pediatrician, then Children’s Hospital, where after 7.5 hours and an ENT being summoned from another hospital and her being sedated, the offending pompom was removed.

My husband and I were called that evening to babysit her sisters so that she could be taken to the hospital. As the hours slipped by, and I lay sleepless on their couch in the wee hours of the morning, receiving texts on the pompom removal process, I had a lot of time to think about how we react to situations, especially ones where someone is vulnerable. As soon as my granddaughter stuck the pompom up her nose, she knew she’d done something stupid and was panicked and remorseful.

The “pompom episode” occurred during the controversial episode of Simone Biles pulling out of her Olympic gymnastics competition. It seemed that everyone in the media had an opinion on that from understanding to outright vitriol. I don’t follow Simone Biles; I know who she is, but I don’t know enough about her life to opine that she choked or had legitimate reasons for not competing. However, what I do know is that there are some people who pounce when people are down.

Fortunately, for me I come from a loving family who, whenever tragedy strikes or a catastrophe occurs or you stick a pompom up your nose, no matter how stupid you’ve been, you close ranks and support and care for each other. I assumed most people are like that.

I was wrong.

Nearly 40 years ago, my husband’s family suffered the death of someone I liked a lot. During that stressful time, a relative, whom I will call Rhonda for anonymity’s sake, and whom I thought was kind and compassionate, decided to settle an old score with the sister of the deceased, attacking her and telling the bereaved what a lout her brother was, disparaging him in a rant that led to a shouting match and others bursting into tears. All I could liken it to was a scene from the old show Wild Kingdom where a wounded animal lay crippled in the brush and a lion pounced to tear it to pieces. 

Perhaps I was na├»ve; I was only 23 at the time, but nevertheless, I was distraught not only because Rhonda was speaking ill of the dead when he wasn’t even buried but also because how ugly Rhonda revealed her heart to be. She was downright ugly. I never regarded her the same after.

As I lay on the couch trying to catch some sleep, I vowed that I never wanted to be that vicious to the vulnerable. I’m sure my daughter felt like lashing out when my little granddaughter stuffed the pompom up her nose, but what good would it have done?

I hope when calamity strikes that I act as a comforter to the vulnerable and not as a killer.