The recent news about the fate of town libraries brought me close to tears. Struggling with budget cutbacks and unsuccessful proposition 2 ½ overrides, libraries in many towns are being forced to close. Others are losing certification, rendering them islands without a bridge, ferry or even a dingy to connect to the larger library world. For small libraries with older collections, this is essentially a death sentence.
Though small and somewhat cramped, Sharon is fortunate to have a fully certified library open six days a week. Many people appreciate Sharon’s connection to the public library system. For those less familiar, the Old Colony Library Network, of which Sharon is a member, is a group of 28 member libraries on the South Shore that collectively maintains over 800,000 titles of books, books-on-tape, CDs and DVDs.
While I regularly use the town library, I also buy my share of books. Many of my purchases, though, seem to end up in a pile—sometimes for years—before I get around to reading them. My wasteful book-buying habits and limited shelf space has led me to a different approach, one that combines the pleasurable aspects of bookstore browsing with the advantages of the library network. I’ll scan the store shelves, pull out my notebook, and jot down the names of books or authors that interest me. Then I’ll log on to the library network (www.ocln.org) and order the books for free.
It was while scrolling through the library network’s Pulitzer Prize winners list that I discovered Alison Lurie’s 1979 novel “Foreign Affairs,” an old-fashioned Jane Austen-ish tale of manners and relationships set in London. After finishing it, I placed holds on some of Lurie’s other books. Though none of the others quite matched her prize winner, I didn’t pay a penny for any of them.
I recently had another successful library network experience after reading the “New Yorker” short story “One Minus One” by Irish author Colm Toibin. I was immediately pulled in by the first line, “the moon hangs low over Texas,” and after passing it to my husband with an urgent plea—“you have to read this”—I logged onto the library network and got the last available copy of Toibin’s new collection of short stories, “Mothers and Sons.”
On the same day I learned of the library closures, I read an article about author Elaine Dundy, the so-called spiritual grandmother of Bridget Jones. The hapless heroine of Dundy’s 1958 semi-autobiographical novel was described as a cross between Holly Golightly and Holden Caulfield. Intrigued, I logged onto the library network and typed in the name of the novel. Sadly, it came up empty. Undeterred, I tried typing in the author’s name, and was rewarded with details about the one copy of the book available at the Kingston library. It was then that I realized my initial mistake—I’d spelled the velvety rich ingredient in guacamole ‘avacado.’ For the record, the correct title and spelling of Dundy’s recently re-issued novel is “The Dud Avocado.”
Laughing at my blunder, I quickly clicked on ‘place a hold’ before any other early Sunday morning riser-readers snatched it up. And now I will sit back and eagerly await the message that will soon arrive in my e-mail box, announcing that my book is ready for pick-up.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Showing posts with label local events. Show all posts
Showing posts with label local events. Show all posts
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
Driving By Fields on My Way Home
I always slow down on the stretch of road that leads to my Sharon home. Right off the highway after passing Shaw's Plaza, I enter a place from the past. In the fall, a brilliant cranberry bog glistens behind trees along the road. Fields, long and wide, sprawl on both sides.
Depending on the season, I might see sunflowers or cornstalks, tomatoes or pumpkins. And though I can't see them from the road, the early summer fields are filled with rows of plump strawberries and blueberries. If I listen carefully, I can hear the message in the wind as it blows across the fields - "slow down, take a breath, smell the flowers, see the trees."
There wasn't such vast farmland near my childhood home in Bethesda, Maryland, but the little bit there was I will never forget. It was a small patch of pasture next to the road, home to the Black Angus cows. Though it's been almost 40 years since they've stood in the field, munching on their grass-suppers, swatting flies with their tails, I still think of them whenever I visit home.
They were there, even when cars went whizzing by. They were there, even when the new development went up across the street. They were there when it seemed impossible that they could still be standing there like that. And then one day I looked out my family's station wagon window to the grassy fenced-in field surrounded by progress, and they were gone.
The area near my family's home was always congested. Old Georgetown Road - the road next to the cows - was a main thoroughfare for residents in the northern suburbs of D.C., minutes from the Beltway and Interstate 270. Rockville Pike, several miles up the road from the cows, was littered with development - Arby's, McDonald's and Burger King, K-Mart, Penney's and Loehmann's. There were movie theatres and car dealers, an indoor roller rink and outdoor mini-golf. I think that's why I remember the cows. They were an anomaly, a beautiful remnant of country life suspended in the midst of vast suburban sprawl.
Once the cows were gone, the changes escalated. Townhouses were the first things to go in, and they went in just about everywhere. Years later, a road was bulldozed right through the cows' field connecting Old Georgetown Road to Rockville Pike, making a short-cut to White Flint, an elite mall with pricey boutiques and shops. More recently, other, even larger developments have gone in.
The latest was a group of million-dollar four-level mansions set yards apart with little land, no grass and few, if any, trees. It is funny how these developments, with their cleared forests and lack of green, always seem to have names connected with nature. The one across from the old cows' field is called The Oaks.
I've thought more and more about my childhood neighborhood as I've seen the recent changes in Sharon, the town that has been my home for over 17 years. There was the massive clearing of forest to make way for the Hunter's Ridge development on North Main Street, and now a proposed development on Norwood Street - Route 27.
Like the development near my childhood home, Pine Woods, with its planned clearing of trees in 26 acres, is also inaptly named for nature. I'm relieved that with the recent Town Meeting vote, initial steps have been taken to preserve our beautiful lakeshore property around Lake Massapoag, and I hope for the best when it comes up for a vote in the future. It would be sad to see fallen trees and built-up housing units and homes along one of my favorite running routes in Sharon.
The thing is, once something beautiful is gone, there's no turning back. When the trees are cut down, they are gone. When an open field is filled with townhouses and homes, it is gone. Forever. And life will never be the same. Like the cows in the pasture near my childhood home, the only thing left is a memory.
Whenever I visit Borderland Park, go hiking and snowshoeing in Moose Hill, or catch a glimpse of the cows in the pasture next to Crescent Ridge Dairy, I think how lucky I am to have all of this - the lake, the trails, the trees, the fields - in my hometown. It is a welcome refuge from the fast-paced, frenetic world that surrounds us. There is nothing more beautiful, or more peaceful, than driving by fields on my way home, sun setting in the distance.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2006)
Depending on the season, I might see sunflowers or cornstalks, tomatoes or pumpkins. And though I can't see them from the road, the early summer fields are filled with rows of plump strawberries and blueberries. If I listen carefully, I can hear the message in the wind as it blows across the fields - "slow down, take a breath, smell the flowers, see the trees."
There wasn't such vast farmland near my childhood home in Bethesda, Maryland, but the little bit there was I will never forget. It was a small patch of pasture next to the road, home to the Black Angus cows. Though it's been almost 40 years since they've stood in the field, munching on their grass-suppers, swatting flies with their tails, I still think of them whenever I visit home.
They were there, even when cars went whizzing by. They were there, even when the new development went up across the street. They were there when it seemed impossible that they could still be standing there like that. And then one day I looked out my family's station wagon window to the grassy fenced-in field surrounded by progress, and they were gone.
The area near my family's home was always congested. Old Georgetown Road - the road next to the cows - was a main thoroughfare for residents in the northern suburbs of D.C., minutes from the Beltway and Interstate 270. Rockville Pike, several miles up the road from the cows, was littered with development - Arby's, McDonald's and Burger King, K-Mart, Penney's and Loehmann's. There were movie theatres and car dealers, an indoor roller rink and outdoor mini-golf. I think that's why I remember the cows. They were an anomaly, a beautiful remnant of country life suspended in the midst of vast suburban sprawl.
Once the cows were gone, the changes escalated. Townhouses were the first things to go in, and they went in just about everywhere. Years later, a road was bulldozed right through the cows' field connecting Old Georgetown Road to Rockville Pike, making a short-cut to White Flint, an elite mall with pricey boutiques and shops. More recently, other, even larger developments have gone in.
The latest was a group of million-dollar four-level mansions set yards apart with little land, no grass and few, if any, trees. It is funny how these developments, with their cleared forests and lack of green, always seem to have names connected with nature. The one across from the old cows' field is called The Oaks.
I've thought more and more about my childhood neighborhood as I've seen the recent changes in Sharon, the town that has been my home for over 17 years. There was the massive clearing of forest to make way for the Hunter's Ridge development on North Main Street, and now a proposed development on Norwood Street - Route 27.
Like the development near my childhood home, Pine Woods, with its planned clearing of trees in 26 acres, is also inaptly named for nature. I'm relieved that with the recent Town Meeting vote, initial steps have been taken to preserve our beautiful lakeshore property around Lake Massapoag, and I hope for the best when it comes up for a vote in the future. It would be sad to see fallen trees and built-up housing units and homes along one of my favorite running routes in Sharon.
The thing is, once something beautiful is gone, there's no turning back. When the trees are cut down, they are gone. When an open field is filled with townhouses and homes, it is gone. Forever. And life will never be the same. Like the cows in the pasture near my childhood home, the only thing left is a memory.
Whenever I visit Borderland Park, go hiking and snowshoeing in Moose Hill, or catch a glimpse of the cows in the pasture next to Crescent Ridge Dairy, I think how lucky I am to have all of this - the lake, the trails, the trees, the fields - in my hometown. It is a welcome refuge from the fast-paced, frenetic world that surrounds us. There is nothing more beautiful, or more peaceful, than driving by fields on my way home, sun setting in the distance.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2006)
Caring, Elder-Centered Communities
An inevitable part of life is loss. No one knows this more than elders who, due to declining health and incapacity, are forced to give up their homes. Remaining in one's home should always be the goal. Many programs, like those offered through the local HESSCO Elder Services, help elders remain in their homes by offering assistance with daily living, home-delivered meals, adult day care, and respite for stressed family caregivers. But when elders need 24-hour nursing care, or when Alzheimer's disease has taken its toll, all the homecare support in the world may not be enough.
We often hear the horror stories about nursing homes, reports of substandard care and neglect. We rarely, though, hear about those that are doing things right, where elders are given a chance, not just to exist, but to thrive. Physician-farmer William Thomas has created a nursing home model that does just that. Thomas' approach, recently profiled in US New & World Report, is unique but simple, innovative, but born of pure common sense.
Thomas brought his perspective as a farmer - of nurturing, planting and growing - to the world of nursing homes. In the early 90s, he instituted dramatic changes in the upstate New York nursing home he directed. This is no ordinary nursing home. It has dogs and cats and birds and plants. Instead of rigid rules - waking residents at the same time for breakfast, providing care according to the convenience of shift workers - the home has a resident-focused approach. People eat when they're hungry, sleep when they're tired, talk when they're feeling sociable, remain silent when they want to think and reflect.
The positive results of this approach were seen in statistics: a 50 percent decrease in infection, 71 percent dip in daily drug costs for each resident, and a 26 percent drop in nurse's aide turnover. The Eden Alternative, as it is called, is a philosophy that views nursing homes as "habitats for people rather than facilities for the frail."
Thomas has converted more than 500 nursing homes in the U.S. and abroad into models that replace scheduled institutional care with more humane elder-centered care.
Another of Thomas' innovations, the Green House Project, has led to the construction of over 100 nursing homes with small clusters of houses. The smaller units are designed for 8 to 10 residents, and include private bathrooms and kitchens.
They are described as "intentional communities where elders can receive assistance and clinical care without the assistance and care becoming the focus of their existence." Unlike standard institutions, these places are much more like home.
Concepts like "smaller size, client-centered and intentional programming" are nothing new. School systems have known for years that smaller is better. Middle schools are often organized into teams, creating an environment that fosters personal connections between students and teachers. Large high schools work to create more intimate schools-within-schools. And everyone knows that small class sizes are preferable to larger ones.
Good quality child care is child-centered, intentional. It builds everything - the physical environment, activities, the way staff interact with children - around the developmental needs and interests of children. Quality programs for older school-age children plan with kids, not for them. They address the unique needs of adolescents by providing opportunities for physical activity, social interaction, leadership and meaningful activities connected to the real world.
Likewise, nursing homes should be designed to meet elders' social and emotional needs as well as their physical ones. Innovative models like the Eden Alternative help combat loneliness, helplessness and boredom by giving residents opportunities to have contact with real life: children, plants, animals. They offer variety and opportunities for people to be spontaneous. And, perhaps most importantly, they give elders a chance to engage in activities that are meaningful.
These models show that sometimes the best solutions are straightforward ones that don't require manuals or complicated formulas - just common sense, and the determination to turn a simple but great idea into reality.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
We often hear the horror stories about nursing homes, reports of substandard care and neglect. We rarely, though, hear about those that are doing things right, where elders are given a chance, not just to exist, but to thrive. Physician-farmer William Thomas has created a nursing home model that does just that. Thomas' approach, recently profiled in US New & World Report, is unique but simple, innovative, but born of pure common sense.
Thomas brought his perspective as a farmer - of nurturing, planting and growing - to the world of nursing homes. In the early 90s, he instituted dramatic changes in the upstate New York nursing home he directed. This is no ordinary nursing home. It has dogs and cats and birds and plants. Instead of rigid rules - waking residents at the same time for breakfast, providing care according to the convenience of shift workers - the home has a resident-focused approach. People eat when they're hungry, sleep when they're tired, talk when they're feeling sociable, remain silent when they want to think and reflect.
The positive results of this approach were seen in statistics: a 50 percent decrease in infection, 71 percent dip in daily drug costs for each resident, and a 26 percent drop in nurse's aide turnover. The Eden Alternative, as it is called, is a philosophy that views nursing homes as "habitats for people rather than facilities for the frail."
Thomas has converted more than 500 nursing homes in the U.S. and abroad into models that replace scheduled institutional care with more humane elder-centered care.
Another of Thomas' innovations, the Green House Project, has led to the construction of over 100 nursing homes with small clusters of houses. The smaller units are designed for 8 to 10 residents, and include private bathrooms and kitchens.
They are described as "intentional communities where elders can receive assistance and clinical care without the assistance and care becoming the focus of their existence." Unlike standard institutions, these places are much more like home.
Concepts like "smaller size, client-centered and intentional programming" are nothing new. School systems have known for years that smaller is better. Middle schools are often organized into teams, creating an environment that fosters personal connections between students and teachers. Large high schools work to create more intimate schools-within-schools. And everyone knows that small class sizes are preferable to larger ones.
Good quality child care is child-centered, intentional. It builds everything - the physical environment, activities, the way staff interact with children - around the developmental needs and interests of children. Quality programs for older school-age children plan with kids, not for them. They address the unique needs of adolescents by providing opportunities for physical activity, social interaction, leadership and meaningful activities connected to the real world.
Likewise, nursing homes should be designed to meet elders' social and emotional needs as well as their physical ones. Innovative models like the Eden Alternative help combat loneliness, helplessness and boredom by giving residents opportunities to have contact with real life: children, plants, animals. They offer variety and opportunities for people to be spontaneous. And, perhaps most importantly, they give elders a chance to engage in activities that are meaningful.
These models show that sometimes the best solutions are straightforward ones that don't require manuals or complicated formulas - just common sense, and the determination to turn a simple but great idea into reality.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Losing a Filene's Friend
I haven’t shopped at Filene’s in Downtown Crossing in many years. Still, I took the news of its planned closing very hard. Filene’s is as closely connected with Boston as anything I can think of. It is the Red Sox of department stores. While I can’t claim Boston as my birthplace, having lived here almost thirty years (and hence, the bulk of my life), I’m entrenched enough to feel the loss profoundly. It’s as if a dear friend—the one with whom I share my deepest, darkest secrets—has announced she’s moving away.
Ever since I learned about the closing of Filene’s, I’ve been trying to understand why I am so sad. I realized I’ve never fully accepted that Jordan Marsh turned into Macy’s. I mean, Macy’s is about as ‘New York’ as the Yankees. Though that change was almost ten years ago, when I picture Downtown Crossing, I still see Filene’s and Jordon Marsh, kindly neighbors, eyeing each other from across the way, keeping each other company like life-long friends.
There have been many corporate takeovers and changes in Boston over the years, and though I’ve been affected by all of them in different ways, none has hit me as hard as this one. I felt sad when BayBank become Bank of Boston, in part I think, because BayBank was where I first used an automatic teller card. I wasn’t bothered when it eventually become Fleet, and I cared less when Fleet became Bank of America (by then I’d switched to Sharon Credit Union). I guess I just wasn’t emotionally tied to my bank.
I wasn’t troubled when Sullivan stadium became Foxboro stadium, or when CMGI Field turned into Gillette. Having only been there once, I guess I wasn’t emotionally tied to the stadium either. The news of Gillette being bought out by Proctor & Gamble was distressing for reasons other than personal. It was hard to take yet another story of corporate greed at the expense of hard-working people. As upsetting as the Gillette news was, for me, it fell into the category of public outrage, rather than private upset.
And there have been other local losses and changes: Polaroid, John Hancock, Lechmere, Great Woods. Though I get a pang of nostalgia when I utter these institutional names, the loss does not feel crushing. Not like Filene’s.
I think the reason the Filene’s news has hit me so hard, is because it is much more than a department store. It is linked with bits of my life. Filene’s will be forever meshed with my move to Boston in 1976, with the excitement of living in a new city, and starting college. When my roommates and I went to Downtown Crossing, it was an all-day affair. We’d hop aboard the T at Boston College, screeching along Commonwealth Avenue until we entered the eerie under-road darkness. We’d climb the grimy Boylston Street station stairs, and stroll through the Public Gardens, taking in the glorious colors and scents.
We’d walk through the Boston Common, cross over Tremont Street and stroll into the shopping district. We’d peek in the windows and check out the bookshops and record stores, before heading into the heart of Downtown Crossing. We’d never make the trip without stopping at Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Being money-strapped college students, Filene’s basement was always the first place we’d go—rummaging through the racks and piles for bargain blouses, slipping on those perfectly priced shoes.
Though we often returned with our arms filled with shopping bags, we didn’t really go to Downtown Crossing to shop. We went for the excitement. We went to explore the vibrant city and to stroll on the no-cars-allowed-cobblestones. We went to feel the pulse of the lively crowds, laughing and talking, just like us. We went to experience a little slice of life.
These are the things I will remember. Filene’s, I will miss you.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2005)
Ever since I learned about the closing of Filene’s, I’ve been trying to understand why I am so sad. I realized I’ve never fully accepted that Jordan Marsh turned into Macy’s. I mean, Macy’s is about as ‘New York’ as the Yankees. Though that change was almost ten years ago, when I picture Downtown Crossing, I still see Filene’s and Jordon Marsh, kindly neighbors, eyeing each other from across the way, keeping each other company like life-long friends.
There have been many corporate takeovers and changes in Boston over the years, and though I’ve been affected by all of them in different ways, none has hit me as hard as this one. I felt sad when BayBank become Bank of Boston, in part I think, because BayBank was where I first used an automatic teller card. I wasn’t bothered when it eventually become Fleet, and I cared less when Fleet became Bank of America (by then I’d switched to Sharon Credit Union). I guess I just wasn’t emotionally tied to my bank.
I wasn’t troubled when Sullivan stadium became Foxboro stadium, or when CMGI Field turned into Gillette. Having only been there once, I guess I wasn’t emotionally tied to the stadium either. The news of Gillette being bought out by Proctor & Gamble was distressing for reasons other than personal. It was hard to take yet another story of corporate greed at the expense of hard-working people. As upsetting as the Gillette news was, for me, it fell into the category of public outrage, rather than private upset.
And there have been other local losses and changes: Polaroid, John Hancock, Lechmere, Great Woods. Though I get a pang of nostalgia when I utter these institutional names, the loss does not feel crushing. Not like Filene’s.
I think the reason the Filene’s news has hit me so hard, is because it is much more than a department store. It is linked with bits of my life. Filene’s will be forever meshed with my move to Boston in 1976, with the excitement of living in a new city, and starting college. When my roommates and I went to Downtown Crossing, it was an all-day affair. We’d hop aboard the T at Boston College, screeching along Commonwealth Avenue until we entered the eerie under-road darkness. We’d climb the grimy Boylston Street station stairs, and stroll through the Public Gardens, taking in the glorious colors and scents.
We’d walk through the Boston Common, cross over Tremont Street and stroll into the shopping district. We’d peek in the windows and check out the bookshops and record stores, before heading into the heart of Downtown Crossing. We’d never make the trip without stopping at Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Being money-strapped college students, Filene’s basement was always the first place we’d go—rummaging through the racks and piles for bargain blouses, slipping on those perfectly priced shoes.
Though we often returned with our arms filled with shopping bags, we didn’t really go to Downtown Crossing to shop. We went for the excitement. We went to explore the vibrant city and to stroll on the no-cars-allowed-cobblestones. We went to feel the pulse of the lively crowds, laughing and talking, just like us. We went to experience a little slice of life.
These are the things I will remember. Filene’s, I will miss you.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2005)
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