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June 30, 2008

LOVE ON THE NILES - THIS WEEK'S STORY FROM THE LAKE

One of the best parts of my job when covering an event is discovering the story within a story. It’s like biting into a piece of chocolate, only to find the soft gooey center inside.  A wonderful and surprising treat.  After being on my feet for four hours straight, I finally decided to sit down at one of the many picnic tables spread out on the fields of the Lagoner Farmers Market. 

I was covering their Annual Strawberry Festival, and sitting across from me were Marlene and Stanley Niles.  They had come back to Williamson from Canada to visit their youngest son and his family, and were thoroughly enjoying themselves.  They had retired in 1995 and moved north to their own little piece of land.  I looked at this couple sitting side by side, laughing like newlyweds. I asked them how long they had been married.

“We just celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary” said Stanley, and put his arm around his bride, pulling her closer.  The entire family celebrated with a luau style party, and everyone had a great time, they reported.

“We were married on Flag Day, June 14, 1958, and we just renewed our vows.”  Marlene was smiling ear to ear and pointed out the gold necklaces they were both wearing, in honor of the year. 

“We renewed our vows at 25 too!” she said and leaned in closer as if to share a secret. “….and we used the same minister!” ”Its my brother Ray” grinned Stanley and they laughed in unison.

“Every 25 years he says to us ‘see you in 25’ and he said it again this year.  I don’t doubt that he will be there.  Of course, he’ll be 94 by then, but who cares?  We intend to be there.”

Giving his sweetheart a quick peck on the cheek, she agreed with a nod of her head.  I learned more about the couple as the afternoon went on, and how much living they had done in those short 50 years together!  Stanley was once a firefighter for the Lincoln Fire Department, and Marlene the President of the Ladies Auxiliary.  Nowadays they spend their time going full speed up in Canada, he as a curler, and she involved with other charitable activities.  They both love gardening, and their house is ‘almost finished.’ 

As I bid them goodbye, I felt their tenderness for each other and for life itself.  I am not naïve enough to think there may have been some years harder than others.  But what a wonderful gift I received that sunny Saturday in June, to have met the meaning of love and commitment, and to witness it being carried out.  Right before my very eyes.

 

 

June 28, 2008

TIM RUTAN - THE MIRACLE OF PRAYER

 

FROM THIS WEEKS WAYNE COUNTY STAR:

May 14, 2007, was a Monday morning like no other for Tim Rutan.  It was a school day and he was going through his daily routine before heading to the kitchen for breakfast.   Except for feeling a little tired, he woke up at his usual time and took a shower.  It wasn’t until Tim tried to pull his arm through his shirt sleeve when he noticed things weren’t quite right.

The weekend had been especially busy.  A fit athlete, he had participated in a soccer game and did very well.  Also an avid runner and member of the track & cross country team at James Benway High School in Ontario, he was looking forward to breaking the record in an upcoming meet that he himself had broken the year before while a Sophomore.  Saturday he had gone to the School Prom, and Sunday was Mother’s Day.  He was looking forward to taking his AP Physics test that Monday morning, and going to the Philmont Boy Scout Ranch in New Mexico the upcoming summer.   He was just about finished with a project which would lead to the final achievement of an Eagle Scout badge.   

But his arm wasn’t doing what his brain was telling it to do.  It was weak and felt very strange.  “I thought maybe if I looked away, kind of trick it, that it would work better” he said.  It didn’t.

Walking out to the kitchen, he found his mother Cindy preparing breakfast.  His father, Scott, was sitting in his chair in the living room, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper.   “I tried to tell the what was happening, but then I realized I couldn’t talk.  Now I was getting scared.”

Cindy tells of the horror she felt at that moment.  “His face was beginning to droop, the corner of his mouth was slack and his eyes were glassy.  I knew something was terribly wrong.  We called the ambulance and transported him to Rochester General.”

Although he never lost consciousness, Tim was diagnosed as suffering from “…an acute right sub dual infarct in the right frontal lobe.”

At 17 years old, Tim Rutan had suffered a stroke.

A Cat scan proved to show a blood clot in the middle cerebrum artery killed parts of his brain and affected the right side, which controlled the left side of his body.   He had some weakness in his left leg, but could walk.   Immediately the occupational therapists at Rochester General began working with him, strengthening his hands and arms, making sure his legs were still all right.  A speech therapist also worked with him, once his voice returned and could swallow without a problem.

Incredibly, although his voice was fragile for the rest of the week, the hospital sent him home after 48 hours, fully recovered. 

Although Tim was extremely fit, he and the rest of his family are convinced the power of prayer had a lot to do with his miraculous recovery.  After all, this was not the first time the family had prayed for him.

Tim was born on April 10, 1990, 13 weeks premature.   His father, now a staff member of St. Patrick’s Church in Victor, baptized Tim at 3-4 minutes old and was immediately put on a respirator to help him breathe.    

”This only shows how much of a fighter my son is”, explained his still incredulous dad.  “At four and half pounds, he pulled the tube out himself.  The nurse on duty was panicked, but quickly realized he was breathing just fine on his own.”

A prayer chain was quickly created between all of their family members and friends, who prayed for the little boy who was so determined to not let anything get the better of him.   He went home 4 weeks later.

It was this same prayer circle of friends and family that shot into action when Tim had the stroke, only this time the reach was so much farther.  His older brother, Michael, who was away at college, sent out the need for prayers via emails from New York to Connecticut and back, hitting all his friends at MySpace, Facebook, and any other way he could communicate the urgency.

Tim was happy to have recovered so quickly, and couldn’t understand why he was given the red light when it came to sports.   He was extremely angry when the doctors told him he could no longer take part in different meets.   “All I wanted to do was go back to running, and was so mad because I felt fine!”

It was for good reason, however.   An ultra sound and stress test of his heart showed he suffered from Peyton Foreman Ovale, or PFO, which is a hole in between the two top chambers of his heart.  Every baby has this while they are inutero, as it is how blood and oxygen flows from the mother to the baby.  This hole closes up right before birth, but in 25% of babies it remains open, requiring surgery to close it.

July of that year found him back in the hospital where cardiologist, Dr. Carl Johnston, performed the procedure to close it.  Tim was in the hospital for two days, and was laid up for four weeks at home.  Dr. Johnston, an avid runner himself, encouraged him and knew he would one day run again.  He has since become his coach and mentor, as well as close family friend. 

Tim also accredits his recovery to Dr. Johnston who has “…an incredible work ethic and stamina.  He would never let me give up.”

Humility and good humor are also qualities that helped Tim get through this trying ordeal.  He has never asked ‘why me?’ or blamed anyone.  When asked how he felt about being profiled in the paper, with typical modesty he smiled and said “It felt a little weird, but I guess its okay.”  

He also offered these sobering thoughts.  “Things may happen to you that you don’t expect.  I never expected to have a stroke being so young.  But work through the hard times, and LET people help you that can, rely on others who know what they are doing.  Don’t let pride get in the way and think you can do it all yourself.  I couldn’t; no one can.”

Tim has been accepted at Nazareth College in Pittsford and wants to become a Physical Therapist.    

 

 

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June 23, 2008

OUR MOST PRECIOUS SYMBOL - STORIES FROM THE LAKE

  OUR MOST TREASURED SYMBOL

Being assigned this week two Flag Day stories to cover, it was a great opportunity to be able to look at our nation’s symbol of freedom in a different light.

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The first story involved the Willliamson Elementary School and the presentation of a new flag to the school by members of the American Legion.

 I wish I had been able to take a picture of the look on the face of both the presenter, Commander Dominick and the two designated fourth graders. He stood tall, bending proudly at the waist, to hand over a brand new flag, crisp and folded neatly, into the hands of Michala Youngman and Nathan Courier. One face represented the pride of transferring such an awesome responsibility, and the others were filled with sincerity in which they received it, with solemn gratitude that it was presented.

We don’t think much about the flag that flies above us everyday, be it on school grounds, restaurants, airports and other public buildings. We take for granted it will always be there, a reassuring blanket of freedom, engulfing us silently as we go along our day to day lives, a welcome friend when we travel abroad.

Rarely do we give thought to the fact it is sometimes used as a shroud for the fallen, a reminder to thank those families who have given their ultimate sacrifice.

I am sure the children did not pick up any of those feelings that day, except they knew it was important and a traditional ceremony worth repeating every year.

 

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The second story was about Retiring the Colors, a ceremony performed every Flag Day by the American Legion. As the men stood at attention, they watched reverently as the dismantled flags were burned in silence.

 

I have to admit I never thought about this procedure until today, witnessing first hand the sincerity of the caregivers and the process of making sure it was done with pride and honor. What an awesome responsibility! 

 

Patriotism is alive and well in Williamson.  I hope we all fly our flags daily, and salute them with the respect they so justly deserve. 

 

I learned a lot that day; how proud I am to be an American, and to watch the care and tending of our most precious, treasured symbol.  

 

My father, my brother, my husband and my son have all served in the military under this great flag, and they all returned to me safe. 

 

I will never again take it for granted.

 

June 14, 2008

SILVER BULLET

THE SILVER BULLET

It’s been picking at me for quite some time, the thought growing as quickly as my waistline. Dieting and exercising has become a way of life for the past five years, and as much as I hate to admit it, its not working as well as I would like. I knew that I was going to have to throw something else into the mix, and the price of gas these days seemed to seal the deal.

I bought a bike.

Last week found us searching the aisles of Target and Walmart. I didn’t want something  too fancy, because I’m not Lance Armstrong. But I didn’t want something too simple, either, with a cute wicker basket across the handlebars. Visions of “Murder She Wrote” scenes flashed through my mind, as the writer-slash-crime fighter Angela Lansbury pedaled through the little town where she lived, solving murders and chronicling them to show the police. I’m still a city girl at heart, and it would be just my luck to witness a crime and the criminal steal my bicycle, cute wicker basket and all.      

“Are you sure you can do this?” my beloved asked me as we loaded it into the back seat of the car. We had lucked out and learned Target sold the display bikes, already assembled. It was silver and had no basket.  It did have hand brakes just like Lance’s, however, so I felt it was a reasonable compromise.  After giving it the once over, he agreed it was the one for me. He was anxious for me to get started, but afraid I would kill myself.

“Of course!” I answered, somewhat insulted. “What is that about learning to ride a bike? You never forget it!” Secretly though, I wondered if I could pull it off without falling off.   I named it the Silver Bullet, in honor of Stephen King, one of my favorite authors.

We went home and together we mapped out a route for me to travel; ever the planner, in the event I fell into a ditch he would know where to find me. I was to call him when I arrived at my destination, and we had calculated it would take approximately an hour.

The morning of the inaugural ride, I strapped on my helmet and slung my regular clothes snug in a knapsack behind my back.  It was a perfect day to ride, the sky  overcast and the early morning sun had not yet made its appearance.

“Call me when you get there...” he reminded me, and snapped a picture of the liftoff. 

Cycling at a normal pace, I rode with purpose and determination. The hills were hard, especially when I saw them approaching, almost mocking me in their stance.  I had to get off the bike twice to walk it up, disappointed but determined. 

But as in every uphill climb we encounter in this life, there is the long, delightful windy glide downhill. My mind drifted back to when I was nine years old, another time and another place, where I rode my bike unencumbered with my friends.  Traveling over hills and gullies, sometimes we rode together without saying a word, the wind blowing our hair everywhere, just enjoying the quietness and the whirllll of the tires against the pavement.  Now and then we would get brave and hold our hands out, three little girls abreast on a suburban tract road, holding hands and smiling.  “Weeeee…” we would say after a while  “…..I’m freee!”

A smile came to my face as I reached the final lap of my travels and whispered in my mind the same mantra.  I am free and always will be, to enjoy the experience of the up hill and the blessed gliding down hills of life. As long as I can, I will always choose to ride.

Now all I need is a chicken.        

June 08, 2008

LIFE IS TO SHORT TO PEEL

  I’ve had so many different jobs in my life that I find it easier just to respond ‘I’m somebody’s Mother’ when asked ”What do you do for a living?” I feel as if Motherhood has been the ultimate training ground for dealing with different personalities and authority figures. I was grateful for the experience of working in a hospital because it helped me deal with sickness and not vomit myself when an 8 year old brought up pea soup; I apologize if you are reading this while you are having breakfast, but you get the gist of what I am saying.  

I never realized that I was able to deal with overbearing managers because I had dealt with teenagers. Making the boss look good and letting him think it was his idea is a direct result of dealing with a 14 year old girl.  Just hand them a mirror and they’ll forget what all the fuss was about. Consoling a distraught 6 six year old because his frog died is exactly what happens when a co-worker didn’t get the raise they wanted. Sometimes you just have to let them whine a little. Making a drunk superior understand he can’t drive home from the party is almost as much fun as telling your 17 year old he can’t go out with his pants hanging down to the middle of his rear – its dangerous and not anything people want to see.

The question has arisen from time to time as to where I get some of my ideas for columns. I wonder sometimes myself. Sometimes they will just come from out of the blue as I sit in front of a blank screen. It’s as if I’m waiting for someone to turn on my fingers so the words will flow out – an endearment my beloved uses sometimes when addressing the dogs. (“Look, boys!  Mommas got words coming out of her fingers!”) 

When I am feeling especially inspired, the story seems to write itself.  The starting point might be a title that sticks in my head, or a group of words that seem to belong together.   I remember reading an instruction for a recipe where it called to ‘peel a tomato before blanching.’   I thought to myself  “What?  Life is too short to peel a tomato!”   That has stuck in my head like a song that continue to play over an over in my mind, and now that I’ve used it maybe it will finally go away.  Or maybe it thinks it’s better than that and should be a book title.   I’ll know if it shows up again tomorrow.

I have to type my words in Verdana font, changing it later to Palatino Linotype when presenting the final product to be printed for the paper. The fact that I have a column for a paper to write every week is a delight in itself. It wasn’t too long ago I was not sure if it was right to call myself a bona fide writer.   Enough time has passed where I can comfortably refer to myself as an author; but I realize I must always strive to do better. 

Some friends and I were sitting at the local watering hole the other evening and they tossed out some ‘titles’ they thought would be appropriate as starting points for columns.  Of course I didn’t write them down, and most of them I can’t use since this is a family oriented paper. But I realized amongst all their good intentions one fact I can’t change.   I need to pull the titles from my own heart, my own history and my own fingers.  Thankfully, there’s plenty more where this one came from.  


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