This morning I laid on my couch, drinking a cup of coffee, admiring the sun lighting up the trees and watched the birds. There were blue jays, red-winged blackbirds (a sign of spring), red bellied woodpecker, juncos (a sign that winter is still here), doves and chickadees. And I thought a week ago we buried Maria, two weeks ago she was here in this living room alive and well. But I'm not ready to write about Maria - when I do I want to write with joy not sorrow. So today I am going to write about St. Sylivia's school and convent. Why? Because I collect postcards of Tivoli and this is one postcard that I have coveted for years, seeing it only once on E-Bay and I lost the bid. The school was a wood framed two story house that lay east of the church next to the Demboski house. It was used as the school and convent from 1888 to 1962. (We moved to Tivoli in 1967.)

I found the following in a booklet on the 75th anniversary of St. Sylvia's church. Mrs. Redmond of Tivoli wanted to have a school in Tivoli "for the moral training of the children".

"The superiors told Mrs. Redmond if she wished to have the Sisters (for teachers) she would have to build a convent. Mrs. Redmond made a promise, she would build a convent if the Lord would bless her with a child. The promise was fulfilled. The first child, Johnston, was born on the feast of St. Vincent, July 19, 1988. On August, Achbishop Corrigan stopped over at Tivoli to baptize the baby and bless the convent which was opened on August 15, 1888. "

So the convent was there before the church was built in 1903. I remember the convent, it was used by the Girl Scouts for meetings in the 70's, probably torn down about 1975. At that time Father Geissler was the pastor. Father Geissler and I had a past together, he was from Beacon and had married me as well as my sister Maureen. (Neither marriage worked which might just be a coincidence.) Anyway, I typed for Father Geissler, typing for Jesus, I called it, the Sunday bulletin that was passed out. The convent was almost bare of furniture, as I recall, but there were two or maybe even three pianos still there. When I learned the building was to be razed, I asked Father Geissler if I could buy one of the pianos. He responded that I could have one, but not to tell anybody since Tivoli was a small town, and to make a donation in the collection box. Well, we didn't exactly sneak the piano out of the convent, my husband and friend Mike Stofa put it in the truck one night, Mike in the back with the piano, playing it down Broadway on the drive to our house. It stood in the living room, massive in the small house, and Sabra took lessons for some years. I remember Laura making her tap dance and play the piano at the same time and I remember when Maria broke her collar bone, she lay on the floor, her pillow under the piano....I think there was a Blum boy with her on the floor. Anyway, if anyone ever sees a postcard of the St. Sylvia school and convent, please get it...I'll pay anything for it. Well, almost.

I know I said I would write about running a B&B and living in Tivoli, but I just have to say a few words about Spitzer. First of all, What was he thinking? My sister Maureen used to take the train into Boston everyday and one day the woman sitting next to her, turned to her and asked, "What do you think I should do - kill myself or go to work?" Maureen quickly responded, "Oh, I think you should go to work". Now if Spitzer had asked the cleaning woman or the elevator man, "What do you think I should do - buy my wife a valentine card or haul my horney ass to Washington to pay $5000 for a prostitute?" I'm sure either one w0uld have said, "Oh Governor, go buy your wife a valentine." And what's with his wife standing by his side, looking like the house just burned down, the dog got run over and their three daughters were on drugs, in jail and knocked up. Where is her spirit - her pride? When I worked in IBM, one of the women in my department was a pretty, feisty black woman named Janet. Janet told me about having her first son, how he was a big baby and she had such a time pushing him out. When he was born, she said, "That's not my baby - he's white" and the nurse explained to her that black babies are born white and then turn black. (Now this I never knew and I have never heard before or since.) Anyway, she was laying in her room, the baby in the bassinet next to her, turning black, when a woman came into the room and announced that she and Janet's husband were in love and that he was going to leave Janet and live with her. Janet pulled herself up in the bed, and said, pointing to the baby, "Well, you can take his big fat kid with you too, you can have them both." Of course, the woman didn't want the kid, and when she heard Janet didn't want her husband, he didn't sound so good either, so she left. Later, when her husband showed up, she reamed him out good, and some of the nurses joined in to tell him what an airhole he had been. Now that's the type of reaction I wanted from Mrs. Spitzer...if she had just turned to him and said "What were you thinking?" and jabbed him in that big stupid looking jaw, I think the whole country, no, the whole world, men and women alike, would say, "Way to go, girl". Well. I'm glad to get that off my chest.

Well, we're back from Florida, for Laura's wedding last Friday, Leap Year Day or as I remember from Lil Abner, Sadie Hawkins Day. The wedding was at 9, very nice, good group of family and friends, back to their place for snacks and Maria's wedding cake, that had two alligators, one with a veil, one with a top hat on it along with a colorful array of candy fruit. Suitable for the couple bound for Florida. At 10:45 they left to catch the train, and by 11:01 I think I was starting to get the flu that Atticus had had all week and that Laura and Michael were going to remember their honeymoon by for at least the first 10 years of marriage. Yes, I've been down with the flu, complete with fever, aches, coughs, etc. Today I'm starting to think I might recover. So I've been on the couch, watching tv and filling a grocery bag with tissues and rubbing Vicks on my chest every few hours. TV during the day is a lot of news, and they put the darnest things on just to keep it going, "Irish bar bans "Danny Boy" for the month of March," "Men who help with the chores get more sex" and "14 year old boy declares California city cuss free for a week". Now that last one got to me. Cussing, especially, when you are sick, is really good for you and probably helps the healing process. I guess today, though, cussing to a 14 year old is mostly the f-word, said in a variety of new ways, such as WTF. My mother swore slightly, but colorfully. Sometimes she would follow it with "excuse my French" which I thought was wonderful. Who would think shit was a French word? My Uncle Ed went to war in 1943, he was only 18 and I was not even one. Bucky (my mother) wrote to both of her brothers at least once a day, often using her Underwood Typewriter and filling both sides of the paper. I have these letters and they are delightful. She often used the s-word and it often had something to do with me. "I have to change the kid's shitty diaper", "I found a feather in the kid's shit today". She probably learned this from my grandmother who was also known to use that word and others as well. One Christmas Eve she went shopping for the tree, sure she would get a bargain so close to Christmas. When the man wouldn't lower the price, they argued back and forth, until Grandma challenged him"Do you know what you can do with these trees after tomorrow? He glared at her and she answered her own question.."Wipe your ass with them!" Last night we were watching PBS, a special on Pete Seeger. Arlo Guthrie was talking about the Clearwater and how Pete knew that people would come to the river to see a sloop once again on the Hudson and realise the toll of pollution. Arlo said the people would see the boat and say, "Oh what a lovely boat. Oh, there's SHIT in the river!". Of course they bleeped out the word, but I laughed so hard I got coughing. Cussing can be creative, in how you arrange the words, select the words, use the words. Years ago we had a friend Mike Stofa who told us his mother always called him Peckerhead, especially when she was upset with him. Once on a school picnic, his mother was chaperone, and things were going well until Mike and some boys climbed a tree. The teacher called their names several times, but no one heard her and then Mike heard "PECKERHEAD" and everyone, teachers, chaperones, all the students were completely silent. His mother just said, sometimes I forget and call him the family name, but he never lived that down. So, cussing has a place in society, whenever I see left over Christmas Trees, or pumpkins after Halloween, I remember Grandma's prediction. My mother often referred to children, her own grandchildren as well, as little shits. I find myself saying, "get the cloth, the little shit spilled the drink" and it feels right and it sounds right. Glad to be back in shitty New York with the f... flu.