LORAIN'S COUNTY FAMILY LOSES LOVED ONE WHILE LOCAL HOSPICE MAKES THAT TRAGEDY EVEN WORSE--IF SUCH A THING IS POSSIBLE!

     I hate to be vulgar, especially in print, but I assure you that a front-page story in The Morning Journal (Wednesday, October 26th edition) has made me so angry that I want to spit!  As a probate attorney, and also as a person whose only sibling (my brother) passed away in a hospice in 2008, and whose husband passed away in another hospice in 2010, the story immediately interested me.  But imagine my shock at discovering that the family involved in this story are people that I know--in fact, I had just called to offer my condolences a few minutes before reading the article.
     I will not unnecessarily relate all the details in this post, since they are readily available online--complete with video--to any of you who wish to read the article.  In brief, let me tell you that a 60-year-old man named Vernon Kapucinski was dying in a Lorain County hospice.  His family had been visiting with him regularly but, a day or two before he passed away, one of the nurses started giving the brother and the children of the patient a hard time, telling them that they had to know a "secret code", in order to be allowed to visit Mr. Kapucinski.  The bottom line of the story is that the patient died ALONE!  When his daughter confronted one of the nurses on the telephone, demanding to know how such a thing had happened, and why her father had to die alone, while family members were attempting to be admitted to his room, the nurse told the daughter "He didn't die alone.  I was with him."  Such arrogance is beyond unbelievable!  Forgive me for not having words elegant enough to better describe this horrible situation but, as I said above, I am so angry at the moment that I could....YOU CAN COMPLETE THIS SENTENCE WITH ANY WORD OR WORDS THAT YOU FEEL ARE APPROPRIATE.

FOLLOW-UP TO SEPTEMBER 28TH POST: "PROLOGUE: CLEVELAND, 1940

     I must admit that I am not very computer-techy.  Therefore, I didn't realize until today that two of you had commented on my September 28th post--which is the Prologue to my novel that was published a number of years ago.  Thanks for those comments.  They were great, and I just posted them to the blog.  One person said that they felt that what newspapers have long needed is a section where literary works are published on a regular basis.  It may interest you to know, if you don't know already, that there was a time in literary history--in the 1800's--when writers published their books, one chapter at a time, in the newspapers of the day.  In fact, such well-known authors as Charles Dickens and Louisa May Alcott did exactly that.  I agree that this is an idea that should be considered again.  In fact, I have been thinking about doing that for a few months now.  Then, of course, there is the other alternative.  The novel for which I posted the Prologue has been out-of-print for a number of years, but can still be found on Amazon.  It is entitled "Millionaire's Row."  Other comments, anyone?  I just love to get feed-back from all of you through the comments that you leave.  Sorry that it took me so long to post them.  Dummy me!

BOB HOPE'S FIRST JOB!

     I'm sure that all of you know that the late, great comedian, Bob Hope was from Cleveland.  But here's something that I'll bet you don't know:  I grew up being told that Orlando's Bakery started with Mrs. Orlando, who lived across the street from my grandfather's house on Woodland Avenue in Cleveland, baked the best Italian bread around.  It was so good that the people in the neighborhood started asking her to sell them a loaf.  Pretty soon, Mrs. Orlando was baking dozens of loaves every week and selling them to the neighbors.  Rather than delivering them herself, she hired two little guys from around the corner to deliver the bread out of their little red wagon--made from wood in those days.  The two little guys that she hired?  My uncle and his little buddy, Robert Leslie Hope--later to be known as Bob Hope!  Orlando's Bakery and Bob Hope--just two of Cleveland's many success stories.

ANOTHER STORY OF PEOPLE FINDING EACH OTHER

     Back in August, I had several positive comments on a true story I told you about two long-lost brothers who, against all odds, found each other.  So I decided to tell you another true story.  This story took place over twenty years ago when I was contacted by a woman who told me that she was, at that time, 69 years old, and that she had been searching for her biological mother for 50 years--since she was just nineteen.  She told me that she had been given up for adoption as an infant, but had never been adopted.  Instead she had grown up in an orphanage until the age of eighteen.
     She asked me if I could possibly assist her in finding her birth mother.  I said that I would try, and collected the information that she had been able to gather over the previous fifty years.  Back then, there were not the amazing number of computer aids that are available today.  Nonetheless, after quite a bit of research, I finally located her birth mother--a woman in her eighties who had given birth to her daughter when she was only  fourteen years of age.
     I contacted the mother and told her that the child she had given up sixty-nine years earlier had been searching for her for the past fifty years!  The mother declared that she considered this a miracle, and that she, herself, had never married, had no other children, and had been wishing, all through the years, to be reunited with her child.  So of course I called her daughter, who lived in Cleveland, and told her that I had found her mother--living in Detroit--and that her mother would be delighted to be reunited with her.  The daughter said, "I'll be in the car and on the road with the next few minutes!"
      Later that day, a Sunday in May, the daughter called me from Detroit to tell me that she was with her mother, and that they were both overjoyed by their reunion.  I wished them the best and hung up the phone.  After hanging up, I suddenly realized that, not only was it a lovely Sunday in May but, by coincidence, or who knows why, it was also Mother's Day!  I still smile to myself whenever I recall that day, and thought that reading about it might make some of you smile, too.

DOES ANYONE AGREE THAT TELEVISED TRIALS, SUCH AS THE DOCTOR CONRAD MURRAY TRIAL, ARE BASICALLY A WASTE OF THE VIEWERS' TIME?

      Every day for the past couple of weeks, we have been inundated with the details of Doctor Conrad Murray's trial in connection with the death of Michael Jackson.  While it is certainly sad that a man of Michael's musical talents passed away, and that his doctor may or may not have been partly at fault, it seems that this continued coverage of every detail of the trial is just a gigantic publicity stunt on the part of the channel that is continuously running the trial live.  It is no different than the Casey Anthony trial.  While it was very sad that Casey's daughter died, do we really have to have the details of the trial rehashed over and over.  Am I just bored because I have seen so many trials over the years as an attorney?  I'm not sure.  I can tell you that several of them were far more interesting than the two trials mentioned above.  But there was little or no news coverage, given that the parties involved were not famous, nor did the attorneys hire press agents to up the publicity.  I guess this phenomenon pretty much began in 1994 with the O.J. Simpson trial.  And here we are, 17 years later, with the Kardashians having their own show, including spin-offs of that show--all because their late father was one of O.J.'s best friends and a part of his legal team!  It used to be that fame required one to have a talent or special gift of some kind.  It seems to me that fame now requires that a person--preferably one with problems of some type--be in the right place at the right time.  Perhaps this trend will require dictionary editors to come up with a new definition of the word "fame." What ever happened to shows with plots?  Or those which discussed serious and important topics that have an impact on all of us--not just on one person?  In fact, the whole "reality show" craze is unfathomable.  Each of us has reality issues of our own to deal with, and we don't need our own show to help us do that!   Does anyone out there agree with my take on all of this?

PLEASE READ THIS AND, HOPEFULLY, MAKE A COMMENT. THANKS!

PROLOGUE

 

Cleveland, Ohio, June, 1940

     The ancient clock in the tower of the Old Stone Church began to toll noon.  The June sky was bright blue and filled with the warmth of early summer.  It was Saturday, and Cleveland's Public Square was relatively uncrowded.  As though in slow motion, a chauffeur-driven black Rolls pulled smoothly around a corner of the square, settling itself directly before the main door of the Stanton National Bank.  The driver, a man in his early twenties, stepped from the car.  He was broad-shouldered and tall, with the ruddy, freckled complexion so often associated with the Irish.  His stance as he leaned against the highly-polished old car suggested that he took pride in his work, a pride not often observed in domestic workers.  The young man glanced quickly at his watch, straightened the black patent-leather peak of his cap, and took a deep breath, As though preparing to begin some new task.

     Just then, as the clock in the church tower struck the twelfth note, the heavy bronze double doors of the bank's main entrance opened in tandem.  A large party of somberly suited men began shuffling from within the bank's dark interior into Cleveland's bright summer sunlight.  As the group of perhaps forty or fifty people made its way onto the sidewalk, it was immediately apparent that almost all of them were men--all but the small, slender figure at their very center.  Standing now in the doorway, preparing to begin her careful descent down the stone steps, was a woman of perhaps seventy, or nearly so.  Despite her advanced years, she stood erect and tall.  Her thin form was dressed entirely in black, from her veiled hat to her smart black suit, black kid pumps, and black gloves.  Had she been seen alighting from the Old Stone Church some yards away, the average onlooker might have thought her a bereaved widow emerging from the funeral of her husband.  The fact that she was instead emerging from the Stanton National Bank, the sole woman in the company of so many illustrious-looking gentlemen, would set one's imagination to wandering in earnest.  The mystery was heightened by the fact that on her lips there played a slight, wistful smile and in her eyes there was a playful, mirthful glow.  Clutched tightly, protectively, in her black-gloved hands was something square and wooden--perhaps a picture in a frame.

     As if by long-rehearsed cue, the chauffeur took her hand just as she stepped onto the sidewalk, guiding her towards the open rear door of the black Rolls Royce.

     "Thank you ever so much, gentlemen," the old woman said to the attentive gathering on the sidewalk, just as the chauffeur closed the heavy door of the Rolls between her and the assembly.
     "Our pleasure, Mrs. Stanton."
     "Thank you, Mrs. Stanton."
     These, and similar replies were heard from the men on the sidewalk, every word uttered in hushed, reverent tones, sometimes even accompanied by a slight, chivalrous bow.  They were still expressing their thanks, smiling and nodding, as the Rolls pulled away from the curb, made its way slowly around the square, and began its slow, dignified cruise eastward up Euclid Avenue.

* * * * * *

     Sheila Stanton took a deep breath and shifted her thin from on the burgundy velvet seat of the Rolls.  Slowly, carefully, she pulled off her black gloves and laid them beside her on the seat.  In her lap lay the object she had been clutching on the steps.  She picked it up now and held it near her eyes, then farther away, trying to see it clearly through eyes that, although still a startling bright green, and still possessed a merry glow, were hard-pressed to read the words on what turned out to be a mahogany plaque.
     Sheila pushed a hand carelessly through her upswept white hair as surprisingly girlish grin suddenly lit up her face, seemingly to cast a glow on her still delicate, still lovely features, and to call attention to the sprinkling of freckles that ran across her nose, giving witness to the fact that when her lovely old face was young, it was probably framed by a mane of titian-colored hair.  It would not be at all difficult for a casual observer to tell, even now, that this woman had once been a great beauty.
     She could read the plaque now.  Etched into a square of gold-colored metal, attached in turn to the slab of polished mahogany, it read:

          "The Stanton National Bank, Cleveland, Ohio, wishes to express its most sincere appreciation
          to Sheila Cagney Stanton for her unending devotion and efforts on behalf of this organization,
          and for the dedication which has brought us to the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the
          Stanton National Bank, 1890-1940."


     Sheila allowed a soft but audible little chuckle of pleasure to escape her lips.  At once, her chauffeur sought her eyes with his own in the rearview mirror of the Rolls.
     "Is everything alright back there, Mrs. Stanton?" he asked.
     "Everything is fine, Paddy," she answered.  "Everything is just fine."
     As she spoke, the remnants of a long-ago brogue came into her voice, a brogue that had much been much like Paddy's own.  The chauffeur smiled at the sound, as he often did when he thought about Sheila Stanton, and what he knew of her past, and about the station in life that was her present.  It said something to him personally, and it should, he thought, say something to all the Irish.
     Sheila put the plaque aside now, and opened a compartment built into the seat in front of her.  A folding desk appeared, complete with pen, ink, stationery, envelopes, and postage stamps.  Sheila took one quick glance out of the car window and released an audible sigh as her eyes took in the endless line of commercial buildings that lined both side of Euclid Avenue, making a canyon of what had once been a very different scene.  Sheila could remember a time when this street had been known as Millionaire's Row, when it had been lined on both sides with the mansions of Cleveland's wealthy.  Newspaper accounts of the day had touted the fact that Euclid Avenue surpassed in beauty even the Champs-Elysees of Paris.  She sighed heavily, a little bitterly, as the memories of those long-ago days began flooding back upon her.  The chauffeur glanced protectively into the rearview mirrow once again at the sound of her sigh.
     Then he saw her begin the ritual that he had observed every day.  Sheila took the pale-green sheet of vellum from its holder, poised the pen above it with confidence, and began to write.
     "My Dearest Kevin," the letter began.  "Today was a little out of the ordinary.  The Board of Directors at the bank decided to surprise me with a plaque on the bank's fiftieth anniversary.  It is strange to think the bank has stood on that very corner, looking for all the world like a medieval fortress, for fifty years, and that I have been here in this city (perhaps a different type of fortress, or so it seems at times) for fifty years as well.  Such a long time, and yet not long at all.  When I look around me now from the windows of this comfortable and comforting old car, I can't help but think how different were my circumstances on my first day here in Cleveland.  Let me see, if my old mind does not deceive me, it was exactly fifty year and three months today since my train pulled into the Union Depot.  Be assured, my dearest, that I miss you no less at this moment than I did on that first morning--no less and no more.  Some things do not change.  My love for you has been one of the unchanging facts of my life.
     "I will write you again tomorrow.  As always, Sheila.".

50+ AND NOWHERE TO GO? ARE YOU FEELING ISOLATED?

     Do any of you over-50's feel that you are not as much a part of life's mainstream as you once were?  Do you feel that you still have a lot to offer but, because of certain circumstances, be it lack of funds, physical immobility, loss of a loved one, kids spread out across the country, friends retired to Florida, you may feel isolated.  There are many activities and connections that you can become involved in without even leaving your home.  I know that you have a computer.  Otherwise you wouldn't be reading this.  How about making some comments and connecting right here on the blog.  Two heads are better than one when it comes to overcoming isolation.