Every day the newspaper I work for prints a column called “Looking Backward” and that got me thinking about just the opposite - looking forward. Just today I got an e-mail from a friend who said she had very little to look forward to because she’d just been diagnosed with a debilitating illness and was nearing retirement with very little money saved. When I thought about what she wrote - about having very little to look forward to - I wrote back and said that there’s a lot to look forward to even if resources appear to be limited or our circumstances less than ideal. How about a gorgeous summer sunset? I wrote. Or an unexpected rainbow after a cloudburst? Or ordering an inexpensive item over the Internet and waiting for it to arrive in the mail - an item like a CD that will give hours and hours of favorite music. When you think about it, even in the most dismal times, there are things to look forward to. A walk along the beach or around a beautiful lake is something to look forward to and, better yet, if you have someone to talk to as you amble along. While at the library recently - I go there once a week to write the Looking Back column for our sister newspaper, I spied a book on display written by Mark Steyn, titled “After America - Get Ready for Armageddon.” I was curious, so I picked up the book and took a quick look at the blurb on the jacket. Steyn is a Canadian-born writer and conservative-leaning commentator and cultural critic and has been a guest on shows such as those of Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity. In his “After America” book, Steyn writes that America is headed off a cliff and at the moment it’s unclear whether we are standing a few feet from the edge or right at the precipice. But he insists that eventually, America as we know it will topple and fall into ruin, just as the Roman Empire did. In fact, we are well on our way, says Steyn. The man is no dummy. He was educated at the King Edward’s School in Birmingham, England - the same school where author J.R.R. Tolkien attended and has been published in the Chicago Sun-Times, National Review and The New York Sun. Some people in the circles he travels believe what he has to say and for all anyone knows, he could be right. Even liberal-leaning economist Paul Krugman who pens a column for the New York Times said last week on national television that America is now in a depression. A bit different from the 1930s but it’s still a depression, he says. But if we all take this dim view of what is and what is to come, what will we have to look forward to? An America so ravaged and diminished it will not be recognizable? A third-world country? A sycophant to China? Perhaps all three and others I haven’t considered? Appearances, as we all know, can be deceiving. A charming person might turn out to be what in the current lexicon is known as a “snake in a suit.” Someone who is down and out might win the million dollar lottery. An under-the-radar company might suddenly surge to the top of the heap because a person on the research and development team came up with a cure for cancer. You just never know. If we are to believe Steyn - and it would be easy to do because of the gloomy news that’s been reported lately - we’d all be looking at a future so grim and dismal that moving to the Northwest Territories might seem like a welcome relief. But then, life can change on a dime. You know the old proverb, the one that says it’s always darkest before the dawn. Maybe the best thing for any of us to do is to cling to that notion. Maybe thinking positive thoughts will put us back at the top of the world. Maybe then depressing books like the one Steyn wrote will disappear from library and bookstore shelves. What do you have to look forward to? If you have a weekend getaway planned, you have a lot more than most. If you are looking forward to marinated steak tips on the grill tonight, that’s a dream come true for a hungry child living in Kenya. If you have a job, good for you! Work hard to keep it and do more than is expected. Someone wise once made up a slogan. It goes like this: “Put some gratitude in your attitude.” Sounds good to me. Let’s all be grateful we live in America where we can still come and go as we please and not dwell on the unpleasant predictions of people like Steyn. As for what’s coming down the road, it’s out of our control. All we can do is vote our conscience and live each day as it comes and find something to look forward to. Make a list and review it often, then add to it as you go along. Pretty soon you’ll find that there are more things to look forward to than not. And isn’t that the best way to live life - with a forward looking attitude? It sure beats the alternative. Come to think of it, maybe the newspaper I work for should publish a Looking Forward column. We could list all the things our readers are looking forward to. That’s something we could all use a little more of, don’t you think?

Jack Bates

Does anyone know who Jack Bates is? I certainly don't. But today when I visited Summer Place, the retirement community where my mother lived until her death last August, I saw Jack Bates' nameplate on the door to my mother's former studio apartment. About a month ago, I knew Mother's Day was fast approaching and I wanted to do something special to remember my mother. Her gravesite is in Nova Scotia where she is buried alongside my father, so visiting with a bouquet of flowers or some kind of plant was out of the question. I suppose I could have made a donation to the local food pantry, but no one there would have known my mother. Then my friend, Nancy, made a suggestion. Why not bring a flower arrangement to Summer Place for the ladies who live there? Not all of them wil be remembered on Mother's Day, she said. Some probably have family who never visit. The flowers could be in memory of your mother and for all the friends she left behind. The idea took root and I ran with it. This morning I went to the market and bought a lovely arrangement of white roses, pink carnations and a tall purply flower amidst greens. The florist placed the arrangement inside a white box, and it looked just lovely. After paying for the flowers, I drove the half hour to Summer Place. Once there, I found the day manager and he placed the arrangement on a table in the center of the lobby where they could be enjoyed by everyone who passed by. I left instructions that they were to be given to my mother's dear friend, Joanne, after Mother's Day passed. Speaking of Joanne, I asked the day manager if I could visit her in her apartment. The answer was yes, and he dialed her phone number to let her know I was coming. I had not seen Joanne since last August, and when I opened the door to her apartment surprise stretched across her sweet face. After a few warm hugs, I asked Joanne about my mother. "Have you heard from her?" I asked. I knew full well that Joanne would not actually "hear" from my mother. What I meant was, "have you sensed her presence?" Joanne said she had "heard" from my mother and that she was "happy." I asked what was making my mother happy - is she with Jesus? And Joanne said, "Oh, yes. Oh, yes." Joanne and I hugged again for a long moment. Then I said, "Joanne, my mother might be gone for now, but I think that when it's our turn to exit life there'll be one big reunion awaiting us." She agreed. Mother's Day, for me, is more about giving to other mothers than it is getting something for myself. Buying those flowers and delivering them to Summer Place was exactly what I needed to honor my beautiful and sweet mother. But then there's Jack Bates and his occupation of my mother's former studio. It might seem natural to him to see his name on the door of Apartment 107, but it didn't to me. #107 will always be my mother's apartment, Jack Bates or not. Maybe one of these days I'll go back to Summer Place and knock on his door. Then again, maybe it's best not to do that. In my mind, I can visit my mother in her little studio and recall every nook and cranny: how the upholstery felt when I ran my fingers across it, the scent of her shampoo, the family photos displayed on the window sill. The very essence of my mother is still beyond that door. If Jack Bates comes to the door, opens it and invites me in, the memories of my mother living there will become skewed. No, I'd rather think of her living in #107 and leave Jack Bates alone. I'd rather not know how he has decorated that little space. I'd rather not have a stranger open her door.

Walk on By

The paths we walk in life are lined with losses, but they’re also lined with gains. As the night follows day, we can be sure of one thing – the people who cross our paths are there for a reason. Sometimes the reason is clear to us, other times not. On the highway, the front tire of the car we’re driving might blow out, but along comes a Good Samaritan who stops to change it. One wise philosopher said that other people are either our teachers or our lovers. I say they are also our mirrors. People teach us all the time if we’re willing students. As lovers, they bring out the best in us and we in them. As mirrors, what we see in other people – good or bad – is reflected in ourselves. In the early 1990s, my 20-year marriage came to a difficult and bitter end. It was a difficult time for my little family of three, especially for our beautiful and smart teenage daughter. It’s a piece of personal history I wish I could revise, but I cannot. What's done is done. Too late, I now see the terrible harm my daughter suffered, and possibly continues to suffer. To this day, I am out of touch with both my daughter and the man I was married to for 20 years and any healing of those deep wounds has yet to take place. Even so, life has found a way for his path and mine to cross. Marrying Tony five years ago came with a move to his town, which is right next door to where my first husband lives. On Monday afternoons, and sometimes on other days, too, my job as news reporter for two newspapers takes me to the city where my first husband lives. Over the past five years our paths have crossed about five times, mostly at the library. Unfortunately, the meetings have been brief with only a few words exchanged. I would not define the words we've spoken as particularly friendly or even cordial. Maybe one day that will change. Last Sunday Tony and I were invited to his son’s home for dinner, so instead of driving 15 miles to church I decided to go to a service at a church just around the corner from where we live. The service was delightful, the sermon inspiring. What was not to like? At the conclusion, I shook the minister’s hand as I made my way out of the church. He asked if I planned to stay for coffee hour and I said yes. Then I went to downstairs to where the parishioners gathered to chat over a cup of coffee or juice. As I stood there surveying the room, I thought I saw a familiar face. To be sure, I walked the length of the table where the coffee and juice were set up and confirmed who I thought I was seeing. My first husband. Rather than risk an unfriendly encounter in a church setting, I scooted out of there quickly without so much as a backward glance. It was odd enough that I should see him at a church I had never been to before, but the very next day when I went to the library to do my work, I saw him again, this time standing in front of a computer station. I made a quick decision to walk on by. Clearly, something is up. The odds are simply too great for his and my paths to have crossed twice in a mere 24 hours. Next time it happens, I will stop and say hello. And then I will shut my mouth and see what happens. Maybe he will say hello back. Maybe not. Maybe the conversation will end before it begins. But if our paths cross again – and I have a hunch they will – I will speak up. Twenty years is a long time – way too long for two people who once professed to love each other not to be civil. After all, we lived under one roof, ate supper together, slept in the same bed, prayed together at church. Most important, we raise a child together. Maybe it’s time to heal the past and let it go. Maybe by doing that it will open the door for our daughter to return to the family of her youth. As Mother's Day approaches, memories of my daughter are sharper and more bittersweet. Three days after Mother's Day will mark the day she graduated from college 14 years ago - the last day I saw her. Had I known then as I stood in the midst of the crowd at South Station after her commencement exercises and celebratory brunch, had I known then that it would be the last time I would see her, I might never have let turn away from me. I would have held on to her for dear life. I would never have let her go.

An Ordinary Day

You get out of bed and your ordinary day begins.

The ordinary for most of us includes pouring a cup of coffee (or tea), checking the headlines either online or in a newspaper, showering and brushing our teeth, getting dressed and going off to work or other pastime.

Ordinary days make up most of the time allotted to us. Think about it. When you and your spouse or other loved ones talk about what happened during the day, most times what happened is trivial.

Maybe you witnessed a car accident on the way to work - not that an accident is trivial - and that made you late or you ran into an old friend while in the grocery store. This is the stuff that makes up our lives. Most of it is mundane and even unworthy of reporting. Still, we continue to talk about the small things that make up our lives.

An ordinary day, however, can morph into an extraordinary day unexpectedly.

Take, for example, what happened last week in Greenland, New Hampshire. On Post Road, inside an ordinary Cape Cod style house, a young man and his female friend were hanging out. What they were doing that day we do not know. They may have been talking about the mundane. Or they may have been tallying up money from drug sales. No one knows. At some point during the day, a SWAT team and other police officers came knocking at their door with a search warrant. They had received a tip that drug activity was taking place inside the house, and they needed to check that out.

The police chief probably started his ordinary day with a cup of coffee, a quick shower, a brush of his teeth. He may have given his wife a peck on the cheek on the way out the door with a wish that she have a good day. She probably assumed she would see him at suppertime and never thought another thing about it. He probably never expected that his day would be anything but ordinary, either, but by the time midnight rolled around he was lying in a morgue after being shot dead from gunfire. The next day, the man and woman inside the house would also be dead, also of gunshot wounds.

The story of Michael Maloney, Greenland’s police chief, struck home because in my town I talk to our police chief all the time. Our chief is a compassionate man, a wonderful role model for us all and a dedicated officer whose sole purpose on the job is to protect us. If he had been the one to knock on the door of drug dealers, only to be shot dead, I would be devastated along with the rest of the community.

Being human means taking things for granted. We have expectations that everything will remain the same. But things never remain the same and that should be the expectation. Some changes are positive, while other changes are negative.

Be vigilant and expect a change when you least expect it. Ordinary days are not always ordinary. The story of Police Chief Michael Maloney and his killer - who also probably didn't expect anything out of the ordinary the day he died - proves the point.

A Day in the Sun

Who doesn’t love to see the sun shining high in the sky? Like pansies, unless we have an allergic reaction to the strong rays, we naturally turn our faces to the sun.

Except for a few blue-sky days and above normal temperatures, March days have mostly been gray and raw in the Greater Boston area. Nothing unusual about that. It’s just that by now most people are desperate for the warm weather that comes with spring.

Some people have jumped the gun. A few days ago, on March 13, the day was as warm as any in May, and people were out and about wearing flip-flops and short-shorts no matter what they were doing - walking around our beautiful town lake or grocery shopping.

Tony, my husband, confirmed it. When he came home, he said he had seen a lot of cars with their convertibles down and golf clubs sticking out the back.

Spring - bring it on!

This got me thinking about how ephemeral the seasons are and how fickle the weather is and how both compare to the human experience.

In the summer of 2010 when Former Things was published I enjoyed my “day in the sun,” meaning I enjoyed the limelight while it lasted. But writing a book and watching it unfold before the public eye is, like a season, ephemeral. For about a year I was flying high, realizing that I’d achieved a major life goal.

Then something curious happened. I no longer cared. Well, that's not entirely true. I did care but the book became secondary to my life focus. The novelty of having a published book wore off to the point where I no longer gave it a lot of thought.

When I do think about the book I wonder how I ever managed to get it written in the first place. It’s as if someone else embodied me for the 14 months while it was being written. The work could not possibly have come from me. But it did.

Working in a newsroom prepared me well for writing a book, and I have my editors to thank for wanting the details of stories. A tree might have fallen on a house somewhere in town, but the question to ask is - what kind of tree? What type of house? Reporting these facts are the pillars that support a good news story. It’s in the details that a story shines.

People have been asking if I have any new books in the works. Actually, there are three. But until I have time to handle heavy duty marketing, they will not see the light of day.

Having a book published provides ephemeral joy. But, like beauty, making a name for yourself is also fleeting. Better to strive for something more permanent, like serving God every day.

That’s where my focus is as I move along in life day by day. I like to think that writing Former Things was a way for me to serve God, but He might not agree.

I’m waiting to hear my cue from the wings. As it always does, God’s voice will come in a stage whisper. I only hope that I’m open and attentive enough to hear it.

A Quilt Tightens the Bond

Like a lot of other people in town, on Monday nights at 8 p.m. Tony and I tune in to Antiques Roadshow, one of our favorite PBS programs.

People from all over the country bring vases they paid a dollar for at a yard sale or an old clock they found among the mothballs in grandma’s attic to have the items appraised by experts.

It’s fun to watch the looks of surprise and ear-to-ear smiles of people when they find out their heirlooms are worth tens of thousands of dollars. According to officials at the show, most people hang on to the items rather than cash them in because of their sentimental value.

During a recent episode, it was announced that Antiques Roadshow is coming to Boston and that free tickets were available. All viewers had to do was go online and enter their name, address and telephone number. The winners of the tickets would be drawn at random. It was an easy enough task, so I entered Tony’s name and mine.

“But what will we bring to have appraised if we’re chosen?” I asked him.

He thought a moment, then said, “Well, there’s that old quilt your mother made.”

The quilt. Yes. I hadn’t thought of that.

The quilt Tony was referring to was handmade by my mother and grandmother during the winter of 1958. A neighbor had given my mother a box of 5x5 inch swatches of sample fabrics for men’s suits. The patterns included herringbone, pinstripe and houndstooth in navy blue, brown, black and gray.

Back in the 1950s people didn’t place their elderly family members in nursing homes or assisted living facilities, let alone estrange themselves, at least openly. Most often, family members took them in. That’s the way it was in my family. During the winter months, my grandmother lived with us, and for the rest of the year she visited her other five children for a few months at a time.

The box of sample suit fabrics sat on a table in the living room for about a week before my grandmother opened it and said, “Gladys, let’s make a quilt.”

My mother loved to sew and she also loved her mother-in-law, so she set up shop on the dining room table and they went to work. While they stitched by hand those winter months, my grandmother told stories about my father’s childhood. They had lived in a rural area of Nova Scotia, smack on the Bay of Fundy. That was before refrigeration, so my grandfather built a shelf for the rear of the house where my grandmother kept her milk and butter. The winds blowing off the Bay were cold enough to keep the milk from souring and the butter from going rancid no matter what season. She told stories about life during the Great Depression and how hard it was to keep her six children fed, let alone clothed. In spite of the family’s poverty, she managed to learn advanced mathematics, which she taught at a one-room schoolhouse. She also learned to play the organ and was hired to play for the services at St. Peter’s By the Sea. While they sewed long into the night, my grandmother shared her knowledge about how to keep colds at bay and how to bake a loaf of oatmeal bread that would melt in your mouth.

The quilt is not as beautiful as one that might come out of the Wakefield Arts & Crafts Society - not with its mish-mash of dull colors and backing that needs replacing. But it’s as heavy as the blanket a dentist puts on you when your teeth are x-rayed and it’s as warm as an eiderdown comforter.

Soon, I’ll take it out of the chest where it’s stored, and I’ll remember the year my mother and grandmother tightened their bond through quilting. I’ll also remember them as the two women who shaped me into who I am.

Then I’ll fold the quilt, place it on top of the storage chest and hope for a call from the people at Antiques Roadshow.

The quilt might have a dollar value, and it might not. Either way, I won’t care because it has value to me. And in the end, that’s what matters most.

A Song in His Heart

On Valentine’s day weekend I have plans to surprise my husband (and his sister) by taking them to Mass. Bay Community College where Brian Landry and his wife Ana Maria Ugarte will thrill the audience with opera favorites from Turandot, Carmen, Rigoletto and others.

I first met Brian through my good and dear friend Deb, who is also estranged from her adult daughter.

Brian and Deb worked together at the Post Office before Brian ventured off into the world of music and Deb went back to school to earn her master’s degree in behavioral science.

Deb wanted me to meet Brian about 10 years ago because at the time I was writing music reviews for a publication in my area and Deb thought Brian could use a little promotion, so we arranged to have lunch at the 99 in Lynnfield one Saturday afternoon. It was during that lunch that I learned Brian grew up a few streets away from where I once lived and went to school with my daughter. He remembered her as a sweet, pretty girl – just as I remember her.

We talked a lot during lunch about Brian’s life – including the fact that he grew up in a challenged household where his music talents were appreciated but funding for formal training was not available to push him onward and upward.

But life, being what it is, found a way for Brian’s talents to come to the fore, regardless of his family’s financial situation. I knew it would happen for him when, after lunch at the 99, we went out into the parking lot and he demonstrated his talents by singing “Nessun Dorma” from Turandot. Brian needed no orchestra to back him. His voice rang out that day loud and clear and right on key. To say that it was a beautiful rendition is an understatement. Deb and I both urged Brian to pursue music. God didn’t give him that talent to keep it hidden.

The days, weeks and months passed and occasionally Deb and I would hear from Brian telling us he had auditioned for an opera or had sung at an open mic night in various places.

Then came his big break. Someone heard Brian and arranged for him to study with an opera maestro in Italy.

It was while he was studying in Italy, perfecting his vocalizations, learning music theory and everything about opera that he met Ana. Their love of opera provided the glue that would bond them and that bond eventually led them to love, marriage and a precious baby girl.

They now live on the North Shore of Boston and both have performed with symphonic orchestras all over.

One reviewer wrote about Brian: “He’s the real thing – a tenor with a big, and I mean HUGE voice, one with beauty, heft, an Italianate squillow, solid technique, marvelous diction and real emotional involvement in the material he’s singing.” I couldn’t agree more.

Now, for Valentine’s Day, Brian and Ana plan to share their love of opera with other music lovers, and that includes us.

What I love about Brian is not only his astounding musical talent but his humility. Brian does not take his musical gift for granted. He remembers where he came from. And he is grateful for the opportunities that came his way and the chance to share his talent.

In the heart of winter, Brian and Ana will spread the warmth of their own personal sunshine on a weekend reserved for love. What could be better to break up the bleakness of winter than an afternoon spent with an old friend, a friend who made the grade on his own merit.

When Brian and Ana take center stage next weekend, I will remember the young man in the parking lot of the 99. And though I will marvel at how far he has come, I will not at all be surprised.