Author: Teresa Forester Adams

The Blues are the superior uniform of the Marine Corps. They call the jacket a blouse, and it is navy blue, so dark it looks black. I would rub the heavy, soft wool against my naked arms and watch the bumps rise. The blouse was trimmed in scarlet, and there were gold buttons straight up the front, three on each arm, and one on each shoulder. The collar had an Eagle Globe and Anchor, or EGA, shining gold on each side.

My marine was decorated with multiple ribbons on one side and clinking medals on the other. On his upper-arms, he wore his rank, scarlet and gold, proudly displaying his non-commissioned officer status as a corporal. There was a white belt that clasped with a gold buckle, showing his trim waist. The pants were royal blue and after a certain amount of time in, he earned his blood stripe, which is a sewn red line from hip to ankle on the outside of both legs. His black patent leather shoes looked liquid and whispered when he stepped, and the wide, metal-framed white hat, or cover, sat low over his brown eyes, and complimented his full lips.

I wore a form-fitting long, black velvet dress with matching sling back heels. I walked out of the hotel room and Roger grinned with his eyes as he looked at me. My hair was long, down my back in loose, glossy curls that felt soft on my bare skin. We were ready for the Marine Corps. Ball.

People were doing shots of Jägermeister, and their laughter invited the green odor to dance around the ballroom. There was a ceremony, then dinner of roast beef with gravy, and always mashed potatoes, no lumps. After we rested our full bellies, we ate a piece of the massive white cake with sticky red trim that was not known for its flavor.

My family and I were sitting at the table sipping vodka, straightening collars, and replacing lip gloss, when I started to wonder where Roger was. After a minute, I heard his voice echoing loudly over the hundreds of people partying. “May I have your attention please?” I thought he was talking to a friend, but he was at the podium at the front of the room, hands controlled in front of his waist, head slightly tilted, and the microphone receiving his question.

“Teresa will you come up here?” Oh, gosh. I saw his slight, nervous smile.

There were hundreds of people, including my family and many friends, all dressed in their sparkly gowns, Dress Blues, and suits saved for weddings and funerals. The lights had dimmed since dinner, and there was no music. I stood and made my way towards him. There was flat, crimson ballroom carpeting, dark with golden swirls, and many chairs in my way as I lifted my feet higher than normal as to not trip.

Bright camera flashes gave me a white tunnel directly to him, and I felt people’s eyes on me. The path gave me time to wonder and hope. It invited me to remember flashes of our talks.

“We could just get married now,” he said months before. His tone teased but his eyes wondered.

“Now?” I replied. We had a private moment to talk after taking Tyler, who was three to Casper the movie.

“Or we can wait,” he said.

“No, no, no, I can’t live away from you any longer,” I said.

I brought myself back to the present and continued my walk up to the podium, my hands were damp. My skin pricked and butterflies were crawling up my throat. My legs wobbled until I found his face. His smile was wide and warm, probably happy I didn’t run out of the room. I forgot about the other people. In his eyes, I found safety and adoration, and I finally noticed that he was shaking when he held my hand.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” so only he could hear me. “Yes.” I felt my face stretch as he put the ring on my finger.

“What did she say!!??”

“She said yes! Wooohoooo!” The room shook with cheering and clapping, and he raised his hand that wasn’t holding mine in celebration.

The marines were roaring with shouts of “Oorah!”

We showed off with a long, respectable kiss. The band played our song, “I Swear.”

He wore those same Dress Blues one month later at our December wedding in the snow. I rented my dress for $80 and wore my plaid sneakers to tease him. He didn’t know until we were officially married. The gazebo in Easthampton, Mass. was surrounded by Christmas lights and sweet, undying love.

They are out of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, my shopper messages me from the Instacart App. Do you have a replacement in mind?

I hurry to answer. Anything is fine.

The exchange continues with more alternative suggestions and apologies. As we message each other, I safely sit on my oversized chair with a warm, pink quilt covering my legs. I sip my first morning coffee while Golden Girls plays in the background.

A week before, I sat on my sunny back porch with my steaming green tea and opened my Instacart app on my phone. I always go to bread and milk first, then choose my date for delivery. I ask the kids what we’re out of and it always consists of fun stuff like Coco Puffs and peanut butter cup ice cream.

I wonder about my shopper and if she is afraid. Does she have worries? Does she have a family, too? I also wonder if she is happy about the new income her family is earning, and what will happen when people start shopping on their own again.

Do we really need things like ranch dressing, sugar, and Friendly’s Strawberry Cake Krunch Ice Cream Bars? Maybe we should be eating whatever we can, not whatever we want. Is her life and health worth risking for our late-night snacking?

If you don’t like what I choose, my shopper messages me, please tell me.

I tell her not to upset herself, the entire time wondering about my morals. I figure if I get something we won’t use, I can give it away, and that each extra second she spends in the store is dangerous.

Why is she buying my groceries? They’re making money now when they normally may not, I get that, but what is the price of health?

Does the extra tip cover the risk? If my shopper gets sick, is it worth the Lucky Charms, whole-milk ricotta, or tater tots?

We close the curtains and remain quiet while she places our bags so neatly on the front porch. We try to keep the dogs hushed so they don’t scare her. When she leaves, we peak out the window and it’s like Santa just left.

“You got Smartfood!”

We wait an hour or two until the germs blow away or settle, then we dive in with our assembly line and a bucket of hot, soapy water. I scrub the items while my face begins to itch, and the boys dry and put them away.

“Don’t touch your face,” we each say several times to each other.

I miss shopping. Baylee would come with me most times, and he would bounce back and forth in the aisles and give me those puppy eyes when he wanted Sweet and Sour Skittles or the fancy water bottle. It was kind of our thing. He said “hi” to everyone and always thanked the helpers. One day soon, we will go again.

Until then, we are truly grateful for our shoppers. I hope you are, too.

Nana was from Pennsylvania, a place with crinkly pages of folk tales about what you should eat on the first day of the year. I’m not particularly superstitious, but I take no chances. I’m a knock-on-wood kind of gal who will bless you when you sneeze, and every January 1^st, I eat the same thing.

Salty pork roast cooks in succulent sauerkraut, dill seeds, and lots of black pepper all day until it falls apart into its own tangy juices. I serve it with mashed potatoes, yellowed by butter, bright green peas, stewed Granny Smith and Macintosh apples with white sugar, cinnamon, and grated nutmeg, and puffy yeast rolls. There’s usually a nice cold Riesling and dessert like Nana’s chocolate cake with buttercream frosting, extra vanilla. The day is calm and fun, and there is only one rule.

Every person in the family must eat at least one nibble of each food. My boys have never liked sauerkraut, and I admit it’s a little funny when they crunch their faces up and gag down the pungent pickled cabbage, but they eat it anyway because it represents gold. They’re not too fond of green peas, either, but they eat them, too, because they symbolize money and wealth for the upcoming year.

I don’t know if the potatoes or rolls stand for anything, but they go well with the rest of the meal. And wine is wine, so I’ll make something up to fit that into this story if need be. These accompaniments suit each other well with the special dinner, even though they are not as important to eat as the roast.

We eat pork because folklore states that since pigs root forward, it means there will be no lagging in your life, and when you have it on January 1st, you will move on to good things for the remaining days of that year. If you don’t eat it, your life will suffer stagnancy.

I didn’t eat pork dinner on New Year’s Day of 2009, the year we lost Roger. And I vowed never to make that mistake again, no matter how superstitious that made me sound.

Well, last May, I stopped eating pork, so I didn’t have any this year. I had everything else, the kraut, peas, and all the other insignificant food I mentioned before, but not the meat.

I mean . . .

The Southampton Community Cupboard at the Congregational Church is still supplying food to those who need it during the COVID-19 pandemic, but their supplies are running alarmingly low.

Mike and Candice Iwanicki volunteer their time at the town food pantry and their minds are always on feeding local folks who need a little help, but now, because of a global pandemic, they have another concern, empty shelves.

Fear of illness is causing people around town to have their groceries delivered, and some don’t leave their houses at all. This is leading to less donations in the boxes for the pantry at the local businesses that allow them like Big Y.

Other businesses that had boxes like the library and the Easthampton Savings Bank in town are closed because of the pandemic.  

Just because there is illness in the air does not mean people stop being hungry.

“It doesn’t matter what their circumstance is,” Mike said. “It’s all the same feeling. It doesn’t make a difference. It strikes everybody the same. When you’re hungry, you’re hungry and you know it.”

Anybody is welcome to receive help from the pantry. It serves people in Southampton and surrounding communities. All you have to do is show up.

“This system has never required financial information,” Candice said.

Although Mike does not like the idea of people not being able to enter the church and shop during social distancing, he knows it is temporary, and is happy they are still open.

“People are usually able to come in and browse and decide what they want to take,” Mike said. “And what they don’t want to take, too.” 

For now, things run differently at the pantry, but they are still operating.  

“We give the people a bag and a slip of paper with some other choices on it,” Candice said. “We fill the second bag and deliver it to their car, now wearing masks, and gloves, along with wiping everything down.” 

The pantry does receive some of their items from the food bank, but they rely heavily on private donations.

They will accept any item at the pantry, but are in dire need of cereal, bars of soap, boxes of macaroni and cheese, applesauce, canned fruit, tuna, and chicken. 

If you are unable to donate, please pass the word that they are in need of items. Also, let people know that they don’t turn anyone away.

The Southampton Community Cupboard is open every second and fourth Saturday.

If you wish to donate, please contact Mike and Candice Iwanicki at mikey1261@gmail.com. If you would rather donate cash or a Big Y card, please send it to: Iwanicki, 94 Pleasant St., Southampton, MA 01073.

She’s my good-morning every day, and my night-love-you before I go to bed.

I remember meeting Sherry, Roger’s older sister, in 1992 when we were dating brothers. Her height was enhanced by a little 90’s poof and her smile was warm. The guys aren’t in recent chapters, but Sherry is still in mine.

I remember in the early 90’s we were driving back from Chi chi’s Mexican restaurant during an ice storm. Mini skirts and cowboy boots embraced our tight little bodies, and we laughed while we pushed the small, silver sedan up the dark, slippery hill in Westhampton. We didn’t look at the time.

I remember we yelled at each other in 1995, when I started dating Roger. He was in the marines, stationed in North Carolina. His leave and holidays were always spent with Sherry and that would change. The people in the apartment below used a broomstick or something on their ceiling to break up our boisterous exchange. We laughed and ate pancakes with real syrup the next morning while we shared the funnies.

I remember Sherry standing next to me in December of 1995. We were outside at the gazebo in Easthampton. It was dark and the snow was fresh and white like my rented gown. We joked that the only reason I was marrying her brother was so we could be sisters. I really loved my marine, but this may have been true.

I remember her trying to win a staring contest, the kind when you can’t smile or look away. She’s received the genetic gift of not being very good at it, but it is the most authentic smile I’ve ever seen. Her eyes crinkle, and the left side of her mouth duels the right.  

I remember when she came to us one year when we were living in North Carolina. She wanted to start over. She was brave and I was in awe. “Life is hard,” we said.

I remember how excited we were when Madonna came out with her Music CD and we played the shine out of the disk. The speakers crinkled and cracked. We’d drive down Bell Fork Road in Jacksonville, NC. She drove a navy-blue Ford Ranger, and I drove a Candy. Apple. Red . . .mini van.

I remember not being able to use my voice when I saw her through the muggy air in June of 2009. Roger was gone. I don’t remember what she wore or how her blonde curls were shaped, but I remember the trauma in her blue eyes.

I remember sitting across from Sherry while her and Roger’s father was dying, hoping it would end soon, but guilty for feeling that way. We held hands across his thin chest, and played audio of the Boston Red Sox World Series game hoping he could hear it. We commented on his perfect skin and his heart’s purity.

Sherry folds money into little shapes like guitars or swans and sends them to the boys on their birthdays. She listens to me more than I listen to her and is the only one who calls me T-Mae. She tells me when I should have used the word “rode” instead of “road” in my writings. She remembers everything significant like if I have a paper due, and from Tennessee, she checks my weather. She always tells me how strong I am.

I get it from my big sister.

On March 8th, I woke up in the middle of the night as I usually do and noticed the time was 1:53 AM. I decided to stay awake (like I had a choice in that matter) and see what it looks like when the time changes for Daylight Savings. I watched it go to 1:55 then closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it was 1:59 so I waited. I focused on not closing my eyes again. Next thing I knew, I saw 3:00. The hour was completely gone and with no celebration. It mirrored my life.

I began to flash back to the days when my sons were little in the springtime, like when they loved playing with bubbles. I can smell that gentle soapiness. They’d walk around the yard dragging those giant orange baseball bats behind them like Bamm-Bamm from the Flinstones. Sammy used to pick Sweet 100’s, tiny cherry tomatoes, from the garden. His little cheeks were all puffed out, stuffed with the juicy “meenos” as he called them. They loved playing some type of tag. They’re all over thirteen now, but I can still hear it.

“Mom’s base!”  Chests puffed out like the idea was original.

Base gives the tagee a sturdy safety bubble that surrounds them with protection from the most shameful title of It. If the tagger touches someone, he says, “You’re It!” and everyone laughs. If everyone makes it to Base before they get tagged, the tagger loses. It’s a dishonorable loss, too, and It is a terrible thing to be called.  

Base is a definitive belief that becomes almost tangible in the heat of a competition like tag. It’s strong like a hallucination or a placebo.

I remember one time I said to Tyler, my oldest, “It won’t work.” We were talking about some type of placebo.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because it’s just a placebo,” I said in a snarky Mom way.

“So?” After he replied, he remained silent knowing he was right.

If it works, it works.

The human mind. It’s incredible.

The boys really believed in Base, and sometimes, I hated that it was me. They would get rough or fling mud or Cheetos all over my shoulder when I wanted to rest for a minute. Most of the time it wasn’t so bad, but I’ve lost my powers.

They can’t place their hand on my shoulder and receive any safety from me, not in times like this. I’m a tough guy, but all of this is scary. I’ll take the terror from a hurricane any day over this fear of people we all have right now. It’s easier to protect yourself from something you can see, cause nobody wants to be It.

Our minds lately have been rolling up their sleeves and working overtime, right? My direction has been disabled by the uncertainty in the world. I have many assignments to do for school and even a work project I’m excited to begin. Baylee is officially schooling from home so that is a priority as well. Writing, thankfully, is something I can do from anywhere, but I simply can’t focus on even the simplest tasks, such as working on this blog piece.

I have four started, and none are complete. In a recent proposal I wrote, I explained that I would be able to finish my memoir by visiting local coffee shops so I will not have distractions. I fantasized about what I would order and even created a playlist on Spotify and named him Oliver. Of course, I didn’t have a backup plan for social distancing due to a pandemic (!) so I had to compromise.

I love being home, but when I am, I see windows that need to be cleaned, stop to pet my cat, Salad, or all of a sudden need a snack or a new cup of green tea from the kitchen, which is next to the library where I would write. It just wasn’t working. I talked to the boys about what we could do to remain friends with each other while this social distancing is going on. We toyed with the idea of making an office in the upstairs part of the barn or even set something up in my room. The barn is still too cold, and my room is for my bed and my rest. It had to be perfect.

There is a little sitting room centered upstairs splitting the four bedrooms into two pairs. It was full of memories, dust, and mismatched furniture. Nothing was placed neatly in the room and it was just dirty. It is far enough from the kitchen and tucked away from the living areas and noise. It would work, so we took all the furniture out, cleaned the floors, and dusted the shelves.

I used old pieces from different rooms like a sewing machine table and a chair that never fit in anywhere, and we all moved them in to place. The lighting is glowing warm, and I can see part of our wood line and the large field that a young bull moose ran through one day. It’s perfect for that mid-writing space out. There is a ledge under the window that I sprinkled a little bird seed on, and here I am, writing.

I am grateful for the large space we have here between the house, the barn, and the land. I know it’s not common and many don’t have extra space, but for this time of social distancing, the places we are confined to may be able to offer some peace. Keep it tidy and your mind will be tidy. I understand this is not a real problem. People are ill and the world is quite disabled, but our minds and sanity are important. So, boil some water with nutmeg or cinnamon, wash old curtains that have been resting in the closet, and replace the ones with tired arms. Make yourself a corner of the room that makes you happy. Set a timer for seven minutes and tell the kids to see how much they can clean of their room in that time. It becomes a game, a competition. Create a space for yourself. Feed your soul with some harmony.

When I was seventeen, Nana lived in Florida during the winter months and Massachusetts when it was warmer outside. I remember the first time she left and how much it created a sense of emptiness in me. I was desperately sad and would miss the many weekends at her house in Northampton. We ate silver-dollar pancakes for breakfast, then would shop at Caldor and Bradlees. Her house is where I learned to love black coffee, tea berries from the woods of Laurel Park, and open windows in the spring. We used to hear a train in the distance and talk about real stuff like love and God.

When we were apart, we wrote to each other. They were the real kind of letters with the medium white envelopes from CVS. The letters were written in pen, black or dark blue, and you had to lick the back of the American Flag stamps. Nana wrote in small, perfect cursive. I envied her writing, but her words and their meaning are what I didn’t pay enough attention to. She wrote about the Florida grapefruit she had for breakfast, the bright yellow daffodils that were growing in her yard, and she asked about Tyler, my first-born son. He was twenty-four days old.

Our writing stopped for a couple weeks after she found out I was pregnant. I was seventeen and still in high school. She wanted me to be a career woman and own a business one day like she did. She didn’t know what to say to me, or how to complement her modern beliefs with her old-fashioned teachings. She was born in 1925, and grew up believing unmarried women didn’t have babies, especially before they were eighteen.

Of course, she warmed to the idea of a new baby, and it’s hard to resist the charms of Tyler. So, we continued to write to each other, and the words came out fast. I wrote about my upcoming graduation, being a young mom, and plain old feelings. I felt a release and also appreciated writing as an art. I cherish our writings now and refer to them when I need or want to. One common theme she loved to sneak into many of the letters was the importance of study, and to never give up on my dream of going to college. She told me to work hard and I told her I would. Many years later, here I am.

I began a memoir a couple semesters ago and have picked it back up to finish it, and even committed to doing so for an independent study in my course at Westfield State University called Career Prep for Writers. It is taught by the one and only, Beverly Army Williams, and it is, as she said, bonkers. In this course, we learn to create our brand. It includes projects like career exploration and blog writing, as well as activities such as mock interviews and resume writing. The course makes my eyes cross and my jaw throb from clenching my teeth, but I thank God for it every day.

Professor Beverly leads with kindness and joins with compassion, and the group in our class is the warmest collection of supporters and fans any new writer could have. We have all committed to a study that is forcing us to look at the future, and I see evidence of this all over social media. The people in her class have new accounts or are working on old ones. Their brands are being created and they are thriving. I see their smiling faces and new stories, and I notice them actively living. What’s funny is that this “non-traditional” (I’m pointing my thumbs at myself.) student is no different.

Now I must employ this hope and energy and get to work. The memoir was sitting stagnant inside my HP yet still she lingered in my brain, causing disruptions in my other writing and building pressure. That’s why I tasked myself with the completion of it. The accountability was imperative, and I work best with a deadline. (I don’t have much time.)

Nana passed away on June 1, 1993. But she lives in my cooking, my need to be in the woods, and in my words. So, that’s where it all started, my love of writing. I wonder where it will go, or if it’s already moving, and when I can call myself a writer. I love being a mom and fighting fire formed me, too, but one day someone will say, “Teresa, what do you do?” I will say, “I’m a writer.” Cheers, Nana.

In my previous blog, “Hometown Love,” I wrote about my court experience against Southampton, Massachusetts, and voiced some frustrations and hurt feelings that came from it. (I need to say again that the people I’ve spoken with at the town have always been kind and respectful to me.) I figured maybe twenty people or so would read the post, but it grew like one of those little foam capsules that turns into a dinosaur. The views increased by the minute and people shared the post on social media all over the place!

At first, I didn’t think it was a big deal, then people started to contact me in many different ways wanting to help. I told them that we should redirect the anger towards a positive future for survivors and veterans. I think we should fight to let the people vote to waive the two-year waiting period for those who aren’t from Massachusetts. Anyone should feel welcome here, and the voters are the ones who should decide it. Right now, if we keep this alive, that’s the best help.

“What if we can get the town to pass this change because of Dad?” I said to Tyler a few days ago.

“What if it goes federal?” he answered. Anyone who knows Tye won’t be surprised by his ambition, and he’s right. We need to at least try.

I love the energy this is getting. In many comments, people reminded me to look around and see the beauty and peace this town keeps. I also saw, once again, the kindness and love in the people of this town. It’s incredible fuel for us, and I’ve slept so well the past few nights. There’s an intense appreciation for his sacrifice as well as warmth and a sense of true community.

I especially love that thousands of new people are seeing Roger’s name. They saw his picture and there are many new readers of my memoir pages. They’re learning stories about him and seeing what a Gold Star family was before they were known for his sacrifice. Along with the energy, as long as it doesn’t fizzle, a little information about the benefit itself will help in our quest.

Here is an example of how the benefit works: (The link is listed at the end of this page showing the breaks and qualifications.) Let’s say Jane was born and raised in Massachusetts. Jane meets Bob in North Carolina when she is visiting her friend. Bob is from Wisconsin. They fall in love, marry, and live together on base. Bob goes to war and is killed in action. Jane wants to go home to Massachusetts to be with her family but does not qualify for the benefits to assist her financially. This is because Bob was not from Massachusetts. There are other scenarios, and they’re all confusing. My point is; Jane should be able to go home to her family for the support she needs. She should qualify for the tax break. Every state is different, and the towns and cities also have some say. The benefit is so generous, and completely needed.

I spoke with someone who told me that states want to take care of their own. I also talked to someone who said the people in the cities and towns would never vote to approve waiving the two years. There was also concern voiced about survivors and disabled veterans coming here in droves holding flags and needing care. According to Zillow.com, the median house price is $407,000 in Massachusetts, and one of the reasons that disabled veterans and survivors won’t flock to the commonwealth simply for the tax benefit. People come here because they have a reason to, not because the benefits will outweigh the cost of living. In order to live here, some need those benefits. When a family member is killed in action, the country is generous to the families as far as I know personally, but the income they receive is the same no matter what state they live in. I can tell you firsthand, it doesn’t go as far up here. Massachusetts is a little pricey, so I’m sure the offset takes the edge off.

What else helps is the support the boys and I have been receiving. We feel the love and shared frustration. Because of the messages and well wishes, I feel more confident to move forward for the rest that will have to deal with disappointing denial letters. I’m trying to respond to everyone, but I feel like some are getting lost in space and I’ve never been known for my computer skills. I even welcome the messages and comments against my fight for the future veterans and survivors, because their information helps better my knowledge.

I believe that together we can try our hardest to peacefully change or clarify the laws to make our disabled veterans and Gold Star families feel a little more relaxed and wrapped up in the town’s arms. All I want is for the people in each municipality in Massachusetts to have the ability to vote to waive the two-year waiting period. Let the citizens decide.

More than anything right now, though, I thank you all.

References:

https://www.sec.state.ma.us/cis/cisvet/vetprptax.htm

https://www.zillow.com/ma/home-values/