Denise Marotta Lopes

Good News

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 4, 2021 category Uncategorized

There are signs that precede good news.

Today is Easter, and what better way to bring in the day than at the park with Ivy, watching the sun rise over the river. The universe had other ideas.

We arrived too early, for one thing. I walked; Ivy ran. I constructed sentences in my head; she sought out deer scat. I looked to the sky, then to my phone to see the time. The sun should have been up by now. We continued to wait, Ivy chewing sticks, me imagining them in our fire pit.

There are sounds that precede good news. The whistle of a train, the rat-a-tat of a woodpecker, the ringing of a church bell. There are sounds that seem to start too soon: the cry of the robin while the sky is still dark.

The sky began to lighten, and yet there was no breakthrough. I felt anticipation, contemplation, aggravation. I’m not good at waiting. Realizing the clouds were preventing my Easter sunrise, we headed for home, past the blushing tulip tree, the lemon-yellow forsythia, the purple-and-green-tipped hosta. None were in their complete fullness, and yet they shone.

Perhaps the clouds tempered the fullness of my sunrise. Perhaps fullness is not what I anticipated. Good news comes in all forms.

A Golden and a Priest

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 29, 2021 category Furry Friends

One from the archives (2015)—missing both my Roger and this beautiful priest.

Father Michael Szupper’s room is second on the left, in a quiet wing of the Oblates of St. Frances de Sales’ Annecy Hall. I gently knock on his door, which is slightly ajar, and say, “Good morning, Father Szupper, it’s Denise and Roger. Would you like a visit?”

I wait for the sound of his voice, which is often too faint to discern. Roger, my ten-year-old Golden Retriever knows the custom, and at my request, sits and waits along with me. Sometimes, through the crack in the door, I see the back of the priest’s motorized recliner move as he positions himself to welcome us. After a time, I hear him indicate he’s ready.

Leaving the dark hall, we enter the room. Roger instinctively knows to be calm here. I whisper, “Gently,” but he already knows. Maneuvering around the black wheelchair, Roger approaches Father from the front, putting his head right near the man’s hand.

“Roger Dodger! Hey, buddy. Working hard?” he asks.

Though movement is difficult for Father Szupper, he places his fingers on Roger’s forehead moving them back and forth in a gentle massaging motion, and uses words I don’t understand. They seem to speak the same language.

I enjoy my visits with this kind man. There is a quiet strength about him that needs no words to convey. There is a television in his room, but I’ve never seen it on. On both sides of his chair are tables piled with books; often he sets down the German Bible he’s been reading when we arrive. A Charlie Brown Christmas tree with one red ornament sets on a TV tray against the wall. Next to it is an empty bird cage.

Our conversations are about the weather, his love for football, and his past experience as Chaplain at the University of Delaware. He tells me about his sheepdog—Tiel von Eulenspiegel—whom he would set free among the college students during study time and announce, “Okay, study break!”

He shifts slowly, but with purpose. Each movement is measured. When I ask how he’s feeling, he minimizes the obvious pain in his arm by saying, “It hurts, but no one is going to take away my food.”

Inevitably the conversation reverts to Roger. He gets quiet as he watches me interact with my dog. In his peaceful room, I sense contentment, and an equal amount of longing. He stares out the window and speaks of the birds that he views from his chair.

“They’re very large black birds with big wing spans,” he says. “They fly above the tree line out there, and they just soar.”

“Turkey vultures,” I suggest.

I wonder if he considers their freedom. I look at the newly-hung feeder in the tree just outside his window, and notice the way in which his eyebrows raise, and his eyes widen when a Dark-eyed Junco lands for a meal.

On this day, I ask him something I’ve never broached before: what do our visits mean to you? He takes a moment to consider his response, and says, “It reconnects me with the real world.”

I was quiet, meditating on the significance of his words. Before that time, I hadn’t considered that his only experience of the outside world was through the windows in his room—and by our weekly, Tuesday visits. When Roger enters his room, a change occurs. Father shares about their unique way of communicating.

‘It’s like an friend who says, ‘How are you doing, Buddy?’” he explains. “I don’t have to answer correctly with words. Words clog everything up.”

He continues, “Here, there are questions, ‘Did you eat your breakfast?’ Here, we are well-organized and on time. But when he comes in, who cares about hair or dirt? Snow or ice?”

When Roger and I visit we bring the outdoors in. By feeling Roger’s fur, Father Szupper knows if it’s rained. He knows the temperature because we bring it with us. The routine stops when we arrive.

I was moved by the way the priest spoke of my dog as a companion.

“The bonds of friendship are stronger than the barriers of society,” he says. “With friends, the fences come down, and you come as you are.”

As we rise to leave, Roger backs himself away from Father’s recliner, much as a tractor trailer
removes itself from a tight spot, and he navigates around the wheelchair. We make our way toward the door and I say, “It was good to see you,” to which he responds, “It is good to be seen.”

Spring Through the Lens

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 20, 2021 category Uncategorized

My fingers tingle after this morning’s walk in the 31-degree temperature. It’s the first day of spring, and my anticipation of warmer weather did not meet the reality. Ivy and I set off toward the park this morning. I wanted to see the sunrise.

We started through the neighborhood toward River Road. The robins were busy and boisterous. We entered the park detouring into the assisted living facility where I hope Ivy and I will visit one day. The grounds are meticulously kept; the fountain in the retention pond greets us in an array of droplets. There were no ducks there today.

At the end of the walkway, we turn and I give Ivy a treat. We leave the grounds of the facility, past the signs that thank the essential workers for their heroism, and make a left into the park. It is more gritty than the facility. Sticks litter the ground and I anticipate returning to collect them for a fire pit. Trash from weekend soccer games litter the area. Cigarette butts from the heroes are strewn at the grass’s edge.

We are not deterred, and after reminders to Ivy that we don’t eat that, we proceed toward the river. We do not reach the river. There is an interstate highway that separates us, but we still take in its majesty. We observe the red gathering at the water’s edge. There is still time.

I allow Ivy to run freely inside the fenced baseball field. I call her back occasionally and give her a treat. The last time she returns, I attach the leash and we leave the field. It’s almost time for the sunrise.

We walk to the hill, the river to our backs. I keep turning around in order not to miss the orb seemingly rise from the water. It never fails. I always seem to miss that moment. There it was, already partially risen. Still magnificent. I am not disappointed.

Ivy and I position ourselves so that we are looking directly east, directly into the magnificence of the promise that the sun will rise each morning. I am aware of the raucous cries of robins; of the banging of the hungry woodpeckers; of what stands between me and the sun at that moment: the bare branches of trees; the space between two apartment buildings; the cyclone fence of the baseball field. But, none of it deters the glory of the sunrise.

I am reminded of the lens through which I see the world, of the lens through which we all see it. Someone on the other side of the river saw that same sunrise in a different way, and yet it was still the same sunrise.

Upon returning home, I noticed a single impatien popping its head through the soil of last year’s pot on my front stoop. It is still a living promise, though it shares the space with dried-out, (dead, perhaps) plants. It is not always the setting that declares the beauty. Or, perhaps it is.

Accept

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 16, 2021 category Uncategorized

Lent used to signify sacrifice. When I was a girl, I gave up hot chocolate. I longed for Easter morning when I could once again taste the creamy goodness of warmed milk and powdered chocolate. As I grew older I considered doing something nice for those 40 days beginning on Ash Wednesday. Maybe I could write in a gratitude journal or reach out to people I hadn’t spoken with in a while. Maybe give up cursing. Still later, I did nothing, considering the act of intentional sacrifice a waste of time, particularly if one’s heart was not in it.

This year I listened to an interview with Father Richard Rohr. Near the end of the podcast, he was asked what he was giving up for Lent. I listened. Then I played it again. And, again. These are my notes:

“Accept

Accept the little humiliations, the little disappointments that come your way every day.

Accept the little moments of lack of comfort, the times you don’t get your way.

All day, it’s a letting go of the comforts, the consolations, the lack of respect.

Learn to love that; Jesus did.

Accept the limitations (no dessert).

If you set out to heroically deny yourself that dessert, there is not a place for it.

Hidden heroism is hidden ego.

Instead, ‘I’m very happy.’ Accept.”

So, for Lent, and for every day, my goal is acceptance. I may not achieve that goal—likely, I will not. But, I will see it as an opportunity. And, I will try, fail, and sometimes succeed.

One Year Later

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 8, 2021 category Uncategorized

We’re quickly approaching the one-year-anniversary of our world standing still. A year since the Utah Jazz basketball player, Rudy Gobert, touched the microphones in a mock attempt at humor, then came down with the virus, and the NBA suspended play.

A year since Rockland’s school closed down for “two weeks”. A year since my husband was sent home to work from a makeshift desk in our basement where he could spread out for a couple of weeks, a month, the summer, the rest of 2020. He remains home a year later, and while he still has a job, his company will be selling the building—it turns out they can save money having their employees work from home. And, thus, our down-sized home has become a little closer, a little louder, a little less cozy.

He went into the building to clear out his desk on Friday. He looked at his large desk calendar marked with activity—up until March 20. He said if that calendar were to be found years from now, people would say, “Oh, that’s when the pandemic hit.”

This week, my therapy dog, Ivy, and I will be visiting an elementary school where I once taught, and up until a year ago, still returned after school to tutor students. I haven’t been in the building in nearly a year. I have students I’ve never met in person; I simply know them from the neck up because that’s all I can see of them over Zoom.

Anniversaries can be hard. This one especially. As I consider the loss, I am reminded of what got me through: hikes with Angela and Rockland; Songs from Home videos by Mary Chapin Carpenter; brown butter caramel lattes at the Scission Coffee (now Sleeping Bird Coffee) truck; neighborhood walks with Ivy; take-out from local restaurants in an effort to be supportive, and receiving our food in brown paper bags on which the staff wrote our names and thanked us for remembering them; weekly visits with my mom when it was safe to travel back to New Jersey; puzzles; books; coffee with my son, Joey; flowers; birds.

I look forward to being on the other side of this, to the day when I can invite friends to my table again. And, in the process, I hope to remember the value of the little things that brought me life this year. For my people. And, for their smiles.

In the Eyes of a Child

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 1, 2021 category Stories

When I was a little girl, I thought that tonsils were long toothpicks that resided in the stomach. I have no idea where I got that impression, but there was no talking me out of it. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve had an especially keen appreciation for the ways of children, and of how they see the world. Of what they hear and of what they believe. I wonder what conclusions they’ve come to.

Rockland is my link into that world. I could listen to him talk all day. I have to squelch my desire to write it all down for fear of missing even one word.

Recently, one of his kindergarten classmates was missing her grandmother, who had died only the week before. She had heard Rockland speak about me in class, and decided she would draw a picture of me, and asked Rockland to give it to me. But, first she needed to know what I looked like.

I didn’t even know she was drawing a picture of you and then she came over to my desk and I told her what you were like.

Oh.

I said you had a blue dress. And you have curly hair. Black.

Awe! My favorite color is blue! I see some gray crayon in there, too. Did you tell her I had gray hair?

Yes, and I told her about your face—that your skin was brown.

How sweet.

I also told her she should draw a little bit of some glasses—an eyeball and then a lens.

Okay.

This portrait, drawn by a five-year-old I’ve never met, hangs on my refrigerator. It depicts her heart—the one that longs for her own grandmother. It is also a reminder to me of how I’m seen through the eyes of that little boy. I’m glad he included a smile.

Now, I’ll have to buy a blue dress.

I Feel, I Wait

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 20, 2021 category Uncategorized

A gentle sense of malaise has set in over the past few days. At first on the surface, it has now begun to seep like melted snow into thick winter grass. I look for its origin, for in the finding, I can hope to resolve it.

This uneasiness is not easily identified. It is hidden, but its effects are plain. I consider what is around me: the ongoing pandemic, the suffering of a dear friend, the deaths of three significant adults from my childhood and young adult years. Any of these could produce sadness as I mourn with those who mourn.

And, yet. there is something about this feeling that has life of its own, as though it is fueled by the very air around me. I sense it in posts I’ve seen on social media. I hear it in public service announcements. There is a tugging in this season, an awareness that something is just not right.

Yes, this, too, shall pass. But, for now, I will sit with it. And, acknowledge it. And, wait.

Friday Fun with Five-year-old

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 15, 2021 category Stories

There’s something about Friday that conjures up a pause from the routine and opens a door to something new and exciting. In my earlier years, it was a sleepover at a friend’s house or a Friday night high school basketball game. Later, it became meeting up with friends or attending a party with co-workers. Now, it means picking up my grandson from kindergarten.

I pulled up to his school in anticipation. I parked the car and began walking from the parking lot to the playground where I spotted him in his brown Carhartt jacket. He was wearing blue sweat pants and a green “Elf” t-shirt underneath—his choice for “mismatch day”. His mask with the school insignia floated just below his nose.

There were two adults on duty and I told one that I was there to pick up Rockland. She called to him and when he saw me he stopped playing with his friend, ran over at full speed, and wrapped his arms tightly around my legs. Nonna! I hugged him and told him how happy I was to see him. I asked him who his friends were and he began to name each child, adding important details I should know. As he spoke, the other adult came over to greet me; Rockland’s words began to get swallowed up in his mask and the sounds of the children and I wanted to kneel right next to him so as not to miss a single one.

I showed my identification and waited outside the school door while Rockland and the adult went inside to gather his belongings. Soon he reappeared and handed me a baggie with little Valentine’s hearts inside. You can peel off the back and stick them onto a card if you like, Nonna. He informed me that I could carry his water bottle and lunch bag, as he slung his backpack over his shoulder and we headed to the car.

My 14-month-old lab, Ivy, was waiting for us on the front seat. As I opened the back door to let Rockland in, she hopped over the console and right out the back door, overcome with excitement at seeing her favorite five-year-old. I caught her by the collar as Rockland climbed up and buckled himself in. I got Ivy settled and then began the 25-minute ride back to my house.

He started right in on the red Gala apple I had waiting for him, chewing it down to the pits. Look at this, Nonna! There was a bag of popcorn, too, but he informs me that he prefers his popcorn hot. He entertains me with his conversation, pointing out things I would have driven by with little notice. We don’t stay on any one topic for long. Somehow we landed on school rules and I was interested to hear some of them: no wrestling to the ground; flush the toilet and wash your hands; and no squishing your friends when you sit down.

We pass the street that leads to President Joe Biden’s house and I point it out to him. Can we see his house? I tell him we are not allowed to go there. Oh, you can only go that way if you live in that neighborhood? Correct.

We continue on, keeping up with the flow of Friday afternoon traffic. Finally we reach my street and I back into the driveway. When the car stops, he swings the door open, dashes out, and runs toward the side door. I wrangle Ivy, backpack, water bottle, lunch bag, apple core, napkin, and nearly-full bag of popcorn. When I enter the house, I hear Rockland asking Papa if he wants to play soccer in the basement. Papa tells him he’s still working, but maybe in a little while.

His shoes and socks are already off and flung to the ground in the living room. He proceeds to the guest room/office, the one he calls his room, the one that he graciously shares with me. I help him open the closet that holds his toys and stuffed animals. I am awed by his ability to move so quickly from one thing to the next.

He plays, he eats, he grabs a book, he lifts weights, he throws the suction-cup ball against the wall to see if it sticks. He shows me how to use the voice command on my remote. Nonna, you press this button and say, ‘Santiago of the Seas’. I suggest we read and he runs to the shelf to pick his favorite book, No, David! We take turns being teacher. I go first. He gathered six or seven stuffed animals to the chair to join him for the story. They cover him and I have to remind the animals that we don’t squish our friends. I read two pages before Rockland raises his hand, telling me that the stuffed hot dog has to go to the bathroom. I ask if it’s an emergency. It’s an absolute emergency!

Papa comes up from downstairs and we tag-team so I can get dinner started. Rockland requests oatmeal. Oatmeal it is, then. He used to help me cook. Now he tells me I can do it and goes off to play with Papa. He eats his oatmeal with butter, cream, and maple syrup. He uses the knife to cut a big hunk of butter and watches as it melts in the warm oatmeal. He pours half & half from the little doggie creamer and I help him with the quart-sized jar of organic maple syrup. He adds an ice cube so it won’t be too hot, and then gives one to Ivy. He also grazes on two bananas, some raisins, and a bowl of blue chips.

Hey, Nonna, let’s watch the Phillie Phanatic. I pull up his favorite YouTube video, the one in which Tommy Lasorda and the Phanatic get into a fight before the game. We laugh heartily. We watch some more Phillies highlights. Hey, Nonna, why are there real people at the game?

He discovers a manual kitchen scale that belonged to my mother-in-law; I use it more as a decorative piece than as a measure of weight. He pushes down on it, noticing how the dial moves with his pressure. I bring it to the dining room table where he begins to pick up a banana, the dog creamer, and game pieces and adds them to the container that sets on top of the scale. I fetch a bag of pennies that I used for math tutoring when I still met with my students in person. He began adding those, as well. He estimated which items would equal a pound, and then proudly told us to look when he achieved his goal.

My daughter texted that she and her husband would arrive in 20 minutes to get Rockland. (It makes for a more peaceful transition when he knows it’s almost time to go.) When they came in, he quickly hid himself under a blanket on the couch, and we said that he already left. Angela pretended to sit on the blanket. I’m right here!

We said our goodbyes and when he was safely buckled into his booster seat, I realized he had left without the small bag of blue chips I packed for his ride home. I quickly retrieved them and handed them to my son-in-law before they drove away. He rolled down Rockland’s window so he could talk to me.

Nonna, do you think you could send me a post? And, can you put a picture of yourself in it in case we don’t see each other for a while?

I can’t think of a better way to spend a Friday afternoon and evening than with him. Oh, this little boy.

Our Morning Walk

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 5, 2021 category Furry Friends

Walking in the early morning hours is an activity I treasure. Before the town is fully awake, when it’s just me and Ivy, the newspaper delivery person zipping along in her white sedan, and the bus driver making near-impossible turns, I own this day. Along with them, I feel like one of the privileged few.

On especially chilly mornings, I layer in leggings and jeans; vest and coat; scarf, gloves, and head band. Ivy and I leave the warmth of the house for the welcoming air of the streets. With Ivy on my left, we start up the long steady rise to the knap that meets the boulevard. We stop in order for her to sniff, and for whatever naturally follows.

In my right coat pocket is a tissue and a green eco-friendly doggy bag; the left pocket is for treats, which come in handy when I need her to look at me instead of at the squirrels chasing each other up the telephone pole or at the barking dog behind the fence across the street.

We continue past old stone houses, and smaller bungalows. Two enormous sycamore trees grace the property of a home in mild disrepair. Though it is February, some homes still have their holiday lights on. I enjoy the calm that it brings.

At openings between the houses or at one of the five intersections we cross, we can see the river and the sun that is beginning to color the sky. Sometimes Ivy will stop right there and wait—cars be damned. This past week, the full moon still shone to the west while the sun in its rising attempted to blot it from the sky.

I remind Ivy not to cross in front of my feet to lunge at a fallen stick; there are plenty on her own side. She chooses the largest of the options, often whacking me across the shins with it as we go. She bites it hard, which causes it to break and fall to the ground. Sometimes she’ll pick up the discarded piece on the way back.

Aside from the occasional walker, the sidewalks are generally free of people. Sometimes we see another dog with her person. Other times we pass a solitary man who walks purposefully with head down and no words to share. We observe newspapers thrown short of front porches. I read the headlines as I step around one: President Biden received his COVID vaccination.

When we reach the house with the thick, expansive lawn, I remember to look up. It is from here that the bridge connecting Delaware to New Jersey can be seen. I am seldom unimpressed with its grandeur. The boulevard continues a downward trek to a road with fast-moving vehicles headed to the interstate. It is at that intersection that we turn around to return home, but not before Ivy stops, taking in the change of direction. I move my hand in a gesture of invitation. She considers and eventually follows along.

This walk is our dance. When in sync, our steps form a rhythm. If one of us forgets about the other, it’s like hitting a bad note. Most times it’s Ivy whose mind wanders and I become just something she drags around at the end of her leash. At other times it’s me who falls into a “where’s-the-fire” pace, long legs marching forward forgetting the dog who needs to sniff and sniff some more. We remind each other to pause and look at the mockingbird high in a tree, cawing like a blue jay. We slow as we hear the 4 bus approaching. I stop and wave.

We continue on, uphill this time, past the house with the big lawn, past the same newspaper, past the magnificent sycamores. Ivy finds the earlier-discarded stick. I loosen my scarf and unzip my jacket a bit. We make it back to our street, turn right and head downhill toward home.

Return Visit

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 29, 2021 category Furry Friends

In December, 2013, Roger, my golden retriever, and I embarked on the world of pet therapy with a visit to the priests and brothers at the Oblates of St. Frances de Sales in Childs, Maryland. For several years, we met at 10:00 on Tuesday mornings for coffee and extended visits. We fell into a comfortable rhythm with three men in particular: Father Sarro, Brother John, and Father George.

But, as often happens, those we love leave, and we are left with both the joy of remembrance and the sorrow of loss.

In November, 2020, Ivy, my English Labrador Retriever puppy, and I made a return visit to the Oblates, where I introduced her to Father George. This time, he and I sat six feet apart wearing protective masks. He had prepared a cup of coffee for me, and set out water in a large cookie tin for Ivy. We caught up; he told stories. We laughed; we sat in silence.

At my last visit, Roger wore a support-harness; at this visit, Father George used a walker. As is his custom, Father George walked us back to our car. Along the way we stopped in the small cemetery where Brother John is buried.

Life changes, but some things remain: friendship, connection, and the healing power of a puppy.

Adapted from an article originally published in the PAWS for People Community Newsletter: Late November, 2020

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