Not me; not that kind of volunteer. I’m the last to put up my hand to come to the front of the room. Instead, I scrunch down and pray, “Don’t call me, please.” However, I have years behind me as an upaid, often unseen, sometimes unacknowledged VOLUNTEER at school, church, town and various organizations. It’s a tradition that I fell into – my mother always volunteered, and my sisters and sisters-in-law. Not so much my brothers, but my husband is a volunteer extraordinarie - treasurer of church, the youth hockey league, and coach of our sons’ sports teams.  It might not be possible to count the hours we have put in, but it’s never been a question that we would do it. Some people don’t have the luxury of time to give back, and others might think it’s not worthwhile to do something unpaid. Still others have individual pursuits, arts, hobbies that fill their hours.  Recently, I’ve limited my volunteering to a once-a-month arts organization that is all fun and limited responsibility – to free up time to write. But I have no doubt, I’ll be saying yes to someone asking for help before long.  Why?

When I think back, it occurs to me that my mother volunteered on School Committee, and Democratic Town Committee and Zoning Board of Appeals as something to do in the evening to get out of the house and be with other adults. As a widow at 30 with six small children, she had little opportunity for social life. However, she had a built-in sitter, my grandmother.  Although Mom worked part-time when we were growing up, she no doubt needed the stimulation of adult conversation and meaningful problem-solving. With my husband, I suspect that his volunteerism originated out of a desire to “network”, using his accounting skills, that might eventually lead to clients. In terms of sports, he became treasurer to be part of decision-making. He became a coach, he told me once, “because I can’t sit still in the stands; I’d rather be with the kids and have some impact.”

For me, volunteering in the schools was an automatic – my sisters did it and many friends who were available during school hours.  It was a good way to get to know the teachers, other kids and parents, to see what’s really happening, and to make myself a known presence.  Over the years, I took part in various projects – helping to build a new playground; coordinating the Middle School Magazine Drive; heading the Celebrating Differences program for disability awareness; running enrichment programs. I never wanted a leadership position, especially while the kids were young and I was teaching. At times, I admit, it was a true headache – too time consuming, conflicts, or volunteers who didn’t show up or do their part. But mainly, there were a lot of good people, fun times, and a sense of accomplishment

My favorite part of volunteering was at the elementary school libraries over a six-year period once or twice a month, sometimes more. I love books. I like funny, quirky librarians and other parents to talk to.  Mainly, I liked checking out books to the kids, learning their names and seeing what kind of books they liked – volcanoes or mysteries or sports or cooking.  Gradually, I put a name to a face of almost all the kids in my sons’ classes, and many from the couple years ahead and behind. There is, I discovered, power in names. The kids know me as Mrs. McCormack or Mrs. K. I have watched them grow up, and still today, they will give a friendly hello or, in the case of the boys, lift a hand in my direction. There are a lot of great kids in our town. And I do believe that were I in distress on the side of the road, they would come to my aid. And I also believe, were they in trouble in some unfamiliar situation, they would ask me for help. In fact, I know this to be true. It’s not world power, but it’s a dividend well worth the hours I put in for so many years as a volunteer.

Over the years, I’ve come to recognize their shapes, their clothes, their posture and their stride. The lady who seems like a teen from behind, with her long legs and swinging hair, until she turns and you see her weathered face. A heavyset woman who shuffles along, puffing a cigarette. The one whose pocketbook hangs like a necklace over her chest.  The dark, scruffy man with his furtive looks, and the tall, skinny one with hollowed cheeks.  To its credit, the local grocery store hires workers who are mentally disabled, mainly to bag groceries and retrieve carts. Some smile shyly while others hardly speak at all, but each has direct guidance and supervision. They also have nametags, and don’t provoke the same kind of fear or discomfort that some of the mentally ill do.  I don’t believe my sons would take part in overtly racist or sexist behavior. But a crazy person, that’s different. In a recent incident, one of the local “crazy” ladies reacted strongly to the kids’s horsing around in a public place. In response, the boys yelled at each other to get away from her, and sped off. No one thought to say, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

 Mental illness generally doesn’t frighten me. There is mental illness in my family, as in many, following rather clear and direct genetic lines.  Certainly a strain of post-partum depression, which I’ve experienced, and some of my sisters, cousins and aunts. A great-uncle was institutionalized. Several cousins developed emotional/mental illness in young adulthood. I have a childhood friend, sweet, smart and creative, who had a psychotic break in her twenties, followed by a few tumultuous out-of-control years, and then many more peaceful and productive years, with some disability support and adjustments of medication. My husband Donald has visited a client in the psychiatric ward. I’ve had a number of students who were bipolar or schizophrenic, some quite open about it, and one who wrote a research paper on her disease, concluding “there’s never been a better time to be mentally ill, with all the science and treatments available.”

 I wonder. In an information age, those who can’t process information in the “normal, traditional” ways seem to exist in a world apart. The crisis with the veterans returning with PTSD highlights that there is still a stigma, and not enough treatment. Autism, as a developing mental/emotional condition, seems to have ballooned in a society not ready to deal with it.  Yet, mental illness and disability is part of the human condition, and perhaps in the past, in more rural societies, it was less of a hardship.  That is, the “disorder” is defined as much by society as the actual condition of the individual. I think in some places, mental illness had its own place and status, just another point on the continuum. But in others, great cities like London or Paris, it was its own hell on earth.

 Still, sometimes, overburdened with deadlines and responsibilities, I wonder if there might not be some upside to it, being “exempt”, so to speak, from childcare and taxes, etc. Sometimes, I think it might be nice to be sitting at the picnic table on a nice spring day, pondering only how to get through the day from A to B, and not on keeping up with the Jones’s or going to the gym and dieting off the extra weight. “There is a certain pleasure in madness that only a mad man knows.” I don’t remember who said the quote. But I wonder if there’s a certain freedom there as well.

On my last visit to Pennsylvania, my mother handed me a packet of 25-30 v-mails written by my uncles, her brothers, in WWII to keep and share with family as best I could. My mother had five (out of 8) brothers in active service during the war – the Five Fighting Maloney’s, but most of the letters are from her brother, Johnny, with a few from Ed and Andy, all now deceased.  Having had a chance to read them, the events of the war seem more real – the weather, the conditions, the chores. They were single, twenty-something year olds, who’d never seen much life outside of Vermont. They were gone for years, on the greatest adventure of their lives that would for the most part stay inside of them once the war was over. But these little slips of paper, what a treasure trove – of news and events, but most of all of family, feelings and home.

The v-mails (victory) are small, 4 in. by 5 in., single-sided notes that were filmed by the war administration and then reprinted onto pieces of paper to be delivered to folks back home, and to soldiers fighting elsewhere. All of them are dated, with the country of origin, stamped by the censor, and deleted of anything of strategic interest. My uncles covered a lot of ground between them: England, France, Italy, Sicily, N. Africa, Germany and the Pacific over the course of almost all five years of the war. Their progress can be charted from the vmail, along with general ideas of weather and climate. Once in a while a reference to the bigger movements of war – “Winnie Churchill and Gen. Eisenhower were here to inspect our famous division. I’ve seen quite a few of the big shots….”

But more than that, I feel a much warmer, closer connection to these men who were generally not big talkers later in life — my Uncle Johnny esp. who shows so openly in these little letters his feelings and affection for his family and girlfriend, to become wife, at home.  His greetings and teasings, his little doodles and passing remarks – so sweet and respectful. No doubt valuing the love, comfort and support of home, all the more precious due to the uncertainties of war. There is so much family history embedded in the vmails – “heard Pat’s ears were bothering her” (my Mom), or “that Dick has turned into a real Killer Diller” (Uncle Dick) or “Andy’s operation” or “Gramma’s funeral.” As short and restricted as these communications are, I can hear my uncle’s voice – his humor and expressions, and his effort to be strong, uncomplaining and reassuring.  And, once in a while, a note of weariness and dismay.

Today we might consider the notes a little corny or sentimental. But I would give a lot to read the fond wishes and tender hopes of my sons, for them to be able to express themselves in that way, rather than the tough-guy sarcasm and trading of insults that seems to have arisen in our society, despite the fact that most of their peers have grown up in relative safety and comfort. But, I suppose I would not want those words at the high cost of losing them in a war. 

Or, even surviving a war. Uncle Johnny was at the D-Day invasion in Normandy, early June, 1944.  His next vmail is dated June 28, 1944, FRANCE.  “Can’t say much,” he says, “Not much to tell.”  I never heard any of my uncles tell war stories. “They didn’t talk much about the war,” says my mom, their baby sister.  Mostly, after the war, they became quiet men, who didn’t say much about whatever they felt.

This is a follow-up to my blog of January 6, 2009 called "Blackberry Blackberry".  At that time I was about to purchase my first pda - a blackberry.  I had done the research and made the decision to go the blackberry route instead of puchasing the Apple Iphone.  Fast forward 3 years later and I just bit into an Apple!!

Yesterday I purchased an Iphone.  Yippee!  I had been planning this purchase for a few months, but waited until my AT&T contract had expired and I would get the phone at a great discount - I paid $100 for the Iphone 4.  I have been playing with it now for over 24 hours and I am as entertained as a kid with a new Lego set!

In the 3 years since I bought my first blackberry a few things have happened that make the switch to the Iphone inevitable.  First of all, although I liked my blackberry and was very comfortable using it, the technology hasn't advanced since 2009.  In technology age that is like 25 years.  If there is one thing we expect from technology it is change - new and faster features.  The blackberry is stagnant while the Iphone continues to upgrade its features.  In fact, I read that about a million people a month are moving away from the blackberry to the Iphone.  Talk about a company that could go under...

Second of all, Steve Jobs died.  I never paid much attention to Steve Jobs.  I knew that he started Apple, he looked good in his jeans and he thought up cool products, but I wasn't that interested in him - until he died.  Then I watched the documentary on pbs about him and read the Isaacson biography, Steve Jobs and I was blown away by the man and how his mind worked.  He was a genius!  The man had amazing vision!

Third, many of my friends and colleagues had Iphones and loved them.  I was jealous of their apps - they could find restaurants, play games, listen to music, do all kinds of things that I couldn't do with my blackberry.

And I was really convinced the day I showed a house and the customer asked which direction the house was pointing and I said, "I'm sorry that I don't have a compass on me."  And another broker whipped out her Iphone and immediately showed the customer the direction the house was pointing.  No blackberry I know has a built-in compass.

So, here I am sliding, enlarging, downloading...doing all the things that my poor blackberry couldn't do and I'm having a ball!  Did I make a mistake 3 years ago when I bought my first blackberry?  Maybe.  But I'm eating an Apple now!!!!


Real Estate Hint - Realtors understand that a house that is on the market for sale but has tenants living in it will undoubtably not show as well as a home occupied by its owners.  Tenants generally do not take as good care of a home as homeowners; they are often in a temporary living arrangement, they don't care about the house because they don't own it, and they often don't even want the house to sell because that means they will have to find another house to rent. Realtors understand this, but buyers often don't and get turned off by the general messiness and lack of upkeep associated with rented homes.  Let this be a warning to homeowners that are considering renting out their houses.

I've often looked back on my choice to convert from Catholicism to Judaism before I got married. My then-fiance had explained how important it was to him to have Jewish children, which meant their mother had to be Jewish. He never said it out loud, but I knew this was important enough to him that it might have been a deal-breaker if I didn't convert. I loved him, and I wanted to marry him. And I figured at some point, he'd be willing to make as serious a compromise for something that was equally important to me. I assumed he'd get his turn to be generous and selfless for the greater good of our marriage and family.

My mother was thrilled that I was marrying a Jewish doctor from New York. I could picture her using her hands like a scale—Jewish doctor in one hand, Catholicism in the other, weighing the pros and cons of each, then saying, "There's guilt on both sides of the fence, so you might as well live comfortably while feeling guilty."

My father kindly kept his opinions to himself. And my friends thought I was nuts. 
"Oh, my God, you won't get married in a church?" they asked.
"Nope," I said. 
"You can still have a Christmas tree, right?"
"No."
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yup."

I knew there was no way to explain my choice to my friends, so I didn't. They couldn't accept that I had truly embraced the faith for what it was—a better choice for me. I was raised Catholic. My father took me to church every Sunday, and rewarded me by taking me out for breakfast to the place of my choice. But once I had turned 14, it became my decision to go to church, or not. Like any rebellious teenager, I stopped going to tick off my mother, who'd been the militant, insistent one about my religious education.  She was equally insistent about her not having to go to church with us. As young as I was, I recognized the hypocrisy in her "do as I say, not as I do" attitude, and I didn't like it.

I also spend a lot of time between the ages of 12 and 21 with my father at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, held in church function rooms full of people humbled by the power of addition, yet committed to breaking free of it. Their "religion" seemed the most manageable to me—decide who or what your higher power is, and pray like heck for the courage to be a better person. If you grasped this simple concept, you could find faith in your God of choice anywhere, in any situation. Call it what you want, as long as it worked.

So, by the time I was asked to convert, I'd been exposed to a few different ways to connect with God. I saw Judaism as a new and refreshing path to my higher power. When we were first married, I never considered how I would feel about having converted if we ever got divorced. But fifteen years after embracing Judaism, I found out.

I had chosen to convert, assuming that my husband and I would instill good Jewish values in our children, together. Instead, while we were married, the responsibility for my children's religious education was relegated to me. Once we had divorced, I continued to do it as a single parent with no Jewish family for support. Suddenly, I was facing my mother in my ex-husband, someone who told me to do one thing in their best interest while they chose to do another. I had many private moments of festering resentment, when giving up Judaism seemed like the ultimate revenge. That rebellious teenager in me wanted to tick off my ex-husband in the same way I had ticked off my mother.

But I didn't. I was no longer comfortable with Catholicism; and truthfully, I love being Jewish.  I've been to Israel, twice. I can mumble through Hebrew prayers with the best of them. I love hosting the holidays, and going into my kid's classroom to make latkes, and, yes, I even like sitting in temple on Rosh Hashanah for two and a half hours, thinking about the past year and the one to come, reflecting on my choices.  The ones I've made, and the ones I'll have to face in the future.

Just recently, my second daughter became a Bat Mitzvah. Her older sister did the same two years prior. Both events were hard work—for me, and mostly, for them. I had the privilege of watching them confidently stand before our congregation to lead a service, teach a lesson from that day's Torah reading, and share their experience of giving back to the community. I don't think they had any idea what they were giving back to me. But when each ceremony was over, the clarity of my choice was there. I had spent all this time driving each of my daughters to temple for lessons and tutoring, arguing with them about doing many things teenagers don't want to do. By supporting the girls in the tasks necessary to be considered as independent, young Jewish women who were responsible for their own participation in their faith, I received the gift of clarity. 

Emotions can cloud our judgement. We can be challenged by certain circumstances, such as divorce, to remember why we made a particular choice, what the benefit or reward was supposed to be. It can be difficult to understand the choices of others, or to explain our own. By sharing my chosen faith with my daughters, and seeing them take part in Judaism, I know why I made that choice, and I am reaping the rewards.


By guest blogger Beth Chariton.
Beth works for Art Matters, bringing eye-opening art presentations to groups in Eastern Massachusetts. A divorced mother of three teenagers, she welcomes the retreat into her basement office in the Boston 'burbs. She writes short stories, essays, poems, and whatever else she feels like, and is currently working on a nonfiction book about growing up in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous.