My May 2018 Article "In Between Brooklyn & Queens: Make Room for Water" by Jill Parshley-Cardillo, Reprint from ACES Magazine

(This is a reprint of my May 2018 article published in ACES Magazine, distributed primarily in the Hamptons and various areas of Long Island & NYC)

"In Between Brooklyn & Queens: Make Room for Water"

By Jill Parshley-Cardillo

This month, I'll be taking you for backstrokes down memory lane, introducing you to new places to swim and sunbathe in BROOKLYN & QUEENS. Explore waters closer to the city, you'll be surprised at their quaint character, and mosaic of local foods and cultures.

Mists of water showered my mother's sunkissed smile from beneath the water slide at Coney Island's former amusement park, Astroland. It was 2007 and word on the street was that it would be closing down. Flocks of us native New Yorkers flew there to take one "last ride" on the Cyclone, open since 1927. Mom watched us from below; not allowed to take her oxygen tank up, but if she could, she would. We sat on the sand eating corndogs and salty crinkle fries, recalling how she and my late father took me and my sister to NY beaches throughout our childhood. Two months later she passed away from lung cancer. Coney Island was a place of solace for her and her family at one point, before the trauma; her dad, a WWII veteran passed from a heart attack, her mother sick, permanently hospitalized, and she was sent with her sister to a convent orphanage. Before all of that, together, they made room for water. It ebbs and flows, stretching out our flaws and fears, until they disappear. 

The NYC Dept. of Parks & Recreation provides FREE public beaches and pools, open Memorial Day, Mon.5/28 through Labor Day, Mon. 9/03. Beaches have lifeguards on duty 10am-6pm daily and pools are open 11am - 7pm including a break for pool cleaning from 3 - 4pm. 

BROOKLYN:

Coney Island Beach (718) 946-1350 (FYI 6/16/18 Mermaid Parade!)

Brighton Beach (718) 946-1350

Manhattan Beach (718) 946-1373

Betsy Head Pool (718) 257-1635/6

Bushwick Pool (718) 452-2116

McCarren Park Pool (Call 311)

Sunset Park Pool (718) 972-2180

Kosciuszko Pool (718) 622-5271

Red Hook Pool (718) 722-3211

Howard Pool (718) 385-1023

Douglas&DeGraw Pool (718) 625-3268

Commodore Barry Pool (718) 243-2593

QUEENS:

Astoria Pool (718) 626-8620 (FYI Astoria Park carnival in June! See photo.)

Fort Totten Pool (718) 224-4031

Fisher Pool (718) 779-8356

Liberty Pool (718) 657-4995

Rockaway Beach (718) 318-4000

NYC public parks are equipped with dispensers filled with broad-spectrum SPF 50 sunscreen now, sponsored by the American Academy of Dermatology's SPOT Skin Cancer (TM) program. A sign of the times since the ozone layer is slowly deteriorating resulting from green house gases and chemical filled pollution. Protect your skin, it's the largest organ we have! According to the American Cancer Society, the rates of malignant melanoma skin cancer have been rising for the last 30 years, and an estimated 9,320 people are expected to die from it in the U.S. in 2018.  My father was diagnosed in the 1980's when he was only 37. Before he passed, he gave me the book Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach, inspiring me to soar high, and he taught me how to make pens out of seagull's feathers we found on the beach. Spending quality time in the sun? Lather up. I'm grateful to see healthy preventative measures taking place in our city today. 

Water has a timeless effect and beaches are so durable. After Superstorm Sandy, I took my after-school students on a trip to Rockaway Beach, where we volunteered. The land was disheveled, houses moldy and crushed, storefronts boarded up, food and water scarce, except for the donation tents set up. I couldn't believe it was once where I took my first rollercoaster ride, by my father's side, at Rockaways' Playland, open from 1902 to 1987. Despite natural disasters, beaches still stand strong.

4 highlights:

1) Rockaway Beach & Boardwalk- Showcases live music, legal surfing at Beach Streets 68-71, 87-92, & 110-111, vegan tacos, fresh fruit smoothies, a dance floor, sandbag games, kayaking and stand-up paddleboarding at Beach Streets 32 & 57, and a 5 mile long wheelchair accessible boardwalk open from 6am - 10pm.

2) McCarren Park Pool- Boasts a capacity for 1,500 swimmers, features a live music performance venue, a year round recreation center, and the McCarren Skatepark, designed by local and professional skateboarders.

3) In Park Slope, BROOKLYN at Prospect Park's Audubon Center's Boathouse, there's a FREE Basic Canoeing class on Sunday MAY 13th,  from 11am-12:30pm 

4) At the Hallets Cove launch site in Astoria/Long Island City QUEENS, visit the nonprofit all-volunteer group, LIC Boathouse, leading kayak rides at the northern end of Socrates Sculpture Park for FREE. They are key members of the Newtown Creek Alliance, advocating for cleaner water and community access.(www.licboathouse.org) In general, we have a total of 11 kayak & canoe launch sites in QUEENS, 13 in BROOKLYN, and a map to follow which connects 160 sq. miles of rivers, bays, creeks, inlets and ocean in the five boroughs! 

(http://www.nycwatertrail.org/index.html)

Memorial Day is a national holiday which honors all those who died serving the U.S military, this year it falls on May 28th. There will be events and parades throughout NY, on Long Island, and in between Brooklyn & Queens to commemorate our fallen soldiers. When you leave the beaches and pools after the sunset, treading back on crowded trains and buses, or bumper to bumper in traffic, remember in those moments to go back and visit sooner rather than later; many fought and died for our freedom to enjoy these beautiful lands and waters which bring us bliss, time and time again, when all we have to do is show up.

(www.nycgovparks.org)

(www.nycgo.com)

-END-

“Ditmars Crossing Guardian Angel Celebrates 35 years!”
(Article feat. in The Queens Gazette 5.24.17)

By Jill Parshley-Cardillo, May 2017
   
     Many of you know her as "Cathy the crossing guard", a familiar smiling face helping children, families, neighbors with disabilities, and seniors alike, cross the street at the corner of Ditmars Blvd & 31rst street in Astoria, Queens, for what seems like forever and a day. But I know her as "Willy's mom". William Grey and I attended elementary school at Immaculate Conception and everyone in our school thought he had the hippest mom in the 1980's. She knew our names, remembered who our parents were, always had a kind word to say, and she stood bravely in uniform in the middle of the street, with a strong arm and whistle holding back tons of traffic to safely walk us across the busy intersection on a daily basis. This year, Cathy turned 70 years old, and celebrates 35 years in her gallant post! Her beautiful face with bright blue eyes is rugged terrain for the sun beating down on it for this long. She's a survivor of skin cancer through these years of basking in the crosswalk's sunshine, but she humbly covers her surgical scar with her auxiliary officer cap and still shows up to work no matter what.
     Mario Massa, the Shift Supervisor at CVS has been working there for 34 years. “For over 30 years I’ve seen Cathy cross thousands of kids,” Massa gleams. “She’s the most dedicated I’ve ever seen in my life. Snow or ice, Cathy is there, she never leaves her post. She is at the top of her game.” Massa is a member of the local chapter of the Knights of Columbus, and he will be hosting their annual Flag Day ceremony at 9:00am on Wednesday, June 14th, at Immaculate Conception’s flag pole on 31st Street between Ditmars Blvd – 21st ave. “This year, Cathy will be our honoree. We will take down the flag which will be flying since Memorial Day, fold it and give it to her, and the kids in the school will sing a song about Crossing Guards for her.” As we talk, a passerby hears the tail end of our conversation, and shouts out, “Who are you talking about? The Crossing Guard!? She’s tremendous, I love her!”
     Cathy's first day on the job was Tuesday, November 24th 1981. She was 35 years old. It all began at her son’s Parent Teacher’s Association meeting at Immac, where they asked the parents if anyone would be interested in becoming a school crossing guard for that busy eight lane intersection where Pizza Palace stands. Since she walked her son to school back and forth everyday anyway, she thought she'd give it a shot and applied. She was accepted, and after just one week of training at the NYC Police Department at 1 Police Plaza in Manhattan, she began her crossing guard journey, at just about $4.00/hr. pay! “I remember in the beginning everyone warned me of how cold I would be. I put on legwarmers and long johns and I’m standing in the middle of the street, all of a sudden I got so dizzy. I realized I had so many clothes on that my body couldn’t breathe! I said to myself  'I’ll just last the year, then I’ll give it up', and here I am now 35 years later,” she laughs, “I learned how to dress after that.”
Cathy pulls out her special MTA pack she keeps in her vest pocket close to her heart. It holds little memorial cards she publishes in the Daily News for her late husband each year since he passed away in 2007. They were married for 36 years. He worked as a bus driver for the MTA and at his funeral in Sunnyside, every bus stopped and honked in his memory. “It’s very lonely without him. He used to say, 'Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be'. People now ask, 'When are you going to retire?' but I say, what’s the sense of retiring if there’s nothing to go home to. So, as long as I can do it, I’m going to continue, with the help of God.”
     Cathy grew up on 67th street between 2-3rd avenues with five siblings, 2 of whom have since passed away. She lost both of her parents by the time she was just fifteen years old, and her older cousin prevented them from getting split up in foster care by becoming their legal guardian. As a fresh graduate of Our Lady of Perpetual Help business high school at age 17, she began working in the Security Index at the FBI. Before computerized databases, her department would diligently keep track, on paper index cards, people whom the Bureau believed to be a threat to national security. Even back then, in 1963, she was a guardian angel! She worked at the FBI for 9 years. "I left the FBI to have my son. I didn’t want to leave the baby with somebody else. That’s what they do today, and it bothers me because that is a very important time in their life growing up." She shares, “Today, you see a lot of these kids…maybe they are in second or third grade walking home by themselves, that’s my main reason for coming up here, that’s why I took the job, to keep them safe."
     Cathy is pleased to give a friendly whistle warning to drivers reminding them to stop texting while behind the wheel. "It’s different now, more people are talking on their phones, there’s a lot more traffic now then there was 35 years ago. But I do a lot of praying. I pray when I go out, and I pray when I come back and thank God that I made it and that all the kids made it home safely and to school." She continues with such sincerity, "I love kids! Their faces are so angelic and they’re so timid and shy, but then they open up once you start joking with them; I love it when they call me Ms. Cathy, it makes me feel like I’m somebody.”
     On her time off in the summers, she spends time playing with her grandchildren in Staten Island, Tiernan (16), Declan (12), Aidan (8), and Dylan (4) “I love them. Plus, they have central A/C. I don’t have A/C in my 4th floor walk-up apartment near Astoria Park; the walls are too old to hold the electricity!”
     What will she miss the most when and if she ever retires? “I love when the parents come up to me now and they introduce me to their children, and they explain to them that I crossed their parent(s) at that same age. It brings tears to my eyes; that’s an honor for me." For kicks I show Cathy a photo of my friend Carolyn Zweben, a 1987 alumni from Immac, to see if Cathy remembers her from 35 years ago. “I remember her, her brother and her mom. Her mom decorated eggshell ornaments with beautifully colored sequence for me at Christmas time.” I am struck with admiration at how precious Cathy holds this job and its memories of whom she’s touched along the way. Later I contacted Carolyn who blushed over the phone that Cathy remembered her and her family, “Cathy helped a lot of kids whose parents were working after school or whose parents were separated. She helped them get home safely…at least from Pizza Palace to Genovese (now CVS) she was my safe bridge home.”
     Cathy Grey will also be honored at the NYCPD on June 21st. She will be awarded a certificate, and receive a pin with 3 gems on it, each representing the 3 decades she's been a "Crossing Guardian Angel".

Jill Parshley-Cardillo is a freelance writer and NY Licensed Real Estate Salesperson.

9/11: What Do You Recall Over a Decade Later? by Jill Parshley-Cardillo 9/11/15

My greatest sentiments go out to those of us affected by the horrific attack on American soil on September 11th, 2001. We will never forget where we were, who we were with, what we felt, and what we did that very day. Where were you? 

For me, it was a Tuesday, with a cobalt blue clear sky in Manhattan. I was so grateful to have had work that morning, because if I didn't, I would have been at The World Trade Center Twin Towers in downtown Manhattan, applying for a job. I had been hostessing at the Central Park Boathouse Restaurant & Cafe at the time (now the Loeb Boathouse). Just 3 days earlier, on Saturday, September 8th, I had a big birthday bash at Windows on the World; a spectacular 40,000 square foot rotating restaurant on the 107th floor of the north tower. I was young and in my twenties, I remember knocking my knuckles on the walls of the WTC before entering the building, thinking how strong the marble was, looking up the sides like they were everlasting castles in the evening clouds. There was a live swing band playing tremendous music. It was only a $5.00 entry fee, and we had so much fun as we danced for hours on the sky. All of my photos oddly came out blurry. 

My friend was a bouncer there. We had worked at another restaurant together several years earlier and coincidentally bumped into each other at my party that night; it had been years since I had seen him. After catching up a bit, he suggested I apply for a job to hostess at Windows on the World, instead of where I had been working, because he claimed I may have an opportunity to make higher commissions in the financial district. He asked me to come in that Tuesday morning 9/11/01 since there would be a big brunch reception and I could meet the manager. I told him I had to be at work at 9am at the Boathouse, so I didn't think I could make it, but that I'd fax my resume over to Windows on the World that morning. I could have easily took off of work that day and went to the WTC and applied for a job there. I needed more money to pay for the tiny two bedroom apartment I was subletting in Little Italy with two friends of mine. Something told me in my gut though, to go to my job at the Boathouse Restaurant, and instead, just fax my resume to the WTC, and follow-up with a phone call to potentially make an appointment for an interview. On that morning of 9/11 I got to work a little before 9am (near 72nd St & 5th ave, in Central Park near the Bethesda Fountain alongside The Lake). We had just opened for breakfast, preparing for the lunch rush, and I was scrambling to fax my resume over to the World Trade Center. Just then, a jogger ran in breathless, saying that he heard on his "walk-man" radio that a plane just hit one of the towers. I was dumbfounded. My boss ran to get the transistor radio from the office to hear the news. One of the other hostesses' daughter was in the Pre-K school on the ground floor at WTC -  and she was in shock, then cried hysterical. We were hugging her, trying to call her daughters school or the police but there was no answer, and then the lines were just non-stop busy. I had to call all of the reservations for lunch and cancel the parties and tell people over the phone, who didn't know yet, what had just happened. It was a heart wrenching task.
We all had to evacuate Central Park because the NYC Parks Department was rightly concerned that the water reservoir would be attacked. I met up with my boyfriend at the time, and we walked to the hospital to try to donate blood. There was a very long line, along with chaotic whispers that there was no survivors to give blood to. I walked seventy blocks downtown to head home to my small rental, a six flight walk-up, on Mulberry Street. 

On my walk home, I found an elderly lady crying, sitting on a bench. She was only speaking in French pointing to a NYC map to the Twin Towers, bawling with a thick accent, "my son". From her eyes, intonation, and hand gestures, I made out that she was here on vacation at a hotel visiting with her family from France, and that her son took his wife and kids to visit the top of the world. I consoled her and led her in the direction to go back to her hotel- and explained to her slowly in English what was happening. I think all she understood was "concierge" but she was able to finally calm down and felt heard. 

I stopped at St. Patrick's Cathedral to light a candle and say a prayer, along with crowds of people shuffling in aimlessly. I saw a woman crying on the steps saying that she couldn't reach her son, and that he worked in the Twin Towers. I hugged her and we talked and I listened, trying my best to console her. Little did she know how much she helped me, for I was still in shock smoldering it with acts of service.

I had to show my NY Driver's License ID to the cops strewing the streets when I returned home, because I lived below 14th Street, and they were especially suspicious since we lived below Houston Street as well. Nobody was allowed below 14th street unless you could show ID with proof that you lived around there. The phone booths back then were our main source of communication, since cell phones were not that popular yet, nor did I own one. None of the phone booths worked. I wanted to reach my family in Astoria, Queens NY to see if they were safe, and to tell them how much I loved them, but all of the phone lines were busy and eventually were not working at all. I wanted to get home quickly because I remembered that I left all of the windows open in my apartment, since it was such a fresh crisp fall day outside. By the time I came home, the smell and gray smoke tainted everything. It was unbearable. My allergic asthma kicked in and I found it very hard to breathe. My two pet fancy rats, Lightning and Serenity, died of respiratory failure within 6 months after that day, due to the smoke inhalation. I myself had to go for regular checkups and medicine for my asthma at the respiratory clinic downtown. I called 311 to tell them that my pet rats died and that something lethal was in that smoke which killed my pets, and they did not seem to care, but claimed they made a note of it. 

That first week after the attacks, my wallet with my ID was stolen from my backpack on the train. It was so hard to try and get home to my apartment without ID. There were no buses, no cabs, trains were scarce, so I had to roller blade to work in Manhattan where the streets were dead. The lights were out on Broadway, there were no shows. I bladed uptown past 14th Street union square, Grand Central 42nd st and the Armory. Hundreds of signs with faces were posted up looking for loved ones. Candles were lit, people were meditating, chanting, crying and praying together. Everywhere I walked, each passerby caught my eye and we nodded, said a glum "Hi" like we knew each other, since we were going through this massive loss together. 

I would stand on my rooftop and watch the smoke and translucent floating ashes and debris for days, seeing photographers heading downtown to take photos. So many were taking photos, that it hurt. I felt violated to watch photos being taken of a sacred burial ground and murder scene in my neighborhood. My friend worked for a popular magazine and would come home from work traumatized day in, day out having the daunting task of editing the detailed footage of  all of the 9/11 attacks. Magazines and newscasts were repeating over and over the lethal photos and videos. I had to shut the TV off; it soon became too unbearable to watch. Each day I heard of another friend or neighbor who lost someone. 

The smell lingered for months. Every time a plane flew above my head, my heart stopped and I looked up in suspicion. On every anxious underground train ride, I was concerned about what was happening above ground that I was unaware of, or if I saw something I should say something. 

A few weeks later, I was asked to audition for an independent film. My acting was put on hold during this tragedy, and the restaurant was dead. I contemplated not auditioning. At the time everything seemed like "what's the point?". But if there was anything that would survive national bereavement, it would be art. So I auditioned, and I was cast as a young girl dying of brain cancer, falling in love with a stand up comic who was surviving brain cancer. We were stationed in West & South Hampton, Long Island for 3 months on set. It was challenging to move onward and forward, despite the fact that life was still happening. From that moment on, I no longer took life for granted. I was grateful to still be alive, although my character in the film was slowly slipping away. I thought being miles from downtown Manhattan would help, but everywhere you go, there it still was. 

I brought my pet rats with me to the set to take care of them in their last few weeks alive. The doctor gave me medication to hide in little balls of bread to give to Lightning and Serenity. They were too smart and pushed the bread away. I mixed the meds in mango ice-cream and they would eat that, which helped relieve their pain for a bit. They soon left their time on earth, along with all of the other souls who were injured or died that day in the attacks. But believe it or not, my rats' time on earth with me meant something deeply. They were two brothers who took care of each other. Serenity was white and fat with red eyes, and he would clean Lightning who was gray, losing weight and coughing a lot. Each cough he'd jump up and grow weaker, but he had a white streak of jagged hair that shot across his forehead like Harry Potter, which made him look tough and strong for his little build. As Lightning grew more ill, Serenity would wake him up, make him eat, groom him and then sleep cuddled next to him and start the whole care-taking process all over again the next day. He stayed strong for him, until one day Lightning lost his breath and died. Then soon after, Serenity let go, stopped eating, and had more respiratory failure. He would crawl up to my shoulder and cuddle in my neck to keep himself safe and warm. I never had rats before and although I was scared at first, a child I babysat for had bought them from a "fancy rat" breeder in Connecticut, and his couple had babies. My client was just 8 years old and taught me how to hold them and play with them. He loved them so much, that he wanted me to have two of the babies, so I brought them home and took care of them for over a year. Since I saw the endearing movie "Charlie" and read the assigned book, "Flowers for Algernon" in elementary school, I respected rats more than most common folks. 

Well, I soon learned firsthand how rats were a lot like us humans in nature. They were protective, smart, in fact witty, but most of all strong, loving and loyal. Sadly, it was time to put Serenity out of his misery, the vet said. So I cupped him in the palm of my hand praying the Serenity prayer in his honor, stroking him gently, with tears streaming down my cheeks, as he was put to sleep. 
I buried the box under a small grassy dirt patch in the East Village in an empty lot. The vet sent me a sympathy card a few weeks later, which I thought was so sweet. 

Losing the friends, family, colleagues, neighbors, and pets which we lost on 9/11 helped us appreciate, even more, the legacy they left behind. It helped me realize, we all have a reason to be here. There is not enough time to hurt one another anymore. We need only to protect and love our neighbor, kind of like these rats did. And yes, we've done our best to move on since 9/11, yet we still question why that happened that day, why attacks are spreading all over the globe, and we contemplate why there are sick souls out there who cause pain. For now, we can attempt to send them healing energy, collectively. Pray for them to do no harm. We have to survive them, and not fall victim to them. 

And today, over a decade later, you can stamp your ground, make your mark while you are still here. What will you do? 
Our time is short, make the best of it while we can. 

By Jill Parshley-Cardillo Copyright 2015

A new poem by Jill Parshley Cardillo, titled "Dear Winter of 2014" Copywright March 27, 2014

"Dear Winter of 2014"
          By Jill Parshley Cardillo
          Copyright March 27, 2014

I think
we are all ready here on the East Coast shores of America
to bid you farewell,
dear Winter...
but first I'd like to say
thank you for your visit.
Thank you for shedding each unique flake of yours
this past season
on the eyelashes of the young
who,
for their first time,
felt what it was like
to make angels in the snow.
Babies grasped your brightly chiseled ivory
until it melted within their little fingers,
and as their eyes lit up, parents fell deeper in love with that innocent gaze.
Toddlers giggled while falling on piles of you,
couples fell in love during snowball fights,
neighbors learned peace shoveling each other's sidewalks,
strangers paid it forward changing each others flat tires
along frozen broken roads.
Beyond those warmer moments though,
I am,
we are,
well aware of a reality still
which exists beyond each snowfall...
far from our world of poetry...
where during your visit Winter,
blood drops fell
on your snow
from a drunk frat boy in New Jersey
who was left behind a house breathless,
on an icy covered backyard...
and a beloved superstar hibernated on heroin
slipping away into eternity as your cold winds banged on the panes of his hefty loft in Manhattan.
Gangs cracked windows
for iPods in cars
in exchange for
winter coats
off the back of a truck.
Today I choose to stare
beyond this sadness
of the Winter of 2014,
after all,
in poetry
more can be seen
than the naked eye.
Thank you Winter
for bringing out
the best
in some of us.
Every little bit
does count.
There were workers among workers
whose blood, sweat & tears
won them waves
of accolades,
and those
who humbly surrendered serving soup in homeless shelters,
where vulnerable blankets were free,
employees paving potholes,
delivering mail,
and
delivering babies during a frigid highway jam.
There was true camaraderie that only the school's half filled lunchroom,
or
a food co-op
or
the making of a snowman could bring.
Thank you Winter for your crisp fresh air
and for the mountaintop freeze that will soon melt away to give us a
warm
beautiful
breeze,
waterfalls in the
late spring,
and
flowing whitewater rafting memories to make this summer,
and soldiers returning from war
to families waving flags,
brimming with hugs.
Cold pipes cracked,
trains derailed,
gas lines leaked
and buildings and bodies went down in East Harlem,
but across our
whole town
we were one,
even though
it felt like ten below
we let the love
flow.
Snow,
thank you for sleeping over our fields
protecting them from the bitter freeze
so warm soil can breed our fruits and vegetables for harvest this Fall.
And Snow
thank you
for paving pathways
in our
Winter Olympics
And
Paralympics
inspiring those who were once dreamers
to bare metals,
now as champions,
on mountain slopes
and rinks in Sochi.
90 years ago,
while your snow fell in the 1920's,
only men were allowed the honor
to compete in a ski jump,
yet a woman had a vision that someday she would too,
and this Winter that dormant dream came true.
Despite cheers Winter,
there were fears
in which we cried
praying for
Sandy survivors
still without homes,
and temporary homes burning down,
and for the stray cats crying in my back alley in Queens
(one of which we saved)
and
tears for the heating bills of elderly homeowners.
I can dive deep in sorrow
for the accidents,
lost wages,
parents turning on toaster ovens and blow-dryers to keep their children warm,
and there's always our luxury problems...
the dreadful feelings of getting out of bed
not knowing where our fluffy slippers are...
all the while,
polar ice caps are melting from global warming
and there's little cubs with no ground to sleep on,
and there's spared lives on temple and church steps,
and a baby left in a stroller in a park in the Bronx,
and bodies in boxes on the Bowery on the lower east side
("LES" the hipsters call it now)
in New York City.
But today,
I will not dread all of this
it is
what it is.
This week
there were tiny flakes by our side,
once again.
Today I choose not to grunt
when bending over to tie & untie my boots if and when they reveal wet socks,
nope,
I will not.
I did sun salutations in yoga
while snow fell on the fogged up windows.
The light in me, bows to the light in you Winter.
I will love you.
Because one day I will no longer be living this human experience,
nor will you reader,
and somewhere out there someone has never
seen,
smelled
or touched snow,
nor ever had snowflakes fall upon their tongues and lips.
In Nevada and Africa there are draughts,
so while most beg this snow to leave us,
I wish we can mail the melting snow to them,
and right now as we scurry towards televisions
and I-pads
to see the forecast,
at this very moment there are 2 dutiful eagles alternating incubation amid
breaking snow covered branches in preparation to raise their young.
And this Winter
an asteroid 3 times the size of a football field
and 27 million miles away flew past our cold surface of Earth
(this is true as pictured on our satellites).
Somewhere during our complaints
looking for parking
amidst snow,
is a child crying in
Syria,
Crimea,
and in the Ukraine
looking for their parents,
and somewhere while we screech of the 3 inches or more possibly to come
as we put back the flip flops we took out on a warm day last week,
families are counting remains from the list
on a lost Malaysian flight,
there is a search for life
under a Washington mudslide
and
carbon dioxide has born a diamond in the heat under the rocks
100 miles
below
this snow.
That's what matters-
that life goes on,
that you, Snow, will still fall despite everything,
teaching me
once again to get up,
with all of the changing of the seasons,
to believe
that the sparrows will soon chirp again
and that we can
rise above another storm,
rise above another attack
rise above most everything,
when looking at it in its most true perspective,
and risk
unconditional compassion
to see beyond
our petty complaints.
Winter,
I am grateful for your challenges and our
lessons learned.
We will survive you, and so will the generations to follow,
as always,
despite everything.


[Thank you for reading "Dear Winter of 2014"
  By Jill Parshley Cardillo, Copyright March 27, 2014]

To my father, RIP

“Haiku on Age 7”

                                                                                           By Jill Parshley ©1991
 

Sipping hot cocoa

Making angels in the snow

Daddy still alive

April 20th, 2013 marks 30 years he's been gone. It feels like it was just yesterday when he guided me from the back of my purple banana seat over my first hill. Sparkling pink and silver tassels twisted in the wind, hanging from my wide handle bars as I sped through Hoyt Park's gray concrete field, finally riding a two wheeler. The same field we made angels in the snow in together after shopping at Scaturro's supermarket under the “L” for cold cuts, pancake batter, frozen TV dinners with miniature cherry pies, and carrots for the pot roast Grandma would cook on the weekends. A quick stop at Neptune Diner for hot cocoa or a jog on the Triboro bridge; the usual Saturday...all of us doing chores together, while dancing around the house to 12 inch vinyl, how I loved the crackling noise. And my father holding the sleek black microphone would sing Barry Manilow or the golden oldies and I would dance on the tops of his toes, my mother and sister singing in the background while dusting the lampshades yellowed from cigarette smoke. The sun would shine through our 3rd floor apartment windows behind Crystal Gardens that overlooked the twin towers in the distance. Its rays shattered through the leaves of our ferns and philodendrons I told all my secrets to. My mom nurtured them so well. She's gone now too, but her plants live on my sill twirling to the music still, as my parents dance together in the so-called heaven to "Unchained Melody". I told mommy I wanted to marry him, and she gently explained to me the unimaginable news that he was already taken; I didn't quite understand, but I assumed the higher road at age 8 and let her have him. I won 3^rd place in the Sokol gymnastics on the vaulting horse at Bohemian Hall just before he passed of malignant melanoma, growing on his back like an endless tree trunk's roots digging towards his heart.  I have a photo of them proudly perched on both sides of me on our stoop as I adorn my medal. We basked in the sun often. In Vermont playing rummy on the dock of Lake Bomoseen, in the Catskills strumming guitar on top of Mountaindale, along the side of Astoria Pool, on our roof at "tar beach", in our communal backyard sitting in our blowup 2 ft. pool, and of course swimming waves in the Rockaways...coconut oil was the only protection known back then.  Little did we know the beautiful star comforting us through our panes while we danced, would be the same to burn him.  Sometimes, he'd let me drive our used forest green 1977 Lincoln while I sat on his lap, as he was on foot patrol, riding the brakes. Now, those were the days. I'd rather have had 9 ½ years of hugs from him alive, than never to have hugged him at all. Here’s to you dad. May you be resting in peace, after the dancing is over.
By Jill Parshley ©2013

 

To separate or not to separate?...That is the question.

I can't imagine what life would have been like if my parents split up as a child, but I can see by the bloodshot eyes of my childhood friends who had to choose between beds, weekends, photos, toys and memories due to such separations. My father died when I was 9, but my parents were together and very much in love. What is better, to have them die or choose to leave when they are alive? I've been asked that rhetorical question in the past. The yearning open grasp can hurt both the same. There's a saying, "The best thing a father can do for his child, is to love his child's mother". Concerns of abandonment, fear of intimacy and commitment, and doubt and mistrust are the waterfall of raindrops that sprinkle on broken families. So, this poem is dedicated to all of the parents out there, who each have different lunch boxes and sets of pajamas and play-dates and sleep-overs marked on their I-phones, but most of all have lonely nights missing the little tot who once crawled in between them under the sheets for protection from the boogie man.

I Will Mark Each Inch on the Wall

Jill Parshley ©2010

 

She’s the only one left in the “us”

Her wavy, honey locks of fluff wisp over her misty green eyes

As she rests her head on my thighs

Which are twice the size of her

She looks up at me, and I make silly faces,

like I’ve done in so many places

She giggles, “Daddy, do it again!” I can’t believe one day she’ll be ten

I don’t say this because she’s my little girl,

but she’s an angel, with a heart like a pearl

Onward and upward time will fly

But on my shoulders she’ll reach high

And I will wonder why

I was graced with this tiny miracle

How did I, one day at a time, change my life around,

and somehow undo her frown

Thank God as she grows tall,

I will be there to mark each inch on the wall

One day she will follow in my new foot steps for sure

Which no longer are stomping on the floor

And no longer running my sick soul out the door

I use to cry,

every slip was a lingering good-bye

I slept, didn’t play

I wept, far away

From the service I was meant to provide

But today, gratefully,

I live

And she forgives.

French toast with bacon on our weekend

Pray I never will stray again

We spend those days enriching our bond,

and then she goes back to her mom

“God…many nights they waited,

as I slowly faded, please-

keep me in your palm.”

7.21.12 "Crazy Mary"... A reflection of resentment. By Jill Parshley

A REFLECTION OF RESENTMENT can keep you down, just as it did Mary. I remembered Mary while growing up in Queens on 28th street. She'd mop the hallway floors of the apartment building we lived in with just a bra and slip on. And she'd yell at us while we played stoopball and Run, Catch & Kiss. She was the waitress at the diner my parents would go in when they were in their teens as lovebirds in Manhattan. She would brag to me years later of the delicious vanilla sodas and milkshakes she would serve them. Everyone called her "Crazy Mary" but most of us knew what was behind the "crazy". Here is one of my poems I will read tomorrow, Sunday July 22nd at the 2nd Annual NYC Poetry Festival on Govenor's Island. I should be reading at 12 noon on the Chumley's Stage with other Boundless Tales readers from Queens. There will be another stage with an open mic if you care to hop on up. Hope you can come and share some sun...

“Dear Mary”   by Jill Parshley ©September 2011

Mary sat many a times at the bar whimpering

An empty stool her only companion

The stars and sun both knew her well, piercing through the tall windows

A jack and coke, or a murphy’s ale was all she ever chose

Once she started, she could not stop

and in a cab I’d help her hop

And she often sat sad, with her eyes closed

Tears of smudged liner

above her ruddy nose

I didn’t have to ask

We all knew what happened

 I’d refill her glass

and replace her wet cocktail napkins

while nodding my head in compassion.

I started with Shirley temples at age seven  

then Sips of screwdrivers at eleven

But, sneaking 40 oz.’s and champagne at sweet sixteens could not slide

the secrets I hoped to hide,

and for years the spirits drove me to hell.

So I listen to her as I sip my gingerale

and until my shift is done, I spy Mary McDonnell and identify as one.

When Mary is in a blackout,

she still remembers that day,

while she slips into oblivion...

She had been playing near her garage with their son.

Her husband was off to work, it was a sunny day

when their little boy got in the way

of their car.

Her husband backed up and kept driving,

the sun’s glare was so blinding

that he couldn’t see the tricycle

(And the baby was killed)

The whole town showed up for the funeral,

but now alone, Mary just drinks and sits still.

It’s nothing we talk about but all that we know.

We crawl out of our skin

from the things that happen

And all the kings horses and all the kings men,

And all the whiskey can’t put Mary back together again.

Dear Mary,

I pray you will set yourself free, so that you can finally be.

And Dear Mary,

I hope for the day you will forgive,

So that you can finally live.