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Newsletter – Holiday 2011

Choose Hugs!

I recently read a letter to Ask Amy in which a woman complained that in the in the small, tightly-knit community in which she now lives, it is the custom to greet one another with a hug. She says having moved there at 60 years of age, after years of travel and scholarship, she finds herself uncomfortable with this practice. When she expresses her discomfort, her neighbors are offended.

Too many hugs? What a great problem to have! I have been warmly hugged by people I didn’t know very well. I can tell you from personal experience that some of them are world-class huggers. They hug with an energy that speaks of a warmth, compassion, and connectedness that has nothing to do with how well they know you and everything to do with simply being human. They give a firm hug and hold it for that extra second or two that says I really mean it. For those who don’t receive hugs as often as they might like, the effect of one of these hugs can last a long time. One feels full, somehow.

One of the most profound hugs I ever received was from a total stranger. My husband and I were on our tenth anniversary trip at The Grand Hotel in Mackinac Island, Michigan. I noticed an elderly woman glancing over at me quite frequently as we ate our breakfast. I smiled at her briefly not thinking much of it.

After breakfast, we took a walk. I was looking into the shop windows and fell a few steps behind my husband. Before long, I noticed a group of three walking toward me. One of them was the woman from the dining room. She walked up and faced me. She looked at me with moist, blue eyes and a sad smile. “Excuse me,” she said. “May I give you a hug?” Voice trembling, in a whisper, she said, “You remind me so much of my daughter.” I asked no questions, said not a word, just took her into my arms. We held onto each other for a few magical moments. As we reclaimed our own space, we looked briefly into each other’s eyes before going our separate ways. There is a lump in my throat as I write this. I feel the power of it still.

I fully respect, but am saddened by, the Ask Amy letter-writer’s choice. I hope that, one day, she will choose hugs.

For more on hugs, watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4L24x5DaDog

Wishing you holidays filled with love and laughter and good health & prosperity in 2012!

To arrange for a complimentary coaching consultation, please contact info@ritamaniscalco.com or 631-223-2479. If you would prefer not to receive the Rita Maniscalco Career, Life & Business Coaching Newsletter, please hit “reply” and put “unsubscribe” in the subject. Copyright 2011 Rita Maniscalco, all rights reserved.

Autumn 2011

Complaining About Complaining

Occupy Wall Street protesters complained about everything from greedy bankers to genetically modified organisms. Those annoyed with the protesters complained about them. Democrats complain about Republicans and vice versa. The late Andy Rooney turned complaining into a well-paying vocation. Frankly, I’m tired of all the complaining. I guess that means I’m complaining about complaining.

I spent 11-11-11 with my Dad for his birthday. This is a man who almost never complains. I made a comment to that effect. My mom said, “He’s a lot like his mother was.”

I only met my grandmother Barbara twice. Once when we went to Europe when I was four and, again when I was eight, the only time she ever came to the U.S. What I remember most about her is her laugh. She had one of those jolly, plump-person laughs that was so big she squeezed her eyes closed, put one hand on each knee, and held on while her whole body shook. My mom and dad have memories of coming home from dates at night and hearing her laugh from a half block away as she listened to one of her favorite radio programs – which made them smile because for Grandmother Barbara life had often been no laughing matter.

Barbara’s mother died when she was twelve. She had to quit school and care for her two younger brothers and a younger sister. At 20, she fell in love with and married a young butcher. They started a family and lived in a modest home on a picturesque pond. The future seemed bright for the young family. When the youngest of their three children, my father, was only four, the butcher had an accident at work. He cut himself – an occupational hazard for a butcher. Thinking it would heal on its own, he left it untreated. He developed blood poisoning and since the medication he needed wasn’t readily available in the part of Yugoslavia where they lived, he died. Barbara became a young widow. Her father moved in with her. The two found themselves raising children together – again.

Six years later, during World War II when my father was ten, there was a knock on the door in the middle of the night. German soldiers stood at the door telling my grandmother she must leave her home immediately. Even though her ancestors had lived in that part of the world since the 1700’s, and none of them had ever even set foot inside Germany, ethnically, they were German. Since Hitler had made two attempts on Tito’s life, it was no longer safe to be German in Yugoslavia.

Barbara’s eldest son, 15 year-old Jakob, wasn’t even home at the time. He was on a youth group field trip. Her father refused to leave. One of the soldiers told Barbara that if they stayed, they would surely be killed. Barbara turned to her father and said, “If you won’t leave, we won’t either.” They could hear gunfire in the darkness. Her father looked at his daughter and two young grandchildren. He agreed to leave. They did so immediately taking only what they could carry.

They boarded a truck and joined a convoy accompanied by about sixty German soldiers commissioned to get as many civilians as possible out safely. The convoy was ambushed by Serbian Partisans. My father remembers the shooting. In the end, sixty soldiers proved to be enough. The Serbs retreated and the convoy continued.

When they finally arrived at the train station, they boarded cattle cars with hundreds of other refugees. The cars had no roofs. They slept on the bags they had carried. They traveled only at night because a train moving during the daylight hours would surely be targeted by the Allies. They were cold and hungry. The dead were thrown from the train. The trip into Germany took four months.

German citizens were forced to provide rooms for the refugees, however, they were not expected to take on entire families. Families were separated and my dad was taken away and housed with strangers. Having already lost his father, this was too much for the boy. He became depressed and stopped eating. He was soon reunited with his mother.

In the meantime, Jakob returned to his town to find his family gone. He made his way to his Aunt’s home. Barbara’s sister, Lenka, had been able to stay safely in Yugoslavia because she was married to a Serb. Lenka had been corresponding with her sister and knew where the family was. Soon Jakob was on his way to Germany. The reunion didn’t last long. Jakob had become an angry, rebellious young man. At 16, he and two of his buddies joined the army. He was promptly captured in Hungary and sent to a prison camp in Siberia, where he was held for three years. Barbara had no idea where her son was or even if he was alive or dead. Jakob was allowed no contact with his family.

When the war ended, there was still no word from Jakob. One of Barbara’s brother’s had died in the war. The other died of tuberculosis.

Jakob finally returned in July of 1947. When asked about his experience, his eyes welled with tears, but he wouldn’t speak of it. (Today, at 82, he still has the same reaction).

Barbara finally had her family back together. All three of her children and her dad survived the war. But her joy was short-lived. In October my father lost his right arm in a tragic accident at the age of 14. At 15, he was sent away by the government to a trade school. The mission was for this one-armed young man to eventually be able to contribute to, not take from, the government.

Eventually, Barbara’s children became adults. Her dad died when her youngest was 21 years old.

Rebuilding Germany would take many years. When my dad got married in 1956, there was no apartment available for him and his bride, so they moved to the U.S.

Jakob married and moved to another town in Germany. Sister Liza, (pronounced Leeza), and her husband also remained in Germany and lived in an apartment with Barbara. While Liza and her husband worked full time, Barbara took on the task of caring for their children. Barbara found herself raising a third generation. She lived in that apartment with her daughter’s family until she died in 1969 at age 62.

Despite all the hardship, or maybe because of it, Barbara developed a great sense of humor.

By the way, any complaints? I didn’t think so…

My fondest wish is for your happiness and success.

Summer 2011

Intuition, Connection, and Continuity

The first thing anyone notices when they visit us at our new home is the massive weeping beech tree on the front lawn. The tree seems like a big, gentle, grandmother whose soft, abundant, round self brings comfort and protection. We decided to name the tree Mathilde after my own dear grandmother. The people we purchased the home from told us the tree had already been there when they moved in. It’s a specimen tree. Whoever planted it must have had a deep and genuine appreciation for its wonder.

There were a few more unusual things I noticed and felt a strange and inexplicable connection to. The walkway to the front door was constructed of very old bricks. A dozen or more had an imprint of an anchor on them. They seemed randomly placed, but I had a sense that those bricks were selected intentionally and had meant something to someone. The previous owner never mentioned a connection to the navy. I wondered who’d selected those bricks. Many of the bricks were loose and the walkway needed to be redone, but I didn’t want to give up those beautiful old bricks, especially the ones with anchors on them. We decided to create a walkway out of the existing bluestone on the property and make a border using the bricks.

When we moved in, my husband immediately began demolition. He took down walls and tore out closets. There was one built-in cabinet in the living room I asked him not to touch. It had been built to hold stereo equipment. It had a wide, deep pull-out shelf for the turn-table, vertical compartments for record albums, and the speaker wire was still connected. It had four cabinet doors with black, curvy diagonal grating and large decorative knobs. The pretty curtain that had once hidden the less attractive components was still there. I remembered the old Blaupunkt stereo I’d grown up with in our family home. It filled our home with beautiful music that fed my soul. I couldn’t bear the thought of destroying what had once been someone’s joy. My husband acquiesced to my request.

In the yard, between two mighty oak trees, I found an oddly shaped piece of stone, worn and pock-marked. It’s about two inches wide and 18 inches tall. It has a wider, flat bottom which enables it to stand straight up and it looks like someone cemented a piece on the back to keep it from tipping over. It thought it resembled a grave marker and that someone may have buried their beloved dog in that spot. When the yard was completely torn up to upgrade the sprinkler system, I requested the stone and the area around it not be disturbed and explained to my husband why. Once again, he patiently acquiesced.

Underneath a huge rhododendron, there were two jagged pieces of rusty metal sticking out, perfectly parallel to one another, each about a foot long. This was a complete mystery to me. I couldn’t imagine what it was, but, clearly, it could be a danger to any children playing in the yard and so needed to be removed. My husband and I watched in astonishment as the workers began to pull it out – it just kept coming. It was a jumble of twisted rusty metal about 12 feet long. What could it be, an old piece of farming equipment? One of the workers jokingly suggested it was a piece of a space ship. Completely stumped, I watched them drag it out of the yard.

Then, on a beautiful spring day in May, I pulled into my driveway and discovered an unfamiliar car already parked there. It was a Lexus four-door sedan with Florida license plates. An elderly couple got out. They looked like seasoned retirees, beautifully dressed, tanned, and relaxed looking. They seemed delighted to see me. I felt an instant warmth and connection as though I already knew them.“Are you the new owner?” said the woman. “Yes,” I said stating my name as I extended my hand. They introduced themselves as Laura and Bob* stating they had owned the home from 1979 – 1989. They were in the neighborhood visiting friends and were excited to see that work was being done to the house and yard. “We absolutely loved it here, and only moved because my work took me to Boston, “said Bob.

“Well, as you can see, it’s a work in progress inside and out, but I’d be happy to show you around if you’d like.” They gratefully accepted my offer.

“The weeping beech has become even more magnificent,” said Laura looking up with great respect and admiration.
“You planted it?”
“Yes. We saw one at an arboretum and wanted one of our very own, so we purchased a specimen.”
I told them how we loved the tree and that it seemed to us a matriarch offering love and protection. I even told them what we’d named her and why. They seemed both touched and amused.

“I see you’ve redone the walkway,” said Bob.
“Yes, but we used all existing materials from the property.” That’s when it hit me. “Were you in the Navy?”
“Why, yes I was,” Bob replied, puzzled.
“I saved all the bricks with the anchors. We used most of them in the border. There are a few extra. You may have them, if you like.”
As we strolled up the walkway, I pointed out the bricks with anchors which had been carefully placed. Bob’s eyes glazed with tears.

We were greeted at the door by my five-year-old yellow lab, Kato. I asked Bob and Laura if they were fearful or allergic. No, they said. Bob looked at his wife, “Shall we tell her about Bucky?”
Laura turned to me. “We had a dog when we lived here.” She looked hesitantly at her husband.

“You buried him on the property didn’t you?” I said, “In the yard between the two oak trees?”

Laura was astonished. “How did you know that?” asked Bob.
“That old stone looked like a grave marker to me. I asked the workers not to move it.”
Bob just shook his head. He walked over, kissed his hand and placed it on the stone.

Back inside, Laura was thrilled to find that the stereo cabinet was still intact. She explained how that system would fill the house with the music, and how she sat next to the cabinet during her last days at the house listening to music and gazing out the window wondering if they’d ever be as happy anywhere as they’d been in this house.

As they prepared to leave, I showed Bob where the extra bricks were. He took only one, and, holding it to his chest with his left hand, he extended his right. “It was wonderful to meet you. Thank you for taking the time to show us around.”

“It was my pleasure. Please stop by any time you’re in the neighborhood. You’re always welcome here.”

“By the way,” said Laura. “Do you know what ever happened to the iron sculpture in the yard? It was about twelve feet high…”

My fondest wish is for your happiness and success.

To arrange for a complimentary coaching consultation, please contact Rita at rita@somethingwithin.usor 631-223-2479. If you would prefernot to receive the Something Within E-Newsletter, please hit “reply” and put “unsubscribe” in the subject. Copyright 2011 Something Within. All rights reserved.

Spring 2011

A 9.0 earthquake followed by tsunami in Japan, U.S. involvement in a third war, a tragic double shooting close to home, one friend had a stroke, and another a stage four cancer diagnosis. It’s Spring and I wanted to write a newsletter which offered hope, but discovered that I could not find my voice. I needed to honor what I was feeling and so retreated to my parents’ home for a day to just “be.” I remembered the verse from Romans which says When others are happy be happy with them and when they are sad share their sorrow. Yesterday Japan experienced a major aftershock further challenging the resolve of those desperately trying to rebuild. Another friend had a stroke. More sorrow to share.

My sister forwarded her church’s April newsletter. The Rev. Cindy Frado of the Unitarian Universalist Congregation in Westborough, Massachusetts, accomplished what I was not able to: in spite of all the tragedy she wrote a beautiful message of hope and has generously allowed me to share it with you:

The devastation in Japan is heart wrenching, to say the least.
The suffering and loss are incomprehensible. And the daffodils
in my sister’s front yard are six inches tall already. In one fell
swoop, Mother Nature can wipe it all away. Then in the next
moment, the persistence of life pushes onward and upward.

Sometimes, in all of our lives, we experience our own mini

earthquakes and tsunamis, when our world seems to fall out

from beneath us and we are overwhelmed by pain and sorrow.

While those instances may pale in comparison with what is

happening now in Japan, they still are destructive in their own

right and erode our sense of security, our grounding, and our

carefully constructed lives. The gulf of our despair becomes

enormous, and we cannot envision ever recovering from such a

tragedy. A loved one dies unexpectedly and too soon. The job

that paid the mortgage and supported your family no longer

exists. A marriage you thought was healthy and stable

suddenly implodes. A routine visit to the doctor gives you a

cancer diagnosis. A church steeple on a parade float catches a

low-hanging power line and cracks you on the head. In one

moment, you thought you knew where your life was going, and

then in the next moment your entire world has been turned

topsy-turvy. The road to recovery appears to be irreparable.

Then, when your grief and fear, pain and sadness seem to

consume you, there is the sunrise of a new day. The crocuses

push their way through patches of crusty stubborn snow. A

stranger gives you a hand when you fall. A toddler giggles and

plays peek-a-boo with you in the grocery store. Your dog is

happy to see you when you get home and smothers you with

dog kisses. LIFE calls to you in a deep and abiding way. No

matter how great your suffering, the beauty, the goodness, the

kindness, the wonder and awe continue to beckon you. And

you suddenly realize that we, humans, live our lives betwixt

and between the unfathomable and the miraculous. Our

perspective on what matters most changes…profoundly. And

we realize that the present moment is all that we truly have…

to appreciate, to bring healing to it, to bring compassion and

comfort to it, to bring joy to it, to bring our laughter, to bring a

hand to comfort another’s pain, to bring the power of our love.

Feeling deeply the pain and suffering of our human family

around the world, I’ve been lamenting the fact that my Amherst

home is still surrounded by mountains of snow. I long to see

those daffodils I planted last Fall pushing their stalks through the

ground. I need some signs of life and renewal to buoy my spirit.

In my wintered-fatigue, I wonder if spring will ever truly arrive.

Then I’m reminded of my sister’s front yard, of THOSE daffodils

that I saw standing proudly. I’m reminded that sometimes we

can appreciate the miracles in another’s life while we wait for

our own to emerge.

With gratitude we welcome all the “springs” that come

into our lives, as we each learn to find our equilibrium betwixt

and between the seasons of our souls. And, as always, our

hearts and prayers go out to those who are struggling to move

beyond their own pain and sorrow.

Blessings and blossoms to you all…

Cindy

My fondest wish is for your happiness and success.

January 2011

Why haven’t I been able to land a job? I look great on paper…

You’ve revamped your resume, maybe even hired a professional. You’ve consulted with a career coach, so you know all the dos and don’ts of the interview process and current job search strategies. Your experience and skill set have been perfect for some of the jobs you’ve applied for, and you’ve been diligent about follow-up, yet, you still haven’t been able to land a job. What’s going on?

If everything else is in place, but you’re still not landing a job (or a second date!), it might be time for a makeover. Here are some very basic image-enhancing strategies you can apply right now.

Exhibit good posture, positive energy, and confidence. In your mind, be clear on what your unique contribution to the company could be.
Greet everyone you meet with a firm handshake while simultaneously making eye contact.
Make a conscious effort to remember everyone’s name.
It may not be necessary to wear a suit. Dress up slightly from whatever the dress code is. You don’t want to appear ignorant about the culture of the organization.

Men:

Haircut, shave, and clean, well-manicured nails are a must. Cover tattoos, if possible.
Have your teeth cleaned and whiten them. Make sure your breath is fresh.
Keep any fragrance subtle.
Wear relatively new (purchased within the past year), properly fitted clothing. Suits should be cleaned, pressed and well-tailored, shirt well-pressed, tie properly tied (watch a video if you need to). Pant legs should reach top of the heel when standing. Socks should be a shade darker than the pants. Colors of the suit, tie, and shirt should be understated and not clash. You don’t want to be remembered for your interesting tie – in a bad way.
Wear clean, properly fitted shoes that are not noticeably scuffed or worn and have been shined.
Do not wear earrings to the interview.
Carry a briefcase that is clean and in good condition. Hard copies of your resume may not be necessary, but have them on-hand just in case.

Women:

Flattering haircut/fresh color. (I know it’s trendy to go gray, but, frankly, I wouldn’t recommend it for an interview).
Nicely groomed, shaped eyebrows, (lip/chin wax, if necessary), legs shaved if visible.
Have your teeth cleaned and whiten them. Make sure your breath is fresh.
Manicure is a must, as is a pedicure if you intend to wear open-toe shoes. Clear polish is fine if your nails underneath are in good condition.
Wear an appropriate outfit purchased within the year that fits well and is flattering for your body-type, including a properly fitted bra. Make sure bra straps and any tattoos are covered (if possible), and wear proper undergarments for the outfit (visible panty lines are unflattering). Wear attractive separates instead of a suit unless a business suit is the most appropriate for the position you’re applying for.
Save sexy for your personal life. Best to dress relatively conservatively for an interview.
Keep jewelry to a minimum. One ring per hand, and small/medium sized earrings, a simple necklace.
Wear shoes you can comfortably walk in. They should be clean, not noticeably worn, and complement your outfit.
Keep make-up and fragrance subtle.
Carry a briefcase or bag large enough to hold your personal items plus copies of your resume rather than juggling both handbag and briefcase, which can appear clumsy. Avoid huge, oversized bags. Make sure bag is clean and in good condition.

Men and women: If you don’t already have one, invest in a full length mirror so you can see what you look like from head to toe.

Mature men and women: Don’t try too hard to appear younger. Arrive with positive energy and don’t mention your age: anything you say will sound either defensive or like an apology. Neither is appropriate in an interview setting. Let your confidence, energy, experience, and credentials speak for you.

If you are told you may dress casually for the interview, you must still dress in neat, clean clothes and follow all the guidelines above. Even where casual is acceptable, sloppy is not.

Many people have become comfortable with their appearance and grooming habits after many years and don’t give them the necessary attention. A make-over can give you a fresh, updated look – and a much needed dose of confidence. Personal appearance and showing up with calm, confident energy are very important parts of the interview process. It’s not enough to look good on paper.

My fondest wish is for your happiness and success.

To arrange for a complimentary coaching or image-coaching consultation, please contact Rita at rita@somethingwithin.usor 631-223-2479. If you would prefer not to receive the Something Within E-Newsletter, please hit “reply” and put “unsubscribe” in the subject. Copyright 2011 Rita Maniscalco.

Holiday 2010

As 2010 comes to an end, I would like to share the stories of some of the people who inspired me:

� A young wife and mother who, during a time in her life when she was undergoing cancer treatment, discovered her passion for working with special needs children. Now cancer-free, she works as a paraprofessional in a school setting with autistic children and children with Down's Syndrome.

� A college student who, despite acute homesickness and a broken heart, managed to excel in her studies, got accepted to one of the most prestigious nursing programs in the country, and successfully completed her first semester.

� A determined 30-year-old man who trained for and completed the Iron Man Triathlon which consists of a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride, and a complete marathon (26.2 mile run), raced in that order without a break. (Kudos also to his wife who supported him and helped with the training).

� A neighbor who quit work to care for his terminally ill wife. Since her death in August, he returned to work and is now raising their 7 year-old son alone. (Kudos to his employer who gave him the time he needed to care for his wife, and had his job waiting for him when he was ready to return).

� A young wife and mother who battled cancer with inspiring strength, courage, and dignity - and won. This summer, she realized her dream of vacationing in the French Riviera. Oo-la-la.

� Seven women from Long Island and New York City who left the comfort of home compelled by a calling to travel to Rwanda and the Congo on a mission trip. Read more at whatbetterlookslike.com.

� A woman who, after many years of part-time study, completed her Bachelor's Degree - just before her 60^th birthday.

I am blessed and humbled to know these individuals. Many thanks for the inspiration.

My fondest wish is for your happiness and success.

To arrange for a complimentary coaching consultation, please contact Rita at rita@somethingwithin.us or 631-223-2479. If you would prefer not to receive the Something Within E-Newsletter, please hit "reply" and put "unsubscribe" in the subject. Copyright 2010 Rita Maniscalco.

Summer 2010: Father's Day

My father lost his father when he was only four years old. His mother's dad, a widower, moved in with the family. He was a kind and loving grandfather and a wonderful role model for his grandchildren. He died on dad's 21^st birthday which nearly broke his heart. My dad thinks his grandfather willed himself to live until his youngest grandchild had reached adulthood and remains grateful for his love and care.

Dad came to the U.S. in 1957, at age 23. He and my mother settled in NYC. He had to attend classes at night to learn a new language, navigate one of the largest metropolitan areas in the world, find a job, learn how to be a good husband to his bride, all while dealing with a severe case of homesickness having left his mother, siblings, and friends in Germany.

Looking back, his level of perseverance is astonishing. At fourteen, he lost his right arm from the elbow down in an accident. He re-tooled becoming proficient with his non-dominant hand. He went away to a trade school to learn bookbinding and became the head sample-maker for a bookbinding company that had the Franklin Mint among its clients. This was precision work using fine fabrics, leather, and gold leaf. If the sample wasn't of the highest quality craftsmanship, the client would be unlikely to place an order. My father, single-handedly, (pun intended), helped grow that company into a huge success. Always humble, my father remained grateful to his employers for giving a one-armed bookbinder who couldn't speak English properly a chance.

My dad has always been a kind, loving father and a strong moral and ethical presence in my life. I have memories of him taking me to the park, putting blocks on the pedals of my tricycle when my legs were too short for my feet to reach, teaching me to ski, taking long Sunday bike rides. I remember him helping me cross the street on my tricycle, holding on to me when I rode the carousel, carrying me when I was tired, putting me on his shoulders when I couldn't see, helping me pick out my first new car, helping with the renovations to my first home. I could always count on him and he made me feel safe.

Two things have left the greatest and most lasting impression on me. One is the deep and abiding love and respect he has for my mother. It was always clear to me that mom's happiness and comfort was his top priority. He was very patient with my sister and me in all circumstances unless whatever we did or said upset our mother. Then he became her champion and most ardent defender and put an end to whatever was upsetting her by reprimanding us in a certain tone of voice that instantly got our attention. They've been married for 54 years now, and my father still shows my mother the kind consideration, love, and respect he always has. I never remember him ever saying a harsh word to her. Ever. It's remarkable.

The second is his capacity for forgiveness. When I made mistakes, even really big ones, he never made me feel worthless or stupid. He never yelled or lectured. In fact, in those dark moments, he said kind, encouraging words. His forgiveness was instant and complete. He knew I was already in pain and trusted that I would learn from the mistakes.

Today, Dad is the happiest retired person I know. Mom loves to cook and bake and he loves to eat. It's a match made in heaven. They live on eastern Long Island in a home they had built for their retirement after many, many years of hard work and sacrifice. It's near the beach and they enjoy taking long walks there.

I got really lucky having this man as my father. Tomorrow the family will gather at my home. I plan to make a delicious dinner and a special dessert, Banana's Foster, to honor my dad and my husband and what they mean to our family.

I once read an interview with a prison chaplain who had been doing that work for over 30 years. He said he had never once met a prisoner who'd had a good relationship with his father.

Here's to all the men who made the commitment and the sacrifice to be good fathers to their children. Their influence is profound and far-reaching. I hope each and every one of you will consciously support the men who strive to be good fathers. In my view, it is the single most important and responsible thing any man can do for the world.

Fathers of children of all ages can find support at www.fathers.com.

For more information about Rita Maniscalco Life and Career Coaching, please visit www.somethingwithin.us. If you would prefer not to receive the Something Within E-Newsletter, please email rita@somethingwithin.us and put unsubscribe in the subject. Copyright 2010 Rita Maniscalco

Spring 2010

March is Women's History Month. Some say it should be called herstory. Everyone has stories. As part of my life and career coaching practice, I lead writing workshops. This month, I began a series called The Stories of Your Life. Sitting in a class listening to other people's stories gives us perspective about our own lives. If one person writes about an experience in her life and reflects on it in such a way that it touches another's experience, then a connection is made and something happens on a deep level to both writer and reader.

I'd like to share one of my stories. It developed from my looking at an old photo and reflecting on what I know of the story now that I didn't know at the time...

It was the moment I had been waiting for. After a long flight from New York to Frankfurt, Germany, and an even longer train ride through Austria and into Yugoslavia, I was about to meet my German grandfather, whom I would call Opa, for the first time. It was the summer of 1964. I was four years old.

My mom and I wore matching dresses she made for us. They were sleeveless, white with black polka dots, and each had a black velvet bow at the collar with long streamers hanging down. I thought they were the prettiest dresses I had ever seen. I was sure Opa would think so, too.

When the train stopped at the station in Verbas, I couldn't get off the train fast enough, but Dad said I had to wait. He said since Mom hadn't seen Opa in quite a while, she should go out and greet him first. What I didn't know was that my mother hadn't seen her father since she was eight years old.

My ancestors on my mother's side were ethnic Germans who hadn't lived in Germany for over two hundred years. Arch-duchess Maria Theresa, of Austria-Hungary, who began her reign in 1740, offered land, in what would after World War I become Yugoslavia, to whoever would come and work it. Italians, Germans, Spaniards, Romanians, and others, welcomed the opportunity to own a small farm and raise a family. The people who came built schools and their children were taught lessons in their native languages.

My grandfather was born and raised in this area in the early 1900's. In 1931, he married the love of his life, Kristina Breitwieser. They had two daughters, Erika (b. 1933), and Kristina (b.1934). Tragically, in 1939 when the girls were just six and five years old, his wife contracted cerebral meningitis and died. Daniel and the girls went to live with his mother, but caring for the two young girls proved to be too much for the old woman. She encouraged him to remarry as quickly as possible.

In 1940, Daniel was invited to the wedding of his co-worker, Elisabeth. At the wedding he met one of the groom sister's, Mathilde. They began a courtship and were married in 1941.

In 1943, when the German army suffered serious losses, Hitler commanded ethnic Germans, who had been living in other nations for generations, to serve the German army. Daniel was one of them. Within two years of their wedding day, Daniel had to leave Mathilde alone with the girls who were then eight and nine.

Hitler's army made three attempts on the life of Tito, the leader of the Yugoslav Partisans, a communist-led resistance movement engaged in the fight against Axis forces. As a result, all ethnic Germans who remained in Yugoslavia were in peril. Hitler sent soldiers into Yugoslavia to help get the civilians out. Mathilde's father encouraged her to take her step-daughters, as well as her two younger sisters, and flee the country. Mathilde had to pack up whatever she and the girls could carry. They boarded a freight train with hundreds of others. After months of difficult, dangerous travel, they would arrive on German soil. Mathilde's father, however, refused to leave his home. Along with many others, he was forced to dig a mass grave, shot and killed. Others were imprisoned or placed in concentration camps.

In the meantime, Daniel was captured as a prisoner of war by the English and taken to a prison camp in England. When the war ended, he was released. Not knowing that his family had been forced to leave, nor that it was dangerous to be a German in Yugoslavia, Daniel returned home.
Upon his arrival, he was quickly captured by the Partisans and thrown into yet another prison. A female prison guard took pity on Daniel and, risking her own safety, treated Daniel very well. Her name was Maria. Daniel and Maria fell in love. When Daniel was released, instead of searching for his family, Daniel remained in Yugoslavia and began a new life with Maria.

In Germany, Mathilde anxiously awaited any word regarding Daniel's whereabouts. It is unclear exactly when, but at some point after Daniel re-settled in Yugoslavia with Maria, he had contact with one of his cousins. It is through this cousin that Mathilde eventually found out that Daniel was alive and well and had started a new family. Daniel had been the love of Mathilde's life. Mathilde and her step-daughters were devastated.

Mathilde raised Daniel's girls in Germany. The post war years in Germany were very difficult. Not only were there shortages of food and housing, but many native Germans resented sharing what little they had left with war refugees. When Kristina married in 1956, she and her husband, Valentin, went back to their mothers' apartments, as there was no housing available for the young couple. In 1957, Kristina, Valentin, and Mathilde, immigrated to the United States. Her sister, Erika, and Erika's husband, Alfred, would soon follow. They all made their new home in Ridgewood, New York.

It had long been Kristina's dream to see her father again. In 1964, her husband would help her make that dream come true.

Mom got off the train first. Dad could look out the window and watch, but I was too small. After what seemed like forever, Dad said we could get off the train.

Dad carried me down the steep steps of the train. He gently put me down on the platform. I saw Mom on her tip-toes smiling and waving for us to come. Beside her stood the tallest, most handsome man I had ever seen. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt and a narrow black tie. He was deeply tanned. He had a thick shock of white hair that came to a point high on his forehead. I loved him instantly. I ran to him shouting, "Opa!" He crouched down low to receive my big hug and kiss. He asked Mom to put me on his shoulders. I felt like I was on top of the world.

What I didn't know was, when he and Mommy were alone, all he would do was cry.

History, herstory. What's your story? I'd love to hear it. Please send to rita@somethingwithin.us.

My fondest wish is for your happiness and success.

Winter 2010
An Olympic Lesson

It was a sweltering, early September Saturday. I was going to Cantiague Park, for the sixth year in a row, with all the necessary paperwork to register my son for pee-wee ice-hockey. Just knowing I had to go put me in a cranky mood. It was always early in the morning on the hottest, most humid of late summer days. The line seemed to go on for miles and, no matter how early I arrived, I never got less than a three digit number in line. Who were these people who got two digit numbers? They were probably the same people who get front row seats for sold-out concerts, I thought crabbily.

When I arrived that particular morning, the parking lot was more crowded than ever. I had to park so far away, I couldn't even see the building that housed the ice rink. I pulled into an open spot, sighed, gathered the paperwork, and opened the car door. The heat hit me like a slap.

I began walking toward the building, the following dialogue going on in my head: "Why can't Jason do this himself? Oh, that's right - he's twelve...Well, then why can't Dan do it? Oh, that's right - he got up early to continue sheet rocking. Well, then why can't Nassau County just get with the program and have on-line registration, or registration by mail? Then I wouldn't have to go through this every year." I wiped my forehead with the back of my wrist and marched on scowling.

In the distance I saw a big sign. I couldn't quite make out the letters and there was some kind of logo. I continued walking, squinting to see. I heard a lot of noise, people talking, laughing, cheering. What was everyone so happy about?

As I got closer, I saw a crowd gathered on a field just outside the building. No one looked familiar. I squinted at the sign again: Special Olympics. The realization was instant and it took my breath away. The voice inside my head said, "How dare you? How dare you complain about the heat, or the long lines, or the paperwork, or anything else when you are coming here to register your healthy son for ice-hockey?" I felt light-headed, and fought to keep from falling to my knees. Tears welled up in my eyes. I hung my head in shame.