Friday, December 30, 2011

The power of silence

It's possible that some of you have noticed I have been absent without leave from Walking Distance for several weeks. This could have been interpreted in several ways.

a) I have abandoned writing to pursue my true passion, moonshining.
b) I have been too darn busy writing my dissertation to do anything else.
c) I was kidnapped by pirates who refused to free me until I taught them the hokey pokey.

If you guessed any of the above ... you were wrong. (And shame on me that the correct answer wasn’t b.)

Truthfully, I have been busy, yes, but with the usual juggle of writing, working, family obligations, and the added bonus of holiday planning/celebrating/recuperating. On all fronts, I suggest I was successful, as progress was made, work was accomplished, family time was happily spent, and the holiday was especially enjoyable. While I did not keep my nose to the proverbial grindstone on the dissertation writing to the point of agony, I did move ahead quite a bit, and for all this good progress, I am feeling good about where I am in that process.

Excited, even. I feel it coming together. I can see it happening and I can confidently say that I expect to finish my PhD in 2012. It won’t come easily, of course, and why should it? It has been a bear of a journey so far, and I don’t expect it to be any different as I pull it all together now.

The reason I have been quiet here is simply this: I did not have a particular message that I felt was significant enough to waste words. As I sit here now at 5:19 a.m. after having been up all night (ah, the familiar state of insomnia, a PhD candidate’s normal state of being!), I realize that this is an important message to pass along.


You see, my friends, there are times when silence is truly golden. Sometimes, it’s best to say nothing and savor the power of the unspoken.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Monday, December 5, 2011

Cherish the moments

There I was, minding my own business, undergoing an interesting outpatient procedure at a local hospital, when Eleanor Roosevelt sent me a message.

OK, so it wasn’t exactly Eleanor Roosevelt. It was more like a former student in the hospital’s internship program who left this message on a chalkboard that faced my patient station. She decorated that chalkboard more than three years ago, and the staff has left it intact because the words are timeless and oh so inspiring.

"I could not, at any age, be content to take place by the fireside and simply look on. Life was meant to be lived. Curiosity must be kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life." - Eleanor Roosevelt.

Usually, I interpret this kind of message, randomly delivered, to be personally directed at me, of course. Rather, I personalize it, internalize it, and take it to heart. We don’t know everything, so when a message touches us, we should embrace it and apply it, because such things surely can’t be accidental.

I’m pretty sure in this case I am right. For this message spoke to me at a time when I was thinking about a very cool uncle of mine.

Uncle Frank is my father’s youngest brother. In our family, the DNA runs strong and deep, so you can see the family resemblance quite strikingly when you look at my Dad and Uncle Frank. It goes beyond that, too. Both of them worked at Sikorsky Aircraft here in Connecticut, one of the state’s major employers and the manufacturer of the well known Black Hawk helicopter.


Proud union members, they. Strong minded in their beliefs. Dedicated to their jobs because dedication to the job meant dedication to the families they were providing for. I think that was inherent in their generation, because work ethic these days for many people has a different definition.

Until last August, Uncle Frank held the title of being the longest serving employee at Sikorsky - just shy of 56 full years. He started working there directly after he concluded his military service as an Airman Third Class in the U.S. Air Force, and there is not a time I can remember seeing Uncle Frank over the years when he did not smile when he spoke about his job at Sikorsky.


“I got it made,” I think was the most common remark. He had his spot in the sheetmetal fabrication department. If I was lucky, I would catch him there on a rare occasion since I started working at the company several years ago. Without fail, he would break into an instant smile when he saw me coming.

For reasons that are his to hold, Uncle Frank decided it was time to call it a career. I say, good for him. His retirement is well deserved, and I hope it means he will have plenty of time now to drink in the love and attention of his family and good friends.

Over the years, Uncle Frank would be the rare uncle at a family gathering who would be taking video or photographs to capture the occasion and the family members that were there to share it. I remember him telling me that he kept a scrapbook of any newspaper articles about relatives, keeping track of the success story that accumulated over the years to continue telling the family story.

How can you not love a guy who is sentimental and proud of his family?

There are so many ways to describe Uncle Frank, from his affection for his German shepherds through the years (each one, according to him, being the “best dog in the world”) to his contagious laugh and an overly generous heart. He has always been exceedingly proud of his children, encouraging them and doing whatever he could to make their lives comfortable. I don’t know for sure but I would bet it was Uncle Frank who ignited the love of music that they each have and cultivate daily.

So many gifts from one man. Uncle Frank has not turned his back on life. He is taking each day as a gift. Life is meant to be lived, right?

The other day, when I returned to my patient station for my last therapy session, I again faced the Eleanor Roosevelt quote and settled in. As it does each morning, the pastoral care department then issued its daily inspirational message over the intercom system. The message angels were two for two, offering words that I believe in and know to my core.

Spend time with your loved ones; they’re not going to be around forever... Say I love you to your spouse and your loved ones... Hold hands... Cherish the moment.


Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Update and a precursor to an upcoming special post

I have a lot on my mind lately and promised a blog this weekend to share something inspirational, but be patient, as that post requires more time than I can spare this evening and I thought I should keep you posted on my Journey to Dissertation while my latest efforts are fresh.

I’m happy to say I’m making progress but it may not sound like it to you. Sure, you would expect that by “progress” I mean I have written scores of pages of my insightful research project, but you would be mistaken, forgive me for saying.


No, I have been re-skimming an important book in my literature references as I prepare the introductory chapters that will explain why my topic, Literary Grief: The Changing Communication Technologies in Grief Memoir, is a subject that has fascinated, intrigued and poked at humankind at least since the Middle Ages.

Well, that is as far back as I am willing to go, so let’s just leave it at that.

The 614-word book I have been scanning to refresh my memory and highlight the important points is Philippe Aries, The Hour of Our Death (New York: Barnes & Noble, 1981.) Historian Aries spent almost 20 years studying his topic (so I suppose I am ahead of the game, as my Journey to Dissertation so far has only taken about 5.5 years): the changes in Western attitudes toward death and dying from the earliest Christian times to the current day (OK, so until about 1981 when the book was first published).


In any case, it is considered a landmark study that demonstrates a pattern of gradually developing evolutionary stages in our perception of life in relation to death. Each stage suggests a redefining of human nature.

I’ll leave it there for now. I am using Aries to help me set the stage for my exploration of how authors of books, documentaries, and even Internet blogs and web sites are publicly offering memoirs and memoir-like writings and whether these three distinct forms of writing all constitute memoir. I am a writer, after all. I am fascinated by compelling writing, and to me, telling the stories of people we love whom we have lost is possibly one of the most important works of writing anyone can produce.

I plan to do some of this myself, of course; another reason I need to understand this unique genre; another reason I want to share in a meaningful way the stories of my loved ones. I am doing some of it here, so you, too, perhaps find it helpful or perhaps even comforting in some way. I hope so.

I have three days before this book and two others that I borrowed via the state of Connecticut’s InterLibrary Loan system (which I highly recommend; you can find most anything you need with this valuable tool and it has saved me virtually hundreds of dollars in buying books that I may not need to keep forever -- contrary to the hundreds of books I already own which I will never give up).

This week, along with ripping through a few books (This is what PhD candidates do, by the way. We read. We “rip” through books, we skim, we glance, we speed-read. There are only so many hours in the day, you know.) to refresh my memory on the key points that are helping me to flesh out my Introduction and first chapter parts, I also did something that I require to be successful in this journey. If you are a list-maker like I am, you will appreciate this.

Of course, on the same piece of paper, I also drafted a list of Christmas gift ideas for my loved ones, a list far too long for my current budget, but nonetheless, a list to get my shopping mojo fired up). I can't just focus on one task, you know. Writers are all over the map. It is best you learn this now.

I drafted a “schedule” for the next month. Yes, a day-by-day estimate of the hours I will spend working on this massive writing project. Some days, maybe three hours is all I will achieve. Other days will be marathons including late nights. I can tell you this: I have a long stretch of “off” time coming up, unused vacation and personal days coupled with a lovely weeklong holiday vacation from work that my company generously provides (thank you, Teamsters Local 1150, for my father, a proud longtime former employee of my company, tells me that is why we have the holiday week off), and I intend to spend nearly every one of those days devoting a stretch of time to this project.

Mind you, it is an aggressive schedule and I am not foolish enough to believe I will hold to it scrupulously every day. My intentions are good and strong, and I know I can do it if I choose. The thing is, I also value time with my friends and family, and I know that I will give myself a pass to indulge in some visiting and relaxation because it is too important, too precious, not to.

This brings me to one of the next blog posts I need to share. It is weighing on me something fierce, and it is too important to keep to myself. A special family member is ill and I want to speak about this awesome man in the present, so I hope you’ll stop back to meet my dear Uncle Frank. I want to share him, because I know you’re gonna love him. Perhaps I will find the words tomorrow. Please stop back.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Sunday, November 20, 2011

A little organizing, a lot of thinking

It’s been a week since my official signal to get going on the dissertation writing, and I have made small progress.

Small progress is OK. Got that?

I have a feeling this journey will have its fits and starts. Periods of marathon writing and editing, coupled with dry spells of thinking and figuring.

For me, that has always been the way writing has worked. Time away from the computer is not exactly time away from “writing.” It is time for the words to do their musical chairs impression, floating around while the music plays and scrambling for a seat when it abruptly stops.

I need the word juggling to take place. It’s the only way I can get to the right ones.

So for now, just an update so you know I am serious. I’ve done a bit more reading -- a stack of borrowed books on loan from various libraries is taking up major space on my dining room table, reminding me that the literature review does not end just because I am beginning to write.

I’ve started mapping out the Table of Contents in an order that will be helpful in getting me to take up the chapters in a logical fashion.

Maybe I needed this first week of “stretching” so that I can be ready for the marathon ahead. I do realize it is a marathon. Which means I have to pace myself and stick with it.

Just don’t remind me how much I hate running.

Better to remind me how good I will feel when I cross the finish line.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Sunday, November 13, 2011

They said, “Go ahead.”

When we last left our fearless PhD candidate, she was getting into her Jeep Liberty for the three-hour drive to Newport, Rhode Island, to deliver a formal presentation on her dissertation proposal.


It was 10 a.m. Armed with a chocolate protein bar, two bottles of spring water, and her trusty MacBook Pro, she promptly missed an exit while fumbling with prepared note cards, and continued rehearsing her presentation three times along the way.

Destination: McKillop Library on the Salve Regina University campus. The only "good" sign in this part of the process. Our heroine loves libraries, loves being surrounded by books. The one location that would surely offer comfort in calming her jitters would be knowing that she is in an environment that has always been a favorite place.


All this prepping for a roughly one-hour meeting with The Committee that would rule “yay” or “no” whether she is ready to render her accumulated knowledge and data (to date) into a written research report.

Would she right her vehicle to the correct highway route after veering off path?

Would one protein bar be enough to sustain her until late afternoon?

Would O.P.T. (Original Professor Three) stroll in and throw rotten tomatoes at the screen?

Ah, the drama of a doctoral candidate’s journey to dissertation. It is fraught with tense moments, highs and lows, every conceivable cliche that might conjure up horrifying images.

Is it really that bad?

In a word: Yes. I’m sure it’s supposed to be. Seeking a graduate degree is a challenge, no doubt. It demands that a student be dedicated, willing to sacrifice hobbies, family time, fun pursuits, sleep. I have not researched the number of people that are pursuing doctoral degrees in this country (give me a break, I’m already researching something here!) but I guarantee you it is not an overwhelmingly gigantic number.

Not everyone does this or wants to. Those of us who do usually have to go all in, or surrender much earlier in the process than dissertation phase. That’s because dissertation phase is the last big hurdle to clear before one becomes a doctor of philosophy.

As many of you know, I have come close to crumbling. It is not an easy process. On Friday, I successfully presented my topic and can begin writing. I gave myself one day to enjoy that little victory -- but only because yesterday was my birthday. I took the whole day to relax with my husband, take in a high school football game and enjoy the company of good friends and family.

I needed that, so I acknowledged that need and indulged it. Today I took time to give thanks for the blessings of the week and for those to come. Then I sat down to sift through my notes and Committee comments, and to begin organizing the first few pages of my dissertation.

Am I ready to write this thing?

As one of my coolest friends would say, “Hell to the Yeah!”

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Friday, November 11, 2011

Ready or not, here I come

I know I shouldn’t be spending these minutes blogging, but as I am about to get on the road to drive to Newport, Rhode Island, this morning, I am compelled to capture my thoughts now. Reflecting on them later will somehow make this part of my Dissertation Journey inauthentic.

So here it is: I am five hours from the start of my formal presentation on my proposed topic, and I am nervous. No matter how prepared I am, I think I would still be nervous because this is an important meeting. I have so much to say, but I need to stay focused. I have done so much work already, but I need to hit the highlights.

I am surprised at the thoughts that are popping into my head this morning. Mind you, I have been up since before 5 a.m., my brain reminding me that I had more “reviewing” to do of my presentation slides, and more rehearsing to get my speech down.

What thoughts are bombarding me?

Will I be able to articulate this topic without wandering down tangential paths?

Will my knees be shaking as I stand there?

Perhaps the oddest question of all: Will the original Professor Three make an appearance to poke holes in my idea and challenge my sources?

You may recall that I had a difficult experience with this professor, who is a well regarded grief expert and someone I had sought out to support me in this research effort, but ultimately became a Committee member that did not fit within my intended path of exploration or ambitious schedule. I found a new reader, replaced this one with courtesy and appreciation, but never received a reply from her when I officially notified her I was making the change.

I was disappointed at that, but tried not to take it personally. She is a busy professor, lecturer and author, and I don’t know what she might have said to me other than perhaps, “I understand,” or “Good luck.”

Still, for some reason she came to mind this morning as I stumbled through my slides to practice my delivery.

What if she, or other Committee members, or even random audience members, ask questions that I cannot answer?

I can’t go there. I’ll stop right here, thank you very much. Here is what I need to do. Take a deep breath. Gather up my laptop, my note cards, my bag. Get into my car and head to Rhode Island. I have about three hours on the road to rehearse and gain confidence. As a wonderful colleague and friend has reminded me over and over these last few years, this is MY topic. This is my project. No one is a better expert than I.

I can do this, and I will do this. Let’s get this show on the road.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Making the pitch

It’s kind of a big week for me. I am in the “Countdown to Proposal Presentation.”

For a PhD candidate, this is a key milestone, and I am happy to say I am finally on the brink of achieving it. After submitting a full draft proposal on my research topic, Literary Grief: The Changing Communication Technologies of Grief Memoir, I faced yet another arduous task that must be tackled to get past this critical stage: The task of corralling my three-member Committee for a scheduled appointment to hear my pitch.

This is not as easy as you might think. Does the term “herding cats” mean anything to you?

First of all, the Graduate program requires that you have a three-week lead time for scheduling this presentation. That window of time presented a challenge for me since the Fall semester ends in early December, and there is a cutoff prior to that which precludes these presentations from being scheduled until the next semester.

Then there was the “herding cats” aspect: Finding a time and date when all three Committee members would be available to attend my briefing. Since these are full-time professors with classes to teach, other PhD candidates to support, lecture responsibilities and a host of other obligations, this was a fun game of back-and-forth to shake out a common time slot that would work for everyone. As the presenting student, you have no say, by the way. When your Committee says THIS is the day and date I can do this, you must throw your entire schedule out the window and plan to be there.

For me, this meant giving up my plans to indulge in a spa treatment or two to relax, de-stress, and treat myself to an early birthday present for a change. Heck, I’ve been working hard. Life has been pretty intense of late. I deserve it. More than that, I need it. But hey, I can reschedule. If the Committee says “Be there,” I’m there.

So here I am, prepping for my moment at the front of the room. This is when I tell my team what question I am exploring, how I will explore it and what it potentially will contribute to the Humanities when I have finished. I do not enjoy public speaking, usually, so it will test my nerves and tax my knowledge on the topic – much of which has been collected in fits and starts over the past two years.

When I have finished presenting, I will likely be peppered with questions from the Committee, and potentially from any other guests who wander in to check out what I am attempting to do. I hope to have the right answers or at least an intelligent way to suggest that I will find those answers as I proceed to writing my dissertation.

At this point, the only thing that matters is that I clearly articulate my road map for scholarly exploration and ultimate success. Friday at 2 p.m., it’s Go Time.

Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan

Monday, November 7, 2011

Off-the-grid lessons learned

It has been nine days. We have tossed perishables that became suspect by Day 3. We have not seen a single rerun of The Sopranos. And my 8-week dedication to a morning workout routine has been one of the most painful hits so far. Just when I was getting results, I was forced to surrender to a silenced BluRay player. No power, no Tony Horton.

The freak Nor’easter of October 29, 2011, that left hundreds of thousands of Connecticut residents without electricity has yet to be officially a “memory,” because for my husband, our dog, and me, life is still a camping adventure.

We keep our flashlights handy, and our coolers packed with snow and ice as we desperately try to preserve what perishables we have left. Our wood stove is burning from morning ‘til bedtime.

The routine tasks we have been living without include Internet access, television, hot showers, flushing toilets, and the ability to charge our cell phones or run the washing machine. But these are all things we can deal with. There is really nothing that you “need” in the way of modern conveniences that you cannot find a way to accommodate or do without, at least for a while. That’s what a storm can teach you. You adjust.

Yet, when the local hardware store called us on Day 5 to say they had gotten a shipment of generators, we broke the bank and snapped it up. It had been on our Wish List anyway, but I would have preferred to have a cushion in our checking account before draining it for this. We’ll be living on even more of a shoestring for a couple of weeks before the next paycheck, but it beats melting snow on the wood stove to fill buckets for flushing toilets.

It has been an interesting experience in recognizing how I spend my time. The effects of this early snowstorm have given me the opportunity to evaluate many things. For example, for years I have subscribed to the Writer’s Digest and Poets & Writers magazines. They consume a large portion of magazine holders in my home office. Today, I sat down and read a couple of issues, cover to cover, with a mindfulness that was ultimately inspiring.

Except for the constant hum of generators and chain saws in the neighborhood, I feel good in the silence. I have been able to read with focus -- something that a doctoral student (or any student) values. Since I am preparing this week to formally present my dissertation topic to my Committee, the silence is a blessing. I need to be ready to clearly articulate how literary grief has evolved, and I will need full focus to feel confident that I will sail through this next major hurdle on my Journey to Dissertation.

In all the challenge put forth by this latest storm’s wrath, there are some things I can acknowledge:

Most people are good. While many people were without electricity this week, I found those that “had” were thoughtful of those that were without. Neighbors who had generators offered the chance for a hot shower. Coworkers who had their power restored offered a loan of their generator. People who were unaffected by the outage brought hot food to those who couldn’t cook in their own homes - especially elderly who might be inclined to eat a less nutritious meal, for lack of a way to prepare it.

The elderly are resilient. My parents, in their early 80s, were an amazing example of strength in the face of crisis. Sure, they did their share of complaining about the inconveniences of being without electricity, but they are awesome survivors. They toughed it out in their own home, which, thankfully, has always had a cranking woodburning stove.

They pulled out an old tape cassette recorder and listened to a 1980s radio broadcast of a local high school basketball game, reliving that time when my youngest brother was a three-sport standout. They warmed up leftovers on the flat top of their woodburning stove. Like my husband and me and my visiting in-laws, they spent evenings after dinner chatting and reminiscing, and they went to bed early and prayed to have power restored the next day.

It felt like a kind of connecting was taking place. With so many distractions created by the technologies we cherish, we may take for granted the presence of real people in our lives. The storm gave me a chance to think about this in a new way. It also enlightened me to the idea that for many people, the outages delivered the opportunity to see what we are made of. How much can we take? The threshold is different for each of us. What are we willing to do to survive and what do we absolutely hate to be without?

The point really hit me the other evening at a family gathering when a loved one suggested that he was perfectly content to deal with the power outage but for one inconvenience that he had missed all week. “No Facebook!” Then he jokingly went off to chat up other guests, telling me that he “sees me on Facebook all the time.”

It was a striking thought: He had become so accustomed to socializing on the web, he preferred that to an in-person opportunity.

I understood that he was saying that he wanted to visit with people who are not connected to him electronically, but I couldn’t help feeling less friended than if I had posted a note to his Wall or tagged him in a photo.

Have we really come to this?

It made me think about all the disconnectedness in my life. While I employ social networking sites regularly, I don’t feel they keep me “close” to those I really wish to be close to. Email, for me, has become more of a chore -- just another thing to “clean out” regularly, with sporadic moments of genuine exchange.

Text messages and Facebook posts ensure that you always have your say, because even though the communication goes both ways, you don’t have to acknowledge the return posts and texts. For me, that just doesn’t cut it. I won’t be abandoning the social media lifestyle, but it will be easier to keep it in perspective.

For me, this week on the old frontier has reinforced one thing: The connections to those I love are not maintained by Internet networking. They are maintained by direct contact and genuine acts of caring.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Survival guide

A few years ago when I was nearing completion of my course work in my doctoral program, someone suggested I check out a book that might help me prepare for the next leg of the journey: dissertation. The book is called Surviving Your Dissertation (Rudestam, Newton, SAGE Publications, Los Angeles: 2007).

This “comprehensive guide to content and process” offered everything from how to get started in your research to overcoming barriers. It even had a chapter titled, “Becoming an Expert While Controlling Your Own Destiny” -- now if that isn’t overselling, I don’t know what is.

No offense to the authors, but “controlling your own destiny” or any other aspect of the dissertation process is an impossibility. There are too many geniuses in the mix and too many rules for the doctoral candidate to have anything that resembles “control.” Control is a moving target. You have to just go with it.

There it is.

I think this is a legitimate “ah-ha!” moment. There needs to come a point in time in which the doctoral candidate surrenders to the process, acknowledges he or she is unproven and malleable, and becomes submissive to the constant rebuffs of a learned Committee and institution that dictates when the metal is ready for the maker.

I am there. After two years of hammering out a proposal that prompted the equivalent of cyber slaps upside the head “NCIS”-style, I may have finally reached that intersection where the light turns green. Now, I am idling. I have refueled. I have one stop to make before I can proceed: formal presentation of my topic.

I have only to get my three Committee Members to agree to a day and time for this formal presentation, and I will be able to step on the gas.


My research topic has a working title: “The Changing Communication Technologies in Grief Memoir.” I haven’t played around with it much, frankly, because I have been focused on putting each piece of this puzzle together to nail the key voices on the subject. They range from the phenomenal Elisabeth Kubler-Ross to Geoffrey Gorer to Terry Eagleton and Jessica Mitford.

They are names that, to most of you, should generate blank stares, but to anyone familiar with grief or literature theories, they are heavy hitters.

In any case, the point is, I have had sufficient positive comments (finally!) to get this project in the driving lane. Here’s the plan: Get the “road map” officially approved within the next four weeks (hopefully sooner than later). That means presenting the topic in a formal setting to my Committee, showing that I have command of the topic and a solid plan to explore it, and a legitimate question that will make a contribution to the Humanities.

That “green light” gets me on the right road. It means I can finally begin writing the paper that will explain how interesting grief memoirs like Isabel Allende’s Paula, C.S. Lewis’ A Grief Observed, Joanne Foley Gross’ Legacy of a Young Hero, and others, have risen to popularity in spite of the publishing industry’s feeble suggestion that memoir was of no interest to the general reading public.

More than that, the paper will demonstrate my findings in comparing new forms of “grief memoir” that have developed today through the use of the Internet. I’m looking at the growth of blogs, Internet sites or other electronic methods for memorializing loved ones. Are these newer tech methods legitimately “memoir”? That is the question.

I have renewed optimism that I can do this. I am going to fight to maintain that optimism, and will count on my friends to stick by me to see that I do.

In the meantime, I want to share a lesson learned on this dissertation journey for those who are thinking about taking it themselves, or who are perhaps already on the road as I am.

As I mentioned, I read Surviving your Dissertation. Yes, it was helpful. Yes, it mapped out the process for me, soup to nuts. But there were a few things missing in my edition so I am writing my own version. I am calling it “Staying Sane in the Dissertation Lane.”

Here’s my list of what you need:

A skilled hostage negotiator. Someone who can talk you off a ledge. Because for certain, there will be many moments you will want to jump off a building, a bridge, a cliff… You will need someone to be that caring voice that will remind you that you are worthy.

A comedian. Someone who you can go to for a guaranteed laugh because you will feel like crying. You will melt down. You will get riled up. You’ll need someone who has that talent to make you laugh when you feel like busting through a wall with your fist.

A masseuse. I put this one in here because it is a luxury that somehow should be a necessity in our lives, the way that bread and milk are always on our grocery lists. You will be spending a lot of time on the computer. Your muscles will scream. Your head will throb. You will need to take care of those aches, so you can feel good through all the agony.

A higher power. Whoever it is that you pray to or reach out to in your darkest moments, be sure to keep this one close. Because when all else fails you, this higher power will still be there. Believe. Be strong. And let go of the tough stuff. You’ll make it.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Sunday, October 23, 2011

The sign reads: Bang head here

I have heard it said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.

I know this is intended to be a humorous, lighthearted statement, but as a doctoral student, I am thinking this makes me certifiably insane.

After yet another mini-meltdown last week prompted by some harsh comments from my Committee that intended to be helpful, I immediately surrendered and vowed to walk away from this hideous scholarly process.

At some point, you just have to cut your losses and I am well past that deadline.

Still, here I am, wrapping up another Sunday marathon session of proposal research dissection and writing. Another Sunday I will never get back. Truly, this must mean I am insane.

But there it is. Something in me will not allow me to quit. Not today, anyway. The stumbling block this time? The section of the proposal in which I deliver a sound and convincing explanation of the relevant literature I have examined which sets up my research topic: The changing communication technologies in grief literature.

My idea is clear: To examine grief literature in its original and now multimedia forms to identify if the newer communication technologies have led to the creation of a new form of grief memoir.

I have read Kubler-Ross, Doka, Attig and Bowlby. I have identified relevant observations from de Certeau, Benjamin, Eagleton. I’ve read fascinating memoirs by Allende, Buckley, Glick, Didion, Lewis, and Pausch. I’ve even discovered a growing library of resources on the subject of online grief communities, memorialization and social network philosophizing.

If I am not there yet, I have got to be close.

Tomorrow, I head up to Newport for a face-to-face meeting with Professor 1 and possibly Professor 2. I think all this technological communication is somehow a barrier to human relation. In other words, perhaps my Committee and I need to see each other as human beings. Then, our communication may take on a form that leads to a sense of support and encouragement and a “working together.”

Isn’t it funny that a project focused on the effect of newer communication technologies should contribute to a challenge in communicating as human beings?

Don’t answer that.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Drop in the bucket

Have you ever heard someone tell a story about a trip they took or a spontaneous act that they just jumped in to do, and sat back in admiration and thought, “Wow. I want to do that!”

What’s stopping you?

When I was a teenager, I had a wide open slate of dreams. It’s what we do when we’re young. We dream about what our lives will be like, attaching specific details to each dream and feeding those dreams with the creativity of our imaginations. Then we grow up.

Responsibility seizes us.
Daily life develops into a ritual of requirements and tasks and obligations.
The world suddenly puts all these rules on us and, shockingly, most of us succumb. It’s unavoidable, right?

Not so fast, Spanky. Says who?

For some time, I have been hearing people refer to their “Bucket Lists.” It’s a reference taken from a Morgan Freeman/Jack Nicholson film in which two dying men conjure up a list of things they want to do before they “kick the bucket.”

Such a great idea. God I love how movies can inspire us sometimes!

Here’s a couple quick examples. I have a sister-in-law who did the “Penguin Plunge” a couple of years ago. Bucket List item, checked off. A coworker recently found herself on business travel in St. Louis, Missouri, just as this year’s World Series was about to begin. She needed a nudge (which I was happy to provide), and recognized this was a Bucket List item. Check it. Done.

I try to live my life with intention, and that means making the most of my days and looking back without regret over things that I “coulda, shoulda, woulda.” The times when I blinked and missed an opportunity to do something extraordinary, I remember.

Like when I was a freshman at Franklin Pierce College in New Hampshire and our men’s basketball team went to the NAIA Division 1 championship tournament in Kansas City, Missouri. A group of my friends decided to drive to KC for the game. What a wild idea! I was away from home for the first time in my life, making my own decisions as I pursued my college education.

Boy, did I want to go. I was an A student in my first year of college and making healthy choices to stay on a good path. I would have to miss classes if I went with the gang.

I blew it. I declined. Here it is 30 years later, and I still remember how disappointed I was for missing all the fun.

Let that be a lesson to me and to you, too. We don’t usually get a second chance to grab the brass ring. If something desirable beckons and there is no serious harm as a consequence, don’t think twice. Embrace the moment.

Since that pivotal college time, I have had plenty of other opportunities to tap my Bucket List. Looking back, I think I’ve done all right:

I have always loved horses and wanted to attend the Kentucky Derby. When two young male friends started talking up their intention to go, I jumped at the chance to invite myself along. Somehow, I found a way to get a ticket to a grandstand seat, mingled with the horses in the paddock before the race, and met some friendly people to watch the race with. Today, I can say that I experienced, first hand, the most exciting two minutes in sports.


Another time, I was sent to Salt Lake City, Utah, for my marketing job to handle public relations on an assignment related to the U.S. Women’s Bobsled team. When the team had finished its pre-Olympic practice runs, I was offered a ride in one of the sleds. I didn’t think twice.


This isn’t about being adventurous or doing bold things. It isn’t about spending whatever it takes to do something that puts you in debt and saddles you with more responsibility than you can comfortably live with.

This is about recognizing that sometimes life presents opportunities that are not planned or well timed. These moments just pop up. You can either take a pass, or you can listen to your innermost desires and decide if this is something that you really want.

American mythologist and philosopher Joseph Campbell said, “Follow your bliss.” He saw this not simply as a mantra but as a guide to individuals along the hero journey that we each walk in life.

“If you follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. Wherever you are -- if you are following your bliss, you are enjoying that refreshment, that life within you, all the time.”

Campbell was on to this Bucket List stuff a long time ago. He was in tune with the experience of life, and it’s the way we all should live.

If you’ve got a Bucket List, you are on the road to living life on your terms. You are out to really experience life. Seize those little gifts that come along. If you don’t have a Bucket List, here’s the thing to do:

Step 1: Get a Bucket (read: Get a Life!)
Step 2: Toss in all those ideas that tug at your imagination and ignite your passions and creativity.
Step 3: Keep your list close, to remind yourself that you have plenty of fabulous life experiences ahead.
Step 4: Stop following steps. Follow your bliss.

Question for Walking distance readers: What’s at the top of your bucket list?

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Believe in miracles

miracle |ˈmirikəl|
noun
a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency: the miracle of rising from the grave.
• a highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences: it was a miracle that more people hadn't been killed or injured [as adj. ]: a miracle drug.
• an amazing product or achievement, or an outstanding example of something : a machine which was a miracle of design.
ORIGIN Middle English: via Old French from Latin miraculum ‘object of wonder,’ from mirari ‘to wonder,’ from mirus ‘wonderful.’



Miracles are those unexpected incidents when something remarkable happens that you never would have believed possible.

We hear about miracles on the news, such as when a person is found alive is found in the rubble of a disaster. They are extraordinary events that prompt us to assign credit to a higher power at work, bringing about the impossible when all signs point to a lost cause.

I am familiar with the term miracle because I have prayed for many of them through the years. I prayed for one when my sister Joyce went missing in the summer of 1984, and I asked God to send her home safe. I urgently prayed for one repeatedly when my brother John was seriously injured in a car crash and was left a paraplegic. In both situations, my fervent requests were not to be granted.

As tragic as those examples are, they did not shake my faith. I still believe in miracles, those God-given miracles that present themselves when you are not asking. They happen when you do not realize it. I have had those kind of miracles and I can attest that they are real and they are to be acknowledged.

My family did not recognize it as such at the time -- or possibly today does not realize it -- but what transpired during the four years that my youngest brother played college football here in our home state of Connecticut was nothing short of lifesaving. It was an undetectable transformation that in retrospect might be considered a small miracle.

It is possible that the seeds of this miracle were planted in the years preceding Joe’s college football career at Southern Connecticut State University, when he was a successful high school quarterback at Seymour High. I cannot be sure exactly when it really began. I can only say that it took root and began to grow over time in a way that gave my family something it desperately needed: something to look forward to.

A reason to get up. A reason to keep going. A chance to feel excited, happy, or tense and disappointed. Something to cheer for. Something to get you going, make you feel something, anything.

Yes, I know it sounds odd, but in some ways, my brother’s football career saved our family.

My opinion, of course. Some may say that is a dramatic overstatement. I say, perhaps you had to be there to know what I mean.

The quick family back story for those who are new to Walking distance: I grew up with five brothers and a sister. My brothers were all very athletic, participating in sports during our growing up years which my sister and I supported as spectators.

My sister was killed in 1984 in a random murder in our hometown. Joe was only 14 at the time, preparing to enter high school. Joe’s emerging sports success gave our family something it needed: a common, positive focus.

He had been a three-sport standout at Seymour High, so by the time Joe hit his stride as SCSU’s starting quarterback, our family routine was locked in. Weekends were all about football, getting to the games, cheering our hearts out, and celebrating (or commiserating) afterward until the next week’s game was looming and we shifted our focus to the next opponent to come.

There were road trips to Pennsylvania, upstate New York, and Ramapo, N.J. My brothers, father, and I made all the trips and occasionally, my mother would tag along, too. Often, several cousins and friends also turned out to follow the team when Joe was playing. We braved every meteorological element you could experience between mid-September and early December. Freezing cold, sleet, rain, fog, snow. We never missed a game.

Somewhere along the way, one of Joe’s teammates dubbed our contingent “Wolfpack,” and the name stuck. My brother Paul had T-shirts made up with Joe’s #18 and each of our names stitched on the sleeve. We took up a familiar spot in the bleachers of every game, sticking together like a pack of wolves to loudly cheer on the Owls.

At a time when we needed healing from the horrible taking of my sister, our family found joy in watching the youngest of our brood do admirable things on the gridiron. I cannot quote the respectable statistics my brother logged as Southern’s QB then, though I guarantee you my father and some of my brothers can cite chapter and verse of many highlights of many games through the years.

I usually shot about three rolls of Kodak film per game - that’s hundreds of pictures per week - documenting Joe’s career in hopes of capturing that time for future reminiscing. We each found our way to take to heart a piece of what was coming together for us as a family.

We needed it desperately, though individually, we could not have made this happen.

I had forgotten about the “Wolfpack” until recently. Thinking back, I am proud that we had that experience together because it reinforced the foundation of support and love that we have for each other.

Where am I going with this? I guess I wanted to share this observation because I think it was an extraordinary occurrence for my family to connect at a time when we each could have done exactly the opposite. It is bona fide evidence that God works miracles in his way, in his time.

Believe it.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Question for Walking distance readers: What miracle have you witnessed in your life?

Check the blog later this week for photos of the Wolfpack days...

Sunday, October 9, 2011

The good to come

I promised a “life lesson” sharing experience here this weekend but I am going to ask your indulgence in letting me hold off on that story, so that I can share a new revelation while it is fresh in my mind.

I do so because I think it is important to be reflective in and about our lives (is that stating the obvious?) and when one of us has an “ah ha!” moment as Oprah calls it, I think it is meant to be shared.

So here it is: When you hit a road block or have a setback that keeps you from getting where you need to go, give yourself a little credit. Even in your darkest moment, you are strong. Even when you think you cannot keep going, somehow you can. You do it all the time.

I don’t say this because I am wise or excessively optimistic (or going through a terrible depression). I say it because the signs of your resilience and your intention to keep going are usually very subtle, but they are there. That, my friends, is what matters.

Here’s what got me thinking this way today. It was a gorgeous, unseasonably warm Fall day here in the Northeast and, in spite of having plenty of dissertation proposal writing yet to do, I knew that I had to get outside for a while. I decided to tackle the vegetable garden, cleaning up the dead plants and weeding the soil in preparation for next year’s planting season.

Usually, my husband and I wait until Spring to do this, even though it could be better for the soil to be tilled and fertilized before the snows of Winter hit. Still, it has never made it to the top of my “To Do” list this early, so I was really in the moment as I headed down the hill with my rake and bucket.

As I pulled up the dead plant remnants, I found more than a few tomatoes that were worth picking. I pulled out the wooden stakes and metal cages, making my way across our fenced-in garden, and found one, then another, and then yet another rather good-sized cucumber, just waiting to be picked.

The bucket started to fill. I kept pulling weeds, raking, thinking that our little garden -- which yielded some 30 or 40 jars of pickles, green tomatoes and salsa -- had been a decent project even if the corn I planted never made it to full size.

Then it hit me. What I was doing. Here it was, nearly the middle of October, and I was thinking of “next year.” That’s next year as in, next year, we’ll plant the corn in tight rows and plant more of it. Next year, maybe we’ll plant the pickling cukes in the front of the garden so they can climb the fence. Next year, we’ll be ready to get going when the danger of frost has passed, and our soil will be refreshed and waiting for the good seed.

It isn’t that I’m taking for granted I’ll be here next year. It’s that I expect it, and no matter what, there is a strength in embracing the unknown future. So the next time you are thinking of where to go on vacation next summer, or what to do to celebrate your birthday, or how to spend your upcoming weekend, take a moment and savor the thoughts. Live in the now, but expect the good that is yet to be.


Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Getting there

I’m keeping myself honest here. Since I put it out there, in writing, last week that I was working on wrapping up the final pieces of my dissertation proposal, I have to let you know whether I accomplished what I had hoped I would for the week.

Not exactly. But I did make progress. Much as I had hoped to have the last four (or is it five?) sections of my proposal in the hands of my wise Committee by the weekend, I managed to complete two of the key pieces left. Obviously, two is not as good as four, but it is much better than zero. I am soldiering on.

So just what did I move off my desk? The very difficult section called, “Methodology,” in which I have to explain to three highly educated, experienced scholars how I, a lowly doctoral candidate and yet unpublished scholar wannabe, will attempt to tackle a subject that has never been explored before. At least not in the way that I will explore it.

If you recall, I am delving into the topic of the grief memoir. I am looking at how communication technologies have evolved in use by authors who write grief memoirs. I’m talking about writers who publish books about a loved one that has died, to tell the story of their lives, in some portion. I am taking this research into the virtual waters of the Internet and film documentary to explore how those who do not write such grief memoirs are using blogs and film to tell the same kind of story.

I must share with you one interesting thing that is happening for me because I suspect it may be a common experience for doctoral candidates. As my focus and attention on this subject grows (through a disciplined effort at working on this material daily), I find that I am eager to get back to it whenever I am free of the “chores” of the day. In other words, when I am working at my job or taking care of household responsibilities or doing whatever it is that fills my days, I catch myself kicking around some part of the research.

The mind is a fascinating machine. As a writer, I know this, because I am always writing even if it looks like I am cooking, weeding, gardening, napping, or even sleeping. My mind keeps working the subject of my writing. That is what is happening with my dissertation writing. And I can tell you, it feels really good.

I’ll start a new work week tomorrow with new deadlines for my proposal draft. Next up is the section where I explain the relevant literature I will be working with in this project. It is another important piece that really must be clear, so I am slightly daunted but not discouraged.

I’m in a good mental place. I do think I am getting there.


Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan


Question for Walking distance readers: Have you seen any good documentaries that might be considered a grief memoir? I am thinking of viewing The Tillman Story as one example, but am looking for others. Along those lines, have you come across any blogs that might fit this topic? Please send me your suggestions.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Bit by bit

In the spirit of trying to generate momentum on my dissertation journey again, I am posting a quick update for those of you who are silently watching on the sidelines. (By the way, you can feel free to speak up at any time to offer any observations or comments you have. I need to toughen up, so constructive criticism is welcome, as are any random thoughts in between. It helps to know someone is keeping step with me.)

So here I am. I spent the week wrestling with an unwieldy proposal, watching the days on the calendar fade one into the next as I tried to get to a “final” draft of drafts. I am here to tell you, I succeeded, a little.

Which is a huge victory for me. One of the pieces of advice my mentor has offered several times is for me to keep more regular contact with my Committee (You will recall, my Committee is a team of three accomplished professors, all PhD’s themselves, who are my guides, my readers, and the fire under my butt to keep me working on this until I reach a successful conclusion).

Over the summer, I managed to find time to revise the first section of my proposal -- the Overview -- and dash it off to my Committee, who were on summer break. There was no guarantee I would hear back until the semester began, but at least I got it out there. It was another step forward in a process that has had me stepping back far more than I would like.

My mentor gave me a brief but positive nod, and I did not wait for my readers to chime in. This is important for anyone who is pursuing a research project to remember. If you wait for full feedback, you may wait a long time. Keep going.

Today I can say I have taken another step forward. Another two sections sent via email to my Committee. Another two in fairly decent shape. With a couple of days’ work, I am looking at moving those to the outbox too.

These next two are critical, however, so I will keep my optimism in check. I am tackling the Methodology section, where I need to clearly explain the scholarly approach I will use to explain how I am going to study the changing communication technologies in grief memoir. I have to get this right.

The other section will be the one in which I offer a summary of the relevant literature that I have examined to offer a critical discussion of the differing arguments, theories and approaches in this subject area of grief, literature and communication.

OK, so maybe these won’t be that easy or that quick to wrap up in a couple of days. Look, it’s early in the week. I have time. More importantly, I have focus and determination. Check with me later this week!

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Monday, September 19, 2011

Get back on that horse

Get back on that horse.

If my sister were here, maybe that is what she would say to me. Maybe she would say, don’t give up, Mare.

Who knows what she would say. All I know is, the mounting pressures of life have derailed my focus on the dissertation journey I started whenever it was that I officially “started.”


I need a push. But I don’t want to ask. Maybe I want more of a “pull,” someone to take hold of me and get me back on the path with a feeling that someone is there to take the journey with me.

It is easy to say, “Relax, just take your time” but when the clock is ticking on the tuition support and you are already living on a shoestring, the challenge becomes how to energize oneself to get back to the fundamentals in every category of life: work, family, taking care of a house and yard, feeding the spiritual side, and a little thing called “rest.”

All while trying to concentrate on a never-been-done-before intellectual pursuit.

I have said it before so I know some of you are tired of the whining. So am I. I just want to be done.

How many graduate students have uttered that lament about their thesis? Speak to me! I want to know I am in good company.

Heck with it. I know what I have to do. While I feel like I am up to my neck in quick sand, I still have not completely thrown in the towel. But it is SO hard to get back on track.

So today I am doing it, again.

Step 1: Return to the literature that I have collected, read and re-read. Step 2: Take a fresh look at that proposal and really chop away at it to get to the real nuts and bolts of what I am after. Step 3: Get the next piece to the Committee and get them to agree to a regular dialogue with me so I can make real progress.

Three steps. It sounds like too many right now. If I can take the first one, I bet I can get to Step 2 in no time. I want to get back on that horse. Just need that “leg up.”


Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Question for my readers: How do you get yourself fired up to tackle a challenge? What helps?

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

My 9/11 (Part II): Godspeed, Cowboy

It took me about a day or so after the terrorist attacks on 9/11 for the reporter gene in me to kick in.

Realizing that I knew someone who may be able to give me an insider’s view of the biggest American tragedy since Pearl Harbor, I reached out to my bureau chief at People to offer my help in reporting. Whatever kind of coverage they were doing, they were sure to have a full contingent of reporters and freelancers pitching in, and I just had to be in on the biggest story that I would ever come across in my life.

I had no idea what I was volunteering to do.

I reminded my BC that Tommy Foley was a firefighter in the South Bronx and our readers were sure to remember him. She agreed. “Make some calls,” she said.

I dialed Tommy’s cell phone, expecting to get his voice mail because I knew he would be on site at Ground Zero with his brother firemen. I had every confidence that he would return my call, when he got a moment. That’s the way Tommy was. You could count on him to be responsive, dependable, and always, a gentleman.


To cover my bases, I called his home number too. He had moved into his own home several months before. We had chatted on the phone sometime after that, if my memory is correct, but to be honest, the details are fuzzy after all these years. I do know that our phone call that night was just a friendly call to say hello instead of a reporter-subject interview.

He was thinking about auditioning for Survivor. He was still loving his job, but open to new opportunities for really making the most of his life. We talked for about an hour. He sounded, as always, happy and positive.

When I didn’t hear back from Tommy within a day of leaving him those messages on September 11, I began to get nervous. By then, my BC was calling for an update. Unfortunately, it hadn’t occurred to me -- still -- that Tommy may have been one of those first responders who rushed in to the towers to help get people out. I hated the thought, but when my bureau chief said I had better call his family and find out what was going on, I knew I was in for an assignment I really did not want to do.

There was no backing out now. I had signed up for this.

There is nothing worse as a reporter than having to call the family of a victim -- even if the “victim” has not yet been determined to be one. No sooner did I identify myself to Tommy’s sister, Joanne, the words tumbled out of her mouth and took my breath away.

“We don’t know anything yet,” she said.

I was stunned. Beyond stunned. It could not be true.

Joanne told me that Tommy was due to get off work that morning, finishing up his shift at 9 a.m. But firefighting was his calling, and when duty called, Tommy was there. Joanne promised to keep me posted, promised to let me know when there was news. I filed the briefest of stories that week, and People ran another great photo of Tommy with my information. I hated what it said.

Ten days later, I was leaving Shea Stadium with my brother James after a Mets game when my cell phone beeped a voice mail message. “They found him,” Joanne’s message said.

“They” were Danny Foley, Joanne and Tommy’s younger brother, and KC Gross, Joanne’s husband, who had continued to search the rubble at Ground Zero until they found Tommy. Danny Foley made that promise to his parents, Tom and Pat Foley, that he would bring Tommy home. Miraculously, he kept that promise.

It has been ten years since those horrors turned the Foley family’s world inside out. Last weekend, Joanne Foley Gross took that nightmare and converted it into pure inspiration. Her documentary, Tommy Foley: Legacy of a Young Hero, captured a happy, candid young man of tremendous potential, who had lived every day like it was his last.

To this day, any time I drove across the Tappan Zee Bridge, I think of Tommy Foley, because his hometown of West Nyack is literally the next highway sign that pops up on that route. On those rare occasions when I drive by the Palisades Center mall, I remember how anguished I was, sitting in my car in that parking lot after Tommy was confirmed among the dead at the World Trade Center on 9/11.

I sat there trying to find a way out of having to contact his close friends and family for “comment” for my People story. I have been in those shoes as the sister of a victim, and they are uncomfortable, horrible shoes. Instead, I told myself that my empathy would be, in some small way, a gift to them because I would approach them and those who loved Tommy with a compassion that would never be aggressive or pushy, but would respect their privacy and pain while getting my job as a reporter done.

The Foley family has handled their “victim’s family status” with grace, class, compassion, and generosity. They have steadfastly preserved Tommy’s memory and are sharing him with the world. It takes a lot to do that. It takes guts.

I just want to know: How did Pat and Tom Foley raise such an extraordinary young man?

His poise, particularly in the face of danger or the uncomfortable public spotlight. He was deliberately thoughtful with his words. He was also totally at ease. He was, he told me, that blend of country boy with an ability to be as comfortable in his boots and cowboy hat as he was at a black-tie affair in the city. He just plain liked people, and he admired his parent’s more than 35-year union, holding up that example as the model for himself. If he couldn’t have it that way, he wouldn’t do it, he said.

In the film last week, I couldn’t help smiling at Tommy’s reference to this when he talked about where he saw himself in five years time. The package included wife, kids, home, but also all the things he loved the most. “Bull riding, a firefighter ... just to be happy. If I can find a girl like that one day ... Giddyup.”

Then he smiled that smile.

Godspeed, Cowboy.


Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan


Visit www.firefighterthomasjfoley.com for more information on Tommy Foley and to order a copy of Legacy of a Young Hero. Proceeds from the film sales will benefit the Firefighter Thomas J. Foley Foundation.

You can also visit Walking Distance's Facebook page at http://goo.gl/I7CFo for more photos from the film premiere.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

My 9/11 Connection (Part 1): Cowboy Up

Some of you may be wondering why I have been blogging about, posting photos of, and otherwise sharing details about Tommy Foley, a New York City firefighter who died on #9/11. Why have I been talking up a new documentary created by this young man’s sister, which was unveiled over the last several days?

Just how did a girl from Seymour, Conn., come to have a special affection for one of the FDNY’s Bravest, and what makes her think that everyone else needs to know about it?

You need to know about Tommy Foley because he happens to be one of the most genuine and remarkable human beings I have ever met. Let me give you “the back story” on my short-lived and unexpected friendship with this young man from West Nyack, N.Y. and you can decide for yourself.

Have a seat. This is going to take a minute.

It was sometime in 2000 when I was working a side gig as a stringer for People magazine. My bureau chief would call me to offer assignments that usually required me to track down nuggets of info in towns of various celebrities who were “hot” at the time. I’d be sent to places like New Canaan, Conn., back when David Letterman lived there, or to Chappaqua, N.Y. , to nose around about former President Bill Clinton.

Once, I got to cover a red carpet event for one of the Harry Potter films, and got sent to help cover the lavish reception of one of Liza Minnelli’s weddings -- neither of which got me all that close to A-List movie stars (although I can give you the skinny on “Ralphie” from The Sopranos, as far as how friendly he was... NOT).

Occasionally, I would get an actual interview assignment for stories about newsmakers like an upstate New York family’s quintuplets, or former Brat Packer Andrew McCarthy (does anyone remember him?).

This time, I got a real gem: How would I like to interview a firefighter who was named #10 in the top 100 list of eligible bachelors? (Tommy was tenth, behind celebs like George Clooney and Derek Jeter.)


Um, yes please?

I was given a phone number and a few details on what was needed, and went to work.
I called Tommy and introduced myself, telling him I wanted to come out to his home and interview him, his family, and some of his friends.

On the telephone, Tommy was instantly friendly. (The other night, while watching the documentary about Tommy, I heard many of his friends speak of his warmth, and I was immediately transported to that first phone call.)

Tommy, then 31, was living with his parents at the time, thinking about buying a house but concentrating on his career with the fire department and balancing that with a landscaping business on the side, a passion for rodeo bull riding, and spending quality time with his family and friends. Many people would say, “Too good to be true,” but Tommy Foley was the real deal.

He invited me to his home, and when I arrived, insisted we go out and have a bite to eat while I interviewed him. He had a seafood place all picked out, and it was as if we had been friends for years. First we sat down at the kitchen table with his parents, Pat and Tom Foley.

What was planned to be an interview became more like a visit with good neighbors. No doubt, Tommy’s friendliness and warmth was an extension of his parents. I gained insight on the character of this young man who could likely have dated movie stars but had instead been a chivalrous teenager who escorted more than one dateless young woman to her prom, usually when asked by a friend to take their sister.

He laughed off the People anointment. The star treatment netted him a lot of ribbing from his brothers at the firehouse -- that’s “fi-ya-house” in New York speech, a manner that made Tommy all the more endearing. When he said he was a New York City Fi-ya-min, it was like he had been practicing that phrase his whole life.

He probably had. Firefighting was in his blood. His father, brother, and even brother-in-law all were firefighters, and Tommy was a rising star in his field. He joined the department at 22, was assigned to Squad Co. 41, and after nine years got the chance to join Rescue 3 in the Bronx. Rappeling from a building to rescue a man in 1999 was the first rescue that garnered the media spotlight for Tommy. That spotlight only got hotter, landing him calendar photo shoots and bit acting roles on The Sopranos and Third Watch.

Firefighting was the dream job Tommy insisted he would never give up -- not for an acting career or any other, despite the opportunities he was getting due to his uncommon good looks and charisma. "It's the best job in the world," he told me.

When People launched the inaugural “Top Bachelors” issue (July 10, 2000), it planned to celebrate it in grand style. Again, I got the call from my editor: “We want you to be Tom Foley’s escort to the People party... We’ll send a limo to pick you two up...”

Of course, I never shy away from the tough assignments.

I watched Tommy work that party that night, where larger-than-lifesize images of him and other bachelors in the issue were set up all through the venue. He was as comfortable in the big-city setting of a fancy party where the Cosmopolitans are flowing as he was in the saddle of a horse -- and there, I suspect, was part of the secret of who Tommy Foley was.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell you why this New York Cowboy left an indelible impression on me.


Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Monday, September 5, 2011

Celebrating someone who got it right

When you love someone that much, you don’t leave them behind.

That’s what I said last year, in a blog post about the FDNY’s Tommy Foley, who died on Sept. 11, 2001, rushing in to the horrific scene at what was the World Trade Center. I was making a point about the way we memorialize our loved ones, as a way of keeping them with us as we move on with our lives.


Later this week, Joanne Foley Gross, Tommy’s sister, will introduce her brother to the world in a remarkable documentary she created over the last several years. Tommy Foley -- Legacy of a Young Hero, will premiere at a handful of New York locations beginning on Thursday, Sept. 8, with showings through Sunday, Sept. 11, the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks.


To say that Joanne’s work has been a “labor of love” sounds cliche, but it deserves far better than that. I don’t know what else you would call this film created by a woman who was, until that terrible day, not a filmmaker nor a writer, whose credentials for producing this artistic story are simply that she is the loving sister of a brave New York City firefighter, and she recognized that her brother’s life deserved to be shared.

Boy, can I relate to that.

I had hoped to interview Joanne before this week’s premieres, but since we have not been able to connect yet, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to share this story with you. Joanne recently was interviewed by a reporter for Firehouse.com, so many of the questions I was kicking around were answered in that news article.

You can read the piece here: http://goo.gl/MqpCR.

I can tell you this: Joanne’s commitment to telling her brother’s story was unwavering and beyond admirable. She saw the potential and she made it happen. This week, she and the Foley family will celebrate Tommy’s life in an extraordinary way. With his story now on film, Tommy will live on for others who knew him and for those who never had the privilege.

I’ll be there this week to honor Tommy’s legacy, support his family, and share in what I know will be a transformational experience. Next week in Walking distance, I’ll share my experience with you. In the meantime, if you can't be there in person, you can order the documentary by visiting http://firefighterthomasjfoley.com/documentary.html. Watch the trailer: http://goo.gl/Vck80
All proceeds will benefit the Thomas J. Foley Foundation.

If you need inspiration to live your life to the max, then meet Tommy Foley. He wrote the book on it. As a firefighter, Tommy Foley worked hard to make sure no one was left behind. This week, his sister is doing the same for him.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Monday, August 29, 2011

The one thing we cannot live without

Now that Hurricane Irene has come and gone here in the Northeast, I can safely reveal that I have discovered the one essential necessity that we Americans simply cannot live without.

Coffee.

If seeing my friends complain on Facebook about the lack of it in their morning routines Sunday morning, my journey to work today offered all the confirmation I needed.

Let’s put it into context first: Yesterday was the first morning of the storm, during which Irene continued to relentlessly pummel those along the eastern seaboard with 70 mph winds, rain, and whatever else she felt like wielding. Homes destroyed or flooded out, or damaged by fallen trees. More than 700,000 without electricity in Connecticut alone.



Yet FB posts galore spoke of the need for coffee, the need of husbands to get their wives coffee (another survival skill that would-be husbands should take heed), and the willingness to settle for less-than-“good” coffee by running hot boiled water through the grounds in one’s coffeemaker.

Today, as I set out for work, the local Cumberland Farms was jammed with would-be coffee drinkers seeking an alternative to those other options for coffee along the route to work. I found out why and I am sorry to say I did not pull over to take a photo of it to prove it to you.

The drive-thru line at one Dunkin Donuts on my way to the office was not just “backed up” in their parking lot. It wound all the way onto the main drag of a well traveled route.

I have never seen anything like it.

Those of you who have stock in D&D should be celebrating a surge in your portfolios today.

So if you think it is television, or the Internet, or even Facebook that you cannot live without, think again, you caffeine junkies, and be grateful that the pink and orange goes on.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Travel: It's good for the soul

Somewhere during the coursework of my doctoral program, I read a book that referred to the value of travel to the human spirit. I think I was sitting in an airport waiting for a flight, and had been trying to dig in to a new library book I had found to add to the list of materials that were slowly becoming the literature review portion of my project. Offhand, I can’t remember the title, but I remember feeling a bit excited at these words, because they brought me a kind of odd validation.


Travel is good for the soul. It opens us up to different lifestyles, customs, sights, smells, sounds, and in that opening up, we are transformed. If we embrace the full experience, we will find that our own perceptions about life are somehow just a little bit different than they were before.


I have known this about myself for oh, I don’t know how long, but I had never considered it to be a universal experience. At the time, I interpreted this book review to be an important revelation, of course. And one that will now be a motivator for my continued exploration of this beautiful world of ours.


Not that I need motivation for such a thing, mind you.

Growing up, I did not have many opportunities to travel, so this became a future goal of mine. Call it what you will, I decided when I was a teenager -- probably not unlike many teenagers -- that I would one day venture off to places far and wide that struck my fancy. Mostly, I wanted to go to Colorado.

That’s a teenager for you. Of all the beautiful places in the world to visit, I was thinking, yes, I must go to Denver. (Not that Colorado isn’t awesome.) I even considered attending college out there, but my father talked me out of it because, he said, it would not be convenient for me to come home for holidays, etc. I’m not sure I bought that argument, but I conceded, since ultimately, it would be a matter of finances. I would get to Colorado one day, so I was not all that disappointed.

Since those days, I have had so many opportunities to visit places unknown to me. For the past five years, my job has taken me to some amazing places: Athens, Paris, Krakow, even Turkey. I have tried to make the most of these trips, though often, the chance to enjoy the culture and sights was limited. I’ve also taken a lot of road trips - great places like Maine, upstate New York, Vermont - and other pretty U.S. locales too.


This is what I have learned, so far: Wherever we are from, as much as we may be different, we are all in many ways, the same. We care about the same things: our families, our friends, our surroundings. We like good food. We are curious. And we are moved by the beauty of nature. Yet, it is often the people I meet along these journeys that provide the greatest enlightenment. That may be the biggest surprise of all, when I consider my travel experience to date.


There are plenty of trips left on my list of Places to Visit, among them Hawaii, Ireland, and perhaps even Australia or Egypt. I am hoping to make my “dream trip” next year (I’ll let you try to guess what that may be, for a while, but you can bet I’ll be inviting you along on the journey).


I know that those travels yet to come are part of my personal transformation.

Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Turn down the noise

There is one thing to keep in mind when you are driving an Amish buggy. Do not try to take a corner too sharply.

There, I have offered you some valuable advice the next time you have occasion to grab the reins of an Amish buggy and take it for a spin. Also, it helps to have a 7-year-old Amish boy sitting beside you to keep you on four wheels. Even if he doesn’t understand English yet.


Meet the family of Jonas and LidiAnn (don’t assume I am spelling names correctly here). They live in upstate New York, some six hours away from my own little Connecticut home, and if you had gotten a glimpse of their lifestyle as I did recently, you would think they are a world away. It’s more like centuries away.

Google the term, the Amish, and you will get an Internet primer on what these Christian folk are like. Visit some of them in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, or where I did, near Hammond, New York, and you will get an instant education in what it’s like to live your life without, well, a lot of things.

A few things you need to know about the Amish. They dress plainly. Their homes are just as plain, with plain gray walls. They use their talents to make a living, whether it is weaving baskets, quilting, or building furniture. And, they believe that large families are a blessing from God. It is not uncommon for an Amish couple to have seven, eight, nine or more children.


Their children are fascinated by our trinkets - my cousin’s wristwatch had one of the little ones in the first Amish family I met practically spellbound, and later in the weekend, Jonas’ little Andy and Sam got a kick out of viewing the images I showed them I had taken on my digital camera.


I’m thinking these kids would love television; the way they laughed as I clicked through the photos of them and their animals and vegetable garden was a reflection of their sheer giddiness at being so close to a technology they do not have -- or perhaps even know about. The children in my life would be horrified to live such an existence, but if you are reared in this fashion, I suppose it is a matter of not knowing what you are missing.

I’m thinking there is ignorance in that kind of bliss. Particularly these days, as I am feeling there is too much “noise” in my life. There are so many distractions and demands on my time. We all have them, though our awareness may be muted.

If you are like many people, you may not know much about the Amish unless you have traveled to these parts of Pa. or NY where many of them have settled. Or, you may have become familiar with the Amish through the tragedy that occurred in Pennsylvania a few years ago, where a gunman held schoolchildren hostage, ultimately shooting ten, killing five Amish children before killing himself.

Many people who heard about that ordeal were shocked to learn that the Amish in that community -- true to their Amish ways -- offered immediate forgiveness toward the family of the gunman, and did not appear to bear any anger or ill will toward the man who wrought such heartache.

I have not researched this, so I need to say that it is possible there was someone among those heartbroken families that struggled with this (certainly, if you watched the Lifetime Movie Network’s fictional take on the shooting, Amish Grace, you saw one interpretation of the possible reaction of this kind).

Let me say up front that I did not visit these Amish people in New York State as a reporter, so I did not take copious notes or snap away with my camera to capture the details of their basic life and their places in it. I was a visitor to their homes as a friend of a friend of a friend, and still, I was welcomed and invited in like one of the family. I did not want to exploit them or offend them, so I took few photos that showed their faces. Many Amish will not allow you to take photos of or around them at all, so I was sparing in my camera use.


Jonas’ six children were running about barefoot, and all appeared to be healthy and happy. There is Sam, Eli, Andy, a middle girl child whose name I never did catch, Salome, and Caroline, the baby, who is just six months old but I swear, felt like a five-pound bag of sugar on my lap despite her mother’s pronouncement that she weighs 14 pounds. Three boys and three girls. My cousin asked, “What next?” wondering what the tie-breaking next child will be, because for certain, God willing, there will be one.

“You will have to come back next year and see,” LidiAnn said with a smile.

Jonas’ specialty is tables and chairs. He didn’t mind showing us around his workshop, which has an upstairs that holds his inventory and the parts for products yet to be assembled. Perfectly crafted pieces for future Amish furniture. And I was getting to see it right where it was being made.


This family is quite a contrast to the other Amish family I met on Friday - Menna, his wife Caroline, and their children - they have nine in all. They make expertly woven, colorful basket containers of all kind: magazine holders, napkin holders, picnic baskets and baskets with dividers to hold two bottles of wine. There are hampers and lazy-Susan type baskets too. The inventory is low; a good sign that business has been good the past few weeks, and the women will be getting back to basket weaving when they have finished preserving the peaches.

I can’t help thinking, what a hard life these Amish must have and still they seem to be content, even peaceful. Yet, when I stepped back into my world after that weekend, I was reminded that I sometimes think I have it tough too. Paying the bills in this rough economy of joblessness, inflation, recession. Not being able to take a fancy vacation. Having to answer to the demands of a hectic workplace. And on. Makes me think my weekend in Amish country was a hidden blessing of its own for me. That’s why I’m sharing it with you. Thought-provoking, isn’t it?

Now why didn’t I take that Amish buggy out and open ‘er up when I had the chance?


Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan