A death in the neighborhood

Jack Magri

This week many of us in South Hadley and environs mourned the loss of Jack Magri, who died on Monday after a long fight with brain cancer. The owner of Tailgate Picnic was the nicest guy, known for making fabulous holiday baskets, running a thriving business, and always smiling even when you could see he was coming back from another surgery. Did I say he was very handsome?

On occasion we shared notes about what we were going through, how we felt, and what we were doing to boost ourselves back up after we had lost weight during treatment. I brought him a protein shake that I had made. He gave me one at the deli. The whole family loves it there. It is our home-away-from-home.

The same week, Joe Biden went to the Vatican to talk about two of his passions: his Roman Catholic faith and curing cancer. His son, Beau Biden, died of brain cancer at age 47 just about a year ago.

Jack was only 57. Someone said at calling hours on Thursday that this has been going on for 13 years. I don't know if that is exactly the correct amount of time. But it correlates with my own time frame. I told Jane that I thought his was worse...getting your head cut into repeatedly and having your hopes raised and going back to work in the public eye and having everyone ask you how you are and then having it come back again. Jane reminded me that mine was pretty bad too. Well, not pretty bad. Very bad.

But I am here to write about it, and my biggest complaint at this point is that I am fighting the urge, not always successfully, to pull the peeling skin off of my face after the photodynamic therapy last week gave me a bad sunburn.

I spent a lot of time last weekend finishing a long piece that I wrote for Smith College's Insight publication. It is on the research of Patricia DiBartolo, a psychology professor who studies the downsides of perfectionism. In doing so, I made a mess of my kitchen table and environs. Today I am going to clean up. It might take most of the day because I still haven't put everything away from Passover. My garden (or so-called garden) is a mess also.

As a footnote, Jews don't do open caskets. I only saw my first one after I moved to New England. Obviously you honor the choice of the family by going to pay your respects, but if you haven't grown up with it, it is hard to get it out of your mind.

Creating a happy and productive workplace

I am really glad that I don't do my writing in a place where I am tied to my desk.

My workplace is my home, where I am my own boss and have the flexibility to get the most out of myself with the proper "incentives."

This morning when I was writing my Newsmax post, my eyes could not focus. The continued dry heat in my house was getting to me. Another cup of coffee would not do it, but a quick trip to Tailgate Picnic would. I think I just needed some air. I got a raisin scone and told Anna at the cash register that I was betting that magic elements in the scone would help me write.

It worked. I breezed through the Newsmax post (with help from an extra cup of coffee) and finished editing a piece that I am doing for another client.

Back in my early days at The Republican, the atmosphere allowed for taking revitalizing breaks. When there was actually a downtown in Springfield, I might walk alone or with a co-worker down to the bookstore. Later there was only the Dunkin' Donuts next door, but even a coffee run could do the trick.

Increasingly, the atmosphere there became one of watching everything you do, with time spent recharging viewed as time wasted. I am sure this attitude permeates other workplaces as well.

In another life I am going to work at Google, where, according to the company' website, "Our offices and cafes are designed to encourage interactions between Googlers within and across teams, and to spark conversation about work as well as play."

Its goal in offices and campuses is “to create the happiest, most productive workplace in the world.”

I am doing my best to create my own happy workplace. I am going to walk the dog now and when I come back, I will write the other story on my budget today, a faculty profile for Holyoke Community College's next Career Focus issue.

And if I need another scone, I just might get it.

I get by with a little help from my friends

I don't mean my regular friends, who of course have helped me immeasurably.

I'm talking about my neighborhood acquaintances, who offer help in ways that make me feel extra cared for.

For example:

Yesterday I went to our local deli, Tailgate Picnic, looking for something for lunch because I didn't feel like eating anything in the house. I stood at the counter indecisively and asked Alicia Magri, who owns the deli with husband Jack, what was good if you're trying to gain weight.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "Not really," I replied.

"Give her the chicken stew," she told the girl working at the counter. She also said I should try Ensure, which has helped Jack, who had a brain tumor, put on weight after surgery. Jack got into the conversation and went into the back to get two bottles of Ensure, which he said to take back home (free) and try. Mary, Alicia's sister, said I should mix it with ice cream and make a shake. Anna, at the cash register, chimed in and said I should drink a lot of milk.

Well, the chicken stew was delicious and the Ensure not so much, but I felt good about this group of people – who all know my story just as I know theirs – doing their little bit to look after me.

It goes both ways. After Jack came out of the hospital, we talked about how crummy you can feel when you first return to work. He said at the time that he was having trouble eating, so I brought him one of the smoothies that had been working for me.

And then there is Wayne Gilbert, the carpenter, who is in the midst of fixing some little things I saw, and who also fixes the things I don't see.

A few months ago, I heard hammering and came downstairs to find Wayne, who had noticed something that needed to be fixed and had just stopped by to take care of it (free). Obviously I see the big things, but having grown up in an apartment where you just call the super, and being divorced from someone who knew how to manage the property, I sometimes don't see the big picture. It's reassuring to know that someone else is looking at it for me.

Anne, who owns the bed and breakfast across the street, says to come on over and pick the hydrangeas that turn pretty shades of pink at this time of year. She has a couple of really big flower bushes. Sometimes we chat. My mother started this tradition, talking to Anne and clipping the hydrangeas that she said cost a ton of money in New York. The hydrangeas provide a different kind of nourishment.