CCHS: As One Door Closes…

Yesterday, Reading Central Catholic High School (CCHS) closed its doors forever. I think it’s fitting that this will also be my last post about CCHS. It’s time to say goodbye. The past few months have been a whirlwind of emotions since the CCHS community found out that the school would be merged with Holy Name to create the new Berks Catholic with the start of the 2011– 2012 school year. Emotions and drama ran high on both sides of the Schuylkill River as the arch rivals tried to make sense of what was about to happen.

I’m grateful that the current CCHS administration organized the Mansion Memories event in May for alumni and that I was able to attend. As soon as I stepped through the wrought iron and glass front doors of the Bon Air mansion (our school was once the Bon Air mansion and home of William Luden), memories of rushing from class-to-class, friendships forged, high school crushes and heartbreak, cheerleading practice, basketball games, play rehearsals, falling in love, and, most importantly, learning, came back in an instant.
While memories can offer heartwarming solace when it’s time to bid farewell to something or someone, it’s important to remember that they also last forever. The good, the bad, and the ugly are all part of our histories and high school sure offered its fill of every high and low that’s an essential part of every teen’s life.

As I left the event on May 14th, I found myself hopping down the school’s back stairwell just like I used to 15 years ago. Right when I reached the doorway, I caught myself and realized that this was the last time I would ever feel the school’s exuberant energy, touch the banister, and set foot in the place I called my home away from home for four years. From my spot on the first floor, I glanced back into the school, said goodbye, and wiped the tear that managed to escape my sad eyes. I left a little bit of my heart there, but I’ll carry the countless memories with me forever.

Walking down the pitch black, tree-lined Eckert Avenue late that night toward my car, my thoughts drifted back to wandering the halls of CCHS and meeting with old friends and classmates. In that moment I remembered instantly what it felt like to be a part of such a close-knit community. It’s not the school that creates such a sense of belonging. CCHSers were, are, and always will be a family.

"We love thee, Alma Mater,
Dear old Central High,
Within your walls may it be said that hidden treasures lie.
So we must keep on seeking them,
Though strength we have no more.
But we will keep you on the top, Excelsior!
Oh, Alma Mater, we will fight!
Through thick and thin
For the red and the white,
Because on you we can rely
All hail to Central Catholic High!
When the great wide world surrounds us,
And our ideals would mar,
Then all your teachings through the years
Will be our shining star!
Though each New Year brings memories
Of days that have gone by,
The ones we’ll cherish most are those of Central High!"

A Tear (CCHS & Life on a Personal Note)

(Taking a break today from the Berks Catholic posts to reflect on a more personal aspect of it.)

Death is a part of life. We all know that. We all expect that.

Death comes in many ways. From the end of an era to the passing of someone close to you, it closes one chapter in your life and begins another. Having lost many friends and family and survived life’s unexpected and tasking challenges so far, two of the most important lessons I’ve learned are that time doesn’t necessarily heal the pain and one can never forget. Then again, these aren’t always bad things.

After about a week or two, news of my cherished high school’s closure finally sunk in over the past couple of days. Today I found out that the individual dreams and aspirations of several old friends of mine came to an end. And, this afternoon the last of my childhood pets passed away.

When trying to offer solace, I often find myself saying, “It could be worse.” Applying that logic to my own circumstances, my thoughts can easily conjure a hundred more desperate and sad scenarios. After all, it’s only a school and a pet. I could’ve lost my home and a person, right?

You see, my alma mater and dog (Lexie) are tied together, symbolically anyway. My family got Lexie when I was in high school (yes, she had a very nice, super-long life). The point is that within one week I’ve lost two important pieces of my past. Figuratively, high school is a place where we transition from childhood to adulthood; literally, the building is our home away from home during our teen years. Whether we like it or not, the CCHS teachers and administration were very much a part of our extended families. Lexie was a member of my family and the spoiled baby at that. Just like school provided us an escape from our personal troubles at home, Lexie was my family’s silent therapist as she would always be willing to console and play with us.

Digging deeper, it’s important to note that I’m not just living in the past or dreaming of better days gone by—because they certainly weren’t better. I love my family and life today. The thing is that seven years ago my husband and I made a decision for our new family that physically severed the ties to our pasts.

When we moved to California, we left behind our individual families, our friends, the home we created as well as our childhood homes, the familiarity of our hometown, and all the places that meant something to us—Gring’s Mill and Lausch Parks where we used to go for walks and just muse about life and music, CCHS Stadium (the place where we fell in love over football season ’93), Berkshire Mall (the only place we could really go to hang out when we were teens), Arby’s @ Fairgrounds (Jeff’s 1st job), Boscov’s East (my 1st job), the list is endless.
California was a fresh start and was a dream come true since we finally got out of Reading—something we always wanted. Seven years later (and it didn’t even take this long to figure it out), Reading had everything we wanted for our family (except viable jobs for us—a big issue, yes). Most importantly, it was an inextricable part of our joint histories.

As I’m constantly reminded by native Californians, what’s not to like here? Quite frankly, nothing! It’s breathtakingly beautiful, there are hiking trails a-plenty, wine country is in our backyard, and within a few hours you can be in the desert, mountains, or ocean. Though our “new” friends are few; they’re wonderful. Our life is everything we always dreamt of, but it’s not home. Why? Because our families are “home.” And home isn’t here; it’s 3,000 miles eastward.

Living so far away we’ve missed the most important days of our family and friends’ lives—graduations, weddings, births, baptisms, funerals, family reunions, class reunions, holidays, and just hanging out with them—going to a concert or two, having a glass of wine over a great conversation, and offering a physical shoulder to cry on when it’s needed most. As our parents get older and siblings lives’ evolve, we’re not there to help them. Our children are growing up fast and their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins are missing out on valuable time with them.

With CCHS’ closure in a matter of months and Lexie gone, two important pieces of my childhood history will have died. Yes, life will go on; it always does. And great memories help me cope. And yet, even if just for one moment, I’d love to walk the halls of Central and hug Lexie one last time to say goodbye to them and to an era.

Cherish every second of today for tomorrow it may be too late…

Saying Goodbye

In a few short months silence will echo permanently in its three floors of winding hallways. The once bustling corridors of students pushing their way to class—some begrudgingly, others enthusiastically—will be mere memories haunting the emptiness. A history we thought would live on for our children and our children’s children will come to an end.

Reading Central Catholic High School (CCHS) in Reading, PA isn’t just any school. Most are built for the specific purpose of educating students. As such, certain elements and conveniences are built in and modernized for the faculty and pupils. But half of CCHS is a historic landmark. It had a history long before any student ever set foot onto its property. (But that’s a story for another day.)

After years of dwindling enrollment, this private school succumbed to the recession and its inevitable fate was sealed by the Allentown Diocese. While I understand the decision to merge CCHS with (its arch-rival) Holy Name (HN) from a business perspective, there has been a vehemently vocal push from some members of the HN community (and less vocal but staunch CCHSers) to reject becoming a unified school under the Berks Catholic title and remain “Holy Name.” True, this is a generic union of two schools with long, fascinating histories. However, what these “good” Catholics are forgetting is that the CCHS institution is losing everything—its building, its traditions, its memories, and more—by moving into the HN building. It’s a necessary move in order to keep secondary Catholic education alive in Berks County, but it’s one that I’m sure current CCHS students, parents and alumni are finding a difficult one to accept.

The closure of CCHS feels like a death in the family. You see, CCHS is so much more than just another school. It’s our school. It represents everyone who wandered its halls. Awkward teen-dom was survived there. The most impressionable and important years of our lives leading to adulthood were spent in its halls and classrooms. It defined who we were then and who we are today. Though with each passing year its memories are fading, CCHS will forever live on in our hearts.

Closing the school is a necessary “evil” in this economic climate and makes financial sense, but CCHS is more than a business. It’s filled with thousands of individual stories. I met my husband in Freshman Homeroom #2. I made friends and lost friends in its halls. Fates were decided. Dreams came true and some were dashed. Hearts were broken, but lifelong friendships were made. Limits were pushed; detentions served (and in some cases using a toothbrush to scrub the sacred marble staircase—more on that in another blog). Academic, athletic, and personal challenges were faced head on; we won some and lost a lot. In these four vital years, we entered as children and left as adults.

Central lives on through each of us. We may not have a spectacular one-of-a-kind building to call our home anymore or CCHS homecomings at the football field on St. Lawrence Avenue, but we carry the school’s spirit, its lessons, and its memories in our unforgettable tales and our lasting friendships.

I can’t believe I’m saying this to Catholics who are supposed to support each other and their communities. It’s time to put aside differences and understand that CCHS and HN will live on as Berks Catholic.
• Centralites: The decision has been made. The school is closing. Remember the past, but look to the future.
• Holy Namers: It’s a merger, not an acquisition. Both schools need to blend. Get used to it.

New traditions will be forged. New opportunities will come to pass. And as long as both schools’ alumni live, the wonderful memories and traditions of CCHS and HN will live on through our stories, our actions, and our efforts to preserve both identities while peacefully compromising to create a better, richer community for the future Berks Catholic students, who ultimately are our future in Reading and beyond.

We are adults. Our children learn from our actions in what we do and say. More importantly, the leaders of tomorrow learn from their parents first. Shouldn’t we set an example for our children by teaching them that compromise is a necessary way of life? In a situation like this feelings on all sides are going to get hurt and no one at the moment is going to be 100% happy with the decisions and choices that are made. But twenty years from now Berks Catholic alumni will be grateful that private, college prep education was available in their backyard and, more importantly, provided a solid, moral foundation for their lives.

The situation could be worse. Both schools could close in this economy and Catholic education—along with both CCHS and HN’s rich pasts—would be nothing more than a forgotten page in Reading’s quickly vanishing history.

Image:
The title page of our 1996 yearbook foreshadows the state of the school today.

Cancer

Less than 24 hours apart, two of my friends lost their mothers to cancer this week.

Over the years five of my family and friends died from cancer. Like many of you, I know countless others who have been touched by this horrible disease and have lost loved ones to it.

The statistics* are scary:
• In 2010, 1,529,560 Americans died from cancer.
• Nearly one of every four deaths is because of cancer.
• More than 1,500 people in the U.S. die from cancer every day.
• 28% of all new cases are attributed to prostate and breast cancers.
• 29% male / 26% female deaths in 2010 were due to lung and bronchus cancer.
• 10,700 new cases of childhood cancer were estimated in 2010. About 1,340 children aged 0 – 14 were expected to die from cancer last year.
• The probability that we will develop an invasive cancer in our lifetimes is estimated at 44% in men, 38% in women.
• A little good news: The survival rate is 68%, up from 50% 35 years ago.

Early diagnosis and treatment is best, but prevention helps too. The American Cancer Society recommends we maintain a healthy weight, have an active lifestyle, eat healthy (lots of fruits and veggies), and limit alcohol intake.

Let’s honor those who’ve lost their valiant battles to this deadly disease by making a commitment to take care of ourselves (i.e. stop smoking, eat right, wear sunscreen, go to the doctor [this is always the hardest], etc.). No more procrastination, the time for change is now. Cancer doesn’t wait. Why should we?

To K & J: May you find comfort in your family and friends and may happier memories carry you through this difficult time.

* Resources:
American Cancer Society
Cancer Facts & Figures 2010
Treatment & Support
Staying Healthy

The Christmas Tree

Based on a true story

Once upon a time in a land far, far away but not so long ago, there lived a little boy. His mom, dad, five sisters and brothers and he shared a cramped one story house with a kitchen and a couple of bedrooms. But the tight quarters weren’t the things bothering him right now. Christmas was only a few days away and it was going to be a sad one for many reasons.

The idea of a Christmas without presents because his family was too poor to afford them was the least of his worries. While the little boy didn’t understand exactly what had happened, he knew that many people fought against his country’s government for taking everything away from them. Of course, the government fought back and won, hurting many people. His 23-year-old brother was one of the lucky ones who was able to escape to America. Though he was far away, his family knew he was safe and that was comforting, but his mom and dad were still very sad.

The little boy kept busy with his chores knowing that in this small way he could help his parents and make them happy. One day, as he was about to sweep the floor, he opened the closet to look for the broom. What he found wasn’t quite what he had in mind. He found the broom all right, but it was missing its handle. He swept the floor with the bottom bundle of straw while his thoughts wandered to his friends.

A lot changed this year and while his own family struggled to put food on the table, at least his mother was always able to stretch vegetables and soup into a dinner for all of them. But even that wasn’t enough. Sometimes his stomach would hurt at school. At nine, he was growing up fast and he was always hungry. He reminded himself that he was lucky to have food. Some of his friends went to school without breakfast and their moms couldn’t afford to send them anything for lunch. The little boy wondered if they even had dinner some nights. He would have shared his own lunch with the others but one small slice of bread smeared with lard was barely enough for him.

As he sauntered home from school the next day, Christmas danced in his every thought. He was too old to believe that the Christ Child* would bring any presents for him anymore. The little boy wished he was younger—a time when he wasn’t aware of the world around him and life was less complicated. There wouldn’t be a Christmas this year. Depressed and lacking any holiday cheer, his dad greeted him at the edge of their front yard. He was cutting branches off of the beautiful and enormous evergreen tree gracing the corner of their postage-stamp sized property. The little boy opened his mouth to say Hi, but just then the afternoon train rumbled past, shaking everything around them and drowning out his words. He hung his head and dragged his feet inside.

Plopping down at the kitchen table and hanging his head in his hands, he watched in silence as his mother cut square pieces of aluminum foil and piled them neatly beside her. He was too upset to even bother asking what it was. She kissed him on the head and told him everything would be ok, but the little boy didn’t believe it. Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

After dinner, the little boy sat beside a wood-burning stove to keep warm. His two teenage sisters were arguing about something stupid nearby while his eldest (and favorite) sister sat next to him and helped him with his schoolwork. Their dad sat silently in the corner of the small room, oblivious to his children, and kept busy by boring holes into a long stick. The little boy shook his head at his weird family and focused on his work as his favorite sister swept his hair from his eyes.

The next day, Christmas Eve had arrived. The little boy wanted to be excited but wasn’t. He walked home from school slowly, kicking pebbles along the dirt path. He needed to cheer up for his mom’s sake. She was having a difficult Christmas as it was. He didn’t want to upset her even more.

As his feet managed to find the front yard, he looked up at their miniscule, old house, and the most wonderful sight met his gaze. He blinked twice because he couldn’t believe it was real. Was he dreaming? Did he wander into someone else’s yard by mistake?

In the open front window of his home, stood a little Christmas tree. The holes his father had carved into the broom handle held the branches he trimmed from the evergreen the day before. On each little branch, tiny home-made candies wrapped in his mother’s silver foil dangled temptingly.

The little boy found himself in holiday heaven. The mood in the house was cheerful as the family rushed around busily preparing for Christmas. As the cold moonlight pushed the sun to sleep, the little boy walked to the front window to close it for the night. He glanced at the tree and stared at it horrified. He shouted for his parents.

As his family rushed into the room, the joy of the day was washed away by sudden anger. All of the candies were gone! The only presents they had to share this year and they were gone! He slammed the front window shut and yelled at his mom for leaving the window open while she was baking.

“Son,” his father intervened, his tone stern yet calm, “Perhaps someone needed the candy more than us.”

“Or maybe they’re just selfish thieves,” the little boy blurted. “We need them as much as anyone else! We have nothing!”

Placing an arm around his son, his father turned him around to face the family. “We have each other and that’s all we truly need.”

The son was still mad but he didn’t bother arguing anymore. At least they still had the Christmas tree.

As the little boy grew up, his father’s advice grew in meaning. He found out that his father had seen the thieves and that they were the little boy’s friends. His father let them take the candies because he knew that the other boys wouldn’t even have a Christmas tree that year. One of the boys didn’t even have a dad. More importantly, at the time, no one knew that this would be the last Christmas with the little boy’s favorite sister who passed away unexpectedly the following spring. From that moment on, the little boy understood his father’s wisdom.

Possessions are nothing more than things that come and go easily. Christmas isn’t defined by presents but by those we hold dear. Our time with each other is more precious and priceless than any gift or decoration.

Christmas lies in what God has given us—his only son, who taught us to love one another.

Wishing each of you peace, health, and happiness during the holiday season and in the New Year!

* In eastern Europe Santa Claus fills children’s shoes with treats on St. Nicholas Day, December 6th. On Christmas, the Christ Child brings presents for good little girls and boys to celebrate his birthday.

Picture: My family’s very own Charlie Brown Christmas tree serves as a reminder about the true meaning of Christmas.

Live, Laugh, & Love

Life has a funny way of knocking you off your feet. With the rush of the holiday season adding to the stress of personal and professional commitments, I had a mini-breakdown this morning. A trusted and wise friend suggested I take an hour and just relax. Taking a deep breath to convince myself that a break was indeed needed, I figured I’d check the world of Facebook to see what my friends have been up to lately. And there it was, news that a classmate and friend had passed away.

Like a movie sequence where the world around you continues to spin while time stops in your mind, all of my selfish cares and worries vanished. People die every day, but today it happened to someone I know. Someone who in his early 30’s was way too young to go. As “they” say, the good die young. And, it’s true.

I can’t be certain of what lies beyond our world, though I believe our souls live on in one form or another. One thing is for sure, he’ll never again feel the sunshine on his face the way we can. He’ll never again feel the physical embrace of those who loved him. The seasons will come and go without him. The world will be slightly emptier and sadder with him gone.

On my way to get my son from school today, I passed a house with tons of Christmas lights and decorations. Until that moment, it had looked like any other house trimmed for the season. Only now, it was different. It served as a reminder to savor every moment. Christmas lights, decorations, and presents too often end up as the focus of our holiday planning. We want to make everything perfect when everything we need is already with us. It’s in a hug from our kids or a wave from a friendly neighbor. It’s in the love of our families and friends and a kind gesture from a stranger. What matters most is the priceless, un-buyable, and unconditional love we give and receive from family and friends.

While John was a wonderful person and friend to those who knew him, his spirit lives on in the hearts of everyone he touched. And those who didn’t have the privilege of knowing him can hopefully take something away from his sad passing. Life is too short. Love fully. Laugh often. Seize the day.

John~ Wherever you are now (I’m picturing you playing vampire games on heaven’s facebook network), know that we will keep you in our memories and hearts forever. It was an honor to know you and watch you grow from the shy kindergartener to the sarcastically-witty friend with a contagious smile. You were a unique star in our universe and though your light has gone out, it will never be forgotten. RIP.

Blood is Thicker than Water

I recently watched “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” and it’s made me a bit homesick. If you’ve seen the movie, then you’ve met my family. Just substitute ‘Hungarian’ for ‘Greek’ and that’s us.

They’re loud, in your business, and argumentative. They’ll feed you until you explode and if you don’t explode, they’ll be offended that you didn’t enjoy whatever meal was prepared. The man is the head of the house, but (unbeknownst to the man) the woman runs the show. They have something to say about everything and they’re “always” right.

Nationalism runs strong. All Hungarians must be proud of their heritage (I endured a horrific Hungarian school on weekends for far longer than I ever wanted). And Hungarians are responsible for great feats of mankind. (George Pataki [NY Governor], Franz Liszt [composer/pianist], Performers—Drew Barrymore, Mariska Hargitay, Jamie Lee Curtis, Tony Curtis, Harry Houdini, Freddie Prinze Jr., Rachel Weisz, Bela Lugosi, Goldie Hawn, Paul Newman, Zsazsa Gabor; Peter Esterhazy [writer]; Bela Karolyi [Gymnastics coach]; Business—Calvin Klein, Estee Lauder; Scientists/Inventors—Szilard & Teller [physicists part of team responsible for development of atomic bond (personally, I’m not too proud of this achievement)], Mihaly Somogyi [chemist who developed 1st child insulin treatment in US], Erno Rubik [sculptor and inventor of the Rubik’s cube]. The list is endless…

Unlike those above, my family isn’t famous (though my dad did design and develop food production/packaging machines for Godiva, Pepperidge Farm, and Palmer—what can I say? I’m proud of his accomplishments). Like many Hungarians, they certainly have their eccentricities and are hot headed (to say the least). Despite it all, one thing is for sure. They have hearts of gold. Arguments, hurt feelings, and “talking loudly” are just part of who we are and what we do. Most importantly, we love each other unconditionally—no matter what. After all, we’re family.

Source: Most Famous Hungarians

Soldier Person: Reflections on WWII from Behind Enemy Lines

Today marks the 70th anniversary of the start of World War II when Germany attacked Poland at Westerplatte. To this day, WWII marks a tragic era for the entire world. Considering the losses faced by nations and families, there were no winners.

(Before I go any further, I want to state emphatically that Hitler was a madman and his ideology and plans have no place in our world. He needed to be stopped and, thankfully, the allies were able to bring about the war’s end. And to all the service men and women who’ve protected our freedoms over the centuries…Thank You!)

Studying World War II through the eyes of American history books was an experience I’ll never forget. We learned about the triumphant allies and evil enemies. Classmates spoke proudly of their grandparents, aunts and uncles who served the allied forces honorably. Classes would recount America’s heroic efforts to avenge attacks and stop the war to end all wars.

But history books are just printed facts on a page. They capture no feelings. They say only what the writer wants you to know when there’s so much more to be said. No matter which side they’re on, nations and soldiers are people too; they're not all mindless, soulless brutes.

Concentrating on hiding my guilt-ridden secret, I hoped no one would ask about my family’s past. While I was born in America to immigrant parents who are proud Americans, I couldn’t turn my back on my family’s history. You see, there’s more to the good guys versus bad guys WWII story. It’s not a clear cut case of black and white. My ancestors were inextricably caught in the many shades of grey somewhere in between.

70 years ago today marked the beginning of a series of events that destroyed both sides of my family.

Hungary in 1939 was a tumultuous place. Over the prior thousand years, the country had grown extensively both politically and culturally and subsequently been conquered by countless invaders. With Hitler positioned to the northwest and the ever present Russian threat to the northeast, Hungary was literally caught between a rock and a hard place. When Hitler gave them an ultimatum (join us or we destroy you), the Hungarian politicians were left with little choice. They wanted to salvage whatever they could of their country and its inhabitants. As a member of the “enemy” forces, the people and soldiers were at the mercy of Hitler’s whims.

With the ever-changing eastern borders, my grandmother's father (on my mom's side) was forced into serving with the Romanian army. It didn’t matter that he had four young children and a very young wife who he was abandoning for the war effort. Hitler needed bodies. The men were drafted. They went. The alternative for those who refused: imprisonment, torture, and, possibly, death. Oh, did I mention, the punishment extended to their family members as well. So, to protect his wife and children, he served unwillingly for a cause with which he vehemently disagreed. Although he eventually returned home, the horrors his children faced without his presence and protection shaped their futures.

Although he was proud to be a Hungarian soldier, my mom's dad and his brothers didn’t agree with Hitler’s agenda or Hungary’s position in the matter either. Nonetheless, as active soldiers, all of the brothers were shipped to the eastern front. Only two returned.

Though the circumstances varied across the country and from family to family, my dad’s family fared far worse. My grandmother was one of three sons and three daughters from an educated, middle class family in Vasvar. She gave up her comfortable life to marry my grandfather who worked as a railroad officer across the country. (He survived the front lines in the army at only 17 during the first World War.) Still, they lived a comfortable middle-class existence and had five children before WWII. When the war hit, my uncles, who were already soldiers or of serving age, were forced to fight against the allies. Despite their stance against the war, they had no choice but to do as they were commanded.

Decades after the war ended, the blood of their friends could not be washed from their hands. Memories of herding their childhood playmates, classmates, their families, and coworkers onto railcars to be shipped to death camps haunted my uncles and grandfather until the day they died.

After the war ended and Hungary’s borders were remapped yet again, my dad’s family was given 24 hours to move back to the country otherwise they would be considered Yugoslavian citizens. So deep was their tie to their homeland, that they packed what they could carry and crossed the borders with their children. The comforts they once enjoyed became faded memories. Under communist rule, my grandparents died impoverished. Their children struggled for every crust of bread and every accomplishment; some made it, some did not.

It’s easy to say the honorable thing for both families would’ve been to stand up for what they believed and fight against the oppressive regimes leading them into unpardonable actions. Having lived a fairly easy life in a country that lets me speak my mind, I can’t even begin to imagine the challenges my ancestors faced. Their choices amounted to picking between the lesser of evils. Fight with a regime at the expense of countless innocents or oppose the regime and forfeit both your life and that of your families. In a time when the idea of the “greater good” was muddled with conflicting ideologies, they protected what was within their very limited power. They chose their families.

Choosing the honorable path is never easy and many have lost their lives in the process. In this one case, I’m selfishly glad my families did what they had to in order to survive. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t have been given the greatest gift ever.

Life.