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Series II: Vol. 4—1

“Everglades, Egret” by Caroline Arnold

Winter 2019 A Community Converses

ART AND ARTISTS AT LATHROP

The Lathrop Nor’Easter 2 Winter 2019

On the Cover: The Artist

Caroline remembers drawing

as a child, copying her older

sisters. She took art classes,

with special encouragement

from her teachers, all through

her years at the Northampton

School, and for college she

chose Newcomb Art School at

Tulane, where she concentrated

on sculpture. Her professor

included photos of two of her

pieces in his book, The Crea-

tion of Sculpture. However Car-

oline says that she was much

distracted from her art by the

active social scene, and she left

school to get married after two

years. Three children quickly

followed, and there was no

time for art while they were all

very young.

Contributing to The Nor’Easter

It’s about the poems you write, about the vignettes you’ve related for

years but have never recorded, about the foul ball you caught with your

other hand (or maybe dropped with the favored one), about a chance

elevator ride with a celebrity du jour, about that epiphanic moment

when it all became clear, about the first sight of the phantom of delight

who changed your life, about that time in the Great Depression or in the

War of Your Choice, about your genealogy searches, about your trav-

els, about your work or profession — in short, about what interests you

to write, and you know better than we do what that is.

We do encourage all residents to contribute to the Nor'Easter, with

poetry, art, photography and both fiction and non-fiction writing. Biog-

raphies of new residents are a popular feature.

Submissions can be sent to:

[email protected]

The Lathrop Nor’Easter

Editorial Committee:

Joan Cenedella

Sarah Gauger

Lyn Howe

Sharon Kletzien

Barbara Reitt

Irving Rothberg

Ed Shanahan

When she had more time

for herself later, she finished

her degree at UMass, where

she majored in anthropology,

in a detour from art. Eventually

she did take a summer art

course at UMass. She began

to participate in Amherst area

art groups, particularly at the

Senior Center, and worked in

watercolors with the encour-

agement of her teacher, Ste-

phen Hamilton. She explains

she had always admired wa-

tercolors and didn’t really like

the smell of oil paints. Her

other medium in later years

were doodles that she made

free-hand in pen or pencil

while attending meetings of

the Amherst Town Meet-

ing. She was an elected mem-

ber for many years and says

she coped with the tedium of

long meetings by doing her

doodles, which may have

looked from afar like careful

note-taking.

Her doodles were a popular

exhibition at Lathrop North

when she was a resident there,

and one viewer insisted that

she must have used an instru-

ment to produce them because

they were so precise and geo-

metric. She showed him her

hand, saying that was her only

instrument. Unfortunately, the

preserved doodles have been

lost somewhere in Caroline’s

recent moves. LH


BETH DENNISON, Easthampton

One of the questions I like to ask people when we

are really getting to know each other, is “What organiz-

es your life?”

At 31, having broken up with my boyfriend, and

wondering what I should do with my life, I found my-

self standing in my parents’ kitchen reaching for the

refrigerator - at 11 in the morning. Being overweight, I

thought, “Bad plan! What would John (the ex) suggest?

Nope, don’t want him to be my compass. What would

Pop suggest? Nope, I do not want him organizing my

life either.” But I kept finding I was measuring my ide-

as by what I learned from Pop when I was 6. So, I fig-

ured if I was going to do that, I might as well get the

updated version. Who knows, he might have learned

something in the last 25 years.

So I marched myself in to my father’s study, sat

down, and said “So Pop, what do you think I should

do with my life?” (I should say he was an architect and

I had a masters degree in counseling, which he had

paid for.) He looked up and blinked with a momentary

flash of something like terror. Then he said “Well, you

can help people feel better about themselves and each

other; all I can do is build spaces for them to live in.” I

paused and then said, “So it is about service?” He said,

“Well, yah...”, like that should be obvious.

Service, as an important family value, was not news

to me, but I digested it as my own, in a deep way that

day. A few years later I articulated that I also care

deeply about embodying spirit accurately. That has led to

my becoming a somatic psychotherapist.

Soma means body; I work with the physical, neuro-

logical basis for our moods and attitudes, as well as our

conscious thought processes. I work primarily with

trauma clients. I study interpersonal neurobiology -

how we attune to each other and affect each other’s

nervous system.

I am developing a body of work and just finished a

book on “Body Up Co-Regulation”. It lays out

practices for getting more present in our bodies and

helping each other regulate, or shift gears in our

nervous systems. Co-regulation means good for you

and good for me. Together, we can help each other

calm down after we get mad or scared or anxious, rev

up when there is work to do, or send plenty of blood

to our social brains to engage in communication,

which is a complex task for the brain. I teach classes

on dissolving shame and I am good at helping people

rewire their brains for embodiment and healing in

relational space.

On the personal side, I grew up privileged in NYC,

attended the Chapin School, then engineering at Case

Western Reserve, and finally an MS in marriage and

family therapy at Antioch. I have been married and

divorced. I had a special needs son who died 5 years

ago at age 30. He was a photographer but could not

easily talk. I welcome questions about his photography

or being his Mom, but condolences mostly feel

misattuned.

I love my work here in the valley, and plan to con-

tinue writing and teaching and seeing clients for some

time. I am very involved in my local Contact Improvi-

sation Dance community, I love to sing and bodysurf,

talk about the human nervous system, and spend time

with my four wonderful siblings and their families. I

look forward to engaging with a new community here

at Lathrop. Anybody want to read interpersonal neuro-

biology books with me?


I was three and a half years old when we moved from

Harrisburg to Ithaca, New York, and my recollections of

this momentous change are spotty. In all likelihood, my par-

ents talked about the coming move in my presence, but in

my innocence I apparently missed the main point entirely.

Nothing they’d have said would have any meaning for me—

talk of buying or selling houses, packing, or going to live

someplace else would not have attached itself to anything

familiar or known to me. My very small universe was huge

to me—going two blocks from home was a major trip. Any

removal farther than that, and permanently, was incompre-

hensible.

The part that I do remember, the part that represented

upheaval in my universe, was being separated from my

mother and father for the first time in my life. It had been

decided that it would be less upsetting for me and far easier

for my parents if I stayed at my grandparents’ for a week or

more while Mother and Dad packed our belongings and

then went ahead to Ithaca to buy a house for us to move

into. Mother took me to Philadelphia by train.

I’d been to Buddy’s and Little Pop-pop’s house before,

and until Mother abandoned me and left, it seemed like any

other visit to grandmother’s. I’d never been alone with my

grandparents before, and the fact that I was sleeping in the

very same bed my mother had slept in when she was a little

girl was small comfort. I must have asked repeatedly when

Mommy would come back. On one such occasion, Buddy

was vacuuming the rug in her bedroom, and my worried

questioning must have finally reached a level that prompted

her to try something more than simple reassurances, because

she stopped doing her housework and sat me down to ex-

plain how much longer I would have to wait.

She told me that it would be five more days and then

Mommy would come get me and take me by train to my

new house. “What is five days?” I asked. She held up her

hand, told me to hold up mine, and she tried to show me

that my five fingers were the same as the five days until I’d

see Mommy. Such confusions! It wasn’t the counting that

was the problem, though she could not have known that,

and I could not have explained my problem to her. I could

count up to ten, at least, and was indignant that she didn’t

know that. But she continued to focus her efforts on teach-

ing me to count while I struggled with the idea that time

could be countable. What is a “day” or an “hour” or a

“minute” to a child who is still living in the eternal present?

“Moving”

by Bobbie Reitt

She finally explained that my mother would come for me

after I had gone to bed five more times. At that point I

turned to go straight to my room and climb onto the bed. A

young lady of action, I was determined to do everything I

could to make Mommy reappear as soon as I could. If that

meant going bed five times in quick succession, so be it! My

poor grandmother had an awful time trying to extricate her-

self and make clear to me why my repeatedly climbing into

bed and then out again would not make Mommy materialize.

Inconsolable, I finally cried myself to sleep.

My attempt to make a reality of what I wanted so much

was a story often repeated later. My cousin Robin, especially,

was glad to point out how stupid I was to think that going to

bed over and over would make my mother materialize. Rob-

in, my mother’s older sister’s little boy and my predecessor

as grandchild on that side of the family, was often derisive of

me. He was an only child sorely in need of a younger sibling

to torment.

When Mother did return, she was exhausted from the

hard work of finding a house and moving in, capped off by a

hard train trip to come get me. Her mother was concerned

and insisted she stay an extra night. I cared little whether we

stayed or went, overjoyed simply to have my mother back.

We slept together in that bed which had been hers in child-

hood. I remember it still, I think because it was the first time

I’d slept in bed with a grownup for a whole night. She whis-

pered to me in the dark about our new house, but I could

not imagine any house but the old one as “our house.”

The train trip to Ithaca the first time was memorable. The

year was 1943, the country was at war, and seating space on

trains was scarce. Soldiers were on the move everywhere, all

the time, and anyone traveling for strictly personal reasons

had to be ready to accept delays and all manner of other in-

conveniences. One might have to stand for hours in the

crowded aisle of a passenger car, or sit on one’s suitcase in

the rackety, dirty, drafty area between cars. Troop trains and

freight trains carrying military goods had priority, and civilian

trains might stand idle on side lines while train after train

more critical to the war effort thundered past.

The trip from Philadelphia to upstate New York on the

Lehigh Valley Railroad normally would have taken about

eight hours. Ours stretched much longer than that, far into

the dark hours of a late fall evening. We were lucky to have

seats nearly all the way, mostly because one young soldier

was willing to relinquish his seat after watching a young


mother struggle with the discomforts of a small child while

swaying back and forth in the aisle as the train climbed

through the mountains of northern Pennsylvania. We occu-

pied only one seat much of the distance, with mother hold-

ing me in her lap so that someone else could sit down when

the seat next to us was freed. We were lucky to sit by the

window some of the time—I remember that well because

Mother had to keep wiping my hands and forearms. The

trains was fueled by coal, and coal dust coated surfaces

throughout the train, but nowhere so thickly as on the win-

dowsills, where the coal seeped through the cracks. Her

handkerchief was black with soot smears by the time we got

to Ithaca.

Passenger cars in those days had two features that in-

trigued me. One was the water fountain at each end of the

car near the restrooms—the men’s at one end, the women’s

at the other. The second was the reversibility of the seat

backs throughout the car. Being three and a half years old, I

pled thirst repeatedly so as to have the privilege of navi-

gating the aisle to the end of the car, squeezing between the

people standing and sitting in my way, and then seeking as-

sistance from nearby adults who could pull down a paper

cone from the dispenser above the water faucet and then

push the big button, so far above my reach, that released

water into the cup. Even for adults maneuvering so that

most of the water got into the cup might not be easy in a

swaying train, and I thought the pointed paper cup was a

real treasure. My repeated trips for water had nothing to do

with the quality of the water—it was pretty bad—and every-

thing to do with my growing boredom and restlessness.

Mother would watch me carefully from her seat—which she

was not about to relinquish if she could help it.

By the end of the trip I’d gathered a large collection of

paper cones and of course had created the need for numer-

ous trips to the bathroom, which Mother could not let me

do alone. Usually when we returned the seat was still empty

and waiting; a few times, it had been taken by some exhaust-

ed soul, and we would have to stand again for a while. In

those difficult days many normal courtesies were stood on

their heads. In peacetime, a woman with child could expect

virtually every man in the train to offer her a seat; in war-

time, exhausted soldiers had gained priority consideration. A

young healthy women would certainly think twice before

waking a sleeping soldier and asking him for his seat. Never-

theless, we did not have to spend a long time on our feet—

someone eventually would allow us a seat. I remember even

sharing seating space on an older woman’s suitcase with her.

It was doubly uncomfortable because we were near the door

at the end of the car, where it was very cold, as people kept

passing in and out of the car either in search of a seat or to

get on or off the train.

The second feature that fascinated me was the mobility of

the backs of the seats. They were attached to the base in

such a way that one could slant them forward or backward.

That way, people could make some of the seats so that they

faced the seat behind them, which allowed families of four,

for example, to sit together, two facing two. This also meant

that some lucky people got to ride the train backward. I des-

perately wanted to do so myself, and my badgering my

mother on the point prompted two soldiers to get up, re-

verse their seat, and offer to let me ride seated between them

for a while. It was a squeeze, but I loved it.

When we finally arrived in Ithaca, frayed and very hungry,

it was dark, cold, and raining very hard. Daddy was not at

the station to meet us—there’d been no way he could know

when the train would arrive, given the uncertainty of war-

time travel. So we took my first-ever taxi ride to our new

house. I recall it well because the taxi driver was so talkative

about how beautiful Ithaca is. I could not understand how

he could say that. All I could see was darkness, ugly rain

streaking the car window, and glimpses of unfamiliar terrain.

Mother’s nervous chatter about how much I’d like our big

new house didn’t help.

And in fact, that first night, I didn’t like it at all. The kitch-

en seemed cavernous to me, possibly because the cabinets

were dark stained wood and extended all the way to the ceil-

ing, or because the central hallway, where there were stairs

that made a right-angle turn from a landing halfway up, was

a great scary space that extended all the way from the first

floor to the ceiling of the second story.

It was not long before the new house became home for

me and our Harrisburg home a fading memory. The kitchen

cabinets were soon painted a bright, cheerful color, and the

hallway became familiar space where I clattered up and

down with total mastery, learning to skip steps and eventual-

ly even inventing what became a routine shortcut—climbing

over the railing outside my bedroom and jumping down to

the landing rather than walking around to the head of the

stairs at the opposite side of the upstairs hall. I was warned

repeatedly not to do it, but I never failed to follow my route

down the stairs when no one was looking, or at least not

until I became a teenager with far too much dignity to clam-

ber around the house like a monkey.


MARGARET STOCKI,

Easthampton

Margaret was born in Toronto,

Canada. She first came to the U.S. in

the late 1950’s as a result of interna-

tional espionage. Her husband was a

mechanical engineer working for a

Canadian company which was en-

gaged in building an advanced U.S.

jet fighter plane. In 1959 it was dis-

covered that the Russians had infil-

trated the plant, enabling them to

discover the design secrets of the new

plane, and the governments of Cana-

da and the U.S. decided to close the

plant.

Her husband came home from

work with his slide rule in his hand,

saying that he no longer had a job.

Eventually he began work as a relia-

bility engineer with GE, and the

family moved to the U.S. They now

had two children, a boy and a girl,

and the family lived in different cit-

ies as he followed work to different

General Electric locations. After

Cincinnati, they moved to Chicago,

and finally ended up in Pittsfield,

MA in 1962.

While Margaret lived in Pittsfield

she depended on many close and

supportive neighbors and friends to

help manage after her husband suf-

fered a heart attack in 1980 and was

not well for many years. She also

was very close to her daughter’s

family who lived here in Florence,

spending many happy days visiting

and helping with family projects.

Following her husband’s death,

Margaret herself went through a peri-

od of illness, and at that time she

went to stay with her son near Chica-

go. In 2014 she happily returned to

this area, living in a house up in the

hill towns and spending time with her

family. Sadly, she lost her daughter

to illness three years ago but remains

here to be close to her grandchildren

and their little ones.

Margaret is interested in genealogy

and keeps family records and papers.

At Lathrop she loves the music pro-

grams, does yoga twice a week, plays

bridge, enjoys the library, and takes

day trips, but she says her grandchil-

dren and their children light up her

life. Others in the community also

feel the same, after encountering the

little ones on their frequent visits to

their grandma Margaret.

“Black-necked Stilt” by Caroline Arnold


“I Wish I Was an Owl” by Joan Cenedella

When I was a child, we had a set of big, leather-red

books called The Home University Bookshelf, a kind of

encyclopedia for children. I think there were ten volumes.

The volumes were not alphabetical, but had titles, only

some of which I remember. One was Stories from the Bible,

another Stories from Many Lands. On the front cover of each

was a picture in vivid color, set into the bumpy red cover,

on smooth paper. These pictures hinted at the contents of

the volume. Stories from Many Lands had a picture of a boy

dressed in something that looked to me like a dress. He

was standing in a desert with a pyramid in the background.

There was a volume of fairy tales, most of them as I re-

member, gruesome and terrifying. There was a volume

called Things to Make and Do that had pages and pages of

projects: directions for making a pinwheel, a paper air-

plane, a papier mache rabbit, how to make your own val-

entines with lacy paper, or a kite. Also science experiments

with candles and glasses of water. One of the volumes was

for very little kids and Little Folks was part of the title.

In one of the volumes, there was a section with the title

“What’s Wrong with This Picture?” My sister and I pored

over these colored pictures, discovering one by one errors

in the drawings and laughing our heads off as we compet-

ed to notice first, shouted each other down, calling out the

mistakes. The pictures were mostly of domestic scenes or

town scenes. A man walking down the street might have

his ear backwards or a house might have a front door with

no doorknob or a flowering shrub in front of a house

might have a one flower different from all the others. A

mother might have two different shoes on or long hair on

one side and short hair on the other. There were subtler

mistakes, too, like one of four chairs at a table with a miss-

ing leg. We used to take the book out periodically and go

through the mistakes as if we’d never seen them before

and laugh until we had to pee.

My father, who loved to read aloud to us, used to read

from the volume that was a mixture of prose, poetry, and

pictorial stories. He especially liked to read, and we liked

to hear, “Giant Thunderbones”, a poem of three or four

pages with wild drawings of the action up and down the

pages. I don’t remember it any more except that Giant

Thunderbones was a roaring giant who frightened every-

one, and there was a character named the Princess of

Mumblety Peg—and for her my father’s voice would

change from the deep growl of Giant Thunderbones to a

falsetto with a lisp, accompanied by closed eyes and

pursed lips. There was also a gnome with a funny name

who worried all the time. When he read the gnome’s

part, his voice would sink to a whisper, and he’d wring

his hands and screw up his face. The three of us, my sis-

ter, brother and I, sat and listened, mesmerized, by the

poem but even more by our father’s histrionics.

But in all the volumes, the item that drew me over

and over again was a pictorial sequence, no words, no

title, except in the first picture. I found it by myself and

studied it by myself. I don’t remember ever sharing it or

asking my father about it. It was a mystery that pulled me

in.

There were three rows of pictures, three in a row. The

first picture was of a smiling child with wild, curly hair,

standing in her crib, her hands closed over the cross-

piece, dressed in a silken dress with tucks coming from

the round neck. Underneath the first picture of the child

(staring out at me), were the words, “I wish I was an

owl.” The next picture was pretty much the same, and

the next and the next, except not exactly the same be-

cause in each picture there were little changes that got

carried along and added to until the curly hair was flat-

tened and straightened, even sticking up, her nose gradu-

ally got sharper and sharper, her hands, curled around the

crosspiece began to look like claws, her face went from

smile to scowl—and by the last picture, she had meta-

morphosed into an owl. Each time I opened the book to

this page, I was full of wonder and fear as I moved slow-

ly from picture to picture to the end. I studied this little

lesson (I knew on some level that it was a lesson,) with

fascination and horror over and over again. I don’t re-

member ever looking at it with anyone else; I thought of

it as mine, meant for me, a secret.

At some point—it was bound to happen—mustering

all my courage, kneeling backwards in the big armchair in

the living room and clasping my hands on its back, I

closed my eyes and whispered, “I wish I was an owl,”

and waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing happened.

I wriggled around, studied my hands, and still nothing

happened. I was me.


Do you know Mma Precious Ramotswe, she who

founded the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency in Gabar-

one, Botswana? Have you met Mma Grace Makutsi, the

one who earned 97% on the Botswana Secretarial School

final exam? How about Rra J. L. B. Matekoni, the best

mechanic in all of Botswana?

If you know them, you have doubtless enjoyed Alex-

ander McCall Smith’s long-running series of books featur-

ing these characters (and many others). The No. 1 Ladies’

Detective Agency celebrated its 20th year in 2018. Much

loved by readers, the series has earned literary prizes, been

adapted for television and radio, and has been published

as audio books as well.

Mma Ramotswe uses her knowledge of people and the

culture of Botswana to solve many mysteries and human

problems throughout this 1- book series. Her sense of

justice is always tempered by her kindness, humanity, and

her understanding of individuals and their motivations.

Her partner, Mma Makutsi, may be more abrupt – even

when she is talking and listening to her shoes -- but pro-

vides support and an interesting counterpart to Mma Ra-

Book Review: The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, Alexander McCall Smith

by Sharon Kletzien

motswe. And Rra J. L. B. Matekoni, husband to Mma

Ramotswe, has unfailing patience and a tender heart – as

evidenced by his adopting two children from the orphan

farm.

Alexander McCall Smith writes with compassion, gen-

tle wit, and a thorough understanding of Botswana and its

culture. Readers who either read or listen to these books

find themselves transported to Gabarone along the edge

of the Kalahari. Lisa Lecat, narrator of the audio books,

unfailingly renders the accent and lilt of the Botswana

language, magically introducing listeners to this beautiful

country and its people. As reported by the New York

Times: “McCall Smith’s generous writing and dry hu-

mour, his gentleness and humanity, and his ability to

evoke a place and a set of characters without caricature or

condescension have endeared his books to readers.”

So, brew a pot of bush tea, pick up one of the books

in the series, be transported to Botswana, and celebrate

20 years of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. (Several of

the books in the series are in the library at the Inn.)

“Everglades, Dawn” by Caroline Arnold


Green Sestina

I can respect

a gardener. Who else perceives the art

of compromise with such repose? In a green

shade it's hard to fancy frenzy, though I've seen roses

race November to the very death as if this time

they might acquire the upper hand.

Those whose heads and hands

are intimate with plants seem to respect

life more. They know we move through time,

not time through us; that it's an art

to blend the tough and tender as a rose

does in its short green

span. Once I knew a man, an old green

grocer, who turned his hand

to soldiering. Believing he had values to defend, he rose

to battle; and learned from that exchange of blood profound respect

for the fine art

of nurture. He never wasted time

in worrying that time

would lay him waste, but moved toward the greening

of his seeds with all the art

and craft at his command. His hands

informed the soil of his respect

and it replied with a luxuriance of color. Rose-

breasted radishes, sweet peppers, and eggplant rose

like lovers to his touch. He timed

his rest and labor to the earth's quiet turning, irrespective

of the steeple clock, and was rewarded with the greenest

harvest in the county for his hand's

own gathering. Dust thou art

to dust returnest is a greeting in a garden. The artful

tiller of the soil knows in his soul we flower only briefly. Rose

colored glasses are beyond his ken; for what his hand

has touched is truth, and what is truth for now, in time

to come will be a green

gone by. In all respects,

then, art is in the way we use our time.

Bleed fiercely, rose, in your green

transit. Snow is at hand. It waits respectfully.

by Lisa Colt


Resident Reflections

by Ed Shaanhan

After a nearly 20-year layover at the Lathrop Commu-

nity in Northampton, retired Air Force Flight Nurse Bet-

te Barto, 91, has taken off again, this time setting down at

nearby Christopher Heights on Hospital Hill.

For those of us

who are her neigh-

bors on Dogwood

Lane, her recent

departure leaves a

gaping void, espe-

cially given her un-

erring ability to

make us laugh at

her deft, often ir-

reverent insights,

colorful South-

ernisms, and unu-

sual professional

experience, shared

mainly Friday after-

noons at the Dogwood picnic table.

Arriving at Lathrop in 1999, Bette is likely the resident

with the longest current link to the rich Lathrop history,

and her leaving deprives us of a unique personality and

cheerful friend.

Sitting on a sofa in her living room recently, Bette

thumbed through two large photo albums for more than

two hours, offering up anecdotes and reminiscences of

her life from its earliest period, born in Knoxville, Ten-

nessee, in 1928, and growing up in nearby Etowah. Hap-

pily she retains many traces of the appealing accent of

that southern region.

Despite the disruption associated with moving, Bette

projected unusual calm, no doubt the result of the enor-

mous assistance she has been provided for the planning

and execution of the move by her Dogwood neighbor

and good friend, Maureen McCarron.

Oh, there was a small debate about whether the wall

clock in the dining area would stay or go, after all it has

sentimental and perhaps monetary value for Bette but it

has not been wound since her husband Ray died in 1997

when they were living in Missouri.

The daughter of Hugh and Marie Harris, Bette,

known as Elizabeth Jewell Harris, arrived two years after

the birth of sister Helen.

Her father was a conductor and brakeman for the

Louisville and Nashville Railroad whose depot in Etowah,

founded in 1906, was a major presence in that very small

town.

Bette’s mother was a nurse and in her early days trav-

eled by horseback to visit her patients, just as her father

rode his bike around town to summon railroad employees

to come to work as needed. Neither phones nor electrical

service were available in that rural area, as Bette recalls.

As she turned the pages of the albums, Bette would

linger on a favorite photo like the one of her dressed as a

cowboy holding her dog Wimpy in her lap, or the one

with her and her saxophone in the high school band, or

in the front row of the basketball team on which she

‘lettered’ all four years.

Following in the footsteps of her mother and her sis-

ter, Bette elected after graduating from high school to

prepare to be a nurse, enrolling first in a two-year course

at the University of Tennessee, then three years at Van-

derbilt University School of Nursing.

For some time after that she devoted her nursing skills

to the care of polio victims. “People were terrified of po-

lio,” she recalled and not everyone was willing to work

with those patients.

Her true calling, however, came when she enlisted in

the U. S. Air Force to be a Flight Nurse. “I wanted to go

where there was a desperate need for nurses,” she ex-

plained, which took her to various postings for her train-

ing, especially Texas. “If you’re going to be in the military

you’re going to wind up in Texas sooner or later,” she

says.

More exotic than Texas, for certain, was when she

was shipped to Libya to serve as a charge nurse on call

for US military flights between North Africa and airbases

in Europe. Those were heady times for a young woman

from Etowah.

It was during this period that she met and married

Raphael Barto, an Air Force pilot who flew many of the

European flights as well as trained young pilots from the


base in Libya. Barto previously had flown fighter planes

in Korea as well as later in Vietnam.

Bette and Ray were married twice the same day, one

ceremony conducted in Arabic and a second later in a

more traditional church service.

Ray frequently took US Air Force Capt. Bette Barto

on his flights, some when she was performing her nursing

duties such as taking sick patients to Wiesbaden air base

in Germany; other times when Ray and Bette went aloft

for recreation. However, she says with some regret that

her husband did not actually teach her to fly, nor did he

want to. In those days, she said, women in uniform were

not encouraged to learn to pilot an airplane. “But I flew

with him every chance I got because he had the airplane,”

she said.

During the eight years she served in Libya, the coun-

try was a monarchy ruled by King Idris, who was decid-

edly pro-American, which created a comfortable environ-

ment for US military personnel who had close contact

with Libyan royalty.

In 1966 Bette resigned her Air Force commission and

transferred to a VA hospital in Wichita, Kansas, where

she served until 1988, specializing in geriatric care and

helping broken veterans “adjust to civilian life.” She also

had to come to grips with soldiers who had been exposed

to Agent Orange. “The Vietnam war was bad, bad, bad,”

she said, because the “patients did not understand their

illness and the government would not admit there was a

problem.”

By 1988 Bette and Ray, who finally quit flying, moved

to Shell Knob, Missouri, where they lived in retirement

mode until Ray’s passing in 1988.

So how did Bette wind up on Dogwood Lane at the

Lathrop Community in Northampton?

Well, you remember that Bette had an older sister,

Helen, who it turns out had married Joe Todd Clayton,

who headed the Food Engineering Department at

UMass and lived in Sunderland. When it came time for

them to retire they moved to a Lathrop unit on Hawthorn

Lane in 1997. Not long after that they lured Bette to

Lathrop as well. But when ‘J.T.’ died Helen moved to the

Inn and then to North Carolina.

Now that Bette has wrapped up her nearly two-decade

residency on Dogwood Lane, she and her dog Suze leave

in their wake many Lathrop friends with fond and warm

memories of them both.

Next door neighbor June Morse recalls that Bette of-

fered her green light bulbs to illuminate her porch, “ say-

ing they were to be lit as a tribute to our veteran hus-

bands. We put them on faithfully each night.” June also

remembers the time “Lathrop was planning to take down

the dogwood tree in our corner. We made a pact to tie

ourselves to it, to keep it from doom.” It worked.

Dogwood friend Maureen McCarron’s most vivid

memories are of Bette and her dog, Suze, always togeth-

er. “Bette was a trooper, heading out in all kinds of

weather, good and bad, cold and stormy---AND----if the

weather wasn't pleasant she and her dog would wear

matching color coat ensembles. From my window I'd

look every day to see whether the color scheme was red,

white, brown, grey, … The collection of dog coats and

sweaters, some with hoods, tassels, and even pockets, was

unique and special---- we used to say her pet was the best

dressed dog in town! Bette also had her own foot gear,

flashlights, headlight, studded boots, multiple hats,

scarves and gloves, and fanny pack to go along on the

walks.”

Maureen also noted that as a nurse Bette was “all in

when she landed in Lathrop, running at the drop of a hat

whenever there was a problem.”

Not surprisingly, the affection Dogwood neighbors

have for Bette was best reflected by the 100 percent turn-

out of all 15 lane residents at a recent luncheon to say

farewell to Bette and wish her well in her home.

While Bette’s move from Lathrop was dislocating for

her and Suze, a recent visitor found both of them com-

fortably settled in their new home. Reflecting on her

Lathrop years, Bette expressed great fondness for the

people she met and had known, such as the late Stanley

Tripp, “ a marvelous cook” whose ashes are buried un-

der a tree on Shallowbrook, her late neighbor and walk-

ing pal, Arky Markham, her closest friend, Maureen

McCarron, and the rest of the Dogwood afternoon gang.

One of her strongest memories is of the building, dec-

orating, and perfecting of the celebrated lane picnic table

that is so central to the close relationships that are forged

among Dogwood residents. “One day the table just ap-

peared,” she recalls.


ELLY RUMELT,

Northampton

I was born in the Women’s and

Children’s Infirmary in Manhattan,

the only hospital in New York City

to give hospital privileges to my

mother’s doctor, a female obstetri-

cian chosen for her gender (among

other qualities) by my mother, a fem-

inist.

So social consciousness was part

of my story from my very first mo-

ments. Accordingly I was educated at

the Fieldston School of the Ethical

Culture Society (weekly ethics classes

were part of the curriculum), at the

Quaker-founded Swarthmore Col-

lege, and at the schools of social

work of Columbia University and

Boston University, obtaining my

MSW from the latter in 1967. Extra-

curricular activities included taking

part in efforts to register African-

American citizens to vote in Cam-

bridge, Maryland, which became a

focus of national attention with the

mass jailing of participants, including

me.

Social work proved an excellent

career choice, as it was immensely

satisfying while providing the back-

ground for interesting work opportu-

nities when living overseas with my

first husband, a professor of manage-

ment first at Harvard and then for

many years at UCLA.

Geographic ignorance led us to a

three-year stint in Teheran. My hus-

band was offered a job there as part

of a Harvard team helping an Iranian

businessman set up a school of man-

agement, and after being intrigued by

a viewing of “Lawrence of Arabia”

we decided to accept the offer, not

realizing that Iran was not an Arab

country.

Nevertheless, the three years there

were never regretted, and included

climbing 18,400 foot Mt. Demavand,

developing materials and teaching at

the only school of social work in Iran.

I also gave birth to my daughter Ju-

dith. We were there at the height of

the opening up of Iran to the West,

with the surge of oil money leading to

modernization of laws regarding

women’s rights. I was privileged

through my position at the Teheran

School of Social Work to visit parts

of Teheran rarely seen by foreigners

in order to supervise the work of stu-

dents in community centers that were

providing education and employment

for women.

Sadly, this modernization led to

the backlash of the Islamic Revolu-

tion in January 1979. Although my

daughter has longed for us to journey

to the place of her birth, which we

left when she was just past her first

birthday, it has not been possible

since her dual citizenship might mean

difficulties in leaving the country.

After returning to the U.S. we

lived for many years in Los Angeles. I

worked in a community hospital at its

pioneering rape treatment center and

in general medical social work, and

then at UCLA Medical Center in a

teaching capacity with family medi-

cine residents. Teaching doctors the

humanistic skills they need along with

the strictly scientific had moments of

pleasure and of pain, with the empha-

sis on the former. Another stint

abroad took us to Fontainebleau,

France, where my job at INSEAD

(an international graduate school of

business) involved providing therapy

in a multi-cultural environment and

teaching two gender studies courses.

In our third year in France after com-

ing back from a visit to UCLA, my

husband received an anonymous let-

ter purporting to be from the brother

of a former student of his at UCLA

who had committed suicide after re-

ceiving a bad grade from him. The

brother threatened to kill me in retali-

ation. Another visit to UCLA result-

ed in second anonymous threat. In-

vestigation by two different police

forces and a private investigator nev-

er turned up the perpetrator, and no

history of a student’s suicide was ever

found. I was less frightened by these

threats than were my family members

as the detective expertise from many

years of reading mystery stories con-

vinced me that the purpose of these

letters was to prevent my husband’s

taking up his position at UCLA once

more. Once we did return, the letters

would stop. This proved to be true,

but they put an end to an already

shaky marriage.

Out of this unpleasantness came

the happiness of my second marriage

to Jim Hill, a fellow social worker,

and 20 years residence in Santa Bar-

bara, where I was the director of cen-


“Piping Plover” by Caroline Arnold

ter-based services for a mental health agency for children

with abuse in their background. This, the capstone of my

long career, was a terrific and multi-faceted job, including

keeping myself educated about the latest treatment for

trauma, maintaining professional standards in programs

while balancing budgets, finding funds for programs for

older children though most government sources were

focused on children under six, and mentoring young pro-

fessionals. After 17 years I retired to care for my husband,

whose ultimately fatal rare progressive neurological dis-

ease was faced by him with courage and grace, aided by

his own background in hospice work, his practice of Bud-

dhism, and his skills in art and music.

As many at Lathrop know, the challenges of 24-hour

caregiving are many but I was helped by having a wonder-

ful supportive community of friends and by my hus-

band’s former colleagues at the VNA and the Hospice of

Santa Barbara, who were steadfast in both friendship

and professional attention. It was hard to leave this com-

munity after my husband’s death, yet I decided to move

to the Pioneer Valley to be near my daughter in Amherst.

As “Cassandra Clare”, she is the author of many best-

selling young adult books.

I chose Lathrop because of the many positive men-

tions of Kendal communities in the Swarthmore Alumni

Bulletin from satisfied residents. ”The best conversations

since college” was one particularly attractive mention. I

look forward to being a participant in many such.


We moved from Michigan five years ago. Our

house looks out on the woods and the “pond”, the wa-

ter dell which captures the run-off from the Lathrop

estate. This summer, with the record-breaking high

temperatures and low rainfall, the pond is a lush garden

of tall reeds and a patch of Black-eyed Susan. A spot

of pale green algae is nestled at the lowest part of the

dell, the pond, to remind us of its true identity. Water is

scarce.

Early this morning a

squirrel emerged from the

wood and made for a long

- remembered pond. He

struggled through the

overgrown vegetation

searching for water.

Whether he ever found

any, I do not know, but I

do know that he was a visitor — a Black Squirrel!

The first time I met Black Squirrels was in Toronto,

Canada. Several of them cavorted on the lawns in front

of a museum in the city center. Since then, they have

crossed the border into Michigan and have established

themselves in Michigan as an accepted immigrant. But

to see one here in Massachusetts was surprising.

It transpires that in the late 1940s, Frank Stanley

Beveridge, the founder of Stanley Park in Westfield,

was given a few Black Squirrels as a gift by a friend in

Michigan! They survived, indeed succeeded happily.

They are now visible throughout the Pioneer Valley, the

largest population still in Westfield. But, their sight-

ings are rare enough to elicit wonder and curiosity. My

visitor this morning was a fine reminder of Michigan as

well.

VISITOR By Patricia Van Pelt

Postcards From. . . .

“Cumil,” or “watcher, rubbernecker,” a real manhole cover on a street corner in Bratislava, Slovakia. Photo by Pete Reitt


getting a job and sustaining their

lives with activities to support being

in the world. My focus was on aging.

It seems to have come upon me by

surprise, and as a Buddhist teacher

once told me: “aging is not for the

faint of heart.” My brother did some

research and found Lathrop and

here I am.

My interests are few, since I pre-

fer a simple lifestyle. I’d like to re-

new some capacities that have been

dormant for decades, such as my

ability to speak French and my skills

with astrology. I’d like to get back

into writing. I worked as a journalist

for a television station in Minneap-

olis, MN a long time ago, and I

branched out with free-lance writing

after I had started a family. I have

published locally in the Hampshire

“Whimbrel” by Caroline Arnold

SHEN PAULEY,

Easthampton

Hello to all my new neighbors at

Lathrop Inn and extended communi-

ties. I have been here for several

months and just getting to know my

way around.

First of all, I have realized that my

name is difficult for some people to

say and remember. Part of this is that

I am quite soft-spoken, so I will try to

speak up more. Another part is that

my name is unusual. Lucinda is my

given name at birth. “Shen” is my

nickname. You might think of the

word she and then add an n to the end,

so you have She + n = Shen.

I arrived here from another com-

munity, a therapeutic place for mental

health and wellness located in Brad-

ford, Vermont. Bradford is a small

town about 45 minutes north of Brat-

tleboro and close to the New Hamp-

shire border. The residential popula-

tion is largely composed of young

people in their 20’s and 30’s. Alt-

hough the community was nice, I felt

it lacked the component of aging. The

focus for most of the residents was

Gazette and the Amherst Bulletin and in

Communities Magazine, a national publi-

cation about intentional communities.

I have been married twice and

divorced twice and brought four chil-

dren into the world. My children are

located at a distance, with two daugh-

ters in Europe, one in Spain, and one

in Switzerland, and my son is in

North Carolina. I have four grand-

children.

My youngest son, Luke, died of an

overdose of heroin in 2004 at the age

of 24. The grief of this loss has been

great, and I carry many thoughts and

memories of his presence. He was my

greatest teacher.

I am looking forward to making

friends here at Lathrop Inn and am

sending light out in all directions.

The Lathrop Nor’Easter 100 Basset Brook Drive Easthampton, MA 01027

“Chickadee in Springtime” by Caroline Arnold

art and artists at lathrop - lathrop.kendal.org · the lathrop nor’easter 2 winter 2019 on the...

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