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Read to Me

by Regina Montana

An article about a new program sponsored by the ASPCA recently appeared in the newspaper.  It described how volunteers are reading to abused dogs in preparing them for adoption.   I was very moved and wrote the following poem.

Read to Me

People hurt me.

I never knew why.

I want to forget.

I have to try.

I’m in a shelter now.

It’s different here.

They bring lots of books.

I have less fear.

If you read to me,

you’ll see my heart.

Your voice will heal.

I’ll find a new start.

I’m just a dog.

Don’t throw me away.

Please read to me.

I’ll be whole one day.

On July 2, 2016 an uninvited guest showed up in our front yard.  I was aghast as my husband called out to come quickly to the top of our driveway.  He had been weeding alongside a small evergreen tree when his gloved hand came within an inch of a four-foot long black snake that then slithered away from us as we looked on in amazement.  But not before it stopped and coiled up, ready to strike in case we dared come any closer.

I grabbed my iPhone and began to videotape the snake as he made his way toward cover, narrating for my grandson the arrival of this most unwelcomed visitor.  Attempting to mask the fear in my voice, I told him the snake was just being a snake and trying to get away from us.   We watched as the nearly 48-inch-long, maybe even 60 inch-long, black creature disappeared into some low-lying brush.

My cousin, a Master Gardner, later said it might be a Black Racer and if it were, it would be beneficial for our yard since this species will eat small rodents, frogs and voles.  I have to admit it’s a very cool name for an animal that does not summon a lot of positive feeling when seen in the wild, or in one’s backyard.  I like to think of my surroundings as a haven for robins, cardinals, chipmunks and squirrels, not crawling reptiles.

I prefer to see them in a controlled environment – behind glass in a zoo.  I have no problem with an occasional garter snake;  they are fairly cute.  Last year one made his home in a narrow opening between a sliding door and cement step leading out to a patio.  I could peer out at him every so often and see him in the crack where he apparently enjoyed some welcomed shade.   I made up stories about him for my grandson and named him Sherman.  When we no longer could find him, I explained he had most likely returned to his family in the woods.

This year may be different.  I’ll have to come up with an endearing story, this time about the four-footer.  It won’t be easy, but calling him a Black Racer (even if he is not that species) will light up the eyes of this five-year-old, hopefully making him less fearful and allowing his imagination to run wild, conjuring up all kinds of possibilities as to the snake’s whereabouts and activities.  I, on the other hand, will be very happy never to see him again.  The reality is, however, that he is very likely somewhere in the yard, as afraid of meeting me as I am of him.

Black Racer makes it into our local newspaper, The Gazette

On December 16, 2015 we lost our beloved mother, grandmother, great grandmother, mother-in-law and friend, Marie Montana. She will be missed forever by many people and looked up to as a role model by just about anyone who had the privilege of knowing her.   I loved her as if she were my own mother and will remember her gentle style, loving care, concern, modesty and kindness.  She had it all and then some.   I have no memory of a negative or critical comment toward me, her daughter-in-law.   Sandy, Jerry and I all called her “Mom” since there was never a question in our minds that she was like a mother to each of us.  She would always say, “Isn’t that beautiful” if you related the most ordinary event to her.  Of course looking back some of the ordinary events in life are the most beautiful.  Thank you, dear mother Marie, for all you gave and all you were to us.  We will never forget you and we look forward to being with you again in heaven.

Sometimes you are called to act.  As I was passing by my daughter’s bedroom a few  years ago, I was focused on her doll cabinet, filled with dolls that hadn’t been played with in years.  I thought how sad it was that they sat there month after month, year after year with no one touching them or enjoying their beauty.  It was then that I remembered the hundreds of refugees pouring into Germany and an idea was born.   All these children arriving in the middle of the night, after treacherous journeys must be filled with lots of emotions and traumas after leaving their homelands.  What joy it would be for them to have a small doll or stuffed animal greet them in this foreign country, now their new home – at least for a while. And so on December 6, 2015 at 9:00 in the morning, a church project began as parishioners brought boxes of toys to our hall to be sent to Passau, Germany.  The city of Passau lies in southern Germany and migrants were arriving and crossing the border.  I know that these donations of toys from my parish of Holy Name of Mary will brighten the faces of children who had to flee the violence of their homes and serve as a small welcome gift as they arrive in this new country.

Dec. 22, 2015 – Today we received word that our boxes have arrived and Frau Beate Heindl sent some photos of children with the stuffed animals. We are so thrilled to share the following photo.

February 14, 2024 – 9 years later and a story called  Maddie’s New Tea Party has undergone many revisions. Maddie can’t wait to tell her dolls the news. “There’s a new girl in my class and she’s from Ukraine.”   Being kind and sharing one’s prized possessions with a stranger will change Maddie and her tea parties forever.

     As a German major in college, I had no idea how many roads I would travel and the people I would meet while learning the language and teaching it to American students. After living as a student in Vienna in 1967, I would make many trips back to this place I call my second home.   My host family, the Bazants, invited me in 1974 to come teach English at an Austrian gymnasium, a combination middle and high school.  I learned a lot about my own native language that year, along with the Austrian school system while teaching at Sacre Coeur in Pressbaum, Austria.  Over the years I continued to study this language that I spoke for two years, hoping not to forget it.  And every time I thought I was done, finished with studying German and ready to give the books away, something would happen to alter the course of things.

        “It’s in those moments of supreme happiness that one should remember the tears.”   

Mignon Langnas, Vienna, August 18, 1943

           Approximately seven years ago I had the good fortune to meet George Langnas.   In late December 1939 at the  age of 4 George arrived in New York from Vienna with his sister Manuela, age 6, accompanied by a family friend. His mother  Mignon (shown above) stayed behind in Vienna to take care of her sick and elderly parents.  It was seven long years years before Mignon would be reunited with her family in New York.  His father Leo sailed from the port of Hamburg on the USS St. Louis  in early 1939.   After being denied entry into the port of Cuba, the ship sailed up and down the coast of Florida.  It was not able to land on U.S. soil and was forced to return to Europe where the passengers were assigned to the countries of France, Belgium, the Netherlands and England.  Fortunately, Leo ended up in England.  He would finally make it to the U.S. to be reunited with his children in 1940.   Over the years George lost all knowledge of his native language German.   Around the age of 50 George uncovered extensive family material including letters and a diary related to his mother’s experiences while living in Vienna from 1939 to 1946.  With this new material George co-authored a book entitled  Mignon – Tagebücher und Briefe einer jüdischen Krankenschwester in Wien 1938 – 1949  (see translation above) with the assistance of Viennese researcher Elisabeth Fraller.  A paperback is available as an Ebook entitled “Mignon Langnas” -Tagebuch und Briefe 1939 – 1949.”  It is the family’s hope that the English version of Mignon’s story will be published.  It has been my privilege to work with George over the years, helping him relearn the language he spoke as a child.  In 2010 he was able to realize the dream of telling his mother’s story – a long journey of tears, separation, strife, survival and the devastating price that many paid during World War II.

Above is a picture of Manuela and George Langnas with their father Leo during a visit to the orphanage where the children lived for a short time.

We were Sisters

                                                                  By  Regina Montana

Seventh grade girls aren’t always mean on purpose.

“It’s snowing down south!” said Marguerite.

I just stared at her, not understanding why she and the other girls were giggling.

I followed their eyes to the source of the joke and realized my slip was showing.

I had never heard that expression before and had no clue as to its meaning until now.

But on that morning I didn’t care about being the center of unwanted attention.

My baby sister had just died.  She lived for only ten hours.

Those girls could not have known.

I just grimaced as if I got the joke and looked away.  I don’t really remember if I

was going  to church or to class that day.  It’s all a blur now as I try to recall that moment.

Time kind of stood still and I felt numb.

Earlier that morning when I asked if we could visit mom and the baby, my father said, “Regina, the baby didn’t make it.”

No one took me to the hospital to see my baby sister and she was never talked about again.

Her grave marker simply read “Baby V.”  Only one word and an initial to mark a short life.

My two brothers and I would be the only children  mom and dad would have.

A few weeks after the death of my sister, I came home from school to find a priest from

our parish talking to my mother in our living room.  I could only hear whispering and I

knew it was private, so I did

not linger.  I needed to figure out a way to live without my sister.

In the weeks that followed the girls in my class apologized to me when they

heard about the baby that died. I told them it was ok, that I was ok.

Nothing was further from the truth. I would not be fine for quite a while.

Had she even existed, even if only for a few hours? There was a lot of

silence in my house. I would have to deal with my loss in private. And that

is the path I chose, even till this day, many years later. I say a prayer for her

soul and I think of her every now and then. I know I will see her in heaven

one day and I picture our reunion. That brings me joy and is enough for

me.

“All that I am or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.  I remember her prayers, and they have always followed me.  They have clung to me all my life.” –     Abraham Lincoln

My mother Carmel “Dolly” Visconti passed away in January of 2015.  I share the sentiments of Mr. Lincoln.

Thank you for expressing what I could not.