Denise Dances: A Return to Perfect Health - Body, Mind & Spirit!

Friday, April 24, 2009


Anthony Bauduccio
New London -- Anthony John "Tony" Bauduccio, 76, a lifelong resident of New London,...of 20 Williams St., passed away peacefully April 21, 2009, at Kindred Crossing East, surrounded by his loving family. Tony was born on Jan. 22, 1933, the son of Sebastiano and Mamie Parisi. He is survived by his wife of 49 years, Martha Scott.
Tony was a member of NLHS' first graduating class, the class of 1952.
He earned a BA from U-Conn in 1956, an MS in 1962 (Willimantic State Teacher's College), a Diploma in Professional Education from U-Conn in 1965, and a doctorate of education in curriculum and instruction from the University of Wyoming in 1971.
Education became one of Tony's passions with children as his first priority.
(Excerpts from "The Day," obituaries, April 23, 2009)
I had the pleasure of knowing Tony from 1995-96 when I served an internship as a Special Education Aide by day at Pawcatuck Middle School, in conjunction with attending University of New Haven on the New London campus by night. He was my advisor.
"....if you're too nice, the kids are going to s*** all over you!" " have to have a way with kids...." "it doesn't matter if you're short, tall, skinny, fat..." "There's a line that can't be crossed." "You should become a substitute teacher in the school in your hometown and in the school of your internship."
He once observed me teaching an art class. "You don't attempt the stars and the moon and the Sun," he said. "Keep it simple. You seem like a happy teacher. But if you're too nice, the kids are going to s*** all over you!!" ***
Some of my classmates were of a different opinion. They saw Tony as a little "rough around the edges." But I saw, felt that he had a good heart. That he knew what he was talking about. The last time I saw him was a couple of years ago at "Latin Night" at New London High School."
The family will receive relatives and friends from 5-8 pm on Friday, April 24 at Impelleteri-Malia Funeral Home, 84 Montauk Ave., New London.
A service of remembrance will be held at 11 am at the funeral home on Sat., April 25. Burial, Cedar Grove Cemetery, Broad St., New London.
Will there be food? (Not!)
In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the New London Education Foundation, 147 State St., NL, CT 06320.
Thank you, Tony!
See you when I get there.
Miss Hickey
Denise Hickey
MS in Education, 1996
University of New Haven
Other Experience: Tyl Middle School, Montville, Student Teacher (1996).
Substitute Teacher, all grades, all subjects: Montville, North Stonington, Stonington, and Groton (1996-97).
Teacher, Huntington School of Business & Allied Health, Norwich (Summer 1997).
Special Ed Aide, Fitch Middle School, Groton, (1997-98).
(one of the best jobs I've ever had! Hello, Anthony!)
LEARN, Special Ed Aide, Essex Elementary School (Summer 1999).
LEARN, Lilly B. Haynes Elementary School, East Lyme (Summer 2000).
English Teacher, Harvard H. Ellis Regional Vocational
Technical School, Danielson, CT (Fall 1999).
(at least I can say I taught English at "Harvard!!!!").
East Lyme Middle School, Classroom Aide (2000-01).
West Side Middle School, Groton, CT, Classroom Aide (Sept.-Oct. 2006):
"Thanks for getting me the medical help I needed on 9-29-06!!"***

"Three Songs of Shattering"

from "the selected poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay," Three Songs of Shattering
The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing mattered.
Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw -- it must have been
Very pretty.
Let the little birds sing;
Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring,--
But not in the old way!
I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And blossoms covered you.
If the little birds sing,
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so 'tis Spring --
But not in the old way!
III All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Ere spring was going -- ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,--
Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Feb. 22, 1892 - Oct. 19, 1950
Rockland, Maine
1913. Age 20. Poem "Renascence" published.
When the poem 'Renascence' was published in...The Lyric Year, where it competed for a prize and lost, the clear injustice...made it a national cause celebre, and secured for Millay a scholarship to Vassar College.
1917. "Renascence and Other Poems," her first volume of poetry was published, upon graduation from Vassar.
1919. Settled in Greenwich Village, NYC. "Aria da Capo," her antiwar play was staged by the Provincetown Players and directed by her.
1923. Pulitzer Prize for poetry. For "The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver," dedicated to her mother. And for "A Few Figs from Thistles." And for 8 sonnets in "American Poetry: A Miscellany" (1922)
1931. "Fatal Interview." A series of 52 love sonnets published.
1940s. Her works were dismissed by critics as "antifascist propaganda literature"
Edna St. Vincent Millay, one of America's most beloved poets (1892-1950), most known for her mastery of the sonnet form and themes of love, death and nature, burst onto the New York literary scene at age 20 in 1913 when her poem "Renascence" was published.
Posthumously published works include: "Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay," a self portrait.
Said Edmund Wilson: "Edna St. Vincent Millay seems to me one of the only poets writing in English in our time who have attained anything like the stature of great literary figures."
Summary by Denise Hickey
BA in English
Eastern CT State U
News Reporter, Campus Lantern
Cashier, S&S-W
Willimantic, CT

Thursday, April 23, 2009


FORGOTTEN: A Walk on the Wild Side
"Debbie, do you want to be a guinea pig this weekend?"
"Oh, no," Debbie groaned. What could Joyce possibly be up to now?
"I just want to do your family tree," the psychology major explained.
"Oh! That sounds interesting! I'll do it," Debbie agreed, unknowing. She was game for anything. She finished the dishes, her newly blond strands reflecting the bright light of the pantry. Joyce's younger sister, Nicole was fashion consultant, beauty expert, and could be trusted with any dye job, for the girls. Joyce was their psychoanalyst, whether or not they wanted one.
The phone rang. It was Olivia.
"Hello? Who?" Joyce spoke into the plastic banana, lifting it off the white / gray carpet in half-sleep.
"Are you laughing or crying? It's eight o'clock in the morning." Joyce demanded. She dropped the banana down on the carpet. "I don't know what she was talking about. I think she was delirious or something." Joyce lay back in the bed.
"We never know what she's talking about!" Maxine said from the other side of the bed.
"What?! She callled at EIGHT o'clock in the morning? She better not ever do that again!" Debbie said sternly. She answered a thirty-line phone five days a week and could not be bothered with a constantly ringing banana after hours.
"Debbie, do you want to go for a run around the Reservoir? Then we'll do your genealogy tree."
Debbie sighed. Work on her day off. She slept while the girls jogged up the hill, crossed Lexington, Park, Madison, and Fifth, and headed toward the Park. She would go later. The walk around the Reservoir, circled by the stunning backdrop of the New York skyline, always refreshed her.
"O.K., here's you," Joyce penciled a circle in her notepad and wrote Debbie's name on it. "What's your family like?"
"You mean, how many sisters?"
"Yes, family members," and Joyce diagrammed the four sisters into their own separate little boxes.
"And how would you describe your father? Adjectives," Joyce suggested.
"Oh, proud. Arrogant."
"Really?" Nicole asked.
"Which sister was married?" Joyce asked. "Nicole?"
Both Joyce and Debbie had a sister named Nicole.
"No, she's the unhappy one."
"What do you mean by unhappy? Elaborate on that."
"Sad." Debbie giggled.
Nicole laughed.
"She's the divorced one, right?"
"No! Sherri is!"
"Oh, she's the unhappy one?"
"No, Nicole is," said Nicole.
"No! You guys!" And Debbie laughed in exasperation and punched the rug.
"Now, your grandparents," Joyce pencilled in more boxes and branches. "Were they married? I mean, are they alive?"
"No. One is. I didn't know my grandfather. He died when I was little. I mean, before I was born."
"What was his name?"
Debbie paused.
"I don't know."
"You don't know his name?" Joyce asked objectively, not unkind.
"I didn't even know him." Debbie said slowly. "I don't even remember his name."
"Your grandmother. What was she like?"
"She..." Debbie stopped. She couldn't speak. "She was..." She poked at her half-eaten poppyseed bagel in its plate beside the green bottle of lemon-flavored Perrier mineral water.
"Can I write it?" she asked faintly.
"No, you don't have to write it," Joyce insisted.
She felt her throat weaken, give way, as she tried to summon the words that would describe her long gone grandmother, if any words could. Great? Beautiful?
"I have to think about this," she slipped the words out of her tender throat. It was too late.
"You can take your time."
"I can't or I'll start to cry," and Debbie ran out of the room, whimpering. She hid in the white tiled bathroom, where Nicole had gone into hibernation with the yellow plastic banana phone.
"Debbie, do you want to give it another shot?"
"Not yet."
"Did your grandmother pass away just recently?"
"No. It was a long time ago. I was in high school."
"You were very close to her, then?"
"Oh, yes. I didn't even cry when she died, until today. It was years ago!"
"You were close to your grandmother. I was never that close to my grandparents. That's what I thought would happen. I did my family tree and it was very draining." Joyce said matter-of-factly.
"I have to go for a walk. Don't worry, I'll come back." But not before she let out three big sobs, at long last, for her dear grandmother.
She ran up the hill, across Park, Madison, and Fifth, past the old brownstones with their wrought iron gates, past mothers with strollers, couples, students, mid-afternoon joggers, shielding her face, bleary-eyed with tears, from all. She had forgotten all about her grandmother, put her away in a box. Forgotten.
The new leaves were about to burst forth on the trees in Central Park and soon there would be new buds everywhere. And her grandmother would not get to see them. How could she forget her?
Everything in her life seemed small, insignificant. She had to have that expensive new dress. Going out to the exclusive Surf Club, Friday nights suddenly did not matter anymore. Her job was senseless. How meaningless, to keep on top of ordering hundreds of supplies, day in and day out, stacks of paper growing beyond her desk, reaching to the corporate ceilings, all around her. It was not the real world. College was not the real world, once again. What was?
She surveyed the runners, the trees, the muddy track, the wide, wide Reservoir, blue as the sky today.
Tiny branches of unfamiliar plants grew along the edge of the Reservoir, outlined in the bright sunlight. Muddy feet padded the ground behind her. She made her way for a jogger. She hid her face from the runners before her, young and old, out in full force on this Spring day. Rollerskaters whizzed past on the street, below the track. Cyclists skirted its outer edges.
She remembered her grandmother. She had forgotten how much her grandmother loved her and her sisters, how she told them daily, how she showed it with every action and deed. Her grandmother! She yet felt exhilarated in her sadness, with the memory of her grandmother in full bloom.
She did not care for the beach, yet she loved to take her grandchildren, Sunday afternoons. Once, in immature frustration, Debbie had said she hated dresses. "I think it's the most beautiful thing a woman can wear," Memere, their Canadian French colloquialism for grandmother, had said, her voice soft but strong.
When she was buried, so were all memories of her.
She was "living the high life." The glamour of it all paled when she thought of her beloved Memere.
She had been so involved with all the concerns of a seventeen-year-old when her grandmother died that she had hardly taken notice. She let her die, alone and pitiful in that terrible home. Why didn't she tear herself away from the phone long enough to visit her, that Saturday afternoon long ago? Why hadn't she brought to her that watercolor she softly requested? She had painted it herself. "Dream," it said, in large hollow letters filled in with scenery. She had felt relief for the poor woman who suffered and died an ungraceful death. And she had not shed a tear. Until today. How long ago was it? High school. Eight years ago. It was almost ten years ago.
The very birds gathered here at the Reservoir, soaring and dipping overhead, opted for the most breath-taking part of Central Park for their Spring arrival.
She regarded this New York thing as if looking at it through a telescope. The view began to spin until she was standing outside it, here on the edge of the Reservoir, for the first time since she had moved away from home last June. The picture was turned upside-down as Debbie thought of her grandmother, of her childhood home, the small town of Montville and her New York existence suddenly seemed encompassed in a small package: a picture postcard, the past few months boxed into one compartment of her life. She felt far away, as if the city and its enticements were no longer real.
What would Memere have thought if she knew now that her grand-daughter were in New York?
"All my love to a girl who will be a great success in life," the note came back to her from a card written, a long time ago. It must have been attached to a graduation gift or was it a birthday present? She couldn't remember.
She looked to where the earth fell away, the ground becoming hilly. Several equestrians rode past her, their horses clumping heavily on the grass. She waited for one to pass, then headed toward the twin look-out towers of the El Dorado Hotel.
Past the uncertainty of the West Nineties to the lower eighties. She chose a side street, where the architecture reflected an earlier age, a more civilized era. Or was it? Her gaze was pulled upward, toward curved ivy leaves etched in stone, swirling wrought iron railings folding over antique window panes and her eye was caught by one minute detail. Patterns formed in the stone, swerving and curling into - what was it? A face? Was it man or beast? She noted the simple eyes and puckered lips. Again, similar faces met her gaze. At last, there appeared a lion, snarling and growling silently in the ancient stone. A pudgy child-like face, frozen in a granite yawn, unable to break the stone, protruded from a banister. Lions, brass hoops dangling from their teeth, guarded private doors which forgotten keys, long lost, had forever locked. Bearded wise men held forbidden secrets, their stares fixed, stoic.
From banisters of porches, rooftops, and cornices, came faces of all sorts, some resemblances, others unique, humans and gargoyles, at all angles, some disguised, others obvious, all fascinating.
She stopped and stared, stepped further, stopped again - arrested in her tracks at their ancient beauty.
She approached the metropolis of Broadway, the alluring pink and lime green, aqua, coral and purple storefronts so unlike the doldrums of the Upper East Side.
The earthiness of West End Avenue calmed her. Quiet brick residences rose high along the streets. Riverside Drive curved along the Park on the Hudson River, creating unexpected corners in the streetscape.
Neighborhood kids, sporting last year's spring jackets, shot a frisbee across the marble steps of the Sailors' and Soldiers' Monument. Its columns reached into the blue sky, full of promise on this glorious afternoon.
She stepped down to the river walkway, settling herself against the rounded outpost of the fortress wall and gazed out over the vibrant blue waters of the River.
Winter '87
Doc. # 0214D
Denise Hickey

"A Girl Worth Fighting For"

A Girl Worth Fighting For
"Captain! Urgent news from the General! We're needed at the front."
"Pack your bags, Cricket. We're movin' out!"
For about time we
Be marchin' off to battle!
In a thunderin' herd
We feel a lot like cattle!
Like a pounding beat
Our aching feet
Aren't easy to ignore.
Think of instead
A girl worth fighting for.
That's what I said:
A girl worth fighting for!
"I want her fairer than the moon
With eyes that shine like stars"
"A girl will marvel at my strength
Adore my battle scars"
"I couldn't care less
What she'll wear
or what she looks like
It all depends on what she cooks like!"
(Beef! Pork! Chicken! Mmmmm!)
Bet the locals girls
Thought that you were quite the charmer!
And I'll bet the ladies
Love our men in armor!
You can guess what we have missed the most
Since we went off to War!
Whatta we want?
A girl worth fighting for!
"A girl will think I have no faults
That I'm a major find"
"Uh -- How 'bout a girl who's got a brain?
Who always speaks her mind?
"My many ways to turn a phrase
Are sure to thrill her"
(He thinks he's such a lady killer!)
"I've got a girl back home
Who's not like any other --"
"Yeah, the only girl who'd love him
Is his mother!"
But to lead a war to Victory
They'll line up at the door!
Whatta we want?
A girl worth fighting for!
Wish that I had
A girl worth fighting for!
A girl worth fighting - - -
Walt Disney Pictures
(Special Edition)
2004 Release

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

SG: ATG: Spring Break

A giant inflated pink flamingo hung over Debbie's and Lori's heads as they gossipped about their old college roomates. Debbie clutched the edge of the bar, a sheet of glass under which postcards of Miami and Daytona Beach were placed.
Above the long horizontal mirror across the bar was a road sign. Had it been in its appropriate setting, it would have been pointing out one of the postcard destinations to crazed college kids en route to their Spring Break. That was it. The theme of the bar: not paradise or Florida or beach souvenir shop, but an all-out tribute to the American tradition called Spring Break.
Tourist shop souvenirs were everywhere. A stuffed alligator balanced on a row of select bottles of domestic and imported beer. There were seashells combed from the very beaches, more road signs, ornate drinking mugs, and a giant green 'gator suspended over the dining area.
A swizzle stick with a blue shark rose out of Debbie's pineapple flavored drink. A fancy mermaid rested in Lori's fizz. The bright colors and plastic souvenirs made for a flamboyant, happy ambiance.
"This is my kind of place," Debbie giggled. She considered herself overdressed, in an aquamarine clingy skirt and turquoise beads. She actually fit into the picture rather well. Lori appeared even more skinny than usual in fitted jeans and a belted over-size pink top.
Debbie looked to her left. Someone had taken the bar stool next to her and was talking to her. He had dark uncombed hair and a small mustache.
His tee shirt and jeans suggested a friendly attitude, a casual lifestyle.
"You should try this," he suggested. He held up an ornate mug.
"What is it?" she asked.
He pronounced a word that had a wild, tropical fun sound to Debbie.
"We have to order that," Debbie turned to Lori.
"What is it?" Lori asked disinterestedly.
"Oh, I don't know. Bahamarama or something like that. Let's get it."
Her fellow bar mate had friends and they introduced each other, making the rounds with comrades and drinks. It turned out they were visiting from Vancouver as part of a grad school project.
"What's it like?"
"Vancouver? Oh, it's great. Beautiful there."
"Washington, right?"
"No, Canada."
"Oooh, I never met someone from there before."
One of the quieter of the trio had cornered Lori. He looked a little like Phil Collins.
"What books have you read? Did you ever read The Catcher in the Rye?"
Lori froze. An avid reader she was not.
"Yeah, in high school," she sneered. She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. The scholar did not notice. He merely desired an intelligent conversation with an attractive girl. Or with the guys, it did not really matter. As long as the conversation had substance.
Lori attempted to snub his inquiries but the intellectual was not deterred. He wanted to know all of the books she had read, what she thought of them.
Mark was 25. Someone her mental age for a change, Debbie thought. She liked to have fun, loved it, in fact, but sometimes a conversation needed depth. She could not tolerate meaningless small talk, gibberish that went on for hours and hours, especially with Lori. Yes, it was nearly impossible to have a normal conversation with her roomate. Often she would say anything to get a conversation started, revealing things she shouldn't have, to avoid the awkward silences that were such a big part of their "friendship." Friendship was not quite right. She never introduced Lori as her friend, but as her roomate.
"Mark, John, Steve, this is Lori, my roomate." The word, friend inexplicably stuck in her throat. But Mark and Steve were good company tonight.
They took turns refilling their ornate mugs and then it was time to close the bar. You could not tell the bar was closed, though, because the lights were already on. Christmas in July. They walked out the door, under the anachronistic Christmas lights into the warm summer night.
Lori turned to take teh waiting bus downtown. No doubt, her token was already in her hand, Debbie thought.
"Wanna share a cab? We're staying at N.Y.U."
"We're going to the Village, too. Let's go!" and before Lori could protest, Debbie had jumped into the cab with the boys.
Steve, who had been low-key all evening, was starting to show signs of unrest. He revealed an enthusiasm for New York. His tall lanky appearance and punk haircut gave him the look of a would-be rock star.
"It's a lot different. It's great!" he said. He appeared restless, as if he were about to leap out of the cab in search of all the other exciting places that lay in wait throughout the city.
"It's different, all right," Debbie spoke up. "It can be fun but then, there's the subway."
She launched into an imitation of a typical passenger on the grimy underground train she took daily to work.
"Somebody please help me! My children are dying! My mother's an alcoholic and my father's starving!" She screamed. Then she burst out laughing.
"Stop. We can't take it," one of the boys cut in.
Then Lori started. "There's this man with flippers for arms and no legs. He plays the drums. I see him everywhere. He haunts me."
"Ugh. Can't take it." Mark put his hands over his ears.
"No, can't handle it," someone else said.
This last, from Lori, Debbie found chilling.
They divided the cab fare and piled out of the cab onto Second Avenue. There was a colorful Mexican food place and that dinosaur bar {Continental Divide} {sic}. But they chose a place with a theatrical theme, complete with a pair of thespian masks on the walls and a wierd cast of waiters. Wierd to out-of-towners, normal to New York.
The quiet one named John was still trying to have his share of intellectual conversation with Lori. He stared intently at her as he pounced upon a new theory. Debbie lent an ear out of curiosity.
Now the other guys had gotten involved in the coveted conversation. It had something to do with biology and genetics and creating the perfect species.
"This is really interesting," Lori said.
"Ugh. Save it for later," Debbie said. She hated these useless, opinionated conversations. It was too late, or rather too early in the morning for their deep thoughts.
Steve, who had been quiet for a while, was suddenly coming to life, now that it was twilight. He was getting a little too loud and obnoxious, like a college freshman who has been introduced to beer.
Debbie's head was throbbing and she was starving but not for nachos and red sauce.
Finally, they all agreed to call and have dinner tomorrow night, before returning to Vancouver.
Summer of 1987
The East Village
# 0658D


in flux
the Situation
at hand
is all giving way
to Spring Break.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Spring in the Park

"le printemps au parc"
"la primavera al parque"
(i stand corrected @
Saturday, April 18
"You can't draw the birds singing."
"My beloved spake and said unto me:
Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For lo, the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth;
the time of the singing of birds is come,
and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;
The fig tree putteth forth her green figs,
and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.
Arise, my love, my fair one and come away.
(Song of Solomon: 2:10-13)
There's someone I have to see
I told him where I'd be
But I have to pee
Guess this day will just have to be for me
Back home in Connecticut,
Spring is well and good.
Mostly seen glimpsed from the windshield ("en caro")
"En route" to someplace.
Even en route to the post office.
Pale pink blossoms.
Ah, look. This one is late. But when it blooms, it will be the most beautiful of all.
Green, green grass.
Although it is snowing.
Look at all of the crocuses among us.
I really dig gardening!
Still, blooms, more pink blooms.
Lining the sidewalk,
Outside the Chinese restaurant.
("You can't draw the birds singing.")
Spring Celebration
Now Playing
at a theater near you
Open Air
The festival of birds
is playing
The flowers are singing
What's all the fuss about?
Today it is finally Spring.
The trees are wearing their pajamas.
Pale white
Off white
Yellow green
White lace trim
Pale pink
Dog ears
mini daffodils
orange and yellow frills
I'll take Manhattan.
Just for a day.
Original Poems
By Denise St. Vincent Millay
New London, CT
New York, New York
Spring 2009