Front Cover: Sunset over the Hudson, taken by Harry Bloomfeld
Front Inside Cover: Turtles on Swan Lake, by Harry Bloomfeld
Back Inside Cover: Doe and fawn near Kendal, by Harry Bloomfeld
Outside Back Cover: Flowering trunk of Redbud tree, by Joe Bruno
All inside photos by Harry Bloomfeld.
KENDAL VIEW STAFF
Editors
Llyn Clague and Pat Taylor
Managing Editor Hubert B. Herring
Editorial Staff
Laura Burkhardt, Doris Eder, Muriel Fox, Edith Litt, Norman Sissman, Valerie Wolzien
Photography Editors
Harry Bloomfeld, Joe Bruno, Caroline Persell
Advertising
Emil Bahary, Peter Roggemann, Ad Directors
Carolyn Klinger, Coordinator
Philip Monteleoni
War Glimpses
Philip Monteleoni
City Bombs were falling, and I was a baby. Starting in late 1943, when I was almost two, the Allies had conquered enough of Southern Italy to allow their bombers to reach Padua, my home town, in the North of Italy, an area that was still controlled by Fascism and Germany.
Padua was an important rail transportation crossroads – there was the East-West freight from the industrial port of Venice to the manufacturing heartland of Milan and Turin, and the NorthSouth freight and troop trains back and forth across the Alps via the Brenner Pass to Germany. This made Padua a tempting military target.
From December 1943 to March 1945, Allied bombers hit Padua 13 times, with morning, noon, and nighttime raids. The railroad station, a nineteenth century structure outside the historic center, was generally the target. But bombing accuracy was never perfect, and historic buildings were often hit and demolished. My grandfather’s large town house, in the historic residential area, heard and felt the bombs but fortunately was never hit.
Historic records show a nighttime raid on February 8, 1944, right around my second birthday. My earliest memory is of being awakened in the night, being lifted out of my crib, wrapped in a baby blue blanket, and taken to the cellar to sit out the raid. Even as a toddler I felt the tension and fear of this unusual moment. The cellar was a new place to me, darker and more primitive than the elegant rooms of the house upstairs.
What also came through to me, however, was a subtler element, a shift in the behavior of all the people in the cellar with us. They were: my grandfather and grandmother, my mother and I, some dependent relatives who lived upstairs, a cook, a maid, and a couple who functioned as doorkeeper and handyman. Whereas, in the normal routine of life upstairs in my grandfather’s household, there was a deference and a pecking order, down in the cellar there was a leveling, everyone was equal, and sitting down in a circle. Upstairs in the house the servants always stood in my grandparents’ presence, while here in the cellar everyone huddled around the damp walls, facing each other with quiet anxiety.
Country After that raid, my mother and I were sent to live in the country, for safety. My grandfather owned a pretty villa a few miles out of town, but it was not available to us since it had been completely taken over by German troops. A little further into the country was a sprawling Palladian-style estate that belonged to wealthy family friends. Germans had taken over that villa as well, but it had so many rooms that the owners were allowed to live in a small wing, and they readily invited my mother and me to join them. And those Germans were not fighters but entertainment troops.
One day, I must have been three by then, while playing in the garden I saw a fleet of war planes in one part of the sky. They were flying over fields and hills, on their way to Padua, and I could sense the threat of their grim mission.
One time I discovered how to sound the horn in the Mercedes staff car of the German officers! It was always parked in the garage, and since I had the run of the place, when no one was watching, I would climb into it and play with the steering wheel. One day I tried the horn, which should have been a button in the center of the steering wheel, as in all Fiat cars at that time. I pushed at the center, but although the Mercedes emblem was there, it did not feel like a button, and pressing it, no matter how hard, produced no noise. There was, however, a chrome ring that was halfway between the center of the wheel and the steering wheel rim itself. I played with that ring as if it were a steering wheel. When I flexed it, however, the horn beeped! I had discovered the secret of the Mercedes, a secret that made this car seem much more advanced than our humbler Italian products. The Germans eventually left, and took their car with them. The war in Italy would soon be over.
Teacher’s Pet
Sirkka Barbour
On the last day of November 1939, the Soviet Union attacked Finland. At the conclusion of the brief and brave but disastrous Winter War that followed, parts of Karelia, the southeastern province where my family had lived since time immemorial, were lost. My father landed somewhere in a Military Hospital, my mother with four small children was evacuated up to western Lapland. I was just six, but as the eldest, I was expected to help supervise my siblings and our belongings.
The following winter we were settled in a forlorn hamlet above the Arctic Circle, our third stop up to then. It had a general store, a post office at which a yellow post bus stopped in the morning going north and in the evening going south, two cemeteries but no church, and on a scary side road a charnel house where the bodies of fallen soldiers were deposited. Come summer, it would stink to high heaven.
The village had been chosen for a newly established Children’s Home, a distinction it was highly proud of. Social Services placed us there.
On a cold winter morning, I was marched by the Home’s Director to the schoolhouse. Instantly the teacher showered us with a honey-mouthed welcome, stressing that her establishment would maintain the most affable terms with the new institution.
Sirkka Barbour
Small and timid, clad in a marine blue dress with red piping, I was embraced by the teacher as a long-lost orphan sheep, while her motley barnyard gawked. Next she showed me to the front row, and with a smack of her ferule (a tapered pointer), evicted a girl from her two-person desk and offered the seat to me. In the opposite corner, the boys sat together snickering, a flock of girls forming a protective wall between us.
Next, the teacher assigned Kaija as my desk mate, impressing on her with the ferule to be my guide, guardian, and protector. With a broad smile, Kaija shared her desktop items with me. Once settled, I glanced furtively toward the jungle corner. Instantly, a pug-nosed, bristle–topped ruffian pulled a monster face at me. Kaija, ever alert, stuck her tongue out at him.
At recess, feisty Kaija always stood near me, planting herself at the front, back, or side, whichever angle the boys’ sauntering warranted. When other girls offered to help protect me, Kaija claimed the entire job for herself. We became the best of friends.
Still one hooligan didn’t miss an opportunity to taunt me, “You crabby Russky, we don’t want you here” or “You don’t even talk like us, Karelian dim-wit.” Our Karelian dialect, indeed, was very distinct from standard Finnish. I lost my accent as fast as I could.
Class never began exactly on time. The big boys were expected to have filled the wood box next to the tile oven and the water bucket by its side. Then silence fell in the classroom, stinky and steamy from the melting furs and woolens hanging on pegs on the back wall. We stared in suspense at the teacher’s parlor door, above which hung a NO ENTRY sign, all of us competing to be first to notice a crack in the door. Then shhh! Never have I witnessed a more dramatic entry: First, part of a foot would appear, then half a hip, a sweep of shoulder, a hand — and in a flash the teacher’s short plump body rolled in like a ready-made coffee bun. We never glimpsed past her into her inner sanctum.
The teacher crossed the classroom and solemnly occupied the harmonium bench for morning devotions. But as her feet didn’t reach the pedals, she ordered a troublemaker boy to come stoop and pump them by hand. The day I saw my tormentor in that position, I gave him a look of pure Schadenfreude.
Kaija and I basked in the teacher’s favoritism. I was praised as a model pupil, an example to follow. At home, I’d been the last to get my busy mother’s attention, unless she needed me to do something. Now I was first to receive a new book or pen. I could take my time selecting the prettiest colors among the art supplies while the jungle corner got the remnants. Any grumblings were promptly silenced by the almighty ferule.
The curriculum seemed archaic, happenstance. I stumbled through “Brer Rabbit’s” tricky adventures, so alien to our arctic landscape of lichen and snow. But I was fascinated by an exotic picture on the wall: Baby Moses hidden among bullrushes as a beautiful princess stooped toward him. “That is Egypt where our barn swallows fly for the long winter,” the teacher said — religion and geography in one fell swoop. “Now take a look at the map. You see a good friendly country to our west, on your left side, Sweden, and a bad dangerous
country to our east, Russia, on your right side. We in the middle, Finland, the most important!”
Gym was a bore. In mild weather, we marched out on the schoolyard and formed two rows. With her ferule the teacher would point to our right arm: raise it up! Then same with the left. Now our right leg: kick out. Now the left. Next a quick twirl around and a sweeping bend down to touch the good earth. Repeat and again, repeat and again.
To counter the tedium, I watched the Teacher’s shapeless felt hat with a lone feather stuck in the middle. As if alive, it shifted direction according to the wind and the Teacher’s bouncing exertions. When it stood straight, time for a pause.
Our schedule was broken by lunch. Behind the kitchen door, Iiris, the teacher’s 20-year-old daughter, had prepared either soup or porridge. Kaija and I were invited to serve the plates, Kaija venturing among the boys. I was loudly praised, sometimes more than I wanted: “Such good and courteous behavior, follow her example!” Lunch over, other girls were ordered to help wash dishes.
Sometimes after lunch Kaija and I were invited into the teacher’s parlor, not through the forbidden portal but via a door in the kitchen. There on a fringed tablecloth lay an open Bible. The teacher pointed to a verse we were to learn by heart. After she left, we instead traipsed around the room, marveling at the plush furniture, lace curtains, magazines. We found picture books of plants and animals to explore. We couldn’t have imagined a more interesting class period!
Toward the end of the school day we were beckoned back into the classroom. Without fail, we were greeted by dirty looks and envious mutterings. But we didn’t miss what we had missed. “You spoiled Russky brat,” my nemesis shouted at me after school. I often delayed my departure, so as to avoid being harassed. Russky I was not and spoiled I was not. I’d obeyed my mother, at the Home I made my bed, set the table, helped wash dishes, swept the floors, went to the woods to pick lingonberries for the cook, did my homework and helped others with theirs so that we all could go out to play.
Only once did I see that indomitable teacher cowed. An itinerant preacher arrived to give us an extra religion lesson. We sat straight with folded hands as the black-clad apparition raved and raged across the podium, condemning us to blazing damnation unless we repented then and there. Staring down at my desk to hide my guilty look, I bargained: Couldn’t I repent AFTER I’d tasted the worldly temptations he so thundered against?
The teacher sat huddled in her Sunday formal at the furthest edge of the harmonium bench, looking shipwrecked. Forgetting to assign homework, she sent us home as soon as the preacher left. The ferule lay limp in its groove. And what a relief to step out into the cold white winter world, full of freedom and promise.
My year and a half in that village was the safest and most stable during the war. I liked the routine of the Home (as it was not my Mother’s), I loved school, I had friends and playmates for fun and adventure. My self-worth and agency grew a bunch.
My sense of loss was acute when we had to move again. In my next big school, I was just another pupil. Within a year, Lapland’s earth was scorched (70-80%) by the retreating German Army. We were forced to flee again, to Sweden, the good land to my left.
Living Among Us
Christopher Hallowell
Among us at Kendal is a presence — more mysterious than a mere ghost. To allay my curiosity, to calm my nerves, I call him, her, it, whatever — the Mysterious One, Misty, for short. I like the affect; it warms me, narrows the distance between whatever and me. “Misty’s here,” I cheerfully say to my wife, Willa, as we go up or down Alida’s stairway B. And the fact that she is supportive of my observations and has “witnessed” Misty’s presence warms me with the affirmation of my sanity.
Here’s the thing – as it’s said – on quiet days and perhaps nights, the section of the stairway between floors one and two gives forth with chirps, squeaks, and at times, frightening groans. More disarming are the padding footsteps that follow me from the landing between the two floors. I whirl around, but the stairwell is always empty; I continue up or down. The footsteps resume very close by. I hear some murmurs, too.
You won’t see or hear Misty in our dining facilities, offices, meeting rooms, nor even empty hallways. As far as I know, Misty’s turf appears restricted to a particular section of stairway B. I did not know of the existence of this stairway during the first few months of my Kendal residency, relying instead on elevators. Now I use only the stairs, if not for the exercise, then for the chance for a meet-up.
This unseen life wears on my nerves. My heart, too. If I were the only person to experience the unsettling noises that I do, I might seek professional help. But Willa confirms my sanity. As she hears the same sounds, I know I am not alone. But the stairway is always empty, and upon the sound of my footfall on a tread, a sighing at times comes from beneath. I thought something – squirrel, chipmunk, little person – might be in need of help, trapped perhaps, alone in darkness, maybe in danger of starvation. I feel pity and alone. I have asked others if they have heard any sounds as they traipse up or down. The reaction is always “no,” sometimes with a bewildered glance at me.
O.K, think of me as unbalanced. But before assigning that label, take a trip to Alida’s stairway between the first and second floors. Go up or down slowly and quietly, ears primed. Be patient. Do you hear Misty? Of course you do.
Christopher Hallowell
Almost Drowned in Long Island Sound
Peter Limburg
On a beautiful summer day some 60 years ago, Maggie and I climbed into the sailboat of our close friend Alan S. and set sail across Long Island Sound. The little, open-cockpit craft was just about big enough to hold four adults comfortably: Maggie and me, Alan, and Sue, his girlfriend of the moment. The plan was to sail from Stamford to Northport, L.I., have an early seafood dinner, and get back before dark. There was also a secret agenda: for Maggie and me to evaluate Sue for Alan.
As we left Stamford, we had a brisk wind behind us, which kept us comfortably cool as we scooted over gentle swells. Once away from the shore, we had the Sound almost to ourselves, and we consumed beer and sandwiches. Our mood was gay and lighthearted.
The trip across took longer than Alan had counted on. It was late afternoon by the time we reached Northport, nestled at the end of a deep, craggy cove. We found a seafood restaurant and enjoyed a pleasant dinner. As we were about to leave, Alan spotted an acquaintance (whom we did not know) and insisted on gabbing with him for what seemed like forever. At last, Alan’s thirst for talk was exhausted, and we started homeward. By now it was evening and Alan didn’t want to take time to fill the gas tank. He had enough, he assured us.
Off we set; this time the wind was against us, and it was strong. The calm Sound turned into choppy waves. Before long the waves began breaking over the sides of the boat, and our little cockpit began to fill. Alan said not to worry. We began bailing frantically, using a little tin playground pail and our bare hands. We had to keep ducking to avoid the boom as Alan tacked back and forth. Sue threw up but gamely returned to her task.
The sails ripped from the force of the wind. Undaunted, Alan started his outboard motor, and we plowed on through the waves. A beautiful full moon lit up the scene as we struggled. Our bailing could not keep up with the inflow of water. Still, our confident friend insisted that there was nothing to worry about.
We had no life jackets. Maggie and I had three small children at home. I was not worried, foolishly perhaps, for the water was warm and we were good swimmers, but Maggie was terrified that we would drown and leave our children orphans. Over his peevish objections, she seized Alan’s flashlight and began signaling for help. With the last of our gas, we reached an offshore lighthouse that Alan didn’t recognize, for the wind had blown us miles off course. Maggie kept signaling frantically. Eventually a boat came out and towed us to a nearby marina, where, with great relief and sopping wet, we tied up. The next morning Alan’s boat was resting on the seafloor. It was our last sail with him, and we don’t think that Sue ever spoke to Alan again. Alan later rescued his boat and sold it.
Peter Limburg
Organ Recitals
Shelley Robinson
The First Recital Drop foot is a neurological condition that causes a person to trip when the affected foot fails to lift off the ground. My husband, Nick, uses a cane and a special wedge in his shoe to help control this, but last year he took a spill and fractured his fibula, the bone on the other side of the ankle. He was laid up in bed with the ankle elevated on two pillows for about six weeks, and I was his caregiver.
About two weeks into my gig as Florence Nightingale I began to feel sorry for myself and decided to take the remaining four weeks to learn to do something new. I considered learning to play bridge, crochet, or another musical instrument. For anyone who has visited our KoH apartment with its two harps, violin, mandolin, cello and piano, that was, as they say, a nobrainer. I decided to learn to play the pipe organ, specifically the venerable pipe organ at Washington Irving’s Christ Episcopal on South Broadway in Tarrytown.
JJ (Jeoung Jeong), the church organist, was delighted to take me on, and the first week she taught me how to find the light switch for the sanctuary, how to turn on the organ, how to find the stops for a quiet “Amazing Grace” and loud stops for “Pomp and Circumstance.” I practiced in the church on Monday mornings, determined to coordinate the foot peddles with the keyboard.
By my fourth and final week I had added Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” and, for good measure, “Nearer My God to Thee” from Titanic. I was ready for my first organ recital. In the audience were Nick, JJ and the church sexton.
The Second Recital My friend Alice M is a professional violist and the source of my second organ recital story. When she moved into the Osborne, she entered a bastion of elegance and decorum, a world of impeccable good taste, but one group of ladies, she reported, went so far as to ban “organ recitals” from their meetings. Heavens, I thought, how could anyone, even string players, be so parochial in their musical choices? No, laughed Alice, they were referring not to keyboard instruments, but to body parts like heart, intestines or skin and the endless personal tales related to their maintenance, replacement or condition, so topics like hearing-aid batteries, PT or cataracts all became taboo. What a clever name. How would this fly at Kendal?
Well, this fall the tables were turned when I tripped on my violin case strap and suffered a broken wrist, suddenly thrusting Nick into the role of caregiver for those tedious six weeks of bone mending. I listened while he joined the Bistro conversation about the best hand surgeon and the most skillful occupational therapist, and I realized we had become front row ticket holders at our own Organ Recitals. And it felt just fine.
Shelley Robinson
I. Early Morning
Hudson River dawn Tide ebbing – gulls screeching. We sit at the breakfast table Set for ten.
Old men – old women Half aware – memories dulled. Worn out by the effort Of juggling small talk.
Grasping for safe topics
Like today’s weather. Like food – kids – days gone by As if it matters.
Raising cups of coffee With cold shaking hands. Trying to think
Of something witty to say. Then somebody whispers. “Let’s take joy in this day. Here we are – together Lifelines still intact.”
“Accountable to no-one Except ourselves. Amen to this Day This Morning – this Moment.”
Kendal-Adirondack Psalms
Lee Oakes
II. Hudson River Sunset
Sun spills shards of light On the western sky.
Drenching the river Streaking the horizon.
Seven small sailboats Drift in a circle.
Sunset’s final splendor Illuminates them like fire.
Such heart-stopping beauty Transfixes my senses.
If there’s no tomorrow Let this moment define time.
III. Finding Home
When did Kendal become home, Not just a place to eat and sleep But a nesting place for my heart?
Was it my second spring season Seeing white dogwood blooming In the courtyard, outside my window?
Or was it that moment I first felt The warmth of morning hello’s Enclose my soul in sunlight?
Or was it that magic day When I realized for the first time That my bucket list had changed?
Thousands of minutes woven together In a cocoon of warm acceptance And Kendal whisp’ring, “you’re home.”
Lee Oakes
Eavesdropping at the Met
Valerie Wolzien
This is the story of how Kendal-on-Hudson resident Margaret Lundin turned a degree in engineering from Boston University into a career at the Metropolitan Opera, with stops along the way singing with the Philharmonia Chorus in London, Boston University Savoyards, the Riverside Choral Society in New York, as well as working in many systems development firms including Price Waterhouse Coopers.
It’s the story of a third grader from a music-loving family who joined the church choir in Homewood, Illinois, continued singing in her high school chorus, and went on to get her degree in systems engineering from Boston University during a time when women just didn’t get degrees in engineering. There were two women in her class at BU, both named Margaret, but only Margaret Lundin graduated.
This is also the story of how Margaret’s love of music and her skills in engineering converged. Home base was always New York, but she designed systems for Price Waterhouse in multiple cities. She found herself in London, having already learned that “the way to make friends instantly in a new place is to join a chorus.” So she auditioned for the choruses of the London Philharmonic and the London Symphony, and was accepted by both. But she liked sound and repertoire of the London Philharmonia better. She auditioned, passed, and spent the next two years working at Price Waterhouse, but taking time off to sing with the Philharmonia chorus throughout Europe.
Back in New York she moved on from Price Waterhouse, but found herself unhappy with her new job. So an old friend, also a Price Waterhouse alum, was working at the Metropolitan Opera and asked, “Do you want to come work for me.”
“Of course.”
She knew music, she knew accounting, she knew engineering, but what Margaret didn’t know was that she was going to be working in an opera house office with a speaker from the stage manager’s sound system. She could hear everything. “It’s the greatest perk I ever had,” she says.
She heard the stage managers call the scenes with some irreverent nicknames, like the “Mosh Pit” and the opera War and Peace and the “murder scene” in Der Rosenkavalier. She could hear every rehearsal, every pickup and restart, and every performance. All the time she was doing systems development, modernizing the productions systems left over from the 1980s, and designing a new payroll system — shifting data entry from the payroll department to the managers in the operating departments, and converting complex union contracts to
Margaret Lundin
And complex they were: 18 different unions with 35 different contracts. And the system she designed had to know, as Margaret puts it, “that Susie worked through lunch on Tuesday and so Susie gets a missed-lunch penalty.” And that level of detail held for literally thousands of employees and freelancers for every task and every rehearsal, dress rehearsal, and performance.
Margaret oversaw the systems she designed at the Met for 20 years, more than 4,000 performances, and all the rehearsals and planning days in between.
When it was time to retire, she took her systems engineering skills, studied the senior living industry, and decided that an accredited, nonprofit Continuing Care Retirement Community was the only option for her. But there aren’t many CCRCs, and she wanted easy access to New York City. That left less than a handful, and for her, Kendal-on-Hudson was the best match.
At 101, Jackie Recalls KoH Founders
Muriel Fox
What do we owe to the founders of Kendal on Hudson? Perhaps more than any other resident, Jackie Wilke – now 101 years old — is a reminder of that considerable debt. Jackie was one of the Westchester residents who met for many months in one another’s homes to plan for the new Kendal community. When they finally succeeded in signing up a scenic riverside location on the grounds of Phelps Hospital, they contacted residents-to-be for donated furnishings to add warmth and individuality to our public spaces. For 14 years Jackie headed the Common Areas Furniture and Art committee, which is still known as CAFA. Jackie served in the Welcoming Committee and (since its inception) in the Tuesday Morning Club.
Jackie recalls that “donated stuff” filled two Adirondack apartments. There were dozens of contributed or loaned works of art plus chairs, tables, chests, wall units, even pianos. In addition, the administration donated $20,000 to purchase furnishings. It was a huge task for Jackie and CAFA to organize and place all these objects. “We had sleepless nights over what goes where.” When move-in time finally arrived, CAFA also helped residents hang art in their new apartments.
Founders selected their new apartments from floor plans. Says Jackie: “We paid for a home for the rest of our lives that we’d never laid eyes on.”
Jackie’s innate good taste and background served her well in helping residents with artistic Jackie Wilke
decisions. While living in Hastings-on-Hudson she had volunteered for The Gallery, a nonprofit that produced six art exhibits a year and conducted educational programs.
A look into Jackie’s early life illustrates her unique resilience and adaptability. Jacqueline Alden was born in Minneapolis in 1923 to teenagers who had eloped before their high school graduation. Her father was descended from “the” John Alden of Pilgrim fame. Regrettably, he deserted her 19-year-old mother and Jackie, “never to be seen again.” Jackie was placed in four successive foster homes. She doesn’t indulge in self-pity about those years. Instead, she reminisces, with her usually present smile: “From age 7 to 13, the fourth one was the best – living with a very kind working-class, immigrant couple.” Then “my life changed dramatically in a very good way when I was invited to live with the large family of a wonderful cousin living in Maryland.”
Jackie first experienced Quaker Values when attending Swarthmore College. After two years, during World War II, she moved to Washington, D.C., where she worked 5-1/2 days a week for the Department of Communications of the British Air Commission. She took evening classes at George Washington University, earning a B.A. in English Literature.
Beginning in 1945, she held a series of communications jobs. For the broadcasting department of the new United Nations; “America’s Town Meeting of the Air” on ABC radio and television; and radio station WHDH, Boston, where “Bob and Ray” originated.
Jackie was happily married for 60 years to Hubert Wilke, whom many of us remember fondly. Their progeny includes two sons, four grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Jackie and Hubie worked together for 20 years in The Wilke Organization, a communications facilities design/engineering firm. After they moved into KoH, Hubie used his know-how and business acumen to establish our in-house TV station, now known as Channel 970. He helped to produce our first New Year’s Eve show. He died at the age of 98.
In addition to CAFA, Jackie served in the Welcoming Committee and (since its inception) in the Tuesday Morning Club, a program for Adirondack residents that stimulates communication and participation in music and art projects. For our Rue des Artistes art shows, until recently she organized the Glass Case to display residents’ three-dimensional creations.
What were the old days like for founders of Kendal on Hudson? “When we first moved in, the ‘Garden Apartments’ looked out on mud. At the very beginning, we all ate together at the same table in the Bistro. Our residents were less varied and less affluent than today’s group. We took it for granted that we’d contribute to communal life here.”
Jackie concedes that she has slowed down since reaching the age of 100, but she’s still a lively and witty companion. She looks very much younger than 101. She muses: “Kendal is a wonderful place. People care about each other. The residents are interesting. The administration makes an effort to be helpful. Sometimes there are problems, but we always rise above them.”
Erin Hennessey
Llyn Clague
Erin Hennessey, Licensed Practical Nurse or LPN, is the manager of our Resident Care Center. Reporting to Lisa Wacht, Health Services Administrator, she supervises the RCC staff, who include Tanya Clarke, LPN Case Manager, and Kenna Cordova, RCC Assistant. Tanya, an LPN like Erin, acclimates residents to the operation and services of the RCC. Among other things, this includes building an Electronic Medical Record chart for each individual, both for the medical record itself and for insurance billing purposes. Kenna answers calls, keeps files, and schedules appointments for residents with any outside providers who come to Kendal. She and her team also provide triage for urgent care, from Pet/Pull-cord emergencies to minor events like cuts, headaches, and the like.
Beyond those specific activities or capacities, Erin and the RCC provide two other kinds of health care support. She coordinates – but does not supervise – the services of outside providers who come to the RCC at scheduled times; these include Dr. Sharon Bronner, a Nurse Practitioner who holds a doctorate in Nursing Practice, offers medical visits on a limited schedule (Monday afternoons, as of this writing); Dr. Ross, a podiatrist; Jessica LaCorte, an audiologist; and professionals in massage therapy.
Erin is a key contributor to the movement of residents through the continuum of care at Kendal. She participates in a regular standing meeting of Kendal staff who discuss residents and their new or ongoing medical/care needs. In this role she develops close ties with residents and, sometimes, their families.
The second level of support is guiding patients through to further care as needed, whether at a nearby hospital, clinic, or physician’s office. For IL Kendal residents, Erin describes her principal function as providing a resource to local medical providers, including Phelps, other hospitals, and Northwell Health, which offers a full range of medical services and specialists, plus an urgent care center. As she phrases it, “The basic plan is to help residents manage the health care system.” That means, within Kendal itself, advising residents on moving through the different levels of care (Adirondack, Clearwater, Sunnyside), along with a Kendal-wide interdisciplinary team. Beyond Kendal, in today’s rapidly changing health care environment in which medical services becoming increasingly difficult to access, helping residents by “running interference,” that is, helping find the best options in each individual case.
A major part of Erin’s job is Employee Health – all employee health records, compliance with OSHA (the Federal Occupation, Safety, and Health Administration) and New York State health regulations, and all other health mandates. She reviews medical clearance forms for new hires and has the monumental task of spearheading the staff’s annual flu vaccination effort.
Erin Hennessey
Before coming to Kendal, Erin worked at Northwell Health for about seven years as a nurse supporting doctors in various specialties such as gastroenterology, cardiology, dermatology and others. She assisted in surgeries and other procedures. Prior to that, she worked at a family medicine practice in Dobbs Ferry for 13 years, where she provided nursing services to patients and acted as office manager. She also worked closely with third-year medical students on their rotation from the New York Medical College in Valhalla. Alongside the physician preceptor she was able to teach venipuncture, how to administer injections, ECGs, and obtain vitals, an experience she greatly valued.
On a more personal note, Erin has two sons, 26 and 17. The older one is a technician in the TV and movie industry and a member of the Teamsters Union; the younger is a senior in high school. For the last five years she has had a partner, Edward Newman, who is also a professional in nursing as an RN.
Erin’s passions include cooking, and music (very diverse!). She has performed many forms of dance, including tap, jazz, and ballet. In middle school she participated in a dance program and attended the Bronx Dance Theater. A family tradition led to working in Broadway theater as an usher and a lifelong love of performance.
When asked how and why she fell in love with nursing, Erin said that it was at a relatively young age – 15 – when she was in the delivery room where her 7½-year-older sister was giving birth. The monitors and machines were “alive,” and “the whole thing taking place, the coming into the world …” her voice trailed off. Then added, simply, “nursing is a vital resource to one’s health.”
Driven Drivers
Norman J. Sissman
Among the most appreciated services at Kendal is its transportation program. For all residents, but especially for those without their own cars, the availability of being driven, in Kendal vehicles, to doctors’ offices, the Tarrytown train station, shopping trips to local supermarkets, and on special group trips to nearby sites of interest, is a treasured amenity. Statistics for 2024 document the story: 10,418 resident drop-offs and pickups, which included 7,117 trips to doctors, 1,786 trips to the train, and 1,515 shopping trips.
Recently, the Resident Transportation Advisory Committee distributed four pages of detailed guidelines on how to use these services. It occurred to me that some additional insights into our driving history might be of interest.
Richard Shields
So I sat down with Richard Shields, the longest-serving Kendal driver, for a chat about it. Rich came to Kendal in June 2005; thus, he is a true Founder! Rich lives in a nearby small town with his wife and their daughter. During that first year, he was the only driver, and there was only one car and one bus available. But meeting our needs soon necessitated expansion. Now we have three cars, a van, and two buses (each with twelve seats) and (currently) two drivers; the other driver is Frank Occhipinti. Evening rides are now available by prior arrangement on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and on alternate Wednesdays.
Rich is proud of the accomplishments of our drivers, as well he should be. They have never had an accident, although once the vehicle was disfigured when our driver, Howie, entered an 8-foot-high tunnel with his 9-foot-tall bus. They have never failed to pick up every resident in groups that they transport. Drivers usually are never later than 15 or 20 minutes of expected pickup times, unless they are very busy (then around 30 minutes).
At my request, Rich recounted two “incidents” that were unusual. Once, several years ago, a resident was missing at the place where a group was being picked up after a trip to New York City. Plans were being made to search for her, but then the driver’s cell phone rang. A doorman in an apartment house several blocks away had gone to assist a woman who seemed to be wandering aimlessly nearby. She gave him a card with her name, identity, and the Kendal driver’s number – problem solved! Drivers have often heard discussions that were not intended to be public. One ironclad rule among the drivers is that “nothing heard in the vehicles will ever leave the vehicles.”
Our drivers are driven to provide us with efficient, pleasant transportation. We are grateful.
Round Up the Usual Movie Lines
A montage of quotes selected by the American Film Institute
I coulda been a contender, Toto, but I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Gentlemen, you can’t fight in here! This is the War Room! Well, nobody’s perfect. We’ll always have Paris, but in the meantime, round up the usual suspects. I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse: Plastics! Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night, but first: E.T., phone home. As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again, because I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. Oh, Toto, what we have here is a failure to communicate.
Hell on Earth
Frank Neuwirth
In classical lore, Hell (aka Hades) is located down “there” (wherever “there” is). It is a place of fire and brimstone that is presided over by the fallen angel, Satan (aka The Devil). Hell is the place that the souls of people, who have done evil in their lives, are sent perhaps for eternity.
I do not know whether the classical Hell exists (I do expect to find out shortly). I do know that a form of Hell existed here on Earth in April, 1945, because I saw it.
Several of the Tank Destroyers (TD) of my WWII outfit, “A” Company, 821st TD Battalion, were assigned to support an infantry company as it moved east in Germany. The infantry began to take hostile fire from two strange-looking towers some distance ahead. Rather than suffering casualties from the fire, they asked us whether we could take out the offending towers. Two of our TDs moved into position, unloaded the anti-tank solid shells from their 3-inch guns, and replaced them with high-explosive shells. One shot from each of the TDs and the towers were history.
The TDs now took the lead. The road led to locked gates that the towers were presumed to protect. The TDs smashed through the gates and then we smelled it – that god-awful, unbearable smell of death. We had frequently experienced that sickly sweet odor in the past ten months, although not to this intensity.
When we had an opportunity to look, we found that we were in a large field that was littered with dead bodies, more dead bodies than we had ever seen in one field earlier in the war. Then there were the “walking dead,” skeleton-like men with blank looks on their faces just walking aimlessly. Occasionally, one would stop, stand still and then just fall and join the other dead in the field. At the far end of the field were several long low buildings that we presumed housed the inmates of the hellhole.
As we approached one, we found dead bodies stacked up like cordwood. When we opened the door, we experienced the most overwhelming odor of putrefaction – several of our GIs vomited and refused to enter the place. I and some others entered and braved the smell.
It was an overwhelming odor of putrefaction; a stink, perhaps 10 times stronger and more dense than I had ever smelled. It covered us like a pall; This stink seemed to have form and dimension; it seem as though it could be cut with a knife; it felt as though it was penetrating the pores of my skin, like it was attaching to my clothing. It was ugly.
HELL exists in this world. I know that it existed in Germany in 1945 because I saw Evil and I smelled Evil. Just look around our world and you will find it.
Frank Neuwirth
Dentistry, as with other health services, is rapidly changing. Technology is constantly improving, allowing us to deliver quality care in less time and with less stress. Most importantly though, dentistry is still an art as well as a science. As a health service, the patient care is provided not only by the doctor, but by the entire office staff. Dentistry as a health service means properly placed restorations and courteously answered phones. Rapidly changing technology will not change this philosophy of service.
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Yolanda is available for pedicure by appointment
Mondays -
Wednesday
Enrico cuts and styles and Tatiana consults on color
KIm does hair color/cut and styling
Wednesdays
Hairstyling by Kim
Friday
Wednesdays through FridaysMaria does manicures
Maria does manicure and waxing
Sandra does hair color/cut and styling
Thursday and FridaysHairstyling by Toni
Saturday
Fridays -
Enrico does hair color/cut and styling
Christina does pedicures, manicures and hair.
Call for appointments 914-523-6382 or 914-922-1057
Call for appointments 523-6382 or 922-1057
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