Medici

Palazzo Pitti (A Medici Palace)

According to Mel Brooks, “It’s good to be the king!” But after visiting Florence, I recommend that he amend that to include “…or a Medici.”

View from the Boboli Gardens

The House of Medici attained astronomical wealth and power starting in the 13^th century as a result of their success in commerce and banking. As an extended family of nearly unrivaled world influence, the House of Medici (as it is known) produced four popes: Leo X, Clement VII, Pius IV, and Leon XI; and by combining with the Hapsburgs of Austria their genetic contributions can be traced to much of the European royalty and ruling class.

By 1434 Cosimo de’ Medici’s patronage of the arts made Florence the cultural center of the Renaissance. Sometimes described as “strong-willed, astute, and ambitious,“ Cosimo rose to power in 1537 at age 17 when the Grand Duke was assassinated. Soon afterward his leadership was tested by invading armies, which were defeated by forces mustered by Cosimo. As a warning to all others, he ordered the beheading of the prisoners taken. Considered an authoritarian ruler who dominated his Tuscan neighbors through military intimidation, it was Cosimo who first employed a guard of Swiss mercenaries, the descendants of which can be seen today in traditional garb standing watch in Vatican City.

View of Florence from the Boboli Gardens at Palazzo Pitta

To consolidate his administrative ministers, Cosimo moved all the local offices to a building in Florence known as the Uffizi, in which he established a small museum to house his growing collection of art. Opened to the public in 1765 and now recognized as one of the world’s most important museums, the Uffizi Gallery houses some of the most treasured works of art known to man including those by Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Titian, Raphael, and Botticelli. The building itself is a testament to the incredible stature of the Medici family. (On two occasions the building and some of the art were damaged by floods, and in 1993 five people were killed when a bomb blast—purportedly detonated by the Sicilian Mafia—irreparably damaged portions of the Uffizi and some of the collection.)

A fountain at Boboli

Throughout Florence and the surrounding countryside, evidence of the Medici legacy exists. Still seen today are the remnants of the structures Cosimo had built to defend his growing circle of influence including those in Pisa, Siena, Arezzo, Sansepolero, Portoferrio as well as on the islands of Elba and Terra del Sol.

The connection between the mighty Hapsburgs and the House of Medici was more than incidental. In 1737 when Medici Grand Duke Gian Gastone died without leaving a male heir, and the dynasty ended, by the agreement of four European powers (Austria, France, England, and the Netherlands) control of the Medici holdings in the Tuscan region of what is now Italy passed to Francis of Lorraine, whose marriage to Maria Theresa of the Austrian Hapsburgs signaled the start of the extended reign of the Hapsburg-Lorraine family.

Venezia (Venice)

View from the train station

The tour book describes Venice as “a romantic tourist city frozen in time.” I’ll go with that. Dating from about AD 421, Venice began as a collection of villages rising from the hundred or so islands in a swampy lagoon. After such humble origins by the 13th century, Venice rose to world prominence. By the 1500’s the Pope, the kings of France and Spain and the Holy Roman Emperor combined forces to curb Venice’s continued influence. By the 1790’s Venice had become synonymous with decadence, and its 1376 years of independence ended; the ruling chief magistrate, called the Doge, and the Maggior Consiglio (legislative council) resigned.

Basilica di San Marco

 From architecture to the treasures in museums, evidence of Venice’s profound history and its influence on the world exist today. A few things are not to be missed. For example the Palazzo Ducale (the Doge’s Palace) and Basilica di San Marco are stunning examples of the riches once enjoyed by Venice as a result of military and political domination for almost 1000 years. One gets the impression that Venice just took what it wanted—the relic of St. Mark taken from Alexandria, Egypt and the Quadriga, four beautiful bronze horses that once proudly stood above the entrance of the Basilica are but two examples. (Replicas have since replaced the originals, which are kept safely in the museum.)

The Grand Canal

The streets of Venice (if you can call them as such—no land vehicles, period) are a virtual maze. Without first-hand knowledge or a readable map, as every well-intentioned tourist can attest, it is easy and wildly frustrating to wander about knowing right where you and right where you want to go BUT having absolutely no idea how to marry the two.

No mention of Venice is complete without a word regarding the ubiquitous gondolas and the gondoliers, as both symbolize the romantic heritage of this, one of the most unique places on earth. One can safely discount the local legend that gondoliers are born with webbed feet so they can walk on the water, but there is no doubt regarding their singular knowledge of the labyrinth of waterways in Venice. As it remains a strictly male-dominated preserve, such knowledge and the art of handling the nearly 36 ft. gondolas are passed from father to son.

Boatyard

While wandering about on our third day in Venice we had the fortunate experience to find one of the three remaining boatyards, which supply nearly continuous maintenance to the 400+ gondolas. With the same design dating back nearly 1000 years, modern gondolas pay homage to their heritage. They are always black as the tar-covered originals were, and on the front of each the ferro symbolizes the Doge’s cap and six teeth beneath represent the six sestieri (districts) of Venice. Costing approximately $15,000, gondolas are handcrafted from nine different woods: beech, cherry, elm, fir, larch, lime, mahogany, oak, and walnut. Strict regulations exist for gondoliers. Easily recognized by their red-and-white or blue-and-white striped shirts (personal preference), the matching boater hat (optional) and dark pants, gondoliers have dressed this way for as long as anyone knows.

Close-up of the ferro

The tour book mentioned something else: anyone acting as gondolier without official sanction need not worry about municipal punishment…the real gondoliers take care of that!

Venice's tour guide: the gondolier

How I Introduced the Swiss to Cheese Fries

Cheese pot

How did I make it 61 years and 11 months above ground without knowing that fondue is a Swiss thing? I did and it is. A minute of research revealed that in the 18th century some industrious, forward thinker came up with a plan to use stale bread and aging cheese before either became inedible.

While spending parts of three days in Switzerland in between funicular rides to mind-bending heights in the Swiss Alps and window-shopping for wallet-busting Swiss-made watches, we had fondue. Although the word comes from the French word, “fondre” (to melt), the service staff at the restaurant simply called it a “cheese pot.”

The funicular to Harder Klum

Ordering was easy, or I should say, should have been easy. “We’ll have a cheese pot please.” See? Wouldn’t that have been a cinch? Yeah, well…after I asked for “fondue” I asked, “What comes with that?” No response. “I mean is it just fondue?” Same.

Finally, he said, “You must like cheese. It is a cheese pot.” My restraint was unparalleled. “I hope you like cheese,” he said.

The view from 4000 ft.

“Yes we do, but what do we dip in the cheese?” It was clear that he understood English, but at this point in the exchange I realized that he was convinced he didn’t understand Americans.

Slowly as if to make sure I understood, he said, “Bread."

“Is that all?” I replied. “OK then we’ll take some French fries to dip in there.”

And as if I had asked a Frenchman to add Sprite to his cognac or a Scotsman to pour diet coke into his whisky, he slowly turned his head until our eyes met.

I guess he never heard of cheese fries

With ever so slightly raised eyebrows and a look of quiet disappointment he said, “Classy.”

I Teach

When I “retired” in 2006, I didn’t; I mean I didn’t “retire,” not really. Ten years hence I’m ready to try it again.

My brother attended a prestigious military college in Vermont. To this day I do not know the price tag for that, but I do know that when it was my turn to go to college and I told my father I planned to major in elementary education, he said, “I’m not paying that kind of money so you can become a school teacher.” Ouch. 

40 years down the road

What he should have said was, “It doesn’t matter what it costs on the front end because when it’s all said and done, the next forty years in service to other people’s children will be priceless.” He didn't, but he did pay for four years at Salisbury State College, where with the help of a few very influential professionals and one remarkable woman, I earned the right to be called “teacher.”

Writing this on what, for now, is the last day of those forty years, I can remember a few significant moments--moments that resonated at the time and linger to this day. Moments like Dr. Jack Wulff looking around the room at the circle of teacher candidates and asking us a deceptively simple question: Why are you here? The only answer I remember is the one he seemed to be waiting to ambush. “If the only reason you’re here is because you love children, go do something else,” he replied. I can still hear the silence. He stared at us, and we stared back. He was waiting to hear what we might say, and we were wondering why anyone would risk getting his other foot shoved in.

I can remember sitting front row center at the graduation ceremony for the school of education at Towson University when after seven very challenging years, I finally earned my master’s degree. After months and months of arduous study and research, and after countless evenings drafting and editing my results in the university library, I sat there unsuccessfully trying not to allow my emotions to overtake me. I listened to Congressman Ben Cardin remind us of the importance of our profession, of the significance of those who would dare to stand and deliver. He said that if not for the service of teachers no one—not a single person in that auditorium—would be present. It was as if he were speaking directly to me. I strained to restrain my emotions as I heard sentence after sentence affirming my life as “teacher.” He insisted that we command the respect due; insisted that we know and demonstrate the genuine pride that comes with the title.  When I thought I could not hear another word without sucking air into my lungs, he said, “...and when they ask you what you do...you tell them, ‘I teach’.” 

I suspect that for most people who train for a particular job, whether it’s as a lawyer, an NFL quarterback or a school teacher, there comes a moment of reckoning--an honest moment of reflection when one faces both sides of the same coin: the realization that certain goals will remain unfulfilled OR a clear and present view of the future for which one had dreamed and only hoped. 

I can remember clearly a day very near to the end of my last semester at SSC, a day that seemed in all respects like any other, a day when Jack Wulff addressed a room full of his students. We had finished student-teaching (as it was then called) and, I suspect, all had our moments of reckoning. I don’t remember why he said it or even what led to it, but what came out of his mouth proved unforgettable to me. He said, “If you don’t think you are the very best who ever did this job, quit now.” Silence. “If you’re not sure that you can do it better than anyone else, walk away.” He paused then he said, “It’s too important. It matters too much.”

Here’s the thing: when he said it, I thought, “I do.” Seriously, I did, and I still do, but I should add that he asked me after that all-important moment of reckoning I mentioned. I know what my answer would have been as I sat more than once at the kitchen table long after midnight lesson planning or cutting letters, or making worksheets or staring at nothing, head-in-hand, wondering for how long I could keep it up, wondering if this was really what I wanted, wondering if I would ever be able to do this thing that I thought I wanted—if I would earn the title.

When he said what he said, I knew what he meant. Despite how it sounded, he wasn’t referring to an inflated, competitive ego that ranks one teacher’s abilities over another; no. He was asking us to confirm that we had, in fact, had that essential reckoning. Were we sure? Really sure? He asked because there would be more nights at the kitchen table. Many more. Many, many more. There would be countless days of frustration and hard, hard work. He was asking us—making us—look ahead to see the proverbial forest and not the trees; to see the Emerald City and not the yellow bricks—to know that time spent at the kitchen table in service to others is the price we pay in exchange for that title.

When I was a senior in high school I was given an opportunity to work at an elementary school, the result of which led me to right now. Forty years later I’m another kind of senior with yet another opportunity to do the same. In between I’ve had more job titles than most people even want. I’ve been team leader, department chairman, assistant principal, associate principal (whatever that is), and principal. (I also earned a few informal titles as well, the most memorable of which appeared on about a wheelbarrow load of junk mail addressed to FU Thanner. Clever; huh?) But the title I have cherished the most was the first, and as it happened, the last. 

To stand and deliver, to explain, to create, to encourage and inspire, to insist, to correct, and model, and yes, to sit alone (although no longer at 2:00) while designing whatever it takes to allow children to learn. To know them, to hug them, and with apologies to Dr. Wulff, to love them.

I teach.