For Cecily

When Jason was five months old, he became seriously ill. I was in the hospital with him for Halloween, Thanksgiving, Chanukah and my birthday. One evening as I settled myself under a blanket in the cot next to his crib, David came into the room with a little box. I have always vowed that the woman of Jason’s dreams would have these earrings. As his mother, my heart is overflowing. I feel so blessed that the two of you have found one another, and that I get to welcome you into our family.

Two Boys

Two bundled boys
sledding through
the fluff
rosy wet cheeks
squeals and smiles
faster and faster
over the track
bail before
the stone wall
face down with
mouths full
of snow.

An Early Snowshoe

Pole planting
as the sun slips
between the clouds
counting slowly
step by step
moderating my heart rate
crunching through the glaze
sinking in every once in awhile
the sound of an occasional skier
gliding through the frozen granular
or a snowboarder
swirling over the surface
the scent of smoke
curling up past a chimney
the taste of a snowflake
hanging on my lip
in the delicious
morning quiet.

For Aron and Jackie

My grandmother used to say that life passes by in a flash. And now I realize that it does. There was once a pudgy toddler with thick, brown curls who rode his favorite plastic all-terrain vehicle through our yard. Soon he was belting out Michael Jackson songs as he break-danced atop our picnic table. Next he was singing about magical Mister Mistoffeles, and pouring over “Les Miserables” the original text by Victor Hugo.

Early on, he developed a skill for Red Sox commentary. Who knew that he would fine- tune his craft and continue to share it with family and friends? His stage acting began with “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” at Vokes Theater in Wayland and continued with “Romeo and Juliet,” “Pentecost,” “Rags” and many more in high school.

In his first leading role at Tufts in “Inspector General,” we first glimpsed Jackie in very heavy disguise. In “Arcadia” we finally got to see them both together, performing and taking their bows. She graduated and moved to LA, yet the friendship continued. It was meant to be, as their friends have said. When she arrived in New York to attend journalism school, she contacted him. They have been a couple ever since. Visually, they look alike with their dark hair, big brown eyes, and slim bodies. Together, they can usually share one chair.

I’ve always hoped that my children would find true love. Last winter, Aron told his Grandpa Maury that Jackie is the love of his life. They complete one another, intellectually and emotionally. As a mother, I get to see my son truly happy, and I am very lucky to welcome Jackie as a daughter.

Sunset

Disappearing around the point with his Leica
A stealth figure picking a path between the rocks
Ocean water lapping against the stones
Fading sunlight glistening over the waves
Reclining on a beach chair with my toes buried in the sand
and the gentle July breeze tousling my hair
Writing with a pen in my orange journal and
looking up to watch a young couple embracing in the distance
while a lone fisherman is casting out to sea.

Banner 17

After landing in LA, we barely had time for a clothing change before speeding to the Staples Center. Traffic is always intense in LA, but the few hours preceding Game 4 of the Finals only amplified the pressure. After a check of our driver, our van and our passes, we were permitted to drive right under the stadium. With our credentials swinging around our necks, we could walk by the Lakers’ locker room and venture into the Celtics’ green room where we grabbed a burrito, bottled water, and a few words with Danny Ainge. He was pensive, but hopeful.

We hurried through the tunnel and found our seats five rows up behind the Celtics’ bench. Dressed in green, white and black, we were a vocal group outnumbered by the throngs clad in yellow, gold and purple. Down early by as many as 24 points, we felt deflated, and stopped shouting. But as the third quarter turn around began to build, we were back on our feet and the Lakers’ fans were hushed. We winced when Perkins left with his injured shoulder, but continued cheering for Paul, Ray, KG, Rondo, Posey and PJ. At the Beverly Wilshire, members of the Celtics’ staff, ownership and some players found spots in the bar at the front of the hotel. That celebration was the first glimmer of things to come, of the possibility that we could go all the way.

Coming off of a dramatic win, the weekend was euphoric. We rode rental bikes along the beach in Santa Monica, strolled and shopped on Rodeo Drive, and dined on sushi and sake. To pull off the unimaginable Sunday night in Game 5, seemed too good to be true. But we knew that the trophy was in the house, the commissioner was there, and the media presence had increased to frenetic proportions. The Celtics fought back hard, but Kobe was on his game. The champagne remained corked, the party room was cancelled, and we were on a red-eye back to Boston.

Waiting all day Tuesday for Game 6 was difficult. Who could concentrate? My father who had taken me to games as a child and had always been an ardent fan, e-mailed me during the afternoon. I should relax he wrote, because we would win. My husband suggested that we dress for success. He chose his Celtics’ tie and his new Filene’s Basement linen blazer. I decided on a white blouse, black slacks and a green shawl. It was June 17th, we were ahead three games to two, and we were intent on raising Banner 17 to the rafters. My son and my nephew were on a train from New York that broke down just past Providence. They were prepared to hire a taxi. They joked about running all the way to Boston, but the train was on its way in time for them to see the tip off.

The Garden was packed with people and excitement. At the half, we were given wristbands that would allow us onto the parquet after the final buzzer. But we were too superstitious to put them on. We would wait until the fourth quarter. Not far into the fourth quarter, the game was over. Our starters sat down amidst wild cheering. The meteoric success of the 2007-2008 season was stunning. Tearfully I hugged and kissed my husband before he climbed up onto the podium. This was something we had lived for six seasons, attending most home games and sometimes going on the road. Representing the Celtics’ Women’s Group, I had enjoyed reading to kids in hospitals and schools. This year, our involvement with the team had consumed our spring, our minds and our spirits.

When Doc came onto the floor, I embraced him. I found myself sandwiched between KG and a photographer. Sweaty, large bodies were packed in everywhere. It seemed that I was up to only their knees. In the locker room, music thumped while beer and champagne were sprayed over everyone. As news cameras recorded each moment, I felt blessed to be surrounded by my children. This could easily be a once in a lifetime experience.

A few days later at the Garden, I boarded Duck Boat #12 and threw my green shawl and bag onto an empty seat. Soon it was clear that the vehicle would be overloaded with players, their families, and members of the ownership group. I checked in with Ray Allen’s wife who was dealing with her baby’s recent diagnosis of diabetes. I shared with her that I am familiar with how upsetting it is to have a child hospitalized and restrained with tubes coming out of him, that I am certain that her son will grow up to be big and strong. She took my hand and thanked me. I stuffed my shawl and bag under a seat and made my way up to the uncovered, standing room only section of the boat. My daughter and her toddler son were right behind me. We squished in next to my husband. After greeting all of us, Ray perched himself atop the duck boat and adjusted his aviator sunglasses. The deafening roar of the crowd lining Causeway Street was beyond anything that any of us had anticipated.

I kicked off my heels and climbed onto the roof to sit between Scalabrine and my grandson. While clutching my grandson’s tee shirt to make sure he was stable, I turned to Scal and said: “Can you believe this?” He shook his head in amazement and placed a cigar between his lips. The masses of people, sometimes as many as forty deep on the street or hanging out of skyscraper windows or on top of rooftops, continued all the way through City Hall Plaza, past Boston Common, Copley Square, and on to Prudential Center. Green and white confetti rained down on us. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders. Business people attired in impeccably tailored suits and construction workers wearing hard hats applauded while youngsters held placards praising their favorite players and scrambled to catch the #20 jerseys that Ray tossed their way. Almost everyone displayed at least one green accessory or piece of green clothing. We clapped for these devoted fans and waved at them along the whole route. Many had probably stuck by this team through several tough years. In any case, the adults hadn’t seen a championship for over twenty years. Nearby was a flatbed truck filled with Celtics’ Legends and their wives: the Heinsohns, the Whites and the Cousys. When my husband cheered for Tommy, he noticed us and saluted by tipping his cap.

Sophie

I used to say that I have never been a “dog person”. I don’t try to pat every dog that crosses my path and I never sit on a park bench and idly chat about dog stuff with the stranger sitting next to me. I have never purchased a dog sweater or raincoat, although I did invest in four little boots one frigid winter. I have never carried my miniature sheltie in a backpack or pushed her in a stroller. Privately, I have smirked to myself about these people.

Sophie would have turned fifteen in July. For years, I resisted getting a dog. I frequently told my children and my husband that three kids were enough for me, that my life had plenty of chaos. (And there was the lagging fear in the back of my mind, that if fish could not survive in our household, what would become of a four-legged friend?) My daughter jokingly claims that I replaced her with another girl when she left for college. The truth is that I relented and agreed to get a dog when my youngest child turned ten. But at that point, between the end of the year school festivities and our family vacation, it didn’t make sense to get a puppy until the fall when I could be home and focus on the training that I knew would be intense.

My husband answered a classified in the Sunday Globe. A couple from Fall River had a few shelties for sale. Our family took a ride that weekend, and right away fell in love with the runt of the litter. She was multi-colored with a shock of white fur on her chest. She cried all the way home to Cambridge, but quickly learned to run around our backyard and chase our two sons. When we brought her to meet our daughter at college, she could still fit inside my jacket pocket. She was the size of a gerbil. We named her Sophia Josephine, just because we liked the sound of it.

As the months passed, she grew and learned to obey simple commands. Our sons added jumps to her running repertoire. Her largest weight was eighteen pounds, so she was always portable. Whenever any of us came home, she was faithfully waiting on the other side of the door, wagging her tail and purring like a cat. Never a fan of playing with toys, she would chase a ball but otherwise she would contentedly curl up wherever she found a comfortable, warm spot.

For years, Sophie barked when the doorbell rang, just to be our early warning system. She barked when we used our blow dryers, spread out sheets of aluminum foil, and filled our glasses with ice cubes from the freezer. We figured that certain sounds just bothered her. As her hearing declined, and she stopped reacting to these noises, we felt increasingly wistful but understood that she was getting on in years and we wouldn’t have her forever. Her vision disappeared to the point where she was just noticing shadows and had to be coaxed or carried downstairs.

Last weekend, when we were in Memphis, Sophie became very ill while she was staying with our friend, Rose, who promptly took her to Angell Animal Medical Center. There the veterinarian in the emergency room ascertained that like many shelties, Sophie had a gall bladder in deep distress. The choice from a distance was either to operate or put her to sleep because she was in such pain and danger. Not ready to part with her from a distance, we authorized surgery.

Now I realize that I am that person. I squished myself into a cage in the critical care unit, stroking Sophie’s head and reassuring her that she would be okay, that I loved her. As weak as she was, she still looked good. She has always had shiny, thick, soft fur. I stayed for the allotted visiting hour, and conferred with the nurses and doctors. I made friends with the woman talking with her dog, Debo, in the cage next door. She was uncertain about Debo’s future since he had just had a biopsy. She told Debo that he should be strong, that he needed to get better. Her mother was with her as well as her male friend. She told me that I was very brave.

Sophie snuggled in my lap. My husband and son arrived. Even in their business clothes, they took turns squeezing themselves into Sophie’s cage. My husband whistled, and Sophie’s ear shot up. With tubes coming out of her and her belly bandaged, she attempted to stand. They brought both a turkey sandwich and egg salad with them. These had once been her favorite treats, but she was refusing solid food. If she could only start eating on her own, I kept thinking that she had a chance.

During the night, I couldn’t sleep. At 1:30 a.m., I was pacing around our house. Before 7:00 a.m., my cell phone was ringing. One of Sophie’s vets was calling with the grim news that she had become septic overnight, and her possibility of recovering was slim. Sadly, the time had come to let her go. I was tearful that day and could barely speak with those closest to me. Sophie and I had an emotional connection. I guess I must have sensed that she was failing that night. I never realized how much I would miss seeing her resting under our kitchen table, walking with her every afternoon, scratching her neck between her ears, and finding her on the other side of the threshold every time I came home.

First Round

Emerald studs
Rhinestone logo tee shirts
Green suede purse
Green rally towels
Popcorn and beer
Bottled water
Hands clapping
Standing ovation
Lights dimming
Fireworks blazing
Jumbotron glowing
Dancers spinning
Garnet pounding his chest
Tip off
Bodies leaping and blocking
Arms fouling
In the paint
Off the glass
Shooting a three
from downtown
Pick and roll
Mid-air swish
Jump shot
Running the ball
Jetting to Atlanta
It's the Playoffs!

Contact

The tension comes from too much contact, the need to have the cell phone on, to listen to the voice mail on the landline, to scan the e-mails. I can turn all of this technology off but then, I worry that someone is trying to get in touch and I am out of the loop.

There was a time way back when letters were the only effective form of communication. Then there was Western Union and one telephone downstairs in the front hall. In those days, somehow we managed. But today there is a need for total access, to stare at one’s mini-screen so we can peruse sports scores and global headlines.

I relished our six days on Peter Island, one of the British Virgin Islands. My husband and I flew there with friends, leaving behind the emergency phone number of the resort’s office. During the first day, I found myself stressing about my inability to pick up e-mail on my cell while lounging on our beachfront porch. I envied my husband and our friends who could field questions from associates or schedule future meetings while swaying in the hammocks braced between the rustling coconut palms.

After speaking with each of our children, I realized that all would be well, that everyone would survive our brief respite. If anyone really needed to connect with us, they could.

Late in the afternoon, we hiked miles over undulating hills until we approached White Beach at dusk. Along the way we passed a family of goats, medicinal aloe, magenta frangipani and orange hibiscus. Hummingbirds, frigates and even a hawk flew overhead. On the turquoise sea, the wind slapped the white sails as the water lapped against the pebbly pink sand.

The next morning, we meandered back to the same idyllic spot for snorkeling with the midnight parrotfish, the yellow head wrasse, the shy hamlets, and the sea urchins. On shore, a brown iguana and a pale green frog scampered by. We reapplied our sun block, stretched out on beach chairs placed under thatched huts, and pulled out our books and magazines.

That evening, we savored smooth papaya and crunchy peapods with our grilled sea bass. A reggae band played while we sipped wine, danced and laughed under a sky so clear that we could pick out Orion’s Belt and the Little Dipper. It was okay that the contact and the fun were between the four of us for those fleeting few days.

Stuff

Her spare house keys are still in my kitchen drawer along with her faded pink stationery edged with green swirls. I keep a package of her large eyed needles in my sewing basket. My grandmother died almost eleven years ago and even while I’m paring down the excess stuff in my house, it’s hard to toss the simple items of someone else’s life into the trash compactor. Harder still is to figure out what to do with her hand knit dresses and coats. On the day my mother and I moved my grandmother to a nursing home, she handed me her house keys, just in case she wanted to go home. Knowing that in her late 90’s she wouldn’t be going home, I helped clear out her apartment. In her nightstand, I found the list of state capitols that my son, Aron had written for her when he was in second grade. In her bathroom, I found a white hand towel embroidered with the letter “E”. She enjoyed the fact that we shared the same last name. Coincidentally my grandmother’s family and my husband’s have identical last names. So I inherited everything with “E” initials: linen napkins, silver candleholders and napkin rings.

My sister-in-law, Barbara is clearing out my in-laws’ Florida condominium. My mother-in-law has been gone twelve years; my father-in-law just a few weeks. Barbara e-mails that it’s hard to throw away the buttons, the pins, and the old addresses because these are the basic things that constitute a life. There may be some items of financial value such as Chinese teapots, screens and urns, but a copy of “Cooking In the Nude” (my mother-in-law believed in the importance of happiness in the bedroom) is priceless. The worn chess table that toddler Aron used for games of pretend chess with his sister, Jess also has a special place in our memories.

I am looking around my own house and wondering what things my children would figure are significant for me. They already take note of the myriad of photo albums and framed pictures, as well as the bursting bookshelves. Inside an upstairs closet are boxes containing sweaters, vests and coats that my grandmother knit for each of them. My grandsons have already worn some of these sweaters.

In my dining room, I examine the engraved candleholders. They are a bit dented and tarnished, but a touch of polish will brighten them. While I am guessing that my daughter-in-law to be will keep her name in the professional arena, she and my son have a home where the “E” initial makes sense. Somewhere in the buffet drawer is my grandmother’s cake cutter. I can visualize my son and his new wife using it to slice their wedding cake in the fall.

By entrusting me with her house keys, my grandmother was suggesting the central role of home. From experiencing meals at her holiday table and spending school vacation days in her kitchen, I learned to create a warm environment where the new members of our expanding family feel welcome. It is not the items of monetary value that teach us lessons about a person’s life, but the stuff that is emotionally charged and sentimental enough to pass on as cherished mementos.

Thoughts

In the photo, I am smiling. My light brown hair is streaked blond from the late summer sun. My ivory silk wedding dress trimmed with lace, falls gently to my feet that are clad in off-white leather ballet-style pumps. I found the dress and the shoes on clearance. Even before I married her son David, I had learned smart shopping tips from Polly. In spite of our startlingly young ages, she was all for this wedding. She considered me a good choice for her baby, her “heart and soul” as she liked to call him.

Her husband, Maury saw things differently. In retrospect, he was not unreasonable. I was nineteen years old, a mere teenager and my fiancé had just turned twenty-one. The marriage was happening quickly because even though we were engaged, my parents didn’t like the idea of their daughter living with her boyfriend in an off-campus apartment. They graciously planned the wedding we wanted: a ceremony on a boardwalk next to a Cape Cod beach in August just before the start of the fall semester. David and I chose a Tuesday afternoon because our favorite song at the time was “Tuesday Afternoon” by the Moody Blues. My future father-in-law found the idea of nuptials on a weekday completely bizarre. In fact, he informed me that he would be attending only because his son was getting married.

At this news, I became hysterical. My childish sensibility sought unconditional love and approval. Polly comforted me and explained that her husband was a good man, that a person’s personality can never be seen in black and white, but rather, in shades of gray. I listened to her, and vowed to try to get along. In the photo, Maury is hugging me with both arms.

It wasn’t until twelve years ago when my mother-in-law died, that my relationship with my father-in-law deepened. Perhaps her energy and vivaciousness had simply dominated. After she passed away, Maury began to spend an occasional fall foliage weekend with us in Vermont, and loved swimming with his son and grandsons in the wild surf at Lucy Vincent Beach on Martha’s Vineyard. I can still picture my youngest son, Jason clutching his grandfather’s left arm while my husband is grabbing his right, and the three are approaching the waves. They shared a love for the ocean and the sand.

Especially in the past few years when Maury’s mobility has been limited, we have had one-on-one conversations about politics, and my writing. An avid reader and a former labor lawyer, he has enjoyed word plays and intellectual discourse. He was proud of my Cambridge Chronicle columns and always asked: “What are you writing?” When he could no longer focus on the printed page, I read my articles aloud to him.

After he fell out of his wheelchair last July, he seemed to embark on a downward spiral. Since then, he has lived in a nursing home. Every few weeks and sometimes once a week, I would drive over for a visit. Even at age ninety-six, his full head of hair is just starting to gray and his face has few lines. He has a ready smile for any attractive female nurse; his flirtatious demeanor has not changed. He refers to my daughter-in-law to be as “that pretty girl” even though he knows that she’s intelligent, and he respects a sharp mind.

As recently as last week, we counted the members of his family: from four children, he has eleven grandchildren and fourteen great grandchildren. We also talked about the upcoming primaries, and he commented that there is a woman running who is bright and capable. So when I walked into his room yesterday and found him in a semi-conscious state, I felt sad. Yes, he has been an extremely lucky man and has had a wonderful life. During the past few years, he has attended a bris for each of my grandsons, his great grandsons: Simon and Asher. He beamed at those gatherings in my daughter, Jessica’s and son-in-law, Shane’s home. Not long ago my son, Aron spent hours with his cousin, Daniel making a video of their grandpa so that our whole extended family will forever have his stories, his memories, his face and his voice. Yet I wanted so much to discuss Super Tuesday with him but he, as I knew him, was no longer there. He is resting comfortably. I talked with his devoted caregiver, Linda for a while before I kissed him on the forehead, took his hand, and said: “Good-bye, Dad”.