I had an inkling that you would be a girl, but didn’t dare believe it until I saw you. You were very tiny with lots of dark hair and pink skin. Although you were due on December 12th, your mommy’s doctor began telling her in the middle of November that you would be born early. I wondered if I would meet you on November 29th. Then we could share our birthdays.
Our house was already busy, as your whole family had been living with Grandpa and me for months while they were working on their house. Thanksgiving was on November 26th. We added Nanny and Papa, Aunt Jackie and Uncle Aron, Uncle Bob and Aunt Esta, and Aunt Cecily and Uncle Jason with their new puppy, Charli. We had a festive meal and joked and talked for hours. New for me this year was the cranberry sauce I made using my friend Susan’s recipe. I’ve been making orange and strawberry jello mold with mandarin oranges and sour cream for thirty-eight years, and nobody seems to want me to stop. Aunt Jackie and Uncle Aron were staying with us since they were visiting from New York. Uncle Jason and Aunt Cecily decided that they would sleep on an aero bed. They didn’t want to miss the fun.
Saturday was a busy day. Your mommy, Simon, Aunt Jackie and I went to see cousin Delila in the “Nutcracker” ballet. In the evening, your brothers stayed home with a babysitter while the grown ups went out to a restaurant for dinner. On Sunday, we had a delicious brunch. Your mommy had a hair appointment in the afternoon. She is always pretty, but she looked especially good when she came home.
At eight p.m., we hugged Aunt Jackie and Uncle Aron “good-bye”. They got into their car to drive back to Brooklyn. I began cleaning out the refrigerator and doing the loads of laundry with the tablecloths, napkins, towels and sheets. I got into my bed at 11:00 p.m., but just couldn’t fall asleep. At midnight, I could hear your Mommy pacing back and forth on the floor above my bedroom. At 1:00 a.m., your daddy knocked on my door. It was time to go to the hospital. I was dressed in two minutes. I had had my clothes ready for days. I brushed my teeth and ran downstairs. Grandpa would be with Simon, Asher and your dog, Fiona.
Your daddy and I were in a hurry because Asher had come so fast. We didn’t know that you would take your time, that you would arrive at 10:22 the next morning. You came into the world in a mellow way. You were not in a rush. The perfect shape of your head showed no sign of a struggle. Your mommy had a huge smile on her face and couldn’t wait to snuggle with you. Your daddy was weepy with happiness. I was tearful as I watched the nurse weigh and measure you Miriam, my first granddaughter.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Monday, November 09, 2009
Slot Canyon
He had set his alarm for 5:00 a.m. His high school buddies would be incredibly amused to see him now. Some were in the state penitentiary, while others were still drinking the night away. When Liza gave birth to Annie, something had snapped in her. She didn’t have the emotional strength to care for a baby and couldn’t begin to think about creating a home. But he’d melted immediately at the touch of that peachy soft skin and the sight of those high dimples. His grandparents and parents were all nearby. They’d help him care for her, and Liza could take some time to put herself back together. Having them around had certainly helped to straighten his path. Of course, he hadn’t realized that Liza would never be ready to mother Annie. She was in the picture and everyone got along fine, but she didn’t seem interested in being a parent.
The alarm kept ringing even after he pressed snooze. That was fortunate. He wouldn’t want to disappoint Lance or himself. He put up his coffee, stuck his head in the shower, and dragged Annie out of bed. “Daddy, please…a little longer…” That was the beginning, and then there would be whining about her outfit for the day. Gosh, she was in first grade. What would she be like in fifth? He wasn’t prepared for a preteen. He still liked to visualize himself as a surfer dude, dreaming about that ten-hour drive to California.
Page provided him with a good way of life. The tourists always remarked about the peacefulness. He’d swept floors and flipped burgers, but Lance whom he’d met by chance at a GMC rally, had come up with this brilliant business plan. He’d invest in a Hummer and use Clint as his first driver. Clint knew this terrain well. He’d three-wheeled with his Dad, and then graduated to trucks with his friends. In Arizona, it was important to befriend the Navajo family and gain their respect. They were private and reserved people. It helped that he wasn’t a newcomer. It took a few years for him to win their trust, but eventually they agreed to let Clint drive groups of from two to six people over their land. The fees were good for the Navajo, and such low use wouldn’t pillage their property. At the prices that Lance and Clint were charging, they were drawing customers from fancy resorts. You could rely on these folks not to carve their initials into the petrified sandstone.
“Daddy, I want to wear the orange dot tights!” Clint helped her pull on her tights, and grabbed her backpack. Thank God for subsidized school lunches. Making her a lunch at this hour would be another project. Vera had kindly offered to take Annie on these early mornings. She could have a little breakfast, and wait for the bus with her kids who were older and reliable. Vera was a nice kind of neighbor, a single parent too so she understood about tying up the loose ends. Sometimes if she had a night shift, he’d keep an eye on things. He’d make sure her kids did their homework and got to bed without zoning out on TV. He’d noticed her shapely butt, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t sure he wanted to mess with a good friendship.
On this Thursday, he was picking up a husband and wife at a newly finished hotel just over the Arizona border in Big Water, Utah. The activities manager had told him that the guy was seriously into photography. He had a sick set of cameras and lenses. It made sense to pick them up early so they could hike through the canyon just as the stunning morning light was coming up. There was nothing better than seeing this scenery through the eyes of two people who weren’t used to it. They wondered about the rock formations standing sentinel over the desert or sometimes forming drip castles. The husband pointed out hoodoos that looked like collections of old men chatting or even three women carefully carrying baskets on top of their heads. The wife commented: “I can see why the Navajo find spirituality in this land.” Clint liked the way she described it: “The tranquility is broken only by the gentle wind, a scuttling lizard or a piece of dry juniper stuck on my boot.”
Clint still chuckled to himself when he thought about the many times he and his dad had explored this territory. Later he had wandered here with his friends. It wasn’t until he was eighteen that Mitch showed him Slot Canyon. He couldn’t believe how often he’d been by it and never noticed the opening. A bit of a loner, Mitch had roamed by himself and uncovered all sorts of things that nobody else had seen. But this one ranked in the very special category. Eons of wind and rain had created a secret passageway through the red rock. Grateful to him, Clint had tried to involve Mitch in the tour plan with Lance. If they grew, they could certainly use another driver who was well acquainted with the area. But Mitch quietly said he didn’t want to get involved. It wasn’t easy to figure him out.
Now ten years after that unusual discovery, Clint was feeling like he was in charge of his universe. He was hanging out with plenty of elite types. The cameraman for the Vogue shoot was all kinds of fun. Clint had driven him out just the day before. Because he insisted that he wanted to go fast, Clint got to let the Hummer do everything it could do. It was good that he had no idea about the value of the thousands of dollars of equipment on the back seat. He wouldn’t have had nearly as good a time. The model was certainly attractive as she leaned and preened against the terracotta stone, but she wasn’t knock out gorgeous. Maybe he should think again about Vera. She was pretty, smart and truly a great person. His own grandmother said: “Clint, honey, you’re crazy not to take her to the Primrose Café for dinner.”
He felt guilty that he had been a little late picking up the photographer guy and his wife. He prided himself on taking his job seriously. Annie had been so slow and then the bridge by the Glen Canyon Dam had held him up. After that he’d gotten distracted on the way to Slot Canyon. The wife started asking him questions about the plant life: “Do you know the name of all those low golden bushes?” He knew about prince’s plume with its yellow flowers, but he had no idea about the name of the low golden bushes. Wouldn’t you know she’d ask about the one thing that was not on the tip of his brain? He liked to be on his game. He explained: “I’ll get you to the canyon, walk you through, highlight a few items of interest and then you can be on your own for two hours.” They loved this. They couldn’t believe they’d have so much time with no agenda. In the middle of what Clint described as the giant tongue, the husband set up his tripod and the wife found a comfortable, flat rock so she could sit and pull out her pen and notebook.
Clint also had two hours with no agenda. He could do his push ups, and catch up on his calls and his e-mails if he hiked to the top of the mesa. He squinted at the way the mesa undulated against the deep blue sky. He’d remember to show the wife the striations of sage and turquoise colors etched in the layers of sandstone. One of the hotel guides had told him that these colors appeared when there was an absence of iron ore. Otherwise you wound up with the basic shades of orange, red and rose.
Maybe he’d text Vera and invite her out for dinner. Although she was getting ready to give flu shots at the clinic, she texted him back. Yes, she liked the Primrose idea and Friday night would be perfect. He decided to send her an e-mail photo of those bushes in question. Sure enough, she knew it was broom snakeweed that turns golden in the fall to brighten up the dry desert. She added: “…snakeweed has medicinal purposes for the Navajo…it helps with stomach distress, headaches and heals cuts and insect bites.”
He climbed down from the mesa and strode through the secret passageway. Were the husband and wife actually pressed up against each other? In the shadows, they almost blended into the wall. They hadn’t heard him, so he backed away and waited outside. He thought about the Great Horned Owl’s nest spilling over the alcove right above them. One night, he and Lance had been lucky enough to catch the owl awake. When she took off, her wingspan reached almost four feet. On their way down the access road, Clint proudly explained about the snakeweed. The wife mulled over his information, but definitely worried: “Why didn’t you lock the fence behind us on our way in?” Clint explained: “Lance and I are for sure the only two people who’ll be around.” The husband mentioned that the canyon could be a magically secluded camping spot. Clint shared his ideas about sunset hikes and evening expeditions guided by lanterns or tiki torches.
Clint stressed about what to wear for his date. The Primrose was casual, but he was tempted to step up his board shorts, his long-sleeved tee shirt and his flip-flops. When Vera met him out front, he was glad he had cleaned up his act. Her reddish brown hair was caught up in a clip, her eyes had a touch of mascara and her white shirt was unbuttoned just a bit from the top down. Her blue Levi jeans were tucked inside her high leather boots. She wasn’t too tall, but she looked better than any Vogue model. Over marguerites, he talked to her about Slot Canyon and how it seemed to be a sanctuary of sorts for the people who got to go there. In addition to the many photographers and writers, Clint had taken musicians. Strumming a guitar or playing a flute could sound dazzling with the acoustics inside. One woman had arrived with an easel, brushes and a box of paints. Her swirling layers of oil color reminded him of the poster Vera had tacked up in her kitchen.
Vera recalled her trip to Santa Fe and her visit to Georgia O’Keefe country. There was something very sensual about the painter’s images. The i-photos that Clint showed her of the interior shapes in Slot Canyon made her think of a Georgia O’Keefe painting. Clint continued to surprise her. He was an extremely nice, stand up kind of a guy but there was a gentle and contemplative side to him that he didn’t always show. He wore those enormous Oakley reflective wraparounds and too much product in his hair, but those outward signs were only the beginning of his story. After all, she trusted him with her son and her daughter. Yet she had never been certain that she could get romantically involved with him. But then, he had texted her and she figured, why not? His question about the snakeweed was particularly endearing. He had revealed that he could be vulnerable. He didn’t want to appear uninformed to his client, and Vera had bailed him out.
She had to admit that she was so intrigued with his stories that she had to see the canyon for herself. The Hummer ride sounded like a complete adventure all by itself. Clint would motor her over slick rock outcroppings and around pieces of narrow ledge where other vehicles rarely gambled. They talked about venturing there on the following Saturday night. Late in the day, Vera’s ex would be taking her kids and Annie could have a sleepover at Gram’s. Clint’s mind was already in overdrive. He’d find a California chardonnay that he’d noticed she kept in her house, some chips and cheeses, some sandwich fixings and whatever else caught his eye at the market. He’d bring a blanket to spread out in a picnic spot partway through the canyon.
He waited for her on her front stoop. She had on her sheepskin jacket, wool gloves, and a scarf wrapped double around her neck as she asked: “Will it get chilly once the sun goes down and very cold inside the canyon?” He hoped it wouldn’t be that freezing as he had plans. He had brought the Hummer home from the office, so they could set out immediately. Vera was awed by the landscape so close to her home that was all of a sudden accessible and easy to touch: “I can’t believe the sandstone doesn’t crumble in my hands.” Clint pointed out that it had very effectively stood the test of time.
He had brought two lanterns with candles inside them that he illuminated for the light and the atmosphere. Vera all of a sudden got excited and felt like she was in a prehistoric cave. She skipped along the sandy bottom, all the while calling to Clint and letting her voice bounce back and echo against the walls. “I wonder if there could be petri glyphs chiseled into the stone.” She looked closely and rubbed her fingers along the surface. “Once over the border in Canyon Point, I saw deer and sheep carvings near the ‘Broken Arrow’ movie set.”
He spread out his blanket and poured two glasses of wine. She downed hers quickly and pulled out the tortilla chips and dips. He shook his head, not quite believing that he was there with her. “Vera, before we settle in, there’s one thing I want to show you.” He pulled her to her feet and took her by the hand toward the enormous hanging tongue. She smiled gleefully as he backed her into the wall and pressed his body the full length of hers. Had he heard a bird rustling? He looked above him at the owl’s nest and saw the two eyes staring just as Vera leaned in to his neck. As he gazed into the owl’s eyes, he realized that unmistakably, he was looking into the dark almond eyes of Mitch.
The alarm kept ringing even after he pressed snooze. That was fortunate. He wouldn’t want to disappoint Lance or himself. He put up his coffee, stuck his head in the shower, and dragged Annie out of bed. “Daddy, please…a little longer…” That was the beginning, and then there would be whining about her outfit for the day. Gosh, she was in first grade. What would she be like in fifth? He wasn’t prepared for a preteen. He still liked to visualize himself as a surfer dude, dreaming about that ten-hour drive to California.
Page provided him with a good way of life. The tourists always remarked about the peacefulness. He’d swept floors and flipped burgers, but Lance whom he’d met by chance at a GMC rally, had come up with this brilliant business plan. He’d invest in a Hummer and use Clint as his first driver. Clint knew this terrain well. He’d three-wheeled with his Dad, and then graduated to trucks with his friends. In Arizona, it was important to befriend the Navajo family and gain their respect. They were private and reserved people. It helped that he wasn’t a newcomer. It took a few years for him to win their trust, but eventually they agreed to let Clint drive groups of from two to six people over their land. The fees were good for the Navajo, and such low use wouldn’t pillage their property. At the prices that Lance and Clint were charging, they were drawing customers from fancy resorts. You could rely on these folks not to carve their initials into the petrified sandstone.
“Daddy, I want to wear the orange dot tights!” Clint helped her pull on her tights, and grabbed her backpack. Thank God for subsidized school lunches. Making her a lunch at this hour would be another project. Vera had kindly offered to take Annie on these early mornings. She could have a little breakfast, and wait for the bus with her kids who were older and reliable. Vera was a nice kind of neighbor, a single parent too so she understood about tying up the loose ends. Sometimes if she had a night shift, he’d keep an eye on things. He’d make sure her kids did their homework and got to bed without zoning out on TV. He’d noticed her shapely butt, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t sure he wanted to mess with a good friendship.
On this Thursday, he was picking up a husband and wife at a newly finished hotel just over the Arizona border in Big Water, Utah. The activities manager had told him that the guy was seriously into photography. He had a sick set of cameras and lenses. It made sense to pick them up early so they could hike through the canyon just as the stunning morning light was coming up. There was nothing better than seeing this scenery through the eyes of two people who weren’t used to it. They wondered about the rock formations standing sentinel over the desert or sometimes forming drip castles. The husband pointed out hoodoos that looked like collections of old men chatting or even three women carefully carrying baskets on top of their heads. The wife commented: “I can see why the Navajo find spirituality in this land.” Clint liked the way she described it: “The tranquility is broken only by the gentle wind, a scuttling lizard or a piece of dry juniper stuck on my boot.”
Clint still chuckled to himself when he thought about the many times he and his dad had explored this territory. Later he had wandered here with his friends. It wasn’t until he was eighteen that Mitch showed him Slot Canyon. He couldn’t believe how often he’d been by it and never noticed the opening. A bit of a loner, Mitch had roamed by himself and uncovered all sorts of things that nobody else had seen. But this one ranked in the very special category. Eons of wind and rain had created a secret passageway through the red rock. Grateful to him, Clint had tried to involve Mitch in the tour plan with Lance. If they grew, they could certainly use another driver who was well acquainted with the area. But Mitch quietly said he didn’t want to get involved. It wasn’t easy to figure him out.
Now ten years after that unusual discovery, Clint was feeling like he was in charge of his universe. He was hanging out with plenty of elite types. The cameraman for the Vogue shoot was all kinds of fun. Clint had driven him out just the day before. Because he insisted that he wanted to go fast, Clint got to let the Hummer do everything it could do. It was good that he had no idea about the value of the thousands of dollars of equipment on the back seat. He wouldn’t have had nearly as good a time. The model was certainly attractive as she leaned and preened against the terracotta stone, but she wasn’t knock out gorgeous. Maybe he should think again about Vera. She was pretty, smart and truly a great person. His own grandmother said: “Clint, honey, you’re crazy not to take her to the Primrose Café for dinner.”
He felt guilty that he had been a little late picking up the photographer guy and his wife. He prided himself on taking his job seriously. Annie had been so slow and then the bridge by the Glen Canyon Dam had held him up. After that he’d gotten distracted on the way to Slot Canyon. The wife started asking him questions about the plant life: “Do you know the name of all those low golden bushes?” He knew about prince’s plume with its yellow flowers, but he had no idea about the name of the low golden bushes. Wouldn’t you know she’d ask about the one thing that was not on the tip of his brain? He liked to be on his game. He explained: “I’ll get you to the canyon, walk you through, highlight a few items of interest and then you can be on your own for two hours.” They loved this. They couldn’t believe they’d have so much time with no agenda. In the middle of what Clint described as the giant tongue, the husband set up his tripod and the wife found a comfortable, flat rock so she could sit and pull out her pen and notebook.
Clint also had two hours with no agenda. He could do his push ups, and catch up on his calls and his e-mails if he hiked to the top of the mesa. He squinted at the way the mesa undulated against the deep blue sky. He’d remember to show the wife the striations of sage and turquoise colors etched in the layers of sandstone. One of the hotel guides had told him that these colors appeared when there was an absence of iron ore. Otherwise you wound up with the basic shades of orange, red and rose.
Maybe he’d text Vera and invite her out for dinner. Although she was getting ready to give flu shots at the clinic, she texted him back. Yes, she liked the Primrose idea and Friday night would be perfect. He decided to send her an e-mail photo of those bushes in question. Sure enough, she knew it was broom snakeweed that turns golden in the fall to brighten up the dry desert. She added: “…snakeweed has medicinal purposes for the Navajo…it helps with stomach distress, headaches and heals cuts and insect bites.”
He climbed down from the mesa and strode through the secret passageway. Were the husband and wife actually pressed up against each other? In the shadows, they almost blended into the wall. They hadn’t heard him, so he backed away and waited outside. He thought about the Great Horned Owl’s nest spilling over the alcove right above them. One night, he and Lance had been lucky enough to catch the owl awake. When she took off, her wingspan reached almost four feet. On their way down the access road, Clint proudly explained about the snakeweed. The wife mulled over his information, but definitely worried: “Why didn’t you lock the fence behind us on our way in?” Clint explained: “Lance and I are for sure the only two people who’ll be around.” The husband mentioned that the canyon could be a magically secluded camping spot. Clint shared his ideas about sunset hikes and evening expeditions guided by lanterns or tiki torches.
Clint stressed about what to wear for his date. The Primrose was casual, but he was tempted to step up his board shorts, his long-sleeved tee shirt and his flip-flops. When Vera met him out front, he was glad he had cleaned up his act. Her reddish brown hair was caught up in a clip, her eyes had a touch of mascara and her white shirt was unbuttoned just a bit from the top down. Her blue Levi jeans were tucked inside her high leather boots. She wasn’t too tall, but she looked better than any Vogue model. Over marguerites, he talked to her about Slot Canyon and how it seemed to be a sanctuary of sorts for the people who got to go there. In addition to the many photographers and writers, Clint had taken musicians. Strumming a guitar or playing a flute could sound dazzling with the acoustics inside. One woman had arrived with an easel, brushes and a box of paints. Her swirling layers of oil color reminded him of the poster Vera had tacked up in her kitchen.
Vera recalled her trip to Santa Fe and her visit to Georgia O’Keefe country. There was something very sensual about the painter’s images. The i-photos that Clint showed her of the interior shapes in Slot Canyon made her think of a Georgia O’Keefe painting. Clint continued to surprise her. He was an extremely nice, stand up kind of a guy but there was a gentle and contemplative side to him that he didn’t always show. He wore those enormous Oakley reflective wraparounds and too much product in his hair, but those outward signs were only the beginning of his story. After all, she trusted him with her son and her daughter. Yet she had never been certain that she could get romantically involved with him. But then, he had texted her and she figured, why not? His question about the snakeweed was particularly endearing. He had revealed that he could be vulnerable. He didn’t want to appear uninformed to his client, and Vera had bailed him out.
She had to admit that she was so intrigued with his stories that she had to see the canyon for herself. The Hummer ride sounded like a complete adventure all by itself. Clint would motor her over slick rock outcroppings and around pieces of narrow ledge where other vehicles rarely gambled. They talked about venturing there on the following Saturday night. Late in the day, Vera’s ex would be taking her kids and Annie could have a sleepover at Gram’s. Clint’s mind was already in overdrive. He’d find a California chardonnay that he’d noticed she kept in her house, some chips and cheeses, some sandwich fixings and whatever else caught his eye at the market. He’d bring a blanket to spread out in a picnic spot partway through the canyon.
He waited for her on her front stoop. She had on her sheepskin jacket, wool gloves, and a scarf wrapped double around her neck as she asked: “Will it get chilly once the sun goes down and very cold inside the canyon?” He hoped it wouldn’t be that freezing as he had plans. He had brought the Hummer home from the office, so they could set out immediately. Vera was awed by the landscape so close to her home that was all of a sudden accessible and easy to touch: “I can’t believe the sandstone doesn’t crumble in my hands.” Clint pointed out that it had very effectively stood the test of time.
He had brought two lanterns with candles inside them that he illuminated for the light and the atmosphere. Vera all of a sudden got excited and felt like she was in a prehistoric cave. She skipped along the sandy bottom, all the while calling to Clint and letting her voice bounce back and echo against the walls. “I wonder if there could be petri glyphs chiseled into the stone.” She looked closely and rubbed her fingers along the surface. “Once over the border in Canyon Point, I saw deer and sheep carvings near the ‘Broken Arrow’ movie set.”
He spread out his blanket and poured two glasses of wine. She downed hers quickly and pulled out the tortilla chips and dips. He shook his head, not quite believing that he was there with her. “Vera, before we settle in, there’s one thing I want to show you.” He pulled her to her feet and took her by the hand toward the enormous hanging tongue. She smiled gleefully as he backed her into the wall and pressed his body the full length of hers. Had he heard a bird rustling? He looked above him at the owl’s nest and saw the two eyes staring just as Vera leaned in to his neck. As he gazed into the owl’s eyes, he realized that unmistakably, he was looking into the dark almond eyes of Mitch.
Friday, October 09, 2009
Letter to a dear friend
I’m sorry to hear that you tripped and fell while walking on brick sidewalks. You aren’t still wearing those gorgeous pointy stilettos, are you? After nursing a bloody elbow and a tweaked knee, I’ve grudgingly given up fun shoes for sensible footwear. I notice that younger women carry larger bags so they can change from their flats once they’ve safely reached their destinations. After sprawling like that, you’re lucky to have only a bruised knee and a few cuts on your hands. As my grandmother used to say, it can always be worse.
There is something about an old friend, a person who remembers you from junior high, who knew each member of your family, and can picture your childhood bedroom with the Dylan poster that came inside the blue “Greatest Hits” album, the stuffed animals and the record player that could spin both LP’s and 45’s. I met you briefly in seventh grade when you attended our school for a year. You returned during high school and stayed through graduation. In those days, you dressed in short black skirts before anyone else dared, and kept a pink frosted lipstick handy so you could apply it as soon as you left the building. Different from our fresh-faced classmates who were into following the rules, you didn’t mind asserting your individuality while jumping on the 60’s bandwagon: “…the times they are a-changin’…” We took the MBTA regularly from Cleveland Circle to Harvard Square so we could hang out at Nini’s Corner and try on Indian dresses at George’s Folly. We squashed ourselves into the instant photo booth at Woolworth’s. I still have the 2” by 2” candids of our heads pressed together. While I passed in perfectly printed history reports, you dashed yours off during morning assembly, right before class. Cross-outs here and smudges there didn’t seem to bother you.
We have stayed in touch. Even while you were studying for your doctorate in Cambridge, England, you tracked me down. Through your romance with your instructor whom you married and your babies who kept you awake at night, we wrote letters and phoned at odd hours. Often months passed, but we could always pick up where we had left off. Sometimes it pained me that you had chosen to live across the Atlantic, but the sporadic visits that I planned with my husband and kids were always fun. We could fly to Heathrow, take the train to Cambridge, and have an authentic European experience. You usually came to Boston each summer so you could check in with your family and catch up with the Epsteins. Once you came alone with your infant daughter and moved into our guest room. You needed a good listener and the ease of a trusted companion.
Years later when I received an invitation to a dinner celebrating your promotion to Professor of Neuropsychology at Cambridge University, I knew I had to be there. Who else in that room would have known you when you were an edgy teenager, willing to be just a little bit unusual? Your parents had passed away and your siblings couldn’t make it. I was too proud of you not to want to share your happiness. With your husband’s help, I schemed to surprise you.
Now you’re sending me clips of yourself commenting about the “smart pills” you’ve been researching. College students actually take medication meant for hyperactive children in their attempt to stay awake and study longer. News outlets, journals and universities seek your expertise. This week you will be lecturing at The University of Pennsylvania. I would like nothing more than to hop on a plane and listen to your talk, although your days sound incredibly hectic. Why is it that life crowds in heavily and being spontaneous becomes difficult? You would think that I have tons of time, but responsibilities multiply, as we grow older.
There is something about an old friend, a person who remembers you from junior high, who knew each member of your family, and can picture your childhood bedroom with the Dylan poster that came inside the blue “Greatest Hits” album, the stuffed animals and the record player that could spin both LP’s and 45’s. I met you briefly in seventh grade when you attended our school for a year. You returned during high school and stayed through graduation. In those days, you dressed in short black skirts before anyone else dared, and kept a pink frosted lipstick handy so you could apply it as soon as you left the building. Different from our fresh-faced classmates who were into following the rules, you didn’t mind asserting your individuality while jumping on the 60’s bandwagon: “…the times they are a-changin’…” We took the MBTA regularly from Cleveland Circle to Harvard Square so we could hang out at Nini’s Corner and try on Indian dresses at George’s Folly. We squashed ourselves into the instant photo booth at Woolworth’s. I still have the 2” by 2” candids of our heads pressed together. While I passed in perfectly printed history reports, you dashed yours off during morning assembly, right before class. Cross-outs here and smudges there didn’t seem to bother you.
We have stayed in touch. Even while you were studying for your doctorate in Cambridge, England, you tracked me down. Through your romance with your instructor whom you married and your babies who kept you awake at night, we wrote letters and phoned at odd hours. Often months passed, but we could always pick up where we had left off. Sometimes it pained me that you had chosen to live across the Atlantic, but the sporadic visits that I planned with my husband and kids were always fun. We could fly to Heathrow, take the train to Cambridge, and have an authentic European experience. You usually came to Boston each summer so you could check in with your family and catch up with the Epsteins. Once you came alone with your infant daughter and moved into our guest room. You needed a good listener and the ease of a trusted companion.
Years later when I received an invitation to a dinner celebrating your promotion to Professor of Neuropsychology at Cambridge University, I knew I had to be there. Who else in that room would have known you when you were an edgy teenager, willing to be just a little bit unusual? Your parents had passed away and your siblings couldn’t make it. I was too proud of you not to want to share your happiness. With your husband’s help, I schemed to surprise you.
Now you’re sending me clips of yourself commenting about the “smart pills” you’ve been researching. College students actually take medication meant for hyperactive children in their attempt to stay awake and study longer. News outlets, journals and universities seek your expertise. This week you will be lecturing at The University of Pennsylvania. I would like nothing more than to hop on a plane and listen to your talk, although your days sound incredibly hectic. Why is it that life crowds in heavily and being spontaneous becomes difficult? You would think that I have tons of time, but responsibilities multiply, as we grow older.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
MV
Helicopters buzzing overhead,
Coastguard patrolling the beach
with rumors of frogmen hiding
underwater in Tisbury Great Pond...
American flags, large and small, lining
the roads and fluttering from storefronts,
makeshift lemonade stands and baskets
of apples set out on children's play tables
at front lawn edges, people hanging out
in droves on Alley's porch or trying to
stuff their vehicles into the parking lot...
the President is in town and everyone
wants a glimpse.
Coastguard patrolling the beach
with rumors of frogmen hiding
underwater in Tisbury Great Pond...
American flags, large and small, lining
the roads and fluttering from storefronts,
makeshift lemonade stands and baskets
of apples set out on children's play tables
at front lawn edges, people hanging out
in droves on Alley's porch or trying to
stuff their vehicles into the parking lot...
the President is in town and everyone
wants a glimpse.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Lobster Bake
Red/white checkered gingham cloths
Garden seats and wooden swings
Tiki torches, shimmering paper lanterns
Scattered quilts, hay bales
Steamed lobsters, corn on the cob
blueberry cake, chickpea salad
homemade chocolate chip cookies
Sangria, beer, lime soda
Glow bracelets and bubbles
A bride beaming in pink with her groom
smiling in jeans and a collared shirt.
The night before the ceremony
they wait expectantly, always
blessings for their families.
Garden seats and wooden swings
Tiki torches, shimmering paper lanterns
Scattered quilts, hay bales
Steamed lobsters, corn on the cob
blueberry cake, chickpea salad
homemade chocolate chip cookies
Sangria, beer, lime soda
Glow bracelets and bubbles
A bride beaming in pink with her groom
smiling in jeans and a collared shirt.
The night before the ceremony
they wait expectantly, always
blessings for their families.
Friendship
She was waiting for me at the bottom of the escalator. Her long and luxurious hair was gone. In its place was a shoulder length, light brown wig. She secured it with a scarf. As we embraced, I realized that her silk jacket camouflaged how thin she had become. She smiled her usual sparkly, eye-popping smile. “I’m fine, really I am…” she exclaimed. She showed me the stubble that was starting to grow at her hairline. “Chris has been so loving,” she whispered.
Twenty years ago, I met Patti in Vermont. I had a son who was an unlikely Super G ski racer. Although he was agile, he was small and skinny. Super G racers need body mass to hurtle effectively down the hill. At eleven, Aron prevailed on guts and will. Patti’s daughter, Paige was twelve. She was tall like her mother and seemed fearless. In life, we click immediately with some people. Braving below zero temperatures and bracing our boots on icy slopes, we began to talk. I could close my eyes while she waited for my son to emerge through the fog. I did the same for her so she didn’t have to deal with the stress of watching her child speed around a turn.
With fall birthdays, we discovered that we were the same age. We each had three children and husbands who had been our partners for decades. We continued to adore these men. Now at dinner in a Boston restaurant, I looked around the table at Patti, her husband, Chris and my husband, David. We shared a history of children racing together in Vermont and beyond, our youngest children attending college together, marriages that had been tested by time and in their case, difficult illness. Patti is in treatment at MGH. She explained her personal regimen of yoga, painting and positive energy. She asked if I am still writing. She wants me to be her ghostwriter so she can tell her story.
I suggested that she write something, even one phrase, at least a few times a week. I explained that there is nothing more therapeutic than chronicling one’s thoughts. She said that when she attempts to put ideas on paper, they seem awkward and empty. I encouraged her that the more she writes, the more her sentences will flow. Over glasses of chardonnay, she explained that many people react strangely to her. They touch her elbow, peer into her face, and give her sad looks. What she would like to say is that it is so much more helpful when friends are upbeat and visit with her the way they always did.
Today I gift-wrapped and mailed her a journal with spaces for words as well as drawings. As an interior designer, she may be more likely to sketch her impressions.
Twenty years ago, I met Patti in Vermont. I had a son who was an unlikely Super G ski racer. Although he was agile, he was small and skinny. Super G racers need body mass to hurtle effectively down the hill. At eleven, Aron prevailed on guts and will. Patti’s daughter, Paige was twelve. She was tall like her mother and seemed fearless. In life, we click immediately with some people. Braving below zero temperatures and bracing our boots on icy slopes, we began to talk. I could close my eyes while she waited for my son to emerge through the fog. I did the same for her so she didn’t have to deal with the stress of watching her child speed around a turn.
With fall birthdays, we discovered that we were the same age. We each had three children and husbands who had been our partners for decades. We continued to adore these men. Now at dinner in a Boston restaurant, I looked around the table at Patti, her husband, Chris and my husband, David. We shared a history of children racing together in Vermont and beyond, our youngest children attending college together, marriages that had been tested by time and in their case, difficult illness. Patti is in treatment at MGH. She explained her personal regimen of yoga, painting and positive energy. She asked if I am still writing. She wants me to be her ghostwriter so she can tell her story.
I suggested that she write something, even one phrase, at least a few times a week. I explained that there is nothing more therapeutic than chronicling one’s thoughts. She said that when she attempts to put ideas on paper, they seem awkward and empty. I encouraged her that the more she writes, the more her sentences will flow. Over glasses of chardonnay, she explained that many people react strangely to her. They touch her elbow, peer into her face, and give her sad looks. What she would like to say is that it is so much more helpful when friends are upbeat and visit with her the way they always did.
Today I gift-wrapped and mailed her a journal with spaces for words as well as drawings. As an interior designer, she may be more likely to sketch her impressions.
Jay and Cecily
Cecily, I first met you at a Williams Ski Race. I happily made you a turkey and cheese sandwich on challah bread. Long before that day, during the fall, Jay talked about the freshman girl he had met. Later in December, he told me with a smile, that this girl had surprised him on a ski-training trip. Although she had been conflicted about going back to Green Mountain Valley School for another racing year, now she was staying at Williams.
From that February, the two of you were together. And Jay pretty much always had that smile on his face. Well, you are both still smiling. And you bring your families so much joy. I hope that as the years go by, you will remember the happiness you feel today and the wonderful weekend you have planned for all of us.
Jay, you have found your true love and given me another daughter. I cherish both of you.
From that February, the two of you were together. And Jay pretty much always had that smile on his face. Well, you are both still smiling. And you bring your families so much joy. I hope that as the years go by, you will remember the happiness you feel today and the wonderful weekend you have planned for all of us.
Jay, you have found your true love and given me another daughter. I cherish both of you.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Pirates!
I am wondering if the writer of the Boston Globe review stayed until the final curtain of the opening night performance. In all my years of attending theater, I have never shared such a fun evening during which the audience was fully engaged each moment with the very talented actors. Both acts flew by and most of the audience stood and applauded at the end. I am well acquainted with the original "Pirates of Penzance" and Gilbert and Sullivan's work. This was pure happiness and enjoyment. At the after party, guests were singing and dancing the praises of Pirates! Several actors mentioned to me that it is rare for them to have such a synergy with the house. They simply fed off of the excitement and it fueled them. I cannot wait to see this show at the Huntington a second time, and I recommend it to anybody who has a sense of humor, likes to laugh, appreciates witty writing, articulate delivery of lines, excellent singing and fabulous dancing.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Dry Creek Valley
With temperatures in the low '60's and the spring breeze blowing our way, we rented a tandem and set out on a twenty-five mile bike ride that took us past mature vineyards, apple orchards, stands of cypress trees and splashes of purple wisteria and bright orange poppies. The sky was a deep blue and there was not a cloud in sight. It felt good to get some exercise after a succession of three-course meals. How do cyclists stop and taste wine on these routes?! It seems like taking a chance, given the narrow winding roads, and the trucks that blaze by every once in awhile. We saved our tasting for later after we had lunched at the Oakville Grocery and wandered around the town of Healdsburg. Although Bella is worth a visit as it has good zinfandel and a gorgeous view, Preston Vineyards has delicious voignier and barbera. They also sell their sourdough bread, balsamic vinegar, olive oil and olives.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Healdsburg
Highway One took us along the shoreline from Point Reyes Station to a spot north of Bodega Bay. As we cruised along Tomales Bay, we passed oyster vendors and launches for hire. To our right were rolling green hills dotted with grazing cattle, sheep, goats and horses. The surf at Miwok Beach on the Sonoma Coast was wild, and the jagged rock outcroppings resembled pieces of modern art. The soaring eucalyptus trees continued to impress us but they were rivaled by the redwoods in the Armstrong State Reserve just outside of Guerneville. Guerneville, by the way, is a perfect lunch spot. The Main Street Diner has noteworthy veggie pizza slices. They also have a full dinner menu and cabaret performers. The town feels like a piece of the frontier with a Rexall Drug Store, a saloon, a mercantile selling everything from bathing suits to slickers, and a Granite 5 and 10. The aging hippies lining the sidewalks could have been us if we had stayed in '68. As we approached Healdsburg, we crossed the Russian River into the Alexander Valley and began to see vineyards as well as wineries offering tastings. We checked into Madrona Manor which is on the border of Dry Creek Valley and Alexander Valley. This Victorian nineteenth century estate welcomed us with the scent of freshly baked pastries. We happily took a bottle of Navarro pinot noir up to our room to sip.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Inverness, CA
We arrived in Inverness, California late yesterday after a lunch of sliced salami, cheese, onion and tomato on baguettes at Viansa Winery in Sonoma, and a stroll through the town. We are staying in a renovated 1911 boathouse on Tomales Bay at Point Reyes, near Sir Francis Drake Bay where Drake dropped anchor for awhile to repair his ship while attempting to circumnavigate the world in the 1500's. From our Adirondacks chairs on the dock, we can watch the swiftly travelling tides and gaze at the rolling, green Marin Hills. A small skiff is tied up at a pier nearby. A dog barks in the distance. We inhaled the strong scent of eucalyptus as we wandered into the Olema Inn for a dinner of Hog Island oysters, shrimp gumbo with crunchy risotto cake and okra, and black cod garnished with locally foraged mushrooms. The chefs here cook with organic ingredients and fish that is freshly accessible. Today we did our own exploring as we hiked the Earthquake Trail as well as the Point Reyes National Seashore. We are on the San Andreas fault, the epicenter of the 1906 earthquake. We learned about the North American and Pacific plates and contemplated the friction that causes gentle as well as disastrous natural events. Our Abbotts Lagoon hike meandered through fields of lupine, buttercups and European beach grass. Winter ducks alighted on the water while raptors swooped, and western snowy plovers nested. Several historic ranches dating to the mid-1800's, share the national park land. The tableau of cattle and horses punctuating the grasslands is stunning.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Inauguration Day
When I was a teenager, Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were murdered. I can still recall the shudder, the chill and the despair that I felt during the days following their deaths. Barack Obama’s speech on race reminded me about why I have been supporting him for over a year. I hope we will have the benefit of his leadership for my children and my grandchildren.
I wrote these words during the campaign. At dawn on January 20th, I found myself on a plane bound for Dulles Airport. Neighbors had warned me that I would be warmer and have much better viewing of the inauguration ceremony on my kitchen television. I thought of their words when the outdoor temperature at the airport read 15 degrees Fahrenheit. I knew that I would be walking and waiting in long lines and it was quite possible that the president-elect would look like a dot in the distance. But there is always the enticement about being at an historic event in person.
In 1967, my grandparents took me to hear Dr. King’s Friday night sermon at Temple Israel in Boston. Standing in the back of the sanctuary while listening to Dr. King’s riveting stories about marching from Selma to Montgomery, remains one of the most memorable moments of my high school years. In 1970 when we were Tufts University students, my friends and I boarded a bus to march on Washington after the invasion of Cambodia. Lobbying our senators on Capitol Hill and linking arms with tens of thousands of people purposely striding in unison past a White House protected with bunkers and armed troops, felt like an instant in time when our voices were heard.
Witnessing Mr.Obama take the oath of office was the culmination of a journey for many. My husband and I were part of a group who raised money for the campaign and awareness, person by person. We had believed in this man’s thoughtful intelligence and measured ability to lead since we met him in February of 2007 while he was seeking supporters. As we began to walk with the masses that were winding their way toward the Washington Mall and the Capitol Building, I was amazed with how orderly and good-natured everyone seemed to be. Our group had seats and we waited for more than an hour to pass through security and find our places.
Behind us were an elderly African-American couple accompanied by their extended family. The shivering grandmother explained that she was used to Florida warmth. We gave her our fleece blanket to drape around her shoulders. Her son graciously snapped photos of us with our camera. We did the same for the young couple snuggling in front of us. Although the air was chilly, the sun beamed on the gathering and the wind stayed at bay until the final benediction. Only then did the sun slip away while the helicopter bearing our former president and his wife disappeared behind the clouds.
During the inauguration ceremony, the mood of the crowd was solemn while the awesome presidential power shifted in a stunningly calm way. With a rhinestone studded hat perched atop her head, Aretha Franklin sang “My Country ‘Tis of Thee”. Later Itzhak Perlman and YoYo Ma treated us to a new arrangement “Air and Simple Gifts” created by John Williams.
It was the actual oath of office followed by our new president’s poetically strong words that reduced people to tears. When Obama referred to those who paved the way and “…endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth…” the gentleman behind me murmured, “that was me…” When Obama extolled “our patchwork heritage” and alluded to African Americans not being served in local restaurants less than 60 years ago, the woman sitting beside me put her face in her hands. Later she looked at me with tears streaming down her cheeks. “This is our time,” she affirmed.
We looked behind us at the millions of people cheering and waving American flags in front of the Washington monument. As we made our way back to the corner of New Jersey and Massachusetts, strangers helped strangers navigate around the low stone walls, park benches and landscaping posts that were not simple to see as the veritable sea of humanity surged out of the Capitol grounds. People were smiling, gleeful and yes, they were hopeful.
I wrote these words during the campaign. At dawn on January 20th, I found myself on a plane bound for Dulles Airport. Neighbors had warned me that I would be warmer and have much better viewing of the inauguration ceremony on my kitchen television. I thought of their words when the outdoor temperature at the airport read 15 degrees Fahrenheit. I knew that I would be walking and waiting in long lines and it was quite possible that the president-elect would look like a dot in the distance. But there is always the enticement about being at an historic event in person.
In 1967, my grandparents took me to hear Dr. King’s Friday night sermon at Temple Israel in Boston. Standing in the back of the sanctuary while listening to Dr. King’s riveting stories about marching from Selma to Montgomery, remains one of the most memorable moments of my high school years. In 1970 when we were Tufts University students, my friends and I boarded a bus to march on Washington after the invasion of Cambodia. Lobbying our senators on Capitol Hill and linking arms with tens of thousands of people purposely striding in unison past a White House protected with bunkers and armed troops, felt like an instant in time when our voices were heard.
Witnessing Mr.Obama take the oath of office was the culmination of a journey for many. My husband and I were part of a group who raised money for the campaign and awareness, person by person. We had believed in this man’s thoughtful intelligence and measured ability to lead since we met him in February of 2007 while he was seeking supporters. As we began to walk with the masses that were winding their way toward the Washington Mall and the Capitol Building, I was amazed with how orderly and good-natured everyone seemed to be. Our group had seats and we waited for more than an hour to pass through security and find our places.
Behind us were an elderly African-American couple accompanied by their extended family. The shivering grandmother explained that she was used to Florida warmth. We gave her our fleece blanket to drape around her shoulders. Her son graciously snapped photos of us with our camera. We did the same for the young couple snuggling in front of us. Although the air was chilly, the sun beamed on the gathering and the wind stayed at bay until the final benediction. Only then did the sun slip away while the helicopter bearing our former president and his wife disappeared behind the clouds.
During the inauguration ceremony, the mood of the crowd was solemn while the awesome presidential power shifted in a stunningly calm way. With a rhinestone studded hat perched atop her head, Aretha Franklin sang “My Country ‘Tis of Thee”. Later Itzhak Perlman and YoYo Ma treated us to a new arrangement “Air and Simple Gifts” created by John Williams.
It was the actual oath of office followed by our new president’s poetically strong words that reduced people to tears. When Obama referred to those who paved the way and “…endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth…” the gentleman behind me murmured, “that was me…” When Obama extolled “our patchwork heritage” and alluded to African Americans not being served in local restaurants less than 60 years ago, the woman sitting beside me put her face in her hands. Later she looked at me with tears streaming down her cheeks. “This is our time,” she affirmed.
We looked behind us at the millions of people cheering and waving American flags in front of the Washington monument. As we made our way back to the corner of New Jersey and Massachusetts, strangers helped strangers navigate around the low stone walls, park benches and landscaping posts that were not simple to see as the veritable sea of humanity surged out of the Capitol grounds. People were smiling, gleeful and yes, they were hopeful.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Neighbors
The first words I could get out of my mouth had nothing to do with anything. Too many bad novels and worse news stories have taught me not to open my door for strangers. But shivering in the dark on my driveway landing, she looked frail and harmless when I peered out at her through the hall window. Her hat was pulled down over her forehead, her hands were buried deep inside her jacket pockets, and her shoulders were scrunched high next to her neck.
I looked into her eyes and exclaimed: “I didn’t realize it was past four o’clock!” She looked at me quizzically and must have guessed I was referring to the early December darkness. I didn’t recognize her at all until she introduced herself. She was my new neighbor from a few doors down. I had knocked on her door one day to welcome her, but she had told me that I couldn’t come in because her floors were freshly polished and her walls had recently been painted. At the time, I had felt a touch dejected but decided that people with busy urban lives don’t always have time for chitchat.
Years ago, when I was raising three young children and a puppy in this house, the common bonds of motherhood were sufficient to start a conversation with a parent pushing a stroller, trick-or-treating with a band of gypsies or preparing to carpool a soccer squad. My neighbor looked to be around my age but unlike me, she was serious. No smile played around on her lips. “Would you like to come in?’ I asked.
“I would like to come in, but I don’t have time today.” She replied as she stepped inside long enough to exchange phone numbers and agree that she would return for a cup of tea someday soon. That afternoon she was worried about the river of water running through my yard. An outside spigot burst after a number of frigid days had given way to an unusual spell of mild weather. I was grateful for her concern.
I looked into her eyes and exclaimed: “I didn’t realize it was past four o’clock!” She looked at me quizzically and must have guessed I was referring to the early December darkness. I didn’t recognize her at all until she introduced herself. She was my new neighbor from a few doors down. I had knocked on her door one day to welcome her, but she had told me that I couldn’t come in because her floors were freshly polished and her walls had recently been painted. At the time, I had felt a touch dejected but decided that people with busy urban lives don’t always have time for chitchat.
Years ago, when I was raising three young children and a puppy in this house, the common bonds of motherhood were sufficient to start a conversation with a parent pushing a stroller, trick-or-treating with a band of gypsies or preparing to carpool a soccer squad. My neighbor looked to be around my age but unlike me, she was serious. No smile played around on her lips. “Would you like to come in?’ I asked.
“I would like to come in, but I don’t have time today.” She replied as she stepped inside long enough to exchange phone numbers and agree that she would return for a cup of tea someday soon. That afternoon she was worried about the river of water running through my yard. An outside spigot burst after a number of frigid days had given way to an unusual spell of mild weather. I was grateful for her concern.
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