For Eli

On the day that you were born, your whole extended family felt boundless joy. Your Mommy and Daddy are so treasured by us that your arrival was the icing on the cake. Earlier in the week Aunt Jackie, Uncle Aron and cousin Hal flew in from Brooklyn. Then Grandma Susan and Grandpa Ivan drove up from Litchfield while Uncle Isaac drove down from North Haven. Uncle Shane, Aunt Jess, cousins Simon, Asher and Miriam, Uncle Simon and Nanny and Papa all live near us. Grandpa and I were lucky to have your Mommy and Daddy and your dog, Charli living right in our house. We were all waiting as patiently as we could for you to come. Wednesday night, your Mommy and Daddy had some snacks with our family at the Full Moon Restaurant (a particularly fun place for little children that you will get to know well!) Then they moved on to dinner with your Uncles Simon and Isaac and your Grandma Susan and Grandpa Ivan. Right in the middle of eating her meal, your Mommy knew it was time to go to the hospital. She hurried there with your Daddy and your Grandma Susan. Early the next morning, Thanksgiving Day, it was time for you to be born. I put the turkey in the oven, as I knew that Aunt Jackie could manage the food for our holiday celebration. Grandpa David, Grandpa Ivan and I were all at the hospital when your Daddy texted: BOY! We were so excited that we could barely wait for the elevator to take us up to see you. You had lots of dark hair and were sleeping peacefully while your Daddy, with happy tears in his eyes, rocked you in his arms. Your Mommy looked beautiful as always with her hair pinned up on top of her head and a beaming smile on her face. I welcome you with love, Eli Forrest, and could not be a more fortunate Grandma.

Election Day

My Grandma Bessie who escaped pogroms in Eastern Europe to sail steerage to America while she was pregnant with Uncle Ben and clutching the hand of toddler Aunt Mary, always told me that it is important to vote, not just because it is a right in this country, but because women fought long and hard for it. Each time I vote, I smile and marvel at how brave and adventurous she was.

Skoura

There are many kasbahs in this oasis. Some are crumbling, but others are vibrant. They can be either quite small or large enough to house multiple families, so that in an earlier time they could function like villages if they were stocked with enough supplies. A kasbah may look like a fortress, but within its walls are gardens of palms bearing bunches of orange dates, groves of olive trees and refreshing pools. Ahmed tells us that in order for a house to thrive, you have to live in it and take good care of it. This includes reapplying mud to the walls when it is necessary. Ahmed has other interesting observations. Moroccans spend a lot of time sitting together and drinking tea. This is their way of solving problems and connecting. If everyone is always in a rush, how can they possibly slow down enough to notice the people and places close to them?

Encampment

We picnic while sitting on soft cushions under an acacia tree. After enjoying chicken kebabs with roasted red peppers and zucchini, we continue on to the tall dunes. White canvas tents have been erected between these gently rounded shapes. Our footsteps are immediately erased by the swirling wind that starts to settle down as the occasional raindrops disappear and a rainbow emerges. Unlike the dunes in New England, we can tromp all over these and they re-form in patterns with stunningly majestic designs.

Sahara

As we drive toward the Sahara, we pass rolling terra cotta dunes with an oasis every once in awhile. A shepherd guides his light-colored desert goats to a river of water. Through the open windows, the wind whips up and all of a sudden there is some sand in our ears and more clinging to our hair and our faces. I begin to understand one of the reasons why women cover their heads. They are keeping out these fine grains of sand and the dirt. A sea of men file out of a mosque followed by a sea of women. A sign by the side of the roads reads: Timbuktu, 52 Days by Camel. When I was a child, Timbuktu was a word used to mean very far away. On this day, we are nearer to Timbuktu in Mali than we are to our home in America. People on the street hear us speaking English and ask us where we are from. When they hear the United States, they exclaim how much they like Obama and how good he is for world peace. Will he be re-elected they ask? In Shala (God willing) they hope.

Marrakesh or Marrakech

With its Berber heritage, this ochre and rose city is the intersection of Arabia, Europe and Africa. Its stucco walls are cooling and its marquetry and mosaics are intricate. Behind each door can be the secret of blooming hibiscus or fountains bathed in sunlight. You can get lost in the alleyways of the souks in the medina, the old city which was the epicenter of the caravan routes. Caravaners stayed at fondouks, inns especially for them as they conducted their business and traded their wares. The Moroccan government has renovated several of these buildings so that metal workers, leather craftsmen and candle makers can have workshops. The haunting call to prayer sounds five times a day. People flock to the mosques clad in a mix of western wear or babouches (soft slippers), caftans and djellabas (hooded robes). We visit an old synagogue and marvel at an ancient Torah inscribed on giraffe skin. We drink tomato and orange juice and taste dates, quince and olives.

From Imlil to Armoud

We trek with Abdul and watch as the red earth changes to gray, volcanic rock and the path becomes narrow with steep drops as we begin to wend our way up and down stone steps. At almost 7000 feet in elevation, Armoud is the highest town in the High Atlas and seems perilously built into the rock. We are greeted with urns of saffron marigolds and lines of magenta, cerulean blue and apple green laundry. We smell cinnamon, turmeric and ginger simmering while we are offered lamb tagine with figs and walnuts and round flatbread sliced into triangles as we touch the woven shawls, silver bracelets and leather sandals that are for sale. We first pass a woman veiled in a burkha and later two young girls in skinny jeans, ballet flats and long fitted tee shirts, quickly donning their head scarves as they get closer to school. Even in this remote spot, the cyber cafe has invaded their lives. They welcome us with Salam Aleikum, which means hello or wishing you peace.

One hour from Marrakesh

The sights and sounds are the clip clop of mules, the braying of donkeys, red dust and rocks, children's voices echoing in the distance, cooling breezes blowing through the argan trees, Berber villages built into the hillsides, the Asni weekly market selling heads of sheep, goats' feet, jeans, coriander seeds and golden raisins. With Mohamed as our guide, we hike to his village, walking on a well-worn path leading us to the edge of a gorge as we view terraced gardens, mountain goats with sleek black coats, women wearing head scarves and long robes wringing their washing by the river while toddlers wrapped in rectangles of fabric are slung across their backs. Mohamed brews mint tea with sugar for us in the house where he was born. There is a satellite dish on the roof and a TV enshrined on an embroidered blanket in the front room as his wife hopes for the day when she can have a washing machine.

Ready

with pocket notebooks and passport, pens, camera and iPad powered, travel toothpaste, purell, lip gloss, cleanser and cover up, hiking boots, walking sneakers, flats and slip ons, leggings, tee shirts, shawls and skirts for Morocco, all the way to North Africa.

About Facebook, I was a naysayer. When I heard about older people being on Facebook I figured that like skinny jeans on fifty year-olds, this was one fad that had already become passé. Individuals my age were trying way too hard to be hip. But then one day I reluctantly signed up and logged on, and a whole new world opened up to me. I discovered a fascinating way to be in touch, to follow the pieces of everyday life, to find out about art exhibits, compelling theatre and political commentary. It is possible to play an active role or to fade into the background. At the very least, you can spy on those who went to high school with your children and notice with surprise that the boy who often brought trouble into your house is married and has children. Day by day, the choice is wide open.

September 3rd

The sea is a royal blue and the oaks are still as they frame the water. The summer sunlight has glistened almost every day. Family has come and gone, friends have sat around our table for cocktails and dinner or a glass of wine at the lookout. We have biked around West Tisbury and Aquinnah, done pilates, read about the Vineyard shipwrecks of long ago, climbed to the top of the Gay Head light house, enjoyed egg salad sandwiches at Quansoo, scoured the Farmer's Market, stuffed ourselves with seared tuna and Morning Glory corn, meandered eight miles on vintage pathways through fields and over stone walls, and swam around the rock more times than we can count. September is here and we are on our way back, but we will bottle this up for next summer.

Thoughts, One Year Later

The press and the Internet are peppered with stories about prostate cancer, about how the vast majority of men are over treated. My husband and I read these stories with great interest as he was diagnosed with prostate cancer last year. In our family, the "c" word is frightening, not just because this disease has a horrible reputation, but because we have watched three close relatives die from it. Two other close relatives, both my husband's father and his grandfather had prostate cancer. We have little information about their cases, but we do know that my father-in-law was diagnosed in his 70's and embarked on a regimen of radiation treatments. Based on this genetic link, my husband had his PSA checked at each annual physical. Over the years, there has been some activity in his PSA level, but certainly nothing remarkable. Last year, his number was a bit elevated so his careful primary care physician recommended biopsies. Since we had already booked our anniversary trip, a safari in Botswana, we delayed the biopsy appointment. Similar to the surgeon's reaction, we were stunned to discover that cancerous cells had spread all over my husband's prostate. Thus began a series of consultations with robotic surgeons, traditional surgeons, radiation oncologists and cancer specialists available to guide the patient through the many tough choices. We were lucky to meet with a top specialist at Johns Hopkins who pointed out that although my husband's cancer was the slow growing kind, it had such volume that it could have been festering in him for as many as ten years. He also cautioned that biopsies do not necessarily tell the whole story. It was possible that the cancer had spread. Surgery in the traditional open method was the only way to get clear margins. Aware of the potential side effects, we set a date for surgery. There is longevity in my husband's family. Given his relatively young age, we wanted more than the perhaps fifteen years together that research speculated was a reasonable guess. With the new knowledge after surgery that his cancer was in fact starting to spread, we were relieved that we had made the correct decision. Side effects can be bothersome, although they do disappear with time. One year later this week, I cross my fingers as I look at my tan and fit husband while we hike through the Chilmark hills, swim in Nantucket Sound, and look forward to celebrating another anniversary with our children and our grandchildren.

Yoga

When I discovered the venue some years back, I was in yoga heaven. What could be finer than a reclaimed New England barn sitting in an open field? Downward dog with the scent of freshly baled hay wafting in through the open windows, warrior pose looking up at the soaring beams, namaste with eyes closed and mind focused on my breath. The mat is one's personal space in a yoga class, but the space feels tighter than the mat when fish pose places your face almost against the bottoms of a stranger's sandy feet or when crow pose directs your gaze closer than you would like to the sweaty thighs beside you.

Remembering

I met her while she was clutching her two year-old's hand at the nursery school meet and greet. She was 27 and had recently lost her equally young husband in one shocking instant on a stifling July day. She was inching her way forward. I admired her ability to even get out of bed each morning. "I have a toddler with lots of needs." She explained. My son became friends with hers as I shepherded these little boys to and from their activities, while she put on a suit and heels and went on job interviews. Knowing that her child needed extra hugs, I overlooked his runny nose and his damp. graying yellow blankie. Thirty one years later, she and I still connect. We can meet for dinner, decide that we're not thrilled with our outfits and like sixth grade girls, shop for new dresses and return giggling to the restaurant, attired identically. Last night she blamed herself for not being a good enough friend. "Ridiculous!" I insisted. Life sometimes gets in the way...family, work and the buzz of all the responsibility. But we always pick up where we left off, always care and definitely remember.

Thoughts

Does God ever dish out more than we can digest?

Sadness

I will miss being grandmas with Eileen. I remember holding hands tightly as newborn Simon was circumcised, I remember talking on the phone before each holiday and discussing the menu that never changed for either one of us, talking about stuffing and kugel and setting our separate tables with glasses and goblets. We shared Paparazzi birthday parties, a stroll at Drumlin Farm, celebrations at home, and weddings. We shared our children and our grandchildren. Asher said: I loved Mom Mom and Mom Mom loved me. And she did. With her warmth and her open honesty, she had enough love for everybody as she always asked about each member of my extended family. She has left a void for all of us that will become less raw as time goes by, but it will be there.

Spring

The deep blue sky, afternoon sunlight and lapping ocean
framed their unlined faces as they promised to love
one another in sickness and in health. At nineteen and
twenty-one, they hadn’t thought much about anything
besides strength and activity.

Fast forward forty years and they are parents, in-laws and
grandparents. An elevated PSA leads to a biopsy. Filtering
through the opinions, the advice, the warnings and the
stories is a challenge. They vow to narrow their focus
and try their best to listen to one voice.

Almost eight months later, they are better and better
and appreciating even more the cornelian cherry buds
in their yard, the snowshoe up the mountain, the evening
walk to Harvard Square and holding hands.

There he is!

Call it face time, i chat, google mail...there he is with a big smile on his face. Such a beautiful boy sitting on his daddy's shoulders. How easy and happy they are together at the end of the day, right before dinner, our grandson Hal.

Sleigh Ride

Two Bergerons, Belle and Bright
pulling a wooden sleigh as it glides
over freshly fallen snow past
weathered barns, log bridges,
frozen ponds and evergreen groves.

Snuggled under woolen blankets,
we watch for red fox and coyote tracks.
tree trunks gnawed by beavers
and woodpecker mansions.

Asher and Simon catch snowflakes
on their tongues while Miriam
listens for the rooster's call
and hopes to see the chickens
emerge from their house.