on the banks

There he is!

2012-01-26T21:10:00.002-05:00

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

2012-01-21T19:42:00.005-05:00

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.

December 13, 2011

2011-12-16T14:08:00.011-05:00

Attending the White House holiday party outdid seeing the Beatles live at the Garden in 1964...(sorry Dad). The building was brimming with yards of holly, fragrant white lilies spilling from vases, shining silver platters of potato latkes (for Chanukah) and soaring Christmas trees decorated with sparkling golden ribbon and children's artwork. As David, Bob, Esta and I walked up the driveway and entered through the North Portico, we walked through a glassed walkway that gave us glimpses of Jacqueline Kennedy's Garden. After checking our coats, we made our way up the stairway to the Grand Foyer where we were greeted by white gloved cadets offering us flutes of champagne as the Marine Band played a medley from the Nutcracker Suite. There were around 500 guests but we were allowed to wander freely among the rooms on the state floor, so it honestly did not feel busy. We could admire Lady Bird Johnson's portrait, sample maple candy in the East Room, admire the view of the Washington Monument through the Green Room windows and peer at a painting of Harry Truman gracing a stairway winding up to the family quarters on the second floor. The First Lady wore a bright green gown with shoes dyed to match. The President greeted me with a kiss and a hug. "We're from Boston..." I said. He answered "I know you are...you make me almost want to be a Celtics fan." Later my husband and I savored our visit with a moment in the Presidential Library, sitting on a plush red velvet sofa while perusing Dwight Eisenhower's collection of books.

Big Birthday

2011-12-05T14:35:00.011-05:00

Candlelight, purple peonies
Crystal goblets, antique plates
Pinot noir or chardonnay.
Party hats, blowers, clapping
Miriam shaking a tambourine
Simon and Asher strumming,
Hal laughing in his high chair
Charli hunting for crumbs
Burgers, fries, cut up carrots
Chèvre, beets, halibut, greens
Vanilla cake with raspberry sauce.
Fourteen family members
Celebrating at one long table.

Thinking Back

2011-10-19T15:05:00.010-04:00

The call came early on a June Wednesday, one of those mornings when the sunshine beams through the slats in our window shades. We were both still in bed. I could hear the modulation in David's voice, the note of surprise as he rose from between the sheets to continue the conversation in the hallway. Perhaps this made the dialogue more businesslike. After knowing one another for forty-three years, he certainly wasn't hiding this news from me. The cells were malignant but slow growing yet they had a lot of volume.

As a precaution, he had had the prostate biopsy eight days earlier. He insisted on driving himself to and from this uncomfortable test and had not given it a second thought. Even though his PSA (prostate specific antigen) level in his blood was elevated, he had no other symptoms. I don't know why I had a sense of foreboding.

We showered, made coffee and readied ourselves for the day. David went to his office while I took Miriam to music class. Gratefully I focused my attention on dancing and singing with my granddaughter. I pushed her in her stroller back to my house. I could hear Jess and her boys tossing a ball in the yard. As she unlatched the gate to greet us, I couldn't hide what I knew. "Dad, cancer?" Now it was out as it should have been. David and I talked with our other children and made an appointment with his urologist to start to figure out what this all meant.

Setting up homes and raising children, we have always been a good team. I bought myself a small black notebook that could fit easily inside my purse. David and I clicked into overdrive as we met with surgeons, medical oncologists and radiation oncologists. Carefully I jotted down notes at each meeting. We became well informed about the disease and its various treatment options. Our sources were doctors, their articles in medical journals and one book in particular written by a world-renowned specialist. The details of David's case pointed toward surgery done in the traditional "open" way as opposed to the newer robotic method.

It's hard to be private about your life when your face is strained from the long hours spent driving your husband to consultations, body scans and MRI's. Slowly it became easier for us to limit our social contact to a short list of people who wouldn't mention the prostate information they had gleaned from the internet or clamor to tell us about their second cousin once removed who was convinced that radiation was the best and the least risky choice.

I poured my nervous energy into ironing my husband's linen shirts, a simple task that yielded concrete results. Cooking nutritious meals consumed me. I believed that his body would recover better if he ate roasted organic chicken stuffed with quartered apples and herbs snipped from our garden or seared halibut resting on a bed of greens with sautéed sweet onions, yellow peppers and sliced radishes. We cuddled, never asking ourselves "Why us?" We felt lucky that he had a form of cancer that could be managed.

As the surgery date approached, in the middle of the night I began to pace the house, my thoughts frozen at the instant when I'd have to kiss my husband and leave him with the anesthesiologist and the surgeon. My children insisted that they would be with me, as did my sister-in-law. They all became my precious on the ground team, fielding cell voice messages and e-mails.

Jess and Aron brought me coffee and pastry, the Danish stuffed with raspberry preserves that I used to devour when they were small and I wasn't counting calories. In the recovery room, we could visit, one by one. After Jason stayed with his dad for a bit, I took another turn. Soon David requested his daughter-in-law, Cecily. "Don't I have another daughter here?" He wondered. A nurse looked at me and said, "You have many blessings."

August 7th

2011-08-07T10:13:00.005-04:00

Your response has been overwhelming. Our family felt the power of your support on July 28th. Now we are receiving books, flowers, fruit, ice cream sundaes and delicious meals. Thank you. Our world will never look the same. We are grateful that you are part of it.

July 15th

2011-07-15T15:32:00.003-04:00

When tough times happen, we are touched by the people who come forward to offer help, prayers and positive energy. For those of you who facilitated doctors’ appointments, consultations, cooked in our kitchen, brought cookies and muffins, left messages, sent notes and offered their company, we love you all.

Surgery is later in July followed by weeks of recovery, but we are hopeful. We will get beyond this and celebrate more anniversaries, ride our tandem, drink Stoli blue and tonic up at the lookout, take long walks on the Quansoo sand and enjoy our children and grandchildren as well as our extended family and dear friends.

So light a candle, think good thoughts and hug the one you’re with.

Londolozi

2011-04-23T16:26:00.015-04:00

Londolozi Camp borders Kruger National Park in South Africa. Londolozi comes from the Zulu word meaning to protect. The Shagaan Tribe has its roots in this area. We visited their village. Lina read an assortment of small animal bones to figure me out. "You are a lady of many surprises.." she said. Lina lives in a rondavel, a thatched hut that stays cool in the heat and is impervious to the rain. The camp's location is referred to as Sabi Sands and is part of the Greater Limpopo Park. In the late afternoon light, I huddled under a wool blanket. We saw our first white rhino and an aging male bull. There were also herds of wildebeest. Somehow I had always thought that wildebeest were fabricated for fairytales, but here they were in the flesh. Guinea fowl hurried along with their long blue necks. We heard the knock knock call of the blacksmith plovers, a chorus of painted reed frogs, the calls of the white-faced ducks and the rustle of marula trees. The earth is a shade of reddish brown that is different from the pale yellow Kalahari sand in Botswana.

The setting of this camp is granite outcroppings with lush green undergrowth. Elephants ambled toward the Sand River for a drink. In the morning we walked with our guide, Byron and a couple from Oklahoma whom we had met. We studied hippo and tortoise tracks, lizards with indigo blue tails called rainbow skinks and colorful lilac-breasted rollers that happen to be the national birds of Botswana. A chameleon was almost completely camouflaged in a fig tree. Later we were driving north, looking for lions. In the chilly air I had on a scarf, a fleece sweatshirt and a vest. Our vehicle crossed the river with the rushing current. We came upon a pride of two lionesses, four cubs and a young male lion who was old enough to go out on his own but must have preferred to stay with this group. I snapped a photo of him looking as though he is smiling for the camera.

We encountered two male leopards facing off with low growls. They each had bite marks and gashes on their faces. Our guide explained that clearly there had been a territorial struggle. Later we were lucky to track a lone male leopard moving stealthily though the brush. He pounced seemingly effortlessly on a tree limb and suspended himself gracefully. On our way back to camp that day, we passed a crash of five rhino and a herd of buffalo wallowing in the mud.

It was magical to be in a place where we could study the web of the golden orb spider, listen to monkeys sounding the alarm that lions were near, touch wild anise, taste biscuits and coffee in the pink glow of the rising sun and speak in hushed tones so as not to disturb the animal life.

Cape Town

2011-04-23T14:03:00.017-04:00

At the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Town is a gorgeous city with a tough history. A cable car ride to the summit of Table Mountain enabled us to have a stunning view of the rocky cliffs, the irridescent blue sea and the new stadium built for the World Cup soccer event. Our first stop was Robben Island, a penal colony where over six thousand political prisoners were held between 1963 and 1991. Although Nelson Mandela is its most renowned prisoner, there are many others with stories to tell. The guides at Robben Island are men who were incarcerated during apartheid. Their children under sixteen years of age were not allowed to visit, so many did not see their kids grow up. The prisoners toiled in the blinding sunlight of the limestone quarry under the watchful eyes of their sadistic guards. Our guide thanked the United Nations and all those who did not turn their backs on South Africans, but supported their struggle for freedom. By keeping them in their sights, the world made sure that they were not isolated.

We continued to the District Six Museum where we learned about the destruction of a community and its music and arts. In 1966 during Botha's regime as minister of community development, District Six was declared an area for whites only. Over a period of fifteen years, 60,000 people were uprooted and moved to an area called Cape Flats. Nearby was the Jewish Museum that was built adjacent to the oldest temple in South Africa. We learned about Nadine Gordimer's writing, William Kentridge's art and Helen Suzman's role as a lone white voice in the fight for black African rights. We marveled at the recreation of a shtetl that seemed to have an echo of our grandparents.

The Xhosa Tribe inhabits many of the townships on the outskirts of Cape Town. We viewed acres of tin shacks with outhouses out back. We visited Langa Township where activist Amy Biehl was murdered, Guguletu Township where seven boys were shot in their schoolyard and Khayelitsha Township where we met Vivian Zilo who runs Iliso Care Society. Vivian has a soup kitchen that feeds 300 people one hot meal each day, a sustainable vegetable garden, a day care center that is free for parents out looking for jobs, a youth group that includes a soccer team and encourages youngsters to volunteer in Iliso's programs and five bunks so she can shelter aids orphans. Her home is immaculate as were the children inside. Their faces were full of smiles and their manners were good. Vivian says that her work is a drop in the ocean, but it is visibly important work. The soup kitchen lets Vivian and her staff take the pulse of the community, her home is a safe house and she finds foster homes for the orphans within a few months.

In the morning, we took a boat to Seal Island in Hout Bay where thousands of seals were barking, yelping and waddling in the water. There were so many seals that the rocks they were lounging on looked furry. There are lots of shipwrecks dating from the days of the explorers. We made our way down the coast to The Cape of Good Hope, at the very tip of Africa where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans converge. These were perilous waters for Portuguese explorers Bartolomeu Dias and Vasco da Gama in the 1400's. Their discovery was beneficial to Europe as it opened the whole world to the East. We could feel the strong winds and see the clash of the currents. A fabled surfing spot, Dungeons, is close by. We observed African penguins in the Indian Ocean and collected sea glass and anemone.

Our Wineland tour took us to the university town of Stellenbosch as well as the Franschhoek and Paarl regions. Here the gold and orange tinges of early fall were evident against the jagged peak backdrop. Some wineries have thatched roofs on their manor houses that hearken back to their Dutch heritage. We particularly liked Meerlust's 2003 Pinot Noir and our lunch at La Ferme in Franschhoek Village. In the evenings, we looked forward to meandering around Victoria Wharf in Cape Town, a city that gave us some sobering context for our trip.

Zarafa Camp

2011-04-23T12:53:00.014-04:00

The setting of Zarafa Camp overlooks the Zibadianja Lagoon in the Selinda Reserve near Chobe Camp in northern Botswana. We slept in a canvas zippered tent under mosquito netting but our tent had a wooden floor fashioned from old railway timbers, leather furniture, a decanter of sherry and a copper bathtub. During the night, we could hear a hyaena snarling and an elephant hooting. In the morning, we discovered that the hyaena had attacked a baby elephant. Later we came upon the agitated mother thrashing in the water while she tried to clean her bloody baby with its chewed tail and ears. Our guide assured me that the little elephant would survive and these altercations are part of the cycle of the jungle.

We sipped coffee around the fire and scooped porridge from a pot resting above the coals. As we got ready for our daybreak drive, the flaming orb of the sun began to burn off the morning mist. We saw groups of impala leaping. Their hind quarters go up as they leap. While the baboons jumped around with them, the scene evoked a field day from elementary school. We tracked a leopard for almost an hour. She must have been very hungry to be looking for food so actively in the daylight. Leopards are usually solitary and secretive animals that can be difficult to find. At noon we enjoyed a surprise lunch on a riverboat. We tasted vegetable pie, grilled beef kabobs with homemade chutney, a tossed green salad with artichokes, sunflower seeds and tomato, and sliced papaya with prickly pear. An elephant peered at us through the reeds while a waterbuck couple waited nearby.

In the afternoon, we drank red roobuis tea and munched on mango cake and passion fruit. The air in the bush has a particularly pleasing scent as the sun goes down: a blend of wild basil and sage and amber grass. On a sunset drive, we listened to the symphony of bell frogs while we watched hippos leaving the water and creating walkways through the thick under brush. The new moon was a sliver of silver. A lioness suckled her three cubs. We saw an owl gyrating on a tree branch, sparkling fireflies and the eyes of the impala glistening.

When one shakes hands in Botswana, the custom is to hold the opposite hand on the shaking forearm. This motion conveys extra warmth. The management team at Zarafa were an African husband and wife, Alex and Onay. Together with Stephen, our guide, they welcomed us into their home and shared their sense of fun. They were excited to point out a pelican looking for fish, a dwarf mongoose scuttling, baboons scavenging and a leopard lurking. During our last dinner when the whole staff performed for us, they sang and danced with feeling.

On Safari

2011-04-21T10:36:00.013-04:00

We flew over Botswana's legendary Okavango Delta in a six-seater plane. Below us was a verdant flood plain covered with blankets of bright green duckweed. We caught glimpses of stately giraffes and lumbering elephants. After landing on Mombo Camp's sandy airstrip within the Moremi Game Reserve, we climbed inside a waiting Land Rover. The air was pungent with the scent of wild sage. We heard the calls of African cuckoos and the snorts of a female impala herd. Was there a leopard slinking around in the brush? The snort is the alarm call as impala are low on the food chain. We passed a family of warthogs strutting with their self-important stride. They almost look like women wearing high heels.

At the camp, we sipped ginger tea while we learned about the daily schedule. Our wake up knock would be at 5:30 a.m. so we could be out of our tent by 6:00 a.m. to view the emerging sun, hear an elderly male lion calling for his pride and watch as the early morning mist evaporated in the distance while a pod of hippo bathed in a pond. A baobab tree can be as much as three thousand years old. Acacias are also prevalent. Giraffes enjoy munching on the greens. Their long eyelashes protect their eyes as their thick tongues grab breakfast in between the thorns. Their necks are so long and their hearts are so large that they never totally lie down with their heads on the ground.

A group of zebra is called a dazzle and they are dazzling. Their stripes shimmer in the rosy morning glow. No two zebras have identical stripes, but a baby zebra can always pick out his mother. Wondering if he will lead us to his pride, we stalk a male lion. He wanders along with a powerful gait but the sun starts to bake the earth. Seeking shade, he retreats inside a bush that is like a cave. We move on to a wild dog frolicking with two jackals and a male kudu with giant antlers.

After a few hours of driving around, I wondered if we could stretch our legs and walk. We ambled single file behind our guide who led us with a loaded rifle. He claimed that he had never used his gun, but liked to have it just in case. The animals are not interested in humans unless they are startled or provoked. We could touch the thick mud of an abandoned termite mound, pick up a porcupine quill and collect kingfisher feathers. Standing near a giraffe, we realized just how small we are in the world.

Glimpses of Dad to Share

2011-03-17T18:28:00.002-04:00

Dad has always been the family photographer, but I have a snapshot in my mind of Dad, sitting in his comfortable chair in front of the TV in his bedroom, watching “Rawhide” “Bonanza” or “Gunsmoke”…wearing his flannel pajamas and viyella bathrobe while wrapped in a blanket, and going through the list of calls to his patients…reminding each one of them to “Go home and soak it!”

Another snapshot of Dad: driving. I must have been a toddler when he pushed me up through the sunroof in his VW bug while we were stuck in the Callahan Tunnel. He needed to know why traffic was jammed up ahead when he was trying to get to Logan Airport. His speeding exploits were legendary. Each time he was pulled over, he would jump out of his car and exclaim: “Officer, what seems to be the problem? I’m Dr. Banks, on my way to an emergency!”

Dad always insisted: “I’m always right behind you!” This was sometimes a terrifying idea, but mostly very comforting to know I always had your support. When I marched on Washington in May of 1970 after the invasion of Cambodia, it was a bit of a pain to have to call my dad regularly from phone booths…those were the days before cell phones. But I also remember times like when Jay had his tib/fib injury and you hired a car to visit him in Williamstown or the first time I broke my ankle and there you were at Stratton to check out the x-rays and make sure it was set properly.

I know you panicked when I had lunch at your mother’s apartment while I was pregnant with Aron…but maybe I just have a stronger stomach.

Happy Birthday with love, Dad…you are the greatest.

Tribute for March 2nd

2011-02-28T18:48:00.005-05:00

It is easy to reflect on the many times my dad has given up a leisure Sunday to dash to the hospital to tend to an ailing patient or to drive around town checking on friends or relatives confined to bed. He has always made himself available to reassure, diagnose or offer advice.

When I was small, I took for granted the fact that I had a father who was revered by the outside world. Dad never talked much about himself or bragged about the latest celebrity flying across the ocean for a consultation with him. What he has termed “practicing the art of medicine” has always been of primary importance to him, and a key value to teach to the many Tufts medical students who have voted him their favorite teacher.

It was very fitting that my father was drawn to the Floating Hospital for Children. Twenty-seven years ago, I witnessed first hand the compassionate care of their staff. My husband, David and I brought our sick infant son, Jason to the Floating. A team of doctors led by Dr. Sidney Gellis used CAT scan equipment, which was cutting edge at the time, to find the infected bone inside our baby’s head. The doctors performed delicate surgery to drain the infection and kept him in the hospital on IV antibiotics for weeks.

During that time, my family received caring attention from interns, nurses, medical students and experienced physicians. It was a degree of kindness and expertise that we will never forget. We are so pleased to be able to honor our Dad and Papa as well as a very fine medical center.

Unfortunate Accident

2010-12-31T11:31:00.004-05:00

I was gleeful on Friday morning. We had a brand new grandson. Jackie seemed tired but good. Baby Hal was healthy and Aron would recover from his cold and sore throat. David and I were there to help as needed. We had decided to stroll the city a little bit before we went over to NYU Medical Center's 13th floor maternity unit. I was joking with my husband as I tripped over a raised manhole cover in the street. While I fell to the pavement, I remember knowing that I did something to my ankle. But maybe it was just a sprain and hopefully the traffic light would remain red. "Maybe I can walk it off." I thought. I hobbled back to our car.

We drove to NYU Emergency. On Christmas Eve day it was eerily quiet there. I was taken in a wheelchair to see a triage nurse. Soon the patchwork of New York City life crowded in around us. A young man flanked by two police officers came in under arrest on a domestic violence charge. He needed to be sedated. His wife was hysterical because she didn't want his name published, "It will kill his 12 year-old son!" She pleaded. Ambulances arrived with a Chasidic rabbi and his wife who preferred to be addressed as "Rebbetzin". Both were carried in on stretchers. They were complaining about stomach pains. A young woman wandered in clutching her hand that was wrapped in a dishcloth. She had sliced her skin while preparing a holiday fruit bowl.

My ankle continued to throb, The resident who examined me thought it could be a sprain, a grade 3 sprain but still a sprain. I was wheeled into radiology. The technician manipulated my leg for many different views. The verdict didn't take long, I had fractured my ankle. While I was waiting for an air splint and crutches, I texted Jackie. It seemed ridiculous. She was upstairs recovering from labor followed by a c section and her mother-in-law was downstairs being measured for crutches, She encouraged me to come up to her hospital room and keep her company.

She was pumping milk while Hal was being treated under the lights for jaundice. In between naps we talked about babies, breastfeeding, swaddling and layers of clothing, Meanwhile Aron was at home trying to get rid of his cough and David was helping him complete the finishing touches in the nursery. A nurse brought Jackie and me cups of tea and plates of cookies. It looked like Hal would be staying for Christmas so his treatment could be completed and Jackie was entitled to a fourth night in the hospital.

The next day, David and I helped bring all of them home. I crutched up two flights but couldn't do much to settle them in. "It's comforting just to have you here." Jackie told me. She rested a sleeping Hal in my lap. He smelled like fresh air and felt so soft.

The sixth worst blizzard in New York history blanketed the city on Sunday and Monday. I was stuck indoors as I could not negotiate deep snow and icy pathways. I had hoped to cook and do laundry for the new family. But Jackie points out that she can have food delivered to their door and send out their laundry. I was reassuringly with her for those first precious days.

Hal's Birthday

2010-12-31T10:15:00.003-05:00

Dear Hal,

Before dawn on the day you were born, I was awake and standing at my bedroom window watching the light cast by the lunar eclipse. It was also the winter solstice. Little did I know that your daddy would be phoning later in the day to tell me it was time for you to come. Your mommy and daddy were already at the hospital. I immediately called Grandpa and asked him to hustle home. We would soon be driving to New York. I didn't even have to pack my suitcase. I was so excited to welcome you that I had been ready for weeks. First I checked with Uncle Steve and Aunt Jean to find out if we could stay with them. With their usual open arms, they insisted that we visit.

Tuesday, December 21st was gorgeously sunny with bright blue skies. The sun had already set when Grandpa and I arrived at NYU Medical Center at 6:30 p.m. You came into the world at 6:57 p.m. You weighed 7 pounds, 10 ounces and were 22 inches long. Your daddy was thrilled to come into the waiting room and tell Grandpa and me about you. We went into the recovery room to see you and your mommy. Your mommy was a little tired but still her beautiful self. She was cuddling you, skin to skin. Your daddy was rubbing your head and your soft cheeks. He told us your name, Hal Akiva, a great name for a wonderful boy. You had lots of dark brown hair. Your deep blue eyes were wide open as you looked around, taking in your new world. How alert you were. I cannot wait to hug you again.

My love always,
Grandma

Patti

2010-11-05T16:47:00.010-04:00

If we are lucky, we have special friendships during our lives. Today I lost a dear friend. I am flooded with memories of snowshoe hikes, car rides and the companion standing by my side who would squeeze my hand when my son emerged through the fog at the top of an alarmingly steep precipice. I did the same for her. Patti and I first met as ski racing moms. The more we waited patiently on icy slopes, the more we realized that we shared a lot. With husbands who have loved us for decades, we each mothered three children. We vented about careless teenagers, unwashed dishes, piles of smelly work out clothes and our kids’ friends who spent too many nights sleeping in our spare beds. Yet through it all, we knew how fortunate we were. We were happy that we were able to provide cozy homes and enjoyed taking care of the kids. I had my regular spot in the Cambridge Chronicle and she had her decorating business, but we were content making a pot of stew or baking a batch of cookies. We thought it was an adventure to have two feet of freshly fallen snow at our doorsteps and extra bodies sitting around our dining tables.

I think of last December when my husband, David and I had dinner with Patti and her husband, Chris. We toasted the holidays and her doctor's exuberant news that her tumor was shrinking. I try to erase from my mind the image of how thin she had become. Her scarves and silk jackets camouflaged her struggle. She always had her sparkly, eye-popping smile and her sense of style. “Chris has been so loving,” she whispered.

Next weekend when the ski team congregates for Patti’s memorial service, some of them will stay at our house. It feels strange that I can’t review the cast of characters with her or the provisions needed to stock the kitchen. It is one of the things that she and I liked to do best, watching out for our own and other people’s children.

Stylishly Older

2010-10-06T20:03:00.006-04:00

There it was snuck in toward the end of a business article on Boston.com, the concept that the Talbot’s core customer is “… the 60-year-old woman who is much more stylish than she used to be…” Right away, I pictured a little old lady with her hair pulled back in a bun, wearing sensible laced shoes and a cameo pin sitting primly on her white blouse. But then I faced the numbers and realized that I am almost that 60-year-old woman. Actually I have one year and barely a few months left, yet so many of my friends and relatives have already passed this milestone, that it’s easy to feel that I’m part of their club.

Grandma Sarah warned me that life rushes by. Decades ago I thought that life stretched endlessly in front of me. Back then I was so busy raising three children, moving here and there, volunteering for community and global causes, making couple time, hosting holidays, birthdays and anniversaries, working hard at being an afternoon carpool queen, chasing a dog and cooking and cleaning in between grasping writing moments that the years did whiz by because I didn’t have time to think straight.

Yesterday I was at my grandson Simon’s school, waiting for kindergarten dismissal. I spotted a vaguely familiar woman wandering around in the crowd of nannies, mommies and a few dads. “Janet, is that you?” My daughter Jess had been a classmate of Janet’s oldest daughter. Janet’s hair that had once been long and auburn was bobbed and highlighted. She had on more make up than I remembered but she looked fit and trim and still exuded her warm smile. She gave me a hug and suggested that we have coffee soon.

It never occurred to me to stop being stylish, to quit spicing up my outfits with scarves and beads. Will I ever not want to manicure my nails, coif my hair and coordinate my boots with my bags? I’d like to think that I’ll always be trendy without looking like what my sister and I used to refer to as a “dead teenager,” a person with graying hair and skintight jeans and a studded leather jacket.

Some mornings I wake up with an achy back and a clicking left knee but mostly I feel younger than I know I look. Janet and I are clearly the grandmas; nobody would mistake us for the moms. “Can you believe we’re doing this again!” She exclaimed. It honestly doesn’t feel like twenty years have passed by. There have been graduations, weddings and now there is another baby on the way, the first little Epstein of this generation. I can stand in that schoolyard and blink and there is my son, Aron huddling with a group of his friends. His brother, Jason is hanging from the high bars and calling to me "Mom, can we stay here late today?”

Thinking about him

2010-09-13T22:07:00.002-04:00

Nowadays there is a ream of ultrasound photos showing little feet, a round head and a lovely nose. I think about him as I pick out a newborn one-piece suit, a blanket, a stuffed animal and a book. Such fun to wonder about him and remember his father when he was just emerging with thick black curls.

It was a full house....

2010-07-17T08:53:00.003-04:00

People ask me what it was like. It was a happy kind of chaos. An airplane taxied under my bed while a dinosaur lounged in the driveway. The backyard was full of every type of ball: tennis, whiffle, baseball, basketball. During the winter, a stroller was sometimes parked by the back door. Just as they had promised, a moving truck pulled up to our house on June 10th at 9:00 a.m. The men hoisted boxes of books, toys, clothes and papers. They took apart the queen-sized bed, and carted away the changing table and the nursing chair. By the afternoon, all that remained were the dust bunnies, a multi-colored dragon and a basil plant.

My daughter, son-in-law, two toddler grandsons and their eighty-pound mutt, Fiona moved in with my husband, David and me last June. David described it as being invaded. It did turn our lives upside down. Our dinner hour became 6:00 p.m. as two child seats were pulled up to the table. Jess was pregnant with their third child. It was the moment to renovate their antique Victorian. It was time for modern wiring, heating and lead-free paint. Removing one wall always gives way to another. The initial estimate of six months stretched into twelve. I couldn’t imagine not opening my home to my family. Who would want her grandchildren living amidst construction particles and rubble? Friends said: “Well, they could rent!”

David and I didn’t want them wasting their money on rent while we were living in a house that could accommodate them. Our cabinets became stuffed with wooden blocks, Lego sets and Playmobil people. It seemed that every other week, Fiona sliced a paw, strained a leg or broke a nail while racing after scurrying squirrels. This led to vet visits, bandages, one hapless and limp squirrel on the front walk and Fiona almost always wearing a “lampshade” around her head so she couldn’t scratch off her dressings.

Our third grandchild was due in December. Thanksgiving weekend was busy with celebrating my daughter-in-law Jackie’s birthday and mine. Our immediate family of ten plus one more dog crammed into our house on aero beds. Another four relatives joined us for a festive Thanksgiving meal. We enjoyed a Celtics game and a Nutcracker performance. Sunday night I was on my feet until 11:00 p.m. putting through loads of sheets, towels and tablecloths. When I finally got into bed around midnight, I could hear Jess pacing back and forth above me. Her water had broken. Her husband, Shane knocked on my bedroom door. It was time to go to the hospital. Witnessing the birth of my first grandchild, Simon had left me speechless while Asher barreled into the world so quickly that I barely had time to collect my thoughts. Miriam created a fourth generation of women in our family. She made her debut in a mellow way. Her face showed no sign of a struggle. When I held her, my eyes filled with tears as I hugged her close and thought about the strength of all the females who had come before her.

Now at six months old, she greets me with a smile and melts into my embrace. For a year, we got to live the way families used to dwell in triple-deckers. There was always another set of arms, another lap for snuggling and an extra set of eyes to read a story. Each morning, we woke to tiny footsteps and muffled whispers. “Don’t bother Grandma until she’s had her coffee.” Grandpa opened our bedroom door and Simon reached his warm arms around his neck. In the spring, Simon turned five and changed seemingly overnight from a preschooler to a little boy with a sense of fun. Asher celebrated his third birthday and decided he was wearing Lightning McQueen underwear. One evening during dinner, Shane innocently flushed the toilet for Asher. This spawned a toddler-sized fit that no amount of Swedish fish candy could remedy. Jess turned to me and asked: “You don’t have any small treats, by chance?” The only item remaining in my gift stash was a $40 Tyrannosaurus Rex. When Simon spotted it, his eyed widened: “I think I have to make a poop too, Grandma.”

There were once a portable crib and a diaper pail in the dining room along with paint and tile samples. Art projects piled high on the kitchen counter and juice boxes and quack ‘n bites spilled from the pantry. I feel a little bit the way I did when our children went away to college. Gone are the scattered sweaty tee shirts and wet towels. The order and silence are palpable. While they were living with us, we were impressed with how patient Jess and Shane are as parents. They can ignore towers of dirty dishes and mountains of laundry while they play with their kids. I have a constant, unnecessary need to wipe and fold.

My life as I knew it is back. I have stretches of time to myself. I can gaze out the window next to my desk and marvel at the impatiens flourishing under the dogwood tree. I can contemplate preparing a romantic dinner for two and in the evening while I undress; I can leave my door ajar. I can schedule meetings in the dining room and entertain adults on the patio. Nobody is playing Candyland in my study, running greasy fingers along the wall or driving a fire truck into the baseboard. I am also not holding Miriam while my daughter boils pasta, sitting with Asher while he inhales his asthma medication, picking up Simon at school or drying off the boys after their bath. It is just as I figured. I already miss them.

MV A.M.

2010-07-16T11:56:00.007-04:00

Oaks and shad swaying
near jogging footsteps
Catbirds purring
A small plane humming
A lawnmower buzzing
David rapping
with a hammer
repairing a screen
Charli was insistent
one morning...

Birthday Wishes

2010-06-06T18:59:00.002-04:00

When you’re sixteen, you’re still a child, unformed and open to possibility. Somehow, I knew my own mind and was certain that this boy at eighteen with hair that was thick on top and sideburns growing, a folk guitar, corduroy straight-legged jeans, and a contemplative look on his face was the only guy for me. I was drawn in, fascinated, and figured that I’d find a way to talk with him. His mother’s cross-country teen tour was the perfect opportunity. He boarded the bus and sat down behind me.

We’ve had years in Medford, three babies in Wayland, Stratton time, Vineyard magic, Cambridge urban dwelling, a third son, two more daughters, two grandsons and a granddaughter. My grandma Sarah used to say that it all rushes by in a dream. Yes, it does. But how lucky you are to have your family and dear friends celebrate with you. I’m wishing you more wonderful times with your many dreams that have already come true.

Green

2010-05-05T17:11:00.005-04:00

My parents tell me that green has always been my preferred color. From when I was small, I asked for my favorite “geen”. I wanted the green cup, a green sweater and a green dress. Back in the ‘50’s, parents labeled their kids. It was easy for them to keep me happily in green. My sister became the blue child. The first time I had my own apartment, I bought several houseplants at the supermarket: ivies, pothos and palms. I quickly realized that I had a green thumb. The plants flourished. I purchased potting soil and larger pots. For my twenty-second birthday, my husband created a treasure hunt of twenty-two plants. One was in the oven, a few were in the bathtub, another was on top of the toilet and three were in the bed. I still have the jade plant and a shoot of dracaena from that early fleet.

I have designed my study with sage drapes, an olive chair and ottoman with a hunter green, terra cotta and ochre area rug. The living room walls are painted spring rain and the dining room table is emerald. Verdigris accents are on the patio and in the kitchen. Cheering for the Celtics is perfect for me. They exude green. I can wear my scarves and shawls ranging from pale seafoam to deep lake, and accessorize further with sandals, earrings and clutches. It is the Playoffs, the perfect moment to immerse ourselves in green!

She was a child

2010-02-12T13:59:00.006-05:00

She was a child, really
with long blond hair
and a fist raised
Laced up work boots
faded patched jeans
and a tie-dyed tee shirt
1-2-3-4
We don’t want your
f----ing war

A boyfriend with a mustache
and curly brown hair
scraggling around his ears
Carrying a camera to record
the police in helmeted riot gear
wielding their batons

Not seeing then that
they were different
because they had choices
and a safety net behind them.

Grandma Bessie

2010-02-09T22:14:00.003-05:00

My grandmother, Bessie met her husband, Isaac when she was a child. Together they left their Lithuanian shtetl, Ushpol when they were teenagers. Ushpol was 180 miles north of Vilna. I try to imagine what it was like for them to leave their parents, grandparents and multiple siblings. I think about Bessie’s guts. She was such a small woman with a bun carefully pinned on top of her head. I remember wondering if I could ever measure up. When I was eighteen, I’d take the subway to her apartment and listen to her stories over cups of milk tea. She drank her tea with a cube of sugar dissolving between her teeth.

From the shtetl, Bessie and Isaac went to Baden Baden, Germany where they hand-rolled cigarettes to make enough money to sail steerage on the SS Friesland from Hamburg. I guess they were there for a while. By the time they set sail, they had a toddler daughter, Mary and were expecting another baby, Ben.

Cousins in Boston welcomed them in the summer of 1906. I didn’t realize then that I should have asked her how she felt during those early days when she was home alone with Mary trying to teach herself English in a strange land while her husband worked at a tobacco store. With Isaac’s experience rolling cigarettes in Germany, picking up the same business in Chelsea, Massachusetts made a lot of sense. Meanwhile Bessie figured out English words by scanning the American newspapers. She taught her husband how to read and speak their new language. I marvel at her intelligence and her resourcefulness and wonder if she was lonely. Did she have neighbors and relatives who could empathize with her challenges?

In her nineties, Bessie’s memory understandably became confused. She mixed up fleeing the pogroms and the fiery torches that could decimate a village with the great Chelsea fire of 1908. Both were terrifying events in her family’s history. The pogroms prompted her to leave Ushpol while the Chelsea conflagration destroyed her home and sent her family to a different part of Boston, the West End.

While expanding their family to include five children, Bessie and Isaac migrated from the West End to the North End to Revere to Malden to Charlestown. Isaac was always looking for work as a merchant. When cigarettes could be rolled by machine, he began to measure yard goods in fabric stores. Eventually Bessie worked by Isaac’s side in several variety stores. Over the years, her children have joked that she was more of a professional woman than a housekeeper. Yet I can picture her presiding over her Seder table made up of multiple folding tables attached to her dining room table. This giant table began at her kitchen door and extended to the sills of her living room windows. It was covered with white lace cloths that were pieced together.

Pregnant with my first son, Aron, I recall eating candied carrots while sitting across from Bessie at her kitchen table. It was an autumn afternoon and the waning sun beamed shadows on her curtains. Always retaining her Yiddish accent, she exclaimed: “You have a golden a belly!” She spoke with a sparkle in her eyes and a smile that lit up her whole face. I can feel my shoes brushing her linoleum as I lean back in my chair and listen to her stories that were often sprinkled with her political views and her firm belief that we should always vote and never take that right for granted.

Old Friends

2010-01-28T17:42:00.008-05:00

When I opened my mail, a photo fell out. My friend sent it along with a note: memories of a lovely time. All four of us are smiling. Ivy and I are wearing sunglasses as we’re always conscious of the wrinkles around our eyes and don’t want to strain too much. We’ve removed our beach hats and puffed up our wavy hair. Our husbands have kept their caps on and are squinting at the camera.

We had hiked at sunset to the top of a steep hill on Peter Island. At the summit, we collapsed onto Adirondack chairs that someone had painted fabulously bright colors: red, royal blue, turquoise and yellow. My favorite was the yellow as the whole world was yellow at that time of day. The sun created a golden glow on the nearby clapboard cottage, the ochre earth and us.

Ahead of us on the trail, a honeymooning couple wandered. They ambled arm in arm and stopped every once in awhile to kiss or giggle quietly. Once they stood very close and put their hands into each other’s pockets. My husband, David walked ahead with his friend, Howard. They compared their camera lenses and wondered about the focus and clarity of their images. Ivy and I chatted behind them about our children, our homes and our aching feet.

The young man and woman offered to snap a picture of us. We were spread out on the four seats, so Ivy and I decided to sit on our husbands’ laps. “So this is what a long marriage looks like…” the bride commented.

Like us, Ivy and Howard have been married for decades. We met at a co-op nursery school when our sons were four years old. We’ve celebrated birthdays, bar mitzvahs and weddings. We’ve also cried at funerals. Their little boys stayed with us after Howard’s sister passed away tragically. When Howard’s father died, we were out-of-state. I remember Ivy insisting: “I know you’re in Vermont…please don’t rush back.” We packed up our car and were at the Temple in time for the service.

There is a comfort in a long friendship as there is ease in the conversation. Our history is shared. On this particularly cold January afternoon, it warms me to look at the four of us relaxing into a sultry, island sunset. Our closeness feels cozy like a well-worn afghan, a collection of good short stories and a fire in the fireplace.

For Miriam on her birthday: November 30, 2009

2009-12-06T09:38:00.003-05:00

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.

Slot Canyon

2009-11-09T11:51:00.007-05:00

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.

Letter to a dear friend

2009-10-09T12:18:00.004-04:00

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.

MV

2009-08-25T12:57:00.008-04:00

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.

Lobster Bake

2009-07-21T18:25:00.009-04:00

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.

Friendship

2009-07-21T10:20:00.005-04:00

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.

Jay and Cecily

2009-07-21T10:15:00.000-04:00

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.

Pirates!

2009-05-27T12:25:00.003-04:00

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.

Dry Creek Valley

2009-04-03T19:41:00.007-04:00

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.

Healdsburg

2009-04-02T20:18:00.006-04:00

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.

Inverness, CA

2009-04-01T18:49:00.005-04:00

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.

Inauguration Day

2009-01-21T20:11:00.005-05:00

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.

Neighbors

2009-01-03T15:51:00.003-05:00

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.

For Cecily

2008-12-31T15:09:00.001-05:00

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

2008-12-31T14:58:00.004-05:00

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

2008-12-25T16:29:00.005-05:00

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

2008-09-22T08:20:00.000-04:00

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

2008-07-28T08:37:00.003-04:00

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

2008-07-01T20:04:00.003-04:00

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

2008-05-26T22:33:00.007-04:00

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

2008-04-26T11:54:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-04T14:29:00.003-04:00

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

2008-03-11T11:13:00.002-04:00

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

2008-02-08T12:15:00.000-05:00

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”.

Purple Haze

2007-12-15T22:21:00.000-05:00

He stood out front, staring at his cell phone. The Red Sox were up one run over the Orioles. Not usually a timely person where social occasions were concerned, he was early tonight. He didn’t want to risk being late. It was his first date in a year.

Joyce had encouraged him to see women after twelve months.
“You have to mourn me for a year.” She had insisted.
“But then, I want you to meet someone and not be alone for decades.”
She had said this with humor and with all the sparkle she could muster, even while her skin became paler with each passing day and her cheekbones protruded more and more unnaturally from her face.

He walked inside and requested a patio table. Then he came back out and looked at his reflection in the window. He still had a lot of hair and in spite of his SPF 30 sunscreen, his face was flushed from a recent Good Harbor Beach afternoon. He turned as he heard the unmistakable clack of her platform sandals on the pavement.
“Zeb, is that you?”

Kara was some things that Joyce was not, but he willed himself not to compare. A friend of a friend, their paths had crossed often in the past year at benefits and barbecues. Younger than he but not young enough to raise the ire of his adult children, she was the logical choice for a first date. A divorcee with a nineteen year-old son studying abroad, she spent plenty of time working in development at a non-profit, but she also liked to have fun.

Zeb remembered a hand placed a little too familiarly on his arm, a good-bye hug, and a kiss on each cheek. She was not afraid to touch. Joyce had said that her therapist friend explained that a bereaved spouse should eventually look for a new companion. It is a testament to a good marriage.

Kara walked ahead of him, out to the patio. Their table was in the corner, under an umbrella, and candlelit. He ordered Grey Goose, on the rocks. She ordered a glass of the house chardonnay, dry and not fruity. He opened his menu. She put her hand on his, and asked him about his day.

He appreciated her interest, but that look of genuine concern still brought tears to his eyes. The women in his family and the women from the Temple had been so kind. Yet sometimes he wondered if he had played the role correctly, if he had fulfilled their expectations. On that beastly hot July morning, they had arrived with platters of cut up fruit, chicken Caesar wraps, and veggie roll ups. Attired in black linen, they looked freshly ironed. He was barefoot, and in cargo shorts with a Springsteen tee shirt from the concert in Fenway Park. Was he supposed to be hosting, greeting, setting out clean tablecloths and cutlery, and then seeing people to the door? Was there no book on this? Joyce would have read the book and known what to do.

Kara raised her glass to his and exclaimed:
“Let’s have a toast to a new chapter in your life.”

Yes, he was going to try. He still marveled at those who had contacted him, and those who had not. Some had interrupted vacations, while others had neither phoned nor visited. People have baggage about death.

His day had been fine. Several skin tags to be removed, a possible melanoma biopsy, and a Botox consult. Being a dermatologist had always enabled him to have a schedule he could count on with enough time off for travel to Barcelona, Paris, Jerusalem, Mexico City, Santa Fe, and Seattle. He and Joyce loved to wander through the Arab market, ride bikes along the waterfront in Barcelona, and devour patisserie and café au lait in St. Germain des Pres.

Kara’s son was studying in London. Maybe they could meet there for a few days in the fall? He contemplated this for a moment. Things were moving much too fast, like the sea of faces and the bodies that milled through his home. It was a beautiful tribute to his wife and to him, but he had felt dizzy. At one point, he had to go upstairs and lie down on his bed, their bed. His daughter, Eloise brought him a glass of ice water, and a plate of Melba toast with peach preserves. She sat back on the spot once kept warm by her mother.

“So Weez, how are you?”
He was using the name coined by her baby brother, Matthew before he could say Eloise.
“Oh Dad, I feel sad for you, for Mom, for me, for Matt…I wasn’t prepared for the finality…and it sucks.”
They embraced, and Eloise went to her old bedroom to collect her thoughts. Now the guest room, it still had her wallpaper, her vintage tapes, and her stuffed animal menagerie. Babar and Celeste provided comfort.

Later, his friend Jake mentioned:
“You know, everyone means well but if you’re a peripheral acquaintance you could write a sympathy note or make a donation to a charity specified by the family, I mean if you want to go the extra mile.”
Jake had a point.

He needed to turn his attention to Kara. She was naturally fresh faced with a touch of colored lip gloss and a suggestion of eyeliner. Her blond highlighted hair was caught back in a wooden clip perhaps from Bali or maybe from that craft center over on Mass Avenue in Central Square. He ordered another Grey Goose, this time straight up with a twist of lemon. She ordered another glass of chardonnay.

He regaled her with the tale of the couple that came into his living room and sat on his sofa, he with his ascot and carved cane, she with a tight face-lift, carefully coiffed bun, and expertly polished fingers and toes. They chatted about their yacht moored on Nantucket and their cruise around the Greek Islands. All the while, he wanted to reminisce about the happy times with Joyce and peruse the stacks of old photos that Matthew had arranged on the cocktail table. These images displayed how vibrant and pretty Joyce had been. It turned out that these two were business contacts of his brother Ruben’s but at the time, he had no idea who they were. Ruben and his wife, Nell hadn’t arrived yet. They were at Whole Foods purchasing more cut up fruit, and disposable cups for coffee and sparkling water.

They were a family in mourning, so why did they feel as though they were organizing a six-day party? He started to laugh, as did Kara. The absurdity of that situation finally got to him, and the relief of releasing pent up emotion was cathartic. People at neighboring tables turned and stared. He wiped the laughing tears from his cheeks.

Suddenly he remembered the Straubs, who had walked up his driveway at 5:20 p.m. on the fifth day of Shiva.
“The Jewish concept of sitting Shiva seems so comforting and civilized…” Kara was commenting.
“Yes, it is, but there are logical afternoon and evening visiting hours published in the newspaper obituary….” He explained.
“These people were not in our inner circle.”

Matthew had played fourth grade soccer with their son and they had carpooled on occasion, supplied water and orange slices. His son never even liked their kid. He had tripped Matthew once when he was running up the field, getting ready to score on goal. Even at nine years old, this child was competitive with his own teammates, not wanting anyone to have an edge on him. His parents already had dreams about college recruiters and athletic scholarships. His father was the type who shouted orders from the sidelines, and argued with the coach about his kid getting more playing time. And years later when his wife died, they thought they could show up during the quiet hour while he was attempting to force some pasta primavera down his throat before the minyan, the evening prayer service.

“They are Jewish; they should have known better.” He declared.
“So did you invite them in?” Kara wondered.
“No, I told them they should come back later…actually Nell asked them to leave before I could get the words out…Nell can be formidable.”

He knew they lived a few streets away. They claimed they couldn’t come back. Mrs. Straub’s mouth froze in the “O” that reminded him of “The Scream” painting by Munch. Mr. Straub said that he was just home from the office, and they were rushing to leave for the long weekend. You are aware of how it can be with that ferry. They hurried away from his door.

Had he been unbearably rude? All these weeks later, it still bothered him. Kara assured him that he and Nell, for that matter, had had guts, that the Straubs had been completely inappropriate, that he had somehow been an obligation for them to check off of their “to do” list.

He ordered a bottle of Montrachet for them to savor with the chef’s special almond encrusted halibut. For dessert, he chose the strawberry/rhubarb cobbler topped with a spoon of vanilla ice cream. She requested two scoops of sorbet, mango and raspberry. After he finished his espresso and she had sipped her ginger tea, he walked with her down Mt. Auburn Street to her home on Foster, a tidy house with an English garden out front. She put her key in the lock, shut off the alarm, and beckoned him inside to look at her pictures from Ecuador. Her bedroom was visible from the front entry. Beyond it was a terrace furnished with wrought iron chairs and terra cotta planters.

“I’d like to come in, Kara, but I have an early morning appointment, a forty year-old freaked about spider veins…can we look at the photos another time?”
“Zeb, I understand, we can make another plan.”
“How about The Beehive next week for great jazz and dinner?”
“I’d like that Zeb, let’s talk soon.”

She reached up and kissed him on both cheeks. He gave her a quick hug. As he walked the few blocks to his car, he realized he had noticed that her bed was plumped with a duvet, a coverlet, and piles of pillows. He remembered Joyce lounging on her Indian bedspread in her dorm room, a scented candle glowing on her nightstand, Hendrix belting out “Purple Haze” from her turntable, and a hookah filled with hashish.

Aron and Jackie

2007-12-15T22:17:00.000-05:00

The phone was ringing when I walked in the door. He sounded like he was smiling as he spoke: “ Mom, I have good news and you’re the first to know…we’re engaged.”

I put my grocery bag down on the counter, all the while picturing toddler Aron with his thick brown curls, riding his fire truck through our Wayland yard. At other milestones in his life, I have somehow gone back to that image. He is even wearing a bulky sweater that his great grandmother Sarah knitted for him. Perhaps this vignette enters my mind because when he was eighteen months old, I said to myself: he is incredibly cute; I wish I could freeze him at this stage.

“I am so happy for both of you…you know this is what I’ve been waiting for.” As a mother, I’ve always hoped to launch my children, to give them opportunities yet clear boundaries. When they became young adults, I bit my tongue and didn’t tell them what I thought they should do. I clenched my teeth when Aron climbed Kilimanjaro, wandered in Zanzibar, and roamed around Trinidad. The one exception to keeping my mouth shut was Jackie’s involvement in his life. Weeks before, I had let Aron know that I could guess what Jackie would like for her 30th birthday. But he didn’t need to be cajoled, because he had a plan. They had been fully committed for years.

I asked to speak with her. “I’ve thought of you as a daughter for a long time, but it’s nice to have it official.” Perhaps she too was tearful, because she handed the phone back to Aron. For three years, she has been present for some great celebrations: anniversaries, birthdays, bat mitzvahs, weddings, and births. She has also been with us during difficult illnesses and tragic death. Last summer she spent nine days with us while we kept a sad vigil, and then dealt with a funeral and shiva. She seemed to know when to listen, when to hug, when to offer to cook, and when to sit quietly.

My son met her during his freshman year. They acted together, most memorably in “Inspector General” and “Arcadia”. She graduated and moved to Los Angeles, yet the friendship continued. It was meant to be, as their friends have said. When she moved to New York to attend journalism school, she contacted him. They have been a couple ever since. Visually, they look alike with their dark hair, brown eyes, and slim bodies. Together, they can usually share one chair.

“I cannot wait to give you hugs of congratulations!” I exclaimed. We ended our conversation so Aron could phone his dad and his siblings. His dad later commented to me: “If this is what our family is becoming, I feel very lucky”. As a mother, I’ve always hoped that my children would find true love. Recently Aron told his grandfather Maury that Jackie is the love of his life. They complete one another, intellectually and emotionally.

Colonial Mexico

2007-12-15T11:26:00.000-05:00

The chiming of church bells and the clanging of cowbells melded together as we approached San Miguel de Allende, a colonial town in the heartland of Mexico. The tires on our rental car rubbed against the curbs of the narrow, cobblestone streets. Giggling schoolchildren, making their way home for lunch, clustered in groups on the sidewalks.

The stucco buildings are restored haciendas from the 17th and 18th centuries. You can peek inside the cooling courtyards filled with flowering plants potted in ceramic urns. Red hibiscus, orange lilies, lavender bougainvillea and white gardenia greet the eye. Sometimes I spotted a fountain in the center of a courtyard. The stucco walls could be painted terracotta, ochre, rose or deep blue. The carved wooden entry doors might be latched to block out the street noise.

As my husband and I walked on Calle Correo, the raindrops punctuated the strong sunlight. The soles of our shoes gripped the slippery stones. The sidewalks often had space for only one person. I had read that the correct protocol is to step down into the street if an elderly couple or a parent with a child approaches, as long as you are the one facing the oncoming traffic. We stopped for lunch at El Pegaso where arrachera, tender beef, was accompanied by refried beans, spicy salsa and smooth guacamole.

The heartland is at the center of the country and is fertile territory. The lush mountains covered with pine-oak forests and deep green prickly pear cacti patches surprised us. We had imagined a barren, arid Mexican landscape. In the 1500’s, the Spaniards discovered this promising land, rich with silver mines. It was only a matter of time before they set out to conquer it. Under Spanish rule for centuries, enchanting towns like San Miguel de Allende flourished. The buildings from that period still line the streets and pepper the hillsides. Those that are restored provide a glimpse of life during that era.

As we continued to meander, we found that some streets were closed while crews of men were resetting the stones by hand. Earmarked as a national historic site many decades ago, San Miguel’s old world charm is protected. Fabrica La Aurora, a collection of artists’ studios and galleries located in an abandoned cotton mill is situated at one end of town. This building is an excellent example of the creative way in which older structures are regularly adapted for reuse. We enjoyed meeting weavers, metal sculptors and painters while we viewed their work.

When we wandered closer to La Buena Vida Bakery, we inhaled the scent of freshly baked breads, muffins and rolls. Meringue hearts topped with fresh raspberries and cream, crunchy vermicelli pancakes added to black bean soup, and boneless chicken breasts stuffed with ham and caramelized onions were some of the dishes we savored at Casa de Sierra Nevada, the renovated villa where we were staying. We learned that the values of home cooking, family and church are vitally important in this country. Recipes are passed down from one generation to the next, because food is a way to nurture and to love. Even the smallest village has a central square with a church providing its focal point. Here the main plaza is called El Jardin. A Gothic cathedral looms beside it.

At Casa de Sierra Nevada, the young man at the reception desk knew that it was my birthday. That afternoon our room was strewn with dozens of red rose petals, chocolates and flickering votives. On our bureau was a startling bouquet of white lilies. In the morning as we prepared to leave, I realized it was impossible for us to take the large glass vase with us. On the inn’s patio, I saw that a baby shower was about to begin. I handed my flowers to the guest of honor who was imminently expecting her first son. She and the other women in her extended family hugged me, and communicated with their limited English and my inadequate Spanish, that my husband and I should take a basket of their enticing pastries so we wouldn’t get hungry on the road.

Our next destination was Guanajuato, the birthplace of famed muralist Diego Rivera and a university town, which is now a World Heritage site. On the way we stopped at Dolores Hidalgo, a small hamlet where the insurgency against Spanish rule began. Here in 1810, Father Miguel Hidalgo delivered an inspiring sermon that strengthened the Mexican resolve to win independence. Further along the winding route is Santa Rosa. Impressive urns strategically placed by the side of the road beckoned us to stop. We parked at the Mayolicas factory store and were greeted by Rosa who explained that the patriarch of the family had started the company forty years earlier. It has grown and now supports fifty families in this picturesque village. Vases, pitchers and platters are hand turned on the wheel. Rosa showed us inside the factory where artisans, both family members and other town residents, paint intricate designs on each piece.

The road to Guanajuato climbs sharply through the mountains. The town is nestled in the hills. After a major flood in 1905, the river was diverted and a tunnel system was created that successfully keeps traffic away from the historic center and leaves many of the streets for pedestrians only. Jardin Union, the main plaza, is a hub of activity with leather-faced men wearing either sombreros or NY baseball caps while they sell woven shawls, ponchos and vests. Ancient women sit on benches, chatting and clutching their handbags on their laps. University students wearing jeans and logo tee shirts are smoking cigarettes. Mothers promenade with their babies and shepherd youngsters in school uniforms selling packages of chicklets. There are strolling mariachi players, mimes and magicians.

Behind the plaza is a maze of bustling alleyways. Houses painted lavender, turquoise, orange, red, bright blue or yellow rise steeply along these passageways. Dogs bark from wrought iron balconies while residents sweep their front stoops. Toddlers stare curiously at us while two little girls shyly wave.

The Museo Casa Diego Rivera has many drawings as well as some of the studies that the artist completed in preparation for his giant murals. Perhaps the most famous of these is “A Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park”. Since the time of the Aztecs, Alameda Park has been a central part of life in Mexico City. In this piece of art, Rivera chronicles his own life and highlights pivotal figures in Mexican history. He whimsically adds a likeness of himself as a young boy and a portrait of his wife, the painter Frida Kahlo. Another museum worth a detour is Museo Iconografico del Quijote that houses one man’s private collection of all things inspired by Cervantes’ Don Quixote. There are paintings, sculptures, tapestries and books. This museum’s benefactor, Eulalio Ferrer, was a Spanish journalist who was imprisoned in a Spanish concentration camp. His vision of the man of La Mancha sustained him during this difficult period.

At the edge of the Jardin, we stopped for crepes and café con leche at an outdoor table in front of the Hotel Museo Posada Santa Fe. From our vantage point, we looked up at the Greek muses gazing down from the roof of the Teatro Juarez, a neo-classical theatre dating from 1903. This building is a stunning composition of multi-colored local limestone. Costumed musicians gathered on the bandstand in the middle of the plaza while my husband and I perused our guidebooks, and marveled at the territory we had covered in five days.

If you go:

Many airlines fly Boston-Leon: American, Continental, Northwest and Delta. They connect through Dallas, Houston, Detroit and Atlanta. After renting a car at the airport, it took us under two hours to drive to San Miguel. Guanajuato is 45 minutes from the airport. We have some Spanish comprehension and some ability to speak the language. English can be scarce in many places.

In addition to the Casa de Sierra Nevada in San Miguel de Allende, I noted Villa Jacaranda, a warm and inviting property near the Jardin. The Vista Real Hotel has a grand view of the valley, lovely gardens, and a restaurant.

We stayed at Villa Maria Cristina in Guanajuato. It is a glorious, restored hacienda that requires walking 25 minutes to the historic center. We enjoyed the exercise and the calm of sleeping at a distance from the hectic activity. It is easy to find taxis if you are tired of walking. Options in town are the Hotel Museo Posada Santa Fe, a historic inn dating from the 1860’s that is right on the main plaza. Hosteria del Frayle, dates from the 1670’s when the building was used as an ore refinery. Now it is an appealing hotel near Jardin Union.

November-May brings pleasant weather, sunny days in the 70’s and nights cooling to the high 40’s. We experienced one passing shower, and warm evenings.

Last Thursday Morning

2007-11-03T02:52:00.000-04:00

He has warm, smooth little feet. I take off his socks and kiss the soles, one by one. He smiles a smile that covers his whole face. I pick him up and he puts his arms around my neck. He gives me a real hug. I know that I’m reluctant to focus like this when his big brother is around. His big brother is my first grandchild and understandably, my first love. At age two, I don’t want him to feel overlooked, cast aside or rejected. But today I am alone with his baby brother for four hours, and I can relish this one on one chance. I spoon rice cereal into his mouth, and then feed him a bottle. He closes his eyes and starts to doze. I bring him upstairs to his crib. He cries once, and then sleeps for five or ten minutes. I know this, because I’m watching from the hallway.

When I was a young mom, I would have grabbed this instant of quiet to shower, wash the breakfast dishes, run a load of laundry, catch up on paperwork or make phone calls. But now as a grandma, I have absolutely no other agenda than this five month-old. He cries out and I pick him up, change his diaper, and choose an outfit for the day. For a solid hour, we stroll the neighborhood. He sits in his carriage, studying the cars that pass by, the fall leaves floating gently onto the sidewalk, the dogs straining on their leashes, and the painters balancing on scaffolding down the street. He eventually closes his eyes, briefly. Back in the house, he’s awake and ready for another diaper change and a second bottle.

On the living room rug, he sits on my lap while we read books. He lies on his back, grabbing the rings and balls on his play gym. He turns on his side, and almost makes it over onto his belly. His eyes widen and he looks nervous. Maybe he’s not quite ready for this step. I place him on his stomach and he happily turns over onto his back and grasps a stuffed giraffe.

The phone rings, but I don’t bother to answer it. The caller ID lets me know that it’s not my daughter. FEDEX drops off a package out front, but I leave it be. There is nothing on my mind except the dimples in his cheeks and the cooing sounds he makes when he sucks on his teething ring.

Bundle of Joy

2007-10-18T12:00:00.000-04:00

Shortly after the birth of my first baby, beribboned packages began arriving at my door. Well-meaning neighbors and relatives had chosen cards with sayings like: “Don’t you love gazing at your sleeping bundle of joy!” or “You are blessed with an angel resting on your shoulder.” My daughter was a bundle of joy, and I was blessed. But she wasn’t sleeping, and neither were my husband or I. In fact, my husband who rarely drank alcohol began sipping “Wild Turkey” while sitting on the front steps of our house.

I have yet to meet a baby who is a serene sleeper. Although I’ve heard about them, I’ve never known an infant who tranquilly nursed, napped, and cooed. Sleep deprivation is a fact of life for most parents of newborns, but it is a rarely discussed issue. Perhaps in our culture of achieving and excelling, few want to admit that they haven’t figured out how to soothe a baby or to organize a schedule enabling the adults to keep their sanity. In retrospect, my daughter had a classic case of colic. She would arch her back, thrash her legs, and wail for hours. Putting her in her car seat atop a spinning dryer, strolling her in her carriage, taking drives in the car, and rocking her quieted her for a time but as soon as the motion stopped, she was awake and crying. This cycle lasted for almost five months. It took several doctors' appointments to convince me that there wasn't something seriously wrong with her. Colic is obviously an extreme case, but all babies cry. Pediatricians say that infants need to blow off steam and fretting is their means of communication. But few well-educated and reasonable folks want to admit that they can’t figure out a newborn’s cues or how to put him down happily in his crib.

Not long after my daughter’s early months passed, friends and acquaintances who were new parents began seeking my advice. I hadn’t been quiet about the turmoil that had occurred in our home. Even though I didn’t have a huge amount of suggestions I found that people, women in particular, needed to talk. Finding a sympathetic ear was important. My dear friend Barbara who was living across the Atlantic in the United Kingdom, still remembers being able to frantically phone me while she was pacing the living room (or lounge as she would say) with little Jacquelyn, now eighteen, slung over one shoulder.

From where I sit as a grandma, it’s difficult to believe that the pressure has only continued. Due to new research on “Sudden Infant Death Syndrome”, babies must be placed on their backs until they are twelve months old. Gone are the days when an infant could curl up cozily on her stomach and put her thumb in her mouth. Today it’s even harder for babies to learn to comfort themselves as they lie on their backs, sometimes trapped between two bolsters so they cannot change their position and wind up in a dangerous sleeping pose. Mothers and fathers who are lucky to have babies, who sleep through the night and even take regular naps, are smugly secure on the playground. They’re probably the same people whose newborns drifted off effortlessly after filling their bellies and having their diapers changed. Those battling the fatigue caused by being roused multiple times during the night and having few breaks during the day, feel like running for cover when faced with these “success stories”.

I have encouraged my daughter that even from several states away, being a willing and available listener for a friend who is a new mother, is a valuable gift. Too many parents are isolated and lack emotional support. The challenges of negotiating life while being exhausted are large enough without feeling insecure or doubting oneself because of the frustration involved in trying to calm an infant’s crying.

Asher's Birthday, May 17th

2007-05-19T11:13:00.000-04:00

Beefy biceps, brawny thighs, you were in a hurry to come into the world, Asher. At 2:20 a.m., your Daddy called Grandpa and me. NSTAR Electric was fixing the wires on our street, so our house had no power. Our regular phones didn’t work, but Grandpa heard a ringing in the distance, the phone in our bathroom that works when the power is out. I ran to answer it. “Are you ready? Her contractions are two minutes apart!” Your Dad exclaimed. Grandpa and I stumbled around in the darkness, searching for shoes that matched, underwear, jeans and sweatshirts. Downstairs, I grabbed my purse and cell. Luckily, we had left a car in the driveway and didn’t have to deal with the automatic garage door that surely wouldn’t have opened automatically.

At your house, your Mommy was saying: “Maybe this is false labor and I should sit on the sofa for awhile.” But the way she was doubled over in pain and knowing that a week earlier at her obstetrician’s appointment, her doctor had announced: “This baby is coming any day…” I was certain that we should drive immediately to the hospital. Grandpa stayed at your house with your big brother, Simon, who was sleeping in his crib. On the way into Boston, your Daddy was proceeding cautiously through yellow and red lights, and I was sitting behind your Mommy, rubbing her neck and shoulders. “Maybe they will send me home, and insist we’re too early.” Your Mommy wondered. I pointed out that if Brigham and Women’s wouldn't take us, we’d go down the street to another hospital. Your Daddy calmly explained that with him and your Grandma along, we were definitely staying at the hospital because you were ready to be born.

When we arrived at 2:40 a.m., they brought us to a labor room where the nurse on duty confirmed that you were coming very quickly. Before 4:00 a.m., you emerged to bright lights, beeping monitors, and the voices of three people who were thrilled to meet you. Your Mommy and Daddy’s eyes were misty with tears. Your Daddy told me that he and I make a good support team; I told him that I felt honored to be at your birth. I fumbled for a camera to take your first photos. Later when I held you in my arms, your skin was incredibly soft and you smelled completely fresh and new. The soles of your feet felt like velvet. They hadn't walked anywhere yet! You weighed eight pounds and fifteen ounces, Asher Miles Baron.

The phone and e-mail messages haven’t stopped because you have so many family members and friends who want to welcome you. Uncle Aron just traveled from New York on the train, and Mom Mom and Pop Pop Baron are driving up from Pennsylvania. You are surrounded with lots of love.

Mission to Israel

2007-03-20T12:15:00.000-04:00

My sister-in-law asked about our trip. “How was the group?’ She wondered. “They weren’t the type of people who put sweaters over seats, either on the bus or at meals.” I responded. Traveling with a group isn’t ordinarily my first choice but Israel is a destination that is enough of an adventure in itself. My husband and I didn’t need to be wandering around on our own. The fact that we liked everyone, that they weren’t “clicky”, that they didn’t rush to save chairs at the dinner table or “hosey” rows on the bus was a welcome surprise.

Six days in Israel passed by in a flash. After taking a look at the itinerary, I knew that each day and night would be jam-packed. But I hadn’t realized how emotional I would be or how politically riveted I would become.

Flying to Tel Aviv aboard Continental Airlines on a Combined Jewish Philanthropies Mission, I slept form 11:00 p.m. until 3:00 a.m. After that, I dozed off and on, watching my husband sleep beside me, listening to an infant fretfully crying, pacing the aisle, and studying the “air show”. We flew over so many seas: Ionian, Aegean, Black, and Mediterranean. Our group included Christians and Jews. I looked forward to visiting the Mount of Beatitudes where Jesus preached his well-known sermon: “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth…” as well as the Western Wall where I would place prayers for family and friends in between stones that are thousands of years old and worn by the many hands that have touched them.

From the airport, we drove along the Cross-Israel Highway to Haifa. Along the West Bank, we saw the cement wall built at vantage points where gunfire could be perilously near. I never understood these borders until I viewed them up close. After sunset we arrived at Mount Carmel and gazed at the glittering lights of the city below, the semi-circular harbor, and the last beacon in the distance, southern Lebanon.

In the morning, we walked along a pedestrian route behind our hotel. We enjoyed the terraced Baha’i Gardens with their gorgeous array of color, the sparkling Gulf of Haifa below, the stucco buildings with their red tiled roofs, and the cypress and eucalyptus trees. Throughout that first day, we took time to learn about community initiatives that are settling five thousand Ethiopian Jews in Haifa. Some of these people walked from Ethiopia to the Sudan, five hundred miles across the desert. Others arrived on rescue airlifts named Operation Moses and Operation Solomon.

Toward evening, we dined in the port city of Akko where we saw layers of excavated civilizations: Roman, Crusader, Marmluk, and Ottoman Turk. We touched ancient sandstone, marveled at the pointed peaks of the Crusader archways, and smelled spices: turmeric, saffron and cayenne as we listened to the drone of the call to prayer in the distance. Akko has an Arab/Jewish population. We heard a theme that would become familiar. Arabs and Israelis can co-exist; it is their leaders who cannot make up their minds. Our security guard, Bissan, was Druze, an Arab Israeli whose family has inhabited this land for three or four hundred years. Bissan explained that the Druze are Persian Shia, very different from the Moslem Shia who infiltrated the Golan Heights and kidnapped Israeli soldiers last summer.

Approaching the Golan Heights the next day, we drove through the Hula Valley with its groves of almonds, olives, clementines, oranges and lemons. We could see snow-capped Mount Hermon in the distance and several kibbutzim as we approached an army outpost. On the Israeli/Lebanese border, we met impossibly young soldiers equipped with flak vests, grenades, binoculars and rifles. They explained that Israel has had sovereignty of the Golan Heights since 1967 when Syria gave up this area. Now it is strategically important for protection from the Hezbollah warriors who daily fire rockets from southern Lebanon. Months ago, Israel signed a truce but they are still attacked on a regular basis.

Above the Sea of Galilee near the Mount of Beatitudes, we passed fields of mustard grass, and fig, date, and banana trees. We saw Bedouins with camels, the green of the Jordan Valley and the golden glow of the sunlight. Jesus preached the Sermon on the Mount on a hilltop overlooking this pastoral scene. He was baptized nearby at Yardenit on the Jordan River, according to Christian belief. As we continued toward Jerusalem, we explored Beit She’an, a stunning archaeological project that has revealed a large Roman city. We could see mosaic tiles, streets, public baths, and even a 10,000-seat stadium.

The approach to Jerusalem required stopping at checkpoints. I could tell that the highway guards were wearing bulletproof vests. In these Judean Hills, I witnessed the clash of three cultures and three religions: the golden dome, the minarets, the church spires, and the Western wall. I listened to the chanting of Hebrew prayers, the church bells chiming, and the low humming sound of the call to prayer. We walked to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher where Christ was carried after he was crucified. This is a cavernous and revered shrine with chapels representing a number of Christian communities.

In the Arab bazaar, the aroma of incense was strong. Persian carpets hung from the rafters, vendors beckoned, men sat in pairs playing backgammon or sipping from small cups of black coffee. My husband and I bought lunch at a take out stand: small balls of falafel and shawerma, pita pockets filled with diced turkey, cabbage, lettuce, pickles, potatoes, and hummus. Some men walked by with kafiyeh, traditional Arab garb, covering their heads. Others wore tall black hats or large fur-trimmed brown hats, both indicative of various Jewish sects.

Later we visited Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum. Here the million and a half Jewish children who died are remembered in their own memorial. Rosa Goldberg, a baby, was arrested and deported all by herself. A two year-old Polish boy was taken from his mother who left behind a note in the cattle car that was transporting her to a concentration camp. Her note read: “How he must cry. Now he is all alone.” I could not stop crying and I could not speak. How can people treat one another this way? Whole villages were wiped off the map, families were fragmented, and populations were decimated. The Avenue and Garden of the Righteous Among the Nations is a ray of hope. The 18,000 names of non-Jews who risked their lives to rescue Jews are engraved on the garden walls. Two thousand carob and olive trees flourish on the museum property in honor of those willing to trade their own safety to protect others. One northern Italian family was asked why they had risked their freedom by hiding a Jewish family during the war. They responded that they wouldn’t have considered acting differently because each person’s destiny is intertwined with the next person’s.

Swimming in the Dead Sea was a playful relief. The chunks of salt were prickly underfoot. When we floated, our bodies were so buoyant that it was hard to put our feet down without holding on to a nearby pole. The landscape was the turquoise sea, the deep blue sky, and the towering sand mountains. Because the water contains 30% salt, nothing can live here. There is no plant or animal life in sight. After showering, my skin felt soft. Emerging from the locker room, the sign in front of me read: “Go in Peace”.

Our group had the unusual opportunity of meeting with Dalia Itzik, the Speaker of the Knesset, Israel’s Parliament, and Ehud Olmert, the Prime Minister. Both graciously thanked us for coming, and exuded confidence and power. Behind a heavy metal door, we felt as though we had entered an armored bunker when we walked toward Olmert’s conference room, and we probably had. We sat around a table with him and he looked into our eyes while he spoke. He explained that suicide bombers are thwarted daily, and that the Palestinian leader, Mahmoud Abbas of Fatah, has not honored the ceasefire. Olmert prays that “...maybe in a few generations, we will live in peace.”

In spite of the fact that they live under continual siege, I was impressed with the upbeat attitude and resilience of the people whom we met. The Israeli economy is thriving with a strong infrastructure. Social responsibility, perhaps because men and women serve in the military to directly defend their own country, seems to be built into the minds of everyone we encountered.

Grandma Thoughts

2007-01-19T15:04:00.000-05:00

I remember when my grandmother used to say: “I’m glad I’ve already raised my children." During the 1960’s, she shook her head in disbelief while I marched on Washington to protest the invasion of Cambodia, asked my parents to sign a permission slip so I could live in Tufts University’s first co-ed dorm, and attended outdoor rock concerts that sometimes lasted for days. This morning, I thought of my grandmother when I turned on my car radio and learned that a fifteen year-old student at a nearby suburban high school had been stabbed to death by one of his classmates. I thought of my grandmother because I cannot imagine what she would think about this shocking brutality, but also because I too am now a grandmother. I finally understand how she yearned to protect me from a world that had become increasingly unsafe, complex and confusing.

Simon is only twenty-two months old and his sibling is still in utero. Yesterday, I was reading “Writing Tools” in Simon’s living room while his mother was at a doctor’s appointment. By 4:00 p.m., his house was darkening and his puppy “Fiona” was quietly snoozing next to the fireplace. Sitting in the mid-January shadows, I realized my grandson could nap for hours but then, maybe he would have a hard time sleeping that night. More to the point, I wanted to see him. The stairs creaked as I walked up to the landing outside of his bedroom. Behind his closed door, I heard him rustle and yawn. When I opened the door, he picked up his head and squinted to see who was in the room. He rolled over onto his back and smiled to himself. “Guess who’s here?” I asked. “Gaga” he smiled, and stood up in his crib, raising his arms to be lifted out. We rocked back and forth in his glider chair while he drank a cup of milk and snuggled in my arms.

Later we played downstairs with his trains, his trucks, and his blocks. Carefully he gave me a number of vehicles “for Gaga”; together we built bridges, tunnels, and castles. When my children were small, I was always picking up the house, cooking, and making phone calls during this time of day. Having prepared his supper while he was sleeping, at this moment I could focus completely on him. Nothing was as important or imperative as tuning in to this little boy.

Before my daughter left, we had talked briefly about the Missouri boy who had just been discovered after having been kidnapped four years earlier. “It makes me sick…” she said, and I had to agree. I can recall how difficult it was for me to let my children ride their bicycles in our neighborhood after a nine year-old girl was kidnapped in our town. While still being vigilant, at some point we have to trust that our kids will be strong and use good judgment, and our neighbors will be watchful. The notion of school shootings and stabbings is a domain that I never had to face.

Kids have access to weapons, and absorb messages on the Internet, at the movies and during concerts. They learn that violence is a way to solve turf wars and to feel powerful. My grandmother never would have dreamed that our society would reach this point. Now that I am a grandmother, I wish I could wrap my grandson in his fleece blanket and shield him from the hostility that is surely lurking somewhere in his city.

Floating Appreciation

2007-01-10T08:47:00.000-05:00

Twenty-three years ago, my husband, David, and I brought our infant son, Jason, to the Floating Hospital. Our baby was very sick with a high fever and one side of his face was so swollen that he couldn’t open his left eye. A team of doctors, led by Dr. Sidney Gellis, used CAT scan equipment that showed the infection inside his head. The doctors operated to drain the infection and kept him in the hospital on IV antibiotics for many weeks.

During that time, I had a cot next to Jason’s crib and was with him as much as possible. The people who cared for him: nurses, interns, medical students, and experienced physicians became my heroes not just because they made him better but because they genuinely cared about their work, their patients, and the families of the very sick children they were helping.

My family is so pleased that with the Boston Celtics Hero Book, we can do something special for others who are patients here and for the many people who take such good care of them.

Picture of Simon

2006-11-18T11:26:00.000-05:00

Less than three feet tall
Less than thirty pounds
Sturdy little feet
A strong arm, the ball soars
"GaGa, find the guy..."
"Tank-u"

Each vehicle needs a guy and
sometimes a girl...
a farm truck, an airplane,
a helicopter, a backhoe,
a bulldozer, a dump truck,
a corvette.
The red corvette was assembled
by Uncle Jay when he was nine.
Uncle Jay doesn't live at home
anymore: a concept difficult for
Simon to grasp at one and a half
when he naps in his uncle's
childhood bedroom. He must be
at work if he's not here,
with his girlfriend, Ceci too.

Nanny and Papa emerge as one word:
Ninapapa. Appropriate as he
always sees them together.
Married for sixty-one years.
Simon is blessed to have
great grandparents.

Bumpa plays guitar and sings just
as he did with our three children.
As they say, history repeats itself.

I hide a small packet of "goldfish"
crackers in my purse before Simon
and I leave for his music class.
One never knows when an eating
emergency might arise.

Barcelona and the Costa Brava

2006-10-24T10:44:00.000-04:00

In early October, the Mediterranean mirrors the blue skies and bright sunlight. The marina at the Port Olimpic in Barcelona is filled with sailboats, yachts, and small motorized craft. The boardwalk along the sand stretches in both directions. My husband and I are celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary. One morning we rent bicycles and amble along the hard top next to the beach. We pass cafes, young couples pushing baby strollers, women sunbathing topless, and elderly men sitting on folding chairs, playing cards.

Later we walk from our hotel to the Barri Gotic, the Gothic Quarter or Old City. The ancient buildings shade the alleyways and create shadows that cool the balmy sea air. The metal garage doors of the shops are buttoned up tight during siesta time that starts at 2:00 p.m. and ends at 4:30 p.m. We wander over to La Rambla the renowned pedestrian boulevard that used to be a river meandering through the city. We watch performance artists, observe caged birds for sale, souvenir vendors selling maracas and fans, and an open-air Mercat, a market offering whole fish, succulent fruit, nuts, olive oil, fresh cut flowers, and an array of vegetables. Briefly I regret that I am not cooking.

We stop at Bossborn, a tapas bar, and drink sangria while we wait for plates of fried artichokes, seared slices of tuna, and broiled anchovies. By 5:00 p.m., we’re ready to navigate the mesmerizing web of streets to find the Museu Picasso. Around each corner, there is a surprise: brightly colored laundry hanging like flags over wrought iron balconies, and La Manual Alpargatera, the oldest shoe store in Barcelona where the espadrilles are still stitched by hand. Picasso’s art is displayed in a restored medieval palace; the building itself is well worth a visit. It is touching to see examples of Picasso’s work from as young as age 10. His mother was diligent about saving his creations, and we the public get an unusual chance to view his early efforts.

Dinner in this city is usually served late, so it’s perfectly acceptable to nap in the early evening and look for a taxi around 10:00 p.m. Most restaurants don’t even open until 9:00 p.m. They seem to expect that people pace themselves throughout the day with a balance of working, resting, eating and drinking. After our first evening when we were ready to gnaw on our fingers by 8:00 p.m., we tourists quickly learned to adapt to the Spanish schedule. One excellent dining option is Commerc 24. You can order a price fixed tapas menu of either five or seven courses. Since the staff seems to slip in a few extra plates, five are plenty for an average appetite. We particularly enjoyed the duck ravioli resting in frothed olive oil and the egg shell creatively filled with homemade mozzarella.

A Barcelona tour is not complete without exploring Gaudi’s architectural wonder, the as yet unfinished cathedral: the Sagrada Familia. Its many spires and facades draw us into Gaudi’s imagination and his willingness to explore. The fanciful homes he designed as well as the Parc Guell with its serpentine public spaces are unusually forward thinking considering that they evolved over 100 years ago when most structures were more predictable.

Further a field is Mont Juic, the site of the 1927 World’s Fair. On this hill, a replica of an Iberian village was built. Today it houses artisan shops, galleries, and restaurants. Close by is the Fundacio Joan Miro designed by Josep Lluis Sert, a former Dean of the Harvard Graduate School of Design. This imposing edifice overlooking Barcelona is a stunning backdrop for Miro’s sculptures, as well as his large canvases and tapestries. The collection also includes some of Calder’s mobiles.

For a few days we rent a car and drive toward the Costa Brava, situated in the foothills of the Pyrenees, the border between Spain and France. The roads wind steeply through the cliffs that crash dramatically down to the water. We visit Dali’s home in the coastal enclave of Port Lligat. Visitors are extremely limited and you have to book your entry ahead because you can almost reach out and touch Dali’s cane collection, his clogs, and his paintbrushes. In the nearby fishing village of Cadaques, the white of the buildings reflects the sunlight. Dali’s affection for this area is rooted in the many summers he spent here as a child.

Our base in this region is the tiny inland village of Torrent where we reserved two nights at Mas de Torrent, a restored eighteenth century farmhouse that houses an inn. A reasonable day trip from Torrent is the town of Girona which has an old city known as the best preserved in Europe. A large Jewish population lived peacefully next to the Christians from the ninth century almost until 1492 when the Jews were expelled from Spain. The Jewish museum has been built on the site of the last synagogue. There are ketubot (marriage contracts), gravestones, ceramics, thimbles, belt buckles, menorahs, and tefillin (articles for prayer). Throughout the former Jewish quarter you can detect the places on the doorposts of the houses where mezuzot, small cases containing sacred blessings, had once been.

Not far from Torrent is the medieval town of Pals. The pristine restoration of its ochre walls and cobblestone walkways effectively bring visitors back in time. The ateliers of leather craftsmen, jewelers, and potters are spotted in amongst the dwellings. We are once again struck by the value that the Spaniards place on restoring their past and caring for their public spaces. Trash is collected daily, parking is centrally located just outside of pedestrian areas, and bicycles and walkers alike have ample passageways.

We work our way back to Barcelona. A trip spanning eight days has allowed us to savor each moment instead of rushing around at a breakneck speed. The Hotel Arts with its beach access, spa, and accommodating concierge make it an ideal vacation oasis. We take one more look at the Barri Gotic, drink cafe con leche (with milk) near the Barcelona Cathedral, and grab mango gelato in El Borno, a neighborhood filled with small eateries, artists’ studios and apartments.

Essay

2006-09-01T16:02:00.000-04:00

Sometimes regaling your kids with stories about your adventurous past can come back to haunt you. In our early 20’s, my husband and I meandered through Columbia, Ecuador, and Peru. At the time, people thought we were strange. Why weren’t we buying train passes and backpacking through Europe? South America was a cheaper destination but also, it was more exotic and mysterious. I’ve never regretted that trip as it came at a unique moment in time before we settled down to real jobs and structured lives. Years later when I became a suburban carpool queen and believed that my daring spirit would forever be clogged in loads of laundry, cheerios squished under car seats, and nights with never enough sleep; I would let my mind wander to a path along the Urubamba Valley or a misty Santa Marta sunrise.

It didn’t come as a surprise when my daughter wanted to trek by herself in Nepal or live in Wyoming for a few years. She had grown up listening to my stories about hiking to the Sacsahuaman ruins outside of Cuzco, Peru and riding a mule in the Andean foothills beyond Otavalo, Ecuador. While in Nepal, she was good about faxing messages and phoning when she could. I admired her self-confidence and her strength. The Wyoming move was harder for me because it was potentially long-term. I fought back my tears as her favorite stuffed animals, books, sweatshirts and ski boots spilled out of boxes onto our driveway.

Our older son has had his own forays. Moving to Manhattan right before 9/11 and dealing with the physical and emotional chaos that ensued was challenging enough. Last winter after months of training and preparation, he summitted Kilimanjaro, went on safari in Tanzania, and swam in the Indian Ocean by the shores of Zanzibar.

I shouldn’t have been astonished by our younger son’s choice of a destination. As he quickly pointed out to me: “Mom, you had South America!” So I explained that Burma, now known as Myanmar, is a closed country meaning it doesn’t have formal ties with the United States. He stated the obvious, which is that his father and I were in Cuba a few years ago and that too is a country without a diplomatic relationship with ours. But we were on a group tour, and he and his girlfriend will be on their own. My mind can play dangerous tricks. I think about Amy Tan’s recent novel “Saving Fish From Drowning” in which she writes about American tourists kidnapped by rebels in Burma in order to make a point about the military junta in control there.

I know there are good reasons for traveling to countries that are beyond the radar screen. When we come back and talk about our experiences, we beam light onto those who live there. We also broaden our own frame of reference and our appreciation for different viewpoints and cultures. I should be grateful that he wants to step outside the usual and explore, that he wants to seize an extraordinary opportunity before he settles down to serious commitments that will prevent him from taking off for weeks at a time.

It’s true that I’m proud of the young man he has become and even awed by how well he manages. I guess it’s inescapable that kids digest what they’ve heard from their parents and fashion their own journeys. The days are long gone when I could attempt to protect him. As my friend Lindsay marvels: “Don’t you remember the nights when they dragged their quilts into our bedrooms and fell asleep on the floor by our beds?” When they were small, we often wondered aloud if our youngest children would ever sleep through the night by themselves.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll need to meditate, take deep breaths, and many long walks.

Alone

2006-07-26T15:48:00.000-04:00

It seemed ridiculous that I was uncomfortable, afraid to stay alone in a beach house that isn’t even big by today’s mcmansion standards. But our property adjoins conservation land and the sounds that I hear in the stillness are something out of “wild kingdom”. The snorting of deer, the scurrying of skunks and squirrels, and the echo of frogs create a cacophony of noise.

Last week, I decided that my time had come. This would be somewhat of a maturing process for me, a testing of my inner strength. Last month, I even read Truman Capote’s “In Cold Blood”. His book is an impressive piece of prose but more than that, it was a way for me to face my demons. Years ago when I lived in a sleepy, rural suburb and was often alone with my three young children, my life was threatened. I tried pretending that the threat was against my whole family so I could expend plenty of energy protecting my children. Yet the female detective assigned to my case by the town police, aptly pointed out to me that the threat was very much against me. Twenty-one years later, the fear lurks in the back of my mind.

I made sure that I was home before the sun set, and even watched the pinks and purples streak across the horizon. It was a particularly lovely night with shooting stars and fireflies. I carefully latched each door and every easily accessible window. The summer evening was sultry even on this island, and I needed a cross breeze to move the tepidly humid air. At 10:00 p.m., I let my sheltie, Sophie, outside the front door for a final pee. The local meteorologist had forecast afternoon storms, but apparently they had simply passed us by.

By midnight, I had fallen asleep with my transistor radio blaring 70’s rock, and my copy of “March” by Geraldine Brooks open beside me. The wind whipping the trees, the thunder rumbling in the distance, and the lightening that illuminated the interior of the house didn’t immediately rouse me. What finally jarred my sleep was Sophie crying at my bedroom door and the stillness over my head because the ceiling fan had stopped spinning. It took me a few seconds to digest the fact that the power was out.

I grabbed a flashlight from my nightstand and dashed through the living room to the kitchen to see if our land phone had a dial tone. Cell service is spotty in our area. A neighbor later commented: “Weren’t you thinking that someone had cut your wires and was coming in to murder you?” Fortunately it hadn’t occurred to me that I could be starring in my own horror movie. My nervous, elderly dog had to go outside again, so I ventured outdoors in the darkness with the pouring rain pummeling my cotton nightgown and my bare feet. I called after her: “Sophie, if you get lost honey, I can’t find you!”

Until 6:30 a.m. when the power was restored, I lay awake with my mind racing. But I managed alone, and I figure that if I could survive that night, I can face any other forays on my own.

Shingles

2006-04-21T09:51:00.000-04:00

A lot of people live with pain. I am fortunate that I have an illness from which I am recovering. There is nothing like the way I have been feeling to make me appreciate good health. In the past, I have heard about “shingles”. My son-in-law says it sounds like it should be the name of a sexually transmitted disease. But then again, I remember that my friend Fredda’s mother-in-law suffered with it as well as both of my parents and an elderly neighbor down the street.

I have an ugly red rash that spans my abdomen, left side, and lower back. It would be great if someone would release me from what feels like an elastic band tightening around my waist and grab what feels like a dagger jabbing into my stomach. After talking at length with my doctor as well as researching “shingles” on the Internet, I have an abundance of information. Those of us who had chicken pox as children still have this virus lurking in our systems. When we’re worn down or stressed, it can activate and attack a nerve path on one side of our bodies. Typically a burning rash appears along this route. I haven’t figured out where the name “shingles” comes from, but I do know that overwhelming exhaustion is part of this sickness and the way back to feeling good is lots of rest and strong anti-viral medication.

The cherry blossoms blooming pink and deep rose outside my bedroom window, the early sunshine in the morning, and the longer days are each beacons of spring. My grandson at 12 months old is running around my yard in his new brown high top shoes. I know I’m not contagious but I’m keeping my distance from him, because who really can be sure about how this disease is transmitted. He must be surprised that his grandma isn’t picking him up and squeezing him every two minutes. Maybe he’s just happy to be throwing a tennis ball to our dog and muddying his hands in our garden.

A benefit of slowing down is realizing that this life is too much of a whirlwind. It’s not terrible to learn to pick and choose the meetings and events that are critical to attend. After two weeks, the rash is finally retreating. I continue to pace myself but as I become stronger, I hope I won’t forget to savor the good moments and remember to appreciate the value of slowing down. It’s been a treat to have friends and relatives visit with good wishes, meals, flowers and chocolates. In some ways, it’s been a throw back to decades ago when neighbors did ring doorbells with soup and stews, ran errands for one another, and chatted at length over fences.

Teenage Driving

2006-03-27T13:20:00.000-05:00

The newspaper headlines are inescapable. The horrible tragedies seem to multiply just as the green crocus shoots peak out from the ground and young girls start to hunt for prom dresses and fashionable hairstyles. After raising three children, I know how terrifying it is to let your child drive with you, the parent, in the passenger seat for the very first time. It’s even scarier to give them your keys and let them back out onto the pavement all by themselves.

It’s understandable that legislators are contemplating raising the driving age. Who wouldn’t want to address this compelling concern that continues decade after decade? The problem is that I’m not sure changing our laws would reduce the number of awful deaths. I’m not convinced that one more year would give us all a substantial edge.

I have been reading about the large numbers of kids living in sprawling suburbs. Without the easy access to public transportation that we have in our urban areas, they find themselves trapped if they cannot drive and are tired of having their parents chauffeur them to jobs, lessons, and friends’ homes. Independence is of course the key word here, and teenagers view getting a license to drive as a rite of passage.

Too many of us have sobering memories of friends and family members who died at heartbreakingly young ages because they rushed ahead, used poor judgment, took risks, were caught up in a moment, didn’t think through a decision or just had bad luck. Even though my children are now adults, I still worry about them when they’re traveling and probably always will.

My recommendation would be to increase the driver education requirements and to make certain that teenagers have more hours of experience in all sorts of circumstances. Navigating slippery, slushy streets and understanding that bright sunlight as well as dusk can be tricky lighting are learned skills. Another vital component is to have plenty of conversations about the privilege of getting behind the wheel and the expectations that we as grown ups have for our young people.

For my youngest son, I wrote a safety contract. That was seven years ago. I like to think that the spirit of this list has stayed with him:
1) You are a levelheaded person who studies things carefully. Yet I shudder when I think about anything happening to you in a car.
2) Cars are powerful and can cause devastating destruction.
3) Seatbelts are mandatory.
4) Please drive the speed limit. Wouldn’t you rather get there taking more time than never get there at all?
5) Learn to anticipate the stupid actions of other drivers. That oncoming vehicle with its flashing right turn signal may not be slowing down and turning after all.
6) Never let a classmate you mistrust drive you. Phone Dad, me, or several other adults you know who wouldn’t think twice about rescuing you in a storm.
7) Driving is an earned privilege.
8) Please take it seriously.

NY Weekend

2006-03-13T12:13:00.000-05:00

Eight of us were sitting in a midtown diner. My husband David, sons Jason and Aron, Aron’s girlfriend Jackie, my daughter Jess, son-in-law Shane, and their son, Simon. It had been no small feat coordinating a weekend for eighteen in the city. This was already day two and I was starting to feel like this was going very well. Simon at eleven and a half months was munching a grilled cheese sandwich: white bread and Kraft American singles. His usual stellar diet would have to take a back seat for a few days. The rest of us ordered tuna melts, omelettes or bagels, cream cheese and lox. My parents were resting at the hotel, my sister and her family were lunching on their own, and my brother and sister-in-law, New Yorkers, were supervising their teenage kids in Brooklyn.

A woman with a colorful scarf wrapped around her head, dark glasses, and brassy blond hair cautiously approached me. “You don’t know who I am…” she started “…but I just wanted to say you have a very nice family.” This brought a wide smile to my face. “Thank you so much.” I responded. This kind stranger reminded me to savor the eight of us chatting at the same table, my father celebrating his 85th birthday after recent bypass surgery and two additional operations, and my siblings and their children joining us for festive dinners and long walks in Central Park.

We should do this again sometime. An annual family reunion including members who live in four different states can work. In a world filled with strife and uncertainty, taking note of what we have is essential. Saturday evening, my brother asked a friend to take photos of our group outside the restaurant. Inside, we were seated at one long table. Toasts and hilarious anecdotes peppered the conversation. My sister-in-law Jean thanked my parents for welcoming her twenty years ago even though she knew she had presented them with “challenges”. Aron made us laugh as he described Nanny and Papa chaperoning him on an all important seventh grade date.

Later while I waited in the ladies room line, a woman dashed in and exclaimed: “I just wanted to catch you and say I was watching you outside and you’re still having such fun…some of us wish we could join the party.”

Dorchester Memories

2006-02-08T21:15:00.000-05:00

Childhood memories are strong. What if York Street were not as wide or the front veranda of my grandparents' triple-decker were not as grand as they loomed in my mind? My grandparents’ house could be boarded up, abandoned, or even totally gone, replaced by a different dwelling or maybe a vacant lot. My husband and I both have grandparents who owned homes in Dorchester. My mother and my father-in-law grew up in the same part of Boston. For years I’ve wondered about going back, retracing my steps.

My great grandfather, Jacob Thurman, moved to York Street in 1915. Surrounded by fields, his house was the first building on a road that would eventually become more densely populated, but always retain a gracious character. The homes had backyards, trees, garages, and front porches. Most had three full floors. When I was born, my great grandmother, Bella, lived on the second floor with her nurse. Bella required shots and pills each day. I realize that I’ve never asked what exactly was wrong with her. Was she diabetic? I can picture a woman dressed in a starched, white uniform jabbing a needle into my great grandmother’s thigh. Back in the 50’s, illness in my family was shrouded in mystery. The precise name of the ailment was never discussed.

The third floor included cavernous, cobwebbed rooms furnished with tarnished brass headboards, dented hatboxes, and dusty mirrors resting in wooden frames. Sometimes my grandmother, Sarah, would let my sister and me wander around up there. We felt like we were viewing a forgotten world. There were photographs of Sarah attired in a short dress featuring a drop waist finished with a satin bow on the side, a string of long pearls hanging from her neck, and a cloche hat pulled down over her ears. My sister, ever wiser and worldlier, told me that Grandma had been a flapper, whatever that meant.

My grandparents lived on the first floor, the home where they had raised my mother and uncle. Grandma’s kitchen was laid out long before the days of streamlined Formica counters and cabinets latched to hide clutter and dust. Her kitchen was a mélange of open shelves filled with canisters of nuts, brown sugar, and dates. Baking sheets and muffin tins came in assorted sizes, as did the tables in the center of the room with surfaces perfect for rolling dough and decorating cookies. Grandma's baked products were legendary. She had single-handedly catered wedding brunches and baby showers. School vacation days started early for me at her house because she always believed: "...early is the best time to cook...before the neighbors start phoning and the fruit and meat deliveries interrupt..."

The back door was never locked; its screen was hardly ever hooked shut. How else would the milkman have come into the kitchen bearing a carton of eggs, pounds of butter, and even the large curd cottage cheese that I liked best. At eight o'clock in the morning, I perched precariously on a high stool watching Grandma mix and knead, while sipping milk flavored with her coffee. The milkman would greet me with merry surprise flushing his face. "What was I doing there?" He wondered aloud, and then I'd laugh and explain that I was visiting for a few days.

There was a cozy comfort in Grandma's kitchen that emanated not just from the huge gas stove that she lit with a match, but from the trill of her voice as she brewed afternoon tea and shared a story with one of her many female friends who stopped by to see how smart and tall her granddaughter had grown. I could feel her pride in my ability to read complicated books, and play Beethoven sonatas on her piano. In their younger days, she and my grandfather, Harry, had formed a musical duo, he with his violin and she on their piano. Sometimes I reflect on the ease with which she entertained endless groups of people and prepared enormous holiday meals. Would she have guessed that as an adult I frequently slip into one of her hand knit sweaters to warm myself during a dreary evening while I peruse her cherished recipe cards, carefully written in her faded script.

As my husband and I rounded the corner, I could see that York Street was not the grand avenue I had pictured, but the tall oaks were flourishing and the houses were impressively intact, mostly in good repair. Sarah and Harry's house had been transformed from chocolate brown to Kelly green, and the wooden balcony balusters had been replaced with metal. The front stairway was fairly wide as was the porch, which could easily accommodate the rocking chairs where my grandparents liked to relax on sultry summer evenings, while my sister and I played hopscotch on the pavement. I could see the path leading to the backyard where my grandfather and uncle built an outdoor booth each fall to celebrate Succot, the Jewish harvest festival. That was pretty much the only time the yard was used. Life happened on the front terraces, the sidewalks, and the street. During this weekend afternoon, except for an occasional car parked near a house, all was quiet and there was no one in sight. I would love to have talked with someone. Pointing out the bedroom and den windows to my husband, I strained to glimpse inside. But it was okay to visualize it the way it had been, and to feel an overwhelming sense of relief that the building was still there.

Harold Berk

2006-01-10T23:30:00.000-05:00

When you're a teenager, if you're lucky, there's a house besides your own where you can hang out, where you're always welcome and feel comfortable. For me, it was the Berk home. Their youngest son, Donny, was my boyfriend's oldest and closest friend. Their house was antique during an era when new construction was sprouting everywhere, and cavernous, with a key hidden for easy entry, cabinets filled with food, and parents who kept their lights on late in case you wanted to come in and talk. Even at age 16, I vowed that someday I'd have a home like this where kids felt listened to, and safe. My boyfriend has now been my husband for almost 35 years and Don is still our good friend. His father, Harold, died yesterday. I keep seeing Harold's sweet smile and hearing his genuinely interested questions. He was a successful dentist, family man, and a talented dancer. But I will always remember the warmth of his personality and the fact that he really cared during those tough years of the late 60's and early 70's when too many of his generation were too self-absorbed or too cynical to open their minds to different ideas. Harold and his wife Helen provided a needed haven for me and many others.

Kilimanjaro

2006-01-10T21:32:00.000-05:00

My children have each experienced devastating tragedy. People close to them have died while challenging themselves physically, and obviously tempting nature.

Five months ago when Aron decided that he wanted to climb Kilimanjaro with two friends, I supported him but I was cautiously anxious. People say that these are well-worn paths, trekked by thousands of individuals. This is somewhat true, but I was aware that a six day excursion to close to 20,000 feet of altitude over steep, punishing terrain that would take my son from the parched, dusty Tanzanian village of Moshi to the howling, freezing hail atop Uhuru Peak, would be filled with inherent danger. Before Aron departed, we discussed my fears. He had prepared himself mentally, physically, and in terms of having the proper gear for rain, snow and frigid temperatures. Last fall, he was the guy working out in hiking boots at his local gym. He promised me that he would turn back if he felt debilitated by the altitude. He would e-mail before and after the journey.

True to his word, he stayed in touch. And for that, I will always be grateful. With his itinerary in hand, I was following his every step, form the Shira Plateau to the Karanga Valley. Those last few nights when I knew he could be approaching the "roof of Africa", I couldn't sleep. I tried to keep my imagination at bay, but it was hard not to picture him hypothermic or crawling, exhausted toward a rugged precipice.

I was elated when I received his message on day 6 that all three had reached the summit and were already safely at the base. The sobering news came at dawn the next morning. Loose boulders sliding down the mountain had seriously pummeled another group from Zara, the same guide service that Aron and his friends were using. They had been hiking on a different
route called the "western breach". Three climbers were killed and others were injured, two critically.

All that day and into the evening, I prayed, an unusual practice for me. My phone rang and my computer beeped each time a relative or friend wanted to inquire about my son's whereabouts. I bathed my grandson and cooked an elaborate dinner for my family. We were spared this time. I know what Aron will say when we finally have a chance to talk. Accidents happen, especially when you challenge nature, no matter how skilled you are. He would not trade this adventure which I'm certain required pushing himself over his limits, for anything.

12/8/80 when John died

2005-12-05T11:15:00.000-05:00

I was eleven when I became aware of the Beatles: “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” and “I Saw Her Standing There”. Those were the first 45’s I bought for my portable record player. After school on Fridays, I’d have my girlfriends over. We’d “Twist and Shout” in my bedroom until we were out of breath and flopped down, exhausted, on my pink bedspread. As the years went by, I became attached to Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, and Grace Slick. But the Beatles were always the background music at each pivotal juncture in my life.

When I was in eighth grade, the Beatles toured America. My sister had a schoolmate who stalked them in their Boston hotel, and insisted that she made tea with an actual teabag they had used. “I have George’s cold!” She boasted. My father was neither impressed with her antics nor trusting of the shrieking mobs of hysterical female fans. My sister and I weren’t allowed to see the Beatles at the Garden on our own. Instead, we attended the concert on a family field trip that included both of our parents and our younger brother. At thirteen, I wasn’t embarrassed to be with them, just excitedly screaming along with everyone else when the four guys took the stage. The audience was singing and yelling so loudly, that the commotion sounded like a jet landing at Logan. It was difficult to hear the lyrics, but we were there and we were close.

In high school, “She’s Leaving Home” became my personal mantra as I prepared myself mentally to leave home for college, and explored my beliefs. I remember writing an essay about reincarnation in which I talked about an afterlife and wondered if I had been a frog earlier in my history. Citing my writing as a fantastic piece of satire, my English teacher read it aloud to the class. (She just didn’t get it.)

Lennon and McCartney wrote poetry that chronicled the emotions of people like me coming of age in the late 60’s and early 70’s. “Eleanor Rigby” and “Day In The Life” encouraged wallowing in adolescent melancholia. “Good Day, Sunshine” and “The Magical Mystery Door” were expressions of exuberant joy. Who could take a Saturday afternoon drive and not smile if you were blasting one of those tunes on your mother’s car radio?

The September I arrived at college “Here Comes The Sun” and “Give Peace A Chance” blared from dorm room speakers. You could hear those songs clear across the quad. After the Beatles broke apart, John Lennon’s personal commitment to peace fueled the antiwar movement. The rallies and marches that I attended featured his words. Years later with “Imagine”, Lennon was still pleading for a perfect world.

On December 8th when John Lennon was shot, I was holding my own beautiful boy, my toddler son who had awakened from a bad dream and crawled into bed with me. I inhaled his baby fresh scent while I ran my fingers through his thick brown curls. When the terrible news flashed across my television screen, I was stunned. My husband, who had been practicing his guitar, came into our bedroom to be with me. Our eyes locked in sad silence. As children, we had experienced the assassinations of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King. We were shocked that this could happen again to a figure who loomed so large in our lives. Now the man who was home “Watching The Wheels” just as we were and extolling his son in “Beautiful Boy” just as we were completely involved with raising our own kids was inexplicably, violently dead. At that moment, it was too overpowering to digest. The next day I dressed in black, and walked around in a daze.

Halloween

2005-11-01T16:50:00.000-05:00

Yesterday Halloween dawned just like the day before: startling blue sky, sunshine piercing through red and yellow leaves. The clear air was particularly astounding because there had been so many weeks of dense, dreary, damp mist. When I was a little girl, Halloween was a festival night of prowling the neighborhood while collecting shopping bags full of homemade fudge, popcorn, and candy corn. We would of course be in costume; sometimes witches and ghouls were covered up with jackets if the evening was especially cold. After ringing neighbors’ doorbells, we would be invited inside so the adults could guess who we were and exclaim over our creativity.

I know that some towns celebrate Halloween on a Saturday night and impose a two-hour window of trick or treating time. Others have abolished door-to-door candy hunting, and have large parties in community centers or town halls. I have nothing against Halloween gatherings and I know that some cities have sadly been plagued with predators who quickly ruin a wholesome holiday, but there is something enticing about celebrating the old fashioned way, on the date that the occasion is meant to be observed. Similar situations are all those Monday holidays that have spawned long weekends instead of moments to pause and remember great leaders, explorers, and veterans.

My neighborhood of closely packed houses and streets entices groups of costumed kids who parade block to block with older siblings or parents. Adults lurking in the driveway, and children always being accompanied are signs of our safety conscious times, but I enjoy the fact that every year, they keep ringing our bell. There is a sense of excitement on Halloween day as neighbors carve their pumpkins and make sure their packaged candy supply is plentiful. The days of handing out cookies, apples, and packets of loose candy are long gone.

When they were in elementary school, my children brought friends home from school so they could get their homework finished early, eat pizza, and borrow my make up to put the finishing touches on their outfits. Now that my youngest is a recent college graduate living at home while he searches for a job, he enjoyed passing out treats to those who waited in our doorway. Impressed with their good manners as they asked: “Should I take one or two?” and then exclaimed “Thank you!” when they were encouraged to take a handful, he reminisced about his friend Nicky who carefully applied my lipstick to his lips and Tim who quietly studied alone in our dining room before joining the usual holiday revelry.

This year, we agreed that our first guest had the best costume. My daughter stopped by with her seven-month-old son who was snuggly dressed in a “tigger” suit complete with tail, white paws, and a hood with ears. Not only did he look totally adorable, but his mother had taught him to roar.

Travels With Aunt Ethel

2005-09-08T19:00:00.000-04:00

It’s been 42 years and the Swiss chalet music box still works. The woman in the green satin skirt twirls and hops. Her white apron has barely yellowed; her lace cap sits atop her head at a jaunty angle. I have most of my souvenirs from that trip: postcards from Shakespeare’s home in Stratford-Upon-Avon, miniature Limoges plates from a shop along the Champs-Elysées, and a green velour jacket, child size twelve, trimmed with edelweiss. The summer I was eleven I toured Europe with my sister Nancy, then fourteen, and my elderly Aunt Ethel. The truth is, I thought Aunt Ethel was old but in retrospect, she couldn’t have been. She was probably in her 60’s, young from my current vantage point. She had never married, never had children, and had no idea how to cope with two kids abroad.

It was the summer of 1963, back in the days when people dressed to board an enormous airplane that would ferry them across the Atlantic. I wore white gloves, white anklets with black mary janes, a loden green party dress with white rickrack, and a white headband to hold back my hair. I was growing out my bangs. Nancy, ever more sophisticated, wore a powder blue knit suit, pearls, and heels. Her hair was permed. The heels had been selected for the occasion from our Uncle Mitchie’s shoe store. They looked fashionable, but one of the heels broke off as we crossed the Logan tarmac. Nancy was already limping when we turned to wave at our parents and our six year-old brother.

We sat three across with Aunt Ethel in the middle. The heel had hours to set in the glue that a stewardess found. Aunt Ethel wasn’t a real aunt. She was a family friend without a lot of relatives of her own who had been my grandfather’s administrative assistant and then moved on to do my father’s billing. She spent every holiday with us and traveled to some exotic destination every summer. This particular summer, my brother was home with a sitter, my father had been invited to speak in Copenhagen, and Nancy and I would accompany Aunt Ethel for thirty days as her “thank you” for always being part of our family.

It was five months before Kennedy’s assassination. America was full of positive energy and youthful spirit. My mother also wore white gloves, as well as fitted jackets with calf-length skirts. On a second honeymoon with my father that July, she explored the Scandinavian countries and came back from Paris with her hair redone in Jackie’s style. The only thing missing was the pillbox hat. It probably never occurred to my mother that Aunt Ethel wouldn’t figure that a child’s legs could become heavy and tired after wandering through the cavernous rooms at Versailles, or that the walk through the Louvre to view the Mona Lisa could feel like ten miles.

Too bad Aunt Ethel didn’t know that she could humor me with a chocolate croissant in the Tuilleries or a teatime scone with clotted cream in Piccadilly. In the late afternoon, I still need a snack and a pause to catch my breath. She reacted by deciding I was a “child without animation” and extolled the virtues of my older sister who was enchanted with the brocade walls in the palaces and the sculptures in the museums. Aunt Ethel’s frustration with me only encouraged my stubbornness. I refused to get excited about the sparkling chandeliers in the Paris opera house. Maybe the strolls we later took in the Swiss hilltop village of Gstaad, the train ride through rock hard ice toward the Jungfrau peak, and the colorful gardens in Lucerne were more age appropriate for me.

Aunt Ethel’s Tanta (Aunt) Leontine and her cousins Roger and Robert Lou (pronounced Roberloo) whom we visited in Paris formed my most lasting impressions. Less than twenty years after World War II, Tanta Leontine spoke rapid French while she described hiding under her mattress as German soldiers shook the locked wrought iron gate to her apartment building. A fledgling French student, I picked up words here and there, but Roger was an effective translator. While occupying Paris, it would only be a matter of time before the Nazis destroyed the lock to that gate. As very young boys, Roger and Robert Lou were smuggled safely with other Jewish children to homes in the countryside.

Sitting by the flickering candlelight around Tanta Leontine’s dining table was my first exposure to war stories. I was incredulous that such small children had been sent away from their parents for long periods of time. Back in America that fall, I became engrossed with the “Diary of Anne Frank”. My introduction to the Holocaust and the shocking shooting of our President while I was at school during a sunny Friday afternoon, let me know that the world didn’t always make sense and in fact, it could be horrible. I watched that November day as adults huddled in hushed, tearful groups.

Sometimes my sister and I feel guilty that we giggled about Aunt Ethel’s dowdy dresses, her sensible shoes, and her lack of lipstick. She whetted our appetite for travel particularly when she gave us some independence by letting us roam the Rue St. Honore on our own as long as we promised to tightly hold hands. During a morning when she shopped without us, she bought a globe for her charm bracelet. Years later before she died, she gave me that golden globe. By then I had backpacked through Colombia, Ecuador and Peru. She understood that in spite of my childish impatience during our trip, she had inspired me to study history, other cultures, and begin to understand that life isn’t always pristine.

Costa Rica Travel Log

2005-07-06T19:30:00.000-04:00

Imagine meandering along a rocky path and catching a glimpse of a fluorescent green snake with a cerulean blue tongue slithering two inches out of its mouth. My husband spent many months planning our family trip to Costa Rica. It has been eleven years since we have traveled together; now we’ve added a son-in-law, a grandson, and two girlfriends to our group. Spielberg’s “Jurassic Park” filmed partially in Costa Rica, was required viewing before our departure. How else to effectively set the mood for our jungle adventure?

After flying into Juan Santamaria International Airport in San Jose, we took a light charter flight (small plane) to Puerto Jimenez, a town on the Osa Peninsula, the southwestern tip of the country. From there, four-wheel drive vehicles ferried us to Lapa Rios, an eco-lodge overlooking the Pacific. Lapa Rios is a private nature reserve that teaches both the local community and its guests about protecting natural resources. It employs many area residents and includes traditional favorites such as papaya salsa, sweet plantain chips, and seafood ceviche on its daily menus. Sixteen thatch-roofed bungalows each with screened windows, woven wood shades, bamboo furniture, and mosquito netting surrounding the beds, dot this habitat constructed in a lowland tropical rainforest. I am writing by candlelight listening to the drumming rain, the howler monkeys, screaming macaws, and the Pacific lapping against the shore. We are visiting during the rainy season, which means occasional evening rain and muddy roads, but also thick greenery and blooming flowers.

My youngest son says that it’s like “Swiss Family Robinson”; his girlfriend thanks us for inviting her to this amazing place. My daughter describes our huts as camping with comfortable mattresses and bathrooms with outdoor showers overlooking palm trees and hibiscus. We exclaim over this untouched natural environment free from cell phones, e-mail, and land phones. Each day, we can choose hikes with knowledgeable guides, languish by the pool, trek down to the beach, or read in a hammock.

On our first morning, we hike over a rugged road with slippery rocks to the trailhead in the rainforest. We leave footprints in the thick red clay as we observe long roots reaching down from overhead, squirrel monkeys, spider monkeys, a sloth, and a hawk. My grandson sleeps peacefully in his infant carrier as his dad walks up and down. We marvel over giant mahogany trees and colorful toucans. Our guide, Edwin, explains the medicinal value of many of the trees. Boiling avocado leaves alleviates high blood pressure. The sap from the cow milk tree is similar to soothing calamine when rubbed on itchy skin. Later we enjoy the beach, which looks similar to the setting for the movie, “South Pacific”. There is no debris from humans: just coconut shells, hermit crabs, pieces of white shells, and small pebbles.

One evening some of us join a “night walk” which takes us down the steep beach road onto a stairway leading to a river. We wear rubber boots for snake and water protection and hold onto our flashlights and walking sticks. We cannot grab onto the handrails along the way because scorpions like to climb on them at night. It starts to rain, so we must avoid slick tree roots and rocks. We carefully shine flashlights while we look for jaguar and puma; our winding pace forces us to slow down. Our guide, Danielo, carries a machete. We see grasshoppers, sleeping birds, freshwater shrimp in the river, spiders, and tarantulas. We hear the chirping of bats and the constant clink-clink of dink frogs. My oldest son compares the sounds these frogs make to a blacksmith hammering with an anvil.

After four nights in this magical destination, it is time to move on. I awake to an argument between a howler monkey and a squirrel. I smell lime, mint, and aloe and feel the heat of the sun that comes after a refreshing rain. At breakfast, I drink mango juice and taste corn tortillas with my scrambled eggs. I see a coati (a raccoon-like animal) scrambling on a branch and continue to marvel over the “bird of paradise” flowers in striking shades of orange and magenta. We’re packing to leave the jungle and head to Playa Tamarindo, an area of beaches well known for surfing. We fly to Tamarindo and drive a short distance to our hotel, Cala Luna. Here there are phones and even a cranky computer in the front office. We’re not sure we want this possibility of contact with the outside world, but we like the ability to explore a town.

Tamarindo itself is a fishing village; a settlement of mud-spattered vehicles, huge puddles and ruts in the roads, surf shops, massage parlors, and taco stops. When you are at the beach, you are behind this strip of frontier, so at high tide you gaze at nothing but the pounding surf, the setting sun, and the green hills reaching down to the water. Our whole group rents boards and has a guide, Aaron, to help them navigate. I happily stay on shore under an umbrella with my grandson resting against me.

One morning we tour a mangrove forest in a small motorized boat. We see large red crabs, parakeets, and herons. We snack on sweet pineapple chunks and let the juice run down our arms. For lunch, we eat at Restaurante Nogui and relax around a large round table next to the sand. Roasted zucchini, sweet peppers, and cheese sandwiches followed by fresh coconut pie for dessert costs us less than forty dollars for all eight of us. An important lesson we learn on this trip is the value of dining for hours, sometimes maybe two or three, and letting the conversation unfold. Our Tamarindo surf guide explains that this is “tica” time, a schedule that is not rigid but evolving at a comfortable pace.

Another day, we enjoy a different beach: Playa Avellana. Here the surf is more exciting and the sand is smoother. We stay for five hours while walking, swimming, surfing, talking, eating and drinking. The banos (bathrooms) are clean and Lola’s serves us delicious thin-crusted pizza while we sit around a mahogany table under a stand of palm trees. I find that whenever I say “gracias” or thank you, the response is “con mucho gusto” or with pleasure. Costa Rican people are friendly, and aiming to please. They are enchanted with the baby. At Playa Avellana, we prop him up in the middle of the table. In Lapa Rios, the housekeeper drapes his crib with mosquito netting.

After five days of strong sun and midriff surfboard rashes, we’re ready to fly back to San Jose for our last night in Costa Rica. We’re staying at Finca Rosa Blanca, a country inn in Heredia, about thirty minutes from San Jose. The inn is on a coffee plantation in a cloud forest that is a rainforest at a higher altitude, in this case at 4000 feet. For the first time on our trip, we have afternoon rain. We play board games, ping pong, and walk through the cloud forest to the coffee plantation. We taste tamales: chicken and couscous wrapped in banana leaves, and mango crisp doused with homemade vanilla ice cream. We hear birds, frogs, and cicadas. We see impatiens growing like weeds, enormous dracaenas, and “bird of paradise” flowers that are bright red and yellow, hummingbirds, butterflies, and clouds seemingly resting on the treetops. The green coffee beans will ripen and be harvested in November.

Ten days away can feel like a long time. The warm Pacific washing our skin has spoiled us, and the guides provided by Costa Rica Expeditions, the travel company that expedited our journey have been gracious. On our last night, my husband sneezes four times. Instead of saying “God bless you!” Costa Ricans exclaim: Salud, Amore, Dinero, Tiempre Para Gastarlo. Roughly translated, this means health, love, money, and making the time to enjoy it all.

My 2005 Graduate

2005-05-24T11:20:00.000-04:00

Just days before 9/11, the Class of 2005 entered college. That morning, after working out with his ski team friends and attending an English class, my son Jason walked into the school cafeteria. There on a large screen TV were images of the horrible destruction in New York where his older brother was living and working. My phone rang incessantly that day, but one of the most poignant calls came from Jason. “Is my brother okay?” The relief in his voice was palpable when I explained that as far as I knew, his brother was fine and uptown at his job.

When I was in college, people encouraged me to enjoy myself because these were the best years of my life. In some ways, they were. I was living away from home for the first time, it was easy to meet a variety of people my age, and choosing a program from the course catalogue was like being exposed to an exotic feast. But the late 60’s and early 70’s were turbulent times to be a student; the usual phase of self-doubt felt multiplied as we questioned our own beliefs and those of the adults around us.

I’m guessing that Jason’s college years were not much smoother. Yes, he has been at school in a particularly bucolic part of western Massachusetts in a quiet town where the residents cater to the students in their midst. I know he has enjoyed his friendships, he’s risen to the challenges that being part of a division one sport have dished out, and he has grown intellectually and academically. Being at a tough school gave him no choice but to work hard and focus. He has definitely taken some pride in his effort.

But there’s no question that we live in less secure times and even though this administration tries to paint a different picture, we continue to be at war. Against the backdrop of a world filled with hotspots is a leafy campus where my son has dealt with one close friend being accused of rape and another’s suicidal tendencies. I know he would still say that these have been great years, that he has loved his time at this college even though he’s ready to move on to the next phase of his life.

When he lines up in his cap and gown to march in the commencement procession, I’ll be emotional because this is my youngest who is graduating and I’m very proud of the young man he has become. Not only did he deal with a tibia/fibula fracture at his ankle while a freshman that required three surgeries, but also he defended one friend and protected another in an honorable way. In a calm moment, I’ll tell him that for many reasons, these have been wonderful times. But I have to imagine that even better years are coming, just a bit further in the future.

Jello Mold

2005-04-22T16:20:00.000-04:00

Yesterday my nephew Daniel e-mailed me for my jello mold recipe. He and his wife Laura are hosting their first seder. I was touched that Daniel wouldn't consider it an authentic holiday meal without my usual contribution to family gatherings. He wondered if I would mind sharing my recipe. I was flattered that he wanted it and enjoyed Laura's recent e-mail about successfully preparing the first layer of jello last night. So for them, and the rest of you, here is an essay. The recipe will follow.

I prepared a small dinner party for six friends a few weeks back: lemon chicken, tricolored pasta salad, Sicilian olive loaf and jello mold. When I set the jello down on the diningroom table, my friend Howard exclaimed: “It’s like the High Holidays at Grandma’s...Who makes jello anymore?” I make jello because it’s a refreshing accompaniment to any meal. It adds color to the plate and it’s not too sweet; just a touch of freshness.

When I became part of my husband’s family I discovered that holidays were a pot-luck affair with everyone taking turns hosting the growing group of relatives, so that no one family would always shoulder the full responsibility. This pot-luck quality was a great idea because each woman (no man cooked on these occasions although many washed dishes or vacuumed) brought her favorite dish, so the meal was scrumptious. My mother-in-law kindly suggested: “Why don’t you make jello mold? It’s what I used to make for my husband’s family, before I could make anything else.”

I immediately liked the idea of making jello, because my grandmother had always brought her molds along with her fancy baked desserts to holiday gatherings at my mother’s house. My grandfather carried the molds into the kitchen with much fanfare: star shapes, pineapples and hearts filled with cranberry jello, walnuts and pears. My grandmother’s ability to successfully create jello in these shapes impressed me even more than her six-inch high Passover sponge cake or her butterscotch, chocolate chip brownies.

The first Rosh Hashanah that I made Mandarin Orange Mold (orange jello, sour cream and mandarin oranges,) I had trouble unmolding it. I didn’t know how to time leaving the mold in hot water, so I wound up with a river of orange jello oozing around the serving plate. “Don’t worry about it.” My mother-in-law encouraged me. “That always happened to me...that’s why I learned to make brisket. You can’t kill that meat. Do you have any oranges? Just slice them up and put them around the plate. They sop up the runny jello.”

I discovered that my husband’s relatives loved my imperfect jello, so I perfected it. I figured out that if I sprayed the mold with corn oil before pouring in the jello and put the mold in hot water for twelve seconds when I was ready to unmold it, it would come out nicely each time. I became adventurous, making layered molds with varied flavors and fruit fillings. Yet I found that lemon and lime jello were too tart, and no other canned fruits tasted quite as tangy as mandarin oranges. I experimented with Grandma’s cranberry jello, but never got the rave reviews that strawberry, raspberry, cherry or orange jello whipped with sour cream always received.

Over the years I’ve brought hot apple pies, fruit compotes and matzah kugels to family gatherings; but I’m always asked to please make jello again if it’s not too much trouble. It’s no trouble for me. It looks impressive because the layers are firm, line up perfectly, and I garnish the serving plate attractively with fresh berries. But really, the only talent involved is planning ahead so that each layer can harden overnight.

When I prepared dinner recently for my daughter and several of her friends, I smiled to myself when she set the jello down on the table and exclaimed:
“This is my mom’s famous jello mold, a specialty of the house!”

I’ve decided it’s not a bad thing to be known for. After all, how often are you served jello except in hospital rooms and cafeterias? And even so, that’s just plain jello.

Simon's Birthday, March 21, 2005

2005-03-25T12:04:00.000-05:00

I scrambled through Babies”R”Us in a happy daze: Winnie-the-Pooh towels, changing table cover, quilted mattress pad, bunny receiving blankets, a 3-month one-piece suit with “I Love My Mommy” embroidered across the front. To my son Jay, I wondered aloud if my son-in-law Shane would feel slighted. “Hey, little boys love their mommies and that’s the way it is.” Jay insisted. Actually big boys love their moms too. I can feel the supportive power of my sons. If a person decides to give me a hard time or hurt me deeply, they are clearly finished in my sons’ eyes unless they make amends.

For the past month or so, I know I’ve been anxious, worrying that all would be well with my daughter Jess and her baby-to-be. Relatives and friends who are already grandparents had warned me that I would be overwhelmed with this new little member of our family. But nothing could prepare me for how I felt when that infant emerged from my daughter. The tears flowed down my cheeks and didn’t stop until the labor nurse wiped him off, wrapped him in a blanket, placed him on a warming tray and said in her matter-of-fact way: “Here’s your next job…keep an eye on him while we attend to your daughter.”

At Brigham and Women’s Hospital where Jess delivered Simon, I know they have tight security and a no nonsense policy about guests on the labor floor. But even though Jess and Shane had given permission for me to be with them, I did not expect to be in their room throughout eleven hours of labor and delivery.

When I arrived at the hospital around 11:00 a.m., labor was just beginning. Jess was able to snack on fruit, take walks in the hallway, and engage in light conversation. As the hours ticked by, her contractions got closer together and she began to wince in pain even though she was using the breathing techniques she had faithfully practiced. The nurses and I encouraged her to think about pain relief so she wouldn’t wear herself out. She needed enough energy to carry her through the evening. Jess has always had a high threshold for pain. She is someone who has withstood traumatic rock climbing and ski racing injuries.

As my daughter leaned in to her husband while she sat on a birthing ball (very similar to the large exercise ball I work out on at my gym) I had an intimate view into the strength of their relationship. She braced her body against his as each contraction peaked. At one point I inquired: “You know, I can step out an any time.” (I didn’t want to be like the houseguest who doesn’t know how to take a hint and leave.) But they found my presence soothing and helpful. So I held cold washcloths across my daughter’s forehead, rubbed her back, chatted calmly, brought her glasses of water and juice, and listened to the mix she and Shane had made of all their favorite songs. Although the labor room did not seem like the right place for her father, I missed my husband David. I felt like this was a huge milestone in our lives that we weren’t sharing. Every once in awhile I phoned him, we visited in the lobby waiting room when our son Aron arrived from New York, and I visualized David as I listened to U2, Springsteen, and the Beatles. Norah Jones’ “Come away with me” brought me back to Jess and Shane’s wedding; Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors” recalled nine year-old Jess kicking a soccer ball in our backyard.

Eventually there was an epidural and not long after, two hours of pushing. Shane and I held Jessica’s legs and back to give her leverage so she could push her baby out. Later she told us she had focused on our faces. As her baby Simon’s head emerged, I know I was saying: “Oh my God, Oh my God.” To be viewing a birth up close was staggering; to be watching my daughter give birth was beyond words. It felt like a blessed honor. In that precious face, I saw generations of those who had come before him, Jess’ Great Nanny Sarah for whom he is named, Great Uncle Louis who always had a smile and a kind word.

It was already 10:00 p.m. and I knew Jess would be in her room on the nursery floor long after visiting hours had ended. At that point I began to beg her labor nurse. I knew it would be difficult enough for Jason and Aron who had already waited all day and into the night to see their nephew. But there was no way David could wait until 1:00 p.m. the next day to see his grandson, his daughter and his son-in-law. Finally I got the go-ahead to sneak him in. Not only are his photos wonderful, but he got to hug and hold Simon when he was barely 30 minutes old.

Starting a project...

2005-02-16T11:07:00.000-05:00

A Sandwich Without Avocado Isn’t Worth Eating
by Betsy Banks Epstein

Introduction

David has encouraged me to write personal essays and weave in my recipes. I rarely make complicated dishes. In fact, mostly I make things up and carry the list of ingredients in my head. When the world is out of control which is far too often, when people near and dear to me are ailing, or when I’m just overanxious, creating a meal in my kitchen is a way to relax, to do something positive. I guess I’ve resisted this project because I see so many published collections from celebrities. But the truth is, as a woman who was mostly at home raising my three as well as providing a safe haven for many other kids, the kitchen was the center of our life while our family was growing. Once we moved to Cambridge, it was easy for parents to drop off their first graders on snow days.

I remember one daunting blizzard when Jay was six. He and two other little boys had spent hours building a fort in our back yard. When they finally came indoors, I put their socks and snow pants directly into the dryer before preparing their lunch. Later in between bites, one of them looked me in the eye and said: “You’re the good kind of mom…you dry our clothes and make grilled cheese sandwiches!” I know I’ve loved that guy ever since. If I ever had to question what I was doing with my days, he validated me with that one innocent comment.

Chicken soup with rice seems like the right way to begin. When Aron was small, he loved a collection of four little books that had been mine as a child. This “Nutshell Library” by Maurice Sendak had a few titles he enjoyed, but his favorite by far was “Chicken Soup With Rice”. The book featured each month of the year with a poem about chicken soup. In January, there was: “…sipping once sipping twice sipping chicken soup with rice…” He could never get enough of these poems or of chicken soup for that matter.

Yesterday I made a pot of soup for David. He’s been complaining of what he calls a “low grade” cold for days. I’ve joked and asked him what exactly a low grade cold is compared with a high grade cold, for example. He says it is terminology left over from his mother and it actually makes sense. A “low grade” cold is lurking in your system enough to run you down but not quite evident enough to be a full-blown coughing and sneezing extravaganza. Even though he’s an adult living in the big city, it’s impossible not to hear Aron’s five year-old voice or see his thick brown curls when I mix that chicken soup with rice.

Chicken Soup With Rice (serves 6)
In a 5 and 1/2quart casserole, sauté one sliced onion, 6 sliced celery sticks, 1/2 lb. sliced mushrooms, 18 baby carrots, in a few tablespoons of olive oil. Sprinkle in ground black pepper, oregano, and garlic powder. Add the meat from 2 whole chicken breasts, without skin or fat. When meat is white on all sides, add 10 chicken bouillon cubes and 9 cups of water. Bring the casserole to a brief boil, add one cup of basmati rice, then cover and simmer for several hours. After refrigerating overnight, skim off the fat and then reheat. It’s even better the next day.

1-24 Musings

2005-02-02T18:00:00.000-05:00

I’m not used to moving faster than she can. After her birth, she looked me in the eye as if to say: “when does the party start?” Until she could pull herself along the carpet at five months, she was restless and fretful. An avid outdoorswoman, she still loves activity and adventure, so it must be hard for her to slow down, but she tells me she has a higher purpose. And of course, she does. Her belly grows by the day, as she is already 31 weeks pregnant.

Sometimes I get emotional, tearful as I watch her. The idea of my daughter having a baby is almost unfathomable. How did I get to this moment so quickly? Wasn’t it not too long ago that we were blowing out three candles on a Mickey Mouse birthday cake, waiting for the kindergarten bus, scrubbing the mud off of soccer cleats, shivering at ski races, lugging duffels bursting with clothing to her dorm room? It wasn’t actually that long ago; it just passed by in a flash.

I feel blessed and lucky to have my daughter and her husband living so close by. It amazes me to think back on that teenage voice telling me not to expect her to live my life. And it’s not that she’s living my life, but I do see her handwriting notes, phoning to check on family and friends, trying new recipes for small dinner parties, enjoying arranging her collection of vases on her livingroom mantle, and settling down by the fire with a good book.

With over two feet of fresh snow, she had a snow day today as probably most teachers and students in Massachusetts did. From her infancy and toddler years, I’ve saved my favorite blankets, sweaters, and dresses. This was the moment to pull the box down from a third floor closet shelf so we could take a look at lacy hand-smocked pinafores, and the afghans and hooded sweaters that her great grandmother lovingly knitted for her. Since she doesn’t know if she’s having a boy or a girl, we carefully folded the dresses away but kept out Great Nanny’s knitted pieces so I could freshly wash them.

The little zippers and buttons work perfectly; the few stains came out just fine. My grandmother would be pleased that after 29 years, we still have the things that she made and are even thinking about using them. My daughter knows that she’s incredibly lucky to have had her great grandmother in her life until she was 21 years old, and to now have these special heirlooms to pass on to her own baby.

A Prayer for a Lieutenant

2004-12-23T00:22:00.000-05:00

His family moved to Cambridge when we did. His mom was one of the first women I met. She was immediately friendly, a hands on hugger. We socialized as couples and our fifth grade sons became friends. Jim with his toothy smile and gangly gait had manners and charm. Was it his midwestern roots or was it his upbringing? His older sister always looked out for him; I imagine she still tries, but now he ventures very far from home to war zones where no one can protect him.

On September 11th, Jim was a college senior who was riveted by the attacks on our country and galvanized to somehow serve. After graduation and basic training, he was battle ready. Last April when his dad, a Vietnam vet, told me that his son was in Fallujah, I was speechless. He couldn’t have been in a more dangerous place; I knew that father and son were the best of friends. This was certainly one of his dad’s worst nightmares. When word came a few weeks later that Jim had been wounded, I caught my breath as I wondered how bad it could be. I phoned his mom who sounded upbeat. His wounds weren’t critical and even though he was languishing in a fly-infested Baghdad hospital, maybe now he’d get to come home.

Eventually he did get to come home. His shrapnel wounds began to heal, as did his ear that was now missing a piece. He would earn a Purple Heart. Yet he always said that there was still a job to complete. So when his mom called recently with an impromptu Sunday invitation: “Can you guys come over for a drink and a hug?” …I wasn’t surprised. It was Jim’s last weekend at home as he is being deployed imminently. He looks dashing in his lieutenant’s hat and is resolute that he has more work to do. He is in charge of a battalion of sixteen men. Their two tanks and four humvees have already been shipped ahead. He towered over me as I hugged him goodbye. Everyday, I will say a prayer for his safety and the safe return of all of his men.

Young Women in a War Zone

2004-12-15T09:43:00.000-05:00

on the banks
I was at the eye doctor yesterday...time to check that five year-old prescription. In the waiting room was a copy of US News and World Report...an October 2004 issue, pre-election when we still thought it possible that enough people would wake up and vote for change. There's an interesting article about what it's like to be an urban teenager in Iraq, specifically a female adolescent. Any notion that US forces would bring them a better way of life has been disspelled as they live in a war zone where it's not safe to go to school, to socialize with friends, to leave the house for that matter. Many sleep much of the day in between watching reruns of American sitcoms. If they leave their homes, they are heavily robed and veiled. Parents worry about kidnapping, rape, murder. They vigilantly protect the safety and honor of their daughters. One young woman chillingly commented that she can understand how this extreme frustration and desolation leads to females her age becoming suicide bombers. How unbelievably frightening for all of them, for all of us.

Reflecting on the Lost Election

2004-11-10T12:26:00.000-05:00

Kerry’s loss may not have felt so devastating if those early exit polls hadn’t been so strongly in his favor. My superstitious inclination warned me not to believe that it was a done deal, but it certainly was easy to feel a little gleeful. My husband and I were emotionally involved in this campaign, not just because we had given personal funds and raised significant money. We agreed with Kerry’s agenda, and the values of honesty and service that he represented. We also knew Kerry personally, had attended small dinners with him, and contributed to his early Senate runs. Now as he ran for President, he would acknowledge my husband if he spotted him in a crowd and bother to hug me if I was up front in a rope line. This was heady stuff, and as close as we would ever be to someone with serious political power.

People often commented that they didn’t like Kerry, but they would vote against Bush. I suspect that they weren’t drawn to the Senator because they found him to be stiff. They complained that he spoke as though programmed; his wife’s blunt views sometimes made them cringe. Relating with female voters was so important, yet when Heinz Kerry said that Laura Bush had never held a “real” job, she was questioning anyone who had chosen to be a stay-at-home mom. I’ve talked with Teresa one-on-one, and found her to be articulate and vulnerable as she explained how tough it’s been to be pilloried in the press. It’s unfortunate that neither the press nor the public is ready for outspoken, intelligent women.

His wife’s verbal miscues certainly don’t explain Kerry’s defeat but they do illustrate that in this age of reality TV, media frenzy, and sound bites, it’s more important than ever to connect with people, to be that warm and effervescent presence. At the Democratic Convention and on the campaign trail, Kerry’s daughters successfully humanized their dad. His “band of brothers” were also important advocates. But the man himself was at his best in his Faneuil Hall concession speech when he looked out at the audience, choked back his tears, and spoke from his heart.

The winning numbers across this country reflect the many Americans who voted Republican because they were concerned about moral values as in gay marriage and late term abortion. It amuses me that this administration’s supporters pride themselves on holding the moral compass because true family values include feeding and sheltering the hungry, educating our children, providing adequate child care support for parents working outside the home, medical coverage for all, making sure that women have access to abortion so they don’t have to leave themselves open to being maimed or worse, and protecting the civil rights of all as in same sex couples who are currently treated as second class citizens.

I could go on with my rant, but I’d rather look on the positive side. My children as well as my nieces and nephews and countless friends’ kids, were riveted by the 2004 election. They paid attention, and discussed sobering issues such as how Bush’s flawed international policy threatens our national security by inciting would-be terrorists. Young people held registration drives, knocked on doors, and voted. While they were amazed by the number of “red” states, incredulous that so many people voted for Bush/Cheney, and disappointed with the outcome, I hope they’ll continue to be involved. We owe it to them to keep working for change, because this is the legacy we are leaving them and future generations. We should also remember that 55 million people voted for Kerry/Edwards.

There are many reasons for speaking out but one in particular is critical right now. The President’s proposed appointment of Dr. Hager to chair the FDA’s Reproductive Health Drugs Advisory Committee is a scary possibility as this group is charged with making pivotal decisions regarding drugs used in obstetrics and gynecology. As the author of “As Jesus Cared for Women: Restoring Women Then and Now”, Dr. Hager is pro-life and won’t prescribe contraceptives for unmarried women. He uses his religious belief that Christ is the healer of women as part of his medical practice, and has written in his book for example, that women complaining of premenstrual syndrome should find solace in prayer and reading the Bible. The danger in Dr. Hager’s appointment would be that this blending of politics and religion could drastically compromise women’s rights. Here is a prime example of why we need to remain vigilant by writing letters to the White House, letters to the editor and commentary pieces. The more we e-mail: president@whitehouse.gov, the more we keep on making our opinions known.

Marfa Impressions

2004-10-19T17:30:00.000-04:00

I keep reminding friends, relatives, and anyone who will listen that this is a big country with huge variations from east to west, and north to south. I had never been to Texas but was certainly prepared for the accents, the boots, the big hair and magenta lipstick, and the cowboy hats. But beyond the obvious, there is much more in terms of graciousness and hospitality, manners that are too often missing in the northeast.

Marfa, Texas is on the western edge of the state not far from the Mexican border and the Rio Grande. In fact, at one time this territory was part of Mexico. This town was the set for George Stevens’ 1955 film “Giant” which starred Rock Hudson, Elizabeth Taylor, and James Dean. The shooting of this movie has to have been a highlight for Marfa as the Hotel Paisano in the center of town has a restaurant called “Jett’s Grill”, certainly a nod to Dean’s character, Jett Rink. While the movie setting is a desolate and arid dustbowl, I found this land to be dotted with sage and pinon pines. Locals commented that this year’s unusual rain has kept the landscape especially verdant. We traveled to Marfa at the urging of my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, neither of whom has sent us astray in terms of vacations. They had loved Cibolo Creek Ranch where they had stayed while they explored the nearby Chinati Foundation, a modern art museum that is unlike any traditional concept you might have about a museum.

Thirty years ago, artist Donald Judd discovered Marfa and the neighboring abandoned army barracks, a property that lent itself to vast spaces housing huge pieces of contemporary art. During the past several decades, this property has become somewhat of a mecca for art aficionados, artists-in-residence, interns learning to be docents, and those who generally appreciate works of art which adapt themselves to a series of buildings as well as buildings which adapt themselves to the pieces displayed within them. Here you can view Chamberlain’s crushed metal pieces, Wesley’s pop paintings, Price’s clay sculpture, Horn’s polished copper forms, Flavin’s fluorescent lights, and Judd’s concrete and mill aluminum boxes. Judd chose this particular kind of aluminum because it is a material that shines and reflects the environment just as his outdoor concrete boxes frame scenes of the tall grasses with the Chinati and Cienaga Mountains beyond.

The Chinati Foundation is named for the mountain range, which forms the backdrop for Cibolo Creek Ranch, an authentically restored hacienda that is reminiscent of the old west. From Marfa, Cibolo is about a 45-minute drive west on route 67. On our first afternoon, we hiked for an hour to an impressive waterfall. Part of the allure of this ranch land for those who settled it long ago was the natural water source and the ability to trap and conserve water. We quickly realized that if we wanted to get a true sense of these 32,000 acres scattered with prickly pear cacti and tumbleweeds, we would have to get on horseback and ride along riverbeds, up steep stone trails, and along hilly ridges. In the distance were long-horned cattle, antelope, and even a blue-tailed fox. Below me in the thicket, I could see centipedes, horned toads, and even tarantulas (!).

This being only my third time on a horse, I was jittery but the young wrangler, Elmer, inspired confidence as he gently explained what to do. Once when my horse, Rico, took off uphill and I feared galloping of into the “wild blue yonder”, I pulled back hard on the reins and shouted “whoa!” Rico actually stopped; Elmer rode up beside me and calmly nodded his approval.

Riding wasn’t the only activity that put me on edge. This being an extremely divisive political season, I was concerned that the meals served family style would encourage heated arguments. After all, we were in the president’s home state, so I assumed that the predominantly Texas guests would be his serious supporters. I was surprised to find not only democrats among them, but republicans who had decidedly mixed feelings about Bush, Cheney, and their crew. The discussions were thoughtful, occasionally heated, but never rude. Here it seemed possible for people to be carefully articulate whether or not they agreed with one another.

First Debate

2004-10-01T08:32:00.000-04:00

Obviously a Kerry supporter, I have read editorials across the country this morning, written letters to editors and taken online polls. We live in a time when the packaging of the message can be so effective in swaying how people think. I feared that the Republican machine would insert itself in its famously insipid way and convince us all that the President was the winner last night. Guess what! In his baggy suit, Mr. Bush gripped his lecturn while he shifted from right foot to left foot and made silly facial expressions. He referred often to his "hard work" and his being the best to lead, but was short on facts as Senator Kerry literally stood firmly, dressed sharply, and kept a relaxed demeanor throughout the 90 minute debate while he kept hammering away at the facts. Although our president has often derided his opponent on the campaign trail, Senator Kerry showed himself to be the candidate with a statemanslike command of the information right in front of us and the international experience to truely elevate our stature in the world and build coaltions with other nations. In the end, this is what is so vital to our national security.

Clothing Exchange Reopens

2004-09-08T16:45:00.000-04:00

After surviving four floods and being closed for nearly nine months, the Children’s Closing Exchange is reopening in its original location at 56 Magazine Street. Located in the basement of Grace United Methodist Church on the corner of Perry Street and Magazine, visitors are once again greeted with gaily-painted wall murals, shelves of pastel-colored sneakers, and racks of barely worn party dresses. Harvard students as well as other community volunteers have been working hard sorting clothing, refinishing furniture, and cleaning out a space that has been ravaged by the elements.

On Wednesday, September 8th I had a chance to sit down with Sonya Darcy, manager of the Clothing Exchange. Sonya exclaimed that ever since the phone had been connected a few days earlier, there have been at least 50 or 60 phone calls. People have clearly missed this valuable community service. Not only have parents been able to find clothing for their children from newborns to sixteen year-olds, but also mothers have chosen outfits they can wear to job interviews. Baby equipment, toys, and books are available too. A memo board provides an easy way for people to display any announcements or events they want to publicize. Families from throughout New England travel to the Clothing Exchange, as the merchandise is free and known to be in excellent condition. Customers are encouraged to either trade their good quality items for other good quality items or to volunteer their time. Many mothers have used this venue to meet other young women.

This bustling center of community activity has been part of Solutions at Work, a Cambridge-based organization that transitions adults out of homelessness to work and stability. Founded in 1989 by a group of formerly homeless people led by Macy DeLong, Solutions has helped thousands of people move into permanent housing, learn job skills, and how to budget their expenses. The Clothing Exchange has been one of Solutions’ original service areas and Sonya has been manager for many years. As she explained to me, Solutions has helped her secure a regular job while juggling her child care needs. Sonya, in turn, has created both a carefully organized business and a valuable meeting place for parents.

Sonya would like the public to know that after its grand reopening on September 11th, the Children’s Clothing Exchange will be open Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Clean, ready-to-wear clothing for children from infants to teenagers as well as items for women to wear in the workplace are welcome for donations. Baby equipment such as car seats, carriages and strollers are needed. Books and toys are great not just for taking home, but also for occupying kids while their parents shop.

Prospective volunteers can phone: 617-576-0039 and ask for the manager.
Sonya’s wish list is as follows:
New winter hats
New socks
New kids’ underwear
New arts and crafts materials
Of course, financial support in any amount is helpful.

Back to school

2004-09-07T17:24:00.000-04:00

I remember several years ago when I first dropped my daughter off at the overnight camp bus. I wore large sunglasses to camouflage the tears that were certain to pour down my face. Imagine my surprise when the bus pulled away, and moms and dads began to applaud, cheer, and actually skip to their cars. I was amazed. Certainly I've always yearned for adult time with my husband, wanted to stand in the doorway and gaze at a teenager's bedroom that could double for a "pottery barn" ad. You know what I mean: pressed sheets pulled tight, comforter spread nicely on top of the mattress, pillows plumped in their shams, coordinating shades drawn just so, books lined up carefully on shelves, dirty clothes in the hamper, CD's arranged in their towering holder. The truth is far from this scene. In reality, wet towels are tossed over the floor, sweaty t-shirts lie in heaps, as books, papers and discs rest here and there. The bed is definitely rarely made and the shades hang at crooked, almost jaunty angles. As I pulled onto my son's college campus last weekend, I felt like I was part of a wagon train. Station wagons and SUV's were filled to overflowing with music systems, book shelves, computers, duffles, bikes, and bedding. Every once in awhile I would see a mom or a dad stranded on a street corner, sitting on top of a pile of blankets and throw pillows. Perhaps the vehicle had already been unloaded, parked, and the move of all the stuff needing to go into that tiny dorm room was in process. I've had lots of seasons of moving kids here and there, but this passage, the one in September when summer ends and we're rolling into fall, always seems bittersweet. Yes, he is where he should be and I do need stretches of quiet time in my study to discipline myself to focus and write. But that quiet is so palpable. No other cell phone is ringing, no other music is playing, and no extra car keys are strewn across the kitchen counter. His bedroom looks like the shrine of a high school boy and yes, it does finally look like it could be a page out of a catalogue.

Serendipitous Meeting

2004-08-24T16:54:00.000-04:00

Last November, my husband and I signed up for a group tour of Cuba, the only legal way to go at that time. We grabbed the opportunity, knowing that the writing was already on the wall that such tours to study architecture and design would become extinct by January 2004. Just another repressive gem from our current administration. Hearing that I was headed for Havana, my brother said: "You must read OUR MAN IN HAVANA by Graham Greene. The comedic premise of this book is an Englishman living in Havana in the '50's with his teenage daughter. He is a vacuum cleaner salesman, divorced, and trying desperately to provide his child with all of the material things that she desires. But in '50's Havana, a fast lifestyle included private clubs, riding lessons, and fancy clothes. The Englishman needed to find a way to supplement his salary. Slowly but surely, someone begins to approach him to become a spy. A man slinks around in the shadows; notes appear mysteriously.

On our first night in our Havana hotel, my husband and I returned to our room after dinner only to find a note under our door: "Betsy, Call Pamela." Now we knew nobody in Cuba and couldn't imagine how this message had come out of nowhere. It was also strangely mimicking the story I was reading. All of a sudden I was nervous, even shaking, but incredibly curious. I convinced my husband to make the call. It turned out that Pamela is an American married to a Cuban artist. She knew an American Betsy who would be staying at our hotel that week, but couldn't remember her last name. The hotel operator said: "Yes, we have an American Betsy" and put her through to our room. Pamela was immediately open and friendly on the phone. We said we were obviously the wrong Betsy, but could we get together? We wanted very much to see her husband's work.

The next evening, we hopped into a cab and gave the driver an address. As he drove further and further away from our hotel, we asked if he would wait for us while we visited. He communicated that this was not possible. Finally he stopped in front of a building and gestured that this was our destination. We walked through a front gate, along a short gravelly path, and pulled hard on the door knocker. Inside on the first floor, we could hear dogs barking and Spanish chatter. The scent of onions frying was strong. A slim young man, hair pulled back in a ponytail, sneakers on his feet, and a wide smile on his face opened the door and led us upstairs to his apartment above. This was Pamela's husband, Damian, who greeted us as though we had always known him. In fact, the warm embrace of this couple was infectious. They immediately offered us rum drinks and then insisted that we join them for dinner at their friends' "palador". In Cuba, citizens are allowed to have small restaurants within their homes as long as they serve what they're cooking for their own families, employ relatives, and keep the operation on a moderate scale. It's one of the few ways of being entrepreneurial in that country.

Every once in a while in life, there are serendipitous meetings. This was one of those moments. We ate and drank with this couple long into the night, and continued to see them on subsequent evenings. For us, they filled out a bus tour experience that would have been two-dimensional. For them, we were voices from the outside who could convey information and impressions. We also just clicked as people. We continue to e-mail as I worry each time I read news of hurricanes or blackouts caused by serious energy shortages. I work hard fundraising, writing articles and letters as I hope that a change in our administration will open the door to Cuba at least a crack before our embargo and their lack of access to medicines and other basic needs becomes a humanitarian crisis. The US spreads it resources far and wide while it shuns a neighbor 90 miles from Florida. And selfishly, I want to be able to visit our new friends.

Originally a painter, Damian's current work involves metal men which he carves from found objects like refigerators and car parts. Sometimes he uses the men to create giant sculptures which he installs on walls. Sometimes he lets some of these men rust and leave their decaying impressions on canvas. Havana's buildings are decaying from neglect and lack of attention, but there is a strength in their young people whose music and dancing spills out into the streets.

Ramler Park

2004-08-12T10:17:00.000-04:00

I remember visiting the proposed site for Ramler Park several years ago. This vacant lot on Peterborough Street just a few blocks off of Park Drive in Boston was a derelict piece of property. It featured overgrown crab grass, broken glass, a tangle of weeds, and flattened beer cans. After the Ramler family who had operated a business in this Fenway neighborhood for many years generously donated the land, a group of community activists worked hard to raise the needed funds to create an urban oasis. At the grand opening this past Tuesday, a classical trio serenaded the arriving public while local merchants provided cold drinks. Lush gardens complete with a fountain, crushed stone walkways, inviting benches and a pergola for shade await those who will enjoy this city green space for years to come. I find that more and more I cannot read the daily newspaper or watch the nightly news because my mind cannot tolerate any more stories about abused children, murdered wives, and random drive by shootings. Here is a story that should have been front and center as a positve and refreshing model of an individual family's creative vision coupled with able and enthusiastic volunteers who successfully realized their mission to design an area where multi-generational groups can gather and enjoy each season outdoors in a blooming, welcoming spot.

The Little White Bowl...

2004-08-12T07:53:00.000-04:00

The Little White Bowl…

The shards of porcelain lay in shreds around my bare feet. I stepped over them nimbly to search for my clogs in the back hall, and grab a dustpan and broom from the pantry closet. I had mistakenly thought that a hardwood kitchen floor would cushion most wayward objects. That little white bowl had just slipped from my hands. It hadn't even fallen very far. Certainly it didn't have much monetary value, just broad sentimental memories. With its handle on one side and its spout for pouring on the other, it was the perfect baking accouterment for my grandmother. How many times had I precariously perched myself on a high stool to watch her mix and knead? Enough times that even forty-five years later, the scene is imprinted on my brain.

My grandmother's Dorchester kitchen was laid out long before the days of streamlined Formica counters and cabinets latched to hide clutter and dust. Her kitchen was a melange of open shelves filled with canisters of nuts, brown sugar, and dates. Baking sheets and muffins tins came in assorted sizes, as did the tables in the center of the room with surfaces perfect for rolling dough and decorating cookies. School vacation days started early for me at her house because she always believed: "…early is the best time to cook…before the neighbors start phoning and the fruit and meat deliveries interrupt…".

The back door was never locked; its screen was hardly ever hooked shut. How else would the milkman have come right into the kitchen bearing a carton of eggs, pounds of butter and even the large curd cottage cheese that I liked best. At eight o'clock in the morning, I would still be sitting quietly in my flowered flannel nightgown while sipping milk flavored with Grandma's coffee as the milkman greeted me with merry surprise flushing his face. "What was I doing there?" He wondered aloud, and then I would laugh and explain that I was visiting for just a few days.

There was a warm comfort in Grandma's kitchen that emanated not just from her huge gas stove that she lit with a match, but from the trill of her voice as she brewed afternoon tea and shared a story with one of her many female friends who stopped by to see how smart and tall her granddaughter had grown. I could feel her pride in my ability to read big books, play Beethoven sonatas on her piano, and look pretty in a new velvet party dress trimmed with white lace. But could she foretell the future when I would reflect on the ease with which she prepared enormous holiday meals, entertained endless groups of people, and always showed a serenely happy face to the world? Would she have guessed that as an adult I would frequently slip into one of her handknit sweaters to warm myself during a dreary evening while I perused her cherished recipe cards, carefully written in her faded script.

Years later when I set up my own kitchen, she insisted that I take some of her molds for jello and bowls for mixing. At that point in time, she was no longer planning large-scale feasts as she had moved from her three-decker house to a small apartment with a kitchenette. Her molds and bowls have always had honored spots on my shelves as they help me remember her while I gather ingredients, measure, and marvel at how she did it all with even-tempered grace. With the loss of the little white bowl, my supply has dwindled to two cooking bowls, one green and one white, made of the same porcelain. I also have a wooden bowl and a chopper that Grandma used for dicing apples to make Passover charoset or for cutting up chicken livers to make a liver spread. Even though I have her French Limoges china plates, which are festive to use on special occasions, the mixing bowls become part of my daily routine.

Now that she's gone, I feel close to her when I pour my mandarin orange concoction into her star jello mold or mash potatoes and butter in her green bowl. Picturing her benevolent smile, I wish I could glue that little white bowl back together. Somehow she seems further away as I sweep the pieces into the trash. I almost feel bereft at its loss, knowing that I'll miss it the next time I'm pouring a sauce or preparing a pudding.

Katman-Who?

2004-08-11T11:29:00.000-04:00

We have close friends who will be visiting Nepal next January. They were just saying that they'd like to "pick my brain" since I travelled there nine years ago. Well, I do have serious thoughts as well as published travel essays and articles I could share. But what follows is the unedited truth about a journey to that country!

KATMAN-WHO?

One afternoon in the foothills of Nepal, a sign beckoned to me from half a mile away: “HOT SOUR-FIFTEEN RUPEES”. (Hot shower-about a quarter.) I hadn’t washed in five days and therefore scrambled as fast as I could, after slinging a sweaty tee shirt around my neck to use for a towel. It turned out that a Tibetan family were the proud owners of a solar powered shower. After climbing inside and removing my clothing, I was amazed to find the grandma hopping in with me. She gestured to the water spigot, evidently just wanting to check the temperature. “Did she scrub your back?” My daughter later inquired. “That’s the best part!”

When I told a friend that I was headed for Katmandu, he responded “Katman-who?”. But most people in my offbeat university town knew where I was going. After alI, I have neighbors who’ve escaped avalanches in the Himalayas. They know that Katmandu is Nepal’s capitol city where cows meander unscathed along the main boulevards, because they might be the reincarnation of someone’s ancestors. Crossing the street means dodging water buffalo, stray dogs and “tempos” ( tiny taxis which are boxes containing a bench and a driver’s seat, all on three wheels). During our stay, we learned to form a human chain and run.

My husband, David, and I were in Nepal with our twelve year-old son, Jason, visiting our daughter Jess who was studying abroad. Do you remember when abroad meant theater in London or discos in Paris? Now it’s often Botswana or Bhutan.
Although the plane fare feels like an investment in a small business, the cost of living is cheap. Neither dining on rice twice a day nor mud hut accommodations rate five stars in the Michelin guide.

As we waited on the tarmac at Tribhuvan International Airport in Katmandu, David leaned over and whispered: “ The only way we’d have to go further to see Jess would be if she becomes an astronaut and we have to shuttle to the moon.” We had flown west from Boston sleeping in San Francisco, refueling in Tokyo, spending a night in Singapore, and a brief stopover in Bangkok.

Inside the Katmandu terminal, it took us an hour to find the right visa line because all the signs were in Nepali. As I peered around furtively trying to figure out where to go, the heavy set woman behind me dressed in “kurta salwa”, the native costume of a tunic over wide legged pants, stared at me with a fixed gaze. I pulled out my pocket mirror to check for airline lettuce left between my teeth or a pimple sprouting on my chin. Jess eventually told me that it’s culturally correct for Nepali people to stare, and she herself had gotten into it. What a relief to lose all pretense at sophistication and freely ogle and gawk!

Jason was wearing his hair long at the time, but Nepali boys are close-cropped. People immediately surrounded my son and inquired: “Kati?”. (Is it a girl?) Fortunately he’s good-natured. Talk about the complexities of a preteen grappling with his sexual identity.

Our daughter was impressed when she saw her family checking into a hotel with flush toilets and purified water. She was used to hovering over holes in the floor and putting iodine tablets in her water if she couldn’t readily boil it. Our indigenous experience was yet to come. David had read up on trekking beforehand. Fortified by memories of his once nubile wife as a nineteen year-old bride camping and hiking her way through Nova Scotia, he couldn’t wait to set out on foot in the Annapurna Sanctuary.

Because roads are scarce in rural Nepal, David was certain that a trek was the only way to absorb the scenery and village culture. He hadn’t factored in my forty something body with its expiring knee parts. At one point, we walked up one thousand stone steps. Our ascent was the equivalent of hiking Mt. Washington in a day, yet we were reaching an altitude of ten thousand feet.

The elderly Nepalis and Tibetans skipping along in rubber thongs demoralized me until I saw one older man being transported in a basket secured on a porter’s back. “ How do I order one of those?” I asked our guide, Lakpa. He spoke no English but smiled a lot as he balanced my carry-on suitcase above his shoulder, while hovering at my elbow, ready to grab me if I started to slip.

David, Jason and I had two tents each night, but Jason wouldn’t stay alone. The second honeymoon wasn’t to be, but who could blame him? Even I lay awake listening to yaks yowling in the distance, and elbowing David each time I needed to venture out to the facilities. The three of us slept lined up in a two-person pup tent, with David in the center since that way he had the most length for his nearly six-foot frame. Having no room to stretch, he ached each morning when Lakpa knocked on our tent pole with hot tea.

Our campsite always included a “charpi”, a gap in the ground toilet surrounded by a flapping canvas tent. Foolish me had thought that we had packed our headlamps for night reading. In fact, we needed them in the “charpi” for delicately balancing ourselves after the sun went down. As for all those guidebooks suggesting that women trek in skirts instead of shorts out of respect for the Nepali culture where women cover their legs, I’d say skirts make sense for easier squatting.

After a particularly nasty “charpi” experience in the village of Ghorepani where strangers had clearly missed their shot, I spent the next day complaining. That evening when we came to the town of Tikedhunga, Lakpa pointed to what looked like a real outhouse with four walls. Inside were a roll of tissue, a waste bin, and a sparkling porcelain hole in the ground. Finding toilet tissue was in itself, a novelty. Using my little metal can filled with water, I had already become adept at what I fondly termed: “splashing and dashing”.

“For you, Madam...good one!” Lakpa grinned happily, while motioning in the direction of our “charpi” of the night. I would have hugged him were it not for the Nepali taboo against male/female affection. Later as I lowered myself over that shiny porcelain space, it almost seemed like home.

If You Decide To Go:
1) Our travel arrangements were handled by Yeti Travel, located in Durbar Marg, Katmandu. Other possibilities in Durbar Marg are Adventure Travel Nepal and Everest Express. Yeti Travel contracted our trek with the Annapurna Trekking Company. Among the myriad of trekking company options are International Trekkers and Lama Excursions. There are lodging and meal options to fit every budget.
2) Numerous carriers fly to Katmandu, but Thai International is regarded as the most reliable. With Royal Nepal Airlines, we experienced delays of up to twelve hours.

DNC Snapshot

2004-07-30T07:11:00.000-04:00

Friends said: "Hey...the faces are closer on TV." Yes, they are but no match for being in the crowd and feeling the energy and the optimism. I even sat briefly with Representative and former Presidential candidate Dennis Kucinich. He too was sitting high up in the gallery. (The seating at the Fleet was totally egalitarian. My husband and I arrived shortly after 5:30 p.m. just to secure two spots. The hall was actually closed at 7:00 p.m. because it was so jam-packed.) I told Kucinich that he had given a great speech the other night, and it was an honor meeting him. He held my hand and said "You're so kind." Two secret service men loomed over us. How can you compare this with lounging at home on the familyroom couch?
I can see in this morning's Globe that Thomas Oliphant claims that Kerry's speech was a rushed, lost opportunity. The problem with the pundits is that when they tell us how to feel and we haven't actually been there, it's possible that we can be drawn in to their point of view. Well, I listened first hand to the Kerry sisters eloquently talk about their dad, to the "band of brothers" describe their Mekong experience, and saw the Senator bound up from the crowd to make his acceptance speech. The throng of thousands was on their feet, cheering, waving placards and flags, tears in their eyes as he illustrated one image after another, but was mostly strong, relaxed, articulate, as he won our confidence and was very clear that we all are part of this journey and we are respected partners. People around me, young and old, were emotional and clutching one another. Even as the balloons and confetti continued to pelt us after 11 p.m., no one seemed to want to leave.

I have one aside about Senate candidate Barack Obama...to think that his father grew up in Kenya, on the other side of the world, and here was his son addressing the Democratic National Convention.
Barack means "blessed" in African; Baruch means "blessed" in Hebrew. Worlds intersect so closely sometimes.

SOX

2004-07-29T08:32:00.000-04:00

What's with the SOX? Is this always the pattern...strong start, weakening middle...will they rise again? When they lost in '86 making Aron at age 8 watch in tearful disbelief still wearing his Red Sox cap and clutching his Red Sox flag with his brother Jason at only 3 snuggled asleep beside him...I frankly couldn't bear it and said I wouldn't even discuss this team for a good long time. But I'm always sucked back in and my hope and enthusiasm are always there. Some of my best times w/husband, two sons, their friends are spent at Fenway Park and even Yankee Stadium (home base of the dreaded evil empire). I'm crazy about Damon, Ortiz, Manny, Mirabelli, Varitek...will they prevail..is it still possible? Guess what: I still believe, always will.

DNC

2004-07-28T13:52:00.000-04:00

As I've been a Kerry fundraiser this past spring and summer, I get to attend the DNC this week. Tonight will be my first at the Fleet. Figuring it's a once-in-a lifetime opportunity, I can't wait. There's nothing like being part of a "happening"...especially for those who marched to the Boston Common, marched on Washington, marched and marched and canvassed door-to-door. You know who you are. I haven't felt so strongly about the importance of a regime change in this country since the days of Richard Nixon, and he was smarter than George the second. Our domestic agenda: health care, the environment, education, public service, stem cell research, civil rights, etc., etc. needs to be front and center again. Our need for international respect is vital and profound. Here is a candidate who has the experience to lead both national and international policy, the intellect to engage in rigorous discussions and a moral compass guided by more than 30 years of service to his country. Our children and grandchildren deserve an America which is respected throughout the world.

Thoughts on the candidate...

2004-07-14T15:09:00.000-04:00

This past Monday, I attended a lunch in Boston with over thirteen hundred women and maybe a few hundred men. (It had been billed as a womens lunch with John Kerry and his wife Theresa.) For the first time, I found Kerry newly energized as he spoke about his vision for America: health care for all, bringing manufacturing back to the US, cleaning up our environment, creating jobs, making certain that headstart and after school programs continue, and vowing that we will once again be respected internationally and never send young people to war unless there is absolutely no other choice. That day, his wife spoke eloquently about marching against apartheid in the 50's in South Africa and about what it means to be an American and have the right to vote. These are smart people who look you in the eye and speak from the heart. With John and Elizabeth Edwards, we now have a foursome capable of lifting our national spirit and image of ourselves. Every vote counts. I hope we all will be present and involved during this election season. The stakes are higher than ever.

Vineyard Ties

2004-07-07T17:10:00.000-04:00

Vineyard Ties

From the time we purchased our land on Martha's Vineyard, it took three years for us to see our house almost completed. I say "almost" because details and issues always lag behind. Island time after all is quite different from mainland time, but I remind myself that this is precisely one of the reasons why people choose to live on an island.
At the first opportunity, my husband and I packed a U-Haul truck with our essential furniture and partially moved into our house. With painting, sanding and installing still to take place, we didn't want to expose all of our possessions to the dust and debris. Yet even without a usable kitchen, shades on the windows or walls on the showers, I felt like I was in a charmed place. Sitting on a lawn chair in the middle of my livingroom while drinking my morning coffee, I gazed out of the back windows. The yard was a combination of dirt and sawdust, but beyond it stands a stone wall, which is most likely a few hundred years old. From my front windows, I could glimpse the ocean through the trees. As I thought back to my own childhood, I could almost hear the voices of the kids who I hope will spend time in this house. The history of why I have such a deep bond with the Vineyard is long and complex.
My father claims that he’s much more attentive as a grandfather than he was years ago when he was a young dad. As a grandfather, he scarcely missed a performance or a soccer tournament. When his grandchildren grew older, he and my mom visited them at college and planned trips to see those who had already graduated.
When I was small, I rarely saw my dad. Sundays were reserved for special time with him that included walks to admire the lilacs in Boston’s Arnold Arboretum, ice cream stops at Brigham’s or journeys along the Freedom Trail. For my sister, my brother and me, the notion of making any sort of an independent plan was heresy. My dad was busy building what was to become an illustrious career at a renowned hospital; other people swallowed up his hours. During the week, he came home long after I was in bed. My mother usually ate her dinner without us so she could wait to eat with him. Each evening she chatted on the phone with her friends, read books voraciously, wrote letters in her perfect cursive script, or sat by her bedroom window needlepointing pillow covers. Always a self-contained person, she was earnest about the job of running her household and raising her three children.
In the midst of my dad’s hectic work routine, there were three and a half weeks every June that were sacred for my family. My father set aside these days as his vacation and chose to spend them on Martha’s Vineyard Island, where he had honeymooned with my mother. Each May we packed trunks of sunsuits, shorts, sweatshirts, and beach blankets. We watched at our front window as the men driving the truck with "Andrews and Pierce" emblazoned along the side loaded our bikes, sand toys, and suitcases bearing our beloved "Ginny" dolls to be shipped to Katama Shores Inn. The sport utility vehicle had yet to be invented; our VW bug could barely fit the five of us. Including the myriad of stuff in our car was not a possibility.
Armed with her degree as an early childhood educator, my mother met with our teachers before we left town. She made lists of the assignments we would miss so she could drill us on our multiplication tables and question us about the Nile River even while we wriggled our toes in the sand. She realized the value of home schooling even before we read about it years later in magazines.
I’m surprised by my dad’s concern about his past parenting skills because by setting aside each June and even by endorsing the skipping of school, he communicated loud and clear that the five of us were an important entity. Although I may not remember many raucous moments in our Brookline home, our languid afternoons spent collecting smoothed green glass together or trying to walk to the end of the horizon on South Beach, shaped my concept of family.
My dad often said that he relaxed as soon as the ferryboat pulled away from the dock at Woods Hole. Then he would hold my little brother aloft for a closer look at the seagulls. My mother seldom seemed to mind the wind blowing through her usually carefully coifed hair. My sister and I could never wait to get to Katama. A Canadian family with girls our own ages returned each year. If Mrs. Atwood who owned the inn had extra time, she produced plays with the four of us as well as any other young and available guests. One summer I was Rumpelstiltskin, somersaulting through the long beach grass with my floating cotton beard sailing behind me.
Our parents became fast friends with these girls’ parents who loved to pile all of us into their rented jeep for sunset drives and barbecues near the surf. I had hardly ever heard my mother laugh so heartily or seen my father so silly with glee as his fishing hook yielded nothing but ugly sea robins. I grew to rely on the scent of marshmallows toasting on the end of a stick as a significant beacon of summer.
Although we went in June because that was when my father could take time off, the weather was not always at its best. Those cool, gusty winds forced us to fashion a shelter of bamboo sticks covered by a canvas tarpaulin so we could have a little protection at the beach. "Put on your red jobs!" My dad would command and my sister, my brother and I would pull on our matching hooded crimson sweatshirts. I would always tie the strings in a tight bow at my neck to keep that whooshing sea air out of my ears.
During our very first summer there, my mother discovered a storybook about a little child who spent her summers on an island. At the end of every August, Suzy tossed two pennies overboard as the ferryboat pulled out of the harbor at the start of her homeward journey. Those two tossed pennies guaranteed her return the following July. Almost immediately this custom took hold in my own family's lore. Once we started throwing our pennies overboard, we figured it would be risky to discontinue this annual practice.
That juncture each June has become so embedded in my soul that even before my husband and I had children, we brought our bikes for day trips on the Vineyard or reserved weekends near Edgartown. When our daughter was in diapers, we rented our first cottage with friends for a week. I must confess that these friends, unseasoned Vineyarders, were less than certain about the mildewed kitchen and the towels hung out to dry which only became wetter with each new morning dew. But they were brave enough to soldier on through a few more summers with us.
When our family expanded to number five plus a babysitter, we sometimes secured a home for two weeks. The energy spent dragging carriages, booster seats, wading pools, and favorite foods hardly seemed worth the effort for just seven days. Together we have built our own memories while flying brightly colored kites, boiling sweet corn fresh from the farm in pots filled with ocean water, and riding the Ferris wheel at the Tisbury fair.
Now that our children have grown up and need to keep track of their own busy schedules, Vineyard time has become four days grabbed here or two days savored there. Yet we have never sailed out of Vineyard Haven harbor without each tossing at least one penny overboard. With the passage of time, we have begun to feel guilty about all those pennies at the bottom of the Atlantic. But who among us wants to chance halting this ingrained custom?
Five years ago while she was living in far away Wyoming, our daughter for the first time could not join us for our Vineyard holiday. Her several phone calls let us know how much she missed our traditional vacation. That August we sent her a box of famous Murdick’s fudge purchased within sight of the "Flying Horses" carousel at Oak Bluffs where she had spun around and around trying to grasp the brass ring.
Shortly after enjoying our next beach weekend with our sons, my husband insisted: "It’s time to invest in this place…if we have land, eventually we’ll build." I blinked back my tears because as he knew so well, this was something I had always wanted.
We were lucky to find property bordered by an old fieldstone wall with blueberry and blackberry bushes scattered every once in awhile. The ocean is only about a ten-minute walk down a nearby path. While waiting for the cantankerous seller to accept our offer, we noticed our sons perusing photos of their toddler selves searching for clamshells or looking at videos of themselves and their sister struggling to windsurf on Katama Bay.
For my part, it’s hard to erase the image from my mind of an older me picking blueberries with a grandchild or driving to story hour at the library in the center of town. I immediately pictured a house designed with two wings: one cozy section for my husband and myself with our bedroom, a livingroom we would actually live in, a kitchen with a large wooden table for eating meals, and perhaps a screened porch for buggy nights. The other section would include bedrooms for our children, a bunkroom for expansion, an outdoor shower to limit the incoming grit and a clothesline because hope springs eternal for a dry spell. I have observed the occasional trophy home: temperature-controlled for fine wines and wired for sound. But for me, some simple quality would be lost without ceiling fans to move the sultry humidity and a turntable for playing our vintage rock albums.
We wound up with a home very close to the design we had originally imagined. Although manageable in size for us when we are there alone, it also accommodates our family. The difference from the vision to the reality is that the windows soar to a staggering height, the rainwater sounds musical as it rushes over the gutters and washes down to the piles of stones below. The minimalism of the interior spaces as well as the quiet atmosphere on the deck above our bedroom makes us feel as though we are in a truly meditative spot.
What’s especially nice is that my extended family has shared my excitement for this new project. Perhaps our childhood Vineyard time is as memorable for them. My mother says she knows this is a dream come true for me; from the start, my sister looked forward to seeing our land with great anticipation. Before we began construction, we arranged a Vineyard Thanksgiving reunion so we could all bundle up in fleece jackets, lace our boots, and walk the property. I’m hoping that my parents get to enjoy their grandchildren and great grandchildren in this home, to buy cherry pies at the Vineyard Bake Shop, and collect pieces of driftwood at the beach.
Part of envisioning a new dwelling is letting one’s imagination run free. Maybe because I associate the Vineyard with quality time between the generations, I always picture multi-layered gatherings there. At the end of an afternoon spent baking blueberry muffins or choosing new books from the library, it’s hard to imagine an experience more satisfying than meandering toward the water and settling myself on a straw mat. I cannot wait to lean back and shield the sun from my eyes so I can watch another little girl somersault nimbly over the sand.

Betsy Banks Epstein