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Posts Tagged ‘Friends’

Fingers OUT

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2024| 3 Comments »

The past two weeks have been surreal. One moment I’m toiling away happily at the NYTimes Strands puzzle, and the next I’m laying flat out on the floor. Time and bones fractured. I like to blame things for my maladies – the mosquito for West Nile, the coughing stranger on a plane to Nice for Covid. But this time, I can only blame myself. It was early morning, I was holding my phone and rushing to the door to corral an escaped Little Emperor when my Ugg slipper caught on the rug.

The day before the election I spent in my daughter’s ER. That whole day went by in a blur of x-rays and a neck MRI. The spine NP wanted to admit me, but the neurosurgeon showed up and discharged me into the care of two ER docs! The next morning I woke to the election results – “President Elect Donald Trump.” My cervical collar, my splinted hands, was this all a nightmare? Was I still dreaming? I didn’t want to believe the news and so I told myself that I’d wait until all the votes were counted. Besides, I was due in surgery for my left hand, no coffee no food just Gatorade. I turned off the TV. I couldn’t handle (get it, handle) anything other than the next step in my recovery.

We had to wait a week for repeat scans, thankfully I wouldn’t need neck surgery.

Denial is a powerful tool. Bob would not listen to any election post-mortems, and our daughter is following suit. I’m not willing to go into the weeds of WHY Kamala lost – numbers, ethnicity, socio-economic standing. But this is who we are… this is who we Americans are and where we are right now. The Bride helped me to understand this on a cellular level one night early on when I was going out of my mind with panic, feeling choked by the C-collar and imprisoned by pain. She talked me through in her physician/yoga voice, telling me to embrace my suffering because this is where I am right now... right now… but not forever.

We are still on a news sabbatical, watching Netflix and The First Ladies on PBS, walking outside for exercise whenever possible. I have the best neighbors, delivering the most delicious soups, breads and treats and of course the Bride shows up every day mainly to support her father who has been the real hero in this drama. Along with my left hand, my right wrist is also fractured so Bob right now is both of my hands.

If you recall, he had to wear a C collar for months after his neck surgery that resulted in a cerebellar stroke and I now have a new respect for his strength and resilience. If all goes well, I should be out of my ‘cone of shame’ by mid-December. Meanwhile, my emotions have run the gamut from self-loathing for wearing fancy lug-soled Ugg slippers, to such incredible gratitude for my network of friends and family.

I heard one interview on CNN of a middle-aged couple who came here illegally from Mexico and were granted asylum under Reagan. Their adult children were living the American dream – college educated, good jobs etc. when the reporter asked them why they voted for T they said, “Because these immigrants are criminals!” Can you guess where they get their news?

We Democrats are all suffering through the stages of a collective grief; but my reality right now is singular. I am grieving the loss of my youth when I could slide into second base at Camp St Joseph with ease. I remember vividly twirling around on my knees and sweeping the floor with my hands at the Martha Graham Dance Studio. My body has betrayed me and now my country seems to be hell bent on doing the same.

The only other time my body wouldn’t cooperate with my brain was when we were trying to have baby number two. I had to learn to let go, I had to become the trapeze artist and trust in the safety net beneath me. The Rocker’s birth was a miracle and I have future grandbabies to consider, I need to practice dancing to Adelaide’s lament. “I love you a bushel and a peck you bet your pretty neck I do.”

We took the Harris-Walz signs off our yard but kept the American flag flying on the porch. You can still love your country even when it seems to be slipping away from its foundation right now. I can remove the left splint and move all my fingers so I decided to get a manicure – a rare luxury for me. But we must practice gratitude this Thanksgiving and every single day. Now more than ever.

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A Note From the Tropics

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , on July 4, 2023| 1 Comment »

Happy Fourth People! I was wondering why I haven’t heard any fireworks this weekend, but it’s probably because Mother Nature has provided her own entertainment.

Saturday afternoon Bob and I were busy enjoying the peace and quiet. The children had left town for a lake vacation, while weather forecasters said “Dangerous” heat and air quality levels were expected. Thank you Canada! A neighborhood friend was also heading off for a cooler climate and she kindly asked if we’d like to use their pool while they were gone – “Yes, thank you!” So our mornings have been spent listening to Jason Isbell’s new album and walking across the street to do laps along with my aqua exercise. Delightful right?

But three days ago, after a delicious Farmer’s Market lunch I was about to pick up my knitting when we heard “POP POP POP.” Cue the lights!

Darkness in the middle of the day, OK, but everything stopped. It was eerily quiet; no AC humming along, no plunks of big round ice cubes resonating in the freezer. My sister Kay had called earlier because she was worried about our heat wave. I assured her that all of Bob’s work last year insulating the attic and sealing up our windows was paying off so that even at a sweltering 96 degrees outside it was still 74 inside. But not for long.

First, I must say that like Elsa and Snow, summer storms don’t bother me. Pop up afternoon showers are part and parcel of southern living. As veteran Jersey Shore types, we know to head into a movie theatre or a shopping mall when dark skies descend. And unless there is a tornado warning, all the hype about baseball-sized hail, wind, lightening and thunder fly under my stress radar. Bob actually loves to sit on the porch and watch a storm roll in. Except this time, the loud, unusual popping noise meant a transformer was blown out in our alley.

Long story shorter, it took all of 12 hours – between noon and midnight – for half of the power to return. Bob regretted not putting in a whole house generator, and I was thankful that our house stayed fairly cool on Saturday because of the aforementioned insulating. But Sunday wasn’t a fun day either because we only had 70 volts running into the house, and yes Bob has a meter?! Meaning the AC still wasn’t working and what was working was hot hit or miss. So Bob found an NES guy on a pole to let him know about the transformer, then we went out to lunch and a movie.

By the time we returned from the BEST Indiana Jones movie, and not just because the Rocker did the trailer, our full power was ON! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQfMbSe7F2g&t=1s

So last night we invited a few neighbors over for hodge podge dinner of defrosted things – a small turkey breast, eggplant parmigiana, pasta salad. And we laughed and learned more about each other and I remembered what it was like to throw a dinner party.

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Outings

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , , , on November 12, 2021| Leave a Comment »

This week it seems like some of the all encompassing pandemic air is being released.

Maybe it’s because the Grands have had their first Pfizer shot. Maybe it’s because the numbers in Davidson County are trending down; the community prevalence of new Covid cases is 11.8 per 100,000 with 63% vaccinated! Not too shabby for our Blue dot in a Republican state. Before Bob and I leave the house, we think twice about masking up. Will we be going inside a large public space with lots of people? If so, I sling my happy mask lariat around my neck. But more and more, we are leaving the masks at home.

Our annual doctor visit was scheduled this week, instead of a remote consultation we actually drove to Vanderbilt for a face to face, the first time in two years. Masks were required in the hospital of course. Instead of a stylish pair of boots and long white coat, my wonderful GP was wearing scrubs. She had contracted coronavirus from a patient and had been very sick last year. Like the Bride and Groom, she must shower and decontaminate after every shift to protect her family, so scrubs it was.

I remembered the three words! Now we have to schedule blood work, and a mammogram. Just as the weather is shifting, we need to venture out more and more.

The highpoint of our outings was having dinner with a group of neighborhood friends INSIDE at a newly reopened local restaurant! The tornado that preceded the pandemic had demolished this iconic eatery, and they were finally having a last minute “soft” opening. I wrapped myself in a long puffy coat and we walked there in the dark, turning the corner to see party lights and hear the sound of laughter and bonhamie!

This must have been what it was like for the Flapper going to a speakeasy.

A waiter smuggled our little group into a private area, away from the bar and the noise. It was so so good, sharing food and drinks and stories, getting caught up, making plans for the future. Our masks were down, it was almost “normal.”

But I made the mistake of staying home the next morning and watching the Kyle Rittenhouse trial. It’s happening at the same time as the Ahmaud Arbery trial. Did you ever wonder why one trial is named after the armed murderer, and the other is named after the shooting victim, the man who was ambushed by a father and son. Do you wonder why one jury is not allowed to see a prior video of Rittenhouse outside a CVS talking about how he wished he had his gun so he could kill shoplifters…

While the other jury gets to see a prior video of an unarmed man, Arbery, walking through a home construction site?

This is a prime time lesson on institutional racism. If you are a Black man in this society, you must think three or four times before venturing outside for a jog, a walk, or a ride in your car. Because in some parts of this country, young white boys sling their AR 15s over their shoulders and drive with impunity across state lines to “defend” used car lots, because cars must matter more than people.

Objects in the rear view mirror

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Peach Tree

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , , on August 28, 2021| Leave a Comment »

Testing, one two three. Testing. My patience has been tested like never before these past few weeks. First it was the dumpster.

Right before we flew to LA, a group of smartly dressed people began appearing in front of our living room windows; pointing up, taking pictures and generally talking about their dating lives. Our city farmhouse sits right up to the sidewalk so Ms Bean will yelp every time someone walks by.

Bob of course got the lowdown. It seems there is a major problem with the apartment building across the street. These were professional engineers and photographers and consultants who were about to investigate who was at fault – was it the building’s owners or the builders? They brought in the big dumpster, and dropped it right in front of our front door!

It would only be a couple of weeks they assured us.

Meanwhile, we turned up our classical music on Sonos, brought our cricket-chirping noise machine downstairs, and attempted to carry on all while parking our car at the opposite end of our street so we wouldn’t block traffic. I longed for my quiet Blue Ridge sanctuary as I watched a guy in a cherry picker strip siding off the apartment building and toss it in the dumpster.

Would this building collapse like the one in Miami? There was no time to worry since we hopped on a plane to California.

When we returned surprise surprise, the dumpster was still there and it had a friend – a big green cherry picker parked directly across from our garden. Before we left, the picker had left every evening, but now it must be moving in.

The black tarps down the five story building would flutter with the wind when I opened the living room shutters, and come Monday morning, a miracle. No noise! Tuesday morning came and nobody showed up, nada. So Bob had a little talk with the building manager and whatdoyaknow, the dumpster and the cherry picker disappeared…. All except the fluttering black tarps that grace the view from my window.

Instead of enjoying the relative quiet, we packed up Ms Bean and drove to Atlanta. Her car sickness is well behind her, she happily curled up in the back seat. The four hour road trip saw very few people wearing masks, and now that we’ve arrived it’s even less.

Our Big Chill reunion got off to a great start because everybody is vaccinated and our friends had just installed a pool! Our host was in Guys and Dolls with me, he’s a retired PA. I attended the Junior Prom with the lawyer from Buffalo. And Bob’s best bud came all the way from Richmond, an engineer recently single. Our history goes back to elementary school for Bob, and I was lucky to join the group of nerdy smart kids in high school.

But our host’s daughter was recently exposed to someone with COVID. So the weekend is ours to reminisce and laugh and cry over our lost brothers, Lyle, Rich, Dickie. To debate the merits of crystals. To catch up on our respective lives, good and bad.

And just as we were lounging around the gorgeous pool, we heard construction noise nearby, like right next door. A tree had fallen on the neighbor’s house and so…. Here we were in this verdant Atlanta suburb, and it wasn’t filled with leaf blowers but good ole heavy construction was going on a mere 50 ft away.

We feasted on Low Country Stew and had a yummy peach cobbler for dessert last night. I wonder if it was a peach tree.

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A Valentine for Wendi

Posted in an expository essay, Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, Memoir, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on February 14, 2020| Leave a Comment »

When I first met Wendi, she was holding her baby boy. Her smile was like sunshine as she showed me around the property. We had finally moved to Virginia, and when the Bride and I first saw the house, she had been away on a business trip. My soon-to-be landlord was a fabulous designer, she flew all over the country installing the dreams of her famous clients.

Strangely enough on that crystal clear day in Charlottesville, Wendi was in New Jersey.

But at our first look, her husband, wanted us to rent their guest cottage. He knew the Bride was starting at UVA Medical School, and he was psyched about our Duke connection. As he led us through the main house and into the dining room, where an old Dutch master-like portrait of a man with a beard hung over a sideboard, I wasn’t prepared for this revelation.

“There’s a building at Duke University named after my ancestor,” he said pointing up to the painting, “It’s the Allen Building.”

In fact, Bob and the Bride were well acquainted with the Allen Building. Turns out it was named after a good friend of JB Duke in the early 1920s, a man from Warrenton, NC – George Garland Allen. Allen had started out as a bookkeeper for the American Tobacco Company in 1895, working his way up in the Duke organization.

My new landlord’s Great Grandfather, on his Mother’s side, had been known to say it was easier to accumulate his wealth than it was to give it away.

This didn’t stop us from moving our Welsh Corgi along with big Buddha Bear and Bailey Dawg (the Bride’s Lab) into the smaller “cottage” on their property. Wendi welcomed us with open arms, in fact she collected a menagerie of dogs too – from a sublime Great Dane to another ridiculous Corgi! When we finally built our house overlooking the Blue Ridge, Wendi had 2 small boys, and 2 matching Labs.

In contrast to her husband’s Southern lineage, Wendi was a California girl. She didn’t come from money; she had been a nanny in NY and then went to school for design. She built her own business from the ground up, and juggled 2 children with the demands of her world-wide clientele. I remember distinctly when she told me about this woman who would come in and cook you a week’s worth of meals on a Sunday and put them in the freezer.

Aha, so this was how working women who might jet off at a moment’s notice took care of their family. This was before GrubHub.

Wendi would throw great Gatsbyesque parties around their pond behind their home. She sent her boys to the public school and became one of the fiercest football moms around. She loved keeping tabs on the Rocker, and made sure her boys knew all about his band. When the Parlor Mob stopped by on a swing through Virginia, she treated them like royalty. When I became secretary of the local book club, she’d make a point of attending if she was in town.

She was one or two decades younger than most of us; a doctor, a few lawyers, a few teachers, and me, the one who could make an email list-serve. Wendi’s California blonde exuberance would always add the fun component to our gatherings. After her divorce, she started a new business of high-end consignment pop-ups that housed many of the pieces Bob and I couldn’t carry with us to Nashville.

Last month, after saying goodbye to her oldest son, who was heading to Australia for his college semester abroad, Wendi died tragically, she was only 53 years old. That baby, that I first met on her hip, is now in high school. When my old friend and neighbor called to tell me the news, I was shaking. How can this be? Didn’t I just talk with her about our trip to Tulum? Didn’t I just see beautiful pictures on Instagram of her December holiday in Puerto Rico? She’d found a new love, and life was looking good for my friend.

How can a light like that be extinguished? My lovely, vibrant Wendi, how can this happen? I hope you knew how many people loved you. Your outstanding sons are your legacy, your Valentines in football jerseys. Sleep peacefully dear heart.

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A Return and a Reboot

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, Country, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on January 2, 2020| 2 Comments »

We are busy cleaning up after our New Year’s Day shin-dig. Friends and neighbors brought side dishes – my favorite part of every meal – and I made the usual black-eyed peas, lobster mac and cheese, and a couple of roasted turkey breasts. It was a tight squeeze in our little city farmhouse, but Bob fired up the fire pit so some of us could flow out into the garden.  Totally recovered, Ms Bean was happy to stare at anyone with a Swedish meatball on their plate.

The night before we considered attending the New Year’s Eve concert at our Bicentennial Mall, only a few blocks away, but I guess we’ve become spoiled Nashvillians. As much as I love Jason Isbell, Keith Urban and Stevie Nicks –  https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-country/keith-urban-stevie-nicks-new-years-eve-932562/ – the chilling 50 degree weather kept us at home all snug in our bed.

We’d visited Great Grandma Ada and Hudson earlier in the day, and Bob paid a “house call” to one of their friends with a “medical question.” It seems he’s hardly retired, still doing remote medicine for family, with a small contingent of nonagenarians on call in the local mix. I kid my husband whenever we venture out, does he have his stethoscope with him?

Turns out Ms Berdelle, who is 92, DID walk down to the festivities on New Year’s Eve so shame on us!

I tried sending care packages of food home with people last night; for a Pot Luck we only had one duplicate, Hoppin John of course. We are all now doubly lucky in 2020!

I read that today is National Return Day. Every gift you never wanted, or maybe Aunt Anna sent you something you already have, will be returned today! Whenever I see a duplicate of anything, I remember our little Bride receiving the same exact My Little Pony for her birthday one year. She jumped up and down yelling, “She has a twin!” How could I deny her a twin pony?

Maybe that’s why I’m not a returner. About 10% of purchases in brick and mortar stores are returned after the holidays, but 20% of online gifts are returned. Obviously, it’s easier to send something back via your mailbox than it is to get in the car and try to park around this time of year. But I’m more of a re-gifter. OK, now you know. It’s a lot easier to shove something in a closet and wait…

Here’s to a very happy and healthy 2020 to all of you! I’m wishing my children and anyone on the road this weekend safe travels home. And if you’re taking a child back to college after winter break, consider picking up an absentee ballot at your city hall before you go!

I’m not a resolution type either, which makes me wonder what the heck am I?

Let’s see, I’m trying out a new elliptical at the Y, it makes you feel like you’re cross-country skiing and it’s good for my knees. I’m learning to say, “No” more often (see the last blog post). And I’m singing more torch songs. And if you clicked on the Rolling Stone link above, you’ll hear “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around.” In this #MeToo age, those Tom Petty 1981 lyrics from the New Year’s Eve Urban/Nicks duo don’t translate very well. But we could all try not to “…buckle with the weight of the world” in 2020.

“You need someone looking after you
I know you really want to tell me goodbye
I know you really want to be your own girl
Baby you could never look me in the eye
Yeah you buckle with the weight of the world
Stop draggin’ my…
Stop draggin’ my…
Stop draggin’ my heart around”

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Pickled Resolutions

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , on December 31, 2018| Leave a Comment »

I’ve got black eyed peas soaking on the kitchen counter for luck. Yesterday, Bob and I ran away to a lake with our BFF Big Chill friend Al for a hike in the woods, and then delivered a little brioche cake to Grandma Ada and Hudson. We cheered on the losing Titans next door last night, and have been listening to the “sound check” for Nashville’s famous New Year’s Eve celebration all day, which will be right down the block!

And all that was after cowgirl boot shopping with my cousin/friend Anita, and finishing up at Blake Shelton’s Ole Red honky tonk for drinks. The end of 2018 has proven to be wild and wonderful, not counting our deranged Cheeto-in-Chief, and today it’s downright balmy out there, at 68 degrees!

Now y’all know I hate making resolutions, but I thought I’d share my one piece of exciting news – our gym (YMCA) is starting a Pickleball league in the new year! So here goes nothin. Wednesday morning, this old basketball, ex-tennis, racquetball, and recovering-paddle ball player is willing to give it a try – I will show up and hopefully not injure anything.

Better to look back while we can, as we slide into 2019 all bubbly and rain-soaked, and think about the top three personal accomplishments of the past year. Here are mine in no particular order:

  1.  Getting Great Grandma Ada and Hudson moved and settled successfully into town.
  2. Discovering our beautiful new niece Tamara and her family.
  3. Traveling to Italy with our oldest and dearest friends for our 70th birthdays.

2018 just may be a hard act to follow. But Bob and I got back into the gym this morning and we watched all the new members signing up with such hopefulness. I’m hopeful too: Pickleball I’ve got your number and we will be friends; hopeful that we can move this country back from the edge; hopeful that love and decency will win.

Come on 2019, Bring. It. What were your accomplishments?

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What’s in a Word?

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , , , on August 31, 2017| Leave a Comment »

“What does feminism mean to you?” Maxine, a new friend questioned me. I had to stop and think, since it feels like such a natural element in my life, she might have well asked, “Why do you need to breathe?”

My rant began slowly and built up over time. But I had to start out with equal pay for equal work, a fundamental, major prerequisite for life here on earth. Luckily she agreed, but she is about ten years younger. I’ve noticed that some younger women take many of our rights for granted, they think the word “feminist” is alienating. They like to call themselves humanists.

Which is OK I guess. After all, they didn’t have to be married to get birth control from a paternalistic, male doctor. They didn’t see their friends mutilated from illegal abortions, and later be unable to bear children. They were never told not to consider college by a school counselor, instead apply to secretarial school. They were never shamed about their sex.

I fumbled into a bit of a Twitter tirade with a young feminist author recently. I try to avoid trolls at all costs, I believe in just blocking them at first sight. But I was reading Hunger by Roxanne Gay, so I started following her and she mentioned she was working on a group of stories about “difficult women.”  And I asked if “difficult women” are the same as “nasty women.”

“NO,” was her one word reply.

The problem was I didn’t see her reply until the next day and by that time a bunch of angry young “feminist” trolls had said some awful things about me in her feed. So I’m not some 12 year old girl who would have been crushed and possibly suicidal by the digital harassment. I responded to them… I said I was a 68 yr old feminist and truly didn’t know the difference and would they please explain. I went high.

Now one of the responders had mentioned “cis women,” and how fed up she was with them (me), so I was guessing this had to do with some Lesbian sexual thing, since Gay is gay and I was simply referencing Hillary’s “nasty women.” I remembered another instance of being shamed online, when a famous food blogger put my picture up and someone said I looked like a “man.”

Now that really hurt! But I blamed it on my pouffy hat at the Downton Abbey premier. IMG_0836

And if you haven’t heard Pink’s response to her daughter being told she looks like “…a boy with long hair,” listen to this: https://www.vox.com/culture/2017/8/27/16212862/pink-vma-2017-video-vanguard-acceptance-live-your-truth

Thank you very much Pink! It saddens me that some feminists with differing sexual preferences aren’t on the same page, because we all were once upon a time. Ms Gay deleted all those difficult/nasty/mean Tweets and then she blocked ME!

Fine. Her book became difficult for me to finish, and it wasn’t an easy start as she was gang raped at the age of twelve. But I didn’t block her, I’m giving her a chance to explain herself. After all, she doesn’t know I have a good Lesbian friend here in Nashville.

Now Ivanka is another story. She stood behind her dad in blocking the implementation of President Obama’s rule to address gender-based pay discrimination. (Remember that was my very first point to my new friend). The rule would have required businesses to collect data on pay discrepancies based on gender, ethnicity and race. Here is her explanation, in case you were wondering about her feminist cred.

“Ultimately, while I believe the intention was good and agree that pay transparency is important, the proposed policy would not yield the intended results. We look forward to continuing to work with EEOC, OMB, Congress and all relevant stakeholders on robust policies aimed at eliminating the gender wage gap.”

I wish we could all stop shaming each other. When I see snarky comments about FLOTUS wearing stilettos to a flood zone I get just as mad as I would have when anyone criticized Hillary’s hair or her clothes. I mean, come on…..

This is my high school graduation picture, 1966. I was a 17 year old budding feminist then, who didn’t wear stockings or makeup or tease her hair.

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If It’s Wednesday

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, criminal justice, tagged , , , , , on July 6, 2016| 6 Comments »

It must be Barilla lasagne day. Never mind that temperatures will most likely hit the high 90s, I will be baking my vegetarian offering for a friend who unexpectedly lost her husband last week. The shock of this loss still gnaws at my consciousness, and don’t ask me why but cooking helps. One night Henry was fine, just a little indigestion, and the next morning he was gone, dying peacefully in his sleep. He was my age.

His wife, because I just cannot call her a widow yet, my friend Tammy is a member of the Ivy Farms Book Club. She is also a brilliant lawyer, a loving mother, a friend and much more. She was my neighbor when we first moved to Cville, welcoming this Yankee with open arms. We shared a love of big, white polar bear-type dogs! I’ve often said I could live in Tammy’s kitchen, it is a warm Tuscan cave of a room, with long windows at one end and a round, welcoming table in the center. Many a night we women would sit and discuss books, and everything else under the moon, with a kind of truth and candor one rarely expects.

All of my readers from the old Rumson Book Club know what I mean.

Our husbands were always in the periphery. Some would show up towards the end of our evenings, and some didn’t. If Henry was in town, he would show up. His hugs were real, not the fake, half in/half out type. He was the kind of gentle man who had a spark, who could make you think you were the only two people in a large gathering. His laughter was contagious. He was an international lawyer, who traveled extensively to poorer countries all over the world as an advocate for the poor and disenfranchised. If lawyers had a “Doctors Without Borders” association, he would be its director. If big companies were exploiting their workers anywhere on the planet, Henry was there. To Tammy, he was her Prince.

One of his colleagues, Mark Sparks, wrote an exceptional tribute to Henry:

Today we lost a wonderful friend of mine–Henry Dahl. Henry was one of the kindest, humblest, most intelligent lawyers I’ve ever known. Henry, I didn’t even know you spoke Russian (your sixth language) until we ran into Miss Russia at the Miss Universe pageant in Quito—you made her laugh and I never asked why. Henry, I didn’t know you were President of the Inter-American Bar Association until I happened upon it online—you never boasted about it once. Henry, I didn’t know you played tennis until we started for the first time in northern Nicaragua—at some desolate place most people wouldn’t even consider visiting. What I do know, Henry, is that armed with your keen mind and my ability to claim credit for that brilliance, we traveled for years throughout Central America working on foreign cases together. There, you did what you did best–used your intelligence and kindness to try and make this world a better place for those who need it most. We emailed each other yesterday, and I should have told you how much better I was for knowing you. I didn’t. Henry, I am so much better for knowing you—and this world needs more of you, not less.

Yes, the world needs more of Henry’s kindness and compassion, his fighting spirit. And we are all better for knowing him, and for our community of women friends. Tammy’s daughter is currently applying to medical school. The Bride had given her a tour of the UVA Med School while she was in high school, before she went off to Dartmouth. It would only be right if Olivia followed in the Bride’s footsteps, choosing Emergency Medicine as a means to help the most marginalized among us.

This circle of friends is our constant harbor.

And today is my day to deliver a hug, along with two pans of lasagne. It is a small thing, but I believe food feeds the soul. And I know I need to work on finding a great recipe for Argentinian empanadas, the soul food of his culture. Rest in Peace Henry.     23598_310013910731_4491126_n

http://www.dailyprogress.com/obituaries/dahl-henry-saint/article_15725de0-8e73-51b7-947e-8a3f55764d91.html

 

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When Greatness Strikes

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on January 21, 2014| 4 Comments »

As parents of young children, we try to make every game, see every recital, soak up every bit of our child’s life while we can. We know deep down it doesn’t last long. In no time their friends will take our place; there will be sleepovers and soon some boy who looks like he’s 12 will show up at the door to drive them somewhere. If we are lucky, we may still hear about a bit of success along the way. Some children tell us of their failures, most will keep their own counsel, not wanting to worry us.

I thought it was funny this weekend when I “heard” via twitter that my son the Rocker played on the same stage as the Boss. Maybe it’s boys. Boys don’t chatter on about relationships, they don’t usually dissect their friends’ love lives. I remember reading once if you wanted to talk with your son, first engage them in something physical. You know, wash the car together, or clean up the garage. I remember long car rides to his hockey games where we did manage to talk. Back then, it seemed like his duffel bag filled to the brim with his ice hockey gear was bigger than he was.

Since my son’s band, the Parlor Mob, broke up, I only hear about bits and pieces of his working life. The Bride can always call Bob to discuss some course of medical treatment, the latest emergent intervention for stroke patients or whatever. We Facetime quite a bit with the Love Bug. But with the Rocker, I hear about his music as an aside; “I’ve got a deadline on this commercial,” or “I’m doing a PBS film about a photographer you might have heard of?” I learn what can be included in his IMDB status, and what can’t, and I know that he’s always playing guitar in one or another of his friends’ bands.

So living just a mile away from Bruce Springsteen in NJ we’d often cross paths. At the gym, at the drug store, or at the movies. But I was never formally introduced to him, he wouldn’t know me even though I wrote a weekly column about our town in the local paper. There was no picture on my byline. There was no online access. I knew people who “knew” him personally, but it just never happened. Which is kind of weird, cause like people who read my column religiously, I felt like I knew him. His music was ingrained in my soul.

This past weekend the Rocker and his friend Sam, who was the drummer from Parlor Mob, played for his friend Nicole Atkins at the Paramount Theatre in Asbury Park, NJ. I’ve talked about Nicole before, she has an incredible voice, and a new album “Slow Phaser” about to drop. http://www.pledgemusic.com/projects/nicoleatkins/updates/31296?utm_campaign=project6348&utm_medium=activity&utm_source=twitter

It was the “Light of Day” concert to benefit Parkinson’s Disease.  http://www.nj.com/entertainment/music/index.ssf/2014/01/nicole_atkins_to_enliven_light_of_day_in_asbury_park.html

And the Boss was in the wings watching their set. As they were leaving, he was introduced to Bruce who shook his hand and said, “You’re a great guitarist.” Since I follow Nicole on twitter, I knew the Boss was there, so I called my son.

And now, I can die happy.

The Rocker with Uli

The Rocker with Uli

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