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Posts Tagged ‘Memoir’

The Land of How Many Lakes?

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , , , , on September 17, 2024| 2 Comments »

Along with a travel-size tube of lavender lotion, I crafted an eternity pearl necklace for her. Bob and I ordered tennis balls for her temporary/travel walker. Dr Jim arranged for a Fajitas and Margaritas lunch cruise on Lake Minnetonka and his friends threw her a celebratory brunch complete with her favorite coconut cake for dessert.

My big sister Kay turned 90!

We couldn’t have picked better weather for our visit to Minnesota. Dr Jim is the last connection our family has to the Land of 10,000 Lakes, and we all flew in like migratory birds last week from TN and NY. After Kay’s last fall, the one that broke her shoulder outside her Upper East Side apartment, she wanted to see her little brother ‘one last time’ and so we set up a Fall sibling reunion goal. We also thought we’d ‘help’ Dr Jim downsize into a pied-a-terre in the town of Excelsior.

But like most construction plans, his actual move-in date was delayed; birthdays however, arrive despite our best objections. Our Daughter-in-Love, Aunt Kiki, will turn thirty something this week. Ah, to be thirty again… The Bride received a blue Kitchen Aid stand mixer with a pasta attachment for her big day and mine will be the last of the September birthdays, a footnote to a momentous year.

According to my Native American horoscope, our September natal days come under the “Duck Fly Moon.” I’ve always called us Christmas Party babies, but maybe Autumnal Equinox sounds better? The Flapper introduced me to a book, “The Medicine Wheel,” about Native spirituality years ago. She was beginning her search for meaning, studying psychology and Buddhism. She spent her final years surrounded by sculptures of Buddha on the shore of Lake Minnetonka. With her two sons nearby, we would write letters to each other wondering about the state of the world.

This was the last time I routinely actually wrote letters!

First the Love Bug, followed by four more female Fall birthdays – 12 to 90 years old. We saw a family of wild turkeys crossing Dr Jim’s road. I glimpsed a white egret swoop into the trees behind his house. At least I think it was an egret, maybe it was a swan? We all saw loons floating on the lake. I remembered the whooping cranes flying south last month over Nashville after I read Margaret Renkl’s brilliant essay about blue jays and change. https://www.nytimes.com/2024/09/16/opinion/hope-social-problems-justice.html?unlocked_article_code=1.LU4.kgtX.2sZHo4nF3YuS&smid=url-share

My sister Kay is an artist. Her beautiful paintings are hanging all over the country, including right here in my snug. She was a single mom and a lipstick feminist back in the 50s and 60s, a glamorous stewardess for National Airlines. At her interview she was never weighed or measured, simply hired on the spot! National’s base was in Florida, but she flew around the world a few times! I loved visiting her Manhattan apartment as a teenager, right up the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Guggenheim. We’d have lunch at the Madison Deli and she’d correct my country-bumpkin table manners at Lutece for dinner.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s can’t compare to her lifestyle then, and now she still walks with some help to Central Park nearly every day.. Kay taught me so much about life and love. As soon as I landed back home, I cleaned out the bird bath and replaced the small solar fountain. The cardinals and robins are getting used to the moving water, even guarding it at times. Our temperatures will be rising back into the 90s this week and I know our cardinal family will be sticking around, but we’ll be flying off again in a few weeks to France.

Happy Birthday Kay!

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Midsummer Mornings

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , on August 6, 2024| Leave a Comment »

The Groom is out of the garage apartment! He tested positive for Covid after returning from their beach vacation with his family, so the Bride banished him. But today he is free to walk across the yard and return to work after a negative test. He was reminiscing about the first time he contracted Covid in the MICU, right about the same time, midsummer, in 2020. How different it was then; patients were dying, there was no vaccine, no Paxlovid.

My side-yard neighbor also tested positive last week. Les has become a good friend since we moved here. She’s a bit younger, with two sons in their twenties; one is away in college and the other at his first real job. A new empty nester, married to a pediatrician, I love her spirit. Les can get things done. She told me how we’d divide the monstera plant threatening to take over my dining room, and the next thing you know we’re outside with three pots! We exchange porch surprises of baked goods from time to time and she texts me every morning –

“Good Morning! The gate is open.”

This is my invite to her salt water pool for pool physical therapy! I throw on my bathing suit, grab a towel and walk across the street for my morning meditation/ aqua therapy. I do all my exercises plus deep water pool-noodle-yoga moves and feel like a ballerina again. The water temperature is 84, pure bliss. A little chipmunk races around her shrubs while a rabbit cleans its face, and if I’m lucky it’s blessedly quiet. No hammering construction noises, no lawn machinery, no cicadas. On Wednesdays, the midmorning garbage truck will punctuate my pointe tendus.

When I hang up my old/lady/one/piece bathing suit and step into the shower, I can hear the John Williams’ Olympic theme. Ah, to be 15 again! We’ve been watching synchronized swimming this week, aka Artistic Swimming. Now this is a sport I can handle, after all I used to be a synchronized swimmer at Camp St Joseph for Girls. We’d twirl and tap the lake water in our flowered bathing caps while lesser mortals tried canoeing. But this year’s Artistic Swimming is not this Nana’s Artistic Swimming; this is Cirque du Soleil next level magic:

 “…it demands endurance, power, leonine grace, hair gelatin, dance lessons, mastery of the eggbeater, flamingo, scull and rocket split, daily seven-hour practices, the limberness of fresh linguine, abs of granite, exceptional breath control, pink nose plugs, frequent bruises, occasional concussions…” https://www.washingtonpost.com/wellness/interactive/2024/olympic-artistic-swimming-synchronized-strength-risks-paris/

Granted I can sometimes feel like a seahorse while riding a pool noodle, but I can not fathom doing those tricks underwater!

While making myself another cup of coffee, and wondering why more girls don’t faint in the pool from oxygen deprivation, I decided it was time to tackle the abundance of zucchini Farmer Bob has harvested. I returned from California to three very large zucchini on our kitchen island. I delivered one to the Bride and one to Les – what to do with the third? The Rocker turned me onto the NYTCooking app and lo and behold I found a new and different recipe for zucchini bread! It’s a tad healthier, made with olive oil and just a little brown sugar. I had to add chocolate chips of course.

Yesterday, the Love Bug and I went back-to-school shopping. Here in the South, school starts mid-August which is sacrilegious to a Jersey native. Just like her Mother, the Bug knew exactly what she wanted and was very particular. About to turn 12, the Bug is somewhere between a very large child size and very small adult size… what we’d call a junior size. And who knew a pair of jean shorts could come in so many varieties? Back in the 60s, we would just cut-off our old jeans and call it a day. Now they come pre-cut, already holey and ripped and fringed on the bottom… oh God, I am starting to sound like my age.

Time to wrap this up and jump in the pool. I hope your midsummer day dreams are coming true!

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Olympic Dreams

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 31, 2024| Leave a Comment »

It was forty years ago in LA, the Olympics that is, when we were living in the Berkshires and I was about to give birth to the Rocker. We lived in a farmhouse on the outskirts of a bird sanctuary. Idyllic and terrifyingly beautiful, surrounded by cardinals, chickadees and grouse, there was a dairy farm up the road. I had picked the date of his birth, a repeat C-section was scheduled; Reagan was president, I remember watching the Olympics live while nursing my newborn baby boy.

“Synchronized swimming and rhythmic gymnastics debuted in Los Angeles as Olympic events, as did wind surfing.”

There is a picture of us at the Bris, tall gladiolus of every color stood guard while friends gathered. Two rabbis came and Grandma Ada was there. She would drive four hours from NJ, always bringing food, “Did you eat?” and a cousin or two. We loved to sit on the swing in the big screened-in porch; the bassinet was on that porch because babies need fresh air. I looked so young, so peaceful. Or maybe I was just exhausted.

“John Williams composed the theme for the Olympiad, “Los Angeles Olympic Theme” later also known as “Olympic Fanfare and Theme“. This piece won a Grammy for Williams and became one of the most well-known musical themes of the Olympic Games…”

I’ve just returned from LA, from visiting the Rocker and Aunt Kiki. My baby grew up to be a talented musician and composer. His company debuted two new trailers while I was there – one for a movie and one for an Apple series. I told them about the Woodstock themed 40th birthday party I’d planned for Bob’s big day, and we talked about my son’s generation – listening to Kurt Cobain, learning to design and create websites. Somewhere between Gen X and the Millennial Generation, the Rocker is a Xennial, a unique subset.

“You have a childhood, youth, and adolescence free of having to worry about social media posts and mobile phones. … We learned to consume media and came of age before there was Facebook and Twitter and Snapchat and all these things where you still watch the evening news or read the newspaper.” https://www.bos.com/inspired/xennials-what-you-need-to-know-about-this-micro-generation/

Their California home is like a tree house, perched on a hill with lush tropical plants. We watched the Paris Olympic skateboarding finals on Peacock, a streaming platform. I thought about my son doing tricks on a skateboard, playing rollerblade hockey, moving effortlessly through my dreams. He is tall and lanky like my brothers, Po the Cat drapes herself along his legs while we critique the athletes. And we cooked and played together in the kitchen to fantastical music Kiki curated. My baby is turning 40.

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Deja Vu Again

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , on July 22, 2024| 1 Comment »

Why am I always in the kitchen when momentous things happen? I was prepping for a small dinner party last night, slicing cucumbers and washing berries, when my phone played a series of bells that meant only one thing – Aunt Kiki sent a text!

“Biben Drops Out of Presidential Race.”

It was a NYT’s headline. I had to sit down. My reaction was visceral, nausea followed immediately by goosebumps. The family text chain began, my adult children all weighing in with the Rocker’s digital sound from LA and the Bride’s iconic melody from Rehoboth Beach pinging from my phone as Bob pivoted from making (yes making from scratch) pasta and turned on the TV. It was finally official, our President bowed out after succumbing to Covid and the incessant pressure of his Democratic colleagues.

The family didn’t have to take the car keys away, he gave them up willingly. I started to cry just a little with relief from the last month of speculation and an impending sense of doom. I had wanted Biden to stay the course, I wanted to believe our country would be able to differentiate between a mensch and a conman. But my son, one of the original Bernie Bros, and my daughter, a Mayor Pete believer, have grown into good Democrats with a capital “D.” I knew the younger generation was right, and I could feel the excitement rising as I dressed the salad.

Our friends walked in with a gorgeous peach pie.

I remember when Bobby Kennedy was shot in a hotel kitchen in 1968. It was the end of an era. I was 19 years old; bereft, about to marry the rebound boyfriend, and still grieving the loss of my ‘one true love.’ I stood in the long line of mourners at St Patrick’s Cathedral to pay my respects to the Senator from New York. It was a beautiful but exceptionally hot day in June; I nearly fainted from lack of sleep and a simmering depression.

“He was, of course, an extraordinary man, a complex one; each time we saw him there was more to see. He could never be accurately measured, especially in terms of the past; he was always in the process of becoming. He was responsive to change, and changed himself. These changes were always attributed to his driving desire to win—except by those who knew him, who were aware of his great capacity for growth, his dedication, the widening of his concern. The people around him, we found, adored him—there is no other word. They would do anything for him, go any distance—and part of it was because they were convinced he would do the same for them.” 

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1968/06/15/When-New-York-City-Mourned-RFK

This was written about RFK, but it describes Joe Biden as well. Remember that he kickstarted marriage equality, that his first years on the Hill were forged through pain and loss. That he took the train home every weekend from Washington to be with his two young sons. We all know his story, an Irish Catholic from Scranton, just like my birth family. The Bride wrote Joe a letter when she was in 7th Grade, asking him to run for President, and he wrote back to her.

We Democrats are NOT a cult of personality. We do not blame God for political assassinations, or for surviving them intact… with maybe a little cartilage missing. We do not think there are good people on both sides of a line in Charlottesville. We don’t separate refugee children from their parents. We know where to draw that line, at corruption and sexual predation. We knew this election was an existential crisis for our country, some of us whispered this fact and some shouted. But the fear of violence, the fear of banning books and eroding our public schools, our public TRUST, the fear of a SCOTUS that would allow our fundamental human rights to be challenged is starting to abate.

Families fight, and they forgive. They also visit unexpectedly with four Scottish Deerhounds! Democrats are energized, and we are hopeful once again and for that Mr President, your country thanks you.

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Nana Camp

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , on July 2, 2024| Leave a Comment »

There are no day camps this week for the Grands. No sailing, Taylor Swift, or pottery camps. Plus, on July 1, all the brand-spanking-new doctors have started their rounds, and so the Groom has a lot of teaching to do in the MICU, and the Bride gets to explain how to write a prescription to an intern. It can be taxing, and so I cook dinner for six people just in case they get home in time. On July 4, we’ll be relaxing by our dear neighbor’s pool while the “little doctors,” as Grandma Ada called them, save lives.

This Fourth will be the 75th anniversary, if you want to call it that, of the Flapper’s car accident. Dr Jim has been doing some soul searching around the event that left our Nana, Mother, and Sister lying bloodied and comatose on the side of the road. He was only seven years old, and so it was up to him to tell the police their names and where they lived. It is an early memory, but not his first. That was the day, earlier that Year of Living Dangerously, when our Father returned from the hospital after brain surgery, his head wrapped in bandages.

Sometimes I wonder what memories our Grands will keep with them. I’ll bet they will remember their parents coming home from their hospitals during the pandemic and having to shower before a hug. Will they remember seeing the David in Florence? Or will they remember a feeling of ease, an all encompassing feeling that everything will be alright when they arrive at Nana Camp? That it’s not all action and adventure all the time. Sometimes we bake muffins with abandon, or we swim in the pool. Sometimes we take field trips to museums and then we watch Jeopardy! There’s a rhythm to life in this house, and my grilled cheese sandwiches often hit the mark.

Today the Bride is home and so we are off duty. I try not to think about the recent SCOTUS decisions. Like the presidential debate/debacle, I put those thoughts into the “things I cannot change” basket. I can put the basket in a river and let the water flow through it, or I can unpack the basket on the riverbank and perseverate about our time and place in history. I’m not a Monday night MSNBC type. It’s hard to imagine changing course so close to an election, and I know Joe Biden.

Like my birth family, Irish Catholics from Scranton, PA, he will never give up. When the going gets tough and all. Like the Flapper telling her doctors she’ll not only walk again, she’ll dance on their graves. We come from a strong line of strong, smart women forged by coal miners. I’ll bet Dr Jill has ancestors just as tough and resilient. We need a Democrat in the White House now more than ever, so I’ll be voting accordingly.

Have a safe and uneventful Fourth of July. Steer clear of the naysayers and knee-jerkers. Look at the long view. America is still that beautiful shining city, our democracy cannot topple over!

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From Soup to Sanity

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on February 27, 2024| Leave a Comment »

This has been the winter for strengthening one of my super powers – SOUP! During the pandemic, while Bob honed in on his sourdough bread, I discovered a delicious Asparagus Vegetable Soup recipe courtesy of Jamie Oliver https://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/vegetables-recipes/creamy-asparagus-soup-with-a-poached-egg-on-toast/. I don’t do the egg on top nonsense btw. Now, due to unforeseen circumstances, I’ve been experimenting with more healthy and hearty soups. My take on these liquid elixirs is usually thick, like a stew.

But I’d rather not label these gastronomic efforts; or maybe I should just call everything I make in one big pot “chowder”? Thinking chowder was meant only for fish stews, I went in search of its meaning and yes, it’s mostly fish, but not always – https://www.foodandwine.com/soup/chowder/chowder

The problem with Bob is he’s not happy when I whip out the immersion blender. He likes a chunky soup, he wants to identify the vegetables. Maybe it’s just that we still have all our teeth? I did manage to win him over with a beautiful, cauliflower soup from the New York Times: Creamy Cauliflower Soup with Rosemary Olive Oil! https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1020764-creamy-cauliflower-soup-with-rosemary-olive-oil that surprisingly has no cream whatsoever!

I’m probably best known for the soup I deliver to new moms and friends recovering from an illness. We have a cousin who was in need of some Jewish penicillin, so last week I taught his wife, Peg, how to make it, Reform Jewish Style. When I was in the middle of converting to Judaism, the rabbi arranged a cooking class for me. You guessed it – Real Chicken Soup! No matzah balls, no noodles or rice, just the basics. I’ve never felt so professional as I passed on my secret recipe to Peg in her new kitchen! She was a delightful sous chef, while also archiving the lesson for all eternity.

I brought my Starbucks apron and we traded tidbits of of gossip, chopping away, slowly perfuming the air with chicken fat. Maybe the world needs the next Southern Jewish French Irish Julia Child? My cousin is also a writer, a prolific expository health journalist, for major digital and print news outlets. In fact, she already has a cookbook… and I might have major writer-envy… but in a good way. I’m so happy Peg and her husband moved right across the river.

The Bride’s famous Sweet Potato Soup was recently discussed in detail here https://mountainmornings.net/2024/01/24/gray-swan-events/ and it continues to be a favorite in my winter soup rotation. Don’t despair if you don’t have any V8 on hand, you can substitute a can of fire-roasted tomatoes. I love the dollop of peanut butter you add at the end. This might be my favorite soup of 2023, and next on the list?

I’d like to try my hand at Pasta e Fagioli, a classic Italian pasta and bean soup. The Flapper used to make this all the time. I asked my brother and sister if they remembered a favorite soup from their childhood, and they both said Pea Soup. They like to remind me that their early years were much harder than mine. After our Year of Living Dangerously, Kay told me she had to do all of the housework, including cooking, while our mother was “… lying on the couch in the kitchen.” Jim told me if they had a ham to eat during the week, they could count on pea soup made with the bone that weekend.

They had no TV in 1949, and the radio was stuck in a big box in the front parlor, so the Flapper read aloud poems from a little red book, “A Thousand and One Poems.” Kay has all these poems stored away in her brain that she can recite at will. Just ask her! Occasionally a nurse would visit the kitchen in Scranton, trying to stretch out the Flapper’s legs, while I imagine my Mother screaming obscenities at the top of her lungs. Poetry and cursing in motion.

Making soup has become my antidote to cursing the media for leading every story with you know who. What about calling anorexia “terminal” so that patients can enter hospice? “In Colorado, a state where medical aid in dying is legal, [patients] would also be eligible for MAID (medical aid in dying) drugs…” https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2024/02/26/terminal-anorexia-mental-illness-diagnosis/

What about Alabama calling embryos “babies”? “In a recent court case over embryos accidentally destroyed at a fertility clinic, the Alabama Supreme Court ruled under state law that all embryos are “children”. However, the global medical and scientific consensus on when reproductive cells become human life says otherwise.”

https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20240226-what-is-an-embryo-global-medical-definition-of-personhood-ivf-ruling

Ooof. I’ll continue making soup to calm my Novemberphobia.

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How to be a Star

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , on November 6, 2023| Leave a Comment »

“Funny Girl” opened on Broadway at the Winter Garden Theatre in 1964. It closed the summer of 1967, after my Freshman year in college. Barbra Streisand was my ‘shero,’ playing Fanny Brice in a feminist Horatio Alger tale. I met Barbra one cold night, after her brilliant performance at the stage door; she graciously signed my Playbill.

I had just played Adelaide in my high school’s production of “Guys and Dolls.” The drama club was an all encompassing home for me; I could easily lose myself in a ditzy, loyal and yes, funny character. On opening night, the laughter and applause was addictive. My friend Bess, the editor of our senior yearbook, wrote something like, “…destined for Broadway” under my name.

After all, I grew up listening to show tunes and studying ballet. The Flapper loved Ethel Merman almost as much as I idolize Barbra. I would sing and dance in our front parlor like everyone was watching. But the sixties had other plans for Bess and me. We both went to Boston after graduating from Dover Senior High School, where our young dreams were derailed by a war, political assassinations, an illegal abortion and even a cult.

Although I never became a Broadway star, I followed Barbra’s meteoric rise to EGOT status. She had always dreamed of becoming famous, while my dreams were limited to summer camp. I remember feeling flummoxed to learn of her stage fright. How could she not love the limelight? Streisand’s iconic profile is currently on the cover of Vanity Fair, and she was interviewed on CBS Sunday Morning yesterday because she wrote her autobiography – “My Name is Barbra,” which will be released tomorrow. I just pre-ordered it!

Barbra wanted to set the record straight, and I want to find out what made her so ever-loving badass.

When I opened my BBC news tab this morning with coffee, one headline jumped out at me – “I haven’t had much fun in my life.” That Egyptian Queen profile wore a sardonic smile. And so I found out that a ME TOO moment onstage in her breakout hit “Funny Girl,” at the age of 22, was responsible for more than two decades of stage fright. Charlie Chaplin’s son Sydney, her leading man and almost 20 years her senior, had his sexual advances assaults rebuffed. He publicly became emotionally abusive, and tried to sabotage her performance every single night.

But like many women of our generation, she softened the story:

It’s just a person who had a crush on me – which was unusual – and when I said to him, ‘I don’t want to be involved with you’, he turned on me in such a way that was very cruel. He started muttering under his breath while I was talking on stage. Terrible words. Curse words. And he wouldn’t look into my eyes anymore. And you know, when you’re acting, it’s really important to look at the other person, and react to them.“

https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-67283909

Maybe Chaplin did us a huge favor by propelling Streisand to Hollywood, where she now lives in Oprahland, among the lapsed Royalty of Harry and Meghan. Live theatre’s loss became the silver screen’s gain. She insisted on being in control of her life, on having creative control of her contracts. She gained a reputation as a difficult diva, but I never bought it. If she wanted to change a scene, she was probably right. Barbra became a director in order to maintain her control over a project. She wrote the script for 1983’s “Yentl” and wasn’t paid for it; she directed the movie and was paid minimum wage; and her acting fee was cut in half!

Mama can you hear me? I love Barbra even more now for not “fixing” her nose and rejecting Chaplin… for becoming one of my first feminist icons. But I’m not sure what to make of her Malibu basement stuffed with antiques and vintage dolls. Yes, dolls – Ibsen much? Still, she possessed a spark from a very young age, a need to become famous. And in her words, it was partially due to losing her father when she was a baby. “If you don’t have a source of unconditional love as a child, you will probably try to attain that for the rest of your life,” Barbra told the BBC.

I’d like to thank the Academy, and my foster parents for giving me the capacity to love unconditionally. Fame is fleeting, but stars can last for an eternity. Happy Birthday to the Pumpkin, our stellar 3rd grader!

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Pet Peeves

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , on September 27, 2023| 2 Comments »

Are dog and cat people like the musical Oklahoma; its farmers and cowboys, never to reconcile? If I had my way, we would have always had dogs and cats. In fact we did for awhile in the Berkshires with our first German Shepherd dog “Bones” and my old red tabby cat “Henry”. That is, until the toddler Bride proved to be highly allergic to cats – and that was that! Turns out Bob is also allergic to felines, only we didn’t find out until we cared for the Rocker and Kiki’s cat “Pou” (pronounced like NO) while they moved to California.

I’m asking about pets because I just read that President Biden’s two year old dog “Commander,” a beautiful German Shepherd, has bitten yet another Secret Service agent. I looked at Bob and said he’s probably a secret MAGAT, dogs KNOW THESE THINGS!

The attack happened on Monday night and the officer was treated at the scene, the Secret Service said in a statement on Tuesday. This is the 11th time the dog has bitten a guard at the White House or the Biden family home.The White House press secretary has previously blamed the attacks on the stress of living at the White House.“

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-66932087

But eleven times? We can blame a lot of things on stress: psoriasis, anxiety, insomnia, to name a few. But how stressful can it be for a dog living the good life at the White House? Granted, the Bidens had to foster their other German Shepherd rescue “Major” with friends after moving to DC. Still, in all our history of family dogs – Bones, Tootsie Roll, Blaze, Buddha, and Bean – we have never had a biting incident. Never. IF I had a dog that bit a person, it would go back to the shelter.

Don’t get me wrong, our dogs were brave, cold-hearted killers. Squirrels mostly with an occasional rabbit. Ms Bean could catch a bird mid-flight! Still, most of my past injuries have been dog-related. Starting with big baby Buddha, who didn’t yet know his own size and side-bumped me across our patio while running out of the rain into the house. And ending this year with our funny fast Frenchie finger kerfluffle. Of course cats can be dangerous too, just ask my brother Dr Jim. His black and white tuxedo cat “L’il Bit” actually sent him to the hospital with sepsis. Twice!

If I had to choose between a dog or a cat, I guess I’m a dog person. I’ve always had dogs, mostly mutts. Our little rescue dog Ms Bean passed away this summer at 16 years old. I’ve had trouble trying to write about it. She was so sweet, even though she came with phobias and hip dysplasia. She was our special needs puppy who navigated both the Albemarle country and Nashville city life with ease. She was my last dog, even though Bob isn’t ready to throw in the towel. Like the Queen, I know when my old age will no longer align with a puppy’s friskiness.

We all know which President didn’t have a pet in the White House in the last 100 years right? The only one? Not a dog or a cat or even a lizard? Let’s do our best to keep dogs on the Hill, even if they nip now and then.

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Sunday Shaky Sunday

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , on March 20, 2023| Leave a Comment »

Some people go to church on Sunday.

Some fry wings and watch college basketball, and some bundle up for a hike in the woods while their kids are in Hebrew School. Yesterday our whole family, armed with cleaning products, walked over to a neighbor’s newly built house to erase the black spray-painted hateful messages they found on the white brick siding. It was reassuring to see so many people coming to help, to see the police presence along with a few news outlets.

“A search is underway for two individuals who spray-painted swastikas and hateful messages onto five homes in Sylvan Park. Metro Police released Ring doorbell footage on Twitter from one of the residences where the individuals can be seen spray-painting the messages on Sunday. Police say the incident took place early Sunday morning.”

https://www.newschannel5.com/news/suspects-sought-after-spray-painting-swastikas-and-hate-messages-onto-five-homes-in-sylvan-park

My immediate reaction was to stay home.

I thought Nashville had turned its back on winter, but there had been a frost. Searching for a puffy jacket seemed useless. Moreover, I felt useless and demoralized. I’d done my fair share of picketing and organizing, and yet tonight TN will again pass THE MOST EGREGIOUS ABORTION BAN in the whole country.

What good would come from a nana who was just learning how to walk again without pain? My second immediate reaction was to bake something. Baking always helps; it helps me and it helps the recipient. But there was no time. The Bride and Bug would be stopping by to walk with us, and the Groom would join us as soon as the Pumpkin’s’s soccer game was over. Bob started packing the mineral spirits and sponges…

On Saturday we strolled around the local Farmer’s Market. Yes it was cold, but I remembered Margaret Renkl imploring us not to buy grocery store flowers. So I stood in a long line for tulips. There were not many left, but after picking out my colors – deep dark magenta, pink and white – the young man behind me said, “You’re a very smart shopper.” I thanked him for the compliment and said I was always an “outlier.” But he wasn’t referring to my choice of colors, he meant I’d picked only flowers still in bud!

To think how happy I was that day; petting dogs in the sun and picking out French radishes only 24 hours before five homes in my neighborhood were vandalized. On Sunday I thought this must be a bit how it feels when African Americans see a Confederate flag or a Confederate general on horseback adorning the state capitol grounds. I felt hunted.

It’s not as if I’d never seen a swastika before, but it was always within its historical context – a documentary about the Holocaust, a book by Elie Weisel. I’d never stood witness to this hateful symbol IRL, in real life, only in two dimensional film or paper. Anti-semitism to me has always been a remnant of our collective past, after all Shakespeare wrote about it. Still, every year the ACLU sees an increasing number of crimes committed against Jews.

Hate crimes in general have been increasing in numbers across the country. But ever since Mr T was elected, his followers have felt free to say aloud what had previously remained silent. In 2021, the FBI reported 7,759 incidents. The problem is, one can’t assume that every police department reports its hate crimes to the FBI.

“The numbers released this week represent the hate crimes reported to the FBI last year by 15,136 law enforcement agencies across the country. Some experts say the true number of hate crimes is likely higher, since not every crime is reported to law enforcement, not every agency reports its data to the FBI and many agencies report no incidents.”While these numbers are disturbing on their own, the fact that so many law enforcement agencies did not participate is inexcusable.”

https://www.npr.org/2021/08/31/1032932257/hate-crimes-reach-the-highest-level-in-more-than-a-decade

Of course, I went with my clean-up crew. I met the owners of the new house, an architect named Oscar and his wife and two small children. They had just moved in three weeks ago, and he designed their home. Yes, Oscar drew the plans for their forever home. I felt like crying on his sidewalk. People kept coming to help, all in all maybe a hundred neighbors stopped by to erase hate. I made a poster, “LOVE WINS” and met a beautiful black lab named Olive.

I saw footage of my daughter last night on the local news, one of many washing off Oscar’s home, which happens to sit next to a church parking lot. Watching my Grands scrubbing that wall felt bone-crushingly sad. Didn’t I deal with my children being harassed enough because they are Jewish? The swastika drawn into the condensation on a school bus window. The swastika drawn in a notebook.

I try not to be cynical. Today, I will be grateful for the tribe of helpers that showed up with buckets and power washers… and for my tulips which are just starting to open.

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The Last Move

Posted in Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country, tagged , , , , , , , on March 21, 2022| 4 Comments »

I hope this will be my last move.

I wasn’t destined to live in the same community for 50 years, surrounded by friends and family, secure behind a picket fence; a well-known, semi-serious journalist and Hadassah “macher.” Macher is a Yiddish word, a noun:

“Someone who arranges, fixes, has connections…someone who is [very] active in an organization” (Rosten) “important person”, “hot shot.”

n. Somebody who is successful, handy, dextrous.

https://jel.jewish-languages.org/words/325

I’ve always felt a sort of underlying derision whenever someone calls someone else a macher. But maybe that’s just me?

I guess the moment my foster parents picked me up – during our Year of Living Dangerously, with the Flapper in surgery and my big sister Kay in a coma – and brought me to Victory Gardens, my fate was sealed. I would be a little gypsy, traveling over the Delaware Water Gap, between NJ and PA. Uprooted at every turn.

I told myself I was happy to have two mothers, one warm and comforting, the other beautiful and mysterious. I was lucky to have two birthday celebrations, two Christmases, and two homes. Pulled between one set of siblings, half siblings and step-siblings and being an only child. I secretly longed to just stay put.

Now I know that longing for something you’ve never had can be a recipe for a depressive disorder. So instead I try to stay present. I’ve chosen to accept our nomadic existence, after all I married an Emergency Physician. Once he’d roll into an ER and fix it, he’d want a new challenge. I always told the kiddos their Dad wrote the book on Emergency Management, and he did!

Yesterday I asked Bob, “How many bathing suits does one woman need?” And like a good manager, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “That depends.”

Sorting and packing is different this time around. There are the clothes I’ll never fit into again, the clothes I’ll never wear again, and everything else. Pandemic fashion has turned out to be comfortable cotton yoga wear I bought at Whole Foods, along with an occasional Eileen Fisher piece on sale, online. Of course I’ll keep these things, and my boots and fancy shoes that stand watch in my closet, hoping I’ll need them again.

But why am I packing so many small rocks? One is from Ireland, and one is for our old neighbor’s dog Hodor, one is a crystal and one is a geode, and……..

Forgive my absence, but during this move I’ll be posting only once a week, on Mondays. By next Monday we’ll be in our new home – all one level with a big backyard. Bob designed the master bath for us to Age-in-Place. My beautiful master closet will be installed next month and the kitchen countertops are delayed because of a mix-up with the center island. No kitchen sink, no backsplash, so we’ll use Uber Eats for awhile.

One learns to pivot when you’ve moved as much as we have. And one learns that home can be a haven when it’s filled with the people you love.

Wish us luck!

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