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My Daughter has a physician friend, a Pediatrician, who specializes in the Fourth Trimester. The time after childbirth – the messy, sleep deprived time when you wake and wonder where you left the baby. The breast abscess time. The confounding, mind numbing onslaught of well-wishers and casseroles.

There is no checklist for new moms; no course curriculum, no nursing visits, no lactation specialists at the ready. At least not in the US, unless of course you can afford help. And if you cannot, too bad. Maybe your mother moves in? The Flapper flew to the Berkshires when the Bride was born. I remember her showing me how to wash the baby’s hair in the sink. Since I’d had a C-section, I needed her help. She had never nursed her babies because the post WWII culture pushed formula and bottles on new moms, so I relied on Bag Balm and a La Leche League phone number.

When I was a newborn, my Father was dying in the dining room from a glioblastoma. My Mother’s doctor blessedly told her she didn’t need to sterilize the bottles, she could just wash them. I wonder who was helping her back in our Year of Living Dangerously. Did my Nana move in? Kay tells me that my crib was in her room.

Other countries have a wide-ranging social network humming along when a baby comes into the world. Parents get many months of paid leave for that first year of life; nurses show up at their home every week. In Finland, the government delivers a Baby Box full of supplies that doubles as a bassinet.

“Currently, the average length of maternity leave in the 27 EU member states is 23.5 weeks. However, some countries go far beyond this minimum requirement. In fact, several EU countries offer over 30 weeks of paid maternity leave, as well as additional parental leave, paid paternity leave, and flexible work arrangements to support families. One of the most notable examples is Sweden, which offers a total of 480 days of paid parental leave, of which 90 days are reserved for fathers. This approach recognizes the importance of shared parental responsibility and aims to promote gender equality, as well as offers financial and social support to families.” https://openpublichealthjournal.com/VOLUME/18/ELOCATOR/e18749445325867/FULLTEXT/

In the USA, 10 days of maternity leave is covered and on average, mothers return to work after 10 WEEKS.

Lindsay Clancy was a Labor and Delivery nurse. She had experienced postpartum depression after the birth of her first two children, and started to spiral again after her third baby was born in 2022. Because of her deteriorating mental health, she admitted herself to two different hospitals; one an out-patient program for postpartum depression in December 2022, and another as an in-patient in January 2023. They discharged her. She was preparing to go back to work, but on January 24 she heard voices telling her to kill herself and her children. She strangled them with exercise bands in her basement, then climbed to the roof of her house, slit her neck and wrists and jumped. Clancy is now paralyzed.

She called two suicide hot lines leading up to that day. She saw a few different doctors and had been prescribed too many psychiatric drugs. I know nothing of the relationship she had with her now divorced husband, or whether her in-laws or parents tried to help her. But I do know that at SIX months, after not sleeping for more than two hours at a time with my second baby, I woke up from six hours of uninterrupted sleep and promptly told Bob he didn’t need to admit me to a hospital after all. And I was serious, but I laughed.

Women in pink tee shirts have been showing up outside Clancy’s courthouse in Plymouth, Massachusetts. At first it was just a few, now there are hundreds in support of a mother who slid slowly from postpartum depression into full blown psychosis. How else could we explain what she did? They say the system failed her. Yesterday the defense asked for a mistrial because yet again, the prosecution brought up Clancy’s Roman Catholic faith. The request for a mistrial was denied. Her lawyer said:

“It’s the same thing again: talking about religion, talking about heaven, talking about killing people and the impact or the effect that it would have on Lindsay, as well as her children.”

One in seven women experience postpartum depression. Postpartum psychosis affects up to two women every 1,000 births.

There are civil suits against the mental health providers who treated Clancy in the works, filed by her ex-husband. If she is convicted of murder she will be sent to prison without the possibility of parole. If she is acquitted by reason of insanity, she will be sent to a psychiatric hospital. In my opinion, this was a mistrial from the very beginning. It is a Greek tragedy come to life, and the press is the chorus. When our country treats the needs of mothers and their children, of families, as a priority, when we support women instead of building a grand ballroom. Waging war against Iran and subverting our own rights at the ballot box.

I have a theory that the fourth trimester lasts a long, long time. My garden gate before a walk.

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Since my sister Kay arrived in Nashville, she’s been pining for her blue couch. It arrives today from New York City.

Is it purely serendipity that everyone in our family was on the hunt for a new sofa at the same time? It all started with the Rocker and Aunt Kiki. They said goodbye to their starter home and just moved into another with room to grow for the Twins – and an actual playroom! So they packed up their car and went on a safari to IKEA to look for a durable sofa. Little did they know it would be like taking the girls to the circus. Their friends went along with another toddler and there was free range play all over the store capped by a lunch of Swedish meatballs. Note to young parents: if the heat is getting you down, try shopping at IKEA!

Meanwhile, Kay flew back to Manhattan to bid adieu to her Carnegie Hill apartment and retrieve her blue couch. Spoiler alert: I use “sofa” and “couch” interchangeably, but if you want to know the difference between the two, a couch is less formal and more comfy. It is from the French cucher, which means to sleep! A sofa, otoh, is more formal and structured, it’s a more decorative less functional piece of furniture. Believe me, I just looked it up!

Back in Nashville, the Bride was wanting to turn their second floor family room into a teenage hangout. Since the Love Bug is starting high school, with a newly painted bedroom btw, it was time to redesign the living areas of their house. The piano was moved upstairs, along with the small sectional in the family room off the kitchen. My daughter had her eye on the Lovesac – billed as “The World’s Most Adaptable Couch.” And with two kids and two dogs, she needed something sturdy, with zip-on zip-off machine washable pillow coverings. And so a sectional appeared one day in their study last week, in many boxes ready to unpack and put together, like so many comfy puzzle pieces.

A delightful niece joined Kay last week to help her pack up over 60 years of memories, while our realtor/nephew managed to put her 4th floor co-op on the market.

With couches on the move in one way or another, I realized I needed a sleeper sofa for the casita after we received its CO. Now sleeper sofas have evolved since the Jennifer Convertible sofa days when you were destined to sleep with a metal bar sticking somewhere into your back. I had one of those in my first marriage – let’s just say it was a tea rose covered chintz that is better left forgotten. We visited our local furniture store only to learn that the best of the breed is American Leather, no metal bars, and it doesn’t have to be leather; however, a queen sleeper would set us back $5,000 to $10,000… So, I did what any other rational human being would do, I turned to social media.

While Kay’s elevator was being replaced there, I had set her up with a futon-like, white sofa for a few months here. It was my first Facebook Marketplace find, direct from Wayfair and still in a box. But it was too hard to sit on and too white. It just wasn’t her blue couch that she bought with a dear friend a few years ago in NC, so it had to go. Oh, and her flight back to Nashville was cancelled, so Kay spent her last night in the City sleeping on another niece’s couch!

Musical Sofa Surfin is about to end. We’ve decided on a green Koala sleeper sofa for the casita and are simply waiting for the Labor Day Sale to order one. And along with the blue couch on the truck from NY, Kay’s artwork will appear today; as well as several tables and lamps and boxes. Enough I hope to make this place feel like home.

And Happy First Day of School to all those Southern parents sending their little ones off this week. Look at how these two Grands have grown!

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There’s nothing like a Jersey tomato – all you need is white bread, mayo, salt and pepper, and lunch is served. New Jersey is the Garden State after all, and it grows more blueberries and cranberries than Cabot Cove. But after landing in the South, I’ve come to appreciate a ripe, organic, multicolored heirloom tomato. Sometimes, I’ll even slather on some pimento cheese and skip the mayo! And taking Southern a step further, who doesn’t love a fried green tomato?

This past weekend was East Nashville’s Tomato Festival, aka “Tomato Art Fest.” https://www.tomatoartfest.com/

Our cousin Peggy, our ice storm savior, is a fabulous cook who loves to host a good party and also happens to live in East. btw East Nashville has been called the Portlandia of the South, where artists and musicians congregate on Gothic front porches. Naturally, Peg threw a tomato cocktail party that couldn’t be beat! Her dining table was covered with tomatoes of many colors, a huge pot of gazpacho, skewered Caprese balls of yumminess, and all the fixins for the aforementioned sandwich.

We contributed my famous Mango Tomatillo Salsa. I say “we” because Bob is instrumental as sous chef in the kitchen – he chops the red onion when my crying gets out of hand, and he always cuts up the mango. This salsa recipe is over 25 years old, and that is hard to imagine! I first made it in NJ for the Bride’s college graduation party in our Rumson backyard. You know the one, with a tent under the mulberry tree where our dog Buddha grazed, and we first met the Bride’s college boyfriend. I still have the small cookbook – “Salsas, Sambals, Chutneys,& Chowchows – Intensely Flavored Little Dishes From Around the World,” by Schlesinger and Willoughby copyright 1993.

To be honest, I always thought a tomatillo was a Mexican tomato! But while searching Google, AI dissuaded me of that notion: . “Even though the word means “little tomato” in Spanish and they look like small green fruits, they belong to a different plant genus (Physalis). They are more closely related to ground cherries and cape gooseberries than to standard red or green tomatoes.”

Peg and her husband Paul had just converted a deck into a wraparound screened porch at the back of their historic house. And I must be accommodating to this climate, since the 90 degree temps felt lovely under two ceiling fans. There were no phones in sight as we met and mingled with their friends and neighbors – nurses, political activists, doctors, and potters. Their dog George, a black mini-Poodle, roamed around with his girlfriend, Gracie, a white Westie. I was dazzled by the sheer number of tomato earrings!

The Love Bug walked over to her friend’s house for a sleepover. The next day was the annual Tomato Festival parade and run with entertainment and FUN galore. Peggy is a runner so we wished her well. We tried talking the Pumpkin into entering a redhead contest, but he would have none of it. If only I had a tiny streak left of my strawberry blond hair. I was a chameleon as a kid, turning a deeper shade of red in the winter and nearly platinum blond in the summer. My Nana was the redhead in our family, a deep, glorious auburn color with braids wrapped around her head.

Please enjoy this tomato feast for the eyes!

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It’s been a busy week folks. My lovely Great Niece and her two teens were visiting their Grandmother Kay from Missouri. We went out for barbeque and also did a tour of Nashville’s famous Frist Museum. “Fifty Years of Dreams,” the International Surrealism exhibit is on loan from the Tate in London and was not exactly Kay’s cup of tea. Artists like Salvador Dalí, Max Ernst, René Magritte, and Joan Miró were on display to challenge our usual mode of thinking about art – not as figural representations so much as dreamlike illusions of the subconscious mind.

Last night I had a bizarre dream about a bathtub, maybe I should break out a paintbrush?

Which leads me to the topic of pro-aging. After the past few years, after my nearly fatal fall and osteoporosis diagnosis, I figure I need to reframe the future. I’m not “anti-aging” so much because aging means we’re not dead yet! I read about a 91 year old who is hiking the Appalachian Trail this morning; and I also read a physician’s tips for turning our golden years into super powers. And the first thing the doctor prescribes is:

1: MOVEMENT.  “… muscle is your metabolic reserve. It stores glucose, regulates insulin, and secretes anti-inflammatory signals (called myokines) every time you lift something heavier than your cat.” Our mitochondria are the cells that run our metabolic system and they rely on strength training and cardio fitness. When the weather cooperates, I walk over a mile on the Greenway, and I love lifting my 20+ lb Grandbabies!

2: FEED YOUR BRAIN: “… polyphenols (hello berries), omega-3s (walnuts, flax, chia seeds), fiber (your microbiome says thank you), and glucose in stable, slow-drip doses. Add in plant-based meals, and you reduce neuroinflammation, support neurogenesis, and stabilize your blood sugar.” In other words, limit meat and forget fad diets and GLP 1 shots, it’s not how you look, it’s how are you thinking that counts! We’re eating berries and peaches from the Farmer’s Market these days.

3: STOP RUMINATING: “… older adults who age well develop emotional regulation superpowers, often through something called “positivity bias”. They literally train their brains to spend more time recalling positive memories and interpreting ambiguous events more generously. Instead of recalling those times you were bullied in school, remember that teacher or friend who helped you navigate through a crisis. I like to list my grateful highlights every night before bed.

4: WAKE UP WITH PURPOSE: “Purpose is Prozac for the soul. And unlike Prozac, it increases telomerase activity, the enzyme that protects your telomeres (those caps at the end of your chromosomes that keep your DNA from unraveling like an old phone charger).” If it’s Tuesday, I’m writing! Granted I love a day when Bob and I are free of doctor and PT appointments, but I also love my Mahjongg Thursdays! And I just added water aerobics to a few other days, so take that purpose!

5: CULTIVATE HABITS: “The brain’s prefrontal cortex tires easily. It’s a sprinter, not a marathoner. That’s why the people who age well don’t make a thousand decisions every day. They automate the good stuff.” Routines leave your brain free to do Wordle. I like to say, “Make it like brushing your teeth.” That early morning or post-dinner walk in the neighborhood. Going to bed at the same time every night. Nell used to hug and kiss me goodbye every time I left the house, because, “You never know.”

6: LAUGH MORE: “Humor reduces cortisol, increases immune cell production, and improves vascular function. Laughter literally exercises your vagus nerve, which is like the tuning fork of your nervous system.” Over the years, I find myself saying, “Someday we’ll look back at this and laugh.” Maybe I take the balcony view too often, but supposedly self-deprecating humor is the best of all – it builds resilience. Bob and I crack up about something nearly every day, maybe it’s good for your marriage too?

7: STAY CURIOUS: “Learning new things increases brain-derived neurotrophic factor (BDNF), your brain’s growth fertilizer. Novelty encourages the hippocampus (memory) and prefrontal cortex (decision-making) to keep firing.” Walk away from your comfort zone and try something new. I used to hate any meeting in which somebody said, ” Oh NO, we tried that before and it didn’t work!” You don’t have to learn Chinese, but you can learn to master American Mahjongg. In fact I just won a game for the second time this month!

Many thanks to Dr Laurie Marbas for her insight into aging. https://drlauriemarbas.substack.com/p/the-wisdom-years-7-habits-that-make

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First of all, strike up the band! It’s been 250 years and our country is still standing. We’re a bit bruised by the current occupant of the White House, and maybe our bones are getting brittle, and sure, our friends overseas (and to the north and south) don’t want to play with us anymore, but it’s all good. At least the SCOTUS sometimes still gets it right – every now and then. The New York Times reported yesterday:

“The Supreme Court on Monday declined a request by President Trump to review a $5 million civil judgment against him after a jury found in 2023 that he sexually abused and defamed the writer E. Jean Carroll. The announcement by the justices did not include any reasoning, and no public dissents were noted.”

Hooray for E Jean! She will maybe? get her 5 million; yep, the Justices pretty much said Mr T is a sexual predator, so what? He was found to have done the dirty deed at Bergdorf’s and he’s going to have to pay the fine. Maybe he can sell a few more coins with his head on them? And hold the presses! The Supreme Court just now rejected Mr T’s efforts to end birthright citizenship by a 6 -3 vote! Will wonders never cease.

But this morning I wanted to talk about personal friendships, and gaming. Not the internet type of gaming which is a solo endeavor – the kind where you actually sit down at a table with humans. My husband Bob isn’t competitive. In fact, he hates thinking of anybody losing, because when you win somebody has to lose, right? I used to joke that my husband was the only doctor in these United States who hates golf! He comes by this disinterest naturally.

His Mother, Grandma Ada, also looked askance at games in general. She never retired from her marriage counselor career, helping all the aides in her senior living community navigate love and loss. Whenever asked when she was going to retire, Ada would say, “What am I going to do, sit around and play canasta?”

It’s kind of funny that my sister Kay also has some disdain for games although she’s been known to play a card game called Spit and Malice. Sounds intriguing right? There’s a guy named Bill who would love to rope her into a weekly Bingo game, stay tuned! I used to think only Catholics played Bingo.

My neighbor, N, told me she started playing Mahjongg by herself to get better at learning the 2026 card and figuring out what to discard during the Charleston. She was a little slow in the beginning getting started, wanting to ask our teacher, Robin, for recommendations in the library. Since Robin flew back to NJ for the summer, N and I have been hosting games in our homes and I’ve noticed that she is now faster and surpassing many of us in her level of play!

So I figured I’d give it a shot. My dining table is set up as if four people are playing Mahjongg, but it’s just me. It’s difficult keeping four hands together and trying to stay focused while phones ring and the laundry calls my name. One is the loneliest number.

Did you happen to catch the PBS show “Wired for Connection?” https://pbs.org/show/wired-for-connection?source=social

Stay with me. It’s a fascinating look into the latest science on loneliness and how we humans are social animals. Evidence based, they study the effects of friendship: lower blood pressure: reduced dementia risk; stronger immunity; better sleep; and a longer lifespan. Not bad! And you would not believe the actual health complications that can result from a solitary lifestyle.

I’ve never been a girl gang type. Usually my MO is to have a few close friends and that’s it. Both of my mothers were loners. The Flapper was too busy working to socialize and Nell never learned to drive. We were like two Rapunzels on that hill in Victory Gardens. But since moving to Nashville in my dotage, I’ve acquired a bit of a posse.

There’s a few women who live on my street that are “ride or die” friends. And of course there’s cousin Peg in East Nash. We have the Germantown crew who still consider us friends/neighbors since we survived a tornado together, followed immediately by the pandemic and one near/trip to Italy. There’s always the Big Chill childhood friends who are scattered geographically but still close. And just this past year, I’ve found a whole new group of Mahjongg mavens!

There’s R who gives me a ride in her menopause convertible. There’s A and C, also Jersey girls, and Em a native Nashvillian and a realtor. There’s D who’s in charge of keeping a space for us in the library, and the aforementioned N from the block. And there are more women who cycle in and out depending on their schedules.

So I’m feeling hopeful. We Americans can right this ship! And I’m going to invite a few people over for the Fourth – the holiday that forever changed my family in our Year of Living Dangerously. Because why not celebrate our freedom while we still can?

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What a week!

The Knicks WON the NBA Championship with some of the most thrilling plays and underwhelming referees in the history of the game. Growing up in NJ, I’ve always loved the Knicks ever since their last win in 1973 when they defeated the Lakers. I was glad the crowd booed Mr T when he showed up at Madison Square Garden for Game 3, and happy to see Prince Harry sitting with the Commish at Game 5 for the win. I even loved seeing Taylor Swift do a little dance!

Tay Tay’s biggest fan, our Love Bug, has started training for high school basketball in the Fall. She even told me that she shot a 3 pointer that missed, while simultaneously running up to the basket to tap it in for the points. Incredible, she assisted herself! And that the girls played a boy’s team and WON. I’ve honestly never been so proud. Of course, I had to tell her about Bille Jean King. The Bug’s coach would like to recruit her for bigger and better teams, but for now she’d rather focus on volleyball… and starting high school.

And in even better news, last Thursday I walked into the library for my weekly Mahjongg game, fresh after the Knick’s come from 29 points behind win, and asked if anyone saw the game? Only the youngest woman there smiled and yelled YES, and I confessed that I’d gone to bed while the Knicks were 25 points behind thinking we were doomed. And now I cannot stop watching videos of the NY crowd at MSG losing their f-ing minds as the ball is gently assisted into the basket for the winning point. It is pure unadulterated joy! And just about an hour later, in the library…

I WON at Mahjongg for the second time since I’d started playing this year and I felt for just a few minutes a kind of joy – not the jumping up and down kind of joy – but an incandescent, quiet pleasure in understanding this game, in stretching my mind.

I was starting to feel defeated by Mahjongg. We had all been learning to play on the National Mahjongg League 2025 card, when the new 2026 card came out in April. Yep, just when you think you have a handle on strategy and a bit of memory for the winning lines, they throw it all up in the air and present you with a whole new card. “Save your 6s;” “Never stop the Charleston;” “Look for pungs;” were some of the tips I heard in the whirlwind of combinations my brain was trying to follow. This is not a game for the faint of heart.

Lately I’d had a passing thought, maybe I should return to the beginner’s table, where the play was slower and talking encouraged. Then it all came together.

To top off the weekend, we met our Germantown friends at the Schermerhorn Symphony to celebrate Juneteenth with the Nashville African American Wind Symphony (NAAWS). This is their fifth year in the community elevating composers and musicians of color. It was a glorious night filled with classical music alongside jazz and even some pop.

And speaking of concert halls, how about the John F Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts? The tarps went up and the huge bronze letters came down on Saturday after Rep Joyce Beatty of Ohio initiated a lawsuit to remove Mr T’s name. Thankfully a judge ruled that the center could not be renamed without approval from Congress. Thank you Rep Beatty.

I believe the tide is turning. Let’s make a joyful noise for our nation’s birthday this year.

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Right before the deluge of rain yesterday, our bathroom vanity showed up. Wayfair was supposed to text me between 2:30 and 6:30 to tell me they were 30 minutes away, instead I heard a faint knock on the front door at 1:30. It’s a good thing I was home, waiting, and not out looking at ceiling fans with Bob. I’d had a green vanity with a marble countertop in my cart for weeks, but when it came time to order I changed my mind. It was the marble. It’s too precious, too expensive, and too much trouble for the occasional guest to worry about staining.

Today we’ll open the carton to make sure the sink isn’t broken.

The kitchen appliances are all stacked neatly in the middle of the living area, waiting for the plumber. I didn’t want a big L-shaped kitchen in our little casita, they will be lined up against one wall – half of a galley. And I opted for no dishwasher, and instead ordered a washer/dryer combo like we had in our Charlottesville four square.

Don’t judge me. My brother, sister, and even my husband and daughter prefer washing dishes the old fashioned way, I’m presuming anyone staying with us will be sharing meals with us anyway.

And speaking of my sister Kay, she’s waiting for the elevator in her NYC co-op to be replaced. She would like to have her furniture shipped down here; along with her artwork, this would make her Nashville apartment feel more like home. It feels more like a hotel at the moment, with good restaurants, PT and OT that comes right to her door, and all the T’ai Chi and Bingo she never knew she wanted. Since her arrival, we’ve talked about making this a permanent move, but she’d been on the fence.

It’s hard to wait with uncertainty.

The work on the elevator was delayed, so a two month stay is stretching into three. Still, nothing can be done until there is a new elevator installed…

Our twin granddaughters are on the move in LA. They’ve started walking and are trying running and jumping too! They know lots of words and love to sing the “I Have Two Eyes” song with us on FaceTime, sticking out their tongues, blowing kisses. I cannot wait for our visit in a couple of weeks; last time we were there, they were still holding onto our fingers to take a few steps.

But we have to wait – for the plumber, the elevator, and our trip to California. Even the Love Bug is waiting to start high school and get her first phone, without social media mind you. The Pumpkin, OTOH, has finally become the proud owner of a bearded dragon named Smaug thank you Tolkien (pronounced Smog). He waited to find the perfect, large terrarium, he biked to the stream in the park to find a big piece of driftwood, and he signed a contract with his parents about its care and feeding. Let the summer commence.

Although we will still have to wait until at least June 13th to see if the Knicks can pull off a championship season!

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Since I’ve stopped watching morning TV shows with my coffee, my life has improved. No more cursing under my breathe, a political veil of dread no longer accompanies me to the shower. Instead, I open my iPad to Substack and read – about how women need estradiol hormones after menopause; about a writer’s style vs their voice; about the intersection of physical and emotional pain; and occasionally I’ll read Mary Trump’s insights about her uncle.

But last night, after visiting Kay for some tech support, I was caught off guard by a barrage of comments on Threads – my pivot away from Twitter aka X – about an interview on the Today Show yesterday. People were up in arms about the way Craig Melvin treated our former First Lady, Dr Jill Biden. The word that kept popping up was that he was “RUDE.” So of course I had to open the interview this morning…. but first I put the Today Show on and was astounded at how simplistic and redundant it was, and this was before the puff pieces. I didn’t miss it in the least.

I wanted to see if Melvin would apologize. He didn’t.

Over the years I’d done my share of interviews for a local newspaper. Of course there were no cameras, and some were just on the phone. But I would try to dig beneath the facade of local color, not focus on what they were selling me about themselves. Why did the nurse move here? When did the hedge fund guy get interested in basketball? I’d take a corner and run with it, to fill out their personality on the page. To overuse an overused word, I’d try and make them relatable.

Jill Biden needs no introduction. She’s a smart, competent woman, a college professor, who married an older man. She raised his two sons as her own after the devastating car accident that killed Joe Biden’s first wife and baby daughter. Being a native of Scranton, PA and having been torn from my family after a car accident, I had always loved Joe Biden. And Jill was his rock, his “gut check.” Now she’s written a book – a memoir, “View From the East Wing.” You remember the East Wing don’t you? Bob’s reaction to all the press is similar to many Democratic strategists – why bring this all up, the failed debate and his failing health, right before the midterms? This is what Jill said in a January 2024 AP interview, when her husband was 81 years old:

“I say his age is an asset… He has wisdom. He has experience,” (Jill Biden) continued. “He knows every leader on the world stage. He’s lived history. He knows history. He’s thoughtful in his decisions. He is the right man or the right person for the job at this moment in history.”

And now she tells us she thought her husband was having a stroke while debating Mr T on June 27th of that same year. I watched my husband have a stroke, and he didn’t go right back to work. The doctors told her he was fine. But she wanted to “…lift him up.” Melvin pressed her by asking if Joe was too old for the job, and wasn’t she setting a “pretty low bar” by telling him only that he’d answered every question later that night. She insisted it was his decision and his alone, to stay in the presidential race. I felt sorry for Jill Biden, but I can’t imagine she wasn’t prepared to play hard ball with the press. I actually find it demeaning for people to react as if she’s a poor, pitiful older woman who needs protecting. Get over it social media, we Boomers have survived Watergate and worse.

Jill Biden wrote the book. She watched her husband lose support, she watched the bulldozers tear down the East Wing. It was like living in a Shakespearian tragedy. She has a right to her own story. Another First Lady had this to say about that.

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It’s been exactly one week since the Love Bug graduated eighth grade. All the girls wore white dresses and were handed one white rose. And I consider myself lucky to have been there, to witness her with her friends. Because she is September’s child, she is one of the youngest of her posse; still wearing Converse sneakers and socks. They laugh wholeheartedly, and cry as if the world just ended. Some of the students will be moving on to a different high school, but they promise to still call. Or do nearly 14 year olds make phone calls? More likely some text chains will continue, and some will change.

The forecast called for rain, and so the graduation ceremony was held inside.

The Pumpkin’s band, “Snakebite,” was the opening salvo of the evening. His guitar riffs were tight, and the bassist was quite a performer. Cell phone lights were waving in the air and they got a standing ovation in Music City no less. Four 5th Graders, younger brothers, ruling the roost, until the curtain closes and a gigantic screen descends for a video trip down memory lane. Parents and grandparents were tearing up. The Love Bug dancing at age 4, her friend as a baby covered in birthday cake. Then we see clips from present day, with the Bug spiking a volleyball at the net. She is a smart, talented, exceptional human – a wonderful friend, a loving grandchild.

Today the rain continues, with flooding likely and a chance of thunderstorms.

I am glad the Bride and Groom have stood their ground about cell phones. The Bug can text with her friends from her watch, but she has been gifted her middle school years in real life (IRL). I suspect once high school starts, she will have a phone. But I am also pretty sure she will be a responsible user; she’s seen the downsides already – all night texting for example. I asked the Pumpkin what percentage of kids in his grade have phones? “About 20%,” he said, which seems reasonable, better than I thought. After all, this week it seems our President had been leading us through his social media posts – even skipping his son’s wedding in the Bahamas to stay at the White House. Heather Cox Richardson wrote this:

Trump’s social media account over the weekend was active. He twice posted an image of himself leering over Greenland with the caption “Hello, Greenland!” and repeated suggestions that “China Loves Trump.” He posted an AI image of Representative Ro Khanna (D-CA) as a devil (I think), calling him a “SLEAZEBAG” and a “Dumocrat,” and an image of eight lawmakers or officials in orange jumpsuits (except for Obama’s tan one), claiming they had “Caused tremendous damage through Weaponization!” And he posted a number of images of colorful fountains.”

Scattered showers are still possible, flood advisory will lift in one hour.

The problem is, our flood advisory never lifts. Mr T is always flooding the zone, one minute saying the negotiations are going well in our adventure in Iran, and the next bombing them. Despite its blatant illegality! We have a government that bends the knee to this orange would-be king who rules via late night and early morning social media rants. Maybe we need our legislators to pass a law setting an age limit for elders with dementia? No social media accounts over 70 if you use AI to make yourself look like Jesus.

I am drowning in his fantasy world, trying to create a slush fund for his cronies. I wonder if the GOP will grow a spine, finally. And now excuse me while I find my umbrella and tell the painters to move their trucks because the new dumpster has arrived. Just in time.

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Consumerism.

Costco is the size of a few football fields. Never was there ever a store in history where you had to pay to play. You must be a member to enter the cavernous walls of pallets filled with anything and everything your heart desires. Outdoor furniture, steaks, refrigerators, paper towels, hearing aides – you name it they’ve got it. They even have books and toys! Or you could fill up your tank and get your tires changed. It was all a bit overwhelming, but Kay had never heard of it and she was there for the fashion only.

We’d always joke about Bob getting almost all his clothes at Costco. But it wasn’t until my newly-transplanted sister noticed an outfit I’d thrown on that sparked her interest in the store; it was a light, gauzy green, cotton shirt that happened to match a pair of Eileen Fisher pants. Every now and then I pick up something pretty, along with the huge cartons of Starbucks coffee. And I’m always interested in that special cotton you can wash and hang to dry – the wrinkly fabric is part of the charm. In this 90 degree heat, it’s essential.

I told Kay the same shirt may not be there, but it was worth the sociological field trip to give it a try. Kay has been used to the same Upper East Side neighborhood for decades. The stores are pint-sized and specialized. I remember the first time I saw a pair of lilac, leather baby shoes from France in the window of a children’s store around the corner from her 96th Street apartment. I was strolling down Madison Avenue when the Bride was little and I’d only known white Stride Rite shoes for new walkers. I’d get out the white polish every time we’d travel. It was almost rebellious to think a baby might wear a soft shoe. Now I’m introducing Kay to something new. In the past she might have shopped at Macy’s or Bergdoff’s or Bloomingdale’s. And it’s not as if she’d never been to a shopping mall. When visiting the Flapper in MN she had a plethora of huge malls to visit with our brother Dr Jim.

But I warned her about Costco. “It’s for people who own restaurants, or sororities,” trying to prepare her for the experience.

She didn’t want a scooter, her fancy walker would do just fine. Although she said she’s an excellent driver, the Ada incident in Target was still weighing heavily on my mind. Kay would not be distracted from the mission. We headed straight for the tables piled high with clothing I hoped children weren’t making in sweatshops in Asia. And lo and behold, there were still some shirts left like mine and she picked out a navy blue, and then found more summer clothes for her new life in Nashville. She’d let go of her walker and hold something up to assess the size while wondering why they didn’t have fitting rooms. She could not believe the prices… I could feel it was hard letting go of her old life, but she was willing to adapt.

I stood there remembering, walking up Beacon Hill as a young college student in Boston to Filene’s Basement, an institution where clothes were marked down according to how long they were on the floor. Beautiful designer finds were strewn across tables and piled in bins. Women of all ages and socio-economic classes would try things on in the aisles, either having a friend shield them by holding up a coat or just wiggling things underneath their arms and legs. Coming from a small town in NJ, I was shocked and simultaneously exhilarated and enchanted.

When we returned to her apartment, someone asked Kay how she liked Costco; “I loved it,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. Next up, a huge art supply store in East! OH, and the morning before the Costco trip, last Friday I played “Mahjongg in the Mansion,” a fundraiser for Cheekwood Arboretum and Museum – and I won a travel tile set in the raffle!

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