Ponder & Pen

No Talking About No-Hitting

2007-09-12T18:07:00.000-07:00

When I walked into the living room, I heard the all-too-familiar sound—the clicking and flipping between sporting events, in this case, the Cal vs. Tennessee football game and the Red Sox. “How are the Sox doing?” I asked my clicker-clutching husband. He hesitated for a moment, mulling over his response. “Let’s just say there’s something very interesting going on.”

I looked up to see a skinny kid on the mound in the middle of a wind-up. The crowd cheered after the strike was called, our own Ex-Red Sox Kevin Millar caught looking. One batter later the commentators reviewed the status of the game, carefully choosing their words as the camera scanned the scoreboard of zeros across seven innings, pausing on the zero under the letter “H.” With the inning over, the scrawny-looking kid made his way back to the bench. The cameras followed the lonely soul, closing in on his focused, tense face before scanning the empty bench around him. Not a teammate in sight, not a word spoken.

It’s funny, this jinx thing. Grown men and women buy into it, this belief in the omnipotence of our actions and words. We believe that by saying “he has a no-hitter going,” we will somehow negatively alter the outcome of the game. So instead we say something like “no player has reached base as the result of the bat connecting with the ball” or “let’s just say there’s something interesting going on.” We believe if we knock on a wooden coffee table, sit in the same spot on the couch, and cross our fingers and toes, the outcome will be as we want it to be.

Though I’ve not watched many games this season, I’ve followed the Red Sox through scanning the sports pages and box scores. I knew it wasn’t going to last when we were 10 games up on the Yankees in early August, and I prepared myself for the usual late summer collapse. When the lead shrunk to 4 and then bounced back to 8, I thought maybe something different was going to happen this year, that the Sox might—dare I say it?—finally win the division. But then the Yankees sweep in the Bronx reduced the lead to 5 and I got all negative again. A win at this juncture was, in my admittedly unprofessional opinion, crucial. This particular game, the game where words were carefully chosen, was a done-deal with the Sox up by 10 runs. Still, I was riveted. I matched the funny name (Clay Buchholz) to the new kid’s face and anxiously waited to see how it turned out.

It was at this point the unthinkable happened. “What are you doing?” I yelled when my husband inexplicably clicked back to the college football game after Buchholz took to the mound in the bottom of the eighth. My husband then relayed, in no uncertain terms, the critical nature of his action. “Trust me. It’s better if we don’t watch,” he said, before going on to explain how watching the game, like calling out the unspeakable, would be a jinx. Undeterred, I put my foot down. “That’s ridiculous. We’re not turning off the game,” I said. After a heated and somewhat testy discussion, we finally agreed that there would be no more clicking.

And so we watched history unfurl as the first-ever Red Sox rookie threw a no-hitter. Though we may sometimes think otherwise, we learned that fans can’t actually control the outcome of the game simply by watching it. We were, though, careful with our words, never once uttering “no hitter” until the final pitch when the last Oriole was caught looking. And then—and only then—did I uncross my fingers.

This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2007

Backyard Nature

2007-08-25T06:26:00.000-07:00

I watched the hummingbirds fly furiously toward a dish of sugar water, flitting and diving at a speed almost too fast to witness. They hung back, suspended in mid-air, contemplating how to beat the others to the dish. They battled and sped into one another with such ferocity I was sure one of them would be knocked to the ground, like a boxer caught off-guard by a perfectly placed left hook.

I observed the hummingbird show from the comfort of my lounge chair on the portal (back porch), and then turned to look out at the tufts of dry-grass on little mounds and the cacti and the splashes of purple flowers and the mountains against the backdrop of the vast blue sky.

My husband and I observed this scene courtesy of friends who recently moved to Santa Fe. I have seen many beautiful places in my travels over the years, but I’ve never, at least as far as I can remember, been in a home where I was so immediately and completely connected with nature, where gazing out the kitchen window could easily take up the entire day.

Our friends warned us that the dry air masks the heat’s intensity (temperatures can reach 90 degrees or more) and that at 7,000 feet elevation, we might be challenged running and hiking in thin air. They noted that August is monsoon season, and the downpours and lightening storms arrive with a vengeance and with little or no warning. I heeded their advice and packed my sunscreen and tank tops and rain jacket and walking and running shoes and pocket umbrella, and tossed my digital camera, journal and copy of “All the King’s Men” into my carry-on bag. I was prepared to explore, record and relax during our Southwestern adventure.

Our friends’ home was a mud-brown adobe style, blending into the New Mexican landscape. We were told there are rules about these things, that one couldn’t, for example, paint an adobe-style home neon green. They also have rules about fences (not allowed) and streetlights and bright porch lights (also not allowed), so there is no interference with the popular evening pastime of star gazing.

The first night of our stay we got a first-hand understanding of the value of the no-bright-light rule. As the sun set and the sky grew darker, stars began to appear, beginning with a few flickers before covering the sky in a blanket of brilliance. The next night we were treated to an equally spectacular, though far different demonstration. We saw and heard the first inklings in the distance—a flash, a crackle, a rumble—and watched on the portal until our friends got nervous.

They told tales of people who’d been hit by lightening miles from a storm. We decided to head inside and watch from the comfort and safety of our chairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling (closed) window. The flashes of jagged light came fast and furious, followed by earsplitting booms. Later I was strangely comforted by the crackling and the sound of the rain and hail coming down on the roof as I nodded off to sleep.

As much as I enjoy discovering new places, I also look forward to coming home. Though the Southwest is beautiful, New England is beautiful in its own way. We may not have mountains and cacti in our backyard, but we have other things. Our bed of perennials—Dahlia and Tickseed and Lavender—are in full, glorious bloom. And though they’re not as speedy as the Santa Fe hummingbirds, I seem to remember our own little bird not so long ago, flitting onto our porch, building its nest right outside my kitchen window.

This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2007

Train Troubles

2007-07-31T18:28:00.000-07:00

This summer my daughter joined the ranks of commuters, taking the train from Sharon to her summer job in Back Bay. Recently when I had a meeting in town, I joined her on the 8:16 train. I watched commuters chatting and reading and checking their Blackberrys. It was all rather ordinary until the next stop when I noticed something peculiar. The newly arriving passengers scanned the scene, searching for seats. Though there were plenty of spots, most of the open ones were in hard-to-get-to places in the middle or by the window.

Passengers had to interrupt the aisle-seat people who were chatting and reading and checking their Blackberrys to ask “Is that seat taken?” The aisle-seaters seemed annoyed at having to get up to let the person get by, rolling their eyes, sighing loudly. As the train became more crowded, the aisle-seat-people problem escalated. With commuters crammed in the path, it became more and more difficult to let the new person into the middle or window seat. I couldn’t help but wonder about the aisle-squatters. You’d think they were on a cross-country flight the way they clung to those seats, rather than on a short ride into Boston.

Later that day I shared my observations with my daughter. “Is it always like that?” I asked. She assured me that yes, it was, and went on to report a particularly nasty incident she experienced on a crowded outbound train. Rather than simply moving over, the woman in the aisle seat pushed her way into the path. My daughter was caught up in the whole mess, trying her best to move out of the way so Miss Aisle-Seat could get by and the commuter could squeeze into the middle seat. The woman yelled at my daughter to move, blurting “Go, oh!” in an exaggerated tone, voice rising and then dipping in a wave of sarcasm. But that was exactly the problem. People were packed in like sardines, arms pressed to sides. There was no where to go.

Though it certainly doesn’t justify such thoughtless behavior, I understand why commuter rail riders are frustrated. In the last few weeks alone, my daughter’s train has experienced many minor delays and several major ones. The worst was on a particularly sweltering day, when after finally arriving forty minutes late, a power failure left cars both unlit and without air-conditioning. The train had to make several stops as people were treated for heat stroke. Just last week there was another incident when the 8:16 train just didn’t show up—no notice, no warning—and the next train was late as well.

The good news for my daughter is that this is a temporary annoyance. In a few more weeks, her train troubles will be behind her. She’ll be back at college, commuting to her classes on foot. As for the commuter rail, I’m sure all will continue as it always has, with people waiting anxiously for the train to arrive, clinging to their coveted aisle seats and checking their watches to see how late they’re going to be for work as the train chugs along.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)

Summer Camp Notes

2007-07-14T05:09:00.000-07:00

This summer, as in years past, we’ve stayed in touch with our son through e-mails and Bunk Notes, an online system that delivers notes to campers. Since my son is a Counselor Intern and this is his last year at camp, he’s been pretty good about writing back. He tends to report activities through numbers—Euro (European handball) goals scored, points and assists in basketball, soccer goals, the grand slam he hit over the center fielder’s head.

I was doing fine until his latest e-mail which left me completely confused. Referring to a Sixers draft pick my son noted, “He’s raw but has a chance to be real good, one of those 6’7”- 6’8” athletic swingmen.” Though I got the gist, I’d never heard of the player nor did I know what a swingman was. He continued, “I think the Celtics stole Big Baby. If he can keep himself from becoming another Tractor Trailer he could be really good.”

I was clueless, but curious. Who was this Big Baby character and why did my son think the Celtics stole him? The next day while scanning the sports page, I saw a photo of the Celtics second-round draft pick Glen Davis, the mysterious “Big Baby.” He is 6’9” and weighs between 289 – 295 lbs. Okay, so I got the “Big” part of the nickname, but I still don’t get the “Baby” part.

My husband explained he’d been sharing sports news in the Bunk Notes he’d written to our son. In addition to requesting my son’s feedback on the NBA draft, he wrote about how it was “a joke” that Pat Burrell, barely hitting .200, is the highest paid player on the Phillies ($15 million) while Ryan Howard is only making $350,000. He went on to report Ken Griffey is getting really hot (21 homers) and is hitting close to .300 before adding, “He has 584 homeruns so I don’t think he has any chance of catching Barry which is too bad because he never juiced.”

After reading my husband’s Bunk Notes, I went back and read one of mine. I’d told my son that the new lawnmower was much better than the old broken one and that I’d weeded the garden and gone for a run in Moose Hill. I went on to report I’d watched “Finding Nemo,” saying it was “so cute.” I detailed the dish I’d had while out to dinner with friends—salmon and shrimp with veggies and chunky mashed potatoes—because it was something I thought my son would have liked. I suppose when compared to my husband’s astute commentary on the NBA draft, player compensation discrepancies and the injustice of steroid use, my Bunk Note was pretty pathetic.

My e-mails were even worse. I sent one with “warning: annoying note alert” in the subject heading to give my son a heads-up about its contents. “Please remember to check your tick bite,” I wrote. (My daughter was on antibiotics after a tick bite, so I was understandably concerned). And then, “How’s your high school summer reading coming along?” I realize bringing up school work was pretty weak, but waiting to read all four required books until the last week of summer was a recipe for disaster. So far, my son has tolerated my notes just fine. “I’m a little behind on my summer reading but I’ll catch up next week,” he wrote. He reassured me that the tick-bitten area was fine, and, sensing my concern, kindly suggested I call him if I’m really worried. (I didn’t.)

Though my Bunk Notes are not exactly exciting, on some level I’m sure my son still appreciates them. There is, though, one thing I’ve mastered. No matter how dull my notes are, I always end them well. “Miss you and love you lots. Love, Mom.”

(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)

Cross-Country Discoveries

2007-07-01T15:55:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 1977, my childhood friend Ramona and I set out on a cross-country adventure. As a parent of a daughter who is now the age I was then, I can’t imagine my child going off like that. It was, though, a different time, and whether true or not, things seemed far less dangerous than today.

Perhaps because it was 30 years ago, numbers come to mind when I think back on that trip. We set out on the 4th of July, were gone for 7 weeks, and drove 11,500 miles. We stayed in campgrounds for $5 a night, and paid 50 cents for a gallon of gas. I lost 10 pounds from weeks of hiking and horseback riding, and celebrated my 19th birthday roasting marshmallows over a campfire. By the end, we’d visited 15 national parks, passing through 20 states along the way.

We meticulously planned our trip, researching destinations, trip-ticking our route through AAA, packing critical camping gear—tent, Coleman stove, flashlights, sleeping bags, back packs, hiking boots. We raided our family’s pantries for staples like Oodles of Noodles soup, sardines, Spam, crackers, tuna, dried cereal and trail mix.

In spite of all the planning, there were problems. Hours from our Bethesda, Maryland home, our Toyota Corolla overheated. By the time we reached the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, the campground was full and we were directed to the overflow area behind a rundown gas station. Though exhausted, I was up for hours peeking out the tent opening, clutching my flashlight like a club, reacting to every cough, beep and crunch as I imagined an ax-wielding overflow-camper-killer prowling outside our tent. Ramona, on the other hand, nodded right off to sleep.

After the car problems, we began all long excursions late in the day. To keep awake, the person in the passenger seat would lightly close her eyes, making quiet conversation with the driver while listening to tunes like “Nights in White Satin,” “Sweet Hitchhiker,” and “Light My Fire” from the 8-track tape player we’d set up in the glove box. On one such night while lying outside to rest, I opened my eyes to an incredible mass of stars blanketing the sky. It was like nothing I’d ever seen, and in fact, have never seen anything like it since.

We drove through Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle to Carlsbad Caverns, Mesa Verde, Arches National Park, Bryce Canyon, the Painted Desert and the Grand Canyon. After weeks of camping, we spent two nights in the Las Vegas Caesars Palace, lounging in our pink and purple-decorated hotel room. We had another break from camping in San Francisco when we stayed with my parents at the Fairmont Hotel. After weeks of tent-pitching, it was surreal riding in an elevator while a white-gloved operator graciously guided us to our floor. We then returned to camping and National Park-hopping—Yosemite, Sequoia, Crater Lake, Grand Teton, Yellowstone, and the last leg of our trip to Devils Tower, Mount Rushmore, and the plains across Iowa heading home.

I learned many things that summer. I learned I could live on noodle soup and Spam, at least for a while. I learned I could pitch a tent, change a tire, go on a ten mile hike, and fall asleep with a rock poking into my back. I learned it is great to camp out, but smart to sleep in a car during a thunderstorm or when wolves and bears are close by. I learned that instant coffee tastes amazing after a night sleeping out under the stars.

I learned it is good to have a road map, but important to embrace the possibilities discovered in a detour. I learned that no problem is insurmountable. And I learned that while it is exciting to explore new places, it feels really good to come home.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)

My Grandfather's Garden

2007-06-25T17:59:00.000-07:00

The back door creaks. Grampy grabs the wooden rail and makes his way down the steps to his garden. He is dressed in his usual attire—plaid shirt, belted trousers, wing-tips. He pulls the brim of his straw hat down over squinting eyes. It is morning, and there is work to be done.

He gazes at his garden, at the cherry and magnolia trees to the left, the lavender lilac bushes to the right. He inhales the mix of scents—hollyhock, daylilies, roses, coral bells. His garden is far from orderly. It is wild, overgrown. He likes it that way. He likes how lettuce and tomatoes and pole beans are mixed with peonies and snap dragons. He likes bending under branches and vines, pushing back ferns as he walks the path lined with lilac and red and amber and rose. He likes how things are hidden, how he might have an unexpected encounter with a beetle or a bird, or watch an earthworm digging and wriggling under a stick on the ground.

There is a shuffling sound. A pebble skips across the path. Grampy looks down and sees a familiar furry face. The bob-tailed squirrel sits patiently, back straight, paws drawn together as if in prayer. It waits for the usual handout—scraps of crust, nuts, sunflower seeds. Grampy gently shoos it away, waving a hand, an arm, a leg. The squirrel finally takes the hint, scampering away into the bed of impatiens.

Grampy begins his work—weeding, pruning, planting, watering. He bends down low, pulling a stray brown leaf from a thicket. Nearby the yellow jackets drink the lily-nectar and Monarchs flit from rose petal to rose petal. The blue jay swoops down from the green of the trees, and the warm wind gusts, rustling the leaves. It is hotter now, the sun peeking through cracks in the trees. Grampy rolls up his sleeves and touches the warm drip at the end of his nose. Pulling out his handkerchief, he pats and wipes his face.

The backdoor creaks, a voice gently calls. My grandmother, Gammy, holds a glass of iced tea, mint leaves from the garden floating on top. She is small, frail. Her legs are like sticks, her tummy round, protruding. As always, her gray hair is swept neatly in a knot on the top of her head. She wears her cream-colored suit and her flat white shoes with the little openings at the toes. She is beautiful. “Thank you, Mother,” Grampy says, taking the tea from her hands. He takes a few sips, wipes his forehead, sips some more. “The squirrel was back again today. I think you may be spoiling it.” Gammy covers her smile with a cupped hand. Grampy smiles back, then hands her the empty glass. “I’ll be right in,” he says.

Grampy carries the tin watering can over to the spigot near the winding wisteria, filling it full. His legs are wobbling now, his lower back achy, strained. He lifts the can and turns again to his garden. Though weeded, it is still wild—a tangled mingling of textures and colors and scents. Satisfied with the morning’s work, he heads into the house to water the African violets lined up on the window sills. When that job is done, he will rest.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)

Not All Dads are Handymen

2007-06-15T12:51:00.000-07:00

Father’s Day gift ads are different from the Mother’s Day ads seen several weeks ago. There are no ads for flowers or candy or perfume. Instead, there are promotions for hardware—penknives, golf accessories, fishing paraphernalia. And handyman stuff, lots and lots of handyman stuff.

Many people equate dads with fix-it-up things. Not me. Growing up, I was much more likely to see my mom fixing a door handle, unclogging the bathroom drain or trimming the tree limbs in the front of our house. It was my mom who showed me how to paint a room and change the tire on our family station wagon. My dad, on the other hand, knew how to get things done by knowing who to call—the plumber, the tree guy, AAA.

My husband is slightly above what my dad was in the fix-it-up department. He is, though, infinitely more dangerous, since unlike my dad, he has a desire to tackle home projects. We’d barely moved into our home before my husband went on a hardware shopping spree returning with a drill, a circular saw, a ratchet set, and, of most concern in the hands of an amateur handyman, a chain saw. I was relieved when, after trying the saw a few times, my husband somehow managed to break it, effectively eliminating the chance of any catastrophic incident.

My brother-in-law, who knows how to use a chain saw, is the bona fide fix-it-up guy in our family. His home improvement projects include building a cedar closet, renovating a screened-in porch, and digging a six foot deep pond, complete with stone and cement bottom and waterfall. His signature project is a two-story club house with barn-style roof he built for his son. It is wired for electricity and has a window air conditioner. It even has a wrap-around porch and its own handcrafted mailbox. Basically, the playhouse is nicer than our house.

It’s not that there’s anything terribly wrong with our house, just the usual little imperfections one would expect after years of wear and tear—peeling paint, falling-apart screens, a slightly rotting porch. We were handling all this just fine until recently, when a new family moved into the home behind ours. The guy in that house has put us to complete shame. In a matter of months he’s cleared the trees, grown a perfectly green lawn, built a wooden sand box for his daughter, and erected a shed. His latest edition is a magnificent slate patio lined with flowers and potted plants. As if this weren’t enough, he put down a mulch border and added a comfy-looking hammock. This is all happening, mind you, as we are fixing our broken porch screens with duct tape.

On Father’s Day, as in the past, I’ll choose just the right card for my husband. I’ll head to the deli for his favorite breakfast—bagels, cream cheese and lox. I’ll urge him to play in his regular Sunday morning basketball game and watch a guilt-free day of ESPN. Later, the kids and I will make a nice dinner. This year, though, I think I’ll do something else. Yes, a gift card to Home Depot might help ease the pained look on my husband’s face when he gazes out over our neighbor’s yard.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)

A Book is Just a Click Away

2007-06-14T06:15:00.000-07:00

The recent news about the fate of town libraries brought me close to tears. Struggling with budget cutbacks and unsuccessful proposition 2 ½ overrides, libraries in many towns are being forced to close. Others are losing certification, rendering them islands without a bridge, ferry or even a dingy to connect to the larger library world. For small libraries with older collections, this is essentially a death sentence.

Though small and somewhat cramped, Sharon is fortunate to have a fully certified library open six days a week. Many people appreciate Sharon’s connection to the public library system. For those less familiar, the Old Colony Library Network, of which Sharon is a member, is a group of 28 member libraries on the South Shore that collectively maintains over 800,000 titles of books, books-on-tape, CDs and DVDs.

While I regularly use the town library, I also buy my share of books. Many of my purchases, though, seem to end up in a pile—sometimes for years—before I get around to reading them. My wasteful book-buying habits and limited shelf space has led me to a different approach, one that combines the pleasurable aspects of bookstore browsing with the advantages of the library network. I’ll scan the store shelves, pull out my notebook, and jot down the names of books or authors that interest me. Then I’ll log on to the library network (www.ocln.org) and order the books for free.

It was while scrolling through the library network’s Pulitzer Prize winners list that I discovered Alison Lurie’s 1979 novel “Foreign Affairs,” an old-fashioned Jane Austen-ish tale of manners and relationships set in London. After finishing it, I placed holds on some of Lurie’s other books. Though none of the others quite matched her prize winner, I didn’t pay a penny for any of them.
I recently had another successful library network experience after reading the “New Yorker” short story “One Minus One” by Irish author Colm Toibin. I was immediately pulled in by the first line, “the moon hangs low over Texas,” and after passing it to my husband with an urgent plea—“you have to read this”—I logged onto the library network and got the last available copy of Toibin’s new collection of short stories, “Mothers and Sons.”

On the same day I learned of the library closures, I read an article about author Elaine Dundy, the so-called spiritual grandmother of Bridget Jones. The hapless heroine of Dundy’s 1958 semi-autobiographical novel was described as a cross between Holly Golightly and Holden Caulfield. Intrigued, I logged onto the library network and typed in the name of the novel. Sadly, it came up empty. Undeterred, I tried typing in the author’s name, and was rewarded with details about the one copy of the book available at the Kingston library. It was then that I realized my initial mistake—I’d spelled the velvety rich ingredient in guacamole ‘avacado.’ For the record, the correct title and spelling of Dundy’s recently re-issued novel is “The Dud Avocado.”

Laughing at my blunder, I quickly clicked on ‘place a hold’ before any other early Sunday morning riser-readers snatched it up. And now I will sit back and eagerly await the message that will soon arrive in my e-mail box, announcing that my book is ready for pick-up.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)

Watching a Bird at Work

2007-05-29T13:06:00.000-07:00

There is a hole in our porch screen. It is not the kind of hole you might see after years of wind and rain and harsh winter weather. No, this is a purposely formed opening made by folding the screen corner back into a perfect triangle.

The day before the hole was made I was sitting on the porch, reading. As is often the case this time of year, I heard a bird flitting and tweeting and rustling about. As the noise came closer, I looked down and saw a small bird coming in through one of the floor-to-ceiling screens that had pulled from the silver latches that once held it in place.

This particular screen had come completely out of its socket, and was held precariously upright by a porch chair. I tried to quiet myself, taking in the tiniest of breaths so as to not disturb the bird. I watched as it moved in an unusual combination of flitting and hopping from the floor to the wicker chair to the hanging basket, and then finally, up to the ledge in the corner of the ceiling. It was there that the bird had built its nest.

I watched the bird bob up and down, up and down, and wondered what it was doing. Was it stuffing a small stick or seed into the nest, or perhaps feeding something to little ones snuggled inside? The bird then reversed itself, flit-hopping from the nest to the basket, to the chair, to the floor, before making its way out the opening in the screen.

A few minutes after I’d returned to my book I heard the bird’s tweeting grow loud, louder, and then saw it again appear through the screen opening. I watched in wonder as it repeated its routine flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest. It bobbed up and down as it did its work, and again made its way down and out as before. During the next fifteen minutes, the bird repeated its routine at least a dozen times. Needless to say, I did not get much reading done.

Later that day my husband announced, “I’m going to Home Depot tomorrow to get some duck tape and finally fix those porch screens.”

“No, you can’t do that!” I said, panicked, and then seeing the confused look on my husband’s face I explained the whole thing about the bird and the flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest. Though my husband got the duck tape, he adjusted his fix-it-up plan. He smoothed the tape around the edges of all the broken screens. And then, with the care and skill of an expert architect, he carefully pulled back the lower left corner of the bird’s screen creating a perfect triangle opening.

That afternoon I watched from the kitchen window, looking for the bird. Though the new opening was plenty wide, I wanted to be sure that we’d not disturbed its routine. I soon heard the familiar tweet. The bird was back. It easily made its way through the triangle-hole, flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest and back down and out again.

We are all on lookout these days—watching and waiting, wondering what’s next.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)

The Trees and the Forest

2007-05-17T19:37:00.000-07:00

There are two kinds of people—those who focus on the forest, and those who see the trees. I am a tree person. I always have been. It’s not that I don’t value the forest or appreciate its importance. Quite the contrary. I’ve spent a good part of my life trying, as best I can, to be more of a forest person. And though over the years I’ve become better at viewing the whole, it is not something that comes naturally to me. I suppose it never will. But oh, I see the trees, with such ease…

I’ve always felt that my tendency to drift to the minutiae in life was a shameful flaw, something that required correction like blurry vision or crooked teeth. The old saying, ‘you can’t see the forest for the trees’ implies that those who attend to details miss the critical global picture. While there may be some truth to that, the reverse is also true. Those who focus solely on the larger perspective miss the important little stuff—the ordinary snippets that make up life.

My fascination with detail goes way back. As a school kid, I felt great satisfaction when, after countless mistakes, I finally solved an algebra problem. I remember my obsession with a particularly tedious high school art project where I copied the pointillism technique of painter Georges Seurat, dabbing hundreds of tiny dots with the tip of my brush to create a picture. And while I can’t say I enjoyed memorizing dates and useless facts, it is something that came fairly easily to me.

Even now, in my professional life, I have to gear up for work that requires a broader mindset. For the most part I manage this forest-related work quite well. But the things I most enjoy require steadfast attention to detail—proofreading, editing, developing work plans, coordinating events, writing proposals and project reports—dull, thankless tasks to many people, but not to me.

In my personal life, I enjoy organizing things, making lists, tidying up chaos. Attention to detail has its positive side, as I have a complete photographic record of my family life—first feedings and steps, birthdays, school concerts, snowstorms, Halloween, Christmas, family vacations to places like Puerto Rico, Wellfleet and Acadia, Nova Scotia, San Francisco, and the Grand Canyon.

The inner workings of my meticulous mind are preserved in my journals—one for jotting amusing quotes from my kids, another for copying favorite passages from books, one for my attempts at poetry, still another (kept in my purse) to capture ideas that come to me throughout the course of the day. I am at the peak of bliss in these moments. What could possibly be better to a tree person than to mull over details, pore over phrases, wonder over words? To spend endless hours writing, revising, editing, getting everything ‘just so.’ To conjure up, not just an adequate word, but a preeminent one—the one that was meant to be written, the one that perfectly, wholly expresses.

But of course a person’s focus in life isn’t really as simple as forest vs. trees. There are many intriguing shades in between, and shifts at different points along the way. The extremes are merely tendencies, the way we might view a situation, tackle a problem, notice (or ignore) something that crosses our path. As for me—I tend toward the trees, I bend into branches, I lean into leaves. I suppose I always will.

Best Time to Be a Mom is Now

2007-05-15T10:21:00.000-07:00

The other day my 16-year-old son and I were driving down our street when I spotted a young boy scooting along in his Little Tykes car. The sight of my now-driving son alongside the toddler-driver no doubt struck me. “Oh look, how cute,” I cooed. The boy looked up at us, brown eyes peering from under shaggy bangs.

My son looked over and smiled. “Do you ever wish I were that small again?” he asked. I said that while I remember with fondness the days when he and his sister were little, I like where I am now, where they are now. “No, I wouldn’t want to return to those days. Too much work,” I said. My son didn’t get it. “You mean you wouldn’t ever want to go back?” he asked, incredulous. I told him I’d go back for a day—that’s it. I wouldn’t want to relive my life.

For me, the best time as a mother has always been “now.” It was now when my children were newborn, curled up soft and sweet and warm in my arms. It was now when they first smiled and talked and took their first steps. It was now when they boarded the bus for school, and when they went away to overnight camp. It was now when I read to them at night, and when they learned to read by themselves.

It was now when they wrote a story, painted a picture, kicked a ball, sang a song. It was now when they had playmates and when they developed deep, lasting friendships. It was now even through the bad times—the tempers and tantrums and worries and stress—those challenging moments that made everything seem better by comparison.

Everything I’ve lived through, everything I’ve experienced as a mother to my children over the years has prepared me for now. And this current stage, having grown or almost-grown children, is about as good as it gets. I love seeing my children in the midst of life—experimenting, challenging, learning, growing. I love watching and wondering what’s next for them—friends they’ll meet, careers they’ll choose, places they’ll visit, families they’ll have. I love how my children and I can talk about anything, how we can be serious and funny, quiet and loud. I love all of that.

Yes, for me, the best time as a mother has always been now. I think I’ll say the same thing next year, and the year after that, and all the years that follow. At least I hope I will.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)

The Downside of Distance

2007-05-14T11:44:00.000-07:00

One of the most shameful moments in my childhood occurred on an otherwise beautiful spring day. Though much is lost to time and memory, there are some things about which I am certain. I know it was spring because cherry blossoms lined both sides of the street, one brilliantly blooming tree after the other. I know it was afternoon because I was walking home from school with my friends. And I know my silence contributed to a young girl’s pain.

A group of boys walking ahead of me spotted a girl across the street, a classmate who was often picked on. They yelled cruel taunts, then laughed and yelled some more. The girl turned briefly toward the boys and shouted something back. She was far enough away that I couldn’t clearly see her face. But her slumped shoulders and quivering, cracked voice left no doubt that she was crying. I continued to walk and look and listen and breathe in the scent of the blossoms, and then turned the corner up the street to my house.

I’m not sure what brought this sad childhood memory back to me after all these years. Perhaps it is because I’ve been thinking how distance makes people do and say things they wouldn’t otherwise do or say.

Distance made it possible for radio talk show host Don Imus—hidden behind his headphones—to spew sexist, racist comments about the Rutgers women’s basketball team. He would have never dared to say such things directly. His face-to-face meeting of apology, though of questionable sincerity, was no doubt far different in tone from his disgraceful on-air behavior.

Distance makes drivers do things they’d never consider if they were not in their cars, safely removed from the target of their rage. Can you imagine someone cursing and yelling at a person for moving too slowly on the sidewalk? It just wouldn’t happen. But people feel free to rant and rave, speeding along anonymously down the highway.

The distance of modern communication enables people to say things better left unsaid. When I was a kid I was told if you can’t say something nice about someone then don’t say anything at all. That rule still applies, but these days we need to add another one— “don’t e-mail, instant message, blog or text message anything you wouldn’t say to someone’s face.”

It is far too easy to send off an angry e-mail from the safety of a computer screen. It happens so quickly, takes little thought. I would have forever damaged friendships had I had access to a computer growing up. I remember times when, after fighting with a friend, I’d scribble a letter in a fit of anger. But by the time I’d poured out my feelings, folded the note, stuffed and licked the envelope and made my way to the corner mailbox, I no longer felt the need to send it.

I got a break from distance this past week, spending some slow quiet time walking around the block with my husband, taking in the beauty of these early spring days. Though there are no cherry blossoms on our street, the forsythia bush is starting to bloom and the tulips are beginning to poke through the beds. Up close, I notice things—a cardinal resting on a branch, a man raking his yard, a little dog running down the street. I see the smiles on my neighbors’ faces, I stop to say hello. Up close is different than distance. Up close I can see and hear and feel so many things.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)

Running For My Life

2007-05-13T11:32:00.000-07:00

This spring marks a major milestone in my life. It has been 10 years since I joined the ranks of runners, those nutty souls who brave wind and rain and cold, pounding the pavement just to break a sweat (and keep sane.)

I was late coming to this madness, well into midlife before the running bug got hold of me. It wasn’t as if I’d never been active. As a child I took swim lessons and diving, modern dance and ballet. Mostly I did the kind of non-structured activity—i.e. play—more popular back in the old days. I rode my red Schwinn around our cul-de-sac, and played kick-the-can, hide and seek and four square with the neighborhood kids from dawn till dusk.

Though active, I was never a real athlete. While I made my eighth-grade basketball team, I spent all but a few minutes of the entire season sitting on the bench. When I think about it, my stint as a bench warmer was the beginning of my more-or-less sedentary lifestyle that carried into adulthood.

I made meager attempts at establishing an exercise routine. In college, I joined a group of friends on weekend runs around the reservoir near Boston College. That lasted a few weeks. Senior year, my roommates and I took a jazz dance class. After some initial self-consciousness—it was hard dancing in front of a wall-sized mirror wearing a body-hugging leotard—I actually enjoyed it. Jazz dance, though, was not something I continued on my own, so after the class ended I reverted to my slothful ways.

In the early ‘80s I wore my Flashdance outfit, complete with white Reeboks and leg warmers, for my twice-a-week aerobics class. I jumped and kicked and sweated and twirled to the tunes of Wham. I felt the Jane Fonda burn. That routine lasted a few months.

Years later after the birth of my second child, I finally reached a day of reckoning. I knew I had to do something to get in shape. I began by walking—not the arm-pumping, power crazed sort—but the old-fashioned kind, one foot in front of the other. I’d finally found a routine I could stick with, and for years I was fairly consistent, walking several times a week. One day out of the blue, I persuaded myself to run to a tree in the distance. I walked for a few minutes and then ran to the next tree. By the third day of my walk-run routine, I was running three miles without stopping.

Once I had some running success, I actually enjoyed it. I felt energized, fit. Unlike all my previous attempts at exercise, running didn’t feel like a chore. It had become a part of my life. A few months later, I ran my first 5K race, and ran several 10Ks after that. Four years later I trained with a group of runners for the Boston Marathon raising money for a community mental health center.

Since I was sidelined with a knee injury six weeks before the race, the longest training run I was able to complete was 16 miles. When I stood at the starting line on Marathon Monday I hoped to run a few miles while taking in the excitement and cheers of the crowd. Somehow I managed to finish—a mind over matter thing, I suppose.

Though I’ll probably never run another marathon, I haven’t ruled out some shorter distance races in the future. Mostly I just feel lucky to have found a physical activity that I love. On cold or wet or oppressively humid days, I sometimes have to talk myself into getting out the door. I usually manage to do it, especially when I know my running partner is waiting for me. I run for all kinds of reasons—my health and my heart and my head. Mostly, I run for my life. Sometimes I regret all I missed out on in my younger, sedentary days. But being a late bloomer has its advantages. Spared from years of pounding the pavement, I may just have another thirty years of running left in me.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)

Adjusting to Life's Changes

2007-04-17T19:22:00.000-07:00

Years ago while visiting Tucson I decided to go for a run in a park near my hotel. After less than a mile, I could barely catch my breath. Though hot, it wasn’t oppressive. What made the run so grueling was the air—it was as dry as the desert that surrounded me. Other runners were making their way around the loop, no problem. Clearly they were used to the dryness, their lungs easily filling with air.

Later as I sat outside with some of the local residents, I noticed that they were dressed in long pants, sweaters buttoned at their necks. I, on the other hand, felt warm in my short-sleeved blouse and skirt. Long sleeves were the usual attire for this “cooler” time of year, they said. It didn’t matter that it was 80 degrees. It was March, and for them, it was winter.

We make many adjustments throughout our lives. Sometimes it is a physical one, like getting used to a new climate or recovering from an injury. Other times it is an emotional one. I was thinking about this whole idea of adjustments as I look forward to my daughter’s visit home from college over spring break. She and I are getting quite good at leaving and reconnecting, this being our fifth such time since she left for college. Yes, we are now experts.

That was not the case last fall. Then it was all so new—exciting, but uncertain. There were many things she didn’t know. Would she get along with her roommate, make new friends? Would she like her classes? Would she miss her old friends, her family? Would she be bored in a small school in the middle of nowhere? Would she be happy? And I asked all the same questions for her, as well as another—would I be okay when she was gone?

Both of us have made adjustments along the way. Though my daughter had little in common with her quiet, painfully shy roommate, they got along well enough to live together. She liked most of her classes and, through perseverance, was able to get into a creative writing course second semester. She stayed in touch with her high school friends, even going with a group of them to visit a friend at college in Montreal. She drifted from some friends she made in the fall, and found a core group of close friends. She missed her family, but called to check in, say hello.

I, too, had to deal with changes. I had to adjust to my daughter just not being around, not hearing her voice, her laughter. I had to get used to a new way of life. Someone recently asked me how I was adjusting to my daughter being away at college. My answer was different from the one I would have given last fall. Then I could only think of that day we dropped her off, how she stood in her dorm room surrounded by boxes and blankets and bags. And we drove away wondering if everything was going to be all right. My answer was different from the response I would have given a few months later. Then I would have said I was coping, I was managing, I was “getting along.”

No, this time my answer was strong, unwavering. Though I miss her, I have entered a new state—peaceful, settled. I have reached a level of unmitigated acceptance. I am really, truly, okay. If I were in Tucson, I’d be running around that loop, no problem. I’d be pulling my sleeves down over my wrists, buttoning my collar. I’d be breathing in the fine dry air and taking in the last bit of coolness before spring.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)

Green With Lawn Envy

2007-04-08T13:39:00.000-07:00

There was a time long ago when we had a front lawn. It was back in the days when our kids were little, and little feet traipsed across the yard in mini-steps chasing a ball or a butterfly or a shadow. We’d set up the sprinkler on designated odd or even days, dragging it every twenty minutes to a different part of the yard. On alternate days we’d hold the hose, thumb over the end, creating a fine mist, helping our grass stay green.

The backyard was always a different story. With towering oaks and pines and the flowering magnolia tree, the grass out back never had a chance. And taking far too long to rake ankle-deep leaves each fall undoubtedly contributed to the sparseness. Our backyard has always been a haven for lawn-killing activities—Whiffle ball, soccer, football, even golf, with my son digging holes in strategic places, creating his own private par-3 course. I never minded so much that we didn’t have a beautiful backyard. After all, it was in the back, hidden away from leering, judging eyes.

I’m not exactly sure when, but at some point my son decided the front yard was a better venue for football. Every season—even in winter—it was the designated place for neighborhood weekend games. Over time, bit by bit, the lawn began to disappear, and a mixture of dirt and crab grass sprung up in its place. My husband and I debated what to do about it. Putting down harmful pesticides was out of the question. But even an environmentally friendly fix-it-up-job would require blocking off the yard to allow time for the grass seed to take. We decided even that was too much. Somehow it just didn’t seem right to make the Gillette stadium of the neighborhood “off limits.”

I was fine with my front yard, I’d really come to accept it, until this spring when I looked up and down my street and saw lawn after lawn of luscious green. Though all my neighbors’ lawns are nice, one in particular stands out. The grass is carpet-thick, and is so bright you need sunglasses to shield your eyes when gazing upon it—even on rainy days. When I’m feeling particularly spiteful, I say things to soothe myself. “It’s only perfect because they use Chem-Lawn.” Or, “they probably have no life—they’re slaves to their lawn.” I scowl when I walk by, hissing at its haughty, proud perfection. “It’s so fake,” I say to myself. “Like a movie star who gets a face lift, tummy tuck and Botox injections. Who would possibly want to do that?” And then I walk away, glancing nonchalantly over my shoulder at the brilliant, gleaming green.

A few weeks ago, my husband took at stab at fixing our mess of a lawn. He raked up the crab grass and put down kid-friendly fertilizer and grass seed. But even with all the rain, nothing took. Zilch. It wouldn’t be so bad if our poor excuse for a lawn blended in with the neighborhood, but with the lawns around ours so thick and lush, ours sticks out like a sore thumb. It is nothing but dirt and tufts of different textures and colors—like a bad hair-coloring job.

Though disheartened, I try to focus on the positive. Having no lawn has its advantages. There’s hardly any mowing to speak of, and no need to haul out the sprinkler on hot summer days. There’s no need to obsess about the weather, no losing sleep over a drought or worrying about the stretch of rain that makes mowing impossible. When I think about it, there’s really only one drawback to our skimpy lawn—it looks really, really bad.

I suppose I’ll just have to wait for the fall, when our dirt patches and crab grass tufts will be mercifully hidden under brown and yellow and orange oak leaves. And I’ll pray for a hearty winter—the treacherous snowy kind we’ve had in year’s past—so our lawn will be covered in a blanket of white, blending in with all the others.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)

First Lines that will Last and Last

2007-04-04T13:49:00.000-07:00

First lines in stories are like first impressions. Good ones intrigue. They pull us in, make us eager to get to know the story, to learn what happens next. Here are some of my favorite first lines from great classic and contemporary stories I’ve read over the years. Some are simple, others elaborate. All of them are unforgettable. Except for the first one—my hands-down favorite first line of all time—they are in no particular order.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

“The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida.”—Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find.

“ ‘Where’s Papa going with that ax?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”—E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”—Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

“Maggie and Ira Moran had to go to a funeral in Deer Lick, Pennsylvania.”—Anne Tyler, Breathing Lessons.

“In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.”—F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned.

“I am an invisible man.” —Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

“The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal.”—Kurt Vonnegut, Harrison Bergeron.

“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield

“This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend the night.”—Raymond Carver, Cathedral.

“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.”—John Irving, A Prayer For Owen Meany.

“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.”—Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind.

“It was a pleasure to burn.”—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.

“On the afternoon of October 12, 1990, my twin brother Thomas entered the Three Rivers, Connecticut Public Library, retreated to one of the rear study carrels, and prayed to God the sacrifice he was about to commit would be deemed acceptable.”—Wally Lamb, I Know This Much Is True.

“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”—Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome.

“First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey.”—Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

“124 was spiteful.” —Toni Morrison, Beloved

“ ‘Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,’ ” said Mrs. Ramsay.—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse.

“It was late and every one had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light.”—Ernest Hemingway, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.

“Theodore is in the ground.”—Caleb Carr, The Alienist.

“I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man.” —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground.

“In the next room Pavel Romanovich was roaring with laughter, as he related how his wife had left him.”—Vladimir Nabokov, A Slice of Life.

“Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in East-Central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn’t yet met.”—Dave Eggers, We Shall Know Our Velocity.

“This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Offshore Pirate.

“Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board.” —Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God.

“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.” —George Eliot, Middlemarch

“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

“The telephone rang, and Richard Maple, who had stayed home from work this Friday because of a cold, answered it: ‘Hello?’”—John Updike, Your Lover Just Called.

“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.”—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady.

“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.”—Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.

“In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.” —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

A Too-Quiet Summer

2007-04-02T13:44:00.000-07:00

Summers tend to be more relaxed, less hectic, quieter. This is the case in our home, especially this year with our son at overnight camp for the summer. I’ve noticed lots of changes. Trips to the grocery store have been simpler—less frequent, with far fewer items to purchase. Cooking, too, has been a breeze. And there are long stretches when I can hear the ‘quiet sounds’ of crickets, birds, even the gently blowing wind. As much as I welcome the reduced shopping and cooking load, and savor the quiet moments, I’m feeling a bit out of sorts without our son. Yes, things are quite different around here without him.

It’s been weeks since I’ve bought things like Boar’s Head Cajun turkey breast and sub rolls, Gatorade and Gushers. I can’t remember the last time I bought double-stuff Oreos or Restaurant-style salsa and Tostitos. And while we’ve had a carton or two of ice cream in the freezer over the past few weeks, there has been no cookie dough ice cream purchased in a very long time.

In addition to different grocery purchases, things just seem to last longer. I haven’t had to run out between grocery-shopping trips for a gallon of milk or carton of orange juice. There has been no dwindling of our Ovaltine supply. Dinners have been different too. I haven’t once made shrimp-meat combo tacos or grilled chicken wings with special spicy sauce. I haven’t, as times in the past, made two different spaghetti sauces to cover everyone’s tastes, nor have I cooked my son’s favorite “good kind” of pasta—the expensive brand with the squiggles.

And there’s another thing about life in our house these days. It is just so, what’s the word?—Quiet. Too quiet. I miss the drone of all those ESPN shows—Mike & Mike in the Morning, Around the Horn, Pardon the Interruption, Stump the Schwab—and all the other sounds of TV sports. I miss the piercing screams drifting from the basement following a clutch play on Madden Xbox 360. I miss the basketball bouncing on the driveway, the tap of the Whiffle ball in the backyard. I miss the horde of boys rushing in and out of our house, raiding our refrigerator, going through our cases of bottled water, leaving muddy tracks on the kitchen floor (and the door open behind them). I miss the sounds of their arguments—who fouled who, who was safe, and who was out.

Getting news from camp helps. This summer, our son has been a top-notch communicator, bordering on prolific. Clearly, having access to e-mail has made writing home far less painful for him. We’re getting real news this year, unlike in past years when we were lucky if we got a four-line note, three lines of which were requests to send things (i.e. home-baked chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Swedish fish, another can of tennis balls).

This year we’re hearing about all kinds of activities like waterskiing and knee-boarding. We’re hearing about the drives, points and assists in basketball, the catches and runs in softball, the goals in Euro (European handball). We’re hearing about the tennis matches, including the 6 foot 3 inch opponent who hit winners up the line. We’re getting word of the late-night 5 on 5 basketball games in the Rec Hall. We’re not just hearing about the soccer goals, we’re hearing about the left foot finish off a cross, and the one kicked in the corner from 16 yards away. Basically, we’re getting a complete play-by-play analysis of all his league sports, up to and including final scores. This is quality reporting right up there with ESPN.

Given our son’s particularly fine palate, we’re also hearing about the non-camp food treats—the pizza, the Caribbean jerk and teriyaki sauces on spare ribs, steak, shrimp, calamari, and mahi-mahi (from a special trip to a real-food restaurant.) I’m sure our son is taking mental notes to share with us upon his return, with suggestions on sauces and spices to enhance future home-cooked meals.

This year, we get to take our son out of camp on visiting day. We’ll probably take a trip to a north shore beach. Though we won’t be doing any knee-boarding (I think you get pulled by a motor boat for that), we’ll bring the boogie boards and keep our fingers crossed for some decent waves. And we’ll be sure to treat him (and us) to a delicious non-camp meal, like those famous fried clams and onion rings at Woodman’s in Essex, topped off with some homemade cookie dough ice cream (for him). Yes, that sounds like an excellent plan.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)

Graduation and the Wings of Time

2007-04-01T06:58:00.000-07:00

Time flies. Like most clichés, this saying, though tired, common and trite, is also in many ways true. But not all time soars like a bird across the sky. Only some time does. When we anxiously await an outcome, time goes slowly. When we are bored, time creeps along. When we ache, worry or feel sad, time stands as still as a flag on a windless day.

When we are creating, working, doing - time goes fast. When things are going well, everything's over in an instant, before we even realize we were happy. Just when we yearn for more, time picks up the pace, sprinting in long, fine strides. The time at the end of things seems to go most quickly. When desires and dreams come true, time spreads its mighty wings. Such is the irony of life. When it goes along as we want it to, it just slips by.

Somehow it's happened to me - the living, the slipping. My daughter, she is wearing a white gown, square cap perched on her head. It is not her style, not at all. She likes worn jeans and striped shirts and layers and flat shoes. She likes colorful knit hats - orange ones, red ones - worn slightly askew. She likes 'different.'

But I see her beneath the flowing drapes, behind the tassel that swishes and sways. I see her sweet round face, glistening eyes, wide smile. I see her life - chances and choices and possibilities - floating before her, within her.

She will soon leave for college. This summer, I know, like the end of all good things, will go quickly. She will live away from home, far enough away that we will have to drive several hours to see her. As hard as this is, nothing should be different. There should be no adjustments or modifications. There should be no hesitation or remorse. It hurts, but it is okay. Everything is just as it should be.

Though time is responsible for all of this, time will also be my friend. It is when I'm immersed in the slower passages of it, when I think and worry and wonder, that I will get used to it all. In these quiet moments I will come to terms. I will remember, and I will smile.

I see a toddler, curls bouncing, clutching her own hand while trying to cross the street. Is this really going to keep her safe? She thinks so. She knows it. I see a little girl writing a story about a patch-eyed pirate, carefully drawing its face on the cover. I see backyard birthday parties and family vacations to Puerto Rico and Nova Scotia and the Cape, to Montreal and San Francisco and the Grand Canyon.

I see her with her friends, laughing and singing and borrowing each other's clothes. I see a young woman -adventurous, unafraid - pleading to go to the beach, to a Guster concert, to New York City, to visit a friend in Florida.

I see her on the high school stage dressed in black like the others. I watch the movements, hear the chants, see the lights brighten and then dim. I feel the power, the pride. I listen as she sings her favorite Broadway tunes from Ragtime and Les Misérables, serenading me as we head down the highway to visit another college. At home, I see her tapping on computer keys, lost in thought, immersed in her made-up world. I watch an incredible creation in the making.

There is bustling and laughter as we gather in the dining room, putting out plates, settling in our seats. I hear the dinner table debates and squabbles, the clanking and clearing of the dishes. I see my daughter with her younger brother - how very different they are - teasing, fighting, growing close, caring about each other. I feel the quiet warmth of these moments of just being together.

I remember all of this. I remember, and I smile.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)

Pondering March Madness Picks

2007-03-30T12:28:00.000-07:00

This year I did something I’ve never done before. I filled out my very own March Madness brackets. The picking of winners in the NCAA tournament has been a ritual in my home for as long as I can remember. As in years past, my husband and son pondered—no, painstakingly labored—over their picks, considering things like player and coach quality, tournament history statistics and testimony from columnists and ESPN commentators before printing out on their web-site generated brackets form. Their picks were chosen with the wisdom and meticulous care only the most compulsive college basketball fans possess. I, on the other hand, did something only slightly more sophisticated than eanie meanie minie mo before scribbling my picks on the newspaper brackets sheet.

The one bit of information I paid attention to were the seeds, the ratings between 1 and 16 assigned to teams in each region based on records and schedules. I stubbornly ignored the advice of the handicapping help sidebar, information that included statistics and tournament history to supposedly help pick the winners. I paid no attention to things like the top 25 teams by region, nor did I check last year’s tournament record that showed the Big East with more bids, first round wins and a higher winning percentage than the Big 12 or Pac 10.

I ignored information about the Final Four berths and national titles from the past twenty years. And I skipped over the seeds of hope section that revealed the not-so-surprising news that #1 seeds had a winning percentage of almost 80% as compared to a 0% winning record for the #16 seeds. No, these things I looked at only afterwards in a useless attempt to understand what my husband and son deem critical to the successful pick process.

Though I wasn’t as knowledgeable as the men in my family, I took the whole thing quite seriously. I wanted to take some risks—to show some guts, so to speak—so I chose a few upsets in the first round. My heart played somewhat into the process as I picked my childhood hometown teams to go far—Georgetown to the Elite Eight and Maryland to the Final Four. My other Final Four picks included Pittsburgh, Texas and Louisville, this last pick made because—and this is one thing I know—Rick Pitino is a great college coach.

Sentiment also played into my pick for the overall tournament winner. One of the few players I’d heard of was A.J. Abrams, a guard for the Texas Longhorns, and for reasons that might seem both silly and obvious, I was rooting for him. For this namesake reason—in addition to the presence of freshman phenomenon Kevin Durant—Texas was my choice to win it all.

It wasn’t until I’d finished my picks that I realized I’d failed to have any # 1 seeds make it beyond the Sweet Sixteen. Not too smart in retrospect, a scenario that would no doubt leave bracketology experts snickering and shuddering and shaking their heads. But I’d scribbled my picks in ink, so that was that.

So how have I fared so far? The good news is that eleven of my picks made it to the Sweet Sixteen. The bad news? Three of my Final Four picks were knocked out, including Texas. Though my picks were admittedly pathetic, it was fun following it all, rooting for teams that, with a mere stroke of a pen, became “mine.” And I will definitely fill out my brackets next near, though only after analyzing every last tournament trend, record and statistic from the beginning of time.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)

The World of iPods

2007-03-20T19:24:00.000-07:00

It is only recently I’ve learned to appreciate iPods. I know I’m coming to this rather late, seeing as how they’ve been around for years. Though I hate to admit it, this coming-to-things-late tendency is fast becoming my M.O. I watched the television show “24” for the first time a few weeks ago (the premier of its sixth season), was one of the last people I know to get a DVD player, and have yet to trade my bulky Canon for a digital camera. My children got their iPods fairly recently — my daughter for her high school graduation last spring, and my son this past Christmas — so that may partially explain my limited iPod knowledge.

When my daughter got her iPod, I didn’t pay much attention. I never learned how it worked, and since she always had it with her and was rarely home, there weren’t many opportunities to check it out. My first real introduction to the wonders of iPods came earlier this year, when my son called me over to his shiny new black one.

“You’ve gotta see this, Mom,” he said, motioning to me as he clutched his iPod. He was watching a mini-football game — the 2007 Fiesta Bowl, to be exact — on the tiny 1.5 by 2 inch screen. The iPod downloaded version of the game contained 25 minutes of highlights, including Boise State’s trick behind-the-back handoff “Statue of Liberty” two-point conversion play that led to their victory over Oklahoma in overtime. I was immediately pulled in. Though the picture was tiny, it was incredibly clear. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was all quite amazing.

He then showed me some songs he’d downloaded, and how they were organized. Later, when I saw his iPod lying around, I scrolled through it, flicking to bands and songs, running the tip of my finger around the circular touch pad at the bottom. I tried to imagine listening to my music, white wires dangling from my ears. It took about five minutes before I knew I had to — someday — get one.

The greatest part is how everything is so organized. For someone like me, this is incredibly appealing. At the peak of my record collecting days, I was obsessed with sorting, storing my LPs alphabetically in plastic bins. Though it was rather neurotic, it was comforting to know I could always find Jackson Browne next to the Allman Brothers, the Eagles alongside Fleetwood Mac.
By the time I transitioned to CDs, I’d relaxed my organizing system somewhat, grouping them by type — one shelf for rock, one for classical, another for Broadway shows, and so on. Though I didn’t go crazy if my CDs were inadvertently misplaced, I tried to keep some semblance of order.

Invariably, though, someone (i.e. husband, child) would swipe a CD, leaving the plastic case either empty or with a CD that I was not at all interested in listening to. To me, the #1 advantage of an iPod is never again suffering the infuriation of the CD swipe-and-switch.

Just as I’m beginning to understand iPods, Apple announced a new gadget — the iPhone. Though it won’t be released until June, it is all the rage. The main appeal, in addition to its sleek touch-pad design, is its multi-use capabilities. It has everything people on the go deem essential — a mobile phone, e-mail, usable Web access, text messaging, and yes, an iPod.

And, unlike some multi-use gadgets, the iPhone is user-friendly. The 3.5-inch screen morphs into whatever you need. Touch the music icon, and up pops your music collection that you can flip through by album cover. Touch the text-messaging icon, and you see messages arranged by recipient and a fully functional keyboard. The Web browser displays real Web pages, ones that you can actually read.

Though I don’t plan on getting an iPhone — at $600 it is far too expensive — I’m definitely putting in a plug for an iPod. Maybe this summer, for my birthday, I could get one. By then the credit cards will be paid down from all the holiday gifts, car repairs, vacations and college textbook charges. Maybe if I hint and plead and petition and beg — maybe then someone will get the message. It sure is worth a try.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)

A Beautiful Beyond-Basketball Story

2007-03-18T06:43:00.000-07:00

Basketball is a huge topic of discussion in my house these days. It is, after all, the beginning of March Madness when the top college teams battle it out for the National Championship. My husband and son will soon be feverishly working on their brackets, making picks, predicting upsets. As always, I'll root for my alma mater, Boston College, as well as an assortment of likely-win favorites and underdogs. Nothing, though, not even a major upset like a #20 seed knocking off Duke or U-Conn will move me as much as the story about the kid from the little town outside Rochester, New York.

For those who may have been in hibernation, the story is about Jason McElwain, the 5 foot 6 inch Greece Athena high school student who has autism. For the past two years as basketball team manager, Jason has been an enthusiastic supporter - keeping statistics, handing out towels, fetching water bottles, encouraging his teammates. He never missed a practice, made all but one game. For the last home game of the regular season, Coach Jim Johnson decided to give Jason, a senior, a chance to feel what it was like to sit on the bench wearing a uniform instead of his usual white shirt and black tie.

With four minutes left, Coach Johnson sent Jason into the game, hoping he might somehow get a basket, make a memory. After missing his first two shots, Jason got unbelievably hot, hitting a 3-pointer, and then another and another and another. In four minutes, he'd drained six 3-pointers and scored 20 points, tying a school record. His final shot, a nothing-but-net NBA distance 3-pointer swished through as time expired. The crowd went crazy, storming onto the court, surrounding him in a wild frenzy, as they whooped and cheered. It was a moment of pure magic.

There is so much to like about this story it is hard to know where to begin. With all the problems I've both witnessed and read about in youth sports these days - coaches yelling and berating, parents whining and interfering, fans complaining about calls-here was a refreshing example of the polar opposite. This story is a life lesson for coaches, teammates, fans and communities on how to do things right.

Here is a coach who showed compassion, giving a dedicated hard-working kid a chance at a dream. Here are players enthusiastically supporting their teammate/manager who they fondly refer to as 'J-Mac.' Here are fans - on both sides of the court - cheering, encouraging. And here is a kid, against all odds, achieving what he never dreamed possible.

The other part of this story goes back in time. Like many communities, the Greece Athena school system had been struggling with how to best serve kids with special needs. Six years ago, the school district was cited by the state of New York for not doing enough for kids with disabilities. Special needs students in this now progressive district are an integral part of the schools. The integration is so entrenched that at first the team didn't understand what all the fuss was about.

"Jason is so much a part of us and our program that we kind of forgot he was autistic," one teammate said. There is a lesson here for all communities - both large and small - about creating opportunity, embracing difference.

I missed the report when it was first broadcast, learning about it later from my husband and son who'd caught it on ESPN. When I finally saw it, I watched in awe and wonder. Like many people, I was completely overcome. It wasn't so much that this kid was making these amazing shots. It was the reaction of his teammates and the crowd that was so touching. It was the fans yelling and waving signs with Jason's picture when he stepped onto the court. It was the hooting and howling and jumping and screaming, over and over, longer and louder after each basket. It was the complete and unequivocal support for the "little guy."

After my son and I finished watching the report for a second time, I struggled to describe the feeling. My son turned to me and said, "It kind of gives you chills." Yes, that is it. That is exactly what it does.

This March Madness season, I'll be watching and cheering through the Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight, Final Four and Championship game. As in year's past, I'll go crazy over Duke and Gonzaga, U-Conn and Kentucky.

There will no doubt be buzzer-beaters and upsets, overtime games and amazing thrills. But there will never be a moment like the four-minute miracle in Greece, N.Y. Not the kind that leaves you breathless, stirred. Not the kind that takes you away to another place. Not the kind that leaves you trembling - in a good way - with incredible chills.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)

The Pleasure and Pain of a Ski Vacation

2007-03-03T06:24:00.000-08:00

Like many families, we went skiing over winter school vacation. My son took a friend, and other friends with their teenage sons also stayed in Waterville Valley, so it all worked out quite nicely. It had been a while since I’d skied. My husband, kids and I vacationed at Mount Snow three years ago, and we skied in Canada several times before that. I have fond memories of those ski trips—the thrill of winding down a trail, the invigorating coolness, the quiet beauty of the mountains. Memory, it seems, is a very peculiar thing.

I’d forgotten all the work connected with skiing, which is much like camping in that respect. There’s the pre-trip task of finding things—long underwear and ski socks and goggles and mittens. There’s the renting of the ski equipment, and the schlepping around in those clunky ski boots, the ones that press painfully into shins. There’s the cold and the wind and the frost-bitten fingers and toes. And there’s the difficult mission of making it down the mountain, suffering quiet humiliation as kids whiz past, no problem.

There’s the long, arduous walk to the car at the end of the day—back straining, quads aching, shins bruising, skis and poles perched precariously on sloping shoulders. Since it’s only been a week since our trip, these are my memories. In time, I know I will recall the fond ones.
As a kid, I was an excellent skier. During my high school years, my family went to Utah every Christmas where we skied down the majestic slopes at Snowbird and Alta and Park City. The conditions were perfect—ankle-deep powder, no lift lines and weather so mild we’d often ski in our sweaters. We’d hit the slopes as soon as they opened, skiing all day on intermediate and expert trails with barely a break. We never thought of taking a day off to rest. Not a chance.

I had several things going for me back then that I don’t have now—limber legs, infinite stamina, agility and, most important, no fear. The trepidation I’ve developed since my youth led me to choose the No Grit intermediate trail over the True Grit double black diamond trail at Waterville Valley.

When I think about it, my pleasant memories from our recent trip have little to do with skiing. My most idyllic moments include sipping coffee with a splash of hot chocolate while reading my Pushcart Prize collection of short stories (during one of my many ski breaks), kicking off the shin-bruising boots at the end of the day and lingering in the hot shower back at the lodge. Mostly I loved sitting around in the evening with friends, talking about our day and our children.

If I try a little harder, I can recall some ski-related good times, like the thrill of making my way down Oblivion, Tippecanoe, And Tyler Too before the pain in my quads became unbearable, and my success getting on and off chairlifts without falling, or worse, wiping out a stranger. And I will never forget the beautiful sight of the snow-capped peaks from the top of Sunnyside.

Some not-so-great memories, though, are still on the surface. Like the panic we felt at the top of White Peak, when after stopping for coffee we were hit with winds gusting at close to 60 miles per hour. Skis and poles (thankfully not ours) were blown clear off the mountain as I crawled on my hands and knees to retrieve mine. The winds had blown most of the snow from the trails leaving huge patches of ice. In the midst of the blinding snow-swirling wind I thought, “This is about as far from fun as it gets.” I wondered how I’d ever make it down alive, and just how bad conditions had to get before they closed the lifts. After two more wind-whipped runs, all but one lift was closed for the remainder of the day.

For the most part, the bad memories are starting to fade. It seems there is a direct correlation between the level of pain in my legs and my recollection of what caused it; as the aches subside, so too does my memory. Like childbirth, in time I’ll forget—or at least repress—the pain, remembering only the good parts before eagerly choosing to go through it all again. Who knows? Next time I may even try True Grit.

In Pursuit of the Golden Oscar

2007-03-01T06:48:00.000-08:00

Now that the quest for Olympic gold is over, we can turn our attention to another golden pursuit: the Oscar. Like their Olympic athlete counterparts, those who vie for the ultimate prize on Academy Awards night are hard working, determined and exceptionally talented. As in the Olympics, the field of competition plays a major part in who goes home with the gold. While the quality of the film and acting performance are obviously key factors, winners (and therefore losers) are often determined by which other films and actors happened to be nominated that year. And, like subjectively judged events such as Olympic figure skating, the Academy Awards voting process doesn’t always produce the “right” result.

The list of ‘great ones’ who never won an Oscar is both long and surprising. It includes actors Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Cary Grant, Claude Rains and Peter O’Toole. And actresses Greta Garbo, Gloria Swanson, Lauren Bacall and Judy Garland. Directors who never got an Oscar include Robert Altman (who will receive an honorary Oscar this year), Hitchcock, Fellini, Truffaut, Renoir, Kubrick and Scorsese. The problem was obviously not talent, but timing.

In no year was timing more significant than in 1939, undoubtedly the greatest year in American film history. While it is hard to argue with the decision to name “Gone With The Wind” best picture, in any other year, any one of the other nominated films could have taken home the big prize. The other films up for best picture that year were “The Wizard of Oz,” John Ford’s classic western “Stagecoach,” “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” and the haunting “Wuthering Heights.” Several other outstanding films were not even nominated that year—the classic adventure film “Gunga Din,” “Only Angels Have Wings” with Cary Grant and Jean Arthur, “Destry Rides Again” with feisty saloon singer Marlene Dietrich, and “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” with Charles Laughton’s unforgettably heart wrenching portrayal of Quasimodo.

Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett nabbed best actress that year, leaving Bette Davis ironically less than victorious in “Dark Victory,” and Garbo anything but laughing in the romantic comedy, “Ninotchka.” Robert Donat shocked all by winning best actor for “Goodbye Mr. Chips,” beating out three of Hollywood’s most famous and talented leading men in some of the best performances of their careers: Clark Gable as Rhett Butler, Jimmy Stewart as Jefferson Smith and Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff. Talk about a packed field!

Many times the Academy is asked to choose between entirely different films, with sometimes surprising results. There was “How Green Was My Valley” winning over “Citizen Kane” (1941), “Rocky” over “Taxi Driver” (1976), “Annie Hall” over “Star Wars” (1977), “Ordinary People” over “Raging Bull” (1980), “The English Patient” over “Fargo” (1996) and “Shakespeare in Love” over “Saving Private Ryan” (1998). It hardly seems fair, pitting such different but equally exceptional films against each other. It’s a classic case of apples vs. oranges—like asking us to choose between Michelle Kwan and Bonnie Blair.

Sometimes the problem isn’t a packed field, but a disgraceful mistake, like the Academy’s failure to even nominate Chaplain’s greatest film, “City Lights” (1931), the original “King Kong” (1933), the brilliant Cary Grant—Rosalind Russell newspaper flick “His Girl Friday” (1940), or Hitchcock’s “Rear Window” (1954). And perhaps the worst blunder in the history of film, when the entertaining but frivolous “The Greatest Show on Earth,” won best picture over “High Noon” (1952). It was enough to make Gary Cooper leave town for good, even if he did walk away with the best actor award.

This year is an interesting one, with the best picture nominees having more in common than in recent years. Four of the five films up for the top award are either biopics or based on real life events. As has been the case in recent years, I’ve been slow to see new films, having seen only two of those nominated—“Goodnight, and Good Luck” (terrific) and “Crash” (had some good moments, but a bit too neatly tied up). I suppose when choosing between venturing out into the cold and sitting at home curled up on my couch, I’ll choose home, even with the considerably smaller screen. And, being the old movie buff that I am, it’s likely I’ll watch something filmed in black & white. Unless of course, it’s “Gone With the Wind.”

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)

Missing Screwdrivers and Keys and Other Such Things

2007-02-18T12:38:00.000-08:00

The screwdriver has gone missing again. This is becoming a regular occurrence at our house. The last time was about a month ago, when my husband and I were taking apart our daughter's bike to ship it to her at college. I'd searched in all the usual places - the plastic tub in the hall closet, the junk drawer next to the fridge, the assorted bins and boxes in the unfinished part of the basement - but came up empty-handed.

"I'll just run out to Home Depot and get another one," I said to my husband, grabbing my car keys.

"Oh, no," he said, in a don't-you-even-think-about-it voice. "We're not buying another screwdriver. We must have at least five of them somewhere in the house."

True, I thought, but somewhere means anywhere, which basically means we might never see any of those screwdrivers ever again.

We eventually found a sort-of screwdriver, a really old one with one tiny Phillips-style bit attached. The nicer, newer one, the one with the assortment of bit sizes and styles is still AWOL, probably hanging out with the sucked-out-of-the-dryer socks in who-knows-where-it-went heaven.

As frustrating as the missing screwdriver episode was, it pales in comparison to my two - yes, two - missing car episodes. The first such incident occurred many years ago, in the dark, creepy Central parking lot at Logan airport. This was in the days before they'd marked the floors near the elevators with cute pictures of Paul Revere and Boston Marathoners to help harried travelers remember which floor they parked on.

This was also in the days before rolling suitcases, so when I returned from my business trip late at night, I lugged my suitcase up and down floors and across aisles searching for my car. Now one might wonder how such a thing could possibly have happened. I'd done the smart thing and jotted down the number and letter identifying the location of my car. The problem was I couldn't find the scrap I'd jotted it on. After a half hour of frantic searching, I eventually found my car, so I guess it wasn't really lost, just momentarily misplaced.

The second lost car episode was at the outdoor parking lot at Green Airport. Learning from my previous experience, I'd cleverly marked the location of my car directly on my parking lot ticket, tucking it safely in my wallet. No paper scraps, no chance of losing it.

When the shuttle bus guy asked for the location of my car, I confidently called out my letter and number. Inexplicably, my car was nowhere to be found. After a half hour of searching (fortunately this time pulling a wheeled suitcase), I began wondering whether my car had been stolen. But then I thought who in their right mind would swipe a dented, scraped, sorry-looking 1996 Nissan Quest van with 145,000 miles on it?

I finally waved down the green pick-up truck guy who helps customers find misplaced cars, and after a few circles around the lot we found it right where it was supposed to be. The shuttle bus driver must have dropped me in a location other than what I'd announced, and being hot, tired and thoroughly confused, I'd circled around and around in vain. It was a true "Twilight Zone" moment.

Thankfully, I haven't had to park in an airport parking lot recently. Those experiences, though, have definitely affected the way I approach parking in general. I now have a fool-proof system guaranteed to cut down on searching time.

At my usual grocery store parking lot, I drive three rows down, make a right, and park in the space to the left of the shopping cart return rack. If my space isn't available, I go for the space on the other side of the rack. In the unlikely event both next-to-the-rack spaces are taken, I park as close to my usual spots as possible. So far, so good.

I don't have any more large missing things to report as of late, just the usual smaller things - scissors, tape, remote, eyeglasses. No cars, though every now and then, the car keys go missing.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)

New Driver Dread

2007-02-18T06:48:00.000-08:00

Years ago when my daughter was learning to drive, I jotted in my journal to help manage my sometimes overwhelming anxiety. As with many things, humor helped me to keep it all in perspective. My daughter is now a fine driver and I'm sure my son will be the same.

Despite knowing this, I feel the tension building as I see friends on the road with their driving teens and think how I'll soon be going through all this again. So for all the parents out there, here is a primer on what to expect as you enter this new life stage.

Stage 1 - Denial and Intense Fear

Your teen has her learner's permit and you, the reluctant but supportive parent are strapped snuggly into the co-pilot's seat. At first you take pride in your clever strategy of keeping to parking lots and deserted side streets. At some point, though, you know you're going to have to bite the bullet and go where there are, gulp, other cars. The first few times out in traffic are a heart-thumping nightmare. You're convinced you're going to cross over that double yellow line, hitting oncoming cars, or drift too far to the right, leaving a trail of mailbox road-kill behind. The feeling that horrific things may happen is constant, even when your child is doing just fine. So when your kid does have a lapse in judgment, it's beyond terrifying.

Stage 2 - Self-preservation

You compare this experience to other times you've gently guided your child to make good decisions. After all, you want her to learn - to become an independent, well-functioning adult. When you're driving with your teen, though, all rationality flies right out the car window.

You constantly bark instructions, pump the invisible passenger's side brake and scream -"Slow down! Stop!" You meticulously check both ways (multiple times) at intersections before giving the go-ahead to cross. Your kid is also looking both ways, but she knows not to go until you say so. You realize this whole driving thing is severely straining your parent-child relationship. "You don't trust me," your kid says. You've got that right, you think, but instead say something like "it's not that - it's just that you need to get a little more experience."

Stage 3 - Letting Go (a bit)

During this next stage, you begin to let go. You may catch yourself before you yell an instruction, waiting to see if your child is going to do what you were about to say. If things are going well, more often than not you won't have to shout. You may even become complacent, not exactly relaxed, but not continuously terrified either.

Warning: This Is A Very Dangerous Stage. Though your teen is gaining experience and making nice progress, she is still a new driver. Keep alert for lapses in judgment. Just when you think everything is going smoothly, your child may make one of those tire-screeching-cutting-off-an-oncoming-car-type moves that makes your heart race. Don't despair. This is quite normal and all part of the learning process. You may find some defiance from your teen at this point. She is gaining confidence (a good thing) but thinks she is an excellent driver (not a good thing.) She may say things like "I can't stand driving with you" or, and this is really scary, but true, "when I get my license you won't be in the car telling me what to do."

Stage 4 - The Launch

If all goes as planned, your child will pass her driving test and become an official driver. She will have to wait six months before she can drive with friends (a good thing), even though she may say it is not a good thing. At this point, your tension level is back to Stage 1, experienced as overall anxiety any time your child reaches for the car keys. The only thing that helps at this point is time - you just kind of get used to your teen being a driver. Realizing the benefits such as running errands and shuttling younger siblings to sports practices helps soften the blow. You try to remember that you too, were once a new driver and look how competent you are now.

So hopefully this has helped to de-mystify the new driver experience. Like many life events, we all manage to somehow muddle through. They learn, they launch. This whole driving thing helps kids gain a bit more independence on their way to being on their own. We parents are learning too. We are learning, slowly, how to (gently) let go.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2006)

Life's Little Pet Peeves

2007-02-17T19:18:00.000-08:00

The other day, my son was having trouble with his Xbox. The screen was freezing and the red lights were blinking and then the darn thing just wouldn’t turn on. I suggested he call the 800-number to see if he could get some help. After being put on hold for several minutes, he was finally transferred to the “customer service representative,” a pre-recorded voice offering tips — all of them useless — to help fix the problem.

After more waiting and music and robotic talking, he was abruptly disconnected. It was my son’s first introduction to a phenomenon I and many people have long dealt with — the infuriating world of non-service customer service.

I realize there are far more serious concerns than small, everyday annoyances like being placed on hold and talking to a fake person when you’re trying to get something fixed. But sometimes, especially on a weak day, these are just the things that put me over the edge.

Other customer service pet peeves include repair people who fail to show up, and stores that promptly distance themselves from any responsibility when the product you’ve purchased encounters a problem. Being bombarded with the hard-sell is also on my pet peeve list — the won’t-take-no-for-an-answer telemarketer, the person who asks if I “want to try a combo” or purchase the special of the week at the grocery check-out counter, the salesperson who asks “can I help you?” when I’ve barely entered the store. Equally irritating is the opposite problem of being completely ignored. For some reason this seems to happen a lot in shoe departments.

As annoying as aggressive telemarketers are, rude cell phone users are even worse. At least with a telemarketer I can simply hang up. Rude cell phone users are everywhere, and often in places where there is no escape, like when I’m trapped with one of them yakking away on a train or in an airport lobby or waiting my turn in line at the grocery store.

There is no bigger pet peeve category, though, than that of discourteous, dangerous drivers. Of particular concern are drivers who don’t use turn signals, tailgate, drive too slow in the fast lane, weave in and out of lanes, speed excessively, shave or put on make-up while driving, enter rotaries without merging, use the breakdown lane as a passing lane or run red lights. Though it is no surprise, I’ve noticed that drivers guilty of these dangerous deeds are often talking on their cell phones.

Other pet peeves include people who refer to themselves in the third person and those who ask and then answer their own questions. Professional athletes do this a lot. Also politicians like when they say “Are we in a difficult position in Iraq? Absolutely.” For some reason, people who refer to themselves in the third person tend to be those who ask and answer their own questions.

I also have a thing against bragging bumper stickers, like those that proclaim, “My child is student of the month, class president, on the honor roll and listed in ‘who’s who’ in America.” The best response to this kind of pronouncement was the bumper sticker that read, “My Golden Retriever is smarter than your honor student.”

Speaking of dogs, I have to add to the list of annoyances people who don’t clean up after their pets. Rudeness in general is a huge pet peeve of mine — people who honk for no reason, toss trash on the highway, cut in line, let their children run wild in restaurants, talk in movie theatres. I also have trouble with people who don’t return phone calls, interrupt, or go on and on about themselves.

Now I realize I’m far from perfect. I’m sure there are plenty of things I do that get under the skin of those around me. I know this is true because I’ve even managed to annoy myself at times. And as much as I try my best to be patient, courteous and considerate, I know I am not always successful.

Have I ever been guilty of one of my own pet peeves I profess to abhor? Absolutely.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2007)

Getting a Kick Out of Soccer

2007-02-15T13:26:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago my running partner and I were jogging past Lake Massapoag, chatting away about the usual events of the week - kids, work, husbands - when suddenly a car pulled over to the side.

"We play soccer at ForeKicks in Norfolk, 9:30 every Friday," a friend said, leaning over so we could hear her through the rolled-down window. "A bunch of women, play as you go - 10 bucks. It's really fun, informal. You should come." And then she drove off.

As I readied myself to resume our discussion about our boys' high school homework, my friend had a different thought. "It might be kind of fun," she said, in between strides. Now I could think of many words to describe what playing indoor soccer would be for me at this point in my life, and I have to tell you, fun wasn't one of them.

Sure enough, a few days later, there was an e-mail in my in-box. "Are you up for our run next Friday at 8:00? And then we can check out the indoor soccer game at 9:30. What do you say?"
Some background is in order here. Though my running partner had also never played soccer, she is an athlete who played Division I volleyball in college.

Other than my pathetic stint as a fourth string bench-warmer on my eighth grade basketball team, I've never, ever played a team sport. The reason I like to run is that it requires zero athleticism. I was determined to not get talked into this soccer thing. But then I got thinking.

I did make a New Year's pledge to try new things, so the following week, after our run around the lake, we headed over to ForeKicks, meeting another friend (also a former college volleyball player), who my running partner had talked into coming. While our other friend had come equipped with shin guards, we had to borrow them. Mine were a miniscule pair - no doubt left behind by some fourth-grader - that barely covered my legs.

Walking onto the indoor court, I eyed the regular players, checking for evidence of fitness and skill. Someone quickly explained the rules of the game -"We play three 20 minute periods, and rotate positions every five minutes. We don't keep score. That's about it." Responding to my confused, worried look, a player offered words of reassurance. "You'll be fine."

It took less than a minute for me to have renewed respect for my son and his friends who play this game so well. Who knew how hard it could be to dribble, kick, work the boards, and win the ball? As clumsy as I felt at defense, it was even more horrifying when I moved up to offense. The other women were amazing, dribbling, defending and passing like pros. But they were also incredibly nice-setting us newcomers up for goals, offering words of encouragement. Just when I felt like I was getting it, though, I'd do something really stupid, like totally miss the ball, leaving my leg suspended in mid-air. I just may be one of the few people to ever "swing and miss" playing soccer.

When it was my turn at goalie, I was almost paralyzed by the thought of getting smacked in the face with the ball. But then something happened. I jumped high, stretching my arms to make a save, and a few minutes later had another one, rolling on the ground, securing the ball between my knees. As I stood up, and was greeted with cheers and high-fives, I started to think that maybe this position was made for me. And then the ball - kicked by one of my friends, no less - rolled right in the goal behind me.

As we moved into period two and then three, I started to feel a little less stressed. My friends fared better than I did, scoring goals, making great plays on defense. I was, though, quite proud of my one stellar moment - a perfect left-footed pass in front of the goal, kicked in by my running partner.

Later that day, I began to feel the effects of the morning, every inch of my body throbbing in pain. When my son got home from school, I told him about my adventure. I was sure he'd be mortified at the thought of his mother running around an indoor soccer field. His reaction, though, took me by complete surprise. He smiled widely and patted me on the back. "I know," he said. "I heard. I can't believe you played indoor soccer. That is so great."

I went on to tell him about it - my stumbles, my missing the ball, my aches, my pains. He then proceeded to give me advice, demonstrating the correct way to dribble and which part of the foot to place on the ball when kicking.

Though I've not ruled out another go at it, truth be told, I'm not anxious to return to the soccer field anytime soon. Like everything, I suppose, the more you practice, the better you get, the more fun it is. If there is a next time, I'll do some things differently. For starters, I'll bring my own shin guards, and maybe wear something other than running shoes. And I'll definitely follow the advice I ignored the first time and take those three Advil when I get home.

War and Truth

2007-01-20T13:52:00.000-08:00

Truth, as the saying goes, is stranger than fiction. But sometimes fiction can be truer than truth. In his masterpiece The Things They Carried, writer and Vietnam veteran Tim O’Brien creates a perfect horrific vision. His imaginary retelling of war is as real as it gets. A true war story, he says, is never moral. If you feel uplifted, you’ve been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude, no virtue. Sometimes, he says, a true war story is simply beyond telling.

There has been much debate about the truth behind the war in Iraq. One thing we know to be true—the reason justifying our being there turned out to be false. Some have responded by creating new justifications. In the meantime, every day, more civilians and soldiers are dying.

I was watching the news the day the number of dead American soldiers in Iraq reached 2,000. At the end, the newscaster announced that pictures of fallen soldiers would silently scroll across the screen. Shamefully, I started to change the channel. I had turned on the news to be informed, to fill my head with information and facts. I wasn’t prepared to feel. I wasn’t, as O’Brien would say, prepared to make my stomach believe.

Something, though, compelled me to watch. I looked into the eyes of the 19 year-old from Morrisville, Pennsylvania and the 23 year-old from Rosedale, Maryland and the 34 year-old from Arlington, Texas and the 22-year old from Knoxville, Tennessee. Some were dressed in uniform, some were not. Mostly they were smiling, all of them now gone. Numbers can lie, or at least they can hide things. Those photographs were the real news, the quiet faces of truth.

It goes without saying that on Veteran’s Day—on all days for that matter—we should honor those who fought for our country, remembering soldiers from every war, past and present. It is beyond “should.” It is our moral duty. We salute and we march and we pay tribute and we listen to the trumpet sounds and we hold our hand on our heart while we pledge allegiance and watch the flag ripple in the wind. We acknowledge bravery and respect sacrifice. You can be against a war and still support the soldier who fights in it.

And so on this Veteran’s Day I will read truthful fiction by someone who has lived through the very worst of human experience. I will enter the haunting stories he tells from the trenches of his gut. If nothing else, we must be reminded of the horrific in a way that takes us beyond generalizations, in a way that, like it or not, makes us feel. Though I will never come close to understanding the true horror of this thing called war, I hope I will never stop trying to understand.

As O’Brien writes, “In the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It’s about sunlight. It’s about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It’s about love and memory. It’s about sorrow. It’s about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.”

And that is the truth, plain and simple.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)

Ansel Adams: Beauty in Black and White

2007-01-15T12:32:00.000-08:00

All through my life, I have taken photographs. In college, I was the one who could be counted on to record special moments—dancing in our dorm to “Saturday Night Fever,” playing football on Crane beach, jumping from a snow bank after the blizzard of ’78.

As a new mother, I took many photos of my infant daughter (more than I’d like to admit.) A good part of one album is filled with pretty much the same images of her smiling, laughing, eating—even sleeping. And though my picture-taking rituals became a little less ridiculous, I continued recording all those ‘firsts’ of my son, as well as the seconds and thirds. To this day, I take pictures of both special events and everyday slices of life. For me, it is a way to preserve the past, to capture moments in a way that lets me enter them again.

My interest and appreciation of photography and art lead me to the current Ansel Adams exhibition at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. While I have tried over the years to preserve memories, Adams was focused on creating them. And create them he did, one brilliant masterpiece after another.

Many of Adams’ photographs capture contrasts in ordinary scenes. In “Church and Fence,” shadows fall on straight slim pickets while wave-like impressions dance on the soil. The photograph is an intriguing mix of textures—smooth sky, rippled ground, wispy grass—in competing, but complementary angles. The effect is simple, stunning.

I am drawn to Adams’ photographs because, I too, appreciate the beauty of the ordinary—a solitary church on a hilltop, wind-swept dunes, bare and snow-covered trees. As focused as he was on simplicity, Adams also appreciated the majestic variations seen in nature—clear water juxtaposed with jagged mountains, rocky cliffs, blurry pines.

One of my favorite photographs is “Monolith—The Face of Half Dome” in Yosemite National Park. Shadows and light streak down the steep, ominous cliff as snow rests at the bottom. Adams described the photograph as a visualization that “captured the emotional impact of the scene rather than the way it actually looked.” Perhaps that is why his photographs are so powerful. Like all great works of art, we can’t help but be touched by them.

Though Adams often captured contrasts, he sometimes showed how we are connected to our surroundings. In one such photograph, an old man sits in a wooden chair, cane resting at his knee. The man is framed by a weathered wooden fence whose paint chips show the passage of time.

Some of Adams’ most spectacular pieces are the large Japanese screens covered in ferns, grass, pools and storms. And there are so many more breathtaking images—a delicate rose on driftwood, brightly lit aspens, a quiet moonrise, a single white cross leaning into a darkened sky.

Through his photographs, Ansel Adams revealed the splendor of the ordinary, the simple beauty of the majestic. This is one exhibition that is not to be missed. It is truly something to see.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)

Outsourcing the Stuff of Life

2007-01-15T12:31:00.000-08:00

I’m jogging down the street, hunched over, one hand resting on my daughter’s bicycle seat, the other outstretched, ready. I watch her wobble left and then right. She tumbles over to the side, pink Schwinn flopping on top of her little legs. She brushes gravel from her knees, looks up and pleads, “Can I try again, Mom?” I rub my aching back as I look into her proud, eager eyes. “Sure, why not?” Other than the color of the bike, it was pretty much the same with my son.

It’s hard to believe that scene was over a decade ago. While I certainly wanted my children to learn to ride a bike, it never felt like a goal that had to be achieved by some predetermined deadline. When they were ready, they’d learn. In the meantime, I’d offer support (and try not to complain too much about my backache.) It was just another one of those things that I did to help my kids on the road to independence, like encouraging them to sleep through the night, walk on their own, and get out of diapers. These are the moments that make us—the trial and error, the getting up after falling down. And these are the moments that make our relationships—offering words of encouragement, and yes, coping with frustration and pain.

I thought about my own experience helping my kids with bike riding as I read about a new and disturbing trend—paying someone to do things we used to do ourselves. It seems that there are people out there selling themselves as bicycle coaches who, for $60 an hour, will teach your child to ride a bike. The so-called expert will even teach your kid to roller blade, and will play catch with your child in your backyard to improve her baseball throwing skills.

If that isn’t shocking enough, there’s the personal shopper service. For an hourly fee, an expert will take your teenager clothes shopping. While having someone rummage through the racks at H&M with your teenage daughter may indeed eliminate fights, there is a price to be paid that goes beyond the consultant’s charge. Though we may not openly seek them, disagreements and struggles are what help build a relationship.

For the younger set, there are services such as “thumb-buster,” where experts work to eliminate thumb-sucking with techniques like tongue retraining. (I am not making this up.) And then there are the consultants who come into the home to potty train your child, using elaborate reward systems. I certainly sought help to get through some of my kids’ developmental milestones. I frequently called my mom and sisters, and flipped through my assortment of books by Dr. Spock, Penelope Leach, and Dr. Ferber (of ‘Ferberizing” your baby to sleep fame.) Other than the words of wisdom from my mother, the best advice I ever got was from Spock—“trust yourself; you know more than you think.”

The ‘going with gut’ philosophy that worked when my children were younger is equally important today. With a daughter now in the throws of the college application process, I have become painfully aware of a whole other set of experts just salivating at the chance to assist with things that used to be handled by students (with support from their parents)—researching colleges, completing applications and writing essays. The college admissions consultants offer packages ranging from $250 for an initial consult, to $1,500 and up for a comprehensive review and editing service. True, the college search and application process has become an onerous one. But still…

I’m not quite sure what the answer is. I only know that I will do my best to avoid being sucked up in it all—into the cut-throat drive to perfection, circumventing the equally important, albeit sometimes challenging process. Though tempted by the ‘flawless lure,’ I will try to stick to my guns. After all, perfection isn’t the goal, not for me, anyway. It’s the muddling through that really matters.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Skinned knees and all.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)

Driving By Fields on My Way Home

2007-01-15T12:20:00.000-08:00

I always slow down on the stretch of road that leads to my Sharon home. Right off the highway after passing Shaw's Plaza, I enter a place from the past. In the fall, a brilliant cranberry bog glistens behind trees along the road. Fields, long and wide, sprawl on both sides.

Depending on the season, I might see sunflowers or cornstalks, tomatoes or pumpkins. And though I can't see them from the road, the early summer fields are filled with rows of plump strawberries and blueberries. If I listen carefully, I can hear the message in the wind as it blows across the fields - "slow down, take a breath, smell the flowers, see the trees."

There wasn't such vast farmland near my childhood home in Bethesda, Maryland, but the little bit there was I will never forget. It was a small patch of pasture next to the road, home to the Black Angus cows. Though it's been almost 40 years since they've stood in the field, munching on their grass-suppers, swatting flies with their tails, I still think of them whenever I visit home.

They were there, even when cars went whizzing by. They were there, even when the new development went up across the street. They were there when it seemed impossible that they could still be standing there like that. And then one day I looked out my family's station wagon window to the grassy fenced-in field surrounded by progress, and they were gone.

The area near my family's home was always congested. Old Georgetown Road - the road next to the cows - was a main thoroughfare for residents in the northern suburbs of D.C., minutes from the Beltway and Interstate 270. Rockville Pike, several miles up the road from the cows, was littered with development - Arby's, McDonald's and Burger King, K-Mart, Penney's and Loehmann's. There were movie theatres and car dealers, an indoor roller rink and outdoor mini-golf. I think that's why I remember the cows. They were an anomaly, a beautiful remnant of country life suspended in the midst of vast suburban sprawl.

Once the cows were gone, the changes escalated. Townhouses were the first things to go in, and they went in just about everywhere. Years later, a road was bulldozed right through the cows' field connecting Old Georgetown Road to Rockville Pike, making a short-cut to White Flint, an elite mall with pricey boutiques and shops. More recently, other, even larger developments have gone in.

The latest was a group of million-dollar four-level mansions set yards apart with little land, no grass and few, if any, trees. It is funny how these developments, with their cleared forests and lack of green, always seem to have names connected with nature. The one across from the old cows' field is called The Oaks.

I've thought more and more about my childhood neighborhood as I've seen the recent changes in Sharon, the town that has been my home for over 17 years. There was the massive clearing of forest to make way for the Hunter's Ridge development on North Main Street, and now a proposed development on Norwood Street - Route 27.

Like the development near my childhood home, Pine Woods, with its planned clearing of trees in 26 acres, is also inaptly named for nature. I'm relieved that with the recent Town Meeting vote, initial steps have been taken to preserve our beautiful lakeshore property around Lake Massapoag, and I hope for the best when it comes up for a vote in the future. It would be sad to see fallen trees and built-up housing units and homes along one of my favorite running routes in Sharon.

The thing is, once something beautiful is gone, there's no turning back. When the trees are cut down, they are gone. When an open field is filled with townhouses and homes, it is gone. Forever. And life will never be the same. Like the cows in the pasture near my childhood home, the only thing left is a memory.

Whenever I visit Borderland Park, go hiking and snowshoeing in Moose Hill, or catch a glimpse of the cows in the pasture next to Crescent Ridge Dairy, I think how lucky I am to have all of this - the lake, the trails, the trees, the fields - in my hometown. It is a welcome refuge from the fast-paced, frenetic world that surrounds us. There is nothing more beautiful, or more peaceful, than driving by fields on my way home, sun setting in the distance.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2006)

Finding Hope in Troubling Times

2007-01-15T12:15:00.000-08:00

In the weeks after the terrorist attacks five years ago, desperate for a way to cope with my anxiety and sadness, I started a journal. I wrote page after page of raw unpolished prose, recording my thoughts, feelings and fears. In the beginning I wrote of the constant heaviness, the oppressive force that pulled me down, down.

I couldn't stop thinking of all those lives so viciously wiped out, just ordinary people going to work, making a phone call, getting a cup of coffee, or a family going on a vacation, perhaps returning home. I couldn't stop thinking of all those who died trying to save others.

Later, I wrote of my weakness and shame. How could I - someone with no loved-one killed or injured - be so completely torn apart? Deep down, I knew that though I'd been spared in some ways, this was something that affected all of us. I think that now as I see what is happening in the world - the war in Iraq and the Middle East, the tragedy in Darfur, and other areas marked by death and despair, including places closer to home.Though these tragedies may not directly affect me, they too, touch all of us.

What struck me as I read through my journal entries, and what I remembered at the time, was the universality of my experience. When talking to family and friends and hearing reports from people I didn't know, I noticed we shared the same thoughts and worries, sometimes even using the same words to describe our feelings, talking of our disbelief about this new, changed world. What helped me then, as it does now, is to remember we are not alone. Other people are out there trying to cope, both with everyday problems and with tragic world events that are beyond our understanding.

About a month after the terrorist attacks I found myself in a parking lot sitting in my car, unable to move. I turned and saw an old man in the car next to mine. I wondered if his life experience had better prepared him to handle the enormity of what had happened. He must have been a young man during World War II, I thought. Perhaps he was a soldier. I wondered how living through that war affected him. Did he feel helpless? Was he afraid? Just knowing people got through that terrible time helped lessen my anxiety. For a brief moment I was strangely connected to the old man, and felt a faint glimmer of hope.

It helps to remember we are not alone, but we also need to believe that things will get better. In those dark days five years ago we were desperate for positive stories about the good side of humanity, about ordinary people doing brave things, about rescues against all odds, about strangers helping strangers. There was no shortage of such stories.

These days we are overwhelmed with disturbing reports. Though we may have to search for positive stories, we must find them. When we read about a Palestinian boy scout camp giving pins for promoting hate, we need to hear about Seeds of Peace, where Arab and Israeli teens come together to promote understanding. When we learn of anti-Semitic or anti-Arab attacks, we need to hear how local interfaith groups are bringing people together to foster acceptance and celebrate differences.

When we see the ongoing suffering of those hit by Hurricane Katrina, we need to hear about the extraordinary resilience of those who have recovered. We need to be inspired by people who refuse to accept the status quo, who are steadfast and optimistic even in the face of dire conditions. For it is in the worst of times that we most need to have hope.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)

Retrieving Remmants of the Past

2007-01-15T12:12:00.000-08:00

There have been many heartbreaking stories in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina - tales of utter devastation, unbearable loss.

The most precious thing that can never be replaced is of course, life. But those who were spared the worst kind of grief are still deeply affected by the loss of their life mementos.

There were the New Orleans residents who returned to retrieve something - anything - from what was left of their homes. A man found his parents' rings, an old football trophy, his wife's wedding dress, a teddy bear. The dress and bear were tattered, mildewed, most likely unsalvageable. A woman saved a few family photographs enclosed in warped wooden frames.

These stories left me wondering. Why are some things so precious that people would return to their destroyed homes, trudging through mud and debris to retrieve them?

Perhaps it's because they are vital links to our personal history. A photo of a child's gap-toothed smile, a honeymoon airplane ticket, a father's hand-scrawled note of apology - these are things that would pain us to part with.

I have no luxurious possessions that I would be desperate to save - no high definition TV or elaborate stereo system. No antique furniture, heirloom china or expensive jewelry.

Most things I own I could easily do without. Sure, I'd miss my favorite worn-in jeans, my cashmere sweater, my multi-colored Fossil belt. I'd miss my collection of Jane Austen novels and classic movies. I'd miss my CDs, including Haydn's Cello Concerto, Corelli's Concerti Grossi, and the nostalgic sound of the Eagles and Jackson Browne. I'd miss Ella and Frank. I'd miss my turtle collection of figures and boxes made of wood, clay, soapstone and glass.

Mostly, though, I'd miss the things that meant something to me that would be forever lost - my children's stories, drawings and homemade Mother's Day cards, the ruby anniversary bracelet from my husband, the long-ago letters from college friends, my mother's paintings and stained sock doll she had as a child.

I'd miss the newborn stocking caps taped at the top, and my children's first pair of little white shoes. I'd miss my journals where I've recorded bits of my life.

I'd miss the things that belonged to those who are gone.—my grandmother's crocheted shawl sewn with pearls, my grandfather's plaid flannel shirt, my father's favorite wool cap and a gold pocket watch. When I hold my grandmother's shawl, I see it draped around her frail shoulders. When I touch my grandfather's shirt, I watch him working in his wildflower garden.

When I open the wooden box where my dad's pocket watch rests, I see him tucking it into his suit vest pocket, the gold chain dangling down in a U shape. I see his smile as he reads the inscription etched on the back. Having something that belonged to people I loved helps me feel close. It pulls me deep into the core of their spirit.

I treasure the links to yesteryears - the journals, scrap books and letters, the photographs, caps and dolls. These things have the power to evoke, to stir. They help me tap into my essence. Without them, there is nothing to help me remember. As I get older and more and more of my life builds behind me, it is more important than ever for me to feel connected to my past.

And so I would think carefully about which things to save. My choices would tell the story of my life. I would save as many photographs as I could gather. And the letters and the journals and the paintings and the shawl and the flannel shirt and the bracelet and the sock doll and the wool cap.

And the gold pocket watch. Even though it no longer ticks.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)

Caring, Elder-Centered Communities

2007-01-15T12:10:00.000-08:00

An inevitable part of life is loss. No one knows this more than elders who, due to declining health and incapacity, are forced to give up their homes. Remaining in one's home should always be the goal. Many programs, like those offered through the local HESSCO Elder Services, help elders remain in their homes by offering assistance with daily living, home-delivered meals, adult day care, and respite for stressed family caregivers. But when elders need 24-hour nursing care, or when Alzheimer's disease has taken its toll, all the homecare support in the world may not be enough.

We often hear the horror stories about nursing homes, reports of substandard care and neglect. We rarely, though, hear about those that are doing things right, where elders are given a chance, not just to exist, but to thrive. Physician-farmer William Thomas has created a nursing home model that does just that. Thomas' approach, recently profiled in US New & World Report, is unique but simple, innovative, but born of pure common sense.

Thomas brought his perspective as a farmer - of nurturing, planting and growing - to the world of nursing homes. In the early 90s, he instituted dramatic changes in the upstate New York nursing home he directed. This is no ordinary nursing home. It has dogs and cats and birds and plants. Instead of rigid rules - waking residents at the same time for breakfast, providing care according to the convenience of shift workers - the home has a resident-focused approach. People eat when they're hungry, sleep when they're tired, talk when they're feeling sociable, remain silent when they want to think and reflect.

The positive results of this approach were seen in statistics: a 50 percent decrease in infection, 71 percent dip in daily drug costs for each resident, and a 26 percent drop in nurse's aide turnover. The Eden Alternative, as it is called, is a philosophy that views nursing homes as "habitats for people rather than facilities for the frail."

Thomas has converted more than 500 nursing homes in the U.S. and abroad into models that replace scheduled institutional care with more humane elder-centered care.

Another of Thomas' innovations, the Green House Project, has led to the construction of over 100 nursing homes with small clusters of houses. The smaller units are designed for 8 to 10 residents, and include private bathrooms and kitchens.

They are described as "intentional communities where elders can receive assistance and clinical care without the assistance and care becoming the focus of their existence." Unlike standard institutions, these places are much more like home.

Concepts like "smaller size, client-centered and intentional programming" are nothing new. School systems have known for years that smaller is better. Middle schools are often organized into teams, creating an environment that fosters personal connections between students and teachers. Large high schools work to create more intimate schools-within-schools. And everyone knows that small class sizes are preferable to larger ones.

Good quality child care is child-centered, intentional. It builds everything - the physical environment, activities, the way staff interact with children - around the developmental needs and interests of children. Quality programs for older school-age children plan with kids, not for them. They address the unique needs of adolescents by providing opportunities for physical activity, social interaction, leadership and meaningful activities connected to the real world.

Likewise, nursing homes should be designed to meet elders' social and emotional needs as well as their physical ones. Innovative models like the Eden Alternative help combat loneliness, helplessness and boredom by giving residents opportunities to have contact with real life: children, plants, animals. They offer variety and opportunities for people to be spontaneous. And, perhaps most importantly, they give elders a chance to engage in activities that are meaningful.

These models show that sometimes the best solutions are straightforward ones that don't require manuals or complicated formulas - just common sense, and the determination to turn a simple but great idea into reality.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)

Shiver-Me-Timbers and Summer Movies

2007-01-15T12:07:00.000-08:00

Summers are made for simple things—basic food, easy-does-it exercise, mindless movies. With the horrendous heat, I’ve been sticking to quick, cold dinners, like gazpacho soup and pasta salads, and I’m running early in the morning before the really hot stuff kicks in. The summer is a great time to go to the movies, but this year I’ve not seen many, at least none of the ‘true summer sort.’ My husband and I did see Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth,” but with all the talk of floods, droughts, epidemics, killer heat waves, and overall problem of planet survival, it hardly qualifies as a summer feel-good flick (though I do highly recommend it.)

Unlike me, my daughter has been an active participant in the genuine summer movie circuit. Earlier this summer she saw “X-Men: The Last Stand” and “A Prairie Home Companion.” She liked both. A few weeks later, she joined a group of her friends to watch the original “Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl” on DVD before heading off to the midnight premier of “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest.” Though the sequel has received mixed reviews, my daughter thought it was great. Next on her list was “The Devil Wears Prada,” (excellent), “Superman,” (an okay movie made even better by the 3-D version), and then “The Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest”—a second time!

Though I’ve not seen the sequel, I liked the first “Pirates of the Caribbean” film. I agree with swashbuckling movie connoisseurs that Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow is the best pirate to sail the seas in decades. His look is pirate-perfect, with his black-rimmed eyes, beaded, braided hair—and beard!—and gold-capped teeth. His wildly bizarre characterization is definitely one of those you-have-to-see-it-to-understand-and-appreciate-it type performances. Yes, Depp makes an utterly charming, though somewhat unconventional pirate.

As an old movie buff, though, I can’t help but drift to the films of the past for my summer swashbuckling fix. Among my favorite pirate movies is the 1935 film “Captain Blood” starring the roguish, dashing Errol Flynn. Sold into slavery, Peter Blood falls in love with the beautiful heroine played by Olivia deHavilland, Flynn’s leading lady in many other films. Flynn’s on-the-beach duel with French pirate Levasseur (Basil Rathbone) is up there with one of the best swordfights ever filmed.

As much as I enjoyed “Captain Blood,” there is one old pirate film I think is even better—“The Sea Hawk.” Before my daughter began her summer-pirate movie marathon, she suggested we watch it again together. A few minutes into the film, with Captain Geoffrey Thorpe (Errol Flynn) leading a raid on the Spanish ship and with Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s magnificent score playing in the background, my daughter reminded me what makes this film so great. It has no dramatic special effects or spectacular stunts. It has no computer-generated character make-up or complicated plot. It does, though, do something that is not always done well in modern films. It tells a great story—simply, perfectly.

The “Sea Hawk” has everything anyone could ever want in a summer pirate movie—action, adventure, romance, political intrigue, not to mention thrilling battles at sea. On the heroic side, there’s Errol Flynn, of course, as the dashing Captain Thorpe, leader of the Sea Hawks, a band of fearless ‘privateers’ who raid Spanish ships, stealing treasure for the good of England. Flora Robson turns in one of the most engaging and believable portrayals of Queen Elizabeth in all of movies. “The Sea Hawk” also has its share of terrific bad guys—old reliable Claude Rains, and Henry Daniell as Lord Wolfingham, with whom Flynn engages in a spectacular (and famous) shadows-on-the-wall sword fight at the end of the film.

As far as summer film recommendations, I’d have to say don’t miss the Al Gore movie. It may be hard to watch, but it is a definite must-see. And though he’s no Jim Carrey, Gore manages to crack a joke or two as he delivers both bad news and his inspirational “we all need to care about this” message. To keep your personal ‘earth in the balance,’ you may want to follow up with a feel-good pirate flick. Whether you favor Captain “savvy” Sparrow or the more traditional Captains Blood or Thorpe, a pirate movie is a great way to spend a lazy summer afternoon.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)

Traveling Home With the Boys in White

2007-01-15T12:01:00.000-08:00

I was heading to the gate when I first saw them, a group of seven young men dressed in white, calling to each other, walking in circles, trying to decide which way they should go. They are so young I thought to myself, and then continued on my way. When I reached the gate, I was relieved to see my flight to Providence was on time, unlike my trip out to Chicago when I faced a five hour delay. I settled in my seat, pulled out my newspaper and waited to board.

I looked up when I heard their voices and then spotted one of the crew, a tall lanky young man with closely cropped hair leading the others to an area where they could sit together. He was followed by a slight young man with a boyish grin, barely filling out his uniform, oversized pleated collar draped down the back. The sailors had found their way, and they were on my flight. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help looking at their faces. Though different, one thing defined them. They were all so young.

On the plane, one of the recruits sat in the aisle seat next to me. “Good morning, Ma’am,” he said in a slight southern drawl. I nodded and smiled and said good morning back. The group of seven were scattered, some sitting with a comrade, and others, like the sailor next to me, seated with civilians.

As we fastened our seat belts and readied for departure, one of the sailors asked, “Rhode Island isn’t really an island, right?” I think he was joking. The young man next to me said they’d just finished Boot Camp at the Great Lakes Naval Station, and were now heading to their base in Rhode Island. He’d never been there before. He talked of being relieved to be done with training. “It will be nice not being yelled at all the time,” he said, before going on about how cool it was to see the inside of a gas chamber and to shoot a gun. I looked down and saw a PlayStation Magazine resting on his lap.

I thought about what these young men were doing—risking their lives, protecting us. And then it hit me. I wondered what dangers they would face, how they would fare. I thought and thought and thought about this as I sat so close to them and looked at their excited, anxious faces. They were so young; they were really just boys.

During the flight the sailor next to me leaned over and gazed out the window. “Look out there,” he called to his buddies in front of him. “Check out at all the clouds.” And later, “Wow, that’s a really big river down there,” he said. “It just goes on and on.” I got the feeling he’d not been in an airplane many times before. He asked if I knew how far Groton Connecticut was from Rhode Island. His brother lived there, and he hoped it wasn’t too far away. I told him I wasn’t certain—I thought it was on the coast and might not be more than an hour away. I assumed the naval base was in Newport, but none of them spoke of going anywhere but to Rhode Island.

I asked how long he would be at sea. He told me he wasn’t sure, that it depended on his duty. One assignment would put him on a nuclear submarine for a three month stretch without a break, while the other would take him away for nine months, stopping at ports every now and then. He said he would miss his family, and that they lived in Dallas.

As we prepared for the final decent, the sailors began chatting again. They talked about mundane things, like how they can now fall asleep sitting up and how they might be getting new blue dress uniforms soon. I looked again at their sailor suits—they were almost blindingly white—and at their shiny black shoes poking out below their big bell bottoms. When we landed, they began gathering their things, each clutching an identical manila folder with their names printed on the outside. I wondered what was in those folders.

As I said goodbye and was called Ma’am again in the most respectful of tones, I thought about all the soldiers who have been killed in Iraq. I hoped that these boys would not be going anywhere near there. I thought this again as I watched them stand and politely insist that others go ahead of them. And again as I watched them walk down the aisle and make their way up the gate plank, bright white fading into the distance.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)

Suffering Through Spring in January

2007-01-14T06:15:00.000-08:00

To all the skiers and snowboarders out there who’ve been unable to hit the slopes and the skaters who’ve been forced into indoor rinks, to all those who miss snowshoeing and ice-fishing and building snowmen in your front yards — to all of you I offer my sincere, heartfelt apology. You see, I am partially, if not fully, responsible for your pain.

You may hear other reasons behind the recent weather trend, tales of global warming brought on by pollution and the rise in greenhouse gases. You may hear meteorologists attribute the unseasonable record-breaking temperatures in the Northeast to a jet stream of the sort that generally occurs in warmer months, how instead of getting the usual cold air from the north, we are getting warm air flowing in from the south and west. All of these things no doubt provide a partial explanation — but there is something far more insidious contributing to the warming of our weather.

After years of struggling through mounds of snow, of back breaking shoveling of driveways and working to clear a path to our front door, we finally broke down and bought a snow blower. As with our lawnmower years ago, we went in on the purchase with our next-door neighbors. We didn’t settle for the small model, but instead opted for the pricey turbo-charged one that could take on a storm the size of the Blizzard of ‘78. We were ready for anything. And, therefore — naturally — ever since, nothing has happened.

Since that ominous purchase, there has been a significant reduction in the temperature and snowfall levels in the Northeast. I’ve used the snow blower exactly twice — the first time in the early December 2005 snowstorm, and the second time after a mere dusting that, truthfully, could have been more easily handled with my plastic snow shovel.

Other actions on my part have contributed to the warming trend, like my recent purchase of two North Face Polartec vests and a pair of particularly cozy fur-lined slippers. More significantly was the purchase of snowshoes a few seasons back, something I’ve been able to use only a handful of times since.

Though they were a Christmas gift from my husband, he bought them in direct response to my persistent pre-holiday hinting. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go snowshoeing in Moose Hill, trudging along the snow-covered trails, breathing in the frosty air amongst ice-covered trees? Oh yeah, we don’t own any snowshoes. Never mind.”

Now one may wonder what a snow blower, North Face vests, furry slippers and snowshoes have to do with the warming trend. The superstitious wood knocking, salt-tossing, sidewalk-crack-avoiding people of the world know the answer to this all too well. When you prepare for or announce one thing, the exact opposite generally occurs. Those who follow sports are familiar with this effect, the so-called Sports Illustrated jinx, how players having exceptionally successful seasons will suddenly tank or sustain side-lining injuries soon after the issue hits the stands.
Some examples of this trend include Mo Vaughn’s collapse (going 0 for 14 in the Indian’s three-game sweep of the Sox) following his October 1995 appearance on the cover, Kurt Warner’s pinkie injury resulting in his missing the next five games after his October 2000 cover, and the announcement of Nomar Garciaparra’s split tendon in his wrist following his appearance on the March 2001 cover.

The lesser-known but equally powerful Madden game jinx has resulted in season-ending injuries of star players like Michael Vick, Donovan McNabb and Shaun Alexander following their appearances on the XBox game cover.

Just as Sports Illustrated and Madden must assume responsibility for the catastrophes that follow players’ cover appearances, I too, must accept that my actions have contributed to the lack of cold weather and snow. The least I can do is try to turn things around. Talking and writing about how warm it has been is a good start. And there are other steps I plan to take.
I’ll stock up on sunscreen and buy a new pair of flip-flops. I’ll put away my down comforter and send my winter coat off to the dry cleaners. I’ll open the windows wide and start my spring cleaning. I’ll prepare the snow blower for its annual hibernation, emptying it of gasoline, draping it under its cover, tucking it in the corner of our shed.

I’ll keep talking to everyone I know about how crazy it is that we’re having spring in the middle of winter, how the birds are chirping, the crocuses are coming up and the cherry blossoms are blooming. Yep, that should just about do it.

Signs of Being Behind-the-Times

2007-01-12T05:48:00.000-08:00

On a recent clothes shopping trip with my daughter, I suggested a type of shirt that would go with her newly purchased pants. “Something simple, like a nice little shell,” I said. “A what?” she replied. “You know, a shell, a sleeveless shirt,” I said, running a finger across my shoulder to show where the edge of the shirt stops. “Oh, you mean a tank top,” my daughter answered, laughing. A similar incident occurred a few weeks ago when I said I would pick up some creme rinse at the drug store. “Some what?” she said. “Creme rinse, you know, the stuff you put on after you shampoo,” I said. “Oh, you mean conditioner,” she said. More laughing.

I’m slowly getting used to the outward signs of aging—the slightly expanding waistline, the crow’s feet and sags, the graying hair. And though it’s distressing, I’m not surprised by ‘mind-pause’ things like forgetting where I put my car keys, going off on a tangent when telling a story and the sporadic inability to retrieve names for common objects.

But this business of feeling old simply by what I call things is a whole new realm of aging. It’s not like I always call conditioner creme rinse—I haven’t bought Tame since I was a kid—but sometimes the words just slip out. Though I refer to pants that hit mid-calf as capris, I have to admit I secretly think of them as peddle-pushers. In addition to finding that names for things have changed, meanings for names of things have changed. To me, thongs will always be casual sandals (i.e. flip-flops), not some ridiculously skimpy, horribly uncomfortable-looking undergarment.

Clothing is another sure-fire way to show age. I know this because up until a year ago, I owned a pair of those high-waisted, straight-legged, front-pleated, baggy old age-broadcasters known as “mom jeans,” until my daughter kindly pulled me aside for some much-needed fashion advice. Thankfully, she also talked me into replacing my comfortable but unsightly square-toed, thick-soled shoes with something a bit more modern.

These days, age is also revealed in the products people use. Using a regular (non-digital) camera, paper appointment book or Sony Walkman will instantly add 20 years to someone’s age. Even buying CDs is becoming dated. A recent New York Times article, “The Graying of the Record Store” was all about this kind of thing, how independent record shops, especially in big cities, are closing because kids are downloading music and no longer buying CDs. Even something as innocuous as wearing a watch is becoming old-fashioned. With digital clocks built into cell phones, many young people—phones affixed to ears—no longer feel a need to wear one.

On top of what I wear and use, every now and then, I’ll say something that I know instantly dates me. Though I’ve never been known to utter anything as Draconian as “you silly goose” or “if I had my druthers,” I have been known to talk about having a “conniption fit” and needing to “keep my eyes peeled.” And I know I’m guilty of telling my kids more than once that “money doesn’t grow on trees” and “it’s better to be safe than sorry.” These old sayings just pop out of my mouth—unrestrained, automatic. I suppose it’s just another all-too-obvious sign that I wasn’t born yesterday.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)

Viva La Frogs

2007-01-10T06:40:00.000-08:00

There is a major milestone coming up in our home this month, one I was certain I’d never witness. Our frogs, the first of which we got as a birthday present for my son, will turn ten years old. That’s human years. If frogs are anything like dogs, that’s seventy frog years. For such old creatures, these little guys (or gals) can sure still move around.

We thought it would be fun as well as educational to get our son a ‘grow-a-frog’ for his fifth birthday. It works like this. You mail back the coupon and this place in Florida sends you a tadpole that you watch turn miraculously into a frog. From the start, though, this project was beset with problems. It was too cold in February when we mailed our coupon for the company to send a tadpole—it would have never made it, they said. So instead, they sent a sturdier ‘froglet’ with a coupon to mail in for a tadpole once the weather turned warmer.

Though cute, the froglet, which my son promptly, if not originally, named Freddie, was not exactly what we had in mind. The whole point of this frog thing was so he (and we) could watch the tadpole go though its amazing transformation. So when spring came, we sent in our coupon. When the package arrived, we were thrilled. After all this time, we finally had our tadpole. It lasted about a week. I think I may have spotted the makings of a small webbed foot before it keeled over, but that may have been wishful thinking.

I called the company to explain what happened, and they kindly agreed to send another tadpole. When the package arrived, we were surprised to find, not a tadpole, but another froglet, which my daughter promptly, if not originally, named Fredericka. When I called the company again, they were very apologetic. I explained our urgent need for a tadpole. A few weeks later another package arrived. Yep, you guessed it, another froglet. This time my son named it, for no apparent reason, Michael. I made just one more call to the frog company, stressing politely but firmly that they never send us anything ever again.

So that is how we ended up with no tadpoles and three water frogs. I’d never read much about the longevity of these creatures, but figured we’d have them at most for a year or two. Each year, I’m amazed they’re still with us. They’ve somehow managed to thrive in their small quarters, growing to nearly twenty times their original size. They lead quiet, simple lives. They swim, jump, and splash. They come up for air every now and then, making little bubbles at the top of the tank. And they eat this really smelly amphibian food, using their webbed hands to guide the pellet sticks into their mouths. Sometimes they grab onto each other’s slippery bodies, wrapping their arms around their middles like they’re hugging each other (or so I like to think.) They have the most delightful little faces with their beady eyes and wide thin smiles.

My son still feeds them (almost) every day. I change the water weekly, more so in the summer. Our neighbors help us out when we go away, sprinkling food in the top of the tank, keeping them alive. As far as pets go, they are pretty low maintenance. Though they don’t interact with people like many pets do, they are ours and I, for one, am quite fond of them. And here they are, ten years later, swimming around in their tank-home, jumping, eating, and making their little frog smiles. Who would have ever thought? Happy Birthday guys. Here’s hoping for many more.

(This column was originally published on townonline January, 2006)

My Mother's Day Life Lessons

2007-01-10T06:05:00.000-08:00

This Mother's Day, I enter a new stage. I am now the parent of an adult child. Though my daughter is grown, she is still my child. And though I am now old enough to have a grown daughter, I am still my mother's child.

It doesn't seem possible that we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital 18 years ago. In those early days, I never thought much about what it meant to be a mother. Like most new moms, I floated in and out of a foggy, sleep-deprived, though blissful state. I don't remember being particularly worried about the awesome responsibility of caring for a child. Perhaps if I'd stopped to think about it I would have been more anxious. Mostly I just remember being entranced by this perfect little being.

By the time my children became toddlers, I thought more about my role as a parent. I supported their natural curiosity about the world while trying to keep them safe. Safety rules were critical, my responses automatic. Other decisions - like denying the extra cookie or telling a defiant child it was bed time - were not things that required deep thought.

As my children grew older, I had to think more, making important decisions about what to allow, and what to refuse. My kids began asking questions I was unprepared to answer. The canned, clever responses of the past like "we'll see" or "ask me later" no longer worked. And it was never easy giving an answer I knew would be followed by tension, anger and tears, even if it was the right one. I always told my kids the surest way to get "no" for a response was to plead "everyone else is doing it."

There have been many lessons over my almost two decades as a parent. One thing I've learned is that I can't fix everything for my kids, and more importantly, I shouldn't try to. Sometimes the best thing is to just be there, to listen.

I've made many mistakes over the years, sometimes by saying the wrong thing, other times by not saying enough. I've learned if I'm not comfortable with something, I need to speak up. After all, that's what I've always told my kids to do.

There were many times, especially in the adolescent and teenage years, when my ambiguous discomfort was the sole reason for refusing a request. I'm sure there were times I was unreasonable, maybe even unfair. But I also knew I could not ignore uneasy feelings. I'd always wonder what would have been different if I'd said something. Though I may have hesitated before giving an answer I knew would make my kids mad, I never feared making waves. In the end, I always went with my gut. I suppose I still do.

As a mother, I've tried to give my kids freedom to try new things and make mistakes while also helping them stay safe. For me, this balancing act is the hardest part of being a parent. The other day my daughter and I talked about it. "You and dad have done a good job as parents," she said. She went on to say it was good how we built up to things, refusing some requests, allowing other things, each time with more freedom, more responsibility. I guess we've managed the right mix of "yes and no." Not perfect, but good enough.

Being a parent is a life-long thing. Though older, my children still need me, just as surely as I still need them. And I still need my mother for so many things - advice on handling a problem, having someone to share what's on my mind. And my mom, she is always there, ready to listen with genuine interest to both the thrilling and ordinary stories of my life. When I think about it, I guess that's what mothers are for.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2006)

Losing a Filene's Friend

2007-01-10T05:56:00.000-08:00

I haven’t shopped at Filene’s in Downtown Crossing in many years. Still, I took the news of its planned closing very hard. Filene’s is as closely connected with Boston as anything I can think of. It is the Red Sox of department stores. While I can’t claim Boston as my birthplace, having lived here almost thirty years (and hence, the bulk of my life), I’m entrenched enough to feel the loss profoundly. It’s as if a dear friend—the one with whom I share my deepest, darkest secrets—has announced she’s moving away.

Ever since I learned about the closing of Filene’s, I’ve been trying to understand why I am so sad. I realized I’ve never fully accepted that Jordan Marsh turned into Macy’s. I mean, Macy’s is about as ‘New York’ as the Yankees. Though that change was almost ten years ago, when I picture Downtown Crossing, I still see Filene’s and Jordon Marsh, kindly neighbors, eyeing each other from across the way, keeping each other company like life-long friends.

There have been many corporate takeovers and changes in Boston over the years, and though I’ve been affected by all of them in different ways, none has hit me as hard as this one. I felt sad when BayBank become Bank of Boston, in part I think, because BayBank was where I first used an automatic teller card. I wasn’t bothered when it eventually become Fleet, and I cared less when Fleet became Bank of America (by then I’d switched to Sharon Credit Union). I guess I just wasn’t emotionally tied to my bank.

I wasn’t troubled when Sullivan stadium became Foxboro stadium, or when CMGI Field turned into Gillette. Having only been there once, I guess I wasn’t emotionally tied to the stadium either. The news of Gillette being bought out by Proctor & Gamble was distressing for reasons other than personal. It was hard to take yet another story of corporate greed at the expense of hard-working people. As upsetting as the Gillette news was, for me, it fell into the category of public outrage, rather than private upset.

And there have been other local losses and changes: Polaroid, John Hancock, Lechmere, Great Woods. Though I get a pang of nostalgia when I utter these institutional names, the loss does not feel crushing. Not like Filene’s.

I think the reason the Filene’s news has hit me so hard, is because it is much more than a department store. It is linked with bits of my life. Filene’s will be forever meshed with my move to Boston in 1976, with the excitement of living in a new city, and starting college. When my roommates and I went to Downtown Crossing, it was an all-day affair. We’d hop aboard the T at Boston College, screeching along Commonwealth Avenue until we entered the eerie under-road darkness. We’d climb the grimy Boylston Street station stairs, and stroll through the Public Gardens, taking in the glorious colors and scents.

We’d walk through the Boston Common, cross over Tremont Street and stroll into the shopping district. We’d peek in the windows and check out the bookshops and record stores, before heading into the heart of Downtown Crossing. We’d never make the trip without stopping at Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Being money-strapped college students, Filene’s basement was always the first place we’d go—rummaging through the racks and piles for bargain blouses, slipping on those perfectly priced shoes.

Though we often returned with our arms filled with shopping bags, we didn’t really go to Downtown Crossing to shop. We went for the excitement. We went to explore the vibrant city and to stroll on the no-cars-allowed-cobblestones. We went to feel the pulse of the lively crowds, laughing and talking, just like us. We went to experience a little slice of life.

These are the things I will remember. Filene’s, I will miss you.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2005)

Taking Time to Feel the Fall

2007-01-10T05:28:00.000-08:00

The days, I’ve noticed, have slightly changed. In early mornings when I take a breath, a cool stream fills my chest. A faint fog blows before me. I jump and shake and move my limbs, rubbing my hands, warming my finger tips.

All around it looks like summer—the grass is green, the trees are full, the sun is bright. But some things are different. The crickets have quieted, and the bird-chirps are lower, longer, the sounds seeping into the chilled air. Though still green, there is a trace of turning of the leaves—fading tips, spots of russet.

In the nearby fields the towering sunflowers have started to die. They are hunched and bent, tired from standing so tall for so long. The cornstalks stand firm, but they too will soon begin to bend. The neighborhood gardens are blooming with fuchsia and lavender and yellow and blue, impatiens still spreading, covering the beds. There is, though, a hint of decline—crumpled petals, dropped leaves, specks of brown.

I want to see and feel every bit of fall before the days become shorter, before the darkness makes me feel heavy and slow and more tired than I know I should be. Soon the leaves will turn brilliant gold and orange and red, and then they will dry up and fall. The flowers in the beds—even the hearty mums—will wither and crumble and mix with the ground. The cool air will turn bitterly cold, and people will be buttoning coats, turning up collars, hurrying along.

So I will stop to look at the stooping sunflowers, at the turning leaves, at the slightly withering petals. I will listen to the birds and strain to hear the last remnants of the crickets. I will feel the cool air on my bare skin. I will breathe as long and hard and slow as I can, taking it all in. Before it is gone.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)

Missing Out on a Furry Best Friend

2007-01-09T06:26:00.000-08:00

There is a passionate, devoted, wonderfully crazy world out there that, sadly, I am not a part of—the world of dogs. Dogs and things connected to them are everywhere these days. There are dog parks and specialty stores. There are dog magazines and newsletters. There’s doggie day care and dog beauty shops—even traveling ones like Zoomin-Groomin—a local franchise right here in Sharon. There are doggie treat stations at pet stores set up like a salad bar with bins and scoops for liver hearts and carob chip cookies. There are websites and personal ads devoted to matching people through their common interest in dogs like in the movie, “Must Love Dogs.” There are even bumper stickers that read “the more people I meet, the more I like my dog.” (There’s definitely something to that saying.)

I always thought that when I had a family, we’d get a dog. Both my husband and I grew up with dogs. He had a Golden Retriever-Golden Lab mix naturally named Goldie. I had two dogs, our first a Hungarian Sheepdog, Trinka, and then an Old English Sheepdog, Myshkin, named by my mother after the kindly prince in Dostoevsky’s novel “The Idiot.” While my memories of Trinka are anything but fond (she bit and barked and viciously shredded our curtains), Myshkin—though somewhat slobbery—was a very loving pet.

Years ago my husband and I talked about getting a dog. We hesitated, though, since both our children had allergies. We were looking to decrease allergens, not add to them. As years passed, and our kids’ symptoms improved, we began exploring possibilities, considering dogs that weren’t as likely to create problems.

I got the book, “The Right Dog for You” with information about different breeds—kid friendliness, train-ability, how they got along with other dogs. We’d pretty much settled on a small to medium-sized dog, narrowing it to a Beagle or Border Terrier. A friend of mine whose children had allergies swore her Wheaten Terrier was not a problem, so we began looking into those. We researched, waited, delayed some more. Then the doubts started to surface again. “We go away on weekends a lot,” my husband said. True. “And we have no family nearby to take care of the dog when we’re away. We’d be tied down.” True again.

So we got other ‘pets’ instead—a hamster, water frogs. While our frogs splashed away in their modest aquarium, our hamster lived in a miniature city. Her cage-home had more rooms than ours, with passages connecting in a tangled web of tunnels to various compartments and exercise wheels. She even had this plastic ball where we’d put her in and watch her roll across the kitchen floor. The thing is, hamsters are asleep just when you most want to play with them, and you can’t hug a frog—too small, too slippery. Yes, these animals were sorry substitutes for a dog.

I’m quite amused at the whole dog-thing. People can be quite funny about them. My mother is a classic case in point. She is utterly obsessed with her Pug Kobe, (in no way named for the considerably taller and more temperamental NBA star of the same name.) My mother showers Kobe with gifts—an assortment of sweaters, squeaky and stuffed animal toys, raw hide chew things, doggie treats. Make no bones about it, this is one sweet, spoiled dog.

And there’s more. Kobe sits like a statue as my mother photographs her wearing her many scarves—one covered in black Labradors (from our visit to the Black Dog), one with little lobsters on it (from our visit to Kittery, Maine), even a leopard print cape with fur lined along the top. One Christmas, my mother even had Kobe’s picture taken sitting on Santa’s lap. “The proceeds went to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” my mother said, justifying it. Somehow I think this photo-op would not have been missed, ‘good cause’ or not.

Besides buying things for her dog, my mother has accumulated other ‘Pug things’—Pug figurines and pillows, Pug rugs and T-shirts, Pug throws and metal sculptures. On a recent shopping trip, she found a silver bracelet, little hearts and Pugs dangling from it. Naturally it was a “must-have” item. My mother carries Kobe photos—at last count eight—with her in her wallet. She is always on the lookout for a chance to show them off to someone who can relate to her obsession, like the store owner where she purchased the Pug bracelet. My sisters and I teased her once, asking to see the wallet-sized photos of her children she carries with her. (There were none.) The truth is, I have no problem with being second fiddle to her dog. For my mom, who lives alone, Kobe is a devoted companion. She is her best friend.

Somehow I think that’s when it will happen for us, when we will finally break down and get a dog. When the kids are gone and the house is looking a little too clean, sounding a little too quiet, feeling a little too empty. When I look at the space next to me on the couch and think, “gee, it would be nice to have a dog nestling, snoring, slobbering, waiting for a belly-rub, looking up at me with those ‘I adore you’ eyes.” Yes, I can picture it, my furry friend just sitting there, being a great little pal.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)

The Sox in the Drawer

2007-01-08T12:52:00.000-08:00

It's fitting, the rain we had for days and days upon end. The steady, dreary drips are a perfect match for my mood. I feel lost, empty and just plain strange sitting on the sidelines in the middle of October.

The blow is only slightly eased with reminders of how high a hurdle it was for our Red Sox this year. Trying to win a championship without Pedro and a healthy Schilling is like trying to pick up a coin without your thumb and index finger. Challenging indeed - even with our should-be-MVP Ortiz.

In spite of the pitching problems, the Sox were sitting pretty up until the last week of the season. But when they lost first place to the Yankees and played a meaningless final game, the thrill was all but gone. There would be no dramatic one game play-off to determine the division winner.

Though the Sox and Yankees would share the same record, New York's edge in head-to-head division match-ups assured the Yankees of yet another division title. The Red Sox fell fast and furious, swept clean in the wildcard contest by the other colored Sox. And then something even stranger happened. The Yankees fell. With no team to root passionately for, or against, I have pretty much lost interest in baseball. Like picking through half-eaten chocolates at the bottom of the box, there's nothing left worth bothering about.

So what's a dejected Red Sox fan to do at a time like this? I've tried to deal with the disappointment by going back in time, pulling out memorabilia from that magical season just one year ago. I reveled in the headlines; "Hello, World Series," "On Top of the World," "Finally," and the simple but powerfully effective, "We Won."

I flipped through the pages of "Sports Illustrated" (both regular and commemorative issues), at the cover photo of Damon, Ortiz, Pedro and Schilling holding the flag-filled Championship trophy below the "New Era" headline.

I chuckled at the "Joy of Sox" scrawled across the cover of "Time." I read all about the greatest comeback in baseball history, about the church bells ringing and car horns blowing, about the personal accounts of regular fans who popped corks from dusty champagne bottles and toasted the improbable victory in memory of long-lost fathers and grandfathers.

I smiled as I looked at my favorite congratulatory message, the one with the Red Sox celebrating below a scoreboard that read: "Boston 1; Odds 0."

I drifted one final time back to the moment when Foulke tossed the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz (remember him?), to the men-boys frolicking in ecstasy on the mound. And then I put the newspaper clippings and photographs safely away.

The funny thing is, though I feel let-down, I am not crushed. Though disappointed, I am far from devastated. I suppose when you've had the ultimate sundae, the one with three scoops of ice cream smothered in hot fudge, covered in sprinkles, and topped with whipped cream and a cherry, you can't help but be satisfied.

At least for a while.

So it's time to tuck the championship dream away in the drawer - away, but not too far back. With no curse left to bear, it's easier to let it go. And as every devoted Red Sox fan knows, there's always next year.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2005)

A Trip, A Fall and a Shot in the Arm

2007-01-08T07:02:00.000-08:00

It couldn’t have been a nicer morning—clear, crisp, not a cloud in the sky. I was out for a solo-run through a little town in the Catskills on the last day of my vacation with my husband. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, I slammed onto the road, cutting knees and elbows, scraping the palms of my hands. It was not a pretty sight.

As I cursed myself for my careless stupidity, I tried to assess what had happened, desperately looking for evidence to justify such a fall. There must have been something—a pothole, a crack in the road, a random rock or tree branch? But no, nothing. I came to the only conclusion I could—that a mass of sinister air had morphed into the shape of a leg, sticking out and tripping me as I jogged by, just for the fun of it. What else could possibly explain such a thing?

Out of respect for the queasy souls of the world (like me) who can’t stomach graphic images, I will abstain from providing a detailed description of the damage. Suffice it to say my fall was followed by dizziness, nausea, a black out and a trip to the ER. I was as white as a ghost, further evidence, I told myself, of the sinister leg-shaped air apparition that had so cruelly tripped me up. After the oxygen tubes, IV’s and blood tests, I was given a Tetanus shot (a precautionary measure to deal with whatever foreign substances had embedded in my knees) and released to spend the last day of my vacation propped in bed.

It had been a while since I’d stumbled while running, in fact, in the days before this latest episode I’d just been thinking how long it had been since something like that had happened. Maybe that explains it. I’d fallen twice in two separate road races many years ago, and sprained my ankle on an acorn in another incident while just steps from my house. The weirdest fall I remember was about five years ago when I suddenly wiped out coming down Moose Hill Parkway. When I got up to survey the area I saw it—a brown-spotted banana peel strategically placed on the side of the road.

In the days after my latest mishap I hobbled along, taking it all in stride. In fact—and my husband and I got a laugh or two out of this—my biggest complaint and primary reason for taking Advil was the throbbing pain in my upper arm from that darn Tetanus shot.

Though achy and a bit stiff, a few days after the incident I was feeling well enough to go out to a movie. As I hobbled across the street to the Dedham Community Theatre, I turned to my husband, joking how I felt like Ratso Rizzo before doing my best Dustin Hoffman imitation, limping and wobbling along. My husband chimed right in—“we’re walking here, we’re walking here!” as I continued my exaggerated left leg-dragging jerky movement performance. It was then that I saw him, a guy coming the other way, leg wrapped in a knee brace, limping along. Mortified that he presumed I was mocking him (there was no evidence of my injury, my wounds covered by capris), I scurried along as fast as I could, struggling to stifle my laughter.

As with many things, there was a plus side to all of this. With a pass on doing anything remotely physical that last day of our trip, I got to finish the books I’d picked up at the little flea market on our way—“Zuckerman Unbound” (Philip Roth) and “The Stranger” (Camus). And, as I often do when I’ve read books by authors I like, I went to the library upon my return home to pick up others—“Zuckerman Bound,” which included the prequel and sequel to the Roth story I’d read, and Camus’s “The Fall.” It wasn’t until I began writing of my experience that I realized the aptness of that last title.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)

Waiting for Gouda

2007-01-07T14:05:00.000-08:00

The average person will spend 2 weeks over a lifetime waiting for the traffic light to change. That’s an entire vacation spent hanging out at an intersection, fingers drumming on the side of the steering wheel.

I suppose it shouldn’t be all that surprising. The other day I spent 25 minutes waiting at the deli counter. Now I don’t know about other people, but for me, that was a record. I knew I was in for a wait, when after spotting the larger than usual crowd and checking my number (52), I noticed the current number was 30. I figured, though, at most there were ten “real” customers ahead of me. Many people don’t stick around. They get impatient and walk away, wringing their hands in frustration, stuffing their little crumpled pink slips into their pockets or tossing them onto the floor.

The key to waiting without becoming fraught with frustration is to wait wisely, planning the weekend, reminiscing, jotting a mental ‘to do’ list. On this day, I smartly decided that rather than stand around helplessly waiting for my number, I’d pick up my other grocery items. It would keep me occupied, lessen my anxiety. Besides, it would be good exercise.

I headed over to the fish counter (no wait) and promptly received my order for 2 lbs of haddock. I rushed down to the dairy section and grabbed a gallon of milk, a carton of eggs and several yogurts. I managed to balance a loaf of wheat bread on top before racing back to the deli counter. I anxiously glanced at the current customer number: 34.

Figuring I had time to make another trip up and down the aisles, I set out in search of Gatorade, Special K, granola bars (on sale that week), raisins. I walked briskly back to the deli counter again searching for the number. It had inched up to 39. Next I headed to the pasta aisle. I grabbed several boxes of angel hair (2 for .99) and pulled a new kind of sauce from the shelf (risky, but at $1.69 a jar, I had to take a chance). I glanced at my watch and then hustled back to the deli counter for another number check—42.

At this point, I was beside myself. It had been at least 15 minutes, and I was still 10 customers away. It was hard to believe, but everyone ahead of me—all twenty-two of them—had waited. “Don’t these people have anything better to do than wait in this ridiculous line?” I said to myself, realizing the equally ridiculous nature of my question given my continued waiting status. I thought about giving up, but having already invested so much time, I decided to stick it out, pulling some nearby produce out of the bins so I wouldn’t be caught off guard. The last thing I wanted at this point was to miss hearing my number being called.

When I finally heard 52, I was overcome with relief, the exhilaration almost unbearable. Though my original deli list had been a modest one, I quickly rattled off several additional items—a half pound of American cheese (sliced thin), a pound of Willow Tree chicken salad, cole slaw, four-bean salad. “While you’re at it, throw in a quarter pound of provolone,” I heard myself say to the deli guy. There was no way I was going to walk away after almost a half hour’s wait with merely a pound of turkey breast.

This incident got me wondering how my time at the deli counter compared to the traffic light statistic. Even a more reasonable waiting time of 10 minutes twice a week translates into about 4 weeks of my life—that’s two vacations—waiting for turkey and cheese. The idea of all this waiting time, productive though it was, was overwhelmingly depressing. It made me desperate to get away from it all—on that much-needed two week vacation.

(This column was published in a slightly different form on townonline.com July, 2005)

Ready, Set, Snow

2007-01-06T18:18:00.000-08:00

After living in New England for over twenty-five years, we’ve finally done something we should have done long ago. We bought a snow blower, or as they seem to be called these days, a “snow thrower.” We’d talked for years about buying one with our next-door neighbors, with whom we share a lawnmower. With two not-so-good backs between our neighbor’s home and ours, not to mention all of us getting a little older, we decided now was the time to finally bite the bullet.

Last year pretty much decided it for us. We were fine handling a few inches of snow, especially the light powdery kind that could be practically blown away with a slight puff of the mouth. But the wet, heavy stuff was a totally different story. And just when we cleared it away, another storm came, testing our patience (and backs.)

Though I’m glad we made this purchase, I have to admit to being a little intimidated. I’m most comfortable with uncomplicated tools—a regular rake, old-fashioned hedge clippers, plain pruning shears. As much as I hate shoveling with my standard gear, I like how it requires nothing more than grabbing my shovel (assuming I can find it behind the bikes and bags in the shed.)

Unlike my $10 plastic shovel, this snow thrower is one serious machine. Ours is a two-stage 9 horsepower model that handles up to 8 inches of snow, clearing a swath 30 inches wide. It weighs over 200 pounds. It comes with a 99 page manual, complete with diagrams and detailed instructions. There are seven paragraphs listed under preparation, and 26 points of instruction under operation, maintenance and storage.

It’s definitely going to take some work for me to get comfortable with things like “choke on and off,” “throttle,” and “auger clutch.” And I’ll need to review the concepts of “engage” and “discharge.” One thing I’m particularly grateful for—the “dead-man control” that stops everything when the handlebar grip is released. Some of the symbols are friendly, though. There’s a silhouette of a turtle (for slow), and a rabbit (for fast). It gives me hope that I may eventually master it.

We did a test run on the remnants of that early dusting. There we were, huddled around the menacing metal monster, flipping through the manual, making sure we knew when to push in the safety key and turn on the clutch. I matched up the little symbols with the big machine, trying to get to know it, to get comfortable, to make it my friend.

We hauled it out again just in time for that wild December 9th snowstorm. It was challenging indeed maneuvering in the midst of gusting winds as snow filled my eyes. And I was more than a little concerned about pushing 200 pounds of metal as I saw the sky light up, bright as neon, and heard the distant sound of threatening thunder claps. As much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew my Columbia rubber boots would probably not save me. I watched though, in awe, as a steady stream of white blew up high into the air leaving a glorious path of pavement in front of me. It was a thing of beauty.

So this winter, as in years past, we will eagerly watch the weather channel for the latest news. We will listen intently to reports of blizzards and Nor’easters heading our way. But we will have no fear. We are equipped, ready. Like our kids, we will be praying for snow. To Mother Nature we have just one thing to say. “Bring it on.”

(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)

Pardon Me While I Turn on Sports Talk

2007-01-06T18:04:00.000-08:00

I did something the other week I thought I’d never do. Though far from outrageous, it was, for me, somewhat out of character. I watched “Pardon the Interruption” all by myself. Now for those non-obsessed sports fans who may not be familiar with it, “Pardon the Interruption,” or PTI as it is fondly called, is an ESPN sports talk show.

The show is a favorite of my son’s, one I’ve “watched” many times, glancing up every now and then from a book or newspaper. Though I’m no sports-talk connoisseur, I prefer it to “Around the Horn,” an irritatingly loud ESPN show that pits battling sports journalists against one another.

In my half-watching state, I’ve noticed some things about PTI that I have to admit I like. The rapport between Washington Post columnists-hosts Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon is fantastic. They are the national counterparts to our own Ken Berman and Jan Goldstein of Sharon cable SportsNuts fame. The format is lively, unique. The show is an interesting mix of run-downs, interviews, picks and pans. It keeps things going, with its varied format and clock ticking down the list of intriguing topics. They toss in an interview, take a brief break for ESPN sports news, and return for the finale, the “Big Finish,” a one minute sprint on ten topics, complete with lively music and a buzzer at the end. Even non-die-hard sports fans will agree this is a darn good show.

Though I’ve always enjoyed the bits I catch in between reading, the night I watched PTI solo was entirely accidental. I’d just returned from dropping my son and teammate off at basketball practice, had started dinner, and was looking to kill some time before heading back to pick them up. When I clicked on the television, ESPN came on. This is the case 99% of the time I turn on the TV. “Pardon the Interruption” was already in progress. I started to change the channel, but was overcome with an inexplicable desire to hear about sports stuff. I was completely pulled in by the hosts. These are two incredibly sharp, likeable guys who have interesting things to say. And though they often disagree, they do so in a way that is respectful, and most importantly, hugely entertaining.

On this particular night, the “rundown list” included topics such as Duke, Jets, Knicks, Goose, Penguins, McGwire and Vick. Though I wasn’t sure what Goose was all about, I thought it was funny how it came right before Penguins. I’ve been following the amazing year of Duke’s J.J. Redick, and I was curious what they had to say about McGwire. I’ve listened to my son ‘talk sports’ enough to know that Michael Vick’s younger brother has gotten into a heap of trouble, being kicked off Virginia Tech’s football team for viciously stepping on a player’s leg, and recently being caught brandishing a handgun. Curious, I watched and listed as Tony and Michael went down the list.

The first interview that night was with Carolina Panther Steve Smith, who responded to the trash-talk directed at him from a Bears player. Though Smith’s name was somewhat familiar to me, I couldn’t have placed his team, and I’d not heard about the trash-talk incident. There was, though, something amusing about it all, with the headline “Do Pros Care About Yapping?” listed at the bottom of the screen, and talk about being “dissed and disrespected.”

From what I could see, this Steve Smith guy handled himself like a pro, refusing to give in to requests to yap back at the Bears, even when the hosts promised to put Smith’s picture on the station wall in exchange for a nasty comeback. Smith then described his favorite end zone celebrations, including the snow-less snow angel, baby-wiping the football, and the Mr. September, so-called due to his provocative laying-down-on-his-side-in-the-end-zone pose. Yes this is mindless, meaningless, not-important-to-the-world stuff. But it sure is entertaining.

The hosts then moved into a role play, where each took turns holding a photograph-mask in front of his face, pretending to be, among other players, Sean Taylor (the Redskin who was ejected from a playoff game for spitting at an opponent) and Mark McGwire, responding to questions about whether his possible, but unproven, steroid use would keep him out of the Hall of Fame.

They cut away to ESPN for a quick sports update before returning for another interview, this time with Boomer Esiason—I’d surely heard of him—who relayed his playoff picks, as well as “key players” and “X-factors” (i.e. crowd noise, turnovers, rainy Seattle weather) that would likely contribute to game outcomes.

At this point, I was anxiously eyeing the clock. I knew it was time for me to return to my carpool duty, but I really didn’t want to miss the end of the show when the hosts take exactly one minute giving quick opinions on a long list of topics. It didn’t seem possible they’d make it through all of them, but as always they did. These guys are amazing. As soon as the buzzer sounded, I grabbed my coat and headed out the door.

I got there in the nick of time, pulling up just as my son and his friend were walking out of the gym. Somehow, though, I think I’d be forgiven if I’d been a few minutes late. My son, of course, would certainly understand my desperate need to watch the “Big Finish” right to the very end.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)

A Thrilling Time at the Beach

2007-01-05T17:57:00.000-08:00

This year's family vacation was quite different from a year ago. Last spring we were visiting colleges up and down the East Coast, traipsing across tree-lined campuses.

With the college search process thankfully behind us, this time we had no agenda. There were no Fiske or Princeton Review guide books to read and toss in the trunk. There were no brochures and college course catalogues to scan and collect at each stop. No, this year was nothing like that. The only things to read were beach books. Lots of them.

As in times past, this year we read and relaxed at my in-law's place in Luquillo, Puerto Rico. My in-laws are big readers too. Their shelves are filled with an assortment of books accumulated from vacations over the years - literary stuff like John Updike, Zadie Smith and Margaret Atwood - and rows and rows of suspense-filled thrillers.

I know I don't need an excuse to read a thriller. Any time, anywhere, I could pick up a Robert Ludlum or Ken Follett and be drawn into the world of assassins and political intrigue. The thing is, books like these just aren't as good when read in the comfort of one's home.

They need sand, waves and sun-block smudges on pages to complete the experience. Like hotdogs at a ball park, some things just have to be consumed in the environment in which they were intended.

I know this is true, because more than once I've tried to finish a thriller in non-beach surroundings. I can get away with it on the plane ride home. While there's no sun, sand or ocean at 32,000 feet, those things are still close enough in time and memory that I can trick myself into thinking I'm still on vacation. But after I get home? Forget it. Just can't seem to finish the book. Even a good one.

Our family has the thriller-reading compulsion down to a science. We read and pass, read and pass, exchanging books - one or two a day - with a quick review to the next person. "Riveting"... "A page turner" ... "You won't be able to put this one down." Or sometimes, "Don't bother," saving a family member from a time-wasting dud.

It was in Puerto Rico a few years ago I read Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code," followed quickly by the (far inferior) "Angels and Demons." This year, my husband read Dan Brown's "Deception Point," before passing it along to my daughter.

She passed John Grisham's "The Last Juror" to me, as I handed Grisham's "The Broker" to her. The passing thing is like musical chairs - there's a mad grab for a just-finished book, especially when given a thumbs-up from the last reader. My son hasn't gotten into thriller-reading so much, preferring the active side of beach vacations - boogie boarding, playing paddle ball, body surfing. He did, though, finish off "Animal Farm"- required reading for his English class.

Thrillers are perfect beach books. With dialogue like, "nice try" "wanna bet?" and "no lie," they can be easily consumed while lathering on sun-block and munching on a potato chip. This year I especially enjoyed Brad Meltzer's "The Zero Game." Set on Capitol Hill, it had all the right elements - murder, politics, shocking twists and turns.

Having been a Capitol Hill intern during the summer of '79, I was familiar with the world of Appropriations Committee meetings and creepy underground tunnels. Like the Congressional page character in the book, I too, ran errands, bringing sealed envelopes to VIPs in the Dirksen and Russell Senate office buildings. I'm sure, though, the messages in the envelopes I delivered contained nothing as intriguing as those in "The Zero Game." Or did they?

My fascination with political thrillers was no doubt rooted in my childhood, where I grew up in the DC area with a father who was completely immersed in politics. In addition to being a political junkie, my dad was an avid reader. And he loved thrillers. He was the first to get the new Robert Ludlum or John de LaCarre.

He always read from a hardback; he could never wait for the paperback version. It was my dad who urged me to read "The Day of the Jackal" and "The Eye of the Needle" while on a family beach vacation back when I was in high school. They are without a doubt the best thrillers I've ever read.

In addition to Grisham and the political thriller, I read the crime drama "Lost Light" by Michael Connelly. This story had everything - an unsolved murder, the disappearance of an FBI agent, stolen millions, a terrorist connection. And an appealing and very human hard-luck ex-cop named Harry Bosch, determined to solve a murder that had haunted him for years.

My daughter and husband were fighting over this one after my "this was great" review.
The last book I picked up was a literary suspense-type novel, "Samaritan," by Richard Price. I got about half-way through it on the beach, and read more on the plane ride home. It's sitting on my kitchen table now, still smelling of sea-salt, a few specks of sand stuck between the pages. I hope I can finish this one - it was quite good. And also, I really, really, want to know "who did it?"

(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)

The Special-ness of Small Bookshops

2007-01-05T06:57:00.000-08:00

It was with sadness that I read about the Hearts & Stars Bookshop in Canton closing at the end of July. I wandered into that bookshop many times over the past four years. Like many people, I enjoyed the intimate surroundings and the friendly helpful staff. There’s something special about a small bookstore. In addition to bestsellers, they display titles that aren’t as well known, ones that otherwise may be overlooked. And I always appreciate those little hand-written notes tucked in the stacks with the mini-synopsis and personal critique. Some of the best books I’ve read I’ve discovered in these quaint little shops.

It was in a small bookshop that I first discovered Annie Dillard’s “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,” a beautiful work of writing-art on life and nature. And as so often happens, that book led me to the author’s others—her memoir, “An American Childhood,” and her wonderful books about writing “Teaching a Stone to Talk” and “The Writing Life.” Those books led me to explore other essay collections in nearby stacks, those of Joan Didion, Andrea Barrett, E.B. White, and even Emerson.

It was in a small bookshop that I picked up the well-known “The Secret Life of Bees” (Sue Monk Kidd), lesser-known “Mrs. Kimble” (Jennifer Haigh), and the sweet tale, “The Monk Downstairs” (Tim Farrington). I found some wonderful vintage classics in an old used bookshop in Great Barrington, including a first-edition copy of Hemingway’s “For Whom the Bells Toll” I bought for my daughter.

And it was in Sharon’s own Annie’s Book Stop that I discovered Marilynne Robinson’s novel “Housekeeping,” one of the most beautifully written stories I have ever read. The passage on craving and having is one I’ve turned to again and again—“for when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it…though we dream and hardly know it, longing, like an angel, fosters us, smooths our hair, and brings us wild strawberries.” I knew I had to read Robinson’s only other novel, the brilliant Pulitzer-Prize winning “Gilead.” But I may have never discovered either had I not wandered into Annie’s.

I’ve tried to think why these independent bookshops are so appealing and inviting. One obvious reason is their size. I don’t feel overwhelmed walking into them. It’s why I prefer small hardware stores to mega-ones like Home Depot. Having too many choices is not always a good thing. What really matters is quality. It’s like having a humongous closet filled with blouses and pants and sweaters and shoes. But out of all of those things, there are but a few favorites that you wear—the worn-in jeans, the soft sweater, the shoes that you can walk in for miles and miles. Small bookshops are like that. They may not have the huge inventories of the superstores. They won’t have multiple discounted copies of bestsellers or non-book items like CDs, DVDs, toys and games. But they have some very good books, some real gems.

The whole experience is different in a small bookshop. In a big store, I go in with a goal in mind. I may search, but I don’t linger. And though there are exceptions, I rarely “discover” a book in a big store. In a larger store, it’s less about the experience of being there, and more about just getting what I need and heading to the check-out counter.

Thankfully, there are still some independent bookshops in the area. In addition to Annie’s Book Stop at the Heights Plaza in Sharon, there’s Paperback Junction on Washington Street in South Easton, a wonderful little shop with both new and used “great finds.” Other local shops I’ve not yet been to include Bookends on North Main Street in Mansfield and The Blue Bunny Children’s bookshop in Dedham Center. If you’re willing to travel a bit further, there’s Brookline Booksmith on Harvard Street and The Children’s Book Shop on Washington Street in Brookline Village, Newtonville Books on Walnut Street and the old Concord Bookshop on Main Street.

And though much further away, I have to mention one of my all-time favorite bookshops, the Port in a Storm Bookstore in Somes Cove, Maine. It’s worth planning a trip to Acadia just to have the chance to stop in, peruse the shelves, and discover a wonderfully obscure story tucked away in the stacks.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)

Guys and Sports

2007-01-05T06:32:00.000-08:00

As a New Englander living in the land of the three-time champion Patriots, it is impossible to ignore that football season is upon us. And in my home, the all-day cheers blaring from the TV are a sure sign that fall is here.

This past weekend, I heard my husband call out as he scrolled through the Comcast Cable guide, "Great, I can switch between the Michigan-Notre Dame and BC-Army games. And then the Red Sox are on at 1:30. My day is set." It reminded me of a time last year, when my husband and son announced they were watching four things at once - the Pats, the Red Sox, USC and the Olympics-before adding, "And you're not allowed to complain about the clicking."

The whole quadruple sports-fest thing got me thinking about men, boys and sports-viewing. Now don't get the wrong idea. I love sports. I appreciate the drama of baseball, the athleticism of basketball and the thrill of football as much as the next guy. It's just that, like most women, I take a different approach to watching and digesting sports than men and boys do. Though I rarely watch an entire game of anything, when I do watch, I prefer to focus on one game at a time.

I can appreciate a good play, and love a come-from-behind victory. I especially like to see the underdog get the win. Just because I don't continuously click between commercials, obsess over detailed nuances and value the toughness of a play doesn't mean I'm not a sports fan. To me, the sports viewing habits of the guys in my home are simply beyond my understanding.

Take football, for example. Men and boys focus on far more than which team is scoring touchdowns. They like to see wide receivers and quarterbacks intimidated with hard hits that "make them think about it." They value the fine art of end-zone celebrations (dance moves, football spins and spikes, cell phone calls, Sharpie signatures.) They admire those who play hurt and express disdain for those who don't. They love discussing all the outside-of-game antics such as player squabbles and contract disputes. And of course, they proudly recite every statistic imaginable on every player, including but not limited to QB rating, interceptions, rushing yards and sacks.

And it's the same with baseball. Guys like it when pitchers intimidate batters with brush-back pitches (even occasionally hit a batter) to "make him think about it." They appreciate players who charge the mound, and scorn those who don't run their hardest to first base. They love the bench-clearing brawls that lead to player suspensions. They obsess over trade talks, multi-million dollar contracts and the atmosphere in the club house.

They talk about things like "respect." And of course, they revel in reciting every statistic imaginable on every player, including but not limited to ERAs, RBIs, IPs, Ks, HRs, saves and slugging percentages.

Basketball is no different. Guys appreciate perfectly executed dunks that psych-out the other team and "show they're in charge." They look for boxing out underneath, preferably with fierce shoves and elbows. They like trash talk, icy glares. They appreciate the time-out called when an opponent steps up to the free-throw line to "make him think about it." They obsess over things like where Larry Brown and Phil Jackson will be coaching, and which team will get the #1 draft pick. And of course, they love rattling off every statistic imaginable, including but not limited to FG%, FT%, PPG, 3-point FG%.

There was plenty of non-game talk in hockey this past year with the season cancelled due to the lock out. In other years, guys wait on the edge of their seats for bench-clearing fights (preferably with gloves off). They look for brutal checking of opponents against the boards to "make them think about it." They relish every whack, thrash and slash with unbridled delight. And of course, they love rattling off every statistic imaginable, including but not limited to goals, assists and penalty minutes.

Golf is about the only sport I can think of where men and women agree on the key aspect of the game: shoot a lower score than your opponent while hitting a ball into a cup. Though guys might add that Tiger is going to jack a 350 foot drive to "make the others think about it."

(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)

The Man with the Hat, Coat and Cane

2007-01-05T06:23:00.000-08:00

There he is again, plodding along in slow, steady steps, making his way up my street. It is cold today. I can see his breath, a hazy cloud puff. His head is covered in a thick fur hat, the kind old men in Moscow wear when it snows. His hair underneath is wispy, grayish-white. His coat is long and dusty and brown and full. It looks warm. He clutches his cane with a glove-covered hand, moving it in sync with his steps. He doesn’t lean on it much; he steadies himself just fine.

He is tall and lean and delicately strong, like the limb of a large oak tree. His face is kind, his long life deeply etched in it. He has a perfect profile—a fine, pointed nose, deep set eyes. His mouth is a thin line drawn straight across—pensive, serious. He is proud, but not overly so. He nods as he approaches. Sometimes he faintly smiles.

There was a time long ago when his steps were shaky, hesitant, when he walked arm-in-arm with a younger man—his son I supposed—at his side. He is better now. He walks alone. He makes his way around the block just fine.

Sometimes I see him from my living room window, rounding the corner, ambling up the road close, closer. Other times I glimpse a hat and coat and cane in my rearview mirror as I back slowly, carefully, out my driveway. I wonder how long he’s been walking, how much further he plans to go. I wonder what he’s thinking as he moves so steadily along. I watch and wonder some more as he turns the corner and disappears around the bend.

And I know it won’t be long—a day or two, a week at most—before I’ll see him again, plodding along in slow, steady steps, making his way up my street.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2006)

The Mad Quest for Xbox 360

2007-01-03T06:48:00.000-08:00

Every year there’s one incessantly promoted, highly desired, frustratingly unattainable Christmas gift. There were the (really ugly) Cabbage Patch dolls, the Power Ranger flip-head action figures, the original Nintendo and the desperately sought Beanie Babies. This year, it was Xbox 360.

I’d heard about it since the summer when my son learned that stores were taking pre-orders. The graphics, he said, were amazingly realistic. And it apparently does all this other stuff I can’t even begin to understand. Although I like to start my gift buying early, I refuse to Christmas shop in weather above 50 degrees. Besides, at $400, this was one pricey machine. Yes, this would require much thought and discussion.

We had an agreement that our son would contribute toward the purchase price, and that this would not only be his Christmas gift, but his February birthday gift as well. Given the price tag, we should have insisted that this would cover his gifts for the next several years, maybe even for life.

My son was on this e-mail notification list where he got critical Xbox 360 information— release dates, numbers of units per store, proportion of core (no frills) vs. premium systems. When he told me about the first release date in late November, I headed to Best Buy. I thought I was so clever, arriving just as the store opened at 9:00 am. The clerk informed me that they were sold out, and that customers had been camped out since 2:00 am. These people are nuts, I thought, never for a moment thinking that I would soon be one of them.

The Xbox talk in our house grew more desperate as the calendar turned to December. By that point, the word was out—Xbox 360 was not to be had. Unsatisfied with that response, my son perused e-Bay, anxiously searching for possibilities. Entrepreneurs (or scalpers, depending on one’s point of view) were selling units for double the original price. Others were offering “bundles” where, for $1,200 you could get an Xbox 360 complete with extra wireless controllers and games. Even my son knew that these “deals” were off-limits.

Through his notification system, my son learned about the final pre-Christmas release date on December 18th. Forty two units would be sold at the Dedham Best Buy, which was to open at 8:00 am. “If we get there early, we might have a shot,” he said. “How early?” I asked, as I looked into his pleading eyes. He hesitated. “Around 5:00 am?” When I didn’t respond, he added, “I feel really bad asking you to do this.” In a weird sort of way, hearing that my son felt bad made me feel better. “It’s good that you feel bad,” I said. I then heard myself say what I thought I would never utter. “OK.”

It was dark and unbearably frigid that Sunday morning. I had an odd sensation that I was getting up to go on a fishing trip, only I don’t fish, and even if I did I wouldn’t be out in 20 degree weather, unless I was ice-fishing, which I also don’t do. We were, though, incredibly prepared. We dressed in layers and wore wool hats and ski mittens. I brought bottled water and even tossed in my Henry James short stories and book light (for reading in line.) As we pulled up to Best Buy, we saw a line winding around the back. We parked and got in line.

It was hard to tell how many people were in front of us. Clearly many of them had been there all night. These were serious Xbox 360 seekers with their folding chairs, blankets, empty pizza boxes and soda cans. The woman in front of us, headset connected to her BlackBerry, was calling every Best Buy and Circuit City in the area for periodic updates—how many units? Which kind? What was the store’s system for distribution?

As we waited my toes went from cold to numb, and the line in front of us grew wider and wider. There was talk about a mad rush when the doors opened, that it could “get ugly.” After several people behind us decided to call it quits, I turned to my son. “This is insane. This is not worth getting trampled, or possibly something worse.” He reluctantly agreed, and so, after an hour of waiting, we left.

When we got home, I fell back asleep. Around 8:00 am, I was awakened by an excited voice coming from the basement. “Mom, Mom, come quick!” In a last desperation check on BestBuy.com, my son had seen a unit that he’d added to his shopping cart. We completed the order with my credit card, and he clicked “buy.” This can’t work, I thought. This was way too easy.

But it did. Three days later, after much excitement tracking the UPS shipment from Minneapolis, to Shrewsbury to Norwood, my son had his Xbox 360. We figured that all the crazies (like we’d been) were waiting in line somewhere during the time he’d nabbed his online. As with many things, it was all about persistence and timing. When he later checked online, they were all gone.

“It’s like we hit the lottery,” my son said. Clearly it was to him, though I think I’d be somewhat more elated if we’d actually hit the lottery. With the Xbox 360 firmly in hand, we reminisced about our experience—driving in the dark, waiting in line, stopping at Dunkin Donuts on the ride home. I laughed at myself for actually thinking I’d read Henry James while standing in the freezing cold.

There is, though, a downside to this story. There’s that saying, ‘be careful what you wish for, you might actually get it.’ I have a feeling that’s what will be going through my mind when my Visa bill arrives later this month.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)

Memories in a Makeup Shop

2007-01-02T11:59:00.000-08:00

I knew it would happen like this, the slow sinking-in of how things have changed. I haven’t seen my daughter lately. It’s not because we are on different schedules—she a night owl sleeping late into the morning, and me an early-to-bed-early-riser. It’s not that she is busy with homework, at play rehearsal, out with friends or working at her summer job. It is not for any of the usual reasons. My daughter has left home for college. She really is gone.

I need no more evidence of her departure than the condition of her room—eerily clean, unrecognizable. And it looks the same every time I open the door—just a crack—and peer into it. Though she’s been gone for weeks, I can still picture her little trails—the bobby pins next to the sink, the Kleenexes on the couch, the textbooks and papers on the stairs, the suede Rocket Dog shoes left by the front door. I see her shimmery eye shadow and Sephora compact on the bookshelf next to my bed, the place where she kept her little make-up pile.

There are all kinds of stories embedded in my daughter’s things. I will always remember the one about Sephora. Our family was in New York City, the spring of my daughter’s junior year of high school, trying to build some fun into the grueling college search process. We’d been all across New York, to Skidmore and Bard, Vassar and NYU. Exhausted from the college touring, we’d walked around the city for a while, had a nice dinner at a little Italian restaurant off Fifth Avenue, and then walked around some more. As usual, my husband and son had different browsing interests than my daughter and I. My daughter wanted to go to Sephora. I’d never heard of it before. She said it was a fabulous make-up shop, one-of-a-kind, amazing. Seeing the panicked look on my son’s face, my husband quickly suggested that they head over to the NBA store.

We synchronized our watches and agreed to meet back at our designated spot in an hour. My daughter and I then entered the world of Sephora. Groups of finely dressed young women wandered around, teetering on high heels, perusing the shelves and counters lined with cosmetics and creams. There were eye shadows, lipsticks and lotions, hair gels, perfumes and mascaras. There were samples of cosmetics with Q-tips and tissues scattered all over the store. It was fantastic.

The best part was watching my daughter have such fun with it all, trying on eye shadows, wiping off lipsticks, dabbing and smearing on more. She finally settled on a shimmery eye shadow and a Sephora compact. I had no intention of buying anything; I was content to simply sample and browse. My daughter, though, wouldn’t hear of it. “You have to get something, Mom,” she insisted. And at that moment I realized this was not just about buying some special make-up for my daughter. She was desperate for me to come away with something. She was steadfast, determined; she was on a mission. Linking her arm with mine, she guided me to the different stations, making suggestions, paying me compliments, offering encouragement.

We were shocked by how expensive everything was. This was a far cry from the cosmetics we bought at our occasional trips to CVS. After almost an hour, I finally spotted the Shiseido silky eye shadow. The case itself was a work of art, a shiny black oval-shaped compact that opened to reveal soft green and brown shadows, a small mirror and a two-sided brush. “This is the one for you, Mom,” my daughter said excitedly. I checked the price and gasped—$30. At that point, though, I had no choice. I had to get it.

Before checking out, I made one final detour. I’d noticed my daughter eyeing a large black tube that she’d gone back to several times, turning it over in her hands before hesitating and putting it back. It was a ‘smashbox’ product that was both blush and lipstick. “Why not?” I said, grabbing one from the bin. “Are you sure, Mom?” my daughter said, looking both concerned and excited. “You don’t have to get it.” But of course I did.

I gathered my daughter’s shimmery eye shadow, Sephora foundation, smashbox and my Shiseido and headed to the register. Our jaws dropped when we heard the sales clerk announce the total—$98.00. We laughed at how absurd it was. Sure, it was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on make-up. But it really wasn’t about the make-up. It was about my daughter and I going arm in arm, counter to counter, testing creams, sharing stories, preening, laughing. It was about doing something I’d never done before. It was about spending time with my daughter in a make-up shop in New York City.

My husband and son were waiting for us at our designated spot when my daughter and I finally met up with them. I knew they must have wondered how we could have possibly spent over an hour in a make-up store. If I hadn’t been there, I too, would have wondered how it was possible. “How’d you girls make out?” my husband asked. We smiled as my daughter held up our bag. “Fine,” we answered in unison. “We just got a few things,” I added, thinking that, though somewhat misleading, I had indeed spoken the truth. And I didn’t say another word.

Like Sephora, there are other stories in my daughter’s trails. And the telling of them brings everything back—brings her back—at least for a while. On those days when the sight of her spotless room and uncluttered stairs makes me feel sad, I reach into the trails for another story. And another, then another. And I tell them to myself, in all their richly vivid detail, until everything feels all right.

(This piece is a revision of two columns published in 2006 on townonline.com)

A Fresh and Familiar New Year

2007-01-02T07:03:00.000-08:00

Last year I tried a different approach to New Year’s resolutions. Rather than setting unrealistic, largely unattainable goals that would just make me feel like a failure when I didn’t reach them, I vowed to make a simple commitment to discovery. I promised to take on each day with a new attitude, to try things I’d not done before, to look at old things in new ways.

I could discover a new author, hike a hidden path, learn to crochet, write a new story. I could find newness in anything — a sound, a touch, a feeling, even an idea or opinion. I could hear softness in the storm, anger in the calm. I could sense loneliness in a crowd, or be stirred by the power of a single word.

Looking back, I only partially reached my goal. Sure, there were some moments of newness. I discovered authors like Marilynne Robinson, Dave Eggers, Robert Olen Butler and Ann Patchett whom I’d never read before. I explored the beautiful city of Vancouver with my husband, and spent time with my mom in small New England towns where I’d never been.

I saw some new art exhibits — “Americans in Paris” at the Museum of Fine Arts, “Paris in the Countryside” at the Portland Museum of Art and the wonderful “Trees” exhibit at Moose Hill in Sharon. I worked on a political campaign, something I’d not done in over 20 years.

Though I didn’t learn to crochet, I took a creative non-fiction course, writing and learning from some terrific writers. I played indoor soccer for the first time ever — only once — but I tried it nonetheless. And there were other little bursts of discovery, taking on different work projects, listening to new songs.

What I remember most about the past year, though, are not the new things, but the old. As much as I sought to discover, I found myself seeking things that were comforting, reassuring. I re-read some of my favorite books — “Anna Karenina,” “Pride and Prejudice” and Tobias Wolff’s memoir “This Boy’s Life.”

I re-watched some of my favorite movies, “It Happened One Night,” “Notorious,” and “Dave” (twice). I fell into the routine of life, catching up with family and friends, shuttling my son to sports practices and games, managing work projects, running and writing, preparing the usual dinners, watching movies at home with my husband on Friday nights.

For the most part, my new experiences over the past year didn’t happen because I planned them. It was just life. By far the most significant change was my daughter leaving home for college. While my daughter’s departure meant major changes for her, it also created a challenge for me as I adjusted to daily life without her. And though my high school-age son is still at home, he has his own busy life with school, homework, sports and spending time with friends. It won’t be long before he, too, will leave home.

As I watch my children grow and change and see how fleeting everything is, I feel a sense of urgency. As much as I want to discover new things, I find myself longing for both the old traditions and everyday moments with family and friends. I know my life this New Year won’t be the same as the last. It shouldn’t be. But still, I want to hold on to all that is good about the past. I suppose what I want is the best of both worlds — the old and new coming together, creating something exciting and different, but at the same time reassuringly familiar.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)

New Year Discoveries

2007-01-01T06:11:00.000-08:00

Beginnings and endings are times of reflection. As I reach the end of this year, I inevitably look back. I praise myself for accomplishments, and wonder what I might have done differently. As I look ahead, I also wonder. With a blank slate before me, anything seems possible. In some ways, the idea of a new start on a new year is arbitrary. There is, though, something appealing about a chance for a "do-over" or a "finally do."

Though daunting, the unknown is also exciting. As I imagine all the possibilities, I am determined to get things right. I think that is why, like many people, I make promises to myself at the beginning of a new year. My resolutions tend to fall into two categories: things I want to start and things I want to stop. It sounds simple enough. Why then, I wonder, do I so often seem to fall short?

I thought and thought and thought about this, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, the answer - my answer -came to me. And like many revelations, it was in plain view all the time, rooted in the name of the holiday itself. New.

If I seek out the new, if I discover the fresh in the familiar, I will be doing something hugely important. I will make no specific promises. There will be no rules. No things that I should (or shouldn't) do. I will simply make a commitment to newness, to trying what I haven't, to noticing what perhaps has passed me by. There's a freedom to this kind of thinking. Rather than restrictive resolutions, I'll alter my outlook, one in which every day has a clearly defined, straightforward purpose - discovery.

With no oppressive pledges hanging over me, I will be free to determine my destiny. The discovery could involve anything from the simple to the complex. I could visit a new city, explore different work, try a new recipe, discover a new author. I could take on a cause, hike a hidden path, learn to crochet, write a new story.

While I desire new experiences, I also want to discover the newness in the old ones. The other day, I had a moment like this when I gazed up at the sky. The cloud-covered winter sun has an altogether different feeling than a summer sun hidden by clouds. The winter sun is quietly mysterious. I'd never noticed this before. I'm not sure why it's like that, but it is. Maybe it's because I don't expect to see a warm sun - even a cloud-covered blurry one - in the backdrop of ice and snow and bare trees. Whatever the reason, it is. Quiet. Mysterious.

I could find newness in anything - a sound, a touch, a feeling, even an idea or opinion. I could hear softness in the storm, anger in the calm. I could sense loneliness in a crowd. I could be stirred by the power of a single word. A fresh take on the familiar could lead to more tolerance as I see someone's annoying habits (even my own) as quirky, endearing.

So this new year, I will steady myself as I step into the whirling winds of the unknown. I will breathe with my full being so that everything penetrates. I will do my best to embrace the new and rediscovered things that surround me.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)