How I Spent My Summer Vacation

As the season winds to a close tonight, I cannot think of a summer I've spent more enjoyably in my adult life than this one. I teetered on the brink of having more fun than I was comfortable having--than I even think I deserve. 

I sailed the Grand Canal and scaled the Acropolis. I had a date in Constantinople who was waiting in Istanbul. I sampled ouzo in Mykonos and pizza in Napoli. I walked the ancient streets of Pompeii and clambered to the top of the Coliseum in Rome. I straightened out that Tower business in Pisa where I also had a great meal. I saw Castellers castelling in Barcelona.

After all these years, the Mayor showed me his boyhood neighborhood in Barcelona and we celebrated his memories and the beauty of the city with wine and tapas on La Rambla de Catalunya.

My sister, herself, and I spent evenings on the Mediterranean photographing the sunset then drinking wine at the piano bar. I developed an obsession with the samba and blamed it on the Bossa Nova.

I saw my beautiful niece marry her true love on a shell beach in Sanibel. It was as lovely as that sentence makes it sound.

I watched the boy grow taller and the girl grow happier.

I added more blue to my life with an impromptu painting project.

I survived a hilarious night at dive bar karaoke.

I spent a week at a beach with blue skies and gentle waves.

I've never felt readier for the fall.

Nuns I've Known

This week, I picked up my crochet hook again after many years. Inevitably, as I formed my slip-knot and began my chain, my mind turned to nuns. It always does when I crochet because it was a nun who taught me to crochet.



The Meek Years

These days you've got to travel far afield to find nuns in any kind of threatening numbers, but in my early years we couldn't swing a cat without getting pounced upon by one. Swinging a cat would, of course, be perfect provocation for a tongue-lashing, ear-boxing or other potentially damaging nunly form of attention. But frequently, the nuns could be provoked with far less effort. For some, mere existence would suffice. I once caught the wrath of a particularly mean nun for holding on to my empty juice box after lunch. As a third-grader I was a living definition of the word meek. As I stood in a line of students terrorized by Sister Barbara, my heart nearly stopped as I realized she was glowering right at me and demanding to know why I was still clutching garbage. "I need it to make a log cabin, Sister," some brave part of me piped up. "A WHAT?" she bellowed, eyes ablaze. "A log cabin, Sister, with pretzels glued on," I tried. "WELL MAKE SURE IT DOESN'T LEAK ON THE STAIRS." She spoke each word slowly, like you might imagine John Wayne or Dirty Harry would if they didn't want juice on their stairs. "Yes, Sister," I managed, fighting back tears.

All tolled, that was my worst personal encounter with a nun. But I witnessed far worse and the horror of it kept me a goody-two-shoes certainly for my entire Catholic school career and in truth, for many years afterwards. In retrospect, I can reason that they needed a bit of fear on their side. During the baby-boom they could have easily 40-50 kids in a class with three such teeming classes per grade. They ran the whole show back then with a small cadre of lay teachers to help them keep the peace and the learning going forth. While it couldn't have been an easy job, there were definitely some who took more pleasure than was strictly necessary in keeping the fear quotient high. As a kid, you had to be on your guard.

Sr. Mary Regis, aka Auntie Sister

My sisters and I always felt a little bit protected by the fact that we had a nun for an aunt. Sister Mary Regis was the name she went by. Auntie Sister is the mortifying name they settled upon us calling her. In later years, my friends would call her the Anti-Sister. My sister's friends called her Sister Hyatt Regency. She was my mother's sister and we were not afraid of her although I suspect she could more than hold her own in the classroom. The worst she would do to us is nag and we always had my mother to run interference. She had an operatic voice which the powers that were limited to church use although she had other options before they overruled them. Her Ave Maria could make a stone weep. In her heyday, she took us to Radio City Music Hall and introduced us to the ballet. She humanized the whole nun experience for us and we always figured she was our ace in the hole if we had any nun trouble ourselves.

You don't see nuns in the numbers you once did and it's little wonder why. Because of the crueler ones, their reputation was all shot to hell. Unlike trying out for the priesthood, convent-joining entails a vow of poverty. It seemed like some nuns back then were man-fearers or man-eschewers. A woman who wanted nothing to do with men, could take refuge in the convent without having to explain an "unnatural" lack of interest in marriage or baby-making. But these days, we can stay single without stigma and if we want to teach or nurse, we can do so and get paid right for it. Incentives for the nunnery are down and now, as a result, it probably consists of women who are in it for the right reasons. Less scary women, no doubt.

Random nuns at Panera Bread

But the nuns weren't all bad. In fact, some were in it for the right reasons back then and those are the ones I remember quite fondly. I still recall Sister Margaret Thomas, my third grade teacher as one of the sweetest, kindest of women. I think she really loved me in all of my puny, sickly, meekness. Despite a penchant for putting Chinese hot mustard on the tongues of those who got out of line, Sister Theresa was generally agreeable and pithily cautioned students to, "walk between the raindrops," when it rained. In seventh grade, Sister Joyce Ulrich was like a big sister figure. She never raised her voice and never had the slightest of discipline problems. I think we were all too busy learning and liking science with her. But the most colorful and amazing was Sister Irma de Sales--the one who taught me to wield a crochet hook. As with anything Sr. Irma taught, I've never forgotten it. She was, perhaps, the perfect nun. Stern on the outside, sweet at heart, and one hell of a great teacher. The woman could teach English grammar to a tree stump. Anyone who learned her preposition song back then could probably sing it to you today. "Above, about, across, between . . ." to the tune of the Lone Ranger. She was forever threatening to do the dance of the seven veils down the aisles to get her point across, but unfortunately for us she was such a great teacher it never came to that. She knew it wouldn't so it was a calculated risk. Still, I'd have loved to have seen it. 

My Irish Twin dressed as a nun for Halloween

Currying Flavor

It's rare that I make up recipes in my head and follow through to executing them in the kitchen. It's rarer still that I do so and feel compelled to share the results. I just don't have that kind of gift for cooking. Most of the time these great ideas I have all add up to meh. An ok meal, but loaded with woulda, shouldas. I'm an expert Monday morning quarterback of meal preparation. But last weekend, things came together differently--call it divine intervention or plain old dumb luck, but I made a really delicious curry without a recipe to follow.

I think it was pretty healthy, but I'll defer to my better qualified nutritionist friends to critique that. Except for the chicken bullion cube, which could be easily replaced by a vegetable broth option, it was vegetarian. Since I was throwing things together mad-scientist style, the measurements I'm providing are approximate. I have no picture since I had no expectation of success and we ate it all before I could think of photographing it. The mayor and the boy both liked it despite the obvious inclusion of tofu. Chicken could be substituted, but what's the sense in that unless you can't tolerate soy? This was tasty and hearty enough that I think that you could leave the tofu out altogether and put in a bit more potato. Anyway, I'll leave it to you to tweak to your heart's content.

Tofu Curry

2 tbsp. olive oil                                1 really large vidalia onion coarsely chopped

6 Baby carrots sliced thin                2 medium red potatoes diced

1 box firm tofu, drained & cubed    2 teaspoons curry powder

6 white mushrooms sliced               1 large green pepper cut in 1/2 inch pieces

1 can of petite diced tomatoes         1 cup chicken or veg broth hot                    

1 tbsp garam masala                        1/2 packet Bartender's pina colada mix (hey, don't judge)

1 tsp corn starch                               red pepper flakes, salt & pepper to taste

In a large skillet, toss in the onions, carrots and olive oil. Heat until onions start getting translucent. Throw in potatoes  and 1 tsp of curry powder keeping the heat high to medium. Let cook for a few minutes stirring often. Push all ingredients to one end of pan and put the tofu in in a single layer so that it browns. Turn tofu with spatula and try to brown on the other side. Add mushrooms, tomatoes and green peppers. Stir in red pepper flakes if using, cover and cook over medium heat while you prepare the sauce. To a cup of very hot bullion/broth add the remaining tsp of curry powder, the garam masala and the pina colada mix. Pour mixture over everything, boil and then simmer for about 10 minutes. Mix cornstarch in a little water and add to thicken. Serve with rice.

Take your time with each stage of this recipe. This amount served three with a tiny little bowl of leftovers. If anything was wrong, the amount of tofu was too much in proportion to the rest. Next time I'd cut it to half or 3/4ths. If you put this curry away and use it the next day, it will taste even better. I hope it comes out right for you if you try it!

The Newest National Holiday--SuperBowl Monday

The kids at the boy's school are all clamoring for a day off Monday so that they can sleep in after the Super Bowl festivities. As a mom, I kind of like this idea. Every year people get the choice to make their school-age football fans go to bed at half-time or let them stay up and be exhausted for school the next day. It's not fun, not fair and not necessary since everyone in every time zone could make a day of it if the game were played and aired four hours earlier than it is. Frankly, it isn't just the kids that suffer. I know a few adult Giants fans who are planning to "work" from home on Monday. But despite the inconvenience to so many, somebody who profits by it has declared Sunday night to be Super Bowl time and we all just suck it up.

I started thinking about the idea of Super Bowl Monday as a national holiday and after much consideration, I think it makes a lot of sense. The Superbowl, and all of the facts and frivolity that surround it, is a perfect microcosmic picture of America as it exists today.

On the positive side, just like our vast, majestic country, the Super Bowl is larger than life. Enormous people in gear that makes them look even more enormous clash in a huge arena in front of thousands of people. The game of football itself provides a platform upon which some of America's best qualities can be exhibited. It's an exciting, hard-driving game that requires teamwork and individual talent--neither being more essential than the other. To appear in the Super Bowl means that you've played fair and come out on top--you are being all that you can be--living the dream. Most football teams are a multi-cultural melting pot and their supporters just as diverse. You've got heroes like Manning, Nicks and Cruz (and ok, maybe Brady). You have villians like Vick, Roethlisberger and Rodgers (can't stand the arrogance there). Fans exude loyalty and spirit--qualities Americans never tire of displaying. Above all, it's fun and Americans like fun. A close, heart-in-your-mouth football game like XLVI promises to be, is a quintessentially American experience.

Let's not overlook the food aspect of the game celebrations because for the partying fans, the repast is nearly as key an element as the size of the TV screen. Both need to be, of course, big. From grocery stores to local pizzarias, everyone is offering to cater. Recipes abound online and every talk show with a food segment is getting you ready for the Sunday night feasting. There is possibly nothing more American about the Super Bowl than the emphasis on chowing down and drinking beer except maybe the lack of emphasis on diet and health. But what the hell, it's one night. Personally, I plan to save up all my weight-watchers points so I can indulge in whatever pig-out we manage to put together.

Less savory, but no less all-American are the gargantuan sums of money that are dedicated to this event without a thought to perspective. Much more all tolled, I'd venture to guess, than is put out on the Fourth of July. Superstars are on hand and nearly all media outlets contribute to the hype for weeks leading up to the game. Last time you saw anything like that for July 4th was in 1976. Football for all of its good qualities is a showcase for capitalism run amok. The value of profit overshadowing any and all other things ethical, moral or even sensible. The idea that people can get unimaginably wealthy for just playing a game or owning a team evinces the games that are played on Wall Street and K Street except for the fact that football doesn't suck up money without delivering on its promises, however shallow. That shallowness, the fact that we can rally so intensely around a sport while failing to expend even the slightest energy or interest on injustices that abound here is also indicative of where we are as a country. Without killing the the pre-Super Bowl mood altogether, suffice it to say that just like our Nation, football has a seamy side that gets a pass (drug use, criminality, head-injuries) because we don't feel like thinking about it and for too many people it pays (quite literally) not to.

But good and bad, this is who we are and where we are in America. The Super Bowl is a swash-buckling celebration of all of our realities good, bad and ugly. And I think that calls for a new national holiday. A day-off to recover from the in-your-face American extravaganza that the Super Bowl has become. Let's do it for the kids (wink, wink)! Oh and by the way, GO BIG BLUE!!!!!

What's In Your Closet?

We all know the saying, "one man's trash is another man's treasure." And there is, perhaps, no better way of illustrating this point then to take a look at the kind of things people like to collect. I'm not talking about the big-time--things that are investment-grade. I mean the small-time collections people have throughout their lives that are seldom worth much monetarily, but hold a lot of meaning for the individual and become a kind of personal quest. Collections delight the collector and often baffle others who say, why the hell would he/she want a collection of that particular item even though they might very well be harboring a vast collection of, let's say, hand-woven Easter baskets, as they speak. Collectors ought never to criticize or look askance, lest the mirror be turned on themselves.

The beauty of collections is that anything will work. There is no end to the variety of items one might come to fancy. Even people living a meager existence can delight in collections--my grandmother, for example, collected buttons. That collection was partly practical because she was also a talented seamstress, but she must have enjoyed it because she had thousands of them and she would let us play with them--only if we were careful--when we visited her. My Irish-twin sister collects rhinos in all forms. For the Ambassador, herself (my other sister) it's turtles. For another friend, it's egg cups. Knowing about a person's collection and what items they do and don't have is handy when you are drawing a blank on gift ideas. For my own children, the girl and the boy, I started collections when they were little and added to them over the years. The girl got Snow Babies and the boy got Lionel Trains.

This group combines my interests in mechanical toys and birds.

Collectibles, things manufactured and released in limited numbers for the sole purpose of collecting and appreciating in value can be fun and I have a few, but in my opinion the best collections consist of items never intended to wind up as collectibles. And coincidentally, that phraseology brings us to one of my collections--wind-up toys. I have collected a number of things over the years, but the wind-ups are my most extensive and fun collection. The toys that started it all were given to me as little holiday gifts by my editor (and subsequent life-long friend) on my first job out of college. That little hopping Valentine's heart and twirling Christmas tree led to the acquisition of hundreds of other mechanical toys that perform amazing feats at the twist of their little white knobs. And that's the kind I like, the little plastic ones with the white knobs. They are relatively inexpensive, accessible and to me highly entertaining. Some of my collection dates from the early to late 70s. Others are fast-food kid's toys. Some of the best are advertising pieces, like the Geico Gecko.

Two old-timers. The elephant raises his rear legs.

An ever irresistible duo.



Babies

For years I kept the wind-ups stowed away, only taking them out occasionally for little test drives. When the boy came along, I would take them out--only if he was careful--and let him see all the funny things they did. Recently, I put them on display in my kitchen so that I could enjoy them all the time. It's funny to see people's reaction to them. Junk they would likely throw out, meticulously collected and displayed. Some love it, some are bemused or bewildered and others say things that are, well,  just a little mean.

It took awhile to find all the members of this group.

Knowing a person has a collection of some sort that they love makes me feel good about them. It gives me a sort of feeling of fellowship. Finding out what someone collects can be surprising and fascinating (and probably downright scary in some instances). It can also, as in my case, be just plain funny--or, ok I'll admit it, odd. Some people's collections I envy. Others, not so much.  What do you collect? I hope you'll write and share about it. I'd love to know.

Soldiers from the V & A Museum in London

2012

Here it is, another new year. And yes, I am excited! You would think that with 40 some odd new years under my belt that the whole "new year, new start, new me" thing would have worn off. After all, I never accomplish the grandiose self-improvement resolutions I make. Each year excuses begin and circumstances arise which I use to circumvent achieving even a modicum of physical fitness. I tell myself, just one more murder mystery or vampire book before I delve seriously back into the philosophers or open my mind to the principles of economics. I aim for a sleeker, smarter, more efficient, better organized me and though I don't fail entirely, I always find myself making the very same plans for the very same reasons the following January.

So why the hope? Why the excitement and sense that this year it will all come together? I think part of it, for all of us, is simply that the giant hurdle of "the holidays" is behind us. Physically, financially and for many emotionally, the holidays are as challenging and exhausting as they are joyous and sustaining. Once they are over, many of the musts of daily life can be replaced with more enjoyable pursuits. And there is something invigorating about the vast dullness of January through March looming ahead and providing nearly nothing to look forward to in the way of good weather or festive occasions. All that time, free from distractions good or bad--it's a pure luxury. It's you time.

Today, I feel like I'm in a good position to make my "me time" count. A lot of the avenues I will pursue, are continuations of last year's resolutions. Things well begun, but attended to less as the year became busier (this blog for example). I'll build on what I learned in the art class I took last spring. It wasn't a waste of time after all. I enjoyed it then and can pursue it again now. I'll keep going to that gym I joined, abandoned for months and rediscovered in December when I needed a mood lifter. Life does get busier as the weather gets better, kids get out of school, then there's back-to-school and the pace begins mounting toward the year-end holiday crescendo. If you recognize the flow, you can eliminate the feeling of failure associated with leaving off with things you want to do--things that make you happy. It helps me somehow to think of it as picking up and carrying on rather than starting all over. It also helps to make resolutions for the right reasons. Replacing the I have tos, I ought tos or I shoulds with a few great I really want tos makes a world of difference. All the other stuff gets done or not and ends up not mattering. But things you've always longed to do, or things that spark your interest now--those are the jewels of life. I'll only do something for any length of time if I really want to do it. It has to make me happy on some level. Maybe you're the same. If you find some of those things maybe you can make it a truly Happy New Year! That's my plan.

Flipped Flops

While I'm not proud, I'm probably not sufficiently ashamed to say that much of my life the past ten years has been lived wearing flip flops. Somewhere along the way, real shoe purchasing became too fraught and taxing (I do have insanely small feet). And flip flops, hundreds of thousands of cheap, easy to fit, easy to find flip flops appeared to eliminate the hassle. So pretty, so versatile--you can get them in every color and every material. There are fancy flip flops, rugged ones, simple and even silly ones. You can get a new pair to match your every mood. And I did, it seems. And for a very long time, it was good.

In the winter, I'd scrounge up a couple of pairs of closed shoes and a pair of boots to wear outside but my heart was never in it. I liked them about as much as I liked the winter itself. Once home, I'd slip back into my flip flops. I waited out the winter and celebrated spring with a few fresh pairs. My feet hurt all the time, but I never attributed it to the lack of proper shoes. After all, I wasn't wearing heels anymore!

Then, one day in April, my feet broke. There is no other way to describe it. One minute they were supporting me and the next minute they stopped. There was ugly bruising and months of recovery. I was forced to take stock of what I was doing to my feet by offering them so little support. I paid real money for some real shoes and found that my feet feel a lot better all the time. I found FitFlops as a fall back--extremely expensive but remarkably comfortable flip flop substitutes (I can't recommend them enough). The whole shoe shopping thing is growing on me (much to the Mayor's dismay) and I've amassed a nice little collection of shoes I can wear all day without pain and hobbling. I've become downright obsessed with winter boots.

But now, what to do with all these beautifully uncomfortable, painfully pretty, classic yet cruel, stylishly sadistic little decorations for the foot? I still kind of love them. It seems a shame to toss them, but they take up space and nobody wants anybody's old flip flops. I can't wear them now. Within an hour or two, the pain comes back and it's just not worth it. So, to the trash heap they go. Of course, I'll keep a few for pedicures and the sake of sentimentality. We've had a lot of fun together and it pains me to throw them away but, alas, not nearly as much as it pains me to wear them!

October Gave a Party . . .

Today is the epitome of a gorgeous fall day. Walk out the door and the world feels alive and electric. I've gotten more done effortlessly today that I do in a week of gloomy, rainy weather dragging myself from chore to chore. Days like this remind me of a poem I learned when I was a little girl. It started, 'October gave a party . . .' hence my title. And October always felt like a party month to me as I reveled in the weather and planned for Halloween, my high holiday, as I've always called it. It's usually a whirlwind of costume making, decorating, parties and some amazing weekends in Salem, Massachusetts.

But this year with the boy being too old to dress up, the main event party I usually attend canceled due to home renovations, and no Salem trip planned, I've got nothing! No agonizing over what to be, no fabric and make-up to buy, no sewing and gluing and swapping personas for a day! Nothing. I will have to content myself this year by looking back at pictures of some of my favorite costumes and handing out treats to the little princesses, ghosts and other creatures that come my way. A lot less work, but also a lot less fun!

Look at a few of my pictures with me and enjoy the rest of the poem:

October's Party
By: George Cooper

October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came—
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,
The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
In scarlet looked their best;
All balanced to their partners,
And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
New fallen from the sky.

Then, in the rustic hollow,
At hide-and-seek they played,
The party closed at sundown,
And everybody stayed.
Professor Wind played louder;
They flew along the ground;
And then the party ended
In jolly "hands around."

Happy Halloween!

The Lost Art of Letter Writing

Since Ireland, I've been on some kind of personal journey back in time. I've been thinking about and trying to recover old music from iTunes. I've cleaned out and reorganized my desk and bookshelves and searched through hundreds of photos from childhood and on through the years. Ordinarily, I don't make time for looking back. I have no idea what's gotten into me, but I've decided to go with it because the net result has been reclaiming usable house space and, unexpectedly, lots of reminiscence both good and bittersweet.

The best rediscovery by far has been a box of letters and keepsakes that I had not opened in 20 years.  My own private time capsule. I'd saved report cards and papers from elementary school through college. Greeting cards, of course! Mementos from my high school days as a House Page in the U.S. House of Representatives. A Congressional Record signed by Speaker Thomas P. (Tip) O'Neill. An autograph from Dudley Moore that he surrendered in FAO Schwartz where a crazy friend from Arkansas, my Irish twin and I accosted him one day.

Mom

But better than all these goodies were the letters. Hundreds of them. Despite the fact that I spent five hours straight going through them all one day, I've only read a smattering so far. My sister, herself, now a US Ambassador unwittingly created a snap-shot of history by chronicling her first tour of duty in Johannesburg, South Africa during apartheid in monthly letters to me. My Irish twin sister regaled me while I was away in Washington with hilarious anecdotes from home, highlighting the activities of my parents', our friends, herself and even the dog. Rereading the letters from my mother now, who we lost before I got married or became a parent, opens up a new understanding of the fervency of her love for me and the worries I caused her. In one note, she thanks me for not just loving her, but telling her so. Nineteen years gone and she's still making me feel good about myself.

Family you expect to be constant, but I am particularly lucky in that some of my very best friends in the world then remain as near and dear today. I think I will invite each one over individually to share these old treasures and see if we can recall the circumstances, the characters referred to, the love interests and the shared jokes even now with our minds addled by age. Other correspondents I've lost touch with, but may look up on facebook to see what they're doing. In an interesting twist, the least riveting letters now were the ones I'd have looked forward to the most back in the day--the all-important love letters!

One thing that struck me about so many of the letters was how well-written and genuinely entertaining they were. Writing letters and striving to make them interesting or funny was something we all did. A cliche like, "don't forget to write," wasn't just a joke. That IS how we kept in touch--male and female. Unfortunately, it is an art form that we have all but lost with the advent of email and cell phones. Few 20-somethings today will have a treasure trove like mine to open during their mid-life reckonings. In a way, it seems like life is a far more superficial enterprise altogether now. In writing letters, we shared a part of ourselves. We opened up and committed to paper our thoughts, observations and our feeling in a way that isn't imaginable today. In being apart from someone then, we might actually have become closer than ever through letters. Now, we just lose touch.

If you've got one of these boxes lurking around your attic, I encourage you to take a chilly winter's day and devote it to reacquainting yourself with your youth. You may find references to things you'd quite forgotten about yourself (I must have sent homemade cookies to people on a weekly basis, though I don't remember ever doing so!). If you're young now and the only correspondence you get comes via email, I suggest you print them out and put them into a box for safekeeping. Years from now and 10 PCs later, you won't have anything to look back on if you don't. 

Ireland . . . Forever

I've just spent the last week driving around the west of Ireland with herself, my sister, listening to Irish music and photographing landscapes, livestock and monastic ruins. The roads were hair-raisingly narrow, bendy and enigmatically marked. It rained much of the time and the temperature seldom crested 70  degrees except in the humid confines of our rather small rental car. Our flip-flops were inadequate, sunscreen unnecessary and swim suits completely irrelevant. Each night we were tired from a long day's slog, but each morning we soldiered on in the quest to drink in as much of the countryside as possible in the short time we had. Of an evening we enjoyed a bit of music, a bit of craic and I'll admit, a bit of whiskey. I realize this isn't the conventional picture of a great vacation, but I'd turn around and go back in a heartbeat to spend several weeks more doing the exact same thing. So, I know, would anyone who has been there and done the same already.

The plane carrying my corporeal self arrived back on Sunday, and it's Wednesday now. But, my thoughts and my dreams are still running to the wilds of Connemara marveling at the beauty of the low-hanging clouds on the hilltops, the flowing mountain streams and lush wildflowers. Either that or I'm on a clifftop in Clare gazing out at the ocean and feeling the uncompromising wind that trains the branches of the trees to point forever inland. It is an amazing phenomenon to become more accustomed than not to finding a soul-moving vista around nearly every bend. And it's an unwelcome adjustment when it all ends.

In Ireland, the west in particular, the terrain is so uncluttered that the map relates directly to what you are looking at out the car window. When you meander through the remains of a 12th-century monastery, it isn't so very difficult to imagine what it was like when it was up and running because essentially what you see from the now ruined windows is what was always here. You can travel a secondary road for 15 minutes without encountering another vehicle and in the more remote reaches, you might never see another one. Of course, we avoided the obvious tourist sites we've already seen--you can't avoid crowds everywhere. But it's easy to get off the beaten path and well worth it.

I'm excited about spending the upcoming week at the beach. The ease and sultry warmth of our American summer will be a welcome contrast to the rain and cool of Ireland. I ought to get packing, but I've frittered away my time the last few days fine tuning my pictures, captioning them and uploading them to share. I've looked up and read about the ruins we visited. I've dug out photos from previous trips, comparing, remembering and reliving. I've found my old cassette tapes and looked for my celtic favorites on iTunes. I have yet to reset my watch to the correct time. In short, I'm doing everything I can to resist getting back to normal. I prefer to wonder whether or not the cows in Ireland ever get to go inside than to think about what to make for dinner. Sorting out old photos really beats sorting laundry. Transporting myself through time to envision a bustling medieval community of friars beats transporting the boy to his various amusements.

But I am back and I must grab hold of myself. There are things to do, places to go and people to meet. For now, I will leave Ireland latent in my mind . . . until next time. I hope it's soon.

Boy Meets World

At a get-together last week, the day the heart-breaking truth of what had become of the little Brooklyn boy Leibby Kletzky came out, a discussion cropped up about a family--relatives, I think of my host and hostess--allowing their 12-year-old son to travel by train into Jersey City unaccompanied by an adult for a daily program at the same high school the boy will coincidentally be attending in September. There was strong condemnation all around for any mode of getting around by kids of any age and at any time of day other than riding in a car driven by their parents. For me, it was one of those, "hello, I'm sitting right here and can HEAR YOU moments," as everyone who was there knows the boy takes the train every day, too. Whether or not they were intending to send me a message of either concern or disapproval notwithstanding, I got to thinking about why I am willing to let the boy board a train in the 'burbs, transfer in Newark and land ultimately in Jersey City when others think it unimaginable.

My father tells me stories all the time about the various sights he'd see and adventures he'd have when at the age of 6 or 7, he would board a trolley in Jersey City all alone to visit his grandmother in Hoboken. By age 9 or 10 he was leading other kids on expeditions to Coney Island via Ferry and the NYC subway. To these stories, I react as my friends did--with disapproval of my grandmother's judgement. He'll say, but times were different. I'll think, but weirdos still existed. Then I remembered that I was riding buses in Jersey City with a same-age friend at age 10 and it didn't seem so outlandish anymore (OK, 6 or 7 still does).

Are there weirdos out there? Absolutely. By and large are they going to capture kids and dismember them? No. Will the boy encounter the occasional deviant, a menacing-looking stranger, an aggressive pan-handler, a would-be pickpocket, a dealer offering drugs? I think so. He has already. But I rode the train everyday as a young woman--aka a magnet for weirdos--and these encounters were scant and manageable. By and large, riders of public transportation are just people getting to where they are going. I think in the rarefied world of the suburbs, people tend to forget this. Kids are so insulated from the real world that a train full of strangers becomes a train full of predators. If the parents think so, the kids will certainly think so.

Both the girl and the boy will drone on about my overprotectiveness over the years. And yes, I've pointed out every scary edge they could fall off, every germ potential they might encounter and the uselessness of every lightweight coat they've ever worn. I can't think about the girl driving too much and feel like I should medicate myself when either of them are flying. The mayor and I were a wreck when the boy started riding the train last year. The mayor would call me when he spotted him heading toward the train, spying on him from his office window in Jersey City, and I'd call him back when "the package" alighted again in town. But, the boy never knew it. He felt the confidence we had in his ability to negotiate his expanding world, even if we didn't fully at first. And I think that is a part of our job as parents, to guide our children incrementally toward independence and self-confidence. In that regard (and in many other regards) we cannot help but revel in our success with the girl. She breaks boundaries and succeeds beyond our wildest expectations every day. We expect nothing less of the boy and are preparing him accordingly.

While I fervently hope I don't live to regret the chances I allow the boy to take, I prefer that risk to having him live to regret chances he was too timid to take because I made him that way.

Sounding Off

Last month I promised (threatened) to write about all the things that annoy me about living in the suburbs. But I have decided to reduce it to one overriding complaint--NOISE. I have a low tolerance for noise. As a result of the pressures in my head from coughing throughout my babyhood, I lost an eardrum in my right ear. Hearing in my left ear will not win a prize, either, but I do not seem or feel impaired. I put it down to the concept that you can't miss what you never had. Doctors have offered me hearing aids promising great results, but I am loathe to follow through. I have always lived in a quiet world and I really like it here.

Enter the suburbs. I have never been more bothered by noise than I am living here. Perhaps it is the constantly shattered expectation of quiet that makes this worse by far than the city, but it is undeniably worse. Right now for example, I'm am sitting in a lovely spot of my own creation. My little backyard has a pretty redwood deck festooned with flowers and plants--all my favorite varieties, comfy outdoor furniture and my bird feeders. My freshly bathed dogs are by my side and I can look beyond my computer screen to a lovely little, newly mulched garden beyond. The only sound is the faint tinkling of a delicate glass wind chime, bird chatter and a dog barking in the distance. It's all the paradise I need. And yet, it is frequently off limits to me on account of NOISE. Any minute, and I can never know when, a landscaper's truck might pull up and in the blink of an eye it's paradise lost. There seem to be no limits as to when someone can make noise, how loud it can get and how long it can last. Landscapers arrive across the street as early as 7:30 AM ready to assault nature and my quietude with full mowers, blowers, whackers and trimmers ablaze. Sit out on a Sunday morning and there's no stopping a neighbor from marching out to the garage and firing up every noisy device therein. Today as I filled my coffee cup intending to drink it al fresco, an enormous truck parked outside the house and idled for about 40 minutes as it made a delivery of God knows what using a forklift. I am sure whatever was deposited in my neighbor's driveway is going to result in even more noise as it is built, installed or applied. Yesterday it was a different neighbor with a power-washer that drove me indoors. It never ends.

And it's not just me being overly sensitive. It's become a running joke among the Mayor, the boy and me. No sooner do we get comfortable outside than boom, we encounter some form of decibel challenge. I would have thought that my reduced hearing would make this all the more bearable for me, but it doesn't. All the hearing loss has done is make me appreciate a quiet world that increasingly does not exist. Shopping at the mall the other day for the boy amid the insistent, obnoxious music at Hollister and Aeropostale had me running  home for the xanax. We recently spend a beautiful day at Great Adventure where my only problem all day was that there was no place to come in from the loud voices and piped music.

In my mind, the greatest hero of the present day is going to be the person who invents the silent motor that powers all the lawn taming, hedge trimming, debris clearing devices we use to beat our environments into submission. In fact, I think that same individual ought to be considered for the Nobel PEACE prize.



Divine Rituals of the Suburbs

Over the years I've made no secret of the fact that I feel living in the suburbs is a disappointing letdown from city life. In fact, it's a dead horse I've beaten to such a tedious degree that I'm surprised the Mayor hasn't already relegated me to an efficiency apartment somewhere in downtown Jersey City just to shut me up. I'll have to keep beating.

Some day, I'll blog about everything I dislike about suburbia, but today I am singing its praises. For we are in the midst of suburbia's high holy days--truly spiritual days of searching the dark recesses, purging and purifying and hopefully by the end of it feeling deeply cleansed and reborn. On Saturday we paid homage as a town to Our Lady of the Immaculate Garage. We asked ourselves the hard questions, "Will Nana hate me from heaven for getting rid of her old toaster oven? Surely there's no chance of me being 'blessed' with another baby, is there?  And isn't it some kind of sin for a family of four that's down to three in the house to own and store eight bicycles?" Days we spent in preparation--sorting, cleaning, carting and pricing our meager, dust-covered offerings and laying them on the sacrificial tables of the Borough-wide Garage Sale. Pilgrims from all over town and the towns nearby filed solemnly by street by street, yard by yard, offering alms for the once sacred symbols and now sad relics of our devoted consumerism. It was an exhausting, yet gloriously gratifying event. Nary a soul came away from the day without feeling a great weight lifted from them. And yet, it was just the beginning, a mere precursor to the main holiday that will occur on Thursday.

I refer, of course, to The Feast of St. Bulk--the bulk trash pick-up extravaganza we look forward to every year at least as much as, if not more than Thanksgiving. In fact, and excuse me for being somewhat irreverent, but we probably ought to subtitle it, ThanksTaking. With the powers that be smiling down upon us, we can divest ourselves of everything we do not want any longer. Big things, small things, ugly raunchy things that we cannot believe still exist in the temples of our daily life can be placed on the side of the road and will miraculously ascend into the belly of a giant beast that takes them away forever. Friends and relatives from other towns must beat back the dual temptations of envy and the desire to lay their junk at our curb. One must keep them strong in their resistance, for it is wrong for them to covet their neighbor's Bulk Day and illegal for them to participate. The Feast of St. Bulk attracts its own pilgrims, too, but it's a leaner, meaner crowd. They come on a mission with their trucks and vans, leaving their loved ones at home, to forage for the holy grail of garbage.

All in all, it's an exhausting week of service and sacrifice. In the end, one always asks oneself, "Could I have done more, contributed more, worked harder or turned away from more earthly possessions?" Occasionally, there are regrets and recriminations--"how could you have thrown away that fish tank I've owned since I was ten? What kind of heartless daughter of Satan tosses a box of well worn, once loved stuffed animals?" But within a few days, a feeling of calm and contentment takes over as we forget not only that we gave things up, but that we ever owned them in the first place. We walk into our attics and garages without tripping and begin thinking of all kinds of new crap we can buy to fill up all that space. Ah, Suburbia!

Going Veg--It Ain't Easy

Try as I might, I cannot get the hang of this vegetarian thing. I know people do this everyday with ease and, in fact, just had a conversation about this with a college friend who said multiple times, "being a vegetarian is pretty easy, really." And that is possibly true if the factors that make my conversion so confounding are not present--namely, still having meat eaters to feed every night, disliking in the extreme most of the meat substitutes I have found and maintaining an attempt to limit carbohydrates, too, so that I don't become the world's fattest vegetarian. There is also the little problem of still liking the taste of meat--the only reason I'm eliminating it is because if you do any research at all, you find that factory farming is plain and simple just another phrase for animal torture.

I looked into humanely raised and slaughtered meat and it's a great option for anyone who is able to pay 2-3 times as much for their meat as they would for factory farmed meat. That's not an option for me. So back to square one: dealing with vegetables. I am not a great cook and I am not a foodie. I did start out liking to cook. But, for me, the fun went out the exhaust fan when it became my job to feed people other than myself on a daily basis. The restrictions of catering to everybody's likes and dislikes are incredibly tedious. It leaves very little room for creativity when regardless of what you decide to make, you are faced with somebody's disappointment. Except occasionally when entertaining, I seldom delight in cooking anymore. Out of necessity, I became a competent and fairly healthy cook. I can consistently put a tasty, decent and balanced meal on the table in an hour or less. But, all of my repertoire is either meat-based or involves pasta. Take those staples away and I got nothing.

At the heart of my problem is the mindset that it should be quick and easy. As a result of not enjoying making dinner, I've compartmentalized it to the point where I can't readily conceive of it taking more than an hour. Anything beyond that is too much trouble and an expansion of a chore I already dislike. In my mind, I liken it to rediscovering how to do laundry by hand--uh, no thanks! Whether it is or it isn't, I regard it as a lot of trouble to take a bunch of fresh beets and trim, peel, cook and prepare them. Draining an eggplant for however long it takes is a recipe deal-killer. This is what I have to change. I have to find some way to rediscover what is fun about cooking. Time is sometimes a consideration in my life, but not always. It doesn't necessarily need to be quick. Right now, I look at any time spent cooking as time away from things I like to do. Can I learn to like it again? I don't know. But I've got to try. I can't go back to meat; I can't eat veggie burgers all the time (I hate them). At least for now, I have to cook meat for the boy (the mayor's game for anything, but likes his meat, too). But I also have to find vegetarian recipes that are healthy and delicious and tack them on to my regular cooking. I have to learn to feed myself again after all these years of eating whatever is easiest and receives the fewest complaints. Let me go get that eggplant out of the vegetable bin. I'll drain it and see what happens.

Voice Male

Lately, I've found myself getting irritated with the boy when he speaks to me. But somehow, I've known it isn't him, it's me. He isn't doing anything unusual or saying anything unusual. But something about him is definitely rubbing me the wrong way. Am I overtired? Is it hormones? I just don't know. Then suddenly, yesterday, it occurred to me exactly why I'm perturbed. His voice has changed and the new voice is not familiar to me yet. I neither know it nor love it yet. And it's silencing his "real" voice.

We recognized that his voice was cracking and changing over the past few months. But now, I think, the changeover is complete. My child's voice is gone for good and I miss it. I don't just miss it in that nostalgic, "oh he's growing up" way. I miss it in more like a little part of my heart is broken kind of way. I loved his voice. I cherish every secret he told me in that voice, every joke he made, every cute, crazy little thing he ever said. I find myself wondering what I have recorded, if anything, that I can play back so I never forget it. If I think about this too long, I can bring myself to tears. I'll never forget him singing "Where is Love" from Oliver for an audition. He carries a tune well and I've never heard it sung better and now I'll never hear it again. Generally, I've been all for his getting bigger, faster, stronger and smarter. But this little change has tripped me up.

I love male voices, but I've never been a fan of male teen voices. They tend to sound monotone and tinny to me. The association is there with goofy, awkward teenage boys I have known and that is not how I see my boy or want to see him. Now that I realize what I've been reacting to, though, I can get back to taking the boy at his word rather than unconsciously reacting to his voice!

Foot Fail

Tangle Toes

I know I've been forbidden by the boy to latch on to the "fail" lingo, but seriously if the shoe fits . . . Or, more appropriately in this case, when the shoe does not fit and will not fit for six weeks, I am hard put to think of an expression that better sums up the situation. Take a look at the picture and try to imagine what happened to this sorry looking appendage. Did you say, "Stamped on by an elephant?" "Beaten with a sledge hammer?" "Run over by a bus?" To result in something this incredibly ugly, it must have been huge right? Not so much. It's a stress fracture from dancing to motown barefoot on a friend's living room rug. Bet you had no idea how dangerous that could be.

This was two weeks ago yesterday and I have to say, it's been quite a set-back. As always, denial was my first resort. I hobbled to bed thinking I'd feel better the next morning. Sunday morning--10 times worse so off to the ER. Xrays negative. I'm thinking feet up a few days, all better. Wrong again. This thing is NOT going down easy!To compound the situation, my laptop chose that weekend to cease functioning. It takes the guy a week to repair it which is exactly what happens when you get a computer to repair on Monday and do not look at it until Friday. Grrr.

So, bad two weeks and now I've been booted. The stress fracture diagnosis has resulted in my having to wear a giant hideous black boot on my foot FOR SIX WEEKS! But at least I can get around. The pain is ridiculous and unpredictable. I'm not a big baby about pain, but this smarts. Out of the woodwork come everyone and their brothers' stress fracture stories and the upshot is, this will really go on and on. No amount of denial will help me out of this mess. After four years of zero infirmity, I have to dig out my inner invalid and cope. I must say, I was better at this years ago. Attitude adjustment in progress, please stand by!

A Little Schmaltz Never Hurt Anyone

Now that it's become all the rage to dismiss greeting cards as passe and declare certain holidays like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day "Hallmark Holidays," I think it's time someone stand up in defense of the greeting card tradition, if not the overreaching greeting card industry. Ok, ok, I'll do it.



Two favorites from my birthday this year.



With a smidgen of shame, I will confess that I can spend an absurd amount of time in a card store. Always could. I read, I laugh, I cry, I finger the pretty paper or marvel at the pop-ups. The addition of sound was a delight. I like the idea of finding "just the right card" and imagining the kick the lucky recipient will get out of it. In the same vein, I love receiving "just the right card" and have held onto many over the years that have touched a chord with me. I think part of the fun comes from being a word oriented person and part from having a thing about anything that smacks of stationary (it's hard to tear myself away from a decent office supply store, too). My Irish twin sister has the same propensities and because of this, we can quote past cards to each other and will often buy more than one card for each other for the same occasion because we just can't choose. I have "card friends" for whom the right card is essential and non-card friends who couldn't care less.

A doctored up card--sad.

Funny cards, cards that are snarky, ones with first-rate cartooning, funny photos from the past--those are often the best. Animal shots can be good, too, but are often ruined by the words. And sometimes the sentimental ones are so on target it's uncanny. That being said, I will admit that in recent years, it has been more difficult to find truly funny or dead on sentimental cards. If I find a particularly good one, I might get several to send to different people. Yesterday, I searched in vain for the perfect card for the boy's 14th birthday (TODAY). It was grim. I wanted a joint one from the Mayor and me. There were three choices--two were religious, one was stilted and artificial. So I had to resort to pluralizing a mediocre card intended for one parent to give. Very disappointing. A friend's mother was turning 80 a few months ago and the pickings were also slim (although there were two 90 year old cards on hand and even a 100).

The very worst thing about cards today is the price. It jars me to turn over a small piece of what is essentially thick paper with a few words printed on it and see that it costs $3, $4 or even $5. It's not right. I'll pay it, if it is perfect for the occasion or the person for whom I am intending it. But if I nose around for a half-hour and still have to settle, I will go to the cheapos that say essentially nothing, but don't break the bank. And that is a sorry state of affairs.

It is fair to say that grandparent's day, boss's day, secretary's day and various other johnny-come-latelies to the holiday scene are occasions invented and ginned up by the card and gift industry. But Valentine's Day has been celebrated for centuries in some form or another and who can argue with the sense and appropriateness of Mother's and Father's Days. Nothing against grandparents, bosses or secretaries, but their "days" are not the same. People are right to view them with a somewhat cynical eye, but maligning greeting cards as a whole because of the manipulativeness of the industry is a bit of the tossing of the baby with the bathwater.

Homemade cards--I treasure them all.

More recent favorites.

Look! Up in the Sky!

The noble house finch

One of the more life-affirming interests I have taken up in my quest to actually get a life, is birding--the pastime previously known as birdwatching. When I long ago closed the mental books on birds, sometime around 1974, I could positively identify sparrows, blue jays, cardinals, sea gulls, ducks and pigeons with no more specificity than that. My father taught us what we knew when we were kids, but I seldom gave wild birds a thought as an adult, except to note their occasional contributions to my windshield. And for most of my life that was enough. Then one day as the boy and I were walking at a local park, an enormous bird whizzed by us (not on us, thanks goodness) at eye level.  Its round, golden eye seemed to look directly into mine as its wings, spanning about 6 feet, flapped and fluttered my hair as it passed. 'What the hell was that,' I thought. And moreover, I wondered how I can live so close to such a magnificent animal and not even know what it is. It was a bird awakening.

Turns out that spectacular bird was a Great Blue Heron. And because of Mr. Great Blue, I signed up for an introductory birding class. I demanded a decent pair of binoculars for Mother's Day. I bought books, started a journal and set up a birdie smorgasbord in my backyard so that I didn't have to trek out to a local park alone at dawn after my class ended. (Sometimes I still go, but it is scary to be the only person in the park, so I only go when I have a birding buddy, ie. almost never.)



My photo of an oriole on my deck.



Now amazing birds that I have managed never to notice before appear to be responding to my new interest in their lives. Could it possibly be that the nuthatches, goldfinches, chickadees, woodpeckers and orioles always stopped by my yard in the spring? If so, how could I have overlooked them. It is like that weird phenomenon where you learn a new word and suddenly you read and hear it everywhere. It seems it is just a matter of tuning in to their existance and the whole aviary world opens up to you. Now if I walk outside and hear a lot of squawking jays and screaming squirrels, I know to look around for that hawk that occasionally circles the neighborhood. When I feed the birds, I have to remember to spread some seeds on the ground for the mourning doves that can't use the feeders. In the winter, I keep an eye peeled for the dark-eyed juncos that seem to magically appear with the first snow. It came as a surprise to me that the brown-headed cowbird is notorious for laying its eggs in the nests of other birds so that others can go to the trouble of raising their young. Knowing these things delights me and makes me feel more connected to the natural world.

With birds, there is quite a bit to learn. For example I was only vaguely aware that many birds will look different in the spring from the way they look in the fall. Juvenile birds might not really resemble the adults of their species for a long time. So with any species of bird, you have the male, the female, the seasonal plumages and the age to take into consideration before making a determination of what bird has stopped by. The American Birding Association's list of North American birds includes 930 species. What with the various looks, behaviors and calls to take in, birding is a hobby that can keep you going for a long time.

The undesirable brown-headed cowbird stares at me from my fence.



Personally, I do not plan to become an expert. I don't want to get neurotic about this. It is enough for me to keep my journal, photograph the birds that come to the feeders and look for unusual birds when I'm out and when I'm on vacation. I can't wait to go on my next trip to the Caribbean or somewhere closer to the equator. I've already alerted the Mayor and the boy to the fact that my camera is no longer sufficient for taking photos of birds and have suggested that an upgrade would make an ideal Mother's Day gift this year.

I don't know if you can experience a bird awakening second hand, but I hope it is possible. It would make me happy to share this particular delight with others. To get you in the mood and see if it might possily take hold, I've included a link to the Eagle Cam at Duke Farm in Hillsborough, NJ. Click every day to observe a pair of eagles incubate, hatch and raise their eaglets in real time from now until they fledge in June. Happy Birding!

http://www.dukefarms.org/Education/Eagle-Cam/