Mommy's Holiday Loaf

My mom didn't know how to bake bread. Her mother, Jennie, learned how to bake from my dad's mother, Goldie. Since Jennie and Grandpa Pal lived with us for so many years and Jennie dominated most of the life including the kitchen, my mom was at a total loss after Jennie died. She wanted to bake bread. My dad taught her how. It was a sort of secret event in the kitchen; lots of whispering. I stayed out of the way. But ours was a small house so one could sit in the living room and not miss a word spoken in the kitchen.

Once my mom figured it out, she practiced often. She got so good at it, she had to hide the warm loaves from dad and me. An exercise in futility as the saying goes. We'd walk home from the subway together when we were lucky enough to connect. And those even luckier evenings, when we'd walk into the house to the surround of sweet yeast and the warm, -- well, we'd look at each other immediately sealing a contract. Silence! Now, if we were really, really lucky, mom would be out or napping. And if we were caught at the kitchen counter, our coats still on, breaking bread together -- my mother would feign anger. Ah, the rituals of life. And love.

It was an exceptionally bleak winter our first year in Massachusetts. We were renting a house in Middleton. At that time, there were very few houses on route 62, and almost nothing in Middleton center. There was at one terrible snow storm that stranded my husband on route 1 for almost 24 hours. The electricity went out in the house. We had a fireplace but no wood. So I wrapped my little boys in blankets and burned the kitchen chairs in the fireplace. That winter I decided I needed to learn to bake bread. I remember the excitement of taking the loaves out of the oven! At this point in my marriage, I had taught myself to cook, to bake pies and cookies and such. But bread!! That has a mystique of it's own. I remember that it took a lot less time for the bread to disappear than it had to bake it. I also remember phoning my mom to tell her of my conquest. She understood the small triumph of it. She'd been there, too.

Mom left us many things to remember. Her glorious "holiday loaf" is one of the these. A very large challah; three braided loafs stacked on top of each other. Raisins and almonds in the bread and blanched almonds decorating the top. It became her signature gift; whenever we went to someone's home for dinner or when we attended an event -- mom was asked to bring her "holiday loaf." It was the centerpiece at Thanksgiving and all the autumn holy days.

She wrote out the recipe for me, but I don't remember attempting it in her lifetime. When she died, Bonpapa -- her then husband -- gave me a little book in which my mother wrote her thoughts and tucked away clippings and recipes and such. In the book was a yellowing article from the New York Times; it was a recipe for a Swedish Christmas bread called Hoska. I glanced down the recipe; grabbed the copy of my mom's "loaf" she'd written out for me -- and there it was. My mother's challah -- my mother's brilliant offering to every bar mitzvah, bris, holy day, etc. etc. etc., was actually a Swedish Christmas bread. I can't begin to tell you how I loved knowing this! Brava Mina Coburn! Truly a Renaissance woman!!

I baked that bread yesterday to bring to my cousins for the Rosh Hashana dinner they so generously invite us to. And I brought this story as well. This one's for you! Happy New Year!

Hiding in Plain Sight

So I ran away from home again. Sometimes the only thing that works is a change of place. And when I am able to stay at my son's flat in mid-town Manhattan, a long weekend out-of-town is possible. I won't say that it's like "going home" because I don't live there anymore. My Brooklyn days are long behind me. But part of me remains there, so it's sort of like a re-connect. Having all of me in one place. That definition actually confuses me, too.

THE RIDE: I took the bus; can't beat $15 each way. It was 8:00 a.m., the bus wasn't crowded, and I imagined I'd be able to curl up. But a lady who was holding tight to her luggage sat beside me. She was hanging on to her baggage because she was afraid she'd miss her connection in NYC. I assured her that with a four and a half hours of travel ahead of us and over an hour's wait at Port Authority she might as well relax a bit. Eventually she did. She was a charming woman who had grown up in Williamsburg in a French/Italian family. Because of so many years in Williamsburg among the Chassidic Jews of those days, her Yiddish was expressive if not fluent. We laughed a lot. The best moment -: Anita (her name) told me that she had been staying with her grandson in Brookline, MA while his parents were away. Her grandson is 16 years old. He was buying an Apple computer and there was some kind of deal at the Apple Store with a credit card rebate of $300. She put the purchase on her charge card so they could receive the rebate. She told me that when the rebate came it was for $299. Well, that's only a dollar short but it disturbed her -- so she phoned the store. No one there could explain the discrepancy. She emailed Apple, Inc. No one there could explain it either. She (half-jokingly) declared that she'd have nothing more to do with Apple. Well, since my oldest son works for the company and our family is faithful to its operations, I was, of course, concerned. I told her I was quite sure that if I phoned my son to ask how we should proceed, he'd tell me to give Anita her dollar and he'd reimburse me. So I pulled out my wallet and gave Anita her dollar back. Hopefully, she is once again tight with Apple, Inc.

GETTING THERE: It's always a delight to walk into my son's flat. No clutter; simple, tasteful, artful. And a balcony that -- on the 36th floor -- looks out across the city. I had no sooner put down my suitcase when my phone rang. My daughter calling to tell me she was in hospital. Her primary doctor (who would have saved everyone lots of grief if she'd phoned my daughter's cardiologist before putting her into the hospital) tends to over-react. Of course, at that moment, we didn't know that this was over-reacting. My seven year old granddaughter was covered for care; the 16 year old grandson is just as happy to flap around with his school friends. So we decided to wait until Saturday -- the next day -- to decide if I should head on back. I was, however, distressed and suddenly at sixes and sevens. So I took myself for a nice long walk. Gorgeous day; lots of sun and a cool breeze. Before I realized it I was standing in front of Zabar's -- like a homing-pigeon! I had walked from 42nd and 10thavenue to 80th and Broadway. OMG!! Well, I didn't feel worse for wear so I cruised Zabar's and bought a package of slightly yesterday's bialys. Starting home, however, my legs were a wee bit wobbly -- so I went into a movie theatre and bought a ticket for whatever was about to be screened. Terrible film -- I DON'T KNOW HOW SHE DOES IT -- in which case I dozed a bit, and walked on back to my son's place with no ill effects. It was an early night.

SATURDAY: I spoke with my daughter early. Her cardiologist had yet to appear; she didn't know if she'd be home by Sunday. My cousin was taking care of little Keira. So to be safe, I decided I'd best go home on Sunday instead of Monday as I'd planned. Would have to put the stroll on the boardwalk in Coney Island on hold. No big deal. I went to Port Authority, where only two workers were behind the Greyhound counter. And several dozen customers lined up. An hour and a half later I finally had bought my transferred ticket. Over coffee at Starbucks I got my iPod Touch on line and sent off notes to my cousin et al and caught up on the news. I had a ticket to see the matinee of FOLLIES and a date with my college chum, MaryJo, for dinner. I was having a terrible time getting back to me -- my hair was standing on end; I wasn't sure my red wedgie sandals worked with my brown linen slacks; or that I should have bought my dream jacket for this trip. A very soft black leather jacket at a very excellent bargain price -- well, I decided not to justify it; just wear it. I thought I'd miss the show, it took me so long to decide that there wasn't another thing I could do to make myself look okay. So I walked to the elevator reminding myself that I'm at that age when women are invisible. Today that was an excellent thing! Got on the empty elevator. It stopped a few floors down, and a tall, white haired man with a very young face got on. He was dressed for his run. When he saw me, he pulled out his iPod earphones, smiled hugely and said -- " You look WONDERFUL!" I thanked him and tried not to cry. I didn't question it either. I had 20 minutes to get to the theatre, and I don't walk quickly in my red wedgie sandals.

GRAND FINALE: The show is brilliant -- if you're anywhere near NYC do see it. One show-stopper after another. Fabulous cast; amazing voices; and it not being Boston, folks sitting behind me at the theatre chatted with me during intermission. (that has never happened to me in all my years in Boston). I phoned my daughter on my way to meet MaryJo. She was waiting for her ride home from the hospital. Her cardiologist said there was no reason for her to be there. Sigh...... Glad she was okay. I ordered a large gin and tonic and I was okay too. MaryJo and I have been friends since 1959. No friend like an old friend. We laughed a lot -- at ourselves mostly. We ate at our favorite restaurant - Basilica -- and planned our next get together in the city.

THE WEIRD RIDE HOME: The bus left late on Sunday morning because they didn't have a driver. (???) When she arrived, she was very discombobulated. She had a problem starting the bus, working the doors, etc. She also didn't know the route. It took almost an hour and a half for her to get us out of the city. She kept calling home-base for assistance. Once on the road she seemed better. Although she stopped several times at the side of the highway. Twice to walk outside and mutter; once to go to the john at the back of the bus. And she talked to herself the entire way.

It was a lovely day in Beverly where I live. I had some breakfast (3:00 in the afternoon) and then went for another long walk. The silence was stunning after being in the city. I walked to the beach, the best attribute of Beverly and then strolled for an hour or so. It isn't easy to run away from home; to hide when everyone knows where you are; to stay connected with whom you are. But I won't give up; I'll take off again when the opportunity presents and head for NYC. Because I bring back with me, if not the girl I used to be, my New York state of mind. That sense of myself that knows that - even at my age - I'll look damn good in a soft, black leather jacket

"NAY, HER FOOT SPEAKS!" (Wm Shakespeare)

A silly topic, this. But consider it for a moment: when you are very little, you don't think about the appearance of your body parts. You don't look at your little fingers or your little toes and declare that they are ugly. You are simply delighted that they work -- that you can pick things up and put things down and walk or run or kick. Well, when you're old, it's pretty much the same thing.

Somewhere in between, things fall apart. Other voices interfere. I studied dance for many, many years. I was quite young when I started; first in the ballet and later, modern dance with members of Martha Graham's company. I was probably seven years old when I shed my dance slippers to dance barefoot. In all the scores of years, no teacher, choreographer, class mate, colleague, ever remarked about my feet. Except to tell me to point or flex! So you can imagine my dismay when -- in my early teens -- an elderly gentleman friend of my grandpa referred to the "unfortunate shape of my toes." I was devastated. My mother and my grandmother contributed two consoling facts: that my feet closely resembled theirs; and that the man was NOT a gentleman to have said such a thing. None of that helped. For a long while, I wouldn't wear sandals or strappy shoes. I didn't go barefoot. Except in the dance studio where I became other.

In college the problem faded a bit or I didn't think much about it. When I went to school in England I wore sandals the entire summer. Europeans seemed to not care; they seemed to notice the positive attributes and didn't go bananas over extremities.

Well, I married too soon out of college. Because we were in theatre, we had many glamourous friends. Out-spoken glamourous friends. There was, for example, an evening when all of the men who gathered around our table discussed how lovely feet on women were a great attraction. Or homely feet were a big turn-off. So I put on my shoes (which I've never worn in my home) and took to wearing closed-toe espadrilles every summer. The lack of self-confidence is a very powerful malady. Of course it doesn't help when people are stupidly cruel. There was an evening when a younger relation, seemingly out of nowhere, began to exclaim with a great deal enjoyment: " Your feet are UGLY! UGLY!!! UUUUUGGGGLY!" At the time I blamed it on the wine. I believe I responded with something like -- "happily I have two of them and they work." She continued her tirade for a while. Fortunately I had to leave because I had a plane to catch. The next week I visited a friend who was also my hair dresser. A woman was having a pedicure near to my friend's work station. "Oh, I'd love to do that. It looks so relaxing." "Why don't you? " he asked me. And I went into my story about how uuuuggggly! my feet are. "Just do it, buy a pair of sandals and forget about it!" he said. "And if that doesn't help, start looking at everyone's feet for a day or two. Let me know if you find someone with pretty feet. Magazine models don't count."

He was, of course, absolutely right. My feet looked better and better as the day wore on. And so I went to have my first pedicure. It wasn't something my mother ever did; my grandmother had one before a big family event so she could have fresh polish on her nails. In other words, it had never been part of my experience. I've been going for pedicures ever since. Sure my toes looked better; but it's the leg and foot massage that closes the deal. When I mentioned to the manicurist (in apology?) that my feet were unattractive, she responded; "You have no idea what unattractive is. There's nothing wrong with your feet."

I am at the age where women in this country become invisible. That's also the same age when women take for their own the anthem of the 'It" girl of the twenties: "I don't care...I don't care..." It's very liberating. It's all the same thing: the nose you don't like; the hair that isn't as lovely as the wig (usually is, you know) that the TV actress is sporting. We can always find a way to feel deficient. We are who we are; be ever grateful when everything is in working order.

My son told me a clever quote (I don't know where it's from): "If you doubt that God has a sense of humor, just look at people's feet." 'Nuf said.

Of Smiles and Knowing

My second son had just been born. Jamie's older brother, Alex, was three and a half. We got him a little kitten so we'd each have a baby to take care of. Sadly, the kitten (whom we called Lady Grey) choked on a pill; Alex and his dad took her to the vet where she died. We of course immediately got Alex another kitten -- very pretty, but kind of sassy.
Alex named her Pickle, "because," he said, "she's a dilly." The next evening Alex came to me and asked, "what happened to Lady Grey?" I recapped the incident, but he interrupted me. "No. I know all that. I mean herself." I began to carefully explain what the vet would do with her little body, but Alex interrupted again. "No, I don't mean her body. I mean her smile." That was the moment I understood that children have an intrinsic concept of soul.

I've thought of this occasionally over the years, always wondering at the genius of it. Then, yesterday, my six year old granddaughter capped that story with a dialogue of her own. We were driving to her T-Ball game passed the cemetery. Keira, in the back seat, remarks, "Gramma. How do they get in there? Do they go there and lay down?" "No, sweetheart, they don't walk in and lay down. Because they're not alive when they're there. Their smiles, thoughts, talking, smiling (thanks Alex) aren't there any longer. Only the body is left." "So," she continued, "where does all that go? The part that isn't there any more?" think quick, Mickey; how do you put this so she'll get it? "Well, that part, the living part, goes to God; sometimes people call that place the center of the universe." "Okay. But does the rest have to go in a box?" "No. Some people want their bodies to be burned and their ashes scattered someplace beautiful like out in the ocean or in a field; or saved in a special place." All of this conversation was very casual; very normal. Keira had the final word. "Well, I don't want to be put in a box. I'd rather be burned up and thrown in the wind."

I was deprived of this conversation when I was growing up. Death was hush-hush. People I cared about might be dead for years before my mother reported the event to me. It was an abnormal event. As though people weren't meant to die. As though it wasn't a part of life. I'd much preferred the knowing. It becomes less frightening. Of course, violent death - as seen in movies and on television or in the newspapers - is mainly the image children have. The unnatural event. And, I suppose, if one doesn't believe in God or the Spiritual Universe, one might be hard pressed to described where the smile goes. I don't have that answer right now.

It's Mothers' Day, so it's appropriate to think about ones family. I'm fortunate to have many delightful memories with which to celebrate the day. I hope you have, too.

Blessed be.

He-ros and She-ros

A few evenings ago I went with Roberta to see a folk singer at a church coffee house in Rockport. The singer is David Roth and one of his story-songs was about "he-ros and she-ros;" teachers, in fact. And while he sang the song I wondered about my own he-ros and she-ros. Here I am; still wondering.

Since he sang about a teacher, the one that always comes immediately to my mind is Sam Datlof, my home room teacher in 8th grade at P.S.99. Mr. Datlof was very small in stature. To compensate (to try anyway) he wore shoes with lifts and combed his hair into a pompadour. He wore over-large black rimmed glasses. We were an innocent, naive bunch of kids; we didn't see the humor in any of it. A good thing, too; no wise-guys in our class to pick on Mr. D. The only ribbing I recall was when he became engaged to the lovely Claire Zaslow (my third grade teacher -- I think it was third grade). There was no end to the chants and limericks about the relationship. "Claire and Sam went for a ride; Sam asked Claire will you be my bride...." etc. etc. etc. Love comes to P.S.99! But that's not how he became my "he-ro."

The first day of school in his class -- I was 11 years old when I entered 8th grade. That first day Mr. Datlof, recognizing my surname, asked if I was related to Matt Coburn. I told him that Matt was my older brother. Mr. D. then asked if I was as smart as Matt (who was academically very bright) and I told him "No; I'm the dumb one." No more was said. At the end of the day, Mr. D. requested I stay for a minute. He wanted to know what I liked to do. I told him that I liked to write -- stories, poetry, whatever way the words chose to hit the paper. The next morning when we entered the classroom, there was the skelton/template of a newspaper painted on the blackboard at the rear of the room. Mr. Datlof announced that I was the newspaper editor and main writer. And if anyone would like to contribute, they were to let me know. That would have been enough to change my world, but Mr. D. also went to speak with my English teacher, Miss McDonald. He apparently let her know that I wanted to be a writer. And, in retrospect, probably told her that I had a poor self-image and needed propping. Miss McDonald put a list on the board: poem, novella, essay, article, play, -- I don't remember what else. There were 10 varieties. We were to turn in one per month. If I recall correctly, I turned in one a week. She was delighted. Mr. D. was pleased. And my academic world changed. I went from being a B- student to winning the scholastic medal at graduation. I was also chosen to be the principal on Student Teacher day. Who I was and whom I could become was changed dramatically by the caring of an elementary school teacher. Years and years later when I returned to the school looking for Mr. Datlof, I learned he'd gone on to be principal of another school. Then in the early 1990's I learned that he had passed away. I never got to really thank him. I suspect he always knew.

He-ros. Pete Jones arrived in my life on the eve of my marriage to Don Beaman. Our "best man," Claud Thompson taught English at Carnegie Tech, our alma mater. Claud was moving to Canada; Pete was his replacement. We became immediate best friends. I don't think I'd ever had a true "best friend." Pete was there during the hard times: we were living on a shoe string, and I got pregnant very early on. Don's paycheck would runout by Thursday of every week. Every Wednesday evening, Pete would phone to tell me he'd purchased a package of minute steaks and could only eat one. (this became a weekly script!) I'd respond that I had some nice baking potatoes. And every Thursday for over a year, Pete showed up with the steaks, a can of his favorite tiny peas; sour cream for the potatoes; and dessert. Once our son Alex was born, Pete would also bring a bottle of milk claiming he needed it because of his ulcer. Of course he always left it behind. On Sundays Pete would come by with the New York Times and pastries. I'd put on the coffee. We'd spend several hours struggling with the cross word puzzles. Don was typically at the Pittsburgh Playhouse where he was resident designer. Then, if it was the season for it and the weather was good, Pete and I would push Alex around Pittsburgh in his tram.
Anything I needed to say I could say to Pete. Not only in those Pittsburgh years, but for years and years in letters, phone calls (long phone calls), the rare meetings in Pittsburgh when I could get there for Alumni events at Carnegie. (Don't fantasize that this was a hot love affair -- Pete was gay. It was a very different kind of love. Unconditional.) Just two more stories: Don was away at State College where he'd accepted a job. Our second son, Jamie, was ill with chicken pox; the summer night was awfully hot and sticky, and I was having the terrors. I phoned Pete -- it was like 11:00 at night. Pete showed up with a trenchcoat over his pj's, a bottle of vodka, and the manuscript of his unfinished novel. We sat up all night while he read the book to me.

The topper was in 1998 -- a long, long time later. Pete was fighting a losing battle with bladder cancer. We had met a few years before right after his first long struggle. Friends were taking care of him in Maine. We met in Ogunquit and walked the Marginal Way together; sat in a pub in front of a fireplace (a cold, rainy October day) drinking hot chocolate. I tried to be there for him through the next few years. In February of 1998 he phoned me to invite me and my son Jamie to take a trip to Europe with him. He wanted to show me Venice -- my fantasy destination for all my life. He wanted Jamie along so I'd have someone to share the memories with. When spring and the time for the trip arrived, Pete was too ill to go but insisted we take the trip. He planned it from his hospital bed and we phoned him from each destination along the way. He passed away while we were in Saltzburg, his favorite place in the world. I will never stop missing him.

I can't think of a she-ro right now. But there is one more unlikely he-ro -- my dad, who passed away when he was 50 years old. I say "unlikely" because he was a paradox: when I graduated college he published my first poetry collection, presented the book to me as a gift and said, "you probably don't deserve this." Okay. That was confusing. He didn't want me to be studying theatre, but found out about a summer graduate program in Stratford-on-Avon in England and told me that if I could get into the program he'd send me over. I did and he did. I sailed round trip on the Queen Elizabeth I. That summer studying Shakespeare and Elizabethan drama -- well, I remember every day of it. I had just completed my junior college year, so this wasn't yesterday. I learned more about myself that summer than in all of my years at college. There's a silly song from an old Disney movie, BONGO. The song is called Bears Say it With a Slap. I've always thought of my dear, brilliant father in terms of that song -- although the "slap" was never physical. I don't remember that he ever raised a hand to me. Nor was he always supportive. But I knew that if/when my back was up against the wall, when I'd run out of solutions, he would be there for me. Always with the good answer -- not that I always took his advice. And, sadly, he died before we could be adults together. I believe we'd have been excellent friends.

So when you're writing your blog or log or gratitude pages, make a list of your he-roes and she-roes. One is good; three is -- I think -- an amazing gift.

The Accidental Potter

I was sent off to summer camps a few times when I was a kid. (kicking and screaming I may add. I did not like summer camps.) Anyway, I was perhaps seven or eight years old the first time. I was there two days and caught chicken pox -- an epidemic at the camp. My parents, to make things worse, came to visit me - through a window in the cabin called "The Chicken Coop." (any wonder I decided I hated summer camp from then on?) Once out of the "coop," the only activities I remember are the dance classes and the crafts cabin. I worked in clay for the first time, and I sculpted a bird. That's what it began to look like so I went with it. I remember that it was surprisingly good. The counselor in charge said we could pick up our work the last day of camp. The bus waiting, I hurried to the crafts cabin. I stood in the doorway unseen by the counselor, who was packing her bag. I saw my bird sculpture being wrapped in paper and put in her bag. I knocked, and asked for my bird. She did a very bad acting job when she told me it had broken in the kiln. I told her that I was sure she was mistaken; the bird was in her bag. She became rude and verbally kicked me out. I hope to this day that it broke in her bag before she made it home.

All of that to describe my first encounter with clay. When my kids were little we'd play together making things from clay. I'd make baker's clay for them (the stuff made with flour and salt -- remember?). And we'd create a plethora of sugar cookies over the years in magical shapes and designs. The first piece of art I ever purchased was in Pittsburgh when my boys were very young and we were very poor. We went to a craft fair and I bought (for $7.50 - quite a sum back then) a wheel-thrown bowl. I have always loved that bowl; I haven't had the opportunity or where-withal to buy many pieces of art since then. Happily, the bowl remains in tact even after a life-time of moving from place to place like some sort of gypsy.

And then one day, I met a charming lady who introduced me to her pottery teacher who had a place in her class which was held in her basement. The love affair began: me on a kick-wheel; for over five years, every Wednesday night! Her name was Sandy Lenz; she was a fine potter and a good teacher. When I look at the pieces I created those years (well, the ones I didn't give away) I wonder whether I was actually quite adequate or whether my teacher's hands were all over the work. In any case, the society of the small class, the camaraderie, and the total involvement the clay provided albeit the pieces one took home: all of this wonderful adventure stopped for years and years. When I moved to the New York area in 2002, my son gave me a great birthday gift: a series of classes at a pottery studio near my workplace. I went there with so much hope and spirit only to find a totally unfriendly environment, a teacher who didn't teach -- didn't even look at what was being done. And while my head remembered everything, my hands did not. In fairness, the wheel was electric. I had learned on the kick wheel; a totality of experience. An almost dance -- a complete concentration. But at the New York studio my work looked like a very young child had an accident with some clay. When the series ended, I gave the craft up as a part of yesterday.

This past fall I walked into a charming shop in Beverly, MA where I live, called "Clay Dreaming." A street away from my apartment. How lucky is that?! Some excellent work was exhibited for sale; a lovely space was set aside for folks to paint greenware with glazes. Once fired a nice piece of pottery was wrapped to take home. And then there was this large room with 10 or 12 potters wheels. I had been laid off from my job; I was feeling rather depressed after months of applying for work to no avail. And, like Alice, I saw a door to an adventure I sorely needed -- if I could only make myself fit through. I managed it; found my box of pottery tools still in tact; showed up for class.

My head still remembers it all. Well, most of it. My hands do not always cooperate. The society is there -- chatty, friendly, supportive. The teacher wants very much for each of us to succeed in the way we want for ourselves. When I put the clay on the wheel I sometimes know what I want to create (usually a nice, large bowl) but the clay seems to have objectives of its own. If I don't take command I either wind up with a failed attempt or with something I had no intention of making. Thinking about this, it seems that the same scenario plays out quite often in my life. (yours, too?) When I started my little theatre school (a lifetime ago) I meant it to be a place for children to learn about acting and theatre. Most of my students were adults and young adults. There was a class of youngsters, but mainly the school had attracted grown-ups who had always wanted to be part of the theatre. I never intended to do shows for audiences, but the needs of the students and apparently for me led to a small repertory company and a traveling children's participatory company. One of my former students told me years later that "it was magic." Well, it was hard work, but certainly the outcome was always magical.

There's a saying in Yiddish (my grandma Jennie always quoted) "Men plan; God laughs." I've given the universe much to laugh about. But I no longer fight it. I go each Tuesday evening to see what the clay has in store for me. I don't turn out the quantity of work that my classmates accomplish. But I have to believe the clay will listen to me more and more as I continue the adventure. And if not, I will permit it to surprise me, until one day I surprise myself.

A Love Letter To My Days

It was a long, boring drive, radio reception was sketchy, and for some inexplicable reason I played with multiplying how many days I had so far lived. It took me a while - I don't calculate well without paper and pencil (adding machine?). And the final number was daunting (if even accurate.) I then took myself back as far as my memory would permit, and attempted to recall as many individual days as I could. Of course I came up with pieces of days, patterns of kinds of days; the very happy ones; the very sad ones. It was a mind-boggling exercise. I reminded myself of Emily in Our Town -- although she was already dead when she attempted to re-live a day gone by.

I have long ago dealt with and disassembled all regrets. So I certainly wasn't voyaging toward self-pity. I have not however, discovered the why of many of my behaviors, choices, actions -- the attainments as well as the flops. I didn't discover any reasons on that car trip either. I recalled the Brooklyn era; the awful growing up years. Hiding in my room; hiding in books; finding my freedom only in my dance classes. The Pittsburgh days at Carnegie Tech. The friendships made there; learning to be a friend; to accept friendship. More valuable ultimately than the classes, the training. The teenage thing of falling in love -- I believe we did it for practice. There'd be a song that resonated with me in some odd way. When I heard it I felt the longing. But one has to be longing for something -- someone. So I (like all the teenage girls I've ever known) would choose an object -- a victim -- for all that death-defying emotion. It worked much better if the focus of this passion was rarely seen, if actually known. One of my older brother's friends always away at college; my cousin Shelly who lived in Chicago (he really was wonderful!); a girlfriend's boyfriend; the guy who flipped pizzas in the window of a local caffe; an acting teacher; several acting teachers. On and on. Harmless. It provided continual improvisation enabling habitation in a fantasy world.

The day I won the National High School Poetry Competition. The day Miss MacDonald at P.S. 99 recognized me as a writer. The day the little girls I was teaching at summer camp performed to a standing ovation. The fearful days; the fearless days. The triumphs -- small and huge. The day my mother gave me the kitchen so I could bake mountains of cookies. I'd carry each tray through the swinging door to the dining room and deposit the lovelies on a platter. All day -- for hours and hours; dozens and dozens of cookies. When at last I brought in the last tray, there was only a small platter with any cookies on it. My brothers had spent the day eating them all! I was crushed. And thinking back on it, my mother was an un-professed culprit: sitting there knitting and watching them carry on. Nice. Actually, I still don't find it funny. The days with my kids when they were kids. My first garden. Every garden. The remarkable awakening, trembling, when my plays or poetry spoke back to me. The days of our "Piece of Time" weekend; when my family traveled into Boston to see the production of my play, "A Piece of Time" mounted by the New Ehrlich Theatre Company. The day when I received a letter telling me that one of my children's books would be published. And then it wasn't because the company went out of business. Venice. Barbados. Waiting in line for half a day with my son, under umbrellas, to get tickets to Shakespeare in the Park. What fun we had! Going to L.A. when my screenplay was a finalist in the LA Femme Film Festival. Directing any play. Reuniting with Lloyd after 25 years. The days that could have used changing. The days I wouldn't change for anything even if the consequences might positively alter my life.

They are my days. So is the one I'm enjoying now. Sitting in my kitchen; shivering a bit because it's terribly cold outside and the wind leaning against the windows prevents real warmth in the room. I spent the morning at my part-time day job; processing quarterly reports. I made steel-cut oatmeal for lunch - not the instant kind. I'm drinking warmed over coffee, and will soon venture out to attend my one to one class at the Apple Store. And this evening I endeavor to finish the Donna Leon book that I'm reading, in time to watch THE MENTALIST on the tv. No big deal you say? It is my day. And my time travel has confirmed my belief that each day is the first and also the last. It is all. Not my intention to stir up philosophical warfare. It is what I believe. And I also believe that Emily would agree with me.

(Photos below: a lighthouse in Norfolk; with Zoe and Isobel; with my brother Lenny; with Alex; with Jamie; with Pete; with Lloyd; a reunion with Al; my Clea; with Katy;with DJ;with Keira; with cousin Shelly and brother Matt; when the kids were kids; Coburn family reunion; Jamie in Venice - the trip Pete gave us.)