Travels in Black and White

I stayed home today to watch our new President take the oath of office. The company where I currently work as a temp assistant won't be putting time aside for that experience, and I really (like most of us) didn't want to miss it. The past few weeks leading up to this awesome event have brought up so many memories. In my blog entry, A Week in November, I wrote about my first time voting. And I wrote about my father weeping when Arthur Goldberg and Abraham Ribicoff became members of JFK's cabinet. It was a huge thing for Jews to be part of the cabinet. And here we are today, 48 years later (where did all that time go?) welcoming Barack Obama to lead our country. I think my dad would have surely been impressed with the remarkable turn of events. But chances are he'd have said something about not yet seeing a Jewish president. Well, he'd have to say that.

You know that mine is a trans-racial family. A friend asked me recently how/why did this happen? I probably shrugged and came out with a smart-ass remark -- I don't remember. But it did send me thinking back. From the time I was a teenager I had decided to adopt a baby. Even if I had biological children, I knew I would adopt. When my first son was around two years old I researched the Pearl Buck Foundation. Adopting an Asian child through this organization was not financially possible for us. When my second son was around one year old, I looked into adopting a Native American child ( the profile of available/needy children continually changed). The adoption agency encouraged us to give our boys their childhood. When we had moved into Beverly Massachusetts, into our wonderful Corning Street house; when we had come home, the time seemed right. So I made some calls and learned that the children who needed homes at that time were mixed race babies. It never occurred to me to adopt a Caucasian child; I wanted to adopt a baby who might otherwise not have a home. I worked with Friends for Inter-racial adoption. We were sent to Jewish Home Services in Lynn. These good folks had never assisted with an inter-racial adoption. They had many reservations: we didn't have any money; we were already a mixed religion family. The woman, Alice, who was in charge of our "case" asked me "In what race will you raise the child?" I remember clearly saying, "How about the human race? I think that will work." My only stipulation was a baby girl under the age of two. It was December of 1969. Don and I met with her together, then we met with her separately. In January, she came to our home. She approved us, but cautioned that it could take years for the appropriate child to appear. (My husband, by the way, went along with all of this because it was so important to me. But I know he thought it was a fine madness.)

On Friday, February 6th, I received a phone call from Alice. She had a baby. The baby was mixed-race, and had a Jewish mother who wanted the child to be with a Jewish mother. We qualified! The little girl had been waiting six months. Don left work in Boston, I left Beverly and we met at the office in Lynn.
Alice had photos of the baby, but very little information about her background. The adoption fee was very low in order to permit us to afford it. The baby was coming from Jewish Family Services in Boston; we couldn't pick her up on the weekend and Monday was a Jewish holiday, so Tuesday became the day we'd come for our new baby. Alice said something stupid like "Sold!" I was sure then and convinced since that this baby had been waiting for us.

We spent the weekend putting our new baby's room together; the crib, etc. I didn't know how big the baby was but I went shopping for clothes for her anyway. My mother (who wasn't crazy about the idea) had wired me $50 for a layette for her. I had a short list of names -- Zoe, Keira, Sabra, and at least six more. But on Sunday evening I finished reading the last book of the Alexandria Quartet. The book is called Clea. And with Don's blessing, I decided to call the baby Clea Coburn Beaman. We fetched our Clea on Tuesday, February 10th, 1970.

I had always been oddly color blind when it came to race. I say oddly because being raised in the '40's and '50's, racism seemed a way of life. So was antisemitism. There were too many "antis" in those days. But not until you are in the trenches do you really understand the pain this causes. We were instantly in the trenches. We had integrated Beverly, and for
years Clea was the only child of color in her classrooms. We fought the Metco fight, the "let's destroy the Beaman's yard" fight, the screaming and throwing rocks at the Beaman children on the streets, and so forth. I hope that Clea knew during all those years that she wasn't alone but had a family-army with her.

This of course doesn't really answer how/why. Recently I remembered having several books when I was little; books that today would not be politically correct. One was about a little girl called "Pinky Marie" whose hair was in tiny braids with colorful ribbons that get stolen by the birds while she sleeps in the garden. The birds make a glorious nest with her ribbons. The other book was about a little black baby girl who is abandoned on the steps of a hospital. And Nurse Moore who is a single, white lady decides to adopt her and calls her Baby Jane. (The book doesn't say "black baby;" it says "colored baby." Such were the times.) I loved the book; I loved Nurse Moore who took this adorable baby home. And truly, as a little girl, I didn't see color -- I saw a baby who needed a home and a lady who gave her one. I think this was probably where it all began.

The rest of Clea's story is a book waiting to be written. I'll try to do that really soon. But today my daughter is watching the first black President take office. And her three children will know that this is possible. Perhaps it will be a better world for us all. We can hope. President Obama is all about hope.


I

Missing Midnight

Maybe it's much too early in the game
Ooh, but I thought I'd ask you just the same
What are you doing New Year's
New Year's eve?
........... words & music by Frank Loesser

My, my -- I thought this year -- there have been quite a few New Year's eves gone by. I don't recall too many from my childhood. One though: I was maybe 10 or 11 when I was left to babysit for my younger brother. I'm sure it was New Year's eve. My parents and grandparents had gone out. I don't know where my older brother was. I just remember sitting on the couch, looking out the window and watching the snow fall. It was a beautiful snowfall. I know I didn't mind being there. I remember when I was in high school, I'd stay home on New Year's eve. But my friends would show up at around midnight to see in the New Year with me. My mom and I would make them breakfast. One year I had a date (I don't recall whom with) and we went into Manhattan to see a movie and watch the ball drop. When we came out of the theatre in Times Square it was bedlam. My date vanished into the crowd. I have never coped well with crowds, so I beat it down to the subway and went home. I found my date sitting on my porch steps. Duh! After that, I pretty much told my friends that I'd be home on New Year's eve. Even in college -- folks who were in NYC for the holidays would shlep out to Brooklyn to sing around our piano. My parents would always come home early from wherever they went for the evening so that they wouldn't miss the "party." A bunch of theatre students -- there was always someone who could "really" play piano, and people like Ellen Travolta and Lloyd Battista who could sing and entertain any crowd. In the early hours of New Year's morning, my Dad would wake me up and we'd drive to Coney Island for Nathan's hotdogs and Shatzkin's knishes which we'd eat on the boardwalk while we watched the "Brownies" club members go for their New Year's day swim in the cold Atlantic. After I'd graduated school and married and moved away, folks continued to show up at my mom's door and spend some New Year's eve time reminiscing.

During the Pittsburgh years, my husband and I would host a little New Year's eve party. Always a small gathering with some close friends. My dear friend Mary and her hubby Ray would have an open house party right next door. So there was friendly visiting back and forth. And at midnight, we'd meet on the shared porch of our two rentals, to toast the New Year in together. The early years in Massachusetts in the Corning Street house brought all kinds of new traditions. One of the best was our Victorian New Year's Eve. I asked the friends we invited to come dressed as they would have been during that era. I remember we borrowed little tables and chairs and turned our living room into a Victorian restaurant. All of the dishes served were from that era. Friends even came from out of state. It was a charming evening, lit only by candle light.

During the Acting Place years, the actors and students from the Place would show up; we'd read fortunes in the fireplace and throw the Tarot cards. For years this became a happy way to spend the night. When I moved into Boston, my friends continued to arrive for our "magical" New Year's eve. Ouija boards; spirit writing; past-life regressions; seances. We had a terrific time. Occasionally my step-father would overnight a "do-it-yourself crepe suzette kit." It made a lovely breakfast!

People go their own way. Living in New Jersey didn't attract any comers for the holiday. And since my return, my circle of loved ones is far flung and miles wide. But usually, there's a good movie, some time with the little ones, and a glass of Prosecco while watching the ball drop on the TV. HOWEVER, last night I curled up on my bed with my mulled wine and turned on a show to watch until the midnight event. We'd had a snow storm, and the temperature had dropped to single digits after the snow stopped falling.  So any plans to go out were pretty much parked.  So I turned to the TV for the evenings event.  The next thing I knew, I was waking up and it was 4:00 a.m. I had slept through midnight!!! That was a first. And hopefully NOT to be repeated. I felt terribly old farty having missed midnight!

I wish you a joyous 2009 filled with good health and excellent surprises!

A Whole Lot of Tra-la-la!

I've discovered the secret of life: a lot of hard work, a lot of sense of humor, a lot of joy, and a whole lot of tra-la-la! .....................Kay Thompson

What is it we long for during the winter holidays that makes us so sad and sentimental? Our childhood, I suppose. Though I don't know too many folks who'd spend one of three magical wishes to go back to their own kid-dom. When I was a kid, I longed for a story book childhood. I kept giving mine another chance, but felt cheated when it was over. So when I had my children, I made every attempt to create the childhood for them that I longed for and never had. I almost succeeded. The local kids tormented mine, and mine terrorized each other. (I knew about the former while it was happening, and interceded as I was able. I didn't learn about the latter until they had grown up. I wish they'd ratted on each other!) And although my marriage didn't last, I truly dedicated myself to giving my kids a world they could long to revisit again when they'd grown up. When I long for childhood at Christmas, I long for theirs.

For some reason that challenges the reasonable, my mom insisted on giving us Christmas morning even though we were Jewish. She said that her grandmother (who raised her) gave her Christmas morning so she wouldn't envy the non-Jewish children. So we'd march down the stairs to discover Santa's gifts every December twenty-fifth; and --reinforcing the paradox -- the gifts would be decorated in Chanukah paper. To distract himself, my dad would make films of the event; my brother Matt and I turned the movies into a video years later. Awfully boring -- really! Years and years of Christmas morning ritual. The only interesting thing about the movies, is seeing oneself change from year to year.

My first Christmas with Don, my husband, was out of a Victorian novel. We were married the previous March; I was expecting our first child. We had a hand-me-down dinette set, a wedding gift bedroom set, and whatever props Don could shlep home from the Pittsburgh Playhouse where we both worked. (when the prop furniture or drapes were needed for a show, a crew would show up and empty my apartment.) That Christmas eve we had no prop furniture. Several productions at the Playhouse took it all away. Don went out rather late in the evening to find a Christmas tree. We had no money. I don't really know how he expected to get a tree. But he came back with a sweet little tree (Charlie Brown would have been proud!) that a vender nearby had held out to him and said, "If you catch it, it's yours." He did, and it was. We were up most of the night turning popcorn into chains for the tree. At around 11:00pm, the door bell rang; it was either the postal service or UPS bringing a gift from my younger brother. (delivering gifts into the night doesn't happen any more!) We opened our gifts once the tree had enough popcorn to smell like a movie theatre. My brother Len had sent us chocolates and a bottle of brandy. We made short work of all of it. That was my first Christmas tree. And Don talked a lot that evening about the history of the yule tree and it's pagan roots and the countries that claim having created it.

We had wonderful Christmases with our children. We took Alex to Brooklyn to spend Christmas with my mom when Alex was perhaps turning 3 years old. Don didn't want to go; he liked having Christmas at home. My mom wanted us there and actually went out and bought an artificial tree and some decorations so Don would have his Christmas. On Christmas eve, while we decorated the tree, my mom sat in the kitchen and sulked. She felt uncomfortable having the tree in her home. (who asked her to????) She said something like, we don't celebrate Christmas! I generously did not remind her about all those years of the Jewish Santa! Anyway, we did up the tree, and in the morning little Alex had plenty of Santa gifts. We were about to gather for breakfast when my younger brother -- who had stepped outside for something -- came running in to tell us that our Zaidie, my late-father's orthodox Jewish father, was strolling up our street. Arriving unannounced! My mother went very pale. Don and Lenny picked up the tree, gifts and all, in a sheet and ran the whole alarming festivity into the basement -- clearing all away just as my mom opened the door for Zaidie. Lenny, Don and I were laughing so hard and my mom -- suddenly seeing the humor of it all -- began to laugh as well. Poor Zaidie thought he was among mad people.

The Christmases in our Corning Street house in Beverly were the best. We always gave the kids books of some kind; clothes that they needed (Don would wrap each sock of each pair separately so they'd have hours of opening to do!) We really couldn't afford to buy a "big gift." So we'd make gifts for the kids. Don being an artist made remarkable things. Of course we'd be up all night Christmas eve finishing the creations. We'd all decorate the tree together (a really beautiful artificial tree we named Irving; artificial to accommodate Jamie's asthma and my "green" instincts.) After we'd finally finish the gifts and the wrapping and crawl up to bed in the wee hours, I'd hear Don going back down to the living room -- every year he'd have to "fix the tree!" The efforts of we poor amateurs offended his artistic sensibilities.

The year that Don and I separated, Alex was so angry he wouldn't help us with the tree. Jamie, Clea and I put it together, and it came out perfectly up-side-down. Alex didn't want us to see him laugh, so kicked us out of the living room while he went in to redo Irving. When I moved to New Jersey I left Irving behind and decided that there was no reason for me to have a tree. No kids around. In fact, I divided the decorations among my three children. However, Jamie bought me a smaller but equally attractive tree, insisting that I needed to continue my pagan traditions. Ha! I suppose my dad would have called them heathen traditions. No matter. Irving the 2nd lives. Celebrating all holidays has become part of my world. It is, after all, celebrating all people and all of life.

This year there will be a glorious Eloise doll under Irving 2nd for glorious Keira, along with several books about Eloise by the brilliant Kay Thompson. Jamie will be here this weekend for an early celebration before returning to Iowa (oy!) with the Spamalot! tour. Next week I hope some folks will stop by for mulled wine and latkes to celebrate the Solstice, Chanukah, Yule, and the childhood we carry with us all through our lives.

Happy holidays to you, and abundant thanks for the gift of listening!

The Madness That Keeps Me Sane

“'But I don’t want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.'Oh, you can’t help that,' said the Cat. 'We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.

''How do you know I’m mad?' said Alice.

'You must be,” said the Cat. 'or you wouldn’t have come here.'”

...............Lewis Carroll

“And Something's odd - within -That person that I was - And this One - do not feel the same - Could it be Madness - this?"...............Emily Dickenson
A person needs a little madness, or else they never dare cut the rope and be free." ...............Nikos Kazantzakis

It isn't one madness -- or is it? To start a theatre company and school when one has only $250 to one's name, three kids to support, a mortgage....surely madness. We made it through five remarkable years, training many actors in their craft; bringing good theatre to the burbs. Holding yard sales several times a year to meet my personal bills. Moving to Boston brought some difficult and terrifying personal loss. It also brought a challenge I met with acumen I didn't know I had and chutzpah that surprised me and opportunity I long to have again. I took on the Children's Theater which was at 40 percent attendance, no artistic direction, and floundering badly. When I left five years later, it was at 95 percent attendance, a budget five times more than when I'd arrived, receiving reviews from professional critics, and turning out young actors -- strong young people who could take on any world. This was my madness. My passion. It sometimes still is.

But I'm not writing here about theatre. I'm talking about passion. With some regret that I didn't continue to have the courage to pursue it. I drove once to Youngstown Ohio (of all places!) to direct Neil Simon's RUMORS (really!) at the Playhouse. A community theatre. I was there for five weeks having a remarkable time. Talented actors and staff. My days off; rehearsing at night; creating a terrific show. I had to have been mad. Youngstown Ohio? Fabulous.

We all have our own madness. We would be unplugged without. There would be no current running through us to light us up and electrify people we encountered. My oldest son pursued his passion to California where he still lives his dream. My actor son kept on keeping on for 20 years paying more than his share of dues to work in theatre. It is his life blood. No matter how difficult the journey, it is everything.

I am passionate about many things. Especially people. Not all people -- I'm not that much a humanist or that mad. My kids; nuts about them. My grandkids. Little Keira -- (Jamie says I'm in love with her; why not?) My extended family. Actors I work with. Writers I've never met. Places. A courtyard in Monterey. The Brooklyn Bridge. The Marginal Way. Venice. Make your own list.

I'm not sure what brought this on. Maybe because I just closed a production of Noel Coward's HAY FEVER, and realized how much of me I left there. Maybe because Jamie was in town with SPAMALOT and we had some great talks. Maybe because Alex called the other day and we chatted as though no time had gone by. And it's almost the winter solstice and like many people, I get disgustingly nostalgic. Maybe because I've come to know that what I'm most passionate about is life and all that's good in it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

A Week in November

Tuesday
I stood in line to vote today, unusual for Beverly where I live. Lines are not typical at the polls here. I spent the time thinking about the first time I voted. I had just graduated from college and JFK was running for President. (One had to be 21 to vote back then.) My father accompanied me when I registered to vote in the basement of P.S. 99 in Brooklyn. My father was so proud. He came to America when he was eleven years old. Being a citizen with the right to vote -- no -- the obligation to vote -- was so important to him. I had been told to bring my high school diploma. I couldn't find it, so I brought my college diploma which I had just brought home. A woman sitting at a bridge table at the school wouldn't accept the college diploma. Had to be a high school diploma. I had a choice: go home and find it, or take a literacy test. Yes. You had to be able to read to vote. Not a bad concept. (It was done away with because minorities who couldn't read believed it was put there to keep them from voting. It probably was. But if our country lived up to its reputation, everyone would be able to read by 18 years of age!) I took the test. A paragraph about the Statue of Liberty with five questions to answer. (My dad was howling with laughter.) My 19 year old granddaughter will vote today for the first time. When she registered, she gave her name and address. No one asked her if she can read the ballot. I am excited for her -- exercising her privilege to vote; being a franchised citizen of her country. I hope she's excited, too.


Wednesday
Thoroughly sleep deprived, I came into the office where I'm currently temping. Eight nice guys; two nice women one of whom is admin to the executive. And me. I was very happy, albeit the lack of sleep. I had been rooting for Hilary Clinton; when she lost to Barack Obama, I transferred my allegiance to him. I will not wax political, except to say that the office today was like a morgue. These folks work in government relations in the financial industry, and they were NOT happy with the outcome of the election. It was a very difficult day for me. I felt as though I were encamped with the Philistines. I also felt as though I were the enemy. I wouldn't entertain the idea of discussing the election with any of them. They have the script down pat. I only know what I know and it has nothing to do with the stock market. So I bungled through and then went to dress rehearsal for the production of HAY FEVER that I'm directing in Concord Mass. Happily, the dress rehearsal went very well. Good pace; all lines remembered; blocking clean; a couple of technical glitches but nothing to distract from the play. And although I got home dead late and it was bound to be another day of sleep deprivation on Thursday, I was content.


Thursday
The last morning commute from Beverly to Boston by car hopefully for a long, long time. It took me over two hours to get to work. Need to do it to have transportation to Concord in the evening. Tonight is an open dress rehearsal (local audience invited). Tomorrow night is the grand opening. The show is essentially out of my hands. That's pretty much the pattern of creation: you make it, and while you do it's yours. Then you release it into the universe (and the stage manager.) And it takes on a life of it's own or a life grafted to it by others. The commute is horrific. In order not to go screaming out into traffic, I think about the historic election. And I remember when John F. Kennedy presented the members of his cabinet at the Inaugural Ball, my dad and I watched on television. My dad wept; Arthur Goldberg and Abraham Ribicoff were the first Jews to be appointed to a presidential cabinet since Theodore Roosevelt's presidency. Progress is often slow; very slow. But I thought about the reverberation -- my three black grandchildren, and what this kind of progress might mean to their lives.

Friday
I stayed home from work today. I spent an unreasonable amount of money at Trader Joe's putting together the opening night basket I give to the cast and crew of Hay Fever tonight. I got a manicure. I wrote thank you notes to all the good folks who helped bring the production to this juncture. I am relieved that the show will open tonight, that essentially it now belongs to our Stage Manager, that I can attend as audience, that I can perhaps get home at reasonable hours and get some much needed sleep.

Saturday
HAY FEVER is a big success; I'm so happy for the cast. Come spring I will miss not having a play to direct. But for now, I have books to read, plays to write, Chanukah and Christmas to think about, friends to get caught up with, and a little buddy to share the autumn with. I hope you had a happy week, too.

Ah, the Apple Trees

Ah, the apple trees,

Blossoms in the breeze,

That we walked among,

Lying in the hay,

Games we used to play,

While the rounds were sung,

Only yesterday,

when the world was young.

..............Johnny Mercer

It has been a week of glorious autumn weather -- warm sun, cool breezes; dry, crisp air; breathtaking colors of foliage along the highways. It is an apology for the damp, cloudy summer. In the fall, we go apple picking along with throngs of other urban dwellers. When I was a kid, my dad would get Columbus Day off from work and we'd drive to Connecticut to a farm owned by a German couple. I don't remember their names. We'd spend the day picking blueberries. My mom didn't come with us, but she'd welcome the bounty and she'd put up blueberry jam. So when my own kids were little, we began our own tradition. We'd take them to the orchards on Columbus Day and we'd pick apples. When we got home, I'd bake apple pies, freezing a couple for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The others were our feast. Everyone would peel apples for me, and I'd make original pie crust. There were big apple trees in the orchards then, and my little boys would climb those trees. The best part of the experience! Don, my husband at the time, would take us in search of Northern Spy apples -- his grandma's favorite. We could find them while living in Pennsylvania. When we moved to
Massachusetts we had to settle for new varieties. I like the Macouns and the Cortlands for pie. They're bountiful here. When I lived in New Jersey several years ago, I discovered the Wine Sap apples. The best I've ever had in pie. Again living in Massachusetts, I seek out the Macoun apples -- there are no Wine Saps that I can find here.

The trees in the orchards now seem all to be dwarf trees. It's okay though, because I'm picking apples with Keira who is four years old.

She can reach the lowest branches. She loved apple picking this year. Happily she enjoys eating apples because she's not much for the pies. (she prefers cakes with flowers on them). I have to work on Columbus Day, but the Sunday before is perfect for pie baking. I don't have any apple peeler guys around; in spite of that there are three large pies in the freezer and one individual size pie. My daughter and I made short work of another small pie on baking day. There's also a tub of apple sauce -- I cut out the cores but leave the skin, adding only cinnamon. The sweetness of the apples is quite enough.

It is a weekend of memories; one of my long mental movies -- long enough to last me through the several hours of peeling and baking and cleaning up. I remembered the Columbus Days during the Acting Place years -- many of the actors from the Place would tag along to the orchard. I'd be baking pies into the night, with lots of music and laughter and probably a few bottles of wine thrown in. Now the baking time is rather quiet. My family and friends are scattered across the country. But it is a time unto itself; we are still memory-making. Keira was thrilled to be picking apples, and sitting under the trees at picnic tables eating them.

When I came home from work last night, there was a package for me. In it were five large Wine Sap apples sent to me by my niece, Amy. Amy lives in Media Pennsylvania where Wine Sap apples grow. She remembers the Thanksgiving pie which she enjoyed when she shared the holiday with us while I lived in Fort Lee. It was so touching a gift. The best memories are those we share. So is the best apple pie.

It is probably a conceit of mine, but it is encouraged. Jamie has told me he won't order apple pie anywhere. He's had the "real thing" and won't settle. He's due for a visit in early December; there's a pie in the freezer waiting for him.

THE WINTER THERE
When autumn came we went to see the trees
and let the small boys slide down hills
on burnished leaves. We smelled the winter there.
It stalked us from the pond, and we
were eating fallen apples when we saw
a cluster green and fresh with Christmas pine.
We trimmed them all with toys from many journeys
recalling each by name. The laughter caught
in wind and trees like billowed kites. The sky
filled up with snow. We fed the flame a log
and mellowed brandy in the half-filled glass
invoking words that once were warming there.

Across the seasons doors remain ajar.
Our visit done, we raced back to the car.
...........Mickey Coburn

The End of Something

How queer everything is today! And yesterday things went on just as usual.

I wonder if I've been changed in the night?

Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning?

I almost think I can remember feeling a little different.

But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I?

Ah, that's the great puzzle!
--Chapter 2 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll

I made a huge mistake last Friday. I went to meet a little dog who was not Higgins. I have been talking myself out of all sorts of things lately, especially things that require change or, at the very least, motion or discomfort. So I said, okay -- come home with me. We'll make this work. I wrote a check (it was payday), and led this little shaved Bichon Frise to my car. He trembled a lot. His name was Lucky. All I was told of Lucky's story: he belonged to a man who had four dogs and a couple of cats. The man, who was aging, fell ill and went into a nursing home. The animals were put into the basement by his daughter who came by daily to put out some food. I don't know for how long. The man passed away, the daughter inherited the house, and got the word out (somehow?) that the animals would be put down. A rescue organization in its infancy with only cat experience found someone to foster two of the dogs. A Jack Russell without a known name, and Lucky. When we left it was clear that Lucky didn't want to leave the Jack Russell. The foster mom told me that she and her husband work, and that she'd been leaving the dogs in the small family room with some dry food and water for about 9 or 10 hours a day. She said they never messed or destroyed anything. I suppose the dogs kept each other good company.

Once in my car I became a bit unnerved. Well, there was this terrified dog next to me having a hissy-fit. I phoned Clea, my daughter and she and Keira (my four year old granddaughter) came with me and Lucky to Petco where I spent an inordinate amount of money. We took Lucky to my apartment, got his stuff set up, took him for a walk (which did not elicit any elimination). Then Lucky and I were on our own. There was some chatting, some petting, some basic getting-to-know-you stuff. All of which confirmed the fact that I know absolutely nothing about dogs!
Well, Lucky tolerated the crate for about 20 minutes. Okay, it was a new thing. So I put his little bed in my small bedroom, put him in it, and gently settled him down. He seemed to sleep; I managed some of that luxury for about 20 minutes. He had left the little bed and was sitting in front of the door. I thought he needed to go out, so I took him to my little back yard. No result except lots of cold night air. He didn't want to be in my room; I put the little bed near the door where he was hanging out waiting, I guess, to go home. At around 2:30 a.m. he came into my room crying and led me to the door. I put on my robe with coat over and we went for a walk up and down the street. No success. The night went on this way. When day was almost breaking I got up, put him in the yard while I got dressed, fed him breakfast which he didn't eat and we went for a long walk.

Saturday. All seemed fine during the days. He was very sweet and affectionate. My friend, Bobbie, who has lots of doggy experience came and clarified several things for me. Like scooting. In the meantime, I made several calls and finally got an appointment at the Danvers Veterinary Hospital; I wanted Lucky looked at to make sure he was okay. Bobbie's visit and the very kind doctor reassured me and gave me some insight into Lucky's behavior. The doctor also told me that Lucky was most likely a lot older than the six years told to me by the foster mom. His teeth are completely rotted and within a few months he should have dental surgery -- $600 worth. Clea and Keira came with me to the hospital. We had lunch together and all spent the day with Lucky. We left him in the crate for almost an hour to help him get used to it. Saturday night was not a good night -- lots of running around, coming into my room and barking; walking in the cold; going into the back yard. Okay, two nights without sleep. This old girl was beginning to hurt.

Sunday: we had our morning walk in time to see the sun rise over the ocean.

I took Lucky to my meeting and rehearsal in Concord. Of course, because he's small and cute, he was much fussed over. Clea and Keira joined me in the late afternoon and we walked again. Sunday night Mr. Hyde appeared with a vengeance. Lucky would seem to be sleeping, then run into my room, cry or bark and run back into the living room. I'd follow him in to find a mess on the living room rug. This went on all night. One trip to the yard was marginally successful, but didn't stop the antics. And somewhere toward morning I came to a few interesting facts about myself: I'm probably not a dog-person at all. I've lived alone for almost 20 years and have learned how. Holding a full-time job with a commute of 1 1/2 hours door-to-door twice a day, plus two to three nights a week and Sundays in Concord at rehearsals, -- well, this added pet feature was probably not the best idea. Plus commitments to my daughter and her family which precluded time with friends. And the economy I struggle with that was already over-taxed -- dog walkers?? dental surgery???

Monday: Clea came while I was at work and took care of the dog the entire day with a couple hours break in the middle of the day. I had left Lucky in the crate and she put him back in while she went to get Keira off her school bus. Had I been able to crate him at night without the howling and barking (the three other families in our condo-converted house would not have put up with that racket), the outcome might have been different. After much aggita, and my blood-pressure soaring most of the day, and lots of attitude from the woman who is creating this rescue group and the foster mom, I returned Lucky to his foster home. He was so happy to be with the Jack Russell -- the two of them were rolling around the floor when I left. I gave the woman the report from the vet and the heartworming and flea/tick medications ($85 worth of medicine) -- but it did not assuage the contempt she flashed at me at her back door. I went home feeling some guilt -- not for Lucky -- he'll be scooped up before the week is out. But for Keira and Clea who were so tickled to have a little dog to play with. I told Clea that she now understands the benefits of being a grandmother. She got it.

Of course Lucky needed at the very least a good week to make the adjustment. I had always told Clea that I would not adopt a dog until I could take a week off from work to devote to settling the dog in. I don't do well when I break promises to myself. I told myself all weekend -- maybe I'm too old for this huge commitment. This very big change in my life. Last night it occurred to me that maybe I'm not old enough. Maybe having a dog means having a companion when I'm not working anymore (fat chance!) and need the responsibility of a pet to keep me moving. Whatever the reason or the excuse, I'm very disappointed in myself. Worse, I'm very sad because I feel that this is the end of a dream called "Higgins." What did I think it would be like? What did I want it to be like? I can't answer that. Clea wants to get me a web-kin. That would probably serve me right!

She tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. -- Lewis Carroll: Alice chapter 1