ISH: Almost, Not Quite, Maybe, et al.

ISH has become an entity.  I don't know how the dictionary folks keep up with the idiomatic vocabulary we keep inventing.  However, I have begun to take -ISH personally.  Lots of years directing plays with good success; lots of years writing in a variety of genre with good reviews; lots of years.  So the only way I can explain directing a show that is a winner - with the audience, with the producers, with the actors, etc. - and then not be able to get another show with the same company -- ?!  (No - I do NOT have bad breath!)  To send written work out, to get positive feedback but also - "can't use at this time."  You get the picture.  Well, if that's not an ISH result, I don't know what is.  
My once husband used to say that we were "aliens."  A bit abstract, I think, but it was his interpretation that we thought differently; our values were different; our insight was different.  I simplify it I suppose, but I believe that we were either not good enough or too good.  We could be deceiving ourselves regarding the latter, but there have been enough applause over time, enough experience, enough humility and humble pie -- for us to know who we are and what we artistically achieve.   It's sort of the same as being "over qualified."  That's bunk, you know.  Unless you  hold a PHD and apply for a job cleaning black boards.  (of course if you're starving to death and that's the only available job - well, it may not be appropriate but one is certainly qualified.)  I applied for a directing job at a public school; I got the job and the end result was a terrific little show.  But the hiring team was suspicious when I applied; they wanted to know why I would want to work there with my "background."  I made an instant decision to not be ISH (or tell them I liked the money).  I told them instead not to sell themselves short; that in the dead of winter in a community that does not have an abundance of theatre opportunity, directing kids in a public school setting is a good fit for one who's directed a children's theater company.  Hopefully a politically correct response.
I tend to be "politically incorrect."  I don't mean that my behavior is pejorative.  The definition I found: "connotes language, ideas, and behavior unconstrained by a perceived  orthodoxy or by concerns about offending various groups of people for the sake of telling the truth."  Sometimes it is politically incorrect to offer information that a person in authority would rather not learn from you.  Sometimes it is politically incorrect to express an opinion, albeit informed, that a person in authority might interpret as a put-down.  Being right and letting the other guy know that you're right is sometimes the wrong thing to do.  Usually the wrong thing to do.  Knowing you're good and insisting with one's behavior that the other guy recognize it, too, -- well, if that alerts his/her inadequacies --you get the picture.  I do stuff like that.  A lot.
So I have obviously been thinking out loud here.  Have been speaking recently with other artists of various art forms; all of us have shared this kind of experience.  Some folks rise above it (or seem to) when they become big stars in their professions.  But often they are tripped up along the way by someone whose fear of being discovered as inadequate in his/her role over-rides the star's fame and talents. Or perhaps one loses one's edge by becoming old-ish or skit-ish.  The only way around this is to move on or to create a solo act that depends only upon ones self.  Giving up or giving in is not an option.  

That would be fool-ish!

Catch up!

Went to my wee garden this morning to give my family of song birds their peanut butter suet. They love the stuff. The yellow lilies that always bloomed first are gone. No trace at all. Peculiar at best. The forsythia is happy; but there seems to be lots of planting to do this season. I can do that. It seems a long, long time since the autumn. The mild winter not withstanding. And standing outside in the cold sunshine I remembered my blog and that I've neglected it for awhile. Longer than that it seems; my last blog was in September. Last year. So I put on a pot of coffee and asked myself the question: "What happened to stop me in my tracks?"

October was a fine month: apple picking; guests for brunch; a trial membership at Studio 13 with ballet classes (really!) and Pilate's and Zumba. Ah -- but that was when my work schedule was cut from 5 days to 3 -- because, I was told, I'd been so efficient there wasn't enough work for me to do. I was in essence invited to leave; I told my boss I couldn't afford to quit so he was welcome to fire me if he was of a mind to do that. He didn't. But somehow I think I must have fallen into a funk. That's actually in the dictionary -- funk. It's defined as depression, agitation, fear, etc. etc. I prefer the music genre - funk. Anyway -- while I lost interest in reading (a pile of books wait for me) and avoided writing because I didn't want to kvetch -- I kept on keeping on. I also developed a recurrence of PMR which comes out of nowhere, makes it painful and often impossible to be mobile. It's treated with prednisone. Bad stuff for good moods. And I promised NOT to kvetch! Well, I did what I do when I have a wall to scale: I took on a second job doing something I love to do: I directed a show in a public school. From January to March. And while it was not always much fun, the result was positive and I'm coming out of the dark corner.

Spring is still fighting with winter for dominance. It's that way every year -- spring always wins! I'm still here. We take that for granted -- being here! At all ages we think that's a given. It's not; just open a newspaper. And today the birds are fighting over their version of PBJ; the sun is out; I'm reaching out to my friends through my blog. Reach back! We're still here!!

(3 granddaughters skip into Spring -by Alex)

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.