Yes, Santa Claus, there is a Macy's

I walked into the store through the door I'm used to; so I can find my way out and also locate the mall entrance.  These commercial ventures can be rather confusing.  To the left are the coats; to the right hang the weird, hippy-ish, trashy fashions that junior teens love.  Straight ahead, in front of the escalator, are the black, white and beaded evening separates.  Walking to the escalator I noticed two massage chairs oddly placed among the dressy clothes.  A twenty-something woman, casually up-scale and very slim, was attempting to figure out how to start one of the chairs.  As I started to the next level, the customer was settling into the chair with audible sighs. After some grazing, I found a scarf and sox that I had come for, went to a cashier (now called a service center) who had been there a minute ago.  Peering over the top of the counter, I saw the girl sitting on the floor, arms around her knees.  "Are you on break?" I asked.  I thought that was politic.  "No.  I can help you," she said with disgruntlement.  So I dealt the Macy's cards I'd been receiving in the mail several times a week for several weeks.  "What can I use?"

The salesgirl calculated the cost, looked over my cards, chose the one that worked.  The amount was 2/3 less than the ticket price after the reduced sales price.  Delighted, I thanked her and walked off with my happy parcel, glancing back to watch her slip down the wall to the hidden position I'd disturbed.  

The store was extremely busy.  Well, it was December 23rd.  But the customers appeared blithely occupied.  Not sure what my next purchase should be, I sprayed myself with Chanel Number Five and walked out into the mall.  I visited several stores: strolling through, looking at various articles, pausing, trying to decide.  In one store I was followed around (stalking?).  In another, the salesperson told me she'd be right with me.  I left ten minutes later.  She hadn't shown up.  All the shops boasted sales, but none as good as Macy's.  So back I went.  I'm not cheap, just unemployed for almost eight months. Anyway, I only had two more items to buy.  I found both of them; each at fifty percent off.  I laid all my cards on the counter of a more diligent saleslady.  "What I can I use?"   She did the calculations, looked over my hand, and offered a better percentage from the most recent advertisement.  I used my Macy's card, signed the little signing machine, and gathered up my cards.  As the lady handed me my package she said, "You saved $35."  I backed away looking over the receipt.  A two percent further reduction and Macy's would owe me money.  As I rode the escalator down to ground level, it occurred to me that it must cost like ten cents to make most of the articles sold here. I turned toward the exit as the twenty-something customer was just standing up and turning off the massage chair.  I looked at my watch.  Two hours had passed.  How hospitable of Macy's to permit the young woman a spa treatment.  

I can joyfully report that Macy's is more than a parade.  It is a pathway to a jolly red suit.  Happy Christmas!

Who the Hell is Murphy?

A few weeks ago I woke up, stretched in my bed, smiled at the ceiling, and saw a line of what looked like leakage. The upstairs resident's kitchen is over my bedroom.  I know; a very weird apartment.  Very nice but difficult to live in.  Anyway. I stood up on my bed and touched the line in the ceiling.  It wasn't damp at all.  But it was definitely a stain.  I sent an email to the upstairs resident and she confirmed that her garbage disposal had leaked and was being replaced and she was very sorry, etc.etc.etc.  So I phoned Bob L., the remarkable "handy man" who is a true gift to a single woman.  (Stop it!!  That's NOT what we're talking about.  Besides, he prefers 30-something women which I most definitely am not.)  Bob came over later that day, told me he could repair the damage without having to paint the entire ceiling.  Not right away at any rate.  He'd let me know when he could come to do the work.  Okay.  The next day the kitchen faucet began to drip; a definite kind of WW II torture.  I started my list.  The bathtub began to drain verrrry slowly.  A variety of small annoyances.  Until today.

Today.  While my five year old granddaughter lulled in the bathtub, and my daughter (who had spent the evening before in the emergency room monitoring very high blood pressure) washed at the sink, water poured out from under the toilet.  The seal had broken.  Scooted the ladies out of the room; turned off the water at the source; flushed the last of it away; employed every towel I owned to mop it up.  And phoned Bob L.  He came over, checked it out (causing a second flood in his investigation) and called his plumber-buddy.  It being Saturday (the Saturday before Christmas no less) nothing could be done before Monday.  Okay.  I gratefully have a powder room upstairs.  Bob left and I mopped the water up again.  Now every towel I own was in the bathtub.  We had someplace to be so the gals got ready and I put a few of the towels in the washing machine (laundry room off the stricken bathroom) and we left.  I returned a few hours later and visited the bathroom expecting to put the towels into the dryer.  Well, for some reason yet to be discovered, the water that drained from the washer came out through the same broken area under the commode.  ???  Except it was so much water this time that it ran into the hallway and the room adjacent soaking the wall-to-wall carpeting.  Nothing to be done until Monday.  I mopped again; put two dehumidifiers in place to hopefully alleviate some of the carpet moisture; loaded all the wet towels still in the tub into big plastic bags and spent the evening at the local Laundromat.  

My landlord, who is my son, lives in California.  We spoke on the phone.  He understood the problem and all the worst possible scenarios.  Nothing to be done until Monday.  Fortunately the upstairs washroom isn't adding to the downstairs problem.  Today we are having a blizzard.  The real thing.  Christmas is Friday.  Saturday I'm to fly to San Jose to visit my west coast family.  I don't know this plumber or his phone number or if he'll even show up.  I am trying to stay in the moment since there is really no where else to stay.  But I do wonder who the hell Murphy was and why his law still more than occasionally prevails.  Not that it would change anything.  Nothing to be done until Monday.

Now is the Winter....

It is a contradiction, I know, to love the changing seasons and yet despair the winter cold.  But I do that; always have.  In the past ten years, the approach of the cold has filled me with foreboding.  Yet here I am still living in the North East, dreaming of Barbados or -- at the very least -- a working fireplace.  It is, with my economy, not a simple matter to relocate.

This winter, its chill preceding its official date, is complicated by chilling events.  I lost my job last May, and have not been able to find something since.  "Admins" I'm told are not in great demand.  My daughter, recovering from mitral valve replacement surgery, is back in hospital with pancreatitis.  Almost two weeks now.  This is her third hospitalization since July, and her little five year old is confused and bereft.  It has been very difficult for us all.  Christmas is something of a blur.  And while I am so looking forward to a trip to California the day after Christmas to visit with my oldest son and his lovely family, I approach it with trepidation.  Will my daughter be okay?  So many cancellations since July.  It's hard to proceed with optimisim.  

I am kvetching; that wasn't my intention.  My thought this morning was all the different kinds of winter one deals with -- Macbeth's not the least of these -- the winter of our discontent.  It is best I think to huddle -- not quite like "once upon a time..." at the general store pot-bellied stove or four to a bed.  But to have a society; to get together with family and friends and surround oneself with the warmth of affection and good conversation.  Barring that, there is the apology for the lack of the latter:  a good book and a comfy afghan.  A glass of brandy doesn't hurt either.  

The shortest day approaches; from then on minute by minute the days lengthen and it will be Spring.  Ever hopeful. 

I wish whatever readers of this there may be the warmth of love in this season.

My mother thanks you, my father thanks you, & I thank you..

The NPR stations have been visiting immigrants' kitchens this week to find out what they cook for Thanksgiving.  I listened with interest and amusement.  A Greek chef and his family had turkey but the lamb cooked in the open pit was the star.  All side dishes were Greek.  The French chef did very sexy French things to the turkey, and converted all else to French attitudes.  And so it went.  I had never thought of mine as an immigrant family, but since I'm a first generation American, I suppose it was.  As a kid I thought it odd when other kids had grandparents born in America.  Perhaps I imagined that everyone came from somewhere else.  Anyway, today I accepted my origins and recalled the Thanksgivings in my parents'/grandparents' home.  The only thing foreign was the conversation typically in Yiddish.  My grandparents' generation was all about assimilation.  My grandmother, Genya, became Jennie.  Her brother, Toldras, became Harry.  You get the idea.  She was hurt and angry if you referred to her accent.  She insisted she didn't have one.  (Meryl Streep could have imitated her for Sophie's Choice.) So my grandmother and mother referred to magazines and cookbooks to create the consummate, American Thanksgiving dinner.

My mom loved to set an elegant table.  Organdy appliqued tablecloths; crystal cornucopia with fruit and nuts pouring out onto the table; Lenox china with a gold wheat design.  Her turkey was the largest she could find; her stuffing began with cornflakes (really!).  Candied yams, apple pie, jello molds, apple cider.  On and on.  The gorgeous Henredon table, it seemed, opened to accommodate a cast of hundreds.  And waking up Thanksgiving morning to the smell of that dinner cooking; well, it was childhood euphoria.

After my father died, predeceased by grandma Jennie, my mother married Bonpapa.  He was Belgian and spoke many languages.  But his primary language was French and his accent was cultivated French (very theatrical).  When we went to their first Thanksgiving dinner, I expected something different;  the French touch??  It was the same dinner; the only difference was the abundance of wine.  Not an unwelcome addition.

I'm grateful for those memories.  And the how-to.  From the beginning of my married life, when our economy was non-existent, our table -- no matter the size -- welcomed all who would come. (the only request we'd make is please bring a chair to sit on!) My turkey is basically the same as mom's -- including the stuffing.  Other dishes have changed to satisfy the taste buds of my children and now my grandchildren.  Not so many people in attendance these days.  My friends are far-flung; my children have happy lives in remote cities.  And the folks I care about here have gatherings with children and grandchildren of their own.  The constant that remains is the gratitude; my thanks for the giving.  The gifts of the universe;  the love and caring of my family and friends.  My ability to give when needed and asked for and when needed and anonymous.  

And to keep myself company while preparing the all-American feast,  I sing Yiddish songs, an occasional French tune,  and permit the wondrously familiar smells that permeate my apartment to take me back to many a Thanksgiving-Past.  When my little gathering arrives, I, of course, spare them all of that.  They're making memories of their own.

The Unlikely Chef

Who in the world am I?

Ah, that's the great puzzle.

.........Lewis Carroll

It wasn't what they believed I could do that defined me. It was what they believed I couldn't do. That's where self- doubt begins; you know that. And that's when the straight road becomes a pitted mess of quagmires, rocky climbs, hair-pin curves, sudden drops and as many other difficulties as we can think up for ourselves. The universe of course obliges. But when one is oh-so-young, and oh-so-filled with dreams and amazingly innocent imaginings -- well, "they" have too much power. "They" being family, teachers, other kids.....how easily we break.

Where the hell did this come from you ask. Believe it or not -- I was making the pastry for several apples pies this morning. I make excellent pastry. I suddenly recalled a time -- oh so long ago and only yesterday -- when I was faced with having to cook for a husband and having no clue where to begin. Boiling pasta was a powerful secret never mind successfully baking boxed cakes. Rather incredible actually, given that I grew up with two capable women cooking in the kitchen of our Brooklyn home. I can't remember a instance when either my mother or grandmother actually showed me how to prepare any part of a meal. I stumbled along for a number of years, and then one day I phoned my Aunt Edith -- my Italian aunt whose cooking never disappointed -- I phoned Aunt Edith and asked her for her pasta recipe. She laughed and laughed. " A jar of Ragu and a jar of Prince with a pinch of oregano or whatever else you want. That's all I do." I was amazed and said so. "There are no rules," she said. "Just use your taste buds." That was the beginning of freedom in the kitchen for me. And the season I discovered that I could bake bread and make pastry for pie -- the miracle of flour and water -- my mother retreated in confusion.   My only secrets to my eventual success: I loved to cook for people.  And I had great taste buds!!                  (photo of Mina and Jennie)

"They" totally believed that I would flunk motherhood and destroy my first-born before his first birthday.  We did have a few months of rough patches to begin with.  Alex had colic and cried for almost three months.  Then he woke up one morning, the first day of month four, all smiles and filled with joy!  That very week we received a phone call that my brother and his wife, Stefi, had given birth to their first child.  The family was gathering in Philadelphia for a celebration and "naming."  (I just realized that they didn't charge out to Pittsburgh when Alex was born -- well, my mom did come. Hmmmm.)  Anyway, my mom sent me money to come if I could figure out how to do that.  Really -- that's what she said.  It didn't seem so awfully difficult:  I called the airlines; I bought an Obi baby carrier; and Alex and I would fly in early, spend the day and then come straight home. Don drove me to the airport. Alex was, from the start, a born traveler.  When I got off the plane (the days of climbing down the stairway and onto the tarmac) my mom and aunt stood there with their mouths open.  It was as though they expected an harassed, encumbered me to arrive with a screaming kid.  My mom retreated in confusion.  My only secret was that I loved my baby; I loved all three of my kids -- you can do almost anything if love is in the mix.

When Don and I split up my mom was certain that I'd fail miserably taking care of the kids and the house and figuring out how to support them.  (I've always been sure she feared I'd pack them up and arrive at her door.)  There were many rough patches.  For two years I held four jobs.  Then I created The Acting Place.  (an earlier blog).  Then I learned how to be an Executive Assistant.  Since I worked as a temp so that I could take leave when I got a theatre job, my mom chastised me often for not having a "real job."  She had little faith in the whole writing thing, and certainly less faith in the whole directing thing.  Well, no one starved.  No one "went without."  My toughest challenge I believe is now that I'm at the "certain age," have been laid off from my job, and have not seen the proverbial light at the tunnel's end these six months.  BUT I also went to Los Angeles this past month where my first screenplay was a finalist in an important film festival.  Mom's not around to "retreat in confusion."  Mores the pity. 

 

George Eliot brilliantly wrote:  "It's never too late to be who you might have been."  All this as I baked apple pies, as I do each year after the ritual apple picking day.  I -- who wanted to be a great and famous dancer.  I -- who wanted to be a great and famous actress.  I -- who wanted to be and still want to be a great and famous writer.  I bake pretty awesome pies.  Of all the things I accomplished that were not expected of me, baking awesome pies is near the very top of the list.  As for the great and famous writer.....  I'm still here.  Ergo -- there's still hope.

Although It Wasn't Cannes -

What happened was this: I had sent my screenplay into yet another competition. This time, it was a film festival in Los Angeles -- the LA Femme Film Festival. It cost quite a bit to enter, but I was impressed to do it anyway. Films by women and/or about women. I fit both requirements. 

 I forgot about it. Once in awhile the thought would intrude; I knew announcements might be made in October. On 9 October, I retrieved a phone message from my answering machine congratulating me on being a finalist in the screenplay category. One of ten finalists. The email that followed was meant for a different category, so that confused me. I made several calls to the festival office hoping for clarity. I called my son, Jamie, seeking some kind of sense to the thing. He looked up the festival, told me it appeared prestigious, congratulated me, and told me that even though I couldn't get out to LA it was great to be a finalist. Okay. I didn't spread the news around. I needed to absorb it. On Tuesday morning, now the 13th of October, I sat up in bed and asked myself when the hell I expected this to happen again. Given my age, and the slow way life often works. I knew I couldn't afford to attend from Thursday to Sunday. But I figured I could manage Friday night to Sunday night -- see some of the films, meet the people and attend the awards ceremony. And that's exactly what I did.

The Cheaptickets hotel wasn't really cheap although it felt that way.  But it was only a mile to the venue.  It was late when I arrived, so I went to bed.  In the morning, I walked out and found a Starbucks where I had breakfast.  Then I went off to the festival which was being held at the Renberg Theatre.  A charming place with two theatres actually and a delightful courtyard.  In an adjacent building was a gallery and offices.  The complex was the Gay and Lesbian center, a fact which had nothing to do with the nature of the film festival.  I was greeted warmly by the folks running the festival, given my VIP pass and the program for the remainder of the weekend.  I saw a couple of short subject films and then a feature which was a horror movie.  I don't care for horror films, and this particular one was reminiscent of every other one I'd ever had the misfortune to see.  But this was followed by a three hour seminar on how to pitch your film.  That part was extremely interesting, and at the end of the three hours I walked away with the peculiar knowledge that one pitched oneself -- they have to fall in love with you before they fall in love with your film.  The second important ingredient is luck and/or nepotism.  I was on over-load by then, so I went back to the hotel, attempted to arrange my limited wardrobe so I'd be cooler (it was 95 degrees in LA and I'd arrived from a snowstorm in Massachusetts).  
I grabbed my camera and walked to Hollywood Boulevard where the Walk of Fame began.  Well, it occurred to me that getting to LA again might be a remote idea.  So I snapped pictures, and was delighted to find myself in front of the Chinese Theatre.  I was, for an hour and fifteen minutes, a tourist.

A friend from college days with whom I'd kept in touch over the years picked me up at 6:00.  We drove through Beverly Hills and Brentwood to the apartment where he lives with his second wife (his first wife, also a classmate of mine, had died several years ago).  His daughter was there also.  She and my oldest son played together as kids.  And she is a poet also.  So it was great to renew friendships. A terrific visit.  

On Sunday, after my Starbucks breakfast, I checked out of the hotel leaving my little suitcase with the front desk.  I was taking the Red Eye back to Boston that night, and didn't want to shlep the suitcase around all day.  I was at the festival in time to see several films.  At 3:00 I sat in the courtyard at an umbrella table waiting for another friend from the past.  Steven was my star actor at the Boston Children's Theatre years before.  Now he is a film maker, actor, writer in Los Angeles.  We had a lovely reunion, sitting in a coffee shop catching up on each other's life.  This visit also gave me the inspiration to think about making my movie myself -- well, with a team of folks who know how.  It is not an impossibility.  Although being currently unemployed -- well, the important thing is to keep the thought perculating, sending out positive vibrations.  Stranger things have happened. 

The Awards evening was charming; cameras clicking away; celebrities being honored along with several awards to the film makers and screen writers.  I didn't win in my category -- screenplay -- but it was a winning weekend nonetheless.  My screenplay has credentials.  And even though it wasn't Cannes -- I was there.

A Cuppa

This is how is happened: I had returned from Pete's Trip. (Wanderlust - March 2009) Somehow -- I don't remember how -- I learned of an organization called Women Welcome Women World Wide. The 5 W's have strict rules about only spending a night or two in the home of another member, but it's meant to have a welcome ready in various parts of the world. I have never used the opportunity myself, (though I'd love to have traveled that much!), but have welcomed folks traveling into my residence city. My apartments have been too small for overnight guests who are not old friends or relatives. (air mattresses?) But I took a charming lady with purple hair, newly arrived from Australia, for a day in Manhattan. I've had dinner with a traveling group of 5 W members in Boston. I've email-chatted with many members. One day (2004 maybe?) while I was living in the NYC area and working in Manhattan, I looked up 5 W news on the internet. There was a request from a member visiting from the UK for someone to spend a couple of hours with her in Manhattan. Her husband was attending a conference that afternoon in Princeton, NJ. Instinctively I responded -- "I can do that." So we agreed to meet at around 3:30 pm in the lobby of the office building where I worked. It was in the East Village, so I anticipated a great walking-tour around the neighborhood.

That day it poured. Not rain -- pouring rain. My guest's name was Jan; I waited in the lobby holding a flower so she'd know who I was (I think it was a daisy? oh m'gawd!). Jan arrived in her windbreaker and her trainers -- soaking wet. We chatted for a few minutes. She was shivering. So I hurried her off to a little tea/coffee place on MacDougall Street called La Laterna. We sat down near the fireplace and ordered a pot of tea. We chatted as though we had reunited after many years; two strangers with instant recognition of each other. By the second pot, we had done the biographies, the major history, and were up to the hopes and dreams. By the end of the second pot, it was almost 8:30. Jan tracked down her husband, and invited me to have supper with them. I declined since I had to get back to Fort Lee and it was a "school night." We went to the subway, and before I could get her a ticket, she'd bought one from some guy for half-fare and was on the other side of the turnstile by the time I got up to the ticket machine. On the train, this uncommon woman told me she'd be traveling alone with backpack into Asia (I think that's right) and had never done such a thing before. Neither had I. We were both very impressed at the concept. I walked her to her hotel and headed for the bus station. We promised to keep in touch. Don't we usually say that?

We did. Email is a wondrous thing. A couple of years later we met again and had supper at a little Italian restaurant on Ninth Avenue. We talked and talked. Jan wanted to get together Sunday evening before she and John headed for the airport. I was chairing an evening of play readings -- the Carnegie Collaborative reads plays by playwright alumni of Carnegie Mellon University. She said they'd love to attend. I warned her that we sat on folding chairs in a dusty studio. She was not deterred. She and John arrived with their luggage and stayed through Act I, leaving only because they had a plane to catch. They were charming and genuinely pleased to have shared part of the evening, never having attended a reading before.

That was probably 2005. In July, 2006, I moved back to Beverly, MA, and became a "Temp" again. Jan and I stayed in touch; she traveled to Vietnam where she worked in hospital helping little children. Among other awesome trips. What an inspiration! I directed plays in community theatre. She thought this so creative and exciting. The next time we met face to face was Spring 2009, when her son ran the Boston Marathon. I was so happy to be able to give Jan and John a tour of the North End (in the rain!) and an impromptu visit to a very special art exhibit in a church on Newbury Street. The next day they came to Beverly, and we toured Newburyport and Gloucester and drove around the North Shore. In October, Jan returns to Vietnam and to the Children's Medical Center there. Then she and John will tour China. I love hearing about her trips. And she was so supportive when I took my 6 day birthday holiday in Italy. She phones me and has been an excellent friend through my daughter's surgery. It's my plan to go to England next Spring to see them there.

I do not exaggerate the importance of this friendship, serendipitous as it was from the start. I have had very close friends though not many "girl friends." Most live in other states; I've renewed friendships with a couple here in Beverly and they've been great. What's interesting to me is that I know my friendship with Jan is unconditional. Maybe it's easy to be that way at this distance. I don't believe that's the reason. I have/had a friend of 19 years; a dear lady who -- after one not-so-pleasant a dinner meeting, just walked away. Not a word. Friends from the workplace from which I was laid-off in May have vanished. What's that about? A childhood friend did the same thing a number of years ago because she didn't believe that Pete had given my son and me the trip abroad. "People don't do things like that," she said. How sad for her to believe that. How lucky for me to have known that.

Anyway. I sat in a small cafe the other day and had a cup of tea. A cuppa. And I thought of Jan. People touch our lives. How great is that? I was impressed to write about it. Thanks for listening.

(with Jan and John in Boston)

At Wingaersheek

And all things hushed. Yet even

in that silence a new beginning,

beckoning, change appeared.

........Rainer Maria Rilke,

Sonnets to Orpheus

We went to Wingaersheek Beach late this afternoon. The tide was out -- a marvelous event at Wingaersheek. You can walk a mile out to sea on the sand bar that appears. Clea, my daughter, wanted especially to go. Few people were there at 4:00; the sun was soft as was the cool breeze. The sky was wonderfully blue. Perfect. We saw a very large schooner pass on the horizon; and behind it, a smaller boat with black sails. Like a mystical pirate vessel. We walked the sandbar, then settled down on the same huge rock plateau we've always called "our rock" since the kids were small.

DJ (the 14 year old) was moody and itchy; he doesn't know how to be without his friends or his X-Box. Keira (almost 5) had scraped her knee so was being tragic. Clea was thoughtful; her surgery coming up next Tuesday. I settled my focus on the lighthouse at the end of the mainland, and the slow incoming tide. There seemed to be an unexpected silence. As though I were suddenly inside a bubble that closed out all sound. I felt something shift. Something changed. I know it happened; I can feel it now so many hours later; I don't, however, know its name.

Do you recognize that hushed moment-- that instant stop, as though there had been a minuscule break in a phone connection followed by a different voice picking up the earlier conversation. Extremely odd, but not disconcerting. I recognized a similar event recently -- actually several events -- causing the same effect. People have appeared out of my past; serendipitously. A couple were folks I haven't thought about in years, but seemed to come around a corner as surprised to see me as I was to see them. Each had a message for me though not realizing they were delivering one. (confused yet?) One is someone I have thought about often for many years; a dear, old friend and colleague. He may or may not realized he had a message he was delivering. Possibly I, too, am a messenger in this case. But with each re-meeting that stopped moment occurred. And that shift. Ever so slight, its impact will last for my forever. It may have to do with my work, with my intentions, with my journey. I don't know yet. But I feel the change coming. And I know it's a positive one.

It's been a difficult year in so many respects. And I imagine there will be more difficulties ahead before the radio plays Auld Lang Syne. But I know all will be well. I know something new is stirring, as though the Wingaersheek sand has touched the smallest spot and has begun a pearl. (that reads rather corny to me, but I'm going with it anyway.)

I have always believed that we are given a certain number of people in our lives. They come, they stay, they leave, we leave. But if we have unfinished business, if the purpose of our knowing each other hasn't been resolved, we will meet again. So the adventure continues and can't be forced.

The difference is palpable, if only to me. Perhaps I need to walk Wingaersheek again. And again. Remembering Rilke:

The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.

Sur La Plage!

"There's no saying
Who may be playing
With you sur la plage.
A knight who's left behind his charger
May call you "ducky"
Won't you be lucky?
In the ocean You'll find emotion
May play you a funny game
Sur la plage, sur la plage
Ev'ryone looks the -
Ev'ryone looks the -
Ev'ryone looks the same"
...................................from THE BOYFRIEND

We drove to Old Orchard Beach in Maine last week. To celebrate my daughter Clea's birthday. None of us had been there before. We love to go to Maine, and do so often. It's a short trip with lots of different attitudes. We like York a lot, and have gone since my kids were very little. Long Sands Beach is grand, and the waves are wonderful. There's the lighthouse of course; Nubble Light. And Short Sands Beach is in the beach town which boasts -- along with a variety of crap traps -- a wonderful 1950's style (remnant?) luncheonette that has a soda fountain and taffy machines creating the candy right in the store front windows. The Goldenrod actually opened in the 1890's, but the shop was rebuilt and feels very 1950's to me. And, as I've mentioned at other times, I love Ogunquit where I walk the Marginal Way, and enjoy some wonderful little restaurants and craft shops.

Old Orchard Beach is carny. Helped along by the Playland Amusement Park in the middle of the little village. The residential areas on the way to the beach town are really charming; the houses with gorgeous little gardens, and a sense that all is always good. The beach area attracts many families. Very little diversity which always
disappoints me, being a New Yorker, except in the social mix. Bikers, RV'ers, Canadians, and a mixed-bag of families. It's always remarkable to Clea and me when we are conspicuous walking down the street. Only because we've been a family since 1970; not much has changed around us. The beach itself is quite something; seven miles of water front with relatively clean, white sand. It's not San Tropez; but it serves. The food is mainly fried everything -- what one might expect at an American seaside gathering place.


We stayed one night in a less than auspicious motel. In the morning I walked down to the beach at six o'clock; a number of people were walking or jogging. It was a glorious morning -- not terribly warm yet; a good breeze; no humidity. When ever I walk a beach in early morning I spin back into my childhood at Rockaway beach; back into the early years of Massachusetts era when the children would be sleeping in the Anchorage Motel and I'd walk the beach to see the sunrise and listen to my phantom voices in the waves This walk began that way. And then a peculiar thing: these guys bringing chairs down to the sand from the rental bungalows at that early hour. Guests at the bungalows -- claiming their space for their day at the beach. It reminded me of the urban dwellers in the north east who shovel a parking space and hang on to it with chairs or barrels. Seven miles of sand. Room for all?

Maybe it's because photos of these places are often "old photos" of these places. So one expects the charm we see in the movies. "On the Boardwalk in Atlantic City...." with Fred Astaire or Judy Garland or Gordan MacRae --
Happily the children don't have this frame of reference, so for them it was a fun, carnival kind of place, where a mean grandma refused to buy them fried dough.

Go figure......!

Fictional Affections

On one of those Facebook challenges where you type something about yourself that no one knows, I revealed that I get crushes on fictional detectives. It was to my friends, old and new, an amusing thought. I was very serious. My first passion was Sherlock Holmes as portrayed by Jeremy Brett. Drawn to the brooding genius, I suppose, the same way I was drawn to male vocalists with scratchy, husky singing voices. Sherlock was soon usurped in my affections by Chief Inspector Morse, created by Colin Dexter. I read all the books, watched all the PBS episodes on Mystery! and wasn't really sure if it was Morse I had a crush on or John Thaw who created him "in the flesh." This romance went on for years. When
Dexter saw fit to kill Morse off, I was devastated. When PBS showed the final episode, with John Thaw's Morse being carried off at the end, I literally sobbed. It might seem inane, but I had lost a dear, old friend. Matters were made worse when John Thaw passed away not long after. Ah, Mickey, I thought, reaching for another tissue -- get a life!!

Incorrigible, I picked up a book by Daniel Silva called A DEATH IN VIENNA. The protagonist is, of course, a detective/secret agent called Gabriel Allon. Allon is an Israeli agent whose cover is a brilliant art restorer living in Venice. Maybe "Venice" was the magic word; maybe Israeli agent -- whatever. Allon is again a brooding, remarkable talent in all respects. So I became instantly smitten, and read all the books -- last to first - before realizing what I'd done. When the next book came out, I put it aside and re-read all the books starting with the first one. Working my way up to the most recent. Mr. Silva seems to have a new release annually, and I order early, The arrival of the book is an event -- the way HARRY POTTER used to be. Now, since no film or TV movie has been made, I have the luxury of casting whomever I choose in the role of Allon.

Now I have a conundrum! When I returned from Venice in March -- doesn't that sound amazing? -- a friend told me about the books of Donna Leon. I researched them (wanting to read the first one first this time) and read DEATH AT LA FENICE. Having just been there, this was so exciting. And the detective, Commissario Guido Brunetti, is different from my other fictional heroes, striking perhaps a clearer note. Sort of a plain guy. WelI, sort of. I have read the first four novels and, gratefully, there are many, many more.

Off the subject for a minute: when I bought the first book, I flipped through to find out something about the author. And there at the back was Donna Leon's picture. Okay, here's the weird thing: I saw this woman when I was in Venice. I stayed near Campo San Luca and saw this woman each morning and each afternoon. By day two of my trip, we nodded at each other. By day three, we smiled at each other. I didn't know of course who she was. She seemed very impressive, as though I should have known who she was. So strange.

So I have the next two Brunetti novels on my kitchen table, along with Daniel Silva's latest Gabriel Allon novel -- THE DEFECTOR. It is a betrayal of sorts I'm sure to have crushes on two guys; haven't had that luxury since I was a teenager. And of course, no films featuring Brunetti have been made (yet!) so I can once again cast whomever in the role. I think I must read the Allon book first before continuing with Guido's next adventure. Even if I have rubbed shoulders with the author.

Think what you will. This is a fine madness!

Just a Minute --

Last week, my daughter went to the emergency room because she was having breathing difficulties and had for years been told it was her high blood pressure. Tests and x-rays showed that she has a damaged Mitral Valve and requires surgery. In just a minute, her entire life changed. Without the ER visit she might never have known of this problem and died of heart failure. In just a minute, a rocky road appeared before her and she'll have to navigate carefully to make it across. In just a minute. When someone older than you tells you "it's all a blink," please believe it. When you're cursing a Monday and wishing for a speedy jump to Friday, please stop and remember that the Monday you want to erase is a one-of-a kind day, never to appear again. I know; you've heard this all before, I don't -- truly don't want to sound preachy. But this is what's on my mind today. (picture of Clea and her little girl)

My brother and sister-in-law are coming to Boston to visit next weekend. They came last August; went home; Evie went for a regular check-up, and in just a minute was fighting breast cancer for her future. My oldest son's best friend -- young, talented, special -- didn't feel quite right one evening. He laid down on his sofa to rest and never woke up. In just a minute there was a hole in the universe. There's a saying: "Man plans; God laughs." You have holidays mapped out; purchases; dreams. And suddenly, in just a minute, you have no job. Right. And then you reach my age -- please do -- and every minute is a lifetime. Not because it's interminable; because it isn't. There was always time it seemed. And then there wasn't. I remember a number of years ago hearing one of my favorite artists, Charles Aznovour, singing a song that brought me immediately to tears: "I didn't see the time go by." Wiped me out. This is the day. This is all of it. Rain, snow, hellish temperatures. This is the day. With loved ones, alone, happy, sad, whatever. This is the minute. If you want it to pass, don't fret. In just a minute. Use the time. Stay in the moment. Look up; your world is there. Whose voice do you need to hear? Call today.

Blessed be.

The First of Three Fables

This is peculiar: clearing out years of papers and scribbling, I found something I was challenged to write ages ago by my then husband. He dared me to write a fable. From the notations on the original, it had to be 1964-1966. A different life; a different me; a different writer. I'm going to put it here, and hope that a reader will tell me what this is about. And if I'd be wise to delete it! Here goes...

In a land of many shadows stood a town of many walls. The walls were built of violet colored stones and the foundations were of white marble. The roadways of the town were on top of the walls. The people lived in houses that stood between the walls, and one house did not face another. Doors and windows opened to the walls. The people strolled their roadways with pride. The high walls, the low walls of violet colored stones with white marble foundations crossed each other and crossed each other. The people were proud.

The wall of gray fieldstone was old. No one walked on that one except Ahni. Ahni was the little boy who everyone knew was mad because he spoke to the birds and said they spoke to him. Ahni would sit on the old gray wall and look out over the meadow of golden grass to the distant blue mountain. Beyond that mountain lay the distant places. Only Ahni looked out over the meadow. He was watching for the stranger who the birds said would come. Every day Ahni would watch. The people would look across the many walls and see him there and they would laugh, strolling the violet roadways with pride. Only Ahni looked out over the meadow of golden grass.

One day as the people strolled and Ahni watched, he saw a figure moving through the meadow. The stranger had come! Ahni called to the birds and they flew across the orange morning to greet the comer. Ahni recognized him, because it was himself-to-be who came. The stranger stood in the meadow and called to the old men. His voice reached them in tones of whispered words. The old men hurried along the old, gray wall to see the stranger in the field. They didn't see that it was Ahni-to-be. They only saw the stranger's walking stick with the white marble handle. They were filled with desire to posses one so lovely. Their old marred hands curved for such a handle on such a walking stick. The only marble in the town lay beneath the walls of violet stones. The old men ached for the marble; wept for the marble. But they didn't have the strength to tear down the walls.

Ahni was young and strong. He was mad because he spoke to the birds and said they spoke to him. So Ahni tore down the walls, stone by stone....stone by stone. This frightened the people and they hid in their houses. The old men wept and ached for the marble. The stranger waited in the meadow holding his walking stick with patient pride. Ahni tore down the walls. The old men beat at the marble and scraped at twigs. Each old, marred hand shaped a walking stick to match that of the stranger. When they finished their work, the stranger who was Ahni-to-be moved back through the field of golden grass, and the old men followed him. He led them up the distant blue mountain, and they climbed the blue beyond the mountain's height....

The people crept slowly from their houses. The doors of the houses now opened to a neighbor's house. The people walked among the violet stones which lay in great useless heaps upon the ground. The night was coming and the people were afraid. They piled stone upon stone, stone upon stone until new walls were built. Grotesque walls were built because there were no white marble foundations. Walls that could not be traveled upon. Stone upon stone...

The people did not see what Ahni saw: meadows of golden grass lay on all sides of the town, and blue mountains and distant places. The people built their grotesque walls of violet stones without white marble foundations and Ahni crossed the fields of golden grass. The old gray wall stood humbly in the shadows of the town of many walls. And Ahni-who-was sat and watched for the second coming.

THE CATALOG

Do you remember that classic Bette Davis postcard -- the one where she’s holding a needlepoint pillow that reads “old age ain’t for sissies?” Well, I’m no sissy! I have been gallant into my sixties. And I only occasionally check as I leave the ladies’ room to make sure I don’t have toilet paper stuck to my shoes. There are only three things that frighten me about growing older: 1) not being self sufficient; 2) not being self sufficient; 3) the arrival of The Catalog. The Catalog! Just when I’ll think I’ve mastered defiance (per Melanie Griffith); when I’ve found a style reminiscent of ‘40’s movie stars or at the very least -- Golden Girls; when strains of “koo-koo-achoo Mrs. Robinson” still occasionally hum in my inner ego; just when I’ll think I’ve created timelessness through elegance -- it will arrive. Wrapped in brown paper. Ominously nondescript. And the book enclosed will read The Catalog. And only that.

You know what’s inside, don’t you? Those fashions women wear so you’ll know they’re old farts: Polyester print dresses in awkward pastels. Cardigan sweaters that must be ordered a size too small. Dime store brooches you could no longer buy at Woolworth’s, (if there were a Woolworth’s). Coats with slightly natty fur collars. Directions for applying prophetic blue rinse. Eye glass frames with gems and pearl chains. Pink sweat suits with floral jewelry to match.

Well, you know what I mean. You see the ladies on the street. In Boston, Columbus, Chicago, New York -- these gals are not only visible in front of bingo halls. Be honest -- haven’t you wondered how that happens? Didn’t that “look” go out with pin curls and hair rollers in the supermarket? Or can one still see hair rollers in the supermarket? Uh huh -- and you’ve said to yourself, “Where do they get those clothes?” Ergo -- The Catalog.

The Catalog. It doesn’t matter if you avoid joining AARP. Or if you never ever play beano. Or sign-up for a Golden Agers’ bus tour of autumn leaves in Vermont. You can evade lunch specials at Grant’s or Denny's and always pay full price on the subway and never go to the shopping mall on Wednesdays. Someday that nondescript brown paper envelope will arrive. You can move without a forwarding address; get medical referrals from Phyllis Diller; make biannual trips to Eden Rock. It will arrive. You’ll put it in the toss-away pile and feel safe because you’ve committed Deepak Chopra to memory. But curiosity will be too much for you. You’ll open it. And no doubt, you’ll laugh. “No way I’m gonna be caught dead in this stuff.” But The Catalog defies trash collecting or recycling. One thing -- one small item will seem “not so bad” and you’ll hang onto The Catalog because maybe you’ll order that one small item -- and then before you realize it, you have a list and the next thing you know -- well..... It will arrive as surely as hot flashes and gray roots and yellow toe nails. What ever you do -- DON’T OPEN IT!!

Walk With Me

When we moved into the Corning Street house in Beverly Massachusetts 40 years ago, I believed that I had come home, that I would plant roots there and grow like an oak forever.  It didn't work out that way.  After 13 years there, I was between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and I moved to Boston neighborhoods -- spending 15 years in the city. Then I found myself back in Beverly -- for a four year event -- before moving to the New York City area for four and a half years.  Now, like a weed, I'm back in Beverly.  Unfinished business, no doubt.  The universe works that way.  

Beverly didn't impress me when I returned this time; I've felt that the community was avoiding its potential.  Lots of second hand shops; an inordinate number of Dunkin' Donut stores and pizza restaurants and bars.  Even with the presence of the Montserrat School of Art in the center of the city, Beverly doesn't boast an art center or even a small art museum or a palpable historic presence as do so many of the neighboring towns.  Some really good restaurants have opened here.  The in-town area no longer has a really good market.  There is, of course, glorious coastline and some fine parks.  And gorgeous big houses along the coast up through Beverly Farms.  But something missing for me.  I went to look for it.  

I walked to the pier which people don't seem to notice much.  And from there I explored the earliest Beverly streets.  Feeling immediately the quiet -- not that Beverly is hustle and bustle ; lots of traffic drives through its two main streets causing the din.  If, on the weekends -- you want to stroll among others -- you need to go to Salem or Newburyport or other towns where tourists walk the streets as well as residents and neighbors.  The area closest to the marina, known as Fish Flake Hill, was undoubtedly settled first.  And the charm of these streets, the feeling of neighborhood and neighbors -- well, walk with me for a moment.  Let me know what you think.     

The Beverly marina and pier. Front Street begins with a charming antique shop.             

History is evident everywhere in this town within the city.

             Looking down Cottage Lane.

I didn't recall the "Furniture Institute" on Water Street. Or the 

little beach at the end of the lane.