The Invisible Traveler: Roma

There are three things I learned on my solo trip to Italy; well, at least three.(we'll began there.) Never change planes through Paris (choose Amsterdam instead); never take advice from leggy, red-headed American girls while traveling abroad; and a woman of a certain age traveling alone is invisible. Explanation: Clea and Keira drove me to Logan airport. Easy. I had checked in on-line and printed my boarding pass. Very easy. I was in a very short line, checked my small suitcase, passed muster with all documents, accomplished security in less than 10 minutes, and didn't spend any money in the duty free shops while waiting for the plane. Pretty good so far! Air France left on time. I had an aisle seat. Gratefully. Unless one was 4 feet 9 inches or less, one did not fit properly into the seats. Consequently, the trip was accompanied by moaning sounds from all packed into coach. My new iPod Touch has a solitaire game on it and I was occupied for the next six hours. I am also a valium flier. 'Nuf said. We arrived in Paris at 6:00 am. (We, of course, thought it was midnight, which--pre-adjustment--it was.) Let the games begin!! To connect with our next flight (lots of folks were doing this), we had to walk to another terminal. No shuttle buses or vans or scooters. I swear it was easily 3/4 of a mile. When we finally got to the next gate area, we needed to go through passport check. Only one airport employee was there to do this for the 300+ folks trying to make flight connections. Well, it was 6:00 in the morning. An ungodly hour to be at work in Paris. All but a handful of folks missed their flights. Including me. So we raced each other to the nearest counter. No airport personnel had arrived there either. It's now 7:30 a.m. local time. All the suits in the line whipped out cell phones and made outraged phone calls. An attendant finally showed up; I convinced her to get me a seat on the 9:45 to Rome. She did. I think I was quite pathetic. I took another valium and flew to Rome. At the airport in Rome: it seemed my suitcase had been misplaced. We call it lost when we are panicked, which I was. A couple of hours later, my suitcase showed up. ??? I made it to the station connected to the airport to take the train to Roma Termini -- the center of the city. Appearing a bit confused, this tall, red-headed American girl said follow me, I'm going there. I did. She of course went first, and purchased an array of tickets that resembled a tour. The train was in the station. She, of course, made that train. Myself and the ten folks behind me in queue, waited another half hour for the next one. I was at this point a bit unnerved. However, I was in Rome. With no idea how to get to the hotel -- the directions given were useless. Wandering around the general vicinity, trying NOT to cry, a gentleman (really!) stopped and asked in Italian if I needed help. I told him yes, but in English. He was instantly delighted and in a charming British accent, directed me to my hotel.

A nice hotel. A nice room. It was around 3:30p.m. I dropped my things, washed up a bit, grabbed my camera, and headed for the Metro. As I exited the subway facing the remarkable Colosseum -- I was appalled at the litter, and hundreds of people partying and a general mess. It was the day of the Rome Marathon!! In New York City, we'd say "Go know!" I stood in the middle of the chaos and laughed and laughed! Then I began my own marathon: snapping pictures, racing from landmark to monument; arriving at the Spanish steps after dark. And the Trevi Fountain after that. It was around 8:00p.m. I'd had it. I found my way back to my hotel, changed clothes, wandered into a little trattoria next door. Ordered a glass of vino rosso, insalata mista, pasta pomedoro. I don't like to eat alone. The place was very small, so I was practically sitting at the same table as a pleasant British couple who- it turned out -- were at the same hotel. We chatted happily through the meal. I thanked them for their good company, returned to the hotel, sent an email to my kids (my iPod Touch wasn't doing its expected thing so I used the hotel computer.) In my room I showered, laid down on the bed, and not feeling tired I was watching Italian TV. The next thing I knew it was 8:30 a.m. Why was I surprised? I hadn't been to bed since Friday night. It was Monday morning. It was my birthday. I was in Rome.

Lesson #4: I knew there'd be more lessons. Don't plan to move on to the next city at mid-day, believing you could get some sight-seeing in before leaving. Either beat it early so you have more time in the next city, or leave later so you can actually sight-see before heading out. I of course hadn't done either. I spent an inordinate amount of time at the Termini; not boring -- people watching; tons of shops; like a mall with a train inside. When I saw my train number appear on the board, I went to it. It said it was going to Venezia. I was going to Firenze. Yet another tall, red-headed American girl with enough luggage to have been moving her residence, looked at my ticket and pointed me to the Florence regional train. I got there; I got on it. Yuk! Fortunately, an attendant looked at my ticket and pointed me back to the Venice train. The Euro Rail. Verrry nice. The first stop would be Florence. I got to it just in time to get on board, find my seat, look out the window as we left Rome and inform the universe that there would be no more shit flying on this trip. It was my birthday. I was on my way to Florence. (That will be my next entry!)

Bad Rice!! Bad Rice!!

When I was a teenager, I saw a film called Love is a Many Splendored Thing.  It starred Jennifer Jones and William Holden (he was a teenage crush).  It was a three-handkerchiefs-movie.  Set in 1949-1950 Hong Kong,  it tells the story of a married  but separated American reporter (played by Holden, who falls in love with a Eurasian doctor originally from Mainland China (played by Jennifer Jones), only to encounter prejudice from her family and from Hong Kong society.  Of course it has a tragic ending: Bill Holden dies in a plane crash, and the drawn-out final scenes elicit sobs.  In one of the happier love-scenes, Jennifer Jones -- in an attempt to keep the gods from envying their love -- stands on their hilltop and shouts:  "Bad rice! Bad rice."  Apparently, this is how the farmers protected their crops.  I believe all cultures have superstitious tricks to fool the jealous gods.  My grandma used to spit three times if someone admired one of us children.  

My Italian aunt tied red ribbons to the baby carriages.  There are any number of spells to avoid the evil eye.  Little bags of various herbs, necklaces or rings of particular gemstones (depending on the protection needed); even a rabbit's foot used for luck. 

All of this is prelude to answering a question posed daily to me these past few weeks:  Aren't you excited about your trip???  (That would be my birthday week in Italy.)  I answer, "Sure."  But they don't believe me because I'm not frenetic about it.  Well, it's a case of "Bad rice!  Bad rice!"  I'm psyched; I'll get excited when I'm standing in the airport in Rome --    My friend Dennis says he's never excited about a trip until he gets there.  My friend Bobbie, who's been teaching me how to pronounce Italian phrases so they might actually be understood in Italy took me to dinner last evening to my favorite North End restaurant Antico Forno.  The dinner was celebratory; the rule was that I had to order in Italian.  And I did!  Of course,  none of the wait staff were Italian or understood the language.  That didn't matter after a glass of vino rosso!  I guess my useless point is that if I get really excited now, when I get there I'll have spent all the emotion.  I will have used it up.  But going one day at a time, enjoying the approach of the holiday, will make it last that much longer.  And I will be carrying a little black velvet bag that hides in my purse; it holds several good luck charms.  That and a couple of valium to get me on the plane. I'm still looking for a pair of good walking shoes!

Light

Yesterday was Valentine's Day. It's actually named for a priest named Valentine who was martyred and made a saint. There are several versions of his story, but that's not the subject of this entry. At the inception of the "holiday," it celebrated romantic love. Today, maybe thanks to Hallmark, cards and remembrances are given to relatives and friends as well as lovers. C.S. Lewis defined the kinds of love in his book The Four Loves: affection; friendship; eros; and caritas (unconditional love). I suppose one could make the case that "true love" is a combination of all four.

I've gone off on this because I realized yesterday that I've really never quite celebrated Valentine's Day in that romantic vein. My daddy used to bring me a little heart box containing chocolates every year. My ex-husband did not believe in Valentine's Day. And any other fellas in my life were apparently equally unsentimental. I am not complaining or kvetching or feeling sorry for myself. It's just a sort of belated observation. I've gotten funny cards from friends and sweet hand-made cards from my children (and grandchildren). This year I realized that all kinds of love begin in one place not mentioned by C.S. Lewis: self-love. Not ego, not conceit, not vanity. But an awareness and a belief in one's self and valuing one's self. We've heard it before many times: if we do not love ourselves, believe in ourselves, how do we expect others to do it?

My son and I were talking about this; very synchronistic. It is a connection with our center, with our light, with our soul I suppose we may call it.
People go there through meditation; artists through their art. It is, I believe, the beginning and the end of our personal journey. When people who have experienced an "out of body" episode, a sort of death, they describe seeing a light and moving toward it. I experienced that once when I was in trouble in a recovery room after surgery. When I thought about it afterward, the light wasn't external; it wasn't outside of me. The journey toward the light was a journey deep to the center of myself. That's where the light is. And in that near death experience, I was watching myself move into myself to become one with my light. Weird, huh?

I suppose if I had a beau, and if I'd received two dozen long stemmed roses, or a satin heart filled with dark chocolate covered cherries, or a dinner at a sweet, dimly lit restaurant, etc. etc. etc., I wouldn't wax philosophical about the nature of love. I'd be besotted and feeling the feelings for someone other. That would be nice too. But rediscovering one's inner light gives a different kind of warmth. It will get us through many kinds of winter.

Wanderlust

It's a very long winter. We had more snow by mid-January than in the typical six month season. I've never liked the cold which begs the question -- "You've lived in the north east all of your life??" I can't answer that reasonably, but at my age it's a moot point. Most of my friends and relatives who were way smarter than me have retired or semi-retired. They travel. Some escape the winter by heading south. Some of them hold up in foreign ports for weeks on end. I don't envy much. Traveling I envy. Oh, I've had a few trips. There was my adventure in England "back in the day." (see June 2008 Crossing the Pond) And I became my actor-son's groupie when he was performing in regional theatre and traveling his cabaret show. I saw Virginia Beach; St. Louis (twice); Montgomery, Alabama; Berlin, Germany; and more. In 1998, at low ebb, my dear friend Pete Jones telephoned me from his home in Laguna Beach. Pete was concerned that I'd never see Venice (my big dream) if he didn't see to it. Thinking of me while he was suffering from cancer. And though he'd meant to take me on the trip himself, he wasn't able. So he arranged a journey for me (with my son, Jamie, because he wanted me to have someone to share the memories with.) He did it all from his hospital bed. We went to Paris for six days; traveled by train to Venice by way of Milan. We spent six days in Venice. Then on to Saltzburg -- Pete's favorite place. Four days there, then two in Vienna. We finished the trip in Munich for two days and flew home from Frankfort. Pete was my best friend.

Jamie met me at Logan Airport in Boston, flying up from NYC. We arrived in Paris on the first of May. It rained most of the time we spent in Paris but it didn't matter. We crossed all of the bridges; rode a carousel; strolled a museum or two; ate crepes; went to a movie; brought bouquets of flowers to Père Lachaise Cemetery; were chased out of the lobby of the Ritz Hotel because we were wearing blue jeans. We visited with a dear friend who had been an exchange student with us eons before -- she came with her lovely son and her sister for hot chocolate. We went to Le Comedie - Française where we were stared at because we'd dressed up. We walked. We walked. And discovered so much about each other. Venice was very sunny and very warm. And very crowded. We were out each morning by 6:30 and roamed the streets without competition. It was beyond expectation. Each evening after dinner, we'd have our gelato while searching for Campo Barnabas (in the film SUMMERTIME, Kate Hepburn meets Rossano Brazzi there). We walked. We walked. And discovered so much about each other. Saltzburg was stunning. I will always wish that Pete could have been there with us, to show us "his" Saltzburg. Once we arrived in Vienna, we knew we should have stayed two days in Saltzburg so we'd have four in Vienna. It was glorious. We saw Cosi Fan Tutti. And we walked. We walked. And continued to discover so much about each other. On the train to Munich, we felt foolish because we were nervous crossing the border into Germany. The train stopped, and two men slammed into our compartment. One was in a black leather jacket. They demanded passports and had a good time scaring us. They actually did work for the railroad. When they left and the train started again, we laughed until we wept. We watched fields of red poppies from our "Miss Marple" train windows. In Munich, we went to the theatre. WEST SIDE STORY done in German. It lacked something.....(you can only imagine!) By the time we reached Munich, however, we knew that Pete had passed away. And we were suddenly tired with that news. Pete was my best friend.

That was my great trip which deserves a small volume actually. And it was my great gift. It continues to reverberate. It turned me into an eternal tourist. It made me what Pete called "Journey Proud." It turned my son and me into friends. Adult friends. Oh, I'll get the occassional phone call still and hear him say, "I need to speak to my mom." But on any level, we can talk. (Wouldn't it have been amazing to take a similar trip with each of my kids?) Anyway, that was Pete's greatest gift. That, and his deep and abiding friendship.

So now I have this big birthday approaching in March. At low ebb (again) I feel that I am in need of a holiday instead of a cake with a forest fire of candles. For several months I have been squirreling away as much money as I can, and I'm taking myself on a birthday trip. I'm going to Italy. A very short trip, really, but I know it will be a good thing. I'll have a day in Rome, two days in Florence, three days in Venice. I won't have company; but I learned a long time ago that if I wait for someone to show up before I do something, it probably won't get done. Funny thing: when I was maybe 11 or 12 years old, I wrote a poem which I can't totally remember. But the last line was something about it being wonderful to "travel through the world alone." My English teacher thought that was a foolish concept and berated me for it. I wonder if it was 'fore-shadowing." When I feel some trepidation about it, Jamie tells me my trip will be empowering. I can use some of that. In the interim, while this relentless winter carries on, I have something wonderful to plan. Pete would call me "Journey Proud." He was my best friend.

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!