Romeo and Juliet may have been star-crossed lovers, but my husband and I are moon-crossed. When the Jewish month of Kislev aligns with December and Hanukkah and Christmas coincide we have our share of interwoven plot lines. At least in our household the combined stress has little to do with religious differences and much to do with coordinating interleaved schedules, wearing a red sweater to the nativity pageant and a blue top for Hanukkah dinner or putting the Christmas candles in the advent wreath and Hanukkah candles in the menorah. Once I did purchase non-standard menorah candles and so I didn’t look too chagrined last week when the Pier 1 clerk suggested their 3” by 6” red candles when I asked if she had menorah candles. And of course, the most stressful and often entertaining events are those that one spouse approaches from a new angle never having had to wrestle a tree into a stand or cook a tender brisket.
Then there’s simply scheduling. This weekend the plan was Friday night Dickens reading in town, Saturday morning pageant rehearsal, Saturday afternoon make Hanukkah dessert, Saturday evening caroling, Sunday morning church, then home in time to set the Hanukkah table and make a brisket before heading out for the annual nativity pageant to return home for latke-making and a festive Hanukkah dinner. Mother Nature however trumped both religions with a snowstorm that put her traditional shoveling and fort building festivities at the forefront.
The next day the dining room was transformed from blue to red with a few changes in table linens and candles in preparation for 10 arriving for Christmas Eve followed by 20 for Christmas Day. The menorah retained its prominent location for nightly lighting (will we light the menorah before or after Christmas Eve service?).
Not unlike many Jewish boys, my husband’s parents reside in Florida in the winter where we plan to join them within 48 hours of unwrapping our Christmas gifts. After cleaning up our Christmas celebration, wrapping Hanukkah presents and packing suitcases with alacrity we hope to make the airplane on time.
I look forward to the secular tradition of New Year’s Eve without any celebration whatsoever.
Thanksgiving Basics
A few basic principles to help out those who are new to hosting Thanksgiving and to provide me with a checklist so next year I can sleep in past 8 am on Friday without visions of food poisoning bumping through my dreams.
1. Put the turkey in to cook right side up. Okay, some recipes will specify that cooking the turkey upside down yields more juicy meat. So it’s fine to cook your turkey upside down as long as you are aware of what you’re doing and actually take the temperature in the topside and carve the turkey from the top.
So how do you know if the turkey is upside down? If the turkey appears to have the proportions of a runway model, or as if it’s slender middle would be worthy of a crop-top, then it’s likely upside down. A right side up turkey looks like a turkey a Jewish grandmother can be proud of.
2. If you make the error of taking the temperature of the turkey upside down and erroneously think the breast meat has reached 180 degrees, then when you turn the turkey over and start carving into undercooked meat, stop! Do not feed your in-laws undercooked meat. If in doubt, throw the meat away, continue cooking if possible (I’ll let you be the judge) or feed it to your neighbor’s nightly howling cat.
3. Remember to light the candles on the dining room table before calling the guests. Candles can serve as on the spot food warmers for side dishes that cooled waiting for the turkey to be re-cooked.
4. Purchase dependable, pre-made desserts that can be quickly served without scrambling back to the kitchen to whip up a soufflé. Fortunately my husband is beyond patient with my random suggestions to add special accents to our holidays, for instance, giving him a recipe for individual pumpkin soufflés requiring no fewer than 25 steps, 12 kitchen utensils and 3 distinct major appliances. Next year, pie, from the dependable pie place.
5. Turkey soup is not basic regardless of what your mom says. If you haven’t mastered cooking a turkey, skip saving the carcass for tempting turkey soup despite your fond memories of a savory soup for Friday lunches as a child. For starters it’s messy. Plus freezing the broth on your back stoop to let the fat rise overnight can lure in the neighborhood carnivores.
6. Don’t miss trash day! So there you are, half asleep Friday morning, dreaming contentedly that no one woke up with food poisoning in the middle of the night and wondering why a plane is buzzing your house. That’s not a plane, it’s the trash truck. Quickly run to the front door in your pjs and bare feet, flag the driver to wait a moment, and then send the pumpkin soufflé man scurrying for the trash barrel while you quickly tie the final kitchen trash bag and run barefoot across the frost-covered lawn much to the amusement of neighbors peeking through their windows.
1. Put the turkey in to cook right side up. Okay, some recipes will specify that cooking the turkey upside down yields more juicy meat. So it’s fine to cook your turkey upside down as long as you are aware of what you’re doing and actually take the temperature in the topside and carve the turkey from the top.
So how do you know if the turkey is upside down? If the turkey appears to have the proportions of a runway model, or as if it’s slender middle would be worthy of a crop-top, then it’s likely upside down. A right side up turkey looks like a turkey a Jewish grandmother can be proud of.
2. If you make the error of taking the temperature of the turkey upside down and erroneously think the breast meat has reached 180 degrees, then when you turn the turkey over and start carving into undercooked meat, stop! Do not feed your in-laws undercooked meat. If in doubt, throw the meat away, continue cooking if possible (I’ll let you be the judge) or feed it to your neighbor’s nightly howling cat.
3. Remember to light the candles on the dining room table before calling the guests. Candles can serve as on the spot food warmers for side dishes that cooled waiting for the turkey to be re-cooked.
4. Purchase dependable, pre-made desserts that can be quickly served without scrambling back to the kitchen to whip up a soufflé. Fortunately my husband is beyond patient with my random suggestions to add special accents to our holidays, for instance, giving him a recipe for individual pumpkin soufflés requiring no fewer than 25 steps, 12 kitchen utensils and 3 distinct major appliances. Next year, pie, from the dependable pie place.
5. Turkey soup is not basic regardless of what your mom says. If you haven’t mastered cooking a turkey, skip saving the carcass for tempting turkey soup despite your fond memories of a savory soup for Friday lunches as a child. For starters it’s messy. Plus freezing the broth on your back stoop to let the fat rise overnight can lure in the neighborhood carnivores.
6. Don’t miss trash day! So there you are, half asleep Friday morning, dreaming contentedly that no one woke up with food poisoning in the middle of the night and wondering why a plane is buzzing your house. That’s not a plane, it’s the trash truck. Quickly run to the front door in your pjs and bare feet, flag the driver to wait a moment, and then send the pumpkin soufflé man scurrying for the trash barrel while you quickly tie the final kitchen trash bag and run barefoot across the frost-covered lawn much to the amusement of neighbors peeking through their windows.
Emotional Sounds and Sights Surrounding Election Night Speakers
What will I remember from this historic election when I was one out of nearly 120 million U.S. citizens who cast votes for President of the United States? I will remember the emotional outpouring by the supporters and candidates. I heard sentiments filled with warmth and hope, and displays of meanness, an emotional spectrum that both made me concerned about reactions to the victory and gave me hope in the collective pride of U.S. citizens.
I watched and listened as McCain gave his concession speech and was saddened by the loud booing from the crowd when Barak Obama’s name was mentioned. The booing rose to a crescendo a second time when Senator McCain remarked that the people had decided that “Senator Obama and my old friend Senator Joe Biden should have the honor of leading us for the next four years.” What a divisive and shameful reaction in the midst of a gracious speech.
I was also struck by McCain’s offer of bland thanks to Governor Sarah Palin, completely devoid of any warmth and sentiment. He acknowledged that she is an impressive new voice. I think no one would argue with that statement which carries both a positive and negative connotation. It reminded me of a wedding thank you I wrote for a gift I truly didn’t appreciate, but still wanted to express my thanks for the thought of good wishes. Likewise, McCain’s weak hug of Palin following his speech looked more like an obligatory pat on the back than an embrace of appreciation. And I was saddened to hear the loudest cheers during McCain’s speech when he mentioned Palin, not when he recognized America’s greatness or patriotism or coming together as a country.
Thankfully, my low following McCain’s concession speech was uplifted by the passionate speech and euphoric crowd support during Barak Obama’s acceptance speech. As a spouse and a mom, I was overcome with emotion when Obama ardently expressed his love for his wife saying, “I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last 16 years, the rock of our family, the love of my life, the nation’s next first lady, Michelle Obama.” My emotions swelled as he called upon each and every American to look not only after ourselves, but each other. He will work with us and for us to improve the lives of all Americans, and in turn, I believe of many around the world. I will remember the emotion in Obama’s face of thanksgiving for support of a country, how his smile was tinged with the emotional gratitude to so many who worked with him and who believed in him and who ultimately voted for Barak Obama to be the 44th President of the United States of America.
I watched and listened as McCain gave his concession speech and was saddened by the loud booing from the crowd when Barak Obama’s name was mentioned. The booing rose to a crescendo a second time when Senator McCain remarked that the people had decided that “Senator Obama and my old friend Senator Joe Biden should have the honor of leading us for the next four years.” What a divisive and shameful reaction in the midst of a gracious speech.
I was also struck by McCain’s offer of bland thanks to Governor Sarah Palin, completely devoid of any warmth and sentiment. He acknowledged that she is an impressive new voice. I think no one would argue with that statement which carries both a positive and negative connotation. It reminded me of a wedding thank you I wrote for a gift I truly didn’t appreciate, but still wanted to express my thanks for the thought of good wishes. Likewise, McCain’s weak hug of Palin following his speech looked more like an obligatory pat on the back than an embrace of appreciation. And I was saddened to hear the loudest cheers during McCain’s speech when he mentioned Palin, not when he recognized America’s greatness or patriotism or coming together as a country.
Thankfully, my low following McCain’s concession speech was uplifted by the passionate speech and euphoric crowd support during Barak Obama’s acceptance speech. As a spouse and a mom, I was overcome with emotion when Obama ardently expressed his love for his wife saying, “I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last 16 years, the rock of our family, the love of my life, the nation’s next first lady, Michelle Obama.” My emotions swelled as he called upon each and every American to look not only after ourselves, but each other. He will work with us and for us to improve the lives of all Americans, and in turn, I believe of many around the world. I will remember the emotion in Obama’s face of thanksgiving for support of a country, how his smile was tinged with the emotional gratitude to so many who worked with him and who believed in him and who ultimately voted for Barak Obama to be the 44th President of the United States of America.
Voting on Election Day 2008
Contrary to all of the news outlets highlighting the long poll lines around the country, voting in my suburban hometown today ran outstandingly smoothly. The balmy, dry weather certainly helped to entice people outside and to the polls, so it appeared that our turnout would dwarf previous election days. Yet the polls were a model of efficiency. No traffic backups, no lines to get in to vote, no lines to receive a ballot.
As an additional benefit, the gathering was collegial and almost festive. While I imagine that the votes in our town are likely pretty evenly split between Obama and McCain, neighbors, friends and colleagues greeted one another warmly and many stopped to chat inside and outside of the polling place, regardless of political affiliation.
Watching the national news, I am shocked at the ridiculously long lines as so many polling places. While we had a steady stream of cars driving in and voters walking inside, I only waited less than one minute for one person in front of me to state her street name before being handed a ballot. I had a choice of 14 or empty ‘booths’ in which to mark my ballot—we fill in bubbles with a black marker (provided) pretty much like a standardized test. Then I checked out, inserted my ballot into the scanner and departed, okay, with a multitude of conversations along the way, but otherwise no delays. I wonder whether our suburban location has a better ratio of voting booths and volunteers to voters, or whether our scanned paper ballots are a more efficient means of voting.
I took my daughter with me to vote on this historic day. I filled in the bubble for president and she noted that I had left a small white gap. So she helped to ensure all the bubbles were properly completed! Many parents were at the polls with their children alongside. I wonder if 50 years from now, those pre-teens will look back and vaguely recall being taken to vote for president in 2008. What elements will stand out most strongly in my daughter’s memory? The positive and united feeling in the air? A small white bubble being filled in black? A piece of paper sliding into a scanner and the counter ticking from 1250 to 1251? As a community we are united, individually each one of us is significant. I am proud to be a citizen of this country and embrace the positive feeling shared among disparate voters today despite the challenges we face collectively and independently.
As an additional benefit, the gathering was collegial and almost festive. While I imagine that the votes in our town are likely pretty evenly split between Obama and McCain, neighbors, friends and colleagues greeted one another warmly and many stopped to chat inside and outside of the polling place, regardless of political affiliation.
Watching the national news, I am shocked at the ridiculously long lines as so many polling places. While we had a steady stream of cars driving in and voters walking inside, I only waited less than one minute for one person in front of me to state her street name before being handed a ballot. I had a choice of 14 or empty ‘booths’ in which to mark my ballot—we fill in bubbles with a black marker (provided) pretty much like a standardized test. Then I checked out, inserted my ballot into the scanner and departed, okay, with a multitude of conversations along the way, but otherwise no delays. I wonder whether our suburban location has a better ratio of voting booths and volunteers to voters, or whether our scanned paper ballots are a more efficient means of voting.
I took my daughter with me to vote on this historic day. I filled in the bubble for president and she noted that I had left a small white gap. So she helped to ensure all the bubbles were properly completed! Many parents were at the polls with their children alongside. I wonder if 50 years from now, those pre-teens will look back and vaguely recall being taken to vote for president in 2008. What elements will stand out most strongly in my daughter’s memory? The positive and united feeling in the air? A small white bubble being filled in black? A piece of paper sliding into a scanner and the counter ticking from 1250 to 1251? As a community we are united, individually each one of us is significant. I am proud to be a citizen of this country and embrace the positive feeling shared among disparate voters today despite the challenges we face collectively and independently.
Fear and Greed
On the same day that Alan Greenspan voiced his error in presuming that the self-interests of organizations were “best capable of protecting their own shareholders and their equity in the firms,” my local paper’s headline story revolved around the fear and greed of two feuding neighbors. Clearly the basic human attributes of fear and greed (along with love, compassion, envy and lust to name just a few) have directed the actions of individuals over the millennia. How could Greenspan, even with his Libertarian viewpoint, have truly expected a corporate entity to behave in a monolithic fashion? Regardless of accounting principles that refer to an entity as a single organization, businesses are made up of individual humans, each motivated by his or her own compass of fear, greed, envy, love, compassion and a multitude of other human characteristics.
In my town, one family has alleged that their neighbors have created a campaign of fear with the goal of stopping opposition to their home expansion plans (i.e. greed). Not only is it unsurprising that this atrocious behavior takes place across America, but it is also not surprising that this would be the lead headline in a week in which the markets are plummeting and the presidential election is only 2 weeks away. Humans not only perpetuate fear and greed, but they enjoy hearing about the success and failures of others’ fear and greed. Our hometown editor is aware of this basic truism, how could Greenspan have missed this basic tenet of human nature? Twenty years ago Tom Wolfe, in Bonfire of the Vanities, created a fictionalized best seller based upon the greed and fear of Wall Street individuals. Perhaps Greenspan had no time to read Bonfire of the Vanities, or even his local newspaper, but surely he was not so isolated as to not have witnessed the powerful motivation of greed in action. If only Greenspan had focused on psychology along with his economics courses.
In my town, one family has alleged that their neighbors have created a campaign of fear with the goal of stopping opposition to their home expansion plans (i.e. greed). Not only is it unsurprising that this atrocious behavior takes place across America, but it is also not surprising that this would be the lead headline in a week in which the markets are plummeting and the presidential election is only 2 weeks away. Humans not only perpetuate fear and greed, but they enjoy hearing about the success and failures of others’ fear and greed. Our hometown editor is aware of this basic truism, how could Greenspan have missed this basic tenet of human nature? Twenty years ago Tom Wolfe, in Bonfire of the Vanities, created a fictionalized best seller based upon the greed and fear of Wall Street individuals. Perhaps Greenspan had no time to read Bonfire of the Vanities, or even his local newspaper, but surely he was not so isolated as to not have witnessed the powerful motivation of greed in action. If only Greenspan had focused on psychology along with his economics courses.
Teenage Eye Rolls
An unexpected advantage of having a teenager in the house is that I have all of my potentially embarrassing actions pointed out to me in real time, giving me the opportunity to immediately evaluate my behavior and see what needs tweaking as I travel the road to the holy grail of parental perfection. Using the frequent eye rolls and not too subtle sighs as my scorecard, I realize I have barely begun my journey. Sometimes, especially in a crowd, I get the very slight, but ever purposeful double eyebrow raise.
How could I have been so indecisive about selecting a parking space? Why did I think it necessary to strike up a conversation with a stranger at her school? Why would I walk through the side entrance when everyone else used the front entrance? And I certainly wouldn't stop a utility worker to ask directions, now would I? Out of the four, I decided that perhaps I hadn't needed to fret over the choice of parking spots and next time I'll try to be more decisive. That was valuable input. The other critiques I let pass without comment, or with only minimal comment as in "see this entrance is equally effective."
All of the unsolicited input is more than counterbalanced by the times when it is just the two of us and we enjoy a shared moment of joyous laughter or both reach for the radio dial to turn up a favorite song.
Of course I can hear it now, "you did not just post that on the internet!".
How could I have been so indecisive about selecting a parking space? Why did I think it necessary to strike up a conversation with a stranger at her school? Why would I walk through the side entrance when everyone else used the front entrance? And I certainly wouldn't stop a utility worker to ask directions, now would I? Out of the four, I decided that perhaps I hadn't needed to fret over the choice of parking spots and next time I'll try to be more decisive. That was valuable input. The other critiques I let pass without comment, or with only minimal comment as in "see this entrance is equally effective."
All of the unsolicited input is more than counterbalanced by the times when it is just the two of us and we enjoy a shared moment of joyous laughter or both reach for the radio dial to turn up a favorite song.
Of course I can hear it now, "you did not just post that on the internet!".
Olympic and Presidential Fantasies
Where are the Olympics when we need them? I’d even take a good Red Sox-Yankees pennant race over the tension of wondering how the November presidential election will turn out, not to mention the endless commentary I can expect over the next 2+ months. Or possibly 3 months if we repeat our road trip to the Supreme Court. At least Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert will have plenty of material to offer up for entertainment.
So I will go back to fantasizing about the Olympics even if I need to wait for 4 more years to fulfill my Olympic dreams. As a child I idolized Cathy Rigby—‘Cath’ as my sister would use to taunt me while I tumbled on our front lawn. Actually, more often on my neighbor’s front lawn so I could avoid the rampant Chestnut burrs across my front lawn. I imagined myself swinging around the uneven bars, flipping on the beam, landing each dismount without a wobble.
Many years later, here I am still fantasizing about excelling at the Olympics. Like a mid-life career change, however, my fantasies have shifted. Now I imagine orchestrating a fantastic technical presentation, with fireworks and music and performers and lights and color and illusions and more performers all mixing into one stupendous visual extravaganza. Oh, wait, I think that was done. I was in awe. My whole family was in awe at both the technical feat and the human triumph. Despite the cover-ups, the Opening Ceremony was no less mystical and inspiring. Perhaps our presidential hopefuls and their cadres of staffers and supporters will align in perfectly concentric circles while we watch in anticipation each unifying step. My fantasies know no bounds.
So I will go back to fantasizing about the Olympics even if I need to wait for 4 more years to fulfill my Olympic dreams. As a child I idolized Cathy Rigby—‘Cath’ as my sister would use to taunt me while I tumbled on our front lawn. Actually, more often on my neighbor’s front lawn so I could avoid the rampant Chestnut burrs across my front lawn. I imagined myself swinging around the uneven bars, flipping on the beam, landing each dismount without a wobble.
Many years later, here I am still fantasizing about excelling at the Olympics. Like a mid-life career change, however, my fantasies have shifted. Now I imagine orchestrating a fantastic technical presentation, with fireworks and music and performers and lights and color and illusions and more performers all mixing into one stupendous visual extravaganza. Oh, wait, I think that was done. I was in awe. My whole family was in awe at both the technical feat and the human triumph. Despite the cover-ups, the Opening Ceremony was no less mystical and inspiring. Perhaps our presidential hopefuls and their cadres of staffers and supporters will align in perfectly concentric circles while we watch in anticipation each unifying step. My fantasies know no bounds.
While You Were Sleeping
Waking up to learn the Barack O’Bama is selecting Joe Biden as his running mate was definitely a ‘While You Were Sleeping Moment’. My first thought, with sleep still lodged in my right eye, was what a lackluster choice for a candidate who has built his campaign on Hope and Change. My Second Thoughts (I was feeling a bit like Tiffany Aching) then piped in, reminding me that Biden is a Democratic version of McCain. So if I was contemplating a O’Bama versus McCain choice, then now I could get the benefits of each presidential candidate with one vote. Surely I don’t know any of the candidates the way the armies of pundits claim to. However, much of voting certainly comes down to perceptions. And if I perceive Biden to embody a similar personal honesty and global understanding as McCain then I can confidently vote for O’Bama/Biden.
Weight Is Incorrect for Item Scanned
The grocery parking lot is large enough to require number markers placed on poles to help shoppers locate their cars. Okay, it’s not airport size, or even a Costco, but we’re not talking a dinky grocery store. So on a busy Wednesday morning, I did expect more than 2 check-out lanes, especially with a four cart line-up at each of those lanes. Thinking the intercom would crackle with, “would all available cashiers please report to the front of the store” at any moment, I considered briefly waiting in line. But I quickly discerned that no one had any intention of summoning additional cashiers.
Fine, I decided, I’ll use the self-scan lane—3 were open and only 2 in use. I am no novice at self-scanning, I use it occasionally in the grocery when I’m running in for a few items and I’ve scanned my share of light switch plates and grommets at Home Depot. However, these self-scanners seemed intent on foiling my efforts and with a half full cart of groceries, the scanners had plenty of opportunity to point out my errors.
For starters, I had brought my own canvas bags. Placing these upon the ‘bagging area’ immediately caused the first scanner error. The roving clerk came over and swiped her card to clear the system. Bags in place, I started over.
Scanned orange juice, “1 dollar 99 cents”. Placed orange juice in bagging area. “Weight is not correct for item scanned. Please remove item from bagging area.” The roving clerk returned, swiped her badge and I continued.
The scanning voice kept up a non-stop patter. It broadcasted the price of every item as if shoppers in aisle 4 needed to know the price of everything I scanned. And the canvas bags apparently threw off the weight of my items in the bagging area. So price points intermingled with “weight is not correct for item scanned” as I continued to swipe and the roving clerk continued to swipe and shoppers started lining up behind me, possibly more for entertainment than for making a quick purchase. Two shoppers actually stood right behind me, watching my every move, probably thinking that if I wasn’t unnerved at the talkative scanner, then perhaps they too could self-scan and thought watching me might enlighten them in what to avoid.
It became a game. Could I scan the next item before the current item's price was broadcast? More rapid than an Olympic sprinter I grabbed two items in an attempt to scan them quickly in sequence. No go. The grated cheese bag wasn't flat enough to scan in one smooth swipe. Next I tried two yogurt containers. Success! The watching shoppers appeared quizzical at my glee.
“75 cents… weight is not correct for item scanned…please remove item from bagging area… 75 cents…2 dollars 99 cents…75 cents…” I felt elated at properly balancing three consecutive items in the bagging area.
Then came the produce. Generally, I can name all of my produce more accurately than the high school cashier, I know when I have purchased cilantro not parsley or that I selected a mango, not a large avocado. So other than the incessant “weight is not correct for item scanned. Please remove item from bagging area”, this phase did move right along. Until I got to the watermelon. Clearly the photo of the whole melon on the produce list did not match my cut and wrapped quarter melon. After ‘W’ for watermelon I tried ‘C’ for cut melon. No go. Then Q for quarter melon. Where was that roving cashier? With the line now 2 deep behind me (5 at the regular cashiers) I decided I didn’t really need the watermelon. I collected my bags and headed out.
So Long Summer Camp
How is it that on the eve of collecting my daughters from camp I am all choked up, my eyes brimming with tears? Most adults must think I am a severely damaged specimen of a parent. Is it because I am closely linked to my children's spirits and feel their pressing sadness as they pack their trunks and hug their closest friends? Or is it perhaps because my soul is tightly linked to that place and time where I most painfully felt the irreversibility of time passing? Each year as camp concluded an annual ache would return that felt like I was peeling a layer of myself to leave behind in a treasured moment at summer camp. A piece of me left behind to rediscover many years in the future as my children tripped over the same rocks, dove off the same dock, sailed in the same boats, sang in the same dining hall.
My heart aches as I imagine my daughters watching the end of camp slide show, laughing and crying over all their golden moments. Then tomorrow, the
painful departure. My youngest prefers to pull bandages off quickly, to say her goodbyes, move on and deal with the tumult of the transition in her own space. My older daughter needs each goodbye and holds onto each hug as if she can personally stop the second hand from ticking forward by embracing her friends more tightly. Each has found her own way to say farewell.
And I can only look on, keeping the tears from my eyes as my heart aches, watching them each shedding a layer of their childhoods that perhaps they too may rediscover many years from now.
Heat
Heat. Motionless heat. Nothing moving except the cars on Lake Shore Drive carrying their air conditioned passengers north and south. And the few bikers and walkers who are either doing their part to keep the earth green regardless of the warming or are just too compulsive to forgo a day of excercise when the temps soar into the 90s. Humidity wraps around my neck like a wool scarf.
A young couple embraces on a bench with their limbs intertwined. Surely they are newly in love to allow their sweaty bodies to embrace beneath the relentless sun.
It is too hot to write.
A young couple embraces on a bench with their limbs intertwined. Surely they are newly in love to allow their sweaty bodies to embrace beneath the relentless sun.
It is too hot to write.
Images on a subway
Orange earrings, orange shirt, orange belt, and yes, orange shoes. Where do you buy orange shoes?
Shirt proclaims, I am a beautician, not a magician.
Doors close.
“Smoking, Littering and Eating are prohibited on CTA vehicles.”
A man is wearing a yellow hard hat— probably easier than carrying it in his hands. Or he fears falling objects.
A bespectacled female dozes off, her head snaps back against the window. She dozes on as her head rolls to the right. The blonde woman to her right looks sideways at the stranger dozing. Her eyes say it all— ‘surely this stranger isn’t going to put her head on my shoulder!’ The sleeper jerks her head upright, her eyes remain closed. Again, the sleeper’s head falls to the right. The blonde broadens and shifts her shoulders to accidentally graze the sleeper. The sleepers head rights itself, but her eyes remain closed.
A reader focuses intently on her paperback mystery.
“Doors open on the left at Western”
The oranges shoes stride off the train.
Two children capture the empty seat.
Doors close.
“Keep cell phone conversations to a minimum as a courtesy to other customers.”
The woman chatting on her cell is oblivious to the pronouncement over the speakers.
Loud laughter from a young woman standing beside a young man. Everyone looks up except the sleeper. Her head jerks upright, but her eyes remain closed.
“Doors open on the left at Kedzie.”
Yellow hard hat moves off the train. Reader exits the train.
Doors close.
“Keep belongings off seats so others may sit.”
Two children jostled for greater share of their shared seat.
Beautician dozes off.
Blonde readjusts her left leg and shoulder and jostles sleeper. Sleeper’s eyes open.
“Doors open on the left at Pulaski”
Passengers exit, passengers enter, an array of flip flips and sneakers fill the floor.
“Soliciting and gambling are prohibited on all CTA vehicles.”
Wow, yet another new pronouncement.
“Midway is the end of the line. All passengers must exit.”
The car is silent.
Jedi-run Ferries
Deciding to vary our route from land to sea, we choose to take ferries back to the states, via 
departure and we arrive at the pier just as the ferry pulls away from shore. Not to worry, the experience is the journey not the destination right? So we pull out our books and folding chairs, oh wait, no folding chairs, we took those out at home; we pull out our books and sit down on rocks by the shore to read in the sun.
We are first in line (obviously) for the next ferry, so when it arrives we have no example to follow. The outbound cars quickly unload; we start our car and pull forward. The car behind (which not surprisingly has local plates) doesn’t follow us. Interesting.
Okay, so we’ll wait.
No sign comes from the ferry. No movement behind. Three minutes pass. Still no sign. We inch forward to ensure we’re seen; no one in line behind us moves. Hmm.
Then a loud horn blast. Ah ha—a signal. Cars behind us start up and move. We head down the long, steep ramp (after all this is the Bay of Fundy and it’s low tide).
I think that the ferry operators are all Jedi. They use no words, only subtly outstretch their right pointer and middle fingers to our left (their right as they are facing us) to indicate stay to the left. Their two outstretched fingers raise slightly which we interpret as stop. When we land on the opposite shore the two outstretched fingers move ever so slightly forward—proceed. Men who have discovered an economy of motion.
One of the benefits of taking two ferries is that it supports my newly hatched plan to do things in twos when on vacation. Or pretty much anywhere. You see, rather than try a large variety of places, hikes, restaurants, and events while traveling and remembering few if any, I am trying to work with my memory I find that the more times I visit a place, see a person, eat at a restaurant, the better I remember the occasion. So if I eat 2 times each at 3 different restaurants rather than at 6 different locations, I will actually remember all 3 restaurants rather than have no memory of dining out at all. This is a new plan, so I'll see h
ow well it works.
Working with my memory, we visit both the
Tidal Duet
Driving along a two lane “highway” in a fog so compact the visibility was no more than 20 meters, I was beginning to think our outing to Hopewell Rocks would not be worth the journey. Then the rain fell—hard—cascading down our windshield. Our progress slowed considerably, but the tide’s did not. We were racing time and as in all races against time, time always has the last laugh. We were hoping to get to the famous rocks near low tide—near enough in any case so that we would be able to walk along the beach around them.
I had suggested this day trip on a bit of a whim, having done no research, only quickly scanning a web page of no particular claim, that mentioned the rocks as an interesting sight. This excursion was pretty much following the same pattern as our family trip to the Desert Tortoise Natural Area or that no-tortoise place as we now affectionately refer to that particular destination. Our tortoise outing yielded not a single sighting of a desert tortoise, not even one in captivity. At least today the rocks were huge and stationary I reasoned, surely we’ll be able to see them. On the other hand, as I knew little about where we were headed other than world record tides flowed in the area, what if they were consumed by the tide by the time we arrived?
“Hey,” my husband offered as he voiced my concern, “maybe the fog will be so thick we won’t even be able to see the rocks.”
The radio DJ confirmed our fears—showers continuing throughout the day, tapering tonight.
Working on a positive spin I ventured, “But photography is enhanced by fog.”
“Not when there are raindrops on the lens,” my husband countered dryly.
Nevertheless we drove on. The sky lightened as we turned south from Moncton. Cautiously optimistic, my husband lowered the windshield wipers to intermittent. So far so good. By the time we reached the (nearly empty) parking lot we were much encouraged. Putting on our raincoats as insurance against more thunder showers, we headed into the park. Whether due to low expectations or a phenomenal natural setting—most likely both—our outing was excellent.
For starters, there is a good 3+ hours available to be on the beach after low tide ( a fact my husband had reminded me of while driving, but which I had chosen not to believe). We arrived in plenty of time for a leisurely stroll along the entire rock frontage, admiring the rock carvings from the flower pots to arches. The unrelenting abrasion of the ocean’s waters have worn away the rock, creating unusually shaped, free-standing 15 meter high rock sculptures. On the tops of most grow an assortment of flora, decorating their tops like a giant with bed head.
Of course we wanted it both ways and having walked the beach we were then eager for the tide to come in so we could see the difference between the dry and wet views. We stood by a large rock arch and literally watched the tide trickle up the beach as we slowly stepped backwards.
The tides in the Bay of Fundy routinely rise and fall by 40 or more feet due to both the physical shape of the bay with a wide, deep mouth and narrow, shallow basin and perhaps more importantly, the length of the bay which amplifies the effect as the time it takes the water to fill the bay is equal to the length of time from low to high tide. Like a wave in a bathtub, subsequent waves are amplified.
Watching the water steadily trickle up the beach was mesmerizing in both its gradual, patient flow and in the power of time to continually pull the water up against the rocks and then draw the water back into the ocean depths, day after day, eon after eon. The immense and the minuscule paired together in a ceaseless duet of which we could only stay for but a brief phrase. Without question the effect was worth the journey.
I had suggested this day trip on a bit of a whim, having done no research, only quickly scanning a web page of no particular claim, that mentioned the rocks as an interesting sight. This excursion was pretty much following the same pattern as our family trip to the Desert Tortoise Natural Area or that no-tortoise place as we now affectionately refer to that particular destination. Our tortoise outing yielded not a single sighting of a desert tortoise, not even one in captivity. At least today the rocks were huge and stationary I reasoned, surely we’ll be able to see them. On the other hand, as I knew little about where we were headed other than world record tides flowed in the area, what if they were consumed by the tide by the time we arrived?
“Hey,” my husband offered as he voiced my concern, “maybe the fog will be so thick we won’t even be able to see the rocks.”
The radio DJ confirmed our fears—showers continuing throughout the day, tapering tonight.
Working on a positive spin I ventured, “But photography is enhanced by fog.”
“Not when there are raindrops on the lens,” my husband countered dryly.
Nevertheless we drove on. The sky lightened as we turned south from Moncton. Cautiously optimistic, my husband lowered the windshield wipers to intermittent. So far so good. By the time we reached the (nearly empty) parking lot we were much encouraged. Putting on our raincoats as insurance against more thunder showers, we headed into the park. Whether due to low expectations or a phenomenal natural setting—most likely both—our outing was excellent.
For starters, there is a good 3+ hours available to be on the beach after low tide ( a fact my husband had reminded me of while driving, but which I had chosen not to believe). We arrived in plenty of time for a leisurely stroll along the entire rock frontage, admiring the rock carvings from the flower pots to arches. The unrelenting abrasion of the ocean’s waters have worn away the rock, creating unusually shaped, free-standing 15 meter high rock sculptures. On the tops of most grow an assortment of flora, decorating their tops like a giant with bed head.
Of course we wanted it both ways and having walked the beach we were then eager for the tide to come in so we could see the difference between the dry and wet views. We stood by a large rock arch and literally watched the tide trickle up the beach as we slowly stepped backwards.
The tides in the Bay of Fundy routinely rise and fall by 40 or more feet due to both the physical shape of the bay with a wide, deep mouth and narrow, shallow basin and perhaps more importantly, the length of the bay which amplifies the effect as the time it takes the water to fill the bay is equal to the length of time from low to high tide. Like a wave in a bathtub, subsequent waves are amplified.
Watching the water steadily trickle up the beach was mesmerizing in both its gradual, patient flow and in the power of time to continually pull the water up against the rocks and then draw the water back into the ocean depths, day after day, eon after eon. The immense and the minuscule paired together in a ceaseless duet of which we could only stay for but a brief phrase. Without question the effect was worth the journey.
St Andrews, New Brunswick
Having gotten into the ridiculous habit of taking tea with breakfast (something I only do when I’m not at home) and then taking a walk, I find I need to find frequent rest stops along my route. So I have found n
umerous available restrooms throughout town including the eco-friendly, if not olfactory-friendly port-o-potties at the back of Centennial Park.
Of course, part of the reason it’s been a necessity to find restrooms around town is due to the friendliness of our inn staff. One always seems to be waiting just inside to open the door as we approach. And then quite congenially, he will ask about our outing and not in a cursory manner. No, multiple questions and further suggestions to enhance our stay will ensue as I slowly back up the stairs while attempting to maintain eye contact. In fact he is a superb host, I simply don’t value his engaging personality when I have consumed a full liter of liquid in less than an hour!
As I’ve walked about St. Andrews I have found this friendliness pervasive. We’ve only been in town 2 days and we’ve had fabulous strawberry blueberry cobbler offered to us twice (we accepted on both occasions), found a coffee shop and later been greeted by the owners while walking through town, and learned the ups and downs of retail in a seasonal tourist town from an artisan shopkeeper. St. Andrews is a compact town with all of the necessities for a relaxing vacation – great places to walk, natural features to explore, a coffee shop with lattes, a fabulous lunch café with a local following and the aforementioned friendly locals. There is ev
en a water spigot and bowl just for four footed friends. I have learned the job and the etymology of wharfinger. I have watched a ship’s hull being painted while beached at low tide and seen the same vessel surrounded by water 6 hours later. There is always an available parking space on the main street, although we have always walked into and around town. Enchanting gardens are found at the top of the hill (I could write an entire blog on the gardens alone). And the daily rise and fall of the tide, 5 1/2 meters at a time, is fascinating in its consistency and grandeur. I highly recommend St. Andrews, New Brunswick for a visit of a day or a week!
umerous available restrooms throughout town including the eco-friendly, if not olfactory-friendly port-o-potties at the back of Centennial Park.Of course, part of the reason it’s been a necessity to find restrooms around town is due to the friendliness of our inn staff. One always seems to be waiting just inside to open the door as we approach. And then quite congenially, he will ask about our outing and not in a cursory manner. No, multiple questions and further suggestions to enhance our stay will ensue as I slowly back up the stairs while attempting to maintain eye contact. In fact he is a superb host, I simply don’t value his engaging personality when I have consumed a full liter of liquid in less than an hour!
As I’ve walked about St. Andrews I have found this friendliness pervasive. We’ve only been in town 2 days and we’ve had fabulous strawberry blueberry cobbler offered to us twice (we accepted on both occasions), found a coffee shop and later been greeted by the owners while walking through town, and learned the ups and downs of retail in a seasonal tourist town from an artisan shopkeeper. St. Andrews is a compact town with all of the necessities for a relaxing vacation – great places to walk, natural features to explore, a coffee shop with lattes, a fabulous lunch café with a local following and the aforementioned friendly locals. There is ev
en a water spigot and bowl just for four footed friends. I have learned the job and the etymology of wharfinger. I have watched a ship’s hull being painted while beached at low tide and seen the same vessel surrounded by water 6 hours later. There is always an available parking space on the main street, although we have always walked into and around town. Enchanting gardens are found at the top of the hill (I could write an entire blog on the gardens alone). And the daily rise and fall of the tide, 5 1/2 meters at a time, is fascinating in its consistency and grandeur. I highly recommend St. Andrews, New Brunswick for a visit of a day or a week!
Nearly Downeast
We are looking for a post office. One of the oddities I enjoy in rural areas of the country is that every town, no matter how small, seems to have a post office. Well, either we’re not on the main road through these towns (which we are as it’s the only road on the map) or, more likely, the postal clerk wanted to shorten his commute and set up the post office in his living room. There couldn’t be more than 10 people living in some of these towns. Although from the looks of things they each have owned about 3 cars a piece. And at one point, this must have been a well traveled route, for we pass more than a few boarded up motels.
My family has made a game of finding rusty machinery around the country. There’s quite a bit out there and today is no exception. We definitely saw Mike Mulligan’s steam shovel’s cousin and the tractors posted on poles were a highlight for well-displayed rusty machinery.
Clearly the Lupine Lady herself came through here; the lupine bloom in profusion all along the roadside. Lupine and rusty machinery, no post offices. And no gas stations. We’re looking for one to fill up before the border. The one large sign we pass ‘GAS’ sports no price-- obviously a gas station for the desperate, which we’re not... yet.
The border town, Calais, bustles with activity. Could the border truly require this much human support? Apparently they’re not making effective use of the significant quantity of potential employees as the Canadians have chosen to open exactly one customs lane and the line of cars snakes all the way back and through a traffic light. We are at a standstill. Is the border closed? How is it that no one is moving? As we are behind an RV we have no view of what’s happening up ahead so I get out walk up the line a bit. I even find a pizza shop and buy an iced tea before heading back to the car. Sufficient drivers have exited their cars to raise the attention of the border guards, and 2 more lanes are open. The line of cars glides slowly ahead.
Ways to arouse a border guards suspicion:
o wife drives, husband rides shotgun
o solidly dented rear panel and busted taillight
o large suitcase visible in rear seat even though you appear to have an ample size trunk
and the coup de grace, when the border guard asks you to confirm that he is reading your license plate, say no, that’s not it and tell him some totally random string of numbers and letters (okay, not totally random, it was a license plate from another car I drive). Somehow I must have thrown in one comment that removed suspicion; we were allowed into Canada.
My family has made a game of finding rusty machinery around the country. There’s quite a bit out there and today is no exception. We definitely saw Mike Mulligan’s steam shovel’s cousin and the tractors posted on poles were a highlight for well-displayed rusty machinery.
Clearly the Lupine Lady herself came through here; the lupine bloom in profusion all along the roadside. Lupine and rusty machinery, no post offices. And no gas stations. We’re looking for one to fill up before the border. The one large sign we pass ‘GAS’ sports no price-- obviously a gas station for the desperate, which we’re not... yet.
The border town, Calais, bustles with activity. Could the border truly require this much human support? Apparently they’re not making effective use of the significant quantity of potential employees as the Canadians have chosen to open exactly one customs lane and the line of cars snakes all the way back and through a traffic light. We are at a standstill. Is the border closed? How is it that no one is moving? As we are behind an RV we have no view of what’s happening up ahead so I get out walk up the line a bit. I even find a pizza shop and buy an iced tea before heading back to the car. Sufficient drivers have exited their cars to raise the attention of the border guards, and 2 more lanes are open. The line of cars glides slowly ahead.
Ways to arouse a border guards suspicion:
o wife drives, husband rides shotgun
o solidly dented rear panel and busted taillight
o large suitcase visible in rear seat even though you appear to have an ample size trunk
and the coup de grace, when the border guard asks you to confirm that he is reading your license plate, say no, that’s not it and tell him some totally random string of numbers and letters (okay, not totally random, it was a license plate from another car I drive). Somehow I must have thrown in one comment that removed suspicion; we were allowed into Canada.
The Violin Recital
Church basement, fluorescent lights, frayed red rug, metal folding chairs—a timeless setting for a violin recital. This is my daughter’s 4th (or is it 5th?) recital with the same instructor. The same cohort of students have grown along with her—literally, student whom I didn’t think could grow any taller, stand up to perform 4” taller than last year. And as the years passed, each student progressed, playing more challenging and therefore longer (and longer) pieces. Consequently the recital length has extended from one year to the next.
Scanning the program I notice the mother-daughter duet has returned. Last year they played a 20 minute concerto. Sigh.
I watch the students waiting nervously in the “on deck” chair. Black flat shoes tap in time with the current performer. Sweaty hands distractedly tap on the instrument.
The accompanist, from her black flats, black pants and black tank top to her long white arms, blends in with her grand piano. She has an uncanny ability to match the drifting tempo of each student.
My daughter proudly announces her piece, grinning broadly. Her performance is flawless to a parent’s ears, although she claims a few missed sharps.
We near the end of the program—the mother-daughter pair step to their places. My husband looks at his watch. My daughter rolls her eyes. Just 4 short minutes later they take their bow. What a pleasant surprise.
And then, like the fat lady singing, the instructor (who is actually tall and thin) performs to conclude the recital. We retire to lemonade, fruit chunks on toothpicks, brownies and chips. Another successful year of violin lessons concludes.
Scanning the program I notice the mother-daughter duet has returned. Last year they played a 20 minute concerto. Sigh.
I watch the students waiting nervously in the “on deck” chair. Black flat shoes tap in time with the current performer. Sweaty hands distractedly tap on the instrument.
The accompanist, from her black flats, black pants and black tank top to her long white arms, blends in with her grand piano. She has an uncanny ability to match the drifting tempo of each student.
My daughter proudly announces her piece, grinning broadly. Her performance is flawless to a parent’s ears, although she claims a few missed sharps.We near the end of the program—the mother-daughter pair step to their places. My husband looks at his watch. My daughter rolls her eyes. Just 4 short minutes later they take their bow. What a pleasant surprise.
And then, like the fat lady singing, the instructor (who is actually tall and thin) performs to conclude the recital. We retire to lemonade, fruit chunks on toothpicks, brownies and chips. Another successful year of violin lessons concludes.
Not A Party Planner
Is it a sign of incompetent parenting to dislike hosting birthday parties? No, not hosting actually—planning. I do not enjoy planning birthday parties. There, I’ve admitted it. I actually get stressed induced pain in my neck from worrying about creating the perfect birthday for a 6 year old. Our most vivid birthday party memories seem to center on a guest becoming ill—including a little 5 year old who threw up while eating pizza— or the weather playing havoc with our best laid plans— the January snow play party on a 60 degree day with marshmallows in the place of snowballs or the 30 degree May carnival party covered in snow.
Each year I hope that my daughters will say, “this year mom let’s just have a family party.” Then I won’t have to happily think up a plan, worry if someone is being unintentionally excluded, decorate with enthusiasm, and fret over whether everyone will like the chosen activities. Don’t get me wrong, I do love celebrations, I just am not a party planner.
So how excited was I when my older daughter asked if she could plan her own birthday celebration?
“Do you need me to do anything?”
“No thanks mom.”
“How about pick up pizza?”
“Oh, that would be great.”
“Make breakfast?”
“Sure, thanks!”
And that was it! She invited eight girls for a sleepover, everyone came and they self-entertained from playing basketball to walking around the block at midnight. They watched a movie and of course, talked, A LOT! By and large I kept my ears open and my mouth closed—a parenting tip I picked up from a friend which has served me well. Well that is as long as I follow through on the mouth closed part, which I admit, I sometimes forget.
Each year I hope that my daughters will say, “this year mom let’s just have a family party.” Then I won’t have to happily think up a plan, worry if someone is being unintentionally excluded, decorate with enthusiasm, and fret over whether everyone will like the chosen activities. Don’t get me wrong, I do love celebrations, I just am not a party planner.
So how excited was I when my older daughter asked if she could plan her own birthday celebration?
“Do you need me to do anything?”
“No thanks mom.”
“How about pick up pizza?”
“Oh, that would be great.”
“Make breakfast?”
“Sure, thanks!”
And that was it! She invited eight girls for a sleepover, everyone came and they self-entertained from playing basketball to walking around the block at midnight. They watched a movie and of course, talked, A LOT! By and large I kept my ears open and my mouth closed—a parenting tip I picked up from a friend which has served me well. Well that is as long as I follow through on the mouth closed part, which I admit, I sometimes forget.
Stories told and untold
I have been sitting working on putting together some notes on my children’s ancestry while I listen to the news on NPR. A large portion of the news is focused on the devastation in China. I listen, stunned, to the personal, tragic stories of individuals waiting as workers dig through rubble looking for children, parents and other family members. The contrast between my cataloguing of my ancestors’ lives and the family trees that have been brought to an end in the span of only moments is stark. So many people lost their lives and so many people have only one child, that whole lineages ended abruptly; a forest of family trees has been felled.
While as a listener I cannot feel the depth of the emotions the waiting and hoping families feel, I am taken through the ups and downs of uncertainty, hope, dismissal, faith, despair and tragedy. Would that the photos I have of my ancestors in the 19th and 20th centuries, come to life and tell me their stories of hope and despair, uncertainty and joy. In the absence of oral history, I listen to the stories of my ancestors through bits and pieces of newspaper articles or obituaries printed decades ago. Simultaneously, through the news traveling half way around the world, I hear the silence of future generations, whose stories will never be written.
While as a listener I cannot feel the depth of the emotions the waiting and hoping families feel, I am taken through the ups and downs of uncertainty, hope, dismissal, faith, despair and tragedy. Would that the photos I have of my ancestors in the 19th and 20th centuries, come to life and tell me their stories of hope and despair, uncertainty and joy. In the absence of oral history, I listen to the stories of my ancestors through bits and pieces of newspaper articles or obituaries printed decades ago. Simultaneously, through the news traveling half way around the world, I hear the silence of future generations, whose stories will never be written.
Quintessential Grandmother
I have been fortunate to have known and called my own not one, but two quintessential grandmothers. The second came into my life just as the first departed. I imagine their lives as young mothers were quite different— for starters one was a devout Lutheran and the second a conservative Jew. One was the youngest of 5 girls and went on to college. The other was the oldest of 4 children and needed to give up both finishing high school as well as going to college to earn money for her family. Yet their commonalities in loving their grandchildren far exceeded their differences in upbringing and religion. Perhaps it is no coincidence that they shared the name Frances.
My second grandmother Frances was not a biologic grandmother; she was my husband’s grandmother. Yet she treated me as she did all of her granddaughter-in-laws—as fully and completely as every one of her grandchildren. And the fact that I did not share her religious faith was never an issue with her—what mattered to her was getting to know who I was as an individual and hearing all of the details of my life. Her interest in my life was focused—she always looked right into my eyes as we spoke in person and while she was interested in her grandson and great-grandchildren (my husband and children), when talking with me she would always first focus her interest on how I was spending my time. Her hazel eyes would peer directly into mine and seem to read my soul, discerning any bumps in its fabric.
The first time I met her was shortly after my husband and I began dating. As the family matriarch, she hosted weekly Sunday brunches. The rounded table could always fit one more family member—I’d use the broader term guest, but these events were strictly for family and I was considered family from the first time my husband-to-be introduced me to his grandmother. That first brunch I was seated in the middle of the table, surrounded by many family members I had yet to get to know. I ate a bite or two of Montreal bagel dressed with ‘pull-cheese’ and homemade strawberry jam, passed on the gefilte fish (I was still a neophyte at dating a Jew) and managed to snag a couple of sliced tomatoes. I also recall a plate of slice cucumbers which I presumed to be another Jewish delicacy. Turned out that wasn’t the case at all—simply a case of the youngest cousin having a limited gastronomic repertoire.
While I was a little nervous at being the newest member and only person at the table unfamiliar with gefilte fish, my minimal intake was more influenced by where I sat than by a nervous stomach. Surrounded by more than a dozen hungry family members— cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, sister and the radiantly smiling grandmother, I barely had time for a bite between requests to pass the pull cheese to the right or tuna to the left or cucumbers back to the right. Frances gently pointed out to me that she recommended that I avoid the middle seat on future Sundays if I was at all interested in eating.
When her first and second great grandchild came along she was simply beside herself with excitement. Holding her great grandchild for the first time (and every time for that matter), she focused deeply, looking into the baby’s eyes, her own eyes twinkling merrily, “What can I say? She is absolutely delicious.” This was the first time I had heard my child called delicious—this seems to be somewhat of a Jewish habit, or at least a Canadian Jewish habit. While hearing a gastronomic term applied to your child might seem disconcerting from anyone else, from Frances it was the most heartfelt term of endearment which brought tears to my eyes every time she used this turn of phrase—which she did on every occasion she saw one of my girls or even a photo of them. A woman of moderate means she always had a gift for the children whenever she saw them. Frequently the gifts were play parasols. By the time my girls were 5 they had a dozen parasols between them that were favorite playthings.
Frances was a friend to everyone. I loved her stories of her mechanic who made house calls, her shop customers who took her out to lunch and in later years Lincoln, her handyman, who would sit down and share an afternoon break with her. And these were only a few of the countless individuals whom Frances made feel special with her focused attention. Frances left a lasting love here for all of us to share in the friendship and fellowship she shared with each of us individually. I am lucky to have been a granddaughter to a second Grandma Frances for the past 20 years; I will miss her.
My second grandmother Frances was not a biologic grandmother; she was my husband’s grandmother. Yet she treated me as she did all of her granddaughter-in-laws—as fully and completely as every one of her grandchildren. And the fact that I did not share her religious faith was never an issue with her—what mattered to her was getting to know who I was as an individual and hearing all of the details of my life. Her interest in my life was focused—she always looked right into my eyes as we spoke in person and while she was interested in her grandson and great-grandchildren (my husband and children), when talking with me she would always first focus her interest on how I was spending my time. Her hazel eyes would peer directly into mine and seem to read my soul, discerning any bumps in its fabric.
The first time I met her was shortly after my husband and I began dating. As the family matriarch, she hosted weekly Sunday brunches. The rounded table could always fit one more family member—I’d use the broader term guest, but these events were strictly for family and I was considered family from the first time my husband-to-be introduced me to his grandmother. That first brunch I was seated in the middle of the table, surrounded by many family members I had yet to get to know. I ate a bite or two of Montreal bagel dressed with ‘pull-cheese’ and homemade strawberry jam, passed on the gefilte fish (I was still a neophyte at dating a Jew) and managed to snag a couple of sliced tomatoes. I also recall a plate of slice cucumbers which I presumed to be another Jewish delicacy. Turned out that wasn’t the case at all—simply a case of the youngest cousin having a limited gastronomic repertoire.
While I was a little nervous at being the newest member and only person at the table unfamiliar with gefilte fish, my minimal intake was more influenced by where I sat than by a nervous stomach. Surrounded by more than a dozen hungry family members— cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, sister and the radiantly smiling grandmother, I barely had time for a bite between requests to pass the pull cheese to the right or tuna to the left or cucumbers back to the right. Frances gently pointed out to me that she recommended that I avoid the middle seat on future Sundays if I was at all interested in eating.
When her first and second great grandchild came along she was simply beside herself with excitement. Holding her great grandchild for the first time (and every time for that matter), she focused deeply, looking into the baby’s eyes, her own eyes twinkling merrily, “What can I say? She is absolutely delicious.” This was the first time I had heard my child called delicious—this seems to be somewhat of a Jewish habit, or at least a Canadian Jewish habit. While hearing a gastronomic term applied to your child might seem disconcerting from anyone else, from Frances it was the most heartfelt term of endearment which brought tears to my eyes every time she used this turn of phrase—which she did on every occasion she saw one of my girls or even a photo of them. A woman of moderate means she always had a gift for the children whenever she saw them. Frequently the gifts were play parasols. By the time my girls were 5 they had a dozen parasols between them that were favorite playthings.
Frances was a friend to everyone. I loved her stories of her mechanic who made house calls, her shop customers who took her out to lunch and in later years Lincoln, her handyman, who would sit down and share an afternoon break with her. And these were only a few of the countless individuals whom Frances made feel special with her focused attention. Frances left a lasting love here for all of us to share in the friendship and fellowship she shared with each of us individually. I am lucky to have been a granddaughter to a second Grandma Frances for the past 20 years; I will miss her.
The Benefit of Road Construction
If you’re going to get lost in Boston, or even misplaced, try to make it in the Back Bay. For one the grid layout of the streets—despite the numerous one way roads—at least makes turning around the block possible—a feat less likely anywhere else in the city. But equally valuable is the proliferation of construction. And with construction, comes, you guessed it, the ubiquitous police officer and lots of traffic The two elements are more often than not frustrating to the driver attempting to make forward progress, but to the misplaced driver they are invaluable. The construction makes it easy to stop without holding up traffic, while rolling down your window to ask directions of aforementioned officers is also easily accomplished.
I was in just such a situation as I was looking for the entrance to the Mass Pike that I know exists by Copley somewhere. In any case, I had been driving on Storrow Drive East looking for the Mass Ave exit which also heads right to a Pike entrance. Driving along, carefully reading the road signs, I saw not one that indicated an exit for either Mass Ave or the direction for the Pike. I don’t know what the signs actually did say—getting back to that point was certainly a time consuming task not worth the undertaking— but I do know what the signs did NOT say. There was no sign indicating to exit here for the Mass Pike or I-90 (a large, well traveled road for locals and out-of-towners alike) nor was there any sign indicating to exit here for Massachusetts Avenue which clearly ran directly overhead. Some sign engineer decided that mentioning destination names like Cambridge would somehow be more helpful than indicating the names of streets! Who are these designers anyhow?
So I exited into the Back Bay, knowing I could easily turn around there, and was grateful for the plethora of construction sites with their requisite assortment of officers watching the heavy machinery at work. For once, I was happy to be stopped right by a construction site and happily took the advice of the amused officer who directed me to the Mass Pike entrance which, while not the closest in distance, was certainly the easiest to drive to, requiring only left turns onto 1 way streets. Approaching from this new direction I was happily greeted by large, hard to miss signs proclaiming the Mass Pike entrance. Likely they were constructed there as a warning to keep errant motorists from accidentally entering the Pike rather than directing out-of-towners back to whence they came. Regardless, I heeded the signs and was soon on my way west.
I was in just such a situation as I was looking for the entrance to the Mass Pike that I know exists by Copley somewhere. In any case, I had been driving on Storrow Drive East looking for the Mass Ave exit which also heads right to a Pike entrance. Driving along, carefully reading the road signs, I saw not one that indicated an exit for either Mass Ave or the direction for the Pike. I don’t know what the signs actually did say—getting back to that point was certainly a time consuming task not worth the undertaking— but I do know what the signs did NOT say. There was no sign indicating to exit here for the Mass Pike or I-90 (a large, well traveled road for locals and out-of-towners alike) nor was there any sign indicating to exit here for Massachusetts Avenue which clearly ran directly overhead. Some sign engineer decided that mentioning destination names like Cambridge would somehow be more helpful than indicating the names of streets! Who are these designers anyhow?
So I exited into the Back Bay, knowing I could easily turn around there, and was grateful for the plethora of construction sites with their requisite assortment of officers watching the heavy machinery at work. For once, I was happy to be stopped right by a construction site and happily took the advice of the amused officer who directed me to the Mass Pike entrance which, while not the closest in distance, was certainly the easiest to drive to, requiring only left turns onto 1 way streets. Approaching from this new direction I was happily greeted by large, hard to miss signs proclaiming the Mass Pike entrance. Likely they were constructed there as a warning to keep errant motorists from accidentally entering the Pike rather than directing out-of-towners back to whence they came. Regardless, I heeded the signs and was soon on my way west.
Suggestions if you travel to Costa Rica
1) Check the exchange rates before you travel. Our best deal was using local ATMs to receive American dollars and paying in American currency. Visa charges an exorbitant 3% for every transaction as a fee on top of a poor exchange rate. Discover gives a much better rate and charges no additional exchange fees. In addition our local U.S. bank offered a poorer exchange rate than the hotels in Costa Rica.
2) Hire local guides in any national park you visit. Not only is their knowledge of flora and fauna outstanding, but much of the wildlife is hard for an untrained eye to spot.
3) Monteverde temperatures can be cool. Bring a warm layer or two if you are traveling charges no additional exchange fees. In addition our local U.S. bank offered a poorer exchange rate than the hotels in Costa Rica.
there.
4) Many roads are steep, narrow and offer no guardrails. Ticos drive fast though generally quite well, hugging the curves tightly. Feel confident in both your navigation and driving if you chose to drive yourself.
5) Locals are wonderfully friendly in the countryside. Take your time to get to meet some.
6) Though we did not have any negative incidents in San Jose, we were told that it is moderately unsafe in many areas—plan accordingly.
7) Go on a night walk! Seeing a sloth climbing through the tress is a fabulous experience.
8) Try a new sport—zip lining is an unusual treat, surfing seems ideal of beginners with warm water and small waves, horseback riding is abundant, biking is a great way to see the countryside at a relaxed pace.
2) Hire local guides in any national park you visit. Not only is their knowledge of flora and fauna outstanding, but much of the wildlife is hard for an untrained eye to spot.
3) Monteverde temperatures can be cool. Bring a warm layer or two if you are traveling charges no additional exchange fees. In addition our local U.S. bank offered a poorer exchange rate than the hotels in Costa Rica.
there.
4) Many roads are steep, narrow and offer no guardrails. Ticos drive fast though generally quite well, hugging the curves tightly. Feel confident in both your navigation and driving if you chose to drive yourself.
5) Locals are wonderfully friendly in the countryside. Take your time to get to meet some.
6) Though we did not have any negative incidents in San Jose, we were told that it is moderately unsafe in many areas—plan accordingly.
7) Go on a night walk! Seeing a sloth climbing through the tress is a fabulous experience.
8) Try a new sport—zip lining is an unusual treat, surfing seems ideal of beginners with warm water and small waves, horseback riding is abundant, biking is a great way to see the countryside at a relaxed pace.
Weight and Speed Limits, Or Not
I didn’t have time to be melancholy about our tranquil vacation concluding— I was too stressed over not exceeding the baggage weight limit. I had known about the weight limit—20 lbs for checked bags and 10 lbs for carry-on— since before our departure, and worked to reduce our weight load from the get go. Unfortunately, I didn’t account for the natural weight gain of luggage in transit.
So there I was the night prior to departure eliminating shampoo and sunscreen bottles, magazines we’d read, extra plastic bags and even 2 pair of worn out sneakers and setting out the heaviest clothes for my family to wear.
Getting dressed in the a.m. my husband thought I was kidding as I handed him heavy cotton pants, a long-sleeved shirt, a thick sweatshirt and his windbreaker to wear.
“Do you know it’s 80º out?” he commented dryly.
Sweat poured from his brow the moment my husband stepped outside. Perhaps having him suffer from heat exhaustion was not a good trade-off for our luggage accompanying us. He shed the sweatshirt and jacket and climbed in the cab and we were off.
Literally it seemed—the cab wheels nearly left the ground as the car hurtled towards the airport, or so we supposed.
We saw a sign pointing toward the airport and surprisingly, the cab driver turned the opposite direction. Could there truly be a back route? We had our answer soon enough as the cab pulled into the bus station. None of us opened a door.
“Bus station, yes?”
“No! Airport,” we responded in unison.
The driver peeled out of the bus station and now we truly were hurtling along the road. I turned to my daughter hoping she had learned a few necessities in her middle school Spanish class, such as, “please slow down, I don’t want to die on the way to the airport this morning.” No such luck, we flew along, tightly hugging the shoulder-less curves.
We all let out our breath as we turned into the airport, thankful to still be in one piece. Actually airport is a bit of an overstatement—it was more a large, 3-sided room beside a landing strip. Two pleasant surprised greeted us. First, thanks to our Mario Andretti driver, we had arrived before any other passengers; even before any airline personnel for that matter. And standing on the unattended check-in desk was a small sign stating:
All checked baggage shall not exceed 30 lbs.
“Well that’s good news,” I said turning to my husband, “You can pack the sweatshirt and windbreaker!” He and my daughters had already broken into peals of laughter.
At the airport early and underweight my worries ceased, but with my husband and children standing there laughing at me, my melancholy was not likely to return.
So there I was the night prior to departure eliminating shampoo and sunscreen bottles, magazines we’d read, extra plastic bags and even 2 pair of worn out sneakers and setting out the heaviest clothes for my family to wear.
Getting dressed in the a.m. my husband thought I was kidding as I handed him heavy cotton pants, a long-sleeved shirt, a thick sweatshirt and his windbreaker to wear.
“Do you know it’s 80º out?” he commented dryly.
Sweat poured from his brow the moment my husband stepped outside. Perhaps having him suffer from heat exhaustion was not a good trade-off for our luggage accompanying us. He shed the sweatshirt and jacket and climbed in the cab and we were off.
Literally it seemed—the cab wheels nearly left the ground as the car hurtled towards the airport, or so we supposed.
We saw a sign pointing toward the airport and surprisingly, the cab driver turned the opposite direction. Could there truly be a back route? We had our answer soon enough as the cab pulled into the bus station. None of us opened a door.
“Bus station, yes?”
“No! Airport,” we responded in unison.
The driver peeled out of the bus station and now we truly were hurtling along the road. I turned to my daughter hoping she had learned a few necessities in her middle school Spanish class, such as, “please slow down, I don’t want to die on the way to the airport this morning.” No such luck, we flew along, tightly hugging the shoulder-less curves.
We all let out our breath as we turned into the airport, thankful to still be in one piece. Actually airport is a bit of an overstatement—it was more a large, 3-sided room beside a landing strip. Two pleasant surprised greeted us. First, thanks to our Mario Andretti driver, we had arrived before any other passengers; even before any airline personnel for that matter. And standing on the unattended check-in desk was a small sign stating:
All checked baggage shall not exceed 30 lbs.
“Well that’s good news,” I said turning to my husband, “You can pack the sweatshirt and windbreaker!” He and my daughters had already broken into peals of laughter.
At the airport early and underweight my worries ceased, but with my husband and children standing there laughing at me, my melancholy was not likely to return.
Taking up Surfing after Kids
Taking up new active sports successfully keeps me feeling young. Unfortunately the converse is also true. I tired snowboarding for the first time in my late 20s. Looking back it seems I was pretty young at the time, but I can tell you that 2 hours into my first snowboarding experience I was sitting by the side of the bunny hill, my tail bone bruised so badly I couldn’t stand up telling my boyfriend, “go on ahead, I’m just going to sit here and cry.”
This crystal clear memory came to the forefront when I was asked if I wanted to try surfing while in
Well that was pretty much the strategy of the surf instructor as well. He introduced me to my surfboard and we headed out into the surf to see what happened. The only technical instruction he gave before getting in the water was that I should push up with my arms from my paddling position right up to standing, no kneeling in the middle. With that piece of instruction, I caught my first wave. Okay, so technically, he caught the wave for me—giving my board a push at precisely the right moment so the wave’s momentum and mine were aligned. I won’t pretend to know the correct terminology here—no lesson time was wasted on terminology, this lesson was about creating a feeling of success—just what I was looking for. Well success wasn’t my primary feeling on that first wave. For such a simple process —standing up— in a fairly forgiving environment (water is indeed a much more forgiving landing than packed powder) I certainly made it look difficult. Suffice it to stay that if I went through the standing up stage, no one noticed.
Fortunately we had a whole hour in the surf for me to figure out how to stand on the board and for my instructor to try varying approaches to describing what should or shouldn’t be done. Yes, take a quick paddle. No, don’t kneel. Yes, push up hard with my arms. No, don’t stand too far forward. Yes, stay in the middle of the board. No, don’t slip too far backward. Yes, just keep trying.
Okay, I won’t be catching in big waves in my lifetime, but by the end of half an hour I had paddled myself beyond the (small) breakwater, gotten turned around and with minimal assistance caught a wave and successfully ridden it in, in a standing position. And after a full hour I had ‘ridden’ several waves in, in what certainly seemed to me to be surfing.
Proud of my accomplishments I was met by a surfing friend on the beach at the end of my lesson. “Great job—you have a really interesting surfing style,” she called out to me. “Interesting? Is that a euphemism for wrong?” “Not exactly,” she replied, “I’ve just never seen any face forward while surfing before!”
Well sideways or not it felt like surfing to me!
Night Walk in Costa Rica
A night walk in Costa Rica is a highlight of a trip to the rain forest. While spotting a sloth sleeping in a tree during the day is cool, seeing a sloth slowing gliding through the branches is a mesmerizing site—the sloth appears as a prehistoric creature; its furry body maintains a steady pace as it floats from branch to branch. Unlike trying to spot a sloth camouflaged among tree branches during the day, even an inexperienced eye can easily spot and follow a sloth on its nocturnal journey with only a minimum of guidance. In addition, differentiating the limbs from the body can be a difficult task for an amateur looking at a sleeping sloth, however, a sloth at night time becomes a recognizable form—furry backside and four limbs all distinguishable from one another.
Other nightlife to find includes sleeping animals like porcupines and birds. We spotted a porcupine resting in a hollow tree, somehow balancing on a rather precarious ledge. Equally intriguing was seeing three wood thrushes asleep, huddled against one another on a branch for the night and a chachalaca just settling down for the night. Fireflies sparkled by the hundreds in the woods, leaf cutter ants were staying busy after dark maintaining their constant stream of leaf cutting and carrying, raccoon eyes glowed in the flashlight beam as they paused in their trek along the forest floor—we actually saw much more animal movement during the night than during the day.
And no night walk is complete without the guide tempting a tarantula to come out of its home—large, furry, orange-banded legs crept out tantalized by the possibility of food creeping by. I was only a bit dismayed that the tarantula was being tempted from its home in the very same tree into which we had earlier ventured to peer up at the porcupine—sometimes its better not to know what lurks nearby in the jungle.
Other nightlife to find includes sleeping animals like porcupines and birds. We spotted a porcupine resting in a hollow tree, somehow balancing on a rather precarious ledge. Equally intriguing was seeing three wood thrushes asleep, huddled against one another on a branch for the night and a chachalaca just settling down for the night. Fireflies sparkled by the hundreds in the woods, leaf cutter ants were staying busy after dark maintaining their constant stream of leaf cutting and carrying, raccoon eyes glowed in the flashlight beam as they paused in their trek along the forest floor—we actually saw much more animal movement during the night than during the day.
And no night walk is complete without the guide tempting a tarantula to come out of its home—large, furry, orange-banded legs crept out tantalized by the possibility of food creeping by. I was only a bit dismayed that the tarantula was being tempted from its home in the very same tree into which we had earlier ventured to peer up at the porcupine—sometimes its better not to know what lurks nearby in the jungle.
The Coati Ploy
Biking near Lake Arenal, just my daughter and I, we encountered numerous gently rolling hills. On the uphill my daughter would easily pass me as she maintained a steady pace while even in a low gear I worked to maintain forward momentum. However, on the downhill my weight gave me a clear advantage, so I could easily overtake her light frame. Consequently, we serenely leapfrogged one another as we pedaled past jungle and lake vistas.
Along one relatively flat stretch we were nearly side by side when my daughter spotted a lone coati standing demurely by the side of the road.
“Mom, can we stop to take a photo?”
“Of course!”
So we dismounted off of our bikes, immediately forgetting the important safety tip when encountering wild animals (or even dogs for that matter)—always keep the bike between you and the animal. After all it looked so furry and cute and placid, what trouble could it cause? Boy did it have us pegged! No sooner had we set our bikes down than a dozen more of its family, neighbors and friends melted out of the dense undergrowth. They flowed toward us like an avalanche in the Rocky Mountains as we back pedaled on foot. I attempted to right my bike while urging my daughter to back up behind me. The coatis continued advancing en masse, my bike impeded my get-away and so I quickly discarded it in the favor of a faster retreat. Of course the coatis could run forward much more quickly than we could fumble our way backwards over the uneven ground.
Two events converged at this point—the coatis surrounded us just as a van approached from behind. Whether the driver pulled over to allow his tourists a view of the “cute” animals or to be entertained by the near hysteria of the surrounded mother (human not coati), I don’t know; but in any case he took pity upon our apparently misplaced frenzy and pulled over. When he got out of his van he told us in English there was nothing to worry about, “they’re just like raccoons.” Well I don’t know about raccoons in your neighborhood, but personally I don’t want to be swarmed by a pack of raccoons either. My daughter, on the other hand, maintained her calm and started taking photos.
The driver quickly picked up a seed pod and easily coaxed the coati away from us as they only were looking for food. Apparently these coati were quite familiar with the bait (cute coati) and switch (swarm of coatis) routine to encourage humans to feed them.
While the driver calmly held the coati at bay with his passengers laughing at my alarm, my daughter and I collected our bikes, stowed our cameras and thankfully pedaled on.
I am certain that the coati “plant” their smallest and cutest member by the roadside as a lure to tempt gullible tourists to stop. Needless to say we passed up a stop the next time a coati stood cutely by the roadside.
I am certain that the coati “plant” their smallest and cutest member by the roadside as a lure to tempt gullible tourists to stop. Needless to say we passed up a stop the next time a coati stood cutely by the roadside.
Monkeying Around on a Canopy Tour
Strapped into a harness, I soared 200 feet above the jungle treetops from one precarious platform to another. My feet had but a moment to pause on the 4 x 4 foot platform before I was clipped onto the 2nd cable and sent whizzing along an even longer ride.
Canopy zip line adventures are a well known tourist attraction to all who have visited Costa Rica. There seem to be two extreme reactions: terror and exhilaration. Signing the release form requesting blood type definitely could have ignited feelings of terror. One fellow traveler made it past that hurdle, but after climbing to the top of the first ladder and glimpsing the first platform without any railings, safety nets or steel reinforcements in sight, she had her fill of terror for her for one day and climbed back down.
However, if you get past those two small obstacles, you are likely to experience a wonderful sense of exhilaration. Much of this is not only due to soaring over the green expanse of jungle below, but also, I believe, a direct result of having few, if any, redundant systems in place. The adventure brought to mind the metal jungle gyms and wooden seesaws built on hard top of my childhood. As children we would play king of the jungle gym, daring one another to stand on top of the jungle gym. Common sense then, as now on the canopy zip line, was paramount. We felt powerful as kids. Even if we didn’t formally calculate the risk of slipping on the metal bars and cracking our skulls, we had an innate understanding that our actions were directly determining whether we crossed the line from play to the emergency room. I feel exhilarated in a new environment, knowing I am responsible for keeping myself safe by using my common sense—no leaning over the edge of the platform, no unhooking from the safety rope, no monkeying around.
And speaking of monkeying around… as 10 or so of us patiently waited on one platform for the guides to get in place, we noticed 4 monkeys in a tree next to us pause as they swung through the trees and give us a most curious glance. I can just imagine what they were thinking as they saw humans like fish out of water huddled on a tiny platform at their eye level. I am certain we provided them with good stories to share over dinner.
Canopy zip line adventures are a well known tourist attraction to all who have visited Costa Rica. There seem to be two extreme reactions: terror and exhilaration. Signing the release form requesting blood type definitely could have ignited feelings of terror. One fellow traveler made it past that hurdle, but after climbing to the top of the first ladder and glimpsing the first platform without any railings, safety nets or steel reinforcements in sight, she had her fill of terror for her for one day and climbed back down.
However, if you get past those two small obstacles, you are likely to experience a wonderful sense of exhilaration. Much of this is not only due to soaring over the green expanse of jungle below, but also, I believe, a direct result of having few, if any, redundant systems in place. The adventure brought to mind the metal jungle gyms and wooden seesaws built on hard top of my childhood. As children we would play king of the jungle gym, daring one another to stand on top of the jungle gym. Common sense then, as now on the canopy zip line, was paramount. We felt powerful as kids. Even if we didn’t formally calculate the risk of slipping on the metal bars and cracking our skulls, we had an innate understanding that our actions were directly determining whether we crossed the line from play to the emergency room. I feel exhilarated in a new environment, knowing I am responsible for keeping myself safe by using my common sense—no leaning over the edge of the platform, no unhooking from the safety rope, no monkeying around.
And speaking of monkeying around… as 10 or so of us patiently waited on one platform for the guides to get in place, we noticed 4 monkeys in a tree next to us pause as they swung through the trees and give us a most curious glance. I can just imagine what they were thinking as they saw humans like fish out of water huddled on a tiny platform at their eye level. I am certain we provided them with good stories to share over dinner.
Biking in Costa Rica
Our first day biking in Costa Rica made several characteristics immediately apparent regarding Tico drivers: they drive fast, they hug the (non-existent) shoulder regardless of what or who 
may be occupying the (non-existent) shoulder and they are friendly. At least I think they are friendly. A quick "beep, beep" accompanied every passing car, on-coming and headed our way, that I took to mean hola.
Thankfully the friendliness was enough to diminish the fear that came over us the first few times a heavily loaded sugar cane truck roared past us without the slightest movement across the mid-line of the road. Instinctively I would ride behind my youngest daughter and keep a foot or two outside of her rear tire in the hopes of providing her with a buffer against any passing traffic.
Fortunately the roads we traveled were not heavily trafficked, unfortunately, my parenting skills couldn’t process this information and so I continued to suggest/request/admonish my daughter to ride further to the right of the road. The friction between our tires and the road had nothing on the friction between my younger daughter and I biking together.
“Please ride closer to the grass sweetie, I don’t want you to get hit by a car.”
“I am, stop yelling at me.”
“You’re drifting to the left again”
“You’re further out than I am!”
“That’s because I want to protect you from any cars sweetheart. If a car comes from behind and doesn’t move out it would hit me and not you.”
“Well if you got hit by a car, I’d ride in front of one and get hit too.”
“What a nice sentiment,” I mused, “you’d want to be with me in the afterlife.”
“No, I wouldn’t want you to get your dying wish,” she responded.
Well, there’s a touching mother-daughter exchange to bring tears of joy to your eyes, or maybe not. We made an unspoken decision that I would ride with my older daughter and let my husband bike along with my youngest.
may be occupying the (non-existent) shoulder and they are friendly. At least I think they are friendly. A quick "beep, beep" accompanied every passing car, on-coming and headed our way, that I took to mean hola.Thankfully the friendliness was enough to diminish the fear that came over us the first few times a heavily loaded sugar cane truck roared past us without the slightest movement across the mid-line of the road. Instinctively I would ride behind my youngest daughter and keep a foot or two outside of her rear tire in the hopes of providing her with a buffer against any passing traffic.
Fortunately the roads we traveled were not heavily trafficked, unfortunately, my parenting skills couldn’t process this information and so I continued to suggest/request/admonish my daughter to ride further to the right of the road. The friction between our tires and the road had nothing on the friction between my younger daughter and I biking together.
“Please ride closer to the grass sweetie, I don’t want you to get hit by a car.”
“I am, stop yelling at me.”
“You’re drifting to the left again”
“You’re further out than I am!”
“That’s because I want to protect you from any cars sweetheart. If a car comes from behind and doesn’t move out it would hit me and not you.”
“Well if you got hit by a car, I’d ride in front of one and get hit too.”
“What a nice sentiment,” I mused, “you’d want to be with me in the afterlife.”
“No, I wouldn’t want you to get your dying wish,” she responded.
Well, there’s a touching mother-daughter exchange to bring tears of joy to your eyes, or maybe not. We made an unspoken decision that I would ride with my older daughter and let my husband bike along with my youngest.
Backside Exposure
I realize that there isn’t a need for moms to keep up with the fashion trends of the day, but I’d seen my children roll their eyes a few too many times when I wore my Levis that fit quite comfortably around my waist.
“Mom, your pants are so high, that’s embarrassing!”
And I had thought low-rise pants were the fashion mainstay only of plumbers.
So I decided it was about time I tried a pant that hit closer to my hips. My first pair worked fine. Okay, I felt a little exposed at first, but I soon learned that keeping up with another trend—wearing my shirt untucked—had the pleasant side effect of covering my exposure.
Boldly, I order a second pair from a catalogue; I was on a roll. The day they arrived I tried them on. They were certainly a bit lower than the first—the ‘waist’ hit three full fingers below my belly button. I suppose it’s no longer called a waistband at that point. However, with the right length top to cover, they actually looked good. Of course, seeing as I was now wearing all of my shirts over my waistband I couldn’t see how my children knew where my pants hit—belly button, hips, wherever, but they seemed less embarrassed, at least by how I wore my pants.
Well, looks isn’t everything, because while they looked good, they felt… insufficient. Or I should say, I felt insufficiently covered. I tried washing them and drying them, working to shrink the waist enough to have it take hold a bit higher on my waist. No such luck. Today as I walked through the grocery, I found myself hitching up my pants. Perhaps one needs to start this fashion at a younger age so one acclimates to the pants-on-hips feel before stretch marks need concealing.
When I got home I tried taking the waist in with a binder clip, so they wouldn’t slip down quite so low. That worked pretty well for awhile, but in time the clip started to poke into me— especially when I sat down. Somehow having a sharp implement in my hip bone didn’t seem a good trade off to cover my exposure.
Now I’m trying one of the most versatile of products—duct tape. I’ve cinched in the waist and taped it with duct tape so the pants fall only 2 fingers below my belly button, a definite improvement and actually not uncomfortable.
I’ve learned a valuable lesson; I shouldn’t buy pants that hit more than 2 fingers below my belly button. Oh right, and I shouldn’t succumb to my children’s pressure to wear fashion that just wasn’t meant for post-pregnancy bellies. Time to pull my Levis back on.
“Mom, your pants are so high, that’s embarrassing!”
And I had thought low-rise pants were the fashion mainstay only of plumbers.
So I decided it was about time I tried a pant that hit closer to my hips. My first pair worked fine. Okay, I felt a little exposed at first, but I soon learned that keeping up with another trend—wearing my shirt untucked—had the pleasant side effect of covering my exposure.
Boldly, I order a second pair from a catalogue; I was on a roll. The day they arrived I tried them on. They were certainly a bit lower than the first—the ‘waist’ hit three full fingers below my belly button. I suppose it’s no longer called a waistband at that point. However, with the right length top to cover, they actually looked good. Of course, seeing as I was now wearing all of my shirts over my waistband I couldn’t see how my children knew where my pants hit—belly button, hips, wherever, but they seemed less embarrassed, at least by how I wore my pants.
Well, looks isn’t everything, because while they looked good, they felt… insufficient. Or I should say, I felt insufficiently covered. I tried washing them and drying them, working to shrink the waist enough to have it take hold a bit higher on my waist. No such luck. Today as I walked through the grocery, I found myself hitching up my pants. Perhaps one needs to start this fashion at a younger age so one acclimates to the pants-on-hips feel before stretch marks need concealing.
When I got home I tried taking the waist in with a binder clip, so they wouldn’t slip down quite so low. That worked pretty well for awhile, but in time the clip started to poke into me— especially when I sat down. Somehow having a sharp implement in my hip bone didn’t seem a good trade off to cover my exposure.
Now I’m trying one of the most versatile of products—duct tape. I’ve cinched in the waist and taped it with duct tape so the pants fall only 2 fingers below my belly button, a definite improvement and actually not uncomfortable.
I’ve learned a valuable lesson; I shouldn’t buy pants that hit more than 2 fingers below my belly button. Oh right, and I shouldn’t succumb to my children’s pressure to wear fashion that just wasn’t meant for post-pregnancy bellies. Time to pull my Levis back on.
P is for Patience
Patience doesn’t come naturally to many people. Certainly I know some people who seem to be able to wait calmly as if in an ethereal trance. They can watch as their spouses drive into the longest lane at the toll booth and not even notice that every other lane is going faster, let alone mention this fact to the driver. These serene individuals would never consider rudely making a strategic dash for the far lane which appears to be moving along quite nicely. I’m not in that category. But parenting requires patience. A conundrum? Not quite— I mimic patience.
- Time builds patience. Adding 15 minutes to the start of any outing is one very good way to make it appear as if you are patient simply because you aren’t rushed.
- Preparation builds patience. This one I dusted off from my Girl Scouting experience. Pack the snack, sign the notes, locate the homework the night before and maybe you won’t find yourself yelling up the stairs, “The last place I saw your orchestra folder was under the chair!"
- Hunger erodes patience. Your or theirs. Nothing wrong with munching on some baby carrots or cheese cubes while you drag out…, I mean inspire your daughter to write that opening sentence for her essay due tomorrow.
Now if I can just find similar precepts to mimic patience on the computer so I don’t continually open new windows to start new tasks as I am unable to wait patiently for the results of a search!
Small Boots, Medium Boots
“Mom, let’s say you have a person who needs a small pair of boots and a person who needs a medium pair of boots and you have a medium pair of boots and a large pair of boots, what would you do?”
My initial reaction, “well it depends on who the people are”, was quickly countered by the more expansive response from my husband, “You have just hit open one of the fundamental dilemmas of social policy. Sometimes it’s hard to know whether to do some good for the most people, or if it’s better to completely solve some people’s problems and leave others with in inadequate solution.” And yet still it depends on whose feet are without boots.
The public education system in Massachusetts can be compared in many ways to the pair of people needing boots. Whether you consider the two bootless people to represent the financially poorer school systems and the richer school systems or the students receiving standardized instruction and the children needing Individualized Educational Programs (IEP) or the children needing honors class and those working at an average ability level, the metaphor can be played out.
Let’s consider that the students needing IEPs require medium boots and the students who receive standardized instruction require small boots. From a Massachusetts outlook, which in the public school system requires the maximum possible development of students with disability, the disabled students don’t have any footwear at all, while the other students all have at least one pair of shoes. Consequently, the education system in the state is crafted to meet the individual needs of the disabled students while leaving the remaining students to manage with a one size fits all approach—trying to put a large boot on a small foot, or worse, fitting a large foot into a small boot. In the case of disabled students and non-disabled students the cost of making the boots is not commiserate. So far more properly sized boots can be made for non-disabled students than can be made for disabled students for the same cost.
Hypothetical musings of a child are quick to capture fissures in social policy. I hope that as parents we nurture this thinking so that in time, she can be the one to find a plan to repair the cracks as well, where we have a system where everyone can get a pair of boots sized to fit.
My initial reaction, “well it depends on who the people are”, was quickly countered by the more expansive response from my husband, “You have just hit open one of the fundamental dilemmas of social policy. Sometimes it’s hard to know whether to do some good for the most people, or if it’s better to completely solve some people’s problems and leave others with in inadequate solution.” And yet still it depends on whose feet are without boots.
The public education system in Massachusetts can be compared in many ways to the pair of people needing boots. Whether you consider the two bootless people to represent the financially poorer school systems and the richer school systems or the students receiving standardized instruction and the children needing Individualized Educational Programs (IEP) or the children needing honors class and those working at an average ability level, the metaphor can be played out.
Let’s consider that the students needing IEPs require medium boots and the students who receive standardized instruction require small boots. From a Massachusetts outlook, which in the public school system requires the maximum possible development of students with disability, the disabled students don’t have any footwear at all, while the other students all have at least one pair of shoes. Consequently, the education system in the state is crafted to meet the individual needs of the disabled students while leaving the remaining students to manage with a one size fits all approach—trying to put a large boot on a small foot, or worse, fitting a large foot into a small boot. In the case of disabled students and non-disabled students the cost of making the boots is not commiserate. So far more properly sized boots can be made for non-disabled students than can be made for disabled students for the same cost.
Hypothetical musings of a child are quick to capture fissures in social policy. I hope that as parents we nurture this thinking so that in time, she can be the one to find a plan to repair the cracks as well, where we have a system where everyone can get a pair of boots sized to fit.
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)