Dear Louise,

It's still raw.  It will be for some time.  Your son is heartbroken.  He loves you so very very much, and the gaping hole that is left in your absence is cold tonight.  When I hear Sean's silence it screams in my ears, and I can't hear anything but his loss. If loss can be heard. I don't like that sound.  It's loud.  Close.  Too much. 

And yet somehow we all know that you are okay.  There is great comfort in that.  Of course!  You are with Marilyn and Pat and your parents and all those for whom you once wept.  Yes.  You're fine.

I felt overwhelmed with panic on the way to your funeral.  I didn't want any of this to be real.  It's such a childish thing, just sitting there on a plane thinking, please let it not be true, as if suddenly it would no longer be true.  There is a finality to death that leaves us all in shock and we think, or rather we don't, that a crazy blindsiding presence  can hold us hostage.  Then logical replacement seems to be grief.  These are the choices? I don't like 'em.

Your family is incredibly strong, Louise.  You should know, and I suspect you do, that through the tears and sadness, there was laughter on your behalf.  We remembered so much good.  And Johnny found some deep rooted strength speaking about you last Monday with the love and humor and Godliness only the brood of Wahls are capable of.  Imagine that.  He took that church so engulfed with sadness and spread your smile in just a few simple words. Gosh we needed that.  He's a great man, that Johnny.  I see why you married him.  I see why he married you.

Thank you for saving Sam's notes in the cookie jar. What a comfort.  She will always have that tiny gesture that you likely didn't realize would have such a profound impact.

So today, I wonder.  How will God shine in our hearts so that we can be at peace again? How might it replace the impending war inside us so that we can live on in your memory the way you would want?

We have photos. We have memories. And we have your hundreds of phone calls, vacations to Tahoe, rosaries (I'm sure you knew I didn't really know how to say them, but I plowed through the prayers because I knew it was right.) We have our delicious meals, mints on the pillows in the spare bedrooms, Christmas ornaments that we can unwrap each year, recipes in your handwriting, long rides in the car, conversations, your story-telling, your keepsakes, Mitzi's kisses embedded in our cheeks, and of course, Yatzee!

We have time, Louise. And we have faith. 

We love you, and we miss you.
                                   

Devil or Angel?

Sometimes I wonder if I should be doing stand up. 

Here's a conversation I had with a student yesterday, the Friday before Halloween:

Student:  "Nancy, don't take this the wrong way, but I had a dream about you last week."
Me:         "Really?"
Student:  "Yeah...You had horns!"

I wasn't exactly sure how to take that. Oh sure we giggled, and then all day she continued to make jokes about it. At one point, I was goofing around with her and then she said, "You see?  That's why I can't have dreams about you!" 

Well, at the end of the day, I was sure to have the last word: "Bye dear,"  I said.  "And...sweet dreams!" 

Another student, a former student, approached me at dismissal wondering why we didn't decorate cookies when he was in my class years ago.  We had just had a sugar fest, and the kids were leaving with their smeary sugar cookies in Ziplock baggies, frosting on their noses, singing "Science Fiction Double Feature."  I replied, "Well I must have done something good."

"You did, Nancy.  You teached us."

Forgetting

It's a curse, serving like an unwanted pest, annoying and taunting and testing and winning far too often. 

Imagine forgetting since, well, conception.  Imagine being the one who all but forgot to exit the womb had it not been biologically impossible.

Forgetting can be embarrassing, all-encompassing and everything in between.  We forget birthdays, anniversaries, and even weddings.  We forget to make payments, to make appointments, to eat, to pee, and some of us when we were in, perhaps, fifth grade, may have forgotten the baton for the Memorial Day Parade.  It was considered it an honor to have been chosen to lead the band, to be the majorette. You ask yourself, "How does the LEADER of the band forget the baton?" And when the powers that be ask, "Well, where IS it?" your best answer is, "I dunno!"  when actually,  you DO know.  It's at school.  In your cubby.  Right next to the lunchbox you left there on Friday with the 1/2 eaten soggy tuna sandwich and thermos of milk. 

In our places of employment we forget a plethora of nonsense. All that multitasking, writing notes, planning, meetings, messages, details, expectations, and people.  Oh the dreaded people.  We forget their names, their friends' names, their bosses names, their parents' names.  Then juggling all of that with our own families.  Doctor visits, orthodontist check ups, parent teacher conferences.  Pitiful. Regretful.  Forgetful.

Some of us may have forgotten about the toast in the oven, the toast that we broil because we were too irresponsible to have a toaster, and then burned it anyway.  We burn the croutons, the chicken, the sauce, the chili. And yes, it's possible to burn a pot of water. It just might over-boil on the stove and then melt and leave drips of steel all over the coils. You remember the smell, right?

Note to self, DON'T IRON ON A NEW MATTRESS OR THAT "LAST S FOR SAVINGS" WILL BE OBSCOLETE. Your spouse will soon wonder how many more things he/she will have to replace before the divorce papers are delivered via certified mail. 

Did ya forget the groceries at the grocery store?  And left without the one thing you went in for?  How about your wallet? Your licence? Your keys? Your purse?  Your purse on a stoop? Your purse at a bar?  Your purse in church?  Your purse in Starbucks?  On an airplane?  In a different country?    Have you ever had a homeless man return the purse you left on a platform?

It is a sickening feeling when you forget something.  There's this surge of blood  that shoots up to your face leaving your cheeks hot.  Then your stomach feels empty, even nauseous.  Yeah, you get this real vomiting kind of feeling. All of it is mixed in with relentless embarassment.

Anyway, you may just want to forget about this piece.  The problem is you can't remember how to forget.

Journey

a dotted line
a double line
no line
one way only
forks of yielding choices

stop at red
speed through yellow
near misses at every intersection

Now slow slow slow down
and detour
a scenic route twists and bends ahead
turn right
     away from traffic
 right
    away from trouble
open up your sun roof
roll down your windows
and smell the fresh cut lawns
    
or

turn left
     into the confusion of life
     with the snarls and speed traps and tickets and summons and fender benders

You want to detour from all the wrong turns and
     FIX them.
     Damn it!  Just FIX them.
before your wheels break down and you're
just
plain
stuck.

It's Saturday.
Not too late to turn around.
You can still make that right.
         

It's Really Quite Simple

     Joy. It sprouts in childhood, more for some than others.  There are people who can look back and see privilege and great parenting while others would  like nothing more than to skip the shrink once in a while.  I can stretch all the way back to a time before my babysitting years, when I held my mother's hand and rested my head on her lap, and one thing remains clear: that there has always been, for me, a thread of innocence, one that gives me comfort and good, solid roots from which I can thrive and learn to love on my own.
   
     Possibly the fondest memory of my childhood lies in the gifts that my mother gave me.  And her gifts came to me in the simplicity of food with her purest intentions. Everything bruised was healed with a hug and a Hershey bar.  Oh, the Hershey bar. It melted between my fingers and had the power to melt my heart.  It was usually hidden from us so that my brothers and sister and I wouldn't eat it all in one fell swoop. Sure, my mother hid things from us and chocolate was no different.  Christmas gifts, Easter eggs, desserts. But we didn't look for those items, only the Hershey's.  Now that I am older I am pretty convinced that she meant to hide that rich block of deliciousness so that we would find it.  I think she knew we would look for it, and she wanted us to have that satisfaction of finding it. Now that's love.
    
     Once, While my mother was at work, my brother Dave, the "bag of bones" (we called him that because he was so dreadfully skinny) climbed up on every counter top, the kitchen table, the dining room hutch, every possible spot out of reach until he snagged the 16 oz. bar.  The funny thing is, we never worried that we'd get in trouble for eating it.  And we ate it so fast, I only remember that it was worth standing on the counter, reaching back into the dark dusty cupboard, and wolfing it down before my mother pulled into the driveway.
    
     Her little gestures of love spread quickly, and we all learned how to give back.  I started with the source:  my parents. At that time, my parents budget was tight, so my mother chose to buy these tiny cans of frozen orange juice from concentrate, the store brand from Finast.  There was just enough in a prepared pitcher to fill the six little yellow glasses that we drank from every single morning. Not a drop more, and of course, nothing less. One morning, I couldn't have been more than seven or eight, I climbed out of bed before the rest of my family.  All the doors to the bedrooms were closed. It was early just before Saturday sun up, and so I made my way down to the kitchen.  I don't know, for the life of me, what possessed me to do it , but I decided that I was going to "make the orange juice."  I pulled up a chair to search the freezer for a can. There it was, the last one.  My mom used to run it under hot water for a minute to loosen it from the sides.  Empty contents into a pitcher.  Fill 3 cans of cold water and pour.  Stir. Serve.   I could do that.  I've watched it done every morning for 6 years! I filled that Tupperware pitcher, poured two little, plastic, yellow glasses all scratched and chewed around the rims, and carefully brought them to my room where I waited until I heard my parents talking,  the signal that told me it was okay to go in.
    
     "Here you go."
     "What's this?"
     "I made it myself.... Is it good?  Do you like it?"
     "It's delicious."

     Joy. Innocence. Love.

Remembering September 11th

     It was a positively perfect day in New York City. A crystal clear sky would, in a sad and scary moment, turn dark and ugly. It was the third day of my career as a kindergarten teacher in a public school below 14th Street.  My daughter and son, who were in third grade and kindergarten respectively, attended a different school nearby.  My son was sick that day, and so my husband was on his way with him to the doctor's. They had just dropped our daughter off.

     My class was loud that morning, and it would continue to be for the next nine years; one of many things in this world I simply cannot change.  I had a student teacher and a student helper from NYU. Both were lovely.  Both were so genuine and new.  My principal was iron tough, but she saw the best in me when I let out the best of me.  My classroom was across the hall from our busy main office, the one that bustled with vocal, loving parents, administration and teachers.  My classroom was on the ground floor where street noise could always be heard, but not on this day.

     I remember that there were announcements over the intercom.  There were always announcements over the intercom.  I paid little attention to them.  I was far too determined to get my 24 five-year-olds to sit in a circle, and multitasking the acts of commanding and listening was not my strongest skill. So our school secretary entered through my closed classroom door. I always kept the door closed. It was too noisy for a main floor hallway.

     She asked, "Do you want to call your husband?"
    "Why would I want to do that?"
     "Aren't you listening to the announcements?"
    "No.  Why?"
  
     And that is when I learned the news. I didn't believe it.  In fact, I remember saying aloud, "Are you sure?  That can't be true." It was only steps from the front door of our school to the avenue that stretched her arms all the way to the burning buildings.  I had a very clear view.  I would witness the world change as I once knew it.  I didn't want to believe it. 

     Within a short time, parents picked up their children, and K-110 became the holding room for all the children who innocently waited.  I didn't know the parents well enough on that third day of school to even know which adults paired with which children.  I had only faith.  We all had to dig deep into our faith that day and in the days to follow. 

     Within a short time there was a line wrapped around our block for blood donations at the hospital.  We thought blood would be needed.

     Within a short time cell phone service would stop. I called my husband but was unable to reach him. Later when we found each other on the street, he told me that he saw the plane hit the World Trade Center.  So did our son.  He told me that he cried on a corner. We all cried.

     Within a short time, there would be no cars on the streets.  Just quiet pedestrians. And amidst the shock and stillness of our city, American flags would billow from windows.

     Within a short time the New York skyline would be changed forever.  The towers would crumble.  And I would not remember what they once looked like.  Why hadn't I taken notice?  I had just been there the week before for a new teacher workshop. Why hadn't I noticed? 

     September 11th never gets easier to understand or endure. It still leaves me chilled.   After watching the memorial service today on television, I felt the need to go downtown and just be. There were protests and crowds and even a blindfolded man wearing a t-shirt that read 9-11 Was an Inside Job.

     Tonight I will say a prayer for all of us: for the families of the victims and for all whose lives were taken from them.  I will marvel at the Ground Zero beams of light and at the way they will kiss the heavens from dusk till dawn. I will notice. 

I will remember.

I'm Thankful For...

1. Sean, The man who rubs my shoulders nearly every day, and loves me even when I'm ugly.
2. Sam and Liam, who make me proud and give me reasons to laugh when I feel like crying.
3. Rose and Steve, who know just the right thing to say when I need them to say it, and are always ready with their outstretched parental arms.
4. Carol, who calls me just to talk about nothing when we don't have something to talk about.
5. Fritz, the man who makes me feel like I'm the only person who matters and cooks like a master chef.
6. Steve and Dave, who drive 90 miles to pick me up and bring me home.  Just because.
7. Anna, my sister in law, an amazing listener, who puts everyone first.  She's a gem.
8. Trisha, my surrogate sister, who keeps me grounded, hoists me through windows and invites me to her house for sleepovers when I'm sad.
9. John and Louise, who sent me their son and welcomed me into their loving hearts and their beautiful home for 17 years.
10. Shannon and Dan, the rock of relationships, whose commitment to marriage inspires and upholds.
11. Karen and Scott, who teach us all to stay close, no matter how far away we are.
12. Brian and Mary Kate, future travel partners, sharing their love of wine, food, family and friendship.
13. Erin, the in-law who makes me laugh the most, plays the best music and provides endless conversation on long walks through diverse landscapes.
14. My 12 beautiful nieces and nephews, who grew up too fast, and gave me priceless memories in California, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, New York City, Lake Tahoe, Yosemite, Santa Cruz, Hawaii, St. John, parks, playgrounds, and even Starbucks.  
15. John, who reminds me when it's an "odd year" so that we don't forget to get together and catch up.
16. Kim, my friend of 20+ years who has more spirit than any saint, any angel, anyone I know.
17. Joaquin, my loving and giving and dear, dear friend whose words of wisdom stay with me years after he speaks them.
18. Michael, whose five songs saved on our answering machine give us the giggles every time we play them.   
19. Nina and Meg, who gave me too many childhood memories to mention, but I'll not soon forget. Do paranoid people really have personal problems?
20. Jeannie and Jack, who keep me close to God, never letting me lose sight of Him, even when I'm nearly blind.
21.  Dianne and Ray, who know that there's never too much or not enough, so our holidays are filled with just the right food and just the right love and 20 lbs. of mashed potatoes.
22. Erin, Jimmy, Trev, Rich, Mike, Anne and their gorgeous,  perfect children whom I don't see enough.  It is their love that prevails and stops time so that we can reconnect when we reunite. 
23. Uncle Eddie, who, at 90-something, will surely live to be 100, setting the bar of inspiration high for all of us who think that we can't.
24. Mrs. Palmer's Pumpkin bread.
25. Kelly, who believes in me, lets me be self-deprecating, and then bathes me in her confidence.
26. Michelle, whose door is always open for advice, who always makes time to listen and wears a big smile no matter what.
27. Hetal, who has made me a better mathematician, and who knows anything is possible even when I don't.
28. Hindy, whose warm hand inspires me to write, to teach, to dream.
29. John who makes the best seared red and yellow peppers stuffed with grilled tuna and navy beans over a bed of cous cous.
30. Jamie who inspires me to get off my arse and stay in shape so that I can look half as good as she.
31. Beth, who introduced me to Banana Grams and reminds me that it's okay.  It's always okay.
32. Anne, my kindred spirit, who would throw herself in front of a train for me.
33. Ashley, who tells me I'm hot, even when I'm not.
34. Frances, a master, whose honesty and giving nature makes me feel like I matter.
35. Eve, a musical genius, an unsung heroine, who always has time to listen.
36. Jessica, who I wish I still worked across from.  She makes it so easy to pop in, say hey, and shoot the breeze.
37. Carla, who launched my teaching career with her example and has always been one of my favorite people. 
38. Bob, my neighbor:  in a word:  Hilarious.  Please don't ever stop being funny. 
39. Henry, my mailman who, for two decades, has unconditionally said, "Hi, how you doin'? Alright.  Have a good day.  You take care."
40. Robin, who shows us what it takes to look for our lives and find happiness even when pain and grief can engulf.
41. Pamela, whose zest for song and unending passion for life finds magic in everything she touches.
42. Uncle George's Silly Goose Club. Thanks for letting me join.
43. Judith who has watched my children grow up and has fed us with her love and groceries.  She's the salt of the earth.
44. Calvin, the a staple on our block who keeps everything clean.  The mayor of our complex, may he never retire from our hearts. 
45. Benny who "smelled some-ting" when I smelled it, too.   It was behind the stove hanging by it's electrocuted tail.   His sheepish grin is a monument in my life. Does he really have to move back to Malta?
46. Mike who scares me with Halloween masks, sneaks up on me when I'm the last teacher in the building and would do anything in the world for me.  Anything!  He is a role model who lives with honor.
47. Love.
48. Friendship.
49. Family.
50. Time.
51. Peace.
52. Joy.
53. Life.

The Fountain of Youth Doesn't Runneth Over

     I know a lot of old people.  Plenty of them are family, friends, colleagues and neighbors, and few, if any of them, complain. They move through life nearly invisible to the masses, surely encountering aches and pains on a day to day basis, enduring weaknesses that they simply didn't have at 20 or 30 years old.  Some are inflicted.  Others are restricted, and I just don't hear them gripe. 

     Maybe I'm not listening.

     I know they wake up with ailments. I remember as a little girl listening to the older people sitting around the dining room table.  They seemed old to me.  Everyone looks old to an 8-year-old.  They would speak the Italian romance language, but I knew it was about everything but romance.  I could see the worry in their eyes and the sufferring in their sunken cheeks.  My grandmother spoke with a flowered cloth hankie in her hand.  My aunt folded a paper napkin at the edge of the table, over and over, into a long strip.  Both  embraced their solemn Italian manner, their Catholic worry, repeating their mantra:  "Oh dio mia."

     Heck, today I was sure I'd been hit by a truck last night. But there was nothing on the news about it.  How could they miss it?  I think my hip is still in the street with the wreckage!  And my elbow.  And my knee.  And my sciatic nerve. (Oh, Sean has a field day with that one.  He says:  "I keep telling everyone, I've been married to a pain in the *&% for 17 years."  )

     Here's the tricky part:  I'm certainly not old.  My kids seem to think we're living in a college dorm which explains the dirty dishes in their bedrooms and the nail clippers found between the cushions of the sofa.  My husband seems to think I'm 24 which explains why he keeps selecting bikinis for my summer beachwear.  Enough said about that one. And my mother has truly forgotten my age since she insists I audition for American Idol even though acid reflux has taken over my vocal chords like the Mt. Vesuvius lava.

     The reality of the middle years, and that's all I'm willing to divulge about my age today, does not exactly compare to a walk down Easy Street. So I rise, caffeinate, tweeze, and get through it keeping in mind the lessons I've learned from the Italian women who once spoke to me in a language I couldn't translate, but learned to understand.

     Sean made the bed this morning humming "One love...One heart.  Let's get together and feel alright."

     How fitting.

Guest Writer

     Today, I received in the mail the following letter.  My mom sent it to me.  She had found it among some old cards and notes that she saved in a box.  This one was written 17 years ago, one month before Samantha was born.  It has been poorly copied so the picture that accompanied the letter is unclear, and I chose not to include it.  It doesn't matter.  There is so much power in the written word.

World Traveler

     I am always intrigued by travelers.  That people actually go to places like Italy, France and Mexico.  What's more, they go for the weekend! No big deal.  A bachelorette party in Vegas?  Why not?  Rome for Thanksgiving?  Perfetto!

     Heck.  I was never even invited to a bachelorette party in Vegas.  I just didn't know anyone during my twenties who did that.  For many reasons, money, time, interest, it wasn't in the cards.  Besides, we were all actors. We didn't have any money. I simply did not grow this body into a world traveler. Yet around me, flourishing gardens of  travelers were taking root in my network of friends. Some headed to Paris.  Others to Greece.  How about Australia or The Galapagos Islands?

     And so it remained through my thirties and now in my forties, I dream of a trip to Italy, but I  board the Staten Island Ferry.

     Good times.

     The thing is, I'm a mess at airports.  We're not a good match. When I do get to an airport, I can be found rushing to the ticket counter with my mismatched backpacks, longing for just one bag on wheels, barely able to afford the trip I happen to be taking, let alone the multiple 3 oz. containers I needed to pack all of the haircare products and Victoria Principal's skincare I have shoved into every zipper compartment in the Jansport! And juggling the boarding pass and my purse and my Advil and lip liners?  Forget it. 

     "Good Afternoon Ma'am.  May I see your boarding pass?"
     "Boarding pass?  Ummmmm....."  (Gosh, what does it look like...fumble...fumble) "Is this it?"
     "Yes.  May I see some ID, please?"
     (Scramble.  Empty out every card in the wallet.  UFT.  New York Public Library.  Duane Reade.  A Band Aid? What the heck is this doing there?) "Gosh. I can't seem to find my driver's license, sir.  How about this?"
     "Your Blockbuster Card?  Uhhh, No Ma'am.  Do you have a passport?"
     "Yes! Of Course! I HAVE a passport.  Yes. Yey me!  And it has one stamp on it from my trip to the Caribbean."
     "Congratulations.  The passport please?"

     Once, I navigated my kids and I through Central Park in a snow storm.  We had to get from The Met to The American Museum of Natural History.  It's a simple walk.  Start at the East side, cross to the West side.  It's basically a straight line, but not when I had anything to do with it.  Our straight line turned into a COMPLETE CIRCLE.  I didn't understand how that could have happened. We left the Met, passed by a big lake, threw a few snowballs and 45 minutes later I stumbled upon some teenage attitude: 

     Kids:  "Mom?  Is that the Met?  Isn't that where we started? 
     Me:     No!  That's The Museum of Natural History!
     Kids:   "No its not."
     Me:     "Yeah....it is!"
     Kids:   "No, Mom.  That sign says Fifth Avenue."
     Me:     "What the....Oh my gosh you guys!  I am sooooo sorry!"

     So to learn that there are actually people out there who do this sort of nomadic thing all the time, colleagues, friends, business travelers like my brother-in-law who never leaves home without his GPS, I am in great wonder of it all.  I want to be that person.  You know, the one who takes three trips a year.  The one who has all the hotel toiletries in a basket in the bathroom vanity.  The one who actually has mileage points.  The one who gets to the airport an hour before rather than enduring four hours of people watching and $5.00 cups of coffee simply because she didn't want to miss her plane.

     Once, I traveled home from San Francisco alone leaving Sean and the kids behind. It was a big deal for me to find my way to the gate, then sit by myself, through a terrible movie, in "brace for impact"  turbulence. Okay so it wasn't that bad, but I have a low threshold for turbulence.  We were delayed because the storm had put the breaks on the baggage claim at JFK, and as a result, I was in a cab at 1:30 in the morning heading back to Manhattan, my trusty carry on, purse and big green duffel bag in tow.  The windows were fogged and we seemed to be on a highway for quite some time, when I suddenly looked out and saw Manhattan passing by.  Panicked, I was certain the cab driver was kidnapping me to Staten Island. Imagine, this coming from someone who can't even find her way around Waldbaums let alone the streets of New York City.  I couldn't tell you if I was on the Belt Parkway, the BQE, the Inbound Gowanus; these were highways I had heard Megan Meany mention on Today in New York, but couldn't identify if my life depended on it.  And I really thought my life depended on it. I was certain the bridge we were suddenly approaching was the Verrazano Narrows. I would be tied to a cement block and thrown into the Hudson in a matter of minutes.  Someone, save me.

    The cab whizzed over the large black body of water, the mouth of the Hudson, swallowing me up like a...What's that street?  Delancy?  Oh Dear God, thank you.  Thank you.

Let's Celebrate!

Did you hear?

Curves are returning for fall fashion. Thank you Mr. Gunn!

Jennifer Aniston was spotted on two dates in ONE WEEK! How does she do it?

NY Jets Derrelle Revis after a month of holding out for more money received a hero's welcome today.  Way to go Derrelle.

Randy Jackson's the only Idol judge left. 

Good Gosh.  What is this world coming to?

Another Sleepless Sunday Morning

     This morning I woke up again at 5:15.  What is it with  me?  When I have all the time in the world, I can't sleep.  And when I have no time, all I want to do is sleep. Guaranteed, I'll be sleeping during Father Peter's sermon this morning, and just when I realize it, I'll open my eyes, and he'll be looking right at me! 

     Busted.

     Now, I know that there are positively more productive things one can do at this hour.  Some people read.  They read The Bible, finish a great biography, run and get the paper.  Some cook.  They start with fresh baked muffins, make Sunday gravy, brew up a pot of coffee.  And others pray.  They pray to the gods of physical fitness.  Joggers, bikers and yoga gurus throw on their trusty pair of sneakers and work up a good sweat before starting the day.

     Sean is golfing. Lucky him.

     These are great options.  And I believe that the secret to success is through the choices that we make.  Everything we do is a choice.  Everything!  Absolutely EVERYTHING.  Think about it.  We make simple choices:  Should I have a burger or a salad?  We make more challenging choices:  Should I fire that girl or give her one more chance?  And then there are the life-altering choices:  Listen to my heart and marry this person, or heed the warnings of virtually everyone I know and let this one go.

     Take the right fork and you're sittin' pretty.  Take the left one, and, well, all bets are off. This is not to say that peaks and valleys won't pop up now and then.  Life can be a mighty long journey, paved with a whole mess of bumps along the road.  Still, when I look at the big picture, it's CHOICE that gets me over, under, and through all those bumps.

     So I chose the computer this morning.  I found postings from 2 hours ago! People are actually up at 3:15am? I'm thinkin' they just got home from a night out with friends or maybe a date.  Gosh I want to be up at 3:15.  And I want to be sleeping right now!  I want to be like the masses, resting my mind so that I can wake up fresh and free from the inevitable bags under my eyes.

     And then, there are the thoughts.  In my case, it's thoughts gone wild. Like tornados, they spin out of my control, and over coffee I am in an abyss.  A flip flop of worries and wishes.  It  is a curse, I tell you.  A flaw in my gene pool. And the next thing I know I'm changing the shower curtain, burning the toast, and having an argument with someone in my head.  And it's only 5:45!

     I'm going out for a run.

For Dad

     My dad’s birthday is approaching. He’ll be 81.

     This lovely man, who once climbed a ladder and painted our three-story colonial, who was the king of bocce and barbecue at every family picnic, who became my personal human diving board at Jennings Beach is now plagued with health tribulations. He suffers from diabetes, heart disease, the aftermath of a stroke, hearing loss and prostate cancer currently in remission. And to top things off, he is missing his ring finger, which fell off when he fell off some scaffolding in his 20s. The effects of these series of unfortunate events should have stopped him years ago, for no one in his family ever lived past 70.

     But my dad prevails.

     Perhaps it’s my mom’s Italian cooking. She’s crazy good at it, and as his primary care provider, she waits on that old soul hand and foot. No one has been more effective at such a task as she:

“Rose,” he calls from his leather recliner. “When are we gonna eat?”
“When do you want to eat?”
“Now!” Then there’s the pause. Wait for it. Wait for it. “What are we havin'?”
“What do you want?”
“What have you got?”

     Fifty-five years of this, in sickness and in health, as promised. Nothing has stopped this man. He remains the scrabble king who, dare I say, is rarely beat, though my brother begs to differ. He is a master at the 1000 piece puzzle, hunching over the board on the dining room table sharing the midnight crickets’ shift.

     Perhaps it’s his unending head-held-high approach to life that singles him out in a crowd of otherwise negative people. I sure do know a lot of fatalists; Complainers who take comfort in bashing and blame. But Steve assures us that any of that is a “waste of time.” So he is quiet unless there is something funny or positive to say.

     Still, I find it unbearable to see him this frail. It's just so unfair. Simple tasks like walking up the two stairs to his house leave him out of breath. Buttering toast puts him in a quandary when the bread slips to the floor. Swallowing toast without choking is a rarity. As I watch him getting in and out of the car using every bit of strength, I wonder how he can even tie his shoe. The simplicity of daily life provides my dad with enough challenge to warrant a nap. And then another. And then another.

     To me, Steve is a hero. An inspiration to all who let the world, with all of her faults, invade the space of the true happiness God intends for us to have. In the sunset of his life, My dad beams more like the dawn.

Can It Be That I've Had Too Much Time Off?

It's a good thing I work. 

Working gets me out of the house, away from the half of a homemade Barefoot Contessa Carrot Cake that has taken refuge in my thighs. 

Working gets me into the shower and out of the p.j.'s I've slept in, had lunch and dinner in, and even went for coffee in.

Working helps me see that there is life after the next guest on Martha.

Working alleviates the aggravation I endure when my kids sleep till 12.

Are there meetings for this?  Something like AA or Gambler's Anonymous or Get the Heck off the Couch Anonymous?

Oh sure, there are plenty of things one can do in lieu of working, and having a wallet busting at the seams is not even a prerequisite.  For example, I saw a "like" on Facebook this morning (yes I was on it at 6:30 this morning) that read, "If you have time to go on Facebook, you have time to exercise."  Definitely.  I've had time to race the seagulls along the river, have breakfast with Billy Blanks, and even pedal my fanny to the GWB.  All of these take about an hour.   Instead, I found out who just improved her pedal sachet recipe, and I discovered a company that actually makes money on designer toilets. Bed Bath and Beyond even sells wooden toilet seats that look like checkered cutting boards...Just in case I plan on slicing vegetables when I pee!

If exercise isn't my thing, I could volunteer, go to mass, have lunch with a friend, visit my mom (no forget that, I gained 5 pounds the last time I visited her) plant some tulips outside, have coffee on the Highline, stroll through the Union Square Green Market, browse the sale racks at Anthropology, visit the dentist, use my Key to the City... 

Did you know that there are break dancing cats, vagina trees and dear God! can you believe Anne Hathaway cut her hair off?

It's a good thing I work.

Massimo

     Tonight I stumbled upon Aria, a trendy little wine bar in the West Village.  I have passed this hot spot a number of times, and it is always jam-packed with a happy, care-free, thirty-something crowd. Or so it seems, as I think I don a few more grey hairs than the clientele sitting at the bar.  They check their iPhones and straighten their Theory dresses. And I pass by longingly on my way home from work. But tonight, there were merely a few candles lit and a lovely young man in a beret at the door.  He lured my beer-drinking husband and I in for some cicchetti (Venetian for tapas) and of course, some wine.

     It seems that Sean and I have these regular New York moments wherein something memorable happens and we inevitably wish someone else could be there to experience it with us.  Nonetheless, we sat at the white-tiled bar drooling over the choices of eggplant stuffed with goat cheese or shrimp wrapped with thinly sliced salami grilled to a hopeful perfection.  That's when Massimo approached.

     "Would-eh you like-eh to start-eh with some-eh thing-eh to drink-eh?  
    
     Ahhhh. My heart always skips a beat when I discover an opportunity to chew off an Italian's ear. Sean just might be a little worse.  We hear the accent and we become leech-like, sucking every drop of informational blood from their memory. Tonight was no different.  Oh we waited, like skilled predators, playing it cool, scouring the menu, watching our prey pace the floor in anticipation of an order from his only customers.  And then...then we made our move.

 "Are you from Italy?"
"Yes-eh.  Torino."
"Ahh yes.  Oh, how beautiful it is there."
"You've-eh been?"
"No.  Next year. "

     And so it began.  Before the night was over, we learned that Massimo, having only been in New York for three months, has more passion for his homeland than perhaps an artist has for his canvas.  Though he loves New York, it is " ehhhh differen-teh" he says.  New Yorkers are "a mess and so are the Romans."  He  means this in a most loving and respectful way, as he reminded us repeatedly that he loves New York.  It's just "ehhhh differen-teh."  We learned about his long-haired twin who is an actor in Rome and his mother who was devastated when he moved her 30-year-old bambino so far away.  Massimo has traveled the world bartending in Greece, Sweden and now New York.  As for drinks?  He could only say in his broken English that in New York, bartenders pour a lot of vodka and soda, because that's what their customers seem to want. But in Italy, bartending is an art with fruit (FRU-I-teh) and passion, mixing good-tasting drinks. Like the Negroni he made for us with wine instead of gin garnished with fresh cut strawberries and thin slices of orange. Delizioso. Grazie. Molte Bene.

     He heads back to Torino in early September, and I will probably never see my kindred spirit again.

     When you punch up "Massimo" in a web dictionary, such words and phrases as Roman Princely Family, Fabius, Leone, and Maria Gabriella all pop up, among many other lyrical Italian notes of importance.  Impressive? Maybe.  But as far as I am concerned, Massimo, the Italian wine bar bartender simply means "friend."

A Top 10 List

The Top 20 Reasons Why I Love New York:

20.  Bike Paths?  Pedestrian Malls?  C'mon.  Who would have thunk?
19.  New York introduced me to love, marriage, children and okay, it was pretty cool meeting Marilyn Manson.  He had yellow eyes.
18.  The sound of horse hooves on a cobble stone street:  Doesn't it turn heads?
17.  NYC Firefighters...they just might be bigger than life.
16.  The Subway Series:  It's peanuts vs. Cracker Jacks.
15.  Governor's, Coney, City, Ellis, Riker's,  Roosevelt, and Yes, Staten Island.
14.  Where else can you ride a bike through the coolest neighborhoods in Red Hook to get to Ikea.
13.  Seriously?  Dumpster Pools?
12.  Thank You Mayor Bloomberg and Kofi for my Key to the City.
11.  When you order Chinese take-out, you hang up the phone and your doorbell rings.
10.  St John the Devine, St. Francis Xavier, St Patrick's Cathedral? Have mercy!
9.    My whole life is crammed into a closet.
8.    I've had my purse stolen and then the homeless man who took it, called me to return my cell phone!
7.    Kiss Me Kate in 3-D at the Film Forum.
6.    You can watch tango in the Chelsea Market and bathing in the Washington Square Park fountain.  It's
              really very diverse!
5.    New York City showed my family the "Chelsea Boys" sunbathing nude on the pier while we were on my
              wedding reception boat ride.
4.    I can drive from 101st and Columbus all the way to 14th and 9th without catching a single light.
3.    One Life to Live hired me for extra work, even when I was PREGNANT.
2.    I can go for coffee in my pajamas.

And the number one reason why I love New York?

        21 years of memories.

(Okay, so there's probably more but.....You get the idea.)

Happy

     With a little help from my better half and from God, I grew this person. Today he is big.  Today he is a teenager.  And today I forgive him for his hormonal door-slamming outbursts.  Today I love him even more than I did when he flew out of me like a rocket, all wrinkly and red. Today he is 160 lbs. of muscle and he pummels his opponents on the football field right before reaching out a hand to help them up.  Today he waves and says hello to all of our neighbors in that deep resonant voice of his, the same voice that called me a hypocrite and then apologized profusely because he didn't mean it. Today, he is preparing for a new journey in a new school with a new posse. Today he wears his father's cologne, and the smell of my man-boy makes me feel old.
   At one time he toted a license plate on his tricycle that read, "Happy Guy."  I watched him scurry his chubby little legs down the block petting dogs, squealing with delight from his dad's tickle tortures.  He would talk to anyone who listened, and they all listened; the construction workers around the corner, Calvin, our super, and Judith, the ever-present manager at D'Agostinos.  He rarely cried unless he was truly hurting like when we hastily bought a dog and then heartlessly returned it the next day.  My happy guy cried for weeks and I wondered when I would forgive myself for it.  At one time he sheepishly stepped in wet cement with his brand new Reebox.  He was four, and he was embarrassed.   At one time he ate pizza with his teacher and played Monopoly with his grandpa.  I combed his little boy hair all wispy and blonde and marveled at his huge, sapphire eyes.
     My mother says, "When you dwell on the past, it becomes the present."  She is a wise and wonderful woman. Well, Mom, I don't dwell where my not so little man is concerned because the present is quite good.  He listens, he errs on the side of caution and does his best to do his best. When it's bad, it's just bad, not terrible.  And when it's good, it's really good.
     So today, I am  reminiscent.  I am thankful.  I am happy.

Dear Girl...It's Called, "Acting."

     There is really nothing wrong with giving something your best shot.  Pauline Pataky, a dear family friend, used to say, "Dream Big."   Those were strong and empowering words for a young impressionable woman to hear.   So after being called to audition for Star Search and after the mention in the New York Times for my performance in Hair ("For musical highlights, note her perfectly sung "Frank Mills,"...yeah, I memorized it!) I made the plunge to give up a full time job, a lease and access to financial stability to move my bony Italian arse to New York City on those strong and empowering Pauline Pataky words. 
     It is quite possibly the reason I chose not to travel and delayed any trips to other side of the Atlantic.  I sort of veered my life's journey off the path for a bit. A bit of ten years. That was a choice I made with life-altering consequences, some not so great, others undeniably pivotal. 
     In my first Upper West Side apartment, I shacked up with "Hakim," the ridiculously smart man who foolishly owed Uncle Sam, and "Amanda", the wonderfully obsessive actress who inspired me to get out there and be seen. My bed was in a living room behind a curtain for a $650 2-month summer sublet.  I remember dancing around the Lincoln Center fountain in a pair of blue print Anne Taylor pants thinking I was all that and a glass of milk.  No one in my family had ever made such a move.  It was bold.  It was gutsy.
     I lived in three other apartments in diverse neighborhoods.  One was close to a church that I never attended, but I chose the apartment because it was close to a church.  One sported bullet holes in the entryway.  And one smelled of the decomposing mouse that my superintendent Benny discovered electrocuted behind the stove. Auditioning and budgeting and temping and dreaming never really got me on my feet long enough to hold steady. So I toppled over through heartaches and disappointments with few good roles thrown in for good measure. The Rocky Horror Stage Production was a crazy blast of a show, and I still can't believe I spent three months prancing around a stage in a bra and panties singing the songs Susan Sarandon made famous.  "Persistence pays," Pauline would say, so I would continue, often temping way more than entertaining, attempting to get out of the church basement, each attempt leading me to choices I needed to make.
     Sir Lawrence Olivier mythically judged Dustin Hoffman for his method approach to a role by saying, "Dear boy, it's called acting."  I had heard of the drastic measures actors were known to take for the sake of their craft.  Maureen Moore as the poor Mrs. Johnstone, allegedly scrubbed the stairwell with Lestoil before her cue in Blood Brothers. I told myself I wasn't sophisticated enough for that kind of preparation and slowly my dream defaulted enough times until I dimmed the lights on that stage for good.
     I really, really pride myself on the attempts I made as a young actress.  I can never wonder what my life would have been like if I had taken that risk twenty something years ago.  Each fork in the road challenged me to a risk I willfully took and there are, consequently, no regrets.  Along my journey I have relished in experiences that nestle in the fondest memories of my life. The current chapter, the one entitled, "Keep it Together" leaves me with a different kind of pride, one that makes a difference in the lives of other people besides me. 
     Dear girl...It's called living.

Rain

     There's something about the rain, the way it holds your hand and safely walks you back to a certain time or place in your life.  The way it smells, fresh and clean.  The way it naturally bathes the earth of the dust and urine. The way it lulls you to your third nap of the day. The way it pairs so peacefully with a cup of chamomile. And the way it gives you a well-deserved excuse to sleep in or to stay in your pajamas all day and research your trip to Italy, the one that is still a year off.
     Sorry Karen Carpenter. Rainy days and Mondays or Wednesdays or any days have never gotten me down.
     We were stranded in Crate and Barrel the other day while mother nature dumped the first of many days of this rain, the rain that is inspiring my love of writing today, and the same rain that began New York City's cooling trend.  So dozens of shoppers, runners, skate boarders, tourists, church goers, children, even a man with wet tatoos and a dog ran into the store taking refuge from the summer happenstance while the security guard passed out umbrella bags.
     Have you ever watched the movements and facial expressions of wet people?  You should try it sometime. They tense up their shoulders as high as their earlobes and squinchel their faces in distress. They shake their hands and arms and wipe their noses. And then as if needing some reprieve, they seek out eye contact in anyone who will connect, shake their head, and exclaim,  "Whoo!" Some, particularly the unprepared, simply look as if it were the worst experience, possibly worse than death. So their "Whoo!" is more of a four-letter expletive. 
     I have to admit, I'm not usually a fan of that torturous drip pelting my bare arms and shoulder blades on hot summer days.  I don't like to be cold, and so it can be somewhat of an annoyance.  But when I think back to my fondest memories of rain, well, suddenly mother nature is more of an old friend than a foe.  Kara Brady and I used to walk home from Stratfield School together.  We were in the third grade.  She was my best friend and my leader.  And no, our parents didn't walk with us. Times were different then. We were safe.  So one day, we left school for the short walk home to her little cape on Ridgeview Avenue and decided to take the long way.  It would be more fun while the rain showered us from the skies and pummelled the roads. Deep puddles soon began to form, and clogged drain pipes purged their waterfalls.  We tipped our heads back, stuck out our tongues and tasted every clean drop, our eyes blinking for protection and our hair dripping down our backs.  I don't remember if it was Kara's or my suggestion that we roll in the puddles and shower under the drain pipes. But we both agreed.  Why not?  We'll dry. We're eight.
    Her mother's reaction wasn't exactly what we expected. I don't think we really thought about it.  "Oh honestly, girls," she cried out.  "What in the world....."   Mrs. Brady never became truly angry about anything, however.  She was filled with too much love for that.  So our clothes went into the dryer, hot chocolate bubbled on the stove, and we played school in Kara's sweatpants and t-shirts until it was time for me to go home in my once again dry clothes. 
     Rain translates a little differently for each of us.  Whether it offers an excuse, a nuisance or a nuance of nostalgia, it certainly adds a little something to the day.  Today, I plan on staying in my soft pink robe, eating leftover macaroni from last night's dinner, finishing my book and listening to the rain.
   

The Sunday Feeling

     It's the end of summer and for some, that means the party is over. The beach house gets locked up, fall sales accost us, and it's time to get our heads back into school.  Time for alarm clocks to sound, for fighting over the shower, for lining up the lunch bags by the door. Time first to scramble eggs and then scramble for our keys. Time to discover we've forgotten our phone or our glasses when we're half way down the stairs and already late.  Time for homework, papers, conferences.  For most students, parents and teachers, it is plainly and simply, time.
     But this is only one perspective.  For some, back to school symbolizes new beginnings and life lessons.  The new class, the new teacher, the new planner, new clothes, the newness of a fresh start.  It is a time of great anticipation and wonder; Who will my teacher be?  Will I like him?  Her?  What will my new class be like? What new challenges await? It is a time  to share our stories from the summer and learn something new in the fall. And it's a time for maybe a new friend and a hope that success lies ahead.
     Today I woke up with what my daughter refers to as "the Sunday feeling."  She gets it on Sunday nights when she is scuttling through her homework, when we have a usual Sunday supper of some sort of comfort food like a stew or a pasta or a piece of salmon from our favorite market. She gets it when she has to "go back," often it when it is cold and rainy, and then she begs me not to prepare any of those foods as they only "make it worse."  Today I will head back to school.  It is raining.  And I will begin the scuttle.
     I used to get the Sunday feeling as a little girl.  It was often sparked by attending mass, going to Grandma's house and watching the ABC Sunday Night Movie.  But never was it caused by school.  I loved school.  I loved my teachers. There was Miss Peck, my second grade teacher who put masking tape on my mouth.  I forgave her because she was blonde and pretty and otherwise nice. There was Miss Vishiola, who let us put on the third grade play, Wiggle Worm's Surprise.  I got to accompany the cast on the piano. Secretly I wanted to be Wiggle Worm, but playing the piano was an honor just the same, and it made my dad and mom proud.  And who could forget fourth grade Mrs.Hughes? She never let me forget my lunch. (I lived across the street and thought it was no big deal run back to get my lunch when I forgot it three times a week, until one day she wouldn't let me run back to get it.   I sat through lunch at my empty desk watching everyone else eat.  I forgave her,  however,  because she taught me a valuable lesson.)  But it was my most beloved teacher, Mrs. Palmer, whom I'll likely never forget.  She treated me like a daughter and let me swim in her pool.  She was the teacher who brought in her pumpkin bread on Thanksgiving, and who reminded me of my grandmother. She was the teacher I recently visited in a nursing home.  She hadn't forgotten me, and let me talk her ear off for hours.  When it was time for me leave, I think she really wanted me to stay.
     I wonder how much of me, if any, my students will remember.  Will it be a story I told or a lesson I fumbled through?  Will it be a spark I ignited in them during writing, or a time when I mistakenly hurt their feelings?  Will it be a batch of cookies I brought in or a song I butchered on the guitar?  Being a parent and an educator are two of the greatest challenges one can take on.  Doing either of them well is commendable.  If there can be one positive impact that we can have on this earth, let it be for the benefit of a child at least once.  I'm navigating both on a day to day basis hoping that, like roulette, my color or number will come up. Maybe it already has.  Maybe it will again.
     I have the Sunday feeling today, even though it's Tuesday.  And I can't wait to begin again.

Hot Dog Stew

   Seventeen long years of trial and error.  Burnt pots and pans, melted tea kettles and failed attempts.  Such have given way to a smattering of successes ultimately leading to some pretty darn good meals.  I would venture to say now that Sean and I are well-versed in the kitchen; not ready for Gordon Ramsey's Master Chef competition, but we can hold our own at the stove. Some of our food is even musical, a harmony of instrumental ingredients blending together to complete the perfect melody of flavors. We share in responsibility, shop together, make mutual decisions, touch upon a bunch of nationalities, and compromise when we don't agree.  We like to see to it that our testy little taste buds are all satisfied with sweet and salty, sour and spicy, rich with textures and tenderness. Even the kids have grown accustomed to our varieties of seafood, meats and veggie entrees, and as a result, there are very few menu disputes among the four of us.  
     Now when Saint Sean and I were new parents, he took on the "Mr. Mom" role, staying home with our kids, taking them to school, playing with them at the park, and having dinner ready for me when I came home.  One could believe that it was during these formative years that I developed a strain of acid reflux. Not the kind you read about that is brought on by chocolate, coffee and fatty foods.  No.  Mine was brought on by the horrendous smell of freeze dried parsley, the kind that came in a gallon-sized jug from the .99 cents store.  The kind that makes you,well, gag!  He used it in everything until I put the kibosh on that one, throwing it out when he wasn't looking. And I'm sure he has a few dirty little secrets about my culinary mishaps along the way as well.  It's inevitable.
     So one day, Sean decided to make something from his unchristened Irish cookbook, the one that my mom lovingly bought him, the one that he used to read like the bible and never quite put into prayer. On this night, he thought, maybe a stew would be a start. Yeah, because this Italian tomato he's married to would love to come home to a new variety of potatoes seasoned to perfection and chased with a Guinness! Why not? I'm easy. I can compromise.
     Poor Sean. Poor Us. 
     That day, he went out and purchased everything on the list of ingredients: chicken broth, celery, carrots, potatoes, and the seasonings we didn't have.  He purchased everything except for the sausage because there were, what appeared to be, a couple of good-sized links in the freezer wrapped in foil. (At that time, my mom visited us once-a-month and stocked our kitchen with everything from cereal and canned soups, to meats and frozen store-brand spinach.  Always looking to save us a few bucks. Thanks Rose.) So Sean took out the foiled items and let them defrost on the counter.
     Upon cutting up all the veggies, peeling and dicing the potatoes, pouring the College Inn, and seasoning up the casserole in the white Corelle baking dish, Sean finally decided to unwrap the foil thereby discovering that it was not, in fact, the good Italian sausage from Sorrento's, but four rubbery hot dogs from Shop Rite. Given our financial situation, Sean figured, I'm sure, that it would be a shame to discard this food, so he proceeded as planned to make the Irish stew, hot dogs and all.
     It would have made a great episode for Candid Camera.  Our expressions alone were award-winning.  As Sean, brought the bowls to the table, with his green plaid dish towel draped over his forearm, we each looked at one another, Sam at me, Liam at Sam, our eyes shifting from the bowls to each another.  I could read Sam's mind.  I could hear her plea.  "Good God, don't make me eat this!"  And Liam, well, he just looked confused.  "What are those little rubbery red things, Mommy, the ones cut up into pieces? They look like penises."   Okay, he didn't say that, but I did.
     For a while there was whole lot of clink, clink, clanging of cutlery hitting the sides of the bowls.  It takes a village.  At the drop of his fork, and the shake of his head, Sean thankfully confessed, "I can't eat this."
     Here's my take on that day, and on the days and years that followed.  Perfection doesn't lead to growth.  Rather, it is in the risks we take and the challenges we conquer that we find our success. Sean's Hot Dog Stew was far from edible, but it remains symbolic in the deep cuts of our memories. The first of many reasons why our marriage of flavors has led to a recipe for love.

          

Italian Wine Guy

A stout, young man, sporting slick glasses and worn jeans owns a store in
     Greenwich Village.
He is my teacher, smooth in expertise, and through his wine tastings I learn.
I want to learn.
His descriptions invoke freedom, so I can describe and feel whatever I want.
Sweet, dry, appealing, appalling, oaky, cozy, rose-scented like my grandmother’s
     underwear drawer.
He admits working countless hours and studies his grapes with ardor and humility.
Italian Wine Guy is convivial, un amica stretta , but only because of our common love.
I leave with eager hands cradling my Barolo like a baby.
Only then,
Do I taste the wine in his words and smell the vineyard soil from where the grapes were
     once picked.
And I am led home.

On Becoming a Grown-up.

     There couldn’t be a more fitting time to realize my own adulthood than now. A time when my children are approaching their attempts at adulthood, grappling with their loss of innocence while longing for freedom. As I navigate the middle years of my life, I remember too clearly images of those adults who impacted my future. The older people from my childhood, as I remember them, wore grown-up clothes and had grown- up hair. They spoke with grown-up voices and ate grown-up food. They rarely listened to me as they convened weekly around our dining room table to vent frustration or laugh at jokes I never understood. They pinched my cheeks as only grown-ups did and often forgot my name though they seemed to have no trouble remembering the names of the other grown-ups in the room. They lived in grown- up houses and watched grown-up movies until their grown-up bedtimes. And the invisibility I sometimes felt was quickly remedied by my mother’s loving, grown-up hug, something I once yearned for and now value with all my heart.


     Obvious milestones such as turning eighteen and transitioning into college life never really met my expectations of adulthood. After all, once at college, I ventured home every weekend to wash clothes and eat something besides Rice- A-Roni and frozen corn. And the independence of moving into my own apartment offered me little more than a new zip code, as my new front stoop was merely a short drive to the other side of town. Even my final escape to New York City in pursuit of a career in front of the camera proved to be more of a risky opportunity than an adult-worthy pursuit of a dream only my mom and dad believed possible. It hardly measured up since I visited home twice a month by train to seek advice from my ever-present parents and borrow their car.

    And though I cried real tears on my wedding night, they weren’t the tears that sometimes stem from finishing the final chapter of childhood and launching a new attempt at maturity. It was all hormones. Pregnancy hormones. Though I had so happily married the man I loved, I had also feared a loss; A loss of myself. Nancy, the girl who once pushed her way through lines at NYC auditions, would soon push a stroller weighed down by three bags of groceries dangling from the handles, and she would carry them up three flights of stairs. It haunted me as my belly grew first like a melon, then a basketball, and then a house.

     But as that something inside me continued to grow and grow, I didn’t know that an auspicious future was changing me from within. I didn’t know that I, the woman who made a living as a temp and who had money crumpled up in the back pocket of her Levi’s, was about to encounter an alteration of her child-like perspective on life.

     I was 29 when I realized I had become a grown-up. It was a crisp night in November, the night when Samantha, my now 16-year-old daughter, wailed out her first of many tears before being comforted by my belly. She was swaddled in a pink and blue striped hospital blanket waiting for me to love her. The thing of it is, I was always so loved. I was loved by all the grown-ups in my life; my parents, my grandparents, my older cousins, my teachers, my neighbors, and though I loved them all with every fiber of my being, this love was different, even better. For the child, innocently bathed in my tears, was about to be handed the baton of life and learn by my example how to be loved and then how to love. And I was the one who, by virtue of this event, had been chosen as her teacher.

   It has been a rough time in recent days.  I've been fired as my daughter's teacher.  I don't quite know how to fix it. I don't even know that I want to.  It's easier to hide in my blog.  It's easier to plan a trip to Italy and reminisce on my Italian roots.   Aren't grown ups suppose to know how to fix these things?  I'm supposed to think this and feel that and react this way and blah, blah, blah.  But really, I just want to sit in my mom's lap and feel her love and find inspiration from her unending wisdom.

   I’ve heard it said that growing up is a rite of passage, that with every wrinkle, grey hair and new responsibility, we earn that rite. I don’t remember ever wanting to grow up. I didn’t dream of a career or traveling the world or marriage or children. I was really very happy playing in my room with my toys, listening to my Peter and the Wolf record and anticipating upcoming barbecues or sleepovers. I was perfectly content being embraced by all the growing up that was happening around me. My only wish for the future was that love could be present. The rest, I later learned, would fall into place. It is only now that I am learning how to cultivate my own grown-up wisdom.

Summer

     During the lazy summers of the 1970's, my house was hot.  Unlike our many wealthy neighbors with central cooling systems, the Leshenskis had one air conditioner, and it was bolted into Rose and Steve's bedroom window.  We watched The Thorn Birds, ate Corn Flakes and blow-dried our hair taking comfort in that retreat when Rose and Steve weren't sleeping.  Those dog days of summer, though not dreaded, could sometimes be dreadful. 
     For me and my siblings, relief came in many ways, some more creative than others.  Lipton Iced Tea, the champion drink mix that came in a huge Costco-type container, was the mother load.  We didn't have Costco, so who knows where my mother found that load.  All I remember is that it quenched our thirst all summer long.  We always kept a pitcher of iced tea in the fridge.  Neighborhood children would knock on the backdoor and say, "Hi Mrs. L.  Can I have some iced tea?"  My brother Dave used to eat it by the spoonful, not bothering to make a glass or a pitcher of it.  He'd prefer sweating and sucking that heaping tablespoon of dry tea mix all sugary and sour.  (He also ate dry pasta and uncooked potatoes so he was an oddball foodie to begin with.  I digress.) 
     And then there was Jennings Beach.  Relief.  We piled into the car nearly every weekend and often during the week, toting peanut butter sandwiches, fresh peaches, Ritz crackers and of course, iced tea.  My mom brought the orange and white jug that would rattle from the ice cubes, and we would make our way to the perfect spot in the sand, close to the water, near the lifeguard, just down from the bathrooms.  She had a knife to cut the peaches, and she sliced them at our request popping them into our mouths so we never worried about sandy peach pulp.  There were always plenty of Dixie Cups, napkins, and even a transistor radio.  Billy Don't Be a Hero entertained us while we waited exactly one hour to go back into the water.
     But the best part of summer in the '70s was my dad's weekly unplanned but much awaited announcement:  "Well," he'd groan while getting up from his chair. "Let's go out for ice cream."  Oh, how I loved those seven words. For me, those words had so much meaning.  They meant Friendly's:  chocolate almond chip, maple walnut or butter pecan.  They meant that if you dropped your cone by the curb it would be okay.  You could get another one.  Or if you ordered butter crunch by accident and then cried in disappointment, you could still get another one, and mom would eat yours.  Those words meant family.  For me, they defined the true, simple happiness of a child... of this child.
     Today, gourmet ice cream, Caribbean vacations, and Snapple have taken the place of my fondest childhood memories.  Sometimes I yearn for the unadorned roots from which I came.  To get back to a time when long summer afternoons in the sprinkler were enough and when sitting under the massive oak tree in our back yard studying the heads on the acorns was enough. 
     Next summer I plan on just enjoying the simplicity of Italy.  And although there is nothing simple about getting there, once I do, you can be sure sitting under a tree with a good loaf of bread, a hunk of salami, and any random bottle of wine will do just fine for me.  I'll be perfectly content cooling off in the Mediterranean, or lapping up every drop of melted gelato from  my wrist. In Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert teaches her readers the Italian translation for this simple way of passing the time.   I think the saying is something like "il bel far niente," which means the beauty of doing nothing.

Antonio

   My grandfather was a quintessential, old-school Italian from Strangolagalli, in the province of Frosinone.  A staunch, traditional man, he remained thin in stature, eating and drinking only the essentials: wine, coffee, bread, soup, pasta and very small portions at that.  Rather tall, or though it seemed that way to me, he wore the same sweater and baggy trousers and saw little need to comb his thinning, grey hair. His sunken cheekbones, wrinkled and weathered, rested beneath the bags under his eyes.  Likely, he endured interrupted sleep on the cot which was strategically set up in another room, separate from my grandmother's. That "room," a narrow and dark hallway, always smelled like cigars, sweat, and age.
    On Saturday, the day of our regular visit to Grandma's and Grandpa's,  we would enter the three-family house up the back two flights of stairs, through the kitchen. I remember watching all the sheets billowing from the clotheslines and wondering how someone connected the lines from my grandmother's house to the house across the driveway.  It seemed so far and near at the same time.  I would then kiss my grandmother, who was always in the kitchen, and if it was winter, I would warm my hands with the pilot light flickering on the stove.  Then I would meander down the hallway of the railroad apartment into the room where my grandfather could always be found.  Sometimes he would be sleeping and then an hour or so later, I could hear his shuffle down the hall, one foot, then the other, rhythmic and deliberate.  He would gently touch my chin between his thumb and index finger, say very little, for he knew very little English, and then head to the kitchen to sit in his chair, the torn one on the end with the beige, plastic cushion. This was when he ate his soup, drank his black coffee, and dipped Italian bread, perfectly sliced from Pacelli's bakery, into each.
     It seemed strange to me that my grandfather would offer me a cup of coffee at that time, but even stranger was that he poured a shot of Anisette into the cup.  I don't remember really liking coffee, nor did I have a taste for licorice liquor.  I was eight.  But I felt so grown-up being offered the grown-up drink that I never refused it.  I sipped it slowly, allowing it to rest in my mouth and seep into my gums and tongue.  I almost never finished the cup of coffee, but it didn't matter.  No one cared. No one noticed. 
     I learned later that my grandfather was my grandmother's second husband.  She loved the man she married in the early 1900's, and had one child with him, but he died during World War I.  It was the Italian custom that should a husband die, his brother was told to marry the widow.  Antonio, unwillingly but nonetheless, respecting the tradition, married Assunta, had four children with her and never showed anyone his warm, fuzzy side.
     I didn't know my Italian grandfather very well.  I don't think anyone in the United States really did.  But I do know this:  He loved me. In his own, hardened way, my grandfather loved me. I could see it in his eyes when he looked at me.  I felt it in his fingers when he touched my chin. And I knew it in my heart when the Anisette found its way there. I hope he'll be watching over me next year when I try to find my way to Strangolagalli, an hour south of Rome.
     I'll be sure to find someone there who knew him.

Tourists

     It's August.  New York City entertains a plethora of tourists.  They come from as far off as Sydney and as close to home as Stamford. Little girls with their cute dresses to match their American Girl dolls giggle up Fifth Avenue holding tight to their mommy's hands.  Blonde boys support their favorite team in colorful soccer (or should I say "football") jerseys, and are surely way too cool for school.   I watch them all on the Today Show in the mornings with their signs strewn over the barriers, waving feverishly at the camera while talking on their iPhones.  "Al! Come to me. I want to be on TV!!!"  "Hi Mom!"  "Matt: It's Grandma's 85th Birthday!" And I pass by the ubiquitous busloads of Sex in the City fans waiting in endless pursuit for a Magnolia's treat.  They wait.  And they wait.  A white cake with baby blue frosting and colorful sprinkles is worth 45 minutes in line.  It will be their $2.50 out-of-body experience. In and out of the redundancy of Mark Jacobs, Juicy Couture and Ralph Lauren, the tanned Italians fumble with their seventeen shopping bags.  Their Euro is well worth the dollars spent on this side of the Atlantic Ocean.
     I am hard-pressed to remember many of the details from my first visit to Manhattan. It was dirty.  It was scary.  Broken windows adorned the Harlem streets, and I stared at them in wonder as our bus rattled down some avenue unbeknownst to me.  We had come to see Evita on a school trip.  I was not sophisticated enough for Evita.  I didn't cry for her like the rest of Argentina.  Rather, I squirmed in my seat longing for intermission so I could get a box of Rasinets.
     In another visit to New York, my BFF Nina wanted to introduce me to her brother who stored their deceased father's paintings all around his Amsterdam Avenue apartment.  Mammoth, creepy babies on canvas, dark and ethereal, stared at me like serial stalkers waiting for their next victim.  But oh, how I wanted one of those paintings and how saddened I was that their father in his extraordinary pursuit of artistry was denied any notoriety until after his death.
     And on another occasion, that same friend sparked my love for the boys of summer taking me to my first Yankee game. Dave Winfield was close enough for us to feel his sweat as he careened across the outfield.  I didn't know Dave Winfield.  It didn't matter.  I screamed for him, throwing my body over the first base line, "Daaaavvvvve!  Daaaavvvvve, over here!" Must have been the ball field beers loosening up my vocal chords and extracting some Bronx chutzpah.
     So it was baseball, art and Broadway that brought me to the decision to make my home here in the Big Apple, the city that thousands of tourists dream of visiting at some point in their lives.  To see Lady Liberty and the colorful lights of Times Square is their fantasy, and they shop and eat and look and walk and dream. 
     But my dream is still far off, a calendar year away, and thousands of miles far between.  I'll be a tourist.  Sean will wear shorts and button down shirts while I will pack only sun dresses and sandals, perfect for bike rides and Vespa runs through the hills of Tuscany.  I'll stand in line for the best gelato, carrying my Salvatore Farragamo shopping bags.  I'll marvel for hours at "David" and shake off the chills at the thought of being a Gladiator.  And yes...after a few sips of a nice Chianti, Sean and I will hold hands and test our faith with a little CLIFF JUMPING off the coast of Cinque Terre. Liam will challenge a local to some football, both Roman and New York style and Samantha will get his phone number when they're through. 
     It's August.  I hope Rome has started planning for our visit.

Oil and Water

     I was recently reminded that my daughter and I are like oil and water; we don't mix.  In another blog, on some other day, I just might address that.  But the wounds from yesterday's battle are still open, raw and bloody.  Still, I am struck by the idea that oil and water can't mix. Perhaps when you pour one into the other, they repel like mother and daughter. I have to wonder: doesn't every good chef use the water from the boiling macaroni to enhance the flavors of whatever might be sautéing in olive oil on the stove?  Lidia does.  Giada does. Nancy does. In my book (cookbook or otherwise) oil and water certainly do mix, match, unite, and sometimes separate and divorce.  Nonetheless they MIX.
     I've heard that olive oil is referred to as "liquid gold." Cleopatra used it to soften her hair and skin. And throughout the hills of Tuscany, the Italian Riviera, and other olive-producing lands, November is abuzz with harvesters.There, families well-equipped with years of experience and family secrets produce the richest tasting extra virgin, if you will; a fruit juice that has the power to roll your eyes permanently to the back of your head with just one perfect teaspoon.  Without water, however, olive groves could not thrive. 
     I'd like to think that one complements the other, much like the tumultuous relationship I have with my daughter. That though we sometimes work together in our pan, simmering, nudging one another, finding our way to the best possible flavor and adding more or less of the needed ingredients, the pan can (and does) get too hot.  That is when the intent is burned, and each must do her part to repair.  Until then, we're stuck with a blackened pot.

To Yell or Not to Yell?

     When my daughter speaks in Italian, her voice is just a few decibels louder. She is three years into learning the language, one year from being our personal translator in Rome. But already she has begun to expose her inevitable gene. And so when I ask her to say something in Italian, she gets louder through the pauses, "ehhhhh...Mia Mamma... ehhhhh (the voice gets louder)....e una brava....ehhhhhhh cuoca." And by then she is shouting her response an octave higher. Not AT me, but nonetheless it's a definite shout.
     So I ask her, "Sam?  Why do you shout when you speak in Italian?" 
     "I dunno!  It just happens. I can't help it."  Oh, dio mia!
     This got me wondering.  Do all Italians yell?  My mother did.  My neighbors did.  My family certainly did - does!  Besides, a soft-spoken Italian just doesn't feel right.  It's kind of an oxymoron.  I certainly don't mean to offend anyone.  I love, with all my heart, the people and the beauty of their romantic language.  It's just that in my personal experience, whispering Italians don't exist.
     Here's a story:  Pasquale*, one of my many Italian relatives was visiting the house years ago. For much of my childhood, I couldn't for the life of me remember how we were related.  In fact, it was a practice for many of us:   "Wait, HOW are we related? Your mom and my father's mom are half sisters, and my tia is married to your tio's nephew?" Yadda. Yadda.   Alright, so that's not exactly how it went but you can get the gist of it. Every time we got together we'd ponder over the mystery of how we were related, we would find the answer, and fuggedaboutit until the next holiday or funeral, whichever came first. I digress.  So Pasquale was at our house once, visiting and trying out his new homemade wine on my mom.  Oh what a delectably potent wine it was. The mere aroma of an opened bottle could put you in a trance.  When I walked in the front door of the house, I heard yelling and carrying on.  Concerned, I peeked into the kitchen to investigate: There they were,  my lovely family, laughing, drinking and yes, yelling! 
     That's what we do.

Sunday

     This morning I attended mass with my better half.  We were once part of a foursome fed with weekly inspiration at Xavier, a parish where all are welcome and hundreds take to heart.  But football and work have veered my children off the path today.  In fact, there are many days as of late with many excuses for their absence, and so today there's plenty of room in the already empty pews at a less popular church.  We crashed the 9:00 mass there because it was a block from the meeting place to where my football-playing, muscle-building 14-year-old has been called. The other teen in my house ran out the door at 6:50 for a 7:00 am call to the cafe a half an hour away.  There, Sunday worshipers will have their prayer over a cup of coffee and the New York Times looking out at the Hudson River, their dogs in tow.
     This is not how I spent my Sunday mornings on Melville Avenue.  Instead there was French toast sizzling over the gas stove thereby smoking up our house.  It would wreak in that kitchen for two days.  (French toast was Mom's least favorite breakfast to prepare, but her family loved her all the more when she gave in to their pleas.)  After a whole loaf of Home Pride, two sticks of butter, a dozen eggs, a half a gallon of frozen store-brand orange juice and pound of Oscar Meyer bacon, we were ready to fight over the one bathroom that served the six of us and then dress for Sunday mass.
     That beautiful, old church, dark and mysterious, packed with catholics was not the choice for Rose and Steve and their four kids.  Instead, we left our car often on the street to avoid the mobs of cars that jammed the parking lot.  We went to the parish hall across from the church for the 11:00 mass.  That was where Ms. Benson led the community in the 1970's Billboard top 10 Christian hits at Father Dennis' folk mass. "Open your ears oh christian people...open your ears and hear the news...." It was home for me.  That sense of community and comfort. I saw my friends there. We met our neighbors there.  We had barbecues with families there.  We attended the yearly summer picnic with rides and cotton candy there.  It was an effortless Sunday ritual that I have not yet found a way to establish in my family, in my church, in my city.  But the memory of it keeps me connected in my adult life, and with or without my kids, I return weekly for that inspiration hoping that they, too, will have enough to carry them over into the next chapter of their lives.  Hoping that despite their occasional break from the one-hour-a-week that is asked, they will find their way back someday with both feet in.
     When I think of churches in Italy, I think of a painted canvas with no white space showing.  That the artist has created a piece rich with divine color and beauty. I imagine that churches are everywhere. And stained glass blinds you like the sun.  The holiness of the buildings embraces you and you are left breathless. I don't know if that's true, and I hope that when I get there I am not praying to find a catholic church.  Somehow I doubt that will happen. Somehow I imagine they're like Starbucks, found on every corner.  Or something like that.  In fact, I think that it won't be too difficult to return home 4,000 miles away.  For me, home is where faith abounds. Where people relish in tradition rather than run from it.  Where families pray together. Where Sunday rituals still exist for people like me. And where I can feel safe with my whole family at my side.