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• December 11, 2011

  Happy Holidays

  

  

  

   

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• October 25, 2011

  FOR DISPLAY ONLY

         Lately, I only drink beer or wine.  Beer in a bottle, or wine in a short kitchen glass.  A shame, really, as I never seem to have occasion to use a pretty glass- even my company seem to choose the casual and clumsy ones in the kitchen cabinet. It’s a melancholy moment when I think of the contents of the cabinets in my dining room.  Those fancy glasses standing in perfectly spaced lines like proud soldiers in a regiment.  Their glory realized when taken out to battle.  Now they stood there erect, but defeated; their courage muted by the thin layer of dust.

         There is a lot of my life in that heavy wood, glass fronted display.  The tiny etched and beveled aperitif glasses, their delicate floral design that fit perfectly in my Nanny’s soft, dainty, and twisted fingers.  I stopped seeing her drink from them when I was pretty young; she switched to her set of six unique china teacups.  They were there too, my favorite the one she used the most.  The highball glasses make me think about summer at my Dad’s parent’s house.  The adults all around that frosted glass patio table that sat next to the pool.  Its rubbery-stripped chairs matched the big umbrella that thankfully provided shade.  As I constantly screamed, “Look what I can do!” preceding my splash, the adults sipped gin and tonics in those glasses, and the hamburgers smoked over coals just 10 feet away.

       My Mom’s parents preferred their cocktails in glasses short and stout.  Much better for the brown ‘B’ drinks.  At the shore house, my Mammy had these tumblers that were plastic with a decidedly nautical motif.  She even had the napkins that matched to put them upon.  When guests came over I was as proud of her party ware as I was of my crab trap-whose bounty was part of dinner.  Even the cutting board for cheese was shaped like a lighthouse.  Brandy for her, Bourbon for him, and as much cola as I wanted. Good times.

       These are the sets of my glassware that are incomplete, wounded by the missing.  They were the victims of the ’94 California earthquake- their comrades were smashed in the darkness with that pre-dawn shake.  I’ve held on to what was left with quiet fortitude.  My wine glasses are exactly my taste, and it took me forever to choose them.  Simple and smooth, barley a flourish, but in it’s size- the red wine was generous, the water was huge.  I had always liked the etiquette of water, white, red, champagne- each glass distinct and not to be confused.  It seemed that the fancier a restaurant, the more glasses at the place setting. My mother always chose wine, yet rarely finished her glass.  In the evening a glass would be poured at the commencement of cooking, and then, hours later, make its ring on the table beside her bed.

  Fancy glasses meant family parties.  The Hollydays was when we all would be together, for reasons that ranged from whims to dates on every calendar.  Chips and dip on the table, the ladies and me all in nice outfits.  These gatherings meant none of my monotonous routines, or chores, and always something to do or someone to talk to.  Six or seven times a year we’d make that 5 ½ hour trip down the highway, to where all my relatives lived, and almost as many they would drive to us.  The arrivals always making the smell of under the seat bananas ripened by the car heater, the sting of backseat punching from my brother, or just the watching of the clock- forgotten.  The grandfather of the house took drink orders.  My father and my Uncle C attended to specialties.  My uncle was 10 years older and 10 years cooler.  When I was a teen he put a splash of rum in my coke,  and later he was the perfect mixer of my Vodka and Schweppes bitter lemon.  My dad wanted to make the manhattans, the whiskey sours, and was constantly tempting his wares.  My job was to put out the coasters.  I’d listen to all the stories, on the floor in the center of a big circle, scooting between the table and a relative on my butt with whatever morsel from the chip table that they had requested.

         I think I became a grown-up the first time it was at my house people came to stay.  I remember the preparation for that momentous event.  The liquor store trip with my list in hand, even every mixer barely used, mentioned.  The purchase of my specialty glasses for margaritas and the liqueurs.  I got the tools, the shakers, the cherries, the strainers, the bitters, the openers, the olives, the onions and even the decanters.  Yup, at my house, a drink order could be taken. 

     My world seemed so much smaller, so much more happily crowded back then, yet I never remember the feeling of hurried. Even as a young adult, those gatherings seemed to be frequent and then, slowly, less often, and then, more casual.  Strange how now they are few, harder to schedule, not as jovial, more harried if not just dutiful.  The excitement of cocktails and conversation has retreated.  Instead, time has been allowed to invade, age has set boundaries, and new trends have claimed some of the party land.  Now it is only the size of a skirmish at the kitchen table. Even the drink has become burdened by a reputation of unnecessary and detrimental to the health of its nation. 

      Maybe I was just lucky.  No one was involved in any accidents, no one couldn’t stop pouring after the party was over, I was not aware of any relationship failures due to alcohol.  No, for me the clinking just signaled more laughter, and time with special family.  It was for talking and listening, it was for the passing of our story.  Maybe its time to put on some heels, cut a fresh lime, and fill up the ice bucket.

   

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• August 11, 2011

  Quiet, head.

  I find myself successfully stumbling through being a Mom.  No doubt I am doing tons of things wrong- as I am often reminded by my threesome- but I think I am, in part, shaping pretty good Men.  I listen to advice and to my boys, check for info on the web, take what I want and discard what I want from my past experience, I pay attention to the news and to their interests.  I do what I should.  These past ten years I have been bobbing along in my sturdy lifeboat navigating seas of glass or sometimes a thundering chop- the conversations I’d have with Mothers, sisters, Nannies, Dads, coaches, Doctors keeping me afloat.  We all go through the same things.  We share.  There are books, movies, songs and blogs about our trials and triumphs.  But one thing, that is my constant, is never the topic.
  
  It is my inner struggle that is always grinding away, a never-ending dialogue of should I or shouldn’t I.  I never just know, there is always a multitude of thoughts followed by an attempt at a guilt-free decision, followed by the consequences or possible ramifications of the decision, followed by....you get the tense picture.  Something as simple as a request for soda becomes a monster. My inside debate begins. Is it diet?  Is there aspartame?  How many have they had this week? Do I need them happy?  Is there someone to judge my answer?  Am I being consistent?  Do I need to relax?  After the wish is granted or not, and I’ve dealt with the subsequent reaction, it starts again.  Did I do the right thing?  A barrage of pictures bursts in my brain: I find that empty can!  A stain on the table! Another on the rug! He’s sad and I’m mean! Then starts the follow-up: A reminder to recycle.  A lesson on how to burp or not.  A promise of a future soda and a list of ways to earn it.  Exhausting, and that’s just pop.  In fact, I blame my thicker middle on this inner struggle, since I carry this weight of battle and behemoth with me day and night.  Its blubber has become part of me.
  
  Bigger things constantly rage, steadily growling away all the time.  One of these issues that start the repetitive cycle is, how much to interfere.  We Mothers now have the where-with-all to provide everything.  Our openness with our children can be ridiculous. The stimulus we can provide them can be suffocating.  Our influence can be so abundant it chokes.  We talk, we schedule, we nourish, and we get involved.  Seriously, it can be gross.  I’ve read books and seen movies about simpler times.  School was a long walk away, and there was just one.  After, the chores done were mainly meant to provide your supper, for which there was, only one dish.  Hours of fun could be had with just a stick, and one’s favorite and only possession was earned and treasured.  It was these children that grew up to be our greatest thinkers, our captains of Industry. They seemed to figure out an awful lot on their own.  Their passions, their limitations, their relationships, and their fears.  Trial and error seemed to birth ambition and the questions that needed answers.  Courage and conviction were their aspirations, not the latest skate shoe.  I don’t want to always interfere and thwart such revelations.
  
  For my three, as I see it, being good men means also being good brothers.  How much I get in between is always a grrrr in my head.  I’m twisted inside when one hurts another, and way too giddy when they display empathy.  So close in age, only one year apart, I had all three share a bedroom to bond-my stalwart nightly referee duty a testament to my commitment.  My dream is of a triangle- each side as important as the other.  Impenetrable as a whole, collapsing if each side does not share an equal burden.  Instead I have a swirling rotation of alliances, and hence constant war. There is often someone upset, or criticized, or left out.  This makes me want to punish the offender(s), create situations to force relationships, call fouls, or give points for success.  I should carry a whistle and flags. 
  
  The most volatile alliance is between my oldest and my youngest.  Azer and Henry are as different as they are alike.  Azer wears the medal of 1st born with a brash bravado puffed on a tiny chest.  Though he is the oldest, he’s the smallest- a most definite thorn in his side.  He is a wiry, taunt, rod of energy. He wants to go, he wants to play, and he wants to be the focus of your attention.  He wants to rule.  Stealthily he can charm or he can manipulate, but eventually he will lead. His opinion is the right one- on everything.  What to wear, what to play, what’s cool- he is adamant to decide.  Under his shining tough exterior, though, is a most soft and sweet center, and a deep thoughtfulness shocking for his age. He is a practicing master of hiding his feelings.  Henry is solid like a wall- in his will, his heart, his soul, and his body. His shoes, his appetite, his volume, his bike, each one is bigger than Azer’s- even his head is double the size.  He is a walking emotion, comfortable in his transparency, even using it to every advantage.  Awkwardly he is realizing his physical strength, all the while thriving on the benefits of being the baby.  He teeters on a tightrope between wanting responsibility and help with tying his sneakers.  He can or he can’t is not dictated by knowledge, but by how he views the situation instead.
  
  Azer and Henry’s common ground is in humor and games.  They love to play.  Lego, made up adventures inside or out, swimming, bikes, balls, nerf- they are Frick and Frack, Tonto and Lone Ranger.  Henry idolizes Azer, and loves his attention despite not having a voice in what they do.  Azer loves having a companion who is up for most anything. They are energy twins. They make each other laugh uproariously, and share sensitivity to both creatures and safety.  They love sports and dirt and all things boy.  They have lengthy conversations about farts, boogers and the latest trip to the toilet.  Everything is a contest, and each brags he is the victor.  They also fight.  Bam! Their differences are quickly highlighted and exposed. Loudly and meanly. Insult arrows are hurled, piercing exactly the tenderest spot.  Nothing is out of bounds, the darkest embarrassments forced into lights.  Feelings are hurt, and pronouncements that would never be kept are nonetheless made.  Kids can be cruel.  This is where I usually step in.  Admonishing, comforting, teaching, and tasking- now a familiar drill.  I must change the course of things!  I worry-Will Henry be always following?  Is Azer a complex even more than Napoleon?  Is Henry deeply hurt?  Is it that Azer is actually insecure?  I can fix, I can solve, it is my lucky day that I can be armed and involved.  TaDa!  I will make best efforts in raising a man with smooth, emotional scar free skin.  Nary a skycap needed, their baggage left at home.
  
  Really?
  
  Some of this stuff they have got to deal with themselves. Stop listening.  Trust your kids.  Make the boundaries broad, and only for danger.  At the most basic level I am just supposed to keep them alive, and aware of their world. How did those boys on the depression era farm settle things?  An arm wrestle?  Aren’t the arguments part of the process?  Clash seems to be instinctual to the male species.  I watch Discovery Channel.  Hours of males being kings, butting heads, earning respect by stomping and preening.  Somehow at the end they have a strong sense of self, humility, a clear sense of responsibility, fierce loyalty, and an abundance of courage.  Really, I could want nothing else for my boys.  So if a hyena can do it....
  
  It is just really hard to stop my growl.  I read that....see there I go.  At some point maybe the best Mother would just push them outside. Go, settle, return, become my triangle.

   

   

   

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• January 26, 2011

  BOOKS & THE CHAPTERS OF MY LIFE

  
  

  Just as good story is made by interesting characters, a good life is made by building them.  I have reminisced how the houses in which I lived helped me along. There were events that happened in each that gave me rite to passage into the next phase of growing up.  Books eased those transitions by teaching me to think about where I wanted to go, I became aware of responsibility to one’s self.  The characters in my favorite books taught me that there were consequences to decisions as they suffered or soared through their life’s trials.  Despite my proclamation to my parents at the age of 11, “You are the Intellectual type.  I am the Social type.” my parent’s love of books passed on to me.  Considering the moral fiber in me was at stake, I was so lucky to be surrounded by them wherever we lived.

  My Father is responsible, as I remember, for my first memories of loving books.  He had the perfect voice and temperament for reading to me.  The narrative was always in this very soothing, somewhat rough tone that evoked knowledge of all.  Every character in the story spoke in a different voice, no matter how insignificant.  As he read to me, I saw the movie, and participated in the production.  Sometimes he would pause and we would discuss what we had just heard (and saw).  I would approach whatever issue presented from every angle I could surmise, just to keep those discussions going.  The worlds he revealed made me more thoughtful.  Grimm’s fairy tales were both terrifying and exhilarating.  There was, as I suspected, evil out there- but inner goodness would always be triumphant.  Greek Myths and Legends occupied a lot of our time.  While hearing them was the first I remember feeling Spiritual in my life, of having the sense that there was something greater than myself.  The sense of order and destiny those stories gave me was comforting.  I felt true love, and learned the power of loyalty.  Morality became defined and something to embrace.  My Dad cultivated my imagination, and he nurtured my growing passion to read.  He gave me a book about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table that occupied a prime space on my yellow bookshelf with a favorite horse figurine in front of it placed just so.  It was smaller than most, with a distressed and faded leather cover.  To me it was as old as the story inside.  As I continue my Father’s legacy, how I wish I could read that very one to my sons.  I’ve never found a duplicate, and sadly, it was lost in the fire.

  My Mother, she will be surprised to learn, really pushed me headlong into femininity.  As her role wouldn’t be shocking to most, I giggle at the thought of my Mother reading this.  She is very pretty, and always has been.  At some point in her life she decided that the recognition for beauty was far inferior to that of intelligence.  Quietly she developed into a scholar, and took pride in her accomplishments as a person.  Her example was always one of leaving behind the antiquated idea of a woman.  She ensured I never lived in an atmosphere that did not support any of my aspirations.  Still, even as strong as she is, I think of her almost girly.  She has none of the sharpness or plainness one might picture accompanying such an attitude of female strength.  As I grew up, she had a closet of pretty clothes, the kind of wardrobe one would wear if running across a field of daisies.  Floaty scarves she wore around her hair were draped over hangers.  Sometimes I would crawl in and sit with the fabrics enveloping my head.  On her dresser there was a rectangle of embroidered linen, a mirrored tray, a sterling jewelry box.  Each of these items was given to her by the women in her family- a Mother or Grandmother.  After the dinner, but before the dishes were started, her rings would be taken off and placed on the mirrored tray.  I would stand at that dresser and try them on and off, off and on.  There was one with a pearl and onyx daisy that was especially appealing, it made me dream of dressing up and offering my hand for a kiss at a party.  Stories of girls, by girls, for girls became my passion.  Friendship suddenly developed a baseline that had to be met, a real comrade deserved care. I became aware of my body and my health, and how to get the most out of both.  My heroine’s suffered if there was not someone in their confidence, and I took note of the struggles.  Are You There God?  It’s Me, Margaret.  My Mom is whom I talked to.  I told her everything.  She never responded in any way that stopped me from talking the next time.  I suppose it was yet another stereotype that she smashed in front of me.

  Her Mother, my Mammy, fostered my dreaming.  She introduced me to epics of love, fortunes lost and won.  Families impacting the world for generations, homes of marble and stone, or hovels filled with despair that would soon be left behind.  I too would lie on a couch in the afternoon with a pillow under my legs, or in bed at night before turning off the light, and devour the latest of her thick paperback castoffs.  The best reading sessions were at those times we shared the same room doing it.  McMurty’s cowboys, those down under Thornbirds, and so many like them, caused me to dream of a life full of grandness in thought and deed.  Coupled with my Grandmother’s obvious adoration, my belief in my specialness grew.  I basked in attention, and was encouraged to expose and express myself loudly, Thus I found confidence in expression, and managed my fear of failure.  I learned risk wasn’t always something to avoid, because with some determination it led to a bounty in the end.  She was “tickled pink” that I wanted to become an actress.  That fantasy world seemed a perfect fit for her Grand daughter.  When I started to have some success, she literally bounced like a drum majorette when she walked- her cheeks flushed with happiness.  She came for an ‘alone visit’ when I got my first tiny New York City apartment.  We shopped all day and she treated me to throw pillows, and other homey knick-knacks.  In the evening we went to my new neighborhood café and had dinner and then after brandies.  Sitting there, independent and sharing, flushed and giggling, I felt like a lady.  I was the heroine in the story we both had read.

  On my Dad’s side, I call his Father Papa.  My Dad is his carbon copy.  The only difference between their two beings is the number of years.  Papa is a thinker, of all things.  The whole family would gather and Papa would lead the conversation.  His comment on current events, anecdotes, reminisces, historical and political situations- everything was discussed with wisdom.  I realized the sanctity of fairness and the value of erasing discrimination.  He valued his books, and it was because his library consisted mainly of volumes passed down from family.  Shakespeare’s plays, books on birds and other wildlife, sets of encyclopedias.  Any new bestsellers with legal heroes, suspense, or mysteries were quickly passed on to his sons after they were read.  I got the sense that I was just another, in a long line, of us.  There was accountability to that from which we come.  To be honorable would be the best compliment we could pay.  Books were banded stories of commonality that we had a responsibility to share.  They were to be revered.  I learned that I wanted to be a Mother; I wanted to continue our family.  Introducing more of us to a world of wondrous things seemed something of which to be proud.

  I know the world has changed.  It always has.  We now lead a life that is filled with technology.  Cell phones, Internet, digital discs, innovations in every area.  Time is defined differently.  Somehow taking an hour to only read for the pleasure is more challenging.  The stillness of sitting and holding a world in pages seems too simple.  Now it is possible to turn those same pages with a click while on the go.  Our vocabulary is diminishing as our acronyms are increasing.  There is a decline in our respect for words, in our love of language.  Soon our stories will be written with less description, performances will have less depth.  Is that when imagination will end? 

   

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• December 6, 2010

  Christmas Card

   

  

   

  

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• September 25, 2010

  Fanny Brewster

  
  

  I was recently asked to throw out the first pitch for the Pittsburg Pirates.  Pretty cool stuff.  It all has to do with a movie I did called CHASING 3000.  It was a little movie, but it had talented actors, and a great story.  I did it a while ago; during my NCIS days.  I scared myself when I recently watched it and all I saw was Jenny Shepard. In the summer of 1972 Roberto Clemente had his 3000^th hit, a very “where were you when” moment.  I love a good inspirational story.

   

  The idea of walking into a stadium and actually be welcomed on the diamond was overwhelming immediately.  I’ve heard the stories of the ‘celebrity’ totally tanking on the mound.  What would be the tale of the 40 something *c’mon give it to me* chick who used to brag about her pitching skills and baseball acumen? Would it be straight into the dirt?  Completely wild?  Or the worst one of all, a wimpy floater? I see that one a lot with shiny politicians.  Their false bravado seamlessly morphing into a throw of “ one of and for the people”.  Puuleese.  We all know you just couldn’t do it.  If I tanked, it would be soul crushing.  I could hear the roar of the crowd in my head.  If only I was Fanny Brewster…..

   

  Faye Ann Brewster was named after her two Grandmothers.  For it was because of their courage that her father, Luc, and Mother, Doris, met.  They fell in love when their families met on a ship crossing the Atlantic to America, a bold decision that ultimately fell on the two matriarchs.  Both families endured arduous economical and physical journeys leading up to that meeting. Thankfully they prepared them for the hardship of that last crossing.  Though the situation on the ship was bleak, the mood was of hope and promise.  Communities were formed on board, and destinations decided.  Her parents were to settle in St. Louis, his in Chicago. Invigorated with love, Luc and Doris made plans to go farther South, and take part in starting a town.  They were made official with a wedding onboard, and two ‘honeymoon’ nights before landing.  The trip on land was long and hard, but not for the lack of company.  Not only were there scores of families making the journey together, but the two of them had grown in number as well. Luc was taking his seven younger brothers, as it would be even more of a burden to have so many young ones to begin in a city, and then Doris realized she was pregnant.  Two seventeen year olds crossing the country with 8 children.  Next to Luc was Stefan, and he was 14.  Then it was Pierre who was 10, the 4-year old-twins Ernst and George, the 3-year-old twins Johan and Xavier, and 1 ½ year old baby John whom everyone just called Boodles, but no one knew why.  A long line of mothers would caution a petulant girl who would complain of her ‘burdens’.  A reminder of Doris’ trials and her sunny disposition would quiet any spoiled behavior with a simple “Ms D. would be so ashamed!”

   

  The story goes that Faye Anne and John were close from the moment she was conceived.  Doris primarily carried Boodles 2000 miles, even though she was pregnant, and so they were heartbeat to heartbeat.  Faye Ann made it clear she was about to make her presence known, and so a decision was made to stop.  Eleven Families made that choice, and the rest went on, a cycle that had repeated itself over and over in the last months.  She was born in Eastern Tennessee, in a place perfect for a settlement.  John’s first word was spoken as soon as she was born.  He repeated her name excitedly when the announcement was made, and unendingly for the rest of his life, but as a toddler Faye Ann came out as a two syllable Faaa-aaan.  So, Fanny it was,  and she and Boo were always in love.

   

  Fanny grew up at the center of the universe.  She was a little girl with seven big brothers, eight if you counted her Father.  She was adored, not only by her family, but also by the whole town.  She was the reason it was.  Luc and Doris ran the school.  An academy if you will.  Fanny’s Mom taught literature, music, and art.  Her Father taught Math, Science and Economy.  There were 14 students’ ages 6-12, 2/3 of the school from one family.  If you were younger, you stayed at home to help with the even younger.  If you were more than twelve, you went to work having learned all you needed to know.  The 20^th century began, and life was grand for Fanny.  She was educated both mentally and physically.  She made it a point to be able to do everything her brothers did, and no lines of sex were ever drawn, it didn’t seem fair to make Fanny be the only one on the outside.  She started school at age two, after all there was no one else to help take care of, and sworn statements were apparently signed to attest to that staying the fact!  After school, the primary past time was baseball.  The obsession of the game was all consuming, to the point of making their chores a cooperative venture.  The Boostiere Family, soon to be known as the Brewster’s, worked together and then played together, all of it thoroughly.  Fanny and Boodles emphasized this trait, for even when practicing their instruments, the sides of their feet had to touch, and then they stayed on beat.  Their connection was managed quickly, and when she was 8, she was declared team permanent pitcher, with Boodle her #1 catcher.  Their positions were the only ones not contested every afternoon. 

   

  It was no surprise when they did get married as they said they would when she was just turned 4, and he was 5 1/2.  Even though they were raised as brother and sister, there was no blood shared, and not much else to choose from. Their wedding supper was held 20 miles away at the County post office, which had a wireless, listening to the reports of the possibility of War, and the scores in baseball.  Only 10 cities had teams in the Majors, and St. Louis and Chicago were two.  A fierce rivalry was born.  Fanny felt it her duty to route for her British Grandparents adopted team, the St. Louis Cardinals, and Boo of course took her side.  The rest of the boys were rowdy Chicago fans for the same reasons.  Anxiously they waited to get the latest newspaper to learn the scores and ‘muckrakers’ views.  Though the stats were old by the time it arrived, the charged debates were just hatched.  Fanny’s emotional outbursts were fueled by the news that the team now belonged to Helene Britton, a woman, just as she was becoming one. Luc and Doris realized that the legendary rivalry since the 1885 dispute between the two cities had actually manifested itself inside their home. The booming boasting and berating led to many emotional door slams, as Fanny and Boo’s team never did quite as well.

   

  Gradually things changed.  As the brothers got older, Chicago beckoned with its Universities and opportunities.  One by one and two by two they left.  Boo and Fanny were the only ones to stay with Luc and Doris, as it went without saying they would inherit their love of educating.  Luc became Mayor, and then on to the State Legislature.  Doris continued to teach, but now only the senior class.  Fanny and Boo taught the rest, Fanny less whenever she was carrying a child.  Three boys were born one after the other before another binding agreement was sealed for no more.  Being a child with children was quickly becoming a family tradition; maybe that was why the Brewster’s were known as such joyful people. All of them were essentially still children, and viewed the World as such.  While their numbers changed, their love and rivalry over baseball only deepened.  Fanny and Boo lived for the weekly game information.  With the brothers/uncles residing inside the enemy beast, the papers’ arrival and ensuing telegraph war was better than a family Birthday BBQ, and anticipated as such by all.  Soon, however, their joy and frivolity was tempered by The Great War.  Both of their homelands were involved, Belgium and the United Kingdom.  Maybe because he was the youngest of eight boys, but to Boo, fairness and honor were the most outstanding of qualities.  He insisted those two be maintained in all that he had dealings with.  Fanny was not at all surprised at his fervor about the conflict.  When the United States got involved against Germany, his stars had aligned.  He was a Patriot, and felt it his duty to enlist. He left to fight, and never returned home. Fanny was 20 years old with 3 tiny sons and the man she loved from when she began was gone.

  The War had changed many things, and even though it was fought on faraway shores, businesses were closing, and crop prices were falling.  The school was dwindling.  Education was becoming a luxury.  Father Luc was spending more and more time in Washington, grumbling about the economy the few weeks at a time he was home.  Fanny and her boys learned to do without, and then the school finally closed.  The few students left came to the Brewster’s home instead.  Boo’s boys also were ‘in class’ very young.  Recess was always a game of baseball.  A reward for good behavior was to be on ‘Team Fanny’, but the trophy most sought was a hit.  She dropped the “Mrs.” during the game, as she never coddled a batter. A triple rarely happened, a homerun never.  Even Rory Bean, the biggest kid in the county, didn’t have a chance.  The other ladies in town really thought nothing of it, remarkable in those times, but they had all grown up loving Fanny and that was the way she was.  She was a woman who played like a boy. The Suffrage movement had begun, but locally it was only talked about as a curiosity, as women had always been afforded the same respect in this town.  After all, Mayor Luc was Fanny’s Dad, and Fanny had single handedly abolished any barriers of respect between Men and Women.  Even so, it was Fanny who talked about the importance of the law, and got everyone to agree to let the woman be of legal importance.  It just happened easily. The town was born a feminist.

   

  Fanny’s love of the Cardinals never lessened.  In fact, it became more resolute. Boo’s demise was a shock.  It was if her tree had suddenly lost its’ roots.  At first it seemed she would topple, but slowly she reached deeply to anchor herself.  He was still there, in her children, her parents, and in her home.  She could hear him in the transmitted waves of America’s pastime.  Her son’s watched her joy return with every broadcast, and their love for their savior grew.  Life’s hardships could be lifted with the goings on in Sportsman Park.  When the Spanish Flu raged through her world, Johan and Xavier were both taken, though it was a blessing that it took both, and not just one.  Fanny and her parents also got sick.  All recovered, but it was that flu that was blamed for her parents death five years later.  Her mother’s health had never been robust after her first battle, then finally her body just stopped fighting. Her Father’s heart stopped beating the very next day.  But in 1920, Sam Braedon bought the St. Louis club, and named Branch Rickey his General Manager.  The Cardinals began to win, and Fanny would pitch with the latest game in her head. 

   

  Life’s woes seemed to rest finally in 1926.  St. Louis had its first National League pennant, and went on to win the World Series.  Game seven, and the Cardinals were up 3 games to 2 against the dreaded Yankees, even the Brewster’s Chicago contingent were on the edge of their seats.  Babe Ruth drew a walk and then tried to steal 2^nd.  He was called out, and St. Louis had the win. The celebration continued until 1928 when the world began to smolder once again.  The Yankees avenged their loss, and then the banks collapsed.  Every day was a struggle after that.  Feeding three voracious young boys was a constant challenge.  They lived off the small bounty from a three-month migratory trip every year that would take them as far as pea picking in California.  It was blistering work, and an existence for none but the heartiest, but Fanny and her son’s were always thankful when the time to go arrived.  It always was then that their resources were tapped, within one week before. The years passed with this hungry or famine routine.  Both at home and on faraway farms, baseball continued to ease the pangs.  There was always enough energy for a few innings, and it was the subject of discussion by firelight in the campsites after dark.  With each new influx of pickers, after batting against her bullet, the same question was asked.  Why didn’t she play in the “Bloomer Leagues”?  They couldn’t believe it was for lack of challenge- even Men played in those games.  There was the long version reply, if Fanny was not too bone weary and starved, that told of how she was raised and what she believed.  Most of the time the reply was just two simple facts.  She didn’t know how to play with girls, and she didn’t know how to pitch underhand. For now she played with her family- her boys, her brothers, and her fellow sufferers.  Calloused hands, aching bellies, their goal to survive; baseball was their American dream.

   

  As had always been true, the upturn was precipitated by her beloved St. Louis Cards.  A female spectator had said, “their stockings are such a lovely shade of cardinal”, and in Fanny’s daydreams that was always the quote from her own Grandmother.  In 1934 Dizzy Dean won 30 games, a National title that still stands today.  It was a fantastic ride, and the world had a hint of a smile.  Things started to get better.  That was the first year they didn’t have to go far to pick.  They could get by, though barely, from seeds that were sewn at home.  A few children came back for school.  There was a market for their small crop of cotton and soybeans.  All three of her boys, now men, were able to go to University in Nashville- a wondrous place for the Brewster clan. The most shimmering jewel in that crown of knowledge was the building that housed all of their books.  How big it needed to be, how glorious that there were that many to be read.  And it was mainly due to that structure that her men never left, becoming sought after faculty until their death decades later.  Once again, the Brewster’s were teaching. Of course, Fanny enjoyed many trips to that metropolis.  She developed a love for the bustling streets and choices of dining establishments, a feeling not shared by her neighbors back home.  She drank many pints in its crowded, smoky pubs while rosy with the heat of discussions in baseball.  Even here, Fanny was in a world of men, and flourished with ease.  Her ‘city life’ almost made up for her now absent role on the mound.  Newspapers and their sports pages were now daily in her life.  1943 into 1944 was a big year.  She now admittedly also always followed the women, and they officially got their own league.  The AAGPBL (All American Girls Pro Baseball League) was recognized.  Her brothers loved to give the homage to Phillip Wrigley, owner of their Chicago Cubs, and she grudgingly had to agree.  In St. Louis, the outfield became protected by the Stan Musial.  If Fanny could, she would have carried a lunchbox decorated by a picture of his face.  As it was, there was the girlish scribbling of practice signatures, her name with his, in the margins of her omni-present ‘lists’.  She puffed with personal pride as he accumulated his 7 batting titles and 3 MVP awards, didn’t turn her back when he left, and claimed no surprise upon his return.  He buoyed her as she bobbed again on a sea surging with dread.  The world was at war again.  Her fear was of the departure of her sons, though thankfully it never realized.  They successfully fought against their genetic patriotic pull, hurting their mother allowed the slack.  The hero of the Cardinals, owner Braedon, now needed money, and desperately seeked the sale of Sportsman Park. The days of being the tenants of their rivals had to end, the team was flailing.  The cross-town rivalry was at fever pitch. 

   

  There was the defining moment towards the end of that year that launched a rocket of excitement.  The instant she mailed her entry to the Codley’s Cornmeal contest, her dizzy trip into galaxies of wishes began.  Her entry was a letter of what cornmeal meant to her.  She had had it morphed into muffins when coffers were full, or at the most anticipated celebrations only, if they were not.  She made a staple of it as a paste, more often than she could count. It worked in making her whites more white, it helped her hands have less slide on the ball, and it fueled her when she was hungry.  She won that contest, and her prize was a trip to St. Louis.  She had never been to see her parents, nor to see the Cardinals play a game. She got to do both, in the midst of the joyous whirlwind of declared world peace.

   

  Fanny’s winning streak was not over.  That afternoon of opening day had arrived, with a burst of abundance.  Two of her brothers had been able to make the trip.  Four of them were going to the game, and they were all in trousers.  If you had looked closely, you would have seen flashes of scarlet stockings visible at her ankle as she jaunted into the park, not realizing the impact they would soon have. The ticket takers’ clickers counted in the crowd, one by one.  With Fanny’s click, everything froze.  Delia’s bread was sponsoring a season-opener contest.  The 10,000^th fan to enter that day was not going to their seat; they were going to the field.  Fanny Brewster was going to throw out the opening pitch.  The announcement was made as she walked to the pile of dirt that had been where she had most successfully prayed and played.  Hearty applause greeted her as she stepped on the mound, supported by the fun of the winner was a woman.  Later she said that it was perfectly silent, in the way a laugh can become mute with a spasm of joy.  Her senses were paralyzed by euphoria.

   

  Only three people watching that day knew to whom they had given that ball, and anticipated what she would do when she got it.  The building at 710 N. Tucker, home of The Globe-Democrat had never pushed its presses harder than through that night.  They needed to have a front page that would compete with that of the Pulitzer run behemoth, and their biggest rival, The St. Louis Dispatch.  Both had chosen the same photo to run that day, and both of them had record sales.  It was of Fanny’s moment of release that very first pitch, with that scarlet stocking revealed high and behind her head.  Everyone that was there that day saw the result of that pose, a baseball traveling with a velocity and a purpose as if the catcher’s glove was the black hole created for it’s matter.  Her brother’s retelling always included the look of shocked amazement on the face of the catcher that cemented with the thwack in his palm.  The crowd went wild.  They wanted a batter in the box.  Player after player took the challenge, and the game that day was delayed for 1hr. and 44 min, the crowd continually on their feet for the wait. For her, it wasn’t much different than a team of Rory Beans.  They were big, but she wasn’t gonna let them go home. 

   

  I could detail the rest of her story, as there were many thrilling chapters, but this is really about Fanny Brewster, and her performance with the opening pitch.  It was a fantasy of success, one that she not only deserved, but one that she could fulfill.

   In the briefest of ways I’ll mention how timing also played a role, how being a woman that could play with boys became the ignition for the blaze.  Immediately it was called that the Mrs. Brewster pitch for the team, overwhelming public opinion was that her talent could help them out of the hole to which they had fallen in.  The ruling in 1922 by the Supreme Court regarding federal anti-trust law and baseball, had failed to address women, thus it wasn’t against the rules.  Not to mention, one of the new owners was a former Post Master General, who knew the political and economic suicide that would be the result of that particular discrimination.  Women could vote.  She joined the team, and her hair was a perfect fill for the uniform’s loose cap. They were a team who had fans with strength- women.  They controlled their own voices, and frequently those of their men.  That was evident to the city in ’46. It was the women who led the boycott of Jackie Robinson and the Montreal Royals, as a warning of the consequences of ousting Fanny. Thus “The Noble Experiment was born.  Those months have even been referenced as the tipping point of feminism.  Fanny was the poster girl of Suffrage heading toward the movement of the 60’s.  Not only did legal rights, but also emotional rights had weight too. What a season she had, that darling of the city.  All those parched field pick-ups prepared her for those 100+ games.  She was an all-around competitor who handled the ball in both directions over the plate.  She batted almost as well as she pitched.    It wasn’t until 1968 that Red Sox Pitcher Carl Yastrzemski won the American League batting title that was really created in her honor.  That 1946 season the Cards roared back to life, and their dominance lasted for 18 years.  It was because of Fanny that in 1947 the practice of all-star voting by fans began.  Fans had gotten power.

   It was at the end of that first season of her’s that she quit.  Just before the crack of her 323^rd hit she had a revelation.  Stop now, it was perfect.  So she walked away from the game before the adrenalin left and her middle-aged body came back. She was a speck in the book of baseball, yet she left a permanent mark on the page.

   

  I snapped out of it.

  So… I’ve been asked to throw the opening pitch at the ballgame.  If only I lived the tale of Fanny Brewster from my imagination.  I better ask one of my sons to toss it.

   

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• August 19, 2010

  THE LAKE PERSPECTIVE

  I feel different when I go to the lake cottage.  My Husband’s side of the family has built an amazing place, and it has only just begun.  In a year it will be a virtual compound through whose gates strip away your cares.  When we left home for the two-hour drive I was wound tight.  1,ooo things going on in my head -a virtual world of checklists and tasks.  Within an hour of arriving I was sleepy, and the urgency of work I had to complete lost some punch.  At some point during a conversation held lakeside on the dock, Corona’s in hand, there was a unanimous decision to go to town and out to dinner.  Even the routine of all the showers, the clean up, seems easier.  Only my hair kept tension, as it refused to be tamed- it was fueled by the lake water and breeze.

  
  I was chided for how dressed I was.  I had put on lipstick and big hoop earrings.  I guess I saw what would happen- inevitably I wound up in the kitchen saying hello to the staff.  It was an establishment worthy of a tribute by Andrew Wyeth, touched up by Norman Rockwell.  We sat outdoors on a big dock filled with tables, lit by rope lights, shining the way for the many boatloads of hungry families who had put their car in the garage for the summer.  As it got darker and the lights brighter, a line of perfect webs occupied by fat leggy predators revealed themselves along the eaves.  Instead of feeling creepy, we were amazed at the level of ingenuity.  As their lights shown, their webs became invisible from the lakeside angle.  Droves of mosquitoes would fly toward that glow, unknowing the fate that awaited them.  We thanked those spiders for their appetite.  Later we piled into beds, cranked open the windows, and slipped blissful and full into ‘passed out’.

  
  This morning I called for a mandatory hike.  I told them about how my Dad just witnessed the birth of a most beautiful butterfly from the cocoon he had watched a black swallowtail caterpillar construct on the leaf of one his peppers.  I gave them nerves when I reminded them of how to act if we came upon bear.  Might be more useful information if we were a few hours North.  We covered ourselves in bug spray, pulled up our socks, and rubbed dirt on our skin to cover our scent.  Kids love rituals.  We had water, a net, and a bucket filled with essentials: magnifying glass, 3 books (Wildflowers and Trees, Insects. The Tracks of Animals we could encounter), the camera, a knife, and my phone.  Within 10 minutes I fell down an embankment after I relied on the wrong branch.  We kicked some logs, saw a perfect location if we were Beaver to build a dam, saw 16 spiders, and talked about how far we had gone.  If was after it took me 15 minutes on my butt to cross the stream that they had leapfrogged across in seconds that I made the decision to allow them to enter boyhood alone.  The house the whole time was only 50 yards away.  I could be back in a flash happily reading my trash on the porch, an ear out for any sounds of distress.  They could hike alone, which I sensed had become infinitely more appealing.  Armed with a video camera they took off, soon to return with the tales of the many adventures- 15 minutes later.

  
  Back in the city, I had made a trip to the newsstand to stock up.  I had had the idea to write a blog about current entertainment news.  I had a pile of the usual suspects, the ones frequently flipped through while waiting in line at the grocery.  I settled in.
  
  The cover of the first one blared " BOOZE. BONGS. ECSTASY.SEX MARATHONS" That one didn’t need my comment.
  
  I quickly realized my reading list had diminished.  My entire stack needed to be comprised of only one.  I had managed to waste many dollars because all of them contained essentially the same information.  Supported by the same photos.  I had always been aware of the hoards of paparazzi, swarms of them, scurrying to a fro both repelled and drawn in by the lights.  Enlightening that in their colonies too, there was only one Queen who benefitted from the click of his shutter.
  
  Page after page I marveled out how photogenic the lollipop species was.  When I have come face to face with the celluloid kick a** MEN, they seemed cartoonish in person.  Watermelon heads supported by action figure size boney bodies.  I always felt giant, a possibility that I could commit death by smother.  The females were scarier, especially naked.  I know this from working and shopping with the fashionistas appearing on my pages.  They made me feel like the older sister who had blossomed first and who was still navigating an approach to manipulating her new female body.  I was chuckling at how much they must love to be in pictures when I realized that just before I turned the page my eye went to the add of yet another pill of future skinniness.   What placement!  Did those readers who never met the parade of darlings believe that they truly looked like our kind in person?  Were they then filled with the notion that they should be like them, and could be aided in their pursuit with just some water and a swallow?  If only everyone knew!
  
  I remember the old entertainment magazines.  They were filled with their version of stars.  Glamorous pictorials of squeaky clean beautiful perfection people, some of them even in families. Suits and ties for the men, hats and gloves for the ladies.  The smallest wore lacey socks or tiny bow ties.  The unattached were usually arm in arm with shiny hair, bright eyes shining the reflection of the bulbs flashing behind.  All of them with yet another success in their field.  If scandal rocked their world, we would only be aware by their absence.Who is worthy of this adoration now?  I couldn’t find any copy on the actors I admire, whose films I anticipated the opening with a feeling reminiscent of a childhood Christmas.  Instead I found these people that occupied four main categories.  JAIL: In, going, released, manipulating or dodging.  REHAB: In, going, released, manipulating or dodging..  PLASTIC SURGERY: Presently having a procedure, consistently hinting of ‘maybe’in interview quotations, obviously altered selves posing and preening, and of course the admissions from some and denial by others. 
  
  The final category was parents.  Includes the offspring.  How amazing a life is led.  World travel, couture outfits, hours of park time and beach strolling.  No cars with drool on the windows and pieces of old food under the seats.  No homes with a vacuum in the hallway, hard gobs of toothpaste in the sink, overflowing hampers, and a dog that has to go out even though it’s pouring.  In fact, the parents being lauded should not even work, their life of ease should continue without making the family sacrifice a day of theirabsence.  Yet, if there is discourse between you, we revel in seeing the destruction.  A family in pain is one that we worship. 
  
  So we have become a society that thrives on misery.  Our own, as we strive to have all that we see, and others’, as it makes us feel more worthy.  World economies have felt the pull of the disease of want.  Millions have been left ravaged from the suffering of being overly extended.  Less is more.  Seems to me I’ve heard that before.  Time to exit this highway of potholes.  Let’s take a more scenic route.  I want to look at awe-inspiring things, not dumpsters of trash.
  
  I’m going to go down to the dock and jump in the lake.

   

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• July 23, 2010

  GROWING UP MOM

  I’ve been forced to examine myself as a mother.  Am I what I thought I would be?  Did childhood behaviors conceive my parenting skills?   There have been a number of events that happened recently that have brought on my introspection.  One mood seeps from my past into my future, and I welcome its attendance.  Humor.  I laugh at myself as a teenage dumbass, and I laugh at my predicament as Mom.

  It all started benignly enough while cooking dinner.  My youngest wanted to help with the cooking.  The recipe called for ¼ tsp. of cayenne pepper.  I tossed the measuring spoons to him, forgetting that he was standing on a step stool in order to work at the counter.  How much? He asked.  Distracted by my own mixing I said a 1 and a 4.  Dinner was torturous.  Gasping and choking we came to find out he had interpreted my direction as 4 times the one.  The big spoon.  We went through the McDonald’s drive thru.  An occurrence that has become way more frequent lately than I used to boast.  

   

  Still, they did change that horrid fry oil, didn’t they?

   

  It wasn’t until we finished our quarter pounders that I found out that my youngest, the chef, had had another issue that day.  I had enrolled him on a computer website loved by his big brothers, a site that I had already checked out thoroughly.  That had become my common practice ever since the Christmas debacle.  Then the boys had each gotten a laptop from Santa, all set up and ready to surf.  After all the wrapping had exploded throughout the room, I scooted them out to try to regain order.  It took me about 20 minutes until I called them to eat.  At bedtime that night, my oldest asked,“Why do men kiss women’s private parts?”  He and his brothers had seen pictures on their computers.  #$%$$#@!!!  We forgot the parental controls.  “Hot Chicks” could be searched.  In 20 minutes.  I couldn’t even turn a computer on until after college.  Are you kidding me?  Anyway, Club Penguin seemed made for kids.  Fun harmless games, and cute waddling Penguins whom you could dress up and make talk.  My little sweet boy put a hat on his, and took him promptly to the screen where he could see some of school friends’ charges.  He waddled his up to another and typed his greeting.  “Hi ASS”.  With false pride he told me he was kicked out of his Arctic world for A WHOLE YEAR! 

  Ah yes, the bad words.  My three are obsessed with them.  I had always thought my thoughtful middle one was immune to thatinfection that is until I heard him whisper the F word angrily to his brother over the intercom.  Even “boner” is on the list.  Yup, that gem came from a 12-year-old neighborhood demon.  My oldest son confided, “We have awesome talks when we lay on the trampoline and look at the sky. “ Obviously.  My three wonderful little men had managed to add to their already full repertoire of farts, burps, and endless mentions of other equally intriguing bodily functions.  Where are my dainty girlie girls playing dress-up with their Barbie’s, quietly, and in the corner?  Why were these noxious things in my house, and why did they multiply on the weekends?  I made more rules, and gave out more rewards.  I yelled, gave mean looks, and sentenced consequences.  I even tried 30-second free reign.  That’s when I take them all into my bedroom and let them talk like sailors while I watch the watch.  Oh, what joy this brings! Hopefully some tactic worked well enough that when they leave my house they don’t cause me embarressment.  After all, my biggest concern, unfortunately truthful, is what will others think?

   

  When I was their age my memory is that I was angel.  From what I heard, my tantrum phase was over, and we were smooth sailing.  No more throwing myself on the ground and screaming loud and foul when I was told No.  Charming.  No, my recollection of punishment inducing behaviors really comes into focus on my teenage years.  There was the yearbook photo of me in my cheerleading uniform walking furtively between two friends.  Seemingly innocuous, yet it hid many facts in plain site.  Both friends were part of the ‘pot’ crowd.  I was carrying a brown-papered bottle of JD.  I had signed a creed vowing to abstain from many things.  I had already had a warning….  Or the Friday night hell ride that erased my savings.  See, my parents had decided to go to my grandparents and take my brothers for the weekend.  They trusted me to stay alone, except for my best friend who would stay with me.  I’m sure they felt even more secure by leaving us with the light blue Plymouth Valiant, the car with the stick shift on the wheel.  Both of us only had our Learner’s Permit. I couldn’t drive it.  Especially without a licensed driver, and not past 9pm anyway. Didn’t matter.  They were gone and we were going.  We realized pretty quickly that 1^st gear was all were getting.  Still, the idea of going out in our car trumped going fast.  All the way down to the lake parking lot we cruised.  Friends were there hanging out drinking and talking.  The thing the cool people do.  That night we belonged.  ‘Rents were gone, no curfew, and we had our own car. It was past midnight when the party crashed and we started our slow drive home up.  ‘Started’ being the most important word in that sentence.  See, about half way there is a hill with a stop sign at the top.  We have to cross a busy road at that intersection, as it is the only way home.  Did I mention that I had to come to a complete stop at the top of that hill in order to check traffic before I go?  Back to the stick shift on the wheel.  I couldn’t do it.  It was look to avoid death and then roll back.  Over and over again.  At first the two of us found this extremely funny.  Then the funniest thing became that we thought that the situation was funny.  That chorus just kept playing.  Then we really lost control around three in the morning.  I swear it was because of the laugh spasms gripping my body, but those backward rolls got longer and more erratic.  That is to say every mailbox or flowerbed was taken out on the left side of the hill and beyond.  The racket woke the neighborhood and the police were called.  Someone was watching over us.  The officer who responded to the call was a relative of my boyfriend.  I had to repair the damage with apologies, and then he even held traffic.  The rest of my weekend consisted of planting, and $$.  The biggest expense was the car.  Varsity jacket?  Nope.  Ski Club?  Not this year.  My coffers were barren.  Somehow my parents didn’t find out until years later.  Amazing since the color they painted that Valiant was thankfully discontinued along with that auto.  Almost a match…

   

  See, my worry is about if those things happen to an earlier angel, what happens to a naughty boy?  This is what keeps me up at night after a Penguin blackballs my kid.  Is there a cycle I need to break?  After all, it was my Mother who gave my God Mother a haircut.  Long, lustrous hair was left intact on only one side of her head, the other side trimmed to the scalp.  Yeah, I fear  there is trouble ahead.  Hopefully I’ll keep on laughing while I figure it out.

   

   

   

  Source: LaurenHolly.com

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• June 26, 2010

  NO PLACE LIKE HOME

  I have been thinking a lot lately about the various places I have lived in my life.  I have moved about and set up my world so many times.  Sometimes I yearn to be like those who grew up in one place, one house, and then moved to only one other, and in that one they die.  I really think the ones I grew up in formed me, the ones I was in as an adult cemented me.  My person needed the changes, the different faces and rules each move gave me.  Would I have become the kind of mother I am, the actress I am if I had had stable sameness?

  I’ve been told that an early bed of mine was a drawer in the desk of my father’s freshman college dorm room, but the first one I remember was in the white house with the brown trim.  I think we only lived in the upstairs.  I can still see the ½ metal, ½ screen door that I would go in and out of, the skinny staircase up to our part.

  Next we moved to a Garden of Eden.  It was the little guest house on a bigger property.  The big house was occupied by a rarely seen couple who seemed like royalty to little me.  I remember special days when I was allowed in their big red barn, invited to swim in their pool, or to pet all of their golden retriever dogs and puppies.  Mostly I got to run in my massive yard that had as my boundary a small cliff drop to a stream.  My Dad would put on tall boots and wade out in it to fly fish.  I caught snakes and picked vegetables from our garden.  I pumped water up from the well, and felt miserable with the mumps. I started school and had my first best friend in that house.

  In second grade I moved to a new town and into an apartment. Our appliances were new and they were green. There was wall to wall carpeting.  Upstairs there was a girl who was very fat and I liked her a lot.  Across the parking lot there was a girl who was skinny and mean, but she had the prettiest clothes I had ever seen.  I once wore an outfit of hers to school and I felt like a princess.  There were horrible older boys who stabbed all the frogs that were in the marshland at the back of the complex, and then threw their dead bodies all over my beloved playground.  I once jumped from that playgrounds’ top of its slide into the air, just to land in the piles of snow from a giant storm.  It was here that my first little brother came home and I became a big sister.

  From there we went bigger again.  This time it was to one half of a very large brick house on a main street in town.  We each had our own front door.  Next door there were two boys, and a trampoline.  Across the street it was a large European family with a big kitchen table.  Up the street there was a corner store and a park. I smoked my first cigarette.  Had my first crush on an adult friend of my parents, a wonderful bedroom, pets, and a list of chores and responsibilities.  I walked to school and to my friend’s houses.  I had a green and yellow 10 speed and I got bitten by a dog. All while I lived there.

  We crossed the ocean and for a bit I lived in the bottom two floors of a townhouse in an extremely posh neighborhood in London, England.  I wore a school uniform, and used public transportation.  Our milk was delivered in bottles.  I played the flute and wore high heeled clogs. I kissed a boy, and I got another brother.  Now we were three. I had two best friends. One had caramel colored skin, the other had hair so blonde it was white.  I became aware that some were rich, and some were poorer.  I went to church, and I read a lot of books that became my favorites.  I realized a life that was more cosmopolitan. I became a teenager.

  Back to my town, and we moved again.  This time we went out to the country.  Eight houses all by themselves in their own woods.  We had a gravel road to our circular driveway.  Lots of trees and my Dad’s flower garden.  My own room with its own entrance, though it also housed the washer and dryer.  We had our first dining room furniture set, a screened in porch, and a wood burning stove.  A black and white TV on the kitchen counter that played the news during dinner.  My dad and his long beard that cooked maple syrup in the metal washtub all night at the head of our driveway and mortified me three nights a year.  The small jar in the fridge that the syrup he made fit in.  I remember blow drying my hair every morning before school, watching for car headlights coming through the woods, and working on my college application essays at my yellow desk.  I rode a bus to school from that house, and it was where I lived when I got my driver’s license.  I had my first love, my first job; my first real secrets were kept when I lived there.  We crossed country skied through the trees, searched for animal bones and heard the piliated woodpecker.  I became a babysitter for the neighbors, and played in kickball games next to the mailboxes.  My littlest brother became a little boy.  This was where I lived when I left.  This was the house that burned, and where my little brother died.

  My family always told me that I was good at setting up a home.  Even my dorm room I made cozy.  It has always been everything to me to set up my home.  Wherever I was, I could not begin until I had my surroundings in order.  One would think that I would stay in one place because of that, but instead I have kept up the rhythm of change.  Even as an adult I have continued to move, and I still do not feel that I am completely settled.  Still, every place, every space, has been a home.  I have felt safe to begin.

  The last few years have been very hard for everyone.  So many people have lost their homes.  The census had to make special provisions in order to count the homeless.  It was all the stories in the news of those so unfortunate that I began to think about where I have lived, of where I had been shaped.  How I felt to have my own space in which I could keep my own things, my own mailbox to get a birthday card, an address to put on the tag of my pet.    According to the latest US census, 170,000 more people have lost their homes. What will the children who have lost their home become?  Less than what they would have been?  Are they filled with fear?  We have such a big problem in this world of homelessness. Before you can be as healthy as you can, as educated as you can, you must feel safe. We must help provide housing, give everyone a roof.  Remember the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song?

  “Our house is a very, very, very fine house.

  With two cats in the yard.

  Life used to be so hard.

  Now everything is easy because of you.”

   

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• May 31, 2010

  Wonderful Water

  

  It was a Wednesday night.  I was bummed we weren’t in a good week’s rhythm.  Just one of those nights when you have kids that body slams you into tired headache living.  Their Dad was out of town, and I was alone to handle it.  That meant no breaks to catch my breath.  Fighting, yelling , teasing, tears, something broken, my threats getting worse until the punishment I dole out is so bad I can’t possibly keep it- “You are not going to be allowed to play outside until you are 18!” (That’s ten years.  Every bad parenting no no met? Check. )  No one slept, bad dreams were had.  No shock there.

  All I thought about was how to stop the downward spiral.  What will take them out of their rude selves?  Water.  When water was around, kids had joy.  Water gun fights, pools, puddles, ocean beaches, balloon bombs, the bathtub, the shower, the sink, the unfortunate toilet.  Water meant fun.  I decided to let my bad Mom behavior continue for just a little longer.  No school.  We were going to feel 650,000 gallons of wonderful water go rushing by us.  We were going to see Niagara Falls.  Water would save us!

  I knew it was not THAT far, but how did we actually get to the right place to see?  There was a website, and prominently displayed phone #.  I called it.  I have to admit I didn’t put much into this actually solving the problem.  Most likely the sheer monotony of listening, pushing a button, listening to another choice, pushing a button- sometimes even twice in different languages. I always give up before I get to the final button push.  But Keri answered.  I knew that because she even told me that it was spelled with a K.  Of course she could give me directions.  How about an address to put in your GPS that would bring you straight to the correct parking lot?  Keri should be the next President, she can get it done.  I actually thought about her during our drive.  I had appreciated when she laughed heartily at one of my stupid jokes about how I really needed something specific.  I wonder what her story is, I thought. She’s probably a College student working part time to get herself through school.

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• March 28, 2010

  School Dances

  School Dance.  When has two words ever had the power to cause such a wide-array of emotional reactions?  Excitement.  Fear. Dread. Worry.  Insecurity.  Prayer. Hope.  I proved to have mostly the negative feelings.  I definitely was not one of the “it” girls.  We all know them.  They will get asked, and by the perfect boy.  She will have the perfect dress, and her skin will be blemish free.  She and her date will bask in the glow of being the couple everyone else wants to be. If my high school years were a map, my dance experiences would be markers in red, like capital cities. Or nuclear power plant locations.
  
  My first one pretty much set the course of my future status.  I think I was on track to be one of the “it” girls, but the 9th grade formal was ground zero for my mediocre ranking.  I was in 7th grade when the most popular boy of the 9th grade asked me to go.  I had to have been hot stuff.  Legendary in my small town for living in Europe (Ok, it took awhile, and finally was considered kinda cool that I was in Scholastic), and blonde.  My town had a large Italian population.  Though my last name did not end in a vowel, and I was not related to every 3rd person on the street, my hair was a definite advantage.  Anyway, JJ asked me to go, and I began to get that golden glow.
  
  My Mom shocked me.  She seemed into it.  She really was not the type to wanna discuss the outfit, or to agree that “it was the most important thing to ever happen to me!”  Maybe she had the feeling that this would set me up for a stress-free ride thru High School because she was cool.  Extremely.  First, I was allowed to go.  That in of itself is a big deal.  Seventh grade girl to ninth grade boy is a big leap for parents to make.  Add in nighttime& cars, and up until this moment it would have been a big no-go for me.  Not only that, but my parents arranged the coolest thing ever- a dinner party. Four couples were going to have a ‘dining room’ sit-down before the dance.  Looking back I realize it was my parent’s way of scoping out the teens, making sure all was OK- but to all of us, we just felt grown-up.

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• February 24, 2010

  Living In London

  
  We were going to live in London for a year.  I still remember the feeling when my parents told me that.  It seemed like a sudden bubble incased me, and I started bobbing through my life, muffled bumps guiding me along.  Everything we did, every decision we made took London into the equation. We would not buy it unless it was going to London. Could we use it in London? Funny thing was, not much was going to London.  The list of restrictions was long.  We could not bring our dog; the quarantine was a no go with my “I love animals more than humans” mother. Then there were the weight rules. No box or trunk or suitcase over certain # of lbs per person. That began the onset of my brother’s arrogance. Though he was only 5, the discussion about how he was as important as an adult, due to the luggage allowance he provided, was the basis for the ensuing ego bloat. Not only was I being stripped of my belongings, but now I had another full person to contend with.
  
  Due to the strength of the dollar against the pound we ended up in quite a ‘posh’ neighborhood. Every adult conversation I heard over the first few months included a comparison of the $ and pound. Lucky us, we apparently got a lot more stuff because of our buff money. Good thing, I thought. At least it helped balance the ribbing I got for having a ‘peanut farmer for a president’. Weird what they focused on.  Yeah, we lived in a neighborhood that was famous because it was home to a very popular serial on television.  I believe it is early evidence of successful reality television.  I liked it for other reasons. We got deliveries of milk in a bottle every day. There was an awesome sweet shop on the corner, and a pub down the block that I could actually go in. The location was fab, because it was central to everything. Inside it was so- so. I had to share a bedroom with my brother, but there was also a long skinny hallway with no windows that was perfect for a super game of dodge ball.

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• February 4, 2010

  Peace, please

  Now I know this comment is a little after the fact- but it is still relevant.  I was a bit nervous posting it because of the political subject matter.  Even some of my own family members disagree with some of my views.  Still, I’ll risk it, proud that I live where I can express my opinion.
  
  I had lunch with a friend, someone I hadn’t seen in awhile.  Lots to catch up on, we talked much more than we ate, and sort of glazed over a multitude of topics.  Kids and schools, movies, crazy events, what’s called news- the usual.  After our 2nd try at goodbye, when my friend really had to get back to her job, she said “Oh, we didn’t talk about Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize Speech”, and she said it in the way that meant she hated it. That was surprising. My main thought on the drive home from downtown was I need to get a copy of that speech.  I had seen parts of it from an airport lounge during a particularly stressful trip.  To me he seemed regal and distinguished, though I kept scanning audience shots for Will and Jada Smith.  Weren’t they supposed to be there? (That seemed such a random choice of guests, though if I was president, I’d have my lists of wannameets too- you know they are not gonna turn down Oslo on Air Force One!)  While driving the typical traffic jammed late-afternoon roads, it occurred to me that I couldn’t recall any part of what he actually said, nor why there is any sort of discussion that needs to be had with my fellow Obama supporter.

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• December 2, 2009

  Horror movies have never really been my thing.  I think it has something to do with THE OMEN.  I was just a kid the summer that came out.  I spent much of every summer with my grandparents on the Jersey Shore.  Pretty idyllic memories of being barefoot, and sandy.  I knew all the kids on the block.  Some were summer kids like me, others  lived there all year round.  All day it was fishing, crabbing and clamming, swimming and boating.  Evenings were spent sitting on the fence at the corner, hanging out and comparing tan lines.  Some of the kids were older.  They were the ones who told me about THE OMEN, told me how I definitely had to see it.  The way they said it, I felt like I had to too, then I could talk about it and tell other kids to go see it.

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• November 2, 2009

  My debut as an actress happened at West Street School in the 2nd grade, according to me.

  
  According to my parents, my debut was  the day I was born.  All the women in my family were young when they had children.  Hence, when I came into the world I was surrounded by doting aunts, uncles, grand-parents and great-grandparents.  Family get-togethers inevitably morphed into a giant circle with me in the center.  Everything I did was met with ooohs and aaahs. 
  
  Regardless, in the 2nd grade I was on a stage.  The play was “The Wiggly Worm,” and yes, I was that worm.  I remember my mother made my costume out of some swirly orange and white material that used to be one of her hippie tunics or dresses.  It was a simple costume, probably just a tube I stepped into, otherwise she couldn’t have made it. 

  My Mom was not much of a homemaker.  I did the dishes and we all cleaned the house for a couple of hours on most Saturday mornings.  I used to complain that when my friends came home from school they would find pans of Lasagna (remember it’s a predominately Italian town), and fresh baked brownies on the counter.  I would come home to some healthy crap like dried apricots, piles and shelves of books everywhere, and an animal or two that needed to be walked, fed or something.  Not even a tv.  The only one was black and white and tiny enough to fit on the dresser in my parent’s bedroom. 

  The fact that my parents were incredibly smart, interesting people that I could talk to about anything hadn’t become important yet.  The famous story told over and over has me announcing in no uncertain terms at ten years of age they  “were the intellectual type, and I was the social type!” 

  Anyway, I’m onstage, in the school’s cafeteria, as the orange and white worm, and my/our performance is a smash hit.  Supposedly I loved the applause so much that I stood beaming long after the rest of the cast had exited stage right.  My teacher had to come escort me off.
  

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• September 16, 2009

  Growing up in Geneva, NY: My house, my neighbors, my bully
  
  The next house was ‘a double.’  You know, the same house divided in two.  It seemed huge to me.  My parents had to make furniture because we didn’t have enough to fill it.  First, Mom got carpet remnants - big squares of shag in cream, green, and orange that she sewed together with thick thread.  So the carpet looked like a really big checker board which frequently needed new stitches.  Those squares had a habit of coming apart.  Next, out came the paint and shellac. Two orange crates were painted green and made shiny.  Voila!  Our coffee table.  A picnic table was brought inside.  Each wood board was painted a different color and shined.  The amazing Technicolor Dining Room. 
  
  To a little girl, my house was beautiful.  It never occurred to me that my young parents did not have much money.  My room was in the front of the house.  My bear and I were quite comfortable, barring the few problems with wild animals.  There was the occasional bat that would escape from the attic.  My Mom would scream, and my Dad would finally catch it - usually with a tennis racket and a laundry basket.  Then there was the time that a mother squirrel was hit by a car while leading her babies across the street in front of our house.  My Mom rescued the little orphans and fed them from a medicine dropper.  She let me keep them in a big cage in my room.  That is until one day I came home from school and found them loose and snarling in my room.  I’ll never forget the sight of the biggest one stretched out across my big, white bear’s face.  Gripping on with his claws, bugged out wild eyes, and hissing at me.  I’m not sure what happened to them, but I don’t think it was as simple as being scooped into a laundry basket with a tennis racket.  There was also the time I opened my door to find my beloved cat, Puck, dead on the floor.  His eyes were white, his head still with the neck of my goldfish bowl around it.  The rest of the glass was smashed and strewn across my soaking wet wood floor, my goldfish limp nearby.  Traumatizing. 
  
  My Neighbors
  
  The other side of the house was occupied by another professor and her sons.  The boys were named after great writers.  I think they knew that was pretty pretentious, and seemed burdened by it.  We were kind of friends, but really only because they had a trampoline…way better than the babyish rusted red and white swing set in the backyard on our side.  Across the street there was a girl who was a couple of years older than me.  She went to the Catholic school.  We were friends unless she had someone over; then she would ignore me. When she didn’t have a friend over, we would walk to the corner store, Monaco’s, the most wonderful place on earth.  When Mom gave me money and sent me there to pick up an item for dinner (maybe even buy a piece of candy), I felt big.  Really big.  Like a teenager.  When my friend from across the street and I would go in together, I knew they were all thinking how grown up we were. 
  
  I walked to school everyday from that double house, usually with G.  She was super-tall and I was super-short.  My pediatrician wondered if I would make 5 ft.  No one thought so, including me, until the summer of 8th grade.  I grew eight inches, and my parents had to rub my legs every night because they hurt so much.  Anyway, G. lived around the corner and we were in the same grade.  Not only was she like a foot taller than me, but she was the best student in our grade.  She wore glasses and overalls, and had these long fingers that wrote the most perfect printing I had ever seen.  She also had a brother and sister who were twins, and that was fascinating to me. 
  
  My Bully
  
  G. also protected me, except on the days when she had her piano lessons.  Then her mom would pick her up at school, and I would have to walk home alone.  There was a girl who would hide somewhere on my route home, jump out and taunt me, push me, generally scare the crap out of me.  By the time we got to junior high she had graduated to sticking me in the butt with a hat pin in the hallway when we changed classes.  I knew it was gonna be a really bad day if she made a fist at me in the morning.  That went on until the beginning of ninth grade when I came to school much taller and she came to school much fatter.  She didn’t bully me much after that. 
  
  If G. were there, no one would bother me.  She would give them "the treatment."  That meant holding them up by their ankles and shaking them.  Sometimes money would fall out of their pockets and we'd take it. We were like bad characters out of a Steinbeck novel.  Problem was, my bully was too tough.  She didn’t get "the treatment."  I think that meant we took it out on those less tough.  Looking back, I’m not sure how I rationalized that one.
  
  Anyway, at the top of the hill on our street there was a little park.  Actually, it was a "square" with a statue in the middle, surrounded by gardens, multi-colored townhouses and a Presbyterian Church on the corner.  That square is where I tried my first cigarette.   It is where  years later, when I was coming out of my girlfriend's wedding rehearsal,  my bully came running at me, arms outstretched, screaming my name, seemingly ready to pummel me yet again.  But no, she just wanted to throw her arms AROUND me, to take a picture WITH me.  I was now on "All My Children."
  
  To be continued…

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• June 16, 2009

  My childhood began in Geneva, NY ...

  Not that I was born there, no that was Bristol, Pa.  I lived other places before Geneva as well. I vaguely recall a white house with brown shutters.  Then there was the little house with the HUGE yard (would I still think so now?).  The people who owned it lived up the road.  They had a big red barn and lots of golden retrievers.  We had a garden, a water well with a pump, lots of places to find snakes (which I did often), and a stream where I could watch my Dad flyfish.  It was also where I met my first friend, whose nickname was Kiki.  We both went to the same lady’s house after school.  If we mis -behaved, she would put us in time -outs in separate rooms.  Unknown to her, we would situate ourselves on furniture so that we could see each other across the hallway.  The time -outs weren’t so bad.  Kiki and I both loved Bobby Sherman, and she was born the day after me.  I have no idea where she is now, but every year on October 29th I wish her a Happy Birthday.

  
  
  

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