Remembering Hurricane Bill

"Bill's Effects on the Jersey Shore: Lots of Churning, but no disasters." I knew when I picked up the Philadelphia paper that the headline referred to Hurricane Bill, which thankfully did not slam into the coast of New Jersey as vacationers were enjoying the last of summer. This week, fleeing the sticky weather inland, scores of us braved long waits at toll plazas and near accidents in New Jersey's infamous traffic circles, seeking ocean breezes and one last romp in salt spray.

Yes, I knew that menacing wave heights and rip tides under the frothy surface of a seemingly perfect Jersey beach day were evidence of a serious storm out to sea, a storm that has taken lives, a storm that is no laughing matter. Still, as I read news accounts this morning, I couldn't help but chuckle, and I wondered briefly whether my sisters and I had unintentionally stirred up the Atlantic. From four states across the country, my three sisters and I gathered this week. We met up on Long Beach Island, NJ, a place where we spent much of our collective childhood, and we brought a Bill we all knew could certainly make waves when he wanted to. We came to scatter the ashes of our father, Bill, in a place that always brought him joy and a kind of peace he didn't evidence in many other parts of his life. Under a perfect canopy of bright white stars, we four sisters shared memories of our mutual parents and of those always barefoot summers. One recited a prayer, all of us said goodbye, and there was a lot of laughter punctuated liberally by one refrain: "No,no, that's not the way it happened. This is what happened. . ."

As a writer and a teacher, as a person, I've become increasingly fascinated by how fuzzy and indefinable that line can be between memoir and fiction. "Any story told twice," the late poet/writer Grace Paley once said to an interviewer, "is fiction." As soon as we have an experience, we start to frame in our own minds "the story" of what just occurred. We choose, like all good story tellers do, the details to include. We illuminate the feelings we want to convey. I suspect we leave out details and feelings that either didn't register with us, or which don't enhance the tale we've already begun to craft in our minds of the experience. And then we retell the tale and it changes in the retelling. What we remember, where we focus our attention from the first, the details we share, are all colored by our temperment, our age or life stage, our past experience, our moods of the moment.





We stood on soft cool sand on a hot summer night, all of us in our fifties and sixties, and each of us remembered our own Long Beach Island. None of us was sure who was right about what year was the year when-- and who was actually on the beach the year that-- hundreds of starfish washed ashore and we gathered them in buckets and brought them home to a distressed, or delighted, depending on which of us you ask, mother. We all remembered that she made us grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches. We couldn't agree on whether the way our father hauled us past our fears into sometimes churlish waters, how he made sure we all learned to swim, was an act of kindness or harshness, though we were all glad we'd become confident swimmers.





And then we let him go, and the man who taught us all to duck under the biggest breakers and back float over the calm rolling waves became part of the Atlantic Ocean we all knew he'd loved.

Nodding Panda

I confess to liking—perhaps more than I should—doodads, gimcracks, and tchotchkes. I even like the words themselves for being so felicitous. Sometimes, though, I attribute unreasonable powers to these objects of my unreasonable affection, and they become charms.

Consider the case of Nodding Panda. I bought him at Mitsuwa, our local Japanese market, ostensibly because I thought my students would enjoy watching the light-activated toy nod away on my desk. And, indeed, they were amused by him all school year long, at which point I brought him home to spend the summer on the desk in my study.

Now that school is starting again, I have a problem. For two months, Nodding Panda has kept me company while I wrote, mused, emailed, drafted, planned, fumed, doubted, despaired, deleted, and recovered. I often looked to his dependably nodding countenance for the wherewithal to continue when what I was doing seemed pointless. His little mechanical head kept telling me Yes, or Keep going, or That was pretty damn good, wasn’t it? He was quiet, encouraging company, and I no longer want to share him in my public workplace.

But, I will share him with you. When you find yourself doubting the enterprise of writing or your ability to carry on with it, conjure up the image of Nodding Panda. He is telling you to finish that paragraph or page, before you go to the refrigerator. He is saying, Good things come of hard work. He is cheering you on, and any kind of light keeps him going, even fluorescent.

Red Leaf Warning

When I lived in Western Pennsylvania, finding my first red maple leaf in mid-August always sent me into despair. Oh no. Summer was coming to an end. The days were growing shorter and the mornings were growing darker. Soon school would start and I would be beset by routines and schedules and commitments. I would lose the lovely sense of freedom and light-heartedness that was synonymous with summer.

Last week I read that optimistic women live longer, healthier lives than pessimistic ones. Optimistic women are less likely to develop heart disease while women with “cynical hostility” are at a higher risk for heart disease and for dying in general. This worries me. Not that I’m hostile. Or even particularly negative. I could likely scrounge up a handful of witnesses to testify than I am a positive person, someone good about dusting herself off and moving forward. But optimistic?

Optimistic people are morning people, aren’t they? Not someone like me, who when roused, prays oh, please God, don’t let it be morning yet. Someone who despairs over a red leaf. Hardly optimistic. Optimistic women are the ones you see in commercials. The ones smiling over their first cup of coffee, smiling before they’ve taken one single sip. The ones doing yoga on the patio as the sun rises. The ones running with their dogs as mist wisps from the meadows. The ones stretching and sighing and gazing out their bedroom window like . . . Well, like they are in a television commercial. The only time I smile in the morning is when I realize I can stay in bed a while longer.

This weekend, back in Pennsylvania for a family event, little red maple leaves littered our campsite. “Oh, look, fall is coming,” I said as I gathered up a leaf. “What a pretty shade of red.”

Perhaps there is hope for me after all.

Wedding on the Ohio River

Marietta, Ohio, is a town filled with history. Named after Marie Antoinette in 1788, it was the first settlement of the Northwest Territory, and its many historical markers honor early forts, shipbuilders, steamboats, and the first white woman to set foot in the place. It is small town of broad streets, lovely old houses, and expansive lawns. The perfect place for a wedding.

The wedding guests drove hours to get here. The ones from Pennsylvania wove their way south and west through Ohio mill towns and farmland, while we drove west and north over at least three mountain ranges. Blue Ridge. Shenandoah. Allegheny. Deep green forests with mist rising from the treetops into the gray, rainy skies. It was a long, wet journey, but one we all happily make when old friends marry off a child.

Fortunately, the day of the wedding was cloudless and warm, and St. Mary Catholic Church, stunning in its size and Old World grandeur, was air-conditioned. The ceremony was so flawless no one could have guessed the behind-the-scenes drama: the bridesmaid’s dress that landed in Vermont instead of West Virginia and the bee that attacked the bride’s mother. It had turned into a perfect day, and we were proud, because this child, this young, beautiful bride, was the youngest of our collective children, the baby we all watched grow up. We had to be there.

Findley Lake

“It’s going to be a nice day,” Tracy says, “because mist is rising from the pond.”

We have yet to see many misty mornings here on the outskirts of Findley Lake, but we remain hopeful. It has been a cool, rainy summer for all of New York State, and in this far western edge of Chautauqua County, when the sun comes out, we all rush outdoors. Yesterday, Liz and I sat on the porch of the Main Street Café simply because we could. It was an uneventful afternoon in the village and yet people were about. Strolling, bicycling, boating. Across the street from the café is Findley Lake itself, formed from two ponds in 1815 when Alexander Findley built a dam to power his sawmill.

Driving around the lake – Sunnyside Road runs along the eastern border and Shadyside Road along the west – it’s easy to get a sense of those two original ponds. The road curls easily, dipping in and out around two sections of calm, welcoming water, each centered with a dot of island. At first glance, Findley Lake is a typical tiny summer resort: one short stretch of shops and eateries and lakeside properties that range from one-room cottages to gingerbread Victorians. The locals will tell you stories, however, of how they were drawn to this place, how there is some small magical element to the lay of the land and the lore of its inhabitants that held them here when they thought they were only passing through.

We, too, are charmed, and when the sun goes behind the clouds and we take a last glance at the water, we notice two boys and their boat, one rowing the rippled surface and one swimming alongside. They are Every Boys, spirits from a century ago and today. The very essence of a summer afternoon.

On Pedicures and Peeves

While some folks seek only to beautify their feet and toes with soaking, exfoliating, trimming, filing and painting, I have a philosophical commitment to pedicures. I acknowledge that we depend on our feet to support us our entire lives, no matter how much we weigh. There are whole humans who can’t or won’t fulfill that need for us, though we expect these boney little platforms to do so. You have to admit, it’s a lot to ask of a body feature that probably comprises about 3 percent of our total bulk. If we were buildings, we would collapse once we reached puberty.

And yet, we don’t. Our feet carry us on our way, wherever that may lead us. So I’ve promised my feet that I will take care of them, and that means a monthly pedicure at RoseyToes Mani/Pedi Lounge. It’s pricier than other cattle-call, pick-color-you-pay-me-now salons. What you get in this loft of pampering is much like a facial for your feet. Plus, they use stainless steel tubs, which they scrub and sterilize after each use. My favorite part of the process is the ten-minute foot and calf massage, followed by a hot towel wrap. Oh, sweetness. The gallons of angst that wash away down the drain of that place.

So you will understand my dismay when, on my last visit, the customer sitting next to me answered her clamoring cell phone, right in the midst of my massage. The ring was the first couple bars of Rod Stewart, singing “Maggie May”: Wake up, Maggie, I think I got something to say to you… I used to enjoy this song, but it’s ruined forever for me, because a squinchy-faced, ultra-apologetic woman (“Sorry, I have to take this, I’m buying a new computer.”) held forth 20 minutes with techno chatter, including an argument with her teenage son, to whom she wished to give the old, restored computer, but the son was having none of it. He wanted a new one, just like the machine she was purchasing. I don’t know if I was angrier with the woman or with myself because I was too polite to suggest she save her business for later.

But now I’m using our blog for that very purpose: Wake up, lady, and all other cell phone zealots, I think I got something to say to you. Unless there’s an emergency, you don’t HAVE to take a cell phone call. You don’t HAVE to make the dribs and drabs of your personal life public. All of it can WAIT an hour until you are home or hermetically sealed in your car. Here’s another tip: a bathroom stall doesn’t qualify, nor does a booth in a restaurant.

I have a pedicure next Wednesday. I pray that I can care for my deserving feet in peace, and that you will do your part to protect sacred American spaces from the yammering national compulsion of cell phones.

Happy 4th of July, everyone!

Nesting and Empty Nesting

We live in Philadelphia, in what my mother would have dubbed an "old fashioned neighborhood." As I walk up to yoga class early in the morning, John and Julie pull out of the garage they added to their row house and wave proudly and Fred calls "Youse guys have a good day!" The man who sports a helmet with Viking horns rides his old three speed bike around. We're not sure where he sleeps but local merchants give him odd jobs sweeping stoops and cleaning windows so we all know he eats when he's hungry. The past few days the residents of the four attached houses that face our tiny garden courtyard off busy Third Street, have all bonded over a pair of cardinals we've noticed day after day in the Japanese maple just outside my front door. One of my neighbors, Brian, finally found the nest we all suspected they were guarding when they'd flit from window ledge to rooftop to maple tree branch, calling and waking us, early in the morning, drawing the attention of six cats who sit in a variety of windows in the houses, fixed on the birds' every movement.

The nest of course, is in the other tree in our courtyard, a lacy bowl of twigs that looks as if it would blow over in a single rain. When my neighbor, Sue, points it out to me (Brian showed Stan and Reena, Reena showed her,) the parent birds become agitated. It's in the nature of all good parents to protect, maybe even at times overprotect, their young. Still the little guys have to leave the nest sometime, often awkwardly, and we all know not all of the baby birds will make it. So our fifth family in the courtyard, our feathered family, has become the talk of the community.

Yesterday, two round, brown fluffy baby cardinals were trying out their wings and ended up hopping around in the hosta and impatiens in the postage stamp size flower beds beneath their tree. Sue and I were out with our cameras and our visitors. Her brother and his family are in from a small town in Massachusetts. My son and his wife are visiting for the weekend and will leave their cat, Rishi, with us for the summer as they head down to DC, to internship work and a summer sublet which, unlike their apartment building in the heart of Chicago, doesn't allow pets. Our two cats, Ukee and Chloe, are staking territory with the interloper and the fur is literally flying. The semi-orderly quiet of the urban empty nest my husband and I have set up has been tossed, probably for the duration of summer. The grown kids will come and go and the third cat will stay and stalk our two, loudly inviting them to play or fight.

When my daughter was little, she spent a half hour a day at least in Mr. Rogers' neighborhood which was populated by hand puppets, a small wooden train and a gentle postman who appeared and disappeared with a cheery "speedy delivery!" This was a place of pure safety where grown ups spoke kindly to children at all times. We lived in a very near in suburb of Philadelphia, an old suburb with sidewalks and a branch of the township library within easy walking distance, houses not large but detached and suburban none-the-less. I thought I would give all that up when I moved into the heart of Center City Philadelphia, that noise and anonymity would be the costs of our empty nesting change in our lives. How wrong, how wrong.

"How do the birds get back into the nest when they've hopped out?" Little Taylor, Sue's visiting nephew asks her now. "They don't want to, honey," she answers and though he's way too young to get what this means, he just nods as if he does, and returns to playing his drums.