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Wednesday, September 18, 2024

"Standing By Peaceful Waters"



This pretty little book was published in 1973. I picked it up and put it back a few times over the years in the Cape Cod gift shop--I can't remember if it was at the National Seashore Visitor Center or the Wellfleet Bay Wildlife Sanctuary. I've known their book inventories pretty well, with all that compounded vacation time to browse by peaceful waters. The colorful illustrated cover and the title called out to me, even if I never in my life make Beach Plum Jelly. I finally bought the soft cover one year and just rediscovered it on the bookshelves in my home office. 

With quiet time alone this week, I've been reading it. Wonderful work by Elizabeth Post Mirel (who had three young children at the time, including a baby) with graceful illustrations by Betty Fraser. I do want the kind of calm where I make a pocket of time to read Plum Crazy, because it evokes a place and a passion. Our long-time Cape Cod friends Rite and Bob picked beach plums. I don't know if I ever learned to recognize the fruit until now, but there may be some nearby here in Connecticut.

Sis flew to the Southwest (New Mexico) to travel with her Peace Corps friend and family and called on me to dog-sit her enchanting pup, Galena, for more than a week. I walk that girly at least three times a day, and never sleep past 8, because she doesn't.

I'm loving it. Sis still gets The New York Times paper edition delivered daily. I sat on the sofa drinking in the Sunday Styles section. I met my friend/magazine colleague Mary Kate, who lives nearby, for a lovely catch-up breakfast in Cos Cob (part of Greenwich). I went to Mass in Stamford, and then asked Google to find the nearest Whole Foods, so ended up in high-end Darien midday Sunday, where I felt like a fish out of moneyed water. Two striking blonde women (not together) wore little immaculate white pleated tennis skirts, in perfect contrast to their golden tans. They were coming from or going to the courts. Eyewear was on trend, as were baby carriers and the handsome young dads wearing them for weekend duty. Some branded local products (cacao pudding and whipped bath scrub) were tempting but both went the way of beautiful Ice Cream Tulip bulbs, named for their double ice-cream-cone like blooms, but over my budget. The children, for the most part, seemed well-mannered. The place was packed. Though the store was mostly stocked with the same products our Montclair Whole Foods carries, I felt an imbalance, shall we say, which I never feel in my diverse hometown.

Behold luscious Ice Cream Tulips. I want to add some to our spring garden. 
You can also find Strawberry Ice Cream Tulips (red) 
and Banana Ice Cream Tulips (yellow). 
If I revisit Darien Whole Foods, I will buy a bag of bulbs.

Galena and I have been marina-gazing here in Shippan Point, turning our faces to the birds flying over the harbor and crossing paths with baby deer and other dogs (Pluto, Milo, Bo, etc.). We went to a small beach and walked out on the fishing pier, which has evenly spaced holes in the railings to rest poles while prepping bait or waiting for a bite.

When we go out back on the short boardwalk path by tall feathery grass and a snow egret, Galena and I stop by the plaque that commemorates the trade between two chiefs of Onax Tribe No. 41, International Order of Red Men, and a white British captain in 1640 and memorialized for the city of Stamford in 1916. The original owners swapped this beauty for some coats, glasses, knives, kettles, wampum and a few other things. Read more about that here (excellent report by Chase Wright).

Harbors are calm, harbors are good, whether our paths are charted or uncharted. Which brings me to these beautiful lyrics from "Lake Marie," by John Prine, released in 1995:

We were standing
Standing by peaceful waters
Standing by peaceful waters.....

SPOKEN: Many years ago along the Illinois-Wisconsin Border
There was this Indian tribe
They found two babies in the woods
White babies
One of them was named Elizabeth
She was the fairer of the two
While the smaller and more fragile one was named Marie
Having never seen white girls before
And living on the two lakes known as the Twin Lakes
They named the larger and more beautiful Lake, Lake Elizabeth
And thus the smaller lake that was hidden from the highway
Became known forever as Lake Marie...














Onward now...

Correction: When I wrote this post on the fourth floor of the Shops at Hudson Yards in NYC yesterday, I put the wrong date for the tribal trade. It was 1640, not 1612. The plaque commemorates the original July 1, 1640 sale by American Indian Chiefs Ponus and Wascussue to British Capt. Nathaniel Turner, an agent for the New Haven Colony.

Sunday, September 8, 2024

Gidget Goes New Jersey


The 1961 pineapple/surfboard classic, "Gidget Goes Hawaiian."*
Who knew I would see a surf lesson on the beach today? 
Co-star James Darren (Moondoggie to 
Deborah Walley's Gidget) just died this week.
 Image from HERE

My iPhone camera lens is cloudy/fuzzy so I couldn't take photos of the beautiful Spring Lake beach today. I went to meditate, ponder, pray, rest, recharge and fill my soul. Dan had an article deadline. I arrived at 4, stayed two hours and was home by 7:30 to make salad with a Jersey tomato from a farmstand down that way and homemade croutons, plus quick pork chops with rosy applesauce from a jar. (Finicky Spice actually ate the whole dinner, yay. I got the jar of Red Jacket Orchards applesauce, from the Finger Lakes, at Dry Goods Refillery, a plastic-free grocery shop in town.) 

The waves were calm. I counted 13 Sunday surfers in all, though they weren't getting much action. Then I saw a petite woman giving a lesson to another woman in the sand, the student on her stomach on the board, practicing the paddling motion. Soon, they were in the water. A happy sight. Empowering.

I studied the sea and went in up to my shins. The water was mild and I probably should have worn my swimsuit, but the air was cold up here. I folded up my wool sweater into a nice cozy pillow and rested, first on my right side, then on my left. I took in the lapping white foam, the rhythm. I prayed a little. How lucky I am to live on the East Coast, not far from the Atlantic Ocean. (It took 1 hour and 7 minutes to get there.) But as I looked at the endless glassy blue surface, considered its depth, I thought, It looks so pretty but underneath, it holds some unknown, unpleasant or scary things. Nothing is perfect. The sea is a wonder but I wouldn't want to explore on my own down there. I would sink quickly, spiral down, and possibly face sharks or jutting rocks that could make me bleed.

I'm trying to say, beauty can bring pain hidden under its surface. Life, like the sea, is a gift but with tricky parts. It comforted me to realize that, to put things in perspective.

I'm going to doze. Good night.

*I rewatched this movie on Tubi TV Friday night, while Dan was out working at a party. I love the cast, including Carl Reiner as Gidget's Dad. But as we fell asleep, I said, "Please remind me never to watch a 'Gidget' movie again. Everything always works out so well, all tied up with a ribbon and a bow." Parenting teens in 1961 looks much different than it is 63 years later. Some basics are the same, since teens then and now pushed parental boundaries. But sugar-coated endings are not real in many cases.

Friday, September 6, 2024

"Mother Mary Comes to Me"

I've heard for decades about "Our Lady of Fátima," but didn't register the location (Portugal) or the full story. It was reported in 1917 that Our Lady appeared to three shepherd children. Two died in the 1918 flu epidemic. One girl became a nun and lived to age 97. Image from HERE.

Paul McCartney and John Lennon wrote these lyrics (song released in 1970). Such gifted men, makers of beautiful art that touches the heart and soul. Look how deep their gifts were; look what they left the world. This morning I asked the Google speaker to play "Let It Be." Listening helped me through brushing my teeth, wriggling into my blue denim skirt, pouring coffee, getting by. Google played a lovely instrumental version, I think by Lemon Tart, great name. I have to get to work now at my desk. Here is another post, "Hail Marys on the #66 Bus." That was about young Figgy, but today my Hail Marys are for Spice. I decided to stop using the name Spice/Spike because that's not very kind.

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to meSpeaking words of wisdom, let it beAnd in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of meSpeaking words of wisdom, let it be
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it beWhisper words of wisdom, let it be
And when the broken hearted people living in the world agreeThere will be an answer, let it beFor though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will seeThere will be an answer, let it be
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it beThere will be an answer, let it be
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it beWhisper words of wisdom, let it be
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it beWhisper words of wisdom, let it be, be
And when the night is cloudy there is still a light that shines on meShinin' until tomorrow, let it beI wake up to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to meSpeaking words of wisdom, let it be
And let it be, let it be, let it be, let it beWhisper words of wisdom, let it be
And let it be, let it be, let it be, let it beWhisper words of wisdom, let it be
Source: Musixmatch
Songwriters: Paul Mccartney / John Lennon
Let It Be lyrics © Sony/atv Tunes Llc

Sunday, September 1, 2024

Bees Sting, Owls Watch

Moey has three younger brothers, and this photo is by Ryan Cassidy, the son of her youngest bro, Jimmy, born when we were in fifth grade (ck).  I hadn't seen Ryan in a while but last night, he showed us some photos. He is gifted. It takes a close, patient and quiet eye to capture nature like this. LMK if you need a wildlife image. I will send you Ryan's contact info. Photo copyright Ryan Cassidy.

Summer stung like a bumblebee this year in many ways. But the details are too personal to publish. 

Still, pollinators are good, so maybe this sting can turn out to help our family somehow grow and reseed. IDK. Take the stinger out, follow a winding path to eventual flowers or dripping golden honey?

It takes great effort to step back and accept. Risky behaviors, unsafe choices. I hope and pray, but that only goes so far for me. It doesn't give me endless serenity and trust. I can't change the past--not my own flawed behaviors and certainly not the teenager's early god-given road.

So what can I do? I can apply salve (I took a bath with a luscious Dolly Moo bamboo & blue tansy bath bomb today, smells so good and clean and the color is so pretty). Even combed on a little black mascara, swiped on Prada lipstick, dipped into Bobbi Brown beachy nude cream eye shadow. I can take a peaceful nap. I can continue to love even when I do not want to, or think I possibly can. I can follow a code of tolerance and love. 

I can judge and criticize less.

Yesterday was Moey's bday. Dan and I went over to the deck for thin crust pizza, vegs and dip, chilled shrimp and to sing happy birthday to Moey. Her parents are 87 and 86 (ck); I can't believe it. When they had Moey 63 years ago, Mr. C. was 24 and Mrs. C. was 23. Ted was there (Moey's husband), their fun, smart son, Kevin, and Ryan Cassidy, their nephew. He is into wildlife photography. Look at that amazing photograph above!

Well, I might watch another episode of "Emily in Paris" on my laptop now.

Good night.

I enjoyed Friday night with Figgy. I wish I had a good Spice photo 
but she won't take pictures with us too often lately. I sunk pretty Papyrus unicorn bday candles into this vegan Jeni's Lemon Bar ice cream for Figgy. I wish they had sugar-free, for me. (The website says $12 but I found it at Wegmans on sale for $6.99.)








Wednesday, August 21, 2024

"Toyota Universe" and #Onceinabluemoon

Hi from the Toyota service center on Route 46 East in Little Falls, New Jersey.

I'm happy to be here for a noon appointment on a summer Wednesday because

A. It's our first free maintenance check and oil change (under warranty) on the preowned (formerly leased only) RAV4 we bought this spring. It feels good to take care of yourself and of your car. This is fun, especially when the service, with 21-point check, is already paid for, though of course you get ripped off with inflated interest rates and bloated warranty protection charges, etc. when you sign the contract. Next time, if and when there is a next time, I will be far more present and careful. Dan and I did our best. I am grateful for our car.

B. I'm in a workspace away from home, hooray, sitting at a cubicle with a big desktop computer. Not seeing dustballs on carpet, dishes to wash, faded orange echinacea to deadhead in the garden, never mind my laptop and notepads of interview notes, stories I want to pitch. It's just the service area holding room, but it takes me back to all the offices I worked in--at clean desks with other people committed to a common, branded purpose. In this case, it's Toyota technicians and service advisors (shoutout to my man Luis) and of course, the cashier, but I might as well be back at the Twin-Boro News, The Daily Targum at Rutgers, The Nation summer internship. Woman's Day, Seventeen, Good Housekeeping, Cigar Aficionado or Strategic Communications, my last NYC staff job. Or the Hot Chocolate Sparrow on Cape Cod or Joyist, the fabulous smoothie place that thrived in Montclair before the pandemic shuttered it. I loved working on my Rose Gold laptop there, while the Joyist pros buzzed up healthy "Natalie" pink drinks and peanut-butter fueled "Lukes," salads and bowls in that sleek, modern space. All of us--we were industrious and working for a greater cause, witnesses to one another's efficiency and effort. That's what you lose when you work alone at home.

Nissan has free Danishes, a fellow Toyota owner said to several of us near the free coffee machine. (No pastries or bagels there at noon, just vending machines.) We all like to convene and kibitz with other people.

I've been organizing my sunroom office for over a month now. I've filled seven grocery totes or more with books I needed, wanted, loved and in many cases never even cracked open. Pricey cookbooks, including one all about making jam, a double I bought of a Giada fresh Italian bible, an extra Michael Pollan copy. I removed a small bookcase from my sunroom office to make space. That's how many books I have released. I've been unearthing beautiful wood shelves and polishing them with my little bottle of luxury Diptyque leather and wood lotion, featured in my assignment for Good Housekeeping, 10 Best Furniture Polishes of 2024, Tested by Cleaning Experts. Anything French and chic is a win in my book.

SURPRISE NEW ENGLAND LOBSTER ROLL AND SUMMER BLUE MOON!!!!!

Sis told me Sunday about the blue moon coming Monday. It doesn't look blue, just perfectly full, bright, textured and seen. Memorable. Craters, storybook dimensions. So clear and close, you wish to pluck it from the sky.

So Monday at 5 p.m., I drove to Connecticut (usually one-hour drive but took 1 hr. 20 minutes due to rush hour and downpours) to see the #onceinabluemoon Supermoon with her. It was stupendous. 

I can see little blue men up there, Sis joked, pausing to look through her binoculars while we walked her dog, Galena. 

Add to that a lobster roll that rivals the best I ever had, maybe 30 years ago in Kennebunkport, Maine with Dan pre-kids or the one we loved at McLoon's Lobster Shack with Spice/Spike more recently. This roll was a special at Tomato Tomato, a pizza/Italian restaurant right down the street from Sis in Stamford. Big, succulent "local" lobster pieces. Melted butter for dipping. Toasted, charred, buttered bun with perfect grill marks. It was an appetizer, and cost $25, but it was ample. Sis treated. I only paid a little. 

And the dazzling Democratic National Convention in Chicago!!!!!!! Michelle and Barack Obama. JFK's grandson, Jack Schlossberg (newly minted contributer to Vogue). Oprah. Nancy Pelosi. President Bill Clinton. Young poet Amanda Gorman. So much. So much hope.

Good night.

*

*In French from that site: 

Qu'est-ce qu'une Lune bleue ?

L'origine du nom est encore incertaine. Il est utilisé depuis longtemps ; certains le font remonter à 400 ans, lorsque cela signifiait quelque chose qui ne pouvait jamais se produire (d'où l'expression anglaise "once in a Blue Moon").

Une Lune bleue peut être saisonnière et calendaire. Examinons de plus près chaque définition.

translated from French: 

What is a Blue Moon?
The origin of the name is still uncertain. It has been used for a long time; some date it back 400 years, when it meant something that could never happen (hence the English expression "once in a Blue Moon").

A Blue Moon can be seasonal and calendar. Let's take a closer look at each definition.


Sunday, August 18, 2024

The Belles of Saint Mary's

Saint Mary's School friends, clockwise from left: 
Tish, Maureen (Moey), Debbie, Lorraine and me.

On Tuesday night, I met four close girlhood friends for a long dinner. We originally spotted each other at Saint Mary's School in Dumont in the late 1960s*/early 1970s. 

We met last week at an Applebee's in Clark, New Jersey, midway between us. We knew they wouldn't rush us out. The five of us had not been together in at least 20 years. Some of us had stayed close and some had drifted away from our core, for one reason or another. Some we saw irregularly, at our parents' funerals in Saint Mary's Church, if we even knew about them.

The five of us grew up in a small, safe Bergen County town. Our Dads, who loved us loyally, did various work, from New York City bus drivers (Dumont was a bedroom community, with many residents relocating from NYC but still working there) to suburban white-collar corporate to craftsman. Lorraine's Dad, a sweet man with a thick Italian accent, was a shoe cobbler in Englewood. He sometimes fixed my shoes, too. 

We were raised in a working class town but had no notion of that. Our Catholic parents stayed married, for better or worse, in good times and bad, had parties for our First Communions, got new kitchen tables, refrigerators and cars when possible and always put food on our tables. Color TVs first appeared in living rooms in our girlhood.

Our mothers, who shaped us as much or more than our Dads did--they stayed home some or all of the time. Wait, no. Moey's mother went to work in a law office and then had important positions in medical offices. Debbie's mother later took a job at the bus line company in Bergenfield. After a while, Tish's mom would go to work as a bookkeeper. My mother, a Manhattan girl who left her young career as a chemist when she had her first baby, volunteered (Girl Scouts for Sis), then eventually worked part-time in the Saint Mary's School library and occasionally "collating" at some paper company in Dumont. She joined squads of homemakers for sporadic consumer product testing at Lever Brothers in Englewood Cliffs (now merged into giant Unilever). Anne loved B. Altman & Company, the legendary Fifth Avenue store, and worked at our nearby Ridgewood branch (in the "Fashion Center") at least one holiday season.

Whether they worked outside the home or not, our mothers were present. Moey reminded us Tuesday about Debbie's mother hosting us for Friday night dance parties ("My Boyfriend's Back"). Lorraine's mom was devoted to her family. She made Sunday family dinners with aunts, uncles and cousins. She baked Italian cookies by the dozen for Christmas Eve, even homemade pizza (a magical treat I once had in their Richard Drive kitchen). Tish's mom was loving and dedicated and the first woman I saw exercising regularly, on evening walks with her husband. 

And Moey's mom, Muriel/Mrs. C. Well--I idolized and still love her. She was kind, on-trend, smart, stylish, perceptive, can-do, balancing work and family life. (Moey has three younger brothers.) Modern; she was modern. She sometimes bought Moey CoverGirl eye shadow palettes! I was lucky enough to consider her a second mother, especially after my Mom crossed the rose-trellised bridge (alas, roses have thorns, death is not pretty). Muriel noticed us. She saw us. She was closer in age to us. (She had Moey in her early 20s. My mother had me at 36.) She cared. So did Mr. C. I have written about Muriel in the past.

We all had siblings. Lor, Maur, Tish and I with three each. Lor and I were the youngest. Maur and Tish were the eldest. Debbie had a little brother. Lor's Italian mother never drove, walked briskly in and out of town, to the grocery store and back. Always in a skirt and stockings, no pants.

Three of us attended Saint Mary's from the get-go, first grade. Debbie and Tish transferred from other schools later.  

We were the eighth grade graduating class of 1975. The President was Gerald Ford, and I had to look that up. I was thinking maybe Jimmy Carter. Ford was a short blip. But how could I forget how excited our young teachers were, knocking on classroom doors to pull one another out and whisper, Agnew resigned! in October 1973, when we were in seventh grade.

We five hold so many collective memories, it's hard to know where to start. Our figurative, pearl-encrusted treasure chest, if pried open, would reveal the navy, crisscross snap neckties we wore with our white blouses, plaid skirts and navy vests; a stray, mandatory knee sock; a worn paperback copy of scandalous 1984 read in Mr. Vafier's sixth grade class; a dried yellow giant pompom mum from the May procession, that lesson in pageantry and beauty in our otherwise plain sphere. Plain if you didn't really search for flowers and frills--if you didn't count the crown most every Mary statue wore or her lovely pale blue robe, the principal's glamorous strawberry blonde hair or petite teacher Mrs. Murphy's chic pixie cut, makeup and clothing.

We lived for school picture day, because we could wear clothes that were not our uniforms (in fifth grade, I had a yellow polyester pantsuit and long wavy hair, feeling like Jan Brady). We loved the Christmas Fair, a whole weekend in the school gym with a revolving tabletop Timex watch display (I'm not sure how you won one), a bake sale table, a crafts table, the white elephant booth (which was like a big tag sale, and Dad found electric mixers and other things there). I scanned the preowned stuff for unopened bottles of perfume or castoff jewelry.

We were girls together. Girls. Girls who brought lunches from home (sometimes Lorraine had leftover eggplant parmigiana, Moey scored Cheez Doodles and little wrapped candies or treats). I didn't like my lunches much. Liverwurst or tuna salad on cocktail rye, a whole big orange, which did not go down easy with those tiny cartons of milk. 

We were girls who had crushes. Sometimes, a pimple or two (me, wishing my mother would buy Noxzema or Bonne Bell 10-0-6 lotion or even Lip Smackers). Girls who knew girls who were mean. Girls who could be mean ourselves, though rarely? I cringe when I remember my own mean incidents. Girls who tried our best to be loyal and true to each other, within our girl capabilities, in our co-ed school (boys named Billy, Ron, Tom, Robert, Raymond, Kevin) and out at recess in the parking lot, near the stone grotto that held a statue of the Blessed Virgin.

I could write forever about these years, so much to recall and reconsider from this sixty-something vantage point, but for now, I think I better stop. We were shoulder to shoulder in Saint Mary's, through strict rules imposed by nuns (they left by third grade, needed elsewhere), through our first periods, Girl Scouts, birthday parties. Deaths of two of our grandmothers. We reveled in and sometimes toughed out public high school together, went to the roller rink, babysat, had our first kisses, first jobs, played sports (cross-country, track and for Lorraine, varsity cheerleading). We learned to drive. Tish was a gifted Irish dancer all through the years. We were bridesmaids in each other's weddings, wearing the fanciest dresses we ever owned, in peach, emerald green, hot pink. 

We now hope to meet at least yearly. Moey and I also treasure Fritch (Susan), another Saint Mary's friend who was absent. She lives in Florida now.

It was buoying to be together, to laugh and remember. To trust one another over artichoke dip and beverages and dinner with stories, the stories of our lives.

Good night. To be continued. I think I may have repeated the word pretty too many times, also. ;)

*Debbie and I were Brownies together in second grade (1968/1969), and fondly remember the Father-Daughter Square Dance with our Dads in the basement at Saint Mary's.

Wednesday, August 14, 2024

Sadness + Joy

I’ve been meaning to write about these two topics for weeks.

My parents were laid to rest here. Anne in 1981, John in 2011. Sis and I put hydrangeas on the grave at George Washington Memorial Park cemetery in Paramus on Tuesday, July 23. Photos taken 3:22 p.m.

I cried for them, I missed them. I found some courage there. 

Oh yes, they were smart and strong, as were their parents, immigrants from Italy and Ireland (except my grandmother Alice, a New Yorker who lived in an orphanage after her mother died). 

I come from a line of Irish people with charm, with twinkle, with friends, my ancestors' Galway blue, chestnut brown or NY jet-black eyes sparkling, merry, soulful or mischievous. People with the gift of gab. Italian people who loved their families deeply with a love that traveled person to person even without words or gestures. From a line of Catholics. From my parents, who laughed and read, who sought the ocean, Manhattan, art, music and culture, who were highly educated (Fordham, City College) and intelligent about everything, even quickly surmising what type of person someone was inside. 

There were issues, too. I recognize that now, and it's sad and painful, the tragedy and alcoholic trauma the family held inside. It took my life's journey to arrive there, doors opened and closed. And the journey continues, the doors still appearing. Truth and beauty.

Standing there in the grass in my tank top, flip-flops and skirt, I could see my mother in her 1970s long-sleeve print dress with matching fabric belt and stockings. The shoes, I can't remember the shoes. And  my Dad, well, as I always saw him, in pants and a collared, buttoned, short-sleeve shirt, white or pale blue oxford, open at the neck to reveal his white short-sleeved undershirt. (His collar size was 17, which we all knew.) Leather shoes with laces.

I had gone alone to the cemetery a couple of weeks earlier (Spice/Spike attends school in Paramus, so I was nearby) but couldn't find the grave. The grass was overgrown, and the gravestones are flush/flat with the ground. Sis said something about no above-ground stones or statuary allowed.

My good sister took on the task. From her home in Connecticut, she called the office on the grounds, spoke to an efficient woman who pinpointed the location. That's my sister. She goes the distance to help family and friends. 

"Walk past Jones and McCracken, then make a left, pass five graves, and it's in that row," the lady said. (I'm making up the details now.) She gave us a map to the stars' homes, which I still have somewhere. We pulled up the heavy, muddy inverted metal vase attached underground with a chain to the gravestone and stood the vase right side up. 

"I'm glad Daddy got that vase," I said. "I'm glad he paid extra for it. He knew Mommy liked flowers." Sis had gone with him to choose the casket and other dark details at Frech Funeral Home in Dumont. 

That vase is a bonus. Dad must have known he would bring flowers for the woman who passed over the rose-trellised bridge at age 56, his bride, the mother of his four children, the woman he met in a carpool from NYC to their first jobs as chemists (at Lederle, in Pearl River, NY) in the late 1940s. He was a good Italian boy married to an Irish girl. Like most people in long marriages, they had weathered some storms. Tough times with their own teens, problems and worries with their young adults, stresses about my father's work, bosses and salary. (By the time I was a teen, the youngest of four, I did everything I could to get their approval and behave well. Pretty well, I guess. That may have been a gift for them, IDK, but it turned out to be a hard task for me in the long run.)

When I was working at Woman's Day and Good Housekeeping magazines, Dad would call me with updates. Not just "Hey Al? I got the free turkey at ShopRite for Thanksgiving and it's thawing in the garage," but also "I made a little Christmas tree and brought it to the cemetery today." He fashioned it from clippings from our holiday tree or evergreens in our backyard. (And what was I doing? Not going to the cemetery with Dad. Enjoying life as a young woman with her dream job in a dream city. I was there for my Dad, but see I could have been there more.)

After a few minutes by the grave, Sis said to our parents, "I brought your baby girl. Help her." I'm crying even now as I write this. Things were/are rough with Spice/Spike. Family crisis mode. I/we also have concerns about our Figgy. Our parents wanted the best for us, for all four of their children. And Dad of course for Figgy. He adored her. He met Spike as a baby.

"And you're not even going to have a grave," I blurted through tears as Sis and I walked back to her car. "Right," she said. She wants her ashes scattered somewhere.

Alas, in my life, I am working the "three C's" of recovery. I attend 12-step support groups. "I didn't cause it. I can't cure it. I can't control it." That wisdom applies to any troubling/unhealthy behaviors we see in people around us, things we wish we could fix. My former therapist once said that parenting is the most codependent relationship of all--or at least it can be.

Now a happier topic....

Look at our sweet nieces, three Maine flower girls at our big New Jersey wedding. From left, Pat and Donna's daughters, Anna and Mariah, and John and Jerri's daughter, Leah. You can see a hint of my parents' 1970s living room sofa in tones of gold and green.

Handsome Greg and lovely Leah at the Mere Point Yacht Club wedding celebration in July, a summer after they eloped on a sandbar with a minister and Greg's two loving children.

Well, I'm going to rest now. Good night.