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.

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, "suntan" colored pantyhose. 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 a white, short-sleeved undershirt. (His collar size was 17 1/2, 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 there.

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 children.

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

Caped Wonders

We did a lot today, but this is dinner at Mac's in Wellfleet with Meg and Greg, 6:17 p.m.

I used to pack up my laptop and sit in my car in the dark, alone, in front of Ben & Jerry's or Dunkin' Donuts in North Eastham, near the Post Office, to get an internet signal and write a blog post every night on the Cape. Now I know how to set up a personal hotspot in the low-tech house using my iPhone and my MacBook. I can stay home and write.  

But I'm older now, and a good night's sleep is not just a requirement, but a treasured luxury. So I won't do long blog posts late at night when I should be dozing and dreaming.

We have kept busy, four of us in the house, all adults. It's really fun. For example, today:

• Beach and lighthouse gazing. Up early, drive to Nauset Light Beach on the National Seashore about 8:30 (before it officially opens in the morning, at least now, and a ranger checks you in at the booth, and you pay or show your pass) so that we can bring in Sis's puppy, Galena. In beach season, dogs can only go before or after closing (to lifeguard-protected areas).
• Back for breakfast. Greg made eggs and whole-grain toast, I had high-protein Bob's Red Mill oatmeal with berries. And lots of good hot coffee was poured. Meggy brought some java from Vermont Artisan Coffee & Tea Co. in Waterbury. We sat around the table and talked and laughed, and planned what we really want to do before we head home Friday morning. Our lists included outdoor showers (Sis and me), birdwatching (all of us nature nerds), Nauset Beach to see seals, bike path, etc.
• Showers. I love how quickly you dry off in that fresh air outside.
• North Eastham Post Office. My mother loved it and so do I. I mailed something to my brother Will and will mail a postcard from there, too, probably to Figgy in her apartment. If those P.O. walls could talk...think of the decades and decades, the homemade fudge and Girl Scout Cookies sent to Vietnam, maybe? IDK. To soldiers in World War II? The care packages in padded envelopes that my friend and I mailed to our girls at Frost Valley YMCA camp. When Punchy was a baby, I sent out invitations to Dan's surprise 50th bday party from the North Eastham P.O. 
• Idle Times Bike Shop. We checked the rental prices ($30 from 9 a.m. one day until 5 p.m. the next day). I hope weather and time cooperate tomorrow.
• Wellfleet Bay Wildlife Sanctuary! Ah yes, back to my favorite spot on earth. I think we were padding along the soft sand trails from about 1:45 p.m. to 3:30 p.m. Green Heron, baby Baltimore Orioles in nest, giant green frogs in pond, birdsong, fiddler crabs, and memories of scrubby orange foxes, a muskrat, Snowy Egrets and tiny Fowler's Toads seen with my family when Dan and I and our girls (especially Figgy in tow), were much younger. The breeze, that beautiful breeze. Also, quick sweep of the gift shop to check the edit. No dogs allowed at the Audubon, because they would disturb the delicate sanctuary balance. So Sis didn't join us today but she will tomorrow (sans Galena) at Coast Guard Beach for Seals & Sharks walk and Friday for Early Bird Walk 8 to 10 a.m. at the Sanctuary.
• Mac's on the Pier in Wellfleet. Known for its fried whole belly clams and Wellfleet oysters and scallops, we beelined there because Greg likes to get fried clams once each Cape Cod trip. (So does Dan, generally, but he is home working and supervising Punchy who has school, God bless him.) Meggy had a lobster roll and I had famous Wellfleet oysters, lightly breaded and fried, not heavily battered. Plump, tender and sweet.
• Check in with Figgy and Punch. The former took the latter and her friend out for sushi in Montclair. That was nice. I asked Fig to check in tonight, because Dan was hired to write 60-Sec Novels at a party near Times Square, NYC. It's 11:27 p.m. and I hope he is back home by now.
• Hot Chocolate Sparrow. I planned my one ice cream/main treat of the trip--an ice cream cone dipped in the hot melted chocolate the Sparrow only offers in the summer months. I haven't gotten coffee there yet, but I def plan to by the car ride home, if Sis doesn't mind stopping. Peeked through the glass window to see a young woman tempering chocolate. Enjoyed seeing chocolate seashells, dogs, mice, cats, cell phones, most everything.
• Sunset at Great Pond with Sis and Galena. So beautiful. The sky looks almost bruised with colors but no, not bruised, just streaked with rainbow sherbet strokes over placid water. So pretty.

Thinking of Dad a lot up here, and Figgy, Dan and Punch, and our close friends and their three kids. Memories of coyotes, night fires on the beach, stars, ranger-led walks, my mother and the three weeks we spent here that first summer in 1980. (She died in May 1981.) I see my parents and their hopes and dreams all through the house. Their generosity, their gift. Will and Kelly say they are selling the house pronto. I can't yet fully face that and mourn. The Cape is in me, and I will be back, either off-season in hotels, when rates dip, or Airbnbs, etc. 

Good night. 

Remembering Mom on My Journey

My parents on their New England honeymoon in 1951.  I love what they are wearing, and love seeing them in their late twenties.

Here is the story link:

https://alicegarbarinihurley.medium.com/recovery-story-36-queen-annes-lace-on-old-cape-cod-a63879866b9f

The Magic Red Berries, a Christmas Story

 https://alicegarbarinihurley.medium.com/the-magic-red-berries-9ce1f680517c

Spring Lake Today, Cape Cod Tomorrow

My mom is not here (not now, of course, when I am 59 and she would be almost 96) packing that one big gray suitcase with the thin zipper that went around and around, enclosing our Cape Cod essentials. Bathing suits, culottes. clam diggers (pants) and shirts. Just like magic, zip, zip, vacation to go. 

I think she packed for our family of six in that one big valise in the 1960s, but I can't be sure. She liked us to leave for our weekly cottage rental before 6 on Saturday morning, before the sun rose, our white Ford Falcon nosing along Bedford Road, leaving #187 farther and farther behind.. We would motor over the Bourne Bridge, crossing the Cape Cod Canal, before the traffic was too thick.

So, Mom, I miss you. You and Daddy definitely gave me this gift of Cape Cod, this legacy of beauty and strength and nature in its purest form. 

Our Figgy is staying behind--she has two jobs, one at the store and one at the biology lab on campus--and doesn't want to take off both this week and our week later in August to see our family in Maine. She will join us for Maine. My mother-in-law, Mary, who is 90-plus, just moved out of the house she lived in for 50+ years and into an apartment in a house in Belfast, where four of her sons live. We haven't seen her since Thanksgiving. Covid has been rough and isolating for her.

Sis and Buttercup will join us on the Cape from Wednesday to Saturday. Yay. I see nature walks in my near future. Also masks, and for rest stops along the highways, sanitizers and wipes.

We have wheels! Just in the nick of time, our mechanic, Jason, found us a nice-looking 2009 Toyota for $5,000--and its Official Kelley Blue Book listing is about $7,000. We are good to go.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Moey and I had a lovely trip to Spring Lake; I was back home today in Montclair by 1 pm, since Moey had work appointments. I brought a little jar of homemade rhubarb berry jam to Dan, who said it was really good. It was made, I believe, by the baker at The Ocean House B&B. I'm off sweets now, but her pretty mermaid layer cake, wow!!!!!! Want to get it for someone some day, maybe Punch.

This morning, I did beach yoga class at 7 am with Grace. Such a privilege, truly. She does the class on Thursday and Saturday mornings and I'm hoping to get back for a another stay that includes her class.

The coffee at the inn was excellent. The building's history is rich; dating back to 1878. After yoga, I walked by the kitchen and heard metal against a bowl, probably a whisk in the eggs.

The dining room is retro and cheery but many of us, including Moey and I, ate out on the wraparound porch, at tables placed at a safe distance from each other.

I better go. Dan and I caught up with laundry and most chores, but plan to leave in the morning, and we have not packed. No washer and dryer at the house; I usually do one trip to laundromat on Old Cape Cod.

Still have a little work-work to do for a magazine article, too, before we leave. But I'm tired now and will get up and do it in the early morning--emailing my questions about a very pretty interior design project to the source--in France. I also heard about more upcoming freelance work. Good night to you.

TCOY

1. Yoga.
2. Looking at sea, gulls and flowers--and children up so early with their grownups on the beach. Remembering those days.....
3. Walking around the town; so many cute shops, 
4. Afternoon therapy appt on phone. Helpful, insightful, as always.
5. Walked Sug around the block.
6. Talking to Moey.
7. Ate a homegrown tomato from my friend Elaine. Also, some fresh fruit, oatmeal, 

$ MONEY SPENT OUT OF POCKET

• Small jar rhubarb jam, $8.
• Flowers by Colleen, this tiny flower shop, a pretty pink flowering houseplant for Moey and one for me, about $16.
• Whimsicality, a dream home furnishings store, pretty hand soap in clear glass bottle to bring to Cape Cod, $16. 
• Breakfast tip in jar, $5.
• Peanuts, $1.

TOTAL DAILY SPEND: $46.

ONGOING MONTHLY SPEND AS OF JULY 30, ADDING IN ALL DAYS NOW: $2,637.07.

AVG DAILY SPEND: $87.90.

This July is much higher than last July, tho I didn't track July 1 to 4 last year.

"Want, and Want Will Be Your Master"

That quote in the post title--my Mom used to say that to me. I have to research who originally said it.

She knew me well, didn't she? Or was it that she knew herself?

Still job hunting. Dan and I feeling the cost of medicines, mortgage, monthly IRS payment plan, etc. etc. But it does feel good to be working together toward a healthier financial life. I'm posting this now, at 4:05 p.m., in case I don't get back on WiFi before bedtime. But likely I will be at Starbucks doing a job application after dinner; if so, will check back in and update.

We are supposed to leave for Cape Cod this Friday nite after Punchy returns about 6 from her Keiki Explorers Club day. She will be tired, but we want to avoid Saturday traffic.

If I were richer, or had more pocket/"pin" money at the moment, I would have wanted to buy these things today, impulse buys:

• Beautiful Julie Vos jewelry, sample sale ends tonight [received email].
• Barneys beach-inspired jewelry [ditto].
• And especially the Moonlight Lover overnight floral facial oil and "The Martini" Emotional Detox Bath Soak with pink Himalayan salt that Gwyneth Paltrow loves. [I received email and read about it on her goop site.] It costs $35 but contains 3 cups, enough for 3 baths, per product copy.
• The pineapple-print beach coverup with fringe, size XL, that I just passed on a clothing rack outside a boutique on my walk here. So cute.

Do I need any of those things? Nope.

TCOY

1. Set alarm for 6:20, got to 7 a.m. support group. Helpful, always helpful. Moments of clarity and grace.
2. Did a load of delicate wash with Woolite, so my dresses are fresh.
3. Watered back garden.
4. Had lots of vegs in mushroom soup at lunch. Also: Oatmeal w pecans and banana at breakfast; and at Joyist, the Greg blend with banana, PB, raw cacao, dates and raw local honey.
5. A lot of ice water.
6. Walked to town in this ghastly heat, to get exercise--and because our internet bill is a bit late, so had to come in for WiFi to work. Still, Dan was driving in, and I took the step of walking. 
7. Private Benjamin appointment coming up this afternoon.

$ MONEY SPENT OUT OF POCKET

• Marcel Bakery & Kitchen, many cups of free ice water and large mushroom barley soup, plus $1 jar tip, $7.97.
• Joyist, the Greg blend, $12.

TOTAL DAILY SPEND: $19.97.

RUNNING TOTAL FOR MONTH AS OF JULY 30 [AND STARTING JULY 5]: $1,593.25.

AVERAGE DAILY SPEND SO FAR: $61.28.

This monthly spend is pretty low so far, thanks to Punchy being Mimi-based for 2 full weeks--and me being at Sis's for four nights.

Big-ticket firecracker items in July: *Marcel bkfast w Punch and loaf of bread, $29; *Tory Burch sandals, $111; Starbucks Camp day, $94 [I subtracted the Bear Mountain pickles and peaches]; Punch bday gifts for friend + tiramisu w Elaine, $37; Joyist to write, + Punch drop-in, $30; one day of Joyist Reset Meal Plan, $35; Elixir of Love body creme, $30; Kings, groceries to make Bobbi Brown website chocolate-chip cookie dough, plus candle holder and votive, $32; and Nest Fragrances candles/lip balm website order, $82; took Sis to Thai restaurant for lunch, $36; The Paper Store, cross-body bag, notebook, etc., $66; Whole Foods, quiche and chocolate espresso custard ingreds plus groceries, $80.63; pre-theatre Junior's dinner for me and P,  $64; King Kong Bway ticket, $99; and that expensive Montclair burger w shaved truffle, about $28 with tip.

Prayers & Promises

TCOY

1. I went to the doctor and got blood taken for routine panel.
2. Talked to Rachael.
3. Talked to my Sis.
4. Got ashes with Punch at 4 p.m. Ash Wednesday service. We saw some nice friends there. Prayed for a very important intention/blessing/wish/hope.
5. Ate healthy foods, including plain yogurt, big salad, chicken, baked yam and, for snack, walnuts.
6. Planning short Cape getaway this month with my friend Anne. We both miss it!

$ MONEY SPENT OUT OF POCKET

• Starbucks app. Sometimes we let Punch [and ourselves] sleep later and drive her to school. We send in a Starbucks mobile order and she runs in and gets it, and eats her egg, bacon and Gouda sandwich in the back seat. She got that + tall drink and protein lunch box. $13.70.
• Starbucks app on way home. Used my free reward to get big Chicken & Quinoa Salad for free [would have been $9.01 with tax] + a PB protein bar to leave in back seat of car for Punch later. $3.63.
• Kings, for pint of organic half + half to have with my French press City of Saints coffee [bought beans yesterday]. $3.49.
• Went to CVS to refill Punch's monthly Rx and while I waited 30 minutes, got groceries, many on sale. Filled cart with 1/2 gallon Horizon organic whole milk; walnuts; pint coffee ice cream for Punch; Kleenex; big petroleum jelly [for removing makeup and for lips]; 8-pack AAA batteries; 6-pack AA batteries; 12-pack dog food; Hallmark bday card; and a special issue of a magazine that I need for work purposes [price was sky-high $12.99]. Total $72.77.

DAILY TOTAL: $93.59.

RUNNING TOTAL FOR MONTH OF MARCH AS OF MARCH 6: $663.38.
SO FAR, THAT'S AN AVERAGE DAILY SPEND OF: $110.56. THE HAIRCUT DROVE IT UP.
SOBERING MONEY THOUGHT: I've written many times that my parents were frugal. They both grew up without extra money. I don't think I felt deprived, but maybe in terms of sweet treats. I don't know if my mother felt deprived, either--we didn't talk about that. She owned some elegant things. A single pearl ring Dad bought her before they were engaged. An elegant gold charm bracelet. Some fine perfumes. A mink stole. But when she was dying of cancer in 1982/1983, my Dad must have told her to go buy nice things? I don't know, just speculating. I just know that she had a new hot pink Shetland wool crewneck sweater. And something else, but I can't remember what. So: Did part of me get the idea that you shouldn't wait until you are dying of cancer to buy the best things? That you might as well get them while you are healthy, strong and alive? 

Mommy in My Midst

Today--May 20, 2018–is the 37th anniversary of my mother’s death. I was 20; she was 56. It was 1981. For some reason, it hit me hard today. I felt her presence. And I registered my loss.
Stay in today--not yesterday, not tomorrow.
I attended a morning support group, a "Big Book" meeting for the first time, and needed my reading glasses and a copy of the Big Book. I reached into my blue denim tote bag--and the bigger the bag, the more I tote--and my hand landed right on the good glasses that had been missing since Friday. [I’d been using some blue back-up frames since then, and forgotten those at home.] I had no hope of that but took a chance and reached in, so I could read the text.
And I had purchased a copy of the Big Book just yesterday at the Saturday morning meeting, and had a hot pink Sharpie to mark passages, so I was all set.
It all came together, and I felt my mother was watching out for me.
Afterwards, in the car, I texted w my girlhood/still friends Fritch and Moey. Fritch’s bday is also today. They texted back sweet memories of my Mom.
The Mom whose presence I felt was: Wanting the best for me. Wanting me to have what I needed. Wanting me to be well. Wanting me to know I was not alone. Proud of me. Loving me. Happy for me, Supportive. She channeled clarity, confidence and compassion for me. Those were gifts I had gotten from her gradually--and yet somehow all at once.
I’m not sure I really saw her. But I had a vague, fleeting image of her in her brown winter coat with the double row of buttons in the front. And a glimpse of her brown hair [she did her own Clairol from a bottle] and rosy Irish cheeks.
And a smile. I remember a smile.
Good night.

The Road Back to Uncle Jackie

My mother was the eldest of her siblings in NYC; though she left us at 56, her three younger brothers are still living, and Uncle Jackie is in the middle. They are into their 80s; Uncle Jim will be 90 soon. Uncle Malachy is the youngest.

For years, I've been wanting to see them, not just at funerals here and there when our Irish family gathers. I will always have my memories of three tall, charming, successful men with arresting smiles at backyard barbecues and First Communion parties, but I'm sad I don't know my uncles now--and I'm also keenly aware that they collectively hold the story of my mother's youth, and beyond.

For all my girlhood, I studied their framed, black and white wedding photos, retreating to my grandparents' quiet bedroom in the garden apartment. The place was decorated sparely, so if I wasn't flipping through the New York Daily News, I was gazing at the folds in the white satin wedding gowns, the cut of the tuxedos, Uncle Jackie's striped wedding necktie, the bouquets--and the hopeful grins on those young faces. One of my favorites, the family photo from my parents' 1951 wedding, showed my beaming mother, handsome father and all three younger brothers, Jackie in a suit that seemed to swim on his lean, lanky frame.

So. Sis and I started today with Uncle Jackie, who reached out with a card to her after Don died. He lives with his daughter [our cousin Theresa] and her family out on the Island, in Ronkonkoma. When I take my day trip to Southampton every summer, I pass the signs on the L.I.E. for that town and think I want to see Uncle Jackie. But the Hamptons drive is already so long that I can't do both.

We hopped in Sis's Chevy Malibu at 10:40 a.m. in Montclair and arrived home in CT by 8 p.m. It was fun to see Uncle Jackie for five full hours, to hear him talk about the family's heritage, to remember our grandparents and our great aunts and uncles, to get a peek, again, into our mom's family of origin. They lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Mom used to tell us they'd spread bacon drippings [no butter] on bread and think it was a treat. They ate a lot of potatoes; Dad said Mom was in charge of buying a big bag of potatoes on her walk home from school.

My grandfather was a doorman for some time and in another phase, worked in the Post Office across from Penn Station. My mom wouldn't want me to say it, but my grandmother said she often had to "go to the saloon to get his paycheck" before he drank it up. He being the Irishman with the thick brogue and twinkling light blue eyes, the Grandpa we loved, the one who carried a roll of peppermint Lifesavers. When I heard this as a girl, I pictured a saloon with swinging doors, something out of "Gunsmoke." But my grandmother must have been brave--and determined, with those four kids to feed and rent to pay.

Uncle Jackie has always been friendly and kind and very, very smart, like my Mom and her other brothers. He had five kids and then went back to school for his law degree. He was a U.S. government attorney--trying customs cases, working in NYC--for many years. He is upbeat and cheerful. My cohort, his son, Stevie, died tragically, bike riding, when I was in sixth grade. Jackie's son John died before his time, too. Aunt Mary is gone.

But Uncle Jackie is the picture of Irish resiliency, wit and humor and I am so happy we saw him today and whiled away a late June afternoon chatting and laughing. I saw my mother in him; I did. And I have his number in my cell phone now. Good night.

TCOY

1. Blueberries w. yogurt and almond extract for breakfast.
2. Connecting with family and chatting w Sis on the long drive.
3. We also walked her sweet dog by the marina; saw a snowy white egret; a mama duck and her eight tiny ducklings; Canadian geese; a cottontail bunny; and a sherbet sunset.
4. Had a white peach with cottage cheese.

Postcard from the New York Public Library

Back in the space where my mom and her dear friend, Alice, worked as young women in the 1940s. I'm in a room where you can get a guest pass and use a big HP desktop computer for free 45-minute increments--a far, modern cry from the stacks where they worked. I didn't want to lug my laptop in, since I had to trek down to Wall Street for a work task.

I like to think of connecting to my mother here, to think of her seeing me now. She was a vivacious young lady, with long chestnut hair, luminous brown eyes and an Irish smile.

Mom, can you see me? Here I am. Where you worked. 
I can't believe I'm as old now as you were when you died. I still regret how painful that must have been for you. I wish I could have somehow smoothed your path, your exit. But I was there to listen at the end, and you did say some important things.
I'm doing my best in life. Actually, I'm kind of a mess. Some of my clothing is in heaps, my nice wedding dresser could use a dusting with Pledge, my home office is cluttered and last night, I saw a tiny mouse dart out from under the fridge when I got up for cheese and crackers at 3 a.m.
I'm aging; my knees hurt a little when I climb subway stairs. I'm bad about taking care of my skin. I struggle to take good care of my teeth. I don't always eat right. I spend too much money. And you were right, if I kept frowning like that, I'd get a wrinkle. I did--but as a writer, my brow furrows in concentration. Part of that frown is hard-won dues.
On the bright side, I am a good person. I am doing my best to be good and true. It is not always easy. I've cried my share of tears.
Have you seen Annie? Are you watching over her somehow? Tracking her? I need you. I hope and pray that you are. I think she is like you in many ways. You were a chemist. She is studying biology. You were gregarious; so is she.
What about Lexie? I need you there, too. Even though she's a handful, she is surely a golden-hearted girl. Have you seen her?
Well, until next time. But I hope I can stay connected to you. It gets hard after so many years. Yet I think you are in me, as every mother is in her daughter, for better, for worse, and for everything in between.

FRIDAY, MARCH 24, 2017 NEW YORK HIT LIST

• New York Stock Exchange. Saw the elegant gold and white building from outside. Couldn't help but think of Sigourney Weaver and Melanie Griffith in "Working Girl."
• Trinity Church Cemetery. There lies the seaman, U.S. naval officer James Lawrence, known for the phrase "Don't give up the ship"--words he uttered to the crew as he went down in the War of 1812. He is buried with his wife and his second in command.
• Alexander Hamilton's grave. I still haven't seen the Broadway musical, but was moved to come upon Hamilton's resting place in the graveyard [right near Officer Lawrence].
• Maiden Lane. I like that street name.
• Wall Street energy. Men in cutting-edge eyeglass frames, tailored coats. Carrying fine, supple leather totes, draped crosswise over their bodies. Delivery men hurrying along on bikes, their handlebars lined with shopping bags full of lunch for VIPs. 
• Coffee, coffee everywhere. A small Starbucks was tucked among the many trendy coffee bars. Even the wealthiest people in the world like a Flat White every now and then. And if you work on the NYSE, I wonder, how many coffees do you drink a day?
• The hustle and bustle of tourists. Nothing quite like it on a Friday afternoon, drizzling skies or not.

My session is about to end. Signing off.

A Seaside Letter to My Dad, and to My Daughter

I biked to southern tip of Tybee Island, 5:30 p.m. I find solace by the sea.

Dear Dad,

Thank you, again, for the lasting gift you and Mommy gave me. The gift of the sea. You unwrapped it for me at Rockaway Beach and Jones Beach in New York, at Beach Haven in New Jersey and most importantly, on Cape Cod.

Thank you, Dad, for pointing out the morning call of the bobwhite ["Bob White! Bob White!"] in a rented Cape Cod cottage when I was just four. 

Thank you for showing me how to swim. Mommy sat on the beach towel by the yellow striped umbrella, but you took me in. You had that big maroon port wine birthmark all over your back and you must have felt funny sliding your white T-shirt over your head to swim, but maybe leading your daughter into the ocean made the shyness go away. 

Thank you for showing me horseshoe crab shells--teaching me that things of nature are cool and magical--that they are to be embraced, and that I could be brave enough to handle and study them. Thank you for teaching me to stand up in the waves. I was afraid, and got knocked down and dragged to shore a few times. Thank you for encouraging me to keep on trying. Thank you for demonstrating how to float in the salty sea--how to work with the waves, not against them.

Thank you for collecting snow-white, sun-bleached clam shells, and putting some in our garden in New Jersey, near the pale pink and white peonies.

Thank you for showing me the lighthouses. The beacons. The safety and strength. 

Thank you for taking me near the dunes. The unspoiled seashore.

Thank you for loving the beach, and being excited to go there.

Thank you, Dad.

Love always, Al

_________________________________________

Dear Annie [aka Figgy, but this is important, so I used your real name],

Honey, I hope you will one day read the letter above.

Thank you for being my daughter, for coming to me through an act of love, God, faith and destiny. I longed to be a mother, and you made my dream come true. It's not as though we truly chose each other, yet somehow, as a lucky mother, I guess I did feel your baby self selected me.

Thank you for going to the beach with me. In your daisy-strewn turquoise onesie as a baby, in a pink floral two-piece from Gap Kids when you were almost four. In the Jessie [from the movie "Toy Story"] swimsuit from Aunt Eileen, white with cowgirl fringe.

By the time you were in preschool, you were jumping and skipping on the sand near the water on the Cape, saying "I love Cape Cod," over and over. You grew to love mermaids and fairies and seals--to be a brave, smart girl with a passion for whimsy and fun. 

But here is the thing, my Annie. You are 19 now. A young woman. Life has not been as smooth as we would have hoped. Maybe, though, a sea that is always placid would not teach us or show us as much as one that is rocking and tossing. Those are the waters that show us who can survive. Those are the waters that delight children and churn up shells and pretty, smooth stones for us to keep and treasure.

Look at the water, Annie. Look at those waves. Remember your grandparents; you were close to Grandpa and never knew my Mom, but I can tell you understand her. 

Feel the firm footing as you look at the sea. Avoid the riptides. Beware of sand bars because you may be able to swim or wade out but then the tide can change and you will have a hard time getting back.
Consider the seashells. Crafted carefully as houses by and for the creatures within. Built strong and hard to withstand predators and whipping waves--yet the shells are intensely beautiful, too. Lovely yet rugged, like you. 

Annie, I love you. Standing by and watching you try to find your way in rocky seas is one of the hardest things I have ever done. Watching you flail and not being able to run in and scoop you up and take you to safety on shore is heartbreaking. Watching you swim into waters that look dangerous--deadly, even--is bad. But standing here I am and standing here I will always be. I will never leave. Now salty tears are burning my eyes. I hope and pray that you will one day look to those waters, look to that sky and find your peace and your joy. Mother Nature is your answer.

I hope that what Grandpa and my Mom taught me are lessons I have taught you.

I love you.

Love always, Mom 

P.S. You know Daddy loves the ocean, too, and has so many shared memories with you about water and nature. But that is his letter to write.

Tybee Island Lighthouse, the tallest and oldest lighthouse in Georgia.

My Tory sandals by the sea. Had to scoop up before wave drenched them!

Blue crabs on a cannonball jellyfish! This one is for you, Figgy.

Signing off Early

About to get Punchy in and out of the tub.

Wrote a long letter to Figgy today. Put two camomile teabags inside, licked it, stamped it, put it in the wicker mail basket for the postal carrier. My Mom wrote to me once a week when I was in college.

Good night. I pushed through writer's block today! Yay!

Thank you for being there.

TCOY

1. Letter writing--I think.
2. Private Benjamin.
3. Cauliflower and sweet potato.

"Test Tube Baby" Learns New Skill Set

"Pharmaceutical tour guides" at Lederle Laboratories in Pearl River, NY. My parents--John Garbarini and Anne Mahon--met in a carpool from NYC; it was the late 1940s, and both were chemists. They were not pharmaceutical tour guides. But as I try to master science writing, I'm thinking of them. Thankful to antiquetrader.com and this LINK to the old postcard shown above.

Pushing myself forward--to learn a new set of writing and editing skills, involving science and health. It's challenging--yet fun.

New tools in the toolbox, not just the old hammer and screwdriver, the nails and the screws. Yes, I can grow and stretch, and it feels good. To not just master words to make you want to bake a billowy lemon meringue pie or buy a persimmon bed cover. Turns out I can also hone words like "stroke risk" and "hypertension" and "findings" to help you [and me] live a better life. I can be factual vs. frothy.

I have to go to sleep now and rise at 6 for more writing and editing. Please wish me luck. Good night.

TCOY

1. Doctor appt.
2. Sunk into a very restful afternoon nap on living room couch, to recharge my brain.
3. Private Benjamin. Helpful.
4. H. made a nice platter of local mozzarella with tomatoes and basil from his garden. The only part Punchy liked was the cheese, which she kept swiping before he got it to the table :) We didn't have Italian bread to sweep through the olive oil on the platter tonight; she likes that, too.

Looking for Love in Too Many Faces

Punchy loves Clare and Patrick's sweet baby girl--and her two older brothers.

I may have mentioned that until I started at Douglass College/Rutgers, I had not been away from home much.

No sleepaway camp, except Girl Scout camping weekends, when I often cried or threw up repeatedly. [I guess I had a nervous stomach. Dad said I stood in our pink and black tiled bathroom on the first day of first grade, worried I was going to throw up. On one Scout trip, I held a black garbage bag in the front seat of Mrs. Burke's car and kept throwing up into it on the car ride home. Thank you, Mrs. Burke, wherever you are. Another time, I threw up 13 times in one night at home--stomach virus.]

Anyway, I sobbed when my parents said goodbye to me at the New Gibbons Dorm. I watched my mother walk away in her flowy peasant skirt, leaving me to sleep with two strangers in a triple, on the top bunk, with a bathroom the whole floor shared.

Soon after, waiting for a class outside Hickman Hall on a sunny day, I spotted a student who looked like Moey [the real Moey, of course, was a freshman at the University of Delaware]. On closer inspection, they did not look alike at all. Moey was prettier, but they both had the same color hair and blue eyes. I think it was the back of her head that fooled me. I guess I wanted my dear friend to be there so I wouldn't have to face those scary college classes alone. And the truth is, seeing her double even for a moment did lift my spirits.

When I go to Saint Cassian Church, I've done some funny comfort-hunting, too--for faces from Good Housekeeping Magazine [GH], where I worked for 10 years.

For years now, one of the Eucharistic Ministers who hands out the bread and wine has reminded me of Toni Gerber Hope, a long-time editor at GH. Toni lives in New York and is not Catholic. I've known this for years, but I still think of her every time that woman gives me the Host. Toni's curly hair, eyeglasses, face.

Then there's a Dr. Joyce Brothers lookalike. Dr. Brothers wrote a monthly column for GH for decades. She is no longer living. But I swear this lady looks just like her, with the blonde hair and the facial expressions. She channels the good doctor.

Most recently, enter a double for my hip boss, Donna B., now at InStyle. The woman in the pew has the same glossy dark hair and her face reminds me of Donna's, but she is not nearly as pretty, or as slim. Still, I can't help but see Donna every time I spot this lady walking up to Communion. She sometimes even wears a poncho, and at one point, I think Donna liked ponchos, too.

I don't know how or why this happens, but it does. Does it happen to you? It happened to me with my mother, too, and that was haunting--I wrote and published a short story about an older woman I used to see at Mass. I'm sure the lady found it odd that I dawdled on the church steps to try to be near her, and carefully studied her face, looking into her eyes, bravely trying to smile.

Good night.

TCOY

1. Boot camp in the park. Lots of steps and weights.
2. Walked Sug around the block.
3. Short nap.
4. Fruit smoothie.
5. Fresh air, hanging out with nice new neighbor Clare, her three cute kids and Punchy.

Back to the Girl Who Needed a Mom

Spent the evening with Moey and her mom, Mrs. C., and Moey's daughter, Laura.

I love seeing Mrs. C. She was/is like a second mother to me, as I've blogged about before. I'm so grateful that she and Moey walk the earth at the same time I do.

I'll never forget seeing her on the morning my Mom died--May 20, 1981. The doctor had called early in the morning with the news [just like Dad later did, she slipped away at the hospital before dawn, when none of us were there to hold her back].

I walked the 10 minutes to Saint Mary's Church as if on autopilot, rounding the bend at Manhattan Terrace, crossing the railroad tracks, heading to the polished pews I had sat on so often with my mother. It just seemed the right place, the only place, to go. I studied the stained-glass windows, blurry through my tears, the white marble altar, the statue of Mary. I knelt, and I cried. And when I left to walk back home, who was outside in her car but Mrs. C., dropping her youngest son, Jimmy, off to Saint Mary's School.

She said something kind to me. I don't remember what it was, but it was kind. And even Jimmy had compassion in his eyes, wearing his Catholic school uniform with navy sweater vest. He ended up being a psychologist and I figure he must be pretty good at his job based on the look in his eyes that day when he was only maybe 11.

Mrs. C., an angel in my midst. Good night.

TCOY

1. Private Benjamin with H. All I can say is, God bless Joanna for having the patience and insight to hear us out and offer suggestions.
2. Walked Sug around block, and walked home from Private Benjamin appointment.
3. Had some salad.

P.S. Dear God, I'm confused about whether we're doing the right thing regarding some issues. Please look down on us and help us see clearly and calmly. Please help us do right by the young ladies in our home [Figgy + Punch]. Amen.

My Mother & Me

My Mom seemed old and old-fashioned compared to my friends' mothers, especially Moey's Mom, Mrs. C., who wore slingback shoes and blue jeans vs. belted shirtdresses and suntan pantyhose. But my mother was only 36 when she had me, just two years older than I was when I had my baby Fig. [Mrs. C. was maybe 21 or 22? when she had Moey.]

My Mom's life was so different from mine, and I've been thinking on that. She never had a dishwasher, not until they put one in the vacation home on Cape Cod in 1980. She wasn't practiced at highway driving, certainly not on long trips with busy merges. She did not do drives like I do, to Cape Cod, Rhode Island, Maine and more.

But similarities abound between us:

• love to sleep
• happy to curl up with a good book
• fan of chocolate
• find pleasure in arranging pink flowers in cut-glass vase, better yet if cut from own garden
• intelligent
• enthusiastic
• independent
• gift of many good girlfriends, some lifelong
• sense of humor
• extroverted
• like to bake, appreciate desserts
• into upscale shops [she, B. Altman, Lord & Taylor, Best & Co.; me, Tory Burch, Milly, Lilly, Bergdorf's], even if just browsing
• treasure nice jewelry--I loved her gold charm bracelet
• listen to mournful Irish music spinning on the record player
• very close to our Dads

Tired now....good night to you. For another day: differences between Mom & me.

TCOY

1. Salon blowout
2. Met friend Jane briefly.
3. Reached out for help via text.
4. Homemade coleslaw.

Ladies' Bowling Night

For years, my mother donned her navy blue stretch pants and bowled every Thursday night in a ladies' league at Saint Mary's. Our school had a bowling alley, but I never laid eyes on it.

Apparently, the pin boys played music, because once, she surprised me my knowing "Knock Three Times" by Tony Orlando and Dawn. They played it at the bowling alley, she said, pleased with herself.

That was the extent of her exercise--though I do remember her running with me on a crisp fall day to kindergarten and shoveling the driveway at least once. She didn't overeat, but savored good foods like a hamburger with a slice of her friend Romeo's garden-grown tomato on top. She wasn't overweight.

But she died from colon cancer at 56, and now I'm 53. And when I haul myself around boot camp, lunging and running and planking next to speed bunnies like Eric, Maria, Heidi, Cathy, Meredith, Barb, Ann, John, Helen, Adele, Peggy and Lisa, I feel old. I sometimes think, I'm almost as old as Mom, gee I'm old, she never would or could have done all this. And then I remember Dad in the last part of his life, in rehab at the nursing home, trying hard to take a step--after decades of being the strong man, scaling ladders to clean the gutters, tarring the driveway, changing the car oil.

That defeatist tape doesn't help. Some of my friends are 60 or older and you wouldn't believe their age, yet alone how they kick butt.

I guess what I'm saying is I'd like to stop thinking about the years I'm lugging around. I think it slows me down.

And I cannot finish the Aunt Jemina pancakes and sausage--yes, with butter and syrup--on Punch's breakfast plate before I head to class, as I did today. On top of that, it's time for a new pair of sneakers.

TCOY

1. Boot camp in the dome.
2. Walked Sug around block.
3. Nap.
4. Reading On Writing by Stephen King. How could I have missed this? I did read the New Yorker excerpt all those years back, and loved it. This book is captivating and inspiring.
5. H. and I went to our friend Amy's for happy hour by the fire with a bunch of boot camp pals. John from boot camp had Punch go over for a play date with his kids so we could go.
6. According to my fitbit flex bracelet, I did almost 11,000 steps today. Seeing the bracelet on my wrist is a helpful reminder to take more steps.

Cabbage Patch Kid, Plucked from the Garden

Tomorrow I turn 53. My mom liked to tell me she was watching JFK's inauguration on the black and white TV in the basement when she went into labor. Dad liked to tell me there was a huge snowstorm and he kept going out to shovel the driveway so he'd be ready to drive to Pascack Valley Hospital when the time came.

It wasn't until recently that I wondered who watched my older siblings, who were little kids themselves. John was 8 1/2, Sis was almost 7  [Punch's age] and Will had just turned 3.

That's the perspective of the baby of the family. Not thinking about those other babies living at 187 Bedford Road and just imagining my parents waiting for me. As if I flowered alone in the garden. But now that I'm a mother, I realize there must have been a lot to do, between dinner, bedtime, dishes and keeping little kids away from dangerous things, like outlets and slippery wood stairs and railroad tracks behind our house.

My mother was 36. Which means she was 43 when  I was 7. I'm 10 years older --53--and Punch will be 7 in March. 

My mother died young from cancer, at age 56. I have many things I'd like to ask her. For starters, who watched the kids? Sis might know. Good night.

TCOY

1. Boot camp in park

2. Short walk with Sug.

3. Short nap.

4. Bubble bath.

Dream Roll: College Cleaning Lady

When I was a college freshman, I befriended Fifi, a Lebanese woman who came to clean the bathroom and vacuum the hallways in the New Gibbons dorm at Douglass College.

She wore a maroon uniform and gold earrings, and we smiled at each other. My mother wasn't sick with cancer yet, dying or gone, yet for some reason I seemed to be seeking out motherly traits in others. Maybe I just missed my Mom.

Today I allowed myself to read and rest in the afternoon. Things have been trying. [The cleaning lady connection is coming.]. Figgy is taking a leave of absence from Parsons [given until September 2014] and coming back home Sunday. She has had a hard time settling in; we don't fully understand why ourselves. Seems to me a big pull from forces in town here. We tried to convince her to stay the semester, even drop a course or two. But no. Appears it has been difficult to separate from home, which is why it's worrisome that she's coming back. She'll have to get a job.

Anyway, today when I napped, I dreamt I was in Figgy's dorm room and a petite cleaning lady was there. Figgy had set up a tabletop Christmas tree early; it was on her dresser. I pointed to Figgy at her desk in the adjoining room and said in a low voice "She's leaving school," then dissolved into tears in the arms of the cleaning lady. She cried with me. I felt supported. Finally, I had to pull away. The lady let me know that.

Rereading that makes me think that cleaning lady in Fig's room was my mother. Does that means she's watching out for her, or me or both of us? Am I hoping Figgy has connected with other kind "mothers" in her life?

Good  night.

TCOY

1. Read, rested.
2. Walked Sug around block.
3. Went to horse stables with Punch after school, to sign her up for a lesson. Liked seeing the barn and the horses and the women in riding pants.
4. Made salmon, brown rice and broccoli for dinner.