Memorial Day

For the Young and Brave

What more can one give?
Leaving friends and family
Trusting to come home

Following the call
Putting greater good ahead
Knowing the danger

Wanting to believe
That what you do will matter
Dying not in vain

Life and war not fair
Who validates the outcome
Blood and tears the price

Who once was, is not
Heart beating fast now silent
All around go on

Politicians talk
They do not have the answer
Answer lies within

Only those who die
Have the right to talk of war
Can we still listen?

In remembrance

We never met.

He was the oldest cousin of the clan. I was the youngest.

He was a promising musician. People spoke of his talent and his potential. He was handsome and personable. Everyone loved Johnny.

There was a war raging across the sea. He, grandson of Polish immigrants, was called to duty. He served with the Ninth Infantry Division in Africa. He was wounded, awarded a medal, and sent home on leave. I was not yet born.

He was my father’s nephew but seemed a younger brother instead. We were a very close extended family. My parents had been childless for many years. Johnny felt their excitement over my upcoming arrival and was happy for them. He returned to his regiment with a sad heart. My mother told me that he had a premonition that he would not be coming back.

He continued to write my parents as his division was re-assigned to the European front. By now, my birth announcement and first baby pictures were being sent on. He got the letter and wrote back, wistfully hoping to see me one day. I think my mom was right. I think he knew that he and I would never get to know each other. And, yet, I think we did.

He was a staff sergeant and his unit was among the first in those hellish bloody days after the Normandy invasion to slog up the French coast and into the French countryside to liberate towns along the way. He was point man and died in a burst of machine-gun fire in the streets of St. Lo. He was buried in the Normandy American cemetery in France. His final laurels included the Silver Star and Purple Heart with Oak Leaf Cluster.

When news of his death was delivered to the family, my uncle ran screaming into the backyard, almost out of his mind with grief. This was the firstborn of the family’s new generation, the golden boy. Everyone loved Johnny. I’m sure that my mom and dad were just as grief stricken.

I wonder, as an infant, if I somehow internalized the family’s sorrow. If somehow Johnny and I crossed paths spiritually as he, the oldest cousin, left and I, the youngest cousin, arrived. Two souls meeting briefly.

As I grew, I found myself strangely attracted to this missing cousin. We would visit his parents’ house and I would sit at the piano that was Johnny’s piano and play from the music books that were Johnny’s. I would look at the handwriting in the books, his handwriting. And I would feel as if I knew him, as if he were there, sitting next to me on that piano bench. My musical ability continued to grow. I thought that maybe it wasn’t so much my talent as Johnny just sharing his with me, that I was playing and carrying on a part of Johnny which had been so vibrant and so suddenly extinguished in his youth. He was only 26 when he died.

He came to me once in a dream. I was now in my early 20s, staying with my parents at another uncle’s country house for the weekend. It was early July. There was much laughter and teasing and giggling before getting to sleep. My father’s family was full of fun. We all settled down and sometime during the night, I had a vision of a closed coffin with a skeleton dressed in an army uniform sitting on the floor, leaning against it. A spectral hand was reaching out and motioning for someone to come closer. I just knew this was Johnny. It didn’t frighten me so much as make me worried about just who he wanted to join him. Of course, I told the family the unnerving dream at breakfast. None of us could be sure of the interpretation. Until …

We returned home to find out that my aunt had suffered a massive stroke. Her prognosis was not good. This would have been Johnny’s aunt too. Our fathers’ sister. She lingered for a week or two and then died. She died on July 16, 1964. Twenty years to the day that Johnny was killed in France.

Johnny, may you rest in peace. Thanks ... for the ultimate sacrifice ... and for the music.

Out of the closet

I grew up in a musical family. My dad and his brothers and my cousins and I were happiest when playing pianos, accordions, organs, guitars, mandolins, banjos, and just about whatever we could put our hands on. Family parties always had live entertainment.

My first instrument was the accordion. I grew up over a music studio. We lived in a duplex and my uncle, the music teacher, lived on the first floor. Daily practice was the norm. His calling up the stairs to tell me what I was doing wrong was also the norm. Other kids played with their dolls. I was often tuning up with my dad for some after-dinner duets.

The accordion is a happy instrument. It knows its social standing and is quite content with its humble state in life. Yes, it may never be welcomed in the better salons of the world, but it has been seen in many a saloon. The accordion, in the 1950s, was the instrument of choice for blue-collar families who wanted their children to learn the keyboard. A lot of kids from Polish-American and Italian-American homes were carrying red-and-white-faux-marble Sonola and Rivoli accordions around while actually becoming decent musicians. If you practiced your daily scales and fingering techniques and mastered the Clarinet Polka, you were secretly admired by your peers and knew that you could hold your own against any piano-playing rich kid.

By the time I was in my late teens, we had an electronic organ in the living room and I’d be entertaining friends and family with “Sound of Music” sing-a-longs. Stop laughing. I know it sounds corny as hell. I almost auditioned for Lawrence Welk. Looking back, that would have been the CORNIEST, but I’d be living in Branson now and collecting a decent residual paycheck. There’s something to be said for all those bubbles.

My first job while going to high school was for a piano company. None of the salesmen could play a note; I was brought in to clinch the sale. My job was to sit down and make the customers fall in love with the product. Play a familiar tune, smile a lot, and make it look so easy that the buyer would go home with a piano or organ expecting to soon have my repertoire mastered. I was about 17 at the time and had been playing since I was nine. The five free lessons that came with the sale didn’t exactly turn the customers into virtuosos. It was a good experience though because it introduced me to the world of business and acting. My eccentric boss was a competitive guy who would do anything to make a sale. He would sing “Galway Bay” with an Irish dialect if necessary or take me with him to a poor black church and belt out “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands”. Marty was Jewish. I learned to go with the flow and I even ended up playing with an all-girl combo for awhile. I gave music lessons and thought about what I really wanted to be when I grew up. No visions or mandates appeared. So I kept a song in my heart and continued to make music.

This all came to an end in my 20s when I got married. I never reinvested in my music as fully once the kids came along. I was too consumed with the demands of being a wife and mom. It was great to see both kids get interested in organ and guitar. And for awhile the sound of music was heard once again in our house. I did manage a brief stint as church lady and played the organ for funerals, weddings, and Sunday services. My accordion’s high-profile days, however, were long over.

Years flew by. The kids left home; husband left wife, and there I was - living alone in my very first apartment, still trying to figure out who I wanted to be when I grew up. The accordion, my beloved accordion, was sleeping in my closet. A deep slumber.

Wake-up call. My new son-in-law phones from New York city. “Hey MIL (mom-in-law), I’m directing a friend of Jenn’s in her first show. It’s called ‘My Mom Across America’. She does this one hour of stand-up comedy about a bus trip she takes with her mom across Canada. It’s hilarious – a Korean-American rite of passage! Mother-and-daughter vignettes. I think it’s gonna be a hit. One problem though. The script calls for an accordion. Jenn mentioned that you used to play. Would you consider giving it a try?”

Jaw drops. What did he say? He’s got to be kidding.

“You know, MIL, accordions are really making a comeback. Cajun and French accordionists are playing up a storm.”

Okay. “Er, David. I grew up with ties to Frankie Yankovic and his Polka Kings.”

“Omigod, do you mean Weird Al’s father?!”

“Er, yes, I guess so. Is that good or something?”

“Yeah. It’s terrific! I’m sure you can do the show! Why don’t you come on up and meet the actress and we’ll do an informal audition in our living room.”

So, gentle readers, after years of gloom in a dark closet, my accordion had its rebirth. In fact, I had my rebirth. I pulled that puppy out and, hot dang, it was still good to go. It was 40 years old but the reeds and bellows were fine. I just had to invest in new leather straps.

The rest is show-biz history. Tina Lee, beautiful in her Korean folk outfit, and I, more demure in my black Capri pants and red blouse, played two major venues in New York. One was the Nuyorican Poet’s Café in the East Village. I heard later that this was really “in”.

I’d love to know what the audience was thinking when I came out onstage and plopped myself down stage right - middle-aged broad hauling her squeezebox. Tina then came onstage and regaled the crowd for almost an hour with a really funny true story of mom-daughter dynamics and clash of cultures.

Me? I was so cool. I got to play the Canadian national anthem, “La Vie en Rose", Korean folk melodies, one polka, "Stouthearted Men", and closed the show with “New York State of Mind”. Yeah, the gig went really well.

We even had our own webpage.

I could almost read my accordion’s mind. “Now that I’m out of the closet, I don’t ever want to go back in. Free! Free at last!”

How sweet it is

Just another day at the office she thinks to herself. Herself has been feeling down this week. Clothes are fitting a bit tight. The ever-nagging question of "What do I want to be when I grow up?" has been making its perennial appearance and throwing more gray and blue into the mix. Herself is generally a cheery person and doesn't like to dwell on the less vibrant colors of the spectrum. Even though herself isn't Mary Poppins, she does believe in rainbows and happy endings (most of the time). This past week was just not delivering.

So, another day at the office and herself is feeling sorry for herself. Hmm, that's redundant, isn't it? Suddenly, something unexpected happens. A large bouquet of quite colorful spring flowers arrive for ... none other than HERSELF! A gift from a graduating student who takes the time to say "Thank you for all your help." Nirvana! The beautiful flowers sit on herself's office windowsill and remind herself that, basically, the universe is a good and kind place. The flowers are just the first surprise. A large yellow envelope is delivered. Inside, a gracious note from another student telling herself that she is one of the main reasons this student chose this university. Herself made the other feel "not like a number, but like a real person. A person you were interested in." Herself smiles. She had the privilege and pleasure of handing this student her diploma at commencement.

Things are looking up. Flowers and thank-you notes. Herself finds Hope perching on her shoulder, commiserating about the tight clothes but absolutely gushing about the students who remembered to say thank you.

And the day isn't over. Once home, herself finds a surprise in her mailbox - a small package from Scotland from a close friend who has collaborated with a mutual friend in California (herself's Internet friends) to produce a very unique set of playing cards, photoshopped and laminated and cleverly containing images of herself's favorite sci-fi show. A "belated Mother's Day gift" and "sickie pressie". New friends here, women who could be daughters or sisters. Women who take the time and make the effort to create something unusual and quite special for a long-distance cyberspace companion. Herself.

Life is good. Herself will tackle the problem of the ill-fitting clothes another day.

How am I doing?

I really never expected to be doing this ... you know, blogging along on a semi-regular basis. It's a brave new world. Thanks to my daughter's example, I've gotten on the bandwagon. I've begun surfing around - checking up on a little family in Scotland, my new friends in Canada, and some other lovely people who have wandered over here from Jenn's site. It's a hoot. I'm amazed at the freedom of expression. The younger generation certainly knows how to let it all hang out.

This is a social experiment at least and a whole network of new friends at best. Just a thank-you as I continue to blog and slog along with the rest of you. I've really enjoyed your comments and getting to know some of you online.

Let's keep it going, eh?!

Oh, I'm trying to post my first photo - a creation by a cyberfriend who seems to have captured the family dynamic. Now, let's see if this really does go up ...

Critical thinking

Now, about the play. I saw it twice – front row, back row. The audience laughed and cried. One night I turned to the woman on my right and saw tears streaming down her face. The power of words. Sometimes the lines I thought would draw a laugh, didn’t. And lines that were more enigmatic, did. Go figure. I also got to hang out with the actors and my favorite director and playwright. Everyone was psyched about this show. Well, not everyone. Read on.

The power of words. That’s what this blog is all about.

Did I tell you that my daughter’s a writer? The Muse came to visit when she was just a toddler and decided to stay. This has been both a blessing and a curse. It’s a bit like Tree’s amazing talent. It’s a gift that keeps on giving and never lets a person rest.

Jenn’s mind is usually on overdrive. She is constantly thinking about Life (capital “L” again) and its many manifestations. Add to that, kids and dogs underfoot, a narcoleptic and loving husband, and a house that is constantly in need of attention. I’ve decided to treat her to the cranberry storm door, but that’s another story.

The play seemed to be going well but Jenn seemed anxious all week. Just like good drama, she was waiting for the denouement – the passing judgment of the local critic. This guy supposedly has some credentials and knows what he’s doing. Is being a theatre critic like going to med school? I think not. At least in med school you take the Hippocratic oath and promise to do no further harm. If there is a school of film critics, I think they teach the hypocritic oath – find the most tender part of the writer’s anatomy (usually the brain) and stick a needle in. The power of words.

Jenn lives by words. As an artist, she is so sensitive of what she writes and what she reads. Her energy and ideas are transmitted through the painstaking crafting of words. She is invested in her product. She is, actually, her own worse critic. She cannot not write. The power of words.

The review was not good. Jenn read the first line and would not read the rest. I, in super-protective mother mode, ventured ahead and read the entire piece. My heart sank. The power of words.

Even if she were not my daughter, I would have disagreed with this guy’s point of view. But he’s on somebody’s payroll and has credentials and is entitled to his opinion too. The power of words.

I wanted to make it better, but could not. David and friends consoled her but I knew the review had an impact; hopefully, it was just a glancing blow. The power of words.

This is her craft, her art. It takes courage to write and then to have what you’ve written displayed onstage. It requires a giant leap of faith. And Jenn, who is a kind and generous spirit, is a trustworthy soul. She is also a trouper, my kid. She believes in her work and was so happy with this show’s cast and the beautiful and funny and poignant ways they brought her words to life. That’s why the review seemed so unfair. The power of words.

I am always in awe of her gift. She tells stories of the common man and woman. They sometimes make you squirm and wince, but the dark humor always leads to naked truth and, if you look hard enough, you will see yourself or someone you know in Jenn’s funhouse mirror. My girl never takes the easy way out. She goes deep. And I’m proud of her for that. Jenn makes you think. She’s definitely not a 30-minute sitcom, “slam, bam, thank-you ma’am” kind of gal. The power of critical thinking.

Jenn’s writing reminds me of Flannery O’Connor. I had to read some of O’Connor’s work in a college lit class, actually it was a religion course. At first, some of the more outrageous characters seemed so strange and shocking but, slowly, I tuned into their struggles. They were (like all of us) seeking redemption of one kind or another. There was grace to be found among the ruins.

So, on this Mother’s Day and on this blog, here’s to you my dear daughter. I watched you scribble as a child and later begin page after page of stories and pictures, always telling such imaginative and colorful tales. You were born to write, Jenn. You have stories and characters yet to be conceived. And those you've already birthed have been lovingly tended. You’re a darn good mother!

The show was terrific.

Twinkies and singularities

I just drove back from Jenn’s. It’s almost a six-hour trip but I’ve learned to pace myself and tune in to some of my favorite music which, depending on my mood and the iPod’s random selections, could be anything from klezmer to tango to blues or pop or a good polka. Eclectic tastes for sure. “Variety is the spice of life”, right?

I was planning to do a nostalgic essay tonight on my time with J&D and the munchkins but it seems that my daughter’s blog du jour has detoured me. I need to set the record straight regarding my use of language and somewhat colorful imagination. You have to believe that I’m not really all that risqué. I live a pretty tame life - a single woman in her apartment, no boyfriend (or girlfriend for that matter). My palette contains muted colors. Heck, I don’t watch much television or even go to the movies. I usually ask Jenn for the latest gossip about the stars.

Sometimes, though, Life (capital “L”) does take a turn and add a little excitement or the proverbial “spice” to a mundane existence. You just never know what will be the catalyst. It can be a new play or a college classroom.

I drive up to the artsy-fartsy Berkshires for a week to see Like Home (which contains a lot more naughty words than my spontaneous remarks on Blaine’s anatomy) and suddenly I’m out of my element – I’m WOV (woman on vacation). For a blissful week, I forget my graduating seniors and their term papers. I’m here with my beloved artistes and their progeny and community of like-minded artistes. I get to see the play twice and hang out with the actors. It’s exhilarating. I even cover the box office when someone doesn’t show up. I greet the ticket seekers, collect their money, hand out playbills and restrain myself from revealing that I’m the mother of the playwright (and mother-in-law to the director). There I am, smelling the greasepaint and hearing the roar of the crowd. Hot dang - I’m a theatre groupie!

Seeing Jenn’s play probably loosened me up a bit - so much so that seeing that Blaine guy in his fishbowl just triggered some unexpected thoughts which surprised even me. Never, in my entire life, had I ever thought of the male appendage as a cupcake. Now I’m having such feelings of guilt. Being from Philly and all that, I can’t believe I conjured up a Twinkie instead of a Tastycake! What a traitor I am.

As to the “bl*w job” remark, it’s something that I picked up from watching all those sex-therapy movies in grad school. Another revelation: I attended college as a non-traditional student. I was already in my menopause years by the time I got to study and learn about the many varieties of human love. This was definitely not a “spice” found in my mother’s kitchen.

The kids know how naïve I was when it came to s-e-x. For instance, Jenn went off to college and became a cartoonist for the college paper. She sent me copies of her weekly offerings, really cute and clever stuff. One time, though, she was illustrating an event where some cartoon figure was holding up a scorecard, reading “96”. As soon as I looked at this, I panicked and called her to voice maternal concern: “Er, Jenn, isn’t this really going too far? You know, people are gonna see this and think dirty thoughts.” Luckily, Jenn set me straight on that one and I was no longer numerically challenged, just in time to prepare me for my grad class in human sexuality.

My most memorable teacher was a sex therapist who insisted on having the class over to his clinic for an entire day of indoctrination and desensitization: training films and pillows to recline on. What a guy – he even served popcorn. The movies showed men with women, men with men, women with women, multi-positions, one on one, two on one, groups. Everything you wanted to know … and then some. Eyes were glazed by the end of the day. Popcorn did not take the edge off. We went outside for a break and my classmate looked stressed. I tried to do some compassionate counseling: “Hey, Joe. Are you okay?” Poor guy shook his head and then confessed, “I’m so horny I could hump a tree.”

This teacher even invited us to go swimming nude in his pool. (We all declined. I think he was disappointed.) Looking back, he was a likeable (albeit eccentric) fellow, very touchy feely, and into that whole sharing dynamic that we, as future therapists, were supposed to learn. He would invite his past clients for a little “show and tell” at our weekly classes. I got to meet the nicest people (even before Jerry Springer discovered them). There was a huge guy waiting for his sex-change operation and he had the boldest red nail polish and long blonde wig. He was a telephone lineman and I’m not sure how climbing a pole was gonna hold up after he lost his … and then there was the sweetest pair of senior citizens. She and he were married for years and looked like they just stepped out of Good Housekeeping or AARP magazine - gray-haired elders who happened to have a thing for an open marriage and some ménage a trois every now and then. They placed ads in local papers. Gosh, I wonder if they ever went on to make a documentary: “Grandma and Grandpa do Dallas.” A prominent businessman also made an appearance; he belonged to a transvestite club in center city. The wife supported his, er, proclivity and even helped him shop for his lacey underwear.

Now you see that I’ve done some multitasking of my own, some years back. Education certainly does open one up to the world - in this case, the world of froufyhouhas and hoojackapiffies. Any singular notions I may have had about s-e-x were dispelled when the popcorn was dispensed. And I’m a better person for it, Ollie.

I think I’ll go eat a Twinkie.

It's all in the eyes

There’s an epilogue to my previous post. The last time I spent with my Dad was two days before we lost him. He was retired and he and mom would drive up to visit and play with the adored only grandchildren (Jenn and Joe) maybe two, three times a week. He always enjoyed making or fixing things and this time he had crafted a swing for the kids to be hung from our big old mimosa tree on the side of the house. He needed help so I supported the ladder as he lifted the chains and twisted them around the largest and sturdiest limb of the tree. It was a hot and humid late afternoon and the sun was already starting to sink in the sky, a very peaceful and mellow time of day.

Dad was about three feet above me on the ladder and looking down at me when suddenly the golden rays from the sun reflected in his eyes. What happened next was a gift. My Dad was never one to loudly proclaim his love; he did it indirectly with a touch or the use of an endearing nickname. But looking up at him in that moment, time seemed to stop and I saw all the love in the world coming from his eyes. It was a silent and fleeting affirmation and yet I never felt more loved. The message was there in his eyes – a deep love, a proud love. I think we both sensed that something very profound had just happened as he seemed a bit embarrassed and we went back to the task at hand. Neither of us spoke aloud about what we had just experienced; we just let it be. That was the very last time I looked into my father’s eyes. And it was enough.

Crossing over

My young daughter’s crying awakened me out of a vivid and disturbing dream. I bounced out of bed and rushed into her bedroom to see what was the matter. “Mommy, mommy …”

Jenn sat up and I hugged her while she proceeded to tell me what she had been dreaming. It was the same dream I was having! I listened and could not believe what I was hearing. Yes, she was watching a crowd of people and there was a large body of water and some kind of odd plane ... she described a triangular sort of object {which, at the time, did not resonate}. I saw it too, just minutes before, in my own dreamscape. Then there was an explosion and tongues of fire were raining down as the people watched.

The shared nightmare left me jittery. After calming Jenn and getting her back to sleep, I climbed back into my own bed but it was hard to relax. Something very unusual had just happened to both of us. What did it mean? I had a strange sense of foreboding.

The phone call came the next morning as I was settling the kids down for lunch. First, it was my mom’s voice, crying and somewhat incoherent, and then a stranger’s voice, a policeman. “Your father’s dead. Can you come to the house?” My dad had died of a heart attack, my mom at his side. He died sitting in his car in the garage, rubbing his chest and just thinking he had overexerted himself. My mom went running down the driveway and into the store next door looking for help. The police were called and tried to revive him when they came but, by then, he had passed. It was a sad and sudden ending to a wonderful life. The past night’s dream seemed to be the bad omen I had feared. It had foreshadowed this personal catastrophe.

My dad’s unexpected demise came at summer’s end, 1975. Jenn was five years old. As she grew, we would speak of our strange dream and poppy’s death and how the dream was warning us of what was to come. Yet, we still felt confused about just what “it” was that we saw in the sky – it looked like no airplane or rocket that we had ever seen. Until …

Flash forward to the beginning of a new year, January 1986. A gallant crew of explorers mount a rocket and blast off into space. Hundreds are watching below as the Challenger climbs the bright blue sky. The triangular-shaped shuttle suddenly explodes in mid-air, showering bits of fiery debris into the ocean below. A national catastrophe propels itself onto television screens around the globe. I take one look and know that this was the scene, the vision that Jenn and I had shared. There were no space shuttles in 1975 - nothing for us to anchor our image to. But now we had a tragic confirmation of what we had experienced, on the night before my father’s death, so many years before.

This whole intuitive pre-cognitive phenomenon has made me believe even more in multiple dimensions of reality. I think we are surrounded by mystery every day and need to humbly accept that as part of the fabric of life.

“A faith that cannot survive collision with the truth is not worth many regrets.” Arthur C. Clarke

Fed up with fill 'er up

I just drove back from Jenn’s this past week after spending Easter with the kids and celebrating Sophie’s fifth birthday. The gasoline prices were fluctuating through four states and a long holiday weekend. I deliberately drove past some of the higher-priced locations and kept searching for bargains. Luckily, I drive a Toyota Corolla and get pretty good mileage especially on the long high-speed routes. Ruby likes to open up and run with the big boys. Bless her 135,000 mile heart of gold! My dad, who thought it was time to trade a car in around the 40-45,000 mile marker, would have been incredulous at my driving this ten-year-old car with such an accumulated track record. They just didn’t make sophisticated engines like this when Dad was alive.

Boy, did he love his cars. From the Model-T of his callow youth to the blue Oldsmobile sedan of my baby years to the green Studebaker automatic-drive of the ‘50s and then to the pinnacle of car ownership in the early ‘60s: an aqua-and-white Ford Thunderbird, the classic with three tail lights on either side. Would you believe that my dad taught me how to drive on his new T-Bird?! He even stayed mellow when I caught the side bullet on the door against the frame of the garage as I was learning how to pull in and out of tight spaces. This T-Bird was the delayed gratification of a youthful dream to own a Stutz Bearcat. My dad was just retiring and he was oh-so-ready to buy the T-Bird. He was a blue-collar auto-body welder for 40 years who appreciated a fine-looking and well-made product. It had leather bucket seats in front and a very small backseat where I and my 6’4” boyfriend had to perch if we were going with the folks for a Sunday drive. Most of the time, I let Frank ride up front. Can you imagine how I felt when Dad let me take the car to school? It was quite cool to pick up your girlfriends in a T-Bird. I love that he trusted me that much.

Mom was never quite as excited about the sports car as Dad and I. But then she also rolled her eyes when he announced that he was buying a motorboat about the same time. I think it was that whole male-menopause thing. Some men get crazy in their heads and loins and chase younger women; my dad was chasing another form of recreation - cars and boats that went vroom vroom and let the wind whip past and bring back memories of younger, livelier days. He paid cash, of course, for both mid-life purchases. He never heard of credit cards and would have frowned on that idea too, along with the notion of keeping a car with extended mileage. Even though both investments were short lived, the few years he drove the T-Bird and captained his boat brought so much pleasure and fun for me, my friends, and family members as well. I can still see him at the seashore pier with his jaunty little sailor’s cap and content smile. Captain of his domain. He was a good man and deserved these little pleasures as he grew older.

So, there I am, driving back from Jenn’s thinking about my dad and mom and some of the trips we took when I was a kid. Dad loved to drive and vacations meant car trips up and down the east coast and out to Pittsburgh to visit family. When we stopped at a gas station in those days, you had an honest-to-God owner who bent over backwards to take care of his customer. What service! While the guy filled your tank, he looked under the hood and checked the oil and then did a really careful job on wiping the windows – front and back. Ha! I pulled in to yet one more “mini-stop-shop-gas station” in the state of New Jersey which, for some crazy reason, does not allow drivers to pump their own gas. So, here I am, in the middle of my reminiscing about the good-old days, expecting some excellent customer service. The surly attendant dragged himself to my car, roughly took my speedpass (which, DUH, makes it so easy to set up for pumping), inserted the nozzle and slunk off while the super-expensive fuel gurgled into my gas tank. I had been driving all day – the windshield was, indeed, dirty. “Not my problem” seemed to be the motto. Was I surprised? Not really. Tell me, when was the last time that you actually pulled into a gas station where someone actually gave a damn about you and your car? What’s even more maddening is pulling into a self-serve station, pumping your gas, paying the top dollar and then trying to find a water bucket and squeegee that should be somewhere in the vicinity because IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO! But the most infuriating is finding the bucket and seeing that it is empty. Yeah, the milk of human kindness and good customer service are about as dried up as that bucket. What is it about the oil industry?! They’ve got us coming and going. God, would it kill them to offer a little TLC at the pump?!

Gosh Dad, you’re not here to see these new cars with longer performance and fancy bells and whistles: GPS, stereo-surround-sound and cd players, digital this and that … and much larger fuel tanks. It’s quite a different world. People are taking out home-equity lines of credit just to pay for their SUVs and gasoline! The technology has grown by leaps and bounds but the human factor of attention to the customer has been left in a ditch somewhere far behind. I think you got the better deal.

Songbird

A close friend in England introduced me to the music of a young American vocalist, Eva Cassidy. I listened to her renditions of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” and “Songbird” and then did some research on this amazing singer. Why did I never hear of her?

The sad truth is that she died of cancer ten years ago and much of her music has been published posthumously as a labor of love by family and friends. She never made it big in the eyes of the world; her talent, however, was enormous. She was so gifted and she continues to touch people even now.

Her ability to sing in so many voices - gospel, rock, blues, pop - confounded the talent agents and producers. Many wanted to pigeonhole her into just one niche. She wasn’t marketable. How laughable considering the mediocrity that is passed off as “talent”.

I think Eva had to fly free and do what she was born to do, sing. She sang what she loved, what touched her, and you can’t help but feel that when you hear her. I haven’t been so moved in a long time. So I invite you to spend some time getting to know her and hearing her unique repertoire.

Treat yourself and tune in and listen for awhile. Stay in the moment with Eva, forget your cares and let her take you away with her to that other side of the rainbow. It’s the stuff that dreams are made of and such a welcomed respite from the daily grind.

Peace.

Easter story

It’s a very strange weekend. I’m making final revisions on my latest fanfic while devoting some time to this blog. There’s a powerful story slowly working its way on to Jenn’s blog and I don’t want to intrude on that report. So, I’m trying to keep a low profile. I have some working outlines for future blogs but memories of when the kids were little and when I was a young mother seem to be the menu of the day. I might as well go with the flow …

Here is a short and sweet family classic.

Did you ever notice that many family emergencies usually occur when dad/hubby is not on the scene?! One of the saddest learning moments for my kids took place during the dinner hour while their dad was out of town on business.

I was bustling in the kitchen when my little boy cried out in alarm that "something's wrong with Ginger!" Now Ginger was a gerbil who lived in splendor in a very large cage in the dining room. (We had so many guinea pigs in the basement that we had to find other spots to store the gerbils.) Ginger had been doing her daily exercise routine and managed to catch her head in between the rings of a Slinky and the poor thing strangled. (I know - bad mom, bad mom. Wrong toy in wrong cage. I still have twinges of guilt over this.) I knew as soon as I looked into the cage that the gerbil was gone. I was seriously considering critter CPR.

My son was only 7-8 years old and this was his first experience with the death of a pet. He was crying so hard and when I sadly told him that the gerbil was indeed dead, he took the limp body of Ginger in his hands and dropped to his knees and exclaimed: "Jesus, resurrect this gerbil!"

It was hard for Joseph to comprehend that the resurrection stories he heard in school could not be applied to his favorite pet. I let him hold the lifeless body, still warm, and either he or Jenn decided that they wanted to take a picture. I was speechless and feeling quite inadequate as their mom. I could not make it better. I think we all have moments as parents when not being able to make it better becomes a learning experience for us more than our children. It's very humbling.

It seemed that the kids themselves knew what they needed. So somewhere in the old box of family photos is a picture of two sad-faced kids, tears streaming down their faces, making peace with the untimely loss of a beloved pet.

Epilogue: Ginger had a formal and prayerful burial under our dogwood tree. Ritual is an important part of healing. The dogwood tree became the sentinel for many a burial of our smaller pets. Sacred ground. Joe went on to become a doctor.

Turtle tales

It had to happen, you get to a certain age and the grim reaper catches up with you. A giant tortoise in the Calcutta zoo died recently. He was about 250 years old. I hate to see him go. The old geezer just brought back memories of another guy, a bit younger, but still quite a character in his own right.

He arrived one Christmas eve, compliments of my sister-in-law, the flying nun. Linda would make her seasonal drive up the pike from North Carolina and stay with us. She was a tiny woman with a large heart for social justice and rights of the individual. These rights extended to all the voiceless and unprotected. Seeing a rather large box turtle in the middle of the highway caused her to stop the car, examine the critter, and determine that he, indeed, was in need of an advocate. So she threw him into a cardboard box with a few scraps of Kentucky Fried Chicken and crossed several state lines to bring him to us. The gift that kept on giving.

In keeping with our family policy of naming all creatures (domestic or wild) which graced our midst, we promptly christened him. Actually, the credit may have to go to my sister-in-law. She chose Torquemada. It seemed out of character for this one sad and sick-looking tortoise but Linda, a former Shakespearean scholar, was never one to pass on drama. “What’s in a name?” seemed to be something she took to heart – even trying to persuade me and hubby to name our firstborn “Desdemona”. We preferred Jennifer. But I digress …

Into the chaos of Christmas eve, with a tree being decorated, food being prepared, and kids running amok, came our ailing visitor. On first sight, Torquemada was not something you would want to pick up and cuddle. He had drool running down his tightly clenched mouth; his eyes were firmly shut and surrounded by some type of crusty material. Adding insult to injury, there was a nasty crack in his shell. It was readily apparent that the old guy needed some triage and long-term care. That’s where I came in. That’s where most mothers come in. The holidays quickly passed. Sis-in-law visited local friends and soon left. Kids went outside to play with their new toys. Hubby went back to work. The sick turtle and I were left alone.

Once again, the universe was playing tag and I was “it”.

When my kids were small, it seemed we had just about every kind of creature living at our house at one time or another. I never grew up with pets myself but the maternal biology kicked in and I did what I could to support the next generation. There were guinea pigs (14 in the basement at one point during the height of science fairs and presentations), hamsters, gerbils, white rats, parakeets (who perched on bowls and sipped chicken soup), stray cats (who tried to eat the parakeets), wounded sparrows (one may have been the reincarnation of my dear departed dad) and pigeons (brought to my house by a third-grader in her book bag because she knew that Jenn’s mom would make it well). Reluctantly and without seeking such fame, I became the Saint Francis of Assisi of the neighborhood.

This dude, however, was proving to be my biggest challenge. Torquemada was such a physical wreck. I could envision my own mom shaking her head and warning, “Don’t touch it - you don’t know where it’s been.” Here I was, staring at an unknown entity which didn’t even have the courtesy to open its eyes and give me a trusty wink. Wheezing was the only sign of life. “Knock, knock … who are you?”

Knowledge is power. I started checking encyclopedias and calling pet stores. Eventually some kind clerk took pity on my ignorance and referred me to the local veterinary school; thus began my education into Wild Kingdom 101. I learned how to tell a boy turtle from a girl turtle (it’s all in the eyes - which were still sealed shut) and about age rings on shells, and just about everything a city gal wanted to know about turtles/tortoises.

Days passed, the runny nose and clenched eyes still did not improve. I did what was suggested – provide moist, warm air. However, my methodology was a bit eccentric. Every morning I took the turtle into the bathroom, ran the shower hot and steamy, held him next to my face and crooned: "Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning ..." I thought, somehow, that he would take comfort in hearing this since he was so far away from his home state. Nada.

The eyes were still shut and that drippy nose was really not getting any better. Disappointed in the nature books and pet stores and vets, I took the matter into my own hands. I went purely on maternal instinct and started rubbing Vicks VapoRub on his forehead. The morning showers and songs continued but now there was a pungent and pleasant aroma to the ritual. Ah, so soothing. I grew up with Vicks. How could this miss?

In a few more days the nose cleared up and, one beautiful morning in the shower, singing my heart out and holding Torquemada inches from my face, he finally opened one eye slowly (it was red - a male) and almost winked at me. Eureka - contact! I was so excited that I called my husband in the midst of his business meeting to tell him the good news. Needless to say, he did not share in my unbridled delight.

Our invalid made a full recovery and we then transported him to a local environmental center where I was told that he was quite an old gentleman (rings on shell). He had certainly been a patriarch of some North Carolina realm but now he was a senior citizen up north. The zoologist promised to take very good care of him in his twilight years. I phoned the nature center from time to time, just to make sure that he was really adjusting. Last told, it seemed that Torquemada had developed quite a harem of enamored, much younger, female turtles ….

Which goes to prove: the "older men and younger women" craziness cuts across all species of wild life, doesn't it?

Learning curve

You raise kids and watch them go through their adolescent dance of boyfriends and girlfriends, all the time hoping that one day your son and daughter will find that significant other who will become a lifetime partner, a loving and loyal spouse. You hope beyond hope that they learn from your mistakes and benefit from your wisdom. In the end, it’s very much out of your control. So you watch and pray, from the sidelines. You learn to be patient with yourself. It takes time to learn the art of letting go.

I didn’t have a good marriage. It took me years to admit that fact and several more years to take action. As my daughter reminded, “Mom, you needed to be hit by a Mac truck.” I did and I was, figuratively speaking, during a fairy-tale setting in a foreign land. But that’s a story for another day, another time.

My report card was a lopsided split: Couplehood = D; Parenting = A. I’ve chosen to celebrate the positive rather than focus on the negative. My marriage produced two terrific kids who have grown into two amazing adults. In many ways, I’ve learned what it’s like to be in a loving relationship from watching them. They chose well.

I fell in love with my daughter-in-law from the moment she stepped into my life, coming home with the son on a college break. Through the ups and downs of college romance, I secretly hoped that she would one day be “the one”. Eventually, my hope turned into reality. Katie is a sunny blonde who knows how to tease my sometimes serious son; she keeps him honest and she’s certainly not afraid to share her opinion. She is also not afraid to do her fair share of the labor, in and outside the home. My son keeps his end of the bargain too, providing security and love to his growing family. It was so gratifying to see him feeding and changing their first baby, something my own father would have been quite uncomfortable with. Men just did not do those kinds of female things a half-century ago.

I grew up thinking that father really did know best. I was a product of the sanguine ‘50s when moms wore aprons and dads provided the sole paycheck. The universe was filled with constants, no confounding variables. I knew what was expected of me and just how far I could go … dinner at 5:00pm, church on Sunday and family drive, Catholic school for twelve years. It was a safe life. Let’s say I had an extended childhood and adolescence. Oh, did I mention the only-child thing too? It wasn’t until I was married that I realized just how different families could be. That revelation produced quite a long and rather painful learning curve. Somehow though, flawed as we were as a couple, my husband and I got it right when it came to the kids. And they seem to be getting it right with their kids too.

At first, I didn’t quite know what to make of my future son-in-law. My first encounter came in the kitchen of Jenn’s Yonkers apartment. He reminded me of a flashback to the hippies of my generation – a shaggy guy in coveralls, pleasant smile and warm eyes. I, of course, was expecting someone else. Knowing that my daughter would always be a struggling artiste, I wanted to anchor her to some solid MBA grad with a pin-striped suit. Not! Thus began another learning curve for the mater - more letting go of pre-fabricated dreams which were intruding upon my daughter’s reality. David, bless him, had the good sense not to try too hard. He was quite content to be himself and let me get to know him through my daughter’s eyes. And her eyes were filled with love. I soon realized that this gentle man, this fellow artist, was the right match. I was touched to see how they cared for each other. David was a mensch. Yeah, they wouldn’t have money in the bank, but they were already rich in so many other ways. What more could a mother want.

Well, a mother could want … grandchildren. While both couples pursued and completed professional degrees, I kept hearing the daughter and daughter-in-law obsess and worry about their biological clocks and how hard it may be to get preggers. This made me laugh to myself. Mothers just know. I now have four beautiful grandkids, ages five and under, with grandbaby #5 set to make her debut on the west coast this summer. With so much love floating around, I knew they would be successful once they got on task.

I think I’ve learned how to step aside from my children’s lives, at least I hope so. In my letting them go, to make their own choices and create their own stories, I’ve begun to carve out some room for myself to let in new experiences and new stories of my own.

I still have a lot to learn.

Go inside and play

My daughter thinks I need to get a life. Well, she knows I have a life but she’s worried that it’s dull, dull, dull. So, in order to spice it up, she discovered the perfect gift for my birthday, an adult PC device. I kid you not. My intended gift is neither politically correct nor a personal computer. Instead, the Kegelcisor is everything a single woman could wish for. It’s sturdy and solid and shiny and sleek. Frankly, I’d rather have a new sports car.

My intended gift sits on display at select and discreet and not-so-discreet websites for the adult shopper. Don’t waste your time - you won’t find this puppy at Wal-Mart. But you will find it keeping company with rabbits, rock lobsters, eggs, wands and harnesses: a veritable potpourri of silicone, stainless steel, chrome, rubber and the ever popular pink Lucite (better things through chemistry). Did I mention the power supplies? Double AA and triple AAA and watch batteries along with cordless wonders and the live-on-the-edge 110v superchargers. Oops, I apologize, my intended gift is an old-fashioned manual model. I just got carried away. Aside from the Kegelcisor, my favorite item is the mini-combination flashlight-keychain-vibrator. A brilliant idea, don’t leave home without one.

It’s quite mind boggling to even consider the prospect of receiving a rock lobster or a Kegelcisor as a gift. There’s always the delicate question: If it doesn’t fit, can I take it back for a refund? According to the daughter, the answer is yes. However, since the online information reassures that you can establish the right fit by “experimenting with cucumbers”, that should hardly be necessary. I also like the way the stores support self-initiative. One goes so far as to say: “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” Gosh, they are very friendly and encouraging.

I guess my daughter means well. And, heaven knows, I spent over an hour tonight checking out the many colors and models and perky accessories but none of them seemed to thrill me as much as other forms of entertainment; for instance, throwing a bowling ball down the lane and making a 7-10 split. Wow, the feeling I get from that is just so, so … let’s say it tickles my fancy. And then there’s the world of art. Hmm, turn me loose in a museum and let me gaze upon a Georgia O’Keeffe painting and, before you know it, I get this tingly sensation up and down my … and, finally, horseback riding. Sitting in the saddle on a long bumpy trail ride ranks right up there for seat-of-the-pants excitement.

So, yes, I’ll pass on the intended gift. Jenn said they couldn’t engrave my bowling nickname on it anyhow. Such a shame. “Ball buster” would look so awesome etched in stainless steel.

Go outside and play

I awakened to the usual droning newscasts this morning but one of the reports really caught my attention. It seems that there is a battle going on about the banning of recess from the school day. When I web searched the topic, I discovered this isn’t just a battle, it’s a world war. Millions of kids around the world may have one of their basic rights stripped away. I was intending to blog this as a funny piece but I’m starting to think that all these websites and protesters may have every reason to be concerned.

I grew up with a fairly simple agenda: walk to school, sit in class, learn reading, writing, ‘rithmetic, a little bit of Polish (it was a small Catholic school in a Polish-American neighborhood), go outside, run around, play hopscotch and tag, gossip with the girlfriends, giggle at the boys and sometimes fall down and scrape a knee. My parents trusted the school authorities to get it right and teach and nurse and discipline me when needed. There were boundaries and no cell phones to get in the way. I walked home and ate dinner (always at 5:00pm) and then practiced my music and did my homework. This was way before after-school activities and gym teachers. Gym activities were covered on the playground with the running and tag and climbing and jumping rope. Recess was also a lesson in civics and socialization. If you thought a kid wasn’t playing fair, you called him on it. I found out early that there was strength in numbers. Usually, the kids could work out their problems without adult interference. We needed that time in the schoolyard to learn how to connect and get along. We were too busy listening to the teacher and writing from the blackboard the rest of the day.

That was then, a half century ago, and this is now. There are car pools and suburban moms and multi-tasking and multi-schedules. Kids don’t walk to school anymore; they are driven or bussed. Many of them probably have cell phones too. The parents are working from a new paradigm. They are super invested in their kids’ daily lives, perhaps too invested. I think a lot of families are on the edge of panic. There’s no time for a sit-down dinner as mom is working full-time and has to take Johnny or Joanne to soccer practice on Monday, violin lesson on Tuesday, little league or gymnastics on Wednesday, library-enrichment night on Thursday, and sleep-over on Friday. Many kitchens have organizational flow charts on their refrigerators. God, I’m breathless just thinking about it. No wonder the kids are tuning out with MTV and computers. Stop the world, they want to get off!

You would think that all this extracurricular activity would be producing robust and healthy kids. More disturbing news: the big Macs are catching up with the younger population as much as the older. Obesity in children/adolescents is on the rise. It’s probably due to the weekends spent chilling out from all the scheduled activity after school. Kids want to vegetate in front of their PC. And I bet many have their very own computer too. Well, yes, it’s an escape hatch. And not just for kids, eh? I’m blogging right now so I’m just as guilty.

The best release to the demands of parents and teachers may just be the old-fashioned idea of recess, a brilliant concept which worked for millions of kids throughout the decades. Kids need to take a healthy break, need to feel free to just do nothing, away from their hectic, over-scheduled modern lives. Jumping rope and running around will burn up some calories and maybe balance out the sitting at the computer.

I worry that parents are micro-managing their children’s lives. And I worry that professional educators are focusing on testing and outcomes so much that their stress to make a school or school district look good is carrying over to excessive demands on their charges. Schoolbags are now being designed more ergonomically because the kids have so much homework that they must carry tons of books back and forth each day. Doctors are seeing more and more orthopedic problems in the younger generation. Maybe it’s time to separate adult needs for competition from what the kids need and “Get off their backs”.

Quite simply, kids need time to themselves. It’s in the downtime that imagination and dreams are born. Cloud gazing may lead to creative ideas and future goals. Mom and dad, stand down. Teachers do the same. Give the kids some breathing room. And, while you’re at it, take some time off yourselves. It wouldn’t be such a Prozac nation if we all remembered to play.

Buddha, phone home

You can only keep a 15-year-old kid meditating for so long. Just read in the news this morning that a Buddha wannabe has decided to take a long walk into the sunset or sunrise or another dimension. According to the locals, the mini guru has been sitting under a tree since last May and not eating or drinking. But now he’s disappeared.

The villagers are organizing search parties.

If he’s found Nirvana, the kid should be fine. Maybe he’s simply looking for a big Mac.

Tough love

I can see this cross-pollenization of mom-daughter blogs will have to be worked through. Does anyone have an operating manual handy? In the meantime, I'm going to risk this open letter to my daughter at breed 'em and weep. It's the closest I can come to a Hallmark "Get Well Soon".

Dear Daughter,

I nag because I care.

Ever since you and I were first introduced (you knocked first, remember?), I have not been able to get you out of my mind. I was quite new at this whole preggers thing and had no sisters to fill me in. My Polish-American momma and assorted cousins were wonderfully supportive but did not offer much in the way of practical advice, except for my mom’s classic adage: “Don’t worry about childbirth – they expand when they hit the air.” All this because I felt your first kick and expressed some anxiety over my ability to handle the Big Event five months later.

Well, I did handle the BE with all the strength and prayers I could muster - mostly alone in a very small cubicle with a young intern who stopped by once or twice, in between my Hail Marys, to tell me I had a very high threshold for pain. The gauntlet was thrown down with those words. I had to live up to the hype. Say one Hail Mary and call me when you’re fully dilated. Having been the good Catholic school girl, I knew not to question authority. Just offer it up for the salvation of all those pagan babies whose mommas obviously had issues of their own.

Your dad heard the same words too but elsewhere in the hospital. The culture at the time did not really support all this grand sharing of maternal pain and birthing tubs with the daddies-to-be. The mommies were expected to wing it alone with their trust and devotion in the male authority figures who dispensed the orders along with the patronizing platitudes.

Nevertheless, your birth was every bit the Big Event I had anticipated. You came, you saw, you conquered me in the first few seconds I glanced down at your tiny face. I’ve never been the same since. And I got to repeat the wondrous experience all over again with your brother! Who would have thought those Hail Marys could garner such blessings. Childbirth, the gift that keeps on giving. Four unique grandchildren, with another on the way. I’ve got a silly smile on my face as I write this. I secretly think a pagan baby must have adopted me and showered good karma in my path.

Exponentially, you did expand when you hit the air. You grew bigger and I grew with you, learned from you, laughed with you and cried with you. I may have not had all the answers and disappointed you at times. But you never disappointed me. You were my Big Event, my baby girl with the bright searching eyes.

Now look at you, happily married and a mother yourself. Nanny wasn’t so wrong after all, was she? Babies do expand … and so do hearts.

I’m worried about you, a mother’s prerogative. My heart tells me that you have probably been over-exerting yourself and there can be a hundred good reasons for the “ehh” symptoms this past week. But my head tells me that I don’t like that false-positive reading on the EKG and that maybe your bloggers are on to something. And so, I push a little. Send some emails to your brother. Say a few Hail Marys (they seemed to have served me well in the past). And get on your case!

It’s called tough love. Live with it.

Mom xxoo

Toaster crumbs can multi-task

I have had it! Why, in this cyberspace world, do the spammers seem to be winning? Why, even with my megabytes of PC security software and firewalls and anti-spam, do the bad guys seem to find clever ways to slip in among messages from friends and family? I want to hear about Sophie's day in pre-K, not locate a Canadian pharmacy that sells Viagra!

These latest whacko subject lines must be the newest craze in sleazy advertising. Randomized words appear and I start to see red. Invasion of personal mental space.

I guess snake oil will always find a way into the marketplace.

Dancing queen

Yes, I’m familiar with the latest craze, “Dancing with the Stars”. Somehow, I’ve managed to miss this new season. Excuse me if I pass. I think it has to do with my own indoctrination.

Ballroom dancing – what a way to stay fit and meet men. I had a colleague who began dancing in her sixties and ended up with partners who looked like Antonio Bandera and loads of sequined costumes in her closet. College professor by day; Juliet Prowse at night and on the weekend circuit. Her dance card was always filled. She mastered the Latin rhythms and had the trophies to prove it. The glamour, the excitement, the fun! Sign me up! At least that’s what I think in the early days of my transition to the single life. Heck, the nuns at the local convent were probably seeing more action than I was getting. I had to do something.

As if sensing my desperation, another friend, recently divorced, phones me. Would I like to attend a dancing lesson with her and then stay overnight? Delightful! I can do this. I have just climbed mountains in the Canadian Rockies (and have a bruised toe to show for it). Ballroom dancing will be my new challenge. Nothing like a girlfriend at your side to provide the right impetus and support system. I have not seen this friend for a couple years and am really psyched about catching up, plus learning a few steps on the dance floor.

The week drags on. Finally, TGIF! I feel like a teenager again, going to a sleepover. I drive up to her house after work. I over pack because I don't have a clue about what one wears to a dance lesson and a mixer. I throw three pairs of shoes into my car trunk and a selection of outfits that I grab from my closet, literally. I pull into the winding driveway of her beautiful suburban home (some divorces fare better than others). My friend comes running out to greet me.

Now you have to understand about Julie - she is a perpetual Size 2 and a yoga/aerobics instructor. Tall and thin and lithe and graceful, she also enters tennis competitions. All feelings of empowerment and competence that I have just gained climbing mountains slide off the cliff as my Size 14 frame gets out of the car. I arrive in blue jeans and sport top. Julie is standing there in a leather miniskirt and tight black sweater. She promptly says, “Oh, you’re going in jeans – that’s okay”. I promptly think “over your dead body” and haul my 200-lb. suitcase into her house.

The evening continues to go downhill from there. We are not going to the dance alone. She introduces me to Bob. I give the gal credit. She’s 52; he just turned 40. And this was before Demi and Ashton. The new boyfriend is quite a hunk. The man has "bedroom eyes". Big and beefy guy, kind of a Cliff Robertson face wrapped in a vintage John Wayne body. I discover later that his moves on the dance floor are quite good. They make a very sexy couple. But, I'm running ahead of my story ….

My anxiety rises as I unpack. I discover that, aside from focusing on red and black, I have managed to completely mismatch all my jewelry. You could say I am on the cutting edge, a veritable trend setter - fashionably eclectic. Hell, they will put the lights out eventually but it's not going to be pretty until I'm in the dark. I settle for a long black dress with a slit, for those Ginger Roger moments when I kick out my leg. The dress has red roses as its design. They go quite well with my Victorian bracelet and earrings but the blue ring and mod silver choker seem to be making another statement. My friend is no help at all – she is hot to foxtrot and already focusing on John Wayne.

We drive a short distance and arrive at a storefront Academy of Dance in a strip mall. This is where Julie and Bob and several other suburban couples spend their time and mucho money learning how to ballroom dance. Pick your specialty. Julie and Bob are into the tango right now. I try to keep a low profile and blend in with the dance regulars (I already know this isn't American Bandstand). I’m concentrating on which shoes will get me through the night without some jerk stepping on my bruised toe. I initially settle for a demure pair of dressy flats, figuring I won't fall on my bum and make a fool of myself during the group dance lesson. However, as soon as I walk into the downstairs studio, I sense my flats will just not cut the mustard. This room has a sleazy guy with a moustache who is actually selling shoes, ballroom shoes - boxes lined up and a catalog on a chair. Julie is quite excited. Obviously, the serious ballroom dancer must have the perfect shoe.

Have I mentioned the mirrors yet? If I don't already know that my jewelry doesn't match and my flats are not exactly making a confidant and sexy statement to the public, I can now figure it all out. While Julie tries on pairs and pairs of dancing slippers, I get to stand idly by and assess myself in the 17 mirrors that completely surround me. Bright fluorescent lights add to the humiliation. I look around at the other ballroom regulars and realize that I'm probably the only full-figured lady in the place. At this point, I decide to take control of my life. I walk back to the car and pull out my Nine West black heels with the red insets. Hell, if I'm gonna fall on my ass, I might as well look elegant doing it. Meanwhile, girlfriend and her Prince Charming have both been fitted with their magic slippers (to the tune of $120 apiece).

We all trot upstairs for the group dance lesson. Tonight's theme is latin music. We begin with the merengue. Funny, I always thought that was a pie. I'm so excited - there is one other full-figured female in the room. Vivien is the hostess and dance instructor. Her partner is a guy named Joe, some computer geek, who seems slightly autistic. I watch him the entire night and this man does not smile nor make eye contact. People pay him money for private instructions. Go figure.

We all line up in front of those damn mirrors again. There is just no escaping; women on one side, men on the other. Vivien, who now reminds me of a recycled Dorothy Lamour, holds court: telling and showing us the basic steps of the merengue. Having taught a class or two, I must reveal that I do know that there are all kinds of learning styles. Some people are visual, hands-on; some are verbal. Quite frankly, I never did figure out where I belong. This will not serve me well tonight.

In the meantime, Vivien (who has probably been dancing since she left the womb) is rambling ahead, telling us which foot goes where and when but reminding the ladies that what she is saying has to do with the men who will be leading the dance. It slowly dawns on me that when Vivien says "left foot", I have to think "right foot" because I'm not a guy. I am also kinesthetically challenged. I only learned to roller skate on one skate (only-child syndrome) and that took me awhile. Now I'm expected to incorporate entire dance patterns within my post-menopausal brain and translate the message instantaneously to my dancing feet. Whoa!

When the music starts, we are to choose a partner. I do a quick count - more gals than guys, many of whom know each other. I'm in trouble. Sure enough, everyone pairs off. Vivien glances around at the dancing pairs and promptly walks over to me, the lone misfit with the mismatched jewelry. She grabs me and makes me her partner. Mortification. I want to scream at Dorothy Lamour and tell her that I don't have a clue about which foot goes where. And, right now, I'd like to put my foot right up her …. She's "the guy" and the music starts to play and I follow her lead as best I can. What do I remember most about my first dancing partner? She hasn't used deodorant.

Somehow I survive. As we move on to the waltz, more my pace, John and I choose each other as partners (only because everyone else has already been taken). Double mortification. John is the oldest male in the room; just shoot me now. The guy is in his late eighties and shorter than me. Sound familiar? I continue to smile as "Moon River" wafts out of the CD player. One-two-three, one-two-three ... if this guy drops over, I'll have to do CPR. I won't panic - it's like the waltz and the merengue combined. I just have to add two more beats. Breathe into the body. One-two-three-FOUR-FIVE, pump, pump. Thank God I'm a musician.

The beat goes on. We move from the waltz to the foxtrot to the salsa and the rhumba. Oh momma, I'm flying now! I’ve even caught the attention of autistic Joe, the male instructor, who leads me through some of the paces. Not a flicker of a smile nor any type of emotion on his face, like dancing with a stone. This is my Friday night out on the town! It doesn't get much better than this unless I have elective surgery or root canal.

After one of the longest periods of time in my mortal life, Vivien announces that the lessons are over and the lights are lowered. It's time to party and put all those dance steps into action. Julie and her boyfriend are in heat. They can't wait to get on the dance floor and do it. I mean the tango. They've been taking private lessons with Joe. By now, Vivien is looking pretty good to me as a dance partner. Instead, I find myself dancing with Mike, who could be my son and is about 7 feet tall, and later with Dan whose "wife is in Cape May". Dan weighs about 300 lbs. and is not my type. And why the hell, Dan, are you coming to these dance parties while your wife's away?!

Julie decides to share Bob with me. I think it’s an act of compassion. "Bedroom eyes" whisks me out onto the floor and we hustle, and salsa, and foxtrot, and waltz and he even shows me some tango steps. Throughout the night, whenever they feel sorry for me, Julie dances off with one of the other regulars, and Bob becomes my partner. This is getting to be fun. He is quite sexy and very intense. Dancing with Bob puts me into such a benevolent mood, that I, in turn, take pity on geriatric John and ask him to cha cha. We cut a mean figure. My best performance, however, comes at the end of the night when Joe, the catatonic dance instructor, extends his hand and takes me out for the merengue. Wow, I think I’m in some movie! I follow Fred Astaire’s lead and get to strut my stuff.

Later I realize that Vivien probably sent Joe over on a rescue mission. After all, if I'm the only "new kid on the block", they want to make sure I come back and spend more money. Select a slipper or two. They probably split the commission with the shoe salesman.

The houselights come up and a dynamic couple in their early 20s conclude the evening with a guest performance. They are announced as “fifth-ranked amateur-youth latin-dance couple”, a whirling combination of testosterone and purple spandex.

Next morning, I get up early enough to attend Julie's yoga class. As instructor, she performs back bends, pilates moves, and all sorts of contortions that my body just laughs at. Mission impossible. I am one of only two attendees in the class. The other is a double-jointed Size 2 who manages to follow all of Julie's yoga postures to perfection. In keeping with the weekend's theme of self-mortification and humiliation, I squat forlornly, bending and breathing and praying that I don't fall forward out of my down-dog position and land on my nose ….

Tennis, anyone?