Passion

"How is it that one day life is orderly and you are content, a little cynical perhaps but on the whole just so, and then without warning you find the solid floor is a trapdoor and you are now in another place whose geography is uncertain and whose customs are strange?

Travelers at least have a choice. Those who set sail know that things will not be the same as at a home. Explorers are prepared. But for us, who travel along the blood vessels, who come to the cities of the interior by chance, there is no preparation. We who were fluent find life is a foreign language."

I read this today in The Passion, a novel by Jeanette Winterson. A strange and intense book but then just about any book I read these days seems to have a message for me.

The Year of Magical Thinking

Every day I am in Treasure Beach my mood improves. Maybe it's because I am spending large amounts of time hanging out with Liz and Giuliano. Maybe it's because I can sit on the veranda of Shaki Home and watch the sky and listen to the sea all day long and never tire of the view or the sound. Whatever the reasons, I feel comfortable here not like at home where I felt like a black sign screaming, WIDOW!, was pasted on my forehead, weighing me down both physically and mentally. Nothing like putting on flip-flops and having my toenails painted a bright turquoise blue to lift the spirits.

I just finished reading Joan Didion's amazing book, "The Year of Magical Thinking". I don't think I could have finished it anywhere else. I didn't want to read it right after Steve died. Too scary, iI thought, but the possibility, even the necessity, of reading the book was always in the back of my mind, almost like a moral imperative. Finally I opened it and read a few chapters right before I left for Jamaica. I imagined that sitting outside with the book in my lap, the sun shining on my face, the sound of the waves pulsing in the background would make it less painful to read. I guess that was my my own little bit of magical thinking. Yes, it was painful but no it wasn't overwhelminly depressing. In a weird way it was almost exhilarating. Above all it was absolutely true. I think it will take me weeks, maybe months, to process this book. I keep wanting to go back, underline more sentences, mark more passages. I don't want to forget any of the details. I want to follow Joan Didion step by step all the way along the path she painstakingly, obsessively describes. Because she did it and she survived. Not only survived but worked and worked to remember it and write it all down. A guidebook to the underworld.

In Jamaica

I'm in Jamaica alone without Steve. I've been in Jamaica several times by myself during Liz's tenure here over the past few years. But, like all things now that Steve is gone, this time feels different. I'm just so conscious of all the things he's missing. He won't meet Rocco, Liz and Giul's new dog. He won't see how big Pella has grown. He won't see how much progress they've made on their land or the bungalow they are building there.

I have to tell him all these things and much more. I have to feel his happiness and glow with his pride. I have to carry him inside me wherever I go.

I HATE BEING A WIDOW

I hate being defined as a woman whose husband has died, leaving her alone. I hate thinking all the time about my husband who is not with me. Maybe I'm in the angry phase of grieving. Whatever. It sucks just as much as the shock and awe and disbelief phase.

I didn't feel this way in London last week. I felt free and happy. I could do anything I wanted to when I wanted to. I could sleep late, spend hours in a museum, sit at a bar and have a cocktail all by myself. I missed Steve but I didn't feel overwhelmingly lonely or sad. I felt bad for him that he was missing this experience. And then I felt grateful to him that I was having this experience.

I HATE BEING A WIDOW but here I am blogging relentlessly about what that feels like to me.

London

I am happy. I am sad. I am in London. I planned this trip very deliberately as an antidote to the drama of the first Thanksgiving without Steve. I also wanted to prove to myself that I could keep on traveling by myself and London seemed a good destination for such an experiment. Good to know I've passed the test with flying colors.

Every day I am here I feel incredibly lucky to be alive, to be here in this exciting, sophisticated and multi cultural city, eating great food, soaking up great culture. There is so much to do and see it's almost overwhelming. And yet every once in awhile I find myself in tears thinking of Steve and what he is missing. I don't mind being alone but I miss being with him. Some of our best times together were in foreign places. I was always the cicerone, planning our trips, mapping our daily itineraries. He listened faithfully and with full attention when I read to him from the guide books. I just had to make sure he was fed regularly, not a difficult task. Lord knows, I hate to miss a meal.

Even now by myself dinner is a ritual to be honored. No hiding in my hotel room and ordering room service. The show must go on.

Post Turkey

I survived Thanksgiving. I feel relieved, tired, cautiously optimistic sort of how I felt after taking an exam in college after having stayed up all night to study, seeing the questions, writing the essay and thinking this is going turn out alright. Maybe not an easy A but definitely more than passable. Somewhere during the process, automatic pilot kicks in and you can't help but do what you have to do.

It definitely helped having the house full of people, all thinking the same thing: Where the hell is Steve?

Sometimes I feel like I am starring in a reality TV show, "Widowhood: The First Year." This weekend's episode was "The First Thanksgiving Alone." She laughs, she cries, she gets lots of flowers. This week, the story moves to London, where our fearless heroine is taking her first solo vacation since losing her husband. How will she feel? What will she do? Stay tuned for the next dramatic episode.

Turkey

I am really worried about my turkey this year. Actually, every Thanksgiving, I worry about my turkey. For years, I stuffed it and rubbed it with unconscionable amounts of soft butter, draped it in butter-soaked cheese cloth, then roasted it slowly BREAST SIDE DOWN as mandated long ago by my mother, Muriel Schwartz Beck, basted it religiously every 20 minutes or so (also her instructions) and then had several intense consultations with whoever was in the kitchen at the time before finally pronouncing it done. My biggest fear always was that my turkey, despite my careful adherence to my mother’s rules, would turn out like the one we were served at my Aunt Roz’s house i.e. dry as a hockey pock, tough as an old moccasin. Thank god those fears were never realized.

One year in my crusade to cook the ideal turkey, I ordered a turkey from some arcane online gourmet site touting the best of the best. Their best turkey turned out to be a turkey injected with duck fat, in other words, an upscale version of the ubiquitous butterball turkey sold in every large supermarket chain but without the pop up plastic timer. This was an experiment that was never repeated.

Last year in my continued quest to find the ideal turkey, I ordered a heritage breed turkey from Heritage Foods. The vendor instructed me not to stuff it but, as my mother’s daughter, I hedged my bets by giving it a serious butter rubdown and basting it occasionally. Surprise, surprise, it was juicy and succulent and everyone loved the taste. To my dismay when I went to order a similar turkey this year in early October, they were already sold out!

So this year I ordered a turkey from Kol Foods, purveyor of kosher, organic turkeys, figuring I wouldn’t have to bother with the mess of brining the bird, an always iffy procedure which usually results my having to mop up large quantities of salty water from my kitchen floor and counters. The only glitch was that this year's turkey came to me, a woman who has only ever cooked a freshly killed turkey, frozen solid as a rock. It now sits in my refrigerator slowly defrosting or at least I hope it is. On Thursday, I plan to bathe it in butter, baste it like crazy, etc. etc. Here’s hoping it works.

On the Way to Thanksgiving

I am in the throes of Thanksgiving madness--making lists, braving the mobs at Whole Foods and the Reading Terminal Market, organizing the fridge to receive all the bounty and, of course, starting to cook whatever can be done ahead of time. We will be 22 this year at the table--Liz and Giul, my nephews, my brother-in-law, a whole cast of friends and family. I love this holiday and all our home grown traditions. We'll play charades after dinner, pick at the leftovers all day Friday, go out to the movies together over the weekend. And, of course, we'll rehash the dinner and the weekend on Sunday when it's quiet and empty in the house at last. Nothing left to do but laundry.

I picture myself doing all those things. I imagine it will be like walking along a very high and narrow bridge across a deep pool of rapidly flowing water. I have to get to the other side but I must be very careful not to fall, not to falter. That would be dangerous, possibly fatal. Once on a hiking trip in New Zealand far away from home I had to walk across a bridge suspended high above a powerful mountain stream, the water rushing over huge boulders in a loud roar. The bridge swayed in the wind and shook with every step I took. No turning back. I had to get to the other side. I looked straight across not daring to look down. When I made it across I laughed with relief and then wondered what the hell I was doing.

That's what I ask myself now. What the hell am I doing?

The Warmth of Other Suns

It's not unusual for me to remember a vacation or a place I've visited by the book I was reading at the time. Like when we took our kids to some heinous all inclusive resort in Turks and Caicos where Mo ravaged the minibar EVERY DAY we were there and the rest of us starved to death at the all you can eat buffet. The only thing that got me through that vacation was reading Katherine Graham'a magisterial memoir. I distinctly remember sitting in a cabana on the beach in Naples, Florida one weekend by myself reading a biography of Lord Byron, juicier than any romance novel. Or years ago during a solo trip to Miami plopped down on the beach surrounded by topless young women and preening gay couples while I worked my way again through Moby Dick, the great American novel. And how many fat Victorian novels, preferably by Dickens, have kept me company on long plane rides to Asia.

Well this is the book that I will always associate with my current excursion to Florida: The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson. For two days in Miami by the pool by day and in bed at night I have not been able to put it down. It's the story of the great migration of African Americans from the Jim Crow south to the cities of the north during the last century. It's told largely through the first person accounts of three people but is interlaced with lots of often appalling historical information and many more stories that make the historical record all the more real and compelling. I have just a chapter left to read and I can't wait to come home from dinner to finish it. I love the main characters as if they were protagonists in some epic novel. I know I will always remember them.

Namaste

I am on a mental health break. What that means right now is that I have just finished a yoga class where I got in headstand in the middle of the room with just a little assist from the teacher. Definitely a personal best. It also means I am at The Standard Hotel and Spa in Miami Beach on a gorgeous clear and sunny day. There is a couple sitting together in the outside bathtub on the patio next to mine, probably deeply regretting that the old bag in yoga clothes is sitting on her patio typing emails and surfing the Internet. What it means, above all, is that I have spent four wonderful days and nights with my darling daughter first at the Yoga Journal conference and then in Miami. We punished our bodies by doing six hours of yoga in one day and then arrived in Miami where we treated ourselves to an amazing two hour treatment during which we were scrubbed, massaged, baked in clay and bathed in hot water. Blissful!

I may be far away from my normal life having a sybaritic interlude in the weirdness of Miami but my thoughts whirl around in the same circles. How did this happen to me? What am I to do? How do I live my life now? I'm going back for Thanksgiving, that ritual gathering and feeding of the family which I always take pleasure in making happen. But it will be so different this year without Steve to stand up and make his usual long, rambling, and slightly drunken toast sending his love out to all of us.

Sometimes at the beginning of a yoga practice, the instructor will suggest setting an intention for the practice. I am setting my intention for Thanksgiving this year. I am dedicating it to Steve.

Three Months

Three months ago today. A ghoulish anniversary. It seems like it happened a lifetime ago and also just yesterday. Amazing, shocking, frightening how 41 years, nearly 2/3’s of my adult life, ended in a flash, a few minutes and then it’s over.

For some reason, I am in a very good mood today. I don’t understand it, but I’ll take it. Be here now, I keep saying to myself, on and off the yoga mat. I am writing these words with tears in my eyes but that’s okay, too.

This too will pass. If anything, I’ve learned from this loss and the ones preceding it, I’m a survivor.

On the Water

There is something to be said for large families. Right now I’m feeling that my family is pitifully small. This past weekend Liz and Giul went out to see Moses in Utah. Being there just the four of us felt a little like being stranded on a desert island with no chance of rescue.

I am really looking forward to Thanksgiving when the house will be filled with family and friends who are like family. Maybe then I won’t feel so alone. Right now I feel like the captain of a very small ship who has to navigate across a very large ocean without much help. I'm doing it but I feel the weight of the responsibility to keep everyone safe.

Boiled Lobster

I love lobster. I eat it all summer long in Maine. In early June, we get hard shells and you have to use a cracker and muscle power to get the meat out. By Fourth of July, the lobsters have molted and we get to eat soft shells. We can break the shells easily with our hands. I say “we” but it was only I who ate lobsters. Steve claimed he didn’t like the taste but what he really didn’t like was the effort and the attendant mess involved in eating a lobster. Of course, he never had a problem eating a messy plate of barbecued ribs or chicken wings, the sauce leaving a greasy trail on his beard and his shirt.

I’m wondering how long it will take me to shed my old shell. How long before I have a new skin to present to the world. It's the same old me inside but somehow everything feels and looks and tastes differently to me.

A Single Woman

I am a single woman now. I haven’t been a single woman since June 26, 1969, when I married Steve barely two months after my 22nd birthday, a child bride with no idea what married life was all about, let alone married life to Steve Solms.

So now I have to figure out what it means to live alone with no one but myself to answer to. It must mean more than getting rid of the TV in the bedroom or canceling the subscription to the Inquirer, both of which I’ve done already. My apartment looks just the same except there aren’t any pretzels on my pantry shelves and the hamper in my bedroom is never full.

When I’m home, I listen to my music at full volume without complaint and I make steamed kale for dinner and consider it a meal. I’ve decided to redo my bedroom and make a new space for this new self to live in. Small steps forward to my new life.

Exhausted

The days are long when you wake at 5 am especially when you go to sleep at midnight. This has been my schedule off and on since Steve died. It seems a blessing when I can go back to sleep until 7 or 8. But most mornings, I wake up before the sun and lay in bed thinking, thinking, thinking and all too conscious that I am alone in the bed. Finally, I have no choice but to get up and go downstairs, hoping the New York Times will have been delivered and I can make my smoothie and start the real day.

Everyone says I’m doing great but I’m not exactly sure what they mean by that. I have no training or experience in this role. I never watched my mom go through this. I just keep having these weird, almost out of body experiences. Like this morning when I met Joan to go through the documents in Steve’s safe deposit box. We sat together in the tiny room and I made small talk with the bank officer but inside I get saying to myself, “What the hell am I doing here?” Then when we were through, I went off to buy a new pair of glasses—business as usual, in other words.

Go Phillies

My friends say I am like a homing pigeon, always looking to fly back to the nest. Maybe they are right.

As promised I have been busy, making dinner dates, going to the movies, taking the train into New York but always looking forward at the end of the evening to getting back into my own space where I feel the safest and most comfortable. Where I don’t have to worry about what people are thinking or how I should behave or what I should be feeling.

So tonight I chose not to stay over in New York but to take the train home, put on my robe and cuddle up in front to the TV and watch the Phillies. It’s what I would be doing if Steve were here with me. We would have had an early dinner, probably sushi around the corner, then we would have rushed back home in time for the first pitch. I wouldn’t have watched the whole game but I would have wandered in and out of the room checking periodically to see if the Phillies were winning and to scold Steve for eating pretzels. "Sit with me, El," he'd say. "This guy is going to hit a home run. I can feel it."

No pretzels in the house anymore but I still have the Phillies on. I'm hoping they win for Steve’s sake.

Moving Forward

I am so tired of being a widow. It’s really depressing and I don’t like being sad all the time. I have to remember that before this happened, I often looked forward to being alone, that I treasured the time I spent with just myself, that I valued my privacy maybe sometimes too much. Haven’t I always bragged about having a room of my own, a space that is just for me, where even Steve had to be invited in.

So from now on I am going to consider myself a single woman who was lucky enough to have been married for 41 years to an always interesting, often challenging but always loving man. For 41 years as a married woman, I led an extraordinarily full and rich life with that man. Now I have to make a full and rich life for myself.

I know I can do it. As Steve always said, “A busy person is a happy person. I intend to keep busy.

Sunset

I am a very private person who is often loath to express what I am really feeling even to those with whom I am most close. Indeed my husband, a veritable fountain of feeling and expression, who wore his heart on his sleeve, his emotions always boiling to the surface, often complained that I didn't tell him what I was feeling RIGHT NOW THIS MINUTE. And here I am putting it all down, letting it all hang out--all the anguish, the confusion, the unedited gush of emotion--in a very public format, this blog, for anyone to read or comment on.

Like today, at sunset time, Liz and I took a walk on the beach and I suddenly realized that every house I have lived in with Steve--our apartment on Spruce Street, our house in Maine, the villa in Tuscany, the beach house in Jamaica--faced west allowing us to always mark the end of the day often together, often with friends and family and very often with a glass of wine. A ritual to which we looked forward and of which we never tired. It made me sad and a little tearful that here I was in a place, Grenada, watching the sky and the ocean turn deliquescent as the sun descended into the sea and that Steve wasn't here to enjoy that beauty with me.

Lunch Break

I had lunch at home alone today. I made myself an egg salad sandwich on black bread and ate it in the kitchen while browsing through a cookbook. I’ve done this lots of times but today it felt different. I just wasn’t sitting alone eating my lunch. I was a widow alone in my house eating a solitary meal.

I still can’t figure out what that word widow means to me. I know what it felt like to be a mother, a wife, a sister and a daughter but being a widow that’s still a mystery to me. Should I dress in all white or black? Let my hair turn gray, stop wearing makeup, buy some sensible shoes? Maybe I should take up bridge, learn to knit or devote myself to “good works” whatever that means. But seriously, I really don’t know how to behave, what to feel or what, if anything, is expected of me.

I’m happy, I’m sad, I remember, I forget all in the same day. It’s exhausting, confusing and always unsettling. I used to feel that change was a challenge I could rise to and learn from. Unpredictability was thrilling not frightening. I prided myself on my strength, my openness to new things, my independence. But this change, this sudden reversal, this loss—hell, let’s call a spade a spade--this tragedy is a test of all my coping skills.

Well, I lived with Steve for 41 years. I guess that says something about my ability to survive.

Bonjour Tristesse

I am in Paris for the weekend, what a decadent idea. It’s beautiful of course. Along with Bob and Jane, I have spent the last two days eating, walking, drinking, walking, eating, drinking, eating, drinking, walking. . . you get the picture. It’s been fun. We’ve laughed together, eaten some wonderful food, had some great wines. It’s good to know we can still do it—have fun, go away together, be happy.

They say that amputees still retain feeling in the limb they lose. Like having a phantom leg or arm that still demands to be scratched, I have a phantom husband whose voice talks to me everywhere I go. I walk the streets imagining what he’d be doing—listening patiently as I read to him from my Michelin, being ridiculous with every waiter and salesperson we meet. When I look at the menu in a restaurant, I know exactly what he would order—foie gras and steak and frites, despite my nagging.

Is there anywhere in the world where I won't hear his voice or see his face.

Mental Health Break

I was beginning to wonder when if I would ever be able to write about something other than death, depression, loneliness, despair a.k.a. my new normal. Well, here it is.

Yesterday during a late afternoon visit to the Reading Terminal Market, who did I bump into but PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA. We were both at the Fair Food stand buying healthy things so, of course, we stopped and chatted. I told him all about Liz and the farm dinners she produces in Jamaica. I said it was all right that Michelle was copying the idea for her dinner for the wives of the world leaders in town for the UN session. I asked after his kids and his mother-in-law. I told him I loved him forever and gave him a big kiss and a hug.

Just kidding...but I did get to shake his hand.

Lost

Yesterday I said, “I lost my husband last month.” It sounded like I had misplaced him somewhere in the house. Maybe he was filed away in a drawer full of random papers or crammed in the back of an overstuffed closet.

“So how are you doing,” she asked. I thought does she mean have I found him yet. I didn’t know what to say.

A Gift

Looking for the beauty in every day...

Happy New Year

I am sitting in front of a roaring fire admiring its perfect log cabin construction. (One of the legacies of my eight years of overnight camp is my stellar fire building ability. That and learning how to smoke cigarettes my CIT year. Oh yeah, there’s also the copper ashtray I made in arts and crafts for my dad’s office. He was a doctor, believe it or not, but this was before the Surgeon-General’s report on the dangers of smoking.)

It’s the second day of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year. If I were a kid back in Yeadon after services I’d be heading over to Loehmann’s in Drexel Hill with my mom to suss out the bargains. But instead, I am alone in my house in Maine trying to stay warm (it’s fucking freezing here!), listening to Jill Scott and contemplating my new year and new life, one without my mate, my life partner, my husband.

Steve is all over the house. I see him on the bench on the dock staring out at the lake, in the kitchen swiping pretzels out of the canister, in the back room trying to get the fucking TV to work. His camp pictures stare down at me from above the fireplace mantle. I hate that I feel so out of place here. I can’t wait to get back to Philadelphia but then I’m sad to think of leaving his presence behind. Will he be as lonely without me as I am without him?

Love Letters

My husband wrote me love letters. Every year for my birthday and our anniversary he would buy me huge cards with poetic messages, the best that Hallmark could deliver. I picture him at the stationary store carefully examining each card, studying the words and then finally selecting just the right one. He would cover all the blank spaces with long, never ending sentences full of feeling and love. The only punctuation would be exclamation marks. He couldn’t wait to give me his card. He’d put it under my pillow at night or present it with a flourish first thing in the morning. I had to read it aloud slowly and carefully and assure him that I understood and valued every word. My cards were just the opposite. Usually humorous. Always with a brief sign off: Love from your lovely wife. I wonder if he was disappointed.

Hanging In

This is my challenge for the future: To construct a meaningful life without Steve. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Like having to carry a large and heavy stone everywhere I go, every minute of the day. It weighs on my stomach as soon I wake up. I get out of bed with it in my arms. I feel it on my back and shoulders as I go through the day. I take it to bed with me at night. I only put it down when at last I fall to sleep. I don’t think it will ever go away. I’ll just get stronger, I hope.

Summer Storm

It’s late afternoon—almost time for a glass of wine—and we are having one of those sudden summer storms that occur frequently in Maine. Just five minutes ago, it was a bright sunny day and then--pouf!--the sky turned dark, the lake was whipped by wind and the dock was pummeled with rain. By the time I finish writing this I know for sure that the light will be a golden green, the lake will be peaceful, and the air have a fresh clean smell of wet leaves. Maybe there will even be a rainbow.

My moods are as changeable as the weather in Maine. I woke early this morning and went out for a run along my usual route—up to the turn to Casco and back, about five and half miles total. I always love the view after the turn. There’s old grey farmhouse on the right and in the distance to the left I can see on a clear day all the way to Mt. Washington and the Presidential range. I felt strong and happy to be there, enjoying the view, enjoying the day.

Then I came home and the house was empty.

Yeadon

Yesterday I went back to Yeadon, the town where I grew up. And it wasn’t in my dreams. I took Elizabeth to see my house, 850 Church Lane. I showed her the entrance to my father’s office, the windows of my bedroom, my parents’ room and my brother’s room, the alley behind our house. The big linden tree at the front of the house was gone but the metal post that once held my dad’s sign, Morton S. Beck, MD, was still there. The house looked lived in but tired. I was almost tempted to ring the bell and ask to go inside but didn’t. I knew it would just make me sad. I don’t need that right now.

My parents and my childhood seem very far away to me today. Being a widow--whatever the hell that word means--seems light years away from being a daughter and a sister, when I lived in a present that was protected and secured and the future seemed a bright silver road that could only bring more happiness and pleasure.

Morning

I wake up early ever morning in Maine. Steve and I never put the blinds down at night. We wanted to be able to look at the stars and the moon and the outline of the trees when we went to bed. We wanted our eyes to open to the new day on the lake when we woke up. I always got up before him. I’d peer over the curve of his back as the light moved from grey to pink to gold and green. I liked feeling him warm beside me, sleeping peacefully.

I’m sleeping on his side now. There is no mountain on my horizon. I can stare straight ahead at the lake. I imagine that I am seeing it all just as he did, the joy and beauty of a new day gladdened with the blessing of health.

Today

I left my husband today on a hillside overlooking the lake. He was sleeping peacefully in a plain pine box. He was dressed in a saffron colored robe and had his favorite fedora on his head. I told him I loved him as I shoveled dirt on the box. I went back to the house without him. He was looking at the lake and didn’t want to be disturbed.

There was a beautiful sunset tonight. I sat on the dock and watched the sun disappear into the lake. The sky turned red and purple and gold. The lake was quiet and the mosquitoes hummed. I looked in the water but I couldn’t see Steve. I guess he’s still on the hill sleeping peacefully. I hope he wakes up soon.

August 8, 2010

My husband died yesterday morning on a beautiful Maine day.

Every day he went for a morning dip in the lake and then sat on the deck looking up at the trees. He’d always say, “I can’t believe they let me do this.” Well yesterday, permission was denied.

I went for a run this morning and all I could see was through Steve’s eyes. The sun was shining, thin white clouds skittered across a blue sky. The oaks and the maples were full of green. I thought of him up there somewhere in the breeze, in the trees, in the clean Maine air all around me. A peaceful soul.

Past Life

Like indelible ink, your parents leave a permanent impression on your being. You grow up, get married, have a career, even have children yourself but the impression they made on you never really washes out, still visible on your skin like a faint laundry mark on a favorite old shirt.

I came up with this image as I was walking home from the gym in Casco on a spectacularly beautiful Maine day and because I had just finished reading John Updike’s last collection of short stories, “My Father’s Tears.” Most of them written when Updike was in his 70’s and set in the present day, they are full of references to and reminisces of his childhood, his parents, even the topography of his growing up. They are elegiac in tone—an old man looking back—but consciously detailed even sensuous in their description of his past world and the way it weaves in and out of his present.

The power of the past to affect me even now in my 60’s, a grown woman married over 40 years, mother of two adult children, amazes me. In my dream life, I often revisit Yeadon, the town I grew up in; I walk all through my house, look out the windows of my bedroom and if I’m lucky, every once in while (oh, how I wish this happened more often), I see my parents—still youthful and powerful and beautiful, before aging and death left me without them.

Blessings

The Sunday NYTimes doesn’t seem to have a whole lot to read in it this summer. But maybe it’s the summer and I’m just not into reading the paper with the same intensity of interest. Too many distractions, most especially an amazing run of beautiful sunny days that call for getting up and moving around, not sitting and reading.

But…this past Sunday I did read the article about actress Laura Linney since she is one my favorite actresses and “Lean on Me” one of my favorite movies. (Maybe because it’s about a brother and sister which is why I remember sobbing at the end of “The Mill on the Floss” by George Eliot which has its emotional center another brother/sister relationship.)

Linney will be starring in a new TV show, “The Big C” on Showtime which sounds incredible even though the odds of my watching it are pretty slim. (Given a choice between TV and a good book, the good book almost always wins. The one exception in recent memory besides watching President Barack Obama, of course, was "The Sopranos.”)

Something she said in the interview really struck me and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. She noted how she has come to realize that “growing old is the greatest of blessings.” That was a blessing my brother and, to some degree, my mother were both denied. My mother got a little crotchety but then who isn’t past 60 and then all of a sudden she was sick and then she was dead. She never really looked or acted old as in wrinkled, decrepit, tremulous, senile old. And, Max, well what can you say about someone who dies at the ridiculous age of 51.

Which is why when I sit on the deck and look out the acres of diamonds dancing on the lake I feel incredibly grateful to have this blessing of growing old. Okay, it takes me longer to do the Saturday crossword puzzle in the NYTimes; I run a lot slower but I’m still out on the road three times a week; and this summer, I did a headstand in yoga, a major achievement for me. (Against the wall for sure but my goal is to be able to do a headstand in the middle of the room by the time I go back to Philly.)

Maybe this is a transitional moment for me—the end of obsessing about getting old, losing the fear and instead embracing the blessing. As my mother said, always be open to new things.

WTF!!

Newt Gingrich is insane. Read it here.

BOCCE!

Oggi, Steve e io abbiamo giocato la prima gioca di bocce sul nostro nuevo campo di bocce. Purtroppo per me, Steve ha vinto ma il campo e fantastico, una addizione ottima alla nostra casa in Maine. Stasera avremo un bicchiere de Prosecco per celebrare il nuevo campo. Salute!

One Night Only 2010

It is not yet the end of July but it's not too early to start planning for the fall. So...mark your calendars now for ONE NIGHT ONLY, the annual fall fundraiser for Women's Medical Fund.



I hope to see you there!

American History

Today in the NYTimes I read an interview with Woody Allen. Actually, it's pretty surprising that I read anything to do with Woody Allen since I've avoided his movies ever since he married his daughter and anyway the recent movies I've seen--reluctantly, I swear--of his have been pretty lame. (On the other hand, maybe I should be more tolerant since love does make people do some weird things.) Anyway I digress.

One line in the interview stuck out for me.

"...it's hard to beat sitting in bed or in a comfortable chair turning the pages of a book, putting it down, and eagerly awaiting the chance to get back to it."

That's just what I've been doing this past week with the truly massive (almost 800 pages) tome I've been reading, "The Empire of Liberty: A History of the Early Republic 1789-1815 by Gordon Wood. To me, reading a well written history book is as exciting as reading a great novel. And this book is exceedingly well written and I've been taking it up and putting it down with great pleasure. Plus I'm learning so much given the fact that I haven't studied American History since Yeadon High School and that was pretty long ago and pitifully basic. I mean a requirement of the curriculum was Pennsylvania History where you had to memorize each county in the state and its county seat. Please tell me how that would be useful in later life. It was taught by Mr. Lord, whose full time job was teaching shop and who definitely was not a master of political theory or prone to any nuance in his thinking.

Marital Mythmaking

Every religion has its creation story. So does every marriage. Here's mine...

The first time I saw my husband he was climbing out of the lake onto the dock. He looked like a giant bear, water streaming off his body, the sunlight giving him a reddish glow. He had a full beard and thick curly hair, both absurdly blonde, almost white. From where I was sitting up on the deck, he looked happy and powerful as he toweled himself off. Of course, I hadn’t seen him swim—a childlike doggy paddle prefaced by an awkward jump into the water while holding his nose. As I later learned, he was afraid of the water, never went in above his head and then only a few yards away from the dock. Somehow, despite the later knowledge, it is that first image of him which has always stayed in my mind. He stands tall and confident like a champion swimmer ready to receive the gold medal.

What's yours?

Action Alert

The outrage against women continues. Read it here.

Yet another reason to continue to support Women's Medical Fund, the only organization in the Greater Philadelphia area that provides direct financial assistance to low income women and teens in need of a safe and legal abortion. Mark your calendar now for One Night Only, WMF's annual fall fundraiser, on Friday, October 1.

Coming Soon From the Right Wing

Prepare for the next fight.

Life is Rosy

It wasn't always this way. It won't always be this way. But while it is, it's wonderful.

Sunset on the Dock

We had an amazing experience last night. The skies were cloudy all day; rainstorms swept over the lake; the air was thick with humidity. But just at sunset time, the lake stilled and the sky exploded. We sat on the dock and watched in awe as the sun, a boiling red hot orb of light, emerged from the clouds to paint the sky and lake in ever changing colors.



And then, we looked down the lake and, incredibly, saw a rainbow at the other end!

Homework is Not Just for Teenagers

Okay, class, here's your reading assignment for the day.

Face it, the system is rigged, and it's rigged against us. Sure, presidents can pretty easily pass tax cuts for the wealthy and powerful corporations. They can start whatever wars they wish and wiretap whomever they want without warrants. They can order the torture of terrorist suspects, lie about it and see that their intelligence services destroy the evidence. But what they cannot do, even with supermajorities in both houses of Congress behind them, is pass the kind of transformative progressive legislation that Barack Obama promised in his 2008 presidential campaign.

That's just a taste. Read the whole article here. It's long but well worth it. You can even print it out and take it to the pool or the beach.

Pop quiz tomorrow.

Fourth of July in Maine

I feel like I am in recovery from the Fourth of July. Three days and nights of eating and drinking staring on Friday night and culminating last night with the traditional salmon and peas. I love celebrating Fourth of July in Maine but I hate what's happening to this country. The news is so unrelenting negative. Yesterday's New York Times could make you cry--a front page story about a young soldier in Afghanistan who lost both his arms and his legs. Is there any way we can continue to justify that war? Then finish your reading with the front page story in the Sunday Week on Review, "The Great Rupture," which relates the daily suffering of jobless Americans.

Like every year, we listened to Ray Charles sing "God Bless America"; we lit sparklers; we finished our meal with strawberry shortcake and red, white and blue cookies. But this year, all the traditional hoopla just made me sad. I didn't feel particularly proud.

Maine at Last

Finally...the summer has begun. We are in Maine aka Heaven. We woke up Sunday morning to the sun and the lake and a beautiful Maine day. I spent most of it getting organized--throwing out the all the junk and papers and stuff that accumulated over the winter, stocking my refrigerator (fresh strawberries and raspberries and local cheddar cheese!), rearranging my cabinets and closets and putting away last summer's laundry.

That night, I had my first lobster of the season for dinner--a succulent soft shell cooked perfectly.

Looking forward to the Fourth!

Book Report

I puIled an all-nighter last night. Well, not totally. I went to bed about 2 in the morning. I couldn’t put the book down. I just kept turning the pages wanting to know what was happening, rushing to follow wherever the story was taking me.

And it was taking me down a terrible dark hole but I had to keep reading. Horrible things were happening. Abuse, betrayal, murder, abandonment in some dark, depressing and decaying town in the middle of nowhere. And all written in an incredibly intense and feverish but, at the same time, tightly controlled style. A truly virtuoso performance by the author.

The book is “Little Bird of Heaven” by Joyce Carol Oates. I’ve only read one other novel by her although she’s a very prolific novelist. The list of her published novels at the front of the book is amazingly long.

I wonder if she wrote the novel in the same white heat in which I read it. Was she exhausted or exhilarated after finishing it? Was she glad to be done with this tragic story, its disturbing characters or sorry to let it all go?

Jumping In

Having spent the weekend listening to writers at the Calabash Festival, I’ve been thinking about the different ways I approach the reading of poetry and prose.

To me, there is nothing better than sitting down—even better lying down on my futon in my study--with a nice fat novel, confident that I have the time and the freedom to walk through the words at a leisurely pace, to swim my way backwards and forwards in the flow of the narrative until I reach the end. It’s an exercise, an experience that is relaxing and stimulating for me at the same time.

Not so with reading poetry. I always approach a poem with a certain degree of anxiety. Like diving into the deep end of the pool, or anticipating the shock of cold water when I jump into the lake in Maine. Stimulating yes, relaxing maybe not. I hold my breath, maybe even close my eyes and plunge right in. There’s the shock of entry and then the satisfaction of knowing I did it and, even better, that I like being here in the deep end, in the cold but refreshing water.

Back on the Road Again

Packing my bags tonight for another trip--this time to sunny and hot Treasure Beach, Jamaica, site of the Calabash Festival.





This is the 10th anniversary of the festival and the line up of authors is awesome. I am particularly interested in hearing Sharon Olds, my most favorite poet. Click here to read one of her poems.

Home Again

Well, we're back in the U S of A suffering no significant after effects from our six week sojourn in Bella Italia except for some lingering jet lag and a strong desire for spicy Asian food.

To see a slide show of our month in Tuscany, click here.

Heading Home

I took my last long walk today—3 hours up the hill, across the ridge to La Foce and then on to Castelluccio. The sun was out the whole way, a parting gift. We leave tomorrow for a day and a half in Rome and then back home to Philadelphia.

I’ll miss my rambles through the Val D’Orcia. In one month, I’ve watched the wheat on the hills grow from insignificant green shoots to tall stalks of greenish gold rippling in the wind. I’ve seen wild flowers--new ones every day--speckle the fields in red, white, purple and yellow. I’ve heard the cuckoo bird in the distance. I’ve watched baby lambs stumble awkwardly beside their mothers. I’ve learned to dismiss the angry barking of the sheepdogs with an authoritative “Zut.”

I used to tease Steve about never wanting to leave the house but this year I felt the same way. There’s something so wonderful about just being here—watching the sky and the landscape, drinking in the beauty of this place, breathing in the quiet. Respiro profundo.

Friends

The Kaufman clan has left Casselaccia and Steve and I are left alone to ramble through the house in our fluffy white robes like inmates in some posh sanitarium. Very Magic Mountain only the food is so much better. Weather is still unstable. That’s a nice way of saying it’s cold and wet with occasional spells of sun. We did manage to play unreasonable amounts of bocce with our guests. Even Jeelu participated looking quite adorable if not truly athletic.

There was an excursion to the flower festival in Pienza in our zippy Alfa Romero with the Kaufman clan—fortunately all small people--squeezed into the back seat. Steve rushed out as soon as we got there for porchetta aka roast pork sandwich. Jeelu and Sanaya bought shoes. And for those of you who have had the pleasure of shopping with Jeelu, yes, there was serious discussion and much deliberation about the size, the color and overall appropriateness of the purchase before money finally changed hands.

We all agreed that a good time was had by all.

La Cena e Pronta

Or in English, "Dinner is served." But how much more elegant, how much more promising than “Pigs to the trough!” which is how we herd people to the table in Maine. I begin to salivate at the mere sound of those words when spoken by Marcella or Giovanna. Never more so on my birthday when the table was set formally with a linen cloth and candles and flowers. I, of course as the birthday girl and a pesco-vegetarian, had selected the menu with Marcella’s invaluable assistance—-a first course of melt-in-your-mouth ravioli stuffed with stracchino cheese and arugula followed by a secondo of a gorgeous whole fish baked in the oven with potatoes and accompanied by spinach sautéed with oil and garlic. The final course or dolci was a beautiful surprise--a fresh fruit tart constructed like a work of art by Marcella and carried to the table with a Roman candle on the top sending sparklers to the ceiling.

Thank god I didn’t have to blow out 63 (yes, I can’t believe it either!) candles.

Un Pranzo Buonissimo

One of the joys of eating dinner alla Marcella is knowing that you can double dip: All that fabulous food, albeit a smaller quantity, will be waiting in the refrigerator come lunchtime the next day. (I hate to use the word "leftover" to describe this bounty which in no way resembles the half empty boxes of indeterminate Chinese takeout often to be found in my fridge at home.) So today, for example, I got to eat the remains of a truly extraordinary risotto alle fragole--yes, rice cooked slowly with strawberries and wine, the whole thing a delicate pink color--which Marcella prepared for us last night.

Of course, I now have to spend the rest of the afternoon walking up and up and up the hills to pay for my double dipping. But, as I said to myself as I sat down to lunch, when will I have the chance to eat risotto alle fragole again?

Slow Life

I am living in Maine. Well, not really. Nobody’s living in a trailer near by, but there is so much about being at Cassaloccia that reminds me of my summers in Maine. Our life revolves around food, for example. Dinner most definitely being the main event of the day, especially when Marcella and not Jane or I is doing the cooking. As in Maine, Steve never wants to leave the property. He’s content to sit in a chair, read a book or stare out the postcard spread all around us. And then there’s our nightly sunset ritual of drinking prosecco and watching the sun disappear behind the hills in a blaze of red and gold, only instead of a lake we look out over gently undulating green fields.

And, of course, there are my almost daily walks up the hills and along le strade bianche passing an occasional car and lots of sheep. Yesterday, was a particularly beautiful walk taking me through landscapes that oddly reminded me in parts of the Coon Road/Scribner Hill walk that goes through the woods and then up to a view of the White Mountains in the distance. I was with my new hiking companion, Lucia Norrito, owner of a small travel agency here, Viaggi Senza Fretta (Travel Without Haste) and with whom I have been walking twice a week with great pleasure.

We began in the resort town of Bagni Vignoli, climbed up and up to the small village of Vignolo Alto. From there, we wound our way around past vineyards, olive groves and wheat fields, past old and renovated farmhouses, many selling their own production of pecorino cheese, wine or extra virgin olive oil. Then we headed down a trail that took us through forest and eventually to the river Orcia. . .where we lost the trail and spent a good hour or so wandering up and down various paths—all beautiful--looking for landmarks. Fortunately, it was a beautiful, sunny day and we had plenty of water and time to get lost in. And, of course, this story has a very happy ending: Lucia figured out what direction to take and we were back at Bagni Vignoli feeling quite satisfied with our adventure, although seriously hungry.

I have to admit: My legs were sore when I woke up this morning!

Youth

Life with I ragazzi: lots of bocce, lots of beer--local dark beer--lots of prosecco and wine, lots of food—Steve keeps thinking we’ll have leftovers for lunch but there never are any with this crew—lots of dessert—in honor of their visit, Marcella and Giovanna have been baking up a storm—lots of boggle in front of the fire—Jacob brought an awesome new all-in-one version that has a timer built in!

Best of all, I have learned a new and effective technique for dealing with the sheepdogs when I walk up the hills. As soon as they start barking and growling at me I look them squarely in the eye and shout, “Zut!” with great authority. This doesn’t stop the barking but it does stop them from dashing under the fence to follow me. No more hot doggy breath on my heels.

A Rainy Day

Guess where I am? It’s cold and rainy and I spent the early part of the day sitting in front of the fire, doing puzzles and reading. Then after grabbing a late lunch in the kitchen, Steve and I cuddled on the sofa and watched a movie that I had downloaded on to my computer. The next big event is dinner and I am soooooo looking forward to it.

No, I am not in Otisfield, Maine, but still in Tuscany enjoying life’s simple pleasures. Instead of a lake to stare out at, I am watching gray clouds covering the tops of the mountains in the distance. The air is cool and misty, dropping a silvery veil over the green fields and hills all round us.

It’s time to throw another log on the fire, have a glass of wine and pick up my book.

We have Finally Left the Property!

History was made last night. Steve and I got into our sporty little Alfa Romeo and drove off to Pienza at sunset time. Peinza and prosecco: a perfect combination especially as we sat on the city walls watching the colors of the landscape soften as the sun slowly disappeared behind the hills. Then it was on to Montechiello for dinner at La Porta where I celebrated my birthday last year. This year, I severely restricted my alcohol intake since I, as always with Steve, am the designated driver. Fortunately, there were virtually no cars on the road when we left and we were able to find our way back to Casselacchia without incident.

Of course, I have been leaving Cassalacchia every day to take my marathon walks but today was truly special. I hiked once again to Castiglioncello, a good hour or so uphill, and then met Lucia, my new cicerona. From there, we walked another two hours plus up and down through the woods, listening to the sound of the cuckoo, all the way to Sarteano. Fortunately, Lucia’s father drove us back to Casselacchia. I think I will sleep well tonight.

Buon Giorno

We've been here since Saturday afternoon and I have yet to leave the environs of Casselacchia. It's just too freaking beautiful! What a luxury to be here alone with my charming husband of nearly 41 years. Do you know that when I met him--what must have been a century ago--I was surprised, no shocked that he hadn't been snatched up already by some crafty jewish princess from Elkins Park or some blond schiksa fantasy from Chestnut Hill. Their loss, my gain. And yes, there are still times--not all the time, believe me--when I do feel that way.

Anyway, it's been less than a week but already I have fallen into a wonderful rhythm--a long, long walk in the morning followed by lunch al fresco, some bocce, some reading, sunset and prosecco, dinner alle due and them we prop up our eyelids and watch a movie on the computer. If this is old age, I'm all for it.

Allora, questo giorno, I walked all the way up to Castiglioncello (a real tongue twister to pronounce). It took me about an hour and a half and the last half hour was straight up. And who greeted me at the top--besides the spectacular view of the Val d'Orcia--was a carbon copy of Pella, Liz and Giul's beautiful grey dog with the soulful blue eyes. I puttered around the charming village, not a soul in sight, and then headed back down to home and lunch and Steve.

Sono Molto Fortunata

So here we are in Tuscany one year later at Casselloccia. I'm never quite sure how to spell the name of the villa (let alone pronounce it) but I do know it is a most beautiful, peaceful and special place. We are here for one week all by ourselves before Jacob and his posse arrive followed by Jonathan and Jason and later a Kaufman/Billimoria delegation.

What an incredible luxury to be here alone. To wake up and watch the mist rise from the green hills all around us; to take long walks up those hills; to drink prosecco at sunset and then enjoy a dinner of Marcella's fabulous cooking.

I am very thankful for my good fortune.

Arriverderci Roma

Our last morning in Rome. We've lived the slow life here for almost two weeks, visiting old spots, discovering new ones, per esempio, Il San Lorenzo, a restaurant near Campo di Fiori that was new to us at least and where we had a fabulous meal our penultimate night in Rome. It's definitely not your typical neighborhood trattoria with red checked tablecloths and the usual pastas on the menu. Instead it is an elegant dining room all in white with a sophisticated menu featuring every kind of fish prepared every way. We ordered the degustation menu and sampled, crudo, capaccio, steamed squid, fried baby squids, pasta with fresh anchovies, John Dory, etc. etc. and washed it all down with a delicious white wine. The waiter was very impressed when I ordered the wine. 'It's one of the best on our list," he said, "but not many guests know about it." I didn't dare tell him that I picked it because it was in a reasonable price range and that I had never heard of either. He rewarded us at the end of the mean with two glasses of aqua madre, a golden liquor the color of the sun from Sicily.

Our last night we went back to an old favorite, Le Mani in Pasta, which is conveniently located just around the corner from the apartment we rented in Rome. We had the best seats in the room--right next to the large glass window looking directly into the kitchen. We could watch the two chefs move like athletes in the tiny kitchen, chopping vegetables, dispatching live lobsters and shrimp, tossing pasta with sauce, shuttling dishes from oven to counter without stopping. Great food and great entertainment.

I am Not a Sloth

Today I did things. First of all, I did laundry. I love doing laundry in Italy. As is customary, our apartment is equipped with a washing machine but no dryer. Laundry is meant to be hung. The minute the sun comes out, laundry sprouts up on terraces or waves out from windows and over the streets. Today was no exception. I washed and then I hung our socks, our shirts, our underwear out to dry in the sun on the terrace above our kitchen.

After lunch--arugala salad and cheese a casa nostra--I raced up to the Quirinale for the Carvaggio exhibit. A magnificent experience despite the need to jostle for position in front of every painting. And then I got wonderfully lost on my way back to Trastevere to meet Steve for a drink. Getting lost in Rome is fun. It means wandering sort of in the right direction through back streets and tiny piazzas until I find a landmark that sets me definitely on my way.

Inactivity

This is what happens when you have two glasses of wine at lunch: You don't go to the museum or take that long walk you planned to a new section of the city. Instead, you toddle back to the apartment (well, that counts as a walk), climb up those three long, long flights of stairs, plop down on the sofa to read and wake up in time for dinner. Ok, I wasn't a total sloth; I did go to the gym in the morning.

A Perfect Day

Saturday morning was warm and sunny and in a burst of ambition I announced to my husband that we were getting off our asses and going on an excursion. In full cicerone mode, I led him to the station in Testaccio and, after a half hour train ride, to Ostia Antica, the ancient seaport of Rome. It was the perfect day to be there--not too hot and not too crowded. We spent three hours wandering around the ruins from one end to the other with my trusty Michelin green guide providing essential commentary. Our only regret was that we didn't stop beforehand at Volpetti, the fabulous food store in Testaccio, to buy provisions for a picnic lunch. Oh well, next time.

When we got back to our apartment in the late afternoon, it was still warm enough to sit outside. We climbed up to the the terrace with a bottle of wine and watched the sky slowly change color with the setting sun--from pale blue to pink and rose and then back again to a deeper blue.

Food for the Soul

Maybe it's because we've been to Rome so many times, or many it's because we know that we will be overeating once we get to Tuscany and Marcella's kitchen, but whatever the reason Steve and I have not been obsessing over food this time in Rome. I've had the requisite artichoke already. I make fresh blood orange juice every morning for breakfast. We've eaten pizza and pasta cooked perfectly al dente but, for example, we have skipped dinner twice in a row, something we never would have considered on earlier trips here. Does this mean we have matured?

Today we did have a long, leisurely and late lunch under the trees at a delightful spot not far from Piazza Navona and then sallied off to Vatican City for our special after hours tour of the Vatican Museum. This was basically two hours with just 10 other people and a very serious and knowledgeable guide. It was a little like speed reading through the Vatican Museum but a real treat not to have to compete with a huge crowd of tourists all craning their necks to see the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Afterward it was time for dinner but instead we went home, opened a bottle of wine, nibbled on some cheese (salami, too, for Steve) and looked out over the city from our terrace. Who needs dinner?

Siamo qui a Roma

We arrived in Rome on Sunday morning--Easter--and the city was eerily quiet, also very wet and cold. But two days later the sun has come out and the streets are full of people shopping, eating, talking, strolling. It feels and looks like spring.

We are staying in an apartment in Trastevere, conveniently located just around the corner from our favorite restaurant in Rome, Le Mani in Pasta, where we celebrated our first night in Rome. The apartment is charming with a view over rooftops and a sunny terrace up a winding staircase from the kitchen. But perhaps the most salient feature of the apartment is the three flights of stairs one must walk up to get there. By noontime today, we had made the climb three times lugging the results of our morning shopping expeditions to the cheese store, the forno, the salumeria, the enoteca, etc. I rewarded Steve for all his efforts with lunch al fresco on the terrace. No need to go the gym!

Trastevere is known for its pizzerias so last night we tried a new one for us, Ai Marmi, again just a few blocks from where we are living. Fabuloso! The place was packed with with families, students, tourists all sitting shoulder to shoulder at long marble topped tables (hence the name) and all eating delicious thin crusted pizzas tasting of the wood burning oven. Waiters bearing pizzas, beers, wine and water navigated the narrow aisles between the tables shouting out orders, slamming down food and somehow creating order out of chaos. Needless to say, we loved it.

Andiamo

The peripatetic (my new favorite word) Solms are on the go again--this time to Bella Italia for six weeks. Can't wait to enjoy that first glass of prosecco. I'm already thinking about what I should eat our first night in Rome. Is it the season for fresh fava beans and pecorino? Shall I go with my favorite pasta--clams alla vongole? Is there an artichoke in my immediate future? Stay tuned as I report from the front.

Matzo Brei

How the mighty have fallen: I am hosting a "take out" seder. What a shanda. I was ready to bag Passover completely this year. The kids are in Jamaica, the Pignataro in Rome, other usual participants scattered elsewhere. But at the last minute, Steve felt the urge to "do something". Actually, he felt the urge to eat matzo balls, gefilte fish and brisket. Like the truly observant Jew he is, he marched over to Famous and bought the whole shebang, including a large container of chopped liver. Tell me, where is chopped liver in the service? Oh, now remember, Josie used to make chopped liver every Passover to eat before the Solms seder. Of course, how could I forget.

Max William Beck

Today is my brother’s birthday. He would be 60 years old. He died almost eight years ago of cancer, a fact that even now leaves me stunned and disbelieving. For a long time, I felt guilty that I was still here enjoying life, having so many experiences while he was gone. It seemed unfair, unjust, threatening. I don’t feel that way so much any more. I just miss him with an intensity that hasn’t diminished over the last 8 and 1/2 years. There are still moments when, without warning, I am suddenly overcome with an incredible longing just to see him one more time, healthy and whole and laughing, to know that he is happy and safe—a peaceful soul.

Losing a sibling is like losing a treasured cache of memories and knowing that you can never get them back. My childhood, my parents, all those years of growing up beside each other in our house in Yeadon seem vaguer to me now that Max isn’t here to help me remember them. Who knows what stories and people I’ve forgotten or misplaced from that past. Max is the only one who could help me get them back.

I’m lucky to be a mother, a wife, an aunt and a friend, surrounded by love, but it still feels very lonely to be an only child without my brother.

Happy Birthday, Max.

Jamaica, Jamaica

It's what you've been waiting for...my photos from Jamaica

Click here for the slide show.

Liz's Mom

I've gone to foreign. In other words, I've left Jamaica and am back home in Philadelphia. I'm back to being Ellen Solms and not "Liz's mom," as I am known in Treasure Beach. I think it's an honorable appellation.

Now that I'm home, I can truly appreciate how special was the gift of my month in Treasure Beach with Elizabeth and Giuliano. Imagine...I spent 30 straight days with my daughter and her husband. We ate dinner together every night. We traveled together. We chilled out on the beach or at their house. And I, at least, never tired of their company. I used to think how lucky I was to live in the same apartment building as my mom and dad--to visit was as easy as taking the elevator or running down the stairs of the fire tower. I took that proximity for granted, not realizing til now how special that was for both me and my mom.

Well, in Treasure Beach Liz and I could share our lives in the same way--being together was as easy as a walk down the beach and up the lane. I loved it because I got to be part of her daily life. But just as importantly, my time with Liz made me remember being a daughter to my mom and I could sense the joy she must have felt in having me close.

Home Cooking

Another day of excursions with Liz. First off to Junction, the nearest big town to run errands. It's hot and sunny and bright in Treasure Beach when we leave but ten minutes later when we drive up into the hills, there's a cool, wet fog blanketing the landscape and blotting out the usual view of shimmering blue sky and blue sea. What a strange sensation to be sweltering in the tropics in one minute and then in a few short miles to be transported to a Jamaican version of the English countryside.

Back in Treasure Beach and the heat, we head off the the home of Don Don and Miss Dell who live surrounded by farmland in the hills above the sea. I love the colors of the landscape up here--a bright blue sky arches over the deep red earth and in between is every shade of green.

Miss Dell, a cheerful, plump woman with delightfully round cheeks, has insisted on cooking me a batch of bammy to bring back with me to the states. Bammy is a kind of pancake made from cassava flour that is customarily served here with fish. And St. Elizabeth, the parish in which Treasure Beach is located, is known for the excellence of its bammy, made the traditional, incredibly labor intensive way. So we stand in Miss Dell's hot kitchen while she explains the multi-step process of making bammy--digging up the cassava, a highly nutritious root vegetable ubiquitous here, grating it by hand, placing it in a special basket to squeeze out all the liquid and then sifting out all the lumps with a reed sieve. I am daunted by the amount of time, energy and brute strength it takes to transform cassava into flour but this is clearly a labor of love for Miss Dell, a gift to her large family.

The final step is for Miss Dell to heat a flat iron pan on the stove, sprinkle a few handfuls of cassava within a circular iron mold and then pat it and smooth it with a special wooden paddle. The pancake is flipped and browned on the other side and then it is ready to be eaten, piping hot and redolent of the cassava. Truthfully, I am not a big fan of the commercially prepared bammy served in local restaurants but Miss Dell's bammy is special in taste and spirit.

When we leave with our two packages of bammy she tells me, "Now we are no longer strangers." So true, so true.

Scenes from the Road

I am back in Treasure Beach after four days on the road with my darling daughter, my personal guide to the beauties of Jamaica. The air here is delightfully cool and crisp. (Yes, I am still in Jamaica but we are experiencing what passes as a cold front here. It’s warm not hot and nights require a blanket!) Having finished a typical Jamaican breakfast of salt fish and ackee, freshly squeezed orange juice and assorted tropical fruits courtesy of Audrey, our housekeeper and outstanding Jamaican cook, I am ready to sit back and relax and try to unpack the multitude of impressions and sensations received over the last four days.

Most of the time, it's hot and dry and almost desert-like in Treasure Beach and the sound of the sea is constantly in the background but, as I have discovered, so much of the interior of Jamaica is lush, green jungle rich with fruit trees and all kinds of vegetation climbing and twining up and down and all over and under each other. We drive up and down the hills passing the concrete palaces of returning residents painted in neon colors, shanty settlements, tiny cook shops and bars blaring music always at high volume.

Our first stop is just twenty minutes out of Montego Bay but it seems like we are in the middle of nowhere. We drive deep in the jungle to the farm of Inty, a Rasta farmer who has singlehandedly carved out an acre of cultivated land from the surrounding bush and has planted it with squash and okra, organically of course. His partner is Uncle, a lovely, sweet-natured older farmer with very few teeth but a strong, upbeat spirit and much natural courtesy. We spend the afternoon tramping through the bush to view the farm and Uncle tells me of his years in Florida cutting sugar, his belief in the value of hard work and the land. When we leave, Inty cuts us a bunch of small yellow bananas as a parting gift. They are called honey bananas or Chinamen bananas but whatever their name, they are deliciously sweet tasting. I can’t imagine ever enjoying a store bought banana again. . .even if it is organic and from Whole Foods.

That night we spend at Highland House, an old style luxury villa set in the hills above Montego Bay on beautifully landscaped grounds that include an organic farm, the reason why Liz and I are visiting. The villa also boasts a large, screened-in yoga studio surrounded by foliage and flowers that, as two dedicated yogis, we take advantage of before leaving.

Friday morning we head up to the north coast but not before stopping off for a tasty lunch at Evelyn’s Restaurant, a small hole in the wall restaurant with a veranda right next to the sea. The sea is rough, white waves tossing in a blue and green sea, and the wind is blowing. There are large rocks holding down the corners of our oilcloth tablecloth. We wait and wait for our food since it is only Evelyn, a short, stout Jamaican Indian woman, who takes the orders and then cooks the food. Her specialty is curried conk, so fresh it tastes briny, and served with homemade roti. Definitely worth the wait.

Our goal is not one of the myriad hotels and condo complexes strung along the north coast highway in a sad and characterless procession but Itopia, the longtime home of Sally and Perry Henzell where we’ve been invited to stay by Jason and Laura Henzell. The house is located off the highway and down a series of rocky, bumpy and increasingly isolated roads that wind through the jungle and the ruins of old sugar plantations. The house, built originally in the 1600’s of limestone, its surface now mottled in shades of black and white, probably once served as a residence for a plantation manager and seems as solid now as it must have been long ago.

But how to describe the spirit of the house and the grounds which are totally infused with the spirit of Perry and Sally. Sally has filled the house with an idiosyncratic but magical mix of antique furniture, family momentoes, art work, curios and collections and surrounded it by flowers and fruit trees and wild landscape. Before everyone arrived, Liz took me through the house inside and out to discover all its mysteries and special beauties. Euphemia served us tea in the living room. After dinner we all talked and drank wine while the house glowed in candlelight around us.

I slept in a fourposter bed hung with lace and tattered mosquito netting and woke up early to the sound of the birds. My shower was built out of stone and shells. Our final morning, the sun was shining and the air was warm and fragrant. After breakfast, everyone wandered outside and laid on the grass to listen as one of the guests, Jean Louis Aubert, a French pop star, played the guitar. It seemed as if he was just not serenading us but serenading Itopia itself, this enchanted space. It was truly a privilege to be there.

On My Own in Treasure Beach

Steve has left me but not before transferring his cold to my keeping. So in order to make sure that my last two weeks in Jamaica would not be spent sick in bed, Liz took me to see the local GP whose office is conveniently located next to a gas station. Dr. Elliot, a tall, solemn man of very few words, sat behind his desk in his spartanly furnished office, asked me a few questions in a low voice, examined my throat and ears and then handed me a week's worth of antibiotics, all for just $20.

Today, we are off on a road trip to meet with one of Liz's farmers at his farm deep in the bush and then off to Montego Bay where she will be consulting with a villa manager on how to set up a compost system for an organic garden. It's still amazing to me that she knows all this stuff, having grown up in the city in an apartment where I banned all living things except for husband and children. But here she is talking with confidence and authority about pest management, crop rotation, compost systems, drip irrigation, etc., etc., etc. I am in awe.

Wild Weather

My dream in coming to Jamaica, outside of course from spending quality time with my darling daughter, was to escape winter. I had visions of coming home to no more snow, my uggs in storage, and warming temperatures. Doesn't look like that will be happening now in Philadelphia, suddenly the snow capitol of the world.

We've been having our bout of weird and wild weather here in Treasure Beach. Not that I'm complaining, I'm still able to work on my tan. The other night we woke up around 3 to an sound and light show--an incredible thunder and lightening storm which roared overhead for a good hour or so and set the ocean roaring at top volume. We huddled in our bed wondering if a tidal wave was going to be rushing in over the veranda any minute to wash us out to sea.

Ever since then, the skies haven been clear and sunny but the wind has been blowing at top speed and nights have been positively Maine-like in temperature. Beautiful.

Daily LIfe in Treasure Beach

So what else have I been doing except swimming in the sea, reading on the veranda or lawn and just generally lolling around?

Well, two days ago I accompanied Liz on her travels for work looking at potential sites for the organic farming project she is managing here. We rode up beautiful winding roads to the hills of Malvern where the temperature was remarkably cooler and the views over the valleys spectacular. Then two days ago we drove towards Montego Bay to meet with the owner of an ackee farm who happens to be the dad of two of Liz's good friends in New York. Armed with a machete, Mr. Masters led us on a tour of his property, acres and acres of akee trees. We left with a bag of ripe otaheite apples picked from other fruit trees on his land. Juicy and delicious with bright red skin and white flesh and a large black stone, the otaheite apple is the Snow White of fruit. On our way back to Treasure Beach we stopped to give seeds to a rasta farmer Liz knows. He complimented me by saying I looked "fresh" as a result of my vegetarian diet. Okay!

I love watching Liz at work and how she interacts with all then different people she deals with. She speaks patois fluently, to me an amazing feat. I can't understand a word and so do a lot of nodding and smiling when conversation is suddenly directed to "mommy" as I am always called by Jamaicans I meet with Liz.

The last two mornings Liz and I have taken long walks together early in the morning before the sun is too intense for physical activity. The first day we wandered down back roads where we counted over 30 smashed bullfrogs on the road in varying states of fossilization. Every field and many yards have goats roaming around. School kids in uniform--the boys in khaki like little soldiers, the young girls in kelly green skirts and crip white shirts--are headed off to their day at school.

It's a nice way to start the day and justifies the ridiculous amount of time I spend lolling around the rest of the day.

Moral Complexity

Ta-Nahisi Coates is one of my regular stops on the internet. He's a blogger for The Atlantic who writes about politics, music, history, poetry, sports, whatever gets him thinking. He writes beautifully and is often thought provoking in a really good way. . . like today:

The inability of water-boarding's supporters to come out and say, "Yes it's torture, and yes it's awful, but here's why we have to do it," is the corollary of death penalty advocates who can not bring themselves to admit that innocent people will die. I don't know that I agree with Obama's predator drone strikes. But at least we don't go around pretending only "bad people" will be killed, and that there are never mistakes.

You probably can't convince me to support torture. But I don't ask for a society that does everything I think is best. I ask for a society that doesn't deceive itself. I don't think I agree with dropping the bomb on Japan. (I think it qualifies as what we, today, call terrorism.) But I get the argument. And it's important that I get the argument. It's important that I'm able to put myself in Truman's shoes, and in those shoes, not have any certain idea of what I would have done.

We need more moral complexity in our lives.

Necessary Clarification

Pella is a dog. A very adorable grey weineramer puppy with ice blue eyes. Liz and Giul are obsessed. And Steve and I are making friends. Who would have thought? I tried to upload photos but internet here in Treasure Beach is suspect. Take my word, she's beautiful and charming with a great personality. Between her and Muscles, Mo's handsome and sweet Rhodesian ridgeback, we are blessed.

Treasure Beach

At the risk of appearing way smug and self satisfied, I must confess that I am blissfully enjoying doing absolutely nothing in sunny and warm Treasure Beach, Jamaica. I feel a little bit like a refugee from a war zone having endured two blizzards in one week but I'm happy to report that I am not suffering from post tramatic stress disorder. The sun and the sea and rum and ting are remarkably healing.

We are living in Shakti Home, a charming cottage right on the beach about a 15 minute walk from Liz and Giul's little house. We are being waited on by Audrey, an amazing cook, and Sheldon, whose main job, it seems is to bring Steve fresh coconut water every day.

We go to sleep lulled by the sound of the sea. Steve takes a morning dip in the ocean. We sit on the veranda and watch the sun move across the sky. Last night's sunset was amazing. My biggest decision is what to read next. I am dutifully speed reading my way through "The Guns of August" and looking forward to a fat, juicy novel next.

I have met Pella, the newest member of our family, and have totally bonded. Liz and Giul are very good parents but then she is an adorable child.

Out of Here!

I am so ready to go: Legs waxed, toes painted, hair colored, enough sunscreen packed to coat one large white person and one smallish white person for a month, a small library of books to read while sitting outside looking at the ocean and sipping some delicious fruit and rum concoction. I am ready to bare my legs, show my stomach and complain about hot it is.

Snowbound

It's 8 o'clock Thursday night and it's still snowing. The city is eerily quiet and beautifully white. I've spent the day holed up in my study doing puzzles, reading, surfing the internet and listening over and over again to Sade's new album (I like it!) and wondering when it would be time to have a glass of wine. Four clock, too early, five o'clock, better not but six o'clock, YES! If I were in Maine where it's not snowing (isn't that weird) I'd be sitting in front the fire, reading, doing puzzles and eating pretzels. Fortunately, we have no pretzels here. Steve ate them all.

It's hard to believe but on Monday, we head down to Jamaica for a month in the sun. Jamaica, even the idea of Jamaica, seems very far away now that we are in full winter wonderland mode. Just imagine: I'll soon be wearing shorts and a tshirt, swimming in the warm ocean, sleeping under an mosquito net. Seems an impossible dream right now.

State of the State of

I've been scouring the blogs all day off and on trying to get a handle on last night's SOTU by Obama. This commentator comes the closest to what I am thinking.

I watched President Barack Obama’s State of the Union speech ready to fall in love again or to wage war. I came out cautiously optimistic but afraid to be burned yet again, encouraged and yet disappointed, all at the same time. Perhaps that is a fitting response to a man who has the capacity to engender so much hope in a truly flawed political system, making disappointment inevitable.

You can read more here.

I almost didn't watch the speech. Too many bad memories of Dubya spouting inanities and lies on national TV. But Steve, without his hearing aids, had the TV blasting at full volume and despite my original protestations I was drawn in. Obama is just so smart and so compelling and so rational. I guess I not ready to quit either.

Steve and I are now the proud grandparents of not just one but two dogs. First, there was Muscles, the aptly named Rhodesian ridgeback that is Moses' best friend and protector. And, now, we have another new family member courtesy of Liz and Giuliano--an adorable (can't you tell from the picture), weineramer puppy named Pella. (Hmm. . .I wonder if getting a dog is a necessary precursor to having a baby.)

This is weird for a couple that never had a dog, never wanted a dog and where one member (Steve, not me) is deathly afraid of dogs. In fact, Steve will always cross the street to avoid the path of an oncoming dog no matter how small or harmless looking that dog may be. But since becoming a grandfather of a dog, he claims to have cuddled with Muscles without fear. . .most likely because Mo was standing over his shoulder and there was no way out! Let's see how he does with his newest grandchild. He never was great at changing diapers.

Reality Sucks

Okay, I'm back to reality. What does that mean? Well, for one, my Uggs are now permanently attached to my feet. I'm off to the gym or yoga everyday and my alcohol consumption is way down. (No fresh passion fruit capirhinias served here.)

But what that phrase really means is that I can't avoid the awful reality of American politics, a game where winning the vote is everything and actual service to the voters counts for nothing. It's sort of like football. Everyone cheering wildly on the sidelines for their favorite team to win, win, win while totally disregarding the cost to players' long term health and sanity. (Well, maybe that's not a great analogy but somehow I feel there's a connection somewhere.)

The Photographic Evidence

If you're interested, click here to see my photos from South America.

Warning: There's a lot of them.

More on Haiti

Thanks to Robin for fowarding me this email regarding Partners in Health, a successful health care organization based in Haiti. I read the Tracey Ridder book, "Mountains Beyond Mountains," about Paul Farmer, the organization's founder, several years ago and was moved and impressed by his commitment and vision.

You can donate here.

Dear Friends,

The tragedy in Haiti is more dire than we could have ever expected it would be in the hours following the earthquake. But thanks to your support, we're already making a difference.

We received a report from Cate Oswald, one of our staff in Haiti, who traveled through the Central Plateau to Port-au-Prince yesterday with two truckloads of meds and supplies. She described the scene:

"We started seeing destruction from Mt. Cabrit (where big rocks lie in the middle of the road) through Croix de Bouquets where it doesn't seem as bad but lots of walls down. Then the scene gets much, much worse. Tonight, everywhere throughout the city, as we drove by the national plaza, there are thousands of people sleeping outside. While I was in Port-au-Prince, there were still aftershocks being felt. I didn't venture into other parts of the city, but as you all know, koze sa pa jwet menm [Haitian saying literally translated as "this is not a game"]."

The trucks met up with PIH staff, including Dr. Louise Ivers, at the UN's logistics base in Port-au-Prince. Louise was one of two doctors attending at the time, and they had nothing but aspirin until our trucks showed up.

Our leadership is in Port-au-Prince now determining the best location to establish a base of operations. Their assessment includes laying out all the next steps for getting supplies, equipment, and additional staff to the people most in need.

Your donation is already providing critical relief to the people of Haiti - but we have a long way to go. Please tell your friends about the critical work Partners In Health has done in Haiti for more than 20 years, and the urgent support we need right now:

Share this important update with a friend

Another of our Haitian colleagues, Patrick Almazor, reported today that he and several other doctors have set up mobile clinics in the Delmas section of Port-au-Prince.

"We have a lot of fractures," he wrote in an email. "We are running out of meds, I'm on my way to St. Marc [a PIH facility] for supplies."

Importantly, given the patients already flowing out of Port-au-Prince to St. Marc and our other facilities outside the city, we cannot leave our hospitals understaffed.

So we are recruiting surgeons, anesthetists, nurses, and other medical professionals to travel to Haiti in the next couple of days to help with staffing, particularly as many of our staff have lost family members and friends.

There's still so much that needs to be done for the people of Haiti. Your help in spreading the word can make a tremendous impact:

Share this important update with a friend

A handful of our colleagues remain unaccounted for - we continue to have every hope that it is due to lack of ability to communicate via telephone and the lack of electricity for computers, but we do not know.

Our staff has more or less been working around the clock in Boston and Haiti. I am incredibly lucky to work with such a passionate and committed group of individuals who will not stop unless their job /task /mission is done.

Thank you for your solidarity during this crisis,


Ophelia Dahl
Executive Director

PS: This is a critical time for the people of Haiti. If you can, please consider making another donation to Partners In Health's work on the ground.
Donate now to support our earthquake relief efforts

Back in the USA

I am in Utah now visiting Mo and am literally overwhelmed by the news and images coming out of Haiti in a continuous horrific stream. The scale of the disaster is unimaginable.

My first priority once home in Philly will be to send a contribution to the relief effort. What else can all of us do to alleviate the suffering that Haiti is undergoing?

The Panama Canal

What a weird place is Panama City. There's the business district, packed with office buildings that scream money, money, money. There's the waterfront district with rows and rows of high rise residences and a mind boggling number of ongoing construction projects. There's the casco viejo or old city, a crumbling vestige of the city's colonial past dotted with an occasional outpost of gentrification.

Wherever you are, it's hot and smelly and noisy. (Panamanians drive like lunatics and love to lay on the horn.) Of the storied nightlife, we have seen nothing--we're too old and we're here at the beginning of the week when everyone is too tired from making deals.

And then there is the Panama Canal, the 8th wonder of the world as Bob tells us over and over and over again. The man is in a state of barely contained excitement throughout the day as he relentless grills our guide. Luckily, Alviero is up to the challenge. Okay, okay, it is impressive to see the boats pass through the locks and the detailed (!) history of the canal's construction is amazing but after almost three hours spent at the Miraflores Locks Visitor Center--the observation deck, the movie, the museum, etc., etc.,etc.--I know more than I will ever need or want to know about the Panama Canal. Except why is Panama City such a pit despite all the money that obviously flows through it to who knows where.