The Horror

I cannot be more relaxed than I am right now in Jamaica.  I wake up every morning just as the sun is coming up. The air is still cool. The sky is a smear of grey and pink.  I walk for an hour on the road passing goats, chickens and the occasional car.  By the time I come back to the house, it's hot and the sky is golden.  Everyone else is still sleeping as I sit on the veranda to eat my breakfast and read the NYTimes on my computer.  I listen to the sea and stare out at the blue feeling very safe and content. 

Then I read an article such as this and wonder what the hell kind of world I live in where I can sit quietly on a veranda on a beautiful morning and just enjoy the view while women in Somalia daily live in terror in the most horrendous surroundings.

To EBook or Not to EBook

Well, I have read my first ebook and I am not impressed. 

As an experiment, I downloaded the next Kinsey Milhone mystery, "V for Vengeance," on my IPad so I could read it in Jamaica.  Even though "V for Vengeance" was just a mystery and not "serious literature", i.e. perfect vacation reading, I felt like I was doing something trivial and silly by carelessly flipping those pages on the IPad with my finger.  I mean this is the same device I use to play way too many games of Boggle.  I definitely see the convenience for travel even though I restrict myself to paperbacks when I pack for a trip.  But for sure I'm not planning to give up the printed page.  There's nothing quite like snuggling into a nest of pillows on a day bed set on a shady veranda in Jamaica overlooking the ocean with a good BOOK propped up on my lap.

Jamaica

I went to bed last night tucked under a mosquito net with the sound of the ocean sending me off to dreamland.  Yes,  I am in Jamaica again.  I'm drinking rum and sorrel, getting sweetly high, playing backgammon, eating jerk shrimp, and just chillin' on the veranda of Shakti Home, my little getaway in Treasure Beach. 

I love being in Jamaica.  Where else can I get a proposal of marriage while waiting at the bank.  Sorry, I had to tell the security guard, it's not happening, but thanks anyway.

My New Role Model

I want to be Claudette Colbert.  I watched her today on Turner Classic Movies in "Since You Went Away," as the brave and beautiful Anne Hilton whose husband is away at war leaving her alone to take care of the family in his absence.  We never see him in the movie.  It's all Claudette.  She is adorable and perky and positive and a good and understanding parent to her two daughters.  She never loses her sense of humor or compassion for others and she rarely shows her grief and loneliness.  I loved her and the movie although both made me cry.  I know it isn't easy to be brave, to try to be good all by yourself.  I was really glad at the end when she got the phone call that her husband was alive and coming home.  That's how it happens in the movies, just not in real life.

How Many Days to Hanukah?

 

It’s pretty sad but the only reason I know Hanukah is coming is because a plastic menorah is now sitting on the front desk of my building.   None of the candles are illuminated yet but it must be happening soon.

Growing up in Yeadon, Hanukah always seemed a poor substitute for Christmas to me, especially when compared to what when on down the street where Anna May Heritage lived.    Anna May’s parents were older than mine and she had an older married brother and a “maiden aunt” who lived with them.  The result of having all those adults around was that she was showered with presents at holiday time,  a fact that made me green with envy.  I’d walk in her house and be overwhelmed by the mountain of presents under the tree,  all I imagined for Anna May.  Her mom and her aunt would be in the kitchen making dozens and dozens of Christmas cookies.  Every surface in the house was covered with cookies and candies, all red and green and smelling very delicious.

Back at 850 Church Lane, my mom tried her best to make our Hanukah compete with Anna May’s Christmas.  She hung a Happy Hanukah sign in the dining room; she baked cookies in the shape of Jewish stars and dreidels and even constructed and iced one big one to look like a menorah.  We lit the candles every night, sang songs and got eight separate presents, a fact I emphasized to all my non Jewish school mates every morning.  Bah humbug!  Somehow it still felt like we were missing something.

The other side of the coin was the intense scorn I felt for those Jews who celebrated Christmas.  No way was a Christmas tree going up in any house I lived in, let alone a stupid “Hanukah Bush.”  Christmas was for Christians and we weren’t.  Anyway how dumb was it to buy all that stuff at retail prices when you could wait for the after Christmas sales and save.  

The closest my family ever came to traditionally celebrating the holidays was when we got all dressed up and went out to some fancy downtown restaurant to celebrate my parents’ birthdays--my mom’s on Christmas Eve and my dad’s the day after.  If anyone asked, I was very vocal about why we there--for birthdays NOT Christmas.

Getting Ready for 2012

Last year was all about surviving.  This year--I'm still standing!--is all about finding meaning.  What to do with my life, how to spend my time in a way that makes me happy, teaches me something new, brings me friends.  It's about being alone but not feeling lonely, feeling sadness but not being overwhelmed by it.  Looking forward but not forgetting. 

For Whom the Bell Tolls...not me

I've never been a big fan of Ernest Hemingway.  His books are too male, too unadorned, and with female characters that lack any semblance of reality to me.  But I have just finished working my way slowly but surely through For Whom the Bell Tolls.

Slowly is the operative word here.  I usually zip through a novel hanging on to the story or falling in love with a character or reveling in the language but this book was a disappointment on all three levels for me. There were some snatches of effective writing and the final chapters depicting the battle and the blowing of the bridge had real power but there was so much to put up with before that--truly horrible writing about sex, extremely stilted dialogue and repetitive philosophizing about war, death and the meaning of life.  Maybe it's a book you should only read if you're young and a male, ideally in adolescence. 

Of course this is the opinion of someone who loves Henry James and thinks Middlemarch is the greatest book ever written.

The End of an Era

So today I lost the last vestige of my youth--a baby tooth that has remained in my mouth for some 60 years.  I was sad to see it go.  It's so cute and tiny.  If I were a visual artist, I would mark the occasion by making it the center of an art work.  But instead I'm going to place my little tooth in the little white shoes, the first I wore as a baby, that my mom presented to me as a momento mori  on my 40th birthday.  So sweet that she kept them all those years. 

The shoes, now with the tooth nestled inside, will sit on a shelf in my study.

A Poem

A beautiful poem, "Still Falling for Her," by Sharon Olds in last week's New Yorker.  Here are the closing lines:

"I think I may go on falling, like my own
flesh, for the rest of my life, and maybe I'll
still be falling for my mother after
my death--or not falling but orbiting,
with her, and maybe we'll take turns,
who is the moon, and who is the earth."

Read the whole poem here.  Sharon Olds is one of my favorite poets.  Not surprisingly, Liz introduced me to her.  I've often felt challenged by poetry but her work I find immediately accessible and deeply moving.  My mom loved poetry but I've come to it fairly late in life.  I'm always struck by how so few words can hold so much meaning.  

In My Shoes

Have you ever been told you look as good as margarita pizza?  That's what some South Philly cuz told me when I went for a stroll down Passyunk Avenue this afternoon with Liz and her girl friends.  I think he intended it as a compliment.  At least, that's how I took it. 

He was no looker himself looking more like the brisket sandwich he told us he had just finished eating at the restaurant on the corner.  He bragged that he ate that sandwich three times a week--it was that delicious!-- and I could believe it given the way his belly hung over his belt.  I'm sure he washed down each time with a couple of beers. 

Having just come back from four nights in Miami for Art Basel, it felt good to be visible once again even if it meant being compared to a pizza by an overweight, aging would be lothario.  In Miami, any woman over 30 is virtually invisible.  There is a constant parade of young or desperate to be young women marching down the street or preening in the bars wearing impossibly high shoes and barely any clothes.  It's a really depressing, even disturbing scene. 

Thank god I don't have to wear those shoes.  There are definitely benefits to being invisible. 

What Next?

Great article in last week's New Yorker by George Packer about Occupy Wall Street. 

"As long as Occupy Wall Street speaks the language of inequality and powerlessness as simply and directly as the the self portraits on Tumblr, it will resonate with millions of Americans.  The most important facts about our society, widely known  but seldom mentioned, are now the first order of conversation. . .the use of the phrase 'income inequality' in the media has now more than quintulpled since the beginning of the occupation.  In this sense, Occupy Wall Street has already done its work.  The point is what was happening on the Broadway sidewalk.  No one should expect this protean flame to transform itself into a formal political organization with a savvy strategy for enacting reforms and winning elections.  That's someone else's job. "  

So who or what is going to do it?  I'm not very optimistic we will ever fill find the right person for that job description.

Wilbur's First Thanksgiving

The Night Before

It's Erev Thanksgiving.  I'm sitting with a glass of wine taking a break.  My new audio/video system is blasting Lew Rawls. The tables are set in the living with china, silver, candles and flowers and looking very beautiful.  My turkey is sitting in the refrigerator and I am trying to figure out whether there is any way I can make room in there for the stuffing if I make it tonight.   This is definitely the one time of year when I wish I had one of those giant refrigerators. 

I'm thinking a lot about my mom tonight and my brother too.  I miss them a lot this time of year.  My family is so pitifully small now.  It feels very lonely up here at the top of the family tree without them. I'm holding all of them inside of me--my mom, my dad, my brother and now Steve, too.  They make me strong.

Let the Cooking Begin

No doubt Thanksgiving is a one of the most labor intensive meals to prepare an eat.  It takes a long time to make all those sides (and, god forbid, you leave one out or suggest changing the menu),  a long time to eat (second helpings are mandatory),  and a long time to digest as evidenced by those guests found in a semi comatose state stretched out on the sofas at the end of the evening.   But to me, above all,  Thanksgiving is a labor of love, a gift of goodness to my family.  Like tonight, I spent the entire evening just preparing the gravy for Thursday's bird and, good vegetarian that I am,  I'm not even planning to eat it.

This afternoon, I went to the Terminal and bought pounds of turkey necks and backs.  I  chopped them up (is there anything grosser than turkey fat) and then browned them in the oven.  Next I threw them in a pot with water and onions, herbs and carrots and simmered the stock for a couple of hours.  I strained the stock (saving all the solids for little Wilbur!) and then boiled it down to concentrate the flavor.  It took me all evening but now I have a container of gravy fixings sitting in my refrigerator ready for Thursday's main event.

Tomorrow evening, I'll prepare the stuffing, one version with sausage and one without.  Wednesday evening I'll set the table and prep the brussel sprouts and the roast vegetables. There's already applesauce and onion confit in my freezer.  I just have to remember to take them out in time, something I forgot to do one year.

I love to cook and I do it a lot but preparing Thanksgiving dinner makes me feel like a real housewife or what I imagine a  real housewife was supposed to be like in the 50's.  Remember all those movies where Mom is in the kitchen making dinner.  She's wearing high heels, a cute little dress and an apron.  Nowadays a "real housewife" is a botoxed hottie in tight pants who spends her days bitching about her girlfriends and getting treatments.  Definitely no apron.

The Real Reality

Every morning, I come downstairs, make a smoothie for my breakfast and read the New York Times, the actual hold-in-your-hand, printed newspaper. With what delight did I notice this headline in today's paper at the top of an article by Richard A. Oppel, Jr.:

Perry's Latest Attacks on Obama Depart From Reality

Hell yeah!

What's interesting is that when I checked the NYTimes online edition later in the morning the headline had been changed, the impact to my mind softened.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/18/us/politics/perrys-attacks-on-obama-do-not-match-facts.html?_r=1&ref=politics

Hmm, I wonder what's behind that switch.

Let the Cooking Begin

Thanksgiving is a little over a week away and I am ready to go. I’ve decided on my menu, made a shopping list and even started to prepare a few dishes. Tonight I cored and peeled and sliced an endless number of apples for applesauce, my brother-in-law’s favorite side dish. (Isn’t Thanksgiving all about the sides?) I hope he appreciates the labor involved, a lot more than opening a jar of Motts which is what they did at the Solms’ ancestral feast. No wonder Esther and Dave didn’t think twice about driving all the way out to Yeadon and eating my mom’s Thanksgiving meal once Steve and I were married.

Thanksgiving is when I feel the most matriarchial. I take pride in the fact that I am cooking for my family, both immediate and extended. I love it when we are too many to fit into the dining room and have to set up tables in the living room. I love setting the tables the night before and using all my good china and silver. I don’t eat much on Thanksgiving night (I’ve been noshing all day) but I love to watch everyone else fill their plates and go back for more. I love staying up that night and watching a movie together. I love waking up in the morning with a bit of a hangover and opening a refrigerator packed full of leftovers. I love that the house is full—every bed slept in and sometimes even the couches have bodies stretched out on them.

I even like Sunday evening when everyone is gone and the house is so quiet. That’s when I perform my closing rituals—doing loads of laundry and emptying the dishwasher for the umpteenth time. It all feels good.

HOME

Call me a homing pigeon, a nester, a homebody, whatever, but right now to me there is truly no place like home.

I walked in the door tonight after a fabulous weekend in Miami—dancing all night with friends, eating my body weight in stone crabs, relaxing in the sun--but nowhere am I happier than to be than safe at home, ready to sleep in my own bed. With all the uncertainties I face—what to do, where to go, how to feel—being in my own space, surrounded by familiar things—is the most comforting and comfortable place to be.

Frustrating

I have discovered that it is definitely not a good idea to go into the Apple store feeling the least bit insecure or vulnerable I made that mistake this afternoon and left feeling even more stupid and scattered than before I went in. It took every ounce of mental strength not to burst in to tears at the end of my session at the so-called Genius Bar. What I really wanted to do was start screaming at the top of my lungs, “I don’t understand a fucking think you are saying.” Instead I packed up all of my devices and went on home vowing to figure all this out one way or another.

Aah, technology, I love it and hate it at the same time.

How to LIve

Part of the experience of finishing a good book, one that has brought me pleasure, is looking forward to the next one. What should it be? I have so many choices--to reread a favorite novel like Middlemarch or Portrait of a Lady, a serious volume of history, a biography of an interesting or eccentric person. It's almost like deciding what I want to eat. Am I in the mood for Chinese tonight or Mexican or maybe it's Italian I'm craving. It has to be the right taste.

I've just finished a delightful and truly charming book with a very long and somewhat cheesy title, "How to Live or A Life of Montaigne in One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer" by Sarah Bakewell. It's not surprising that I would be drawn to such a title at this stage of my life. I wake up every morning and sometimes stay up way too late at night pondering the question, "What I am going to do with the rest of my life?"

"How to live, etc., etc., etc." is definitely not some glib self-help book by the latest feel good guru. First of all, it's really well written and well researched but not in any way stuffy or pedantic. It tells an interesting story and is populated by many notable, often quirky characters. Montaigne, of course, is the main protagonist and he comes across as a thoughtful, delightful and extremely wise man. I prefer to call him a thinker not a philosopher Somehow philosopher seems too portentous and solemn a word to describe him.

I'm eager to get back to the source i.e. to read some of the original Essays but I think I need to get up from this table right now. I'm full and I have to digest.

In My Shoes

In a former life--the same life when I used to wear suits--I used to wear high heels. I wore them to the office during the day as part of my Professional Persona. I wore them out at night to parties. Rows of my shoe closet were dedicated to “going out to dinner shoes” as somebody once called them. That meant shoes not meant for walking or even dancing but sitting at a dinner table showing off sexy looking legs.

Well, those days are long over. Not to say that I don’t still go to parties just not very often in full regalia. (And I like to think I still have sexy looking legs.) But as of last night those shoes were still in my closet. I wasn’t ready to part with them even though there was no way I could put them on even if I had an occasion to wear them.

So last night I finally said goodby with no regret and, in fact, a great deal of satisfaction. I have found them a good home with someone who really appreciates their value and, most importantly, whose legs look fantastic wearing them. Everyone, shoes and new owner, are going to be very happy.

Where Are the Sixers

I am very upset about what’s happening or rather what’s not happening with the NBA. Truly, I was looking forward to this year’s season. Last year was a washout for me. I was too sad to go the stadium where Steve was such a fixture. I was happy to give the tickets away. But this year, Liz and Giul are back and the Solms family including me, for at least some games, would be back where we belonged at mid court. I was getting ready to learn the players’ names, read the box scores in the Daily News, be a fan again in loving homage to my husband.

Every year at the start of the season he’d say, “They’re going to be fun to watch.“ That was code for “They really stink but I’m determined to be optimistic.” Ever hopeful he was that the season would be a good one or at least an interesting one. I loved that about him. He never got too sour or cynical about the Sixers. He just enjoyed the game too much.

He would not be at all happy now about the NBA or the players. As ESPN succinctly states they “have violated the sanctity of the schedule and failed to live up to their side of the covenant: provide games for fans to watch.” What a shame.

Weather Report

It’s hard not to feel positive and upbeat when the weather is as beautiful as it is today—bright sun, clear air, perfect temperature for strolling around. So I am. . . feeling upbeat and positive. Maybe it’s because I got an unconscionable amount of sleep this weekend, staying in bed until at least 10 am on both mornings, a definite record breaker for me. I was staying in a cozy and comfortable bedroom at the house of friends in the Hudson Valley. No contractors to wake up to, no gym to rush out to to. A very welcome and much needed respite for me at this time of my life.

It’s amazing to me how volatile my moods are. One day I feel like I am pressed flat on my back on the floor, the weight of my life holding me down. Too many decisions to make, too many uncertainties to face, too many questions swirling around in my brain.

And then there’s a day like today. I feel lightweight, buoyant, ready for any challenge. Reminder to self: Remember that feeling when I’m down on the floor again.

Widow Update

It seems like I’ve spent the first year since Steve died either in a daze, taking care of the business of being a widow, or running around frantically doing my best to avoid the reality of being alone. Now I’m home, no trips or adventures on the horizon, and I’m feeling newly overwhelmed by the loss. It’s as if I’ve woken up to my real life. I'm standing at the edge of a great big hole where my husband stood. How do I fill that up.

Tossing and Turning

To sleep can be a challenge and last night was exemplary. I read myself to bed at midnight, burrowed into my covers and dived down into sleep like a rock. And then at 4 in the morning, I rose back to the surface only it was still dark and there were hours to go before I had to wake up. There is nothing more anxiety producing than looking at the clock and calculating how much time I have left to try to sleep. Should I just turn on the light and pick up my book? Or shut my eyes and my brain and will myself back to the deep?

I can barely remember those long ago days of sleeping coast to coast. Getting up past noon and not even feeling guilty about it. Waking up to a bright midday sun, feeling lazy and loving it.

A Former Life

In a former life some 10 years ago, I was an executive or at least an executive director. I woke up every morning and put on my uniform--a suit with big shoulders and a short skirt and high heeled shoes. I put on makeup, gelled my hair and walked to my office where I had a soft pretzel and diet coke at my desk for breakfast. Ugh.

Tonight I went to a reception for a friend and colleague that I knew from those days. I couldn’t put on a suit—I’ve given them all away—but I did wear something other than jeans or yoga pants and I did put on make up. I felt like an alien. I knew no one. And no one knew me. The room was full of men in full corporate regalia—ill-fitting suits, dress shirts and shiny ties. The women were dressed in pencil skirts or pants with bright colored jackets, this era’s uniform. Everyone looked old, even the young people.

I had a drink, listened to the speeches, congratulated my friend and came back home to my current life where no uniforms are required.

Dental Logic

I still have a baby tooth. It’s never fallen out, never been under my pillow, because there’s no adult tooth underneath my gums pushing it out. Only now it’s loose, really loose, and my dentist insists it has to go. I’ll be sorry to lose it, the sole vestige of my much younger self. I’m a little nervous, almost superstitious, about getting rid of this tooth. I’ve had it for over 60 years. (Notice I don’t say for exactly how long I’ve had it.) When it goes, will that mean I am irrevocably an adult, no chance at ever being young again?

I felt like a child at the dentist today. He said a weird thing to me today after peering into my mouth and passing final judgment on my baby tooth. “How are you managing?” he asked. And then as if answering his own question, he said, “You look great. You’re a real cutie pie. Have you started dating yet?” I’m still puzzling over that equation. And I still have all my teeth.

The War Against Women Continues

Years ago when I was Executive Director of Pennsylvania's Campaign for Choice, a state wide, bipartisan pro-choice political action committee, we tried valiantly to unseat Joe Pitts, a leader of the anti-choice faction in the state legislator. Unfortunately, our efforts to defeat him failed and now he has moved on to bigger and better things in the US House of Representatives as sponsor of HR 358, otherwise known as the "Protect Life Act," but basically a bill that would allow hospitals to let women die rather than perform a life-saving abortion.

Please read this article for a recap of what went down. And then get angry.

Wake up women of America! Congress wants to kill you.

Money Ball

I have made a decision. I am no longer making any political contributions. That means no money to Obama, to Elizabeth Warren, to Allyson Schwartz and to any other Democrats running for state or federal office no matter how much I like them personally or support their positions. I’ll vote for them and I’ll urge others to do so but I can no longer participate in a system that allows people like the Koch brothers and other like minded plutocrats to buy elections. I don’t know what put me over the edge. Maybe it was the article I just read in this week’s New Yorker by Jane Mayer. She writes about Art Pope, a conservative multimillionaire in North Carolina, who has used his cash to virtually buy the state and subvert the democratic process. This is nothing new, I know, but suddenly I’ve had it and I don’t want to part of it.

I’m going to give my money to issues I support and organizations I feel strongly about like Women’s Medical Fund.

I keep thinking how we ran out to Broad Street to celebrate the night Obama was elected. We couldn't believe our good fortune. What a difference he was going to make. Oh well.

Yom Kippur

Yesterday was Yom Kippur and for the first time in years I fasted. Not from any religious conviction I must admit but largely because I had spent the last five days in London, doing copious amounts of eating and drinking. I’ve been to London many times but this visit it really struck me what serious boozers the English are. Maybe it was because the weather was unseasonably warm and dry but every night at every pub there were crowds of people jamming the sidewalks drinking and smoking. (Do they not believe in cancer in London?) Maybe it was because I stayed in Soho but it seemed to me that every other storefront on so many streets was a restaurant, café or bar and all of them doing a good business. Anyway, the net result was when I wasn’t being a good cultural tourist, I, too was indulging in the national pastime. Somehow fasting on Yom Kippur seemed like a good transition back into normal life.

The Biddies Do Iceland

Iceland. They should it call it Waterland. I have never been so wet in my life. Everywhere you look there is water: Waterfalls large and small cascading down the mountains, lava fields dotted with geysers sending up plumes of steam and thermal pools filled with bubbling hot water rich in minerals. Jane and I have done it all. We've oohed and aahed at the waterfalls; we've filled our water bottles with "happy water" from a naturally carbonated pool where the water is high in lithium; we've bathed in a thermal pool with supposedly healing powers. And we've done all this and more in monsoon conditions--pouring rain and gale force winds. The only thing we haven't done is seen the northern lights. The skies have been dark and cloudy for our entire visit.

Somehow we have had the best of times, laughing as we walked on the beach in search of seals and the rain turned to sleet and hail pelting us with ice cold water. The seals were smart. They stayed away. A real plus has been the fantastic food we have eaten every night. Who knew that Iceland would turn out to be a foodie paradise especially for two avowed pescatarians. Thanks most of all to Ymir and Heppa, our new best friends in Iceland, for a truly magical experience.

Winter Time

I am in winter. Actually i am in Iceland where it is cold and wet. Tonight I went out to dinner and put on just about every item of clothing I brought with me. And I should have put on the one thing--a fleece vest--I didn't wear. Fortunately the food was fabulous and worth the walk through the pouring, freezing rain from our hotel.

This morning immediately after we arrived, Jane and I went to the Blue Lagoon spa where we "relaxed" in a flotation tank for an hour, a procedure that is supposed to make up for all the sleep we lost on the flight over from the states. The only thing missing from this experience was nice big spliff to share. After the float, I had a fabulous massage. For this I flew five and a half hours to a rocky island in the North Atlantic where the natives speak a totally incomprehensible language that sounds nothing like any other language I ever heard.

Tomorrow we head out to the country to hike and see incredible natural wonders. I plan on wearing everthing i have in my suitcase including that fleece vest. Wish me luck.

L'Shana Tova

I suddenly realized that Rosh Hashonah starts Wednesday evening. I only know this because there are New Year’s greetings in my mailbox. My ignorance of the holiday’s imminent arrival has me thinking: Is it possible to have a spiritual life, Jewish or otherwise, and not believe in God?

I used to say I was agnostic, kind of hedging my bets. But that’s dishonest. I really don’t believe in a divine being of any sort. Or at least such a belief doesn’t factor into my daily life. It certainly hasn’t provided any solace this past year. What has gotten be through?—faith in myself, friends, family, the mere fact that I am alive and still capable of happiness and engagement with the world. Does that qualify as spirituality?

We live in a sick society

The idea that even a shred of doubt exists about whether Davis committed the 1989 crime of which he was convicted—shooting to death an off-duty policeman in Savannah, Ga.—should make a society either grind to a halt or erupt. Davis’s conviction has a thick cloud of doubt hanging over it. But as the executioners in Georgia waited for the Supreme Court’s decision about whether to proceed, you felt the public conversation impatiently drumming its fingers. In the end, the court declined to block the execution, and Davis was killed at 11:08 p.m. Now the question of America’s sick passion for capital punishment will slide away like a baseball score.

Read the whole article here.

Murder Inc. aka the United States of America

Is there anything more important than trying to stop the execution--no, murder--of Troy Davis. How can we profess to live in a civilized country where this can happen. The sense of powerlessness in the face of such injustice, such cruelty and inhumanity is enraging, frustrating and overwhelming to me. Where is the outcry? What can do do?

Puppy Love

Who would have thought I would turn into a dog person. But here I am all googoo eyed and mushy over Wilbur, the cutest puppy ever. I willingly clean up his shit, laugh when he pisses all over my house and insist on cuddling with him for six hours in the car on the way home from New Hampshire.

This is definitely a new experience for me. I never had a dog as a kid. My parents never allowed it and I don’t remember ever really wanting one. Steve, of course, was terrified of all dogs so having a dog was never an option when we were together. The closest we came to having pets was living next door to the dogs in Maine and those dogs were not at all adorable.

Wilbur is off the charts when it comes to adorable.

Home with Wilbur

My husband thought he would live forever. So did I. So it was a big surprise to both of us when he died. It’s been over a year now and I’m busy living my life without him. It’s hard work but I’m managing. But, he, how is he doing up there, down there, wherever he is, without all of us around him. Is he lonely too? Does he miss the laughter, all the good times.

I like to imagine him sitting quietly up on the hill overlooking the lake. He’s dressed in a saffron colored robe and wears his favorite hat. Does he wonder when it will be time to get up, rejoin the party, make noise again. Or is he content to watch it all go by.

I’m having all these thoughts because I am in Maine again just for a day and a half on the way to a wedding in New Hampshire. I am here with Liz and Giuliano and Wilbur, the most adorable of puppies, and being with all of them makes a huge difference in my mood and my outlook. The house doesn’t seem haunted now. I can see a future here and it’s a happy one.

Gazpacho

This has been a strange summer for lots of reasons, the most obvious one, of course, that it was my first full summer in Maine without Steve. Actually, it turned out not be a full summer in Maine. Spending two and a half uninterrupted months at the house on Pleasant Lake proved too difficult this year so I boldly broke with tradition and interspersed my summer in Maine with excursions: a rafting trip in Montana, a week in Cartagena with Liz and her girlfriends, visits to LA and Jamaica and then a trip to Scandinavia at the end of the summer. It was a good strategy although now that I look back it feels like I probably spent more time in airports and airplanes then anywhere else this summer.

When I was in Maine, I mostly had a good time. I got back on the tennis court, discovered paddle boarding on the lake, sat on the deck with a glass of wine to watch the sunset--all the usual things. But now that the summer is nearing its official end, I have one major regret: I never made gazpacho. A pitcher of that fabulously chunky liquid salad spiced as I like it with smoky Spanish pimento was never to be seen in my refrigerator this year. A staple of lunchtime, a healthy pre-dinner or late afternoon snack, perhaps the best reason ever to purchase a food processor, gazpacho has not appeared on the menu at my house in Maine or my apartment in Philadelphia. Its time has passed. . .at least for this year. Maybe next summer I'll be ready for gazpacho again.

Gratitude

In the NYTimes today, I read that Meryl Streep will be honored this year by the John F. Kennedy Center. I loved her comments on learning of the recognition.

“I am deeply honored by this news and wish my mother and father were alive to hear it . . . All that education, allowance, tuition, voice lessons, summer jobs, scholarship application and loving care and discipline—all that they gave me, bore fruit in a way they never dreamed. I am so grateful.”

What a beautiful thought, a wonderful, loving response.

Meryl Streep and I are about the same age. I like to think we have something in common: We both had parents who loved and cherished us and supported our potentialities.

When I was young, I felt I lived a charmed life. Only good things, it seemed, happened to me and my family. I lived in a bubble and tragedy was outside it. When I got older and bad things started happening me to me—parents dying, my younger brother dead from cancer, widowhood—I realized more than ever how hard my parents worked to give me the gift of a happy childhood. I’m thankful for that illusion and for as long as it lasted. It’s the source of my courage, the root of my confidence. It’s what enables to still feel hopeful that I can live my life with grace and meaning. I am so grateful.

On My Way Home

My last day in Copenhagen. I'm going home tomorrow one day earlier than I originally planned. I ostensibly moved up my departure so I would have an extra day at home to get ready for Liz and Giul's arrival. But really it was nearly ten days of eating dinner by myself that was starting to get to me.

This trip has been a strange experience. I feel so lucky that I can do this--take off by myself to somewhere far away where I've never been. It's an exhilarating feeling. I revel in my confidence and freedom. But then there are times when I miss my travel companion very much. I keep thinking how much Steve would have enjoyed this trip. He'd be stopping for hotdogs on the street, knocking back beers in the outdoor cafes, soaking up the vibe. Well I haven't had a hotdog. I'm drinking wvery not beer but I am definitely soaking up the vibe.

Copenhagen

Being a tourist is hard work. First you have to decide what to bring. I always bring too much and never that one article of clothing that would be perfect for the trip. And if you are geographically challenged, in other words your map reading skills are suspect, you spend a lot of time going in circles figuring out how to get from here to there and then back again. I'm very proud of myself on this trip. I've managed to wander around central Stockholm and now Copenhagen without getting hopelessly lost despite the fact that both cities' centers are not laid out on a grid like Philadelphia. Also, both cities have incredibly long street names which make map reading all the more difficult.

Today I probably spent an entire morning walking around a radius of maybe ten blocks. I kept turning down side streets, stepping into tiny shops, walking into galleries, admiring the architecture and then finding myself in some big public square or historic setting. I really like Copenhagen but I think, like Stockholm, I am seeing it at its best. The sun is shining, the outdoor cafes are full (although they thoughtfully provide blankets on the back of chairs) and the bike lanes are crowded. It may still be summer and sultry back home but here it feels like fall or early spring. Nobody is walking or biking in flip flops and shorts. Its rare to see see sandals at all. Jackets are necessary and boots and sneakers are the preferred foot gear. I can't imagine it ever gets really hot and steamy here.

It's too bad I never learned to ride a bike because that is definitely the way to go here. Bike lanes are ubiquitous and they move fast. I even witnessed a major smash up today when two bikers collided and both went down pretty dramatically. Fortunately they both got up and seemed OK. There was no yelling or screaming. They just picked up their bikes and pedaled off. I think I will stick to the sidewalk.

My Hurricane Experience

I missed the hurricane. Years from now when my grandchildren ask me, "Where were you, BB, when the Schuykill overflowed?" I'll have to say I was in Stockholm, Sweden being a tourist, a job I'm at which I'm very accomplished. I'm almost sorry I missed the hurricane. It might have fun sitting on my window seat in the kitchen watching the rain and listening to the wind. Then again maybe that wouldn't have been such a good idea.

I'm glad I haven't missed seeing Stockholm. The city is beautiful and clean and charming and filled with beautiful and clean and very white people, all of whom speak English--which is a good thing since Danish is completely incomprehensible. So far I've done the historic thing. I've wondered through the cobblestone streets and alleys of the old town getting lost but somehow finding my way back to my hotel. I toured the royal palace, saw the changing of the guard and visited the modern museum. I've eaten fish at a harbor side restaurant. Today I plan to do the real work--a thorough survey of the fashion and design scene i.e. shopping.

Surprisely for a city that seems so homogenous and placid compared to the grit and texture of Philly, Stockholm isn't boring. There's an edginess to the city--lots of cool looking young people all wearing Jack Purcell Converse sneakers and skinny jeans while riding their bikes. One thing I did notice is that no one crosses the street until the light turns green. Everyone--hipster, business person, housewife (Is there such a thing in Stockholm?)--waits patiently until the light changes. That sure as hell wouldn't happen back in Philly!

Reading Life

I think I am about to go on a John Cheever binge.

At 6 o'clock this morning I read the last chapter of Falconer, an amazing and beautiful book, more a meditation than a novel. It's so exciting to discover an author new to me and to think of the books waiting for me to get into. I'll be heading to Barnes and Noble today for sure and, without a doubt, I'll come home with a stack of new books to add to the pile on the table in my study, a sort of visible to do list--but all pleasure here, no onerous tasks to slog through. How satisfying it is to take a book from that pile and then once I've finished it, write my name and the date inside--my personal ritual--and then find its rightful place on the shelves that line my study.

Best Day of the Summer

It's days like this that I wonder why the hell I am running back to Philly from Maine. I pretended I was young again today. I went for a run early in the morning when the air was fresh and cool. Then I cruised around the lake on our new paddle board for an hour enjoying the stillness and the quiet of the water. In the afternoon there was yoga on the deck followed by three sets of tennis at the end of the day. A quick hot shower and then sunset and a glass of wine on the dock. Oh, and three advil for a chaser. Perfecto!

Leaving

My final week in Maine. It's been raining for two days now. No running, no tennis. I did yoga to the sound of the rain. I went to bed listening to the rain on the roof. I woke up to a gray vista of mist and clouds and wet leaves. I'm looking forward to going home but sad at the same time. What will it be like when I come back here again next year? Isn't this my home too?

All I know is that I am leaving my husband here on a hill overlooking the lake. Last weekend we placed a granite bench there to mark where he sleeps. Sweet dreams.
.

A Happy Man

One Year Later

It’s almost on year since Steve died. I’ve been very good. I’ve taken care of things. I’ve been strong, sensible, acted rationally most of the time. I’ve gotten through the year, still standing. So now what? Where’s the prize for behaving so admirably? Where’s my reward, my gold star? He’s still not coming back. I’m still alone facing yet another year and another year and years and years ahead of me without him. Right after he died, I kept repeating like a mantra, “I have to get through this year. I have to get through this year.” If I pass this test, survive this pain then something--what I didn’t know and certainly couldn’t verbalize—would happen. I knew it was a fantasy but maybe I needed it. Because here I am one year out, still feeling sad and angry and above all exhausted from it all. I miss my husband. I miss the intensity of his attention, the fierceness of his being. I miss being together even though it wasn’t always easy being together. I miss you Steve.

Going with the Flow

Sometimes life takes you in weird directions. This morning I woke up in the throes of a major anxiety attack--edgy and restless, lots of tears, couldn't run, couldn't do yoga, couldn't do ANYTHING except play countless games of Boggle on my Ipad. Finally, when I guzzled down a whole container of hummus a mere two hours after eating breakfast, I realized I had to get out of Maine despite the fact that it was yet another quintessential sunny and beautiful Maine day. It was just too painful to be there all alone especially this week as I/we count down to the one year anniversary. Ok, I take control. I make a decision. I make a reservation to go home to Philly, to my beautiful, sexy boudoir, to my new library, to life in the big city where I can go the gym, yoga class and maybe, just maybe not feel so sad and lonely.

Cut to the chase, I get to the Portland airport and discover that in my addled and anxious state I have made a reservation in the WRONG direction i.e. from Philly to Portland. This is clear evidence that I am losing my mind, despite the fact that every day I faithfully do the NYTimes crossword puzzle.

Happy ending: I spend the night in Portland and have an absolutely fantastic dinner at Emilitsa--fried cheese with Turkish figs in a sweet balsamic sauce followed by a perfectly grilled whole fish on a bed of chard, all washed down, of course, with several glasses of white wine.

I toddle back to my hotel happy at last.

A Maine Day

It is a beautiful Maine day, the kind of day I like to imagine when I am in Philadelphia and thinking of Maine. The sun is hot, the air is clear, everything is green and gold in the light. There’s a brisk wind making whitecaps on the lake and a sound through the trees. I am sitting on the deck, relaxing after my run, and thinking how lucky I am to be here.

Yesterday I did absolutely nothing. The day was grey and rainy, the perfect excuse to spend the day burrowed into the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. I watched a movie and read my book. I didn’t even bother to walk over to Bob and Jane’s for dinner, preferring to eat leftovers while sitting at the counter and leafing through a new cookbook.

It’s still so odd to be here without Steve. I feel slightly uncomfortable, always wondering what’s the next activity, what should I be doing. The house feels very big and empty to me. He’s everywhere but nowhere.

What Did Eric Cantor Learn in Hebrew School?

This article made me laugh and cry but mostly cry.

Ugh!

I don't often read Tom Friedman's column (despite that fact that he is a Brandeis graduate). I often find him annoyingly simplistic but his piece in today's New York Times is absolutely dead on. In fact, all the editorials and op eds are worth reading today.

What's going on in Washington is so disgusting and depressing for so many reasons but what hit me today was how it must destroying any young person's interest or involvement in the political process. We must be losing a whole generation of voters, candidates, supporters. What young person of any intelligence would now ever want to go into politics, work for the government or run for office.

Hot

Hallelujah! I am in Maine where it’s hot but nothing like it was in Philadelphia. Where the heat was like an evil being, rising up from the sidewalk, assaulting eyes and nose and skin, making any movement a fight you couldn’t win.

I’ve already been in the lake two times since the late afternoon when I got here, whipping off my clothes the minute I arrived even before I unpacked and then at sunset to soap up and get ready for my traditional glass of wine on the dock. Steve would be so proud. “It’s like toast,” he’d say, urging me to get in the lake with him. I always resisted, fearing the shock of the cold water, preferring my nice hot shower at the end of the day.

Once several years ago during another hot and steamy stretch of summer (maybe that was the year we decided to put ceiling fans in every bedroom) we were going to Bob and Jane’s for dinner. Instead of walking through the woods as we usually did we jumped in the water as the sun was fading. Steve walked and I swam. We got out at their dock, walked up to the house with no clothes on and then sat buck naked at the table dripping wet and wrapped in towels. It was a great evening, full of laughs like so many. Who knows how we got home at the end of the night.

On My Own

I am on the move again. This has been a wild, free wheeling summer, finding me all over the place and rarely settling down. Maine, Montana, Cartagena with the girls, back to Maine, down to Jamaica with Liz and Giul and then on to the weirdness of Southern California. I've barely had time to enjoy my new, luxurious bathroom or stretch out with a book on my futon in my newly expanded study. Saturday I head back up to Maine where I will stay until some time in August when the spirit moves me to move on or not. Who knows? Such freedom comes with a price, of course. I am on my own, no faithful, long time travel companion with which to consult, bemoan or enjoy each new experience. Most days I think I can do this, no problem. I'm full of energy, looking forward to moving forward. Other days, I'm not so sure. Keep breathing, I say, keep moving.

Life Soon Sort Out

I saw this sign on the back of a car while driving through the bush on the way back to Treasure Beach from three days on the north coast of Jamaica with Liz and Giuliano. We saw so many special and secret spaces on the island. First Silver Sands, a delightful old enclave of family villas with access to a beautiful beach. Groups of teenagers walked on the beach making plans for their evening. We could hear parties starting at cocktail hour at neighboring houses. It seemed like everyone must be friends from long ago. One night we walked off property to Leroy's Place, a ramshackle shack at the edge of the sea. A TV blared shoot 'em up movies in the back room where a few customers sat quietly. We sat outside drinking beers and watching the sky deepen from dark blue into black, a steady wind keeping the summer night pleasantly cool.

Next day we drove inland to Itopia, Sally's magical old house in the jungle. Before getting there we turned off the main room and bounced along a dirt lane until we arrived at the sea. The landscape looked Mediterranean--a jumble of rocks, scrubby bushes and a turquoise sea. We scrambled over the rocks to a large tidal pool filled with crystal clear water. We could have been in Greece.

The next day we drove through sun and rain down to Treasure Beach and then at last up to Round Hill and Yellow Plum Farm. I love Jamaica.

Weather

I love when this happens: it's a beautiful sunny day. I do my laundry in the morning and hang it on the line to dry. In the afternoon I take a yoga class with Maura on the deck and then a long walk with Jane. Around 6 0' clock I pour myself a class of wine and contemplate taking a shower. Then suddenly it all changes. I hear thunder. The lake turns into an ocean and whitecaps smash over the dock. The wind bends the trees almost horizontal. I see lightening and the sky gets dark. Finally the rain comes in huge sheets soaking the deck and I have to rush to close the windows. I sit on my bed, nestled in my pillows, and watch the weather move across the lake. The deck is littered with leaves and pine needles. I can still hear a distant rumble of thunder. The rain is slowly tapering off and the wind is silent. It's just 7 o'clock and I am sure we will have a sunset tonight.

Fourth of July 2011

A traditional Fourth of July party in downtown Otisfield, Maine. Click on the photo for the full report.



Some things never change-salmon and peas, strawberry shortcake, Lotke's ribs, my black bean salad, Marge's brownies. Some things are different--we actually ate at 9 not 11.

I've been feeling Steve's presence all weekend--seeing him sitting on the corner of the deck early in the morning, hearing him arguing a call on the tennis court, woofing down the ribs last night, sauce all over his beard. He knew how to have fun. So do I.

Home

Laughter is good. Happiness is better. I was laughing and happy a lot this past week in Cartagena. I needed that...especially since yesterday was my wedding anniversary. I would have been married 42 years, a seemingly impossible statistic, a whole lifetime really.

I loved listening to the girls talk and talk and talk about their lives, their relationships, their plans for the future. And all the time I was thinking how much they have in front of them, whole new worlds of happiness and sorrow to experience.

Moving On

Time to pull out the suitcase and start packing again. This time I am off to Cartagena, Columbia to celebrate Liz's 30th birthday in the company of 10+ accomplished young women, every one of which is gorgeous, talented, stylish (can't wait to see the outfits!), intelligent and interesting. And did I mention fun as well. I shall try to keep up.

This is definitely my summer of moving around, a deliberate strategy to keep me looking forward, concentrating on the new and not the old. Maine. . .Montana. . .Maine. . . Cartagena. . .Maine. . .Jamaica. . .California.. . .Maine again. . .and who knows where else until I arrive at September and a month of weddings. So far this peripatetic life style seems to suit me. I'll see how long it lasts.

On The Wide Missouri

I am at Triple Creek Ranch in Darby, Montana soaking up the luxury after three days and nights on the Missouri River retracing the route of Lewis and Clark in a big red raft with Bob and Jane, Michelle and Kevin and Elliott.

This has truly been one of the most amazing trips of my life. We started out on a glorious sunny day, literally all alone on the river, with our guide and helmsman Bob. I felt like Huck Finn paddling down the middle of America, in the middle of nowhere, through a fresh and beautiful landscape I had never experienced before. The river was incredibly high and muddy and fast moving. Any anxiety I felt before hand was instantly allayed by the sensation of being on the river away from it all.

That night we camped on the bank of the river, tried to fish but nothing was catching and went to bed after dinner anticipating another day of easy paddling. Some time after midnight the heavens opened accompanied by major thunder and lightning. I was too dumb to be scared. I was more worried about stepping on a rattlesnake if I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

In the morning I found my tent flooded and the rain dripping on my face. The day was damp and cold and soggy, perfect for poker. Later in the afternoon, it eventually cleared enough for us to take a spectacular hike through a slot canyon that has us scrambling over and under rocks as well as sloshing through water and serious mud for almost three hours since the normal route had washed out.

Next day we hit the river again in our rain gear and extra layers and battled 35 mph head winds and two foot waves. Upper body got a serious workout! By lunch time the weather had cleared although the wind persisted to roar. We put in for lunch and hiked up through the sandstone rocks to “Hole in the Wall”, shimmying up and down a chute to the highest point like geriatric gazelles. Never have peanut butter and jelly tasted so good. Back down to the river and our raft, we battled the wind in our faces until we made camp for the night.

The next day, not surprisingly, was cold and wet but we had 20 miles to go until our landing. For once we didn’t have to fight a head wind. The river was smooth and spread out. It felt powerful to be on it. Like the seasoned and hardy paddlers we had become, we pulled and pulled, laughing and singing all the way, and make the landing in record time. Not surprising, we learned the next day that the Missouri was now closed to all river traffic given the severe conditions.

How to describe the sensation of spending three days on the river, seeing no one at all, passing through a desolate wilderness that seemed unchanged since the time of Lewis and Clark. Spotting bald eagles soaring above us in the sky or perched on a nest in a cottonwood tree guarding their babies. Watching antelopes and deer with their fawns gamble through the hills. Staring in awe at massive sandstone cliffs that looked like the ruins of ancient buildings and sacred spaces. Feeling the power of wind and water and the movement of the earth through the ages.

I kept thinking how lucky I was to be here now. How there must be so many other beautiful places in the United States that I have never seen. How grand and how diverse this country is in its scenery and its population. No wonder it is so difficult to govern.

Weather Report

There is still snow on Mt. Washington!

And today on my run the air was so clear I felt like I could just reach out and touch it. It is a quintessential Maine Day--cool in the shade and hot in the sun. I've had the whole gamut of weather this vacation. Unseasonably hot weather over Memorial Day Weekend followed by a ferocious hail storm one morning that littered the deck with marble sized balls of ice. Then for a few days it was freezing. I built huge fires and had soup for lunch. At night, I jumped into my bed and really missed that big blonde hairy beast I used to cuddle with.

I'm leaving Maine tomorrow for Montana and I won't be back until the end of the month. By then, the lilacs and the lilies of the valley will be gone but the goldenrod will be coming up. Maybe the lake will be warmer and I can begin to think about going for a dip. And maybe the house won't feel quite as strange when I return.

All By Myself

For my 60th birthday, Liz and I rented a house on the Greek island of Sifnos and invited five of my friends and five of hers to spend the week with us. Best of all, Liz and I along with Abby and Asha stayed on for another week of pleasure. One night, the two philippino women who cooked and cleaned and who lived in a tiny room in the lowest level of the house, invited us to have a karaoke night together. While the four of us howled with laughter as we watched each other do our best Madonna or Diana Ross imitations, the two maids approached their turns at the microphone with the greatest seriousness. They chose sad ballads and sang them with real sweetness as scenes from the Philippines flashed on the TV screen in front of them. Ever since that evening, whenever I hear Celine Dion sing “All by Myself” I think of those two little women, virtual prisoners in that big house, serenading their families so far, far away.

So here I am today after everyone has gone back to the city all by myself in my cabin in Maine. And strange to say, I am feeling much better. I like moving around the house, straightening up, putting away the laundry or just sitting on the deck and breathing in the clean Maine air. I need this time alone to feel like this house belongs to me, all by myself.

Memorial Day

The weekend is over and I have survived. It’s been tough though. I’m beginning to realize that it will take some time before I truly feel comfortable here in Maine without Steve. His presence is everywhere here—on the porch, in the house, at the tennis court, the bocce court and most of all in my head. Somehow in Philadelphia, it’s easier to look forward and not get overwhelmed by the past. But here in Maine the loss feels so much fresher, the pain that much rawer. I know it will get better. It will just take time to make new memories so the old ones won’t hurt as much.

Back Home

I had forgotten how beautiful it is here in Maine in the early spring. The leaves on the tree are a pale green, “a hopeful green” as Marlene said as we drove from the airport. Lilacs, white and purple, punctuate the road from Casco to our house and delicate lilies of the valley march along the shoulders. The ferns are just beginning to unfurl themselves. It’s so quiet on the lake, just the sound of the waves and the wind. And as a special gift, it’s warm and sunny.

I’m fine here, thank goodness. I’ve been really anxious about returning to the house but I knew as soon as I walked in it would be all right. Habit just takes over. I unpacked all my bags, cleaned the mouse droppings out of my drawers, rearranged the kitchen shelves, even did a load of laundry.

Everyone comes tomorrow but I am grateful to have this time when it’s just me and Bob and Jane. We’ll eat dinner together here tonight, watch the basketball game, maybe even play some poker. And we will all be thinking of Steve and how much we miss and love him.

I Love This Picture!

Much love to my BFF and my sistah.

Going Back

This morning it occurred to me that in my former life I was supposed to spend this entire month in Italy. In other words I should be drinking fresh blood orange juice for breakfast, taking long hikes up the crete siennese past the ferocious sheep dogs, eating Marcella's incredible hand rolled pasta and watching the sun set over the Tuscan hills while enjoying a glass or two of prosecco.

Instead I am here in Philadelphia. But at least I am now ensconced in my new digs where I can still watch the sun set, albeit over West Philly, with a glass of prosecco in hand. I really miss being in Italy and I will go back. I just know it will be a different experience on my own, not worse, not better, just different.

Next week I am heading up to Maine. It won't be my first time alone in the house. I went back right after Steve died but somehow coming up by myself at the start of the summer feels like a new and different experience. I think I am doing all the right things to make my return a good one. The house will be filled with people who I love and who love me. I plan to play tennis, go for a run on the road and, yes, at sunset sit on the dock with a glass of prosecco and watch the sun disappear into the lake.

Moving Up

I am loving, loving, loving my newly renovated bathroom. Calling it a bathroom definitely does that space a disservice. It is now a very sexy, sophisticated boudoir featuring a plush white sofa to loll in, something I've been doing a lot of lately. All I need to complete the look is to buy myself a diaphanous negligee trimmed in marabou, of course, and matching white satin mules so I can swish around the space in style.

The move back upstairs after nearly three months sleeping in my downstairs guest bedroom has made me happy and sad at the same time. That seems to be the story of my life right now. The space where Steve and I shared our most intimate moments is gone. All that is left is his picture on the mantle.

Reality Check

It suddenly occurred to me today that I am no longer middle aged. Whew! That's a powerful and potentially depressing thought. I don't know what to call this time of life. I'm not really old but I'm definitely not young any more. And 70 is a lot closer than 50. Any suggestions?

Happy Mother's Day

I am the recipient of the the absolutely best Mother's Day present ever. To see why I am feeling higher than a kite today, click here.

This is much better than a bouquet of roses or a box of chocolates.

My Birthday

Well, I got through my birthday. Another first to be checked off in this first year of living alone. Yesterday was the first time I didn’t get a super sized, super mushy Hallmark card from Steve, one that he would personalize by covering all the empty white spaces with one long run on, rambling sentence, punctuated randomly with exclamation marks and heavy underlines. It was a tradition that I always made fun of but always looked forward to. He usually placed the card under my pillow for me to find early in the morning. And then I had to read it out loud to him while he nodded agreement. So sweet.

Well yesterday there was no card under my pillow but there was a bunch of balloons standing pertly outside my bedroom door to greet me first thing on my birthday. That was one of many surprises my wonderful daughter had planned to make my day special and not sad. The day began with a private yoga class with my favorite instructor. The day ended at a fun new restaurant where we were joined, much to my surprise and delight, by my BFF and my Sistah. I am a very lucky woman.

Yellow Plum

For the last five days and nights I have been in heaven. No, I am not in Maine or Tuscany. I am in Jamaica staying at Yellow Plum, Liz and Giuliano's magical bungalow up in the cool hills of Round Hill overlooking the ocean and Treasure Beach. Working together they have built a truly heavenly sanctuary suffused with love and good feeling. I am so happy and honored to be here with them. . . and Rocco and Pella too. I love sitting on the veranda watching the sky change and the clouds move over the Pedrp Plains below. I love perambulating around the property hearing the birds sing, seeing all the amazing trees, feeding the donkeys. I am so proud of what they have created here.

One morning Liz and I woke up early before the sun got too fierce for exercise and took a long walk up and down and around the hills. Another morning we planted vegetables and flowers in the kitchen garden and more trees and bushes around the lawn and driveway. The soles of my feet are stained red from the rich soil characteristic of this region of Jamaica.

How is it possible, I ask myself, to be so happy and yet so sad at the same time? Yesterday was Liz's 30th birthday and we celebrated with a special dinner on the veranda with good friends. Giuliano in a true labor of love made, completely from scratch, amazing pumpkin ravioli and that was only one course of our delicious dinner! I was so happy to be able to be here in this magical place to celebrate my daughter's birthday and so sad that Steve wasn't experiencing it with me. I could just picture him parked on a chair on the veranda declaring over and over again, "This is so beautiful! I'm never leaving this spot.". I guess I have to kvell for the two of us.

Tonight

This is ridiculous. It is suddenly summer. Flip flop weather. They've turned on the air conditioning in my building but I won't concede. It's way too early. So my windows are wide open and the sun is pouring in along with the pollen, coating every surface. This is training for Jamaica where i am headed on Wednesday. Tonight at last I took the time to cook myself dinner--baby bok choy over soba noodles. I chopped garlic and ginger. I had a glass of wine and pots to wash when I was done. Sometimes I just can't face another take out container.

My Mom

I always thought my mom was beautiful. Doesn’t every daughter? But she really was! She was tall and slender and elegant, all qualities that I, a short, plump girl with a childish pixie haircut, hoped to grow into one day--the same day I was going to miraculously lose by baby fat, grow six inches and morph into a younger version of my mother.

Many, many years later when I was an adult, still short but not plump and now with a sophisticated version of that pixie haircut, I was in an elevator at the retirement community where my dad had moved after my mother’s death when a woman recognized him. On discovering that I was his daughter, she turned to me and said with great conviction, “Oh, your mother was a stunning woman.” It was more than a statement of fact. It was a definitive pronouncement. And as soon as she said it, I knew it was the best and truest way to describe my mom. Stunning. The word set her apart from other women more conventionally pretty perhaps but lacking her distinctive style and natural sophistication.

Here’s what a stunning woman looks like. I see her first in old photographs taken long before I was born. She is posing for the camera on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, one foot resting on the rail behind her. She is wearing a big shouldered coat cinched tightly around her waist and holding a rectangular bag against her chest. She stares into the camera not smiling (She rarely opened her mouth when facing the camera, ashamed of her crooked teeth.) looking ever so smart and confident. I like to think it was a boyfriend who took that picture.

Then there is a picture taken in Palm Springs during the first year of her marriage. She is sitting, no slouching, on a diving board, her long slender legs dangling over the edge towards the pool. She is wearing a drapey one piece bathing suit--I have one just like it now—looking languidly out to the camera. The photo is in black and white but I am sure those legs are tanned from the sun.

And always there is the picture I have in my mind’s eye. I am a child sitting on the floor of her bathroom looking up at her most intently as she puts on her makeup for a Saturday night out. She is wearing a black half slip and a strapless black bra, looking wonderfully sexy and glamorous to me. Her make up completed, I follow her to her bedroom where we open her closet and carefully sift through the rack of dresses until she finds the right outfit for the evening. Could it be the slinky white halter gown she wore with long elbow length kid gloves. We were both devastated when the cleaner ruined that dress.

Did I think that some of that magic, that stunning quality, would ever descend on me. Is that why I always got dressed in my parents’ room before a big date? How different the image that came back to me when I stared into the full length mirror on her closet door—a short, rounded but not unattractive girl--a chubby Natalie Wood as a boyfriend once described me—cute but definitely not stunning.

Higher Education

I think I well on my way to earning a Ph.D in widowhood. Having just completed Joyce Carol Oates’ “Widow”, I’ve now done all the required reading. What a weird book. The first third of the book when she deals with her immediate reactions and emotions I found oddly exhilarating. “Yes!,” I kept saying. “That’s how it feels. Exactly.” But then she lost me. Way too much talk about the allure of suicide when I was certain that wasn’t going to happen. And then to discover that nine months afterwards she got married again after writing almost 500 pages detailing her mental and physical anguish. But then who am I to be so judgmental. She did what she had to in order to survive.

Here am I at almost the nine month mark of my widowhood. I have no plans for the future except to get through this year. Right now that seems enough of an accomplishment.

Home

My friends call me a homing pigeon, always wanting to get back to my nest. It’s true. I make forays out into the world—weekends in New York, a quick trip to Miami, visits to Jamaica—but I am always very happy,indeed secretly relieved to get home, safe and alone in my nest.

The only problem is that my nest, my inner sanctum, is now a construction site, a mess of dust and boxes and lumber and paint cans. In a perhaps rash and impulsive but what I thought was an absolutely necessary move I am renovating my bedroom, bath and study—remaking what were once shared spaces (Not my study, that was always just for me. Steve had to have permission to enter) into a new space that will somehow confirm, reflect, make final my independent status.

For two months now I’ve been living like a college student in my tiny downstairs guest bedroom. I only go upstairs when the construction crew has left for the day. I walk around imagining what it will feel like when I move back in. I wonder what Steve would think of my renovation. Would he be angry or would he understand? His closet is gone—now part of my study. His sink is ripped out—replaced by a window seat. I hope I will be happy there.

Tennis, anyone?

I got a solicitation in the mail from a scooter company today. Not a kid’s scooter company but the ones that cater to disabled, home bound senior citizens. Is someone trying to tell me something? Maybe that’s why this afternoon, I threw on my sneakers and went for a run down to Penns Landing. It was the first time I’d hit the pavement since last September when I tripped on a broken paving store and smashed my knee so badly I couldn’t wear my skinny jeans for weeks. That definitely made me feel old. So today, I ran very carefully and very slowly with my eyes focused on the pavement the entire time.

This week, I’m scheduled to get back on the tennis court again. Immediately after Steve died, I felt I didn’t have the strength or concentration or even the desire to play and so I didn’t even step on the court for the rest of the summer. I think I’m ready now.

Camp Memories

“I can be bad. I can be punished.” Jake, age 6
“I can be happy. I can be sad.” Ellen, age 63.

I am learning to honor my feelings. Sometimes, sadness will hit me like a wave, leaving me breathless, unable to move. Other times I am happy, almost buoyant, excited by the possibilities of a new life. Mostly, I am not afraid. I know the sadness will pass. I know I can be happy again.

I was happy this weekend. I went to New York for a reunion of Camp Greylock for Girls, the summer camp I attended from ages 11 to 14 as a short, plump girl with a pixie haircut. At Greylock, I felt like I had found my true home, my best friends, my real self. I lived for those summers.

I rushed into the reunion eager to introduce myself again to Naomi Levine, the incredibly accomplished, dynamic and charismatic owner of the camp. I wanted to tell her how much camp had meant to me, how I had looked forward to each summer, how I still remembered so much from those four summers. I was so happy to see her again but, frankly, I have no idea if she remembered me at all. It seems odd to think that although camp had mattered so much to me, perhaps I had not made much of an impression on camp. That didn't bother me. My sense of how important those summers had been to me then and to who I was now was unchanged.

Only one of my bunk mates came to the reunion. We hadn't seen each other since we were 14 or 15 year old girls when she wore her hair in a long dark braid down her back and I stuffed paper into the bras I really didn't need yet. No matter. We sat together and talked and talked and talked. That afternoon I felt like I gotten a gift from the past. Camp had been special and I was too. Someone remembered.

Dreamland

Sometimes I think I am my most creative when I am asleep. I am a veritable Shakespeare of dreamland—writing, producing and directing five act dramas all shot in brilliant technicolor with complicated plot lines and lots of characters. How to bring all that energy and creativity to my conscious, everyday life is the challenge.

Lately I’ve been dreaming a lot about Steve. The dreams aren’t happy or sad just very intense. He’s not always on his best behavior. Sometimes he’s annoying the hell out of me as admittedly he could do. We did have epic fights especially when we were first married. Once when we lived in an apartment building on Locust Street, he threw a bunch of my clothes out the window. They landed in the tree outside our building. Who knows how I finally retrieved them.

My apartment is studded with pictures of the two of us. We’re happy in all of them. Looking at them doesn't make me sad but sometimes I do feel anxious. I don't ever want to forget what it was like to be together.

Dreaming in Belize

I have discovered the best antidote for loneliness—hanging out with a bunch of Jamaicans on a sandy spit of land in the middle of nowhere. Well, not actually the middle of nowhere, but it might as well have been. Living at Thatch Cay for six nights in a one room cabin built on stilts above the ocean, going to sleep with the sound of the waves and and the wind, I felt like I was far, far away from anything cold or sad or unhappy. Civil war in Libya, endless conflict in Afghanistan, nuclear meltdown in Japan all in the distance, maybe not even possible.

In the morning I woke up with the sun and watched it rise slowly out of the ocean. I spent the days on the water, fishing or snorkeling. I could lay in the hammock on my veranda and be mesmerized by the blue of the ocean or watch frigate birds and and pelicans make patterns overhead. Out there somewhere on the horizon were other sandy bits of land, an alternative universe certainly to city life but even island life as I have experienced it in Jamaica. In the evening, I drank and talked and laughed feeling relaxed and free and wonderfully tired. Then, flashlight in hand, I walked back to my cabin under a canopy of endless stars, falling instantly asleep.

The Strong One

I’m finding it way too easy to be by myself. No need to concentrate on being the softer, gentler Ellen, the one with long hair not the one with the aggressively short and dykish hairdo. (BTW, why oh why did it take me so long to grow out that supremely unflattering ultra short style? I look so much better and so much younger (!) with long hair. Did no one notice or were they afraid to tell me? Probably the latter.) I can eat a baked potato for dinner or even stuff myself with Mary’s crackers dipped into a container of Bobbi’s ultra garlic hummus. (Full disclosure: Sometimes I eat the whole thing!) I can blast Etana at full volume and sing along as I dance around the apartment. I can talk to myself all day long without worrying about freaking anyone out. I can be happy; I can be sad but, most of all, I can be lonely.

Status Report

Pragmatic not dramatic. That's my new mantra. That doesn't mean I don't wake up some mornings and want to start screaming. Tears are always a possibility but hysteria is outlawed. Never been my modus operandi.

It doesn't help right now that I am basically living in my small downstairs bedroom having initiated a major renovation of the master bedroom and bath and my study. If ample space to live in is the greatest luxury, I am definitely experiencing a loss of status. I had fantasies of coming home from Jamaica and finding those spaces magically transformed but the reality is I will be living in a construction site for a while. Yet another work in progress.

B or not to B

To blog or not to blog. That is the question. I can’t decide whether I should continue this very public form of self expression or just keep a journal. Maybe I should buy one of those old fashioned diaries with a lock and key. I had one when I was around 10 and every entry began “Dear Dairy” as I realized when I reread it later on.

I feel like I have entered a new phase of widowhood. This is my life and I am dealing with it as best I can. Still shocked, still uncertain but not completely bewildered or overwhelmed.

Changing Lives!

I woke up today and decided I was bored being a widow. I’m bored feeling like a widow; I’m bored writing about being a widow. I am definitely bored reading about being a widow. I did order Joyce Carol Oates’ new book though. Maybe I’ll learn something.

I drove to Mandeville today with Liz and Giuliano. At the hardware store I saw a van with a bumper sticker that read Jesus, Changing Lives! The exclamation point made all the difference. I’m not looking for Jesus but I am looking to change my life. I need to find some exclamations points in my future.

Freedom

I raced through the final pages of “Freedom” by Jonathan Franzen last night. I was reading it in bed cocooned under the mosquito net, the rest of the house in darkness around me. I shut the book at about midnight but it took me a while to get to sleep. I was too excited and to wrapped up in the characters to let it go. What an achievement—a book written on a grand scale about big ideas and requiring a serious commitment from the reader to pay attention.

Okay, Ladies, What are We Going to Do?

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/26/opinion/26sat1.html

Carpe Diem

I’m trying my best to live in the here-and-now, to enjoy the present moment. It’s not hard here in Jamaica with the sound of the sea roaring in the background drawing me from vista to vista. But every once in a while with no real warning, sadness creeps in and takes me over, reminding me that the loss is permanent and will go on forever. When that happens I take a deep breath, maybe I even cry, and wait for the feeling to gradually dissipate.

When I was at camp and learning how to swim, I was afraid to dive down to the bottom of the lake, sure I would run out of breath before I could safely get back to the surface. I tried and tried but always I would start to panic and pop back up gasping for breath. Finally one day a counselor told me the secret: not to let out my breath all at once but to blow it out slowly, bubble by bubble. Good advice.

The War Against Women

Lets face facts: The Republicans hate women. They hate sex except when it's not with their partner. They want us barefoot and pregnant and locked in the kitchen or cringing in the bedroom. The vendetta against Planned Parenthood is a war against women. We have to speak out, fight back, get angry. Representative Jackie Speier did just that last night.