There Will Be Brisket

Fresh from a glorious weekend in Hudson, New York for Sanaya and Chris' splendid wedding, I am ensconced in the kitchen making Rosh Hashanah dinner for a large crowd of family and friends.  Like a true Jewish mother and cook, I panicked this morning and worried that I hadn't prepared enough brisket for everybody.   (Being a vegetarian, I toyed with the notion of not making brisket at all and serving fish in its place.  But tradition won out and I didn't want to disappoint those who are incapable of imagining a New Year's dinner without brisket.) So I rushed out to the store bright and early and bought another piece of meat to cook.   

Yesterday I went for a long hike along the Wissahickon.  It felt like being somewhere far away but I was just a short drive from the city.  There wasn't a cloud in the sky when we started out.  The air was so clear it felt like it would shatter to the touch.  When I went to bed last night I turned off the air conditioning and opened the windows wide to the night.  It was delightfully cool and I snuggled under my comforter as if I was in Maine.  Is this the beginning of fall for real or just a tease? 

Those Were the Days

Having seen Stevie Nicks in AC this summer, this video seems particularly poignant to me. 

Alternative Reality

Clearly, I live in an alternative reality.  One where this is no such thing as "legitimate rape," a truly horrid phrase that I am still trying to get my mind around.  I mean, what makes a rape legitimate? I  just can't figure it out. Is it legitimate if the rapist doesn't beat you, use a gun or a knife, but just verbally threatens death and disfigurement.  Or is it legitimate if the victim is at wearing a mini skirt and tank top and knocking back a few beers? Or, looking through the other end of the telescope can someone tell me what makes a rape illegitimate?

The women at the Republican convention haven't figured it out yet either.  According to Irin Carmon who paid a visit to the so called Women's Pavilion at the Republican National Convention in Tampa, the women there just think men are "clueless."  They're not angry just a little aggravated. Boys will be boys, even congressmen.

Maybe they've decided to live in an alternative reality.

Night Time

 They say that August is the month of shooting stars but I haven't seen one yet this year.  (Time is running out.  I leave Maine on Sunday.) But instead I've witnessed a succession of incredible, technicolor sunsets no one alike, each one setting the sky ablaze with different colors and patterns. 

The last few nights I've walked down to the dock by myself before going to bed to watch the moon set over the lake.   For some reason I don't know and wouldn't understand anyway, the moon--first a sliver, then a crescent and tonight a half moon--is orange. The lake is dark and deep except for the faint orange glow cast by the setting moon.  When I look up I can see the Milky Way stretching overhead. I like to sit on the bench and breath in the quiet for a little bit.   And then I walk back to the house and go to sleep.

I Live in Dog World Now

Wilbur gets first dibs on the New York Times.

Wilbur and Ackee take over the couch.

Ackee travels first class to the dock.

The Akin Fuckery

As usual, Irin Carmon at Salon.com tells it like it is:

It’s not that I don’t understand why people, including pro-choice organizations, like to talk about rape or life endangerment exceptions. They illustrate how incredibly cruel opponents to abortion are, how divorced they are from the difficult and knotty circumstances of real life. And they help people who can’t understand what kind of woman has an abortion — despite that real 1-in-3 statistic — realize that all kinds of women have abortions, including ones they find sympathetic. Women who have abortions have been so demonized that storytelling helps make that essential empathic leap that so many people are missing. But as Akin shows, once you start haggling over reasons, you’re giving up half the fight — which is that this is about bodily autonomy and respect for women’s ability to determine their own lives.  

You can read the entire column here.

It is a blessed day as they say in Jamaica and a quintessential Maine day as I say in Otisfield--all blue and green and golden.  I spent the morning walking around the lake--some 11 miles--with a friend.  We do that together at least once a summer.  Today when we passed the white clapboard church on the road I could hear the sound of the congregation singing hymns.  When I got back to the house, it was time to eat lunch on the deck, read the paper and contemplate what the next activity should be.  Lots to choose from including doing nothing but taking in this perfect day.  That's hard for me but I'm working on it.

I woke up this morning--way too early as usual--to a smear of grey on my windows.  Looking out over the rooftops, I could almost believe the streets and sidewalks were dusted with a thin layer of  snow but then the air conditioner clicked on to remind me what time of year it really was.  In this summer's relentless heat, it's hard to believe winter will ever come.  But Labor Day--the unofficial end of summer--is almost here.  Now at the tail end of the summer season, I am finally going back to Maine where the air will be fresh and cool in the morning and at night I will go to sleep snuggled  under a comforter, the windows wide open and no air conditioner pumping out a stale and manufactured version of winter.

Seize the Moment!

 

Visions of Arcadia

I am getting ready to head down to Jamaica this weekend which means that I am blasting Bob Marley on my sound system while I pack as little as possible in my suitcase.  I will be staying at Yellow Plum with Liz and Giul. . . .and Rocco, Pella and Biggins, of course.  I can already picture myself sitting on the veranda looking out over rolling green hills to the ocean and the sky far in the distance.

Last night while looking out at a spectacular sunset streaked sky from my favorite window seat, I realized that except for a week in Maine over the Fourth and this quick trip to Jamaica,  I will have spent most of my summer right here in the heart and heat of the city.  This is a first for me.  Even when I was working full time, I used to rush up to Maine every weekend, happy to escape and then always sad to come back.  

I think of the lake a lot.  I see it in my mind's eye covered with acres of diamonds by the afternoon sun.  I imagine sitting on the dock at sunset and watching the sky turn colors as the sun disappears into the lake.  Does the house miss me? Does it wonder why I've stayed away this summer?

Earlier this week, I went to see Visions of Arcadia at the museum, a truly transporting exhibit of paintings full of light and feeling.  At the end of the show, the viewer is asked to sketch his or hers vision of arcadia.  That used to be Maine for me.  I'm not so sure any more.

x + y =z

I loved this article in the Sunday NYTimes.  I am mathematically challenged to say the least--I barely remember my times tables--and algebra in 9th or 8th grade (?) was a huge challenge.  So well I remember trying fruitlessly to solve word problems.  The key to the solution always seemed to escape me, the use of words and not just numbers only adding to my confusion.  Fifty years later, I still recall the humiliation and panic caused by my abysmally low SAT math scores.  Would I ever get into college? 

And yet, one of my pleasantest memories is sitting with my dad at our dining room table doing my algebra homework together.  I'm thinking how handsome he is and how he knows everything.   He is patiently explaining to me how to read a word problem and create an equation that finds the answer.  x + y + z.   I get it! I get it!. . . but only here at the dining table with my dad sitting across from me.

Years and years later, I sat with my son at the table in our kitchen and coaxed him, begged him, entreated him  to do his homework, all of which was a challenge he deemed impossible.   Once in frustration he tore up his assignment into little pieces and scattered them on the floor.  I patiently picked up all those little papers and pasted them together for him to bring into school the next day, so desperate was I that he not fail.  Who knows if he remembers. 

When We Were the Kennedys

I started it one night and finished it in the morning before getting out of in bed--When We Were the Kennedys by Monica Wood.   It's a memoir by a woman who grew up in Mexico, Maine, a rural town not far from Otisfield where I've spent so many summers.  It opens with the death of her father when she was just nine and ends with the assassination of President Kennedy six months later.  It never strays from the small community of largely Catholic, working class families whose livelihoods are tied directly or indirectly to the paper mill that dominates, pollutes but at the same time feeds the life of the town.  Its main characters are the members of her family, her childhood friends and their families, the nuns at the Catholic school she attends.  There's a large cast of characters--every one of whom is described with love and compassion and telling detail.

Tragedy occurs right at the onset--her Dad dies suddenly on his way to work one day--but the book isn't steeped in depression or ugliness.  When I was finished reading it, I felt that I had been privileged to read a private account of crucial events in this one family's history, a gift by the writer to the people who loved her and whom she loved.

The definition of the word heartfelt is "Sincere; Deeply and strongly felt".  This is a heartfelt book.

.

West Philly

I've spent a  portion of the last two days in West Philly.  Yesterday Liz and I rode the #13 trolley out to 40th and Baltimore to have dinner at the Chat House.  I hadn't ridden on the trolley since I was a teenager and living in Yeadon with my parents.  The #13 trolley was our way into center city.  We hiked down the hill to catch the trolley then rode all along Chester Avenue and finally down into the tunnel at 40th Street and into center city.  In those days, the trolley wasn't air conditioned.  On hot days, all the windows were wide open so you could lean out and feel the breeze on your face and look out at the street.  The cold air was pumping in last night's trolley but it was filled with hot and sweaty passengers coming home tired and cranky from a long day at work. I remembered getting off at my stop just past Cobbs Creek and having to trudge up that long hill to my house on the corner of Church Lane and Darnell Avenue.  After dinner, Liz and I walked back to center city past beautiful old homes with big porches and flowering trees along the sides.  I didn't think these houses were the homes that most of the passengers on the #13 trolley were going back to.

This afternoon I walked out to West Philly following Walnut Street across the Schuykill to spend a couple hours at the Institute of Contemporary Art.  It was really hot crossing the bridge from center city and I felt the sweat trickle down my back.  It was a relief to step into the cool and dark of ICA.  The guard laughed and laughed when I told her I had walked all the way from center city.  "I did that when Septa was on strike," she said, "and then I had to stand all day here.  I was tired."

Upstairs was the exhibit I had come to see: Stefan Sagmeister: The Happy Show,  a mash up of videos, graphic displays of information, interactive installations by an Austrian graphic designer exploring his search for the meaning of happiness--how to define it, how to feel it, what causes it.  The gallery was nearly empty so I took my time, happy to be alone in a cool, dark space.  I laughed, I listened, I watched, I read,  I felt happy, bored, interested, even sad at one point.  It made me think which I guess was the point after all.  Then I walked back home crossing the new South Street Bridge (that's what the banners say) which I really like, with views of the river and the city on either side.   

Feeling the Heat

I haven't posted for over two weeks (I'm feeling ambivalent about continuing this blog (Is it too trivial, a waste of time? Should I be doing something more serious?) and it's kind of pathetic to make my return to blogging a post about the weather.  But I just came back from running a short errand that took me outside for maybe 30 minutes tops.  I hadn't been outside since the early morning when it was hot but within acceptable parameters.  This afternoon it felt literally painful to be moving let alone breathing. 

I hate when commentators like right wing fundamentalists start blaming natural disasters on our supposed sinfulness.  But this heat spell really does feel like a punishment.  And it's so clearly one we've brought on ourselves by willfully ignoring the evidence of climate change and steadfastly refusing to do what is necessary and right to save our planet. . .if that is indeed possible.

My depressing, maybe even despairing, mood has only been intensified by reading Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.  I was surprised to learn that it was written in 1951.  The grim and dystopian world it describes--on the brink of nuclear destruction, hostile to ideas and learning, devoid of joy and real emotion--feels way too close to the world we live in now.   

Weather Report

We've been having weird but wonderful weather here--sudden storms that tear across the lake without warning followed by brilliant sunshine and cloud swept skies.  Last night at sunset time, we could view a double rainbow at one end and then a dramatic, smoky end of day sky at the other end.

Then this morning I woke up around 4 am to the full moon pouring a golden path right across the lake and into my bedroom.  I went out on the deck and watched it descend slowly into the water.  There was complete silence except for the weird call of loons who I imagine were appreciating the view as well.  Then the skies began to lighten and it was just an hour to morning.  Somehow I managed to get back in bed and go to sleep for awhile.

Welcome to Philly, Cuz

I now have a roommate for the first time since college over 40 years ago.  (A husband, which I had for 41 years, does not qualify as a roommate.  Living with a spouse is way different from living with a roommate.) My new roommate is my 25 year old nephew, Jonathan, who is starting graduate school at Penn this summer.  He moved in on Thursday and immediately experienced Philadelphia at its best--the Night Market down on Washington Avenue.

 This is going to be fun. 

Dateline: Heaven

I'm in Maine, a refugee from the heat in the city.  It's hot here, too, but there's a lake to cool off in and a breeze coming off the lake that makes the deck the perfect place to sit and read. . .or watch the dogs.  Because, dear reader,  I live in dog world now with Wilbur, the wonder dog, and his brother Ackee who do nothing but run around and play all day inside and out.  Wilbur sleeps like a prince in a huge crate in the living room, his toys litter the floor.  He even lounges on the sofa like it a king on his throne.  How things have changed in Heaven.

Some things never change like the consistent variability of Maine weather.  We've had the full repetoire of weather today--blazing sun and clear blue skies in the morning and early afternoon followed by an epic thunderstorm with roaring winds and lots of lightning after lunch.  Now it's sunny again, the lake is flat and the light is glistening gold and green in the trees.  I can't see a rainbow but I can hear the very distant rumble of thunder as the storm rolls away. 

Personal Space

I am heading up to Maine tomorrow, the beginning of my annual warm weather pilgrimage to Heaven.  Only this year, it will be different.  I know that I will not be spending the whole summer in Maine.  I tried that last year and it didn't work.  It's too hard, too lonely to be in the house all by myself.  I keep waiting for Steve, a towel wrapped around his big belly,  to walk up the steps from the lake and plop down on his favorite seat on the deck. 

I'll have Giuliano and Wilbur, the wonder dog, with me this time and over the Fourth the house will be filled with people.  Right now, it's company I need when I am in Maine.  Empty rooms make me sad.   I certainly don't feel that way in Philly.  I relish my privacy there, rarely feel lost in my apartment despite its size.  Maybe it's because I never felt Maine was truly my space.  It was always a shared space, even a public space.  Who knows. . .just know I am going with the flow this summer.

My Jamaica

This is what I do in Jamaica.  This is why I love being in Jamaica.

I help out in the garden. I have the blisters to prove it.

I take in the beauty of the sunset.

I play with the dogs--all three of them!  This is Rocco who LOVES me.

I snuggle up with a good book in Liz's comfy bed.  Giul, the ideal son-in-law, sleeps up in the loft when I visit.

Down with the Plutocracy

I've been staying away from national politics, refusing to get involved or give money.  But this brief but powerful essay by Gary Wills, "Why 2012 Matters,"  makes a strong case for reconsidering reconsidering that position.   Not the money part, though.  I still can't see my way to participating in that heinous and corrupt system even it's a donation to the "good guy."

 "This election year gives Republicans one of their last chances—perhaps the very last one—to put the seal on their plutocracy. They are in a race against time. A Democratic wave is rising fast, to wash away the plutocracy before it sets its features in concrete, with future help from the full (not just frequent) cooperation of the Supreme Court." 

Read the whole essay here.

Mango Season at Yellow Plum Farm

It's mango season in Jamaica.  The mango trees at Yellow Plum are laden with beautiful, juicy fruit.  The air is pungent with the sweet smell of mangoes in the trees, on the ground, on the road, everywhere.  I did my part to celebrate the season eating at least two a day, the juice dribbling down my mouth, my hands, my arms.  A delicious mess.

Book Report

I have spent the last two weeks carefully and slowly re-reading "The Ambassadors" by Henry James.  Audaciously, I made the case to select this book as the next assignment for the Occasional Reading Group of which I am a founding member.  (We call it the ORG because we don't meet regularly but the real reason, I think, is that we snobbishly didn't want to think of ourselves as just another women's book group.  I think, unfortunately, that I forced it down their throats and there was REBELLION.)

I became a devotee of Henry James my senior year at Brandeis when I took a one on one seminar with Philip Rahv, the one time famous editor of the one time famous Partisan Review. (Does anyone in college today remember who he was or the magazine he edited?  And does anyone still read Henry James?)  I'd sit in his cramped office watching him smoke and eat a corned beef special at the same time, smoke and Russian dressing coming out of his mouth while he talked to me.  Mostly I remember his telling me not to bother with graduate school because all I was going to do was get married as soon as I graduated.  And one year later he was right.

I still have my original copy of "The Ambassadors," the margins scribbled with mostly illegible notes, whole passages underlined.  This time through I've underlined even more.  I read it really slowly, letting the words unfold--and there are so many of them!  It took patience and persistence, qualities that most contemporary novels don't call for.  The story or the plot is a really simple one but told with such intensity and discrimination, nuance upon nuance. And, of course, it takes place exclusively in Paris, that most magical of cities. 

The whole experience was exhausting in the process but exhilarating by the end.  Maybe this should be the summer of Henry James.

On the Table

Massage usually makes me happy but massage music always makes me sad.  All those cellos bowing away, all those tunes in a minor key, or worse yet,  the sounds of the ocean.  Instead of soothing they just make me sad.  I'd rather silence.  Now I know why Steve always had one of the Kings--Freddy, Albert or B.B.--blasting at full volume when he was on the table.

Grief

There's a wonderful poem by Robert Pinsky in a recent issue of The New York Review of Books.   I read it up in Maine this past weekend but it's stayed with me here in Philadelphia.  It's titled "Grief."  Here's the ending:

You can't say nobody ever really dies:
Of course they do: Lenny died. Mike died.

But the old thing is, the person still makes
A shape distinct and present in the mind
As an object in the hand. The presence
in the absence: it isn't comfort--it's grief.

The presence in the absence--that's what I felt so strongly being in the house in Maine.  It's grief but it's not necessarily sad.  Maybe, one day, it will be a comfort.

Climate Change

I'd like to think that some things will never change--my life in Maine being one of those things. But the reality is that is has changed.  Maybe not forever but right now even the good times are tinged with a sense of loss. That is not to say that I didn't have a wonderful time this past Memorial Day weekend but that was largely because of all the young people--my nephews and their friends, my "niece" and her boyfriend--who filled the house with laughter and love.  My pleasure is watching them make the house their own, filling it with good memories.

And, of course, the weather didn't hurt.  It was warm and sunny, perfect for running on the road, playing tennis and bocce and toasting the sunset on the dock.  Climate change has definitely come to Maine.  We used to see forsythia and lilacs this time of year but not any more.  They had come and gone by the time we arrived.  And the water was warm enough to swim in or so everyone told me.  I, of course, didn't even bring a bathing suit.  The kids even water skied, definitely a first for Memorial Day.

JUBILATION!!

I'm exhausted from following the Sixers.  All that jumping up and sitting down.  All that waving of the rally towel.  Now I know how the Celtics feel.  Those young boys just keep coming at you.  Last night, I had to have a glass of red wine to calm myself down before going to sleep.

I can't wait to watch Game 7 in Maine.  Go Sixers!

Go West!

 Honestly,  I did edit.  I left out many, many photos.  But it was too beautiful and there was so much to look at.  I had to keep clicking.  One wow after another as Jane said.

One thing I learned on this trip is that American history is so much about size and space and emptiness.  The photos don't really convey that.  You have to breathe in the space to experience the immensity.

 https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/112770182031192371849/albums/5743682374795220641

The Biddies do Utah

I am a little more than halfway through my road trip through southern Utah with my BFF and long time hiking partner Jane. I haven't been on a road trip like this since I was 16 when my parents and brother and I drove out west for a month hitting all the national parks. It was our one and only family vacation and we all treasured it and talked about it over and over again. When I think about that month in a car together it makes me miss my brother so much. Without him, there's no one with which to share those legendary family experiences, to laugh at those stories or fill in the parts that I've forgotten.

Well Jane and I have certainly had a lot of laughs and the experience has definitely been memorable--the perfect coda to my birthday celebration. I think it will take me a while to completely process this experience. The natural beauty is truly awesome in the most original sense of that word. I've been snapping pictures like crazy but nothing, I think, can capture the sense of being out here surrounded by such massive, majestic and ageless expanses. What really impresses me is the silence and the emptiness. Looking out over the hoodoos in Bryce Canyon or up at the towering sandstone cliffs in Zion, I can't help but think I am in a sacred space.

Here's to Continued Love and Happiness

Does it mean anything that the Sixers beat the Bulls the night before and the day after my birthday. I like to think those victories were a present from Steve. No mushy card under my pillow this birthday but he was thinking of me. I went to the game on Friday and watched it at home on Sunday. In between on Saturday I stuffed myself with food and love and only good vibrations first at Liz's house and then down the street at Mr. Joe's cafe. The food kept coming. The laughs never ended. We came back to my house loaded with leftovers for everyone. Now I am off to Utah with my Jane, my BFF and long time hiking partner. After this weekend, I am ready for anything and everything.

Birthday Countdown

Some things are worse in anticipation than in actuality.  I think my upcoming birthday is going to be like that.  I was a basket case last week but now I'm fine.  Maybe grooving to the dulcet tones of Al Green at Jazz Fest cured me.  Just in case that's true, he's been on my play list--along with Lou Rawls--for the past few days.  Anyway, I am ready to become an official senior citizen.  I even have a laminated copy of my Medicare card tucked in my wallet, ready for any emergency.  Hopefully, there won't be one but at least now I can ride Septa for free.  I plan to keep walking though. 

Love and Happiness

Here I am in New Orleans. Eating oysters--raw, grilled and fried. Listening to music. Vibing at Jazz Fest. It is definitely strange being here without Steve, without the party bus and all the attendant hoopla but it's OK all the same. I've hung out in the Blues tent, grooved to gospel, had a lot of fried food including a soft shell crab po boy one day and a stuffed artichoke the next. The highlight of the weekend was definitely the Reverend Al Green, looking a little older and a little heavier, maybe moving a little slower but still singing ever so sweetly all those old songs.

My Day in Books

I am having a weird day.  Part of the weirdness is the weather.  It's freezing.  A few days ago I had all the windows open and the apartment was hot from the sun streaming in all afternoon.  Today, I am walking around inside, dressed in a fleece, trying to stay warm.  This weather doesn't help my mood.  It's a good day to stay inside, crawl back into bed and feel sad.  I've resisted the urge for the most part.  I got myself to the gym early in the morning but then the rest of the day loomed in front of me. I had no meetings, no set agenda to follow.   Too miserable out to take a walk or go for a run.  Too depressing to go the movies by myself.  Consumer therapy was not to be considered:  Shopping seemed a joyless activity.  So instead I decided to spend the day reading.  Yes,  that is something I do more often than not but this time I had a plan.  I decided to take a tour of all the places to read in my apartment, and at each location to read something different. 

First off, the kitchen counter where I propped the latest issue of the New York Review of Books while I ate my lunch.  I skimmed through a few reviews but nothing grabbed me.   Next, I stretched out on the futon in my study and read from start to finish a thin volume of poetry, "What the Living Do," by Maria Howe.  It was Liz's copy and I read her notes too.  The poems are all about loss but reading them didn't make me sad.  I knew where they were going.  Then I went downstairs and settled on the sofa in the den and read some essays in "Pulphead" by John Jeremiah Sullivan.  I read essays about Axl Rose and Michael Jackson and a piece about reality TV.  Comic relief.  Cold air leaked through the windows and I wrapped myself in a blanket to keep away the draft.  I moved next to the velvet upholstered sofa in the living room, propped myself on pillows and read a chapter of "Light Years" by James Salter which a friend had just given to me to read.  I'm not sure if I'm going to like it but I feel bound to finish.

Now it's time to get up, get dressed and go out for dinner and conversation with a friend.  But I already know what I am going to do when I get home:  Get in bed and read a book before I turn out the light and go to sleep.

The Bathroom Muse

While trawling the internet--something I do much too often--I came across this delightful little essay, "The Bathroom Muse" in the New York Review of Books blog.  It  made me think back to the bathrooms of my past.  In my childhood home, my mom kept a well thumbed copy of "Pride and Prejudice" on the hamper in the bathroom connected to her and my dad's bedroom.  It was her all time favorite book.  Somehow I doubt my father took advantage of its placement there. 

I don't remember reading in the hallway bathroom that my brother and I used at the end of the hall.  Mostly I remember retreating there to furtively smoke cigarettes.  I'd sit on the toilet and blow smoke out the window in the vain hope that no one would smell the evidence of my transgression.  The window looked out over the alley behind our house.  I could stare at the windows of the Seltzer family who lived across the way and imagine what was going on inside or watch the boys in the alley playing stick ball.   Maybe that's where I developed my penchant for staring out of windows.  One of my favorite activities is to sit in the window seat in my kitchen or bedroom or study.  Usually I have something to read on my lap but every now and then I take a break and look out to see what's going on outside, check the sky, watch the traffic.  It's never boring.

Positive Transformation

My horoscope today:

You may be feeling a strong urge to express something that you have known for a while but were too scared to share. Now, however, your emotions are being pulled into the open by circumstances beyond your control, encouraging you to reveal previously hidden elements of your life. You are on the edge of making a major breakthrough, even if your current direction is unclear. Don't resist; today's struggles are a part of your positive transformation.
 
 I especially like the part about positive transformation.  That's a process I am very consciously embarked on--how to reconcile all the little bits and pieces of my past and present and hopefully future lives into one cohesive whole.  Yesterday I spent an hour on the phone talking to the woman who was my very best friend in college.  Thanks to the internet, we found each other again after 40 years of no communication at all.  After college, she moved into a different life.  And it didn't help that she didn't like Steve at all when they met.  Yesterday, she confessed that she was sure I would be divorced in two years! 

Her life has been completely transformed from when we were together as college students at Brandeis, class of 1968.  I tried to match my image of her with how she described her life since we parted--living somewhere in northern California in a house with no electricity, no phone, days spent home schooling four children, doing lots of physical labor.  A very dramatic transformation.

It's hard to give a sense of all we've been through and who we have become in just an hour's phone conversation.  Mostly we traded memories, told stories about our four years together at school.  She said she always remembered me sitting in bed with a book in my lap.  Some things never change.

Passover Weekend

This weekend we kicked off a new tradition--seder at the Billamoria/Kaufman residence.  The table was set by Jeelu.  The service was led by Elliott; the food prepared by just about everybody.  It was a wonderful evening.


On Sunday morning, we all headed to the sunny apartment in Brooklyn Heights where Aaron and Asha have set up house.  They served us an amazing brunch including enough matzo brei to feed an army.

And, yes, Wilbur, that nice Jewish dog, was there for both events. He absolutely loves gefilte fish.

Cannonballs

Today I spent the afternoon making matzo ball soup for tomorrow's seder.  Soup was easy.  Matzo balls not so sure about.  I think one must have years of experience to make the light and fluffy balls pictured on the can of matzo meal.  This was only the second time that I attempted to make them and I don't think I have gotten the touch right.  I followed the directions diligently but they are definitely sinkers or, as they are affectionately known in my family, cannonballs--headed with a solid oomph to the bottom of your stomach.

Although I remember my mother's cooking at Passover as particularly delicious, if truth be told her matzo balls were never a sure thing.  There was always a good chance that cannonballs not floaters would dominate.  I guess I'm following the family tradition.

Update: This morning, I looked again at those lumpy balls sitting in my refrigerator and thought there is not way I can serve these leaden clunkers tonight.  So. . . I tossed them out and started over.  I am praying for floaters this time. 

Tonight

An article today in the New York Times talked about all the Russian billionaires that are buying up New York real estate--fantastic multi million dollar apartments paid for in cash that they don't even live in.  A broker characterized these buyers as people "who roll around town in customized Rolls Royces where the doors open at the opposite hinge to allow women to step out easier in heels."  I'm trying to wrap my head around that concept--cars designed specifically for women who wear 5 inch stilettos, women who  must wear 5 inch stilettos or who are banished to the back of the bus, men who refuse to be seen with women who don't wear 5 inch stilettos.  You get my drift. 

I am going to New York this Friday to celebrate Passover with my friends.  None of us will be we wearing 5 inch stilettos.  I am making vegetarian matzo ball soup, an oxymoron.   I live in a different world than those Russian plutocrats and their girlfriends.  Who lives in that world, I wonder.

Tonight I went to dinner with an old friend of Steve's.  He's a friend of mine, too, which I really appreciate.  Sitting near us was a young woman who was absolutely beautiful, actually she was  breathtaking.  She had long dark hair, almond shaped eyes, coffee colored skin.  She wore a simple tank top and a long skirt. She had on a beaded necklace of many colors.  I couldn't see if she was wearing 5 inch stilettos.  Across from her was a much older man, dressed very conservatively in a blue blazer, khaki pants, a pale pink shirt and a tie.  He was the oldest man in the room with the most beautiful woman in the room. What was their story, I wondered?  Did he know what a prize he had before him? Did he have a car with the doors that opened at the opposite hinge?

My Reading LIst

This article is titled "A Slow Books Manifesto."  But it really could be my personal manifesto.  Here's an excerpt.

"In our leisure moments, whenever we have down time, we should turn to literature—to works that took some time to write and will take some time to read, but will also stay with us longer than anything else. They'll help us unwind better than any electronic device—and they'll pleasurably sharpen our minds and identities, too. 

To borrow a cadence from Michael Pollan: Read books. As often as you can. Mostly classics."

Of course, where did I read this article but on Zite, an app on my IPad,  when I should have been ensconced on a sofa rereading Dickens or George Eliot or Jane Austen or maybe reading Proust for the first time and feeling slightly ashamed that I've never made a serious effort to tackle it before.

Happy Birthday Max William Beck

Today is my brother's birthday.  He would be 62.  I wonder if his hair would have turned all grey by now,  if we would have developed a pot belly.  Would he still be playing tennis, following the Phillies, rooting for the Sixers?

Ever since I was little, I always marked his birthday because it was the countdown to mine in early May.  My mom made a big deal for our birthdays--hanging a sign in the dining room, cooking our favorite foods for dinner, baking a cake from scratch and letting the birthday girl or boy lick the bowl.

Well, I'm counting down now and it feels a lot different.  I turn 65 this year, impossible but true, and I am on my own.  l don't really mind being alone.  I've always been good at it.  What I miss most of all is the sharing.  Coming together at the end of the day, at the end of a vacation, at the end of a thought, a project, a new experience and talking about it with someone who wants to listen to you. . .at least most of the time.

Up in Jamaica

I went to Jamaica for five days to stay with Liz and Giul in the their tiny bungalow up in the hills.  The view from the veranda looks down over the farm lands of the Pedro Plains out to Treasure Beach and finally the sea.  We wake up early with the sun and sit on the veranda breathing in the fresh air, the smells of dirt and dog and weed.  Before the sun comes over the hill, the air is cool and shady at the house. We sit on the veranda eating breakfast and watching the sun move over Treasure Beach below us. Pella and Rocco and Biggins are romping around the lawn, digging holes in the red dirt, chasing birds, following Ev or Giul while they work on the property.  Every once in a while the dogs climb back up on the veranda for a drink of water, a quick nap and a cuddle.

I look out in every direction and see a million shades of green.The hills behind are covered with dense and dark green forests--travelers palms and cactus providing texture as well as color.  Along the lawn there are mango trees heavy with fruit waiting to ripen.  Out on the plains, I can see a patchwork of cultivated fields--scallion, thyme, peanuts, pumpkin, cucumber, tomato, lettuce.  It's not for nothing that the Pedro Plains is known as the breadbasket of Jamaica.  And then in the distance, there is the sea and the sky, a continuous backdrop of clear blue silk. 

Later in the morning we might drive down to Treasure Beach to swim or meet friends or even to play tennis on the Treasure Beach Sports Park, a new and wonderful additional to the community.  The drive down is an adventure.  The road is narrow and hilly and bumpy. It winds up and down and around fields, through tunnels of guinea grass and trees, past small open shops and ramshackle bars and half completed concrete houses.  There are goats everywhere--in the road, in the fields, wandering around the houses.

It is hot and dry when we get to Old Wharf beach where we like to swim even though it is not yet 10.  The water is perfect--clear and cool and calm. We sit on the beach to dry off and bake a little in the sun.  There are a few white clouds over the water but if we look back over the mountains we can see a jumble of clouds rolling and growing.  Perhaps we will get a shower in the late afternoon.

One day Liz and I take a hike down her road to visit Grandmother Pigeon, the mother of one the men who work on their property.  She says she's 85 but who knows.  She's a big woman with big hands and feet.  She wears a tattered black dress and her head is wrapped in an old scarf.  The yard is full of animals-- small stray dogs, roosters, goats and even a baby pig tied to a stake so he won't run away.  She speaks not a word of English, just patois, and I can hardly understand her. I just nod and smile as she and Liz carry on a conversation. 

Doonesbury

Not surprisingly, a bunch of newspapers have decided not to print today's Doonesbury strip which deals, also not surprisingly, with abortion. It's pretty good.

The Washington Post has an interview with Trudeau about this supposedly divisive strip:

 "I chose the topic of compulsory sonograms because it was in the news and because of its relevance to the broader battle over women's health currently being waged in several states. For some reason, the GOP has chosen 2012 to re-litigate reproductive freedom, an issue that was resolved decades ago. Why [Rick] Santorum, [Rush] Limbaugh et al. thought this would be a good time to declare war on half the electorate, I cannot say. But to ignore it would have been comedy malpractice..."

You can read the whole interview here.

Spring Forward

I love daylight savings time.  It's almost 6:30 but I can sit in my window seat in the kitchen and read in the sun. Or I can lay propped up on pillows on the futon under the window in my study and read or do puzzles without turning on a light.  Or I can loll on the sofa in my bathroom/boudoir and just daydream while the sun pours in and warms the space.

I do not take any of this for granted. 

I am a Slut and Now I'm Angry Too.

I just got back from hearing journalist Irin Carmon speak at a Women's Medical Fund event.  Her talk was enraging and inspirational at the same time.  This article in Salon pretty much recaps her presentation.  It's amazing that she can still be upbeat in the face of the blatant and widespread misogyny she reports on daily.

"The Rush Limbaughs of the world don’t get to define the boundaries of appropriate sexual or moral behavior. But something is happening: Women are defining those boundaries for themselves, with many men alongside them, and they’re being reminded that there’s a concerted movement to take that right of self-definition away. And we’re mad."

 Anger is good but action is better. 

I am a Slut!

I really like this article in today's edition of Slate. 

The View from my Window

Not every beautiful sunset is from some exotic locale.  I took this photo from the window seat in my kitchen in Philadelphia.  It's one of my favorite places to sit and read or just look at the sky. 

High Heels

I put on a pair of high heels last night.  A pair of of vintage Ferragamo T straps that were easily over 30 years old, definitely predating motherhood. It seemed like a proper occasion--a fundraiser in New York for Seeds of Peace, our neighbor in Maine.  I wasn't planning to do too much walking--taxi to the train, transfer to the subway, short one block walk to the event--so I thought why not.  They still fit and they do make my legs look good.  By the end of the evening, I was desperate to sit down.  I walked slowly and carefully back to the subway, onto the to train station, out to a taxi and home.  Those shoes were off the minute I hit the elevator. Those shoes are now resting comfortably on a top shelf in my closet.  Who knows when they will see the light of day again.

I AM READY!

  I love my horoscope for the day:

If you've been holding yourself back in any way, Taurus, now's the time to unlock and unleash yourself. If you have been compromising your high standards or selling yourself short, I hope you will give yourself permission to grow bigger and stronger and brighter. If you've been hiding your beauty or hedging your bets or rationing your access to the mother lode, you have officially arrived at the perfect moment to stop that nonsense.

Whether it's your time to ferment in the shadows or sing in the sun, fresh power to transform yourself is on the way. Life always delivers the creative energy you need to change into the new thing you must become.


 

Africa

It was tough but I've edited my photos and here's a sampling.
 
 https://picasaweb.google.com/112770182031192371849/Kenya?authkey=Gv1sRgCOf_982Whqi66QE

I'm loving sleeping in my own bed although to actually sleep would be great.  It seems I am still on Kenyan time--waking up way before the sun is up,  ready to nap at 3 PM and wide awake at my normal bedtime. 

Hello Again

For the past two weeks, I've been in Kenya having one of the most incredible experiences of my life.  I had extremely limited access to email in the bush so no blogging but I did keep a journal and here it is.

 Day 1

We get off the small plane at Lewa where Susannah lives and are immediately in another world. Grazing near the air strip are giraffe, gazelles, zebra. Before getting to the house we stop at a dam because Susannah has heard there are elephants in the water there. We arrive just in time to see a family wading ponderously but with a certain grace up from their mud bath. Susannah is a trip--full of energy, passionate about the elephants and Africa and filled with all sorts of random information about everything we are seeing. Her house is amazing, overwhelming. Huge thatched roofs, heavy timbers and a museum's worth of African tribal art. After lunch on the veranda she takes us on a game drive. She wrestles with the steering wheel while Dixon, the spotter, stands in the back of the car looking over the landscape. They communicate in both English and Swahili. It is so beautiful here--rolling hills covered with tall grasses, and occasional groups of yellow fever trees, and in the far distance blue tinted mountains. Every once in a while we get a glimpse of Mt. Kenya's snow covered peak. We are at 6000 feet and the climate up here is close to ideal--warm and clear during the day and delightfully cool at night--perfect sleeping weather.

 Day 2

 After breakfast on the veranda we pile into the car for another game drive through the wildlife reserve. We stop the car alongside a herd of elephants--lots of mothers and children and a few old bulls. Susanna puts on a tape of Yo Yo Ma claiming that the elephants like to listen to the cello. Who knows but we are able to sit in the car with the elephants close by without any problem. Later on the drive we sight two black rhinos, an endangered species. These we give a wide berth to since they are notoriously aggressive. We don't get back to the house until 2:30 and eat lunch very late at 3:30. Close to six we head out in the car again to have drinks on a hill with a view of the sunset. The ride is beyond bumpy and we never make it to the hill in time. Instead we pull up to a dam but quickly backtrack when two ornery black rhinos come by. We wind up drinking wine and eating soup in front of the fire at the house.

 Day 3

Susannah is hard core. We are out of the house by 6AM for our ten minute flight to Samburu. We've packed breakfast which we eat after our arrival on the river bank surrounded by what seems like hundreds of elephants. Lots of babies still learning to use their trunks, young males wrestling and dueling with their tusks. We spend at least an hour watching the interplay among the elephants. We get to Elephant Watch camp in time for a delicious al fresco lunch. Then with Susanna at the wheel we head for another game drive. We track a leopard for awhile but the real thrill occurs on the way back to camp in the later afternoon when we see three lions laying in the dry river bed looking very regal and supremely self confident. We turn off the truck and patiently wait for them to get up. As the sky darkens, we follow them slowly as they proceed down to the river for a drink. Then they disappear into the bush and we head for camp. Dinner is served under a tree along the banks of the river. The moon is nearly full and there are a zillion stars. It's truly a magical scene made even more so by our hosts, Ian and Oria Douglas-Hamilton. He is the head of Save the Elephants, an organization which does research on elephants and is heavily involved in anti poaching activities. Oria runs the camp and has an organic farm which supplies the camp with all its produce. They are both incredibly charming with lots of interesting stories about their work and their life in Kenya. I feel very lucky to be staying here.

 Day 4

Today was a marathon, exhausting but really rewarding. Once again, Susanna has us on the road at 6AM before the sun is up. After an hour's drive to Buffalo Springs, an adjacent game park, we stop at the springs to eat breakfast. Later in the morning we start tracking a cheetah. She is walking slowly but purposefully and obviously looking for something to eat. Suddenly she sprints raising a huge plume of dust in her wake. She has spotted a hare which is now zigging and zagging trying to get away but the cheetah is much too fast. In what seems like just a few seconds she pounces on her prey and then walks into the bush with the hare hanging from her mouth, presumably to find a shady spot to eat her lunch in peace. Watching this drama is totally exhilarating--the explosiveness of the cheetah going after the hare gives us all an adrenaline rush. We calm down by parking next to a tree full of noisy baboons. They seem to be constantly fighting and shrieking at each other, running up and down the tree branches, leaping from one tree to another or chasing each other on the ground. Further down the river we pull up to a shady spot, sit on the roof of the car and eat lunch. Later that afternoon, our spotter Bernard finds two lions with cubs resting in the tall grass. They are obviously hungry. We watch them begin to stalk a zebra and a gazelle but suddenly they are noticed and run off. Bernard, our spotter, anticipates where they are going and we maneuver ourselves to a spot where we can see them again. There are waterbuck in the distance, a likely meal but again they botch their approach. Oh well, we head back to camp and dinner again under the moon and stars.

Day 5

 The highlight of this day is the night--our first real sundowner. We drive to the top of a hill in time to watch the sun plummet behind the mountains as a nearly full moon rises over the plains below. The warriors build a fire by rubbing two sticks together over dried elephant dung. The stars come out as we drink wine. We drive back to the lodge accompanied by Masai warriors singing songs of triumph. A great night.  

Day 6

 Like obedient children, we wake up at 5:30 and get on the road at 6, looking for leopards or lions. No such luck this morning but there is something special about watching the landscape change as the sun rises over the hills. By this time I am inured to the bumps and have pretty much gone into a zen state. We take a 15 minute flight north to our next stop, Sarara Lodge. The lodge feels like a private home, which it was once. The setting is magnificent. You look out to the mountains of the Matthew Range. There's a watering hole below the lodge and you can sit on the rocks and watch the elephants drink and bathe. There are other guests here--3 older British couples who are straight out of central casting. I say older but they are probably my age. I love listening to them talk in their very plummy accents. I am about to get a massage on the veranda of the tent I am sharing with Midge. Our tent is set above the main lodge and I can stare out at the plains and the mountains. I just know that Steve would park himself on a chair outside and only come down for meals. "Why would anyone want to leave here?," he'd say. By the way, the massage costs $15 for an hour. I don't even care if it's good. Tonight the moon will be full. I can just imagine what it will be like to sit on the rocks below the lodge, a glass of wine in hand as we watch the elephants come up to the watering hole.

Day 8 and 9

We leave the calm and serenity and the late wake up call at Sarara and fly back to Lewa where we are on a MISSION! Our goal is to find Drachma, a female in the Currency Family so she can be fitted with a collar with GPS that will allow researchers to study her migration patterns. Susannah is back in her element, driving like a madwoman, bushwhacking off the roads to locate Drachma so the team can do the collar. Finally after a bruising roller coaster ride up and down the plains we find her but it is too late in the afternoon for the research team to drive down from Samburu and the vet is no where to be found. We make a plan to reassemble in the morning. Next day we are on the road by 6:30 in search of Drachma once again. Amazingly, since she already wears an old collar the researchers in Samburu can locate her on Google Earth. We find her, have a quick breakfast in the bush alongside her family and then head back to the office of the Lewa Conservancy to meet the rest of the team and get organized. That's where the fun begins. The vet who is the only who can legally shoot the tranquilizing dart is late and we are still needing a guy with gun as a safety precaution. Finally after about hour, the caravan gets rolling. Midge, Rosemary and I are in the rear with Dixon, Susannah's Masai spotter; Susannah, naturally, is in the lead car with David, one of the researchers; a second car holds two more researchers and the actual collar, a long, thick leather strap with a square metal box holding the device bolted at the top. In front of us is the vet who brandishes a wicked looking dart gun out the window. Sitting in the rear of his car is our guard, his gun at the ready. We head out to where we saw Drachma earlier in the morning but she has gone. There is much gnashing of the teeth since the vet needs to be somewhere at 10 and it is now past 9. The caravan splits up and starts searching the area. David and Susannah find her along with the vet but the car with the actual collar is elsewhere. We are lurking in the rear waiting for the go ahead that it is safe to come close. The vet shoots a large orange dart into Drachma's butt, a huge mistake since the car with the collar is still not on site. Dixon is sent to locate the missing car. We hightail it out of there but shortly return once they have been found; the elephant is laying unconscious on its side and the team is busy fastening the collar around her neck. This all takes about 15 minutes during which the elephant is bathed constantly with water to keep her from being dehydrated. Let me tell you, it is an awesome sight to see this huge animal with long, thick ivory tusks laying totally out of it on the ground before us. Intrepid traveler that I am, I get out of the car for an eyewitness view. When the collar is securely fastened and the GPS device tested, we get back into the cars. The vet injects her behind the ear with an antidote. In just a few minutes, Drachma's ears begin to flap and she slowly lumbers to her feet looking a little disoriented. Then she wanders off to find the rest of her family. Mission accomplished! The whole team--minus the vet and the gun-- head back to Susannah's house for lunch.

 Later in the afternoon, Susannah, Rosemary, Midge and I take on another mission--distributing small clay cook stoves--jikos--to the women in the village within Lewa. These cook stoves will use significantly less wood than an open fire, cutting down on the time the women must spend foraging wood and, even more importantly, hopefully reducing the depletion of the surrounding forests. The women line up to receive the cook stoves. There are speeches to explain the importance of the stoves and many thank yous to Susannah who has bought the stoves. Lots of singing and dancing conclude the event. Before driving home we stop off at the local school where the headmaster walks us through a few classrooms. The kids are adorable and incredibly polite but the classrooms are really shabby and the kids' uniforms threadbare. Tomorrow early we head for the Mara and more marathon game drives.

 Day 10 and 11 and 12

A hour long flight and we are in the Mara. For most people the Mara is all about the animals and it is truly amazing to see the diversity and beauty of African wildlife. There are herds and herds of op art zebras galloping or standing at attention as if in some weird tableau; wildebeest, a most bizarre looking creature with spindly legs, buffalo like horns and long solemn faces with grey beards that make them long like frisky old men, running in chaotic circles; all kinds of antelopes from delicate Thomson gazelles to elegant impala and sturdy topis, all coexisting quite nicely it seems; giraffe quietly munching on the tops of trees; ugly warthogs with mean looking tusks, long snouts and thin tails that fly straight up like a flag when they run; all kinds of birds, large and small in every combination of color and size; elephants of course and sinister looking hyena looking for a carcass to scavenge; huge pods of hippos submerged in the water with only their eyes and ears above the water line. I couldn't begin to remember all the species we have seen on our Susannah mandated 13 hour(!) game drives. And then there are the cats. We've seen lions hunting, lions mating, lions sleeping, lion cubs playing. We've seen a cheetah with her cub, cheetahs on the prowl for a meal and seen a cheetah and her cub gnawing on the hindquarters of their kill. We've seen at total of five leopards, supposedly a rare achievement, one resting at the bottom of a tree after hauling her kill some 25 feet up for safe keeping. Our success is due to the incredible sighting skills of our Masai spotters none of whom wear glasses but who can spot the flick of an ear or tail of animal in the tall grass or up in a tree far, far away and lead us right to it. All this has been fantastic, of course. But for me the real attraction is the landscape--sweeping plains of tall grass punctuated here and there by flat top acacia trees and covered by a sky that goes on forever. Everyone is snapping away and yes I take pictures as well but I am also perfectly happy standing in the truck watching the wind and sun play over the red oak grass which stretches forever in every direction. I love watching the sun come up over the hills at dawn and slowly bring color to the landscape. In the afternoon, the sun burns everything with a harsh, white light. Billowing clouds in constantly changing patterns are stretched against the blue, making the sky seem like a whole other continent to explore. Then there's early evening when a red hot sun falls like a rock behind the hills and you can watch the light show out in the open.

Day 13 and 14

 I get to sleep in today since I am leaving the group and going on to another camp in the Mara where Nelson, the guide we met six years ago on our family trip to Africa, now works. He picks me up in late morning and we drive for about two hours past grazing cattle and goats and occasional villages to the the Nashaibo Conservancy where the camp is located. There is much less game here but the vistas are astounding and, best of all there are no other cars around. The tall red gold grass blowing in the wind reminds me of the wheat fields of Tuscany. Amazingly as soon as we arrive at the conservancy, we see three cheetah, a mother and two cubs all with full bellies, resting in the shade of a thorn bush. We watch as the mother carefully walks around the perimeter of the bush making sure all is safe before she plops down on the ground for a nap next to her already sleeping cubs. The camp is very new and lacks the vibe and style of the other camps I've stayed at but my tent is ultra comfortable and looks directly out at the plains. The resident managers are a sweet young couple--she is Kenyan and all into organic gardening and he is from the Canary Islands and likes nothing more than to brag about his solar panels and batteries. Sound familiar? Nelson takes me on a late afternoon game drive. The pace is much more leisurely here, quite a contrast from the intensity of my experience the last few days with Susannah. We stop for a sundowner in the middle of the savannah and witness the best sunset yet of the trip before heading back for a bucket shower and dinner.

 The drill here is game drive at the slightly more reasonable hour of 6:30, back at camp for a hearty brunch at 11. Then you are expected to retire to your tent for an afternoon nap until tea time at 3 and then out for a game drive at 4. I'm down with the program except for the nap which seems impossible in the heat. Our sundowner tonight was a truly unique experience. Somehow Nelson spots a dead zebra in a bush. We go to explore and discover a large male lion working on the carcass. A female lion is sleeping outside the bush. Two jackals stand at attention at a safe distance waiting for an opportunity to score some leftovers. We can hear hyena as well. The sun is setting so we break out the wine and nibbles in the car and enjoy the movie until it gets dark and we have to head back to camp.

 Day 15

 I take it back that there is less game here. This morning we have an amazing game drive. First off we spy the male lion leaving the bush, his stomach notably distended. He has probably spent the night eating his kill and warding off any possible scavengers. Inside two female lions are now working on the carcass. We are close enough to hear the crunch of bones as they tear into the zebra. They pull the carcass deeper into the shadow of the bushes and then flop down beside it. Nelson gets word on the radio of a leopard sighting so we bushwhack up the hills to the leopard's territory. We never see the leopard but we do see his prey, a large male impala, which the leopard has dragged halfway up a tree for safe keeping, probably earlier in the morning. The strength and cunning of this animal is amazing. Later in the morning we see a parade of stately giraffes moving slowly across the plains. There is one baby who looks like an F.A.O Schwartz stuffed animal come to life. We see a huge herd of antelopes, buffaloes, topis, zebras. Right before getting back to camp we see a male and female ostrich walking with 10 newly hatched chicks. The baby ostriches are instantly recognizable but so small they look like windup toys that some one has set out in the grass.

Instead of an afternoon game drive, Nelson and I head out to his village to meet his family and see his project. First stop is the site of the new village he is moving to at the end of the month. A few traditional mud houses, low and dark, are under construction but a large fenced boma or circular pen for the villager's cattle is already completed. Now the amazing part starts. Nelson, already an outstanding wildlife and nature guide who can spot a lion hiding in the tall grass and can identify every bird large and small that flies by, reveals himself to be an ambitious entrepreneur, a dedicated community activist, a real estate developer and a visionary with plans for the future. He has bought ten heifers each of whom in another year will be able to produce 10 liters of milk per day in as opposed to the 2 or 3 liters per day that cattle traditionally raised by the Masai produce. His plan is to sell the excess milk not needed by his family. He has fenced in about 25 acres of grazing land for his cattle, planted trees all along the fencing and has hired someone to live on the property and take care of his cattle. His wife is building a traditional home for the family at the new village but he also has developed a separate compound for them that includes an outdoor toilet and washing area, an outdoor kitchen and storeroom and a regular house with three sleeping rooms, a main room and a sweet little porch off the front door. When finished, the house will have a rain catchment system feeding into two tanks at either end of the house and a solar panel that can power his computer and provide light at night.

By this time, I am completely awestruck but there is more. Within the grounds, he has planted small saplings so eventually there will be trees and shade. Of course, all of this-- the cattle project, the trees, any future decelopment--depend on a regular supply of water, not an easy job in the Mara where there are frequent and severe droughts. But here too Nelson as a plan. There is a depression in the land immediately beyond the far side of his grazing ground and it is there that he wants to build a dam or watering hole. The water would be piped into a drinking trough for the cattle; his trees of which he so proud would be easily watered and the women in the village would not have to trek to the river for water. Last but not least I am sure, he wants to plant an organic vegetable patch next to the dam since fresh vegetables are difficult to obtain, often filled with chemicals and go bad very quickly in the heat.

Finally we leave and go to old village where his wife and four children are waiting along with several other women and a whole pack of kids. The men are out tending the cattle and other livestock. They were planning to slaughter a goat in my honor but fortunately Nelson alerted them that I am a vegetarian. We crowd into the small, dark and not too pleasant smelling mud hut for initial introductions. The baby, nearly a year old, cries when he first sees me. The second youngest, also a boy, sits on Nelson's lap, his arms tightly wrapped around his neck. The oldest is a boy as well, very quiet and observant. The daughter, the second oldest, is a real live wire, full of charm and personality and not the least bit bashful. We walk hand in hand out to the sun and then into a smaller version of the new house Nelson is building. There is a sofa and two chairs and a small table in the main room. Three posters are tacked up on the walls--an English alphabet, a guide to wild animals and something about Jesus. His wife presents me with yet more beaded bracelets and two elaborately beaded belts. I tale a bunch of pictures--the daughter wants to be in every one of course--and then we leave. I am exhausted but exhilarated. I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of lions roaring and sure enough on the morning game drive we come across a pride of some 13 lions quite close to the camp, a fitting end to my African adventure.

Craziness

Today in the NYTimes, my daily bible, there was an article about psychiatrists formally recognizing  grief as a psychiatric disorder.  Part of me said, "Oh yeah!" This is true.  Grief has made me crazy.  And then the other part of me said, "Oh no!"  This is false.  Grief or sadness is a natural, human reaction to loss.  Don't call me crazy if I howl at the moon. 

I don't do too much howling at the moon.  I've tried it and it doesn't make me feel better.  But I can understand the impulse to just let go and sink into the sadness.  Just like I always know there's an option to not get out of bed.   But then I do. . .with pleasure. 

With pleasure and anticipation that something good, something fun, something worthwhile is still  ahead of me.   Is that crazy?  I don't think so.

Role Model

I always say that I have no model for being a widow.  My mom, my model for so many things, died before my dad.  l never saw her cope with the loss of her partner or try to build a life on her own. But that's what my dad had to do.  And he did it with such courage and dignity.  Only now do I have a sense of what a devastating task that must have been for him, the quiet, silent partner in their marriage. She was all personality and charisma.  He was steady and solid and content to follow where she led and to live in the spaces she created.

My father's inner life was always a mystery to me.  When I was young, I
imagined his silence held great depths of feeling.  When I was older, I
was not so sure.

And now whenever I am feeling particularly alone and fragile, unsure whether I can face the challenges of my new life, I think of my dad with love of course but also such admiration for what he went through and how he managed to live with his loss.  He never complained.  He never told me what he must have been feeling.  He spared me his pain.  He got through each day as best he could.  He was the bravest man I ever knew.



 

Back in Business/Stunning

Thanks to Brian, I have finally figured out what why my blog had disappeared.  The entry below is what did it.  For those who missed it, I am reposting. (Is there such a word?)

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

Many, many years later, still short but no longer plump and with a sophisticated version of that pixie haircut, I was in an elevator at the retirement community where my dad lived after my mother's death.  A woman standing near us recognized my dad and on discovering that I was his daughter turned to me and said with great conviction, "Oh, your mother was a stunning woman." As soon as she said it, I knew it was the best and truest way to 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 an old photograph 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 at her waist and holding a rectangular bag against her chest.  She stares into the camera without smiling and looks ever so smart and confident.  I like to think it was a boyfriend--maybe even my dad--who took that picture.
Then there is a photograph taken in Palm Springs where she and my dad spent their first year of marriage.  She is sitting, no slouching, on a diving board, her long slender legs dangling over the edge.  She is wearing a drapey, one piece bathing suit and looks lanquidly out to the camera.  I know her legs must be tanned.


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 bra, looking wonderfully sex and glamorous to me.  Her makeup completed, I follow her to the bedroom where together we open her closet and carefully sift through the rack of dresses until she finds the right outfit for the evening. 

Did I hope that some of that magic would ever descend on me?  Perhaps that is 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.  There I was--a short, rounded but not attractive girl, a chubby Natalie Wood as a boyfriend once described me--cute but definitely not stunning.

Let's Meet for Lunch and Make Some Noise

Body Awareness

I went to opening night of the Wilma tonight.  The show is "Body Awareness."  It's a terrific play--well crafted, funny,  poignant, incredibly well acted and well directed and, to top it off,  it was written by a 24 year-old playwright, Annie Baker.  (She's all of 30 now.)  I sort of felt the same way after reading "White Teeth" by Zadie Smith.  She, too, was only 24 when that book, her first, was written.  I wonder what gave these women the confidence and the discipline to do what they did so early in their lives.

It's hard not to think back to when I was 24.  I was all over the place, had no idea what I wanted to do, what I was capable of.  I was married and that was about my sole achievement.  But even that seemed ragged and incomplete, a work in progress, a constant drama.

Sixers!

I went to the opening home game of the Sixers tonight.  I was so excited I made Giuliano pick me up at 6 o'clock so we wouldn't miss any of the pre-game show. 

We didn't and it was great.  Then the Sixers won handily and I really concentrated on following the players.  I kept thinking about Steve but it didn't make me sad.  He would have loved the whole experience--the hoopla, the game, the commentary.  "They're really going to be fun this year," I could hear him saying.  And he would be right. 

Go Sixers!

Primary Bullshit

I am so disgusted, revolted, turned off and just plain BORED STIFF with all the Republican primary fuckery.  It's getting hard to read the newspaper in the morning without feeling like a huge joke is being played on all of us.  I mean how can the media take seriously this pack of lunatics running around Iowa spouting the most ridiculous and ignorant things.  This is material for the Onion, not the New York Times.

I know I live a sheltered life, far away from the cornfields of conservatism, but I just can't believe that there are people out there who actually believe that Ron Paul, Newt Gingrich, Michelle Bachman, Rick Santorum, Rick Perry and Mitt Romney should be President of the United States.  The whole thing is a circus dreamed up by some two bit promoter to sell newspapers and TV time and any one who pays attention is a fool.

I, for one, have left the stands.   

It's just not exchanging fleece lined boots for flipflops that makes a sojourn in Jamaica so wonderful.  What can be more chill that taking a walk on the beach in the late afternoon with Biggins, Wilbur's beautiful and mellow Jamaican brother. 

And then to come back to yet another gorgeous Jamaican sunset.