Happy Easter

I clearly remember Holy Saturday when I was nine however not for religious reasons. It is a recollection entwined with admiration, love and childhood generosity. Unless of course, one considers shopping a sort of religion. I don’t think I do although I do hold great affection for retail therapy. It is here however that I find writing it’s own therapy in expressing the experiences I had as a child that are the fabric of what make up my heart. That I was invited into Gloria Novello’s house to see Joann’s Easter dress created a tapestry of images. Joann was 16 and always sweet to me regardless of the age difference. She had beautiful black hair and eyes that twinkled a smile as if at any moment something magical might happen. If she was outside even for ten minutes to practice her cheerleading it was a happy moment for me and I would run up the block to watch while sitting on the curb or perfecting my cartwheel and polish up my rhymes from Mother Goose to learning Wood-Ridge football cheers.

I also remember that rarely did we get invited to go in a neighborhood friend’s house, you just played outside. Early on we didn’t even ring the door bell. Kids just ‘called for’ a friend by calling outside the house for them to go out to play. To be called in was a special event itself. The Novello’s house always smelled like a party to me, like zeppoles at the carnival and Holy Saturday was no different. The smell seemed to permeate the air around the open windows. I took a hungry deep breath as I stepped inside the small softly lit living room having been called in to see Joann’s Easter dress. She and her mother were arguing over how high the hem should be. I was stunned having never seen anything like it. It was made from a black delicate chiffon fabric, with a v-neck and long sheer bell sleeves. Mrs. Novello was pinning it short all the while saying, “Your fathers going to kill me if I make it any shorter.” Joann began to argue, her Mother saying that the hem was high enough but at the same time I noticed she pinned it to where Joann wanted anyhow. She looked just spectacular to me and even at that age I knew how special the dress was. On Easter girls wore a soft pastel color to church with lace gloves and even a hat. Joann was wearing this very vogue beautiful dress. I loved it. That dress began my unconscious lifelong search for the Holy Grail of Dresses each time an occasion came up in my world. After all, if you can wear spectacular anything else is insignificant.

Fast forward to February when I was invited to “Howlin’ for Hubert” at the Apollo Theatre. This benefit for the blues master Hubert Sumlin who influenced so many was sold out in minutes. I had gotten a ticket thru Jimmy V who was performing and even though I had a closet full of clothes to wear I still looked for something special. I happened to be in Lord & Taylor when I found myself face to face with the 2012 version of Joann’s Easter dress in black lace. I hadn’t consciously thought of it in years however I saw the dress on the hanger and floated across the store to it, my feet never touching the ground. In the dressing room, it fit perfect and I thought I even saw that twinkle of Joann’s in my own eye in that mirror. I was bewitched by my own childhood memory that had materialized.

The spirit of my very special childhood friend rises each Easter in my heart as I think of her and my family and friends that are on the other side. With gratitude in my heart I can only be happy to have been touched by so much love throughout my life.

And yes, I'm also thankful to wake up this morning with just the right dress in my closet.

Happy Easter

STITCH n BITCH

I haven’t written anything in quite some time, there are stories I have that just can’t yet be told. Meanwhile life just keeps happening. Tonight however when I was knitting away I realized I was holding in my hands something that was serendipitous.

On my first Thanksgiving Day, my cousin Marie taught me to walk. I’m not sure that my mother was so thankful because that’s when the trouble of chasing me around started, but she taught me nonetheless. Since that walking moment she has taught me many things, gotten me a job when I was 16 and has always looked out for me in her own way. Most recently I was really honored that she gave me a hope chest that belonged to our Grandmother and she had saved for many years. Around the same time Marie called to ask if I wanted it, I told her I wanted to learn to knit, knowing she would teach me. She told me what type of needles and yarn to get and I mentioned my Fall work schedule was going to be busy but would when I got a chance.

Soon after that conversation, I was going to Portland, Maine for a gig with The Fab Faux. Through Newark airport my phone rang as I was running late and being stopped at security. I was too harried to pick it up although I saw it was she. In Portland the Eastland Hotel was in walking distance to everywhere and having an afternoon to spend exploring, I thought I’d look for a yarn store. Since I travel often enough I was thinking it would be nice to buy yarn in different cities. I wasn’t aware that right around the way was a yarn shop but I found myself in front of what was called Central Yarn Shop. Gingerly I made my way in and looked around, relieved that the owner was busy so I didn’t have to feel rushed. I was more overwhelmed; there were beautiful yarns in this unassuming yarn shop. I took me a while but I fell in love with expensive Italian wool that was a rich bouquet of purple, gold, green and blue. I didn’t care about the price, I was kick up my heels inspired and in love with the beautiful colors. That’s what grabs me about knitting, to find yarn that has colors vibrant as flowers. Anyway, the shopkeeper was very nice helping me find the size 7 needles and I went on my merry way out the door, remembering that Re had called and I hadn’t played the message. I hit my voicemail and there she was as if by wizardry telling me that since I travel often it would be nice to try to buy yarn in different cities to knit with. Ok, so we think alike, that’s not serendipity, I know.

The following week at her house she taught me how to knit and I will say that it was probably easier to teach me to walk.

As I left for home she handed me a bag, telling me there were some clothes for my daughter, a couple of articles she pulled from the newspaper and a magazine and a book of hers to borrow called Stitch ‘n Bitch. When I got home, I took the things out of the bag. The magazine article was a lovely story about the same shop where I bought the yarn and there was a picture of the woman who helped me chose the needles in the shop. I was so surprised I dropped everything and called Marie. She said that after she left me the voicemail the morning I left for Portland, she turned the page of Country Living Magazine, read about this shop and thought of me.

Maybe there’s a book to be written here called Stitch ‘n Witch, cousins’ edition.

Weed

In Honor of My Father and Family.......

Defining moments are really what shape people although many little moments become deeply buried in their being, in their heart. This is my story of little moments and the weaving of family interactions and love that was given to me long ago.

When my father was nine years old, his Father died. My Grandmother had five children, my father being the youngest. She remarried several years later. My Step Grandpa also had five children, so my Dad gained four step brothers and a stepsister. They were American Indian, and all but Aunt Gertrude were raised on a reservation in Canada in tradition of their mothers family. Needless to say, they had their own way of looking at the world and their own brand of humor. My Dad married my Mom at thirty, so by the time I can remember family gatherings I was one of the littlest. Most of my cousins, from this combined Irish-Italian-Scottish-Indian mélange, were older than me. Between the ten siblings, their spouses and the assorted grandchildren every holiday at Grandma and Grandpa’s tiny cape cod style house was filled with people and most of the people were filled with alcohol. That being said, it brings me to the story at hand. My older cousins all had honorary Indian names. The boys had camp or sports related names while the girls had beautiful “Flower in the Rain” type names. At some point before my memory kicked in, I was given a name. Mine was definitely different. Baby Weed. Weed Baby. Tiny Weed. Sometimes it was Tumbleweed. Being ever so young, first I answered to it. As I grew, I began to realize that:

A. A weed is not a good flower.

B. None of the other girls had a funny name that made people smile when they called you.

For a long time I pretended it didn’t matter however just before entering first grade, after one particularly hot Fourth of July family picnic, I finally did complain to my own older step brothers. They laughed at me and replied, “Weed girl, it’s because you’re always playing in the dirt, and you never let anyone comb your hair, even for days. You actually look like a cross between and elf and a weed, an elfweed!” That night, looking in the mirror, I could see what they meant. I was old enough by then to realize I might be teased or even been given a worse name like maybe “stink weed” or “yucca tree girl”, so I continued to pretended not to be bothered by it and all the while the name remained.

The following May, it was time for First Holy Communion at my church. I was a year behind the Communion Class so it wasn’t my turn, though I remember vividly how beautiful the girls were all in white, wearing beaded veils and carrying flowers. It was the first time I noticed how the year older girls looked. My friend Sharon’s lovely dress, Susan’s lace gloves and Patty Kay’s unbelievably breathtaking hair. Ah yes, Patty Kay’s beautiful curled hair. I was amazed hair could be that pretty and stay in place. I was kneeling in church when I first noticed it. I looked for a minute, then turned away and began to pray for Patty Kay hair. I made up the pray myself and it was the only prayer I remembered for a long time. I believed God would be proud of me for writing my own prayer and one day I would wake up to the miracle of “Patty Kay Hair.” Every morning when I awoke I would run to the mirror to check but I had the same fine celtic locks as always. One day, I decided to try to create my own miracle. My mother had brought home Breck shampoo with Cybil Shepard on the label. In the 1960’s, the Breck girl surely was the “saint of beautiful hair.” I thought it was a sign from Heaven that my Mom had bought this bottle. I proceeded to wash my hair and included a Holy Water (procured from my church) rinse to be extra religious. Well, my hair was very clean and looked nice, but it wasn’t “Patty Kay Perfect in Church Hair.” Disappointed, I just continued to say my prayer each night and yes check the mirror, though not as often.

Later that Spring, my Aunt arrived to take me to the ballet at Lincoln Center. I was seven, in my prettiest dress, with my hair combed and pulled back in a ponytail. My Grandpa was driving us to the train station. My Aunt Jean was up front and I was in the backseat, feet not yet touching the floor when I heard it. Grandpa referred to me as “Weed” in his conversation. His reference to me was automatic, as were the tears that immediately ran down my face. I tried to stop but couldn’t. I was embarrassed because I had never cried in front of them before. Grandpa quickly stopped the car and they both got out and opened the back door. I could see they were upset and asked immediately what was wrong.

I just blurted out, “I’m wearing a dress, I’ve been washing my hair with Breck shampoo and waiting for beautiful hair but still you call me Weed. Of everyone I have the ugliest name of all. No weeds are beautiful. No one likes a weed. You pull them out of the garden to get rid of them.” They both looked startled but involuntarily managed the same old “Weed Girl” smile. I felt crushed, but my Grandpa didn’t miss a beat, he instantly replied, “You misunderstood all along. You were different. Flowers are delicate and temporary and need special care. You are delicate too, but tough. A weed can be pulled out of the garden thrown over the fence, blown in the breeze but it will take root again and grown even stronger. You were wrong. Many weeds are wild and beautiful. Some even bloom in the snow. You were born on a snowy day without even a doctor. Weeds can take care of themselves. Just like you.”

The rest of the drive to the train I proudly wore the “Weed Girl” smile. I sat on my Grandpa’s lap steering the car, all the car windows open, my ponytail pulled out, and my hair all tangled in the breeze and in the love of my family.

In the picture above my Dad is wearing the white carnation, holding a cigarette. My grandma is on the right and my Dad appears to be looking at her. Although the focus on her is a bit blurry she looks beautiful to me. It was way before I was born, unless of course you believe in simultaneous time ;)

Bertha, Eddie and My Brother

Today my iPod was cued to ‘random’ when Los Lobos’ version of Bertha caught my ears by surprise. It was from that moment and song that this recollection showed up.

My brother and his friend Eddie loved the Grateful Dead and in the early 80’s when the Dead where playing a run of shows at Brenden Byrne Arena in the Meadowlands they had tickets. Each night the preshow parking lot was filled with Dead Heads, gypsies, fans and over night entrepreneurs from East Rutherford cashing in on the influx of The Following, making grill cheese and flipping veggie burgers. Both Eddie and my brother had been celebrating for hours, not that these two needed a parking lot full of helium balloons, pot brownies, grill cheese makers or the make shift vendor village to celebrate. They grew up in the suburbs at a time when kids roamed after and created fun. It was real life social networking and they never lacked in finding or providing it themselves. It flowed naturally within the geography of the Meadowlands infiltrating the surrounding towns and had far reaching effects on character building. And these two were characters. On a recent camping trip, they had spent all day canoeing and exploring the Delaware and all night with another famous and historic liquid, beer, which they consumed until they were toasted by the campfire. My brother was the only camper who did not sleep in a tent preferring a hammock under the stars. Around 3 am when the sky opened up and the monsoon arrived, he twisted out of the hammock, stumbled to the canoe, found his life jacket, put it on and went back to sleep in the hammock. Eddie had watched this peering out from his tent and would explain to Michael the next morning when he wondered aloud why he woke with his life jacket on. On the night of the Dead show however, once inside the arena, Eddie and my brother found their seats, way up in the balcony. So now these two, who were quite high are way up in the balcony. I felt the need to point out the obvious there. At some point after the music started they separated and soon after the Dead began to jam on Bertha. It was during the jam that Eddie heard his name being called over the microphone. Alone and believing he was being paged; he began a long spiral descent through dancing and twirling dead head women, concert folk and security from the balcony toward the lower levels of the arena. He was stopped by security but managed to keep going toward the stage insisting that his name was being called and his friend was missing.

He reached the seats on the floor of the arena just when the song was ending. It was at that moment he stopped hearing his name being called and he found my brother who had earlier meandered down into the crowd. He also found out that the lyric Jerry was singing was actually, “Bertha don’t you come around here, any more”. My brother had to explain to Eddie Moore that he wasn’t being paged he was just hearing the song as…...Bertha don’t you come around here, Eddie Moore…….

I’m sure those two shared more stories that I’ll never know. They shared friendship, the love of camping and canoeing; countless beers and ultimately they shared pancreatic cancer. When my brother was too sick to be left alone, his wife had to work and my Dad on occasion couldn’t come by, Eddie would keep him company not knowing that he too had the same disease that would be diagnosed three months after my brothers death. That’s a long sentence but it’s not my fault. The universe made it that way, not me. Within four months of each other they each left beautiful daughters who were just shy of their teenage years in this parallel universe filed with stories, forget-me–nots, Love and tears. Happy Birthday Michael. This picture is from the first time I ever saw you, when Mommy brought you home.

I’m sending Love and Light to you and Eddie and I’m going to play the Dead’s version of Bertha and dance like angels are with me ;) and all that because I may very well be a character too………

Fractured Fairy Tail

On Mother’s Day I was asked to write a tale. It was a spontaneous question following a joke about my sister’s bilingual dog and the subsequent comment that the dog is living the American Dream. So here, for Kathleen, I will document the true story of how she came to acquire the dog. This tail, oops I mean tale, may even be serendipitous. It is not tall but true and so here I begin.

Once upon a time my son Richie kept company with friends that live in a nearby neighboring town called Hawthorne. It was mid autumn and the nights were getting cold and frosty, not unlike one of the beers that he no doubt downed during his visit. It was a gathering of old friends and new and ‘twas here that he met Brandy, a girl with long blonde dreadlocks who traveled the country working at various Ren Faires. The ‘Ren’ of course is for Renaissance. In her migration from Faire to Faire her brat accompanied her and was friendly to all. Brat, of course is for Boston Rat Terrier. On this night she sought lodging at the home of her friends parents. They would not allow the dog inside for reasons unknown. I am told that as the wind howled through the Hawthorne trees and the late night half moon dimly lit the sky, my son, outside having a smoke, noticed a dog in a nearby car. And so it was that they became acquainted - my oldest brat and the brat, who had been named Beans by his Ren Faire family.

And it came to pass at some point during the visit, possibly due to alcohol intake, instant karma or by sorcery that Richie decided it would be in the best interest of the dog to be brought to our home. We have a blonde golden retriever named Jade and another animal is not an option, yet I awoke from a pleasant dream one morning to find that Beans had been brought home and hidden in the basement. It was supposed to be for one night while the traveler visited friends but lo and behold by dinner it was decreed that she could no longer take Beans with her from Faire to Faire. I was informed of this change of plans and asked if I knew of anyone who wanted a well-behaved puppy. I immediately replied, “Ask Aunt Kathy, last weekend she mentioned she was thinking about getting a dog.” And indeed, just a week earlier she had told me that she was thinking it would be nice to have a dog, almost as if she let the universe know.

Richie called my sister and then the two brats disappeared quickly out the front door just as my husband arrived home through the back door. Later that evening Richie arrived home without Beans letting me know that Aunt Kathy had taken to the dog and he would stay there a night or two on a trial basis.

Beans was extremely well behaved in his new home during the first week. My sister was pleased and all appeared well in the realm of Midwood Avenue in Glen Rock, outside of the fact that Beans was not particularly fond of her husband. Beans was now taking center stage in Kathy’s world with fancy dog beds, dishes and toys appearing as if by wizardry in each room. Soon however it became evident that Beans may have had a stomach problem. He would occasionally get sick and throw up. At first it was thought that he was getting acclimated to new surroundings however it persisted. Some days it was here, there and everywhere. When he threw up on Kathy’s bed pillow in the middle of the night Beans was promptly brought to the vet who declared him to be approximately 8 years old. In trying to obtain the records from his previous owner it was discovered that she adopted him from Petco. He had been abandoned as a puppy and found with a pack of wild dogs roaming the streets of Detroit. Brandy, the Ren Faire previous owner, told my now frantic sister over the phone, that he had received shots but all his records were in a storage unit in Kansas or Wisconsin, she couldn’t remember which. The vet diagnosed him with Pancreatitus or a sensitive stomach which is about as distant a diagnosis as Kansas is to Wisconsin. He then charged my sister $3000 for testing and treatment. My sister promptly looked into health insurance and enrolled the dog.

Beans is very sweet, good-natured and a bit underweight. He now roams the streets of Glen Rock on a expensive leash, sleeps in a king size bed, dines on boiled chicken and rice that my sister cooks specially for him. Or should I say arroz con pollo. My sister’s friend has been speaking to him in Spanish and he appears to understand even though it’s spoken with an East Rutherford accent. Maybe he picked up the Spanish traveling the streets of Detroit or maybe during his days with the migratory Ren Faire gypsies. All I know is if this dog could talk he would have some story to tell only I wonder if he’d be speaking in Spanish or English? Either way I’m sure he’s found his Happily ever after in my sister, the Queen of his castle in the Glen.

Tales from the Wood

May 8th will be 5 years since my Mom left the planet. I intended to write something in honor of her for Mother's Day however in my Weed stories I came across one that always makes me smile from when I was 5.

For my Mother with Infinite Love...................

Some people believe in the power of charms, crystals and talismans. Weed believed in the power of Cowboy boots. They could walk her through any dangerous or scary situation. She learned of their power and used it in time for Kindergarten.

When Weed was about to be enrolled in Kindergarten her parents broke family tradition. Her two older brothers, along with her ten cousins, had all attended Catholic School. Weed was enrolled in a neighborhood public school and she was both annoyed and confused about it. She asked her mother why she wasn’t in the same school her brothers’ had attended. Her mothers’ reply was honest. She told Weed that because her brothers had constantly misbehaved and gotten in trouble she was afraid the Sisters who taught there would remember what her brothers had done and it would be held against Weed. They were legendary having done everything from shake down kids for lunch money to selling fireworks to classmates to use on the eighth grade class trip. While Weed had no choice but to listen to her parents concern she resented it. Over time she settled this resentment with her own imagination. The school she was to attend was called Catherine E. Doyle School, named after a prominent and much loved teacher. Her cousins went to schools with regal and mysterious sounding names such as Academy of the Holy Angels, St. Thomas and Our Lady of Assumption. Weed knew enough religion to know that Saints were greatly loved and admired by many. In her world Catherine E. Doyle sounded like a name from a phone book. In her world it sounded much nicer as St. Catherine Of Doyle.

Weeds interest and admiration of Saints had begun a year before when she met Sister Saint Anthony from Our Lady of Assumption Church in Wood-Ridge. Back in the day, Nuns were allowed to drive but not alone. The Convent had an old 57 Chevy for her to use but Sister St. Anthony needed a companion to drive with. Weeds mom had known her for some time and when no one volunteered to help, she did. Sister St. Anthony wanted to visit her family an hour away so it became routine to walk to the Convent, get in the Chevy and drive with Sister St. Anthony to her families home.

On the very first trip though something transpired that Weeds mom could have never anticipated. Sister St. Anthony started the car and put the pedal to the medal. She traveled at 70 miles per hour regardless of whether they were on the highway or on the Boulevard in Wood-Ridge. Traffic stops were taken at a screeching halt. All corners were turned on two wheels. Also, in the early 1960’s the habit that Sister wore was very long. The only parts exposed were a little bit of her sweet, angelic face and her tiny snow-white hands. The black wool sleeves were huge. Weed could see the horror in her mother’s eyes as Sister St. Anthony grabbed the steering wheel. Later at home, Weed heard her Mom tell her Dad how scared she was, not only of the speed, but also of losing sight of the steering wheel in one of the wide sleeves.

When Sister suggested they pray the rosary on the way down, Weeds mom looked relieved. Weed guessed her Mom now understood why Sister St. Anthony had a hard time finding a companion to travel with and needed the rosary to help her find a way out of this.

At age four, Weed was pressed against the back seat by the sheer force of speed. In those pre-air conditioning days all the windows were down. Weeds hair was blowing in the breeze and becoming more tangled by the minute. Having been teased about her unkempt hair as far back as she could remember, Weed was sure by now it was a bird’s nest. She just hoped with all the prayers being said in the front seat that the Holy Ghost itself would land in it to keep her safe. Weed passed the time watching the treetops and clouds race by. On the return trip it was more of the same, with the rosary being said in the front seat sounding like a soundtrack for the race between all she could see of the tree tops and clouds.

Weed and her Mom made several more trips with Sister St. Anthony to see her family. The night before the second trip Weed had watched Gunsmoke with her Dad. While watching it, it occurred to Weed that Sister St. Anthony drove like a stage coach driver being chased by a posse. The next day and on all subsequent trips she wore her cowboy boots, bandana and hat. As the treetops and clouds raced by she pointed her cap gun out the window to protect Sister St. Anthony and her Mom from the Unseen.

The trips ended with the beginning of summer. It was just in time for Weed and her Dad to take walks after dinner to the school she would be attending in the fall. They did this occasionally in July and August so Weed could learn the way. It was just six blocks from her home.

When the first day arrived, her Mom was preparing to walk her to school. Weed demanded she stay home. Actually, Weed demanded she not follow her outside. The very independent Weed left the house and waved to her Mom who was holding her brother and watching from the front picture window. Then Weed turned away looking down at her new shoes and pretended they were her cowboy boots. Once she visualized her boots she felt for her trusty cap gun she had hidden in her pocket the night before. She then skipped her way to her very first day at “Saint Catherine of Doyle.”

Several years later when Sally Field debuted as Sister Betrille in “The Flying Nun” Weed was sleeping at her Aunt Theresa’s house. She watched it with her cousins and was mesmerized by the story. When she returned home, she found her Mom and told her the story of Sister Betrille while jumping nonstop on the couch in her excitement. Her Mom, sitting at the kitchen table with Weed’s sister on her lap, listened patiently while smoking her cigarette. In the end she said nothing but hugged Weed and laughed.

They both knew the real Flying Nun.

Dressing Rooms, Antique Genes and Reflection

I went shopping last week needing jeans, wanting a jacket and looking for boots. I was really pleased to find a couple pairs of jeans I really liked. That doesn’t always happen. All bets are off when a woman walks through the threshold of a dressing room. The smoke and mirrors can cast a poor reflection or a good one that actually tricks you into believing you look good. Ever notice how the word LIE is placed center stage in the word BELIEVE? The right pair of jeans can be as challenging as choosing the right bathing suit or the perfect dress. But I was lucky and Lucky Brand works well for me. I came home from shopping, made rice pudding and called my Dad to tell him to come by and pick it up. He was a little bothered about an argument he had with his Uncle, which I actually thought was comical. I feel I have a picture to paint here. My Great Uncle Ralph lives on 8 acres in Oakland in an area called Ramapo Park. It is off Skyline Drive, located by a mile marker, down a single lane road. There are six other houses that share the Park with my Uncle’s. It’s adjacent to state land and a reservoir. The house is perched off a cliff in a very private location that sits in juxtaposition of my Uncle, who is very outgoing, interesting and loving. He is 100 years old and has lived there 50 years. Each week he entertains, cooking for a group of friends that come by to play cards, my Dad arrives once or twice a week to eat lunch and shoot the breeze and Uncle Ralph’s girlfriend stays several days a week, unless it’s summer. Until he turned 100, Uncle Ralph spent summers at his house on Cape Cod. This year he gave the house away to my Aunt Jodie’s family. Well you get the picture. He is very special and he follows the footsteps of his sister Marie and his mother who both lived till they were close to his age. My father is 86, has vision problems and walks with a slight limp from an injury to his foot. The argument was because my 100-year-old Uncle wanted my 86-year-old father to go in the basement (which is outside down steep stone steps like Aunt Em’s Farm in Kansas) and change the water in the furnace. My Dad said not until November because then the snakes will be hibernating. My Uncle terse response was “What are you afraid of, they’re only black snakes?” My Dad said to me he can’t see well and moves too slow to be in the basement (snake den) changing water on any furnace. Apparently Uncle Ralph has seen the shed skin in the basement and his 89-year-old girlfriend saw a snake on the stairs in the house going to the second floor. My Great Uncle is unfazed. He was also unfazed two summers ago when he was driving up to Cape Cod and was pulled over for speeding. That was the only other argument I’ve heard my Dad have with him. My Dad now prefers to drive but Uncle Ralph likes to as well. Maybe because my Dad has limited vision in his left eye………

Anyway, later that night as I put my Lucky jeans away I couldn’t help but think how Lucky I am to have some great family gene’s too. There’s no smoke and mirrors here and it is clearly a part of my own reflection. My Uncle is amazing. There’s so much more to his story than I’ve written today. In two weeks when the weather cools I’ll make him some rice pudding and stop by to visit with my Dad. Meanwhile, here is the link for Great Uncle Ralph's birthday story published in The Record. My next post will include the rice pudding recipe, after all I will be making it should you decide to visit me when I'm One Hundred.

http://www.northjersey.com/community/89661037_He_apparently_has_the_century_mark_in_the_corner_pocket__too_

Postcards from the Future

My brother planted sunflowers

Evergreen, daises, forget-me-nots too

He shared the seeds, igniting the world

With vibrant, subtle, changing hues

In the backyard garden of home

And a tree farm far away

The same breeze that whispers love

Arrives but not to stay

Fueled with the same mischief

That dances in the stars

My brother planted sunflowers

In a meadow forever blue

Like an evergreen he was rooted

With courage to grow and go

His star sight reached beyond the field

Where all the flowers grow

So in the Spring reminders bloom

Of love so strong and true

Sunflowers, evergreens, daises

And always forget-me-nots too

I wrote this last November while I was cooking dinner. The words just came to me rhythmically; reminiscent of a chant you’d jump rope to some long ago summer. A bouquet of sunflowers on the counter nearby, a flower my brother loved, may have been the catalyst for the poetry. I never dreamed I’d be invited nine months later to visit the farm Michael worked on in his early twenties. Through the kindness of two childhood friends who I connected with on face book, I was invited to see the farm and creek on a recent trip to Cooperstown. Evergreens are abundantly growing in the adjacent field and on the walk down to the creek. It was Ann Maries comment that my brother planted them that reminded and enlightened me. I was so in awe being in a place that was legendary to my family that I forgot the most obvious, he was there to plant trees. In the background of Steven’s smile is a row of White Pines, the tree the Iroquois Nation called the Tree of Peace. Planted by my brother as little seedlings, they now towered over us, majestic in the sun filled landscape, bringing peace to my heart. Thank You Ann Marie, Tim and Bonnie for your thoughtfulness and good medicine. It meant more to me than I can convey in words…

Another postscript is one I find typical of my brother and my interactions. Michael called me up one day to come by and take home some flowers he had for me. When I arrived, in my new car, I was really annoyed to find 4 huge muddy flats of what looked like weeds for me to bring home and plant. I brought them home and it took me all week to plant them, still angry at what appeared to be an endless pack of weeds. He called several times during the week to ask if I’d finished which made me feel obligated to plant them all. I ran out of sunspace so put a lot in the wooded way back of the back yard just to get them in the ground. The following Spring he was gone and the flowers forgotten until two years later when I walked in the way back early one May morning to see what needed to be gardened and instead found a virtual field of forget-me-nots that had reseeded and now grew everywhere.

I believe his insistence on giving me the flowers and my poetic scribbling was nothing more than postcards from the future, postmarked with Serendipity.

Bear With Me

Last week I was driving on my street when I thought how peculiar it was that my neighbor would have this great big bear sculpture placed on her lawn near the curb. I slowed down to look and as it turned to look back at me I was stunned. I wanted to call home and tell my kids not to put the dog out in the yard. I couldn’t remember my home number nor how to dial my cell phone. Note to self: In a panic speed dial does not work with out speed brain. This bear was definitely a Mama Bear at about 500 lbs. and when it took off, it sprinted across the lawn in one great leap. It would be able to jump over my backyard fence in a flash and probably could open the sliding door in one great swoosh inviting herself to my kitchen table before I would have the time to remember my own address or where the honey pot was. As I drove away a police car was arriving and I flagged him down. He told me very matter of factly that they had received several calls but that the bear lives in town now and to just be aware of it. I immediately wondered “when did my street move to West Milford ?” Well nothings quite as sure as change. I learned that from an ancient Mama and the Papa Bear song when I was little. At the time I lived in Wood-Ridge where the only wildlife I had to worry about was my own family. Thinking about my family made me wonder where Mama Bears clan was. I’m sure they moved with her as well. Maybe they sensed there would be a vacancy in late August on my street as one of my babies moves off to a far away place called Lockhaven. Once upon a time my own little wild one arrived on one of the darkest days of Winter and lit up my life forever. His beautiful dark eyes reflected the wisdom and depth of a nomad and he gifted me everyday, sharing and traveling his wide world of childhood. In Lockhaven his world will continue to widen but I’m a little scared of all that space, not for him, he’ll be fine, for me. I’ll just miss him so. Although thinking about it these days, I’m also scared to walk down the street alone. Guess I’ll just have to grin and bear it.

Red, White and Blues~

What King and what Queen are you inviting for dinner? My Mom asked me that about twenty years ago when I took her to see the formal dinning room table and chairs that I wanted to buy. It was a question she emphasized with attitude that received no reply from me. I was reminded of that late this afternoon when I was lying on my back on the lounge chair watching a dragon fly skitter here and there way above the cherry tree I was borrowing shade from. I watched it thinking how little I know about dragonflies but realizing how much I, all weekend, felt like one. Friday night we had a graduation party for my two sons in the same backgarden I was now relaxing in. One had graduated 8^th grade and the other High School so that was reason enough to fill the back yard with family and friends. The deck was still askew with random star shaped helium balloons that now floated spookily in the heat along with remnants of the festivities still waiting to be cleaned up, perhaps tomorrow. On Saturday morning I was awake for the lunar eclipse at seven, then by nine driving to a Fab Faux Show at the Count Basie Theatre in Red Bank to help out and work the merch in what was a barely air conditioned Lobby. Sunday morning I was at the Farmers Market early because Ramsey Fine Arts Council had a booth for the day. We are six days away from our Fourth of July event at Finch Park and having the booth gave us a chance to reach out to people and let them know about the event. Today Fine Arts sponsored the music and we were very happy to have Sara and Matt Gallman, the founders of Music at the Mission in West Milford, sing, play hammer dulcimer, guitar and penny whistle, filling the Farmers Market with the beauty of music. The theme for this years July Fourth event is ‘Red, White and Blues: A Celebration of the Routes of American Music”. The hammer dulcimer is an instrument that plays an integral part in the roots of American music and the multi talented Sara Gallman played and enchanted all who heard it while her husband accompanied her. I walked nearby and played ‘one woman street team’ handing out flyers to everyone I could. The weekend and the afternoon heat were draining and so I am now trying to recharge my battery in the quiet and cool of my backyard. In my head though, my thoughts ricochet, moving like the dragonfly high above. I have to confirm the hospitality on the bands’ riders, check that the fire permits are completed for the food vendors, deposit donation money, ask if we may borrow the drum risers from the high school, create a CD of house music, map out the vendor village, actually I should make a list of everything to be done this week. The idea of “The List” began to overwhelm me. That was when I heard my mother whisper, still with attitude, from some ‘make me smile’ place in my heart, “What King and what Queen......... In a flash the dragonfly was gone and this time I replied to my Mom in thought, “This July Fourth it will be Reckon’ So, Homemade Jamz and The Pine Leaf Boys but who knows? Maybe some other Fourth it will be the Kings of Leon.

Peace of My Heart

I attended a local production of Godspell the night after I found out my son had a tiny hole in the wall between the chambers in his heart. I’d like to rewrite that. I attended a local production of Godspell the night after I found out my son has a tiny hole in the wall between the chambers of his heart. That’s a sentence from a script I can’t seem to rewrite. The cardiologist believes it should be left alone, but also offered that some Doctors would advise repair. We met with him on Thursday and on Friday I attended the show where my son played lead guitar in the Godspell Ensemble. It was presented in a remarkable church that was built in 1906 as a memorial to Emma Hanchett Crocker by her husband, railroad magnate, George Crocker. He too had a hole in his heart but his came from losing his wife. It wouldn’t have shown up on a sonogram but it was real nonetheless. I suppose he would have liked to rewrite his script too but was unable. Yet George Crocker created something very beautiful from his love for his wife and the depth of the space that became the hole. Over a hundred years later, sitting in this sacred space and watching the play, the mystical stained glass window glowed softly from the backlight. In his time, he may not have imagined that his great gift to his wife’s memory would become such a vibrant place for spirit, for people to come together and share an evening revel in Godspell. Or maybe he did. All I know is we are all under Gods Spell. The script is revealed day by day, and no one knows the story. Only in reflection can we see it colored the way we desire, a little like the blurry mystical stained glass window, backlit with the light of our own wisdom.

On Friday night the music of Godspell filled the room with joy, which is just what music and love can do regardless of the day-by-day script. Maybe that’s one of Gods Spells. Or maybe he’s just that good a director.