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

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.

Here Comes the Sun

One day to the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe which is my one-year anniversary of writing Serendipity! Fourteen days until Christmas. Thirteen days to my son’s 19^th Birthday. Eleven days until the Winter Solstice. Today is the first day of a Mercury Retrograde that will last until December 30^th. And so it goes for the month of December…I had hoped to blog each week this past year however I am still happy that I’m writing this now with the intent to post even though Mercury is Retrograde. I have stories spinning around in my head however finding a way to get them out without setting off friends and family can at times be my challenge. I am becoming more courageous although it may be sometime before I can write about who sent what to my PO Box after working the Lennon Tribute. As I wrote that sentence I was smiling with a heart that still beats in disbelief. I am looking forward to Eric coming home from school next week. I am looking forward to Christmas because my shopping is half done and my house inside out is sparkling with lights. The lights are current day remnants from ancient Solstice bon fires that were lit everywhere on great Mother Earth since prehistory. Ever notice how you just need to switch the H to the beginning in earth and it becomes heart? She is a real living thing. This years Solstice will also bring a lunar eclipse to the heart of the human universe. To be a watcher of the stars, this stellar drama is a huge event. I am including some of Bob Bermans writing for Astronomy Magazine because he says it all.

The oddest celestial event? This year there's an easy winner. It's the millennium's first total lunar eclipse completely visible from all of North America and Hawaii. And whoa, beat the drums; it happens right on the solstice. 

This was exactly the kind of spectacle that inspired the fun-loving Mayans to push their most annoying relatives off pyramids. (Does any scholar actually know how they selected people for sacrifices? "Annoying" seems logical.) These days, our own citizenry is much too overweight to engage in such energetic rituals. But if you're tempted, be sure to first check local ordinances before you perform even a single goat sacrifice.

At midnight December 20/21, we'll have the highest Full Moon until 2020. From the West Coast, that Moon will be in total eclipse at midnight — how cool is that? Observers in Key West will see the magical Moon straight up, an imperceptible ½° from the zenith. Count on crowds blowing conches at Sunset Pier at that overhead moment of 12:17 a.m. But like all Eastern time-zoners, they must wait 'til 1:32 a.m. for the eclipse's umbral beginning.

We'll also get a rare chance to gauge the Full Moon's brightness. During the night's first half, it defiles the sky with a creamy glow that obliterates everything fainter than 3rd magnitude. Then, if you live in the country away from streetlights and other light pollution, behold the metamorphosis. Drink in the glory of the winter Milky Way after the Moon's been reduced to a coppery phantom, with the visible star count boosted from 120 to 2,600.


The magickal moon turning into a coppery phantom…sounds like an occasion to party to me. My friend Stacy and I are going to plan some Solstice festivities however one or two of my annoying relatives are not inclined to participate in this sort of revelry. I could get their goat by writing some of the tales they’ve inadvertently shared with me or included me in. That was just a fun loving throw them off the Ramapo Mountains Mayan type of thought. I found out recently that there is sacred Indian land in Ramsey, which Stacy and I by chance(?) happen to live on though I am not aware of any pyramids. I intend on acknowledging the power of the lunar eclipse, the Winter Solstice, which is the rebirth of the sun in 0 degree Capricorn, celebrating the birth of the Son several days later on December 25^th and celebrating my own son’s birthday on the 23^rd. My astrological chart has Mercury in Capricorn at 0 degrees in the 12^th house and it was at my astrologers advice to begin to open up and have the world hear my inner dialogue so it was her suggestion to blog. Here I am back again at the beginning, my one year anniversary of speaking my truth. Sun, son, sun here it comes……

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.

Passover the cheesecake........

Here I am back in the kitchen. I had sworn off cooking, particularly baking, a couple of days ago in anger. The week before I had made a pumpkin pie, rice pudding and a Guinness Cake, which is similar to a spice cake, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. All were made from scratch. Well I did buy the can of Guinness that was needed. Sacred ingredients notwithstanding, the pudding, pie and cake were made from scratch over the course of the week. A couple days later I noticed the pie plate in the sink and washed it. A little while later I experienced a sinking feeling when I noticed a small piece of pie in the trash. The following week I saw crumbled remnants of the Guinness Cake being disposed of in a similar fashion. The where abouts of the rice pudding are still to be determined although I believe it was all eaten. In my anger I decided not to bake anything for the next year. In reading this you may be concluding that the desserts were bad. That’s not the case. My family is just spoiled. They just don’t care for left overs so they devour what they will fresh from the oven and then pretend there isn’t any food in the house. Anyway, it all made me really angry. I read recently that anger is addictive and I believe that’s true. I’ve seen that in my own extended family. It’s usually those that respond first and the loudest to any inconvenience so I decided quietly and with some thought to not feel hurt. I thought I’d change my own behavior and stop baking, for a year or more. It worked for a couple of days and then tonight my youngest child suggested I make a cheesecake for dessert for tomorrows Passover dinner. He made the suggestion just as I was creating a shopping list for tomorrow, needing brisket and turkey and more. I began to rant. I began to rave. Then I began to check out the Philly cream cheese package recipe and add the ingredients to my list. Four packs of cream cheese, coconut macaroons for the crust, oranges and strawberries for the sauce, etc. etc. As I write this, the cake is in the oven. It was the youngest child in the house that asked the four questions.

1. Why are you so angry Mom?

2. Why don’t you just live in the moment?

3. Who is coming for dinner tomorrow?

4. Can you make this cheesecake for Passover?

I never made a cheese cake before but it looks like a happy thing. The edge is slightly cracked and it’s a beautiful creamy color with flecks of orange rind throughout. Tomorrow it will be adorned with a strawberry orange sauce that I will spike with Grand Marnier, to make it an even happier thing. Is it Serendipitous that during my own Holy season of Lent cooking dinner for Passover would remind me of the power of love?

Wild and Whirling Words

Last Tuesday before the snowstorm I opened my book of wild and whirling words. The book is really a journal I keep reserved for poetry quotes and notes from family and friends that hold great meaning to me. I need to know where it is at all times even if my life keeps me too busy to open it. When I get a chance it’s usually to add words that I believe are enlightening or heartfelt. On Tuesday, February 9th, I unexpectedly came across something I want to share. It is a ‘Thank You’ that I had received in 1966. My Mom had saved it for many years, giving it back to me a while ago. Cards and notes she saved for me trigger many of my early memories. My mother also was adept at telling original bedtime stories all of which began with ‘Once Upon a Time’. It may be that my reverence for words is based on this oral tradition common before people believed tv could entertain a child better than a loved one. Anyway, most of her stories centered around three little girls that went on adventures and interacted with a myriad of strange characters. Meanwhile, at times my own childhood could have served as a script. My Dad had very few friends that were not crazy and within this circle Mr. Ramisch was without a doubt certifiable. I write that with great affection for him. On the first occasion of meeting my Mother and myself he came to the house with a baby squirrel that he had found. He entered the house never mentioning the squirrel. It was climbing up his pant leg and immediately following introductions he unzipped his pants and to my Mom’s horror a baby squirrel scattered out. This tiny squirrel became mine and was kept in a birdcage in the kitchen and feed with a baby bottle. Maybe it was my love of this little squirrel that endeared me to him. Mr. Ramisch lived with his Dad in Northwest Bergen County. Their house was on a piece of property where hehad found many Lenape Indian artifacts and I loved them all, especially the arrowheads. He was kind enough to share with me, allowing me to bring them to school. To read between the lines of the note is to understand how he liked me…… however he hated his Dad. I remember as a child being surprised to hear how Mr. Ramisch had gotten into a fight with his father. A couple of days later, still angry, he cut a hole in the floor just inside the front door. He also cut the carpet and fitted it back in place. When his Dad arrived home and walked in he fell one floor to the basement and broke a few bones. Imagine reality tv in the sixties……

Anyhow, above is his ‘Valentine’ note to me that I treasure. The morning I had unfolded it I had just come in from feeding the birds and squirrels in the backyard because the next day the winter storm was to arrive. Seeing the date on the note was exactly 44 years ago when he reminded me not to ‘forget to feed the birds’ created wild and whirling happiness looking back on ‘Once Upon a Time’.

Spirit of Christmas

I never met Rina however I met and knew a little of the woman Rina later became. Mrs. Cross lived two doors up from my family’s home in a tiny English Tudor style house. I don’t remember speaking to her unless the holiday was Halloween and I was in costume standing on the brick patio that over looked her sleepy October Garden. The garden is really how I think of her and may represent what she really was, a flower unknown to me. In place of her front lawn, Mrs. Cross had created little brick and stone pathways around which different flowers bloomed throughout spring and summer. In a wide brimmed straw hat she was either tending the garden or sitting on her porch with her husband reading the paper. Years later, after she, her husband and son were gone and the house was being sold, my mother acquired an antique writing desk from the family. There, in a secret drawer, very neatly folded was this letter she wrote to her parents on Christmas Day in 1905 when she herself was a little flower……It is framed now and I hang it every Winter in my family room. It has become one of my favorite holiday things maybe because it prompts me to slow down during the holidays. Each time I read it I wonder about this woman as I glimpse into her own long ago childhood…..To think that each Halloween dressed as my usual witch or ghost I would trick or treat at her house as a child and now each year her childhood haunts me with the sweetness of a childhood garden and the spirit of Christmas past…..The postscript here is that even though I scanned the letter and the original is easily readable, this was too pixilated, and so it reads..........

December 25, 1905

My Dear Father and Mother,

As Christmas is here I thought I would write you a short Christmas letter. I hope you are glad that Christmas is here, and hope that Santa Claus brought you many presents. I am not very old and cannot write a very long letter. I am glad you both told Santa to bring me so many presents. I wish you both a very, merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

Your loving daughter, Rina

JOYEUX NOEL MES AMIS ~Helene