tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50253350682501270062024-03-05T14:34:16.739-05:00What, Me Worry? <i>No worry is too big. Or too small.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger234125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-63980311415181508102019-02-14T08:00:00.002-05:002019-02-14T10:00:51.989-05:00Turning 70: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly<b>The Good</b><br />
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I don't <i>feel</i> old. I don't have arthritis or other big aches and pains, at least not today. I can still do the things I care about — walking, reading, writing, and most importantly, spending time with the people I love.<br />
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I can still line dance.<br />
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I can still marvel at the beauty of the world. During the winter months I feel fortunate that I can sit on my island bench overlooking Biscayne Bay and watch the pelicans and cormorants fly by. Sometimes, I'm lucky enough to see a manatee surface for air or a spotted eagle ray leap out of the water. Mostly, though, I enjoy taking in the view with E. by my side. More than anywhere else, that bench is where I can just be in the moment.<br />
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I feel lucky to have so many terrific people in my life — wonderful family and friends who put up with me, laugh with me, and are there when I need them.<br />
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I hadn't expected the special pleasure of having adult relationships with my sons and their wives. They seem a lot smarter than me now, but I'm delighted that they still occasionally ask my opinion. Best of all, I've loved watching them become great parents to my four amazing grandchildren.<br />
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Also good — no gray hair yet.<br />
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<b>The Bad</b><br />
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Health. Ill health, that is. Several friends have faced difficult health challenges during the past year. I know it comes with the territory, but it's still a daunting path to face as I meander into older age.<br />
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The specter of poor health in one's seventies is bad enough, but when serious illness strikes a young person, it's a million times worse. That happened to someone I love this year and has reminded me how cruel and arbitrary life can be.<br />
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Then there's the wider world, with the earth in crisis on every imaginable level — glaciers melting, insects disappearing, Trump tweeting, Venezuela and Yemen imploding, racism and anti-Semitism as virulent as ever. Not a very auspicious time to turn 70. (But see <i>The Good</i>, above — focusing on simple pleasures and loved ones really helps.)<br />
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<b>The Ugly</b><br />
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With a nod to Nora Ephron, my neck. Not to mention all those other wrinkles. But here's something good — I can't get up the energy to care. Of course, that's probably because I'm 70 and don't have as much energy as I used to.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-80678637028614530112018-09-05T16:02:00.000-04:002019-04-11T15:16:06.244-04:00Eagleton's Last Stand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sylvan Lake, South Dakota</i></td></tr>
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On July 29th, 1972, E. and I spent a night at Sylvan Lake Lodge in the Black Hills of South Dakota. We arrived there only hours after Presidential candidate George McGovern departed.<br />
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E. and I were en route from Massachusetts to California, having gotten married a month earlier. We mostly car-camped as we drove west in our tiny Saab Sonnett, which had no AC and no radio. It's hard to imagine in today's wired world how completely out of touch we were at times.<br />
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We did know, however, that George McGovern, a senator from South Dakota, was the Democratic nominee for President and that Thomas Eagleton was his running mate. A few days before we arrived in South Dakota, we stopped in St. Paul, Minnesota, where we stayed with Eric's cousin Gail and caught up on the latest news. It was there we learned that all hell had broken loose on Tuesday, July 25th, when Eagleton revealed to McGovern that he'd been hospitalized for depression during the sixties and had twice received electroshock therapy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons</i></td></tr>
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We had no idea, though, that this revelation had taken place at Sylvan Lake Lodge, or that McGovern and his team had gathered there for a working vacation after the Convention. In fact, we had no idea we would wind up at the lodge ourselves. Our only plan while driving through South Dakota was to visit the Badlands and then head to Mount Rushmore. Once at Mount Rushmore, we admired the majestic sculpture of four U.S. Presidents, though E. regretted that Calvin Coolidge, his favorite President, was not among them.<br />
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At the Mount Rushmore visitor center, I came across a pamphlet about nearby Custer State Park, which included a mention of Sylvan Lake Lodge. It sounded appealing, especially since we had spent the prior night, our one-month wedding anniversary, in our tiny tent. E. agreed that a splurge was called for and I felt a twinge of anticipation as we drove along Needles Highway toward the lodge. Though we didn't have a reservation, we couldn't imagine they wouldn't have a room for us.<br />
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As it turned out, they had plenty of rooms. McGovern and his crew had cleared out that morning and the place was almost empty. The setting of the lodge was gorgeous, having been chosen by none other than Frank Lloyd Wright, and the lodge had a rustic charm. The staff was mostly young and still filled with excitement about the political celebrities they'd just hosted. It thrilled me to realize that I was in the very place where so much political intrigue had so recently transpired. When McGovern had arrived at the lodge, only a few short days earlier, everything had seemed fine. By the time he departed, that very mornng, he had all but decided to dump Eagleton after initially standing by him.<br />
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While we didn't witness this firsthand, we did dine on buffalo meat in the same dining room where McGovern and Eagleton had eaten. We walked the same corridors where reporters had pressed the candidates for answers, and we felt the pathos of the situation all the more keenly for being in the place where it had just played out.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Eagleton resigns</i></td></tr>
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Several days later, on August 1st, Eagleton finally resigned, at McGovern's request. Back then, I knew hardly anything about electroshock therapy, but I felt sorry Eagleton would be forever stigmatized by acknowledging his treatment. And I felt worried about McGovern, whom I supported. The situation had made him appear indecisive, given that he had at first declared he was behind Eagleton a thousand percent, only to ask for his resignation a few days later.<br />
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E. and I continued our journey across the country, lingering to marvel at the Grand Tetons, then visiting friends who lived in a tree house in the wilds of Idaho (this was, after all, the seventies). While there, we slept on a mattress under the stars, a far better accommodation than we encountered at our next stop, in the Nevada desert, where we opted for a bed-bug-infested motel rather than risk scorpions in our tent. By the time we arrived at E.'s parents' house on the Stanford campus, the Watergate coverup was well underway and Sargent Shriver was George McGovern's new running mate.<br />
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I hadn't thought about this story in years until the other day, when I found myself recounting it to a friend. Perhaps there's some lesson for our present political moment that caused it to come to mind. For me, though, it's primarily a wonderful memory of a time when I didn't worry about hotel reservations, or about what might be coming around the bend (other than scorpions), and was rewarded with a very special experience.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-41561298295153860472018-05-29T16:45:00.000-04:002018-05-31T09:46:02.795-04:00In the Crossword ZoneSomething odd has happened. I've become a whiz at crossword puzzles, having completed the New York Times Crossword thirty-one days in a row, without cheating. It's almost enough to make me believe in miracles. Or maybe the Times puzzles have gotten easier. More likely, though, my newfound skill is due to my sister, Janet, and my son, Alex.<br />
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Logically, my ability to solve puzzles should have become worse as I've aged. My word recall has deteriorated and I forget the plots of novels almost as soon as I've read them. Yet, I manage to dredge up long-forgotten names and words when I'm working on a puzzle.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPAE9-dN2rUJ45m9IUoSJNisKwzruAXsx_4Grq57a1EGuF2rCgEQJ7mRDzdYDtrj51wWKwqId9wa5qxfmq4nCkM8kkraOodAgeehypH3Cq3DOR1GxWttMZK7J-aPGYdqstL8zFJeSBfqy7/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-05-29+at+4.00.33+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="242" data-original-width="252" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPAE9-dN2rUJ45m9IUoSJNisKwzruAXsx_4Grq57a1EGuF2rCgEQJ7mRDzdYDtrj51wWKwqId9wa5qxfmq4nCkM8kkraOodAgeehypH3Cq3DOR1GxWttMZK7J-aPGYdqstL8zFJeSBfqy7/s200/Screen+Shot+2018-05-29+at+4.00.33+PM.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>An antique French etui</i></td></tr>
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In part, I've improved because I've mastered certain crossword puzzle techniques. Like many frequent solvers, I now easily fill in words that are virtually only found in crosswords, never in actual speech, like etui or iambi. And when a cookie or a snack or a "sandwich often given a twist" is involved, I've learned to think of oreos.<br />
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I've also gotten much better at recognizing the different possible meanings of a clue. Take, for example, the seven-letter clue "big hits," which appeared in a recent Sunday puzzle. My first association was to successes in the arts, like a hit song or a hit film. When nothing along those lines seemed to fit, I thought maybe the hits referred to punches. Finally, I realized I should have been thinking about baseball hits — the answer was "triples". I used to become fixated on one definition of a word or phrase, which led to frustration and defeat. Now, I'm more attuned to different meanings.<br />
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The Times Crossword increases in difficulty as the week progresses, with Monday the easiest and Saturday the most difficult. In the past, I could usually complete the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday puzzles, but after that all bets were off. Thursday puzzles feature "tricks", which I used to find confounding. Sunday puzzles are longer, but at about a Thursday level of difficulty. Despite having learned the crossword techniques described above, I had never finished a Sunday puzzle without "cheating," which for me meant Googling to discover which Rhine tributary flows through Switzerland (Aare) or the name of a famous Verdi aria (Eri Tu). Then a casual conversation with my brother-in-law, Michael, changed all that.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Aare River at Bern, Switzerland</i></td></tr>
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We were discussing crosswords and I mentioned that I found the Times Sunday puzzles daunting.<br />
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"Really?" said Michael. "Janet always finishes them."<br />
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What? My little sister was better at crosswords than me? A competitive nerve I thought I'd long ago numbed began to twinge. I resolved to try harder at the Sunday crosswords. If Janet could do them then, by God, so could I.<br />
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And so it came to pass. My progress was slow at first, but I persisted and eventually I could almost always complete the Sunday puzzles, without cheating. And I got better at the Thursday puzzles, too. The Friday and Saturday offerings still eluded me, though. Enter my son, Alex.<br />
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When Alex was younger, he used to tell me he admired my vocabulary. Back then, he was impressed that I could finish a Monday puzzle. So imagine my surprise when, about a year ago, Alex sent me a text to let me know he had finished a Friday puzzle in under twenty minutes. I was filled with pride — my son, the genius! But wait, how had it come to this? My child, who only yesterday saw me as an accomplished puzzle solver, had surpassed me. I felt a sudden determination to master not only the Friday puzzle, but the Saturday, too.<br />
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Was I now competing with my son? Had I stooped so low? I preferred to regard myself as inspired by him, but let's call a spade a spade. Alex's accomplishment gave me the jolt I needed to go to the next level. Soon, I was solving Friday and Saturday puzzles with some regularity, and there's no doubt I was spurred on by my desire to perform at least as well as Alex. <br />
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Crossword puzzles may have brought out my latent competitiveness, but they've also awakened a couple of qualities I feel good about. The first is a can-do attitude. I used to approach every Friday puzzle convinced that I could never solve it. Now I assume the opposite. Add to that a newfound persistence, and my odds of success have vastly increased. I simply don't quit. I just stare the puzzle down and keep at it.<br />
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When I'm feeling totally stumped, I get up and do something else for a while. Often the answers to seemingly insoluble clues become obvious after a walk around the block. But if all else fails, I just think of Janet and Alex effortlessly conquering the worst that the Times Crossword can throw at them. That does the trick every time.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-11018216049389992122018-04-15T20:02:00.001-04:002018-05-29T10:59:04.369-04:00Bald EagleIt happened in the unlikeliest of places, at the unlikeliest of moments. E. and I were driving home from New York after spending the weekend with our kids and grandkids. We decided to stop for gas and a bite to eat in Glastonbury, Connecticut, a pretty town along our route. It was early evening and the light was just starting to fade. As we pulled into the gas station, I glanced out the car's front window.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Kate Wellington</span></i></td></tr>
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Above me soared a bird with an impressive wing-span, whose wings themselves appeared black against the blue sky, and whose head looked as white as Bill Clinton's hair. Clinton's hair comes to mind because the day before, while exploring the little village of Pleasantville, NY, we had encountered the former President at a local bookstore, where he was holding forth on politics to a couple of random customers. His hair looked <i>very</i> white.<br />
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But I digress. The moment I saw the bird, I knew it was a bald eagle — wild, free, and for some reason searching for prey above a gas station in the commercial district of a manicured suburb. I had last seen a bald eagle twenty years earlier, in Juneau, Alaska, where they are common. But I'd never seen one on the East Coast.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6nEzqCLBM9BNTTO_27pyKDNpzgayvX35fXl5xE_pNin6dNZ419IewxLbsHAlOH3aTtiidW9K7Tw13DAxj9W-mI4sXKhbVl1PKSB4cmES_8-vN72UtQhWfGzUViexiIUu0AbR_3Of_NOm_/s1600/Bald+eagle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6nEzqCLBM9BNTTO_27pyKDNpzgayvX35fXl5xE_pNin6dNZ419IewxLbsHAlOH3aTtiidW9K7Tw13DAxj9W-mI4sXKhbVl1PKSB4cmES_8-vN72UtQhWfGzUViexiIUu0AbR_3Of_NOm_/s200/Bald+eagle.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I felt joyful, as if I had achieved something special by my mere proximity to such a magnificent creature. I knew that bald eagles are part scavengers, an attribute not in keeping with their lofty reputation, but at that moment I saw nothing but the bird's noble countenance. The incongruity of the setting made the experience all the more thrilling.<br />
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By the time E. had filled the tank, the bird was gone. I checked my <a href="http://merlin.allaboutbirds.org/?__hstc=161696355.ed8c8a735a417e942e08ba52f897d869.1523799260017.1523799260017.1523827810223.2&__hssc=161696355.3.1523827810223&__hsfp=3695274672#_ga=2.233541527.860920116.1523799259-446526004.1523799259" target="_blank">Cornell Ornithology Lab's Merlin </a>app to see what else I might learn about the bald eagle and its presence in this quiet part of Connecticut. I discovered that the adult's wings are dark brown, though they had appeared black from my vantage point. Further, bald eagles inhabit areas near lakes, reservoirs, and rivers. The Connecticut River runs through Glastonbury and might explain the bird's presence nearby.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4YLfcT-Pa6jG0h2TeEWyzdXGyXn8IMH92y4vw81dmTCmte1kUxb-wsz7zbTJtSrQNAKQbnkq4nqd-s3VYXyOS7KzvZOK5sroz-zJKnfqRmWeLuU1QHcmdYg3DXlEA4CYuy5goHNJuZqi/s1600/Bald+Eagle+Saffron+Blaze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="479" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4YLfcT-Pa6jG0h2TeEWyzdXGyXn8IMH92y4vw81dmTCmte1kUxb-wsz7zbTJtSrQNAKQbnkq4nqd-s3VYXyOS7KzvZOK5sroz-zJKnfqRmWeLuU1QHcmdYg3DXlEA4CYuy5goHNJuZqi/s200/Bald+Eagle+Saffron+Blaze.jpg" width="159" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Photo by Saffron Blaze</i></span></td></tr>
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The eagle had departed but the feeling of joy stayed with me for a long while. Worries big and small receded. Everything around me seemed more vivid and beautiful. Sort of like how Bill Clinton looked larger than life in that little bookstore, though I wouldn't go so far as to call him beautiful. <br />
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I love birds and I enjoy watching them. Over the years, I've learned to identify quite a few species. However, I don't think of myself as a "bird watcher." I don't keep a life list, nor do I go hiking at ungodly hours in search of new sightings. But like many birders, I'm grateful that I share this world with bald eagles and all the other amazing bird species. With the possible exception of pigeons.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-62012258444596698812018-03-16T14:17:00.000-04:002018-03-16T14:50:55.508-04:00Where Am I?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been splitting my time between Boston and Miami since 2005. When I'm in Miami, though, I never fully leave Boston, and vice versa.<br />
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Years ago, while in Miami, I started listening on my iPhone apps to WBUR and WGBH, the Boston public radio stations. Sometimes, I'm listening to a Boston radio station and the announcer begins describing blizzard conditions. I feel confused. Where am I? It takes me a minute to realize that if I step onto my terrace it will be seventy degrees and sunny.<br />
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When I'm back up north, I keep part of my psyche in Miami by listening to WLRN, South Florida's public radio station. There, I get updates on the latest local news, plus notices about cultural happenings, all delivered by an incongruously British-accented announcer. And during football season, WQAM, a Miami AM radio station, keeps me dialed into the University of Miami Hurricanes games, complete with the two wackiest sportscasters I've ever heard.<br />
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In Miami, E. and I live in an apartment, while in Boston we share a house. The living spaces couldn't be more different. However, we've tried to replicate our belongings, so that one place feels as much like the other as possible. Our idea has been to create a seamless transition when we travel between our two homes.<br />
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We have the same sleep number mattresses in both places, the same desktop computers, the same television sets, even the same thermostats. We would have purchased the same flatware, but for some reason our stainless steel pattern (purchased in 1972) was no longer available. We did go wild with our dishes, though. Our set up north is solid white, but for our Miami condo we chose a pattern with a white background and black stripes around the rims.<br />
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I could go on, but you get the picture — E. and I don't do well with change. We're homebodies and we like our two homes to feel like one. If the winters weren't quite so severe up north, we would never have thought about spending the cold months elsewhere. Yet, despite our best efforts to set up identical lives in both places, I feel completely different when I'm in Miami than when I'm in Boston.<br />
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That's not so surprising, given how different the two cities are. Miami's vibe is exotic and flamboyant, while Boston feels more intellectual and grounded. But here's what does surprise me — I love both places! I especially love that they're different. That's a good thing, right? Of course it is, but it also makes leaving either place hard.<br />
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This year has been particularly difficult. We had said goodbye to our friends in Miami and had made plans back in Boston when the weather intervened, with a major nor'easter threatening. American Airlines even offered to waive our change fees. So, we postponed our departure for several days.<br />
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The storm has come and gone and I'm still in Miami, in limbo. It feels odd, but oddly comforting. My bags are packed and I'm not unpacking them. E. and I have made new plans with the friends to whom we already said goodbye. And I'm enjoying the gorgeous weather here, although it doesn't feel quite real, since I know I'll soon be back in chilly Boston.<br />
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So, where am I? I'm not home yet, but I'm home.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-4491711059709786292018-01-22T18:26:00.001-05:002018-03-02T08:38:30.945-05:00I Don't Like It, But Is It Good?In the spring of 1968, when I was a freshman in college, I went to an Archie Shepp concert with my then-boyfriend, Peter. A bus picked us up in front of Converse Hall at Amherst College and took us to Springfield, Massachusetts for the performance.<br />
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Among the crowd waiting for the bus, I noticed E., whom I'd met earlier that year, when he was dating a girl in my dorm at Smith College. I remember saying hello to him before we got on the bus. I knew he was a musician, but not much else.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <i>Archie Shepp, Lecco, Italy, 1967</i></td></tr>
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I didn't enjoy the concert. Shepp played in a style that combined avant-garde free jazz techniques with African rhythms. To me, the result sounded like a discordant mess. I could tell that Shepp was very skilled on his instrument, the saxophone, but I couldn't relate to what he was playing. Yet, I knew he was regarded as talented and innovative by jazz critics. I wondered what was wrong with me, that I didn't like him.<br />
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On the return bus trip, I got into an argument with Peter. He hadn't liked Shepp, either. But I insisted that just because we hadn't enjoyed the music, that didn't mean it wasn't good. Maybe it meant our taste wasn't developed enough to appreciate Shepp's talent.<br />
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I saw E. sitting a few rows ahead of me on the bus. Knowing he was a musician, I imagined that he had appreciated Shepp's skills at some higher level. I wished I had gone to the concert with him, so he could have explained the music to me.<br />
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By 1972, E. and I were living together. He had a large record collection and we wiled away many hours listening to all kinds of music. I hoped E. would help me develop good taste. I was still plagued by the worry that when I didn't enjoy music admired by critics, it was because I was too much of philistine to appreciate the finer things in life.<br />
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One afternoon, E. played a Miles Davis album from Davis' abstract period. Although I didn't know much about jazz at the time, I did know that Miles Davis was an icon of the genre. Yet, as with Archie Shepp, though I could tell Davis was a masterful musician, I didn't enjoy the music. Davis' cool improvisations kept veering away from anything melodic, which I yearned for. The album definitely put me in a groove, but it was a pretty depressed groove. And, once again, I blamed myself for failing to "get it."<br />
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"Is this good?" I asked E.<br />
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"Do you like it?" he replied.<br />
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"Not really," I acknowledged. "But that's probably because I'm too dense to understand what I'm hearing."<br />
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E. disagreed. He felt that what mattered was how I innately responded to the music.<br />
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"If you don't like it, why force yourself to listen to it?" he said.<br />
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Not long after this conversation, we moved to California, where E. got a job as a music critic for the <i>Palo Alto Times</i>. I accompanied him to many performances and heard everyone from Count Basie, Oscar Peterson, and Ella Fitzgerald to Cecil Taylor, Chick Corea, Herbie Hancock, and Vince Guaraldi. Between hours of listening and hours of talking about the performances with E., I finally got the musical education I'd longed for. I came to appreciate and even enjoy some types of jazz, particularly jazz-funk, with its strong rhythms and catchy riffs.<br />
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It took a while, but ultimately I stopped worrying about what other people might think of my musical taste and listened to the artists I enjoyed. Here are a few examples of jazz performances from the seventies that I loved the first time I heard them and still love today. You may not agree, but of course I'll understand — it's all about what sounds good to you.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Eumir Deodato's "Also Sprach Zarathustra (2001)," from his album, </span><i style="text-align: center;">Prelude</i><span style="text-align: center;">:</span><br />
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Hampton Hawes' "Go Down Moses," from his album, <i>Northern Windows</i>, with the inimitable Carol Kaye on bass:</div>
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Keith Jarrett's "The Rich (And the Poor)," from his album, <i>Treasure Island</i>:</div>
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<i style="text-align: center;"><br /></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-73312453662106502042017-12-26T10:28:00.000-05:002017-12-27T15:30:53.524-05:00Keeping the Memories Fond<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On a late summer weekend in September, I was a no-show at the 50th reunion of my South Side High School class. I had a bad cold and an unsightly stye, so I certainly wouldn't have looked or felt my best, but in fact I had already decided not to attend.<br />
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I've long been conflicted about reunions. I'm never sure whether I'll feel uplifted, let down, or simply bored, so I usually take the path of least resistance and don't go. But my 50th seemed like a bigger deal than most, since it would almost certainly be the last time I'd have the chance to reunite with my classmates from long ago.<br />
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The only high school reunion I ever attended was my 20th. I brought E. along with me to Rockville Centre, on Long Island. I wanted him to meet the people I'd talked about for years. And, to be honest, I wanted him there for support and a reality check. I was afraid that without him to ground me I might quickly revert to my insecure teenage state.<br />
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When E. and I arrived at the hotel where my 20th was held, the first people I saw were Ronnie, Ellie, and Andi — the popular girls of my youth. I had worked hard to make them my friends. They screamed. I screamed. We embraced, we giggled, we all talked at once. They looked me up and down, no doubt to see how I had turned out. I did the same to them.<br />
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Ronnie still had an adorable dimple in her cheek, but what was with all the makeup? I reminded myself that she lived in Texas now. Ellie seemed much as I remembered her, my favorite among them, still cute with her curly hair, still bubbly and affectionate. Andi, still single and still a redhead, had become a personal shopper and had beautifully curated her outfit for the occasion. My dress suddenly seemed dowdy. <i>But</i>, I told myself, <i>she doesn't have a husband and I do</i>.<br />
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Oh my God, had I really thought that? I had reacted like an insecure, snarky, mean girl. Even with E. standing stoically by my side, I'd fallen right back into that angst-ridden state that had marked and marred my teenage years.<br />
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Turning around, I saw Warren, sporting a deep tan. I'd had a crush on him in junior high school and we even dated for a little while. The high point of our relationship came when he took me to our 9th grade prom. The gardenia wrist corsage he gave me smelled heavenly, but the flower faded fast. Just like our relationship. I had nothing to say to him in junior high, which at the time I thought was my fault. When he greeted me at our 20th the same way he had in the 9th grade — <i>Hey, Barbara baby</i> — I realized that I still had nothing to say to him.<br />
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He did look handsome, though, despite having less hair. But I almost felt sad for him when a classmate told me he had taken the day before the reunion off from work so he could go to the beach and perfect his suntan. <i>Who does that?</i> I wondered. But, secretly, I knew — I did. Like Warren, I wanted to look perfect for the reunion, or at least as good as I had in high school. And I wanted to convince everyone that I had turned out well.<br />
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That's when having E. with me really helped. It reminded me that I actually had turned out okay and, furthermore, that I'd found someone I <i>could</i> talk to, someone who was smart, kind, and loving. He even had all his hair! <br />
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Despite my alarming regression into teenage angst, I was glad I'd attended my 20th. I had genuinely wanted to see Ronnie, Ellie, and Andi again. I'd been curious how <i>they'd</i> turned out. And I had enjoyed introducing E. to them and to many other classmates he'd heard about.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Vintage jacket at sported<br />at the South Side 50th.</i></td></tr>
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Nevertheless, I skipped my next high school reunion, the 40th. I felt I'd satisfied my curiosity at my 20th and didn't feel the need to rekindle old relationships. But when the invite to my 50th arrived, I agonized about whether or not to go. If I did, it would be without E. We both agreed that he wouldn't enjoy it, so I'd be on my own.<br />
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It had been thirty years since I'd seen most of my classmates. It seemed like another life. Yet, I found myself wondering about them, just a little. How had they aged? What were they up to? Would they still seem like the people I once knew? I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.<br />
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One of my classmates emailed me and tried to convince me to attend. He even procured the list of those who had registered for the event — fewer than 60 people from a class of 300. Where were the others? They couldn't all have died, could they? Maybe they, like me, felt disconnected from that long-ago time. I decided that I preferred to remember my classmates, fondly, as they'd been back then, and elected not to go.<br />
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Just yesterday, the classmate who tried to persuade me to attend the reunion emailed me again. He sent photographs of the event and even included a "cheat sheet," so I could figure out who all those old people were. I didn't need it to recognize Ronnie, with her dimple still intact, Ellie, looking sweet as always, and Andi, in a glamorous black dress. It was great fun seeing the pictures and it almost made me wish I'd been there. But not with a runny nose and an ugly stye.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-73849701772530642512017-11-20T16:36:00.000-05:002017-11-21T08:23:00.159-05:00The (Very) Dark Side of TechnologyJust when I thought I'd captured the market on worrying, E. sent me a video that makes my anxieties seem trivial. The video was created by Stuart Russell, a professor at UC Berkeley, in collaboration with the Future of Life Institute. It was shown earlier this month in Geneva, Switzerland at a United Nations meeting of the Convention on Certain Conventional Weapons. The video presents a grim fantasy about the unintended consequences of developing weaponized drones that use artificial intelligence. It's meant to scare the sh*t out of us and, for me at least, it worked.<br />
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Earthquakes, floods, hurricanes, even nuclear war pale in comparison to the dystopian future pictured in the video. Okay, nuclear war can't really pale in comparison to anything, but this scenario is about as close as it gets.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTqYcfRgH0A2_CFbfAASfCfiUwUtSFH2x-1k05qIq4X2vcRxFL9ewv6uwbScorl2UKKaN7nzty0fFR1CsMH5izoGpx4qMFaWaxBs42wcLQBw3ctcMj0Sms_F52lTe4PDFBBrrgZ87_uGwM/s1600/IMG_2221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTqYcfRgH0A2_CFbfAASfCfiUwUtSFH2x-1k05qIq4X2vcRxFL9ewv6uwbScorl2UKKaN7nzty0fFR1CsMH5izoGpx4qMFaWaxBs42wcLQBw3ctcMj0Sms_F52lTe4PDFBBrrgZ87_uGwM/s320/IMG_2221.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<i style="font-size: 12.8px;">The first drone I saw up close, during the innocent </i></div>
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<i style="font-size: 12.8px;">days </i><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">when </i><i style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">small drones were only used for </i></i><i style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">things </i></i></div>
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<i style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">like real estate photography.</i></i></div>
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While technology has increased our ability to do good, some people inevitably seek to exploit it for evil ends. E. and I often speculate about the coming rise of machines and we wonder whether artificial intelligence will take over the world. Sometimes I even imagine that, given the destructive history of our species, machines would do a better job.<br />
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The video, though, pictures a world where humans are still in charge, one in which terrorists appropriate technology originally intended for fighting criminals and use it to further their malevolent goals. Professor Russell hopes the video will galvanize the world into action to prevent the scenario it depicts. But he cautions that time is running out.<br />
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Watch the video if you dare. And on Thanksgiving day, be thankful that the murderous drones depicted in it haven't been unleashed, yet.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-82475048268228856732017-11-13T20:14:00.001-05:002017-11-13T20:21:35.196-05:00Coconuts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Long before I ever imagined living in a place called Coconut Grove, I heard an unfortunate story about a coconut. It was told to me by Herb, a family friend, and it came to mind recently, as I gazed at the coconut palms still standing on my hurricane-ravaged island.<br />
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I was visiting my parents, who lived in Boca Raton. I had arrived a few days earlier from mid-winter Boston after a nasty bout with the flu. Herb, who lived nearby, had come over to say hello. I told him how wonderful Florida's warm, humid air felt and mentioned that I had been especially enjoying evening strolls under the palm trees in my parents' neighborhood.<br />
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"Be careful about the coconut palms," said Herb. "A friend of mine was taking a walk and a coconut fell on his head and killed him."<br />
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Not a reassuring story for a worrier like me. It had never occurred to me to fret about walking under palm trees. But Herb's cautionary tale stayed with me. His friend's death seemed like a particularly embarrassing way to go — one minute you're living in an earthly paradise, the next you're done in by a coconut.<br />
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The island where I live has many coconut palms. As I detailed in my <a href="https://whatmeworryblog.blogspot.com/2017/11/Hurricane-Irma.html" target="_blank">last post</a>, virtually all of them survived Hurricane Irma. So did the bunches of coconuts hanging from each tree, and they have continued to grow and ripen during the weeks since the hurricane. Normally, the landscape crew that takes care of the island removes the ripening fruit before it can reach the stage where a gust of wind or its own weight could bring it down, but with so much cleanup needed after the storm, coconut removal apparently hasn't been a priority. Individual coconuts have begun falling to the ground, causing me to worry that even a gentle breeze might send one flying in my direction.<br />
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At first, during my daily walks, when I approached a stand of coconut palms overhanging the path, I would lean my head back to see if anything was about to fall on me. Not a brilliant approach, since anything that did fall would then smash me in the face, an even worse fate than being beaned on the top of my head. So, for the past few days, when in the vicinity of hanging coconuts, I've taken to walking with both hands on my head. This detracts from the impression I'd like to give my fellow residents — that I'm a laidback sophisticate from up north — but I'm hoping it will diminish the impact of a fallen fruit on my skull.<br />
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A few days ago, attempting nonchalance, I mentioned the coconut situation to a neighbor and was relieved to learn that I wasn't the only one who had noticed the coconuts and worried about them. According to my neighbor, the condo's landscape committee had asked the landscape crew to remove them as soon as possible.<br />
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This morning, the crew arrived with two bucket trucks and began working on the palm trees. Inexplicably, they've chosen to start by removing dead fronds from the palm trees that line the road through the community even though those are not coconut palms and pose no threat to walkers. Still, I'm not complaining — only a few more days of walking with my hands on my head and I should be able to relax.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-69163721274225052342017-11-05T15:15:00.000-05:002018-04-25T16:46:47.832-04:00Lonely Palms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqI_aCv0PRilTmSZQdvAQp5Ww7ediAU1Ow1cgAKqGwhgf_PjHx5jJB5n9M9_EMZZ2KH8u_8CYX0QBrwXDUEoN_w7C6dp8tmKsXVr5T0qVMiQfK3tghRJy_sOmVc-_tJHmRPvgiPZVUhyaw/s1600/IMG_1996+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqI_aCv0PRilTmSZQdvAQp5Ww7ediAU1Ow1cgAKqGwhgf_PjHx5jJB5n9M9_EMZZ2KH8u_8CYX0QBrwXDUEoN_w7C6dp8tmKsXVr5T0qVMiQfK3tghRJy_sOmVc-_tJHmRPvgiPZVUhyaw/s640/IMG_1996+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since I last posted on this blog, our country has been through a lot — winds, floods, fires, political tempests. Although I’ve agonized from afar, nothing directly affected me until Hurricane Irma made landfall on my beloved island just off the coast of Miami.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Landscaped path and our favorite<br />bench before the storm.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was in New England as the storm approached. When meteorologists predicted that a category four storm might decimate Miami, I reacted philosophically. E. and I had been lucky to have a winter getaway in such a lovely spot. If our apartment were destroyed, I would be sad, but I would move on. I did worry, though, about friends who were in the path of the storm. The island was under mandatory evacuation, but many of those who left elected to stay with friends a short distance away. They were vulnerable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then Irma’s track veered and Miami suffered only a glancing blow from the hurricane’s outer bands. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not that those outer bands were completely insignificant. They still brought category one winds and a storm surge that covered the island as well as downtown Miami and Coconut Grove. But this year, everything is relative. Compared to the havoc Irma caused in the Caribbean and Maria later brought to Puerto Rico, Miami’s mess seemed small and reparable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be sure, there was damage on the island, according to friends’ reports — trees and foliage destroyed, the seawall partially collapsed, some apartments flooded. But the buildings did fine overall and our apartment was untouched. Power was restored after only one day and the AC worked fine. I breathed a sigh of relief. E. and I could return to Miami for another winter.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Trees gone as well as<br />our favorite bench.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">We arrived a few days ago on a gorgeous afternoon. The summer humidity had eased and soft breezes blew across Biscayne Bay. At first glance, everything looked as lovely as ever. Then we took a walk around the island. Even though we knew what to expect, we were still shocked. The palm trees had survived but the beautiful old sea grape trees were gone. Flowers and shrubs — gone. Our favorite bench — gone. Most of the beach — gone, along with the wooden stairs leading leading down to it. Only the adjacent tiki (chickee) hut survived unscathed — the Seminoles and Miccosukees knew how to build to withstand hurricanes.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Seawall collapse.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">On our little isle you’ll find three high-rise condominium buildings and, at one end, a small four-story hotel. The hotel is owned separately from the condominium property and the current owner has allowed it to become run-down in recent years. The part of the seawall maintained by the hotel owner had deteriorated, so when Irma hit it simply gave way. The collapsed area is now barricaded off and completely impassable, so E. and I couldn’t make our customary full circuit of the island. Instead, we had to turn around and retrace our steps.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">A minor inconvenience, to put it mildly. But one whose very insignificance made me reflect on how fine the line is between normal life and total catastrophe. In an instant, the clear path of one’s life can disappear, swallowed up by illness, terrorism, natural disaster, or random accident. For today, at least, I’m grateful for what I still have — family, friends, and a spectacular view.</span></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-4494946812844097132016-07-22T19:44:00.000-04:002016-07-22T20:47:16.139-04:00The High Points of the Republican ConventionPeople will no doubt be discussing the high points of the Convention and arguing about them for days — after all, one person's high point is surely another's low. Take Ted Cruz's non-endorsement of Donald Trump during his Convention speech. To a Trump supporter, Cruz's snub brought the political discord to an all-time low, yet to a die-hard Never-Trumper it may have been the Convention's finest moment.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Melania. Photo from the <a href="http://www.latimes.com/fashion/la-ig-melania-trump-rnc-dress-20160719-snap-story.html" target="_blank">L.A. Times</a>.</i></td></tr>
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I'll let the pundits ponder all that. I'd rather focus on the Trump women and the impact of their convention speeches. I don't mean the bruhaha over Melania's plagiarism or the daughterly love displayed by Tiffany and Ivanka. While all that was mildly interesting, let's get real — the most fascinating aspect of their appearances, the absolute high points, were their ridiculously high stiletto heels.<br />
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I'm amazed that they managed to walk to the podium in those heels and stand tall during their speeches with nary a whimper of discomfort, let alone a grimace of pain. You may find my focus on women's shoes highly superficial, but I beg to differ. What could be a more important subject than women's continued subjugation to their footwear?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiffany. Photo from <a href="http://hollywoodlife.com/pics/tiffany-trump-donald-trump-daughter-youngest/#!6/tiffany-trump-2-5/" target="_blank">Hollywood Life</a>.</td></tr>
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Admittedly, I'm one of those unfortunate women whose feet have never felt good in high heels. Were I to walk a few steps in Melania's Christian Louboutin's, let alone a mile in her shoes, I would be crippled for life.<br />
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I didn't expect things to turn out that way. My mother loved wearing heels, the higher the better, so much so that her Achilles tendon shortened and made it uncomfortable for her to wear flats. As a girl, this seemed to me the height of sophistication and I always assumed I would follow in her footsteps.<br />
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Alas, I inherited the dysfunctional feet of my aunt and grandmother. By the time I was a teenager, I had to give up my dream of spike-heeled glamour in favor of sensible, low-heeled, round-toed shoes. Luckily, I came of age in the late sixties, when the women's lib movement made sensible footwear all the rage, so I was able to camouflage my disability within then-stylish comfortable designs.<br />
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During the mid-seventies, I became an early-adopter of orthotics. They saved my feet, although of course they could only be worn in the most utilitarian of shoes. By the time women's heels began to climb back into the stratosphere, I wasn't tempted. I'd come to appreciate comfort over beauty. Yet, I'd never quite gotten over my regret at not being able to wear stilettos. In the late-nineties, <i>Sex and the City</i> fueled my fantasies of the life I might have lived if only I'd been born with different feet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOKVSyvpEW14f56UcwRkzdzzbc0EpVyyIwfEBnZmbY6prkIlvuSnXF_2KzTwfzVwun_MLeItQsw7nCIVn1vCtuyPst8y6EJM2P8iqRJgluqMWrkjakpGmk3tOWIK_BxPP_PT381bnBczQ/s1600/Ivanka+shoes+-+NY+Post.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOKVSyvpEW14f56UcwRkzdzzbc0EpVyyIwfEBnZmbY6prkIlvuSnXF_2KzTwfzVwun_MLeItQsw7nCIVn1vCtuyPst8y6EJM2P8iqRJgluqMWrkjakpGmk3tOWIK_BxPP_PT381bnBczQ/s320/Ivanka+shoes+-+NY+Post.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ivanka. Photo from the <a href="http://nypost.com/2016/07/22/ivanka-trump-wears-her-own-labels-158-dress-to-introduce-dad/" target="_blank">New York Post</a>.</td></tr>
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These days, images of fabulous footwear are everywhere — from the film stars on the Academy Awards runway to Robin Wright as the <i>House of Cards'</i> ice queen in heels. So, I wasn't really surprised when the Trump women strode onto the stage wearing dangerous-looking, sexy five-inch heels. Still, was this appropriate for a Republican gathering? Shouldn't they have worn something a little more staid?<br />
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Maybe, but truth be told, I was jealous. All three women had the air of females who had never had a foot pain in their lives. If they couldn't empathize with aching feet, I wondered, how could they possibly relate to the average voter? I was caught in a paradox — I simultaneously disapproved of the Trump trio and envied them. Never mind that along with eschewing high heels, I don't like wearing makeup, nail polish, or even Spanx. It's not as if there but for high heels go I.<br />
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Perhaps I should forget footwear and focus on the upcoming election. I'm looking forward to the Democratic Convention. But while I wait for it to begin, I can't help but wonder — how high will Chelsea's heels go?<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-13962781878621152762016-04-12T09:28:00.000-04:002016-05-05T18:12:30.518-04:00Older, But Still WalkingI took a walk yesterday morning. It was a beautiful day, but cold, the temperature barely above forty degrees. So, I bundled up in a parka warm enough for a blizzard, a thick scarf, gloves, and of course my special sunglasses with wind shields. Do I look a little odd in those glasses? Yes, but if it's cold and windy, or even a bit breezy, without them my left eye will start tearing in a nanosecond and soon I'll be crying a river. They aren't prescription lenses, however, so while I may not have tears streaming down my face, I can barely see where I'm going.<br />
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I realize that, like me, some young people suffer from <a href="http://www.webmd.com/eye-health/eye-health-dry-eyes" target="_blank">dry eyes</a>, which paradoxically can cause excess tearing. They may also resort to special glasses like mine. But since I developed dry eyes later in life, I regard the glasses as a sign of approaching decrepitude. Next thing you know, I'll barely be able to walk.<br />
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Come to think of it, only a few weeks ago I <i>was</i> barely able to walk. I sprained my big toe while standing on my tiptoes to give my son, Aaron, a hug. He's not even that much taller than me, but all it took was a slight hyperextension of my toe to produce a piercing pain. Luckily, Aaron was just leaving for the airport after a lovely visit, so I didn't have to face the indignity of hobbling around in front of him for days, all because I hugged him too enthusiastically.<br />
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Was this toe mishap yet another sign of encroaching old age? A quick google of my symptoms indicated that I most likely had a mild case of <a href="http://orthoinfo.aaos.org/topic.cfm?topic=A00645">turf toe</a>, an injury common to young athletes, especially those who, like football players, constantly push off with their toes, especially on astroturf. So, okay, this <i>could</i> happen to anyone. But, it happened to me when I wasn't doing anything remotely athletic, except over-bending my slightly arthritic toe. Even if it didn't occur because I'm older, it certainly made me feel old.<br />
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I'm able to walk normally now, but every once in a while I get a twinge, a reminder that I could re-injure my toe all over again. Maybe that's a good definition of life over 65 — a time when the most trivial of injuries seems destined to lead to total disability and inevitable demise. Stating the obvious, my demise <i>is </i>inevitable, but while I once assumed that I'd bounce back from even serious illness, now the most minor ailments convince me that it's all downhill from here.<br />
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Yesterday, though, I felt hale and hearty enough to brave the elements and walk for several miles. My toe didn't throb even once and my glasses did their job admirably. I passed several wild turkeys during my perambulation and none of them attacked me. All in all, it was a delightful outing. I may be older, but I'm still walking.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-10114508172242741732016-01-01T10:32:00.000-05:002017-02-07T17:19:35.800-05:00Would It Help?I recently saw the excellent film, <i>Bridge of Spies</i>. In the movie, which is based on a true story, Tom Hanks plays a lawyer, James Donovan, who defends Rudolf Abel, a Russian spy. A couple of lines from the movie particularly resonated with me. Given the title of this blog post, you won't be surprised which ones.<br />
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When Donovan meets Abel shortly after his arrest. Abel seems calm and unconcerned about his dire situation. Donovan, perplexed by this, asks, "Aren't you worried?" Abel replies, "Would it help?" This exchange becomes a humorous refrain throughout the film. Later, Donovan asks more pointedly, "Do you <i>never </i>worry?" Abel's reply is still the same.<br />
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These exchanges are oddly endearing and signal a growing respect between the two men. To me, they also signal an unattainable state of mind. If only I could make a decision not to worry and stick with it for more than a nanosecond.<br />
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After I saw the film, I found myself imagining the life of a spy. Clearly, not being a worrier would help. Spies, after all, live in constant danger of discovery, arrest, or even death. Not only would worrying not help; it might create a self-fulfilling prophesy, since any outward sign of anxiety — worried glances, furtive looks, trembling hands — could give them away.<br />
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I'm a fan of the AMC series, <i>The Americans</i><i>. </i>Watching it, I'm often amazed that the Russian spy couple, Elizabeth and Philip Jennings, can make it through five minutes, let alone their entire lives, without being (literally) consumed by worry. The "otherness" of the characters is partly what I love about the show. There couldn't be people more different from me than the Jennings, unless perhaps undercover narcotics agents or Formula One race car drivers.<br />
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As surprising as it may seem (to me at least), many regular people (and one I actually live with) aren't worriers. They care as much about their friends and family as I do, but if they're concerned about an issue whose outcome they can't control, they're somehow able to put their worry into a secret compartment (secret to me, anyway), and get on with their lives. Why worry if it won't help?<br />
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I'm so not one of those people. Even when those I love are healthy, I worry that they might get sick. If someone I care about has a job interview, I worry that he or she will be rejected. If I'm planning a long drive on a beautiful day, I worry about brake failure and sun glare. Okay, not really. Well, maybe just a little.
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My guess is that a person like Rudolph Abel could no more choose to worry than I can choose not to. Still, this being New Year's, I'm tempted to make a resolution to worry less in 2016. But would it help? Not likely.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-58996130244684278582014-11-15T16:19:00.000-05:002014-11-15T17:05:14.862-05:00A Good Walk Unspoiled<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The other day, I took a walk to the pond near my home. The foliage, though past its peak, had a muted beauty. I admired the yellow and rust tones, filtered through a soft light, and breathed deeply the sweet smell of drying leaves. I walked through piles of leaves, crunching them underfoot.<br />
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A day earlier, I had taken the same route to the pond. Just before I left the house, though, I'd started listening to an NPR broadcast remembering Tom Magliozzi, the <i>Car Talk</i> host who recently passed away. The program consisted of clips of Tom laughing uproariously at one thing or another, mostly his own jokes. I didn't want to stop listening, so I grabbed my iPhone and earbuds and set off on my walk.<br />
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I ambled through the lovely autumn foliage but barely noticed it. My mind's eye focused on Tom and I felt surrounded by his laughter, scarcely aware of the trees, the leaves, or the car that almost hit me because I didn't hear it driving up behind me. I've never been good at multi-tasking, so my inability to simultaneously listen to a radio program and take in the beauty of autumn shouldn't have surprised me, but it did strike me how easily I distract myself from being in the moment.<br />
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I'm a news junkie and I listen to the radio while washing up, folding laundry, or cooking dinner. I read the paper during breakfast, read a book with my lunch, and talk with E. while eating dinner. Unlike me, though, E. is capable of simply eating. I've actually observed him doing this at breakfast. He simply sits at the table and eats. He doesn't read. He doesn't watch television. He doesn't engage in conversation with me. He just eats (and, I assume, thinks deep thoughts, perhaps about cereal). Amazing.<br />
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But, back to my walk, the one without earbuds. When I arrived at the pond, I saw familiar sights — mallards floating on the water, two by two; a great blue heron fishing among the cattails; an elderly couple sitting on a bench. Then I spotted something different in the middle of the pond, a crowd of small creatures, flashing white as they swam to and fro. As they approached the shore, I thought they looked like little ducks. Out of some fuzzy corner of my brain flashed the word merganser.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKH2GG21ub7Cu4iqXRHC9B2QuBAtyJcDEl94bb9pXiOiOWT0iCp2nMS75eH4ZgqA7f1QsxtCDCPLvBZzuHPTh-M5wIkB69CkrbXIhPzjb1np-Iiw9sXvbgzLHHCXXND-sl3th-Ct2ubi_V/s1600/Hooded+Merganser.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKH2GG21ub7Cu4iqXRHC9B2QuBAtyJcDEl94bb9pXiOiOWT0iCp2nMS75eH4ZgqA7f1QsxtCDCPLvBZzuHPTh-M5wIkB69CkrbXIhPzjb1np-Iiw9sXvbgzLHHCXXND-sl3th-Ct2ubi_V/s1600/Hooded+Merganser.JPG" height="112" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons</i></span></td></tr>
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When I got home, I searched "merganser" on the Internet and in short order found the bird I had seen, a hooded merganser. I felt pleased to have spotted a new bird on the pond and even more pleased to have half-known its name. But the thing that made me happiest was finding photos on the web that let me know for sure what I had seen.<br />
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What is it about attaching a name to a bird that gives me such satisfaction? Possibly it's because I'm generally not very good at it, so when I make an identification it feels like a hard-won accomplishment. Certainly, naming is a very human preoccupation. The hooded merganser, after all, gets along swimmingly without ever knowing my name, or its own, for that matter.<br />
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Which brings me back to where I started — a gorgeous autumn day, when nature's beauty is on display, oblivious to whether I or anyone else takes note of it. While I'm pretty unlikely to give up all the things I do to distract myself during the course of a typical day (did I mention crossword puzzles?), I'm not planning to bring my earbuds along on future walks. And I won't check the number of steps on my Fitbit until I get home. Or look at my email. But if I'm walking with E. or with friends, all bets are off. I can't not talk.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Click on the photos to enlarge them.</span></i><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-20731355994549223542013-11-18T20:48:00.002-05:002013-11-21T12:40:57.601-05:00My Favorite Cerebral Place<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As some of you know, I received a law degree from the University of Chicago. I was hardly the typical hyper-intellectual U. of C. student. Nor was I destined to be the typical Law School graduate—that is, one who actually works in the field of law. Nevertheless, I harbor an inordinate love for the entire university, a feeling that was confirmed yesterday, when I attended an inspiring lecture by Juan de Pablo, a U. of C. professor in the newly-created Institute for Molecular Engineering.<br />
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Perhaps you've heard the line about the University of Chicago—<i>the place where fun goes to die</i>. During the late seventies, when I was there, it could certainly have been called the place where fashion goes to die. People simply didn't care how they looked. But they did care about ideas. If "the life of the mind" had a physical location, that spot would have been Hyde Park, where the University is situated. Back then, for those inclined to engage in non-stop intellectual discourse, the U. of C. was the very definition of fun. Yesterday's talk confirmed that the University still deserves its cerebral reputation.<br />
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Professor de Pablo's lecture was part of an alumni series that brings University of Chicago faculty to locations around the country. Over the years, E. and I have attended lectures in both Boston and South Florida on subjects as far-ranging as astrophysics, literature, mathematics, education, and psychology. We've almost always enjoyed not only the content of the lectures but also the enthusiasm of the lecturers.<br />
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The U. of C. has long been known for collaboration across disciplines. The Law School pioneered the field of law and economics. In fact, E.'s cousin, Aaron Director, a professor at the Law School for many years, founded the <i>Journal of Law & Economics</i>. The Committee on Social Thought, another example of the interdisciplinary approach at the University, uses literature, philosophy, history, religion, and art to explore trans-disciplinary issues.<br />
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Now comes the Institute for Molecular Engineering, the University's latest endeavor reflecting its long tradition of cross-collaboration. Its mission is to "translate discoveries in basic physics, chemistry, and biology into new tools to address important societal problems." The approach of combining basic research in the sciences with cutting-edge engineering techniques seems simultaneously obvious and brilliant.<br />
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Prof. de Pablo illustrated the concept with a discussion of his own work in directed self-assembly of nanoparticles for use in integrated circuits. As with the best lectures, I gained a glimpse into the thought processes of an insightful mind. On the one hand, I was reminded how little I know or understand about the universe. On the other, I felt just smart enough to be thrilled by the exciting new developments in nanotechnology. And, once again, I found myself caught up in the passion for learning that's the hallmark of my alma mater.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-61314303117430884022013-08-11T09:30:00.000-04:002013-08-11T17:10:06.048-04:00Call Me GrandmaWhat's in a name? A lot, apparently, when it comes to deciding what your grandchildren should call you. When my granddaughter, Raina, was born ten months ago, I thought friends might ask me about <i>her</i> uncommon name, but invariably the question they posed was, "What do <i>you</i> want to be called?"<br />
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I assumed I had a while to decide, unless Raina turned out to be even more of a prodigy than I expected and began speaking at three months. Besides, I figured that whatever moniker I chose would be subject to Raina's unique pronunciation. I had seen that happen when my father-in-law asked to be called by the Yiddish word for grandfather, Zaide (pronounced zay-dee). His first grandchild, my nephew Jesse, gave it the more original and winsome pronunciation of Zepa (zay-pa), so Zepa he became, for Jesse and all subsequent grandchildren.<br />
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Still, the question nagged at me. My kids had called my mother Grandma, which seemed so uncreative. I wracked my brains for alternatives, but hardly anything came to mind. A friend told me that her husband had checked out grandfather names on the Internet. Really? It hadn't occurred to me that people could search for grandparent names the way expectant parents look for baby names. I felt reassured that I wasn't the only grandparent in need of inspiration, but when I perused the lists of "traditional," "trendy," and "playful" names, I didn't find inspiration after all. Somehow Bamba, G-Mom, Granana, or Mimo just didn't do it for me.<br />
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At a family gathering when Raina was six months old, we batted about names for grandmothers. I felt pressure to make a decision. My daughter-in-law, Karen, said that even though it would be a while before Raina could talk, she wanted to be able to show Raina pictures of me and know what to call me. I tried to imagine myself as Nana, Mimi, or Grammy. None of them felt right. I longed for something original and charming, like the sobriquet chosen by my mother-in-law—Fuffy.<br />
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The next morning, having slept on it and still come up empty, I told my son, Aaron, that I would keep thinking about a name and let him and Karen know my choice soon.<br />
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"Why not be Grandma?" he said. "I called your mother Grandma and she was a wonderful grandmother to me, just like you are to Raina."<br />
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Who could say no to that? I realized I'd been looking for a sense of connection, and here it was. I recalled the special relationship Aaron had with my mother and how much they loved one another. She was Aaron's "Grandma" and I'm Raina's. I can't wait to hear how she pronounces it!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-20404336498462186062013-07-14T15:04:00.000-04:002013-07-22T20:04:17.980-04:00Where Are My Followers?Unlike Hillary Clinton, when I opened a Twitter account, I didn't attract thousands of followers. More like one. This was back in the fall of 2008. I wanted to find an appealing way to stay in touch with my son, Alex. He suggested we tweet back and forth. Since I only hoped for a few pithy lines from him now and then, Twitter, with its 140-character limit, seemed the perfect medium.<br />
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Once I opened my Twitter account, I treated it as a private link to Alex rather than using it to expand my social network. Still, I loved our communications. Alex wrote clever, often hilarious, tweets to me, while I inclined toward overwrought poetic messages, such as this one:<br />
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"Saw a little fish leap out of the water with a littler fish in its mouth—beautiful and tragic."<br />
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Over time, our tweets petered out and we reverted to more traditional modes of communication, like phone and email. But it was fun while it lasted.<br />
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Recently, I decided to revive my Twitter efforts. I've been taking an online class that aims to help students use social media to increase the audience for their writing. But before tackling Twitter or Facebook, the instructor urged us to tweak our own blogs to make them as attractive as possible. Plus, I needed to come out of the closet. For the first time in many years of blogging, I created a home page that reveals my full name. In fact, you can access the home page by using the url <a href="http://barbarakriss.com/">barbarakriss.com</a>.<br />
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One thing I've learned—it's hard as hell to keep up with 20-something techies when you're pushing 65. The recent redesign of my blog took me days of trial and error. At some point while I was tearing my hair out trying to get just the right background color, Alex decided to redesign his blog. As far as I can tell, it took him about five minutes and the result is fabulous.<br />
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Don't get me wrong. I had a fantastic experience trying out various templates, brushing up on my html, and taking risks (it seemed as if every time I altered the template code, I risked losing all my work). But my brain just doesn't have the hard wiring to do this stuff easily. And my brain is having an even harder time adapting to Twitter.<br />
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In order to generate traffic on Twitter, I have to tweet, or reply to other tweets, or retweet tweets I like. Preferably all three. The aim is to get lots of people to follow me. It helps to have a core group of followers to begin with and for that my contact list is the obvious place to start. Obvious, that is, if I weren't intent on protecting my privacy.<br />
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Twitter offers to search my contacts for friends who are already on Twitter, but that means I have to grant Twitter access to my contact list. I can't seem to get comfortable with that idea. Sure, I realize that Google already knows just about everything there is to know about me, but the thought of extending that to Twitter, or Facebook for that matter, fills me with vague paranoia. It was a major leap for me to associate my blog with my actual last name. Letting Twitter tap into my contact list seems like a bridge too far, at least for now.<br />
<br />
Instead, I've started following people and organizations connected to areas I find interesting, like animal rights and aging. I've responded to tweets by people like Michael Pollan and Mark Bittman when I have something to say, but also in the hope that I'll gain some followers. It's been fun, time-consuming (some would say time-wasting), and has yet to yield me more than a few new followers. So much for promoting my writing, which there hasn't been much of lately anyway, in part due to the fact that I'm spending so much time on Twitter.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's my age cohort—if most of my potential audience tends not to use Twitter, how will I create my desired social network by using it myself? On the other hand, if people who might enjoy my blog <i>are</i> on Twitter, how do I find them? Which leads to the larger question, why do I want to find them? But that's a subject for another blog, or better yet, a psychotherapist.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, there's so much about Twitter I haven't even begun to understand, like how to use hashtags effectively. If any of you have insights to share, please post a comment. Or better yet, tweet me <a href="http://twitter.com/bkriss" target="_blank">@bkriss</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-90368704240155794602013-06-23T09:30:00.000-04:002013-06-23T21:14:39.494-04:00Above and Beyond the CallIf you'd asked me before this week, I would have said that nowadays most people don't take pride in their work. I would have been wrong. Wrong, at least, in the case of Olde England Painting, the company E. and I hired to paint the exterior of our house four years ago.<br />
<br />
When we first met Paul Adkins of Olde England, we were favorably impressed. We had interviewed several painters and Paul's bid was quite reasonable. He seemed very knowledgeable about exterior painting in general and also about a particular problem our house presented—the nail heads of the thousands of nails used to hold the clapboards in place had rusted, causing rust to show through the stain applied when the house was built nine years earlier.<br />
<br />
Paul proposed to fill each and every nail head with putty, then sand it down, all in preparation for a new coat of stain. His suggestion sounded good to us, so we hired him. We were impressed every step of the way. Paul showed up with his crew exactly when he said he would and he was a hands-on boss, up on the ladder and prepping and painting alongside his men. All of them were pleasant to have around, worked hard, and cleaned up after themselves. They did a great job. So good, in fact, that I offered to act as a reference for Olde England Painting.<br />
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From time to time, I would get a call from a potential Olde England customer. I always gave Paul and his guys a rave review and I always felt good about being able to send more business Paul's way. Until about a year ago, that is, when E. and I noticed that the paint was starting to peel where the nail heads had been filled.<br />
<br />
We were disappointed, of course, but what could we do? The paint job was only three years old, way too soon to consider repainting the entire exterior, but way too late to expect Paul to come back and fix it. Besides, wouldn't the same thing just happen all over again? We decided we'd have to live with it.<br />
<br />
E. and I still spoke highly of Old England when potential customers called, but as the peeling paint became more and more obvious, we began to feel uncomfortable about giving our unqualified recommendation. Yet, we didn't want to say anything that would cause Paul to lose business. Finally, E. called Paul and asked him to take our name off his referral list and mentioned the peeling paint problem. Paul said he'd like to stop by and take a look.<br />
<br />
Several weeks passed. I assumed Paul had come over at some point when we weren't home and checked out the situation, but we didn't hear anything further, nor did we really expect to. Then a few days ago, while I sat in my pj's eating breakfast, I saw a man in painter's whites on the deck, staring at the house—Paul. He didn't see me and he left without ringing the bell. I assumed that was that.<br />
<br />
Hours later, though, when I opened the front door, I saw that Paul had left a note. In it, he affirmed that all the peeling spots were occurring where he had filled the nail heads. He said it looked as if the filler had gotten baked by the sun. Then, to my surprise, he added, "I will use a different product to fix it."<br />
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Fix it? Paul was going to fix it? After four years? He had left his cell phone number along with the note, so I gave him a call. Not only was he going to fix it, but he asked me if it would be okay if his crew did the work on Saturday, only two days away. Needless to say, that was fine with me.<br />
<br />
On Saturday, Paul and two of his crew, one of whom had been on the original job, arrived even before I sat down to eat breakfast. They brought the same cheerful demeanor and work ethic as I remembered from four years earlier. They used an epoxy filler this time, which hopefully will solve the problem. And they also replaced a trim board because Paul had noticed some rot on it, without our even asking.<br />
<br />
Our house looks beautifully refreshed. I plan to ask Paul to put us back on the referral list. And I'll tell anyone who asks what a stand-up guy he turned out to be.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-69979980602645918612013-04-13T17:11:00.000-04:002013-05-27T15:59:25.532-04:00Department of Culinary AffairsToday, I have several worries to discuss. My sanity, for one. Also, my hearing. Plus, the strange state of restaurant names.<br />
<br />
Last
things first. There are a couple of restaurants in the Miami area whose
names have caught my attention recently and, frankly, horrified me. The
first, in South Beach's trendy SoFi neighborhood, is called La
Gloutonnerie. Yep, that's right, the restaurant is named Gluttony. Isn't
that a sin? Not, apparently, to the restauranteurs who opened the place
in 2012. "Go ahead. Indulge," the website invites. "Sin is in." This
is, after all, South Beach, fabled for its hedonistic tendencies, but
still, isn't there something unseemly about gluttony? Wouldn't the same
food served under a different name taste the same?<br />
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<br />
Friends
of ours had tried La Gloutonnerie and raved about it. They are bonafide
food experts and wonderful cooks themselves, so I overcame my reaction
to the name and suggested to E. that we try it. The setting was lovely
and the portions were, fittingly, large. Unfortunately, on the evening
we ate there the food didn't measure up to my expectations. Perhaps the
chef had an off night, or literally had taken the night off. Given the
high prices, I should probably be glad that my meal didn't make me long
for a return visit.<br />
<br />
Continuing with the theme of
worrisome names, just last month a new restaurant opened in Coral
Gables. It's called Swine. Really. To be exact, the full name of the
establishment is Swine Southern Table & Bar, which doesn't, in
my view, do much to mitigate the shock value of the word swine. I
realize that in addition to meaning a contemptible person, swine is also
defined as <span class="ssens">"any of various stout-bodied short-legged omnivorous
artiodactyl mammals (family Suidae) with a thick bristly skin and a long
flexible snout." The restaurant does feature pork, but its name certainly seems intended to titillate or even offend.</span><br />
<span class="ssens"><br /></span>
<span class="ssens">So, here's where the insanity comes in. After having
already been disappointed by one restaurant with an unsavory name, and
despite the fact that I mostly eat vegetarian, I convinced E. that we
should try Swine, on the theory that with a name that bad, the food had
to be good. We decided to go for lunch and invited another couple to
join us. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ssens">After the waiter
swore that the pork was from pigs that had been humanely raised (but can
you really believe a waiter in a place called Swine?), E. and I decided
to split the pulled pork sandwich. As it turned out, the food <i>was </i>good,
especially the pork, which was lean, smoked, and flavorful, with a nice
mustard barbecue sauce that had just a little kick to it. The crispy
fried shoestring onions were delicate and delicious, and the red cabbage
slaw and steak fries were fine.</span><br />
<span class="ssens"><br /></span>
<span class="ssens">But the service was not. My Arnold Palmer (half iced
tea, half lemonade) was all lemonade, my friend's Diet Coke never
arrived, and the waiter didn't split our sandwich as we'd requested.
While I ate, I really began to wonder whether the poor pig I was consuming had been humanely raised. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ssens">But
the main issue we all had with Swine was the noise level. Through the
roof, or at least through the ceiling. The corrugated tin ceiling, that
is, which certainly accounted in part for the deafening decibels. The
design of Swine was great—lots of natural wood, that rustic tin ceiling,
cool exposed light bulbs. Casual chic. It would have been charming if
only I could have heard myself think through the blasting music and the
din of other patrons shouting to be heard over it.</span><br />
<span class="ssens"><br /></span>
<span class="ssens">Not that I'm seriously worried about my hearing.
Loud though the restaurant was, it didn't reach the level of ear damage.
But it did prevent me from having a conversation with my friends. E.
may have enjoyed the respite from my chatter, but it was hard for me to
be sitting with two good friends and unable to communicate. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ssens">Why
is it that the trendiest eateries are so often noisy? What's the cachet
of having to shout to be heard? And why am I so frequently among the
oldest diners in such establishments? Could it be that it's not my
sanity or my hearing I should be worried about, but whether I've become
stodgy and set in my ways? </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ssens">I
reject that conclusion. Even at age 21, I didn't like raucous
restaurants, crowded bars, or noisy cocktail parties. I simply prefer a
quiet, calm experience with a dash of style, good food, and
interesting companions who find me endlessly fascinating. Is that too
much to ask? </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-20935909534099656732013-02-04T17:50:00.000-05:002013-05-27T16:07:20.820-04:00An Unkind CutBy definition, an accident is something unintended and unexpected, an innocent mistake. In hindsight, so simple to avoid, but in the moment just before it happens, not even on the radar. I worry about accidents, but never about the right one. An accident is something that occurs when you're not worried.<br />
<br />
I had a little accident the other day. So minor that I can afford to make fun of myself about it. A dumb mistake, but also a cautionary tale.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWq8RvPOcIwEwJ7C5UvJWqwaWcRnoThhOlXz4ERWvO_MRLCvksr8dDSdEaSvgbh_egknnnWu1XZNmjDJSMv0NyRj5JodS4WfYYoSERIBdjWSyndqkJNYj3sOGBdfax5HX445Xg-TLrUS35/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWq8RvPOcIwEwJ7C5UvJWqwaWcRnoThhOlXz4ERWvO_MRLCvksr8dDSdEaSvgbh_egknnnWu1XZNmjDJSMv0NyRj5JodS4WfYYoSERIBdjWSyndqkJNYj3sOGBdfax5HX445Xg-TLrUS35/s200/photo.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
Here's what happened. I have a nifty little pair of scissors with a comb attachment that I use to trim my eyebrows (that's another story). The comb is removable for cleaning but it doesn't come off easily, and refitting it back onto the blade is even more challenging. After several frustrating attempts to insert the comb's protruding ridge into the groove on the blade, I finally succeeded. I also succeeded in cutting myself.<br />
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In pushing the comb onto the blade, I apparently also pushed the blade into the soft pad of my index finger. It was a small cut, about a quarter inch, but deep. I felt nothing at first, not until after I noticed blood, a surprising amount of blood for such a tiny wound. I thought of Sylvia Plath's poem, "Cut," in which she describes cutting her thumb:<br />
<br />
<i>Dead white.</i><br />
<i>Then that red plush.</i><br />
<br />
Never mind the fact that in her poem, Plath slices the tip of her thumb almost entirely off. In my alarm at seeing the bright bloom of my own blood, I allowed myself a moment of maudlin identification. Then I calmly set about stanching the blood, first with a tissue, then with a tightly applied band-aid.<br />
<br />
I had been about to wash up before the cut, but now found myself stymied when it came to flossing my teeth. I couldn't figure out how to do so without involving my injured index finger. I refused, however, to forego my morning flossing, which for me is a sacred ritual. My grandfather lost all his teeth and my mother lost most of hers. I'm determined to do everything possible to avoid a similar fate. Hence, twice a day, religiously, I floss. It takes longer than all the rest of my toilette and is not something I would set aside lightly.<br />
<br />
With much difficulty, I accomplished the task by wrapping the floss around my middle finger. I won't go into detail, other than to say there was a lot of drooling involved. I then washed my face with one hand, not wishing to wet my bandaged finger and start it bleeding again. This sounds simple enough, but since the cut was on my dominant left hand, I felt more than a little uncoordinated. By the time I'd put on moisturizer and gotten dressed, I realized the process had taken me about twice as long as usual.<br />
<br />
I was reminded of a simple truth—even the slightest injury to the smallest body part affects my ability to function. I take my wondrous body for granted until something happens to make me notice how interconnected every part of me is.<br />
<br />
When I was in college, I sprained my ankle badly and couldn't bound across campus with my usual speed for several weeks. I remember feeling a newfound appreciation for the agility I'd always taken for granted. But once my ankle healed, that appreciation faded to a memory rather than a daily awareness.<br />
<br />
Now, a little cut had shown me how much I rely on a single fingertip. I couldn't type comfortably for a couple of days and I had to be constantly mindful of my finger while doing a variety of tasks, from preparing food to taking a shower. Even retrieving a tissue from my pocket risked re-opening the wound.<br />
<br />
The cut has healed, thanks in part to a wonderful product called liquid bandage, which protected my finger far better than band-aids. Since then, I've been appreciating my intact hand. And I've been trying to avoid accidents. I'm sorry to report that so far I'm not making much progress in that regard. A couple of days ago, while simultaneously walking and admiring a pelican flying overhead, I stepped off a curb and twisted my ankle. No harm done, but clearly I have a long way to go in my accident avoidance program.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-71849889488271604972013-01-14T18:11:00.000-05:002013-05-26T13:52:28.484-04:00The Worry Displacement SolutionI haven't posted for a while, but that doesn't mean I've stopped worrying. Lately, I've been particularly worried about my failure to post a new blog about worrying. Have I run out of things to say? I haven't run out of things to worry about, that's for sure. <br />
<br />
The harder I try not to worry, the more worried I become. Like alcohol, cigarettes, or chocolate ice cream, worry is apparently addictive. Living with E. has made the depth of my addiction particularly apparent, since he's not a worrier. <br />
<br />
Oddly, on the rare occasions when E. does become worried, I calm right down. Recently, as we were about to leave for the airport, he realized he couldn't find his driver's license. He became understandably anxious and began frantically searching for it. I reacted with composure. I reminded him that he could bring his passport along as a photo I.D. and I could drive the rental car once we reached our destination. While in this state of serenity, I methodically retraced his steps and located his license in the pocket of the slacks he'd been wearing the prior evening.<br />
<br />
While I enjoyed the rare role reversal, I felt as if I were disturbing the natural order of things. I was born to worry and E. is meant to assure me there's nothing to worry about. Balance was soon restored. As we headed for the airport, E. with his license in hand, I realized that had he not found it I would have worried for the entire flight about my promise to drive the rental car once we reached our destination.<br />
<br />
Not that I'm a bad driver. Actually, I like to drive and I'm pretty good at it. But, as with so many other aspects of my life, I worry. About taking the wrong exit. About crazy drivers on the road. About getting a speeding ticket. I've begun to believe my worries are a displacement solution—if I worry about the small things, about <i>every</i> small thing, I can avoid paying attention to problems that are truly worthy of worry. And maybe even worthy of a blog entry.<br />
<br />
Perhaps in future posts I'll try to tackle some of those big worries, the ones we all share, along with those that are uniquely the product of my own anxious mind. For the moment, though, at least I can cross one worry off my list. I've finally posted a new blog entry!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-88388084051488334892012-09-04T21:54:00.002-04:002013-05-27T16:00:19.064-04:00Isn't It Romantic?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<b>Picture this</b>—A beautiful spring day in 1969. A handsome college sophomore (E.) and his new girlfriend (me) sit on a lush green lawn on the campus of UMass Amherst, listening to a blues musician who calls himself Taj Mahal. The girl wears a pretty white Mexican dress with colorful embroidery on its yoke. Her hair is long and loose. E. wears jeans and cowboy boots. His dark hair and a Western-style mustache add to his cowboy appeal. <br />
<br />
Taj Mahal's music is an engaging amalgam of blues and Caribbean rhythms, derivative but entirely original. Among the songs he plays that day is a number called <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=seJAOWHUeJE&feature=related" target="_blank">Corinna</a>. The girl (me) instantly loves it. A few years later, when she moves in with E., she's thrilled to find that he owns the record album, <i>Natch'l Blues</i>, on which "Corinna" is featured. They listen to it incessantly. Still later, after they've married, they jokingly agree that if they ever have a baby girl, they'll name her Corinna.<br />
<br />
<b>Now picture this</b>—Forty-three years have passed since that concert at UMass. The couple is about to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary. They have two sons, so no Corinna in the family, but the wife (me) feels transported back to her youth every time she hears the song. She wonders whether Taj Mahal might still be performing. To her delight, she discovers that he will headline at the Newport Blues & BBQ Festival later that summer. She surprises E. on their anniversary with plans to spend a weekend in Newport, culminating in Taj Mahal's performance at the Blues Festival.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
<b>The day of the festival</b> dawns rainy and cool. So much for repeating the past. At least E. and I have brought umbrellas. The festival is scheduled to start at noon, with a total of five acts, culminating in Taj Mahal's performance at 8 p.m.<br />
<br />
After forty years, E. has long-since lost the mustache and I don't know what happened to my Mexican dress. We put on sensible shoes and warm clothes and venture forth. We walk along sodden streets to an enormous semi-permanent tent right on the harbor. The tent is closed on three sides. Unfortunately for the BBQ vendors, they aren't under the tent and can't offer their customers much protection from the elements. <br />
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E. and I hand over our tickets and get our hands stamped. The wind has whipped up and the rain is really coming down, so we enter the tent. There's plenty of seating on folding chairs, plus there's an open area in the front where fans can stand or dance if they wish. We find that there are still seats available in the front row. Feeling pleased, we grab them.<br />
<br />
The first act, a British blues artist, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=seUeY-rcqSo#!" target="_blank">Joanne Shaw Taylor</a>, starts promptly at noon and we realize that we've forgotten a vital fact about music festivals—sound systems are LOUD. The front row turns out not to have been the best idea, after all. And Taylor's style of blues isn't really to our taste. E. and I decide to leave the festival for now and find some earplugs and a lunch that doesn't involve pork, since we're both vegetarians.<br />
<br />
The stamps on the backs of our hands are in danger of being washed away by the rain, so we roll up our sleeves and get stamped a second time high up on our arms before exiting the venue. Then we trudge along in search of a CVS where we can buy earplugs—not exactly the idyllic day I had imagined. And while lunch at Panera is fine, it's hardly the charming waterside spot I'd fantasized about.<br />
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Once we've purchased earplugs and eaten, we return to the festival locale. The rain is still coming down, but we hear lively Cajun rhythms emanating from the tent. We make it back inside just as <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=CfbM-UgPz6g#!" target="_blank">Marcia Ball's</a> set is ending, unfortunately for us. The next performer, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=65nDprifGek" target="_blank">Shemekia Copeland</a>, is a disappointment, so we opt not to stick around. We spend a pleasant but damp couple of hours exploring the shops of Newport, then return to our hotel room to dry out. We decide to skip the next performer, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IEXbkGcXF-E" target="_blank">John Lee Hooker, Jr.</a>, entirely and plan to return to the festival after an early dinner, in time for Taj Mahal's performance.<br />
<br />
By now, I'm anticipating the worst. Taj Mahal probably won't play a single song I recognize from his early days. After all, he's made well over twenty albums, with forays into Hawaiian music and other genres. Maybe his voice is shot and he won't sound anything like his old self. I'm feeling a little gloomy. But as we're finishing our dinner, a miracle occurs—the sun comes out. We stroll back to the tent in a festive mood.<br />
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The place is jammed with happy, mostly intoxicated, people. I only catch one whiff of marijuana. This is more a BBQ and beer bunch. People tend to be in our age range, with a few younger blues fans here and there. We find seats in the middle of the crowd. Shortly after 8 p.m., Taj Mahal walks onto the stage. He's heavier than he used to be, wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt to hide a substantial paunch, but he's still got that unmistakable voice.<br />
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He starts off on electric guitar, singing a song I know, though not one I particularly like, followed by several I haven't heard before. At this point, E. and I decide to leave our seats and stand outside the tent's open end, where we can still see the musicians and hear the music while enjoying the now-lovely summer evening.<br />
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Taj Mahal puts down his electric guitar and picks up an amplified acoustic. He launches into an old favorite of mine, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=O42zwjj-9yI" target="_blank">Fishin' Blues</a>. E. and I smile at one another. This is more like it! The song ends to cheers and applause. Still holding his acoustic guitar, Taj Mahal says, "Now I'm gonna play a little love song I wrote a long time ago." And he starts playing "Corinna".<br />
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An almost mystical joy takes hold of E. and me. In unison, we grab one anothers' hands and run from the back of the tent up the aisle all the way to the front, right next to the stage. It doesn't matter that we're in our sixties, surrounded by drunken strangers. At that moment, we're back on the lawn at UMass, where a carefree young musician is singing a catchy song that we'll forever associate with our budding romance.<br />
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<i>Click on the photographs to enlarge them. Click on the song titles to hear them and on the artists' names to hear examples of their music. </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-51939029178436974922012-08-27T18:00:00.001-04:002013-05-27T16:02:36.653-04:00Thinking of Neil ArmstrongDuring the summer of 1969, after my sophomore year of college, I was
living at home on Long Island and working in the billing department of a
commodities firm. I watched the moon landing with my
parents. A few weeks later, on August 13th, I was heading out to lunch,
completely unaware that the astronauts were being celebrated with a
ticker tape parade on Wall Street, right around the corner from my office.<br />
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As I walked
out of my building, I encountered a crush of people and could see ticker
tape flying. I followed the throng and got a distant glimpse
of the trio of astronauts—Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin, and
Michael Collins. It was a thrilling moment, marked by the odd realization that I
was almost the only woman in sight. Wall Street was then so dominated by
men that even the secretarial pool couldn't make a dent in the
impression that the street was men-only.<br />
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On July 20, 1989, the twentieth anniversary of Neil Armstrong's walk on the moon, I was in my car listening to the radio. To mark the occasion, the host of the program played a recording of the famous words Armstrong uttered as he set foot on the moon's surface. I found myself unexpectedly moved and wrote the following poem:<br />
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<i>Moonbound</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>One small step for man</i><br />
<i>watched by a billion eyes.</i><br />
<i>We shared a moment in space</i><br />
<i>but I failed to notice</i><br />
<i>at the time,</i><br />
<i>I thought only of</i><br />
<i>one man's glory</i><br />
<i>and what it would be like</i><br />
<i>if I were there.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Now, twenty years later,</i><br />
<i>listening to a ghostly replay,</i><br />
<i>I travel through time and space</i><br />
<i>moonbound, enfolded in the arms</i><br />
<i>of the universe,</i><br />
<i>entitled by my mere humanity</i><br />
<i>to be there,</i><br />
<i>I take a giant leap </i><br />
<i>with the rest of mankind.</i><br />
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Later, I shared the poem with the members of my poetry workshop, a class led by the wonderful poet Kinereth Gensler. I was amazed to learn that the late husband of an elderly member of the class had been the physician for the astronauts throughout all the Apollo moon missions. She responded to the poem with great emotion, perhaps based more on the importance of the moon landings in her own life than on the content of my poem. But her reaction highlighted what is most important to me about writing—the ability to connect with others through my words.<br />
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<i>Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons</i><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-44713993902016484872012-07-22T18:15:00.001-04:002013-06-04T17:02:06.217-04:00Walking on WaterI'm not a natural athlete. As a kid I tried hard, which spared me from being the last girl picked for the softball or basketball teams, but I was never a standout player. While I had good endurance on the track, I was a klutz when it came to gymnastics—even cartwheels were pretty much beyond me. So, no one was more surprised than me when, the first time I tried waterskiing, I immediately succeeded in standing up on the skis. I was a natural.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtypNHXcIp2b6FjIBwn4M8PtqIE5uhVpXdXGoAc6Mt58lobS2Me_fJBm2Zi-sYv8f8vIFEq0MycI41r9mRmzYH0cnWxWFRl7C4pRqkw7XvbXRgE8dNDY9dOP98MuxplAy-mUBosQdtZ-pT/s1600/Camp+Tamarac.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtypNHXcIp2b6FjIBwn4M8PtqIE5uhVpXdXGoAc6Mt58lobS2Me_fJBm2Zi-sYv8f8vIFEq0MycI41r9mRmzYH0cnWxWFRl7C4pRqkw7XvbXRgE8dNDY9dOP98MuxplAy-mUBosQdtZ-pT/s200/Camp+Tamarac.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Girls bunks, Camp Tamarac.</i></td></tr>
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I learned to waterski on Yokum Pond in Becket, Massachusetts, site of Camp Tamarac, my beloved sleep-away camp. I spent eight weeks there each summer for four years, starting at age ten. What Tamarac lacked in luxury, it made up for in camp spirit and an amazing array of activities, among them scuba diving and waterskiing.<br />
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You might well wonder what kind of scuba diving experience could be had in a pond in the Berkshires. Surprisingly, Yokum Pond reached 50 feet at its greatest depth. Still, its murky waters didn't allow for the type of diving one might expect to find in the Caribbean. In fact, you could barely see two feet in front of you. Nevertheless, during my last summer at Tamarac, the camp began offering its campers scuba classes and certification.<br />
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I enthusiastically signed up for the scuba program. All progressed well until one sunny day in August. I had come to the surface after a short dive and was using a snorkel while I swam back to the dock. The snorkel was necessary because the tank on my back was heavy and unwieldy, so I couldn't get my head above water to take breaths. As I paddled toward the dock with my flippered feet, feeling pleased with my diving progress, I allowed my head to sink a little too low. Instead of air, I suddenly found myself swallowing a sample of silty pond water.<br />
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I began choking and coughing, unable to hold my head far enough out of the water to breath normally and recover. By this time, I was only about twenty feet from the dock, where a swim class had just ended. Fran, the head swim counselor, was standing on the dock and looking right in my direction. Sputtering and trying to keep my head above the water, I waved frantically to her. She waved back. I waved again. Smiling, Fran waved right back. <i>I'm drowning and she thinks I'm saying hello</i>, I thought. Only a moment ago, I'd been so proud of my diving prowess. Now I was going to die, not from the bends, but as a result of poor snorkeling technique.<br />
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I began to go under. Fran belatedly realized she was about to lose a camper and sprang into action, forgetting every tenet of the lifesaving program she herself taught. She failed to execute the lifesaver's jump, which would have enabled her to keep me in sight at all times. Instead, she dove willy-nilly into the water. Then she swam right up to me, heedless of the possibility that I might grab her around the neck and pull her under in my panic. Fortunately for both of us, I wasn't that far gone yet. Instead of panicking, I gratefully accepted her help as she dragged me back to the dock.<br />
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After my near-death experience, my enthusiasm for scuba diving waned. I wondered what other water sport I might pursue. Waterskiing was also new at camp that summer and not compulsory. I decided to sign up for it. The skis were unwieldy, their rubber bindings a bit uncomfortable, and the boat's outboard motor looked ominous. But in those days, my desire for new and exciting experiences far exceeded my capacity for worry, so I gamely put on the skis and positioned myself as instructed—knees bent, the tips of my skis floating just above the water, arms clutching the tow rope handle.<br />
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The boat eased forward, gaining speed. I stood up, keeping my balance, and whizzed across the pond, feeling a mixture of astonishment and pride. I was the only one to achieve the feat of getting up on skis on the first try. And the second, and third. I simply "got" this sport. I loved the feel of the wake under my skis, the speed with which the boat carried me forward. Within a few days, I was crossing the wake, back and forth, with impunity. Who knows what else I might have accomplished that summer, but sadly I had started skiing during the final weeks of camp and time ran out. Further challenges would have to wait.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl87DpgE7otVfh-WyQCwWRxCPrX7tQfQKIhzVEDlhgXJCe-KE5hBgT74xbX92taraP21ApHKBMrnYtAlto7X-KXBTTmhKJmV9mUH48WEO9O0qArjvad-H-9yKCaV_E_XvNP-AzBnDiKLGy/s1600/Camp+Kent.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl87DpgE7otVfh-WyQCwWRxCPrX7tQfQKIhzVEDlhgXJCe-KE5hBgT74xbX92taraP21ApHKBMrnYtAlto7X-KXBTTmhKJmV9mUH48WEO9O0qArjvad-H-9yKCaV_E_XvNP-AzBnDiKLGy/s200/Camp+Kent.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My only photograph of Camp Kent.</i></td></tr>
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My next opportunity to waterski came a few years later at Camp Kent, in Kent, Connecticut. I was sixteen and working as a counselor-in-training—sort of half-camper, half-counselor. The camp had an excellent waterskiing program and it was there that I learned to slalom, or ski on one ski. A slalom ski has one binding behind the other, so that both feet point forward. I loved the exhilaration of speeding around the lake and carving my single ski through the wake, finding just the right balance to stay upright. The camp didn't offer tournament skiing, so I couldn't advance to the stage of competing by navigating on one ski around a series of buoys. But I didn't really care. I just loved the sensation of skimming along on top of the water.<br />
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Two years later, after a summer spent in Mexico, I returned to Camp Kent as a full-fledged counselor. As part of my job, I had to accompany my little campers to all their activities, so I didn't have lots of time to waterski, but during free periods I headed to the waterskiing dock, where I perfected my slalom skills and flirted with Allen, the handsome head waterskiing counselor.<br />
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The flirtation with Allen never panned out, but my skiing experience won me a job the following summer teaching waterskiing at Camp Wenonah, a girls camp in Naples, Maine. I would be working under Anne, a senior counselor who was an experienced waterskier and teacher. Equally important, Anne knew how to drive the Boston Whaler that would be used to tow the campers. I arrived at counselor orientation expecting to learn how to teach skiing technique to campers as young as eight years old and hoping to gain a few skiing tips for myself from my new boss.<br />
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On the first night of orientation, the head swim counselor abruptly resigned. The only person on staff qualified to assume that position was Anne. This meant that a new head waterskiing counselor had to be found. To my shock, the camp director chose me over the two other counselors hired to teach waterskiing. Anne was so overwhelmed with her new position that she couldn't help me much. One of the other counselors, deemed too irresponsible to head the waterskiing program, nevertheless knew how to drive the Whaler and gave me a crash course. Thus, the camp season began.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEW__n-wxqkDuYZnSzCjup86IJHklKInf3Ff5nCevep57V_SQz3kVfZBWU1a9-7GPAJItWvB6Qo6X1WtLByAWQkp9JDSiQ1TgFHQLHJNw0b4aLKT9IRRcPaY5whuD-6Z1WwtAQEhLftgVs/s1600/Water+skiing+boat+1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEW__n-wxqkDuYZnSzCjup86IJHklKInf3Ff5nCevep57V_SQz3kVfZBWU1a9-7GPAJItWvB6Qo6X1WtLByAWQkp9JDSiQ1TgFHQLHJNw0b4aLKT9IRRcPaY5whuD-6Z1WwtAQEhLftgVs/s200/Water+skiing+boat+1.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm driving the Boston Whaler.</i></td></tr>
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My dreams of becoming a more accomplished waterskier that summer faded, replaced by constant anxiety that I would nick a camper with the Whaler's outboard motor as I circled back around when one of them fell. Happily, I managed to avoid that calamity and actually came to enjoy driving the little motorboat around Trickey Pond, a camper in tow. Sometimes during a break the other counselors and I would get in a little skiing of our own.<br />
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That was my last summer on a lake and, so, my last summer on waterskis. But I've never forgotten the thrill of rising up on my skis and feeling the frothy wake beneath me. It seemed a small miracle—not quite walking on water, but almost.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20aKy3crdO9WpClVx5-NblHVYr7aQYpe0HRJlZoMxFYvTiWnw-YtY8-7w-3J4cSRpafdLC3tdRdY1X4v1kQb54jIytrMm6i-MMvkMOTwoLVMbcK88iUk68Dv6PEyJaP7TbjAezSjnLHdH/s1600/Water+skiing.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20aKy3crdO9WpClVx5-NblHVYr7aQYpe0HRJlZoMxFYvTiWnw-YtY8-7w-3J4cSRpafdLC3tdRdY1X4v1kQb54jIytrMm6i-MMvkMOTwoLVMbcK88iUk68Dv6PEyJaP7TbjAezSjnLHdH/s400/Water+skiing.jpeg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The only picture of me on skis (slaloming). Taken on Trickey Pond.</i></td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5025335068250127006.post-16884738623771421372012-05-16T14:07:00.000-04:002012-05-16T14:11:32.581-04:00Standing Up for . . . Standing UpOkay, I admit it. I'm sitting down while I write this blog. But for the prior 25 minutes, I was standing up as I listened to <a href="http://www.npr.org/2012/05/09/152336802/stand-up-walk-around-even-just-for-20-minutes?ps=cprs" target="_blank">a "Fresh Air" interview with Gretchen Reynolds</a>, who writes the "Phys Ed" column for the <i>New York Times</i>. Reynolds says our health will greatly benefit from standing often during the day, for about two minutes after sitting for twenty minutes. Sounds easy, right? So, I'm about to reform my life. No more couch potato for me. No more sitting in a trance in front of my computer for hours on end. I'm joining the ranks of the standers.<br />
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According to Reynolds, punctuating periods of sitting with brief standing stints helps break up fat in our bloodstream, keeps our muscles from going slack, and can alleviate back pain. She stops just short of promising immortality. But seriously, she makes it sound like a very good idea, and doable, too. All the better, she says, if you walk around your office or down the hall during your two-minute stand-in, but if that's not possible, just stand.<br />
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I'm back, after a two-minute standing appointment. Now, what was I saying? Hmm. Apparently, one of the problems with interrupting my writing to spend a couple of minutes on my feet is that I'm likely to lose my train of thought. In order to avoid that, maybe I should consider standing all the time, like former Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, who works at a standing desk. Whatever you may feel about his policy positions, Rumsfeld does appear fit. And far more illustrious men than Rumsfeld
have used standing desks, including Thomas Jefferson, Winston Churchill,
and Charles Dickens.<br />
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I want to stand and be counted as one of the standers. In fact, I won't
stand for sitting anymore. With my penchant for worry, maybe I could add
pacing to my standing activities. Back and forth, back and forth. Until
I can't stand it anymore. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6