What, Me Worry?

Take a Walk With Me

2012-02-06T11:53:00.000-05:00

The air feels balmy, without much humidity but just a hint of softness. Puffy clouds scud across a mostly blue sky. I hardly notice them, though, since my eyes are riveted on the waters of Biscayne Bay.

I live on a small island on the bay. Every afternoon, I take a walk around the perimeter, starting on the marina side, which overlooks the mainland. A gentle breeze ripples the American flag that flies overhead. Water laps softly against the sides of sailboats, motor boats, yachts. But I barely notice. I'm looking for signs of sea life.

The afternoon sun shines directly on the clear, shallow water, giving me a view of everything within it. I continue walking, but slowly, scanning for movement. I see a southern stingray and wonder if it notices me. Then I come upon a school of silvery fish swimming in manic circles. Further along, a solitary barracuda hovers. Once I saw a nurse shark swimming in these waters, but not today.

As I reach the end of the marina where the land curves around and the open bay appears, the wind picks up and I take a deep breath of salty air. I feel as if I'm breathing in health. A brown pelican circles over the water, then does its bizarre plunge-dive, landing bill first, wings open. It looks like a crash landing to me, but when the bird comes up, I can see that it's got a fish in the pouch below its bill.

I pick up my pace and shift my gaze across the water. The skyline of downtown Miami comes into focus, all shining glass, and still further away, I spy the high rises at the tip of South Beach.

Now I'm on the open-water side of the island. In the distance, Key Biscayne shimmers in a blue haze. On either side of the path, coconut palms hold court, their fronds chattering softly. There's a pretty wooden bench on the grass next to the sea wall. Most days, I like to sit there for a while and contemplate the scene.

Today, though, I decide to maximize my aerobic benefit and keep going. I soon circle around to the domestic side of the island, where there's a fenced-in dog run for the small dogs permitted here. It's a charming little spot, with a couple of hillocks and small trees, plus a table and chairs for the human visitors. At this time of day, I usually see several dogs and their owners in the space—the dogs cavorting with one another, their owners mellowing out over glasses of Chardonnay. I stop briefly to say hello, then continue on to the island's tiny beach, where I often find the three Muscovy ducks currently in residence on the island.

This is invariably the highlight of my walk. I chat with the ducks and offer them water by turning on the nearby water fountain, which has a hose attached for their benefit. I'm trying to train the ducks to come when I say "water." So far, my success has been variable. They come when they're thirsty, but waggle their tails and ignore me when they're not.

Usually, I circle the island twice each afternoon. That may seem repetitive, yet it's not. The sun, the sky, the sea, the fish, the fowl, and even the dogs create an ever-changing tableau. Writing about it doesn't do it justice. I wish you were here, so you could see for yourself.

Story and Backstory

2012-01-24T20:20:00.000-05:00

Here is a young man, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old. He appears happy, in fact bursting with joy, his smile from ear to ear. He adopts a relaxed pose, bare-chested, his arm flung over the back of his chair, his hair slicked back, as if just combed after a swim.

The photo is ageless yet dated. Its sepia tint hints at a time long past, but given the young man's contemporary hairstyle and the lack of any other visual clues, it could have been taken yesterday. From the blurred background, the setting appears rural. The season is surely summer. Everything about the photograph suggests that the young man leads a carefree, even indolent life. His shoulders don't look as if they've carried heavy loads. With his broad smile and straight white teeth, it's easy to imagine a life unmarred by tragedy.

The man in the photo is my father. The time is around 1939 or 1940 and the place is Merryall Farm in New Milford, Connecticut. The scene is indeed one of prosperity. The gentleman's farm was owned by my father's Aunt Fannie and her son, Paul. My father spent many happy weekends at the farm and loved to swim in the little pond located on the property. But his smile belies the burden he carried—at the time the photograph was taken, his family was trapped in Nazi Germany.

My father arrived in New York City in 1936, at the age of 16. My grandmother, fearing the worst, had been desperate to send him to safety. His Aunt Fannie had sponsored him, so he was able to flee his home in Karlsruhe and travel to the U.S. His sister, Margot, only twelve years old at the time, had to stay behind with my grandparents. Only in 1939 did they at last manage to secure transport to England for her, on the last Kindertransport to leave Germany.

At the time this photo was taken, my aunt may still have been in Germany and my grandparents almost certainly were, though perhaps they had already been interned in Gurs, a French concentration camp. In 1941, miraculously, they were able to obtain passports and leave the camp. After an arduous journey, they joined my father in New York only two months before Pearl Harbor. My aunt arrived from England at about the same time.

My father enlisted in the Army. He served in Army intelligence and received a field commission from General Eisenhower, earning him the rank of Second Lieutenant.

The photograph captures my father's optimism and his resilience. It even offers a clue about his orderly nature in his neatly combed hair. But there's mystery in his disarming smile. The very openness of it is at odds with the reserved father I knew. And certainly his smile is at odds with the dark clouds hovering over him and the whole world at the time the picture was taken.

Happy New Year

2011-12-31T16:59:00.001-05:00

Wishing you health, happiness, and peace in the coming year.

My New Year's resolution is to write more!

Nature's Artistry

2011-08-02T16:17:00.007-04:00

Sometimes it's hard to rouse myself from the pleasant lethargy induced by warm summer days. It's delightful in my backyard, where fragrant breezes waft over the hillside and masses of black-eyed Susans are in bloom. Nothing beats kicking back on my deck with a good mystery. Well, almost nothing.

A couple of days ago, E. and I wanted to do something a little more active. We decided to visit one of our favorite spots—The Great Meadows National Wildlife Refuge in Concord. This gorgeous wetlands environment is known for wonderful birding, especially in the early morning and around sunset.

Despite my love of birds, I didn't manage to get up and out at the crack of dawn. I didn't even meet my much more modest aim of arriving in Concord by mid-morning. Instead, I slept late, then dawdled over the New York Times, so by the time E. and I hit the road it was almost 11 a.m. That meant we would get to Great Meadows shortly before noon. Nothing like taking a hike with the sun directly overhead on a hot summer day.

Our late arrival had its benefits, though. We found the small parking lot almost empty. And to our surprise, a gentle breeze cooled the long sunny Dike Trail that wends its way through the wetlands. A perfect time to visit.

The birds, however, had other ideas. I saw a lone red-winged blackbird, got a brief glimpse of a brown thrasher, and spied a great blue heron fishing far off amid a sea of yellow lotus plants. Other than that, I have no exciting bird sightings to report.

Nor did I come across much in the way of wildlife, other than a single small turtle making its way slowly across the trail. When it saw us, it withdrew its legs, apparently attempting to resemble a rock.

Purple loosestrife ran riot along the edges of the wetlands. Though an invasive species, its vivid flowers brighten up the landscape. In fact, the plant was brought to North America from Europe during the 1800's as a garden perennial.

Once we had traversed the wetlands, we took a brief detour down to the banks of the Concord River, which flowed so smoothly and peacefully that I wished I had a kayak handy.

Then we headed back to the trail, which took us on a loop around the outer edge of the wetlands. The breeze slacked off there, but just as the heat began to bother me, the trail entered a wooded area. We were still circuiting the wetlands, but now from within the surrounding foliage.

Once in the shade, we picked up our hiking pace and soon reached our starting point, having gone full circle. The total hike was about 2.7 miles. We agreed that, even during the heat of the day, we couldn't have found a lovelier place to walk.

I've tried to capture some of the beauty of Great Meadows in these photographs (taken with my trusty iPhone camera), but nothing can compare to the original, composed by nature. Click on the photos to enlarge them.

The Trip

2011-06-24T14:21:00.008-04:00

We are all on a journey. Some of us fly off to Argentina or France or China. Others take a road trip from London to England's north country, where they sample the haute cuisine of the region and do spot-on impressions of their favorite actors. Still others travel to the far reaches of Cambridge, Massachusetts, where they sample sustainable ingredients at a local eatery and see a film about two guys on a road trip to England's north country.

This latter was the journey E. and I chose to take earlier this week, and it proved to be an arduous voyage indeed. The day dawned cloudy and threatening. Our plans for a walk by the water under sun-drenched Boston skies were soon rained out, so I proposed instead a trip to see The Trip at the Kendall Square Cinema, preceded by lunch at EVOO, a Cambridge restaurant I'd been wanting to try. So far, so good.

Our drive to Cambridge was uneventful but parking, always a challenge in Cambridge, lived up to its reputation. We saw a spot on a side street near the restaurant and opposite a parking garage. The spot was on some gravel just outside a fenced-in construction site. I looked for signs prohibiting parking and saw none, until E. and I had exited the car and were about to turn the corner. There it was, in no uncertain terms—Your car will be towed if you park here. Into the jam-packed parking garage we went.

We finally found a spot on level A2, then wandered about the garage like wayfarers lost on the moors. Eventually, we located a staircase, escaped the garage, and made our way to EVOO, which, by the way, stands for extra virgin olive oil. Now that I'm eating vegetarian, ordering was easy, since there was only one vegetarian item on the menu, a concoction containing polenta, basil, zucchini, and other mysterious vegetables. Again, so far, so good.

By the time the polenta arrived, however, forty-five minutes had elapsed. Fearing we'd be late for the film, we gulped down our food. The waitress offered to validate our parking, after which we were good to go, or I should say going for good, since the meal hadn't left us with a desire to return.

It was pouring as we exited the restaurant, so we decided not to walk the half mile to the theater. Instead, we dashed to the parking garage to pay and then retrieve our car. Imagine our surprise when the cashier informed us that the validation was invalid. "Only after 4 p.m," he said. So, we forked over $10 and wandered lonely as clouds o'er floors of sedans and SUVs in search of our vehicle. Level A2 appeared to have moved since we parked there, but eventually we located the car and exited the facility.

We headed up Binney Street to another garage, this one adjacent to the cinema. After parking, we found our way quickly out of the garage, but managed to walk in the opposite direction from the cinema as the rain fell in sheets. Once we realized our mistake, we hightailed it to the box office and, facing the disconcerting truth that at 62 years old we qualify for a senior discount, we bought our tickets and found seats in the near-empty theater.

You may be thinking by now that I've been describing a pretty nice day, albeit a damp one. After all, I was lucky to have the leisure time to do something fun with E. So what if it was a little rainy? So what if the restaurant was a bit of a disappointment? So what if we had to squander a few extra dollars on parking? We had reached our destination and could settle in to watch a good film.

But there you would be wrong, on two counts. We were not able to settle in, at least not comfortably. And the film, while occasionally amusing, did not meet our expectations for a laugh-out-loud movie experience.

Regarding the problem of settling in, the theater was cold. Very cold. I had worn a sweater, but it felt thin and threadbare in that drafty environment. I could relate to the film's two main characters, whose road trip took them through the frozen north country during the dead of winter. They, however, had parkas. I had only my sweater. I attempted to snuggle with E., but this proved impossible, given the metal arm-rest and cup-holder that came between us.

As far as the film itself, while not terrible, it did feature too many meals involving scallops and exotic meats (a running joke, but not so hilarious to a vegetarian). At times, I found the movie rather endearing and almost laugh-out-loud funny, but not endearing or funny enough to justify the expensive parking garages, the disappointing lunch, the $8/person tickets (and that's with the senior discount!).

By the end of The Trip, I actually felt my age, hunched over as I was against the cold. What warmed me was the thought of the Netflix DVD of an MI-5 episode that awaited me at home, to be watched in the cozy comfort of my own family room. And it occurred to me that The Trip might have been a much more enjoyable trip had I seen that, too, on DVD.

I won't go into boring detail about our drive home. It can be summed up in a few words—rain, rush-hour traffic, Memorial Drive. As we sat in gridlock, E. and I reflected on our day's journey and what we had learned—always bring a heavy jacket to air-conditioned places and avoid seeing movies in movie theaters if at all possible. Not the most profound lessons, but in the journey that is life, ones worth remembering.

Spider Philia

2011-06-03T18:13:00.003-04:00

I think I might be taking this animal thing too far. In this blog and in my life, I've been increasingly smitten with animals of every variety, from dogs and ducks to fish and chickens. But lately, I've even been feeling kindly toward spiders.

Like many people, I've always had a mild spider phobia and I've definitely had a healthy fear of dangerous species. When I was in my twenties and living in California, for example, I didn't hesitate to kill a black widow that had the temerity to crawl up my kitchen wall. Actually, I called E., who killed the spider with a folded New Yorker Magazine, allowing the creature a literary death more eloquent than my current description of its demise.

One morning this past winter, while I was still in Florida, a small brown spider crawled out of the pocket of my jeans just as I was about to put them on. Fearing that it might be a dreaded brown recluse, I killed the spider immediately, this time doing the dirty deed myself. Over the years, I've realized that E. doesn't like killing arachnids any more than I do, so I really couldn't foist the job on him.

Once I'd disposed of the spider, I spent a considerable amount of time researching brown recluses on the Internet and trying to convince myself that the spider I'd killed was a southern house spider, a non-threatening variety that looks a lot like a recluse. It would have helped my identification had I trapped the spider in a glass so I could get a careful look. But having squished it beyond all recognition, I never could be sure exactly what I'd killed. Consequently, until we left Florida, I shook out every item of clothing before putting it on, lest another brown spider be lurking in some crevice. I'm not a world-class worrier for nothing.

Now that I'm back in Massachusetts, though, I've stopped worrying too much about that particular species. So far, I've mostly seen an occasional pale house spider idling on a wall in my house or garage. For a long while, I've had a policy of leaving such harmless spiders alone, unless they made the mistake of hanging out in my bedroom. Then, my normal response was to kill them. The thought of a spider crawling into my bed while I slept was simply too much to handle.

Now I'm not sure I would even draw the line at my bedroom. During the past few weeks my spider phobia seems to have shifted toward spider philia—I gaze at the little tan spider on my bathroom wall with something approaching brotherly love, or at least cross-species friendship. The thought of killing the innocent creature makes me almost sad. So far, I haven't had to confront a spider in my bedroom or one crawling out of my shoe, for that matter. But my inclination is increasingly to live and let live, at least if I know the spider isn't likely to administer a fatal bite in return.

Lest you think I've become a total vegetarian wimp, rest assured that I wouldn't hesitate to destroy any cockroach that came my way. The same goes for earwigs, millipedes, and silverfish. Speaking of silverfish, spiders prey on them. So, long live spiders!

Down on the Farm

2011-05-22T17:42:00.019-04:00

The cottontails, robins, squirrels, and other backyard creatures I've spied since returning to Newton have added pleasure to my days. It's been especially nice to open the windows and hear birdsong while I work. But I still miss my toy poodle, Cosmo, who died almost ten months ago, and I yearn for closer contact with animals. I'm not ready to commit to another pet, but I knew where I could find a barnyard full of animals—Drumlin Farm in Lincoln, Massachusetts.

Drumlin Farm is a wildlife sanctuary as well as a real working farm run by the Massachusetts Audobon Society. I remembered it well from the days when E. and I brought our children there to marvel at the animals, but it had been years since we'd visited. I wondered whether he and I would be the only adults unaccompanied by youngsters. I needn't have worried. There were lots of other adults enjoying the spring day, walking on the nature trails, and delighting in the antics of the farm critters. Lots of kids, too, both of the goat and human variety, which only added to the fun.

Thanks to Cosmo, I've become much more attuned to animals and the value of their lives. I recently read Eating Animals, by Jonathan Safran Foer. His description of modern factory farming of animals filled me with horror and shame, so much so that I'm now eating mostly vegetarian. Occasionally, I make an exception for wild fish, pastured chicken, or grass-fed beef. I'm not totally opposed to eating meat, but I believe that animals should have a life worth living before their ultimate death. Happily, at Drumlin Farm they live that kind of life. (Note: All of the photos below can be enlarged by clicking on them.)

Before we reached the actual farm complex, we visited "Bird Hill," home to injured birds given sanctuary by Drumlin Farm. Among them were a barred owl, a broad-winged hawk, a turkey vulture, and this pheasant, who seemed content enough, though I felt sad to see it confined to a cage, albeit a roomy outdoor one.

As we were leaving Bird Hill, we encountered a volunteer holding an American kestrel, which is a small falcon. This bird had not been injured but had been rescued as a baby and had imprinted to humans so could not be released into the wild. The handler assured me that it has enough space in its large cage across the road to experience some of the thrill of flight, though nothing like its wild cousins enjoy.

On to the farm! I found the chickens enchanting—curious, lively, playful. At Drumlin Farm, they have a pleasant outdoor enclosure which abuts a well-maintained indoor space. They can go back and forth at will. This healthy rooster did his rooster thing, strutting his stuff for everyone to see.

Our next stop was the pig area. The pig family was knee-deep in mud, the mother rooting away. Every time the piglets tried to nose in and join her, she shoved them away with her snout, which elicited high-pitched squeals. To my untrained eye, at least, it looked like pig heaven.

The sheep were nearby, doing what sheep do, eating grass and baaing. The one pictured is a natural-colored member of the Romney breed (I'll resist any political jokes). I like its black face, how neatly delineated it appears from the sheep's thick fleece.

The goats and sheep live in close proximity and share a big shed. In fact, you can see a sheep among the goats at the back of the group photographed below. I love how the kid clumsily climbs on the mature goat's back. And she doesn't seem to mind. She may or may not be its mother—a few moments earlier, the same kid was standing on the sheep's back!

There was lots more to see—cows, the resident pony, a vernal pool, an indoor-outdoor area housing rescued red foxes, opossums, and New England cottontails, and even an exhibit about bats, featuring hand-made bat houses. All in all, a great day down on the farm.

I can't resist posting the following YouTube video, taken by another visitor to Drumlin Farm, which captures the sheep noisily demanding their feeding. (To see the video in its correct aspect ratio, link to http://youtu.be/RSPZSkLWsH4.) Who knew sheep could make such a racket? If you can't take the noise, skip to about the three-minute mark and you can watch the sheep react when their food finally arrives.

Last Sightings Before My Northern Migration

2011-05-15T17:26:00.008-04:00

Earlier this week, I departed from Miami and returned to Newton, land of New England cottontails, wild turkeys, and red-tailed hawks. Since my arrival, I've spotted a Baltimore oriole, many mourning doves, several robins, and a couple of cardinals, in addition to numerous bunnies and a lone hawk. The turkeys have yet to make an appearance, but their droppings on my driveway make it clear they still live in the neighborhood.

Spring rains have turned my lawn a lush green and my perennials will eventually attract gold scores of goldfinches and butterflies. There's much to enjoy here in the way of wildlife.

Still, I found it hard to part from my aerie overlooking Biscayne Bay. Every walk along the Bay holds the tantalizing possibility of encountering something unexpected. During my last few days in Miami, I spent extra time scanning the clear waters in the hope of seeing a spotted eagle ray or perhaps an unusual crab or some exotic tropical fish. My efforts were rewarded when I spied a small, round stingray I'd never seen before. And for once, I had my iPhone camera handy.

It took some detective work on the Internet before I made a positive identification—a yellow stingray. These rays have periscope eyes, giving them a 360-degree panoramic view of their surroundings. So, I'm pretty sure that while I was watching it, the yellow stingray was watching me back.

A few moments later, I noticed a gorgeous southern stingray cruising just above the seagrass. I've seen southern stingrays before, but never such a beautiful specimen and never when I had a camera on hand. Notice the delicate blue along the edges of the ray's wings and tail.

The real surprise of my day came as I ended my walk and crossed the parking lot toward my apartment building—I found one of my two Muscovy ducks happily slurping water from a drainage grate. I hadn't seen either of them for days and had even wondered whether they'd migrated north.

The duck looked up briefly when I greeted it.

Then it ruffled its feathers and resumed drinking, as the photos below show.

I felt delighted to see my feathered friend and a great sense of closure at its return only two days before my migration north.

Now that I've settled into my Newton abode, I look forward to taking a walk to nearby Chandler Pond. I'm hoping to greet the ducks there, as well as the geese, cormorants, red-winged blackbirds, turtles, and maybe a couple of swans.

Click on the photographs to enlarge them.

Remembering Richard

2011-05-02T13:07:00.000-04:00

I was going to try for a little humor today, to lighten things up after yesterday's worried sunscreen screed. But there's nothing funny about Osama bin Laden, nothing humorous about his life or his death. And there's still only sadness when I think about those who died on 9/11, including one among them whom I knew, Richard Ross.

Richard was a genial man, a gentle person with an affectionate style. He had a wife, two daughters, and a son. One of his daughers, Alison, was diagnosed with a brain tumor as a young child. The family was given a dire prognosis, but Richard refused to accept it. He assembled a team of neurologists who ultimately saved Alison's life through a combination of surgery and radiation. She's now a beautiful, healthy young woman.

Not only did Richard nurse his daughter back to health. He became passionate about helping others diagnosed with brain tumors. With a friend, he founded the Brain Tumor Society, which in 2008 merged with the National Brain Tumor Foundation to form the National Brain Tumor Society. Before the merger, the Brain Tumor Society raised over 13 million dollars for brain tumor research. Click on the following link to watch an NECN feature documenting Alison's story and Richard's role in her life and in the founding of the Brain Tumor Society—Legacy of 9/11 victim survives with Brain Tumor Society.

E. and I met Richard through the YPO, a business organization that sponsors educational and social events. Richard loved the YPO and its related organization, the '49ers, and was a regular attendee at their gatherings along with his wife, Judi Rotenberg. So, it came to pass that I last saw Richard on the evening of September 10th, 2001 at a '49er event held at the Massachusetts Historical Society.

After a fascinating lecture and tour of the building, the group gathered for a cocktail reception. Before we left, E. and I stopped to chat with Richard. He mentioned that he had planned to fly to Los Angeles that morning, but had postponed his trip so he could attend the event with Judi. As we parted, Richard kissed my cheek and said "Goodbye, dear." The next morning, he boarded American Airlines Flight 11, bound for Los Angeles. The plane flew into the North Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:46 a.m.

There's a phrase in Judaism, tikkun olam—repairing the world. Richard worked to create a better world, in his personal life and in the wider society. Bin Laden aimed to tear that world down. Today, I choose to celebrate and emulate the life of Richard and others like him. Let's hope the world chooses to do the same.

To Screen or Not to Screen

2011-05-01T15:31:00.005-04:00

That was my question this morning. I was about to set out on my favorite walk along Biscayne Bay, where palms and other foliage provide only intermittent shade. After some deliberation, I elected to wear a sleeveless top and (gasp!) no sunscreen on my arms or on the back and front of my neck. On my face, I applied a 25 SPF sunblock (Clinique City Block), but only across my sensitive cheeks and nose. Hardly the makings of a Shakespearean tragedy, and yet...

Whether 'tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of a tropical sun or to take arms against the threat of sunburn with chemical emollients—that's a decision dermatologists and others would have us believe is indeed a matter of life and death. Dermatologists maintain that exposure to the sun, even a single sunburn, can lead to melanoma, a life-threatening cancer. I take this concern seriously. Yet to protect myself from the sun's rays, I wind up slathering on a plethora of chemicals with dreadful-sounding names—homosalate, octinoxate, octisalate, avobenzone, octocrylene, oxybenzone.

These chemicals are absorbed into my body through my skin, possibly causing ill effects. Oxybenzone, for example, disrupts hormonal activity. Having had breast cancer that was estrogen and progesterone receptor positive, I'm not sure I like that idea. The "natural" sunblocks, zinc oxide and titanium dioxide, are less likely to be absorbed, but even they can enter the body through minute cracks in the skin. None of this sounds appealing. Yet, too much sun exposure also seems like a bad idea.

To digress—I well remember when margarine became all the rage during the sixties and seventies, fueled by fear of cholesterol. Back then, when I read the list of chemicals among its ingredients, I couldn't believe margarine was better for my health than plain old butter. So I stayed with butter, but used it in moderation. Lo and behold, evidence eventually emerged that margarine of the type sold during that earlier period contained carcinogens plus hydrogenated trans fats that may have been as bad for heart health as the animal fat in regular butter.

So, what does this have to do with sunscreen? For years, dermatologists and sunscreen manufacturers have assured us of the safety of sunscreens. But perhaps time and studies will reveal that the very chemicals meant to prevent harm from sun exposure are worse than the exposure itself. Nowadays, all-natural butter substitutes are available that contain none of the chemicals or trans fats that made them such a bad choice in the past. Is there an analogy in the sunscreen world, something to protect us from the sun that won't ultimately do more harm than good?

Some people advocate the "natural" sun blocks, those which use zinc oxide and titanium dioxide, as a safer choice. Newer formulations make them less greasy, thick, and white when applied. But they can still be pretty gooey, especially if you're putting them all over your body. The better choice may be good old-fashioned clothing—long sleeves, hats, long pants. For most activities, clothing made with SPF fabrics would be overkill. Some of the garments actually have sunscreens embedded in their fabrics, defeating the idea of using clothes instead of chemical sunscreens.

Of course, long sleeves and long pants can be awfully uncomfortable on a hot day. Plus, I'd look pretty odd in such a getup on the beach or, for that matter, anywhere in let-it-all-hang-out Miami. And then there's the issue of vitamin D. It's been recognized in recent years that many of us weren't getting enough vitamin D. Fortified food couldn't supply what we weren't getting from the sun and sunscreens were blocking our ability to utilize the sun for this essential vitamin. Supplements are one answer and I now take them daily. But some doctors (usually not dermatologists) argue that a small amount of sun exposure every day is actually good for us. Hence, my unprotected walk in the Florida sun might have done more than give my skin a healthy-looking glow—it might even have improved my health.

So, how do I reach a compromise I can live with, both in the figurative and literal sense? Since I've already taken Shakespeare totally out of context, let me end with a line from Cymbeline—" Fear no more the heat o' the sun. . ." I'll try to take that advice, but worrier that I am, I'll hedge my bets—sunscreen at the beach or when taking a long walk, long-sleeved shirts when it's not unbearable, and a preference for the shadiest spot on my terrace.


After a day of body surfing in Manzanillo, Mexico, 1965—hard to see in the photo, but it was the worst sunburn of my life.

Leaping Lizards? Nope, Leaping Rays

2011-04-28T15:23:00.014-04:00

It was a glorious mid-April Miami day. The air was soft and warm under a baby-blue sky. My sister was in town for a visit, so I decided to take her to lunch at The Standard hotel, which has an outdoor grill overlooking the inland waterway between Miami Beach and the mainland. We were seated right next to the water, under a yellow umbrella.

While waiting for our order, we watched a group of kids engaged in stand up paddle surfing just off the deck where we sat. Suddenly, only a few feet from one of the paddlers, a large ray leaped out of the water. Although the leap lasted only a second, I noticed that the ray had white spots all over its upper side. I'd never seen anything like it.

A few days ago, while walking along the seawall by my apartment building, I saw a ray with the same striking white spots as the one that had amazed me with its splashy leap a week or so earlier.

The ray was swimming in shallow water at a leisurely pace. I strolled alongside it for quite a while as it meandered inches above the sandy bottom. In addition to its spots, the shape of the ray surprised me—it had a distinct head.

The southern stingrays I had previously seen in those waters didn't have defined heads, but rather a bulge with eyes in the center of their otherwise flat bodies. Here's a picture of a southern stingray, for comparison.

While walking along the seawall, only a few feet from the spotted ray, I recalled an incident I'd heard about a few years ago, when a woman died after a ray leaped onto her boat in the waters off Florida. Having seen one of those spotted rays leap for myself, I knew how suddenly it could happen. I inched away from the seawall. Did I worry that the ray would leap out of the water and land on me? Well, just a little.

When I returned to my apartment, I did some research. I learned that the ray I'd seen was a spotted eagle ray. The spotted eagle apparently leaps out of the water when pursued. It was indeed the type of ray whose leap resulted in a collision with a woman in a boat in 2008, causing her death (the ray also died). The boat was traveling 25 miles per hour at the moment when the ray emerged from the water. There was no sign that the woman was stung by the ray. Rather, her death was caused by the impact. Spotted eagle rays can attain a length of six feet or more from wing tip to wing tip and can weigh as much as five hundred pounds.

A similar boat incident had a happier ending last month, when another spotted eagle ray leaped and wound up on a boat.

In the short time since I saw the spotted eagle ray up close during my walk along the seawall, I've witnessed two more leaping spotted eagles, this time in Biscayne Bay. While they weren't as close to me as the one I saw at The Standard, the rays looked enormous as they erupted from the water with tremendous force. In fact, their leaps were so amazing that I almost forgot to worry about the people sailing nearby on their little sunfishes.

Photographs of rays courtesy of Wikipedia. Click on the photos to enlarge them.

If you receive this blog via email, you will have missed the two YouTube videos embedded here. Just go to the actual blog (http://whatmeworryblog.blogspot.com/2011/04/leaping-lizards-nope-leaping-rays.html) to see them.

Duck Divorce

2011-04-26T13:34:00.006-04:00

The Muscovy ducks who lived next to my apartment building seemed to have an uncommon fondness for hanging out in the parking lot, something that caused me no end of worry. Hot days would find them resting under the cool shade of a sedan or SUV, never mind the inviting palms and other leafy trees available nearby. Other times, I'd observe them wandering among the cars and vans, seemingly oblivious to the danger of being run over. Of course, they were capable of flight, though they rarely took to the air. But perhaps they felt secure in the knowledge that if vehicular impact seemed imminent, they could simply fly out of harm's way.

Still, I worried, especially when several days passed and I didn't see the smaller, black-headed duck anywhere. Could there have been a car incident? A pressed duck? Wouldn't I have heard about it? The white-headed duck still hung out on the grassy knoll, chomping away at blades of coarse Florida grass with gusto. He seemed not to miss his formerly-constant companion at all.

A week or so passed with no sighting of the smaller duck, whom I had always assumed to be the female. I'd done some Internet research about Muscovy ducks and had read that males are larger and have more caruncles. The white-headed duck certainly seemed to be the male of the pair. And at the moment, he seemed to have been abandoned by his mate.

One afternoon, the white-headed duck discovered some breadcrumbs scattered at the edge of the parking lot. As he began eating them, I suddenly saw the black-headed duck literally run from across the parking lot to share in the breadcrumb bounty. My heart fluttered with joy. The little duck was alive and well!

However, she was apparently not welcome. She joined her former companion and began eating, but every time she got too close to him, he pecked her away. Eventually, she turned and headed back to a planted hedge between two cars. Wanting to understand what was going on but having no clue, I speculated that she was sitting on eggs in a secluded spot within the thick hedge. The following day, I decided to investigate, but found no trace of eggs, nor of a sitting duck.

The mystery deepened. In the late afternoon, I would often notice the white duck perambulating the parking lot. I took to watching him from my apartment terrace, using binoculars at times. Occasionally, the black duck would appear and walk over to her former partner. They might stay together for a moment but then they would separate, like magnets first attracting then repelling one another.

Apparently, there had been a duck divorce. Perhaps now the ducks were arguing over custody of the parking lot. Certainly, neither was around for much of the day. Maybe they were off scouting new real estate.

One afternoon, I took my typical walk, using the path that begins at the parking lot and continues along Biscayne Bay. I had walked perhaps a quarter of a mile, far from where I'd ever seen the ducks, when something caused me to turn my head. To my amazement, the black-headed duck was flying toward me. She landed and sidled up to me. I greeted her with manic expressions of duckie affection. I almost gave into an urge to kneel down and pet her, but contented myself with repeated endearments on the order of "my little duckie-wuckie." After a minute, she waggled her tail, walked a few steps and went flying off over the water in the direction of downtown Miami.

That was the last I saw of either duck for a while. Lately, I occasionally see one or the other, but never both together. It recently occurred to me that there may be a reason no little ducklings were born to the pair this winter—they may not be male and female after all! The white-headed duck, though bigger than the other, is still much smaller than many Muscovies I've seen. Perhaps the pair are both females who stayed together out of a social impulse that seems characteristic of ducks, while waiting for their perfect mates to appear. Since no drakes ever arrived, maybe some duck imperative has now driven them to seek their mates elsewhere.

Whatever the case, my duck separation may not be so much a duck divorce as two BFFs heading off in search of love. At least that's what I like to imagine.

Duck Experiment

2011-04-25T14:57:00.011-04:00

My duck experiment didn't involve birds in a lab or even the scientific method. It involved two wild Muscovy ducks who voluntarily resided on the grounds of my Miami apartment complex.

The pair apparently arrived at my Miami doorstep during my summer and fall sojourn in Boston. I first became acquainted with the duck duo when I returned to Miami in early December. By then, they appeared happily ensconced in their daily duck routine.

Mucovies don't swim much, but I would occasionally see them taking a dip in Biscayne Bay. They seemed to find much to enjoy on the grassy knoll between the complex's parking lot and the bay, including chomping on the grass with enthusiasm. They took advantage of water provided for them by an extension to the water fountain located in a little tiki hut adjacent to the parking lot. And they spent many hours preening their feathers. Toward the end of their busy day, I'd often find them resting next to one another on the sea wall overlooking the bay.

As you can see from the photo, Muscovies are not the most beautiful of ducks. They lack the elegant markings of mallards or wood ducks and their red caruncles may be regarded as downright unsightly. Perhaps familiarity breeds affection, though. It certainly has for me. I've come to find the very ungainliness of the Muscovies appealing. And after I initiated my duck experiment, I positively fell in love with them.

I wondered whether the ducks would respond to friendliness even in the absence of food. Other residents fed the ducks breadcrumbs. I would refrain. Instead, every time I saw the ducks, I would greet them effusively. I hypothesized that they would come to recognize and respond to me. Thus, my experiment began.

"Hi duckies," I would call, in that high-pitched voice often used for babies and pets. "Hi ducky, ducky, ducks." Sometimes they'd look up and even waggle their tail feathers. For a long time, however, I couldn't tell whether they recognized me, let alone whether they cared.

After a while, though, the ducks started walking in my direction when I called to them. A neighbor who heard my antic greeting and saw the ducks respond opined that hope springs eternal in the Muscovy duck. "Even if you haven't fed them before, they keep hoping," he declared. While secretly fearing he might be right, I continued to visit and greet the ducks. And eventually I was rewarded—the ducks began to come over to me even before I called to them. I felt sure this was a sign that they recognized me as a friend. But I couldn't be certain.

Then one day a breakthrough occurred. I was walking across the parking lot. Another woman and her young daughter were walking near me at the same time. Suddenly, both ducks made a bee-line for me from across the asphalt, heading toward me at a hilariously rapid web-footed run. I greeted them effusively. They came right up next to me, waggled their tail feathers and lingered for a few moments before heading at a more stately pace back to their grassy knoll. They totally ignored the little girl and her mother, even when the girl called to them. I felt sure they really had recognized and responded to me.

At that moment, the ducks became "my" ducks. I may have lost all scientific objectivity as an experimenter, but I had gained a pair of duck friends.

Tomorrow: Duck Divorce

Moments

2011-04-24T12:34:00.005-04:00

In mindfulness meditation, practitioners are taught to focus on the moment—the breath flowing in and out, the here and now. Although I've tried formal meditation practice, I've found that I prefer the meditative state I reach when I'm caught up in the flow of writing or when I sit on my favorite bench overlooking Key Biscayne and am at one with the sky, the sea, and the pelican gliding past.

I have a friend who achieves this glorious sense of absorption when she paints. And E. has variously achieved the state of flow when playing the piano or building his electric car. It's a state of being utterly focused, when time no longer exists.

The word "flow" was first used to describe this state by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in his book, Finding Flow: The Psychology of Engagement with Everyday Life. When I read this book a number of years ago, I found it transformative. I began to think about my life in a new way. Rather than defining my goals in terms of happiness or productivity, I became interested in how I could increase the periods of flow in my life.

Not all of life can be lived in flow, however. There are other ways of being in the moment that are not so pleasant. Pain, even minor pain, can strand you in a never-ending moment.

The other day, I developed a canker sore on the side of my tongue. It hurt to eat, to speak, to move my tongue in any way. Intellectually, I knew it was temporary and likely to disappear in a day or two. But when it was still there the next morning, I began to feel as if it would never leave me. I focused on the pain and was absorbed by it. I found it hard to carry on a conversation with a friend who called. I imagined my personality would change if I couldn't talk fluidly as before. On the third day, I woke to find the sore had healed. For another day or two, I felt very mindful of the miracle of a pain-free tongue.

However mindfully or flowingly we lead our lives, the moments will inevitably string together to make up years. Mostly, I don't dwell on this, but occasionally something will jolt me into astonished recognition of the time that has passed. Yesterday, I received an invitation to a fortieth wedding anniversary party of a college friend and her husband. Over the years, we've been in sporadic contact, but it's been a while since I've seen them. It occurred to me, though, that I'd attended their wedding almost forty years earlier.

It seems almost incomprehensible to me that I could be old enough to have attended the wedding of a contemporary so long ago. How can I have gotten so old so quickly? Yet I still feel so young. Probably a good thing, especially if it gives me the energy and determination to pursue activities that put me in a timeless state of flow.

Gulls and the Joy of Photo Editing

2011-01-16T11:01:00.016-05:00

While on a walk along Biscayne Bay, I rounded a bend and found myself engulfed by gulls. A young man had started feeding one or two and soon the gulls had gathered in great numbers, swooping and diving for scraps of bread.

I pulled my iPhone from my pocket and began shooting. The brightness of the sun on my viewing screen prevented me from seeing clearly so, rather than compose my photos, I just pointed and shot. Predictably, most of the pictures failed to capture the magic of the experience. Until I started editing, that is.

I began my work life as an editor of the written word. Editing has always been my passion. Now, it seems, I've transferred that love to photography. It's not so much the raw photos that appeal to me, but what I can do with them once I start editing. So far, I'm using rather basic editing tools. The photos below were manipulated on Picasa. I also sometimes use iPhoto. Judicious cropping and the addition of a few special effects can make an amazing difference.

This is a photo of the scene, unedited.

This is the same photo, but here I've enhanced the lighting.

In the photos below, I cropped, highlighted, sharpened, tinted, and otherwise manipulated the photographs. Editing the photos allowed me to slow time and see things I couldn't take in during the moment. In my own "flight" of fancy, I've tried to create an alternate gull reality. Click on the photos to enlarge them.

The Flowers They Bring

2011-01-11T17:56:00.005-05:00

Like most Americans, I reacted to the shootings in Tucson with horror and sadness. I've had some other reactions, as well. I've experienced anger at the media for rushing to politicize the tragedy. I've felt frustrated by our society's failure to control guns, particularly the sale of guns to mentally ill individuals. I've worried about how we can safeguard the public from the very small percentage of those mentally ill people who might act out violently. And I've also been thinking about flowers.

At the Capitol and in Tucson, well-wishers left flowers outside the offices of Gabrielle Giffords, the Congresswoman who was viciously gunned down last Saturday. The scenes reminded me of similar ones in the wake of past tragedies, like the thousands upon thousands of bouquets left at Kensington and Buckingham Palaces after Princess Diana's death. I also thought of the poignant roadside memorials for young people killed in auto accidents, usually marked with flowers as well as childhood memorabilia.

I find such communal outpourings moving. The delicate blooms suggest the beauty and fragility of life. And at times such as these, when I question the very nature of the society I live in, they give me hope that most people are motivated by love rather than hate.

My New Year's Resolution

2011-01-05T11:19:00.011-05:00

I'm done with making big, meaningful New Year's resolutions — lose weight, exercise, write a poem a day, never get angry. They always backfire.

Unlike most people, who tend to gain weight during the holidays, I gain afterward, just when I've resolved not to. When it comes to exercise, yesterday I almost broke my arms lifting up two grocery bags. Pathetic, yes, motivational, no. The more I resolve to exercise, the harder I find it to get going.

As for writing poetry, I seem to have left my muse stranded somewhere back in the twentieth century. I might be able to knock out a limerick or two, but as for anything deep and tormented — forget it. Maybe my inability to write poems lately is a good thing, though. Perhaps it means my angst gene has mutated. In fact, I'm sure it has. It's become the mindless football maniac gene.

During the past few days, I've watched a lot of football. I didn't need a New Year's resolution to inspire this fanaticism. I'm completely addicted to the game. On New Year's Eve day, I watched my favorite college team, the Miami Hurricanes, lose horribly to Notre Dame in the Sun Bowl. Unhappy but undeterred, I've since watched the Rose Bowl, the Fiesta Bowl, the Orange Bowl, and the Sugar Bowl, not to mention tuning in to see my favorite pro team, the New England Patriots, demolish the Miami Dolphins.

All of which leads me to my 2011 New Year's Resolution — I resolve to learn the offensive and defensive positions.

I understand the game at this point. I really do. I can point out pass interference, I see when a team is offsides, I know what holding is. I've learned about two-point conversions and safeties, I'm aware of the overtime rules, both at the college and pro levels. I'm an expert on fumble recoveries, interceptions, and kick returns. I just can't seem to figure out all the positions.

I get quarterback. He's the guy who throws the ball to a receiver, or hands it off to a running back. But sometimes the running back is called a halfback or a fullback. And when the quarterback throws the ball, sometimes the wide receiver catches it, but often it's tossed to the tight end or even to a running back. For all I know, the tight end isn't always on the end. But is the fullback always in the back? I hope you can see why I'm confused.

I understand the role of kicker. He kicks off the ball or makes field goal attempts. But what about the punter? I get that he kicks the ball after the other team fails to convert to first down. But sometimes the kicker is also the punter, though usually someone different does that job. Or am I going crazy?

I know what the offensive line does. I'm confident about that. Their job is to protect the quarterback. But who's on the line? I consulted a chart that tells me there's a center, guards, and tackles. But who's who? Logic suggests the center is in the center. But is that always true? What happens during different formations? Who can tell who does what? Not me, though I'm resolving to do better.

The offense is the easy part for me. I really get confused when it comes to defensive positions. Basically, I have no idea who plays what. I've heard the terms cornerback, linebacker, and safety, but when watching a game, I don't have a clue. And I gather there are tackles on the defense as well as on the offense. What's up with that?

So, I'm resolving to learn the positions. Will this make me a better person? No. Will this make me a smarter human being? Definitely not. Will this cause me to start writing angst-ridden poetry about the human drama played out on the gridiron? Probably.

Until then, I've got my notebook handy and I'm gearing up for the playoffs.

The Skinny on Skin

2011-01-03T12:46:00.010-05:00

Skin is everywhere. When it's not on you, it's sloughing off you. I've heard that dead skin accounts for most of the dust in our homes.

Actually, skin isn't on you, it is you. As you may have learned in school, skin is the largest organ of your body. As the popular aphorism "beauty is only skin deep" implies, without your skin you would not look good.

But that doesn't mean we're all comfortable in our own skins. You may be thin-skinned, as I am, about almost any criticism—of my cooking, my singing, my writing, my skin itself. You could say I'm thin-skinned about my thin skin.

Even if you're thick-skinned and hence able to withstand the slings and arrows of your worst enemies, eventually something will get under your skin and really annoy you. This blog, perhaps.

I could take this opportunity to riff on dermatologists or rail about moles, rashes, wrinkles, and other indignities that afflict the skin, but I think I'll end here and escape by the skin of my teeth.

Taking the Guilt Out of Guilty Pleasures

2011-01-01T19:13:00.008-05:00

Perhaps you read the article in yesterday's New York Times about the benefits of providing favorite foods to Alzheimer's patients. When people are given foods and other things they like, they are soothed. They calm down. They feel loved and nurtured.

Individuals with Alzheimer's are, by definition, not healthy, so why deprive them of their favorite foods just because those foods are too high in fat or sugar? Why focus so much on physical health when their mental health is already grievously impaired? If a cup of chocolate ice cream is all it takes to bring a little pleasure into an otherwise bleak existence, dishing it up seems like a no-brainer.

By extension, maybe we should all allow a few more guilty pleasures into our lives, minus the guilt. But let me speak for myself, by way of a specific example—alcohol. I enjoy a drink with dinner, some nights a glass of wine, others a vodka tonic. I'm not talking excess, just one drink. It relaxes me and I like the taste. But I've agonized no end about my indulgence. Did alcohol cause my breast cancer? Am I risking a recurrence by continuing to consume a drink in the evening?

On the other hand, I've read the research findings that alcohol in moderation minimizes the risk of heart disease, so maybe my daily drink will protect me against that. I've wasted a lot of time attempting to analyze the risks versus the benefits. And with every new study, the balance shifts. Not long after my primary care doctor told me that a glass of wine a day was fine, new research indicated that as little as a half a drink per week could increase the risk of breast cancer. My breast surgeon assured me that the increased risk was minuscule, but she didn't say nonexistent.

During all the time I've spent weighing the pros and cons, I've never given up my nightly drink. I've just felt guilty about it. Then, not long ago, a new study came out. It confirmed the previous finding that alcohol increases the risk of breast cancer, but found that the risk was confined to a specific type of breast cancer, lobular carcinoma. Since I had another type of breast cancer, ductal carcinoma, alcohol presumably played no part in my developing the disease.

So for the moment, I'm enjoying my wine (or vodka tonic) guilt-free. But if I'm only pegging my enjoyment on the latest study result, I'm not likely to rest easy for long. Chances are, the next study will show that alcohol causes Alzheimer's or worse. What I need to do is detach from all this anxiety about which foods, drinks, and supplements to consume and focus on enjoying the simple pleasures of life, so long as doing so doesn't harm anybody else. And hopefully, it won't harm me, either, if I indulge in moderation. Eventually, I might even convince myself not to feel guilty about being immoderate on occasion. As Ralph Waldo Emerson famously said, "Moderation in all things, especially moderation."

In Love With My iPad

2010-12-30T18:11:00.014-05:00

I'm writing this blog on my iPad. This device has been a revelation. Not since my first microwave oven has a piece of technology so changed my life.

I waited until ten years after microwaves came on the market to buy my first one, due to concern about leaking radiation. When the iPad was first introduced, I waited because I already had a Kindle and felt I couldn't justify the expense. Since my primary interest in the iPad was its iBook capability, it seemed ridiculously self-indulgent to purchase a second electronic reader.

I enjoyed my Kindle and appreciated its light weight. It was easy to tuck into the pocket of my purse when traveling or when I had a dentist appointment. With my Kindle in hand, I almost looked forward to sitting in the waiting room.

I never had a problem giving up print books; it's the content I care about. Years ago, I stopped reading print editions of newspapers and found I preferred the online versions, especially as the websites improved and slide shows and videos added an extra dimension to the news. So, I wasn't surprised that I made the transition to electronic books easily.

However, there were some aspects of print books that I missed with the Kindle. The device uses locations rather than pages and I found this perpetually confusing and annoying. And the contrast was poor, making it hard to read in dim light. (The contrast issue has been improved in the next generation Kindle and the device has been made even smaller and lighter without sacrificing much screen size.) I knew the iPad was heavier, but its screen size was commensurately bigger. I'd also heard that it had backlighting, a feature that really appealed to me.

For years, I'd bothered E. with my penchant for reading in bed after he'd turned out his light. We'd tried various fixes—bedside lights with dimmers, overhead pinpoint lights, even tiny book lights mounted on my book or Kindle. Nothing helped.

Then one evening a few months ago, we had dinner with my nephew and his wife. They both had iPads and were enthusiastic about the iBook backlighting feature, whose brightness they said could be adjusted. Plus, they told me, the iBook background could be reversed from the normal black-on-white to white-on-black, which can be easier on the eyes in low-light situations.

This really peaked my interest. I decided to visit the Apple Store and take a look. Two hours later, I walked out with my new iPad and quickly became a convert.

Here's what's so great: First, the backlighting in the iBook application is fantastic. With all the lights off, I dim the backlighting and activate a feature called Sepia. This makes the print appear brown on an off-white background and is even better for me than the white-on-black option. It's easy to read and the light doesn't bother E. at all! This alone makes my iPad a worthwhile investment.

Second, the iBook uses regular pagination. I find it easy to go backward or forward without losing my place. Also, the touch mechanism for turning pages is simple, silent, and elegant. Designed to look as if you're turning the pages of an actual book, the iBook acts as a wonderful transitional device for people raised on print books. Like the Kindle, the iBook enables you to adjust the font size, a great advantage over print books.

All these iBook features are terrific and have exceeded my expectations, but what's really surprised me are the other ways I'm using my iPad. After many years of reading the newspapers on my computer at my desk, I now check out the news over breakfast on my iPad. I have a nifty stand originally purchased for my Kindle but equally effective for the iPad, and once again I can enjoy my cereal with the New York Times or the Boston Globe. The Kindle also enables newspaper reading, but the screen size and color photos on the iPad provide an optimal experience.

I bought the 3G version of the iPad so I can travel with it and use it to respond more easily to emails than with the smaller iPhone. And I can even write a blog on it! My iPad is noticeably heavier than the Kindle, but its greater versatility makes it a worthwhile tradeoff for me.

The most exciting new use I've discovered for my iPad is as a radio. I regularly listen live to WBUR (Boston Public Radio), WHYY (Philadelphia Public Radio), WBEZ (Chicago Public Radio), and WEEI (Boston sports radio). The sound quality is great and I can choose from a variety of programs. Since the iPad is so portable I can listen in any part of the house.

As I write this, my PC is in crash mode, having been infected by a trojan virus. Hopefully it will be up and running soon. Meanwhile, I feel very fortunate to have my iPad handy.

New Year's Eve, 1974

2010-12-29T20:34:00.017-05:00

1974. The year Richard Nixon resigned. The year Mohamed Ali regained the heavyweight boxing title by knocking out George Foreman during the "Rumble in the Jungle." The year Ellen Burstyn won the Oscar for Best Actress for her title role in Martin Scorsese's first major Hollywood film, Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore.

In 1974, the country was in a recession and inflation was high, but E. and I were enjoying life in Los Gatos, California. We'd returned there after a year in Connecticut and had both gotten jobs at a music publication company, Guitar Player. We lived in a pleasant garden apartment complex and while we didn't have much money, we had enough for simple pleasures. We loved to stroll to Old Town in Los Gatos for ice cream at Mimi's Rooftop Cafe. A big spurge was dinner at Mountain Charley's.

Los Gatos was a backwater in those days. No one had yet heard of personal computers, let alone the notion of Silicon Valley. As New Year's Eve approached, E. and I didn't have any special plans—no big party or fancy dinner. Instead, we decided to see the latest disaster blockbuster film, Earthquake. We may have gone with friends or maybe we went alone. That detail has been lost in the mists of time, or at least in the fog of my memory. But I do recall the film experience vividly.

I was only 25, but I was already a world-class worrier. The fact that I lived in a major fault zone had hardly escaped my anxious attention. I became especially nervous in confined or crowded places—in an elevator or a crowded theater, for example.

When Earthquake came out, I felt some trepidation about seeing it. But I had read that the action was set in L.A., so I hoped it wouldn't hit too close to home. The film was playing at the Century 25 Theatre on Saratoga Avenue in San Jose, not far from Los Gatos. The theater itself was a marvel of sixties architecture, a domed structure with state-of-the-art seating and technology. New Year's Eve was the first and only time I saw a film there.

2005 photo of the Century 25 Theatre (by Kevin Collins)

The dome was impressive, but the real thrill was Sensurround, a sound system that utilized a series of large speakers and a 1,500-watt amplifier to pump in sub-audible "infra bass" sound waves at 120 decibels (equivalent to a jet airplane taking off). The idea was to simulate the sensation of a real earthquake. For me, it succeeded almost too well. As the on-screen destruction got underway, with Charlton Heston in the leading role, I couldn't help imagining that the Bay Area had actually been hit by a quake and that the enormous dome would soon crash in on the audience.

Sometimes the best antidote to fear is confronting it. Earthquake may have showcased Hollywood at its most melodramatic and over the top, but sitting in the darkened theater with all those decibels rumbling around me proved cathartic. I emerged from the theater exhilarated and delighted to be on solid ground. I didn't stop fearing earthquakes but as 1975 began, my concern faded into the background.

I never did experience an earthquake while I lived in California. Ironically, the only time I ever felt one was in Boston, when I was jolted by a small quake whose epicenter was in nearby New Hampshire.

Now that I spend time in Miami, I've got a great idea for a disaster film—Hurricane. If that film ever gets made, I'll be the first person in line for a ticket.

Bright Lights, Big Spider

2010-09-23T23:22:00.005-04:00

I first noticed the spider yesterday evening, sitting patiently on its web outside my window. I'm fascinated by spiders and very brave about looking at them up close when they're on the other side of a window. I wanted to photograph the creature but decided to wait until the bright light of morning.

When I opened the curtains today, though, the spider was nowhere to be seen. Not knowing much about spider habits, I thought it might have moved to one corner of its web, hidden from my view by the window frame. I went outside to take a look but couldn't find the spider anywhere.

Only when darkness began to fall did I see the giant arachnid back in the center of its impressive web, its outline clearly visible in the fading light, but its markings lost in the dimness. My only option if I wanted a picture was to try a little flash photography. Here is the result. Click on the photo to enlarge it.

Garage Band Blues

2010-09-22T18:31:00.003-04:00

On the last day of summer, I found myself inside a garage, with no time to take a walk and enjoy the gorgeous weather. Enough to give anyone the blues. At least I had my iPhone camera along, so I could play around with it. These experiments may get tedious before long (for me as well as for you). But for now, here are my garage band blues. Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Roof Redefined

2010-09-21T18:23:00.004-04:00

I've always liked the irregularity of the architectural asphalt shingles on my roof and their neutral palate suits my desire not to draw attention to myself or, by extension, to my house. But digital photography opens up whole new realms of possibility. A roof becomes a geometric pattern, becomes a pink palette, becomes an imitation pointillist painting. Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Newport Portfolio

2010-09-20T18:14:00.014-04:00

Ornate ironwork on the Cliff Walk, Newport, Rhode Island

I've been AWOL from this blog for a while but a recent trip to Newport, Rhode Island has inspired me to return and share some photos of my experience. I began enjoying photography last year, when I discovered how easy it was to take pretty good shots with my iPhone. And nothing heavy to carry!

I also found that I enjoyed embellishing my blog entries with photographs. And I began to get a sense of what I enjoy photographing. Wildlife certainly tops the list. Animals, birds, even insects—all are endlessly fascinating. I also became obsessed with sunsets. Beyond particular subjects, I love creating a composition that feels right to me. Whether architecture, people, or landscapes, I've found to my surprise that I have very strong opinions about what looks good.

A few months ago, I graduated from my iPhone to a Panasonic Lumix, a point-and-shoot camera (as opposed to a single-lens-reflex camera with a viewfinder). In Newport, I missed having the viewfinder as the sometimes-brilliant sunlight made it hard to see what I was about to photograph. But my Lumix does have a 12x optical zoom, which enabled me to capture many shots previously impossible with my iPhone.

On Newport's Cliff Walk, for example, I saw a seagull wrestling with a dead fish. The tide kept coming in and threatening to carry the fish out to sea and the gull kept repositioning itself in an effort to hang onto it long enough to finish eating. Only setting my zoom at the full 12x enabled me to get the following photographs.

A group of cormorants sunning themselves on a rock appeared so distant to my naked eye that I wasn't sure at first what kind of birds they were. The zoom not only helped me get a decent photograph of them but allowed me to make a positive ID.

Later, I saw a flock of birds massed on the slate roof of one of the immense Newport mansions overlooking Cliff Walk. The zoom came in handy here, too.

The Cliff Walk afforded many gorgeous views and interesting edifices. One of the more charming examples was this Chinese tea house.

By afternoon, dark clouds had rolled in, creating different photographic opportunities. I like the idea that this shot taken from the roof of my hotel borrows something from Dutch landscapes, with modern cruise ships added.

Here's a genuine Dutch landscape, Salomon van Ruisdael's View of Deventer Seen from the North-West (1657), for comparison.

A walk down to the harbor gave me a chance to visit the Newport International Boat Show. While the mere thought of being at sea makes me queasy, I love to look at boats and I got a kick out of the boating scene at the show—lots of Top-Siders, lots of drinking, lots of camaraderie. And many boats for sale. The colorful banners of the different boat builders really caught my eye.

In the waning days of summer, I couldn't resist taking a picture of these lovely yellow blossoms, soon to be covered by autumn leaves.

All the photos can be enlarged by clicking on them.

Signs and Portents

2010-08-06T18:04:00.011-04:00

In my last post, I described the medical crises that led E. and me to decide that Cosmo should be put to sleep. But there were also several strange coincidences and happenings that reinforced our conviction that Cosmo's time had come. If I were a religious person, I might interpret these events as divine intervention. Instead, I prefer to call them signs and portents.

The first of these occurred the day before Cosmo's death, as E. and I returned home from a walk. I was telling E. that I had decided to stop agonizing about how we would decide if and when the time had come to euthanize Cosmo. I said I believed we would just know. Suddenly, E. exclaimed "What's this?"

It was our stone bunny statue, which stands in the flower bed adjacent to our front walk. The bunny had fallen face-down in the soil. That bunny has stood on the same spot since we moved into our house ten years ago. In fact, it's at least as old as Cosmo, having adorned the garden in our prior house as well. The statute has survived nor'easters and blizzards without ever toppling over.

E. quickly righted the bunny and re-set it on its appointed spot. We shrugged off the occurrence, but it rattled us nonetheless. A sign that we should think about ending Cosmo's life? Hardly, yet in retrospect it seemed a portent of Cosmo's own shocking collapse the following morning from a massive seizure.

That evening, E. and I watched the last episode of the first season of Deadwood, an HBO series set in the late-nineteenth-century American west. One of the characters is a minister who begins having seizures in an earlier episode. Eventually, the local doctor realizes that the poor man has a brain tumor. By the last episode, his condition has become dire. His seizures are terrible, with his limbs and head contorting uncontrollably. The doctor prays that God will take him. Finally, in a strangely moving scene, one of the main characters enters the room where the minister lies and, while embracing him, smothers him with a handkerchief, euthanizing him.

The next morning, when Cosmo began having his own terrible seizure, as I tried to hold him and comfort him, E. and I looked at one another. "The minister," E. said. The way Cosmo's limbs and head contorted reminded us of the seizure we'd watched on the television drama the night before. The minister's seizures had finally been stopped by a mercy killing. Was this a sign?

Now rewind to just a few short moments before Cosmo's seizure began. Until then, it had seemed like an unremarkable morning. E. had taken Cosmo out for a brief walk and Cosmo was sitting on his mat in the kitchen, as usual. I was preparing a bowl of cereal for myself. Cosmo normally liked to wait until I began eating my breakfast before eating his food. Prior to sitting down at the table, I glanced at the latest New Yorker to see if there were any articles I wanted to read. My eye was immediately caught by an article by Atul Gawande. Its title — "Letting Go - Rethinking end-of-life treatment."

Although I knew the title referred to human end-of-life dilemmas, I immediately thought of Cosmo and set the magazine on the table so I could read the article. I turned toward Cosmo and noticed that he was trembling. I knelt down beside him and petted him. He seemed to calm down. I stood up to get a spoon for my cereal and when I glanced at Cosmo again his limbs were contorted and I realized he was having a very strong seizure. So, rather than reading an article about end of life, the next hour found me considering whether to actually end my dog's life. Another sign? I'd like to think so, because somehow that allows me to pretend that Cosmo's fate was predetermined and not merely the result of a coldly rational decision.

Eight days have passed since Cosmo's death. I'm still struggling with the trauma of putting him to sleep, but a little less so during the past couple of days. I've realized that I've been using my guilt about being the agent of Cosmo's death as a way to avoid facing my grief. There's never a right time to lose an animal you love, even if all the signs tell you it's time.

Making the Decision to End Our Pet's Life

2010-08-03T14:17:00.054-04:00

I still can't believe Cosmo is gone. As hard as it feels to lose him, there's something especially haunting about having been the one (along with E.) who decided to end his life.

I never thought it would come to this. While I knew that many pet owners put their ailing pets to sleep rather than allow them to suffer, I preferred to imagine that Cosmo would remain healthy until he was very old, then would simply go to sleep on his comforter beside our bed and never wake up. Unfortunately, that's not the way it happened.

By the time Cosmo reached his thirteenth birthday this past June, he had significant health issues. Controlling his seizures required ever-higher doses of medicine, which put his liver and pancreas at risk. Recently, he began showing a variety of disturbing symptoms — excessive thirst, excessive hunger, hair loss, panting, fatigue, muscle weakness, and a distended belly. In addition, he injured one of his front legs, so he had to be carried up and down the stairs.

Due to the muscle weakness and leg injury, Cosmo couldn't accompany us on long walks. We still took him for strolls around the neighborhood, but often he had to be carried most of the way. In retrospect, I can see that Cosmo's quality of life was eroding before my eyes, but the decline was gradual enough that I remained in denial for a long time.

Then Cosmo began showing signs of incontinence. His excessive thirst, which led to excessive drinking and an over-full bladder, was taking its toll. This new symptom couldn't be ignored. Cosmo had been totally house-trained by the time he was eight days old and had never had an accident in thirteen years. A little Googling regarding the incontinence revealed that, combined with all his other symptoms, Cosmo probably had Cushing's Syndrome, which is caused by excess production of cortisol, a steroid. I took him to the vet, where tests confirmed that he indeed had Cushing's.

Cushing's is an awful disease when left untreated, but the vet told me that a new medication, trilostane, could treat Cushing's with great success by suppressing production of cortisol. She was optimistic that if we could get both the Cushing's and Cosmo's seizures under control, he would feel well and function well again. So, we started him on the trilostane.

We'll never know exactly what happened on that fateful morning to cause a seizure a hundred times worse than the mild partial seizures Cosmo had always experienced before. The massive seizure took place on the fourth day after we began the trilostane, just as it was reaching effective levels. Apparently, the suppression of cortisol due to the trilostane had a catastrophic affect on Cosmo's body's ability to regulate his seizures.

Once Cosmo began seizing, at around 7:45 a.m., he didn't stop. Despite the seizure's severity, Cosmo appeared to be conscious, making the situation all the more heartrending.

I felt immediately that the trilostane had something to do with the seizure, since absolutely nothing else had changed in his treatment. I realized we faced a terrible choice — if we were able to get the seizure under control (a big if), we could stop giving Cosmo the trilostane, but then the Cushing's Syndrome would continue to worsen. On the other hand, if we kept Cosmo on the trilostane, we risked another horrible seizure, something I couldn't bear to think about, for Cosmo or for myself, either.

At 8:30, when my vet's office opened, I called her. Cosmo's seizure hadn't stopped. While she offered a couple of treatment options, like trying a different seizure medication, she felt that it made sense to consider putting Cosmo to sleep. But, of course, she left the decision to E. and me. We agonized for a while, then called and arranged to bring Cosmo to her office at 10:30 a.m.

Though I had always hoped Cosmo would live a long, healthy life and pass away painlessly in his sleep, during his last weeks I had faced the fact that if I wanted to prevent him from suffering, I might have to intervene and have him euthanized. I wondered how I would know if and when the time came. Despite Cosmo's worsening health, he still sometimes acted like his normal, adorable self. How could I choose to put him to sleep while he still had a reasonable quality of life?

But that was exactly the point. I didn't want Cosmo to suffer. I wanted him to die before his life lost all joy. As it was, I wasn't really sure whether or not Cosmo was in pain. A few years earlier, he'd had a terrible tooth abscess that was discovered during a routine dental cleaning. As far as I could tell, Cosmo hadn't been in any pain from the abscess, yet the dental vet told me it probably hurt him a great deal.
"Dogs are stoics," he said.

During the week before his death, I did have one indication that Cosmo was in pain. When holding him, I was always careful not to put pressure on his distended belly. Nevertheless, during that last week of his life, when I picked Cosmo up, he would sometimes breathe in with a catch in his throat and then emit a long sigh. He sounded sad, as if he were hurting.

In the end, the magnitude of Cosmo's final seizure made it clear that the time had come. I'm grateful that I was home when it occurred, so I could hold him and offer some small comfort to alleviate the terror he must have been feeling. I'm also grateful for the loving care he received from my vet. She sedated him so that he fell gently asleep in our arms, then took him from us to administer the fatal dose of barbiturate that would end his life.

Despite believing that we made the right decision at the right time, I nevertheless have experienced guilt in addition to grief. It's hard playing God. But I'm comforted by my conviction that Cosmo wouldn't blame me. He loved me unconditionally. An old New Yorker cartoon expresses my feelings perfectly — "Please God, help me be as good a person as my dog thinks I am."

Cosmo in better days

Cosmo, June 15, 1997 - July 29, 2010

2010-07-30T15:57:00.019-04:00


Cosmo on July 17, 2010

I'm sad to report that our beloved Cosmo passed away yesterday after suffering a massive seizure. When the seizure didn't abate, I spoke with the vet and E. and I made the decision to have him put to sleep. This was done gently and humanely. E. and I were able to hold him while he fell into his final slumber.

In a subsequent post, I'll talk about the agonizing decision to end Cosmo's life, but today I want to share some thoughts about the love that my pet brought into my life.

Cosmo was my constant companion. At home, he followed me everywhere and would gladly have accompanied me to restaurants and other venues, if only he'd been allowed. He stayed next to my desk while I worked. Aside from an occasional bark if he heard an airplane or spied a bird through the window, he was content to lie by my side. If I worked too long without taking a break to play with him, he'd let me know by carrying a squeaky toy over and reminding me.

The house feels empty without him. Although he weighed a scant 7½ pounds, his presence was all around. Returning home to quietude instead of his invariably-happy greeting will be hard to bear. Reading or watching TV without being able to hold him on my lap won't feel the same. And I'll miss our riotous play periods, with Cosmo chasing a toy I'd thrown and ferociously pouncing on it, then joyously carrying it back to me so he could triumphantly go "through the tunnel," that is, through my bent legs.

Cosmo loved E. and our two sons. Each had his own special relationship with him. And Cosmo made all of us better people. We loved him and, by extension, grew to love other animals. We felt a kinship to other pet owners, having learned firsthand about the profound bond that can arise between people and their pets.

Cosmo trusted us. Tiny though he was, he never seemed to fear that we'd step on him or inadvertently kick him. Miraculously, we never did. Well, almost never.

We tried to give Cosmo a life filled with only good things—kindness, attention, plenty of food and water, a warm comfortable environment, long walks with his pack (our family), and countless opportunities for play.

I believe the seizures he suffered for many years must have scared him, since he never lost consciousness during them, but I also believe that he felt comforted when E. or I held him while they lasted.

We also held him during that last awful, unending seizure. I fervently want to believe that in his final wakeful moments, as the sedative that would put him to sleep also allowed his seized-up muscles to relax, Cosmo felt that we had helped him feel better one more time.

Click on the photo to enlarge it.

Now for Some Short Stories

2010-07-26T18:24:00.001-04:00

After I stopped writing poetry but before I turned to personal essays, I tried my hand at short fiction. I had fun writing stories and I probably worked out a few neuroses along the way. I even had one story published in a literary journal.

Fair Isle Press Logo

I've already published a book of my poems, Full Circle, on Fair Isle Press, the electronic press E. and I created to publish free electronic books in PDF format. Now, I've gathered eight of my short stories together in an e-book called Love Objects, which is also the name of the first story in the collection.

You can access the e-book by going to Fair Isle Press, then clicking on Manuscripts and selecting "Free ebook" for Love Objects. Hope you enjoy it!

New and Improved Turkeys

2010-07-18T09:11:00.010-04:00

Really, the same old turkeys as those featured in my blog post of a few days ago, but seen in a different photographic light. I've finally figured out how to use my new point-and-shoot digital camera.

These are the very first photos I've taken using the camera's zoom feature. The entire point of a point-and-shoot is that it's extremely easy to use. Nonetheless, it took me a couple of days and intense scrutiny of the almost-inscrutable operating instructions before I could manage to insert the battery, set the clock, and understand the various shooting options. Finally, I took my first picture, then realized that the camera's internal memory had only enough memory for one picture and I hadn't yet purchased a memory card. That finally arrived yesterday, so I was able to take the pictures featured here.

Fortunately, the turkeys have continued their afternoon visitations to my backyard, so that gave me another opportunity to photograph them. Although these pictures were taken using a zoom, the turkeys were well aware of my presence on my deck, not far from them. Notice that they aren't running away. While the adults do appear alert, they don't manifest any fear. They seem to regard me as their nosy neighbor. So long as they don't trample my flowers or take up residence on my deck, I'm okay with that.

I clearly have some work to do on composition and camera steadiness before I can claim mastery of my new Panasonic Lumix DMC-ZS7. But by the time that occurs the baby turkeys will probably be full-grown. So following the dictum of carpe diem, I hereby humbly submit the latest chapter of my turkey chronicles.

Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Turkey-Friendly Zone

2010-07-15T18:15:00.009-04:00

I've declared my yard a turkey-friendly zone. The wild turkeys that live in my neighborhood must have sensed that because not only have they been fruitful and multiplied, but they've taken to strolling through the yard on a regular basis.

Ungainly though turkeys may be, their little offspring couldn't be cuter. What is it about babies of almost any species that make them so endearing? (Not counting insects, of course. Seeing multitudes of baby insects can only be described as disturbing.) The other day, one of the young birds wandered a bit far away from its siblings. I got rather close, trying to take a picture with my iPhone. Guess what? Baby turkeys can fly! Not so sure about their enormous parents, though.

I do love seeing the turkeys near my house, but sometimes they get a bit too close for comfort. When the adult bird in the photo below began to explore under my deck, I decided to shoo it away—large birds produce large droppings and I didn't really want to have that amid the gravel. But I didn't get too close while entreating the bird to leave. I've heard a story or two about turkeys attacking people and, with the bird's children right around the corner, I thought it might be in a protective mode. Fortunately, as I approached, the turkey fled in the direction of its family.

I have to call the turkey "it" because I haven't a clue about its gender. How do you tell a male from a female turkey? Another conundrum for the uninitiated bird watcher. I can report, though, that a total of twelve babies have been accompanied during the past few weeks by three very watchful adults.

Much as I've been delighted by the large brood populating my yard in recent days, I'm hopeful that some of them will eventually fly off to other neighborhoods. I would be no match for fifteen adult turkeys. And my little toy poodle, Cosmo, would be completely beside himself.

Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Wine With Lunch, or Not

2010-07-14T19:55:00.009-04:00

Wine with lunch seems such a pleasant concept, but it's not one that works for me.

Today, I was a guest at a lovely 60th-birthday lunch. The setting was delightful, a whimsical Cambridge restaurant with magenta walls, accented by a riot of other colors. Before we sat down for lunch, the wait staff circulated with glasses of white wine. My hands were empty. I felt thirsty. I took a glass.

So delightful, so elegant, so likely to make me dizzy. Or drowsy. Or even give me a headache. I took a sip. That was it. After half an hour or so, we sat down to a delicious meal accompanied by good conversation. During the course of it I took one more sip of my wine. That was enough, almost too much.

Yet, had it been dinner, I surely would have enjoyed the whole glass and perhaps even indulged in a second one. The time of day seems to have a profound effect on wine's effect on me. All around me, friends imbibed, chatted, laughed, forgot the way time marches on. I forgot I hadn't had any wine and let the enjoyment of being with women I'd known for decades intoxicate me.

When it came time to leave, hugs all around, and off I went to the parking garage, along with two friends. I took out the keys to my car. Got in the driver's seat. Glad I hadn't been drinking.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Getting Started, or Not

2010-07-13T16:00:00.006-04:00

One of my major issues in life is getting started. Perhaps you think I'm describing simple procrastination. Certainly it's a form of procrastination. In my case, though, it's paired with a seemingly paradoxical compulsion to answer every email as soon as I receive it, leave no dish unwashed, and repair every household defect as soon as it's discovered. Perhaps I'm suffering from a case of screwed up priorities.

Inertia sets in when I think of moving on from whatever I'm doing and beginning something else. Once I manage to overcome my inertia and start the new activity, it quickly becomes absorbing, but then it's hard for me to stop and move on to the next task.

Getting started writing this "daily" blog can be a challenge. Sometimes, like yesterday, I fail entirely to get started, giving the lie to the "daily" concept. Once I do begin, though, I can work on it indefinitely, usually to the detriment of Cosmo's walks, laundry, dinner, or whatever item is next on my agenda.

I would love to find a strategy that gets me over the "getting started" hump. I've noticed that the activities I find hardest to start are often those I ultimately find most rewarding—writing this blog, working on my BreastFree.org website, conquering a mechanical challenge (like learning to use my new camera), or doing regular exercise.

I've discovered that it helps to make a to-do list. I love the process of checking off the items I've accomplished and I feel motivated to finish everything I've put on my list. When I have a lot to do, it makes the tasks seem more manageable. Only problem—most of the time, I can't get myself to make a list in the first place.

Probably if I had a paying job, this wouldn't be an issue. A sense of obligation would push me to transition efficiently from one task to the next. While I love having the flexibility of working on my various projects at home, I seem to lack the requisite discipline to maximize my productivity in such an unstructured environment.

On the other hand, there's much to like about an unstructured life. Yesterday, E. and I went out to lunch on the spur of the moment, then did some errands together. I like being available for the unscripted events life offers. Maybe productivity isn't the be-all and end-all. Still, when I plan to write my blog mid-morning, I'd like to get started before dinnertime. Come to think of it, I'd like to get started cooking dinner before dinnertime. Maybe in my next life.

UnYale

2010-07-11T14:31:00.027-04:00

To me, New Haven has always been synonymous with Yale. In the 1970s, when we lived in Middletown, Connecticut, E. and I occasionally visited a friend who was studying musicology there. I remember that the campus was gothic and there was a place that had great milk shakes. That's about all.

In 2002, E. and I traveled to Yale with our son, Alex. We exited the freeway, drove a few blocks, parked, then gathered with other parents and their kids at the Admissions Office for a college tour. I mostly recall anxious students asking questions about AP credit. After the tour, we left as quickly as we'd come, not even pausing for a snack.

I don't recall seeing a downtown back then, but there is one, complete with skyscrapers, as I discovered this weekend while visiting my older son, Aaron, who's working in New Haven this summer. In fact, Aaron works in the Connecticut Financial Center, the tallest building in the city. The Financial Center, with its powerful verticality, stands in contrast to its next-door neighbor—City Hall, a beautifully restored old edifice augmented by a new wing.

The government and business district is adjacent to the New Haven Green, a historic common area located in the center of downtown. According to the Wikipedia entry on New Haven:

The Green is a traditional town green (commons) and was originally known as "the marketplace." It was completed in 1638. The Puritans were said to have designed the green large enough to hold the number of people who they believed would be spared in the Second Coming of Christ: 100,000.

Across the Green lies Yale's 260-acre central campus, so while government workers, businessmen, lawyers, and bankers engage in municipal and commercial activities, the university always looms in the background. While Yale may not exactly be considered New Haven's savior, improved town-gown relations, initiated by Yale President Rick Levin, have been beneficial to the larger community, with Yale providing financial support for a number of New Haven's redevelopment efforts.

During our visit, we ate dinner at a terrific restaurant, the Union League Cafe, sampled ice cream at Ashley's, near the Yale campus, and explored the downtown area.

We didn't entirely neglect Yale, however. Our visit to New Haven wouldn't have been complete without a pilgrimage to the statue of Nathan Hale in front of Connecticut Hall on the Yale campus. Hale, who has been designated the state hero of Connecticut, graduated with first-class honors from Yale College in 1773.

Click on the photos to enlarge them.

I Know It's Hot

2010-07-07T17:42:00.009-04:00

When the dog can only last outside for about a minute, sweltering in his fur coat.

When I have to water the flowers three times a day.

When my next-door neighbor offers to hose me down after he waters his flowers.

When the book that arrives from Amazon feels toasty, as if it's fresh out of the oven.

When my car thermometer registers 104.

When I offer the mail carrier cold water and she accepts it.

When I'd rather keep the windows closed (and crank up the AC).

When it's too hot to take a walk at 8 p.m.

When I can smell the asphalt on my driveway.

When I feel like writing about the weather.

Lest I complain too much, I remind myself that this is what much of the east coast looked like only a few short months ago.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

A Portland Meditation

2010-07-05T18:42:00.006-04:00

Portland, Oregon has a reputation as an environmentally-friendly city. It's also a technology-oriented locale, with Intel as the area's major employer. In addition, from what I could tell during my recent brief stay there, it's a mellow place. So, I wasn't surprised to come across the "First Annual Portland City Sit," an outdoor meditation gathering right in the center of town.

When I wandered by, the "Sit" hadn't yet attracted many participants but the skies were sunny and the welcome mats were out.

Technology coincided with karma when a participant in the "Sit" couldn't resist checking his smart phone, maybe to clear his texts and emails before meditating, so that during meditation he could clear his mind before getting back to texting and emailing.

Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Happy 4th of July

2010-07-04T09:09:00.007-04:00

Click on the photo to enlarge it.

Flying Toward the Setting Sun

2010-07-02T18:20:00.021-04:00

When I left my house in Newton, bound for the funeral of E.'s cousin Art in Portland, Oregon, I expected an emotional journey. I knew Art well and his untimely death had shocked and saddened me. I anticipated that my time in Portland would be intense, but I didn't imagine that the flight itself would be filled with unpredictability and drama.

We boarded our Alaska Airlines flight early and everyone was seated and ready to go five minutes before our scheduled departure time of 4:50 p.m. A flight attendant announced that we'd be pulling away from the gate momentarily. But we didn't. We just sat there.

Twenty minutes passed. Then the captain came on the speaker system to inform passengers that there had been a "minor" security breach at Logan Airport which had resulted in the airport being shut down for about fifteen minutes, during which time all departures had been suspended. He assured us that the airport had reopened and that although the queue of departing flights was now quite long, we would leave shortly.

Another ten minutes passed and a flight attendant announced that our departure would be slightly delayed while we awaited the boarding of two more passengers, who had apparently been held up during the security breach.

When E. and I arrived at the airport, the weather was hot and sunny, but the forecast had mentioned the possibility of severe storms during the late afternoon. Now, looking out the airplane window, I could see black clouds filling up the sky to our west. I wasn't optimistic. Sure enough, the captain soon let us know that because of concern about tornadoes to the west, no westbound flights could leave. Tornadoes! They're rare in Massachusetts, but the weather apparently reflected my apocalyptic mood. I didn't relish the idea of being in a crowded airplane with a funnel cloud approaching. But I had no choice.

The flight attendants invited passengers to get up, stretch, use the lav, turn on cell phones. Accommodating of them, but not encouraging. E. and I chatted with our seatmate, a nice fellow from Portland. The man behind me began cracking jokes and people contacted friends and relatives to let them know the situation.

I called my son, Alex, who was back at the house, dog-sitting for Cosmo. The house was directly in the path of the storm and, sure enough, Alex said it had been wild and windy a few minutes earlier. Soon the wind and rain came directly over us, rocking the plane a bit. But no tornado materialized.

Once the rain let up, we left the gate, then parked near a runway for a while, then returned to another gate. Finally, three hours after our scheduled departure time, we took off for Portland, flying toward the now setting sun. From then on, the flight was uneventful, but the drama wasn't over.

About halfway to Portland, as we still pursued the setting sun, I noticed a gorgeous black cloud with an anvil shape, the characteristic form of a thundercloud. At first, the cloud looked solid black in the fading light, but as we approached it, I could see flashes of lightning within it. We were flying south of the storm, where the skies were clear, but we were exactly parallel to the massive cloud, so I witnessed a spectacular display of lightning.

I know the storm was enormous because it took at least half an hour to fly past it. During that time, I was riveted by the dramatic lightning flashing within the cloud and also toward the ground. The photo I took of the lightning is entirely inadequate to convey the brilliance of the spectacle, but was the best I could manage using my iPhone camera through the airplane window.

What impressed me during our slow progress past the immense storm cloud was its appearance of permanence. It seemed filled with vital energy, as if it would never dissipate. I thought of Art, whose energy and joie de vivre made him such a vital life force. It's hard to believe he's gone.

As we left the storm behind, the sun finally set in the western sky. Like most of us, Art had his stormy moments and his sunny days. But few of us have lived life as fully as he. I, along with a multitude of friends and family, will miss him.

The High Line and Hudson River Park

2010-06-22T10:57:00.006-04:00

This past weekend, I had a chance to visit two beautiful public spaces in Manhattan—the High Line and Hudson River Park. I saw the city through another lens, transformed by environments that combine nature with thoughtful design to create havens for city dwellers.

On the High Line, one sees the city from a new perspective. Built on former elevated railroad tracks on the lower West Side, the High Line meanders several stories above ground. Elegant plantings provide a charming immediate environment, while views of the Hudson and the surrounding cityscape yield surprising and lovely longer-range sights.

One can see the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island shimmering through a window of buildings and a pedestrian bridge.

New and old construction along the High Line adds interest. It's uplifting to see the Meatpacking District and Chelsea in a new light.

Hudson River Park is a great place to walk or bike on a warm summer day in Manhattan. A cool breeze comes off the water and the old piers have been re-invented as parks and playgrounds.

Ancient pilings have been left in place, forming sanctuaries for fish and wildlife.

Across the river, the skyline of Jersey City looms impressively.

And a look back at Manhattan yields a striking view of the Empire State Building.

I love the energy of Manhattan. When I walk among the city's skyscrapers, I'm amazed at what human beings have accomplished. But when I visit the city, I also long for space, sky, and greenery. The High Line and Hudson River Park offer a unique combination of the man-made and the natural.

Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Life Goes On

2010-06-17T17:14:00.008-04:00

I used to think that when something bad happened, writing would serve as a solace and support. But I've found that in times of crisis and loss, my writing muse mostly deserts me. The death of a much-loved cousin has recently caused me to pause. While I haven't entirely stopped writing, my blog posts have been less frequent.

In the past, when experiencing the shock of grief, I've felt surprised at the way life around me goes on. This time is no different. I think about cousin Art while the birds twitter, the flowers bloom, and my neighbor stops to say hello. I go to the market, prepare meals, brush my teeth. Sadness gives the mundane a heightened beauty.

Rather than write more, I'd like to offer some photos I took the other day with my iPhone, when the flowers and greenery in my yard seemed particularly lovely. Adios, Arturo.

Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Happy 13th Birthday, Cosmo!

2010-06-15T17:57:00.011-04:00

In a seeming miracle, Cosmo the wonder poodle has reached the ripe old age of 13. In my unbiased opinion, he's the most adorable dog in the world. He still retains his puppy playfulness despite his geriatric status. He may be caught napping on occasion, but he can always be aroused by the words "treat" or "walk."

An adventurous eater, Cosmo will try anything. His tastes range from strained chicken to watermelon, honeydew, apples, peas, carrots, and green beans. He's never been known to turn down a slice of smoked turkey or a few flakes of tuna, either. But he can get down and dirty with the best of them when it comes to dog food. He's pretty much tried them all. His current favorite is Royal Canin, an apt choice for such a princely animal.

Though small in stature, Cosmo thinks big. He's never shied away from a confrontation and has been known to challenge Dobermans, German Shepherds, and even Great Danes. But once he's stopped barking, he couldn't be friendlier.

Cosmo has been my loyal companion for 13 years. When he was a puppy, he helped me bond with my teenage sons. When I was sick, he comforted me. And when we moved, he made our new place feel like home. But perhaps his greatest gift to me has been a deep feeling of connection to all non-human creatures. Living with Cosmo has made me more sensitive to animals in the wild and has enriched me in ways no words can describe. Happy Birthday, Cos!

The Robins Rebuild

2010-06-11T16:58:00.006-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, after the baby robins left their nest under our deck, E. removed the nest. Robins can breed two or three times in a season and we hoped that by removing the nest we would discourage the parents from building in the same place next time. A futile hope, as it turned out.

Robins have an uncanny homing instinct and will build over and over again in the same location if possible. Our robins had constructed their nest in the exact same spot last spring. Since E. removed this spring's nest, we've been checking daily for signs of new activity. This morning, I saw a robin with dried grass hanging from its beak and, sure enough, when I looked under the deck I could see that building had begun.

We decided to remove the nest materials immediately and to put something in the area to prevent further building there. Not that the nest itself bothered us. To the contrary, we found it fascinating to watch the eggs hatch and the chicks grow big (see my earlier post, Drama Under the Deck). But the door bashing really got to be too much. The birds were smashing into glass doors both above and below the deck, risking their own well-being and leaving a mess of bird droppings behind (see More on Robins—The Messy Side). They truly would be better off with a nest in a nearby tree, where they wouldn't fall prey to their own reflection in a pane of glass.

After clearing out the beginnings of the new nest, we found some old packing material, which we crammed into the space to make it impossible for the birds to build there again. Robins are nothing if not resourceful, though. I won't be shocked if they find some way to incorporate the foreign matter into a new nest. Or maybe they'll decide to build on an adjacent rafter. Time will tell. While I feel sad about depriving the industrious robins of their chosen nesting site, I hope they'll find an even better spot where their babies can hatch and mature in peace.

Treme

2010-06-10T23:53:00.010-04:00

I just watched the first episode of Treme, an HBO series set in the Tremé neighborhood of New Orleans after Katrina. Thanks to On Demand, I had access to the first 79-minute installment. I hesitated to tune in to the series when it first aired in early April because I was sure it would depress me. But the show, produced by the same team that created The Wire, manages to find warmth, humor, and resilience among the city's inhabitants while capturing the devastation of the flooding. Music plays a central role and the series features many local musicians.

The creators of Treme couldn't have dreamed that their program would air just as Louisiana became engulfed in a new catastrophe, but the juxtaposition of the earlier and current events certainly added poignancy to my viewing experience. When John Goodman's character, a local college professor, angrily tells a journalist, "We're dying down here" while the government dithers around, I immediately thought of James Carville, who recently said said those same words as he furiously protested the Federal government's slow response to the oil spill. When things get really bad, as they did after Katrina, they can apparently get even worse, as we're learning during the present crisis.

Judging from the first episode of Treme, though, there's room for optimism. Even in the worst of circumstances, people find reasons to laugh. I plan to keep watching the series and hope that joy leavens the sadness on television and in real life.

Here's a link to a trailer for Treme on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPVMxuoarbg.

Things Are, Then They Aren't

2010-06-09T17:21:00.005-04:00

Earlier today, I met a friend at the Deluxe Town Diner, where we spent a delightful couple of hours having lunch and catching up. When I entered the restaurant, white clouds scudded across a blue sky. By the time I emerged, the sky had turned gray and threatening. It was a beautiful day, then it wasn't.

Last Friday, I was about to cook dinner and enjoy a leisurely start to my weekend. The only thing on my mind was what DVD I felt like watching that evening. Then E. discovered that the hot water heater was leaking and the basement was rapidly flooding. We spent the next several hours attempting to mitigate the damage. It was an uneventful evening, then it wasn't.

I've been patiently switching Cosmo from one anti-seizure medication to another. The first medicine couldn't be stopped cold turkey, so I added the second medicine for several weeks, then gradually began weaning him off the first. After the initial dose reduction, all went well. Cosmo acted like a healthy dog, with plenty of pep and enthusiasm. I felt optimistic about the prospects for continuing the weaning process. After two weeks, following the vet's instructions, I lowered the dose again. Two days later, Cosmo had a seizure. Then another. And another. Cosmo was seizure-free, then he wasn't.

The east coast of South Florida boasts beaches with soft white sand and bright blue water of striking clarity. During walks along Biscayne Bay, I've seen manatees, dolphins, sting rays, barracuda, brown pelicans, egrets, herons, gulls, and other magnificent wild creatures. The South Florida coastal waters still provide a healthy habitat for sea creatures and birds. But, if the oil that's currently suffocating the Gulf of Mexico gets picked up by the loop current, predictions are that it will be carried around the southern tip of Florida and along the east coast. For now, that coast is pristine . . .

Young Love

2010-06-08T16:41:00.004-04:00

While on a meandering walk with Cosmo the other day, I found myself in front of a neighbor's house. The family had moved in a few years ago—a husband and wife and one daughter, now a tall, pretty teenager. Cosmo paused to do some sniffing in front of their house. It was a beautiful early-June afternoon. The air smelled of flowers and the wind whispered gently in the trees.

I heard the murmur of voices but at first couldn't tell where they came from. Then I noticed the daughter, lying on the side lawn with a dark-haired boy by her side. They were talking and laughing and the girl had a blade of grass between her teeth.

The scene instantly took me back to my own teenage years, when I wanted nothing more than to daydream the afternoons away under the spell of a clear blue sky. It made me nostalgic for the heady sensation of having my whole life before me and all the time in the world. And most especially, it brought back the glorious feeling of young love.

I know I'm leaving some things out—the insecurity, the adolescent angst. But still, not much can compare to the teenage intoxication of a warm day, a cute guy, and no parents in sight.

Bananas are Cool

2010-06-07T13:45:00.004-04:00

I love bananas. I like to eat them with my breakfast granola. I enjoy them as a late afternoon snack, which will stave off hunger pangs until dinner. I love banana bread, banana cream pie, banana splits. Mashed bananas were among the earliest food I fed my kids. But I've always had a problem with bananas — when stored at room temperature, they quickly become overripe.

I tend to like my bananas firm, when the skin has turned yellow but there's still a hint of green at the stem. I don't like them at the supposedly ideal stage (except if I'm baking banana bread), when they're yellow with a few flecks of brown. Until recently, I always hesitated to buy my bananas in large bunches, lest they rot before I had a chance to eat them, so I would buy one or, at most, two bananas at a time.

Then I heard an interview with Dan Koeppel about his book, Banana: The Fate of the Fruit That Changed the World. Toward the end of the interview, Koeppel sang the the Chiquita Banana song, one of the more successful advertising jingles in history. Among the original lyrics are the following assertions — "Bananas have to ripen in a certain way" and "You should never put bananas in the refrigerator."

According to Koeppel, both those assertions are false. In fact, bananas are shipped refrigerated, which keeps them from ripening too soon. Refrigerating them once you've purchased them will slow down further ripening. While the skin may turn brown in the refrigerator, this does not mean the bananas have gone bad. In fact, they will remain at pre-refrigeration ripeness for a much longer period than if left at room temperature.

This was all news to me. On rare occasions, I had previously put bananas in the refrigerator in the hope of preserving them. But the skins quickly turned an unappealing shade of brown and I just assumed the fruit had gone bad. My mistake. Since hearing the interview with Koeppel, I've been buying bananas by the bunch and refrigerating them once they reach exactly the stage of ripeness I prefer. In the refrigerator, they remain firm and delicious for a number of days. And they don't always turn brown (see the photo below, of a banana that's been refrigerated for several days and is still looking good). Plus, I've discovered I like the refreshing taste of a cold banana.

These days, my bananas are cool, both literally and figuratively.

Minor Domestic Disturbance

2010-06-05T09:26:00.002-04:00

Last night around 6 p.m., E. and I realized we had no hot water. A trip down to the basement confirmed our worst fears — our ten-year-old gas hot water heater had leaked several inches of water into the surrounding area, including inside a closet where we'd stored boxes on the floor. Trying to look on the bright side, we reminded ourselves that water is much easier to clean up than oil. Then we set to work. Or, I should say, E. set to work.

This minor crisis served to remind me of my physical shortcomings as well as my deficiencies regarding anything mechanical. The water heater shutoff valve was stuck, so E. temporarily turned off the water to the entire house. I'd forgotten where the main water shutoff is located. Then E. used a mallet to loosen the water heater shutoff valve, so he was able to close it and then restore (cold) water to the rest of the house. I wouldn't have had the common sense and possibly not the strength to get the shutoff valve to close. Next, E. had the presence of mind to look for the gas shutoff. He quickly located it and shut that off, too. Such a move wouldn't have occurred to me.

I did have a role, however. My job was to find a plumber who could replace the water heater. Good luck at 6 p.m. on a Friday night. In fact, the receptionist for my regular plumber did call me right back, but then she informed me that no one would be available until Monday morning. Meantime, she offered moral support and some practical advice — turn off the shutoff valve, don't use the hot water faucets, write down the model and serial numbers so you'll have them handy when the plumber finally calls.

My next move was to contact our heating/air conditioning company to see if they could help. The service guy on call told me he didn't service water heaters but would ask his manager if he had a suggestion. Within half an hour, the manager put me in touch with a different plumber, who does work on weekends. The plumber was pleasant and helpful. He promised to try to locate a new water heater for us in the morning. If he found one, he would install it that afternoon. Just knowing someone was on the case made me feel better.

Meanwhile, E. was engaged in more tasks that were beyond my physical ability — moving wet boxes onto dry ground and attempting to drain out the rest of the enormous (75 gallon) water tank. Unfortunately, the hose he hooked up didn't drain the water effectively, so that meant releasing water from the tank into a big bucket and carrying the bucket to a sink on the other side of the basement. I soon lost count of how many trips it took, but my arms are too weak to have hoisted one of the bucketfuls he carried. I seriously need to start weight training.

This morning, the concrete floor is mostly dry and we've cleared some beach chairs and other stuff out of the area near the water heater to make room for the plumber when he arrives. Chances are he won't find the right water heater today, so we'll be washing with cold water for a while. But I wasn't too happy with my prior plumber anyway — although I've lost a water heater, I'm hoping I've gained a good plumber.

Fortunately, although the bottoms of some boxes were wet, nothing inside was damaged. And, thinking positively, the forced relocation of lots of stuff has created an opportunity for a long overdue cleanup and reorganization. Not exactly how I planned to spend my weekend, but I'm mindful that things could have been a lot worse. If we'd been away when the heater began to leak, we could have returned home to a major flood.

The plumber told me that ten years is about as much as one can expect from a water heater. He said they're only built to last about that long. Talk about planned obsolescence. I'm sure I could write an entire blog post about that, if not a book.

Where's the Zeitgeist?

2010-06-04T14:36:00.010-04:00

Yesterday, I came across an article in the New York Times about James Taylor and Carol King, who are currently traveling the world with their "Troubadour Reunion" tour. The songs written and sung by Taylor and King, who have been collaborating since the 1970s, were part of the musical backdrop of my youth. Like many of my peers, I owned all their early albums. I even saw James Taylor perform in concert at UMass Amherst in the spring of 1970. The music of Taylor and King, and the fact that so many of my fellow baby boomers listened to it, helped define the spirit of the times, the zeitgeist.

Motown, soul music, heavy metal, folk rock, psychedelic rock — the music of the sixties and seventies both created and epitomized the cultural climate. Sure, some of us liked Elton John while others grooved to Jimi Hendrix, but most of us listened to all of it. We listened to it on drugs, we listened to it while protesting the Vietnam War, we listened to it to figure out who we were and where we were going. This vast common absorption in the music of a relatively small group of performers made an event like Woodstock possible. The free love fest reflected the music and the music reflected the values of its listeners.

Since that time, there's been an amazing proliferation of musical style and content. Technological developments have enabled musicians to record on a shoestring. Garage bands can disseminate their music to niche audiences, enabling a huge number of groups to gain a following. In most respects, this is a good thing, a wonderful thing. But it's also overwhelming and has led to tremendous fragmentation in the music world. Totally different audiences listen to rap, hip-hop, country, alternative rock, pop, and techno, to name just a few of the many genres competing today. I can't name them all because I probably haven't even heard of them.

A lot of contemporary music is brilliant — great musicianship, beautiful melodies, complex musical themes. By comparison, the music of my youth sometimes sounds simple and repetitive. It's not the quality of today's music that has muted its ability to transform the culture, it's the sheer number and variety of musical styles and performers. One could argue that the very diversity of contemporary music in fact embodies the spirit of the current times, with its emphasis on celebrating our differences. But I don't believe that argument holds up — at the current historical moment, music is a powerful means of self-expression but it's not at the center of our cultural identity.

I'd love to hear your take on this. If you agree with me that music doesn't occupy the same central role in our culture that it did forty years ago, what, if anything, has taken it's place? Reality TV? Facebook? Video games? The Internet itself?

Click on the link below to listen to one of my favorite songs by The Band while contemplating your response.

The Healing Power of Sports

2010-06-03T11:49:00.024-04:00

I didn't think anything could pull me out of my despondent mood yesterday, but I inadvertently re-discovered a powerful antidote for despair — the shared euphoria that sometimes occurs during a sporting event.

A friend had given E. and me tickets to last night's Red Sox game. While a long-time fan, I haven't been following the Sox closely this season and felt ambivalent about going, especially in light of my malaise over the drastic situations in the Gulf and in the Middle East. Still, it was a beautiful evening and we had the tickets. There was no good reason not to go. So, I put on my Red Sox glitter shirt and we headed over to Fenway.

As soon as we walked onto Yawkey Way, I felt better. The smell of Fenway Franks in the cool night air evoked memories of earlier happy visits to the ballpark and the sound of Boston accents gave me a comforting sense of place. Inside, we found our seats on the first base line and settled down to watch the pre-game festivities. The green grass glimmered, the white home uniforms shone, and the "Star Spangled Banner" rang out loud and clear.

The game got off to a fast start. Daisuke Matsuzaka allowed three Oakland runs in the top of the first inning. Then, in the bottom of the first, Oakland Pitcher Ben Sheets let Boston get two of them back. The score remained 3-2 until the bottom of the fifth. Darnell McDonald doubled to the gap in left. David Ortiz stepped up to the plate. Patiently, Big Papi worked the count to 3 balls, 2 strikes. He fouled off a fastball. The crowd was into it, cheering as Sheets threw his next pitch, an inside fastball, which Ortiz sent sailing gracefully into the seats in right field.

It was a moment of pure joy. Worldly concerns fell away as the fans roared their approval. It seemed to me that the crowd's anticipatory cheers had provided just the right impetus for Big Papi's bat. I exulted along with the rest of the fans, remembering why I love baseball so much. Later, during the seventh inning stretch, everyone joined in a rousing rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." The old-fashioned song, sung in the historic park, gave a further lift to my spirits, as did the fact that the Sox went on to win the game.

I later learned that while I was watching the Red Sox, Armando Galarraga was pitching a perfect game for the Detroit Tigers, marred only by a faulty call on a play that should have resulted in the final out. Frustrating as it was for Galarraga to be denied his perfect game, the umpire (once he saw the replay) couldn't have been more regretful and the pitcher couldn't have been more magnanimous — another example of the way sports can elevate us.

After 9/11, the power of sports to unite people and hearten them was demonstrated most dramatically when the Yankees played their first home game after the attacks, on September 25, 2001. Yankee Stadium became the setting where Americans could express their grief, their patriotism, and their solidarity. Last night, I was reminded of that remarkable ability of sports to bring people together.

Today, it's back to the real world, but with a little more optimism than yesterday.

Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Worry Is an Understatement

2010-06-02T15:26:00.009-04:00

There's so much going wrong in so much of the world so much of the time that I usually find it too overwhelming to dwell on global events. Instead, I focus on my own much narrower universe and direct my caring and concern toward my family, friends, and local community.

Today, though, it feels like my community is the world. The oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico threatens to become America's Chernobyl. Whole ecosystems and geographic areas may be ruined for decades or more. The oil that's spewing from the undersea well in the Gulf knows no national boundaries. The U.S., Cuba, Canada, and the entire globe will be affected by what happens there.

While the Gulf disaster represents apparent corporate and perhaps governmental negligence, greed, and technological over-reaching, the latest escalation of the Arab-Israeli conflict seems emblematic of the ethnic and racial hatreds that permeate our human family. In a world where so many good people try to live decent lives, why do others seem to thrive on conflict and destruction?

I haven't got a clue about how to make things better, but it's hard to write a cheery blog about my latest domestic absurdity in the face of millions of barrels of spilled oil and escalating tensions in the Middle East.

Hopefully, things will be better tomorrow.

Climate Cooling

2010-06-01T18:21:00.003-04:00

While Al Gore has been traveling around the world warning that the earth's climate is warming, there has apparently been a distinct cooling in the climate between him and his wife, Tipper — the couple revealed today that they are separating. The news came via an email sent this morning to friends and first reported by Politico.

"This is very much a mutual and mutually supportive decision that we have made together following a process of long and careful consideration," the former vice president and his wife said in their email. "We ask for respect for our privacy and that of our family, and we do not intend to comment further."

The news comes as a surprise to me, given that the couple has been known for their close and openly affectionate relationship. According to the L.A. Times, they recently spent $8.8 million dollars on a mansion in Montecito, California, not something I'd expect them to do if they were about to separate, unless the fancy new home with nine bathrooms represented a last-ditch attempt to save the marriage. While I was busy wondering how an environmentalist like Al Gore could purchase a property with such an enormous carbon footprint, I guess I should have been speculating about whether the Gore marital climate had gone glacial.

For their sakes, I hope the Gores adhere to their stated intention not comment further. It's really nobody's business why their marriage failed after forty years and four children. Still, it's amusing to speculate. Perhaps Al's expanding girth has been a source of tension. Or his constant travel as an environmental advocate. Or maybe Tipper craved the life of First Lady and never recovered from her husband's difficult defeat in the 2000 election. Or perhaps Al told Tipper that he's starting to doubt the global warming theory that he did so much to promote. Now, that could have provoked some pretty heated arguments!

The Coming Battle

2010-05-31T18:22:00.000-04:00

The geese took a holiday stroll with their brood on the grassy shore of Chandler Pond this weekend. The weather was fine and the goslings couldn't have been cuter.

It was nice to enjoy such simple pleasures during a weekend set apart to honor the men and women who have served our country and died for it. This Memorial Day, we find ourselves under a terrifying environmental threat. It's probable that our National Guard and other troops will soon be deployed to fight a sickening battle against the ever-expanding Gulf oil spill.

E. and I visited Louisiana two years ago. We stayed in the little bayou town of Napoleonville and took a wonderful boat trip deep into the bayou. My fond recollections of the beautiful landscape I saw then only adds to the grief I feel now at the thought of its despoliation. Of course, my sadness is nothing compared to that of the area's inhabitants, who now face the end of their way of life. My thoughts and prayers go out to them.

The photo below shows an osprey on its nest in the bayou. These birds have made a comeback in the area. I only hope that they and their fragile ecosystem manage to survive the coming onslaught of oil.

Packing and Packing and Packing

2010-05-29T13:33:00.004-04:00

Most of us have had recurring dreams. For years, I had an exam dream in which I faced an exam that I wasn't prepared for, in a course I'd never taken. It took many years after my last law school exam for that recurring dream to cease. Since my recent trip to Memphis, though, I've been having a new recurring dream about, of all things, packing.

I found packing for my son's wedding in Memphis one of the more challenging packing experiences of my life. Usually, I try to pack light, though I rarely accomplish that goal. This time, though, I didn't care about packing light. I just wanted to make sure I brought the right clothes and plenty of them. I even packed a backup dress for the wedding itself. I'd heard a story about a woman whose zipper broke as she was getting dressed for her son's wedding and I didn't want to be without a dress in case of such an emergency.

For several days, I piled clothes on every available surface in my bedroom, then began adding and subtracting items. I finally accomplished my goal — filling a medium-sized suitcase with apparel and toilet articles. That bag would have to be checked. I planned to carry on a garment bag containing the dress I would wear to the wedding.

Everything worked out fine. The suitcase made it through baggage without getting lost and the zipper on my dress didn't break. I had just the clothes I needed and wore almost everything I packed. Nevertheless, I apparently still have packing on the brain. Every few nights since my return from Memphis, I've had a dream about packing. In it, I'm selecting items for a trip. I keep getting distracted. I can't remember exactly what I need. It's almost time to leave and I haven't started putting clothes in my suitcase. I frantically attempt to pack but I can't ever seem to finish . . . And then I wake up.

I wish that while in my dream state I would come up with some good packing strategies for future trips. But that seems a futile hope. More likely, I'll face my next packing challenge with even greater anxiety knowing that it can be a never-ending task, re-lived nightly in my dreams.

The Princess and the Pea

2010-05-28T16:44:00.002-04:00

People who know me well have perhaps noticed that I'm a bit sensitive. I don't like loud noise, prefer to avoid crowds, injure easily. Sometimes, even a strong hug will leave me sore. I dread the hair wash bowls in beauty salons. I've yet to find one that doesn't leave a bruise on the back of my neck. And if you've been reading this blog, you already know that most shoes find a way to irritate my feet.

I've been compared by my loving family to the princess in the Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale, "The Princess and the Pea." In that story, the princess' sensitivity to a single pea placed under twenty mattresses and twenty featherbeds is taken as proof of her royal birth. In my case, my sensitivity is regarded not so much as a sign of regal delicacy, but rather as an annoying personality quirk. That sensitivity was put to the test yesterday afternoon, when I visited Koko FitClub to try out their machine-based workout system.

I was greeted at the Needham club by owner Paul Romeo, who took me through a demonstration of the workout. The club is one of a number of franchises located across the country. It has a fresh, modern look and convenient parking. A row of Smartrainers, the machines used for strength training, line the wall on one side, while treadmills and elliptical trainers take up the other side.

I found Paul to be pleasant, low-key, and knowledgeable about his product. The Smartrainer looked imposing, to say the least, but Paul introduced me to its intricacies, which involve a personalized computer program, and I quickly got the hang of it. The Nautilus equipment I used at the Y had some of the same features, but the Smartrainer is more advanced, incorporating different exercises every session to adequately exercise all the muscle groups and provide variety in a thirty-minute workout. To learn the machine's capabilities and use it successfully, I would clearly need some guidance. Paul made it clear that he would be available for as much time as it took, at no extra charge.

I would have liked everything about the Koko FitClub concept if it weren't for my "Princess and the Pea" syndrome. For some exercises, the lowest weight on the Smartrainer, 15 pounds, was too much for my currently-weak upper body. And the machine, while surprisingly versatile, does have limitations. With free weights, I've learned how to do biceps curls that spare my easily-injured elbows. Although there were several options for biceps curls using the Smartrainer, all would have put my elbows at risk.

So, regretfully, I have to conclude that the Smartrainer is not for me, though I like the idea of it. If you're a more normal person of whatever age, this could be a good option for you. As for me, I intend to go at my own slow pace, using free weights and therabands, and always checking under my mattress for stray peas.

No-Pain Fitness?

2010-05-27T14:18:00.006-04:00

I'm not a fitness fanatic, to put it mildly. I like to walk, but have never been drawn to high intensity aerobics or competitive sports. In my forties and early fifties, with the threat of osteoporosis looming, I did get semi-serious about weight training, though. I joined a gym and worked out regularly for a number of years. My biceps had definition for the first time in my life. And I actually felt strong, at least when I wasn't nursing one minor injury or another. But did I like working out? Sad to say, no.

What I did enjoy was meeting my friends at the gym. Knowing that at the end of my weight circuit, I would join a friend or two and walk around the gym's indoor track made the whole exercise process bearable. In good weather, we headed outdoors and walked the pleasant path around the business park where the gym was located. Then one friend moved away and the other opted for Jazzercise at a different location. My interest in weight training immediately began to wane. Eventually, I convinced myself that keeping up my cardiovascular health through walking was sufficient — what did I need big muscles for, anyway?

Turns out my spine needed the upper body workout more than I realized. My recent bone scan showed that while my hip bone density has increased (without the use of any medication), probably due to my regular walking, my spinal bone density has declined. It's still in the positive range for my age, but it won't stay that way for long without some kind of intervention, according to my primary care doctor. His prescription — start a weight training regimen.

Since that verdict, I've been looking for a good fitness solution, one that won't be too onerous or expensive. Yesterday, I heard about a new concept, called Koko FitClub. It uses a high-tech machine, called the Koko Smartraining System, to set up a 30-minute exercise program. According to the FitClub's website, the "technology makes sure you're always doing precisely the right exercise, the right way, at the right pace, for the best possible results." Sounds too good to be true, right? But I figure it's worth a try, especially since a free demo session is offered.

I've made an appointment to have my free session this afternoon. If you don't hear from me tomorrow, it means I was swallowed or otherwise abused by the machine. Otherwise, I'll let you know how it goes.

More on Robins — The Messy Side

2010-05-26T14:29:00.012-04:00

I usually think of robins as cheery birds, welcome harbingers of spring. But robins have a dark side, a behavior that would strike most human beings as insane, and one that presents a hazard to the robins themselves — window strikes.

Sometimes birds fly into windows because they simply don't see the glass. Either it appears transparent to them or they see the outdoors reflected in the glass and proceed to fly right into it. But in the case of the robin who began smashing into the glass window on the door that leads to my deck, the behavior almost certainly reflected an attempt to defend his territory.* His mate had recently built a nest under the deck, so his territorial instincts would have been aroused. Probably, the robin saw his own reflection in the glass and perceived it as an intruder robin, so he did what came naturally — he attacked.

The first time I heard the sound of something banging against the glass, I thought a bird had accidentally flown into it. But when repeated banging ensued, I concluded that some kind of territorial imperative was at work. Before long, I identified the culprit as a robin and realized his behavior might be linked to the nearby nest. I feared for the robin's safety. After all, how many whacks can a robin take without being injured or killed? In fact, multitudes of birds suffer injuries every year due to window strikes — some estimates put the number of North American birds killed in such collisions at between 100 million and 1 billion!

In addition to worrying about the robin's welfare, I also had to contend with the mess. The robin often perched on the edge of a white plastic deck chair near the door. He would leave his droppings on the chair and then inevitably step in them. Then, when the robin attacked the window, he left smeared white footprints all over the glass. The good news — the bird-brained creature apparently knew enough to hit the window feet-first rather than head-first. The bad news — the repeated assaults on my window left a heck of a mess, not to mention the bird droppings covering the chair and deck floor beneath it.

Since the baby robins left their nest two days ago, I haven't heard any banging on my door window. I'm hoping it's now safe to clean the window and hose down the chair and deck. And I'm happy to say the robin doesn't seem any the worse for wear — I saw him and his mate hopping around this morning in search of worms. I'm working on ways to eliminate the reflection from the window, so that in the future no robins will see imagined rivals reflected in the glass. Meanwhile, I plan to enjoy watching the birds who inhabit my backyard. Hopefully, they'll remain among the trees, grass, and flowers, where they belong.

*Apparently, both male and female robins exhibit this territorial behavior. Probably in this case the culprit was the male robin, since many of the window strikes occurred while the female was sitting on the eggs.

Empty Nest

2010-05-25T10:11:00.005-04:00

I've lived in Newton for 28 years. During that time, I've noticed an evolution in the bird population. For many years, crows were everywhere. With their imperious caws and intimidating size, they ruled the Newton roost. In winter, their gatherings were particularly impressive, with their black shapes sometimes filling every bare tree limb in sight. Newton was home to many other birds as well — robins, cardinals, bluejays, mourning doves, sparrows, nuthatches, and titmouses, to name a few. But the crows, with their intelligent eyes and hulking appearance, definitely dominated.

About fifteen years ago, I began to notice the occasional red-tailed hawk. Once, I watched a hawk standing guard over its latest kill, a crow. I always knew when a hawk was in the area because I heard the cries of the crows, who would harry it in the air, cawing and buzzing it incessantly. The hawks were a nuisance and even a minor threat to the crows, but that's not what led to their local demise. That took a disease, the West Nile virus.

About ten years ago, the virus struck New England birds. Crows were hit particularly hard. I began to see dead crows in the street, but not so many in the sky. Within two years, the local crow population was decimated. This apparently created an opening for an opportunistic bird species. Before long, I began seeing northern mockingbirds. Soon they inhabited my neighborhood in great numbers.

For the past few seasons, however, robins have supplanted mockingbirds as the prevalent species. In addition to the pair that nested under my own deck, I see robins hopping about on every lawn in the vicinity. And lately, I've hardly noticed any mockingbirds at all.

Yesterday, I wrote about three robin chicks who left their nest, prodded along inadvertently by my own proximity. A few years ago, when mockingbirds held sway, I became similarly engaged by a drama in my backyard. I wrote a poem about the experience, which I've reprinted below. In that case, I was merely a witness, rather than a causative agent, in the events that unfolded.

Empty Nest

The baby mockingbird crashed
into my window and fell,
stunned, to the ground. I waited,
helpless, picturing myself
engaged in bird burial,
until it managed to lift
off, staggering in mid-air
as if drunk on first flight or

too young to have left the nest.
Determined, it launched itself
toward the pear tree and perched there,
chirping a feeble cheep, cheep,
until its mother swooped in,
bringing her bird version of
comfort, protecting her chick
with impressive vigilance.

I aimed my binoculars,
viewed the drama from polite
distance, saw the frail fledgling
close its weary eyes and rest
its beak in its own feathers.
For several days, I heard
the plaintive cheep, cheep from one
nearby tree or another

and saw the mother guarding
her offspring from a roof edge
or a neighboring treetop,
singing her borrowed love songs.
If only she could defend
her fragile child long enough
for it to gain strength, perhaps
it would survive and take wing.

A few days later, I found
a baby mockingbird dead
on my front walk, its mother
gone. Now every mockingbird
reminds me of that mother,
trilling her infinitely
varied tune, its melody
a bird’s poem of devotion.

After learning about the robins' nesting habits, it occurred to me that I might have misunderstood what happened to the mockingbirds I wrote about. This morning, I did some research about mockingbirds. I discovered that when the chicks are about twelve days old, they leave their nest. They don't fly immediately, but rather hop around on the ground or in low shrubs. During this transitional period (after leaving the nest and before they can fly), the parents still care for the young birds, feeding them up to five times per hour. This continues for several days, during which the male teaches them how to fly, until the fledglings are capable of sustained flight and can forage for themselves.

It now seems likely that the baby bird in my poem had left the nest as mockingbird chicks normally do and, during an early flying experiment, had crashed into my window. The adult's hovering behavior was apparently normal for that stage of its offspring's development. I did see a dead mockingbird on my front walk, but I now believe it may not have been my mockingbird. My poem's little chirping creature, under the guidance of its devoted parents, may have survived to live a productive bird life and produce many offspring of its own. Of course, I'll never know, but I can always hope.

Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Drama Under the Deck

2010-05-24T18:54:00.019-04:00

For the past several weeks, I've enjoyed watching a robin's nest built on one of the rafters under my backyard deck. From a lower-level window, I could see the female robin sitting on her eggs. The female had done most of the work, selecting the nest site and building the nest before laying her eggs and sitting on them. Her mate stood guard when she went off to feed and occasionally sat on the eggs himself. After the eggs hatched, I soon could see four open mouths just barely peeking above the edge of the nest.

E. and I were away for five days and by the time we returned, the tiny hatchlings had begun to look like their parents. They had feathers and recognizable robin beaks and they were so big they filled up the nest. For the past few days, I've been waiting for them to leave. By yesterday, it appeared that one had, since I could only count three chicks still remaining. This afternoon, I decided to take a few photos so I'd have a remembrance of their brief sojourn under my deck.

I didn't venture too close to the nest and I moved slowly and quietly. I took a couple of shots, uneventfully. The chicks appeared calm, not in the least agitated by my presence. They should have been somewhat accustomed to human beings by then. E. and I had walked, grilled, and sat on the deck just above the nest, and I've approached quite near the nest previously without any apparent problem. But today, after the click of my iPhone as I took the last of several photos, two of the chicks flew out of the nest.

It was clearly their first flight. They didn't go far. Both landed near the deck and began hopping about. One of the two hopped around the corner and out of sight. The second lingered on the gravel under the deck. I hoped, futilely as it turned out, that it might fly back to the nest, where the third chick still sat. But such a flight would have been tricky. The chick would have had to navigate between the rafter and the underside of the deck. My heart sank. At the very least, I'd been responsible for two of the three robins departing the nest slightly prematurely. Judging by their size and markings, they had looked ready to leave, but if I hadn't interfered with my camera, how much longer might they have lingered?

Filled with remorse, I went inside and took a post at the window, where I waited to see what would happen. The chick who had remained under the deck flew up to a nearby rock outcropping and perched there. The mother soon appeared, worm in mouth, and fed the hungry chick. While relieved that the parents would not abandon their babies, I felt worried that the chick wouldn't be able to fend for itself.

A short while later the chick flew from the rock onto the deck stairs. It perched between two rails. To my amazement and delight, it was soon joined by the second chick, who had apparently discovered the first chick's whereabouts. Both parents hovered nearby on the grass, searching for worms but ever on the alert. I thought the two chicks might settle in for the night at this location, given its relative security. The parents would be able to protect them and also protect the one chick still remaining in the nest. But after several feeding cycles, one of the chicks followed its parent, flying nicely from the deck onto the grass, where it proceeded to hop around just like an adult robin.

The other chick seemed smaller and more timid. It took flight in two stages, first from the deck back to its earlier perch atop the rock. As I watched, one of its parents fed it a worm. But the parent did it in a teasing way, only actually feeding the chick the third time the chick opened its mouth. Robins do this to motivate their offspring to leave the nest and search for their own food. Sure enough, the chick followed its parent as it flew from the rock to the grass and began hopping around, as if it were searching for a worm. I felt encouraged — maybe the chicks were old enough to make it on their own.

A few moments later, E. called me excitedly to report that the third chick had also left the nest. This thrilled me and gave me hope that the other two chicks had, indeed, been ready to leave. I soon saw the third chick on the deck, the same vantage point from which its siblings had surveyed their brave new backyard world.

Birds who have recently acquired their flight feathers and can survive outside the nest are known as fledglings. Normally, robin fledglings stay close to their parents for the first two weeks and become capable of sustained flight only by the end of that period. The three chicks who left the nest today look like the pictures I've seen of fledglings (see photo at right). All three can fly, although not for a sustained period. During the next couple of weeks, they have a lot to learn. Here's hoping they make it.

Photo of fledgling courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Scenes from Chandler Pond

2010-05-22T17:35:00.011-04:00

Yesterday, E. and I took one of our favorite walks, around Chandler Pond, just across the Newton line in Brighton, a neighborhood of Boston. A mere three-quarters of a mile from our home, it's a world away from the typical suburban street and from Brighton's busy Oak Square, only a few blocks away. Although I've lived in Newton since 1982, I didn't discover Chandler Pond until 2000. It was a revelation — a plethora of birds and other wildlife thriving in a tranquil setting only steps from my door!

When I take the path between two houses that opens up to reveal the 38 acre space, comprised of Chandler Pond and its adjacent grassy shoreline, I experience an instant feeling of delight. The beauty of the water, with perhaps a swan floating on its surface, soothes me. And the turreted edifice that looms on the hillside above the pond, part of St. John's Seminary, allows me to imagine that I've literally been transported to a European medieval village.

During yesterday's walk, we saw a healthy group of goslings feeding, their parents keeping watch close by. And we found the pond's lone swan preening itself in the grass by the water. We haven't seen its mate so far this spring and, knowing that swans usually mate for life, we fear that something has happened to it.

On previous walks, we've spied red-winged blackbirds, cormorants, great blue herons, and ducks. Occasionally we've glimpsed snapping turtles sunning themselves on a log that drifts across the pond's surface. Yesterday, we didn't come across any new varieties of wildlife, but we did notice a sign that had recently been set in place to remind visitors not to feed the waterfowl. Though noble in purpose, the sign falls short in execution — the writer apparently failed to use spell check. Still, there's nothing "foul" about Chandler Pond — its charms draw me back on a regular basis.

Click on the photos to enlarge them.

Crystal Lake

2010-05-21T09:56:00.011-04:00

Now that I'm back in Newton, I've been enjoying the lovely spring foliage and the surprising variety of wildlife I can see right in my own backyard, including rabbits, red-tailed hawks, Baltimore orioles, a red fox, and a group of ungainly wild turkeys. Robins have become the dominant neighborhood bird and a couple has built their nest on a rafter under our deck. From the lower-level windows of my house, I can watch the open mouths of their little hatchlings as the robin parents feed them worms. But one thing I can't see from my backyard is water.

In Miami, my apartment overlooks Biscayne Bay. In Newton, I miss the water view, so when I go for a walk I often head for a local pond, river, or reservoir. Yesterday, a friend and I decided to take a stroll around Crystal Lake. The lake, known as Wiswall's Pond during colonial times, occupies 33 acres just a few blocks from bustling Newton Centre. During the 1880s, the lake was renamed Baptist Pond because the First Baptist Church of Newton used it for baptisms. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, ice dealers, who sold ice harvested from the lake for refrigeration, gave Crystal Lake its current name, believing it would appeal to customers. Today, houses surround most of the lake, but there's also a public swimming area. On one side of the lake, opposite the public beach, the "T" can be heard as it carries commuters to and from Boston.

I first saw Crystal Lake almost 30 years ago, before I'd even moved to Newton. My sister-in-law, who was then a Newton resident, invited me to join her there for a swim. She was seven months pregnant at the time and had been keeping fit during the summer by swimming in the cool lake waters. I spent a delightful afternoon with her. The beach was tiny, but the water was cold and clear. Perhaps too cold. Later that day, my sister-in-law went into labor and shortly after gave birth to a premature baby boy. All ended well, though — today, my nephew is a strapping young man.

Yesterday's walk around Crystal Lake was less eventful than that first swim, but still a lovely way to spend a spring morning. It had rained the previous day and the air smelled sweet with the scent of flowers. We ambled along the lake, past imposing homes with emerald-green lawns, until we arrived at the public area. The lake shimmered with, dare I say, a crystalline glow. As I stood admiring the lily pads, it occurred to me to take the photograph shown above with my iPhone (click on the photo to enlarge it), in the hope of capturing the moment.

For a much more complete history of Crystal Lake check out this 1911 Historical Sketch.

Post-Wedding Dress and Accessory Update

2010-05-20T10:26:00.001-04:00

A few months ago, I regaled my readers with the saga of my search for a pretty dress to wear to my son, Aaron's, wedding (see "Shopping for 'The One'"). It was no small task to find a dress that fit my requirements in size, price, and elegance. Once I'd purchased a dress, I moved on to the next challenge, shoes. My quest to find a suitable pair involved numerous online purchases and returns (see "If the Shoe Fits"). So how did it all come together at the wedding? Here's my report.

After logging many hours in department stores, bridal shops, and boutiques, I found a gown in a shimmery espresso shade, which, amazingly, was on sale for an unbelievably low price in a petite size that fit me everywhere, including the waistline. As it turned out, I was too excited to eat much during the days immediately preceding the wedding, so I was able to wear the dress without the torturous body shaper I'd bought along, just in case I needed it.

The most stressful moment, dresswise, came when I asked one of the bridesmaids to pin on my corsage. It was a daunting task requiring advanced engineering skills. I feared that the two long pins and weighty flowers would either rip the dress or weigh it down unbecomingly. But, after a few false starts, the ingenious bridesmaid affixed the corsage in exactly the right spot and it stayed in place beautifully all evening long.

The shoes fit, too! For me, that's an event worthy of an exclamation point. I found a pair of bronze leather dressy sandals online, wide enough in the toes and low enough in the heels. They looked lovely but didn't kill my feet. An ingenious solution suggested by a friend made them even more comfortable. She recommended I purchase a pair of toeless pantyhose. They slipped on like Japanese tabi socks, with an opening for my big toe and another for the rest of my toes. This allowed my newly-pedicured toenails to peek out, while the rest of my feet were encased in silky nylon.

Once I found the dress and the shoes, I figured I had it made. Then a friend asked me whether I needed a wrap to wear over the dress. That hadn't occurred to me, though it should have. I tend to like something over my shoulders unless it's exceedingly warm. And what about an evening bag? My selection was pitiful — one black silk bag (which was all wrong for my brown dress and bronze shoes), and a couple of ancient odd-colored bags that also wouldn't work.

As I set out in search of these accessories, my object was to spend less on them than I had on my dress. Any woman knows that it's easy to drop $500 on a tiny handbag. Happily, I found a shimmery deep gold wrap at a local boutique, as well as a bronze leather evening purse. Each cost less than $100, not exactly cheap, but worth it to complete my wedding ensemble.

It all came together exactly as I'd hoped. The zipper zipped, the gown fit, and the neutral palette of my outfit accomplished my goal as mother of the groom — not to draw attention to myself. As it turned out, there was no danger of that, since all eyes were on the bride, Karen, who looked dazzlingly beautiful in her gorgeous strapless white wedding gown.

Blues City

2010-05-19T20:35:00.016-04:00

E. and I arrived in Memphis last Wednesday, a few days before the wedding of my son, Aaron, to his bride, Karen. As we approached downtown in our rental car, E. reminisced about the last time he had visited Memphis, 40 years earlier. He had been traveling through the south during the summer of 1970, interviewing locals about blues musicians — research for his college thesis.

We already knew one another back then, though we weren't dating. Forty years later, it was hard for either of us to believe that so much time had passed since he'd gone on that trip, a long-haired white kid driving a weird Swedish sports car, his Saab Sonett, and venturing into down-and-out black neighborhoods.

Later, we walked over to Beale Street, the heart of the Memphis blues scene. E. was amazed that it looked much as he remembered, though fixed up and filled with tourists. That evening, motorcycles lined the street, each one more shiny and spectacular than the next, their owners gathered for some kind of rally. Blues music poured out of the open doors of clubs, the rhythms reminding me of my youth, when E. collected blues LPs and we listened to blues artists perform live whenever we could.

As we surveyed the lively scene, my eye was caught by signs for the B.B. King Blues Club and B.B. King's Company Store. The great blues guitarist and singer-songwriter got his musical start in Memphis, where he earned the nickname "Beale Street Blues Boy," later shortened to B.B. King. All this interested me because it gave me my own tenuous connection to Memphis — back in the seventies, I interviewed King for a column in Guitar Player Magazine.

At the time, I was an editor at the magazine, hired more for my language skills than my musical ability. Though I played the piano and could read music, I knew little about the guitar. Still, when the opportunity to interview B.B. King arose, I jumped at the chance. With the help of my senior editor, I came up with a list of questions designed to make it sound as if I really understood the instrument.

At Guitar Player, we took our mission seriously — no celebrity gossip for us. We wanted to give our readers tips from the guitar greats about how they achieved their unique sounds. I arrived for the interview nervous but excited. B.B. King invited me into his dressing room. He was gracious and kind. Within thirty seconds, he probably knew I didn't play the guitar, but he answered my scripted questions patiently and thoroughly. A few times we were interrupted by visitors, most of them women. King invariably asked them to "Gimme a little sugar," and kisses were exchanged.

Just as I finished my last question, the door opened and a man clad in a white suit entered — Santana. He faced us and put his palms together in a Hindu-style greeting and bowed. It was quite a moment, the accolyte acknowledging the master.

All this came back to me in a rush as I stood on Beale Street, where B.B. is still king. In the days that followed, I would be establishing a much more important connection to Memphis, with the family of my new daughter-in-law. But for a brief moment, I was transported back to my own youth and the years melted away.

Here's a YouTube video of B.B. King in 1970, playing his classic hit, "The Thrill is Gone."

The Peabody Ducks

2010-05-18T19:48:00.012-04:00

I just returned from a glorious weekend in Memphis, where E. and I attended the marriage of our son, Aaron, to his college sweetheart, Karen. I could go on at length (and possibly will, in a later blog) about the joy I felt watching Aaron and Karen become man and wife, surrounded by my family and friends. It was a bi-cultural affair, with Karen's Chinese family celebrating alongside us, merging Eastern and Western traditions.

The setting was the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, where Karen grew up and where almost all her family lives. She and Aaron chose the Peabody because it's a lovely historic hotel with a great rooftop party room. They also liked its location near Beale Street, famous for Memphis blues music, and its proximity to the Mississippi River, a short walk away. But, knowing Aaron's fondness for animals, I think what sealed the deal was the fact that at the Peabody Hotel you not only get nice rooms, good food, and a friendly staff — you also get the Peabody ducks.

In a tradition that started in 1933, every day at 11:00 a.m. four or five mallard ducks descend in one of the hotel's elevators from the roof to the lobby where, to great fanfare, they "march" on a red carpet from the elevator to the marble pond in the center of the lobby. There, they spend their day eating, swimming, and preening themselves until, at 5:00 p.m., after a rousing sendoff by the "Duckmaster," they waddle back onto the red carpet and into the elevator, which takes them to their rooftop "Duck Palace."

It all sounds rather silly and juvenile, but the ducks are adorable and appeal to just about everyone. Their presence gives the Peabody character lacking in most big hotels. During our five-day stay, E. and I watched the ducks march on several occasions, but until our final morning, we hadn't checked out the Duck Palace. On that last morning, we rode the elevator to the roof for one more view of the Mississippi. Once there, we noticed a sign for the Duck Palace and decided to take a look. It was about 10:45, so we knew the Duckmaster would soon arrive to escort the ducks down the elevator to the lobby.

The ducks live in uncommonly fancy surroundings, which include a small swimming area, but when we arrived they were resting on a granite platform. We were rather surprised to find ourselves the only people there. We'd been down in the lobby a few minutes earlier and it had been jammed with hotel guests already lined up along the red carpet, awaiting the ducks' arrival. But on the roof, we had the ducks all to ourselves. At about 10:55, they suddenly perked up and a moment later, the Duckmaster came walking around the corner. We felt like privileged spectators as we watched the ducks literally run out the door of their palace and across the roof deck toward the elevators, only stopping when the Duckmaster told them to "wait."

The Duckmaster invited us to ride down the elevator with the ducks. When we reached the lobby, the doors opened, the crowd cheered, and the ducks hightailed it onto the red carpet. It was a hilarious sight to behold and a fitting end to our wonderful wedding weekend at the Peabody Hotel.

To get a sense of the Peabody duck tradition in action, take a look at the following Animal Planet segment on YouTube.

Time for a Vacation

2010-04-18T18:22:00.012-04:00

Massachusetts State House

Tomorrow is Patriots' Day in Massachusetts. The holiday commemorates the Battles of Lexington and Concord, the first clashes of the Revolutionary War. It's observed on the third Monday in April, also known as Marathon Monday, since the Boston Marathon is always run on Patriots' Day.

I feel as if I've been engaged in a bit of a marathon, myself, having posted on this blog six days a week since mid-November, 2009, with a one-week hiatus in January, 2010. I've decided it's time for a break. Later this week, I'll be returning to the Boston area and making final preparations for my son's wedding in mid-May. What with closing up my Miami apartment and getting resettled in Newton, plus attending to last-minute wedding details, I'll be busier than usual, while still needing to keep up with work on my website, BreastFree.org. I also plan to focus on my Chinese lessons (see "Gwong Dong Waa"), in the hope that I'll be able to say a few intelligible Chinese words at the wedding.

I'm not promising to remain completely silent during my vacation. If I can't resist sharing an experience, an opinion, or a photograph before then, you may hear from me. But I plan to resume my regular blogging on May 18th — not exactly a cosmic event, but I should note that on that date exactly one hundred years ago, the Earth passed through the tail of Halley's Comet.

An April 15th Inspiration, One Day Late

2010-04-16T16:54:00.011-04:00

On April 15, 1802, the poet William Wordsworth and his sister, Dorothy, took a walk around Glencoyne Bay, Ullswater, in the Lake District of England. During their walk, they came upon what Dorothy later described in her journal as a "long belt" of daffodils by the shore, " about the breadth of a country turnpike road." She continued her description:

I never saw daffodils so beautiful they grew among the mossy stones about and about them, some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake, they looked so gay ever dancing ever changing.

Inspired by this experience, Wordsworth wrote perhaps his most famous poem, "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud," in 1804. It's my favorite poem. I first discovered it with my mother in a poetry anthology she had purchased. I was in my early teens at the time and struggling to create my own separate identity while searching for qualities in my mother that I could admire and emulate. I remember my pleasure in reading Wordsworth's poem with her. The poem's joyous imagery is forever linked for me with a moment when my mother and I were in complete accord.

Here is the poem:

"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Just as the poet discovers the bliss of remembered pleasure, each time I re-read his poem, I experience the remembered happiness of reading it for the first time with my mother.

Where to Buy Drugs

2010-04-15T15:38:00.027-04:00

I've found a great place to buy drugs — legal ones, that is. In most locales, there aren't many choices when it comes to drugstores — Walgreens, CVS, or maybe Rite Aid. Recently, New York City's ubiquitous Duane Reade chain was acquired by Walgreens, so New Yorkers now have one less option. As for the independent pharmacies, most of them are gone. Yesterday, though, I discovered a pharmacy that's trying to carve out its own niche.

I hadn't been looking for a new place to fill prescriptions or buy toiletries. I assumed that when I needed those items, I'd go to Walgreens or CVS. In some ways, the pervasiveness of the major chains is comforting. It's easy to transfer prescriptions, a big plus for me since I travel back and forth between Massachusetts and Florida. Also, I know what's available and where to find things in the chain stores, since most of them are laid out the same way no matter where they're located. And if there's something I can't find in either Walgreens or CVS, I go to my trusty backups — drugstore.com for a vast selection of drugstore products; and Whole Foods or the Vitamin Shoppe for supplements.

I still remember when there were many independent drugstores. Thayer's Pharmacy was a mainstay for years in Newton Centre, Massachusetts. I filled my prescriptions there and knew the people who worked behind the counter. It was taken over by CVS a long time ago, part of a consolidation that occurred all over the country.

There's one service not performed by the drugstore giants, though — compounding, which involves custom preparation of drugs to satisfy individual needs. Yesterday, my vet prescribed a medication for Cosmo and told me I should pick it up at Coconut Grove Pharmacy. It would be formulated specifically for him.

I asked the vet where the pharmacy was located. It turns out I'd been driving by it almost every day without noticing. Since it hadn't caught my eye, I wasn't expecting much, maybe a tiny retail space with a few new-age-y items and a low-tech setup for compounding. I was totally and pleasantly surprised to find a bright, modern, roomy interior. A quick perusal of the shelves revealed many of the products I usually buy at Walgreens, like Crest Toothpaste and Advil, plus supplements I'd normally find at Whole Foods. The store also sells an array of organic skin care products, with available testers that contribute a lovely scent to the air. The lighting fixtures are attractive and the shelves have wood accents, giving the space a warmth utterly lacking in the utilitarian expanses of the big chains.

I found the owner-pharmacist personable and knowledgeable. He made up Cosmo's elixir using beef flavor, as prescribed by the vet. Along with the medicine, he gave me a good-quality syringe and a nifty device to allow me to measure the dose precisely. We chatted and I soon learned that not only does he offer a full-service pharmacy, with the entire array of prescription drugs sold by the chains, but he also accepts insurance. And he delivers!

How had I missed this place? It opened in January, 2009. I'm not known for my keen powers of observation, but apparently I also ignored several postcards sent to all the residents of my apartment complex, describing the pharmacy and the free delivery service. Better late than never, though. I'm pleased to have discovered an appealing alternative to the big chains. Not that I'll never go to Walgreens again — they have a product selection that the smaller Coconut Grove Pharmacy can't possibly match. But hopefully, there's room in the world for a small local establishment with specialized services alongside the bigger, more impersonal chain stores.

Department of Veterinary Corrections

2010-04-14T16:06:00.022-04:00

I faced a veterinary crossroads yesterday. Cosmo required immediate attention. He had a couple of breakthrough seizures yesterday morning even though I recently increased the dose of his current medication to its highest possible safe level. I'd been hoping to keep him stable until we return to Newton next week and I'd already set up an appointment with my vet there. But clearly, something had to be done immediately.

I called my Newton vet, thinking that perhaps he would prescribe a new medication before seeing Cosmo. I should have known better. He said I really needed to take Cosmo to my Miami vet to have his blood tested before starting him on anything new. As he explained, that's the only way he would be able to accurately gauge the effect of the new medicine.

I agreed with his assessment, but where to take Cosmo? I've tried the high-priced interventionist clinic (see "Vetting the Vet") and, more recently, a low-priced walk-in clinic (see "More from the Vet Trenches"). My last experience at the walk-in clinic left me doubting. I felt the vet lacked a good bedside manner and gave Cosmo an overly-painful ear exam.

But how much could go wrong with a simple blood test? Surely it would be cheaper at the walk-in clinic. I called first to check whether they would be willing to do such a blood test. The receptionist said the vet would call me back shortly and she did, a few minutes later. A good sign. She seemed on the same wavelength as my Newton vet, agreeing about which new medicine Cosmo should get and on the value of a pre-medication-switch blood test, which she would be happy to administer. Cosmo and I headed over to her office.

The clinic is staffed by a father/daughter team. Last time, I got the father. Since I'd spoken to the daughter on the phone, when I signed in I asked whether I could see her. The receptionist said that would be fine. Unlike my prior visit, the waiting room was nearly empty. Cosmo didn't seem to have any bad memories. He happily sniffed the floor, which I'm sure was redolent with all kinds of tempting doggy odors.

I only had to wait a couple of minutes. The vet, whom everyone calls Dr. Kate, efficiently drew Cosmo's blood and discussed the new medication, which will initially be added to the drug he's already taking. If all goes well, I'll wean Cosmo off the old medication as I increase the dose of the new one. Hopefully, this will spare his liver and keep him healthy for a few more years.

Dr. Kate seemed knowledgeable and helpful. In the midst of the consultation, her father stopped in just to say hello and see how Cosmo was doing. Much better bedside manner this time — perhaps on my previous visit, he'd been having a stressful day.

Dr. Kate called me with the blood-test results by the end of the day. I was impressed by such a quick turnaround. Based on the results, she wanted me to bring Cosmo back for a follow-up blood test to check for infection, which she said she could analyze right in the clinic.

We returned this morning to find a waiting room full of patients — two Boxers, a Doberman, a Rottweiler, a couple of cats, and more. To my surprise, Dr. Kate took me right away to draw Cosmo's blood, so I wouldn't have to wait twice, first for the test, then for the results. Apparently, there's some flexibility in the first-come-first-served policy.

The wait for the results turned out to be thoroughly enjoyable. I sat next to two long-time residents of the neighborhood, one of whom works in the local thrift store. We discussed our pets and the local news. One of the women had been coming to the clinic for so long that she knew the father's father, who first opened the practice many years ago.

Cosmo's test results were excellent. No infection. I'm glad I gave these vets a second chance. This time, the clinic vibe was good. And the price was unbelievably reasonable. I may even miss them when I'm back up north. I definitely stand corrected regarding my original negative impression.

Cosmo starts on his new medicine tonight. Tomorrow, I'll describe my trip to compounding pharmacy where I bought it.

The Way I Remember

2010-04-13T18:34:00.014-04:00

I found myself recalling an old friend today. I used to think of her often, now not so frequently. But my memory of her inhabits some small corner of my being and from time to time I feel her presence in my life.

Her name was Carol. We first met at Smith College, when we lived in Duckett House, a dorm exclusively for seniors. I didn't know her well, but I liked her shy smile and pleasant manner. Later, she married a friend of mine and I came to know her better. After I got beyond her initial shyness, I found her to be a warm and loving person, devoted to her husband and two children and also to animals. She relished living out in the country, where she kept dogs and a miniature donkey, among other creatures.

I never heard Carol say a cruel word about anyone, though she had reason to be bitter. She was diagnosed with breast cancer and, due to negligent readings of prior mammograms, the disease was not detected until it had reached an advanced stage. Carol's treatments took an enormous physical toll. She was often too tired for socializing, so our meetings were sporadic.

When we did manage to get together, our conversation covered a range of subjects — our children, of course; Carol's many pets; our shared training as lawyers; old friends from Smith. One day, we got into a discussion about life's daily annoyances. I complained of having recently bought a lucite napkin holder with a glued-on price tag. I couldn't get the tag off and became increasingly frustrated. I tried to peel it off with my fingernails. No luck. I took my plastic Dobie pad and scrubbed at it, then added some Soft Scrub to the mix. That got rid of the paper, but the glue was still there, plus I'd managed to scratch the lucite with my exertions. At that point in my sorry tale, Carol broke in. "I have the solution for you — Goo Gone. It lifts sticky labels right off."

Why am I bothering to describe such a mundane conversation? Not to advertise Goo Gone, though it does work, but because this trivial exchange has come back to me many times, specifically every time I have to get something sticky off a surface. When I reach for the Goo Gone, I think of Carol. I remember the unusual lilt of her voice, the waves in her short brown hair. And I'm struck by the power of a simple association to evoke not just a mental picture of Carol but an almost visceral experience of her.

I debated whether to share this story. I feel somewhat ridiculous admitting that Goo Gone reminds me of my friend. But I actually think Carol might have appreciated the connection. She was a person who treasured the small pleasures in life and, especially after her illness, found joy in simple household tasks. I wish she were here now, so I could tell her how I used Goo Gone to get baked-on chewing gum off the inside of my drier. It took about an hour, but Goo Gone did the trick.

The Hassle Factor

2010-04-12T19:46:00.008-04:00

We all have our priorities in life. One of mine is convenience. If I'm invited to participate in an activity and it's not easy to get there or the timing isn't optimal, I would often prefer to say no. I have to really want to do something to override the hassle factor.

My tendency to avoid inconvenient activities has nothing to do with age. I've been this way as long as I can remember. Here's an example from my twenties — E. and I were given tickets to a Rolling Stones concert at the Cow Palace in San Francisco. At first, we were excited. We both liked the Stones. I'd never been to a mega rock concert and felt I was long overdue. And the tickets were free!

As the day approached, however, I started to think about all the hassle involved. We'd have to get to San Francisco from Los Gatos, a fifty mile drive, during rush hour. Once we got there, the concert was sure to be a madhouse, full of drugs and wild behavior. Not that I expected another Altamont, but the prospect of frenzied rock fans in a huge venue did give me pause.

The day of the concert, E. and I were scheduled for eye checkups. We took off early from Guitar Player, the magazine and book/record company where we both worked, and headed for the ophthalmologist's office. There, the doctor needed to dilate our pupils to complete his examination. That sealed the deal. No way could we drive fifty miles with recently-dilated pupils. We easily found friends who wanted the tickets and settled down to a quiet evening at home.

The other day, I had reason to reflect on my willingness to forego events because of the hassle factor. A friend called me on a Friday morning. She had an extra ticket for the ballet that evening and wondered if I'd like to accompany her. I've seen some wonderful ballet performances and do enjoy watching dance. But this wouldn't be Nureyev and Fonteyn dancing with the Royal Ballet, or the Bolshoi's incomparable Plisetskaya, all of whom I saw as a teenager. Rather, the performance would feature a local troupe, The Miami City Ballet, competent dancers, but not guaranteed to wow me.

I thought of the alternatives — a chance to read more of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, an entertaining epistolary novel I'd just started, or an opportunity to watch a couple of episodes of The Shield on a Netflix dvd. No contest. I just couldn't muster the energy to put on more-presentable clothes, get in the car, drive downtown, and park, all for a performance I wasn't at all sure I'd like. Call me a Philistine, but it just didn't seem worth the hassle.

My friend later told me that I hadn't missed much, so it seems as if I made the right choice in skipping the ballet. There have been other times, though, when I've regretted not attending a concert or a play or a baseball game because it didn't seem worth the bother to get there. Still, by and large, the hassle factor serves a useful purpose — it enables me to gauge my true level of interest. If there's something I really want to do, no amount of inconvenience will stop me.

I'm not likely to miss a party with friends, for example. Weddings, bar mitzvahs, birthday celebrations, holiday meals — it's never a hassle to share in those meaningful events. Even intimate dinner parties will usually rouse me out of my anti-hassle state. But if you have tickets for an ice hockey game on an snowy winter evening, you might want to invite someone else. I'm probably not your girl.

Checking the Radar

2010-04-11T18:07:00.005-04:00

This evening I had plans to eat with some friends at a lovely outdoor spot in Coral Gables. I anticipated yet another agreeable dining al fresco experience (see my recent post, "Dining al Fresco"). But in South Florida, you can't always count on clear weather. Today turns out to be a case in point. As I write this, dark clouds are gathering and I hear the sound of distant thunder. As if that weren't enough to tell me I won't be eating outside tonight, I also checked the radar.

Online radar has improved enormously in recent years. With a simple click, I can check weather.com for virtually any place in the country and instantly see that area's radar. Not only that, but I can view the radar in motion, so I can tell what direction the rain is coming from and how fast. This isn't just an amusing pastime. Checking the radar helps me in all sorts of practical ways.

Take walking the dog—when it looks like rain, I check the radar. If I see a huge swath of green with dangerous-looking yellow and red cells approaching Miami on the radar screen, I quickly dash outside with Cosmo and get in a quick walk before the rain starts. On the other hand, if the radar indicates that a quick-moving storm is about to hit but soon the sky will clear, I wait until it's over to take Cosmo for a more leisurely stroll. You may scoff at at my bothering to make such precise calculations, but have you ever had to take your poodle out in a downpour so he could relieve himself? Not a pretty picture.

The radar came in handy this afternoon. Even though I could see from my window that it was about to rain, I hoped against hope that the sky would clear in time for our dinner reservation. One glance at the radar, though, and I realized that the dark clouds and thunder outside were only the beginning. The rain extended all the way west to the Gulf of Mexico and would take several hours to pass over Miami before finally departing. Definitely, an evening for a nice cozy indoor meal.

With radar on my side, I always arm myself with an umbrella if the screen shows rain. One less thing to worry about. As a world class worrier, I need all the help I can get.

Ice Cream Fantasies

2010-04-09T17:05:00.006-04:00

For many years, an evening didn't pass without my enjoying a bowl of Haagen Dazs chocolate, chocolate chocolate chip, or coffee ice cream. I eventually stopped eating it nightly, but I still frequently fantasize about my favorite dessert. And occasionally, I fall off the ice cream wagon and indulge.

Why did I give up my nightly portion of ice cream? As mentioned in an earlier blog (Addicted to My Granola), guilt began to outweigh pleasure when I contemplated the amount of animal fat and sugar I consumed just to satisfy my craving. I started substituting fruit in the evening and found that a juicy orange or a slice of ripe honeydew tasted great and provided just enough sweetness to keep me from feeling deprived. It surprised me how quickly I adjusted to life without ice cream. But I still have challenging moments.

The Haagen Dazs containers in the market's freezer always beckon. Once in a great while, I succumb and buy a pint, thinking I'll limit myself to a spoonful after dinner. No way. With ice cream, I can't just eat one bite. I've never yet bought a pint and been able to resist having at least a half-cup of the stuff every evening until it's gone.

Restaurants also present temptations. Ice cream appears on many dessert menus, often at the end of the list, almost as an afterthought. To me, it's always the most appealing option. Even though it may not be Haagen Dazs, I sometimes give in to the urge and order a scoop or two.

I remember fondly the last time I had an ice cream sundae. A few months ago, E. and I dined with friends at California Pizza Kitchen. I noticed that the menu featured a hot fudge brownie sundae. I asked the waiter if I could possibly get the sundae part without the brownie. He suggested I order the hot fudge sundae from the kids menu—Haagen Dazs vanilla ice cream with hot fudge, whipped cream, mini-M&M's, and a cherry. I dispensed with the M&M's and the cherry and ordered the rest. I wasn't disappointed. The concoction tasted rich, creamy, sweet, and utterly decadent. It was so good, in fact, that I wondered whether I would backslide into my old addiction.

Rather to my surprise, I haven't been tempted to resume eating Haagen Dazs on a nightly basis. But every once in a while, nothing hits the spot like a luscious dish of ice cream.

Trawling for Neighbors

2010-04-08T18:21:00.008-04:00

There's a marina right next to my apartment complex. I walk by it every day, sometimes several times a day. The slips are filled with a variety of vessels—sailboats, powerboats, even a couple of enormous yachts. This year, one boat caught my eye, a small trawler called Namaste. In all the times I've walked by, I've never seen anyone on it. Yesterday, though, I met the owners and discovered that we've been neighbors since the fall.

The Namaste doesn't resemble any of the other crafts in the marina. It lacks the sleek lines of the yachts and the classic beauty of the sailboats. It looks like it was made to be useful, a no-nonsense workaday boat, with a pale gray hull and a pilothouse painted crisp white, accented by a thick red stripe. On the deck at the stern of the boat are two chairs next to one another, creating an inviting tableau.

E. and I met the owners while we were taking our afternoon constitutional with Cosmo. We were a short distance from the marina, wending our way toward our favorite bench overlooking Biscayne Bay, when we noticed another a couple walking along the sea wall near the bench. They noticed us, too, or more accurately, they noticed Cosmo, who's otherwise known in our family as "the conversation starter." The woman came over to pet him. In short order, I learned that her name is Bonnie and that she and her husband, Randy, own the Namaste and have been living on board since last November.

The two traveled to Miami from Maryland during the fall. It was a slow journey—the boat can only travel at about nine knots, or around ten miles per hour. There's no television on board, though a computer provides streaming video, so not too much hardship there. The kitchen is a tiny galley, but Bonnie likes to cook and finds it adequate. In short, life on board sounds a bit cramped, but otherwise not so different from my life in an apartment several stories up.

Miami's historically cold winter presented a few challenges. The couple had planned to do some cruising to nearby islands, but for much of the winter it was too chilly to be out on the water. And they really had to cuddle up on those frigid nights when the temperatures dipped into the thirties.

Bonnie and Randy have invited us to come see them on their boat. Given my extreme susceptibility to motion sickness, it may be a short visit, but I'm looking forward to it. And we'll be sure to invite them to our place. Other than a big screen TV, I'm not sure we have much to offer that they don't already have on their floating home. Other than Cosmo, that is.

Click on the photograph to enlarge it.

Far from Kyrgyzstan

2010-04-07T15:43:00.006-04:00

This morning, I read a news report about unrest in Kyrgystan, a small Central Asian country which happens to host a strategically important American air base. I also learned more about the dire situation in West Virginia, where 25 miners have already died and four more are missing after a horrific explosion. In the midst of this bad news, E. and I went for a walk along Miami Beach.

The beach shimmered beneath a cloudless sky. Bathers enjoyed the warm surf, and a couple of colorful parasails hovered above the water. Further offshore, I could see huge tankers awaiting clearance to enter the Port of Miami. Even Miami's real estate woes seemed far away. As we walked on the lovely beach-side boardwalk, we passed the new W Hotel and, nearby, saw several other buildings under construction.

The story about Kyrgyzstan had particularly caught my eye because a friend of my son went there a few years ago as a Peace Corps volunteer. He left after several months, however, when it became apparent that the local school teacher whom he had been assigned to assist planned to enjoy a prolonged vacation while his American "assistant" did his job for him. Disillusioned, my son's friend resigned from the Peace Corps and came back to the states. His experience is virtually the only thing I know about Kyrgyzstan. Yet that extremely tenuous connection was enough to make me read the news of today's violent events with interest and concern.

Even though it's part of my own country, West Virginia might as well be on another planet, so vague is my knowledge of the state. I've never been there and I don't know a soul who lives there, unless you count Senator Jay Rockefeller, whom I sat next to at a dinner party over 20 years ago. He actually lives in Washington, anyway. Despite my lack of ties to the state, I felt horrible hearing about the mine explosion and the terrible loss of life.

It's a truism to say that we humans simply can't absorb all the misery of the world and still function. A survival instinct causes us to detach ourselves when despair becomes overwhelming. Still, as I walked along the gorgeous beach, luxuriating in the sun and surf, I couldn't help but be surprised at how easily I tuned out the bad news and enjoyed the beautiful day.

A Good Read, Marred

2010-04-06T15:53:00.006-04:00

I just finished The Piano Teacher, by Janice Y. K. Lee. I would describe it as a good read, though not a literary masterpiece. The characters lacked depth and believability, but I found the pre- and post-WWII Hong Kong setting of the novel evocative and interesting. I hadn't known anything about the situation in Hong Kong during the war, so I appreciated the historical aspects of the story. All and all, I enjoyed the reading experience. Until the end, that is.

At it's heart, the novel contained a mystery—what became of the glamorous Eurasian socialite, Trudy Liang, during the war? I solved one aspect of the mystery halfway through the novel, not due to any great powers of divination on my part, but because the unfolding of the story made the solution likely. Despite that, the plot developments kept me involved. In the end, though, the choices made by two of the three main characters weren't believable or satisfying.

It's hard to write about a book's ending yet not give it away. Suffice it to say that, having been immersed in the novel for over 300 pages, I craved an ending that felt genuine, one in which conflicts were resolved and characters experienced some degree of personal growth. This book left me feeling let-down. I'm still glad I read it, still happy I learned a bit about Hong Kong life in the 1940s and 50s. But after investing my time, I missed that jolt of pleasure that comes when things are wrapped up well.

Reading and Eating

2010-04-05T18:51:00.008-04:00

The words almost rhyme and, for me at least, they certainly go together. If I'm absorbed in a good novel during breakfast, my granola tastes even sweeter. I eat my tuna sandwich with more pleasure at lunch if I'm perusing the latest New Yorker. And there's nothing I like better than a handful of potato chips to accompany a good mystery. Reading while eating simply makes both better.

I also enjoy conversation with a good meal and I admit to sometimes watching television while consuming food, but there's something special about lingering over breakfast, lunch, or even dinner while meandering through a book. As a girl, I identified with Jo in Little Women—she would climb a tree with an apple and a book in hand and enjoy the pleasure of reading and eating undisturbed. I didn't get into the tree climbing thing, but I loved to grab an apple or two after school and settle myself in my favorite chair for a good read.

Since my reading and eating habit started at an early age, I've become totally conditioned— I associate the satisfaction of eating with the joy of reading. Maybe there's something in this phenomenon that could be utilized by early childhood reading programs. What if kids were given their favorite snacks while they worked on their reading skills? There might be a few more sticky books, but perhaps also a few more kids who associated reading with good tasting foods and developed a hunger for books.

Remembering a Fenway Classic

2010-04-04T20:23:00.011-04:00

It's Opening Day at Fenway Park, with a twist. Day will turn to night by the time the game starts, and it will be the first home opener played on Easter Sunday. What's also a little twisted is that the Red Sox will face the New York Yankees right off the bat (pun intended). Happily, the game will be aired on ESPN, so I can watch it from Miami. I'll miss being on hand for the annual flyover of F-16s, though. My Boston-area house is right in the path of the flyover and it's always a thrill to hear the roar of the jets and run outside to see them pass overhead seconds before they fly over Fenway.

Like most Red Sox fans, I wax a bit sentimental on Opening Day. Today, I found myself thinking about the most thrilling game I ever witnessed at Fenway. It was April 27, 2002. The Red Sox were playing Tampa Bay on a beautiful spring afternoon. E. and I had seats along the third base line. The crowd seemed cheerful. It was early in the season and hopes ran high, even though the Sox hadn't won a World Series since 1918.

As always when I'm at Fenway, I wasn't paying too much attention to the game. I love the feeling of being at the ballpark—the green grass, the smell of beer and peanuts, the camaraderie of the fans, the satisfying sound when the bat connects with the ball. I noticed a young father sitting in the row behind me with his son, who was perhaps four years old and apparently at his very first game, judging from his father's patient attempts to explain the rules and point out the players. Although it was only around 60 degrees, the brilliant sunshine made it feel more like 80. I drifted along in a stupor of enjoyment as the game proceeded.

Somewhere around the sixth inning, it dawned on me that the Devil Rays hadn't gotten a hit off the pitcher, Derek Lowe. I glanced around. Apparently, it had dawned on everyone else as well. The crowd watched intently, but no one mentioned the phrase "no hitter." For suspicious fans, me included, that could have jinxed the whole thing.

By the bottom of the seventh, the crowd had a hushed, expectant air, punctuated only by the roar that accompanied every out. Everyone was riveted on the game. As Lowe came to the mound in the bottom of the eighth, I heard the father behind me urgently whisper to his four year old, who was getting fidgety, "Something really special might happen here. Let's be quiet and watch." The little boy, wide-eyed, didn't have a clue what his father meant, but he picked up on the importance of the moment and settled down.

Red Sox fans are notoriously loyal and devoted. Most stick around for the whole nine innings. During playoff games and certainly World Series contests, no one leaves. I haven't yet been at Fenway for one of those. But on the day of Derek Lowe's no-hitter, not a single person left the stadium. The anxiety was palpable as each of the ninth inning's three batters stepped up to the plate. When second baseman Rey Sanchez made the final out, pandemonium broke out in the stands. What started as an idyllic afternoon at the old ballpark turned into a jubilant celebration of one of baseball's most acclaimed accomplishments.

I'm psyched for the new season and hope to make it to Fenway for a game or two. I know there's always a chance that while I'm there, something really special will happen.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Dining al Fresco

2010-04-02T22:18:00.005-04:00

I love to eat outdoors and I'm not alone—in warm weather, people flock to restaurants that feature patio dining. In northern cities, the minute the temperature climbs above 60 degrees, tables and chairs appear on sidewalks outside coffee houses, bistros, and cafes. One great innovation in recent years has been the window panels that open entirely, creating an outdoor experience even when you're actually seated indoors. Restaurants have clearly discovered that even on congested city streets, offering an outdoor environment attracts customers.

Dining al fresco seems to make everything taste better. It feels casual and relaxed, yet festive. Perhaps because most of us spend so much time indoors, the opportunity to eat outside seems special. When I have lunch on my apartment terrace, I'm suddenly in the landscape instead of merely looking at it through my window. I breathe in the air more deeply. I linger over my meal. I become more reflective.

I love to take long walks and wind up at restaurants with outdoor seating. South Beach offers literally hundreds of options and I've tried quite a few. My current favorite is the Raleigh Hotel, right on the beach. I work up an appetite during a walk by the water, then find a shady spot near the pool. A nice salad and an Arnold Palmer (iced tea mixed with lemonade) hit the spot. The price of a meal also buys me a chance to people-watch and enjoy the delightful salt air.

During walking trips to France, Holland, and Italy, I've experienced some wonderful dining al fresco. In Provence, after a long hike, my group of walkers was treated to a heavenly meal at Auberge de la Loube, in the hillside village of Buoux. At a long table laden with wonderful Provencal fare, I simultaneously experienced the beauty of the French countryside and the inspiring flavors of rustic French cuisine. The rigorous hike had primed my appetite and made the meal all the more pleasurable.

Like most people, I love a picnic. I also like to stop for an ice cream and eat it while strolling along the sidewalk. Then there are summer barbecues, those quintessentially American feasts. I rarely eat beef these days, but it's hard to resist hot dogs and hamburgers hot off the grill.

All this talk of food has whetted my appetite. I hope to satisfy it soon with a delicious meal served al fresco.

!slooF lirpA

2010-04-01T15:16:00.007-04:00

My Chinese lessons are going so well that I've decided to drop everything and take a slow boat to China. I admit, a boat seems an unlikely mode of transportation for me, given my sorry history of motion sickness. But wait! I've undertaken a regimen of inner ear balance exercises, extensive whole body acupuncture, and transcendental meditation. I'm convinced I've got the seasickness thing licked.

Just to make sure, I rented a sailboat from a local marina the other day and sailed due south for Cuba. I couldn't get E. to accompany me, so I had to go it alone. I only capsized once, after I stood up to do my balance exercises. When I arrived in Cuba, my Spanish came in handy and the locals were happy to accept my (waterlogged) dollars in return for arroz, frijoles negros, y platanos fritos. Thus fortified and newly confident of my ability to conquer seasickness, I returned to port in Miami and began to pack for my voyage to China.

I won't be traveling to China on a sailboat, though. I've booked passage on a Chinese freighter. The accommodations may be a bit rough, but I'm a hardy soul. The vessel will make a few stops along the way, so I don't expect to arrive in China for several months. Meanwhile, I intend to practice Chinese by conversing with the crew members. I'll disembark in Hong Kong, where the locals speak the Cantonese dialect I've been studying. There, I hope to enroll in a Chinese cooking class. As my friends know, cooking has not been a passion of mine. But it's never too late!

After my stay in Hong Kong, I'll embark on a journey up the Pearl River up to Guangzhou, where I may take a job in a factory. By then, I expect my Chinese to be fluent and I'd like to experience life as a factory girl, albeit a rather old "girl."

During all this time, I plan to keep in daily touch with E. and Cosmo through email, Twitter, and webcam. They'll watch my transformation from suburban matron to intrepid traveler. When I return, next April 1st, I anticipate a hero's welcome. At the very least, I hope they'll let me in the door.

Still Awed by Email

2010-03-31T19:10:00.005-04:00

Modern technology is amazing and getting more incredible by the day. The web, email, digital photography, streaming video—they're all astonishing examples of the strides we've made in communications technology. I feel fortunate to have been born at a time when television was in its infancy and long-distance phone calls weren't yet possible. Having experienced the immense changes in the short course of my lifetime, I don't take technology for granted. Rather, I'm in awe of it.

When I was young, I used to imagine that the big technological transformation during my life would involve transportation. I felt sure that by the time I was fifty, I'd be able to fly to Europe in a couple of hours, go from Boston to New York on a monorail in a similar amount of time, and drive a car resembling the flying vehicles featured on The Jetsons. Obviously, none of that has occurred. Arguably, train and airplane travel has deteriorated. Instead, the revolution has taken place in cyberspace.

Today, I experienced the way email and related technologies have transformed the world. Not that my day was particularly special. In fact, that's what makes my experience all the more astounding.

This morning, I needed some information from my brother-in-law. It so happens that he recently arrived in Rome. No problem. He has access to email, his regular cell phone works in Italy, and he's even opened a Twitter account so he can update friends and relatives about his trip. I started to write him an email, then realized it might be helpful to see if he'd tweeted recently, so I'd know if anything was new. I responded to his Twitter description of some people he'd met with a tweet of my own, then sent him my email, which concerned hotel reservations for later this spring. Not long after, I received an email reply, complete with all the information I needed about the reservations. This type of communication has become so commonplace it hardly seems worth mentioning. Yes, it is normal, but on another level, it's absolutely breathtaking.

In the course of a couple of hours today, I conversed via email with my brother-in-law in Italy and with various other people in France, Massachusetts, Nevada, New York, Tennessee, Virginia, and Florida. If I'd had to use the phone for all those conversations, no doubt I would have had to leave messages with some people. Then I would be waiting for their return calls. I hate waiting for return calls. I feel I have to have all the necessary information at my fingertips and be ready with all my questions, never knowing when I'll get the call. With email, I can say exactly what I want to say, I can proofread and edit everything I've written, and I can send it out and forget it until I receive an email reply. For me, this is communication heaven.

Don't get me wrong. I love to talk on the phone with friends and family. There's no substitute for actually hearing their voices. But I've always been a reluctant phone talker when it comes to business transactions. Even with friends, I find that email allows me to have an ongoing dialog that's simply not possible on the phone. If I see an article in a newspaper or magazine (the online versions, of course), I can send a link immediately to one or more people. And I can send quick emails with news or information that I'd never bother to phone about, but which keeps me connected to the recipients.

I could go on and on, but I'm sure you get message. If not, let me know, and I'll continue the conversation with you via email.

Boundless Curiosity

2010-03-30T20:58:00.005-04:00

Three boys, a beach, and boundless curiosity. I got to savor that joyous combination earlier today when I was out for a walk. There's a small beach on the grounds of my apartment complex. I saw three boys who looked to be about eleven or twelve on the beach with a big plastic container filled with water and bits of sea weed. I asked them whether they'd found anything interesting.

I half-expected a sullen or bored reply, or maybe total disdain for this grownup interrupting their play. Instead, one of the boys, a wiry redhead, enthusiastically answered that, yes, they'd found lots of interesting creatures. He lifted a smaller water-filled plastic container and showed me something that looked like a cross between a prawn and a cockroach. It was brown and had lots of little leg-like appendages. I said it looked kind of like a shrimp. He agreed, but wondered if it might be a sea cockroach. I've lived here for over five years and had never seen anything like it. Pretty impressive.

Not to be outdone, one of the redhead's friends reached into the larger container and pulled out a green wormy-looking thing, about two inches long. "There's another one just like it, only it's pregnant," he announced and began searching through the sloshing water for the other worm. In short order, he brought out the same variety of worm, but this one had a dark patch along one side, under which I could make out what appeared to be two heads, presumably offspring about to be born. Who knows? Certainly not me, but it was great to see these kids speculating with so much excitement.

I was about to resume my walk when the third boy, who had been busy in the water with his net, came leaping exuberantly toward us, shouting "I found a seahorse." Sure enough, there in the palm of his hand was a tiny brown seahorse with a perfect little curved tail. As the boy rushed to deposit the seahorse safely in the large container, I asked him and his two friends what they planned to do with their finds. Their answer—put them all back in the bay. These kids were out to explore the watery world, not conquer it. Their curiosity made my day.

Miami Grey-Out

2010-03-29T16:18:00.009-04:00

This was the view from my window this morning—

Normally, I see the bay, buildings, foliage, boats. Today, all was awash in a downpour so intense that the view was completely obliterated. During the five previous winters and springs I've spent in Miami, I've never seen anything like it. Last year, it rained barely half an inch in five months.

This year, nothing has been normal about Florida weather. Like much of the country, conditions have been bizarre. The cold "snap" that began here in early January wound up sticking around until mid-March. Warm tropical air started to seem like a figment of my imagination. I'm not complaining, exactly. Most of the winter felt like fall in New England—crisp, cool, and sunny. But the unusual temperatures have taken a toll on the local flora.

Most of the tropical plants that thrive in South Florida can withstand one or two nights in the thirties, but night after night proved simply too much for many. Palm fronds turned brown, then fell off. Sea grape trees shed their big round leaves. Bougainvillea lost all their riotous color. Hopefully, most of the damaged vegetation has merely suffered stress and will make a comeback. But at the moment, the sad-looking foliage serves as a reminder, if we need one, of the fragility of our environment.

Today's weather wasn't especially cold, just stormy, with a tornado warning thrown in to make things interesting. Not quite what the Florida tourist industry wants you to hear. But as I write this, the sky has cleared and the sun has come out. I think I'll take Cosmo for a walk and soak up a little vitamin D.

A Calle Ocho Education

2010-03-28T12:41:00.026-04:00

On Friday, E. and I decided to check out the Tower Cinema, an arts cinema located in the heart of Little Havana. We'd heard they show good foreign films. This weekend's listings included The North Face, a German movie about a 1936 attempt to scale the north face of the Eiger mountain. We wound up choosing An Education, the 2009 British film starring Carey Mulligan in a performance that earned her a Best Actress Oscar nomination.

The Tower Cinema, one of Miami's oldest cultural landmarks, was built in 1926 on SW 8th Street. During the 1960s, as Cubans fled the Cuban Revolution, they settled in and around SW 8th Street and the thoroughfare became known as Calle Ocho. Soon, the theater began showing American films with Spanish subtitles and also Spanish language films. The City of Miami purchased the Tower Cinema in 1991 and renovated it in 1997. In 2002, the city turned over management and operations to Miami Dade College. An Education was shown with Spanish subtitles, though I noted that The North Face, in German, was screened with English subtitles.

The ticket prices were reasonable and I was pleasantly surprised that the modern, spacious theater had stadium-style seating. We settled in to watch the film, which I found thoughtful and absorbing. I enjoyed the nuanced performances—Carey Mulligan as Jenny is wonderful playing an intelligent, romantic schoolgirl. Alfred Molina brings surprising credibility to his role as a proper middle-class British father. Then there was the music—not the chamber orchestra performing Ravel in Jenny's first night out with the older man who ultimately seduces her. No, the salsa music.

The Latin rhythms entered my consciousness by stages. At first, I became aware of background noise during an outdoor scene. I thought it might be intended by the filmmaker. Then, as the noise became more insistent, I assumed it was coming from an adjoining theater, perhaps an accompaniment to those climbers in The North Face making their assault on the Eiger. About halfway through the film, though, I couldn't deny that I was hearing salsa music, probably coming from outside the theater. It seemed to intensify as the film progressed. In some of the poignant later scenes, where silence added meaning, my silence was punctuated by Cuban dance rhythms.

As we excited the theater, we discovered the source—an outdoor performance venue directly next to the theater, with a band playing onstage. We found ourselves in the midst of a festival-like atmosphere, almost a small-scale Mardi Gras. Only later did I learn that we had inadvertently chosen to go to the movies on the evening of Viernes Culturales, an arts and music gathering that takes place the fourth Friday of every month on Calle Ocho. The Tower Cinema is right in the center of the action.

With a salsa band performing at fever pitch, aided by speakers all up and down the street, plus performance artists aplenty, and almost everyone speaking Spanish, I felt I could have been on a street in the real Havana. Certainly, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the London of 1961 depicted in the film I'd just been watching. From now on, I'll plan to catch a movie at the Tower Cinema on any night other than Viernes Culturales. But if I'm in the mood for salsa music and Cuban cigars, I know when and where to go.

For a little taste of Viernes Culturales, check out the YouTube videos below.

The Dinner Hour

2010-03-26T13:51:00.016-04:00

Miami is a night-life city. It also has a huge Latin influence. The two converge to make late-night dining the norm. For me, this has been a plus. I can almost always get a last-minute reservation for 7:00 p.m. at popular restaurants. Most don't even begin to fill up until 7:30. Boston diners, while sophisticated about food, tend to eat somewhat earlier. In Boston, a 6:00 p.m. reservation would be regarded as early, but by 7:00 good restaurants are usually in full swing.

The other night, E. and I decided to try Wish, a South Beach eatery known for its excellent food, lovely outdoor dining area, and martinis with colored ice cubes. On Open Table, there were no reservations available for 6:00 or 6:30. Wow, I thought, this place must really be hot to fill up so early. I felt pleased to find 7:00 p.m. still available and booked it. That's normally when I like to eat at home, so it's usually when I feel hungry and ready for a meal. It's also just late enough so E. and I can generally avoid the rush hour traffic.

On the evening of our reservation, we made excellent time across the MacArthur Causeway and arrived at Wish at exactly 7:00 p.m. As the smiling hostess led us to our table, I realized that we were the first people to arrive. Far from being fully booked at 6:00 and 6:30, it turned out the restaurant hadn't even opened until a moment before we walked in. That's why Open Table had listed the earlier times as unavailable. Our early arrival did have some advantages, though—we were seated at the primo outdoor spot, right next to the fountain; and the service couldn't have been more attentive. After all, the wait staff had no one but us to look after.

As I ordered a Mojitini, a kind of frozen mojito served in a martini glass with a glowing green LED ice cube, I wondered whether any other diners would appear. At around 7:15, another couple showed up. By then, E. and I were engrossed in our amuse bouche, a delightfully light cream of artichoke soup. After another while, I noticed several more people being seated. I glanced at my watch—just 7:30. Suddenly, a flood of people flowed into the dining area. As couples and foursomes were seated all around us, I realized that 7:30 is the Miami witching hour, the time at which it becomes socially correct to start dinner. By the time we left, after a delicious meal, the place was literally hopping, without a single empty table.

I like to make dinner reservations anywhere from 7:00 p.m. until 8:30 p.m. Any later and I have to eat a mini-meal during the afternoon. I also find 6:30 acceptable if I'm able to linger over a drink, so I don't really have to begin eating until at least 7:00. Some of our friends, though, prefer to dine earlier. They tend to be early-morning types, whom I admire but have never been able to emulate. They like to be home and in bed before the Miami crowds even get going. Friendship trumps our disparate body clocks, so I'm willing to be flexible. And at least if we go out to eat with friends, we're never the only twosome in a restaurant—instead, we've got our own private dinner party.

Gwong Dong Waa

2010-03-25T18:57:00.009-04:00

Today, I started Cantonese lessons. I'd like to learn how to carry on a simple conversation with my future daughter-in-law's Chinese parents. But, after Lesson 1 of my Pimsleur Language Program, I've modified my goals—I'll be happy if I can manage a phrase or two.

I've always thought of myself as good with languages. I learned Spanish in secondary school and also took a year of French, then studied Portuguese in college. I had one great early advantage in learning Spanish. At the age of fourteen, I spent a month in El Salvador, living with a Salvadoran family my father knew through his work in the coffee business. Although most of the family members spoke English, the opportunity to hear Spanish spoken day in and day out had a dramatic effect on me. By the time I returned to school in the fall, I possessed a feel for the language that I'd lacked before.

When I was sixteen, I went to Mexico with the Experiment in International Living. My group traveled to Morelia, Michoacan, where I lived with a Mexican family. No one in my family spoke a word of English, so I was forced to use Spanish at all times. After a week of intense headaches, I began to feel comfortable conversing. By the time I returned home, I was almost fluent in the language.

Because Spanish is a romance language, it was easy to tackle other romance languages, like French, Portuguese, and Italian. A few years ago, before a trip to the Amalfi Coast, I worked my way through Pimsleur's Italian tapes and managed to speak serviceable Italian during my trip. Though Cantonese has no relation whatsoever to romance languages, when I decided to give it a try, I confidently anticipated I would learn quickly. However, I hadn't counted on the little matter of tone.

In Cantonese, aside from learning pronunciation and meaning, a student must master tone. Improper intonation can result in giving a completely different meaning to a word. Mistakes caused by incorrect tone can be innocuous, embarrassing, or capable of precipitating an international incident.

Very quickly, I noticed that the proper tones didn't come easily to me. I could usually hear the speaker's voice rising or falling, but when I repeated the word, my tone often came out wrong. Equally frustrating, the same words sounded tonally different to me when pronounced by one or the other of the two different speakers featured during the lesson. I've heard the phrase tone deaf. Could that be my problem?

I've only completed one lesson out of 30. Perhaps I'll get in the groove. Probably, though, only a long stay in China would help me climb the impossibly steep learning curve required to master Cantonese.

Note: Gwong Dong Waa is the phonetic spelling of the Cantonese words for "Cantonese."

The Sound of Silence

2010-03-24T20:48:00.014-04:00

I whiled away a couple of agreeable hours this afternoon in the company of friends. We talked about many things, from the weather in North Carolina to the numerous uses for a three-car garage. During the entire time, we spent not a moment in silence.

I wasn't the only talkative one in the group, so I didn't feel unduly responsible for keeping the conversation lively. But if I'd been with a quieter crowd, I would have made sure to fill every pause with a comment or question, or even mindless chatter, if it came to that. It's quite a burden, keeping a room from falling silent. But I shoulder it gladly. Anything to avoid the sound of silence.

I don't know how to be any other way. From an early age, I felt it was my job to fill up silences. When my father took me somewhere in the car, he often didn't speak as he drove. I agonized about what I should say, imagining that he wanted me to regale him with stories, gossip, or jokes. I realize now that he was probably quite content to have me by his side and didn't expect me to entertain him at all. What I regarded as painful silence may for him have been an opportunity to think about a problem at work or to rehash the previous night's baseball game in his mind.

Later, in college, I used to drive from my home on Long Island to Massachusetts with my boyfriend, Peter. Like my dad, Peter was often silent as we drove along. As with my dad, I struggled to think of things to talk about. After many such trips, Peter told a friend that he loved the way he could be with me without either of us saying a word. Little did he know the torments I suffered during those silences he apparently treasured.

I do sometimes enjoy quietude—I spend hours at my computer in silence; I find the quiet contemplation of nature very rewarding; and I rarely feel the urge to talk back to whatever novel I may be reading. But when I'm in the company of other people, my mind flits energetically about, hoping to alight upon on a subject of interest, so I can keep the conversation going.

When I'm with people I like, conversation usually flows effortlessly. In fact, I tend to gravitate toward people with whom talking is a pleasure, not a strain. That's the way it felt today, as if there wasn't time enough to cover all the subjects we wanted to discuss. Today, there was no silence, only the sound of laughter and good conversation.

More from the Vet Trenches

2010-03-23T17:09:00.009-04:00

I thought I'd found a good new veterinary clinic right in my neighborhood. It's a walk-in establishment, which is a bit unusual, but on my first visit the wait wasn't too long, the vet was pleasant and efficient, and the price was very reasonable.

I had brought Cosmo in because his eye looked red and he had some discharge. The vet diagnosed an infection and gave him a shot of antibiotics, plus eye drops for me to administer at home. While she was at it, I asked her to check Cosmo's ear on the same side and, sure enough, she found a mild inflammation. She prescribed drops for that, too, then suggested I come back after three or four days so she could check him. I returned today.

There are two vets in the office. Since the clinic is a walk-in, whichever vet is free when it's your turn is the one you see. This time, I got the other doctor. While I held Cosmo, he stuck his otoscope in Cosmo's ear to check it. Cosmo cried out and tried to get away. This vet wasn't gentle. His technician attempted to hold Cosmo's head while the vet inserted a Q-tip to clean out the ear. Cosmo wailed in pain and distress.

I realize the vet didn't physically harm Cosmo by his rough ministrations, but he could have accomplished the same result with less trauma. I've been instilling medicine into Cosmo's ear with a pointy-tipped dropper for the past four days with no problem. Perhaps the vet has burned out due to the seemingly endless line of dogs and cats awaiting treatment. He lacked compassion. And worse, when I asked him a question related to Cosmo's seizure medication, he didn't even seem to understand what I was asking. That is, I knew more than the vet about movement disorders like paroxysmal dyskinesia. Not very confidence-inspiring.

As to why so many people seem to bring their animals to this particular clinic, the extremely low prices might explain that. To his credit, the vet didn't charge me anything for today's follow-up check. But perhaps the old adage is true—you get what you pay for.

I did learn one thing today, though. The next time a vet is about to examine Cosmo's ear, I'll make sure someone else is holding him. The last thing I want is for Cosmo to think I'm the bad guy responsible for his pain.

If You're Looking for a Time Waster

2010-03-22T20:49:00.009-04:00

I've given up Spider Solitaire, for the moment at least. I'm down to one crossword puzzle a day. And I no longer watch reruns of Sex and the City (I know them by heart). But lest you think I've abolished all the ways of wasting time from my life, don't despair. If there's one talent I possess, it's the art of procrastination.

My latest useless activity is looking for new themes for my iGoogle homepage. I've used iGoogle as my homepage for quite a while, but at first I was content to use the classic theme—simple, neat, clear. Then I noticed a link in the right-hand corner, inviting me to "Change theme . . ." I began to imagine palm trees on my homepage, something to remind me of Florida even when I was in Boston. Then again, the Boston skyline might look attractive. Or maybe some cool arty theme. You get the picture.

After an inordinately long search, I settled on the theme "Summer, Sun and Holidays." It appealed to me with its cheerful rendering of palm fronds and blue sky. I've had this theme on my homepage since last spring and I've enjoyed looking at it numerous times a day. Nevertheless, I still occasionally waste time searching for new and even better themes.

For a short while, I switched to a theme by the artist Hiroshige—very zen. But the palm fronds were calling me and I returned to my summery theme. Now that spring is here, though, I've been wasting time searching for an appropriately spring-like theme. A little while ago, I realized I had found the perfect choice, the Boston Red Sox. So now, less than two weeks before the official start of the season, I've changed my iGoogle homepage theme to "Fenway Panorama." Go Sox!

The Deering Estate

2010-03-21T18:05:00.017-04:00

In 1916 Charles Deering, the CEO of International Harvester, purchased a 444-acre estate in Palmetto Bay, south of Miami. The property featured an existing wooden house, which had served as a hotel when the area was known as Cutler. In 1922, Deering built the Stone House, adjacent to the wooden house. What brings people to the estate, though, is not so much the houses but the amazing grounds.

The house overlooks a beautiful palm-lined boat basin. When I was there, no fewer than four manatees were basking in the warm waters of the protected marina. If you click on the picture above to enlarge it, you may spot the head of one manatee, photographed just as it came up for air.

The property also boasts the largest virgin coastal tropical hardwood hammock in the United States, a mangrove forest accessible by a boardwalk trail.

Before the white man arrived, Indians flourished here for millennia. A Tequesta Indian burial mound on the estate grounds has provided important archeological finds. While most traces of Indian habitation have disappeared, the mangroves have endured and still take root in the salt water of Biscayne Bay.

Favorite View

2010-03-19T19:51:00.034-04:00

Although I'm not the world's greatest traveler, I've been to quite a few places and have seen many spectacular views. For natural beauty, few sights can surpass the Grand Tetons rising above Jackson Lake. Mt. Rushmore, with the faces of Presidents hewn into rock, inspires awe. Others views are memorable for their quiet beauty, like the exquisite sunken garden at Butchart Gardens in Victoria, Canada. The splendor of the Mediterranean, seen from the isle of Capri in Italy (photo above), can only be described as breathtaking. The world is full of amazing views. But my favorites tend to be those that are both beautiful and familiar.

I never tire of looking at Biscayne Bay from my Miami apartment. When I'm in Boston, I thrill to the sight of the Charles River as I drive alongside it on Storrow Drive. As the road winds its way toward Cambridge, I catch a glimpse of Harvard's cupolas, which always pleases me.

Another view enhanced by familiarity is New York City's skyline, which I've known since childhood. Nowadays, I'm usually driving on Bruckner Boulevard in the Bronx, en route from Boston, when the city first looms into view. As I make my way along that gritty highway, the Empire State Building emerges as the pinnacle of a vast and gleaming metropolis. The vista invariably fills me with wonder.

Perhaps my favorite view of all is the Holyoke Range in western Massachusetts, seen from Memorial Hill at Amherst College. During the year I spent at Amherst as a student, I frequently visited the War Memorial, which is located at one end of the campus quadrangle. There, I would linger for a long time, gazing across the playing fields at the gentle undulations of the ancient mountain range. I invariably experienced both exhilaration and a sense of peace. On subsequent visits, I've still felt inspired by the view. Its beauty and familiarity combine with my nostalgia to make me want to see it again and again.

I recently discovered that the college has a live webcam focused on the Holyoke Range from the Science Center, quite near the War Memorial. By clicking the link, you can visit virtually.

Click on photos to enlarge.

My Awkward Political Conversations

2010-03-18T16:30:00.001-04:00

Talking politics with friends feels like a minefield to me. Many of my friends have strong views, which fall all along the spectrum of political thought. My own positions are idiosyncratic—I don't adhere to one party line. Perhaps because of that, I'm almost always nervous about discussing politics.

I'm basically a social liberal and a fiscal conservative. Sometimes that puts me in sync with moderate Republicans, other times with centrist Democrats. I like to think I'm a tolerant, moderate person, but also one who believes in free markets and fears too much government. Sometimes my views lead me to support Democratic candidates, other times Republicans. Being from Massachusetts, that independent inclination has usually put me in the minority, until recently at least.

Over the years, I've felt compelled to explain that even though I don't believe in some government entitlement programs, this doesn't mean I don't care about the poor and disadvantaged. Actually, most of my explanations have taken place in my mind. I'm almost always too uncomfortable to reveal my views openly, lest I be judged uncaring.

President Obama has said that his health care bill should be enacted because it's the "right thing to do." I also really want government to do the right thing for the country on this issue. Virtually everyone I know feels strongly about health care, but in some cases that means they support the bill and in other cases they're opposed.

One friend who knows we may disagree has nevertheless urged me to discuss health care reform with her. I appreciate her receptiveness and I've even shared some of my thoughts with her. In general though, I like to avoid conflict, so find political conversations awkward—there's almost always a mine lurking somewhere in the discussion, ready to explode in my face.

Terms of Endearment

2010-03-17T16:27:00.010-04:00

When I used to write poetry, I mostly preferred free verse, a style which refrains from rhyme or meter patterns. Yet in my daily life, I love rhyme and lyrical language. I indulge myself, as many of us do, by incorporating rhyming and singsong endings into terms of endearment. Sometimes those terms are directed at E. or my children, but my toy poodle, Cosmo, is the beneficiary of my most flowery endearments.

Cosmo answers to many names—Cosmo-mosmo, Cosmonello, and Cosi-wosi, to name a few. Another of my oft-used monikers is Cosmonator, as in "See you later, Cosmonator." There's something so pleasing about hearing these made-up words roll off my tongue. Cosmo also knows I'm speaking to him when he hears the phrases honey-bunny, sweetie-weetie, or even sweetie-badeedie.

I apparently owe this tendency toward nonsense words to my father, who loved characters with rhyming names. When my sisters and I were little, he told us stories of Mr. Plubenduben, a fox, and he loved to recite children's rhymes in his native German. Later, when I was an easily-embarrassed teenager, I worried that my friends would overhear my father verbalizing nonsense words to himself, apparently unaware that he was talking out loud.

I've been spared the embarrassment of talking to myself because I'm able to direct my verbalizations at Cosmo, who bears them with great stoicism. In fact, animals of all kinds show tremendous tolerance for bad rhymes. The ducks who live outside our apartment building come waddling over at a brisk pace when I call to them, "Hey there, duckie-wuckies." And I swear that years ago I made friends with the crow who frequented our front yard by always greeting the bird with a friendly, "Hello, crow." In return, he would turn a beady eye in my direction and hop slightly closer to me.

I suspect that poetry might be more popular today if poets incorporated meter and rhyme into their work. Nowadays, we get those pleasures from song lyrics, the most catchy of which seem to become part of our hard-wiring. Many years ago, when our Siamese fighting fish died, my children wanted to give it a proper burial. I wrapped the fish in a white shroud (a Kleenex tissue, that is) and we dug a shallow grave in the flower bed. As we laid our fish to rest, the children requested a song. Unbidden, an old Al Jolson song popped into my head. "Toot, toot, tootsie good-bye," I sang, "Toot, toot, tootsie don't cry." That song possessed all that a fish funeral required—a sweet endearment and a catchy rhyme.

For now, fortunately, Cosmo is very much alive and I can't resist making up new terms of endearment for him. After all, he's such a cosmically cute Cosmolian.

A Girdle by Any Other Name Would Feel as Tight

2010-03-16T15:35:00.007-04:00

Now that I've managed to find an evening dress and shoes for my son's upcoming wedding, I went in search of the all-important body shaper, which I hoped would transform my torso into the smooth, slender shape the dress calls for. While I was dress shopping, the word on every saleswoman's lips was Spanx, as in "With a pair of Spanx to pull in your abdomen, that dress will look perfect." In the end, I chose a dress that fits pretty well without extra control, but I still wanted the most svelte look I could manage, so I set out in search of the perfect shaping garment.

Here's what I discovered—first, the only way to achieve a flatter stomach is by displacement, usually upward. Even the high-waisted body shapers don't manage to fully disguise what's rightfully mine. The only way to do that would be to get rid of it, either by doing a thousand sit-ups a day or losing a few pounds. Neither is likely to happen, at least not before the wedding.

My second and even more profound realization—Spanx and all the other shape-wear products are just girdles by another name. Those babies are tight. It was a struggle to get them on and, within moments of finally succeeding, I began experiencing a mild stomach ache. I started with the size suggested for me, then went a size larger. Not much better. I tried several brands, including one described as "light control." In all of them, I felt compressed and, worse, I didn't really look slimmer. Smoother? Yes. Armored? Yes. Ready for battle? Probably. But slimmer? Not really.

In the end, I found a satiny high-waisted garment by TC Fine Shapewear that doesn't feel too bad. My dress glides nicely over the satiny material, a plus. Still, I bought it mostly as insurance, just in case I eat too much at the rehearsal dinner and really need help. Otherwise, I plan to suck in my abs, hold my breath, and count on the fact that people will be looking at the bride, not me.

A Coral Gables Moment

2010-03-15T18:21:00.006-04:00

Today I experienced a quintessentially Coral Gables moment. E. and I stopped for lunch at California Pizza Kitchen, about as American a restaurant as can be found. I ordered the BBQ chicken chopped salad and was happily munching away, when five women sitting nearby began singing "Happy Birthday" to the only man at their table.

The man looked both pleased and self-conscious as the women sang the familiar song. But one thing sounded distinctive about it—though the words were in English, the accent was Spanish. All the women clearly spoke English and sang the song with ease, but their first language was apparently Spanish. This was confirmed after the man blew out the birthday candle on his dessert, when all six resumed their conversation entirely in Spanish.

For me, this moment captured the gestalt of Coral Gables, a sophisticated community where many residents and business people speak Spanish as a first language. Most, however, also speak perfect English, though perhaps with a slight accent. This "accent" characterizes the culture here—American with a Latin flair. Well-dressed Coral Gables women favor a particularly feminine style of dress, at least compared to more straight-laced Bostonians. And people seem very comfortable showing affection in public. I often see daughters, even in their twenties, holding hands with their mothers as they walk down the street together. Not something I'm used to seeing in other American cities, but a behavior I remember well from summers spent in El Salvador and Mexico.

When I walk on the Miracle Mile in Coral Gables, overhearing snippets of Spanish conversation and enjoying the summery weather and palm trees, I sometimes imagine I'm taking a paseo in Mexico City or another Latin American capital. But in reality Coral Gables more closely resembles an American city like Palo Alto, only with a Spanish accent.

Click on photo to enlarge.

Homebody

2010-03-14T17:38:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I just like to stay home. This morning, a noted local historian led a tour of old Coconut Grove. Joining the group would have been convenient, since I live only a few minutes away. I know I would have found the information interesting. I love learning about the history of places, and the fact that the Grove is my own neighborhood made the prospect even more appealing. Yet I chose to stay home.

The tour was scheduled to start at 10 a.m., certainly a reasonable hour, even for someone like me, who's not a morning person. However, since this is the first day of Daylight Savings Time, 10 a.m. felt like 9 a.m., making arriving on time more of an effort. Still, I could have managed it if I'd been really motivated. But, honestly, I preferred to have a leisurely breakfast and read Louis Menand's New Yorker article about the current state of psychiatry. After I finished the article, I enjoyed taking a brisk walk around the island where I live, rather than traipsing along with a tour group, no matter how interesting the subject.

I would be worried about this tendency, except that I've been this way since I was a teenager, so I'm probably not likely to change. Not that I always stay home. I do love to explore new places. But for me, the greatest reward of traveling, be it to a concert downtown or to a country a continent away, is returning to the warmth and comfort of my own home. And sometimes, like today, I choose not to leave in the first place.

Bright Lights, Big City

2010-03-12T18:14:00.005-05:00

Last night, I attended the East Coast premiere of Please Give, a delightful independent film, directed by Nicole Holofcener, with wonderful performances by the entire cast, including Catherine Keener and Oliver Platt. The screening, part of the Miami Film Festival, took place at the Olympia Theater in downtown Miami. The theater is a work of art in itself, having been recently restored to its original 1926 glory, complete with ornate Moorish architecture, simulated night sky, and live pre-show performances on the Olympia's original Mighty Wurlitzer organ.

After the film, I left the theater feeling I'd been treated to a charming, sad, funny cinematic experience. But the real show was yet to come. As I walked around the corner and into the outdoor lot where my car was parked, I happened to glance up. There, in all its glory, stood the Bank of America Tower, aglow in white light, with clouds swirling around its upper stories. The building is an iconic presence on the city's skyline, lit in a varied array of colors during holidays. Last night, though, the tower loomed so close and the sight of it was so unexpected that it took my breath away. I recovered in time to snap the photo below.

Full Circle for Nomah

2010-03-11T16:52:00.016-05:00

In a sweetly-contrived scenario, Nomar Garciaparra re-joined the Red Sox for one day and immediately announced his retirement, enabling him to retire a Red Sock. Nomar had approached Sox owners and General Manager Theo Epstein with the idea and during his press conference, he appeared genuinely thrilled and sentimental about having been granted his wish.

Most of the fans and even the media seemed to appreciate the gesture, given the coverage of the event. Leave it to Dan Shaughnessy to put a fly in the ointment, reminding us how truly unpleasant relations between "Nomie" and the organization became during the 2004 season, leading to Nomar's departure as part of a trade with the Chicago Cubs.

By returning to the Red Sox as the sun sets on his career, Nomar rekindles memories of his greatness during his early years with the Sox. As even Shaughnessy concedes, "A case can be made that he was Boston’s best home-grown player since Carl Yastrzemski." While the quality of both Nomar's play and his disposition suffered during that final season with the Sox, it may be that his subsequent experience with three other teams (the Cubs, the Los Angeles Dodgers, and the Oakland Athletics) caused him to appreciate how truly special his years with Boston had been. He never regained the on-the-field greatness he achieved during the first five of his eight seasons with the Sox and he surely never encountered fans who adored him the way Red Sox Nation did.

Like most sports fans, I'm not terribly rational when it comes to players who leave my team. I never forgave Roger Clemens for bailing, or Pedro Martinez, or Johnny Damon, or even Manny Ramirez. I took it personally—a rejection of me and my beloved city and team. Nomar's departure technically occurred because of a trade rather than a voluntary decision to leave, but his own behavior clearly led to that happening. I was disappointed and angry when Nomar left, even though I agreed that he hadn't been performing well, on the field or off. When the Red Sox went on to win the World Series that season, I admit to thinking So there, Nomar. You didn't like us and now we showed you. Not my finest moment, but that's what a passion for the game can do to a person.

Now, Nomar has affirmed his love for my city and my team. If he can be humble enough to ask for the privilege to retire as a member of the Red Sox, I can be magnanimous. Welcome home, Nomar!

A Powerful TV Moment

2010-03-10T18:15:00.002-05:00

E. and I have been watching a terrific television series, The Shield, on Netflix. The gritty, violent drama, which originally aired on FX Network, features a fabulous cast, great writing, and compelling story lines. It ran for seven seasons, from 2002 through 2008. We're in the middle of Season 3 right now. Last night, we watched an episode that featured a particularly heart-rending scene. I'm still thinking about it.

In the scene, the show's main character, Vic Mackey, who runs an L.A.P.D. Strike Team, visits a foster home where a friend's child has been placed. He finds the house in chaos and five children playing without supervision. He locates the toddler he's come to check on alone in a room, sitting on the floor and playing with a toy action figure. The foster parents are present but unconcerned. Mackey states the obvious—the couple is in it for the money. The stipends they receive for five children add up to a tidy sum. It's also clear that very little of the money is being spent on the children.

It's a horrifying scene, particularly because it has the ring of authenticity. We've all heard stories of similar situations found in actual foster homes. But it's one thing to hear stories, another to see such a situation convincingly dramatized. The couple in the television show isn't exactly abusing the children, just blatantly neglecting them. My dog gets far better care than these fictional children.

I don't regret taking good care of Cosmo. He's a living, sentient creature and part of my family. He deserves it. But surely foster children deserve to be lavished with at least as much love and attention as I give my dog. Few would disagree with that statement, but the reason I admire The Shield is that it presents painful material in a new way, one that makes me actually think about the terrible disparities that exist in our society.

Wake-up Call

2010-03-09T15:56:00.013-05:00

I've been reading Tracy Kidder's book about Dr. Paul Farmer, Mountains Beyond Mountains, with great interest. But one passage toward the end of the book really took me by surprise. Farmer, then forty years old and married, was in Paris, spending a couple of days with his wife and daughter. He planned to catch an early-morning flight to Moscow the following day. Rather than set an alarm clock, Farmer called his mother, who was back in the states, and asked her to give him a wake-up call at 7:00 a.m. Never mind the weirdness of this request coming from a married forty-year-old man; it also meant that his mother had to stay up until 1:00 a.m. her time to make the call. Talk about a mother's devotion.

When Kidder later asked Farmer's mother about her reaction to her son's request, she said, "I just think it's so cool that at forty he still does that. I'd miss it if he didn't." Fortunately for Farmer, his wife seemed more amused than annoyed by this particular mother-son interaction. If I were Farmer's mother, though, I might have been a little concerned that he still required such long-distance care-taking. On the other hand, a mother loves to feel needed by her children, so in that regard I can totally identify with her enthusiasm about his habit of requesting wake-up calls.

I'm always inordinately delighted when one of my kids asks my advice or assistance and I'll drop everything to help. Fortunately, their requests are normally reasonable and doable and, so far, none has involved staying awake after my bedtime. It also makes me extremely happy to see my children, now in their twenties, living as independent adults. As an overprotective mother, I found it difficult to let go, but tried very hard to give them the space they needed. Now, I revel in their ability to make decisions on their own and not infrequently I ask their advice, since in many areas they're now more competent than I.

Farmer's quirky connection with his mother surprised me because he hardly seems the type to be tied to his mother's apron strings. Quite the opposite, in fact. Since his teen years, he's lived in Haiti and other third world countries, engaging in challenging work, often at great personal risk. Yet, at the age of forty he apparently still longed to be awoken in the morning by his mother. Or, at the very least, she was the only one he trusted to make sure he got to the airport on time. Peculiar, yes, but also rather sweet.

This Leads to That

2010-03-08T20:40:00.009-05:00

Most of us, at some time in our lives, start out doing one thing and find ourselves unexpectedly led in a different direction. In my case, I could say that's been the story of my life, at least of my writing life.

Back in the 1980s, a part-time job writing law book supplements led me in a different direction than I expected. I'd been out of law school for a few years, had two young children, and thought I'd get back up to legal speed by writing about torts and no-fault auto insurance. However, after a couple of years of legal writing, I realized that I loved the writing part more than the legal subject matter. While I was pondering what to do about that, a friend mentioned a poetry workshop she'd heard about and wondered if I might be interested in joining it. I signed up immediately. Soon after, I quit my law job and began focusing seriously on writing poetry.

Among the people I met in that workshop was a woman from a neighboring town. In addition to writing poetry, she also wrote a personal essay column for her local newspaper. That sounded like a lot of fun to me. At the time, my own town had two community papers. I kept thinking that one day I'd look into the possibility of writing for one or the other. After a few years, though, one of them suddenly folded, and I realized my chances of writing a column like my friend's had just been cut in half. That mobilized me and I contacted the remaining paper. I landed a job and began writing a column entitled "Passing Thoughts." The column ran for almost three years, until the arrival of a new editor who wanted to dictate more about content than I was comfortable with.

The personal essay concept later morphed into my first blog, "Famosity," where I had total control over content, and finally I landed here, writing daily entries about all sorts of topics. Now, I wonder where this might lead. My daily entries may taper off. Or they may not. I may opt to devote more time to my breast cancer website and related projects. Or I may give up writing altogether and take up photography. The only thing I'm sure of is that this daily blog will lead me somewhere I hadn't expected to go.

The Winning Comment

2010-03-07T21:13:00.002-05:00

The Academy Awards have barely begun, but I've already heard my winning comment of the evening, from none other than Meryl Streep. During an interview on the red carpet, she was asked what she looked forward to most about the Oscars. Her reply—getting to her seat and slipping off her Jimmy Choo's. (For those few who aren't aware, Jimmy Choo makes gorgeous high heels.) Clearly, Meryl Streep is my kind of woman. And her white evening gown wasn't too bad, especially if you like the Greek goddess look.

Happy Oscars!