Isn't It Romantic?

Picture this—A beautiful spring day in 1969. A handsome college sophomore (E.) and his new girlfriend (me) sit on a lush green lawn on the campus of UMass Amherst, listening to a blues musician who calls himself Taj Mahal. The girl wears a pretty white Mexican dress with colorful embroidery on its yoke. Her hair is long and loose. E. wears jeans and cowboy boots. His dark hair and a Western-style mustache add to his cowboy appeal.

Taj Mahal's music is an engaging amalgam of blues and Caribbean rhythms, derivative but entirely original. Among the songs he plays that day is a number called Corinna. The girl (me) instantly loves it. A few years later, when she moves in with E., she's thrilled to find that he owns the record album, Natch'l Blues, on which "Corinna" is featured. They listen to it incessantly. Still later, after they've married, they jokingly agree that if they ever have a baby girl, they'll name her Corinna.

Now picture this—Forty-three years have passed since that concert at UMass. The couple is about to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary. They have two sons, so no Corinna in the family, but the wife (me) feels transported back to her youth every time she hears the song. She wonders whether Taj Mahal might still be performing. To her delight, she discovers that he will headline at the Newport Blues & BBQ Festival later that summer. She surprises E. on their anniversary with plans to spend a weekend in Newport, culminating in Taj Mahal's performance at the Blues Festival.

Thinking of Neil Armstrong

During the summer of 1969, after my sophomore year of college, I was living at home on Long Island and working in the billing department of a commodities firm. I watched the moon landing with my parents. A few weeks later, on August 13th, I was heading out to lunch, completely unaware that the astronauts were being celebrated with a ticker tape parade on Wall Street, right around the corner from my office.

As I walked out of my building, I encountered a crush of people and could see ticker tape flying. I followed the throng and got a distant glimpse of the trio of astronauts—Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin, and Michael Collins. It was a thrilling moment, marked by the odd realization that I was almost the only woman in sight. Wall Street was then so dominated by men that even the secretarial pool couldn't make a dent in the impression that the street was men-only.

Walking on Water

I'm not a natural athlete. As a kid I tried hard, which spared me from being the last girl picked for the softball or basketball teams, but I was never a standout player. While I had good endurance on the track, I was a klutz when it came to gymnastics—even cartwheels were pretty much beyond me. So, no one was more surprised than me when, the first time I tried waterskiing, I immediately succeeded in standing up on the skis. I was a natural.

Girls bunks, Camp Tamarac.

I learned to waterski on Yokum Pond in Becket, Massachusetts, site of Camp Tamarac, my beloved sleep-away camp. I spent eight weeks there each summer for four years, starting at age ten. What Tamarac lacked in luxury, it made up for in camp spirit and an amazing array of activities, among them scuba diving and waterskiing.

You might well wonder what kind of scuba diving experience could be had in a pond in the Berkshires. Surprisingly, Yokum Pond reached 50 feet at its greatest depth. Still, its murky waters didn't allow for the type of diving one might expect to find in the Caribbean. In fact, you could barely see two feet in front of you. Nevertheless, during my last summer at Tamarac, the camp began offering its campers scuba classes and certification.

I enthusiastically signed up for the scuba program. All progressed well until one sunny day in August. I had come to the surface after a short dive and was using a snorkel while I swam back to the dock. The snorkel was necessary because the tank on my back was heavy and unwieldy, so I couldn't get my head above water to take breaths. As I paddled toward the dock with my flippered feet, feeling pleased with my diving progress, I allowed my head to sink a little too low. Instead of air, I suddenly found myself swallowing a sample of silty pond water.

Standing Up for . . . Standing Up

Okay, I admit it. I'm sitting down while I write this blog. But for the prior 25 minutes, I was standing up as I listened to a "Fresh Air" interview with Gretchen Reynolds, who writes the "Phys Ed" column for the New York Times. Reynolds says our health will greatly benefit from standing often during the day, for about two minutes after sitting for twenty minutes. Sounds easy, right? So, I'm about to reform my life. No more couch potato for me. No more sitting in a trance in front of my computer for hours on end. I'm joining the ranks of the standers.

According to Reynolds, punctuating periods of sitting with brief standing stints helps break up fat in our bloodstream, keeps our muscles from going slack, and can alleviate back pain. She stops just short of promising immortality. But seriously, she makes it sound like a very good idea, and doable, too. All the better, she says, if you walk around your office or down the hall during your two-minute stand-in, but if that's not possible, just stand.

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I'm back, after a two-minute standing appointment. Now, what was I saying? Hmm. Apparently, one of the problems with interrupting my writing to spend a couple of minutes on my feet is that I'm likely to lose my train of thought. In order to avoid that, maybe I should consider standing all the time, like former Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, who works at a standing desk. Whatever you may feel about his policy positions, Rumsfeld does appear fit. And far more illustrious men than Rumsfeld have used standing desks, including Thomas Jefferson, Winston Churchill, and Charles Dickens.

I want to stand and be counted as one of the standers. In fact, I won't stand for sitting anymore. With my penchant for worry, maybe I could add pacing to my standing activities. Back and forth, back and forth. Until I can't stand it anymore. 

An Obama Proposal

I had a dream the other night that President Obama asked me to marry him. He actually got down on one knee in the middle of a big event and proposed. I disregarded the fact that we were both already married and said yes, believing in my dream state that even the things I don't like about Barack Obama would instantly be transformed by my acceptance into love.

Would that real life were so easy. When it comes to political issues, I wish I could be in perfect accord with all my friends, but that congenial state eludes me. Life would be pretty dull if we all agreed about everything, I suppose, yet I still yearn for harmony. Inevitably, though, no matter how hard I try, I just can't stop being me.

For example, if a friend invites me to see a film with her, I love the idea of sharing the experience and discussing it afterward. In my fantasy, we always feel the same way about the movie. In reality, of course, sometimes I don't like it even though she does. I want to like it. I want to share her taste in every detail. But sometimes I simply don't.

Worse still, trying so hard to achieve harmony can induce its opposite. The pressure of being agreeable builds up and suddenly an unbidden explosion occurs—I hate Woody Allen, I might declare, when really I'm just not a big fan of his recent films. For the record, I didn't love Midnight in Paris, but I didn't hate it, either. There, I've said it. Those of you who loved it, don't hate me, please.

If I, like Obama, were a President running for re-election, I'd be tempted to say what I thought people wanted to hear. But ultimately the truth would out. I would proclaim my true beliefs and then worry that I'd alienated the voters. Fortunately, I'm not running. And I'm definitely not a First Lady, except in my dreams.

A Whale of a Great Rescue

A breaching humpback whale

My sister, Nina, knows how much I love animals. She's quite an animal lover herself, having given a home to assorted pets over the years, including lovebirds and a chinchilla. This morning she sent me a link to a YouTube video called Saving Valentina. You've got to watch this video. Just click on the title and, if you can, expand the video to full screen on your computer.

When members of the Great Whale Conservancy came across a young humpback whale entangled in a fishing net, thankfully they had a video camera on board their small craft and the desire to document their rescue attempt. The resulting video captures one of those rare encounters between man and the giant mammal which truly suggests that understanding can transcend species boundaries even in the absence of a common language.

It's always tempting to anthropomorphize, but when you watch the video, you may find yourself agreeing with me that the distressed whale seems to understand quickly that the people are trying to help her. And by the time you reach the thrilling end of the video, you may share my impression that the whale is showing her joy at being rescued and thanking her rescuers for saving her life.

My speculations even extend a bit further. I wonder whether that young whale later told other whales about her rescue. We know humpbacks are highly intelligent. A few months ago, I came across a video of their amazing synchronized hunting technique (click on the link to see it).

Humpback whales may not have vocal chords, but they do produce varied and complex "songs" which act as a kind of language. Scientists have studied humpback whale songs and concluded that they use hierarchical structure in their language, the only other creatures known to do that besides humans. Male humpback whales produce songs that last anywhere from six to thirty minutes. A lot could be said in that amount of time! A link to what humpback whale song sounds like is here.

While females are capable of making sounds, only the males produce highly structured songs filled with distinctive melodies and themes. So, if Valentina really is a female, as her name implies, she may not have said much of anything when she encountered other whales. Still, it's tempting to imagine that she told them people can sometimes be trusted.

Whales, as well as their dolphin cousins, are known to approach boats and swim alongside them. They must have figured out that not all human beings are hunting them. At least, I like to think so. I feel enriched by  viewing a video like the one about Valentina. So, Nina, please keep them coming. And all other uplifting animal stories and videos are welcome!

Photograph courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Click on the photo to enlarge it.

Taking Up a Collection

It's not what you may think. I'm not asking for money or for old clothes, but I could use a few good ideas. I've noticed that many people seem to enjoy collecting things, so I'd like to take up collecting, too.

My mother-in-law, Reggie, was an enthusiastic collector of frogs. I'm not sure how her fixation started, but she coveted frogs of all shapes, sizes, and materials. It made gift-giving easy, since she always welcomed another frog. It amazed me how many collectible frogs exist in the world. Once I became attuned, I saw them everywhere. There isn't an antique, gift, or garden shop without at least a frog or two.

Perhaps inspired by his mother, E. briefly collected elephants. Delighted, Reggie gave him a small bejeweled Indian elephant for his birthday and he acquired a few more on his own. But soon his attention drifted back to his larger passion, cars. Unless you're Jay Leno, though, there are only so many of those you can collect.

For some, collecting is a serious and fulfilling pursuit. One of my friends collects maps of the Arctic, another is an insatiable gatherer of shells, while several are devoted book collectors. My cousin's husband loves coins and can be found at many numismatic shows, happily perusing his favorite coin categories and trying to fill in gaps in his collection.

Another friend became such an avid collector of rabbits that he decided to open an antique shop to sell his overflow. Before long, though, he closed the shop. For him, the joy was in the collecting, not the selling.

The possibilities for collecting are endless—dishware and pottery, porcelain figurines, Star Wars paraphernalia, baseball cards, snuff boxes. One friend, a frequent flier, has acquired a rather large collection of airsickness bags.

So far, all these wonderful examples have failed to awaken a collecting passion in me. I've been wracking my brain for something fun and engaging. I like animals, but I prefer the live variety. Amassing a large number of rubber duckies wouldn't take the place of a breathing, quacking duck for me. My grandfather was a stamp dealer, but the idea of a stamp collection leaves me cold. Besides, at the rate the postal service is going, snail mail and stamps will soon become obsolete and there will be nothing new to collect.

I'm not much of a shopper, so I doubt I'd enjoy poking around stores for interesting objects. And I'm not fond of yard sales and the like, where some collectors find hidden treasures. Even used bookstores don't hold much allure for me. All those moldy books just make me sneeze.

My decorating style is minimalist, so I wouldn't really want a lot of tchotchkes taking up shelf space, which could be a problem if I decided to collect, say, Limoges boxes. My mother collected glass animals—she had cats, swans, dolphins, and other glass and crystal creatures. They looked pretty in her mirrored cabinet, but they wouldn't work in my spare living room.

Clearly, I need help. All thoughts are welcome. In fact, I'd love to collect all your collecting suggestions, maybe even compile them into a book. Now that's an idea!

Photos courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Click on them to enlarge them.