Personal Storms

Over on Facebook, a smart and funny friend who is not originally from New England, was a bit fed up with all this snow. To be fair, three nor’easters in quick succession can do that. He also was rolling his eyes over people telling him about other major storms. It was his last comment, a bit of a toss off, which gave me pause. He said folks remember the names of the storms, but no one remembers when they happened.

I do. I remember the Halloween blizzard. It was in 2011. The Easter/April Fools Blizzard was in 1997, which I also remember. The Ice Storm of 2008 I remember vividly. Hurricane Hanna was also in 2008 and will never be forgotten. There are many, many more - including the ones my parents and grandparents told me about: the hurricane of ’38 and Hurricane Carol in 1954.

Many of the storms are notable for their power, their fierceness, their damage and aftermath. But what I mostly remember are the personal stories.

When my Providence, Rhode Island dwelling grandparents and parents spoke of the Hurricane of ’38 you could still sense their awe and fear, even decades after the devastation.

Hurricane Carol in ’54 wiped away the tiny beachfront cottage my parents rented for a week every summer. They never stopped speaking of it wistfully. There was also pain because what was built in its stead was exclusive and far too rich for their middle class pocketbook. In that little cottage they had felt rich. After Carol they felt far poorer.

In 2011 we travelled to Rhode Island for my aunt’s funeral during the Halloween Blizzard. The next morning, in the dazzling sunlight, we held our petite grandniece Bella in her oversized lamb costume. We then drove home to more than a foot of heavy wet snow and a house without power.

The Easter/April Fools Blizzard was in 1997. I know that because 1972 plus 25 equals 1997. The math matters because some loved ones were on the verge of divorcing, while some unaware family members were planning a silver anniversary party for them. Some painful conversations are forever tied to a glorious spring day accented with mountainous snowbanks.

The Ice Storm of 2008 was partly memorable for being without power for almost seven full days along with the purchase of our generator. But it is also tied to the kindness and generosity we experienced. Our niece called and invited us to come stay with her. Neighbors piled into a pick up truck and methodically cleared our road by hopping out and chainsawing downed trees, thereby making it passable.

Hurricane Hanna in 2008 was the backdrop and backstory to our niece’s wedding. The horizontal rain, mops deployed to keep the dance floor dry and the brief and perfectly timed lull in the storm which allowed photographers to capture the exuberant joy of their love is what I will never forget.

These storms are shared experiences. They are markers on our life timelines. Well beyond their powerful meteorology, each of them is bound up with stories and people and memories. They tie us together. They remind us we are strong. We are hardy. We are resilient. We are connected.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad

Dear Dad,
Thank you for working so damn hard for all of us every single day. Thank you for being such a wonderful storyteller. Thank you for singing and laughing and barbecuing and making sink sandwiches and kneeling in prayer every night. Thank you for “Anh anh, ea-sy, ooh ooh” and “All I want is ladies!” and “What’s the chill factor?” Thank you for teaching me to drive and loving the ocean and the beach. Thank you for being smart and funny and a voracious reader and for hanging my Religion Award in a place of honor in the kitchen. Thank you for teaching me my times tables and for helping me to see the patterns and for giving me the cheat I still use for the sevens. Thank you for dinners in the basement and in the garage to celebrate after you and I had cleaned them. Thank you for taking me for pony rides at Roger Williams Park and for Del’s Lemonade. Thank you for explaining what a mile long hot dog was and showing the teenage boys how to wrap their beer cans in aluminum foil. Thank you for planting tomatoes every Memorial Day and weeping with me when we had to cut down the Rose of Sharon. Thank you for getting me my red ten speed bike with the sales points you’d earned and for letting me ride it all over two towns all the time. Thank you for saying how beautiful I looked in my wedding dress and for wanting me to take it back as soon as you found out we had paid next to nothing for it. Thank you for walking me down the aisle even though it was to marry the wrong man. Thank you for saying I love you and for big hugs and watching Johnny Carson in the living room in the dark. Thank you for being humble and quiet and for being fierce and bold for your family. Thank you for driving us everywhere to get the best views of the ocean and for saying “Sign? What sign?” as we ventured down roads marked private. Thank you for standing in the middle of all those police officers and then kicking the front bumper back into place and then telling me I should still go to the dance after the accident. Thank you for hauling my stuff back and forth to college and checking under the station wagon to make sure it wasn’t dragging on the ground. Thank you for being so damn proud of me when I made Dean’s List every semester in college and for letting me get away with lousy grades in high school just because my conduct scores were “A”s. Thank you for teaching me how to frame and take a photograph and for calling rock and roll music “ker-plunk, ker-plunk, ker-plunka”. Thank you for Lawn Darts and for sharing your Heinekens with my best friends. Thank you for telling me I could stay at the house when my marriage was falling apart and for hugging me so hard when I said no, I had to go back. Thank you for doing “It Pays To Increase Your Word Power” with me and helping me with my project on the SDS. Thank you for laughing wicked hard while punching me firmly in the shoulder when I sang you that mildly scandalous musical joke I made up. Thank you for sneaking over to watch me hawk cheese samples in the mall and and for teaching me how to lay a fire in the fireplace. Thank you for grounding me that one time and sitting with me the next night as we cried together about all of it. Thank you for rescuing those baby robins and for bringing up the worms with the laundry pole and for celebrating when their parents took them back and for being heartbroken when one of them didn’t survive. Thank you for teaching me what love means.
I love you Dad.
I miss you Dad.
We all do.
Love,
Lee

From The Hills of Western Worcester County

This is the path I had to shovel from our back porch and barn, in order to get to the far side of the kitchen wing to rake that roof.
The top of the snow on the path is up to my hip.
But I should note that I did not shovel all the way down to the ground!
The snow high on the barn siding is what has been blown there by the wind.

What a winter!

Memory

I grew up in a household with a father, mother, two sisters and an occasional grandparent. Back when more of us were still alive, we often sat around the table after a meal and told stories. So help me Hannah, to listen to us tell the tales, none of us lived in the same house or shared the same experiences. Frequently, it was the conversational equivalent of Rorschach tests crossed with Rashomon. And those stories morphed over time. The funniest bits got played up for laughs; the sad ones; the painful ones, well, if we were generous, we learned to edit and ease up on those.

So I'm going on the record to support Brian Williams, Anchor and Managing Editor, of NBC Nightly News. I don’t know how or why his story of his time in Iraq evolved. There are vast amounts of digital ink being spilled on Mr. Williams’ chronology; not nearly as much on the science of memory; and far too much umbrage, snark and glee for such a serious subject. Mr. Williams has acknowledged what he did. He has apologized. And he is temporarily off the air.

I understand this is journalism. I understand there are ethical standards. I also understand Mr. Williams has sustained a crushing blow to his credibility and his career.

Back in 1995 Jay Leno asked Hugh Grant: “What the hell were you thinking?”
Hugh Grant eventually replied: “I did a bad thing, and there you have it.”

Yeah, Hugh Grant is an actor. Brian Williams is a journalist. I get that.

I also know I am very grateful no television crew was ever in my home rolling tape as my family and I told our stories; grateful no internet existed to pounce upon any of our missteps, misspoken, misremembered moments, nor the embellished tales we told.

My gut says Mr. Williams is a smart, well intentioned human being who screwed up.
I hope he rides out this media tumult and emerges tarnished, battered, but unbroken.

Hello Beautiful!

On Sunday afternoon I was startled to see a crow and, what I thought at first was a hawk, fluttering just outside the bedroom window. But once the crow flew off and the other bird settled down onto the branch, all became clear. It was an owl. Chuck looked it up and confirmed it was a Barred Owl (Strix Varia). These photographs were taken through a closed second story window, which also had a storm window. I’m afraid neither window was very clean! I was quite amazed and felt very fortunate that the owl turned and looked right at me as I snapped the photographs. The one on the left was taken with a Canon PowerShot S2 IS. The one on the right with a Canon EOS Rebel T3i.

Neither of us have ever been privileged to see an owl on the property before. It was especially surprising to see this large creature in daylight. But it was a very dark, gray day; with snow flying throughout the afternoon. When we looked up the call of the Barred Owl we knew it was the same sound we have heard many times over the years. That classic call always feels mysterious and just a little chilling. Now we have a face to go with the voice - a beautiful one at that!

I Won!

Way back in early November, Melanie of Melanie In The Middle hosted a giveaway of a Ninja 3-in-1 Cooking System - a crockpot meets stovetop meets oven. It looked pretty nifty and 318 of us entered to win.

In mid-December I received a text message from Melanie via Twitter letting me know I had won! Just before New Year’s Eve the Ninja arrived. With Chuck getting sick at Christmas and then relapsing and our trying to make up for lost holidays it took me ages to try it out. But I finally did and I really liked it!

I’ve had the same crockpot for more than 30 years. Yes, electricity had been invented back then! It still works fine; has two “speeds”: low and high and is the tall round kind. But the new oval Ninja has a “Stovetop” feature which means I can sear meat and then add all the ingredients and let it simmer away.

So that’s what I did. I bought a boneless pork loin roast at Trader Joe’s, seasoned it, set the Ninja to Stovetop High and browned the pork. It sizzled nicely. Then I added the onions, apples, garlic - well, this recipe. I put the cover on and set it to do its traditional crockpot-thing.

I had read on-line that the little steam hole in the lid sometimes allowed too much liquid to evaporate. I really wanted to walk away and forget it so I decided to cover the hole. I took a Post-It note and carefully pressed the sticky strip over the hole. It stayed in place the whole time and left no mark when I removed it.

After a few hours I peeked inside and found everything was looking good and smelling just right. Because of the oval shape of the Ninja I changed plans and instead of making mashed potatoes, I dropped the cut up potatoes into the Ninja all around the roast. As they cooked they absorbed lots of flavor. At the end, I did remove the liquid to a small saucepan to thicken it, this time with a quick roux.

I thought about serving the roast with wine or ale. Then I remembered we had some Woodchuck hard cider. We opened the “Winter” which was excellent with the meal. Actually, it would be delicious with anything and all on its own.

Oh, I almost forgot - clean up. It was easy-peasy! My classic crockpot is crockery and very heavy and always required soaking to get the rim clean. Not so the metal Ninja with its non-stick surface.

The final result? Chuck loved it and so did I! Chuck also wanted me to send his best regards and thanks to Miss Melanie. I echo that as well.

Now - if Charlie Sheen hasn’t ruined it forever - that’s what I call “Winning”!
;o)

When It Was Prettier

When it first began snowing last evening, it was full of promise and very beautiful.

5 to 6

The meteorologists warned us it could be more. But we only got five to six inches of heavy, wet snow overnight. Then Mother Nature added a bit of sleet and a touch of rain. This is what the driveway looked like after one pass with the snowblower. I like snow. This is not my favorite variety of snow...

The Best

Here’s the trail of breadcrumbs. Chuck subscribes to The New York Times. That means in addition to the Sunday newspaper being delivered to our home, we also get full digital access. My favorite way to read the Times is on our iPad. Near the beginning of December I clicked on the Times icon. Before the edition refreshed I spotted an article about a blogger with the phrase “big ideas”. Then it disappeared and the new edition filled in. Some searching brought me back to the article which had caught me eye. Here’s the piece.

When I finished that article about 28 year old Maria Popova I clicked through to her website “Brain Pickings”. I was hooked. I quickly added the site to my RSS feeds and followed it on Twitter and Facebook.

Tonight I e-mailed my sister Gail in Georgia and mentioned it to her. That was when I realized I had never posted about Brain Pickings here. For which, I sincerely apologize!

Calling Maria Popova a blogger may be technically true but she is more accurately an editor, a collector, a curator, a librarian of all that is interesting. But not interesting the way CNN Headline News or USA Today are when you are stuck in an airport on a layover. Nor is Brain Pickings interesting the way BuzzFeed and Gawker can be. Brain Pickings is classier, deeper and draws you in with beauty, history and brilliance.

Brain Pickings has a separate page called The Literary Jukebox. Ms. Popova pairs a song with a quote or a poem. Sounds devilishly simple doesn’t it? I don’t believe it is and once again she makes it something special. Here is my absolute favorite combination which joins
John Steinbeck and Natalie Merchant. I find it both inspiring and beautiful.

Not every single Brain Pickings post is fascinating to me. But I am always happy to see the yellow avatar pop up in my streams. And I find it comforting to know that someone is working so assiduously to bring important and wonderful things to the attention of an ever widening audience.

Storytelling

Storytelling at its best can be found at The Moth. You may have listened to it on your local Public Radio station. I am certain it is a major cause of “driveway moments”. This particular story by Tristan Jimerson “A Dish Best Served Cold” is a wonderful story, wonderfully told. They describe it as “a case of credit card fraud sets an amateur sleuth on a crime-solving caper.” (Chuck had a "driveway moment" with this story and then brought it to me. Thanks Chuck!)
Sit back and enjoy.

Will and Kate

They are charming, intelligent, poised, seemingly down-to earth and beautiful. They are the prince and princess of our childhood fairytales come to life. There is no Evil Queen; no Evil Stepmother just a voracious, insatiable press digging into them and photographing their every move. They are Will and Kate, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.

(I’ve written previously about my feelings toward this couple and all British Royalty. So I will sidestep all the benefits and costs associated with their positions and attendant to their roles in British society.)

Last summer, when photos were released of Kate sunbathing topless, the press, along with social media, went nuts. That’s not lazy word choice on my part, they were freakin’ insane. At the time, all I posted was: “The important point about Will and Kate sunbathing topless is that they were using SunScreen! #SkinCancerAwareness ;o)” Privately, I thought it was a little naive of them to be so visible to the public, but really, who cares? Soon after, I was sitting in a dentist’s office waiting for Chuck, thumbing through a People Magazine. The magazine had published a photo of where the photographer was standing when they snapped the pictures. (Here is a comparable image.) My jaw dropped. The point on the road was about a half a mile away from where Will and Kate were on the private balcony. One half mile! That’s the length of nearly nine football fields placed end to end - or nearly two Empire State Buildings or two and a half Eiffel Towers! For most anyone else in the world that would have been plenty private and plenty reasonable.

Now it has been announced that Kate is pregnant with their first child. Unfortunately she has been hospitalized with a medical complication known as hyperemesis gravidarum. This isn’t “just morning sickness” nor is it “just acute” or “intense morning sickness”. This is unrelenting vomiting. Since we’re talking about a member of the Royal Family, I have to assume that if Kate’s symptoms had fallen along the typical mild to dreadful morning (or all day) sickness continuum she would be at home. It’s also clear from the timing of the announcement (Kate is still early in her first trimester) that the situation was serious enough that The Palace broke the news early. But the press - and most particularly social media - is having a field day with the story. And it’s been more than snarky, it’s been decidedly ugly.

What have I learned? Well, the other day I decided I don’t have a thick enough hide to run for political office. Today I confirmed that it is a very good thing that I didn’t follow those two of six degrees of separation to meet and marry Prince Albert of Monaco, because I could not live in the roiling waters of that sort of fishbowl.

So here’s to Will and Kate and their child. May they all soon be well and strong and happy.

Then What Happened?

I had a Tweet ReTweeted on Twitter.

That happens from time to time. It’s always nice because it means someone felt what I wrote was worth sharing. But today was different. Today I was ReTweeted by President Barack Obama!

OK, I know. President Obama wasn’t sitting around the Oval Office before he had lunch with Mitt Romney just checking his Twitter feed. I know the President wasn’t searching to see how his #My2K hashtag was trending. I know it was his staff. But it was his staff, you know, President Barack Obama’s staff, that ReTweeted me! I took screenshots. Oh yes I did! Heck, they’re in contention to become our holiday cards!

#My2K is a hashtag created by the Obama administration that folks on Twitter can use to talk about the impact of the expiration of the middle class tax cuts. Here is how they posted it: “If Congress fails to act, the typical middle-class family will have about $2,000 less to spend or save next year.” Should you so desire, you can Tweet what that $2,000 means to you and what you do with the money, including #My2K in the Tweet.

So I Tweeted:
#My2k goes directly into the local economy: shopping at local grocery store and farm stands, meals in local restaurants, tips to waitstaff.

Since the President ReTweeted it, it has been ReTweeted 138 141 153 times.

Cool, right? Well, in addition to the solidarity of the ReTweets, I got responses. It wasn’t long before the rude people emerged from the Twitter shadows. One of them joined Twitter and out of their first seven Tweets, two were just expletives directed at me. Classy. Fortunately, I counted to ten and realized I needed to not engage with them. All their smut and snark has been going up in word bubbles above their heads; their misspelled and condescending Tweets going off into the ether.

If I ever had a question about whether or not I should run for public office, this experience answered that. I do not have a thick enough hide. It also caused me to have even more respect for the people who are willing to stand for office. Politics has always been rough and tumble. In these fast paced days of proliferating social media platforms, it is even tougher. Sure, there are plenty of chuckleheads who get elected, but I give them their due as well for being willing to suffer the slings and arrows; spam-bombs and swear words lobbed their way.

One House

The house at the end of our street was torn down. We heard a few different versions of how the lovely, mid-nineteenth century farmhouse had been abandoned or maybe the folks had moved away because of work or perhaps the wife had gotten sick or, well, it didn’t really matter. Gradually, the house fell into disrepair.

A silly woman called it haunted which was disrespectful of a house that was simply full of memories and sounds (laughter; tears; muddy boots stomped on the porch; mice scurrying in the walls) and smells (strong coffee; wet wool, roast turkey; lilacs) and seasons upon seasons of children and pets and young couples and widows and widowers.

Even after people and animals stopped living there, our neighbor and friend continued to hay the fields every summer. He plowed the driveway in the winters until the shed, that doubled as the garage, slowly gave in to the snow load on its punctuated roof.

Word went round town that the house would finally be sold. We heard it was part of an estate and we felt a sadness at the distant loss. Our friend and neighbor made an offer, then another. But a fellow from out of town swept in, made his case and met the price. Before the truth of it all could even circulate, the man had a crew in who wrapped the place up in yellow caution tape; harvested the gold in the form of mouldings and chestnut beams; stripped it bare he did.

Then the chug of a tractor in the field was replaced with the sound of more fearsome equipment, as the big machines pushed and pulled; strained, shattered and finally felled the once fine old home. The sound was terrible; rending in its truest form; a kind of keening that wrenched your heart. Bricks crumbled; joists snapped; horsehair plaster and lath rained down and the dust rose up in clouds. Smoke from the funeral pyre and all the sounds and smells and memories from a century and a half of living went with it.

The corner is empty now. They filled the cellar hole and smoothed it over in a sort of slap-dash way so you can still see the ruts the big treaded tires made. Spring came early after a worrisomely warm and dry winter. A plucky little forsythia burst open in a yellow cascade at the foot of what was once the front walk. I’m hoping the lilac near where the old shed stood does the same in a few weeks; flowers at the grave of an old friend.

How Doctors Die

“How Doctors Die - It’s Not Like the Rest of Us But It Should Be”

That’s the title of an article our niece Carrie sent us a link to shortly before Chuck’s Tanta died. Written by Ken Murray, MD, it was timely then and, most likely, will be timely many more times during our lives.

One of the things which required the most explanation as we began telling family and friends why Chuck’s Tanta was entering hospice care, was that she was not going to have a biopsy and there would be no treatment for her cancer.

Tanta had the same primary care physician for decades. His colleague had been her mother’s doctor back in the 1980s. Tanta and we met with each doctor about a week apart. At the second appointment her primary confirmed the diagnosis of liver cancer. He explained that the size of the mass and the progression of the disease was quite clear from the CT-Scan. He told us that they had seen nodules on both of her lungs, which they believed was likely a recurrence of the lung cancer Tanta had beaten successfully many years before. Now it seemed that the lung cancer had metastasized to the the liver. But even if it were an intrahepatic cholangiocarcinoma the options and outcome would be the same. A biopsy was not necessary because it didn’t matter which kind of cancer it was. It was untreatable.

We live in a time when treatment, often aggressive treatment, is the norm. The CT-Scan had been done in Boston at one of the finest hospitals around. Both of Tanta’s doctors were affiliated with that hospital. We all went into those appointments expecting to come away with a treatment plan. Instead, two experienced, compassionate doctors were very frank and honest with Tanta, while also being gentle and respectful. Initially the news that there was no treatment which would not do more harm than good was startling. But in short order we all came to understand the wisdom of their advice.

Tanta was given the truth. It was a gift. Tanta also gave us a gift long ago by spelling out, in no uncertain terms, her desire to spend her final days at home. Because of both of these gifts she did not spend her last weeks being shuttled to doctors and hospitals for unnecessary treatments. Instead she stayed in her own home where family, friends, neighbors and rabbis from her temple could stop in for a visit. She had round the clock care and, as she put it, she didn’t have to wait twenty minutes after she rang a bell for someone to respond to her needs. And the brilliant hospice staff was in regularly to tend to her physical, emotional and spiritual needs - but always on her terms, not theirs. Tanta died peacefully and, most importantly, she died with dignity.

Not everyone is able to die this way. Dr. Murray’s article spells out very clearly why we all need to think ahead and understand all of our options. The resources and options are increasing - not just for treatment of disease but for hospice and palliative care. We have choices.

Ticks

To be clear, I HATE ticks.

By all accounts this is going to be a very rough season. By season I mean spring, summer and autumn. An incredibly mild winter has been the common wisdom for the high number of ticks. But Dr. Richard S. Ostfeld has another explanation: acorns and white footed mice. The article in Science Daily is a quick and interesting read. Regardless of the precipitating factors, ticks are dangerous.

Part of why I hate ticks a great deal right now is because one latched onto Chuck this weekend. He wasn’t out doing yard work without protection. As far as we can tell he was just walking to the compost pile and back. Frankly, most of the joy of gardening has disappeared into the sea of haz-mat level gear, bug spray on clothing, body checks and loads of laundry that need to be done after every outdoor foray.

I followed the tick removal guidelines as best I could - patience is key. I cleansed the area and applied triple antibiotic ointment under the bandage. But every time this happens we worry about Lyme Disease. How can we not?

Shemira

Similar to the Irish tradition of remaining with the body of a loved one until burial, Shemira is the Jewish ritual of attending or guarding the body. The difference is that the Shomer or Shomeret usually sits and prays alone and may never have known the deceased in life. The Irish tradition is one of family and friends being with the recently departed. Although when Tanta died Chuck and I did go to the funeral home and spent a few moments with her and with the Shomer who was attending her at that time.

It was a comfort to us to know that from the moment we escorted Tanta’s body to the funeral van, throughout the process of taharah and until we helped bury her body next to her parents and her brother, that she would always be accompanied. It was especially comforting to the caregivers who had been with Tanta around the clock in her final months to know that she would never be alone. For them it meant that their work would be carried on.

Growing up, my Dad would often tell us that when his time came he wanted to be laid out in the living room. He thought the sofa where he would stretch out to watch the eleven o’clock news followed by “The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson” would be just the right spot. Dad was of Irish and Scottish descent but even his Scottish side had come from Ireland originally, so the roots ran deep. I wish we could have honored his wish. But by the time his parents passed away decades before him we were already bringing our dearly departed to funeral homes or funeral parlors - named with a nod to the time when families were at the heart of the process - and that’s where they “went out of”.

The first funeral I remember was of my Dad’s mother. I was just eight. There was some discussion in the extended family that I was too young to attend the open casketed wake. My parents disagreed and I attended. I’m so glad I did. I could see Grandma, kneel down and say a little prayer and begin to understand the rituals of death and burial.

Today is my Dad’s yahrzeit. As I write this, his memorial candle burns brightly. Twenty-four years ago today Dad died. He had been surrounded by his wife and three daughters all day. Late in the evening my mother sent us home from the hospital. While I was driving home in the cold and dark from Massachusetts to Connecticut, Dad breathed his last; his wife of nearly forty-two years by his side. I wondered about so many things that night. What I never questioned was that Dad’s death was a release and a relief for him. He had been so very ill for so very long. The Alzheimer’s Disease had cruelly robbed him and all of us of the warm, intelligent, funny man who worked hard, sang beautifully, told a great story, and loved his family above all else. At times in his life Dad struggled - as do we all - but his love for all of us never wavered.

Dad wasn’t laid out in our living room. He and Mom had sold that big old house a few years before and Mom was living alone in a condominium. Dad went out of the funeral home his father-in-law had gone out of. There was no Shomer in that tradition, but we did have an open casketed wake in the front parlor of the funeral home and his children and grandchildren were there to visit and attend. We said our goodbyes, had a proper funeral mass in the church Dad helped bring to fruition and buried him next to his parents and brothers.

Zichrono liveracha ~ His memory is a blessing.
And it always shall be...


You can read the story behind how a Catholic daughter came to light a Jewish yahrzeit candle for her father by clicking here. My poem, “Your Yahrzeit” can also be found there.

A Moment

Yesterday we drove down to Rhode Island for the first time since Christmas. We visited with my Mom as well as Al, Carrie and Isabella Rose. Izzy is in constant motion now. She has graduated from walking while holding on to two hands, to holding on to only one hand! (Racing down the hallway with her, while bent over holding her little hand, is a chiropractor’s dream scenario!) She is also saying “Hi!” for both hello and goodbye - rather like one uses Aloha or Shalom!

Because of her bottomless energy, most of my photographs of Bella are now quite blurry. This quiet moment on Uncle Chuck, examining his Lapis Lazuli beads, was a beautiful exception.

In other family baby news, our niece Kate’s pregnancy is progressing smoothly (Yes, I am knocking on wood!). And she is the only pregnant woman I have ever known who grows lovelier by the month. Kate, her husband Phil and the entire extended family are excitedly awaiting the arrival of Isabella’s cousin Finn, sometime in February!

Smoky Goodness

Chuck and I first tasted a Chipotle based salsa at a Mexican restaurant in Redmond, Washington many years ago. We were so taken with it, we asked the staff about it. Then we went off in search of some wonderfully smoky Chipotle sauce. We tried several, but eventually settled on Tabasco Chipotle. We love it so much we travel with it! We also use McCormick dried Chipotle. I use the Tabasco and the McCormick in all sorts of dishes, not just Mexican inspired ones.

On the other hand, I’ve always been unimpressed by paprika. I am especially opposed to the “decorative” use of paprika - sprinkled over deviled eggs for example. Sorry, but it always reminds me of red chalk dust. Recently I began to read about smoked paprika. Now that sounded intriguing. I decided to give it a whirl. I found a tin at Whole Foods. It was pure chance that I chose the exquisite La Vera Sweet Smoked Spanish Paprika from Safinter. It was a revelation! It imparts a fabulous smoky depth comparable to Chipotle but with more distinct red pepper flavor - plus it’s more versatile than Chipotle. I love it! I may even consider dusting it over a deviled egg...

Thank You TJ’s

For several weeks we have been devoting a great deal of time and energy to helping Chuck’s elderly aunt. Working with hospice has been of clear benefit to Tanta and a blessing to us. Every life is complex and complicated; Tanta’s no less than anyone else’s. We are wending our way through a life’s maze built on privacy and filled with explicit and sometimes contradictory requests and desires. We are learning a great deal. We are sad. And we are weary.

Ever since Trader Joe’s has been doing their “bring your own bag, fill out a ticket” raffle we have been faithfully filling out tickets. This has been going on for years. We have written our name and phone number on tickets and slips all over Massachusetts, in Rhode Island and out in Washington state. Week after week some other lucky TJ’s customer has won. That’s why we were so delighted to receive a phone call telling us that we had won the bring your own bag raffle! Several days ago we came home after a very long day on the road and being with Tanta, to see the red light on our answering machine flashing and four messages waiting for us. Three were about Chuck’s aunt. The last was a cheery message from a gal named Leslie in Shrewsbury saying we had won a $25.00 Trader Joe’s gift certificate! We listened to it twice and high-fived each other to boot!

Tonight, on our way home from Tanta’s, we stopped at the Trader Joe’s on Route 9 in Shrewsbury and picked up our gift certificate. Chuck couldn’t resist snapping this photograph. The gift certificate was a welcome treat; our names on the sign such good fun. And exactly what we needed right now.

Need Or Scam & Does It Matter?

Back in May of 2010 I posted about my dilemma when it comes to being panhandled. Many of you shared your stories of when you do and don’t and the internal struggles you have. I came away from that discussion feeling that saying no was generally the best strategy and to always say no to giving someone a lift somewhere. However, in the twenty months since I posted “Need Or Scam?” I have witnessed several instances of generosity under comparable circumstances, by folks seemingly far less fortunate than I. I say seemingly because we never can really tell who’s the prince and who’s the pauper just on appearance alone. These have happened in Worcester, Boston, Brookline, Cambridge and so on.

Late one night last winter, there was a young man who was a bit in his cups. He claimed he hadn’t eaten all day and wanted a couple of bucks to get a hamburger at the Burger King across the street from the Hess gasoline station in Webster Square in Worcester. He approached Chuck who was pumping gas. Chuck politely declined. Sitting in the car, I watched as the fellow went up to all the other customers. The only one who reached into his pocket and handed him a couple of bucks was a young man, dressed very casually, driving a beater. If I had been ranking customers socio-economically based on their rides, this guy would have been at the bottom.

Another time I was waiting for Chuck to sort out a transaction at the service desk in the Stop and Shop in Lincoln Plaza. It was late. The store was quiet with only one clerk near me ringing up orders. I watched as several customers passed through. I saw a young woman shopping with her pre-teen daughter. They were purchasing basic, no frills items. When the clerk asked if she wanted to donate to a local charity, the woman did not hesitate and said yes immediately. Then a man came through buying value sized bags of rice, cans of Spam and a few other basics. He too readily agreed to donate. None of the three appeared to have the last name of Rockefeller or Trump. But a couple of customers in office attire both declined to contribute - as had we when we were checking out. While not the same as being panhandled I was struck by the difference in responses.

These and several other moments have triggered interesting conversations between Chuck and me on our long rides between home and Rhode Island or home and Brookline. As a result, we ended up shifting our position on panhandlers from no to maybe.

This evening, we were driving back home from a tough visit in Brookline involving a medical appointment for a loved one. We ran a few errands along the way including stopping by the WalMart in Northborough. As we exited our vehicle in the bustling parking lot, a man in his late thirties or early forties approached us. He was holding a cell phone. He said he was driving between Worcester and Framingham and his car was running on fumes. Could we give him two or three bucks just to get a gallon of gas. He expressed embarrassment because of his predicament. He offered to mail the money back to us. (See paragraph one of Need Or Scam?!) Neither one of us fully believed him. Chuck glanced at me. I nodded and Chuck handed the fellow three bucks. The man repeated his offer to mail it back to us. (He had no way of knowing that was the least reassuring part of his story!) We declined and wished him well.

Will we always say yes? Not likely. But as we walked into WalMart we both felt glad that we had once again said yes. This time we understood that we had acted in a gray area, but that we had acted in kindness and with a desire to trust. We also knew the importance of letting go - not just of the three dollars, but of the decision. The money was moving on in the universe. We sent it with our best wishes.