Running On Empty


A funny thing happens when you show up for a 5K road race in early February.

You get a knot in your stomach and your heart starts thumping as you pin your number on your chest as if you actually expect to do anything more than finish. You realize that no matter how old you are, we all return to field day when the gun sounds. You know you’re 60, but something inside you thinks you’re 12.

Where is this adrenaline and knot in your stomach coming from?

I was in decent running shape a few years ago, and now I’m not. No matter how much I “train” – and by that I mean jogging with my dog on nearby hiking trails – I can’t get my groove back. I’m slow, and getting slower. I didn’t realize how pathetic I look until I told a fellow dog walker I’m “running” and she said, “Good for you!”

This set off an internal dialog. What did she mean? Does she think I’m too old to run, or should I say shuffle?

I planned to do a 5K on New Year’s Day and couldn’t because I threw my back out playing too much Pickleball. So I set my sights on the IRIS Run for Refugees, a 5K in New Haven, CT., that raises funds for refugee resettlement in Connecticut. I like a good cause, and I couldn’t think of a better one given the debate over Trump and his Wall.

Apparently, a lot of other people felt the same way. About 3,000 runners of all shapes and sizes converged at the start line. It was the largest turnout in race history. Even U.S. Sen. Richard Blumenthal was there, saying he planned to show a photo of us to fellow senators to show some Americans support refugees.

As he addressed the crowd, I looked to my right and saw a 4-year-old girl with bright blue eyes in a jogging stroller. I thought about her, and what this country will be like when she’s an adult. I hope that we’ll have our priorities in order by then, that we’ll have all of this sorted out. But I’m not so sure.

As we took our place in the middle of the pack at the start, I noticed the diversity of the crowd:

  • College kids from Yale University’s Trumbull College wearing Viking hats and carrying a huge flag stood in front of me. Note to self: get away from them as soon as the race starts unless you want to be speared or poked in the eye by the flag.
  • Lots of young moms and dads with jogging strollers, including one behind me. Another note to self: get away from the jogging stroller unless unless you want to be rammed by it or worse, left in its dust.
  • .Lots of people my age or older: Good for us!
  • Tons of kids of all ages: proof that schools and parents are instilling a sense of activism and social justice in the next generation.
  • People of all races and skin colors.

As the race began and we all inched toward the start line, I began listening to “Earth, Wind, & Fire Essentials.” If you want to tell your brain that you’re not old, listen to songs that you danced to at college frat parties. I can’t listen to “That’s the Way of the World” or “September” without feeling 18 again.

The music gave me a kick in my step, and I gleefully pass walkers during the first mile. I’m feeling pretty good until a roar erupts and the leaders pass by in the opposite direction. You’ve got to be kidding me.

I let out a weak cheer and then resume my plod, stopping midway during the second mile to take off my fleece jacket and tie it around my waist. I’m feeling OK until I look up and see a guy pushing a jogging stroller with another kid in a backpack ahead of me. Even a pack mule is outpacing me.

The third mile was ugly. I tried to run . . . and I just couldn’t at times. At one point, I said, “I can’t! I’m gassed” and a young woman turned around and smiled a me. She was walking too, so I guess she understood.

For me, running has always been a solitary thing, something best done alone. I have trouble keeping up a conversation because it always seems like someone asks me a question while we’re approaching a hill. And it’s hard to find exactly the right pace. Someone always wants to go a little faster or slower, making finding your perfect stride impossible.

I don’t enjoy these races for a few reasons. They make me realize how slow I really am. And they bring out a competitive spirit that has no business existing in a body that’s not built for speed. I try not to get annoyed as people go by me, yet I can’t help feeling a little peeved, particularly when people look like they don’t train at all.

But with the finish line (finally) in sight, the adrenaline and resolve returned. I began running again, refusing to stop and walk in front of so many spectators. When a young woman next to me began walking, I looked at her and motioned her to run again, as if to say “Oh no you don’t. You’re finishing strong.”

And she did. She began running and she didn’t stop until we crossed the finish line. I was so proud of her. I realized that sometimes, all we need is a little encouragement to get over the finish line. If I took anything away from the race besides my lousy time, it’s that. Sometimes, the smallest gesture means everything in the world.

My friend Christi greeted me at the finish line with words like, “You did it!” but my time was pathetic, even embarrassing. I’m not even putting it in here. If you’re that curious, look it up online. I promise you will have a good chuckle.

But as the Curmudgeon looked up the race results online, I studied my time. Yes, it was slow, ungodly slow. But I finished 36th in my age group. That’s something, isn’t it? I’ve reached the point where I’m making allowances for my age, cutting myself a break.

I suppose I’ve earned it, and at this point, I’ll take it.

Under Pressure


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In yet another nod to turning 60, I’m now the proud owner of a blood pressure monitor.

I’m one of millions of Americans strapping the cuff to my arm and checking my blood pressure every day. Boy, do I feel old.

I sprung for a good one at Costco, picking it up along with four pounds of grass fed beef, three pounds of organic chicken breasts, an electric hand mixer and a gigantic box of Newman’s Own coffee for the Keurig. The Curmudgeon and my daughter were quite excited to see it on the counter, even opening it and trying it out before me.

At this point, the only one who isn’t monitoring her blood pressure is the dog.


A verse from Under Pressure by David Bowie and Queen.

I’m doing it for two weeks in hopes of proving to my doctor and me that I don’t have elevated blood pressure. I’m hoping to convince him that I suffer from White Coat Syndrome, in which your blood pressure rises at the doctor’s office, and then returns to normal when you leave.

It would make sense. I get very nervous when I go to the doctor, even for routine exams. Then again, I think everyone does, particularly as we age. We know too many people who’ve gone to appointments and gotten bad news, and wonder how long we can make a clean getaway. I thought I’d escape – my blood work was good – when the cuff came out. Not so fast.

My blood pressure has always been normal, so elevated readings at my November annual check-up and a follow-up two months later are somewhat surprising. When my reading was elevated for the second time, my doctor suggested putting me on a low dose of medication.

“Don’t you think we’re jumping the gun a little?” I asked. “I mean, it’s usually normal. And I got kind of upset right before I came here. I was standing in line at UPS trying to overnight a package to my son and the woman in front of me was taking forever. I was feeling very rushed and frustrated.”

He didn’t buy it. As he wrote out a prescription, he noted that if my blood pressure’s high in his office, it’s probably high when I’m stuck in traffic or behind someone taking forever at the UPS store. I guess he has a point. When the woman at UPS turned around and apologized for holding me up, I looked at the clock and sniped, “Well, I do have to be at the doctor’s office in 5 minutes.”

Of course, that’s not really her fault or problem. I shouldn’t have stuck in an errand  when pressed for time. But isn’t this what we all do? We cut things too close and get annoyed when the driver in front of us is crawling, or we get behind the school bus stopping at every street. No wonder one-third of Americans have high blood pressure, something I didn’t realize until I bought my device.

They say getting older isn’t for sissies, and I’m beginning to understand why. When I asked my doctor why someone would suddenly develop high blood pressure, he said, “Think of your circulatory system as a hose. As it gets older, it gets stiffer and less efficient. It’s is like an old garden hose. And a lot of it is a function of age. You’ve never been 60 before.” Gee, thanks a lot.

I’d prefer not to take medicine, to try different foods and increase my aerobic exercise in hopes of lowering it naturally. But I’m not a fool. High blood pressure must be treated to avoid the risk of stroke, heart attack and organ damage, and I’ll take my medicine if necessary. High blood pressure runs on my father’s side, along with brown eyes, small red blood cells and heart disease.

My father and grandfather had high blood pressure and took medication for it. Of course, they seemed ancient at the time, but were probably in their 60s, a few years older than I am now.. I don’t think anyone wants to take medication, but we eventually accept that we need it. That, and a sagging jawline, are among the unfortunate concessions of aging.

Of course, this is something we all deal with if we’re lucky enough to get older. But I’m beginning to realize I have no idea of how old I really am. Case in point: I was watching Maury, and the camera panned to a woman who resembled me, but was older. “Wow, that woman looks like me, but she’s old,” I thought. “Imagine that.”

When the camera panned back to the woman, I realized that it was me. I was stunned because the segment I was watching was not one of the four I watched during a taping of the show last February. They used our audience shots and reactions for a completely different show, so it took me awhile to register that I was looking at me.

Boy, I could have used a lot more make-up, and a professional blow-out would have helped. As I saw myself, it made sense that I might need blood pressure medicine. The woman on TV looked old enough to need it. About the only consolation I had is no one I knows watches Maury, or admits to it. So far, no one has mentioned it, so I suppose that’s a good sign.

For now, I’ll take my blood pressure twice a day with the help of the Curmudgeon, who helps put the cuff around my upper arm and seems to delight in watching the numbers climb. When I’m done, I return the favor, strapping the cuff to his arm and seeing how he’s doing compared to me. (So far, he’s winning in the blood pressure and pulse department.)

This is not something I imagined doing when we got married 35 years ago, but I suppose it falls into the category of “better or worse.” It’s the least we can do for each other.

Long Live Lunch Ladies

Clockwise from top left: Barbara’s plastic tote; Barbara with chips in hand, and beaded peace bracelets we received for a small donation from a Tibetan monk near the Washington Monument.

I took my son back to college for second semester.

The sight of his bags always chokes me up, but I’m better than a few years ago when his departure made me an emotional wreck. I know he’ll be back with his dirty laundry. Besides, there’s a chopped salad waiting for me once we get to campus.

We have this little deal: I drive him 100 miles to the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, MA., if he agrees to get a chopped salad with me at the Hogan Campus Center. It’s a pretty even trade: he gets a free ride and I get a salad before the 90-minute drive home.

One of the things I’ve noticed is his rapport with the women who prepare and serve our salads. They know him on a first-name basis – no real surprise there – and have a genuine interest in him and what he’s doing. As a mom, this is very reassuring. The more people we have looking out for our kids, the better.

I didn’t think much about it until I hung out with a bonafide lunch lady last weekend. After spending a day with Barbara Paight, I’m convinced lunch ladies are the unsung heroes of school systems.

They’re on the front lines with kids every day, providing meals so they can go into the classroom with full bellies and learn. They see the kids every day, and can tell when they’re upset, anxious or a little off because they’re not eating. They see who’s eating alone, on the fringes or causing trouble. If they’re not part of school “teams” watching for troubled students, they should be.

I first met Barbara about 30 years ago at my first reporting job at a small newspaper. Barbara was on the business end while I was on the news side, but we had something in common: we both met our husbands at the newspaper. I guess it wasn’t a bad deal: we’re both still married to the same guys.

We moved on from that paper, which closed several years ago. Barbara worked office jobs until her elderly parents got sick, and she stayed home to care for them. After they died, Barbara heard about an opening for a cafeteria worker at a public school, and applied for the job. Today, she splits her time between a high school and a grammar school. At 65, she’s on her feet all day and logs 10,000 steps without trying, but she wouldn’t change a thing.

“I love being a lunch lady,” Barbara says. “I love the kids, and I look forward to seeing them everyday. They’re what keep me going.”

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I connected with Barbara last weekend at the Women’s March on Washington, D.C., where we both represented the Connecticut chapter of NOW. After wrapping me in a bear hug during a rest stop at the Delaware line, Barbara invited me to join her and her friend Dom for the day. I knew they’d be lively companions because they talked the entire way down while the rest of us tried to sleep.

If the tote bag she brought for the trip is any indication, Barbara is ideal for her job. Bananas, tangerines, crackers and mozzarella sticks were neatly packed in a square clear plastic tote that she carried cross-body style. She also carried a couple of bags of baked potato chips in her hands in case anyone needed a snack.

As a mom, I’m usually the one responsible for feeding my family, so it was a relief having someone else in charge of food. When I couldn’t open a mozzarella stick at the end of a long day, Barbara took it and showed me how to open it by grabbing the long end. I’ve never really known how to open them, even when my kids were little, so I appreciated the lesson.

I know some kitchen workers can be testy and mean, but I think it takes a special person to work in a school or college cafeteria. You must love kids and food, in that order, and you must tolerate deadlines, chaos and noise on a daily basis. I couldn’t do the job – the cacophony of the cafeteria would drive me insane – but I’m grateful that Barbara and others have found their calling.

Like many women who put their careers on hold to care for children, spouses or aging parents, Barbara’s priorities shifted when she re-entered the workforce. After a career as an office worker, she wanted something that would tap into her role as a natural nurturer. Her job as a lunch lady plays up to her strengths, which is why I think she finds it so rewarding. I think the longer you work, the more important it is to love what you’re doing.

I wish every kid could have a lunch lady like Barbara because she cares about the kids. She said that she can often tell when students are upset when they lose their appetite and stop buying lunch. She said she’s often aware when kids are going through tough times when they can’t afford breakfast or lunch. She’s genuinely sad when she learns that a student will be transferred because he’s too disruptive.

She’s keenly aware of the ups and downs of the kids she serves. I don’t know about you, but I’m grateful that some schools have workers on the front lines who take the time to notice and care. And if they’re not required to contact guidance officials when they suspect something is off, I think they should be.

Barbara told me she often uses her role to build rapport and put kids at ease. When a new child entered the district and was uncomfortable, she told him that she was once the new kid and understood how he felt.

“I was the first class to go to this school and I’m 65 now,” she told him. She said the boy got quite a laugh over the fact that she was the same age as the school. She said she’s glad she could break the ice for him and he’s a lot more relaxed now.

As we walked toward Freedom Square for the march, I asked Barbara why she was marching again for the second time since 2017.

“I’ve got four granddaughters,” she said simply. “I’m doing this for them.”




Notes From the March

Note: You’ll see and hear a lot about the 2019 Women’s March Jan. 19th in Washington, D.C. Here’s my first-hand account:

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The Connecticut chapter of NOW holding the historic banner pushing for the ERA at Saturday’s Women’s March in Washington, D.C.

It’s 6:35 p.m., and I just hopped on a charter bus after spending the day at the Women’s March in Washington, D.C. I’m freezing, and so is everyone else. It feels like we just came in from a blizzard. In Siberia.

Our bus driver is 35 minutes late, leaving us shivering in the shadow of the Washington Monument. We hug each other to stay warm. We sing “The Wheels On the Bus.” Toward the end, our fearless leader Cindy Boynton leads us in the Hokey Pokey. Hey, desperate times.

We get to our right leg in when the bus pulls up, and we storm it. We can’t get in fast enough. We must be the last protesters to leave town. We’ve never seen so many charter buses that weren’t ours in our life.

It’s the kind of bone-chilling cold that won’t leave. I can’t get warm. Every bone and joint in my body aches, and I can’t get my sneakers back on. I’m tired, but can’t sleep. Remind me why I signed up for this again.

Just kidding. I’m here because of the Women’s Movement, something greater than myself. I’m unhappy with this country and its direction under President Trump. I’m here because I believe Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, and now I’m even wearing a button proclaiming it on my purple ski jacket.

I’m here because I have a 17-year-old daughter and nieces whom I adore, and I want to show them I’m not afraid to stand up – or even chant – to fight for what’s right. I’ve been silent and complacent for too long. At 60, it’s my first protest march. What took me so long?

The day – or should I say night? – begins at 1:45 a.m. when we board the bus in New Haven. An hour into the ride, I’m still trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. I’m grateful to have two seats to myself, but still. This is awful. 

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The view from my windshield of New Haven Harbor.

What made me think I’d sleep on the bus? The last time I was on a bus I was in college and could sleep anywhere. I finally notch a few fitful hours, but give up at the Delaware line and spring for a Starbucks’ Grande at 5:30 a.m. Ready or not, here we come.

When we pull up at 7:45 a.m. in front of the Washington Monument, the woman behind me cracks an eyelid and says, “I need to find a Dunkin’ Donuts ASAP.” When I tell her that we’ll need to get off the bus and kill time before the 10 a.m. rally in Freedom Square, she cringes.

“You mean the bus isn’t staying here?” she asks. “That’s not really something I want to hear.”

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Scenes from Freedom Square.

No one in our group of 34 – I’m number 11 – wants to kill time, but we’re upbeat and pumped. Most of us don’t know each other, but we become fast friends and even snag a huge table at a coffee shop. Score!

Though this year’s march is panned for disorganization and division among women’s groups,  protesters in pussy hats and carrying signs with clever slogans converge on Freedom Square. What we lack in organization and numbers we make up in creativity and endurance. At 4 p.m., about 100 protesters are still in the square, holding hands singing and dancing in circles.

Everything and anything is protest sign fodder: The Wall. Women’s reproductive rights. The ERA. Mueller. Trump’s tweets. Trump’s tiny hands. Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, the woman at the center of the Kavanaugh hearings.

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But my favorite’s a handmade sign in black Sharpie:  “UGH, Where do I even start?”

And then the miracle: NOW leaders ask members of the Connecticut NOW chapter to carry an historic banner advocating the adoption of the Equal Rights Amendment during the march. Cindy told us about the banner, but we had no idea we’d get the chance to hold or carry it. It’s thrilling being so up close and personal to history.

The giant green banner was last unfurled during a protest march in 1977 – a year after I graduated from high school. Do I want to be part of history carrying one of the wooden poles supporting it during the march? You betcha.

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As we march the banner through the streets, I feel like one of those Chinese dragon dancers. With one exception: the Chinese dancers work in unison and appear to know what they’re doing. Getting everyone to hold a gigantic banner at the right height and width is harder than it looks. And other groups with banners are cutting in front of us, trying to steal our thunder.

It’s hard staying in step and keeping the banner level and readable. It’s difficult to keep the poles at the same height. It’s challenging to maintain our positions as pole holders because others want our poles.

A lot of other people want to be part of history, and repeatedly offer to take the poles. My buddy Barbara Paight even loses her spot when a woman takes her pole and gives Barbara her protest signs to carry. Barbara isn’t happy, but doesn’t know what to say.

“What are you doing?” I ask Barbara, a former co-worker I met 30 years ago at my first newspaper job. “Just tell her that you’re going to hold the banner because your friends are doing it. Get your pole back woman.”

Barbara is much calmer and generous than I am, even giving me a cozy hand-knit scarf from around her neck as we wait for the bus. But she wants to hold the banner, and I’m proud when she stands up for herself.

“Look, my friends are carrying the banner so I’m doing it too,” she says. “You can take over for me in a little while.”

The woman gives Barbara the pole, instead running interference for her as we work through the crowd. The banner grabs its share of attention from march participants, who crane their necks to read it and snap photos of us hoisting it skyward. But ultimately, all good things must end, particularly during a march with more stops than starts.

“Anyone want to carry this banner?” I ask after about 90 minutes. A woman takes my place, and soon Barbara, her friend Dom and I get to the outskirts to capture the scene. How many people are here? Maybe 100,000. Nothing like the 2017 march when more than 1 million people showed up, but a good crowd of true believers.

Some highlights:


A guy in a giant air-filled Trump suit was a big hit.


A pup wears a protest sign: Trump is not a good boy.


Our president Cindy, left, discusses the status of the ERA with a NOW leader.


One of the few men on our bus, Dom, had fun wearing a fluorescent jacket and gloves that made him look like a traffic cop. Here, he tries to order me around at the World War II Memorial.


The flip side of the balloon suit.


We were well-stocked on provisions.


The Washington Monument with the Capitol in the distance.


An wall engraved at the World War II Memorial paid tribute to women and their contributions to the war.


Dom and Barbara outside the White House. Trump arrived by helicopter a few hours later for his 4 p.m. speech about the Wall and government shutdown.

We arrive back in New Haven around 1:15 a.m., and I  head for my car caked in snow and ice. I forgot my ice scraper, and am convinced I’ll be sitting here for 20 minutes while the car thaws, but I turn on the wipers and it’s just slush.

No one else is on the road, and I follow a plow that clears the way home for me.

What’s Cooking?


The Connecticut chapter of NOW at an advance screening of “On the Basis of Sex” Jan. 10th.

The “kids” are still home from college, so a few of our son’s friends and their families gathered the other night to catch up.

It was a low-key affair on a weeknight to accommodate everyone’s schedule. Our host’s Christmas tree and decorations were still up and a fire burned in the family room fireplace, lending a cozy feel to the evening. A cat perched on a sofa arm, and wine was consumed before and during dinner. So much for the January Experiment, a new book advocating abstaining from alcohol during the month of January.

So nothing that extraordinary except one thing: the main course was prepared entirely by my son’s friend, a college senior. Let me clarify that. When the dinner was slated for a Monday night and his mom had to work all day, he also shopped and prepped the meal too.

I have college-age nieces who love to cook and food shop, or “source” as they say, and have been turning out incredible meals for years. But the boys? Not so much. And though I’ve over-parented my son in many areas, I’ve failed miserably in the cooking department.

He expects me to cook every night. This may not sound like a big deal, but it is. Breaking down gender-specific roles like cooking and care-taking was at the core of the early women’s rights movement. The new movie “On the Basis of Sex”  spotlights the issue, telling the story of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s fight to change a tax law that prohibited a man from taking a caretaker’s tax credit.

The case ultimately resulted in overturning 178 laws that discriminated on the basis of sex and were declared unconstitutional.

While prepping the landmark case with her husband Marty, Ginsburg notes that the tax law is antiquated and discriminatory because it assumes only women are caretakers and eligible for the deduction.

“Our client is a man. We can’t lose sight of that. Men are also harmed by these stereotypes,” Marty tells Ruth. “Boys are told they’re not supposed to be nurses, or teachers . . . ”

“Or cook for their families,” Ruth says.


A rare sight: my son grinding spices for the Thanksgiving turkey.

I’m not sure what RBG would think of my parenting skills when it comes to raising a modern man, but I suspect she wouldn’t be pleased. She divided household and parenting chores with Marty in the mid-50s when most women stayed home and raised families while their husbands went off to work. She’d probably be shocked that in 2019, some boys (and men) still expect and assume women will do all the cooking.

I know I could have done a better job, and I hope it’s not too late. In about 18 months, my son will graduate from college and will probably (hopefully) be living on his own. He needs to know how to cook. Everyone needs to know this important life skill.

I bounced this off some women I know with older children. They said I should chill out, noting cooking is something kids tend to gravitate to like any other hobby. Some also said they enjoy being the sole cook in their household, noting they enjoy having control of meal planning and what they eat.

They have a point, I suppose, but it’s nice to have a meal prepared for you once in awhile, and not have the burden of cooking every day. It’s nice when other people pick up the slack, freeing you up to do other things in the early evening.

I started out with the best of intentions. When my son was little, he sat on a kitchen stool or counter and “helped” me. One of our favorite annual traditions was making homemade sugar cookies, cutting them into different shapes for Christmas. After they cooled, we covered them in colorful frosting and doused them in various shades of sprinkles.

But our kitchen time diminished as he grew up and became interested in sports and video games (I know. X-Box was another huge mistake). He wasn’t interested in cooking, so we didn’t do it. I forgot that like a lot of things in life, such as cleaning and laundry, it’s important for parents to lead the way and demand participation.

A little background:

When we first got married, my husband cooked. He was 30, and had been living on his own for about seven years. He knew how to cook a limited menu – chili, tacos,  hotdogs, Shake & Bake chicken and spaghetti with sauce – and cooked a few times a week. We were both working full time, so it made sense and was fair to divide cooking chores.

Things changed when he went to law school, and began commuting an hour to and from campus. He had less time and inclination to cook and was swamped with studying, so I picked up the slack. Eventually, I began doing most of the cooking, which was OK because I was a better cook. In exchange, he did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. It seemed like an even exchange because I hate cleaning the kitchen.

Cooking fell entirely on me when I decided to stay home with my kids about 20 years ago. Splitting household chores becomes impractical when one person is working at least 60 hours a week and carrying the full burden of the family’s finances. It wasn’t practical for him to cook when he was arriving home between 7 and 7:30 every night.

My evolution into chief cook was gradual, sort of like the weight that accumulates around your hips after age 50. Slowly and steadily, I took on the role of primary cook while he became the main breadwinner. I remained a freelance writer, but my “career” was not how I’d envisioned things back at my liberal arts women’s college.

I take comfort in the fact that some of my most liberal and full-time working friends are also the primary, um only, cooks in their house. Their husbands wait until they walk in the door late at night and ask, “What’s for dinner?” too. But I hoped I’d do better with my son, raising a guy who knows his way around the kitchen.

I didn’t realize my oversight until my friend’s son cooked steak and roasted butternut squash and Brussels sprouts, even asking everyone how we’d like our steak cooked. When I suggested that my son make a similar meal for us, he waved me off.

“He just threw a couple of steaks on the grill,” he said. “What’s the big deal?”

You could say I spoiled my kids, but that doesn’t fully explain it. Our 17-year-old daughter cooks and bakes, and has been doing so for years. Some of it is necessity: she’s the most finicky eater I’ve ever met, and often doesn’t want to eat what I’m making. But sometimes she thrills me and makes enough zucchini noodles and sauce for all of us, and it’s such a relief to have a night off.

Our son has no interest in cooking, unless ramen noodles, canned soup and microwave popcorn count. He’s never been terribly interested in food, even as a baby. I used to call my mom in tears when I’d make and throw out 21 meals every week during his first two years of life. I’m not entirely sure how he’s gotten to be the size he is, but I guess he got some nutrients along the way.

It’s only with hindsight that I realize I dropped the ball. If I could do things over, I’d spend less time at my son’s tennis matches, and more time with him in the kitchen. I’d teach him knife skills, how to marinate meat, how to make a hearty soup and how to bake a potato so it doesn’t come out like a rock. I’d teach him how to pick out eggplants (always pick the lightest ones for the fewest seeds), how to grill fish and how to bake and frost cupcakes.

Fortunately, it’s not too late. He’s only a college junior, so I still have time to show him the ropes. And somehow, I think RBG would approve.


Alone Time


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Ever since I watched Lady Gaga’s documentary Five Foot Two on Netflix, I’ve been dying to see A Star is Born.

Gaga got the gig during the filming of the documentary, and I was anxious to see how it turned out. I was also curious to see her without her wacky costumes and make-up, which often detract from her beauty and incredible voice.

But the stars were not aligned for me seeing this movie, which has been in theaters since Oct. 5, 2018. A friend who initially planned to go with me in early November couldn’t make it. The Curmudgeon refused to go. My children politely declined. And most everyone else I know has already seen it.

So I did something I’ve never done before: I went to the movies alone.

I took my seat at the end of an aisle during the 4:05 show Saturday, and was stunned by the packed theater. Like me, these folks probably assumed this movie would be on Netflix by now, and they could watch it at home. But there are apparently a lot of hold-outs like me who got tired of waiting for it to stream.

I assumed I’d have the theater to myself because the film has been in theaters for three months. But no. Nearly every seat was taken. It didn’t hurt that it was a rainy and miserable Saturday in New England.

As I settled into my seat, I took comfort in the number of people who appeared to be at the movies alone. Growing up, I always went to the movies with my sisters or friends. When I got a little older, it became synonymous with date night. Few people except the most die-hard movie buffs dared to go alone for fear of being perceived as a loner.

But people do a lot of things alone today, and that’s a good thing because they would miss out otherwise. I’m always impressed by people who eat out alone, though I haven’t mustered the courage to do that yet.

As the film rolled, I began to relish being alone watching my chick flick. I could hear all of the dialog, and wondered why the woman next to me had to continually ask her husband to repeat lines. I was relieved that I didn’t have the Curmudgeon next to me making snide remarks like all of the men around me. The most irritating:

A guy in back of me: “Where do they come up with these stupid movie ideas?” during the previews about Beautiful Boy, which is based on a true story about a father trying to save his heroin-addicted son.

Another guy in back of me: “This is really starting to drag on,” about half-way through the movie.

The man two seats over from me: “Who is that guy?” about a background character. I was relieved when his wife snapped, “I have no idea!” and he finally shut up.

I didn’t hear one woman’s voice before or during the movie. We were too busy focusing on how different Gaga looks without make-up, the incredible voice coming out of her tiny body, and Bradley Cooper’s dreaminess despite his drunken ways. The guys? They felt the need to comment, perhaps because some were there under protest and wanted to make their presence known.

What I noticed watching the movie alone is that I was fully engrossed and could enjoy it because I wasn’t worrying about someone else accommodating me and suffering through something he didn’t want to watch. There’s nothing worse than feeling guilty dragging someone to a movie they don’t want to see.

There’s a great divide in what men and women want to see at the movies, and it’s gotten worse with time in my marriage. I don’t like blood, gore, war movies or action thrillers with violence. I refused to see Dunkirk despite the Curmudgeon trying to tempt me by noting it had some cute actors in it.

He went to see Dunkirk with our son and a couple of his friends. I stayed home, proud that I finally held my ground and refused to see a film I didn’t really want to see. We don’t go out to the movies much any more, mainly because we can’t agree on a film that appeals to both of us.

A recent exception was a family outing to see The Mule. I enjoyed the movie starring Clint Eastwood as an elderly drug mule and thought I might build a little good will with the Curmudgeon sitting through it. But he had no interest in accompanying me to A Star is Born.

“I have a great idea,” he said. “Go on Saturday afternoon. It’s supposed to be lousy out, so go see it then.”

When I came home and told him that the movie theater was filled with men who accompanied their wives, he was defensive and unapologetic.

“I know why it was so crowded,” he said. “There wasn’t a football game on TV yet. If you went to the later shows, you wouldn’t find a guy in there.”

I pointed out that I often accompany him to events to keep him company. For example, on Sunday morning I agreed to go with him to a nearby tennis club to watch our son compete in a match.

“Why should I go to the match when you wouldn’t go to A Star is Born?” I asked.

“Because (our son) is a star and he is already born,” he said.


“Listen, I’m not crying or holding a grudge because you didn’t go to Dunkirk,” he said. “And you were never that clear about when you wanted to go. You always just floated the idea, but never suggested a specific day or time.”

He does have a point, but I think a part of me wanted to see this film alone. I didn’t want to be distracted, and I wanted to soak it all in – everything from the love story and Gaga’s nose to the fluffy dog and the songs. I got my wish, even cried at the end.

I can’t wait to go alone again.

Holiday Cards


Our interest in creating photo holiday cards usually coincides with the arrival of the first baby. Here’s our son at 3 months old.

Like many folks, I dropped the ball sending out Christmas cards last year.

I wasn’t happy about it, but something had to give and it was cards to my friends and family. I simply didn’t have or make time for the annual tradition.

But I threw together a card at the last-minute this year, and am still in the process of getting them in the mail. Years ago, I’d have chastised myself and anyone else who didn’t send their cards before Christmas, but I’m a little more forgiving these days. Cutting people a little slack is one of the perks of getting a little older and wiser.

Most of all, I’m eternally grateful that everyone kept me on their Christmas card mailing list despite my sluggishness last year. In a different time, I’d have been deleted immediately for failing to keep up my end of the bargain.

But I did sense some annoyance. One of my oldest friends who usually scribbles a few words sent a card without so much as her signature. I think it’s her way of telling me to get my act together. In truth, assembling and getting cards out in the mail is not that big a deal. It’s certainly a lot better than feeling like a chump or slacker when you receive cards and don’t send anything in return, as I did last year.

I understand why cards fall through the cracks during the hectic holiday season, but I’m heartened by the number of people who still honor the tradition. It’s one of the few times of the year that my mailbox is stuffed with personal mail and it’s fun opening picture cards and seeing how kids have grown.

One of my sister Joanne’s greatest laments of empty-nesting was sending out a Christmas card without a photo of her three children, but we all get there eventually. “I’m now one of those people sending out a card that no one will really care about,” she said, or something like that. I’m not sure that’s true, but I get it.

We all love pictures, particularly of our friends and family featuring their children and pets. And here’s a little confession: I never throw out a photo Christmas card. I keep them in boxes in my pantry and my closet because they’re too precious to toss. They capture a moment in time, a tangible wish for love and good tidings from one family to another in this very crazy world. I guess I want to cling to the cards and what they represent forever.

My Christmas card photos began in December, 1997, when my son was three months old. I dressed him in a fuzzy red onesie and drove to Joanne’s house for a photo shoot. As I balanced him on my knees and held his hands, Joanne trained her 35 mm camera on my little man, but he refused to cooperate. He fussed and wouldn’t crack a smile.

“He looks so unhappy,” I lamented. “I can’t send out a photo of him looking so miserable. People will think I’m a terrible mother and that he doesn’t like me.”

He finally cooperated, managing a gummy grin befitting a Christmas card and official introduction to my family and friends. But it marked my uneasy introduction into the world of Christmas card photos. I realized it’s not easy to get a great shot, particularly when dealing with tiny children who have a mind of their own.

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This year’s card was a no-brainer: a shot from trip to London for a nephew’s wedding.

I thought things would be easier the next year when he was 15 months old. I snapped about 500 photos of him at a herb farm called Catnip Acres to capture his cuteness and personality, but I still wasn’t satisfied. I ended up sending out two different cards, one capturing his profile and another head-on. (Hey, if they occasionally produce two different magazine covers for Esquire and People, why not my Christmas card?)

My quest for the perfect card continued with the arrival of my daughter in 2001, and I learned the first lesson of parental photo taking: it’s impossible to get a great shot of both kids. If one was smiling, the other’s eyes were closed, and visa versa. Forget about adding the dog to the mix. I usually just ended up with her tail as she darted from the photo.

As a parent, it’s such a relief to get a decent Christmas card early in the year. A few years, I used photos from our annual summer vacation in Martha’s Vineyard for the card. So what if the kids’ hair was soaking wet from the surf? They looked happy and relaxed and the background of the meadow was fantastic. Best of all, I had my card photo. Whew!

Weddings are also a great time to capture Christmas card photos. Everyone is happy and dressed up, and there’s usually a relative or friend around willing to take the photo. As much as I enjoy some selfies – who am I kidding, I really can’t stand them – it’s wonderful to see photos that don’t involve seeing someone’s telltale sleeve or arm in the corner.

There is also the nearly forgotten self-timer option. For years, I was in charge of manning the camera for my mother-in-law’s annual Christmas card photo on the beach. I took enormous pride in perfecting the art of dashing from the camera to the assembled family while the camera flashed and beeped. This was before digital cameras, so I had to do it at least 10 times to ensure we got a decent shot.

One year, my mother-in-law hired a professional photographer for the shoot. But everyone was so stressed out by the experience – why is he wearing that wrinkled shirt? Why didn’t she comb her kids’ hair? Is that really what you plan to wear for the photo? – that by the next year we were back on the beach with the self-timer. We continued the tradition until my mother-in-law’s final summer in 2003.

It was important for my mother-in-law to show her family together, even if was just for 24 hours. Her children were scattered around the globe, so getting us together was no easy task. One year, we couldn’t pull it off and had to photo shop my brother-in-law David into the shot.

Of course, there’s a lot less pressure for the perfect shot with today’s wide assortment of cards, which feature collages for multiple photos and even spaces on the back for extra photos. But as in most things in life, sometimes less is more. I tried to insert at least two photos of my children onto the back of my card this year, and was scolded by Shutterfly for using photos with poor resolution.

I finally decided to leave to space blank because every photo I chose was poor quality. When my son asked why I was leaving it blank, I said, “I can continue to try to find a decent photo or I can check out and get these in the mail sometime before the new year. I’m going with the second option.”


We have Annie Oakley to thank for our long and storied history with personalized Christmas cards.                  (Photo courtesy of

Christmas cards began in 1843 in London. The first known personalized Christmas card was sent in 1891 by Annie Oakley, the famous sharpshooter and star of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show. She was in Glasgow, Scotland at Christmas 1891, and sent cards back to her friends and family in the United States featuring a photo of her on it. She was in Scotland, so she’s wearing tartan in the photo. Annie reportedly designed the cards herself and they were made by a local printer.

In keeping with Annie’s travel theme, I used a family photo from a trip to London last July for my nephew’s wedding for this year’s card. My sister-in-law Ann took the shot as we stood outside the church in 95-degree heat and sipped champagne after the late afternoon ceremony. I guess I’m most stunned that all of us look decent  despite the fact that we were sweating profusely. Perhaps that it why we all appear to be glowing.

I converted the shot to black and white to give it a vintage feel. I chose a black and gold card frame because the photo was too big for all of the other cards. It worked out well, but it wasn’t studied or planned. Our gigantic heads were just wouldn’t fit into most of the other cards.

I still have about 20 cards to get in the mail, and hope they’ll arrive by New Year’s Day. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot, but it’s the best I can do. Sometimes – no often – that’s enough. I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season. Thanks for your love and support, and . . .






Shady Characters


Three shades of shades: The Anna Wintour-inspired black frames, modern Aviator and Clubmaster.

There’s nothing more annoying than having someone ride your bumper in a traffic jam.

The Connecticut Department of Transportation is doing roadwork along Interstate 95 during the holiday shopping season, creating backups in the southbound lanes. I was trying my best to be patient when I noticed a late model Honda Accord practically in my back seat.

As we inched through traffic, the young woman behind me remained too close for comfort. I looked at her in my rear view mirror and it all made sense: she was wearing the most ridiculous sunglasses I’ve ever seen. One look at her shades and I knew she’s clueless. Who would wear huge sunglasses with white rims the size of ski goggles?

“What is with the sunglasses?” I muttered, sounding like a character straight out of Seinfeld.


It felt like the woman’s sunglasses were this big. But they actually were more like the shades below.


The sunglasses provided a welcome distraction for a few minutes. I wondered if any of her friends thought they looked silly too, but were too kind to say anything. We all bite our tongues when someone wears a surprising new pair of shades or glasses, but sometimes it’s impossible to keep quiet.

This happened the other day during lunch with an old friend, who has always worn his signature round wire-rim glasses. He startled me when he put on a pair of retro Clubmaster glasses, which made him look like Truman Capote.

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I wasn’t prepared for my friend’s new Clubmaster frames. Then again he looks good in round wire rims too.

“What are you doing?” I asked, studying his new frames. “Are you trying to be a hipster or something? Where are your old frames?”

My friend was a lot more tolerant than most people would be in that situation. Most people would tell me to buzz off and mind my own business. But glasses and sunglasses say a lot, making an instant statement to the world that we’re dorks, don’t give a damn, want to look cool, hip, sexy, trendy, irreverent or didn’t have time to put on eye makeup.

They’re one of the few things we wear on our face and significantly affect our appearance yet they’re often bought with very little thought or deliberation. We go into stores, try on frames while salespeople peer, and choose something. It’s a little like buying a bathing suit: you want to find something and escape as quickly as possible.

But like many things in life, the frames often look very different when you get them home, making you wonder what you were thinking when you bought them.

The Curmudgeon recently bought new frames for his prescription lenses. I was thinking something classic and sexy along the lines of Tom Selleck’s specs in Blue Bloods, but no. He arrived home with a pair of glasses that are squarish and boring, no better than the smaller square frames he replaced.


I was hoping the Curmudgeon would pick out something like Tom Selleck’s Ralph Lauren frames (above). But he chose a squarish frame. His brother Ted, left, chose a similar frame. The kid in the middle doesn’t wear glasses.

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“Seriously?” I said when he came home with them. “This is what you came up with?”

“I asked you to come with me to the optician and you refused, so this is what you get,” he said. “The woman at the place took one look and said they were me.”

So I have another woman to blame. I should have known. Guys will believe anything a woman other than their wife tells them. This is why so many guys are walking around with ho-hum glasses and bad toupees. They’re listening to women who don’t have a real stake in the game.

I used to wear glasses for distance. On my first newspaper job, I was wearing glasses when one of the Curmudgeon’s friends entered the newsroom and whispered, “Who’s the librarian?”

Yea, I looked like a first class dork. I switched to contact lenses, but am among the small percentage of the population whose distance vision actually got better with age. I don’t need glasses for distance, but am helpless without readers. I’ve got about a half-dozen pairs around the house, though I’m often without them when I need them most.

I never cared much about sunglasses until the early ’80s, when they became a status symbol for me and every other yuppie on the planet. We can credit Tom Cruise for starting the trend. He wore Ray-Ban’s original Wayfarers in the 1983 movie “Risky Business.” I don’t know what was more memorable: Tom dancing around in his skivvies or wearing his mega-cool shades.

He followed them up with classic Ray-Ban Aviators in 1986’s Top Gun. If Cruise isn’t getting a cut of Ray-Ban’s sales action, he should be. The man’s almost single-handedly generated billions of sales with his movie roles.

I bought my first pair of Vuarnet sunglasses – black lenses with black frames –  in the ’80s and wore them as I tooled around in my red Saab 900 with its removable radio (remember those) listening to Tears for Fears and Whitesnake. It was the Reagan area, a time of upward mobility when people judged you by your car, clothes, timepiece and eye gear.


I bought my first pair of Vuarnet sunglasses in the mid-80s. Here, Mick Jagger dons a pair.

I bought my second pair of Vuarnets after I lost the first pair after about two months. When I lost that pair, I stopped wearing expensive sunglasses. I was barely getting by on a reporter’s salary and had no business buying expensive shades, at least during my salad days.

I took the plunge again about 15 years ago, shifting to Ray-Ban Aviators. They’re predictable and unoriginal, but they’re classic and cool. And I was flattered beyond words when a female lifeguard at a pool pulled me aside and said, “I like your sunglasses.”

But I lost that pair and then broke another. I replaced that pair, and broke them again. They are now sitting in my purse, broken and of no use to anyone. I’m now running around with a pair of $15 sunglasses that I bought last summer in London, and a pair of $25 Goodr sunglasses, which are good for running (or jogging or plodding as the case may be.)

But as is the case in Christmas shopping season, it’s often impossible to resist a chance to gift ourselves. This occurred during a stop to the Sunglass Hut to purchase a present for a loved one. As I was about to pay, the saleswoman told me I could save $40 on a second pair.

Well, maybe just a quick look. I asked about Ray-Ban Aviators (will I ever learn?) and the girl scrunched her nose.

“Maybe it’s time for a new look,” she suggested. “Try these.”

I tried on a new pair, and then a second. And then I stumbled across maybe the greatest invention I’ve seen in a long time: a machine that takes your headshot and lets you see what you look like in your sunglasses. The machines, called Smart Shoppers, are located in Sunglass Hut stores. They allow you to try on frames that are not in stores, buy them, and have them directly mailed to you. (I guess they figure you can try on the frames in the store while you’re standing there.)

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The Smart Machine takes a photo of you and then lets you virtually try on frames.

Unlike mirrors, the machine gives you an accurate picture of what you look look like so you’re not walking around like you just got off the ski slope. I’m pretty sure they should be standard equipment for any store selling frames because they make the process easy and fun. You just stand there and tap different frames, even ridiculous ones that make you look like Anna Wintour.

Now, if we could only get a machine for bathing suits.












I shifted to Ray-

Light Years


I hid when the Christmas lights were pulled out of the basement and garage, intentionally busying myself with hanging snowflakes, arranging  nutcrackers and placing sparkly reindeer on the mantel.

I’ve been handling the lights for the past 34 Christmases, and well, I needed a break. I know what a pain they are, emerging in a tangled mass no matter how neatly you store them. And then there is the frustration: strings that don’t light or light up only half way, making you wonder if you should toss them or hide the dead side near the trunk.

After more than three decades, I’ve seen and done it all. I even paid an astronomical amount of money at the local hardware store for lights guaranteed to work for three years. They didn’t, but I never returned them because I was too lazy and overwhelmed with other Christmas stuff.

A friend went the artificial route, buying a lighted tree off Amazon and going all out decorating it. But the next day, the tree wouldn’t light. Amazon offered to send her a new tree, but that would involve dismantling her decorated tree and starting over again. Um, no. Convenience is one of the reasons people go the artificial route in the first place.

She was told she could keep the broken tree, and would be sent a new one for next year. She opted to just hang new lights on the broken tree to spare herself the hassle of starting over. I don’t blame her: I hate to do things twice, particularly something that I only expect to do once a year.

But it raises the question: why can’t someone invent a set of Christmas lights (or artificial trees) that will light year after year? I know there are gadgets that look like glue guns to fix lights, but those look like a headache waiting to happen. They remind me of those replacement kits for broken lamps. Only the most handy and patient people would go through that kind of trouble to save a lamp. Most of us just buy a new one.

Putting up the Christmas lights is a major decorating ordeal, ruining our hopes of having a wonderful holiday moment. The first step is to find the lights, untangle them and separate the good from the broken. The second is to actually string them on the tree with about a foot’s clearance from the wall.

I know there are people who do this job alone. But let’s face it: it’s a two-person task. You need a person on one side to hand you the lights and another person to guide the lights around the tree. It’s best if that person is on the slim side and has long arms to reach between the tree and the wall or window.

I decided to busy myself with other tasks to avoid the lights. My son knew what I was up to, coming into the dining room to ask why I wasn’t helping with the tree. “I’ll be in a few minutes,” I said. “I’ve just got to do a few things in here.”


I got my wish. The Curmudgeon began attacking the lights, separating them into piles as though he was sorting legal documents. Within minutes (well, about an hour), lights were covering a chair, couch and the floor. And then the fun began: he started stringing the lights on the tree, losing his patience after about a minute.

“Will someone help me?” he screamed. “And get this Christmas music off. All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth isn’t real Christmas music. Someone put on Silent Night or something else. Just not this.”

We put on Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas, a snappy tune that puts everyone in a great mood. My son began dancing in the corner as the Curmudgeon screamed, “Hang these. Take these. Start placing the lights on branches.”

The scene reminded me of why so many people have problems with Christmas. We all have wonderful images of family togetherness and unity trimming the tree, and then there is the reality: needles in your head from crawling under the tree to put it in the stand, sap marks on the ceiling and the coup de grace: the lights.

I guess this is why people take pictures of the finished product and post pictures of their glorious trees on Facebook, Instagram and other social media. No one takes pictures of hanging the lights or the process of trimming the tree. Then again, it’s not something anyone really wants to document or remember.

Perhaps this is why my Facebook friend Kate recently posted a photo of her tree with the caption “Done!” I think we all understood her glee.

As is the case most years, we’ve been forced to divide the tree decorating into two days: the lights, and then the actual decorating. The lights took so long to hang that no one had the time, energy or interest in the actual hanging of ornaments, candy canes or tinsel.

But the lights are up, and I must say the gentlemen did a wonderful job. The lights are evenly spaced and plentiful, capturing the beauty and outline of our fresh tree and concealing most of the gaps in the branches. There is nothing I love more than the glow of a Christmas tree in a room, or the sight of a lighted tree in a distant window.

It’s especially wonderful when I have absolutely nothing to do with it.


The almost finished product.




G & The Gang


All seven of us gathered to celebrate our mother’s 85th birthday on Saturday.

I told the Curmudgeon I was writing this for my mother’s 85th birthday.

“It about time you wrote something positive and got off of my back,” he said. “Finally, you’re writing about something good.”

The Curmudgeon loves my mother, but so does everyone. She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She’s quiet and unassuming, but she makes a lasting impression by being so nice.

Mom’s big heart was one of the first things my cousins and oldest childhood friends mentioned when I contacted them and asked them to share memories of Mom. That, and her love of soap operas. I swear she introduced a whole generation of kids to the joys of Another World and The Young and the Restless, though my Dad dismissed her shows as garbage.

“I remember coming over to your house almost every day after school to watch Another World or (Guiding Light),” my friend Lizzie writes. “While we sat there and watched the programs, your mother was folding a mountain of laundry. I couldn’t get over the amount, but of course it made sense; there were so many of you! And even though there were so many kids running around, she was always so welcoming to your friends, like me and Robin. I LOVED going over to your house!”

Lizzie remembers coming over and seeing one of my little sisters standing on a chair washing dishes. I don’t remember that scene, but we all had chores. As one of the three oldest, I was on kitchen duty beginning at age 10. I was in charge of cleaning pots and pans, and still take pride in the fact that I can clean burnt-on grease with the best of them.

Robin, who lived across the street, said having just one younger brother was often boring, so she’d come over to our house looking for action. It wasn’t too hard to find in ’70s suburbia when a playdate involved opening your door and seeing who was around.

“My house was quite boring at times so I ran away to yours for some excitement,” Robin says. “I clearly remember decorating your Christmas tree. That I really loved.”

My cousin Denise still cherishes a small box my mother bought her as a souvenir as we wrapped up our annual trip to Cape Cod with her family.

“Aunt Gerry told me to pick something out,” Denise writes. “I picked out a pretty jewelry box and when I brought it back my mom thought I would never use it. Over 40 years later I still have that jewelry box Aunt Gerry bought me. I keep money in it like $2 bills and silver dollars.”


A souvenir box from Cape Cod. That sounds like something my mother would buy her niece.

My cousin Bob reminded me that Mom and her sister Joan used to talk on the phone every Saturday morning. Yes, they did. If you were silly enough to try to interrupt the phone call, my mother  would wave you off as if to say, “Talk to the hand.”

“I think that was the highlight of my mom’s week!” Bob recalls. “It was always better to ask my mom for something after one of the Saturday telephone calls because they put her in a great mood. My Dad knew this as well.”

Mom took center stage at a party in her honor on Saturday, where she puzzled everyone by ordering coffee and a large beet salad. She brushed off cake, but did indulge in a birthday cannoli that arrived with a lighted candle. I swear she looked like a little kid blowing it out.

At 85, Mom is proof that age is just a number. She’s something of a dynamo, showing no signs of slowing down and expressing shock that I nap more often than she does.

I worried about G after my father died in 2009, leaving her on her own for the first time since 1956. My parents were married for 53 years and were always a couple, dining out twice a week while we were growing up. My Dad insisted on it, saying it was the only time they could talk without being interrupted by seven kids.

As the mother of two, I get it. It’s often impossible to get a word in edgewise with children under foot. But I also marvel at their bravery: they often took us out to Sunday dinner after church, marching to our table as we followed like ducklings. I still remember other patrons looking up and asking, “Are all of those yours?”

Like many of her generation, it was important for G to raise well-behaved children and she believed that the only way was to expose us to certain situations. She doesn’t understand why today’s kids need picture books and snacks to make it through Sunday mass, noting, “We never did that. We just brought you to church and expected you to behave. Children have to learn how to sit still without all these distractions.”

With seven kids and 17 grandchildren, I guess you could say G is a bit of a parenting expert. One of her greatest feats was raising seven girls without ever having a lice scare. She put our hair in ponytails and braids every day to avoid the scourge, but I think she was lucky. Very lucky.

I’ve seen other people who fell apart and gave up after losing a spouse, too consumed with loneliness and grief to enjoy life. I worried about G because, well, I just did. But she’s carried on in fine fashion, relying on her family, close friends and yellow Lab Maggie for companionship.

G keeps herself busy, playing bridge at the Senior Citizen Center a few times a week. She’s in charge of hiring someone to landscape the entrance to her street and collecting money from neighbors, most of whom cooperate. She goes to movies and out to eat with her close friends. She has dinner every Sunday night at my sister Janet’s house. She’s engaged in her community, recently voicing her opposition to a zoning project in her hometown.

When she called me to discuss the proposed project, I said, “Don’t you think it’s a little late in the game to become a rabble rouser? Why are you getting yourself involved? Don’t you have better things to do?”

I thought I was being funny, but I offended her. She thought I was being critical – which I was – but I really hurt her feelings. She began to choke back tears, and I quickly apologized for questioning her involvement in civic affairs.

If she wants to be a community activist at this stage of the game, who am I to judge? I guess I was just a little surprised because I’m used to being the loudmouth of the bunch.

I think my mother’s greatest gift is her love of children, and doing her best to nurture each child. She didn’t compare us to each other – ever. She encouraged me to play golf and tennis, though she is not a sporty girl and doesn’t have a competitive bone in her body. When I was a little chunky in junior high school, she suggested I might try limiting myself to one dessert a night.

To my frequent consternation, she refused to get involved in kids’ stuff, dismissing me with a “Well what did you do?” when I’d come home and relate that I was mad at someone. She had no interest in our tiffs with friends, realizing only foolish adults meddle in such affairs.

Perhaps her hands-off approach stemmed from the clear delineation between adults and children in our family. Though I know parents who want to hang out with their children on weekends and vacations, it was an us and them mentality and we all knew where we stood.

One of the greatest shocks in life is that we all need our mothers, no matter how old we are. They’re our first bond to life, our source of love, nurturing and protection. We count on them to be around to tell us that everything will be OK, our spouse is acting like a jerk, or our kids will outgrow their obnoxious stage. And let’s face it: it’s nice to be able to call someone Mommy when you’re 60.

I’m not the type of person to call my mother every day, and I drive her nuts when I don’t return her phone calls. But this is our little dance. She knows that I love her and would do anything for her. Heck, I’ve been having Thanksgiving at my house for 30 years mostly as a favor to her.

I don’t know how much I rely on my mother until things go south. One of the toughest periods of my life was waiting for my son’s adoption to be finalized. We were all on tender hooks for about a year as the case dragged through the courts. The adoption could have fallen apart at any point. I’m not sure I could have gotten through it without my mother’s support and kind ear.

She’s the only one we brought to Probate Court with us when the adoption was finalized. Other than my wedding day, it was the happiest day of my life and I wanted to share it with her.

I’ve counted on her during other dark periods, even asked her to go to doctor’s appointments with me to shore up my courage. And though I often think of her as shy and retiring, she’s pretty brave when she needs to be.

She had one of her knees replaced a few years ago because, as she told her doctor, she wanted to dance at her grandsons’ weddings. She did, kicking up her heels on the dance floor with twenty-somethings and holding her own. I wasn’t really surprised. She could always dance way better than I can too.