Greenbank, July 8, 2009

Waiting for Juanita...sad about leaving but curious about what I already know, what is home....wondering if the weather will worsen and pondering the possibility of another day, knowing I will miss the little black cat with her yellow eyes, and the walk from Salt Kettle to Darrell's, the peace by the water and the glorious views....the full moon over the ocean....making comparisons between how it was and how it is....I quickly snap this goofy photo of us....and Juanita pulls into the drive and honks the horn to let us know she is here....

Doodling in the District

It's been a while, I know. I was in the District last week, and this is what I did....

I drew a picture!

Questionnaire

The internet questionnaire Holly sent me a couple of days ago:

"Welcome to the 2008 edition of getting to know your friends/family. Change all the answers so they apply to you, and then send this to your friends including the person who sent it to you. The theory is that you will learn a lot of little things about your friends that you might not have known! Just press the 'forward' button. Then you can erase my answers and add yours . "

1. What time did you get up this morning?
Alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. I didn't actually arise until 7 though.

2. Diamonds or pearls?
Diamonds.

3. What was the last film you saw at the movie theater?**
Frozen River.

4. What is your favorite TV show?
Curb Your Enthusiasm....also enjoyed Sopranos and Six Feet Under

5. What do you usually have for breakfast?
Too embarrassed to answer this question honestly after reading Holly McNutt's healthy answer....

6. What is your middle name? Beth

7. What food do you dislike? Veal. I will not eat veal. I am horrified by it....

8. What is your favorite CD at the moment? No favorite CD at the moment as I recently acquired an Ipod, which I adore and cherish. It plays in my car!

9. What kind of car do you drive? 2005 GMC Yukon Denali and 2009 Mercedes E350

10. Favorite sandwich? Reuben

11. What characteristic do you despise? Several: dishonesty, cowardice, insecurity

12. Favorite item of clothing? ripped blue jeans

13. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?
Go back in time to Bermuda, before it changed....twenty years ago, when my cousin Jeanette was alive and owned Flamingo Beach

14. Are you an organized person? Hell no. Desperately disorganized....

15. Where would you retire to? Some warm place by an ocean so I can flop around like a happy seal in the sea and read my novels on the sand....in a shady spot....

16. What was your most recent memorable birthday? Shared some birthdays with friends in New Orleans and in Cabo--stress-free and inebriated.

17. What are you going to do when you finish this? Rest. All these questions have exhausted me.

18. Farthest place you are sending this? Los Angeles

19. Person you expect to send it back first? Colleen

20. When is your birthday? November 11

21. Morning person or a night person? Night, but mornings are nice too as long as I can meet them on my own terms.

22. What is your shoe size? 10 or 11 -- big feet. I am almost 6' tall and could fall over if they were any smaller.

23. Pets? My dog named Cat

24. Any new and exciting news you'd like share? Is this interrogation almost over?

25. What did you want to be when you were little? Older.

26. How are you today? Waning, so many questions....

27.What is your favorite flower? Whatever I can grow. My true favorite is one I don't have, lilac. The smell is divine. I also love the smell of honeysuckle, which grows in abundance in my woods. On a warm night, you can smell it from the driveway. I grow Cosmos everywhere.

28. What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to? Whatever day tomorrow is.

29. What are you listening to right now? The imaginary voices in my head telling me to "Get out. Get out now!"

30. What was the last thing you ate? A forgettable evening special at the Sly Fox.

31. Do you wish on stars? I wish I may, I wish I might.

32. If you were a crazyon, what color would you be? Fire engine red.

33. The last person you spoke to on the phone? Matt in L.A.

34. Favorite soft drink? Diet Coke

35. Favorite restaurant? Any hot dog cart that has Sabrette hot dogs. I like to eat outside.

36. Hair color? Lightest golden brown, a la L'Oreal

37.What was your favorite toy as a child? George, my stuffed St. Bernard

38. Summer or Winter? Summer!

39. Chocolate or Vanilla? Not sure what you mean. Is this a question about my preference in men?

40. Coffee or tea? Coffee with ice, cream and sugar

41. Do you want your friends to email you back?** Yes, immediately--no matter what else they have to do.

42. When was the last time you cried? About a week ago.

43.What is under your bed? Boxes of old photographs and papers from college, dust mites and a cantankerous goblin.

44. What did you do last night? Met Pam in Wayne to see "Frozen River," ate popcorn and drove home in the rain listening to "Oh mio babbino caro" and "Miserere" on my iPod.

45.What are you afraid of? Being unprepared.

46. Salty or sweet? Sometimes salty. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes messy. Sometimes neat.

47. How many keys on your key ring? The Denali's key ring has about 20 keys, mostly for the houses. The other car's key ring has only three--car (which is not really a key per se, but this thing you stick into the ignition to turn the car off and on), house and office.

48. How many years at your current job? 17 as a lawyer. 9 1/2 as a mother.

49. Favorite day of the week? Any day without stress or laundry. I don't like laundry. I don't like going to the market either. Or when the toilet gets clogged.

5o. Do you make friends easily? What? People suck. (See answer to no. 52 below)

51. How many people will you send this to? Not sure. As many as I can and, hopefully, they will become as irritated as I am now.

52. How many will respond? None. (See answer to no. 50 above.)

53. Do you like finding out all this stuff about your **friends?** Why is the word friends in this question surrounded by asterisks??? Will my friends become **friends** if they have to answer so many questions?

The Birds

Suspense and shock beyond anything you have seen or imagined!

This morning, while Cat and I were in my bedroom, we heard noises downstairs...loud indiscriminate noises, paper rustling....was someone in the house? A local friend told me the night before that there were forty break-ins in Kimberton in one month, including one at his home recently, so my first thought was, oh no, someone just walked in! We went to the top of the stairs to investigate, and an enormous bird, a falcon, flew madly around the foyer. Cat ran down the stairs and jumped in the air, barking and growling. She wanted it! The poor bird slammed itself into windows and walls and then perched for a moment on my sheep painting in the dining room. I was impressed by its size. I understood that this bird was a hunter, and Cat's eyes would not be immune.

Cat, too, is a huntress and had fixed firmly on this creature hanging from the painting on my wall. I feared one of the animals could get hurt (this would not be the first bird to find itself in Cat's jaws), so I closed Cat into an upstairs bedroom. Typical of me, I returned to the foyer and sighed, then sat on the staircase as the falcon's flying mayhem continued above me, and considered how to spend my time. "Dammit. I have other things to do this morning. Fuck."

So I opened the front door, hoping the big bird would fly through it. Instead, it flew into the high foyer window and futilely attempted to fly through that until it became exhausted, eventually hanging from the window's lock by one long talon, its feet above its head, its mouth wide open. Had it died? By repeatedly slamming into walls and windows, had it killed itself? I was horrified. From my perch on the stairs, I watched it for a while and saw that its body heaved gently...breathing...and its eyes scanned the room. I ran back upstairs and went into the bedroom to finish getting dressed. I hoped that by the time I re-emerged, the bird would be gone.

Well, it wasn't. It still hung there upside down, practically motionless. I decided to fetch a long bamboo pole from the garage. I could tap it gently with the pole, and it might come away from the window and fly through the door. On my way to the garage, I passed through the laundry room and saw...another bird! (What the fuck is going on?) This was a small grey bird, sitting on the floor near a pair of shoes. We scared each other, and it flew out of the laundry room and into the family room, frantically seeking escape through the closed windows. I sat on a chair feeling idiotic and annoyed. Surely, if I left the house to go to work, the falcon would eat the little bird...and perhaps that plan is what started all this....but I couldn't deal with the thought of such carnage in my home, so I got a dish towel and, after a while, the little bird became exhausted (it, too, had its mouth open) and let me pick it up and put it outside.

One down, one to go. I turned toward the foyer, hoping the falcon would be gone. I looked up at the window, and it wasn't there. Good. But when I approached the staircase to return upstairs, we stared quietly at each other. It had yellow rings around its eyes. It sat there on a step halfway up the staircase, calmly gazing at me, wondering (as I was) what the fuck was going on this morning. It was beautiful. But it was in my house, so I sternly recommended that it "get the fuck out!" and pointed to the door. And so it did, and I went upstairs to brush my teeth.

They are not all the same

Last night, I took James and a friend's son to Hoss Steak House. Shortly after we arrived, I saw Adam, father of Dan, imfamous songwriter of "The Curse Song," at the salad bar. He waved and told me where his family was sitting. James and Dan were delighted to see each other.

As soon as we sat at our table, I noticed that my gynocologist, Dr. K., was seated at the next table with his wife, daughter and grandchild. I would have acknowledged him, said hello, waved, smiled, winked, whatever....but he discreetly pretended not to know me. I wondered why. After all, as the patient, I am the one who must contend with the humiliation of the annual gynocological exam, not he.

His cold shoulder, as it were, got me thinking....After each yearly exam, he invites me into his office for a final chat, ostensibly an opportunity for me to relay any concerns or ask any questions. I never have any. I always feel somewhat embarrassed even though my clothes are back on, and all I really want is to leave and put the exam behind me. But the after-exam chat in the office is his procedure, so I go along. What happens though, is that I have to make up something to talk about, usually not problematic for me, but facing the man who, only minutes prior, has given me an internal exam, is (problematic, I mean).

Year after year, the after-exam chats become increasingly difficult for me. Last year, though, I did have a question and, as soon as we sat together in his office on opposite sides of his desk, he smiled and waited...for me to say something. "So tell me," I started, "do they all look pretty much the same?"

Without missing a beat, he smiled slightly, folded his hands on his desk and responded, "No."

"Oh, really?"

"Really."

"Really?"

"Really."

"OK," I said, nodding reflectively.

I thought of this exchange while my gynocologist sat five feet away from me eating steaks with his family at Hoss. I couldn't share my recollection with the children at my table, of course, but after a while, I wondered who felt more embarrassed, him or me.

Years ago, when my child was a baby, his father and I took him to Teresa's in Wayne for supper. My previous gynocologist. Dr. E. (who delivered James but passed away several years later and had been a partner of Dr. K.) was there, dining with his wife, grown children and grandchildren. He waved to us happily, and we waved back.

So next year, maybe I will have something to discuss with Dr. K. during the after-exam chat. Or maybe I won't.

Shelly and Superman

James telephoned from Connor's house across the street. "Mommmm! Shelly is missing!" Shelly is the hermit crab of Allie (short for Alexander), who is Connor's five-year-old brother. I heard other boys shrieking in the background. "James, calm down. All of you have to look carefully for Shelly...without stepping on her." He slammed the phone down. Five minutes later, he called again to report that someone had found Shelly, who was hiding (or sleeping?) in one of Superman's spare shells. Superman is Connor's hermit crab. Apparently, hermit crabs go indiscriminantly from shell to shell. Who knew? Yet another potential disaster averted.

One of our neighbors lost a limb recently. I was shocked to hear that, but James told me not to worry because it would grow back.

Twenty minutes later, a pile of boys ran in the pouring rain from Connor's house to our house and repeatedly rang the doorbell. Cat barked and ran downstairs. I opened the front door, and James remarked informatively, "Mom, we're here" and then "To the basement!" Numerous rain soaked children stampeded past me and descended, slamming the door behind them.

Between Mueller's and the firehouse

James at Tom's Cove

Chincoteague

The drive seemed, at times, interminable, but the house has wonderful views, and I'm glad to be here. I have come every Summer since 1998 and once before then. From the balcony outside the bedroom, I see the house Jim and I rented twice in one Summer, and am reminded of so many other things, including the significant amount of vomit I expelled there while pregnant with James.

Truly, there is much to be said for making the best of wherever you are.

And we, happily, are right on the water, directly across from the lighthouse in Assateague. Nearby, a neighbor plays her fiddle and her partner his guitar. Gorgeous view. Breeze. Live music. So far so good. Very good.

New Car

"My friends all have Porsches, I must make amends..."

Batmobile is getting a new sister. Wayne told me yesterday that she came off the boat in Baltimore and is on her way to Devon on a truck. It's not that Batmobile minded being an only car, but she often felt lonely. If you went into the garage at night, you could just tell.

I will be glad to complete this transaction and be rid of Wayne. I dislike most salesmen, Wayne being no exception. Within minutes of meeting us, he pulled a hardcover book from his desk drawer and showed us the Ranier family tree, pointing out that he was once married to Ranier's sister's daughter and therefore has a son who is a wealthy baron. That's very interesting....Wayne is a car salesman in Devon, Pa., and his son is a wealthy baron in Monaco.

Although showing patience is not my strong suit and I become bored easily, I managed to restrain myself. I generally find such situations intolerable and interrupt and distract until I can get the person across from me back on track. I need to get to the bottom line quickly. Jerry told me afterward that I was unusally well behaved, congenial and restrained, for a change. I rolled my eyes only a few times, took the key and tested a brand new car which had only five miles on the odometer. I was able to turn the ignition, put the car in reverse and drive....and drive....but the many gadgets were mysteries to me. Driving on the back roads was exhilerating--smooth and fast....I pressed down with my foot, accelerating until I noticed in the mirror the police car tailgating me. I pressed the brake and trembled, beside myself with fear. Jerry said, "Relax," but I couldn't. I looked desperately for a road to turn off, but there was none, just driveways leading up to big houses. Eventually, the officer turned right, and my heart beat slowed to a normal rate. Too late. I felt so unnerved that I turned back and returned the car. "I'll take it. I want it now," I told Wayne. It is extravagant, sure, but so what. It's on the way.

And now comes the waiting which, according to Tom Petty, is the hardest part.

Pet Crematory Plan Revised

Communicated recently with The Undertaker who seems astonished that I cannot get excited about his business plan. It appears as if the wheels are turning, and he's come up with yet another business proposal which he framed in an e-mail to me this morning:

"Had to postpone Pittsburgh trip, might try again in a couple of weeks. And I saw the Batman flick, which I thought was good but a little long. I am around thurs and fri of this week. Maybe lunch where I can discuss my new idea of having a people crematory right next to the nursing home.. whadya think?"

Now, we're talking....

Lindsey Lohan's Tits

The boy invites his school and day camp chum, Daniel, over to play. I had heard about this boy from mine, how he frequently "uses curse words," including daily regaling the boys in the locker room with a song called "The Curse Song" which contains "the f-word, the s-word and both b-words, Mom!"

Look, I won't lie....my boy hears an occasional obscenity tumble from my mouth. Once, when he was three, I thought he was in another room and blurted out, "I don't give a shit!" to someone on the telephone. Out of nowhere, the boy came running into the kitchen pointing his finger at me and said, "Oooooo, Mommy! You said the s-word and there is a three-year-old child in the house!"

Around that time, during a walk in our neighborhood, which has no sidewalks, a car approached in the road and sped up instead of slowing when it saw us. I jerked the boy toward me and muttered, "Asshole!" The boy shrieked with laughter. "Ahahaha, Mommy said asshole! You are so funny, Mommy!" A month or two later, he asked me very matter of factly if he could see my "buh-gina" in a restaurant in Chincoteague. The elderly couple next to us laughed. I turned red and said, "No." "Why? Why can't I? I want to see it NOW!"

Still, while I don't condone the boy's occasional use of profanity, I realized pretty early in the game that the more I forbid something, the more he wants to do it. So when a "curse word" is emitted, I call him on it and then move on.

So Daniel comes over and they go into the basement and slam the door behind them. I hear raucous laughter and assume they're playing the Wii and trading Yu-gi-oh cards. I smile, glad they are happy, and take my New York Times out into the woods to lie on my chair and read. Everything is good. There is shade and a gentle breeze. Very good.

After a while, our Catahoula barks, and I realize Evan has arrived but cannot work the gate. "Hey, dude, what's up?" I ask. Evan is ten.

"You know, Suzanne, I rang the bell four times and no one answered. That's just wrong."

"Hmm...Maybe. But I didn't hear you, and the boys are in the basement. Come in, come in." As I open the gate to the new fence, he remarks, "I imagine this fence must have cost you a fortune. Am I right?"

"You are indeed. Go to the basement and behave yourself." I return to my spot in the woods.

After a while, I go inside for inspection and realize that there are four children in the basement, not three. It goes that way sometimes. If you turn away, you never know who is there. Frankly, I don't care how many children are in my house as long as they are all reasonably happy and not fighting with each other. Boys do that. Fight. And complain that everything is unfair.

Evan is unhappy. He comes upstairs to meet me in the kitchen. "What's up?" I ask. He claims my boy is bossing him around. "You know, Evan, I'm going to tell you the same thing your mother often tells you. Try to work it out, but if you can't, well, I'm not going to." He shrugs his shoulders, pouts and returns to the basement. After some years of mediating and negotiating children's spats and tantrums, I decided a while ago that I am too old to get in the middle. Besides, the conflicts always die down after a while and are forgotten, so why get agitated and concerned? It's kid stuff.

Eventually, Evan and his brother leave, and I take the remaining boys for hibachi. The boys are seriously foul in the restaurant. Initially, I'm unsure whether to discipline when Daniel lets loose with a loud version of The Curse Song. I have to look away so they don't see me smile and assume that I approve. Actually, I'm not sure I don't. It's funny. My boy shakes with laughter--and I don't want to spoil his fun. I get such pleasure out of seeing him enjoy himself. After a while, though, I suggest that they tone it down, that it's not appropriate to make such utterances in public.


A young couple sits at our table, so I have to at least pretend to be on top of the wayward behavior and occasionally tell the boys sternly to "Knock it off" and "Cut it out. I mean it!" I might as well be talking to the sushi. After a while, I apologize to the young couple, and the wife (who stifles laughter throughout the meal) says, "It's ok." I ask if they have children, and she says, yes, two boys, ages two and three....and then adds "Actually, your boys don't act too differently from ours." Now, that is funny. And accurate, I imagine.

On the way to Daniel's house, the conversation consists of such Daniel gems as:

"Yeah, remember the time that guy said he saw Lindsey Lohan's tits?" James cannot control himself and shrieks, "Oh my God!" and whispers, "You said tits."

"My [six-year-old adorable] sister is such a bitch."

"Oh, fuck, I just lost!" [while playing his video game]

"Mommy?"

"Yes, James?"

"Are you gonna tell Dan's parents?"

"Nooooooo."

"My mom is so cool." I am also, at various times, "crazy," "ruining [his] life" on a regular basis and the "cruelest woman on earth." So I smile. I'll take my kudos where I can get them.

Alright, so this other boy swears. But I like him. He's bright and cute and besides, who gives a fuck?

Jack Up and Jerk Off

One thing that disturbs me about as much as the pet crematory plan is a fellow attorney who proceeds frivolously in order to jack up his bill and/or satisfy a client who has unrealistic expectations. Without naming names, there is a father and sons outfit in the adjacent county who are experts at this.

I have a divorce case with one of the sons from that firm and was very happy to finally get the matter into the courthouse this morning. He wangled numerous continuances in this and the pending support matter by insisting, for example, that he was attached in various other court matters for every weekday of one month. Such tactics frustrate me, but I decide early in the case to proceed calmly but firmly--and cheerfully--pretend I don't know what an asshole he is and treat him like any other human being. A typical telephone conversation with him begins like this:

Him: Hullo.

Me: Hi, Dan. How are you?

Him: Fine

Me [cheerfully]: .....That's great, Dan! I'm fine too. Thanks for asking!

Once, he announced he needed yet another continuance because he was going to Italy for two weeks, so I telephone him on the very day he returns and ask (cheerfully, as always), "How was your trip, Dan?" Truthfully, I don't give a shit about his trip and don't want to know anything about it, but his reaction is priceless. So disarmed is he by my continuing to treat him cordially despite his machinations and monotone bullshit that--just for a moment--his voice lifts and he says, "It was really wonderful! We had a great time! We went to--"

"That's great, Dan. Good for you. Now let's talk about the case."

In the courtroom, more shenanigans....he shamelessly proposes an obviously absurd resolution, but while he takes his turn, I sit still, my head down, my hands clasped together, my tongue pressed firmly between my upper and lower teeth. I know I must control myself and appear relaxed; otherwise, I might lunge across the room and strangle him--his assertions are that outrageous. Often, it's hard to remain still when another attorney slings dung at your client. It is a good exercise of self-discipline.

You see, I knew going in that his reputation would precede him. So when it is my turn to speak, I proceed calmly, add a brand new concept which will damage his case even more (my client now has a herniated disc! here are letters from two treating physicians asserting she cannot work--even driving a car is "inadvisable" at this time!), throw a few subtle digs at opposing counsel, even make a few self-deprecating remarks about my client's attorney and then propose the only obviously reasonable resolution.

And when I finish, the master turns to opposing counsel and tells him that I am right and he is wrong; that the case will not proceed as he proposes. Another lawyer might have been angry or felt slapped in the face, embarrassed for making such intentionally outlandish proposals but, true to his form he remains expressionless and merely turns his wrist to check his watch. Court time brings in a higher fee than work done in one's office. In that, he succeeds for the morning. He has jerked off his client--and mine--by unnecessarily protracting the case and thereby increasing both attorneys' bills.

My courthouse work done for the day, I quickly leave, obsessed with the idea of stopping for a frosted cruller at Dunkin' Donuts on my way out of town but decide not to, don't know why. Just want to keep on going.

Sometimes, you do want to keep on going, but life is short, and donuts are good. I could have had a donut. I wish I had one now.

Disturbing Business Plan

Lunch with Joe, The Undertaker. We haven't seen each other in a while, and he wants to catch up quickly, so he regales me with the losses he took last week in Las Vegas, the situation with the new (used) Lexus and future business plans, which include opening a pet crematory.

My eyebrows go up, and he asks if I'll be his business partner. I'm revolted by the idea but kick into business mode and fire questions at him....where? zoning? how much does the "machine" cost? how to get customers away from competition? Nothing fazes him; he answers each in succession. Some questions he cannot answer, but he's going to meet some people near Pittsburgh to find out more.

"A dog park..." "Huh?" "We could put a dog park right next to it!"

"Are you insane?"

"It's a great idea," he says, excitedly. "That's what they have by this place in Pittsburgh."

"That' so awful," I lament. Imagine taking your pet to the dog park to frolic and seeing smoke from the chimneys next door. It's more than I can bear, and I change the subject.

But who knows...after all, he is The Undertaker and he knows such things. I guess.

Ferris Wheel

James on the right (in blue shirt), Matt on the left. My child pleads that I go on the ride too....I give in....and white-knuckle it....break out in a sweat as soon as we go up and thoroughly question some of the absurd choices I make...the introspection one-hundred feet in the air distracts me from the mania on the ground below and the hysteria I feel so high up....

The annual pilgrimage to the Kimberton Fair, this time on a warm Friday night....a must for the children, but the adults could easily go without. As always, an enormous array of people from all walks of life, some with teeth, some without....the cows look good, sweet and placid, smell of manure wafting through the air...and the sheep, awaiting their turns in the ring, wear white outfits, including hoods with holes cut out for their eyes. Kathy asks why, and I suggest they are clansmen--or sheep of clansmen--and, of course, the signs on their cages state they are from Berks County farms, so undoubtedly....

We succumb eventually to the crowds, and I accordingly refuse to wait on the very long donut line, so we leave empty-handed...that was disappointing, sure, but there's always next year....

Sushi Satire

Lunch with Dave at Liki. I arrive a few minutes late and become obviously disgruntled as I discover his glass of water has a thin sliver of lemon floating on top, but mine has none. He immediately offers to exchange his glass for mine. I giggle, politely refuse and then point out--and he agrees--that his other beverage, green tea, is heart healthy. He takes a sip while I quickly drain my lemonless water. It's cold and good.

We catch up quickly and somehow drift to the topic of blogs, including this one. He thanks me for "turning [him] on" to B's food blog...comments how bizarre it and he are...and then we crack up. We laugh so hard that it's hard to believe we're not inebriated. I shake my head and say, "I can't imagine now what I was thinking then." He inquires, "You mean because of his gas problem?" I need more water. We wonder if I should satirize that other blog in this post, so, ok, here I go....

We both order from the lunch specials section of the menu. I choose three rolls (spicy tuna, yellowtail and tuna and avocado) for $10.95--a bargain. He orders only two rolls (California and shrimp with avocado) for $8.95, still a good price. Warm miso soup and salad with ginger dressing arrive first. Oddly, the salad has an apple sliver on top--no tomato. Haven't they heard that tomatoes are not, in fact, the culprit of the recent salmonella scare? It's peppers, hot peppers. So why put an apple in the salad? How odd. I desperately want to ask our waitress about this, but her grasp of the English language is poor, so I don't bother. I just accept things as they are and move on. It must be noted, though, that there are two cucumber slices in each salad. Perhaps apples became The New Vegetable when I wasn't looking?

Besides being barely able to speak English, the young Asian waitress is overly eager, frequently checking to see if "you done?" even when we obviously are not. We linger because of the enjoyable conversation. Eventually, the sushi arrives, and I apologize before I begin for the enormous amount of food I will consume. I often overeat at lunch (and then feel bloated and exhausted after....) The sushi is good there--nothing extraordinary but adequate when you have the need, which is something all sushi afficionados understand. I warn, too, that I will eat with my fingers and that I understand that is appropriate in Japan. He agrees and says that he recently discovered that it is also not incorrect to pick up lamb chops with one's digits. Who needs chopsticks and utensils when fingers will do, maaan?

We discuss our mutual middle age and how we both find we have less tolerance now for undesirable people, clients and such, whereas in the earlier years, we were--as he put it--"like whores--but in a good way." That was an earlier time when every person who came through my office door was a perspective client, when I often took clients without retainers, took others with wildly unrealistic expectations and some who just wanted someone to talk to. (Actually....that is a fair representation of the men I usually go out with.) Some wanted a date. Some wanted only to rant with obscenities about their spouses on my answering machine in the middle of the night when the office was dark. It was a different time. A younger time, and my tolerance for such things decreases in direct correlation to the increases in my income and age.

An hour and a half later, we finish and Dave leaves almost a whole roll on his plate which surprises me, and I wonder how anyone can leave sushi on the plate--actually leave it behind--when the need to consume is ordinarily so great?

And of course, there is much juice to drink, and miles to go before I think....

Remember When the Music

For we believed in things, and so we'd sing....

Took the boy and met Pam to go to the Tom Chapin concert in Bryn Mawr. I had been a very big fan of Tom's brother, the late Harry Chapin. In fact, Harry's double live album was the first record I bought when I received my first stereo (a turntable, AM-FM radio and cassette player all in one unit) in the 1970s. Eventually, I acquired all of Harry's albums and learned the words to most of his songs.

In the Summer of 1981, I was in a stifling hot dorm room in Harvard Yard with my all-in-one stereo and all my beloved albums (Harry, Bob Dylan, Hot Tuna, Neil Young, the Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Leo Kotke, Arlo Guthrie, Ry Cooder, among many others, but there was one album I did leave at my parents' house--my Sean Cassidy album--his cover song was "Da Do Run Run." Had a huge crush on him when he was one of the Hardy Boys a few years earlier and bought his album which contained a free poster of him that I taped to my closet door and then removed when I lost interest and actually felt embarrassed, but I can still see that poster in my mind...like the rest of us, Sean had feathered hair... and imagine: I also read Tiger Beat magazine, thought the Bay City Rollers were good and collected comic books during the junior high years) when I heard the news on the radio...that Harry had died in a car accident on the L. I. E. I was crushed. He was only thirty-six.

At his brother's concert tonight, it occurred to me that many of the "big" moments of my life are related to songs...or that I remember particular songs as part of a particular time or place.

So I never got to see Harry in concert--at least not live--and it was always regrettable but, of course, there was nothing I could do. A couple of years ago, I bought one of Tom's CD's for the boy, and he liked it...but generally, he believes that whatever I tell him is good is, in fact, good. Sometimes, really good. That's gratifying, and it's great to be able to listen to whatever I want in the car and have him appreciate it. Sometimes lately, I hear him singing with me from the back seat.

So seeing Tom tonight is the closest I can come to seeing Harry. Tom did a few of his brother's songs, and I remembered all the words to every one....songs I hadn't even thought of in many years. The boy leaned against me and kept asking, "You know this one too, Mom?" "I guess I know them all," I said. At least someone thinks I'm cool. It's funny how you never forget some things...times tables, riding a bike, the lyrics to old songs you haven't heard in years....

After the concert, I approached Tom. The boy thought this was very bold of me. He often doesn't understand why I do what I do. He says, "Mom, you're crazy" at least once a week.

Tom is a very tall man. He took my hand and held it as I told him I wrote to his brother when I was in sixth grade (although, apparently, I was in seventh), and he asked if he wrote back. Yes, he did, and I still have his letter. I handed my cell phone to Pam to take a picture of Tom and me, and she had a lot of trouble with it. Tom and I put our arms around each other's waists, and he told Pam to take her time because, he said, "we're enjoying this." He also said, "Obviously, you are not in sixth grade anymore." We did finally get a photo, which is blurry. I look like a cracked-out zombie or groupie, and Tom is wearing sunglasses even though it was after 9:00 at night. But I guess that's what happens when you attend these events and try to score with the main act. Since there was a long line of people behind Pam waiting to get autographs, I gave him another squeeze and moved on. Too bad I look like such a jackass in the blurry photo on my cell phone.

On the way home, we listened to the CD, and I remembered--and sang--all the words to "30,000 Pounds of Bananas."

Rollin' On

I met with my ninety-seven-year-old client, Bea, on Thursday. There's a whirlwind of concern around her, as she is a childless widow who doggedly persists in remaining in her own home. About this, she is single-minded and cannot be dissuaded. A recent fall in her home resulted in nursing home incarceration from which she eventually sprung herself, much to the alarm and dismay of her old friends, nieces and great-nieces who, although highly suspicious about and at great odds with each other, all insist they are proceeding only under the auspices of doing "what is best" for Bea; yet, none of these self-proclaimed do-gooders will accept the responsibility of a power of attorney.

In the months before and after the nursing home stay, many Do-Gooders telephone and visit me in my office to discuss who should be appointed Bea's agent under her power of attorney, even though none of them will do it. They complain about each other relentlessly. They rant about Bea's determination to avoid a life sentence at a nursing home. ("Who does she think she is?" "She must have dementia!" "Can't you do something?") Each wants me to decide her fate, as if I should, as if I could. I cannot. I am only the scrivener. So I remain cordial but guarded as I ascertain there are several factions jostling for key position here, all making scathing remarks about the others, all warning me that each is only "in it for the money," but none willing to step forward. So without wanting to and, perhaps only out of kindness or concern, I unwittingly allow the Do-Gooders to put me in a position I have no desire to be in, but how can I turn away? I really like Bea.

With great effort, Bea comes to me last week and I marvel at her ability to show humor and grace during this most undignified moment in her life. I politely insist that her niece stay in the waiting room while Bea makes her way slowly down my corridor, pushing her walker with me trailing behind, joking as usual. "Hey now, do you have a license for that thing?" Not missing a beat, she replies, "Heh heh, no, but I sure as hell need one...they took my real license away a few years ago and, oh, that almost killed me." I am crushed, usually able to do so much but helpless to remedy this situation.

We sit at my old oak table in the library and huddle close together as her hearing on one side is "not the greatest." I experiment with volumes, testing my voice to get it to a level she'll be comfortable with. Only moments before she arrives, a great-niece telephones to warn me about the niece who drives her to my office and to insist that I call Bea's physician who will ostensibly tell me that she is on "dementia medicine." I refuse, of course. I can only ascertain whether she seems competent enough to me to enter into a power of attorney. I'm not qualified to perform a psychiatric examination. Besides, this great-niece, who doesn't want the niece in my office to become Bea's agent does not, herself, want to be Bea's agent. Oy.

I'm so happy to see Bea, to have her near me, and we have a delightful conversation, one topic flowing effortlessly into the next. She mentions her deceased brother, George, whose estate I managed. George had been a Vaudevillian and a fun character who occasionally visited my office to sing me a few lines and do a little soft shoe on my carpet. Pete introduced George to me.

Pete had a wonderful, dilapidated four-story used furniture store down the street I often visited. I spent hours there, traveling up and down in the freight elevator, getting lost among pieces of old furniture. Each thing has a story, a provenance, and I think now, as I often do at antique auctions, how all these things remain even after we go and yet we are so hell-bent on acquiring them. If you've ever witnessed some of the dramatic contests at an auction, you know what I mean.

Pete once took me to a centuries-old stone tavern he owned. It was nothing but a stone shell filled with antiques--junk mostly, but he said I could pick out any one thing I wanted as a gift. Pete often tried to give me stuff. Once, he even tried to give me his dog. In the tavern, I was embarrassed to take anything, but he insisted, so I chose a small cement dog painted white...in very sad condition. To anyone else, just another piece of junk. He seem astonished and asked, "Are you sure? Why do you want that?" Today, the little white dog named Diego sits perpetually near a wooden bench in my woods. Whenever I sit there, I give Diego a pat on the head and think of Pete.

An hour or two before George passed away, he awoke startled from a dream, and insisted that his sister Bea call Pete and tell him to come right away. She did and Pete did. George told Pete he was about to die, which Pete thought odd. They talked briefly about the contents of George's will (the stone tavern was one of George's testamentary bequests to Pete) and that Pete should take care of Bea after George died. That was it. His business was finished, and he was satisfied. He told Pete the exact time he would die. He closed his eyes and fell back asleep. Pete sat next to him. After a while, George awoke and drew his last breath right on time. Pete was mystified, of course, and his life changed forever. Sadly, only a few years later, Pete died too. He suffered terrible pain from cancer and when he could take it no longer, he told his wife he wanted to go. So he did.

The conversation goes full-circle from George and Pete back to Bea. She remarks that she outlived her husband and all of her friends. And she matter-of-factly adds, "There's no one left...it gets lonely sometimes." Physically, she is very slow and deliberate, her thin, frail body is bruised and twisted, the skin on her arms seems thin and almost translucent, but her expression and bright beautiful eyes show so much....interest, gratitude, sadness, poise...I think of all that she has seen and known in the century of her life, that she was a baby during the first World War and yet here she is, forced to negotiate having her last and only wish come true...to live her last days in her own home.

Whether or not she will know the precise moment, as her brother before her in an upstairs room did some years before, I hope she takes her last breath naturally, without machines, on her own terms and in her own home.

"I'll go soft shoe when it rains

I'll go shuffle trough the aches and pains

Mr. young at heart

That's what I try to be.

They all laugh and cry

They get to feeling better and that is why

If it was good for you

Truly it was good for me."

Jim's Lamp

Big, big storm earlier this evening. Mayhem everywhere. The patio umbrella's wooden pole snapped in half. I never saw such wind. When I realized we might lose the umbrella, I went outside to close it but couldn't--the pulley mechanism failed, but I stood there anyway, clinging idiotically to the pole, gusts of wind slapping me, warm rain in my face, and I watched in misery as the trees in my woods bent almost in half. I looked down at the dog, and she looked up at me and our thoughts collided: "This is stupid. We really should go inside."

So we did. There was no power in the house, and it was quickly becoming dark. After a while, when it became apparent that there would be no light unless I created some, I took down one of Jim's antique glass lanterns, lit it and set it on the kitchen counter. There are some good memories attached to this old lamp, for sure, some I want to ignore, but I took it upstairs and set it on my night table anyway so I could read.

I completed the crossword puzzle from the Sunday NY Times and continued on where I had left off in The Prince of Frogtown, by Rick Bragg....These old oil lamps with their fluted glass shades and adjustable wicks are as good as any conventional lamp with an electric cord--although the old lamps smell a hell of a lot worse because of the oil.

Rick's stories often remind me of Jim's stories but, at that moment, the flicker of the thin, wide flame coming up and fanning out as it did from the wick reminded me of the times Jim presented the lamps to me. He may have had some in his office, among the other useless antiques (he could throw nothing away), and he may have picked up one or two in antique stores along the way, possibly even with me beside him, but he brought them home and methodically readied each one, cleaned the glass shades, bought and inserted new wicks and filled the bottoms with oil--and only for me. He didn't say, "These will be good if we ever lose power" (which we often did during storms). Instead, he made a point of telling me they would be good if I lost power "some day." Boy, did I ever.

He was right though, as he sometimes could be, but I never knew how right he was until future times when I couldn't tell him so in person. No, in fact his predictions usually seemed cockamamie to me back then, but his peculiar way of expressing them was often soft and charming, his Southern lilt both soothing and silly: "Darlin', I'd give my front seat in Hell to see that."

I do believe he was accurate there too, that he went down rather than up but, either way, I have his lamp lit tonight, and I am glad.

Looking for Ever

This umber light, as often as dawn
Has, as often come
And while I lie still
Not knowing, undoing
Knots in laces, knots in ties
You sit at your desk, scanning my slanted lines, my poetry
Over candle light
Under moon's glow
Remember me, remember me, the gentle whisper, I am true
Only as I notice the color
Brown, of this room
Even as the shades
Reddened by the sun
Then I am the poet
Fanning myself
On your porch
Running hard (Look down as you go....)
Entering this room
Verily, my tray balanced
Entering this poem
Readily, as the light