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

Rue du Simplon 14

As often as
Crying in airports
And standing in the rain
Pocketing dreams and thoughts
Of successful marriages
Of fidelity and staying dry
I go the length of the lot
To find you
And later, I step outside
And don't know why

Each day I wonder
Shall I stay the Summer?
In the morning, gaze at clouds
Wander through castles
And shiver in lakes
And in the evening
Sit in the hotel
And whisper in your ear
"Is this what you want?"
To be held
To cling to you
For a moment, the heat
The green shutters closed
To grin at the rain
Is all I ever wanted

So take me while it rains
While tourists sit it hotel lobbies
"waiting it out"
Biding the "wasted" time
Spent inside
Ignoring the foxed pages of "Ash Wednesday"
Scattered curiously about the reception desk
"Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still"
While I, atop the blanket
Look skyward
The small lamp's fringed shade
The stars on the cracked ceiling
And waves, like the midnight blue
Of the menacing ocean at Thanksgiving
The Delft blue
The Robin's eggs
Your eyes in the darkness
Shine blue

Santa Ex

So I asked her about Santa (my nickname for her impotent, near-bankrupt, near-sixty ex-boyfriend), and she replied, "I at last realized, who needs these passive-aggressive old men?" Amen.

Memorial Day Weekend Ease

Friday, barbecue and bonfire (two fires going at once), dogs, friends, kids, toasting marshmallows....Saturday, power wash patio and adirondack chairs, movie...Sunday, power wash back of house, trip to nursery with Karla, love the man in the wheelchair--he is so clever, knows everything there is to know about every plant on the lot, and he is uncannily there when you need him...gardening, dinner and bonfire at neighbor's; Monday morning, ahhh....down time under the umbrella, breakfast, NY Times crossword, how much better than diet Coke is real Coke, barbecue in my woods, Amy back from Tangier, toured the Casbah, Bubba burgers and drumsticks marinated in Stubb's Chicken Marinade...asked Jesse if the color of his new bedroom is the color of the sky...told the story of William S. Burroughs serving a plate of razor blades and light bulbs to his guests for appetizers....heh heh...how happy I am to sit among my trees, look up, feel the breeze...remember when he planted these....

Oh, Lepidopterist (1984)

Oh, lepidopterist
I have followed you through many warm months
Was spectator to your mad attempts through dry New Mexican air
And maintained faith
When the net came up empty

I was hypnotised by crickets rubbing their wings
And listened to your comely recitations at dusk
". . . and deity, and inspiration,/And life, and tears, and love. . ."
I read to you as the sun rose
As you reclined in your bath, your net leaning against the side

Weekenders came to inspect your captives
And asked whether butterflies grew

Sometime this morning
Wearing only baggy shorts and tennis shoes
You go out into the dawn
You know it flies in the big square states
You wait with a lit cigar between two fingers, the net poised
Above one shoulder
Suddenly, a fatal curiosity
Lites unsuspectingly on a suspecting brow

So beautiful, it takes my breath away
The wings, almost transparent
Continue to flutter
Pinned to your board

But Still (1983)

(Jilline loved this poem)


I can hear your heartbeat
As my head lies on your chest
You cannot claim to love me
And although, I do not
At this time Love you, I would like to.

It's sort of funny, you know
Because only a month ago
David lay on my chest
And he similarly remarked
"I can hear your heartbeat."
I couldn't claim to love him then
And although he, too, did not
At that time Love me, he would have liked to.

But still . . . so still . . .

And so it seems we are all in 'disgrace'
Not just Shannon who is a dog currently suffering from diarrhea,
Not just the English professor who thinks "it could be safe,"
Not just my sibling who has Christ's eyes,
Not just The Woman who remains 'intact,'
Nor Jill who wants to weigh 200 lbs, nor I who am aloof,
Not even Robert who answers the phone,
Or the history professor who, despite what has been said, lies alone on the couch.

And so I can hear all of your heartbeats
Even as I have trembled in the cold,
Let you follow me home,
Told you you were weird,
Shared secrets about Mother and Father,
Tried to break your silence,
Wanted to talk to you all night in Connecticut,
Hid from myself
Loved you but not loved you,
Missed your Friday afternoon lectures.

And yet still . . . so very still . . .

Nights Ago in a Cafe (Cambridge, 1982)

Victor, who is an old "("old in the sense that he is much older than I) friend, is writing a play. I sip my ice-coffee and look beyond him to the street as he describes the contents of his unfinished script. The street is barren. A car rolls by now and then. A light flickers in the college house across the street. My attention flickers there for a moment too. Then it shifts from the night to the shadows of Victor's face.

He is a better listener than I. He gazes into my eyes--a better gazer than I. I look down, stir my coffee with a straw. I want so much to cry, so much to tell him. I have changed so much. He still listens, gazes. I stir my coffee more, take an occasional sip (I almost wrote "slip"). I want it all to last. Somehow this moment comforts me. He also drinks slowly, sharing my desire to make the coffee and the moment last. Finally, I sigh, wipe a moist eye with his napkin (mine dropped to the floor earlier), and look up. His eyes are still right there, fixed intently on mine. And his response? With chin in one hand, glass in the other: "I could use all this in my play." This is, of course, hardly the answer I expected, but I smile--because how can I cry here in front of him? He knows I want to. Besides, why make a scene here at Cafe Pamplona?

He clears his throat and takes his turn: His ex-wife lives in Panama City with her new husband. He used to awake in the morning to find photos of naked "parts" (from "really dirty magazines") in his bathrobe pockets--oh, this was when he lived with his wife and another couple in a big old house. He claims he still doesn't know who placed those "parts" in his pockets. Also, he hasn't gotten to "that point" with his new female friend, and if and when he ever will, he doesn't know.

I notice a button missing on his jacket--just like last year. His shirt sleeve is ripped. Well, you know, he lives alone.

God, it got dark so fast. The coffee is long gone. The conversation is exhausted, and so are we. He dips into his pockets and carefully selects two dimes to leave for the tip.

19th C. Intellectual Eur. Hist, Prof. Donald Fleming, Fall Sem. '85

Last night, I went through several boxes filled with college stuff. Here are some of my 19th c. Euro. Hist. notes taken in November, 1985. This was the best lecture class....prof. was a genius. Filled up 350 pp. of notes and admit to reading synopses of some of the required reading (19th century novels--Dickens, Tolstoy, etc.) on the floor of the Coop. Never even purchased them. Got an A- for the class.

Trout Fishing in America

"As a child when did I first hear about trout fishing in America?"

Original plan was to wake up early and drop James off on St. John's Circle for the caravan to the annual Trout Rodeo in Warwick Park. All week, I had had no intention of attending that event. I like fish as much as anyone, but the idea of catching and killing them leaves me numb. Foolishly, at 7:45 this morning, I called Rafael, and he said parents "kinda hafta" go on the den's field trips. Hearing that, I felt dismayed, for sure, and had only about fifteen minutes to get dressed and into the car with James. Just prior to that fateful call, I had been on the verge of half-dressing, putting on just enough clothes to drive and make the drop off, but after the call, I had to quickly switch gears and get really dressed.

I dressed wrong...The weather reporter on KYW said 70 degrees, so I put on pants, a shirt and my crocs and figured I was good to go. Big mistake. It never went above 53 degrees while we were there. I mumbled and shivered on the bank of the creek. I felt old. Thank God Raven was there because she is younger than I and a seasoned fisherperson, who cheerfully brought an extra rod for James and had no problem repeatedly putting live bait on hooks.

The trout rodeo was, ostensibly, a children's event but, although only kids were allowed to fish the Creek until sunset,the parents were like cheerleaders who were very much in the game, even more so than some of their offspring. It was fascinating and grotesque at the same time. Here was a whole segment of life completely unknown to me prior to this morning. Scores of (apparently) avid fishermen and women brought children of all ages, including some still in diapers, to fish. Eager to go were whole families clad in camouflage, men and boys wearing absurd hip boots and vests with many pockets. A vast array of big people and little people from all walks of life carried rods and boxes, which, when opened, revealed colorful displays of hangers and bobbins and swingers. Of course, some folks preferred live bait--worms and bugs and little fish. It all happened so suddenly. I found myself overwhelmed--I hadn't had time to adjust. There were people everywhere, no one looked familiar, and I just couldn't understand the mass appeal of the gathering; yet, despite my discomfort, I found the scene both horrifying (so many people gathering to kill for sport) and quite intriguing ("A River Runs Through It").

Several hundred trout were released upstream. No one could cast a line until the signal at 10:00 a.m. when the competition officially began. Adults screamed at their children...."Don't start yet! Get your line out of the water! I said NOW!" Teen-age boys stood on the make-shift bridge and other, younger boys, shouted, "Hey! Get off the bridge! That's cheating! That's not fair!" You can always count on children to find the world's exchanges and events inequitable. Kids kept asking parents what time it was, was it time yet? How about now? The tension mounted....

At 10:00 a.m., I was sitting alone in my truck with the heat on, eating Mike & Ikes and perusing the Pennsylvania Fishes Identification Guide pamphlet. All the fish look the same with only slightly different variations in color. Rainbow and Steelhead trout....look the same. Chinook and Coho salmon....the same. What's up with this? Who are they fooling? After I had warmed up a bit, and felt sufficiently like the lousy parent I was for not standing beside my child at the opening of the competition, I left the truck and took the long, cold walk from the parking area to the trout rodeo area, determined to somehow enjoy what was going on.

James sort of caught a fish, but when Raven attempted to net it, it escaped, thank God. By 11:00, the kids had gotten antsy. One boy slid into the creek twice and soaked his sneakers each time. He was cold. Another repeatedly got his hooks caught in tree limbs each time he cast his rod. He was frustrated. My child wanted to know when it was time to eat. He was hungry. Fortunately, it began to rain--not much, but just enough for Raven to be willing to call it a day. I was thrilled.

On the way back to the parking area, James and Lyric, Raven's son, chatted excitedly with each other, not about fishing, but only about their Nintendo DS games which both had waiting in their cars. So much for Trout Rodeo 2008.

P.S. Sorry I forgot to give you the Mayonnaise.

Nothing Gold can Stay

I believe Robin, my almost-twenty-one-year-old cat is nearing the end of his life. He was born on my parents' dining room floor. His mother was a skinny Siamese named The Lizard, Liz for short. She went into heat before she turned one and escaped one day. Days passed. We thought she was a goner, but since she had the loudest voice of any creature we knew, my father and I walked around the block, the next block and the one down by the railroad tracks, yelling, "Lizzzzz! Lizzzzz!" At home, she would call back, "Wowwwww!" But there was no reply, and we believed that since she was so enchanting and otherwise bizarre in appearance (when she was an infant, she seemed more reptilian than feline; hence, her name: The Lizard), that perhaps someone had swiped her, and if we just called her named loudly and often enough, she might hear us and go to a window inside someone's house and call back, "Wowwwww!" But she did not.

Several days later, we heard "Wow! Wow! Wowwwww!" outside the screen door in front of the house, and there she was, dirty, bedraggled, hungry and overjoyed to be returned to her kin (as she knew us). Several days later, the outcome of her prior disappearance made itself known as we noticed that her shape had changed. A bit more time passed, and it appeared as if Liz had swallowed a cantaloupe whole; her cat belly protuded on both sides. Some more time passed and my parents became grandparents of seven half-Siamese/half-unknown kittens. One of those kittens is my Robin.

In his prime, Robin was a big sleek cat, a large sinewy black version of a Siamese--with his mother's voice and desire to converse. In my third year of law school, I acquired him when I moved to an apartment in Wayne. At my present age, I cannot imagine what I must have been thinking, but I was much younger then....and it seemed only right to adopt another cat so Robin would have a "friend" to be with when I was away. At the animal shelter in Teterboro, I adopted Annabelle (named after Jerry Garcia's daughter or was it Edgar Allen Poe's love interest?), a smaller version of Robin with a round face. They enjoyed each other at first, slept in a heap, bathed each other and all that. Things were good the first year. But during the Summer I studied for the bar exam, I one afternoon left the sliding door open to the balcony and something strange happened. The cats often sunbathed together on the balcony. In fact, when I played tennis on the town courts beneath the balcony, I would often look up and shout, "Hey, Robin!" and he would cheerfully respond, "Wow!"

So one afternoon, I went into the bedroom to take a nap and Robin awakened me, jumping on the bed and screaming, "Wowwwww!" I pushed him off the bed and turned over. He got back on and screamed again. Finally, I got up and groggily followed him into the living room. He trotted out to the balcony and looked down, screamed, "Wow! Wow!" and ran back in. And out. And in. Hysteria! I followed him out to the balcony and looked down as he was and saw, three floors down in front of the back door to the apartment building, a little black cat in the road . She was crying. How odd, I thought, that someone would leave their cat out there. So I went down to check it out and, lo and behold, it was Annabelle. She had managed to jump off the balcony, survive a three-story fall and somehow knew to wait by the back door.

After that, I sent her to stay with my parents for a month until I completed the bar exam. When she returned to Robin and me, she was grateful, but Robin had no interest in her at all. Although she was a member of the pack, she became merely one to be tolerated. He only had eyes for me.

In 1996, the three of us moved to a big house in Kimberton. Many changes. We acquired a man named Jim and an Australian Shepherd puppy named Colin. We lived together for some time, the five of us, and everything was pretty good for a while. A few years later, there came yet another addition, a baby boy, and then there were six. Jim and I reached a breaking (up) point, so then there were five. Several years ago, on the same day in April, Jim and Annabelle died. I buried Annabelle in the kitchen garden in the back yard. Jim was buried in Valley Forge. So then there were four. Last year, Colin died at age ten from lymphoma. For a while, there were only three of us in the big house. After a few months, I missed having a canine companion, so I adopted a Catahoula Leopard Dog, named Cat. Once again, there are four of us.

During the years Colin and Robin lived here, the two were inseperable. They followed me everywhere, around the yard and to neighbors' houses....I remember looking out a neighbor's screen door only to see Robin and Colin sitting on the front step, looking in, waiting for me. And Robin obviously thinks he is a dog. He loves dogs. He comes when he's called. He happily made appearances at every one of Colin's birthday parties so he could socialize with the other canine guests. After Colin died, Robin was never the same. Something was missing. Something big. His best friend was gone.

He doesn't mind the new dog; he accepts her, but she is still somewhat a puppy....boisterous and exuberant. He can no longer play those puppy games. He's wobbly now, spends most of his time sleeping on a heating pad and makeshift bed I made for him on the dining room floor. He no longer goes up the stairs and jumps on my bed. He can't. He tolerates when Cat licks him from head to toe. I believe she thinks she is comforthing him.

I wish I could comfort him. I wish I knew what to do. I hold him often. He purrs. I kiss the top of his head. He purrs. I talk with him. He leans against me now....just walks up to me and leans against my legs.

Today, he had no interest in food....I bought him treats....roast beef and crab sticks....and various cat treats....I gave him milk....he wants none of it. He is tired and so old. I can only wait and see.

Cave Men

Threw together an impromptu bonfire in our backyard tonight. Four parents, five sons and two dogs. The boys roasted marshmallows, setting them on fire and joyfully running amok with their flaming "torches." After some debate, they settled on a name for their new boys-only club, "The Cave Men," which is a good name because their fort is created anew every Spring when the leaves appear and the vines grow together to form a hidden green cavern in our back lot. Cat, the dog, being a female, was admitted but only as an honorary member.

I hope that one day, long into the future, when these sons have sons of their own, they won't forget this fraternity of five and the warm nights their parents sat idly by, watching, admiring and secretly hoping they wouldn't get too close...to the fire.

Note Taking and Giving

These are the notes I took this afternoon while attending a lecture given by Joe Carroll, the Chester County District Attorney.

I also passed notes to my friend sitting next to me. One asked, "What's wrong with that woman sitting in front of us?" She was dressed like a man and had her legs extended and her feet up on a chair during the entire lecture. She also brazenly read from a novel while the D.A. spoke. How bizarre. After the D.A. finished his lecture, another attorney gave one about civil litigation. This time, I took no notes but did write one to my friend: "He has a very small head."

All this note passing reminds me of eleventh grade, when my friend Caroline Beaumont and I passed notes back and forth while sitting in Mr. Rork's American history class. Mr. Rork was a colossal man with bushy red hair and mustache. One day, Caroline created a "BOYCOTT VEAL" sign and pinned it to the bulletin board next to her seat while Mr. Rork looked the other way. Days went by without his noticing the sign. Delighted, we experimented with other signs (such as, "Greenpeace, an organization to be revered" and various quotes from the Communist Manifesto), but these signs were always removed. Once, we posted a sign which read, "PLEASE DON'T REMOVE THIS SIGN." It was gone by the next class. Another time, when Mr. Rork sported emerald green trousers, Caroline passed me a note which asked, "Can you imagine mounting him?" Gosh, no.

The Veal sign was the result of my being an anti-vivisectionist and pseudo-vegetarian for about one year. On the afternoon we won the the girls' state basketball championship, my parents took a bunch of us to The Fireplace in Paramus. Momentarily forgetting my convictions while being caught up in the whirlwind of emotions brought on by that momentous athletic victory....and wanting neither onion rings nor fries, I ordered a strawberry milkshake and a hot dog, both of which I devoured while wearing my suede fringe coat (which I still have), and my vegetarian days were apparently over. After that first bite, there was no turning back.

To this day though, I won't eat veal and disparage those who do.

Cat and Addie

Cat (on the right) and Addie (on the left), who are best friends, were very bad girls last week.....Apparently, one afternoon, Addie was in a mood....she tried to instigate fights with the other dogs at Hickory Springs. She poked at them incessantly to try to get a good dog fight going. Her best friend stayed by her side. A very small white dog, who was boarding for several days at the kennel, was put into the daycare mix for "group play." The girls decided to bully the new dog, show it who is boss down at doggie daycare. Addie attacked it immediately, and Cat joined in. Linda thought Addie would destroy the little dog and shrieked for human assistance. The little dog survived but had puncture wounds and was taken to the vet. Addie was expelled. Cat was suspended. Cat was humiliated and spent the next day in disgrace on my bed. Cat misses Addie. Addie's mother said Addie misses Cat. Both my child and my dog get suspended. Misfits everywhere. Strange.

Gun Control

Yesterday was "Wild West Day" (or whatever it was called) at school. The children dressed up as cowboys, outlaws, gold miners and "Women of the West." One of the teachers told the children they could bring toy guns to school. Accordingly, James brought a toy gun as part of his "bad guy" outfit. As soon as he arrived at school, his teacher--who continues to remain seriously opposed to guns (even toy guns) in her classroom--confiscated his gun and put it in her desk drawer.

Well, James really wanted his gun back. At 7:00 p.m., when I went to school with my outlaw son to see his evening presentation, James importuned me to get his gun from his teacher. When I entered his classroom, I saw Drew's father wielding a plastic rifle. Well, now....He asked the teacher for some scotch tape because the plastic stock had cracked. As soon as she saw me approach, she opened her drawer and handed the gun to me. I believe this was a kneejerk reaction to my saying "I think you may have overreacted" during our nighttime telephone conversation following the "offensive" magazine incident a couple of weeks ago. She told James he had to keep the gun in his pocket for the rest of the evening. I said, "But...how realistic is it for an outlaw to not have a gun?" She gave me the "oh, brother" look.

After the presentation, the boys ran out of the building, hollering...throwing their cowboy hats in the air, chasing each other with guns drawn...generally whooping it up....good ol' boy stuff. Isn't that what boys have always done?

Sure, you can take the (toy) guns away from the boy, but the more you forbid something, the more he wants the thing that is forbidden.

In Trouble Again...or are They Just Overreacting?

James got into trouble again at school. Mrs. Marotta, the Lower School Head (who is as tall as I am), called me at work on a Friday morning to pick him up from school. I remained polite during the brief telephone conversation even though this was an appalling intrusion in my day. James was being suspended because he "used his fists again." What the hell....isn't that what little boys do? He is not a bully. He's a big softy...maybe a little impulsive at times. The thing is, he is so big that when another kid hits him, he barely feels it, but when he hits another boy (even--to him--gently), the smaller boy feels it big time. Well, fortunately, it turned out that the telephone version of the event was much worse than the reality, but I was still annoyed. I didn't want to leave work just for that. Not again. It meant having to devise yet another punishment (which always results in endless and desultory negotiation with a nine-year-old that exhausts me) and having yet another conversation and interrogation (why, why, why?). On the way to school, I imagined what I would say when I saw him. How stern should I be? To be honest, the main thing was not that he had hit someone but that I had to leave work because he had gotten caught. I know, I know....what kind of mother am I....

As soon as I entered Bell Hall, I saw him outside the Lower School Head's office, sitting on a chair, his big soft hands clasped together on his lap. He was looking down at the floor and heaving gently, trying very hard to hold in his tears. Any anger I had felt about the disruption in my day instantly vanished. I saw my son and knew he was hurting. He was confused and embarrassed. I wanted to hold him and make all the bad feelings disappear--just take them away. (Whenever he hurts, I wish to God I could take it from him, take it for him...let me have the hurt instead.) I sat next to him, put my hand on his shoulder and said softly, "Just tell me what happened." He cried then and shook and said only, "Mommy." "Tell me. Please tell me what happened." He said he did in fact "use my fist," but when the other boy didn't complain and it seemed that no one had even noticed, James actually turned himself in, a move for which he received no special consideration. He could have walked away. He could have ignored it, forgotten it....he could have gotten away with it. (And I wouldn't have had to leave work.) So there was now this new ethical qualm to deal with: get away with it or turn yourself in. True, he had done something--used his fist--he was not permitted to do but the incident, as it turned out, had been very minor: no one was the worse off, except possibly my boy who was the perpetrator and confessor.

In spite of himself, even when he does behave, he manages to get into trouble. A few days later, he took a current issue of U.S. News & World Report to school so he would have something to read on the bus. The cover had a picture of a handgun on it, and the big article was about gun control. He asked me about that, what did gun control mean, and I explained the pros and cons (as I knew them without having yet read the article) of these grim times, of gun control, of Charleton Heston and the NRA, of Columbine and big boys who make bombs and sneak guns into highschool corridors, of sociopathic college students who mercilessly turn on their helpless classmates. He asked if we had guns in our house, and I said no way, never (although once, in a pre-Columbine era, his father brought two small loaded pistols wrapped in a towel into our home which had caused me to panic and rant and rave...the guns disappeared shortly thereafter).

When James arrived at school later that morning, he took the magazine out of his backpack and put it in his "cubby." A classmate asked him about the magazine, and when he took it out to show the other child, their teacher saw the photo of the gun on front, confiscated it immediately and sent my child once again to the Lower School Head for discipline. When he came home from school, he hung his head and confessed, "Mommy...something bad happened at school again. I got in trouble and had to go see Mrs. Marotta." After a quick interrogation, I told him that in my opinion, the punishment (being separated from his class and lectured by an authority figure for an indiscretion he was completely unaware of) did not fit the crime...that, to me, no crime had even been committed....not even a rule broken--for how could he have known? I am not keen on disrespecting authority (no, wait....actually, I am....), but I believed his teacher had overreacted; in lieu of hysteria and confiscation, she might have been impressed that one of her third-graders reads U.S. News & World Report instead of making him feel like Eric Harris or Dylan Klebold. This wasn't Guns & Ammo or Shooting Times; it was U.S. News & World Report.

I told him to forget about it. I wasn't at all angry, but I did at least try to tell him about from where comes the current hysteria about guns--even pictures of guns, apparently--in school. His teacher telephoned me from her home that evening, and I politely told her that I believed she had overreacted but didn't say much more. She wanted very much to explain what had happened. But I already knew. This is the new Day. This is the regrettable and overwhelming pernicious hysteria, the omnipresent fear that even when things are very calm, something always could go wrong. In this new Day, at this time, it is imperative that we always be vigilant to take every conceivable caution against every possible danger lurking around every corner, in every highschool student's backpack and even, apparently, in every third-grader's cubby hole.

Too Late for Jenna Jameson

Recollection: A warm Summer afternoon in 1999.....sat at my kitchen table, feeding my big baby boy in his high chair, Jim next to me, awaiting the arrival of Norma’s sister, Lois, who had recently flown in from Las Vegas to take care of some business. Norma had been Jim’s mistress of about thirty years and had died four years earlier. She had spent most of her adult life living in a mobile home in one of Jim’s trailer parks. Several years before in Jim’s office, I asked her how she liked living in "the park," and she said she really loved it, loved her "house" (it was an extra long model), and there was a concrete pad on the side which she called her "patio." She said she loved to sit out there and take in the "water view" which, I believe, was a small stream that ran through the park. And her married boyfriend of so many years was a multi-millionaire who, at some point, made her the manager of that mobile home park. She lived simply enough, played Bingo at the fire station in town (I saw her there once....she sat in the smoking section and was cordial with me...my friend and I sat across from her but had to politely move to another table because we couldn’t stand the cigarette smoke and joked with each other about how all those women will probably get cancer, smoking like that). She was content to have whatever he chose to give her. According to him, though, when his wife became very ill with dementia, Norma demanded that he finally leave her and move in with Norma....or somehow be with her full-time. He refused, telling her that he had to at that time devote himself entirely to caring for his ailing wife. He told her to date other people. She took up with the painter who himself much later told me he had wanted to marry her. They once took a trip together to Florida, on a bus, and from their motel room–according to Jim–she telephoned him during lovemaking so Jim could hear....tried to make him jealous. According to the painter some years later, however, it was Jim who repeatedly called them in their motel room to upset her, to upset the painter and just, generally, to spoil their good time. And then I came along and changed everything (apparently). He did what he swore he would never do. We bought a house and he came to live with me. A few years later, we had this enormous baby with blue eyes who Jim chose to name after himself (I had referred to my son, in utero, as Elvis and after a while, with no input from his father about name selection, had decided Elvis was as good a name as any....) and then, there we were, sitting at the kitchen table waiting for Lois and Margaret, Jim’s granddaughter.

I recall another warm Summer afternoon, before we lived together or were even close to considering that idea, when he picked me up at my office to take me out for lunch. We walked up the alley toward the parking lot, and I saw Norma sitting there in her car. He said, "Stay here, darlin’," and approached her car. I couldn’t hear what they said to each other, but I saw him give her a wad of money before she drove away. I don’t think anyone–even Norma–knew what, if anything, was going on with us at that time. I doubt that either of us even understood or imagined what would come in the future. But at that moment, I understood that she was still attached to him and I felt bad, coming in the way I had and when I did....especially when it was all so inappropriate anyway. I understood, too, –but much later– that she had given most of her life to him, that she had loved him so much that she considered him worth waiting for all those years, so many years, loving and waiting for someone who ultimately did not, of his own will, come through for her. It was tragic. I can never forget it. Jim was full of promises. Some he kept, others he ignored or pretended to forget about. And then she got cancer in her liver, turned yellow and passed away. Her viewing was at one of the funeral homes on Main Street, in town. Jim came into my office after he had visited there. Just sat across from me and looked devastated. I felt awful, confused, sad for him for this loss....wondering if he was plagued with guilt....for making promises that he chose not to honor, for being here with me, for loving someone where it was just all wrong. Is love ever wrong? Must be because often, clearly, even love is not enough.

Her funeral was in the middle of Pennsylvania, where she was from, and Jim drove out there in the snow with Frances Puleo to attend. Once, several years later, on a trip to another place in the middle of nowhere in Pennsylvania to visit one of his mobile home businesses, we stopped at the little cemetery where Norma is buried. He asked if I "minded" if he got out to go see. I said no, of course not. How could I have minded? He insisted that I go with him. So I did. We walked, holding hands, over to her grave sight. There were plastic flowers on top. I felt helpless. And very scared. This poor woman who loved this man for so many, many years...this man, whose hand I was tightly squeezing, trying to contain my tears, trying to understand and not to understand.

So anyway.....back to the original recollection....

Earlier that morning, Jim announced that Lois was coming to have lunch with us, so before she arrived, he went out in his pick-up truck to get hoagies. The wrapped hoagies, smelling of onions and lunch meat, were just waiting to be opened on the table. I was so hungry. While I fed our baby (food from a jar) and waited for Margaret and Lois, Jim matter-of-factly mentioned that Lois had been with many, many men and that, (apparently) because of that, she had recently had a "vagina lift"--or, the way Jim said it with his Southern drawl--a "vahjahna lift, darlin'." "A what?" "Vajahna lift, darlin'." "What the hell are you trying to say?" I asked. He said "That's what happens to ladies who get older. Their vahjahnas need liftin', I guess. Like some ladies get a face lift." At no point in my thirty-four years had I ever even considered that such surgery existed or could ever be necessary. I wondered what a vagina lift entailed, wondered if I would need one at a later time....or even at that time.

Last year, while fishing on the internet for Al Sharpton remarks following the Don Imus incident, I was somehow mysteriously directed to another area on the site which contained an article about the botched vaginoplasty of Jenna Jameson, the porn star who, at that time, was only in her early thirties. That really got me thinking....maybe Jim knew what he was talking about...it wasn’t just an old-age thing. Maybe it depends on use, multiple partners....I don’t know. Via e-mail, I shared my questions and concerns about the Jenna Jameson web site with my friend, Mark Turner, who responded thus:

I get Physician's First Watch, which is an email review of medical journal articles and other news. On 9/4/07 they had an article about a news release from the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists. ACOG is now strongly advising against "designer vaginoplasty," marketed to women as a way to "enhance genital appearance and sexual gratification," and suggesting that many women develop insecurities because they do not realize the "wide variation in the appearance of normal genitalia." I assume that publicity surrounding the Jenna Jamison medical problems had a role in motivating them to issue this statement, but it's a bit late to help her.

Apparently, people were taking this issue very seriously.

So anyway....I had been sort of concerned about how Lois would deal with seeing Jim (who had been romantically involved with her sister for thirty years and kept her in a mobile home the entire time) and me, way (way) younger, and with Jim’s big baby and in a big house several miles from the mobile home park. I felt crazy. The situation simultaneously contained humor and pathos. In my mind, I contrived an exit strategy, a way out if things became too weird after Lois appeared. I told Jim I might have to leave the Lois visit early because I had something to do at work. Immediately after, Margaret and Lois arrived. Margaret said hello, greeted the baby and then left. Norma's sister took a good look at me, at my child in his high chair, at our house...and wouldn’t you know....she didn’t even flinch or hesitate...just seemed a bit put out and declared "My Lord, if Margaret hadn't driven me, I would have never been able to get here by myself. It's like a maze back here!" "Take a hoagie, darlin'," offered Jim, pressing one into her hand. I took mine and went out the back door.

Miss Foot in the Garden

Miss Foot, in the garden, avoided his bemused half-gaze.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eye, jabbing at it insensitively with his red knuckles.

"My God! You'll rub it right out of its socket! So rough, Colonel!" He ignored her and continued rubbing and jabbing until it seemed the eye would indeed come loose and land, perhaps with a small splash, into the red watering can which I inadvertently left near his chair. The other eye, a sparkling blue gem, stared dumbly at the dog, Warnie.

He put his glasses back on and rested his chins in the palm of one hand as he lapsed into a pleasant daydream. This annoyed Miss Foot, who looked beyond him to the garden and sneered at the white statue planted among the roses. He hummed. How she loathed that grotesque creature with its pointed breasts! He tapped his fingers to an indiscernible tune, while her eyes rolled in her head. He coughed. She turned. Their three eyes met, and he smiled at her in that peculiar way some people have of turning the corners of their lips down rather than up. He winked. She quickly turned her head to avoid his gaze and fixed hers on a chink in the high brick wall. They were, in fact, hemmed in on three sides by the high brick wall which was "at least a century old," a fact even I can confirm, and an historical point which Bloom delighted in mentioning when the neighbors--or whomever--came to call. Ostensibly, the roses, which were very fine by the local garden club's standards, were the objects of neighborly--or whomeverly--admiration. But it was the statue, his marble goddess in the garden, and his incredible (some said "unnatural") devotion to it that attracted most visitors. And of course, the extensive butterfly collection for which, I believe, he was rather well known among academic fanciers of lepidoptera, were inside the house, which brings us to the fourth side of the enclosed garden, the back of the aged house and the screen door which required endless mending and was at that very moment crying in pain. In fact, the entire house was dying, weak and moaning, but clung tenaciously to life, too sick and stubborn to die. And it was from within the house that the tea kettle could now be heard shrilly calling.

"Tea!" he called back, pressing his tie to his belly and rising form the rusty wrought iron chair. He winked at her again and passed hurriedly into the house. She forced a conciliatory smile, but then, you know, I always thought her an unpleasant spinster. I even felt sorry for poor Warnie for having such a wretched mistress.

An invisible hand slamming a window shut on the second floor stunned her and, with her own nervous hand, she searched for Warnie's warm head, but he was lying on the ground, his big belly sticking out from beneath him on both sides. His eyes rolled, scanning the wall for a fly. Or was it a butterfly?

Then she heard him, humming gleefully from within, and saw his porcine figure through the screen door. His hands were full with the tray, and he nudged and coaxed the door with his sneakered foot. It was here that he encountered difficulty as she (triumphantly) knew he would, but he kept at it. Owing to an ingenious--but timely--local locksmith's invention which had long since gone bad, the door tended to lock itself on warm, moist days. Today, for example. Still, Bloom continued nudging and coaxing, but it would not oblige. Clearly, it required a loving foot from the outside (for it swung both in and out), rather than an indifferent one from the inside. She might have helped him with the door, with the tray, with his half-sightedness (to add insult to injury--we shall presume it is owing to a ghastly injury--the real eye was plagued with both near and farsightedness), but she resolutely decided that she would not, unless he specifically requested her assistance. And he did not. And the door burst open, slamming itself violently against the back of the house.

"The ghosts," he mumbled, shaking his big head as he set the tray on the table.

"Now then, Miss Foot." He winked at her and poured the tea.

This house. These ghosts. It was all too much for her. But, as he was the only neighbor willing to receive her for tea, she endured his more bizarre aspects and became, after all those years, rather accustomed to his company. Still, I think she rather fancied him, but she never made a declaration of love. Perhaps she was embarrassed. Or shy.

He poured his own tea then, humming all the while, and she looked enviously at Warnie, whose eyes were shut tightly, his big tail nervously fanning the air. She concluded that he, too, must be dreaming. And he was.