Bobbing Along

A Lifetime of Stories: collected, painted, shared.

Green Bananas

I hear my mother’s words. Sometimes in my head. Sometimes, coming right out of my mouth.

“March!” she would say to me and my siblings when we dawdled too long.
“March!” I would say to my children when they, too, dawdled.

“Just put one foot in front of another,” she advised when I shared a problem I felt I couldn’t handle.
“Just put one foot in front of another” I advised others when their problems seemed insurmountable.

“Cindy, you know your dad and I don’t buy green bananas anymore” she told me with a wry smile as cancer began to ravage her body.

I now face the challenge of all challenges.

I am marching.

I am putting one foot in front of the other.

And with infinite optimism, I will continue to buy green bananas.



In the Trenches

What the hell happened?

I mean, really, what happened to this country?

I had asked that question many times a day for far too many days. That I was not a fan of the current administration should shock no one although the fact that many of you are still supporters shocks the bejeezus out of me. Railing against the news—flipping the bird at the tv screen or, occasionally, throwing socks—had failed to quell my rage.

It slowly occurred to me that I had to do something constructive. I could no longer leave the work to other nameless, faceless souls with more conviction. My excuses were no longer valid. If I wanted change, I had to be willing to work for it. And change is the one thing I want—change to the civility, the clarity and the caring (also the honesty, the intelligence, the inclusiveness…) that seemed to hallmark the previous administration.

By some twist of fate, I had been invited to a “meet-and-greet” social one day this past summer. This social was hosted by a former teacher whom I had admired for so long and I admit that my attendance at this social was fueled more by the chance of seeing her again than by a conscious interest in meeting the candidate. So I went.

Suddenly I found myself in the right place at the right time, asking the right questions and receiving the right answers. I was sold. I was hooked. And I was committed to being an on-the-ground grunt: knocking on strangers’ doors seeking signatures and hustling for votes. And it has been glorious.

Fully aware that I was interrupting dinners (and very possibly more than one doozer of an argument), I was regularly greeted with “HELL YES! WHERE DO I SIGN?”

Of course, I was also greeted by carefully shifted curtains that were not followed by an open door. And that scenario was still better than another canvasser who was greeted by an elderly man. A completely naked elderly man. So, no, the process was not all warm and fuzzy. (Well, except for the old man…)

I found that I was not alone in my anger. I was not alone in my worry. Many times, especially during one snow storm (we are a stubborn bunch, we Democrats) when I was brought into the home for the very purpose of listening to someone else’s concerns. Though these folks were “preaching to the choir”, they also gave me a warm reprieve from the elements.

There was one husband who wasn’t ready to sign anything; he just needed to research the candidates first. Fine. No problem. Perfectly valid. Yet as he was telling me this, his wife thundered down the stairs and burst—barefoot—onto the snowy porch, saying “I’LL SIGN!! I’LL SIGN! I don’t know what the hell his problem is, but I’ll SIGN!!”

In another home, the husband signed but was reluctant to interrupt his wife who was in the shower. Understandable, right? She must have had great hearing because as I was beginning to leave, here she came, head wrapped in a towel and body wrapped in a terrycloth robe. She perched on their steps and shared her grievances as she signed the petition. There was quite a puddle by the time our conversation ended.

A few weeks ago, my candidate started a tv ad describing his views on the issue of gun control. Trust me when I tell you that this is one hot-button issue in my area. Prior to canvassing that day, we were told that there was some controversy (surprise!) about his ad and we were given an explanation to help with any confusion over his stance.

Of course, I failed to read it. Frankly, I didn’t give it a second thought until later that day when one homeowner asked, “Is this the guy with the tv ad about guns?” 

Shit! What do I do now? And as I began to babble something completely unintelligible (and likely inaccurate), he reached and grabbed my clipboard, shouting “He’s got my vote! It’s about time someone does something about guns in this country!!”

Today we vote. My heart rests easier knowing that there are many who share my thoughts and who strive for change. Shortly, as I hurry to finish this, I will leave to work the polls until they close. And then I will wait in the hopes that my guy wins this stage of the process.

In the meantime, I have been given so much through this experience. I’ve received hugs. And validation. I’ve shared laughs with strangers. I have listened to concerns from folks with more to lose than I could ever have imagined. And, as thunder rolled through the sky last evening, I left my last house with a gift:

I am not certain where I’ll place the sticker but the pin? The pin I am wearing with pride!!


Just Hangin’

There are folks out there who breeze through life with nary a care in the world. Calm. Confident. Capable. Chill. People who just have their shit together from the beginning.

I am not one of them.

I remember many embarrassing episodes, even in my early years, situations when I would burst—I can’t believe I’m admitting this for all to see—into tears in anticipation of or immediately after doing something stupid. Yes, there was that time in third grade when Miss Israel, as she passed out test papers, announced that we were only getting one piece of paper and we would not get a second chance should we make a mistake. (It was a penmanship test, by the way. Who does that?) Our first task was to write our name at the top. I misspelled mine. Oh, yes. Yes, I did. Tears everywhere.

And there was Mrs. Brown, my fifth grade teacher, who leaned over me during an assignment and announced in a perfect stage whisper, “You are such a Worry Wart!” No pressure there. Her pronouncement made our next recess really fun.

Somehow, I have managed to manage my fears over the decades. I’m fine, really. I work hard to keep my worrying to a minimum, or at least I try to limit it, saving the effort for important things, which, of course, are abundant if one has family and friends and plans and goals and stuff. Whatever. I try.

When my nine-years-younger sisters included me in the plans for a girls’ get-away this fall, I was delighted. The three of us, spending time together! Hanging out together! At a bed and breakfast! In Gettysburg! Touring the Battlefield! On horseback!

Wait? What? WHAT? Horseback?

Oh, no worries there, right?  Uh,  r  i  g  h  t.  Except, I hadn’t ridden a horse in years. I’m older. I’m, um, heavier. Would my left leg be strong enough to hike my body up? Would my right leg be able to swing over the saddle? Would the rest of me follow that leg up and over and land my ass right in the dust on the other side? Would the horse like me? Would I like the horse? How tall would the horse be? If I managed to remain astride, a very big ‘if’ at that, would the height create additional panic? If I managed to ride for the entire tour, would I be able to walk after? What would happen if I had to pee halfway through the tour? How long is this damn tour, anyway? Why in the bloomin’ hell did I agree to this? And on. And on.

And on.

Before I knew it, I was in Gettysburg, awaiting the start our adventure. After a restless night, I awoke to an absolutely, perfectly gorgeous day. The sun sparkled through the brightly colored leaves. The air was crisp and clear. I was in the company of my two favorite sisters. How great was that? Moments like these don’t happen just every day and I was as ready for it as I could ever be. Once we made our way toward the stables, I was relieved to learn that everyone had to use mounting steps. Worry #1, gone. The rest would soon follow.

My expert skill at mounting my new buddy, Duke the Horse, was gleefully captured by my sister Barbie. I may have mentioned a bit of my anxiety to her and Becky in advance. Nonetheless she was ready with the camera. I suspect a post to YouTube was next on her agenda…just in case my fears became reality.


So far so good, indeed.

I must say that touring the Gettysburg Battlefield on horseback is a remarkable experience. Without question, it is the best possible way to see for oneself how difficult the terrain was to maneuver and how hard it was to adequately determine logistics key to the battle. Our guide was exceptional; the horses gentle and slow (rescue animals, all). And I was in my own private glory: I am doing this! I am a rock star!!

And all those worries? Totally unnecessary. None of them came to pass. When was I going to learn what a waste of time it is to agonize over things? It brought to mind a favorite Mark Twain quote:

I am an old man and I have seen a great many troubles in my time. But most of them never happened.

When our tour came to an end, we returned to the stables where the wranglers stood, steps in hand, ready to assist us as we dismounted. I was perfectly happy to wait near the end of the line. After all, in my own mind, I was now an equestrian! Such confidence. Such chutzpah. Such…hmmm…

When it was my turn to dismount, I leaned forward, gracefully swinging my right leg back over the horse. I could feel the wrangler guiding my foot to the mounting block below. Oddly, though my body was now fully on the same side of the horse, I was not sliding downward. Something was holding me up. Alas, I was dangling, fully suspended from the saddle.

I couldn’t slide down.

I couldn’t inch up.

I was stuck.

I was just hanging there.

For an eternity.

Quietly giggling.

And trying not to pee.

My bra, clearly one of the wonders of the modern world, had hooked itself around the horn of the saddle. And there it seemed determined to stay. I tried wedging it off the horn. Impossible. I tried climbing back up. Nope. I tried everything I could think of. No way was that brassiere relinquishing its grip.

Given the pull of my dangling body (and possibly some laws of gravity), something had to shift and that something became the ladies. Yes, Mabel and Flossie slipped out from under that sturdy, underwired-possibly-chain-mailed contraption allowing my body to slip gratefully down. The stubborn lingerie, still intent on hugging the saddle, remained where it was as my chin slid downward to meet it. With feet finally on the steps, bra creeping closer up toward my head, I managed at last to disengage the troublesome unmentionable and tuck the rest of me discreetly back inside.

With that, I gracefully stepped off the mounting block and turned toward my sisters neither of whom had a clue about the missed video opportunity. Stifling my laughter still, I walked to join them with as much dignity as I could muster, dignity which quickly evaporated.

The ONE THING I had failed to worry about had happened. Never in my wildest, most worrisome dreams could I have predicted this. 

I suppose there should be a lesson here. It might be to stay off horses. Or it could be to go bra-less but, uh, that’s not gonna happen. I’ll take my chances riding horses again. This tour was an experience I want to repeat, definitely with the grandkids at some point.

The tour, I’ll share with them.

The story of their grandmother, the horse and the ladies? Well, someday. Eventually. Maybe.










A Door Opens

History fascinates me. Not the economics and treaties and dates and stuff like that, you know, not the pesky details that one is tested on when studying the subject, no, not that stuff. I find history fascinating when people–ordinary and extraordinary–are the focus. After all, what is the point of history if not to remember how events affected ordinary folk or how extraordinary individuals affected events? And if the objects of our interest are members of our own families? Well, perhaps those stories need to be documented somewhere for those who follow us along that familial path and whose interest is piqued down the road.

When this blog was first bequeathed, I anticipated using it as a platform for mundane thoughts, random essays, and certain bits of memories. Though I am not as actively engaged in writing as I had hoped, many of my posts have been about those very things, random and mundane. And indeed some have been memories particularly ones concerning my parents and grandparents.

My intentions also included using the blog as a platform for showcasing my artwork, with occasional explanations about some of the pieces. That part of my blog has been sorely under-utilized. I still intend to do that, but time to adequately post the work is every bit as rare as time to adequately complete the work. So, yes, there’s that little conundrum.

I now have six grandchildren. The oldest is suddenly curious about family stories. He wants to know not just stories about his dad as a child. He wants to know stories about his grandparents. And great-grandparents. And great-great-grandparents. Well, he hasn’t asked specifically about the great-greats, but still…the curiosity is there.

One child, curious about family history. One grandmother, a keeper of the history. And one blog, ready and waiting for a redefined purpose. The stars are aligning. And someone needs to get her ass in gear!

All of which brings me to my purpose here today.

I am not certain when I will be able to begin actively documenting the stories from my forebears but I am certain where on the blog these stories will eventually land. The category “Anecdotes” is now “Ancestors and Anecdotes“. Yes, I will continue to publish random and mundane content on the home page, which is the page you are viewing at this moment, but

I am also determined that this blog, along with its other purposes, will become a repository for all those tales shared through the generations. As I write them, these stories will be housed in the new category, Ancestors and Anecdotes. I guess I’m a’gonna be busy! There may be photographs! With explanations! Maybe some actual documentation! A legend or two? Maybe! Who knows???

As you wait, please note that the photograph with which I began this post is one with certain significance. I will write eventually about the persons whose scrapbooks I have pictured. Meanwhile, it may be of some interest that visible in the picture are ration coupons and visa documents from World War I. Yes, the papers pictured are now one hundred years old. My grandson did the math for me as we were discussing all of this recently. Whoa. Math. I can’t even begin…but I will. I promise. If not for me, if not for you, then for those grandchildren.

The door has opened. All I have to do is walk through—through boxes and boxes of photographs and letters, through pile upon pile of papers and memorabilia, through fragments and whispers of conversations buried deep in my memory. These will be stories of a family. Of my family. Of my heritage and the heritage of all who follow me.

In reality the stories may not be terribly different from stories of your family, of families everywhere. We all have them—tall tales, legends, bits of history, dubious details. If the stories are not recorded somewhere, however, they’ll be lost to the ages and with them, the lives—ordinary or extraordinary—of those who make up part of who we are.

And, so…here I go…



The Bug

You’re here!

You are our littlest one. Our newest one. Our Bug.

I have yet to hold you but that will be corrected soon. And when I do, I will whisper the same words I have whispered to each of your cousins: I love you. I love you. I LOVE YOU.

Can’t wait. Welcome to our lives, my little Bug. You are so very loved.


Feed Me

“Feed me, Krelborn, feed me NOW!”*

Once upon a time there was a lovely garden filled with hydrangeas. The hydrangeas would produce their beautiful puffs of color from early spring to the first frost of autumn.

One afternoon toward the end of summer, a little surprise appeared, dangling merrily amongst the blossoms.

Fascinated by the single interloper, the owners of the garden, yes, a certain husband with two green thumbs and his wife with none, let that single gourd grow. It lived contently in the shadow of the hydrangeas until the first frost ended it all.

The gardener and his wife went about their busy lives, not giving the gourd a moment’s thought. Fall led to winter and winter led to spring which brought the first round of hydrangea blossoms for the new summer. Neither the gardner nor his wife considered the reappearance of the gourd plant until suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, this appeared.

Fascinated once again, the gardener and his wife continued to watch the plant grow. And grow it did. Before they knew it, the plant grew down the wall and onto the deck.

It grew over the wall and up the porch screens.

It grew onto the terrace, past the grill and inched its way toward the house.

It grew…and grew…and grew some more. (Yes, that is a wine bottle placed for the purpose of proportion. That mother was huge.)

And every time the gardener’s wife went outside, she was tempted to burst into song,

“Suddenly Seymour

is standing beside me…”*

Well, that’s the song she considered singing although the more appropriate song would have been,

“Feed me, Seymour, 

Feed me all night long.

‘Cause if you feed me Seymour

I can grow up big and strong.”*

(Fortunately, the wife didn’t burst out into either song, but that’s another story, perhaps.)

Yes, the gardner and his wife had managed to grow their very own AUDREY II*, right out of one of their favorite musicals. And what did they feed it? No one knows for sure, though, now that fall has arrived once again, the gardner has harvested some of the many, many gourds that Audrey III produced.

For what reason, you ask? The gardner isn’t saying. And the wife, well, the wife just wants her kitchen table back.


* from Little Shop of Horrors








On one summer’s day, out of the blue, the Rooster asked to see my artwork, specifically, my drawings. Can I tell you how much those words delighted me?  Can I tell you just how quickly I pulled those crusty old things out of their hiding place? Can I have stuffed any more commas into that first sentence? Jeez.

While I would love to say he was blown away, he was not. But we did have a lively conversation about line and texture and learning to draw. Frankly, he mentioned his friend from school who “is much better than you, Mommom”. Yep. He mentioned that kid a lot. So, yes, there was that. The nerve.

Nevertheless, his eyes lit up when we came upon one particular drawing.

He was drawn to the Superman image but he had no clue what the other part was. Of course I explained that my Superman was superimposed on the dial (the what?) of the pay phone (the WHAT?) which was used for communication during college since we didn’t have, well, shit, since we lived in the time of the dinosaurs, dammit.

A lesson in drawing quickly became a lesson in history, both of which he must have enjoyed because he asked if he could have the picture. And upon that request he was immediately forgiven for the comments about how much better his 8-year-old friend’s drawings were than mine. The drawing is now framed and ready for its new owner, The Rooster: Collector of Art Antiquities.

And just a heads-up for any other future familial collectors: This one has been claimed as well, and it is huge. I hope his parents have a wall waiting there in Connecticut. Won’t they be surprised!




Journal Entry: Exercise

When I last posted a ‘journal’ entry, summer was on the wane. In that entry, one might have guessed that I was about to redirect some intentions in my life. Which I did. With some success. Ok. With minimal success. Or maybe with an imagined amount of success as only my imagination can suggest. Whatever. I tried so let’s just leave it at that.

Summer has arrived once more and with it that glorious concept known as Camp Mombaba, which is code for babysitting grandchildren. Sometimes one. Sometimes more. Sometimes overnight. Sometimes not. It varies with their needs and our energy levels.

With the Rooster now nearing the age of nine—I know! How did that happen?—being with friends is of utmost importance. And since our area has a marvelous set of parks with an energetic summer program for kids his age, I am relegated each morning to sitting at his house while he participates in the park program across the street. It’s a win-win, really. He’s happy with friends. I’m happy with time to write.

I couldn’t just leave it at that, however: him playing, me writing. No. I decided that I should take full advantage of the walking path at the park and get myself some exercise. When the Rooster goes to the park, I follow. Not too close, mind you. He no longer wants to be seen with his grandmother. Sigh.

I decided I would do a few laps around the walking path each day before starting on my work. I will state right upfront that this commitment to exercise is an aberration. Three days in, however, I was feeling mighty proud of my 3/4 mile trek.

Until today, when I returned to the house: Sweaty. In need of a bathroom. Looking forward to the air-conditioning…

Proud…until I discovered I was outside the house and the house keys were inside. 

Neighbors have phones. Dear Dave arrived to the rescue. I am now where I should have been from the beginning. EXERCISE. Bah!! Who needs it???


In the Eyes of the Beholder, I Suppose…

I enjoy Facebook. I really do. I don’t post often and if I do, my posts more often than not are about family. My family. Friends I consider to be family. Grandchildren. And, yes, the occasional diatribe about the Toddler-in-Chief currently residing in the White House. Sigh. Moving on…

Having recently spent time enjoying an abstract art workshop (which I need to write about. It’s on the list of things I need to write about. And that list ain’t gettin’ any shorter, woman.) I decided to update my Facebook look by posting one of the paintings I did while I was there, using it as my cover photo:

This painting isn’t necessarily finished—it currently remains rolled up in the studio with the other works I did. The studio is filled with detritus from other rooms in my home, rooms that are having floors redone. It’s a mess, really. But I digress. This painting was very well received, which, of course, made me very happy.

I also posted this image as my profile photo:

And folks loved this one! Really loved it!! This is the photo of the wall. The wall against which all my paintings had been tacked while I painted them. I repeat: This is The Wall.

And the internet (or at least the folks who know me on Facebook. Ok. Maybe seven people. I’m not really counting…) went bonkers. One dear friend said it was one of my best works ever. Others felt it was “amazing” and “remarkable”. It. Is. A. Wall.

But ya know what? I’ll take it! I will take every one of those compliments and hug them to my heart! Because I am just that needy, I am! Remarkable, my arse.


It’s What I Do

It doesn’t take much to put a smile on the Peanut’s face. In spite of her parents’ insistence on preparing healthy foods, avoiding whenever possible the pre-made, off-the-shelf, filled-with-salt-and-sugar-and-unpronounceable additives, she fell in love with this:

When I returned her to Chicago after our holiday camp (including, yes, that trip to DC), we stuffed our suitcases with envelope after envelope of her new favorite cereal. And once she ate her way through all of those (and there were many) she insisted that the oatmeal she now loves could only be purchased in York, Pennsylvania.

What was one to do, other than ship two huge boxes out to her?

Which I did.

It’s what I do.

Being a grandmother is the best!



A Few Words on Words

The morning after the 2016 Election, I sat at the airport awaiting a flight to Chicago. I was numb. I was heartbroken. And I was frightened beyond belief at the results of the previous day.

There was an eerie quiet amongst us, those passengers waiting to board. I could say that we all felt impending doom but that would be neither fair nor correct. Perhaps the quiet reflected a competing sense of relief that this most contentious of elections was finally over.

I do know that when the overhead monitor began to display Clinton’s concession speech, many stood attentively in front of the screen, each one somber. Respectful. Silent. I don’t believe for a minute that all of them were supporters of her campaign, yet even if their interest was based only on curiosity, their respect was profound.

That respect moved me to tears. If the behavior and dialogue that was espoused by our now President during the course of his campaign served as any indication, respect will certainly not be a hallmark of this new administration. Of this, I am sure.

Let me be clear on something: I am not a die-hard, vote-the-party-line person. I do have some lines-in-the-sand issues that inform my choices but I also know that sand shifts. I am open to other ideas (even if I do manage to argue my opposing points). I have occasionally been known to change my opinion (very occasionally but still…).

This election, however, was particularly difficult for me. You see, I was raised by a man whose words inflicted pain. My siblings and I have worked all our lives to heal the wounds inflicted by one bully, our father. The mental and emotional wounds will never be fully erased; scars will always remain.

I know only too well the damage that is done when words are used to control. When words are used to humiliate. When words are used to demean and diminish. And I know just how difficult it is to rise up against such words. It has taken me the better part of my lifetime to find my own voice and my abuse wasn’t on a public scale. No one recorded it. It was not displayed and discussed on the news. No one had an opportunity to stand up against it.

As a nation, we should have stood up against this bully who is now our new president.

But we did not.

For those of you who overlooked his words, please understand why I could not. Please understand why I cannot still. Please understand that words matter and for the life of me, I cannot understand why his words didn’t matter to you. To everyone.

To those of you who may feel that I am being disrespectful here, I answer this: Were my path to cross with the new president, I would behave respectfully. That is right and fair. He, however, will have to earn my respect. After all of his words, which were hurtful to so many people, I think that is also right. And also fair.

Words have consequences.

The words we use speak to our character.

Choose them wisely, Mr. President.

Choose them wisely.


Keeping Score

Over the Christmas holidays, Dear Dave and I decided to take the two older grandchildren on a trip to Washington, D.C.  Two nights and two days in that amazing city. A city filled with museums. And, uh, other things. And how did this adventure go, you may wonder? Well, let’s view it as a game—a competition between intent and reality, with YAY! for achieving the intent and OOPS! for screwing it up. I’m sure you can’t guess how this’ll turn out, right?

It was with great enthusiasm that the Rooster requested to see the White House “while President Obama still lived there.” Unfortunately, the tickets I sought from my duly-elected Representative never quite materialized.

YAY! 0,  OOPS! 1

We decided not to drive into D.C. given that we are cowards that way. Instead, we parked in Baltimore and took the MARC train, a two-level commuter train that runs between Baltimore and D.C. The Peanut was particularly thrilled to ride on the top level. Even though it was dark. And, high or low, we couldn’t see a thing. Still, we were on the top deck. Also, due to planning errors, dinner was a couple of bags of Cheetos.

YAY! 1,  OOPS! 1

It was rather late by the time we arrived at our hotel. It hadn’t helped that our cab driver got us all lost. Although it was too close to bedtime to use the pool, the kids and I went to check it out anyway. While we explored the “fitness” level, we made our way outside onto a small balcony from which we could see the gleaming dome of the Capitol Building.

The extremely well-traveled Peanut was thrilled. “This place is amazing! It’s is the most beautiful hotel I’ve ever seen!” (It was a Hampton.) And the Rooster was beside himself with joy. “WASHINGTON DC! IT’S A DREAM COME TRUE!”

YAY! 2,  OOPS! 1

Naturally, when those exclamations registered in my brain, my first thought was We’d better go home right now. We have hit the highpoint and there are more than 36 hours to go. I am so fucked. As they say, however, hope springs eternal and we continued on our adventure early the next morning. They loved riding on the Metro.

YAY! 3,  OOPS! 1

Then we got off and discovered that it was very cold.

YAY! 3,  OOPS! 2

And it was very windy.

YAY! 3,  OOPS! 3

We couldn’t easily get close enough to the South Portico of the White House for a decent look, let alone a good photograph. Not even with the rather grim and disgruntled assistance of a parked Secret Service agent who ordered me “away from the car, Lady. Lady, away from the car. Lady, BACK AWAY FROM THE CAR!” Jeez. I was only trying to ask for directions.

YAY! 3,  OOPS! 4

At the museum entrances, there were huge, long lines. Obviously other grandparents had copied my idea. Also, there were security measures in place. So we had to wait. In the cold and the wind. And once inside, it was very crowded.

YAY! 3,  OOPS! 5

There was a lot of walking and a lot of waiting. Did I mention it was cold and windy?

YAY! 3,  OOPS! 6

The Rooster has long been fascinated with Abraham Lincoln. As Tour Leader, it took me a bit longer than it should have to change our course, but I did, eventually. We ditched the museums and cabbed our way to the Lincoln Memorial.

YAY! 4,  OOPS! 6

AND IT WAS AWESOME. We read the Gettysburg Address, engraved on one wall. We talked a little about the Civil War and the Battle of Gettysburg and about the Emancipation Proclamation. It was a lot to take in. Most important, I suppose, given their ages, I assured them (several times) that no, Abraham Lincoln was not really that big.

YAY! 5,  OOPS! 6

From there, we cabbed it back to the White House. I am nothing if not determined. We were going to see the White House and get a picture of it too. It was the North Portico, but it was still the White House, dammit.

YAY! 6,  OOPS! 6

Cold, tired, and a wee bit cranky, we then headed back for dinner and the much-anticipated swim in the hotel pool. The pool where a certain young person choked on some water, regurgitated some dinner, turned white as a sheet and decided to put the “sick” in homesick. A warm bath did nothing to help. Nor did the FaceTime with the parents. It was a long night.

YAY! 6,  OOPS! 7

The next morning brought bright sunshine and warmer weather, but we high-tailed it home anyway. This time, we used Amtrak but a train is a train and everyone was happy. Will we repeat this plan? Maybe. Maybe not. The jury is still out on that. When asked what they enjoyed the most about our adventures, and yes, I actually asked them that, their response was swift: the trains. All of them. But especially the double-decker. All Aboard!

YAY! 7,  OOPS! 7










We recently attended an event: Dear Dave’s 50th high school reunion. We had primped and powdered and felt reasonably comfortable in our old skin and not-new clothes. We were a tad anxious, but otherwise ready to participate in the inevitable task of matching old yearbook photos, long-unthought-of names, and the faces which might complete a connection. That task, ultimately, was his. I tagged along as “SPOUSE”.

True, I had met some of his friends way back during our dating days. And some of them I was looking forward to seeing after so many years. I will confess, however, that as we arrived at the venue and made our way toward the doors—passing long glass walls through which we could see a throng of people—I quietly said to my dear husband,

That can’t be the reunion. Those people look far too old. Let’s check at the front desk to see where your group is meeting.

Yes. I said that. Yes, indeed. And yes, the concierge confirmed what deep down inside we both knew: those “old people”—the ones that looked JUST LIKE US—were the rest of the reunion attendees. Busted.

Honestly, we had a wonderful time. As a spouse, it was great fun to watch and listen, to observe the delight in faces when that recognition hit and to hear the glee that accompanied it. Still, I was looking for one face. That one person whom I knew would be in attendance. That one person for whom I have such fond memories.

My only photograph of her was taken when we visited her and her husband (both classmates of Dear Dave), spending the night in their tiny rented house while en route to other cities in the New England area. It was with these friends that I first drank Ouzo and Retsina and the fact that I can remember anything about that evening (There was dancing. Something with an handkerchief?) given the amounts of Greek wine that were consumed, is nothing short of a miracle. This is the person I was seeking, and yes, ’tis I tucked in the corner on the left…


And, as a bit of a side note, the reason I have been able to locate said photo is due to my early days of creating scrapbooks which in this case has never been completed.


Reunions are among those occasions where using one’s eyes is not necessarily the best approach. Looks are very deceptive after fifty years. I know this because the image I see in the mirror each day doesn’t resemble me at all. Nope. Not one bit.

So how did I locate my friend? By sound. We were standing right next to each other. I heard her speak. That the sound of someone’s voice can transcend years and distances is amazing to me. Yet it did. And it absolutely made my evening. Let’s not wait another fifty, dear friend, ok?







Labors of Love

Before the world went digital, we made scrapbooks. Well, I made scrapbooks. Lots of scrapbooks. Bookshelves of thick, chunky, dust-gathering scrapbooks. Like these:


It took hours to select which photographs to include and which to ignore. It took even more time to create categories and tags to explain what needed additional explaining. It was a labor of love usually accomplished during slow summer afternoons or bitter winter evenings while refereeing squabbles (theirs), overseeing homework (theirs), and nursing headaches (mine). And it all ended by 2005 when we became a family with a digital camera.

Those scrapbooks were the objects my children curled up with on days when they felt under the weather. Or on days when the weather kept them under, stuck at home and away from friends. The scrapbooks were duly pulled off the shelves when new friends visited for the first time. They were shared when old friends came by as well. These labors of love were loved. Still are, I think, in an old-fashioned sort of way.

As for labors of love, the same can be said of this blog which, however ignored it appears to be, is just a different way to collect memories. Just another way to share the stories and tell the tales (some short, some tall). It does take time (more than most can imagine) to accomplish it to my level of satisfaction, but I love doing this, this writing. And this sharing. I can only hope that years from now my family will dust off an old computer or its equivalent and revisit this site because this is the closest I will ever come to scrapbooking again.

Anyway, now that summer has shifted into fall and winter beckons, it is time (past time, some would say) to gather those memories of the previous few months, tidy them into a this little epic post the rest of which will be filled more with images than words (you’re welcome). I do love sharing these faces…


The Rooster, 8



The Peanut, almost 5


The Chick-a-dee, 3

The Chick-a-dee, 3


Beanie, now 1

Beanie, now 1


The Lu-bird, 6 months

The Lu-bird, 6 months


More? Of course! I’m not about to leave you with just five, silly! This was the Summer of Popsicles and other Porch Snacks…






It was the Summer of Beaches, Barbecues, and Backyard Campouts.













And if there was one thing that defined this summer, it had to be The Great Bubble Wand Experiment. What began as a project for Camp Mombaba, became the best party game ever—possibly more fun for the ‘grown’ ups than their offspring. I must give a nod here to for this particular inspiration and to Son #1 for most of the bubble photos.













Whenever we gather, wherever we gather, Life is just crazy good.








Thanks for sticking around. More stories are on the way, but, for now, the studio beckons and I am heeding the call. xoxo



The Lu-bird

It must be said that having grandchildren is tantamount to winning the lottery…or finding that gold at the end of a rainbow. It is simply the most marvelous gift Life can hand you. Better than bacon. Even better than butter. Better than children too, actually, although I love my kids, I really do. I just find my grandchildren that. much. more. wonderful.

One might have thought that as deeply as I feel this—to the very core of my very core—I would have been far more diligent in announcing our latest joyful bundle. She arrived way, w-a-a-a-y back in March which makes me six months SIX MONTHS late in sharing this news with whomever might be lurking around this blog. (Hey, Jackie! Hi, Mary Lou!)

So, without further ado, here is The Lu-bird.


And here she is again.


And again.


And again.


More? You want more? Well, here you are!


And yet another, taken right after her big brother stuffed a huge chunk of chocolate cake into her mouth. She loved it. And begged for more.


She wears the “crown” to adjust some issues with the shape of her head, a result of intra-utero squashing. Yes, that is the medical term. I had wanted to bedazzle the crown but my artistic efforts were immediately thwarted. No rhinestones. No glitter glue. No sequins. Nada. I wasn’t allowed near her until I was frisked.

Lu-bird brings our total of grandchildren to five. Five delightfully unique little wonders. I know precisely how fortunate I am. My heart is full-to-bursting with joy and gratitude.

And the other grands? They are doing just fine, thank you for asking. Since I am finally at the computer writing on this here blog, I’ll share some photos of the rest of the crew soon. Very soon. For now, however, this post is all about the Lu-Bird. We love you, Lu-bird! We truly do!!