Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by death. I mean the whole concept of being here today and potentially gone tomorrow, is something I struggle to wrap my mind around. I suppose we all do. Flipping through recipes this morning, I found an email with an asparagus recipe from my dear friend and mentor, Mary Tully. In the email I am asking her to send me the delicious recipe for the asparagus we had at her husband’s birthday party months earlier. My son’s wedding was coming up and I wanted to make this dish for the rehearsal dinner. Mary says in her response that she is so honored and gladly shares the recipe. I renamed it Asparagus Tully for the event and everyone enjoyed it. The email was dated March 2009. The wedding was in May 2009. In July 2010, Mary was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. In December 2010, we attended Mary’s funeral. I still have the recipe but I always miss Mary.
Listening to NPR today on the way home from carpool pickup, I heard about the American photojournalist, Marie Colvin being killed today in Syria. She was originally from Long Island and then lived in France. She lived to tell the story in photos of the atrocities of war and despite losing an eye in her dangerous profession; she forged on until she was killed in the fray today. She served us by sharing the visual story with us, but we lost her anyway. I am sad for her mother and father, for her friends. It is just deeply sad.
I am even sad about Whitney Houston, whose four-hour funeral was completely over the top a few days ago. It had all the elements of a tent revival meeting and when it came to comparing her to Mother Theresa – well, that was really a bit much. I feel she really did kill herself, despite professing deep love for her daughter and an evangelistic love of God. Nothing was enough to keep her from the drugs she also loved and depended upon and no amount of rehab or cleansing could keep her from drowning in a bathtub, overtaken by too many prescription pain killers. Nothing really could kill her pain and she too, entertained us and thrilled us like no one else, but we lost her anyway.
And then again as I am reorganizing my recipe collection, I came across an old Thanksgiving Day suggestion for a new tradition. It involved asking each family member to write down one thing they were thankful for and then bake them into crescent rolls. Then, each person would break open their roll and read the blessing aloud. Well, the year I found that suggestion I thought it was great and so when my sister and her husband and kids came for dinner, we got right into it. Except for my brother in law who said, “I have nothing to be thankful for.” We all were angry with him and never forgot his lack of gratitude. In reality, he was an unhappy man and years later I watched him take his last breaths in an ER where he succumbed to the maladies of morbid obesity. His young daughter held his hand as he left this world that caused him so much pain. It still makes me sad every time I think of him.
When we moved from San Antonio, Texas to Hampton Bays, New York in the winter of 1982, I was still a Catholic but had already baptized my first son in the Episcopal Church. There was no particular reason for this other than that my husband was an Episcopalian and our childbirth educator was married to an Episcopal priest. It seemed like the thing to do. Living in Hampton Bays, I was drawn to this quaint old Tudor looking church called St. Mary’s Episcopal Church. It was Easter Sunday when we first arrived and when I went to the communion rail and found the chalice was filled with jelly beans and the priest, Father Dan Harris was giggling, I thought I might have found a church with a sense of humor. Week after week Fr. Dan delighted us with his sense of humor, his engaging ways with kids and a weekly show and tell type of God Box that he invented. I was hooked and in the spring of that year, I became an official Episcopalian, having been received by the bishop. I really loved this priest of ours but when he wound up cheating on his wife with a young woman he was counseling and planned to leave the parish with her, I was a bit taken aback. I remember sitting with him in the church kitchen one day following a hurricane that had knocked out the power supply. We sat at the dimly lit table and he said, “This time I want a piece of the pie. I’m leaving so that I can have it.” We lost touch with him over the years although he attended my son’s funeral at St. Mary’s years later. After a hiatus in New England for many years, he moved back to Hampton Bays with four kids and his newish wife. We visited with him but left feeling like he was not all that excited to see us. Perhaps he had a lot going on himself that day. But, I learned last week that he died four days after Christmas this year. It feels like the end of an era and in many ways it is. I often thank my father for giving me my faith. I thank Fr. Dan for bringing me into the open and loving arms of the Episcopal faith.
We all walk on eggshells. Will we find the lump in our breast today or tomorrow? Is that pain in my back, really a silent heart attack? Is the clearing my throat, really throat cancer? Esophageal cancer? Lung cancer? Is that what my shortness of breath is stemming from? Is my back aching because the osteoporosis has made complete Swiss cheese of my bones? Did I forget where I parked the car because I need Aricept to minimize Alzheimer’s? Is my knee hurting because all the cartilage is gone? Is that sunspot on my face changing or darkening? Will it be a simple skin cancer or full blown, life threatening, Melanoma?
This is how we live. There is so much fear and so much illness and death around us. Combine that with way too much information, and one could easily slip into somaticizing everything. As Dr. Christiane Northrup once said, “Hey, those are not lumps on your chest waiting for chemotherapy, they are your healhty breasts!”
Fear has a mind of its own though. Sadness can take hold of any normal, sunny day when you begin thinking about those who have died, wondering if they had any idea of when their last day would be. I mean did Whitney have a funny feeling as she stepped into that tub or was she too stoned to have any feeling at all?
Anyway, it ain’t easy…
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Monday, December 19, 2011
The New York Love Affair Especially at Christmas
I don't know that I can really put this into words. It's sort of how it is when you are deeply in love with someone but cannot really explain the feelings precisely, simply because, they are feelings. That's how I feel about New York. Oh, it is not all love and glory by any means. New York is about as tough as it gets and no, the residents are not particularly kind or nice. In fact, most of the time, they can be irritable and unforgiving. They dislike being bumped into and when you apologize they don't respond with sweet forgiveness. The weather is cold and often gray. The crowds make getting from one spot to another a complicated labyrinth of sorts. Most things are expensive, though there are ways around that. It isn't a clean place if that is a priority of yours, and that by the way, does include restaurants. And it is very challenging to the handicapped or moms with strollers. There is no way around an expensive hotel room. And yes, crime rates are still fairly high despite the wand waved by Guiliani some years ago. The subway is really ugly and noisy and its stairways up and down and down and up again make no sense much of the time. Most things are harder to do than anywhere else in the world, but one really comes to believe "it's harder because it is better." There are many downsides.
But, having just returned from New York City for four days during Christmas week, my heart and soul have been renewed beyond expectations. To me, the beauty in New York is literally endless. The art is staggering. The creativity is like none other. Fashions are sublime and original and over the top. And, short of Bethlehem, there is truly no more Christmas-y place on Earth. Shep and I walked around for four days and nights except for one stop at a glorious New York wedding in the NY Health and Athletic Club on tony Central Park South. I also got to the ever corny Christmas show in Radio City Music Hall, which despite having lived in New York for most of my life I had never seen! I loved it. I wish we had worn pedometers because I figure we covered some 15 plus miles on foot this week.
The amount of black clothing in New York rivals a funeral in Rome. It is staggering really to see an endless sea of black coats, shoes, hats. And by the way, fur, not of the "fun" sort, but the serious "animal rights violation type" is back, big time. No protestors arrived with red spray paint either. All those Blackglama (What Becomes a Legend Most?) full length minks, red foxes, bright red or green furs and the like are around everywhere. It is disconcerting to me for sure, but seems perfectly acceptable once again amidst New Yorkers. The coat de rigueur though still tends to be the black puffy down coat that reaches the knees or beyond. Smart women have them belted with a cinch belt which I bet keeps them even warmer. Lots and lots of scarves and beautiful high leather boots with ear muffs abound. Waiting for a bus last night for nearly an hour, I got to appreciate the idea of a longer coat as my legs were freezing!
The tree. Ahh, the tree. I always start to quiver a bit as I turn the corner on Fifth Ave, knowing that Rockefeller Center is about to be within sight. And suddenly, magnificently, there it is in all glittery, glowy, glory. There resides the sparkling, golden Prometheus above the soaring ice skaters. I am not sure which part of the scene it is, or if it is all of them together, but darn it, I cry every single time. My whole childhood flashes in front of me (the good parts) and I am thrilled to the core by the historical nature and the official Christmas scene that it is. For some unknown reason, I feel close to God in that place. I stand there watching with freezing tears the whole time until I can take no more, then, take some photos and leave. My typical next stop is Saks where I stand in awe of the best merchandising around (you WANT everything in the store and part of you believes you NEED to have it all as well, BELIEVING it will make you hip and happy). I have never purchased a thing there, except for the one time my friend and I had our makeup done at the Bobbi Brown counter and bought mascara. Makeup costs the same price everywhere, so it makes no difference where you purchase. Then, I head to St. Patrick's Cathedral every time. This time, we walked into a Christmas concert, SRO, every seat in every pew taken. "The First Noel" sung by choir did me in of course. I struggled some more to keep my voice from cracking amidst the throngs. I couldn't sing and resist crying, so I stayed silent, listening to the cavernous recital.
All of Fifth Avenue blows me away. I mean Tiffany, Cartier, Gucci, Vesace, Henri Bendel, Hermes, Elizabeth Arden's Red Door, Bergdorf Goodman not only look beautiful dripping in lights and building sized bows, but they exude all the best that a store can offer. The F.I.T. Buying and Merchandising major in me comes alive once again, burying the stodgy lactation consultant in exchange for a damned good display. I love it. The cutting edge fashion. The buttery leathers, lighter than air silks, shiny taffetas, plush velvets, the hip home items, the highest shoes and the diamonds, oh the diamonds. One whole entire street, both sides of nothing, but millions of diamonds. 47th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues is the diamond district. Not for the faint of heart, this is an event where you really need to know what you are doing and the competition for your business is fierce. You can be physically pulled into a jeweler's kiosk where he insists he knows just what you are looking for. This used to be a field for only the most religious and mostly Hassidic Jewish vendors, but no longer it seems, as we were accosted by all nationalities desperate for our business. My intention was to have my engagement ring reset, but even I, became completely intimidated and untrusting. After all, do I really know the difference between a good diamond and a bad one? Nope. Going into Tiffany's is so much more civilized, more trusting albeit completely unaffordable. The sales clerks in Tiffany's used to bang on the glass cases with their key rings whenever they made a sale and then a runner would take the buyers money to be processed. I always loved that, hearing all that glass tapping, but they don't do that any longer.
We got to skip going to FAO Schwarz this time because we were kidless for once. But, my forever thrill is The Plaza Hotel. I instantly picture Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford in my all time favorite movie, The Way We Were. Usually, I brush Shep's hair back and say, "Oh, Hubbel!" Again, I usually get teary. I think I love this area of the city most of all as to me, with horses and carriages and Central Park and Fifth Avenue, it is perhaps the most glowing epitome of New York. We forced ourselves to bear witness to Ground Zero with which its new fountains and engraved names may be even more heart wrenching than ever.
Bryant Park is the loveliest place now, with chairs and tables for anyone to rest upon and at this time of the year, an ice skating rink with wonderful music. There were dozens of kiosks with artsy, fabulous gifts that we loved. And then, in the gorgeous twinkly lighted restaurants was a private party going on. Everyone looked amazing, mostly of course wearing black and seeming to have the most romantic, happy time by candle light. Lucky office workers for whomever was throwing that soiree. We contemplated trying to slip in, but realized we could never pull it off. Jealousy arrived. And, we saw many other private parties on that Friday night before Christmas, each one looking more delightful and warm than the last. I find it impossible to describe how in love I am with those scenes. It's magic and always, black magic.
On Thursday night we finally snuggled into a great Turkish restaurant and both splurged on some good red wine. It was 9 pm, and we were mighty hungry. No sooner had we sat down and ordered than my friend, the mother of the groom called and asked where we were as she was waiting for us at her son's loft apartment where we were supposed to have arrived at 7 pm! Disaster as we realized we had gotten the nights mixed up and thus, chugged our wine, grabbed our food to go, jumped into a cab, totally in inappropriate play clothes and got there a mere two and a half hours late! It had been a pizza and beer party, but the pizza was gone and so we now sloshed more red wine into our empty tummies quickly becoming trashed. When we left there, we were both laughing so hard that we could hardly walk. But mostly, we did walk and walk and walk and went down to Soho for drinks following the rehearsal dinner the next night. This was in a real southern style rib place (irony) where again, everyone was having a rip, roaring good time. We stayed awhile chatting with the family, then, left and walked some more on that warmish December night. As Shep said, "There's just so much to say." Indeed there was.
Suffice to say, the wedding in St. Ignatius Loyola, Jackie Kennedy's Catholic church where she was baptized and eulogized was magnificent. For most of the mass, I thought I was in Florence in one of the churches there. Ironically, the bride, Kim looked identical to Carolyn Bisette (John Kennedy Jrs. bride). The reception at the NY Athletic Club where the groom is a member was classy and understated. For once, I was one of the attendees at a New York event and I loved every minute of it. My attempt at wearing high heels was disastrous as we had to dodge into a Duane Reede pharmacy for some foldable slippers. The Club was on fire when we arrived! Typical New York with many fire engines, ladders up to the windows, and people running outside with just a towel wrapped around them as they rushed out of the sauna. It was an amazing site and we were all displaced in the cold but in true New Yorker fashion, no one fell apart, many laughed, some got angry, but after wandering into the Essex House for awhile, the reception was able to begin, though quite late.
We stayed in a classy hotel, a first for us who usually reside in cheap motels with kids crammed into sleeping bags. Used up all my flyer miles and it was well worth it as we stayed in The Warwick Hotel, home of the first stop for the Beatles in 1965! What a thrill and what a lovely room. Loved it. We took a few cabs but mostly subways and buses including the long arduous bus ride from Manhattan to LaGuardia airport. It's slow and tedious, but always a fascinating experience through Spanish Harlem with a fare of $2.25 all the way to the airport!
"We were tired, we were merry, we had ridden all night on the ferry..." from an old poem my mother wrote. Well, it wasn't the ferry, but it was a completely joyful experience being in the hubub and the magnificience of New York at Christmas.
It makes me feel love and well loved. It reminds me of all that is still good and sweet in this world. It makes me be ever so grateful for all that I have and for all who I have ever been loved by. I don't know why this happens to me more in New York than anywhere else I have ever been. Perhaps, there are many of my ghosts there including my young successful self in fashion design and retail and all the jobs I had in Betti Terrell Children's Wear, Peau D'Ange Bridal Designs, Coco Creations, Michael Murray designs, Valentino, Benton and Bowles Advertising, New York Hospital Gift Shop, B. Altman, Macy's. Then, my father as a court officer on Chambers Street and in later years, as a messenger darting around the city and my mother as an employee for Esquire magazine's advertising department along with my aunt in children's wear. I can picture my mother's best friend Bill as a New York-o-phile when we met for coffee in Macy's Cellar a few years ago before he took his life, and my friends who had various jobs around Manhattan. The wealthy women, mostly doctor's wives who volunteered under my direction at New York Hospital from whom I learned everything I know now about good manners and taste, who I still wonder about. The apartment sitting I got to do on Park Avenue and on Sutton Place. The tall ships I got to go on in July, 1976 and the sailors I spent that fun evening with from all ports. The Macy's fireworks every July 4th. The pizza that remains unduplicated anywhere in the world. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parades. The food, the food, the food, including the newest star on the block and completely overwhelming at that, Eataly. The Statue of Liberty. The completely unforgettable dinners I had at Windows on the World served to me by someone probably no longer with us. The friends I had who lived across the street from the UN. My stint as a coat check girl in a disco on Second Ave where I brought home so much cash and change at night, it would spill from my pockets in my cab rides home.
When Shep and I moved into New York City we lived on the Upper West Side first until we were robbed and then, moved to the Upper East Side where we felt safer. My friend just reminded me of the night we had our farewell party as we were moving to Texas. The singing messenger sang that night, "Good bye to Shep. Goodbye to Ann. Off you go to San Anton-io. Good bye to New York for you two. We'll miss you lots and hope you will come back but for now, it is time to pack." Poor rhyming, yet well said. But, thank heavens, I can still come back for visits like this one for as long as I am able.
But, having just returned from New York City for four days during Christmas week, my heart and soul have been renewed beyond expectations. To me, the beauty in New York is literally endless. The art is staggering. The creativity is like none other. Fashions are sublime and original and over the top. And, short of Bethlehem, there is truly no more Christmas-y place on Earth. Shep and I walked around for four days and nights except for one stop at a glorious New York wedding in the NY Health and Athletic Club on tony Central Park South. I also got to the ever corny Christmas show in Radio City Music Hall, which despite having lived in New York for most of my life I had never seen! I loved it. I wish we had worn pedometers because I figure we covered some 15 plus miles on foot this week.
The amount of black clothing in New York rivals a funeral in Rome. It is staggering really to see an endless sea of black coats, shoes, hats. And by the way, fur, not of the "fun" sort, but the serious "animal rights violation type" is back, big time. No protestors arrived with red spray paint either. All those Blackglama (What Becomes a Legend Most?) full length minks, red foxes, bright red or green furs and the like are around everywhere. It is disconcerting to me for sure, but seems perfectly acceptable once again amidst New Yorkers. The coat de rigueur though still tends to be the black puffy down coat that reaches the knees or beyond. Smart women have them belted with a cinch belt which I bet keeps them even warmer. Lots and lots of scarves and beautiful high leather boots with ear muffs abound. Waiting for a bus last night for nearly an hour, I got to appreciate the idea of a longer coat as my legs were freezing!
The tree. Ahh, the tree. I always start to quiver a bit as I turn the corner on Fifth Ave, knowing that Rockefeller Center is about to be within sight. And suddenly, magnificently, there it is in all glittery, glowy, glory. There resides the sparkling, golden Prometheus above the soaring ice skaters. I am not sure which part of the scene it is, or if it is all of them together, but darn it, I cry every single time. My whole childhood flashes in front of me (the good parts) and I am thrilled to the core by the historical nature and the official Christmas scene that it is. For some unknown reason, I feel close to God in that place. I stand there watching with freezing tears the whole time until I can take no more, then, take some photos and leave. My typical next stop is Saks where I stand in awe of the best merchandising around (you WANT everything in the store and part of you believes you NEED to have it all as well, BELIEVING it will make you hip and happy). I have never purchased a thing there, except for the one time my friend and I had our makeup done at the Bobbi Brown counter and bought mascara. Makeup costs the same price everywhere, so it makes no difference where you purchase. Then, I head to St. Patrick's Cathedral every time. This time, we walked into a Christmas concert, SRO, every seat in every pew taken. "The First Noel" sung by choir did me in of course. I struggled some more to keep my voice from cracking amidst the throngs. I couldn't sing and resist crying, so I stayed silent, listening to the cavernous recital.
All of Fifth Avenue blows me away. I mean Tiffany, Cartier, Gucci, Vesace, Henri Bendel, Hermes, Elizabeth Arden's Red Door, Bergdorf Goodman not only look beautiful dripping in lights and building sized bows, but they exude all the best that a store can offer. The F.I.T. Buying and Merchandising major in me comes alive once again, burying the stodgy lactation consultant in exchange for a damned good display. I love it. The cutting edge fashion. The buttery leathers, lighter than air silks, shiny taffetas, plush velvets, the hip home items, the highest shoes and the diamonds, oh the diamonds. One whole entire street, both sides of nothing, but millions of diamonds. 47th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues is the diamond district. Not for the faint of heart, this is an event where you really need to know what you are doing and the competition for your business is fierce. You can be physically pulled into a jeweler's kiosk where he insists he knows just what you are looking for. This used to be a field for only the most religious and mostly Hassidic Jewish vendors, but no longer it seems, as we were accosted by all nationalities desperate for our business. My intention was to have my engagement ring reset, but even I, became completely intimidated and untrusting. After all, do I really know the difference between a good diamond and a bad one? Nope. Going into Tiffany's is so much more civilized, more trusting albeit completely unaffordable. The sales clerks in Tiffany's used to bang on the glass cases with their key rings whenever they made a sale and then a runner would take the buyers money to be processed. I always loved that, hearing all that glass tapping, but they don't do that any longer.
We got to skip going to FAO Schwarz this time because we were kidless for once. But, my forever thrill is The Plaza Hotel. I instantly picture Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford in my all time favorite movie, The Way We Were. Usually, I brush Shep's hair back and say, "Oh, Hubbel!" Again, I usually get teary. I think I love this area of the city most of all as to me, with horses and carriages and Central Park and Fifth Avenue, it is perhaps the most glowing epitome of New York. We forced ourselves to bear witness to Ground Zero with which its new fountains and engraved names may be even more heart wrenching than ever.
Bryant Park is the loveliest place now, with chairs and tables for anyone to rest upon and at this time of the year, an ice skating rink with wonderful music. There were dozens of kiosks with artsy, fabulous gifts that we loved. And then, in the gorgeous twinkly lighted restaurants was a private party going on. Everyone looked amazing, mostly of course wearing black and seeming to have the most romantic, happy time by candle light. Lucky office workers for whomever was throwing that soiree. We contemplated trying to slip in, but realized we could never pull it off. Jealousy arrived. And, we saw many other private parties on that Friday night before Christmas, each one looking more delightful and warm than the last. I find it impossible to describe how in love I am with those scenes. It's magic and always, black magic.
On Thursday night we finally snuggled into a great Turkish restaurant and both splurged on some good red wine. It was 9 pm, and we were mighty hungry. No sooner had we sat down and ordered than my friend, the mother of the groom called and asked where we were as she was waiting for us at her son's loft apartment where we were supposed to have arrived at 7 pm! Disaster as we realized we had gotten the nights mixed up and thus, chugged our wine, grabbed our food to go, jumped into a cab, totally in inappropriate play clothes and got there a mere two and a half hours late! It had been a pizza and beer party, but the pizza was gone and so we now sloshed more red wine into our empty tummies quickly becoming trashed. When we left there, we were both laughing so hard that we could hardly walk. But mostly, we did walk and walk and walk and went down to Soho for drinks following the rehearsal dinner the next night. This was in a real southern style rib place (irony) where again, everyone was having a rip, roaring good time. We stayed awhile chatting with the family, then, left and walked some more on that warmish December night. As Shep said, "There's just so much to say." Indeed there was.
Suffice to say, the wedding in St. Ignatius Loyola, Jackie Kennedy's Catholic church where she was baptized and eulogized was magnificent. For most of the mass, I thought I was in Florence in one of the churches there. Ironically, the bride, Kim looked identical to Carolyn Bisette (John Kennedy Jrs. bride). The reception at the NY Athletic Club where the groom is a member was classy and understated. For once, I was one of the attendees at a New York event and I loved every minute of it. My attempt at wearing high heels was disastrous as we had to dodge into a Duane Reede pharmacy for some foldable slippers. The Club was on fire when we arrived! Typical New York with many fire engines, ladders up to the windows, and people running outside with just a towel wrapped around them as they rushed out of the sauna. It was an amazing site and we were all displaced in the cold but in true New Yorker fashion, no one fell apart, many laughed, some got angry, but after wandering into the Essex House for awhile, the reception was able to begin, though quite late.
We stayed in a classy hotel, a first for us who usually reside in cheap motels with kids crammed into sleeping bags. Used up all my flyer miles and it was well worth it as we stayed in The Warwick Hotel, home of the first stop for the Beatles in 1965! What a thrill and what a lovely room. Loved it. We took a few cabs but mostly subways and buses including the long arduous bus ride from Manhattan to LaGuardia airport. It's slow and tedious, but always a fascinating experience through Spanish Harlem with a fare of $2.25 all the way to the airport!
"We were tired, we were merry, we had ridden all night on the ferry..." from an old poem my mother wrote. Well, it wasn't the ferry, but it was a completely joyful experience being in the hubub and the magnificience of New York at Christmas.
It makes me feel love and well loved. It reminds me of all that is still good and sweet in this world. It makes me be ever so grateful for all that I have and for all who I have ever been loved by. I don't know why this happens to me more in New York than anywhere else I have ever been. Perhaps, there are many of my ghosts there including my young successful self in fashion design and retail and all the jobs I had in Betti Terrell Children's Wear, Peau D'Ange Bridal Designs, Coco Creations, Michael Murray designs, Valentino, Benton and Bowles Advertising, New York Hospital Gift Shop, B. Altman, Macy's. Then, my father as a court officer on Chambers Street and in later years, as a messenger darting around the city and my mother as an employee for Esquire magazine's advertising department along with my aunt in children's wear. I can picture my mother's best friend Bill as a New York-o-phile when we met for coffee in Macy's Cellar a few years ago before he took his life, and my friends who had various jobs around Manhattan. The wealthy women, mostly doctor's wives who volunteered under my direction at New York Hospital from whom I learned everything I know now about good manners and taste, who I still wonder about. The apartment sitting I got to do on Park Avenue and on Sutton Place. The tall ships I got to go on in July, 1976 and the sailors I spent that fun evening with from all ports. The Macy's fireworks every July 4th. The pizza that remains unduplicated anywhere in the world. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parades. The food, the food, the food, including the newest star on the block and completely overwhelming at that, Eataly. The Statue of Liberty. The completely unforgettable dinners I had at Windows on the World served to me by someone probably no longer with us. The friends I had who lived across the street from the UN. My stint as a coat check girl in a disco on Second Ave where I brought home so much cash and change at night, it would spill from my pockets in my cab rides home.
When Shep and I moved into New York City we lived on the Upper West Side first until we were robbed and then, moved to the Upper East Side where we felt safer. My friend just reminded me of the night we had our farewell party as we were moving to Texas. The singing messenger sang that night, "Good bye to Shep. Goodbye to Ann. Off you go to San Anton-io. Good bye to New York for you two. We'll miss you lots and hope you will come back but for now, it is time to pack." Poor rhyming, yet well said. But, thank heavens, I can still come back for visits like this one for as long as I am able.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
How do they live?
Today at the pediatrician’s office I witnessed a rather disheveled looking mother trying to corral her tiny toddler daughter and her blankly staring son who was maybe 6 or so years old. He wandered and seemed to be elsewhere. Mother scolded him, chased after her daughter. Finally, their turn came and they went to see the doctor.
Later on, when I was getting ready to leave, I watched her yelling at the children, shouting what sounded like African phrases, pulling the little one up by the arm in mid-air and pacing around outside while the older boy wandered, still. And then, a red taxi drove into the parking lot at break neck speed. She shoved the boy in the back, along with the tiny toddler girl. Neither had car seats. Neither seemed to be buckled in. I felt a bit sick and very scared for them all, so when I asked for more information in the office, I got some answers. Mom is single, she is very poor, she is an illegal immigrant not entitled to services. The boy is severely autistic. The little girl is frisky but okay. How does this mother get up every morning and make it to evening?
When I left the doctor’s office, I got in my car and listened to NPR. A woman with a thick accent was telling her story of her time in a concentration camp in her youth. She related how she and her family lived “in a wall, in complete and utter silence” and since I had missed the beginning of the program, I did not know just what this meant. However, she related how one night a mother in “the wall” was frantically trying to keep her baby from crying. Just one sound might alert the Nazis and they would all be killed. The mother of the baby girl, also had two small sons who knew to keep completely still, barely breathing for fear they might be heard. The baby would not stop crying. There was a piece of burlap in “the wall” left from some potatoes. She took the burlap and suffocated the baby to make it stop crying to save the lives of her other children.
Weeks later, some “kind Christians” told these terrified Jews that it was all right to come out during the daytime instead of just at night as they had been doing. When they did, the storyteller said that she and her family ran in all different directions as fast as they could and everyone of them survived miraculously. The mother of the two sons ran too, but all three of them were killed in front of the storyteller, who was then, just a young girl.
How do these women live?
Later on, when I was getting ready to leave, I watched her yelling at the children, shouting what sounded like African phrases, pulling the little one up by the arm in mid-air and pacing around outside while the older boy wandered, still. And then, a red taxi drove into the parking lot at break neck speed. She shoved the boy in the back, along with the tiny toddler girl. Neither had car seats. Neither seemed to be buckled in. I felt a bit sick and very scared for them all, so when I asked for more information in the office, I got some answers. Mom is single, she is very poor, she is an illegal immigrant not entitled to services. The boy is severely autistic. The little girl is frisky but okay. How does this mother get up every morning and make it to evening?
When I left the doctor’s office, I got in my car and listened to NPR. A woman with a thick accent was telling her story of her time in a concentration camp in her youth. She related how she and her family lived “in a wall, in complete and utter silence” and since I had missed the beginning of the program, I did not know just what this meant. However, she related how one night a mother in “the wall” was frantically trying to keep her baby from crying. Just one sound might alert the Nazis and they would all be killed. The mother of the baby girl, also had two small sons who knew to keep completely still, barely breathing for fear they might be heard. The baby would not stop crying. There was a piece of burlap in “the wall” left from some potatoes. She took the burlap and suffocated the baby to make it stop crying to save the lives of her other children.
Weeks later, some “kind Christians” told these terrified Jews that it was all right to come out during the daytime instead of just at night as they had been doing. When they did, the storyteller said that she and her family ran in all different directions as fast as they could and everyone of them survived miraculously. The mother of the two sons ran too, but all three of them were killed in front of the storyteller, who was then, just a young girl.
How do these women live?
CHURCHES
CHURCHES
When we moved to Raleigh, North Carolina in 1993 with our four young sons we began our church search. Having been raised a Brooklyn Catholic in the 50’s and 60’s, I knew wanted something different. When my husband introduced me to the Episcopal Church in Hampton Bays, Long Island in the 80’s, I knew I had found my place. So, it was a no brainer to look for another Episcopal church here in Raleigh.
Coming from the predominantly “non-religious” Hamptons to the “very religious” South was a shocking contrast with churches on just about every intersection. It seemed that church was the hub of one’s social life as well as one’s spiritual direction. Folks went to church on all sorts of days and nights, not just on Sunday mornings. In fact, Wednesday nights seemed especially popular for church events thus, not a good night to schedule any meetings. Of course, in 1993 we did not find the plethora of Episcopal Church choices we might have found if we were Baptists.
We began with the church closes to our apartment at the time. It was stogy and rigid. I not connect at all with the priest and my kids threatened me with throwing up the next time I brought them there. We next ventured to a huge mega church on a highway. It was a former hotel turned into a church with as many classrooms as there had been hotel rooms and a theater like worship space with a full symphony orchestra, film screens, etc. This was actually a Baptist church but we decided that perhaps we were wrong in not trying some more Southern-like religions. We were not wrong, as this was definitely not the place for us.
When we happened upon a little, hidden off the road, cheaply built, rather unattractive, small Episcopal church we were not overly impressed. The senior warden (akin to CEO in an Episcopal parish) ran after us as we left a service and said, “Wait, please come back. We have a great rector. She is a Type A personality, full of energy and I am sure you would really like her. Please give us another try when she comes back from vacation in a few weeks.” We did and he could not have been more correct. This woman’s sermons blew us right out of the water. She spoke from the heart. She spoke from a place of pain, of experience, of wisdom, of incredible intuition and empathy, and with all the honesty and reality you could ever desire. She also had a searing sense of humor and witty sarcasm.
We stayed in this casual, comfortable church for the next 15 years and grew with it as it expanded, became part of a community, served on the vestry (the board of directors), taught Sunday school, prepared meals, ran retreats, started women’s groups and attended almost all events. We could attend services in anything from jeans and a tee shirt to fancier attire, but this was no fashion show. We actually became close friends with the rector who was the same age as me and had a son the same age as one of mine. They also became buddies. When the pivotal tragedy in our family struck in 1995 with the death of our two year old, this community of faith and this priest/friend were our only sustenance. Having lost a younger brother herself, she became a mentor and caretaker of our devastated, surviving sons. Sixteen years later, I can still remember the feeling of her tiny hand in mine, leading me to the grave and holding onto me as I lowered his ashes into the ground. She held my hand both physically and spiritually for the next two years. When I became pregnant with twins, she was with me throughout every stage of nine months and held her breath until their safe and healthy delivery.
We also became close with this priest’s parents, seeing them through their move to assisted living and happily visiting with them until their death. They acted as surrogate grandparents to our kids and were well loved by us all. On Election Day, 2008, our rector suffered a major stroke. Although she was the same age as me, she had a long history of poor health and repeated respiratory infections, pleurisy, surgeries, falls, allergic reactions, etc, that often left her homebound and not at church for weeks on end. So, although we were pretty used to her maladies, it seemed like this might be much more serious. Indeed it was, and she was forced to retire after a year of efforts at rehabilitation. Her farewell church service was most wrenching and we have missed her deeply. However, we no longer see her as she does not seem to enjoy or encourage our visits. With her departure, came my realization of just how attached we were to her as the center of our church.
What followed over the next two years were a series of “babysitter” priests of various sorts. Then came along a brilliant scholarly type Navy chaplain with perfect posture who stayed for almost a year. He was the sort of deep thinking, endlessly questioning, challenging everything you ever took for granted, type that for me was just what I needed. He also found our church in great disarray both financially and management wise. We were actually on the brink of financial collapse so he and the Senior Warden took hold, reeled in all expenses much to the chagrin of the parish and resolved all. It was an interesting time and I thoroughly enjoyed the probing Sunday school for adults that mostly revolved around the forward thinking Faith and Science themes along with studies of radicals like Borg and Spong.
After this scholarly priest left, we had another great woman come who was retired, Scottish, brilliant and a terrific storyteller. She was great fun and a great leader for the time she was permitted. In the meantime, we had many visits from our fabulously gifted bishop who is the quintessential preacher. I am so deeply moved by him that I have yet to sit through one of his rousing sermons without tears rolling down my cheeks, not so much from the content of what he is saying, but moreover from the sheer passion with which he says it.
During this time, parishioners were leaving the church in significant numbers. It was taking too long to find a permanent rector, programs were stalling and folks were losing patience.
Then, in a terrible error in judgment, the bishop chose an interim of the sort that was terribly ill fitting. This church was full of liberal champions of People of Faith Against the Death Penalty, environmental stewards, believers in faith and science, and a welcoming beacon to all including LBGT’s at large. So, when this tight faced, sensibly shoed, rigid woman came it proved disastrous. Now, folks began leaving in droves rather than listen to this woman’s diatribes each Sunday. As she complained of her extended stay, she was, I believe as miserable to be in our midst as we were to have her. And for me, I could take no more. The teen programs had crumbled, I winced through sermons and began attending Sunday services less and less. It became clear to me that church shopping was calling me once more, before my now preteens got a message I didn’t want them to get.
And so, here I am six months into attending the fanciest, most upscale Episcopal Church in Raleigh, maybe even in all of North Carolina. It is a gorgeous structure built in the 1800’s with a new rector and a good friend of mine as his assistant. This priest is from New England and he is completely terrific in every way. He speaks from the heart and you can tell that it is a heart that has been hurt and revived. This is important to me. If you have not been to hell and back, then I don’t believe you can really preach the idea of heaven with a whole lot of credence. He is very, very smart and chooses the most pertinent and timely topics to teach about. He makes you think and squirm and feel a bit uncomfortable in order to grow. I love that. As for my friend who just recently decided to return to priestly duties, well, she was a great therapist before that which qualifies for quite a bit of deep understanding. She exhibits a real sense about people and has great empathy for their individual paths. I know all about her journey to the bottom of the well that also makes her a great, intuitive preacher. She is hysterically funny too, which doesn’t hurt.
Then, there is the Youth Group that is to die for. My kids actually love going to Sunday school and cannot wait to go to youth group on Sunday nights where they hang out with and eat with 60 kids their age as opposed to the six in our old church. They are also planning their fabulous ski trip for January with this stellar group! As the priest I spoke with said, “If your kids feel that way, how could you question for one moment whether you belong here?” So true!
So, why am I miserable?! The people! My, my, my – this is wealth on a level that I have not quite witnessed all in one place and it is southern wealth with all its trappings to boot. I am ashamed to say that I spend Sunday service distracted by the fashion show of cutting edge designer clothing, the absolute highest and most expensive stiletto heels, the exquisitely smocked little girls dresses that match the bows in their hair, the navy blue suits in size toddler three with ties that my kids would never have been caught dead in, even at age three! How much do those Christian Louboutin heels or the Bottega Veneta handbags set these ladies back? If I sit on the left side of the church, then I get to bear witness to the largest diamonds I have ever seen, adorning left hands on their way up to communion. Last Sunday, I sat next to the governor of North Carolina and she too had some very fancy shoes on! I do not feel good about my judgmental attitude. Believe me, I don’t. I am ashamed enough that I actually went to speak to this rector about it asking just what I am supposed to learn here and why I am so completely intolerant of this display of wealth. He let me have it too, saying that it was no better for me to have prejudices against the rich than against the poor. This is true and quite honestly, this is a very generous group of people who give freely of their treasure towards social programs and feeding the hungry.
So, just what is my problem? I had hoped for a new community of friends and that is not possible it seems. When I attended a women’s bible study I pictured six women sitting around a table. Instead, there were 40 women at one of the most fabulous homes I have ever seen that just happened to have 40 matching wrought iron chairs on the deck. Everything irritated me. The triteness of the pimento cheese and deviled eggs (do any Jews ever serve deviled eggs?), the fact that there were 39 frosted blond heads in the crowd and that I was the only brunette, the still perfect outfits and shoes even on a weeknight, etc. all ate away at me. And where, where, where are the African American women, the Asian women, all the “other” women?? The wine was great, the bible was still the bible, but I could not be present as I stewed. The most condescending “nicety” of all, “I don’t believe we’ve met??” in the most sweet southern accent was the most I got from some of the women. (“Nope, we have not met” was all I could think of but kept silent).
And then too, I signed up for Foyer group in the hopes of meeting some other couples. The idea of this type of group is that four couples are paired up and rotate having dinners once a month from one home to another. We went to the first one last week and I really thought I would suffocate from not breathing, before it ended. The couple whose home it was in, were very ditzy and silly although they seemed to be in their late 70’s. The next couple consisted of a man who never made eye contact with anyone in the room and actually made reference to “The Coloreds.” I nearly choked when he said that and I mentioned how shocking it was to us from the north when we saw “The Help” and realized what had really gone on in my actual lifetime, in the south. No one answered me. His wife sounded exactly like Minnie Mouse which made my hair stand on end each time she opened her mouth. She deferred to her racist husband for every nod. They spoke about their involvement in Habitat for Humanity though and see, this is where I become derailed and confused. This is where I need to learn that all is not strictly black or white. The third couple was hard of hearing, extremely wealthy and spoke about the phone company changing over the years and how many television stations there are now, for most of the evening. The dinner was plated with two pork medallions, squishy corn bread and some salad. I wondered, what if I had been a vegetarian or worse yet, a Jew?? Not possible I suppose. I swayed between complete rolling on the floor hysteria (especially whenever I glanced at my totally shocked husband) and utter outrage throughout the evening and when it was time to eat my predictable lemon square with Cool Whip I could barely contain myself much longer, so we left. I cannot imagine that I will be able to make it through three more of these dinners.
So, here’s the deal. Where to go? Tried another “inside the beltline” church yesterday just for kicks. There one finds a youngish priest who is also part of an Indie rock band and an author on the side. This is a big bustling church so God only knows and I am sure only He does know, how this guy does it all. His cockiness and attempts at humor during the sermon were annoying and not all that funny. No dice. I am not going back. Then, there is the “other” old Episcopal downtown church just a block away from the one we have been going to. It was the church built for the “colored folks” I believe because in that day I don’t suppose they were welcomed at the “white church.” Good grief.
But, this church has an ailing youth group, and two old white male priests, who many are waiting for to retire. I can’t wait like that. I just know that won’t cut it for me. So my search continues and it is a search inside of me as well because, somewhere I must learn greater tolerance and greater acceptance of all. This is no way to be a Christian after all.
When we moved to Raleigh, North Carolina in 1993 with our four young sons we began our church search. Having been raised a Brooklyn Catholic in the 50’s and 60’s, I knew wanted something different. When my husband introduced me to the Episcopal Church in Hampton Bays, Long Island in the 80’s, I knew I had found my place. So, it was a no brainer to look for another Episcopal church here in Raleigh.
Coming from the predominantly “non-religious” Hamptons to the “very religious” South was a shocking contrast with churches on just about every intersection. It seemed that church was the hub of one’s social life as well as one’s spiritual direction. Folks went to church on all sorts of days and nights, not just on Sunday mornings. In fact, Wednesday nights seemed especially popular for church events thus, not a good night to schedule any meetings. Of course, in 1993 we did not find the plethora of Episcopal Church choices we might have found if we were Baptists.
We began with the church closes to our apartment at the time. It was stogy and rigid. I not connect at all with the priest and my kids threatened me with throwing up the next time I brought them there. We next ventured to a huge mega church on a highway. It was a former hotel turned into a church with as many classrooms as there had been hotel rooms and a theater like worship space with a full symphony orchestra, film screens, etc. This was actually a Baptist church but we decided that perhaps we were wrong in not trying some more Southern-like religions. We were not wrong, as this was definitely not the place for us.
When we happened upon a little, hidden off the road, cheaply built, rather unattractive, small Episcopal church we were not overly impressed. The senior warden (akin to CEO in an Episcopal parish) ran after us as we left a service and said, “Wait, please come back. We have a great rector. She is a Type A personality, full of energy and I am sure you would really like her. Please give us another try when she comes back from vacation in a few weeks.” We did and he could not have been more correct. This woman’s sermons blew us right out of the water. She spoke from the heart. She spoke from a place of pain, of experience, of wisdom, of incredible intuition and empathy, and with all the honesty and reality you could ever desire. She also had a searing sense of humor and witty sarcasm.
We stayed in this casual, comfortable church for the next 15 years and grew with it as it expanded, became part of a community, served on the vestry (the board of directors), taught Sunday school, prepared meals, ran retreats, started women’s groups and attended almost all events. We could attend services in anything from jeans and a tee shirt to fancier attire, but this was no fashion show. We actually became close friends with the rector who was the same age as me and had a son the same age as one of mine. They also became buddies. When the pivotal tragedy in our family struck in 1995 with the death of our two year old, this community of faith and this priest/friend were our only sustenance. Having lost a younger brother herself, she became a mentor and caretaker of our devastated, surviving sons. Sixteen years later, I can still remember the feeling of her tiny hand in mine, leading me to the grave and holding onto me as I lowered his ashes into the ground. She held my hand both physically and spiritually for the next two years. When I became pregnant with twins, she was with me throughout every stage of nine months and held her breath until their safe and healthy delivery.
We also became close with this priest’s parents, seeing them through their move to assisted living and happily visiting with them until their death. They acted as surrogate grandparents to our kids and were well loved by us all. On Election Day, 2008, our rector suffered a major stroke. Although she was the same age as me, she had a long history of poor health and repeated respiratory infections, pleurisy, surgeries, falls, allergic reactions, etc, that often left her homebound and not at church for weeks on end. So, although we were pretty used to her maladies, it seemed like this might be much more serious. Indeed it was, and she was forced to retire after a year of efforts at rehabilitation. Her farewell church service was most wrenching and we have missed her deeply. However, we no longer see her as she does not seem to enjoy or encourage our visits. With her departure, came my realization of just how attached we were to her as the center of our church.
What followed over the next two years were a series of “babysitter” priests of various sorts. Then came along a brilliant scholarly type Navy chaplain with perfect posture who stayed for almost a year. He was the sort of deep thinking, endlessly questioning, challenging everything you ever took for granted, type that for me was just what I needed. He also found our church in great disarray both financially and management wise. We were actually on the brink of financial collapse so he and the Senior Warden took hold, reeled in all expenses much to the chagrin of the parish and resolved all. It was an interesting time and I thoroughly enjoyed the probing Sunday school for adults that mostly revolved around the forward thinking Faith and Science themes along with studies of radicals like Borg and Spong.
After this scholarly priest left, we had another great woman come who was retired, Scottish, brilliant and a terrific storyteller. She was great fun and a great leader for the time she was permitted. In the meantime, we had many visits from our fabulously gifted bishop who is the quintessential preacher. I am so deeply moved by him that I have yet to sit through one of his rousing sermons without tears rolling down my cheeks, not so much from the content of what he is saying, but moreover from the sheer passion with which he says it.
During this time, parishioners were leaving the church in significant numbers. It was taking too long to find a permanent rector, programs were stalling and folks were losing patience.
Then, in a terrible error in judgment, the bishop chose an interim of the sort that was terribly ill fitting. This church was full of liberal champions of People of Faith Against the Death Penalty, environmental stewards, believers in faith and science, and a welcoming beacon to all including LBGT’s at large. So, when this tight faced, sensibly shoed, rigid woman came it proved disastrous. Now, folks began leaving in droves rather than listen to this woman’s diatribes each Sunday. As she complained of her extended stay, she was, I believe as miserable to be in our midst as we were to have her. And for me, I could take no more. The teen programs had crumbled, I winced through sermons and began attending Sunday services less and less. It became clear to me that church shopping was calling me once more, before my now preteens got a message I didn’t want them to get.
And so, here I am six months into attending the fanciest, most upscale Episcopal Church in Raleigh, maybe even in all of North Carolina. It is a gorgeous structure built in the 1800’s with a new rector and a good friend of mine as his assistant. This priest is from New England and he is completely terrific in every way. He speaks from the heart and you can tell that it is a heart that has been hurt and revived. This is important to me. If you have not been to hell and back, then I don’t believe you can really preach the idea of heaven with a whole lot of credence. He is very, very smart and chooses the most pertinent and timely topics to teach about. He makes you think and squirm and feel a bit uncomfortable in order to grow. I love that. As for my friend who just recently decided to return to priestly duties, well, she was a great therapist before that which qualifies for quite a bit of deep understanding. She exhibits a real sense about people and has great empathy for their individual paths. I know all about her journey to the bottom of the well that also makes her a great, intuitive preacher. She is hysterically funny too, which doesn’t hurt.
Then, there is the Youth Group that is to die for. My kids actually love going to Sunday school and cannot wait to go to youth group on Sunday nights where they hang out with and eat with 60 kids their age as opposed to the six in our old church. They are also planning their fabulous ski trip for January with this stellar group! As the priest I spoke with said, “If your kids feel that way, how could you question for one moment whether you belong here?” So true!
So, why am I miserable?! The people! My, my, my – this is wealth on a level that I have not quite witnessed all in one place and it is southern wealth with all its trappings to boot. I am ashamed to say that I spend Sunday service distracted by the fashion show of cutting edge designer clothing, the absolute highest and most expensive stiletto heels, the exquisitely smocked little girls dresses that match the bows in their hair, the navy blue suits in size toddler three with ties that my kids would never have been caught dead in, even at age three! How much do those Christian Louboutin heels or the Bottega Veneta handbags set these ladies back? If I sit on the left side of the church, then I get to bear witness to the largest diamonds I have ever seen, adorning left hands on their way up to communion. Last Sunday, I sat next to the governor of North Carolina and she too had some very fancy shoes on! I do not feel good about my judgmental attitude. Believe me, I don’t. I am ashamed enough that I actually went to speak to this rector about it asking just what I am supposed to learn here and why I am so completely intolerant of this display of wealth. He let me have it too, saying that it was no better for me to have prejudices against the rich than against the poor. This is true and quite honestly, this is a very generous group of people who give freely of their treasure towards social programs and feeding the hungry.
So, just what is my problem? I had hoped for a new community of friends and that is not possible it seems. When I attended a women’s bible study I pictured six women sitting around a table. Instead, there were 40 women at one of the most fabulous homes I have ever seen that just happened to have 40 matching wrought iron chairs on the deck. Everything irritated me. The triteness of the pimento cheese and deviled eggs (do any Jews ever serve deviled eggs?), the fact that there were 39 frosted blond heads in the crowd and that I was the only brunette, the still perfect outfits and shoes even on a weeknight, etc. all ate away at me. And where, where, where are the African American women, the Asian women, all the “other” women?? The wine was great, the bible was still the bible, but I could not be present as I stewed. The most condescending “nicety” of all, “I don’t believe we’ve met??” in the most sweet southern accent was the most I got from some of the women. (“Nope, we have not met” was all I could think of but kept silent).
And then too, I signed up for Foyer group in the hopes of meeting some other couples. The idea of this type of group is that four couples are paired up and rotate having dinners once a month from one home to another. We went to the first one last week and I really thought I would suffocate from not breathing, before it ended. The couple whose home it was in, were very ditzy and silly although they seemed to be in their late 70’s. The next couple consisted of a man who never made eye contact with anyone in the room and actually made reference to “The Coloreds.” I nearly choked when he said that and I mentioned how shocking it was to us from the north when we saw “The Help” and realized what had really gone on in my actual lifetime, in the south. No one answered me. His wife sounded exactly like Minnie Mouse which made my hair stand on end each time she opened her mouth. She deferred to her racist husband for every nod. They spoke about their involvement in Habitat for Humanity though and see, this is where I become derailed and confused. This is where I need to learn that all is not strictly black or white. The third couple was hard of hearing, extremely wealthy and spoke about the phone company changing over the years and how many television stations there are now, for most of the evening. The dinner was plated with two pork medallions, squishy corn bread and some salad. I wondered, what if I had been a vegetarian or worse yet, a Jew?? Not possible I suppose. I swayed between complete rolling on the floor hysteria (especially whenever I glanced at my totally shocked husband) and utter outrage throughout the evening and when it was time to eat my predictable lemon square with Cool Whip I could barely contain myself much longer, so we left. I cannot imagine that I will be able to make it through three more of these dinners.
So, here’s the deal. Where to go? Tried another “inside the beltline” church yesterday just for kicks. There one finds a youngish priest who is also part of an Indie rock band and an author on the side. This is a big bustling church so God only knows and I am sure only He does know, how this guy does it all. His cockiness and attempts at humor during the sermon were annoying and not all that funny. No dice. I am not going back. Then, there is the “other” old Episcopal downtown church just a block away from the one we have been going to. It was the church built for the “colored folks” I believe because in that day I don’t suppose they were welcomed at the “white church.” Good grief.
But, this church has an ailing youth group, and two old white male priests, who many are waiting for to retire. I can’t wait like that. I just know that won’t cut it for me. So my search continues and it is a search inside of me as well because, somewhere I must learn greater tolerance and greater acceptance of all. This is no way to be a Christian after all.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
The Depths of Love (Almost submitted to Real Simple Magazine)
REAL SIMPLE (almost entry....)
When did you first understand the meaning of love?
I was 41 years old, beginning peri-menopause and the mother of three sons ages 4, 8, and 11. Because I was concerned that I might be ill, I secretly took a pregnancy test and when that pink plus sign popped up I was shocked. We lived in the exclusive community of Southampton, Long Island, and though we were far from exclusive ourselves, we built the first “non-toxic” home in the area and were featured in several newspapers. When at long last it was built, it was a thrill to move into our beautiful, healthy, fragrant home that smelled like freshly squeezed lemons. At the time, my husband, Shep was a successful realtor, earning enough income to allow me to be a happy stay at home mom.
That was of course, until the bottom fell out of the real estate market on Black Monday, 1987. The first thing to sink was real estate, particularly the second home market in a resort area. We were essentially without an income overnight. We argued, we cried, we scrambled and we became very creative. Shep took a job as a school bus driver and in doing so, earned a bit of money but most importantly received the same healthcare coverage as the teachers did. By night he waited tables for the rich and famous at the Hampton’s hottest restaurant at the time, Sapore di Mare. There, he learned culinary skills that remain with him today and a great appreciation for well-prepared, quality food. On Wednesdays we distributed organic fruits and vegetables to our affluent customers, which we purchased in bulk and resold at a profit. Carefully wrapping the heads of butter lettuce and rinsing each tart cherry we placed the orders in the refrigerators of our celebrity customers. A benefit was that our family got to eat well for little investment. On Friday afternoons we would pack clothes for the weekend and move in with our kids. We shared their beds so that we could rent out two bedrooms as a Bed and Breakfast. Often, we netted about $500 minus the cost of scones and jam. On many Friday nights, I helped cater some of the Hamptons coolest parties. This is how we survived from week to week.
Although I really was happy being home, I was also glad to see the light at the end of the tunnel of babyhood and the possibility of getting involved in things other than La Leche League and playgroups. So, finding myself pregnant by surprise was not only an obstacle but also a deep disappointment. I phoned my long time friend, Joan, sobbing on the phone and asked her to meet me for lunch at The Driver’s Seat. She met me with much trepidation, fearing that I was about to tell her that either I was in the midst of a torrid affair, or had a life threatening illness. When I told her why I was crying, she stared at me in disbelief as if she wanted to break into song “Is That All There Is?” I lamented how broke we were, that I already had enough kids, that I needed to work now ad nauseum. I also had this shameful feeling that I was too old and now too poor to have another child, anticipating the disapproval of others.
Because I have always been in awe of childbearing and because I am a huge breastfeeding advocate, the actual pregnancy was comfortably woven into my life. However, I did ruminate over sending bad vibes to this baby with thoughts of being unwanted throughout the nine months. On an icy evening on January 17, 1993, some 42 weeks pregnant, I began laboring at home with two kind midwives. It was my most difficult birth and labor never seemed to end. I struggled, finally actually screaming that baby out into my soft bedroom chair at 1 am. Once he was born, we all understood the struggle as he weighed in at 10 ½ pounds! Sweetly, in my arms, we melted into bed together. He tenderly came to my breast and I began to cry from sheer, unbridled joy, exhilaration and the sight of my now four sons surrounding me, along with the loving eyes of Shep. We named our newest bald, little son, Gregory, after a dear friend. Now my stand up and shout song needed to be, “I am Woman, Hear me Roar.”
During the next few months, we put our cherished, green home on the market and made plans to move to a more affordable home in North Carolina. I spent many hours in my lovely, peach bedroom, nursing my precious, squishy baby always whispering into his head, “I am so glad you are here. I love you. I am so blessed that you are mine.” We sang “Blue Eyes” along with Elton John to him since he was our only non-brown eyed child and I danced with him to Louis Armstrong’s “It’s a Wonderful World.” Once settled in North Carolina, Gregory and I went to Whole Foods every Tuesday while we took one of my sons to a homeschool group and we strolled in the afternoons to pick the younger boys up from their new school. We rocked in Shep’s grandmothers old rocker at naptime, watching the latest developments on the OJ Simpson case. I felt grateful for the joyful life I had with the hopes for more of the same, when I would lie in bed nursing Gregory to sleep staring out at the North Carolina pine trees
In May of 1995, we decided to take a trip to visit our old Hamptons friends. Gregory was two years old and always unhappy in his car seat so he and I flew to New York while Shep drove the minivan with the other three boys. Once in the Hamptons, we listed all the friends to visit but made one stop first. This was just an “acquaintance” as one says when one is classifying levels of friendship, but a La Leche League mom who had just given birth to a new baby she wanted me to meet. Shep and I disliked her husband, intensely for his infidelities, false bravado, and reputation for being an extremely dishonest politician, so we went when he was not home. However, he did come home while we were still there and monopolized the conversation. We were attempting to leave but, the rest as they say, is indeed, “history” and for us, life-changing history at that.
Two of my boys were playing outside, while Gregory followed them around. He tended to “shoot baskets” by throwing the oversized basketball down to the ground and then looking up at the hoop to see if it had miraculously gone in! Early May in New York is not yet time for swimming but, Gregory found his way into the still cold swimming pool. The shocking sight of him floating in his yellow sweat suit remains engraved in my mind forever. An ambulance rushed him to a local hospital, followed by airlifting him to a huge medical center. Bathed in complete and utter terror, I sat next to his soft, naked body as the doctors administered bolus after bolus of Lasix, breathed for him, and tried all things humanly and medically possible to keep his heart beating. We prayed and begged incessantly. We watched the lines on the monitor. We listened to the beeps. Never in my life, did I realize the depths of desperate, yearning love that one could feel for another. I wanted my beloved son in any form, in any condition, but I wanted him alive and present and at my breast so that I could nourish him back to health. My heart pounded with continuously outpouring, searing love. My begging tears fell onto his small chest. Occasionally, I would look up into my frantic husband’s eyes and say, “What should we do?” My 11 year old son wandered in the hospital hallways, imploring, “Mommy, do something.” Despite all the love in the world, Gregory drew his last supported breath at 6 am the next morning.
Suffice to say, as a family we spent the next several years in deep grief, continuous counseling and the vital support of church, family and Compassionate Friends. We were and remain today, five humans, changed forever. For me, navigating my way through deep connections of an unexpected love followed by a violent, tragic loss, taught me a previously unknown meaning of real love. We each carry with us that love, manifesting itself in different ways, some productive, some not so helpful but real and honest, nonetheless. We learned that no matter how much we love and how much we want to hold onto the one who we love, sometimes, we are left with only the understanding.
When did you first understand the meaning of love?
I was 41 years old, beginning peri-menopause and the mother of three sons ages 4, 8, and 11. Because I was concerned that I might be ill, I secretly took a pregnancy test and when that pink plus sign popped up I was shocked. We lived in the exclusive community of Southampton, Long Island, and though we were far from exclusive ourselves, we built the first “non-toxic” home in the area and were featured in several newspapers. When at long last it was built, it was a thrill to move into our beautiful, healthy, fragrant home that smelled like freshly squeezed lemons. At the time, my husband, Shep was a successful realtor, earning enough income to allow me to be a happy stay at home mom.
That was of course, until the bottom fell out of the real estate market on Black Monday, 1987. The first thing to sink was real estate, particularly the second home market in a resort area. We were essentially without an income overnight. We argued, we cried, we scrambled and we became very creative. Shep took a job as a school bus driver and in doing so, earned a bit of money but most importantly received the same healthcare coverage as the teachers did. By night he waited tables for the rich and famous at the Hampton’s hottest restaurant at the time, Sapore di Mare. There, he learned culinary skills that remain with him today and a great appreciation for well-prepared, quality food. On Wednesdays we distributed organic fruits and vegetables to our affluent customers, which we purchased in bulk and resold at a profit. Carefully wrapping the heads of butter lettuce and rinsing each tart cherry we placed the orders in the refrigerators of our celebrity customers. A benefit was that our family got to eat well for little investment. On Friday afternoons we would pack clothes for the weekend and move in with our kids. We shared their beds so that we could rent out two bedrooms as a Bed and Breakfast. Often, we netted about $500 minus the cost of scones and jam. On many Friday nights, I helped cater some of the Hamptons coolest parties. This is how we survived from week to week.
Although I really was happy being home, I was also glad to see the light at the end of the tunnel of babyhood and the possibility of getting involved in things other than La Leche League and playgroups. So, finding myself pregnant by surprise was not only an obstacle but also a deep disappointment. I phoned my long time friend, Joan, sobbing on the phone and asked her to meet me for lunch at The Driver’s Seat. She met me with much trepidation, fearing that I was about to tell her that either I was in the midst of a torrid affair, or had a life threatening illness. When I told her why I was crying, she stared at me in disbelief as if she wanted to break into song “Is That All There Is?” I lamented how broke we were, that I already had enough kids, that I needed to work now ad nauseum. I also had this shameful feeling that I was too old and now too poor to have another child, anticipating the disapproval of others.
Because I have always been in awe of childbearing and because I am a huge breastfeeding advocate, the actual pregnancy was comfortably woven into my life. However, I did ruminate over sending bad vibes to this baby with thoughts of being unwanted throughout the nine months. On an icy evening on January 17, 1993, some 42 weeks pregnant, I began laboring at home with two kind midwives. It was my most difficult birth and labor never seemed to end. I struggled, finally actually screaming that baby out into my soft bedroom chair at 1 am. Once he was born, we all understood the struggle as he weighed in at 10 ½ pounds! Sweetly, in my arms, we melted into bed together. He tenderly came to my breast and I began to cry from sheer, unbridled joy, exhilaration and the sight of my now four sons surrounding me, along with the loving eyes of Shep. We named our newest bald, little son, Gregory, after a dear friend. Now my stand up and shout song needed to be, “I am Woman, Hear me Roar.”
During the next few months, we put our cherished, green home on the market and made plans to move to a more affordable home in North Carolina. I spent many hours in my lovely, peach bedroom, nursing my precious, squishy baby always whispering into his head, “I am so glad you are here. I love you. I am so blessed that you are mine.” We sang “Blue Eyes” along with Elton John to him since he was our only non-brown eyed child and I danced with him to Louis Armstrong’s “It’s a Wonderful World.” Once settled in North Carolina, Gregory and I went to Whole Foods every Tuesday while we took one of my sons to a homeschool group and we strolled in the afternoons to pick the younger boys up from their new school. We rocked in Shep’s grandmothers old rocker at naptime, watching the latest developments on the OJ Simpson case. I felt grateful for the joyful life I had with the hopes for more of the same, when I would lie in bed nursing Gregory to sleep staring out at the North Carolina pine trees
In May of 1995, we decided to take a trip to visit our old Hamptons friends. Gregory was two years old and always unhappy in his car seat so he and I flew to New York while Shep drove the minivan with the other three boys. Once in the Hamptons, we listed all the friends to visit but made one stop first. This was just an “acquaintance” as one says when one is classifying levels of friendship, but a La Leche League mom who had just given birth to a new baby she wanted me to meet. Shep and I disliked her husband, intensely for his infidelities, false bravado, and reputation for being an extremely dishonest politician, so we went when he was not home. However, he did come home while we were still there and monopolized the conversation. We were attempting to leave but, the rest as they say, is indeed, “history” and for us, life-changing history at that.
Two of my boys were playing outside, while Gregory followed them around. He tended to “shoot baskets” by throwing the oversized basketball down to the ground and then looking up at the hoop to see if it had miraculously gone in! Early May in New York is not yet time for swimming but, Gregory found his way into the still cold swimming pool. The shocking sight of him floating in his yellow sweat suit remains engraved in my mind forever. An ambulance rushed him to a local hospital, followed by airlifting him to a huge medical center. Bathed in complete and utter terror, I sat next to his soft, naked body as the doctors administered bolus after bolus of Lasix, breathed for him, and tried all things humanly and medically possible to keep his heart beating. We prayed and begged incessantly. We watched the lines on the monitor. We listened to the beeps. Never in my life, did I realize the depths of desperate, yearning love that one could feel for another. I wanted my beloved son in any form, in any condition, but I wanted him alive and present and at my breast so that I could nourish him back to health. My heart pounded with continuously outpouring, searing love. My begging tears fell onto his small chest. Occasionally, I would look up into my frantic husband’s eyes and say, “What should we do?” My 11 year old son wandered in the hospital hallways, imploring, “Mommy, do something.” Despite all the love in the world, Gregory drew his last supported breath at 6 am the next morning.
Suffice to say, as a family we spent the next several years in deep grief, continuous counseling and the vital support of church, family and Compassionate Friends. We were and remain today, five humans, changed forever. For me, navigating my way through deep connections of an unexpected love followed by a violent, tragic loss, taught me a previously unknown meaning of real love. We each carry with us that love, manifesting itself in different ways, some productive, some not so helpful but real and honest, nonetheless. We learned that no matter how much we love and how much we want to hold onto the one who we love, sometimes, we are left with only the understanding.
When Did You First Understand the Meaning of Love? (Submitted to Real Simple contest)
When did you first understand the meaning of love?
It was mid-December 1956 and my father arrived for his nightly ritual of feeding me my supper in the isolation ward of Linden General Hospital in Brooklyn, New York. I was five years old and could rely on him coming every single evening despite the fact that he was working three jobs. “Daddy”, I whispered, “there is gristle in the meat” as if I wanted to be sure no one heard my complaint. He reassured me that it was okay and he would remove it before I ate it. I secretly relished him actually cutting my meat and feeding it to me forkful by forkful. It felt nourishing and caring to me and I can remember sighing dramatically, while eating. Then, I reassured him that I was okay despite being alone all day because I always had “Joanie the Bride doll” and Louise- The-Red- Headed-Nurse who came with me to x-ray every morning. I chose not to mention how loudly I screamed each morning when she came to give me my daily shot of penicillin. In my tender young heart I sensed his exhaustion and stress and I did not want him to worry more than necessary.
My father had plenty on his plate. He was a parking meter collector by day. He trudged through the relentless, summer heat and the cold, snowy winters collecting the dimes from meters for the City of New York. By night he sold Fuller Brush and Baby Tender high chairs at home parties. I was particularly taken with the wind up teeth he would launch at the beginning of each party to get a laugh and relax the crowd enough to spend their money. His weekend stint consisted of knocking on the doors of delinquent customers in a city housing project, attempting to collect money owed for “religious statues.” Even as young as I was, I remember thinking there was irony here in owning and supposedly praying to a large plaster statue of The Sacred Heart of Jesus, or Mother Mary in prayer, that remained unpaid for! It was a dangerous and grueling business; since these customers never had the money they owed and threatened his life regularly.
My mother was nine months pregnant and became ill with a serious case of strep throat. She never once came to visit me during my month long hospital stay. Labor finally began and my baby sister was born on December 18, 1956. My grandmother was busy tending to my grandfather in yet another hospital since he had just suffered a heart attack, so she couldn’t visit me either. Somehow, my father made the rounds to all three hospitals every day.
My diagnosis of pneumonia did not come easily. After many visits to Dr. Bursen and Dr. Willens (the official doctors to the East New York housing project children) and many frustrating misdiagnoses of possible dust or chocolate allergies, finally one of them realized I had pneumonia. I had missed most of kindergarten sick at home, wheezing and sneezing for weeks on end. I would awaken in the middle of many nights, sure that I was dying, unable to draw a breath. I would call, “Daddy, Daddy, I can’t breathe.” He would always come, dazed and half asleep to rub Vicks Vapor Rub on my chest. Then, he’d sit on the edge of my bed until my gasping slowed and breathing returned enough for me to fall back asleep. So, when I finally received a real diagnosis, it was a relief. However, in those days, pneumonia was a pretty serious illness so I was admitted to an isolation ward, at five years old.
I spent a lot of time crying alone in that metal hospital bed, hour after hour dreading the shots that made me holler and the daily x-rays. I played endlessly with Joanie and acted out her wedding on a daily basis. I tried to draw pictures of ladies the way my mother did. I never could and my mother never showed up to teach me the skill. Louise, the nurse with the red hair, was sweet and would chat with me about my doll in the mornings before she got too busy.
On New Year’s Eve, I was declared well and discharged from the hospital. My new sister, Alice, was now two weeks old and home with my mother. I couldn’t wait to see her. My father came to the hospital from work, picked me up and wrapped me in a navy blue and red English wool blanket with fringe all around it. To this day, 55 years later, I can feel and smell that blanket. It was coarse but soft, firm but comforting and very warm. My big, strong daddy carried me out into the freezing night and the cold, fresh smell is one that stays with me to this day. When I looked up at the lamppost I saw a torrent of snowflakes and stuck my tongue out to catch one, giggling all the while. I felt free for the first time in a month and I was as ecstatic as a five year old could be. Most of all, I felt completely loved and rescued, burrowing my face into my father’s shoulder and the cozy blanket. Whenever I think of that moment, being carried to my chariot, my father’s 1951 Black Chevrolet for the ride home, tears well up, my heart races a bit, and I remember that I was loved.
It was mid-December 1956 and my father arrived for his nightly ritual of feeding me my supper in the isolation ward of Linden General Hospital in Brooklyn, New York. I was five years old and could rely on him coming every single evening despite the fact that he was working three jobs. “Daddy”, I whispered, “there is gristle in the meat” as if I wanted to be sure no one heard my complaint. He reassured me that it was okay and he would remove it before I ate it. I secretly relished him actually cutting my meat and feeding it to me forkful by forkful. It felt nourishing and caring to me and I can remember sighing dramatically, while eating. Then, I reassured him that I was okay despite being alone all day because I always had “Joanie the Bride doll” and Louise- The-Red- Headed-Nurse who came with me to x-ray every morning. I chose not to mention how loudly I screamed each morning when she came to give me my daily shot of penicillin. In my tender young heart I sensed his exhaustion and stress and I did not want him to worry more than necessary.
My father had plenty on his plate. He was a parking meter collector by day. He trudged through the relentless, summer heat and the cold, snowy winters collecting the dimes from meters for the City of New York. By night he sold Fuller Brush and Baby Tender high chairs at home parties. I was particularly taken with the wind up teeth he would launch at the beginning of each party to get a laugh and relax the crowd enough to spend their money. His weekend stint consisted of knocking on the doors of delinquent customers in a city housing project, attempting to collect money owed for “religious statues.” Even as young as I was, I remember thinking there was irony here in owning and supposedly praying to a large plaster statue of The Sacred Heart of Jesus, or Mother Mary in prayer, that remained unpaid for! It was a dangerous and grueling business; since these customers never had the money they owed and threatened his life regularly.
My mother was nine months pregnant and became ill with a serious case of strep throat. She never once came to visit me during my month long hospital stay. Labor finally began and my baby sister was born on December 18, 1956. My grandmother was busy tending to my grandfather in yet another hospital since he had just suffered a heart attack, so she couldn’t visit me either. Somehow, my father made the rounds to all three hospitals every day.
My diagnosis of pneumonia did not come easily. After many visits to Dr. Bursen and Dr. Willens (the official doctors to the East New York housing project children) and many frustrating misdiagnoses of possible dust or chocolate allergies, finally one of them realized I had pneumonia. I had missed most of kindergarten sick at home, wheezing and sneezing for weeks on end. I would awaken in the middle of many nights, sure that I was dying, unable to draw a breath. I would call, “Daddy, Daddy, I can’t breathe.” He would always come, dazed and half asleep to rub Vicks Vapor Rub on my chest. Then, he’d sit on the edge of my bed until my gasping slowed and breathing returned enough for me to fall back asleep. So, when I finally received a real diagnosis, it was a relief. However, in those days, pneumonia was a pretty serious illness so I was admitted to an isolation ward, at five years old.
I spent a lot of time crying alone in that metal hospital bed, hour after hour dreading the shots that made me holler and the daily x-rays. I played endlessly with Joanie and acted out her wedding on a daily basis. I tried to draw pictures of ladies the way my mother did. I never could and my mother never showed up to teach me the skill. Louise, the nurse with the red hair, was sweet and would chat with me about my doll in the mornings before she got too busy.
On New Year’s Eve, I was declared well and discharged from the hospital. My new sister, Alice, was now two weeks old and home with my mother. I couldn’t wait to see her. My father came to the hospital from work, picked me up and wrapped me in a navy blue and red English wool blanket with fringe all around it. To this day, 55 years later, I can feel and smell that blanket. It was coarse but soft, firm but comforting and very warm. My big, strong daddy carried me out into the freezing night and the cold, fresh smell is one that stays with me to this day. When I looked up at the lamppost I saw a torrent of snowflakes and stuck my tongue out to catch one, giggling all the while. I felt free for the first time in a month and I was as ecstatic as a five year old could be. Most of all, I felt completely loved and rescued, burrowing my face into my father’s shoulder and the cozy blanket. Whenever I think of that moment, being carried to my chariot, my father’s 1951 Black Chevrolet for the ride home, tears well up, my heart races a bit, and I remember that I was loved.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Celebrating Sam and Will's Birthday without Peter
Today, my sweet twin boys Sam and Will turn 13! A momentous occasion for sure and yet, all I want to do today is cry. All I can really focus on, is how gravely ill Peter is and it is getting to me on a 24 hour basis now. He is getting worse and worse and I don't know what to do next. I feel that I am depressed more often than not. This latest news of his adrenals failing is probably more than we can handle right now. And, on the heels of that news and doctor visit, Peter and I had a hideous fight that was so awful I think I have blocked it for the last few days and yet, I am still quivering inside. When, we came out of that office, I felt a complete feeling of terror and urgency to clean out his system, to "save" his organs by completely detoxing him off of all the drugs he is on and has been, that have made him become completely toxic and have caused his hormonal systems to shut down so much, that he can no longer do much of anything. I felt complete panic and driving home we had the most awful, yelling, vicious fight ending with Peter jumping out of my car in traffic. I went nuts and turned around as soon as I could, driving back to the gas station on the corner. Suddenly, unbelievably, my cell phone would NOT work. More panic. I ran into the gas station and begged these Jamaican guys to let me use their phone. They were kind and very concerned. I called Nick and begged him to come asap. Sam and Will were waiting for me to pick them up in the library and I called Shep and asked him to go there. Then, I began walking the entire shopping center searching and then screaming for Peter who I could not find. Went into the movie theater and then asked them to use their phone so I could try and call Peter. I was shaking too much to dial, so these nice guys did it for me. No answer. I went in and out of every store yelling for him, crying, shaking, hyperventilating and feeling like I would simply collapse any moment. Where is he? Where is he? When I thought I was nearly at my end, he called and said he was down the road, several blocks away and he could walk no longer. When I got him, I could no longer catch a breath and began to feel that I would vomit. He kept saying he would drive but I could not allow that. Eventually I drove us home, where Nick and Shep awaited us to try and have a conversation to calm things down. But mostly, Shep cried and I cried and spoke of how we could not watch Peter like this much longer. Jesus, please, show us the way.
So, now more days of Peter just lying in bed, with no strength, no energy, no hope, no nothing. I went to church this morning but I couldn't stop crying. The thought of me begging, begging, screaming for God to help us, reduced me to tears. The hymns, made me gasp. I held Shep's hand so tight and kept whispering to him, "I don't think I can do this."
So, now I must snap to it. I must celebrate thirteen years passing of one of the most glorious days of my life. But instead, I cannot stop weeping. God help us all. Help me stay focused on Sam and Will for these next few hours. Amen.
So, now more days of Peter just lying in bed, with no strength, no energy, no hope, no nothing. I went to church this morning but I couldn't stop crying. The thought of me begging, begging, screaming for God to help us, reduced me to tears. The hymns, made me gasp. I held Shep's hand so tight and kept whispering to him, "I don't think I can do this."
So, now I must snap to it. I must celebrate thirteen years passing of one of the most glorious days of my life. But instead, I cannot stop weeping. God help us all. Help me stay focused on Sam and Will for these next few hours. Amen.
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