No Talking About No-Hitting

When I walked into the living room, I heard the all-too-familiar sound—the clicking and flipping between sporting events, in this case, the Cal vs. Tennessee football game and the Red Sox. “How are the Sox doing?” I asked my clicker-clutching husband. He hesitated for a moment, mulling over his response. “Let’s just say there’s something very interesting going on.”

I looked up to see a skinny kid on the mound in the middle of a wind-up. The crowd cheered after the strike was called, our own Ex-Red Sox Kevin Millar caught looking. One batter later the commentators reviewed the status of the game, carefully choosing their words as the camera scanned the scoreboard of zeros across seven innings, pausing on the zero under the letter “H.” With the inning over, the scrawny-looking kid made his way back to the bench. The cameras followed the lonely soul, closing in on his focused, tense face before scanning the empty bench around him. Not a teammate in sight, not a word spoken.

It’s funny, this jinx thing. Grown men and women buy into it, this belief in the omnipotence of our actions and words. We believe that by saying “he has a no-hitter going,” we will somehow negatively alter the outcome of the game. So instead we say something like “no player has reached base as the result of the bat connecting with the ball” or “let’s just say there’s something interesting going on.” We believe if we knock on a wooden coffee table, sit in the same spot on the couch, and cross our fingers and toes, the outcome will be as we want it to be.

Though I’ve not watched many games this season, I’ve followed the Red Sox through scanning the sports pages and box scores. I knew it wasn’t going to last when we were 10 games up on the Yankees in early August, and I prepared myself for the usual late summer collapse. When the lead shrunk to 4 and then bounced back to 8, I thought maybe something different was going to happen this year, that the Sox might—dare I say it?—finally win the division. But then the Yankees sweep in the Bronx reduced the lead to 5 and I got all negative again. A win at this juncture was, in my admittedly unprofessional opinion, crucial. This particular game, the game where words were carefully chosen, was a done-deal with the Sox up by 10 runs. Still, I was riveted. I matched the funny name (Clay Buchholz) to the new kid’s face and anxiously waited to see how it turned out.

It was at this point the unthinkable happened. “What are you doing?” I yelled when my husband inexplicably clicked back to the college football game after Buchholz took to the mound in the bottom of the eighth. My husband then relayed, in no uncertain terms, the critical nature of his action. “Trust me. It’s better if we don’t watch,” he said, before going on to explain how watching the game, like calling out the unspeakable, would be a jinx. Undeterred, I put my foot down. “That’s ridiculous. We’re not turning off the game,” I said. After a heated and somewhat testy discussion, we finally agreed that there would be no more clicking.

And so we watched history unfurl as the first-ever Red Sox rookie threw a no-hitter. Though we may sometimes think otherwise, we learned that fans can’t actually control the outcome of the game simply by watching it. We were, though, careful with our words, never once uttering “no hitter” until the final pitch when the last Oriole was caught looking. And then—and only then—did I uncross my fingers.

This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2007

Backyard Nature

I watched the hummingbirds fly furiously toward a dish of sugar water, flitting and diving at a speed almost too fast to witness. They hung back, suspended in mid-air, contemplating how to beat the others to the dish. They battled and sped into one another with such ferocity I was sure one of them would be knocked to the ground, like a boxer caught off-guard by a perfectly placed left hook.

I observed the hummingbird show from the comfort of my lounge chair on the portal (back porch), and then turned to look out at the tufts of dry-grass on little mounds and the cacti and the splashes of purple flowers and the mountains against the backdrop of the vast blue sky.

My husband and I observed this scene courtesy of friends who recently moved to Santa Fe. I have seen many beautiful places in my travels over the years, but I’ve never, at least as far as I can remember, been in a home where I was so immediately and completely connected with nature, where gazing out the kitchen window could easily take up the entire day.

Our friends warned us that the dry air masks the heat’s intensity (temperatures can reach 90 degrees or more) and that at 7,000 feet elevation, we might be challenged running and hiking in thin air. They noted that August is monsoon season, and the downpours and lightening storms arrive with a vengeance and with little or no warning. I heeded their advice and packed my sunscreen and tank tops and rain jacket and walking and running shoes and pocket umbrella, and tossed my digital camera, journal and copy of “All the King’s Men” into my carry-on bag. I was prepared to explore, record and relax during our Southwestern adventure.

Our friends’ home was a mud-brown adobe style, blending into the New Mexican landscape. We were told there are rules about these things, that one couldn’t, for example, paint an adobe-style home neon green. They also have rules about fences (not allowed) and streetlights and bright porch lights (also not allowed), so there is no interference with the popular evening pastime of star gazing.

The first night of our stay we got a first-hand understanding of the value of the no-bright-light rule. As the sun set and the sky grew darker, stars began to appear, beginning with a few flickers before covering the sky in a blanket of brilliance. The next night we were treated to an equally spectacular, though far different demonstration. We saw and heard the first inklings in the distance—a flash, a crackle, a rumble—and watched on the portal until our friends got nervous.

They told tales of people who’d been hit by lightening miles from a storm. We decided to head inside and watch from the comfort and safety of our chairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling (closed) window. The flashes of jagged light came fast and furious, followed by earsplitting booms. Later I was strangely comforted by the crackling and the sound of the rain and hail coming down on the roof as I nodded off to sleep.

As much as I enjoy discovering new places, I also look forward to coming home. Though the Southwest is beautiful, New England is beautiful in its own way. We may not have mountains and cacti in our backyard, but we have other things. Our bed of perennials—Dahlia and Tickseed and Lavender—are in full, glorious bloom. And though they’re not as speedy as the Santa Fe hummingbirds, I seem to remember our own little bird not so long ago, flitting onto our porch, building its nest right outside my kitchen window.

This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2007

Train Troubles

This summer my daughter joined the ranks of commuters, taking the train from Sharon to her summer job in Back Bay. Recently when I had a meeting in town, I joined her on the 8:16 train. I watched commuters chatting and reading and checking their Blackberrys. It was all rather ordinary until the next stop when I noticed something peculiar. The newly arriving passengers scanned the scene, searching for seats. Though there were plenty of spots, most of the open ones were in hard-to-get-to places in the middle or by the window.

Passengers had to interrupt the aisle-seat people who were chatting and reading and checking their Blackberrys to ask “Is that seat taken?” The aisle-seaters seemed annoyed at having to get up to let the person get by, rolling their eyes, sighing loudly. As the train became more crowded, the aisle-seat-people problem escalated. With commuters crammed in the path, it became more and more difficult to let the new person into the middle or window seat. I couldn’t help but wonder about the aisle-squatters. You’d think they were on a cross-country flight the way they clung to those seats, rather than on a short ride into Boston.

Later that day I shared my observations with my daughter. “Is it always like that?” I asked. She assured me that yes, it was, and went on to report a particularly nasty incident she experienced on a crowded outbound train. Rather than simply moving over, the woman in the aisle seat pushed her way into the path. My daughter was caught up in the whole mess, trying her best to move out of the way so Miss Aisle-Seat could get by and the commuter could squeeze into the middle seat. The woman yelled at my daughter to move, blurting “Go, oh!” in an exaggerated tone, voice rising and then dipping in a wave of sarcasm. But that was exactly the problem. People were packed in like sardines, arms pressed to sides. There was no where to go.

Though it certainly doesn’t justify such thoughtless behavior, I understand why commuter rail riders are frustrated. In the last few weeks alone, my daughter’s train has experienced many minor delays and several major ones. The worst was on a particularly sweltering day, when after finally arriving forty minutes late, a power failure left cars both unlit and without air-conditioning. The train had to make several stops as people were treated for heat stroke. Just last week there was another incident when the 8:16 train just didn’t show up—no notice, no warning—and the next train was late as well.

The good news for my daughter is that this is a temporary annoyance. In a few more weeks, her train troubles will be behind her. She’ll be back at college, commuting to her classes on foot. As for the commuter rail, I’m sure all will continue as it always has, with people waiting anxiously for the train to arrive, clinging to their coveted aisle seats and checking their watches to see how late they’re going to be for work as the train chugs along.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)

Summer Camp Notes

This summer, as in years past, we’ve stayed in touch with our son through e-mails and Bunk Notes, an online system that delivers notes to campers. Since my son is a Counselor Intern and this is his last year at camp, he’s been pretty good about writing back. He tends to report activities through numbers—Euro (European handball) goals scored, points and assists in basketball, soccer goals, the grand slam he hit over the center fielder’s head.

I was doing fine until his latest e-mail which left me completely confused. Referring to a Sixers draft pick my son noted, “He’s raw but has a chance to be real good, one of those 6’7”- 6’8” athletic swingmen.” Though I got the gist, I’d never heard of the player nor did I know what a swingman was. He continued, “I think the Celtics stole Big Baby. If he can keep himself from becoming another Tractor Trailer he could be really good.”

I was clueless, but curious. Who was this Big Baby character and why did my son think the Celtics stole him? The next day while scanning the sports page, I saw a photo of the Celtics second-round draft pick Glen Davis, the mysterious “Big Baby.” He is 6’9” and weighs between 289 – 295 lbs. Okay, so I got the “Big” part of the nickname, but I still don’t get the “Baby” part.

My husband explained he’d been sharing sports news in the Bunk Notes he’d written to our son. In addition to requesting my son’s feedback on the NBA draft, he wrote about how it was “a joke” that Pat Burrell, barely hitting .200, is the highest paid player on the Phillies ($15 million) while Ryan Howard is only making $350,000. He went on to report Ken Griffey is getting really hot (21 homers) and is hitting close to .300 before adding, “He has 584 homeruns so I don’t think he has any chance of catching Barry which is too bad because he never juiced.”

After reading my husband’s Bunk Notes, I went back and read one of mine. I’d told my son that the new lawnmower was much better than the old broken one and that I’d weeded the garden and gone for a run in Moose Hill. I went on to report I’d watched “Finding Nemo,” saying it was “so cute.” I detailed the dish I’d had while out to dinner with friends—salmon and shrimp with veggies and chunky mashed potatoes—because it was something I thought my son would have liked. I suppose when compared to my husband’s astute commentary on the NBA draft, player compensation discrepancies and the injustice of steroid use, my Bunk Note was pretty pathetic.

My e-mails were even worse. I sent one with “warning: annoying note alert” in the subject heading to give my son a heads-up about its contents. “Please remember to check your tick bite,” I wrote. (My daughter was on antibiotics after a tick bite, so I was understandably concerned). And then, “How’s your high school summer reading coming along?” I realize bringing up school work was pretty weak, but waiting to read all four required books until the last week of summer was a recipe for disaster. So far, my son has tolerated my notes just fine. “I’m a little behind on my summer reading but I’ll catch up next week,” he wrote. He reassured me that the tick-bitten area was fine, and, sensing my concern, kindly suggested I call him if I’m really worried. (I didn’t.)

Though my Bunk Notes are not exactly exciting, on some level I’m sure my son still appreciates them. There is, though, one thing I’ve mastered. No matter how dull my notes are, I always end them well. “Miss you and love you lots. Love, Mom.”

(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)

Cross-Country Discoveries

In the summer of 1977, my childhood friend Ramona and I set out on a cross-country adventure. As a parent of a daughter who is now the age I was then, I can’t imagine my child going off like that. It was, though, a different time, and whether true or not, things seemed far less dangerous than today.

Perhaps because it was 30 years ago, numbers come to mind when I think back on that trip. We set out on the 4th of July, were gone for 7 weeks, and drove 11,500 miles. We stayed in campgrounds for $5 a night, and paid 50 cents for a gallon of gas. I lost 10 pounds from weeks of hiking and horseback riding, and celebrated my 19th birthday roasting marshmallows over a campfire. By the end, we’d visited 15 national parks, passing through 20 states along the way.

We meticulously planned our trip, researching destinations, trip-ticking our route through AAA, packing critical camping gear—tent, Coleman stove, flashlights, sleeping bags, back packs, hiking boots. We raided our family’s pantries for staples like Oodles of Noodles soup, sardines, Spam, crackers, tuna, dried cereal and trail mix.

In spite of all the planning, there were problems. Hours from our Bethesda, Maryland home, our Toyota Corolla overheated. By the time we reached the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, the campground was full and we were directed to the overflow area behind a rundown gas station. Though exhausted, I was up for hours peeking out the tent opening, clutching my flashlight like a club, reacting to every cough, beep and crunch as I imagined an ax-wielding overflow-camper-killer prowling outside our tent. Ramona, on the other hand, nodded right off to sleep.

After the car problems, we began all long excursions late in the day. To keep awake, the person in the passenger seat would lightly close her eyes, making quiet conversation with the driver while listening to tunes like “Nights in White Satin,” “Sweet Hitchhiker,” and “Light My Fire” from the 8-track tape player we’d set up in the glove box. On one such night while lying outside to rest, I opened my eyes to an incredible mass of stars blanketing the sky. It was like nothing I’d ever seen, and in fact, have never seen anything like it since.

We drove through Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle to Carlsbad Caverns, Mesa Verde, Arches National Park, Bryce Canyon, the Painted Desert and the Grand Canyon. After weeks of camping, we spent two nights in the Las Vegas Caesars Palace, lounging in our pink and purple-decorated hotel room. We had another break from camping in San Francisco when we stayed with my parents at the Fairmont Hotel. After weeks of tent-pitching, it was surreal riding in an elevator while a white-gloved operator graciously guided us to our floor. We then returned to camping and National Park-hopping—Yosemite, Sequoia, Crater Lake, Grand Teton, Yellowstone, and the last leg of our trip to Devils Tower, Mount Rushmore, and the plains across Iowa heading home.

I learned many things that summer. I learned I could live on noodle soup and Spam, at least for a while. I learned I could pitch a tent, change a tire, go on a ten mile hike, and fall asleep with a rock poking into my back. I learned it is great to camp out, but smart to sleep in a car during a thunderstorm or when wolves and bears are close by. I learned that instant coffee tastes amazing after a night sleeping out under the stars.

I learned it is good to have a road map, but important to embrace the possibilities discovered in a detour. I learned that no problem is insurmountable. And I learned that while it is exciting to explore new places, it feels really good to come home.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)

My Grandfather's Garden

The back door creaks. Grampy grabs the wooden rail and makes his way down the steps to his garden. He is dressed in his usual attire—plaid shirt, belted trousers, wing-tips. He pulls the brim of his straw hat down over squinting eyes. It is morning, and there is work to be done.

He gazes at his garden, at the cherry and magnolia trees to the left, the lavender lilac bushes to the right. He inhales the mix of scents—hollyhock, daylilies, roses, coral bells. His garden is far from orderly. It is wild, overgrown. He likes it that way. He likes how lettuce and tomatoes and pole beans are mixed with peonies and snap dragons. He likes bending under branches and vines, pushing back ferns as he walks the path lined with lilac and red and amber and rose. He likes how things are hidden, how he might have an unexpected encounter with a beetle or a bird, or watch an earthworm digging and wriggling under a stick on the ground.

There is a shuffling sound. A pebble skips across the path. Grampy looks down and sees a familiar furry face. The bob-tailed squirrel sits patiently, back straight, paws drawn together as if in prayer. It waits for the usual handout—scraps of crust, nuts, sunflower seeds. Grampy gently shoos it away, waving a hand, an arm, a leg. The squirrel finally takes the hint, scampering away into the bed of impatiens.

Grampy begins his work—weeding, pruning, planting, watering. He bends down low, pulling a stray brown leaf from a thicket. Nearby the yellow jackets drink the lily-nectar and Monarchs flit from rose petal to rose petal. The blue jay swoops down from the green of the trees, and the warm wind gusts, rustling the leaves. It is hotter now, the sun peeking through cracks in the trees. Grampy rolls up his sleeves and touches the warm drip at the end of his nose. Pulling out his handkerchief, he pats and wipes his face.

The backdoor creaks, a voice gently calls. My grandmother, Gammy, holds a glass of iced tea, mint leaves from the garden floating on top. She is small, frail. Her legs are like sticks, her tummy round, protruding. As always, her gray hair is swept neatly in a knot on the top of her head. She wears her cream-colored suit and her flat white shoes with the little openings at the toes. She is beautiful. “Thank you, Mother,” Grampy says, taking the tea from her hands. He takes a few sips, wipes his forehead, sips some more. “The squirrel was back again today. I think you may be spoiling it.” Gammy covers her smile with a cupped hand. Grampy smiles back, then hands her the empty glass. “I’ll be right in,” he says.

Grampy carries the tin watering can over to the spigot near the winding wisteria, filling it full. His legs are wobbling now, his lower back achy, strained. He lifts the can and turns again to his garden. Though weeded, it is still wild—a tangled mingling of textures and colors and scents. Satisfied with the morning’s work, he heads into the house to water the African violets lined up on the window sills. When that job is done, he will rest.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)

Not All Dads are Handymen

Father’s Day gift ads are different from the Mother’s Day ads seen several weeks ago. There are no ads for flowers or candy or perfume. Instead, there are promotions for hardware—penknives, golf accessories, fishing paraphernalia. And handyman stuff, lots and lots of handyman stuff.

Many people equate dads with fix-it-up things. Not me. Growing up, I was much more likely to see my mom fixing a door handle, unclogging the bathroom drain or trimming the tree limbs in the front of our house. It was my mom who showed me how to paint a room and change the tire on our family station wagon. My dad, on the other hand, knew how to get things done by knowing who to call—the plumber, the tree guy, AAA.

My husband is slightly above what my dad was in the fix-it-up department. He is, though, infinitely more dangerous, since unlike my dad, he has a desire to tackle home projects. We’d barely moved into our home before my husband went on a hardware shopping spree returning with a drill, a circular saw, a ratchet set, and, of most concern in the hands of an amateur handyman, a chain saw. I was relieved when, after trying the saw a few times, my husband somehow managed to break it, effectively eliminating the chance of any catastrophic incident.

My brother-in-law, who knows how to use a chain saw, is the bona fide fix-it-up guy in our family. His home improvement projects include building a cedar closet, renovating a screened-in porch, and digging a six foot deep pond, complete with stone and cement bottom and waterfall. His signature project is a two-story club house with barn-style roof he built for his son. It is wired for electricity and has a window air conditioner. It even has a wrap-around porch and its own handcrafted mailbox. Basically, the playhouse is nicer than our house.

It’s not that there’s anything terribly wrong with our house, just the usual little imperfections one would expect after years of wear and tear—peeling paint, falling-apart screens, a slightly rotting porch. We were handling all this just fine until recently, when a new family moved into the home behind ours. The guy in that house has put us to complete shame. In a matter of months he’s cleared the trees, grown a perfectly green lawn, built a wooden sand box for his daughter, and erected a shed. His latest edition is a magnificent slate patio lined with flowers and potted plants. As if this weren’t enough, he put down a mulch border and added a comfy-looking hammock. This is all happening, mind you, as we are fixing our broken porch screens with duct tape.

On Father’s Day, as in the past, I’ll choose just the right card for my husband. I’ll head to the deli for his favorite breakfast—bagels, cream cheese and lox. I’ll urge him to play in his regular Sunday morning basketball game and watch a guilt-free day of ESPN. Later, the kids and I will make a nice dinner. This year, though, I think I’ll do something else. Yes, a gift card to Home Depot might help ease the pained look on my husband’s face when he gazes out over our neighbor’s yard.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)

A Book is Just a Click Away

The recent news about the fate of town libraries brought me close to tears. Struggling with budget cutbacks and unsuccessful proposition 2 ½ overrides, libraries in many towns are being forced to close. Others are losing certification, rendering them islands without a bridge, ferry or even a dingy to connect to the larger library world. For small libraries with older collections, this is essentially a death sentence.

Though small and somewhat cramped, Sharon is fortunate to have a fully certified library open six days a week. Many people appreciate Sharon’s connection to the public library system. For those less familiar, the Old Colony Library Network, of which Sharon is a member, is a group of 28 member libraries on the South Shore that collectively maintains over 800,000 titles of books, books-on-tape, CDs and DVDs.

While I regularly use the town library, I also buy my share of books. Many of my purchases, though, seem to end up in a pile—sometimes for years—before I get around to reading them. My wasteful book-buying habits and limited shelf space has led me to a different approach, one that combines the pleasurable aspects of bookstore browsing with the advantages of the library network. I’ll scan the store shelves, pull out my notebook, and jot down the names of books or authors that interest me. Then I’ll log on to the library network (www.ocln.org) and order the books for free.

It was while scrolling through the library network’s Pulitzer Prize winners list that I discovered Alison Lurie’s 1979 novel “Foreign Affairs,” an old-fashioned Jane Austen-ish tale of manners and relationships set in London. After finishing it, I placed holds on some of Lurie’s other books. Though none of the others quite matched her prize winner, I didn’t pay a penny for any of them.
I recently had another successful library network experience after reading the “New Yorker” short story “One Minus One” by Irish author Colm Toibin. I was immediately pulled in by the first line, “the moon hangs low over Texas,” and after passing it to my husband with an urgent plea—“you have to read this”—I logged onto the library network and got the last available copy of Toibin’s new collection of short stories, “Mothers and Sons.”

On the same day I learned of the library closures, I read an article about author Elaine Dundy, the so-called spiritual grandmother of Bridget Jones. The hapless heroine of Dundy’s 1958 semi-autobiographical novel was described as a cross between Holly Golightly and Holden Caulfield. Intrigued, I logged onto the library network and typed in the name of the novel. Sadly, it came up empty. Undeterred, I tried typing in the author’s name, and was rewarded with details about the one copy of the book available at the Kingston library. It was then that I realized my initial mistake—I’d spelled the velvety rich ingredient in guacamole ‘avacado.’ For the record, the correct title and spelling of Dundy’s recently re-issued novel is “The Dud Avocado.”

Laughing at my blunder, I quickly clicked on ‘place a hold’ before any other early Sunday morning riser-readers snatched it up. And now I will sit back and eagerly await the message that will soon arrive in my e-mail box, announcing that my book is ready for pick-up.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)

Watching a Bird at Work

There is a hole in our porch screen. It is not the kind of hole you might see after years of wind and rain and harsh winter weather. No, this is a purposely formed opening made by folding the screen corner back into a perfect triangle.

The day before the hole was made I was sitting on the porch, reading. As is often the case this time of year, I heard a bird flitting and tweeting and rustling about. As the noise came closer, I looked down and saw a small bird coming in through one of the floor-to-ceiling screens that had pulled from the silver latches that once held it in place.

This particular screen had come completely out of its socket, and was held precariously upright by a porch chair. I tried to quiet myself, taking in the tiniest of breaths so as to not disturb the bird. I watched as it moved in an unusual combination of flitting and hopping from the floor to the wicker chair to the hanging basket, and then finally, up to the ledge in the corner of the ceiling. It was there that the bird had built its nest.

I watched the bird bob up and down, up and down, and wondered what it was doing. Was it stuffing a small stick or seed into the nest, or perhaps feeding something to little ones snuggled inside? The bird then reversed itself, flit-hopping from the nest to the basket, to the chair, to the floor, before making its way out the opening in the screen.

A few minutes after I’d returned to my book I heard the bird’s tweeting grow loud, louder, and then saw it again appear through the screen opening. I watched in wonder as it repeated its routine flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest. It bobbed up and down as it did its work, and again made its way down and out as before. During the next fifteen minutes, the bird repeated its routine at least a dozen times. Needless to say, I did not get much reading done.

Later that day my husband announced, “I’m going to Home Depot tomorrow to get some duck tape and finally fix those porch screens.”

“No, you can’t do that!” I said, panicked, and then seeing the confused look on my husband’s face I explained the whole thing about the bird and the flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest. Though my husband got the duck tape, he adjusted his fix-it-up plan. He smoothed the tape around the edges of all the broken screens. And then, with the care and skill of an expert architect, he carefully pulled back the lower left corner of the bird’s screen creating a perfect triangle opening.

That afternoon I watched from the kitchen window, looking for the bird. Though the new opening was plenty wide, I wanted to be sure that we’d not disturbed its routine. I soon heard the familiar tweet. The bird was back. It easily made its way through the triangle-hole, flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest and back down and out again.

We are all on lookout these days—watching and waiting, wondering what’s next.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)

The Trees and the Forest

There are two kinds of people—those who focus on the forest, and those who see the trees. I am a tree person. I always have been. It’s not that I don’t value the forest or appreciate its importance. Quite the contrary. I’ve spent a good part of my life trying, as best I can, to be more of a forest person. And though over the years I’ve become better at viewing the whole, it is not something that comes naturally to me. I suppose it never will. But oh, I see the trees, with such ease…

I’ve always felt that my tendency to drift to the minutiae in life was a shameful flaw, something that required correction like blurry vision or crooked teeth. The old saying, ‘you can’t see the forest for the trees’ implies that those who attend to details miss the critical global picture. While there may be some truth to that, the reverse is also true. Those who focus solely on the larger perspective miss the important little stuff—the ordinary snippets that make up life.

My fascination with detail goes way back. As a school kid, I felt great satisfaction when, after countless mistakes, I finally solved an algebra problem. I remember my obsession with a particularly tedious high school art project where I copied the pointillism technique of painter Georges Seurat, dabbing hundreds of tiny dots with the tip of my brush to create a picture. And while I can’t say I enjoyed memorizing dates and useless facts, it is something that came fairly easily to me.

Even now, in my professional life, I have to gear up for work that requires a broader mindset. For the most part I manage this forest-related work quite well. But the things I most enjoy require steadfast attention to detail—proofreading, editing, developing work plans, coordinating events, writing proposals and project reports—dull, thankless tasks to many people, but not to me.

In my personal life, I enjoy organizing things, making lists, tidying up chaos. Attention to detail has its positive side, as I have a complete photographic record of my family life—first feedings and steps, birthdays, school concerts, snowstorms, Halloween, Christmas, family vacations to places like Puerto Rico, Wellfleet and Acadia, Nova Scotia, San Francisco, and the Grand Canyon.

The inner workings of my meticulous mind are preserved in my journals—one for jotting amusing quotes from my kids, another for copying favorite passages from books, one for my attempts at poetry, still another (kept in my purse) to capture ideas that come to me throughout the course of the day. I am at the peak of bliss in these moments. What could possibly be better to a tree person than to mull over details, pore over phrases, wonder over words? To spend endless hours writing, revising, editing, getting everything ‘just so.’ To conjure up, not just an adequate word, but a preeminent one—the one that was meant to be written, the one that perfectly, wholly expresses.

But of course a person’s focus in life isn’t really as simple as forest vs. trees. There are many intriguing shades in between, and shifts at different points along the way. The extremes are merely tendencies, the way we might view a situation, tackle a problem, notice (or ignore) something that crosses our path. As for me—I tend toward the trees, I bend into branches, I lean into leaves. I suppose I always will.

Best Time to Be a Mom is Now

The other day my 16-year-old son and I were driving down our street when I spotted a young boy scooting along in his Little Tykes car. The sight of my now-driving son alongside the toddler-driver no doubt struck me. “Oh look, how cute,” I cooed. The boy looked up at us, brown eyes peering from under shaggy bangs.

My son looked over and smiled. “Do you ever wish I were that small again?” he asked. I said that while I remember with fondness the days when he and his sister were little, I like where I am now, where they are now. “No, I wouldn’t want to return to those days. Too much work,” I said. My son didn’t get it. “You mean you wouldn’t ever want to go back?” he asked, incredulous. I told him I’d go back for a day—that’s it. I wouldn’t want to relive my life.

For me, the best time as a mother has always been “now.” It was now when my children were newborn, curled up soft and sweet and warm in my arms. It was now when they first smiled and talked and took their first steps. It was now when they boarded the bus for school, and when they went away to overnight camp. It was now when I read to them at night, and when they learned to read by themselves.

It was now when they wrote a story, painted a picture, kicked a ball, sang a song. It was now when they had playmates and when they developed deep, lasting friendships. It was now even through the bad times—the tempers and tantrums and worries and stress—those challenging moments that made everything seem better by comparison.

Everything I’ve lived through, everything I’ve experienced as a mother to my children over the years has prepared me for now. And this current stage, having grown or almost-grown children, is about as good as it gets. I love seeing my children in the midst of life—experimenting, challenging, learning, growing. I love watching and wondering what’s next for them—friends they’ll meet, careers they’ll choose, places they’ll visit, families they’ll have. I love how my children and I can talk about anything, how we can be serious and funny, quiet and loud. I love all of that.

Yes, for me, the best time as a mother has always been now. I think I’ll say the same thing next year, and the year after that, and all the years that follow. At least I hope I will.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)

The Downside of Distance

One of the most shameful moments in my childhood occurred on an otherwise beautiful spring day. Though much is lost to time and memory, there are some things about which I am certain. I know it was spring because cherry blossoms lined both sides of the street, one brilliantly blooming tree after the other. I know it was afternoon because I was walking home from school with my friends. And I know my silence contributed to a young girl’s pain.

A group of boys walking ahead of me spotted a girl across the street, a classmate who was often picked on. They yelled cruel taunts, then laughed and yelled some more. The girl turned briefly toward the boys and shouted something back. She was far enough away that I couldn’t clearly see her face. But her slumped shoulders and quivering, cracked voice left no doubt that she was crying. I continued to walk and look and listen and breathe in the scent of the blossoms, and then turned the corner up the street to my house.

I’m not sure what brought this sad childhood memory back to me after all these years. Perhaps it is because I’ve been thinking how distance makes people do and say things they wouldn’t otherwise do or say.

Distance made it possible for radio talk show host Don Imus—hidden behind his headphones—to spew sexist, racist comments about the Rutgers women’s basketball team. He would have never dared to say such things directly. His face-to-face meeting of apology, though of questionable sincerity, was no doubt far different in tone from his disgraceful on-air behavior.

Distance makes drivers do things they’d never consider if they were not in their cars, safely removed from the target of their rage. Can you imagine someone cursing and yelling at a person for moving too slowly on the sidewalk? It just wouldn’t happen. But people feel free to rant and rave, speeding along anonymously down the highway.

The distance of modern communication enables people to say things better left unsaid. When I was a kid I was told if you can’t say something nice about someone then don’t say anything at all. That rule still applies, but these days we need to add another one— “don’t e-mail, instant message, blog or text message anything you wouldn’t say to someone’s face.”

It is far too easy to send off an angry e-mail from the safety of a computer screen. It happens so quickly, takes little thought. I would have forever damaged friendships had I had access to a computer growing up. I remember times when, after fighting with a friend, I’d scribble a letter in a fit of anger. But by the time I’d poured out my feelings, folded the note, stuffed and licked the envelope and made my way to the corner mailbox, I no longer felt the need to send it.

I got a break from distance this past week, spending some slow quiet time walking around the block with my husband, taking in the beauty of these early spring days. Though there are no cherry blossoms on our street, the forsythia bush is starting to bloom and the tulips are beginning to poke through the beds. Up close, I notice things—a cardinal resting on a branch, a man raking his yard, a little dog running down the street. I see the smiles on my neighbors’ faces, I stop to say hello. Up close is different than distance. Up close I can see and hear and feel so many things.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)

Running For My Life

This spring marks a major milestone in my life. It has been 10 years since I joined the ranks of runners, those nutty souls who brave wind and rain and cold, pounding the pavement just to break a sweat (and keep sane.)

I was late coming to this madness, well into midlife before the running bug got hold of me. It wasn’t as if I’d never been active. As a child I took swim lessons and diving, modern dance and ballet. Mostly I did the kind of non-structured activity—i.e. play—more popular back in the old days. I rode my red Schwinn around our cul-de-sac, and played kick-the-can, hide and seek and four square with the neighborhood kids from dawn till dusk.

Though active, I was never a real athlete. While I made my eighth-grade basketball team, I spent all but a few minutes of the entire season sitting on the bench. When I think about it, my stint as a bench warmer was the beginning of my more-or-less sedentary lifestyle that carried into adulthood.

I made meager attempts at establishing an exercise routine. In college, I joined a group of friends on weekend runs around the reservoir near Boston College. That lasted a few weeks. Senior year, my roommates and I took a jazz dance class. After some initial self-consciousness—it was hard dancing in front of a wall-sized mirror wearing a body-hugging leotard—I actually enjoyed it. Jazz dance, though, was not something I continued on my own, so after the class ended I reverted to my slothful ways.

In the early ‘80s I wore my Flashdance outfit, complete with white Reeboks and leg warmers, for my twice-a-week aerobics class. I jumped and kicked and sweated and twirled to the tunes of Wham. I felt the Jane Fonda burn. That routine lasted a few months.

Years later after the birth of my second child, I finally reached a day of reckoning. I knew I had to do something to get in shape. I began by walking—not the arm-pumping, power crazed sort—but the old-fashioned kind, one foot in front of the other. I’d finally found a routine I could stick with, and for years I was fairly consistent, walking several times a week. One day out of the blue, I persuaded myself to run to a tree in the distance. I walked for a few minutes and then ran to the next tree. By the third day of my walk-run routine, I was running three miles without stopping.

Once I had some running success, I actually enjoyed it. I felt energized, fit. Unlike all my previous attempts at exercise, running didn’t feel like a chore. It had become a part of my life. A few months later, I ran my first 5K race, and ran several 10Ks after that. Four years later I trained with a group of runners for the Boston Marathon raising money for a community mental health center.

Since I was sidelined with a knee injury six weeks before the race, the longest training run I was able to complete was 16 miles. When I stood at the starting line on Marathon Monday I hoped to run a few miles while taking in the excitement and cheers of the crowd. Somehow I managed to finish—a mind over matter thing, I suppose.

Though I’ll probably never run another marathon, I haven’t ruled out some shorter distance races in the future. Mostly I just feel lucky to have found a physical activity that I love. On cold or wet or oppressively humid days, I sometimes have to talk myself into getting out the door. I usually manage to do it, especially when I know my running partner is waiting for me. I run for all kinds of reasons—my health and my heart and my head. Mostly, I run for my life. Sometimes I regret all I missed out on in my younger, sedentary days. But being a late bloomer has its advantages. Spared from years of pounding the pavement, I may just have another thirty years of running left in me.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)

Adjusting to Life's Changes

Years ago while visiting Tucson I decided to go for a run in a park near my hotel. After less than a mile, I could barely catch my breath. Though hot, it wasn’t oppressive. What made the run so grueling was the air—it was as dry as the desert that surrounded me. Other runners were making their way around the loop, no problem. Clearly they were used to the dryness, their lungs easily filling with air.

Later as I sat outside with some of the local residents, I noticed that they were dressed in long pants, sweaters buttoned at their necks. I, on the other hand, felt warm in my short-sleeved blouse and skirt. Long sleeves were the usual attire for this “cooler” time of year, they said. It didn’t matter that it was 80 degrees. It was March, and for them, it was winter.

We make many adjustments throughout our lives. Sometimes it is a physical one, like getting used to a new climate or recovering from an injury. Other times it is an emotional one. I was thinking about this whole idea of adjustments as I look forward to my daughter’s visit home from college over spring break. She and I are getting quite good at leaving and reconnecting, this being our fifth such time since she left for college. Yes, we are now experts.

That was not the case last fall. Then it was all so new—exciting, but uncertain. There were many things she didn’t know. Would she get along with her roommate, make new friends? Would she like her classes? Would she miss her old friends, her family? Would she be bored in a small school in the middle of nowhere? Would she be happy? And I asked all the same questions for her, as well as another—would I be okay when she was gone?

Both of us have made adjustments along the way. Though my daughter had little in common with her quiet, painfully shy roommate, they got along well enough to live together. She liked most of her classes and, through perseverance, was able to get into a creative writing course second semester. She stayed in touch with her high school friends, even going with a group of them to visit a friend at college in Montreal. She drifted from some friends she made in the fall, and found a core group of close friends. She missed her family, but called to check in, say hello.

I, too, had to deal with changes. I had to adjust to my daughter just not being around, not hearing her voice, her laughter. I had to get used to a new way of life. Someone recently asked me how I was adjusting to my daughter being away at college. My answer was different from the one I would have given last fall. Then I could only think of that day we dropped her off, how she stood in her dorm room surrounded by boxes and blankets and bags. And we drove away wondering if everything was going to be all right. My answer was different from the response I would have given a few months later. Then I would have said I was coping, I was managing, I was “getting along.”

No, this time my answer was strong, unwavering. Though I miss her, I have entered a new state—peaceful, settled. I have reached a level of unmitigated acceptance. I am really, truly, okay. If I were in Tucson, I’d be running around that loop, no problem. I’d be pulling my sleeves down over my wrists, buttoning my collar. I’d be breathing in the fine dry air and taking in the last bit of coolness before spring.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)

Green With Lawn Envy

There was a time long ago when we had a front lawn. It was back in the days when our kids were little, and little feet traipsed across the yard in mini-steps chasing a ball or a butterfly or a shadow. We’d set up the sprinkler on designated odd or even days, dragging it every twenty minutes to a different part of the yard. On alternate days we’d hold the hose, thumb over the end, creating a fine mist, helping our grass stay green.

The backyard was always a different story. With towering oaks and pines and the flowering magnolia tree, the grass out back never had a chance. And taking far too long to rake ankle-deep leaves each fall undoubtedly contributed to the sparseness. Our backyard has always been a haven for lawn-killing activities—Whiffle ball, soccer, football, even golf, with my son digging holes in strategic places, creating his own private par-3 course. I never minded so much that we didn’t have a beautiful backyard. After all, it was in the back, hidden away from leering, judging eyes.

I’m not exactly sure when, but at some point my son decided the front yard was a better venue for football. Every season—even in winter—it was the designated place for neighborhood weekend games. Over time, bit by bit, the lawn began to disappear, and a mixture of dirt and crab grass sprung up in its place. My husband and I debated what to do about it. Putting down harmful pesticides was out of the question. But even an environmentally friendly fix-it-up-job would require blocking off the yard to allow time for the grass seed to take. We decided even that was too much. Somehow it just didn’t seem right to make the Gillette stadium of the neighborhood “off limits.”

I was fine with my front yard, I’d really come to accept it, until this spring when I looked up and down my street and saw lawn after lawn of luscious green. Though all my neighbors’ lawns are nice, one in particular stands out. The grass is carpet-thick, and is so bright you need sunglasses to shield your eyes when gazing upon it—even on rainy days. When I’m feeling particularly spiteful, I say things to soothe myself. “It’s only perfect because they use Chem-Lawn.” Or, “they probably have no life—they’re slaves to their lawn.” I scowl when I walk by, hissing at its haughty, proud perfection. “It’s so fake,” I say to myself. “Like a movie star who gets a face lift, tummy tuck and Botox injections. Who would possibly want to do that?” And then I walk away, glancing nonchalantly over my shoulder at the brilliant, gleaming green.

A few weeks ago, my husband took at stab at fixing our mess of a lawn. He raked up the crab grass and put down kid-friendly fertilizer and grass seed. But even with all the rain, nothing took. Zilch. It wouldn’t be so bad if our poor excuse for a lawn blended in with the neighborhood, but with the lawns around ours so thick and lush, ours sticks out like a sore thumb. It is nothing but dirt and tufts of different textures and colors—like a bad hair-coloring job.

Though disheartened, I try to focus on the positive. Having no lawn has its advantages. There’s hardly any mowing to speak of, and no need to haul out the sprinkler on hot summer days. There’s no need to obsess about the weather, no losing sleep over a drought or worrying about the stretch of rain that makes mowing impossible. When I think about it, there’s really only one drawback to our skimpy lawn—it looks really, really bad.

I suppose I’ll just have to wait for the fall, when our dirt patches and crab grass tufts will be mercifully hidden under brown and yellow and orange oak leaves. And I’ll pray for a hearty winter—the treacherous snowy kind we’ve had in year’s past—so our lawn will be covered in a blanket of white, blending in with all the others.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)

First Lines that will Last and Last

First lines in stories are like first impressions. Good ones intrigue. They pull us in, make us eager to get to know the story, to learn what happens next. Here are some of my favorite first lines from great classic and contemporary stories I’ve read over the years. Some are simple, others elaborate. All of them are unforgettable. Except for the first one—my hands-down favorite first line of all time—they are in no particular order.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

“The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida.”—Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find.

“ ‘Where’s Papa going with that ax?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”—E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”—Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

“Maggie and Ira Moran had to go to a funeral in Deer Lick, Pennsylvania.”—Anne Tyler, Breathing Lessons.

“In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.”—F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned.

“I am an invisible man.” —Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

“The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal.”—Kurt Vonnegut, Harrison Bergeron.

“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield

“This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend the night.”—Raymond Carver, Cathedral.

“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.”—John Irving, A Prayer For Owen Meany.

“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.”—Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind.

“It was a pleasure to burn.”—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.

“On the afternoon of October 12, 1990, my twin brother Thomas entered the Three Rivers, Connecticut Public Library, retreated to one of the rear study carrels, and prayed to God the sacrifice he was about to commit would be deemed acceptable.”—Wally Lamb, I Know This Much Is True.

“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”—Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome.

“First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey.”—Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

“124 was spiteful.” —Toni Morrison, Beloved

“ ‘Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,’ ” said Mrs. Ramsay.—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse.

“It was late and every one had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light.”—Ernest Hemingway, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.

“Theodore is in the ground.”—Caleb Carr, The Alienist.

“I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man.” —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground.

“In the next room Pavel Romanovich was roaring with laughter, as he related how his wife had left him.”—Vladimir Nabokov, A Slice of Life.

“Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in East-Central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn’t yet met.”—Dave Eggers, We Shall Know Our Velocity.

“This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Offshore Pirate.

“Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board.” —Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God.

“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.” —George Eliot, Middlemarch

“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

“The telephone rang, and Richard Maple, who had stayed home from work this Friday because of a cold, answered it: ‘Hello?’”—John Updike, Your Lover Just Called.

“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.”—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady.

“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.”—Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.

“In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.” —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

A Too-Quiet Summer

Summers tend to be more relaxed, less hectic, quieter. This is the case in our home, especially this year with our son at overnight camp for the summer. I’ve noticed lots of changes. Trips to the grocery store have been simpler—less frequent, with far fewer items to purchase. Cooking, too, has been a breeze. And there are long stretches when I can hear the ‘quiet sounds’ of crickets, birds, even the gently blowing wind. As much as I welcome the reduced shopping and cooking load, and savor the quiet moments, I’m feeling a bit out of sorts without our son. Yes, things are quite different around here without him.

It’s been weeks since I’ve bought things like Boar’s Head Cajun turkey breast and sub rolls, Gatorade and Gushers. I can’t remember the last time I bought double-stuff Oreos or Restaurant-style salsa and Tostitos. And while we’ve had a carton or two of ice cream in the freezer over the past few weeks, there has been no cookie dough ice cream purchased in a very long time.

In addition to different grocery purchases, things just seem to last longer. I haven’t had to run out between grocery-shopping trips for a gallon of milk or carton of orange juice. There has been no dwindling of our Ovaltine supply. Dinners have been different too. I haven’t once made shrimp-meat combo tacos or grilled chicken wings with special spicy sauce. I haven’t, as times in the past, made two different spaghetti sauces to cover everyone’s tastes, nor have I cooked my son’s favorite “good kind” of pasta—the expensive brand with the squiggles.

And there’s another thing about life in our house these days. It is just so, what’s the word?—Quiet. Too quiet. I miss the drone of all those ESPN shows—Mike & Mike in the Morning, Around the Horn, Pardon the Interruption, Stump the Schwab—and all the other sounds of TV sports. I miss the piercing screams drifting from the basement following a clutch play on Madden Xbox 360. I miss the basketball bouncing on the driveway, the tap of the Whiffle ball in the backyard. I miss the horde of boys rushing in and out of our house, raiding our refrigerator, going through our cases of bottled water, leaving muddy tracks on the kitchen floor (and the door open behind them). I miss the sounds of their arguments—who fouled who, who was safe, and who was out.

Getting news from camp helps. This summer, our son has been a top-notch communicator, bordering on prolific. Clearly, having access to e-mail has made writing home far less painful for him. We’re getting real news this year, unlike in past years when we were lucky if we got a four-line note, three lines of which were requests to send things (i.e. home-baked chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Swedish fish, another can of tennis balls).

This year we’re hearing about all kinds of activities like waterskiing and knee-boarding. We’re hearing about the drives, points and assists in basketball, the catches and runs in softball, the goals in Euro (European handball). We’re hearing about the tennis matches, including the 6 foot 3 inch opponent who hit winners up the line. We’re getting word of the late-night 5 on 5 basketball games in the Rec Hall. We’re not just hearing about the soccer goals, we’re hearing about the left foot finish off a cross, and the one kicked in the corner from 16 yards away. Basically, we’re getting a complete play-by-play analysis of all his league sports, up to and including final scores. This is quality reporting right up there with ESPN.

Given our son’s particularly fine palate, we’re also hearing about the non-camp food treats—the pizza, the Caribbean jerk and teriyaki sauces on spare ribs, steak, shrimp, calamari, and mahi-mahi (from a special trip to a real-food restaurant.) I’m sure our son is taking mental notes to share with us upon his return, with suggestions on sauces and spices to enhance future home-cooked meals.

This year, we get to take our son out of camp on visiting day. We’ll probably take a trip to a north shore beach. Though we won’t be doing any knee-boarding (I think you get pulled by a motor boat for that), we’ll bring the boogie boards and keep our fingers crossed for some decent waves. And we’ll be sure to treat him (and us) to a delicious non-camp meal, like those famous fried clams and onion rings at Woodman’s in Essex, topped off with some homemade cookie dough ice cream (for him). Yes, that sounds like an excellent plan.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)

Graduation and the Wings of Time

Time flies. Like most clichés, this saying, though tired, common and trite, is also in many ways true. But not all time soars like a bird across the sky. Only some time does. When we anxiously await an outcome, time goes slowly. When we are bored, time creeps along. When we ache, worry or feel sad, time stands as still as a flag on a windless day.

When we are creating, working, doing - time goes fast. When things are going well, everything's over in an instant, before we even realize we were happy. Just when we yearn for more, time picks up the pace, sprinting in long, fine strides. The time at the end of things seems to go most quickly. When desires and dreams come true, time spreads its mighty wings. Such is the irony of life. When it goes along as we want it to, it just slips by.

Somehow it's happened to me - the living, the slipping. My daughter, she is wearing a white gown, square cap perched on her head. It is not her style, not at all. She likes worn jeans and striped shirts and layers and flat shoes. She likes colorful knit hats - orange ones, red ones - worn slightly askew. She likes 'different.'

But I see her beneath the flowing drapes, behind the tassel that swishes and sways. I see her sweet round face, glistening eyes, wide smile. I see her life - chances and choices and possibilities - floating before her, within her.

She will soon leave for college. This summer, I know, like the end of all good things, will go quickly. She will live away from home, far enough away that we will have to drive several hours to see her. As hard as this is, nothing should be different. There should be no adjustments or modifications. There should be no hesitation or remorse. It hurts, but it is okay. Everything is just as it should be.

Though time is responsible for all of this, time will also be my friend. It is when I'm immersed in the slower passages of it, when I think and worry and wonder, that I will get used to it all. In these quiet moments I will come to terms. I will remember, and I will smile.

I see a toddler, curls bouncing, clutching her own hand while trying to cross the street. Is this really going to keep her safe? She thinks so. She knows it. I see a little girl writing a story about a patch-eyed pirate, carefully drawing its face on the cover. I see backyard birthday parties and family vacations to Puerto Rico and Nova Scotia and the Cape, to Montreal and San Francisco and the Grand Canyon.

I see her with her friends, laughing and singing and borrowing each other's clothes. I see a young woman -adventurous, unafraid - pleading to go to the beach, to a Guster concert, to New York City, to visit a friend in Florida.

I see her on the high school stage dressed in black like the others. I watch the movements, hear the chants, see the lights brighten and then dim. I feel the power, the pride. I listen as she sings her favorite Broadway tunes from Ragtime and Les Misérables, serenading me as we head down the highway to visit another college. At home, I see her tapping on computer keys, lost in thought, immersed in her made-up world. I watch an incredible creation in the making.

There is bustling and laughter as we gather in the dining room, putting out plates, settling in our seats. I hear the dinner table debates and squabbles, the clanking and clearing of the dishes. I see my daughter with her younger brother - how very different they are - teasing, fighting, growing close, caring about each other. I feel the quiet warmth of these moments of just being together.

I remember all of this. I remember, and I smile.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)

Pondering March Madness Picks

This year I did something I’ve never done before. I filled out my very own March Madness brackets. The picking of winners in the NCAA tournament has been a ritual in my home for as long as I can remember. As in years past, my husband and son pondered—no, painstakingly labored—over their picks, considering things like player and coach quality, tournament history statistics and testimony from columnists and ESPN commentators before printing out on their web-site generated brackets form. Their picks were chosen with the wisdom and meticulous care only the most compulsive college basketball fans possess. I, on the other hand, did something only slightly more sophisticated than eanie meanie minie mo before scribbling my picks on the newspaper brackets sheet.

The one bit of information I paid attention to were the seeds, the ratings between 1 and 16 assigned to teams in each region based on records and schedules. I stubbornly ignored the advice of the handicapping help sidebar, information that included statistics and tournament history to supposedly help pick the winners. I paid no attention to things like the top 25 teams by region, nor did I check last year’s tournament record that showed the Big East with more bids, first round wins and a higher winning percentage than the Big 12 or Pac 10.

I ignored information about the Final Four berths and national titles from the past twenty years. And I skipped over the seeds of hope section that revealed the not-so-surprising news that #1 seeds had a winning percentage of almost 80% as compared to a 0% winning record for the #16 seeds. No, these things I looked at only afterwards in a useless attempt to understand what my husband and son deem critical to the successful pick process.

Though I wasn’t as knowledgeable as the men in my family, I took the whole thing quite seriously. I wanted to take some risks—to show some guts, so to speak—so I chose a few upsets in the first round. My heart played somewhat into the process as I picked my childhood hometown teams to go far—Georgetown to the Elite Eight and Maryland to the Final Four. My other Final Four picks included Pittsburgh, Texas and Louisville, this last pick made because—and this is one thing I know—Rick Pitino is a great college coach.

Sentiment also played into my pick for the overall tournament winner. One of the few players I’d heard of was A.J. Abrams, a guard for the Texas Longhorns, and for reasons that might seem both silly and obvious, I was rooting for him. For this namesake reason—in addition to the presence of freshman phenomenon Kevin Durant—Texas was my choice to win it all.

It wasn’t until I’d finished my picks that I realized I’d failed to have any # 1 seeds make it beyond the Sweet Sixteen. Not too smart in retrospect, a scenario that would no doubt leave bracketology experts snickering and shuddering and shaking their heads. But I’d scribbled my picks in ink, so that was that.

So how have I fared so far? The good news is that eleven of my picks made it to the Sweet Sixteen. The bad news? Three of my Final Four picks were knocked out, including Texas. Though my picks were admittedly pathetic, it was fun following it all, rooting for teams that, with a mere stroke of a pen, became “mine.” And I will definitely fill out my brackets next near, though only after analyzing every last tournament trend, record and statistic from the beginning of time.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)

The World of iPods

It is only recently I’ve learned to appreciate iPods. I know I’m coming to this rather late, seeing as how they’ve been around for years. Though I hate to admit it, this coming-to-things-late tendency is fast becoming my M.O. I watched the television show “24” for the first time a few weeks ago (the premier of its sixth season), was one of the last people I know to get a DVD player, and have yet to trade my bulky Canon for a digital camera. My children got their iPods fairly recently — my daughter for her high school graduation last spring, and my son this past Christmas — so that may partially explain my limited iPod knowledge.

When my daughter got her iPod, I didn’t pay much attention. I never learned how it worked, and since she always had it with her and was rarely home, there weren’t many opportunities to check it out. My first real introduction to the wonders of iPods came earlier this year, when my son called me over to his shiny new black one.

“You’ve gotta see this, Mom,” he said, motioning to me as he clutched his iPod. He was watching a mini-football game — the 2007 Fiesta Bowl, to be exact — on the tiny 1.5 by 2 inch screen. The iPod downloaded version of the game contained 25 minutes of highlights, including Boise State’s trick behind-the-back handoff “Statue of Liberty” two-point conversion play that led to their victory over Oklahoma in overtime. I was immediately pulled in. Though the picture was tiny, it was incredibly clear. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was all quite amazing.

He then showed me some songs he’d downloaded, and how they were organized. Later, when I saw his iPod lying around, I scrolled through it, flicking to bands and songs, running the tip of my finger around the circular touch pad at the bottom. I tried to imagine listening to my music, white wires dangling from my ears. It took about five minutes before I knew I had to — someday — get one.

The greatest part is how everything is so organized. For someone like me, this is incredibly appealing. At the peak of my record collecting days, I was obsessed with sorting, storing my LPs alphabetically in plastic bins. Though it was rather neurotic, it was comforting to know I could always find Jackson Browne next to the Allman Brothers, the Eagles alongside Fleetwood Mac.
By the time I transitioned to CDs, I’d relaxed my organizing system somewhat, grouping them by type — one shelf for rock, one for classical, another for Broadway shows, and so on. Though I didn’t go crazy if my CDs were inadvertently misplaced, I tried to keep some semblance of order.

Invariably, though, someone (i.e. husband, child) would swipe a CD, leaving the plastic case either empty or with a CD that I was not at all interested in listening to. To me, the #1 advantage of an iPod is never again suffering the infuriation of the CD swipe-and-switch.

Just as I’m beginning to understand iPods, Apple announced a new gadget — the iPhone. Though it won’t be released until June, it is all the rage. The main appeal, in addition to its sleek touch-pad design, is its multi-use capabilities. It has everything people on the go deem essential — a mobile phone, e-mail, usable Web access, text messaging, and yes, an iPod.

And, unlike some multi-use gadgets, the iPhone is user-friendly. The 3.5-inch screen morphs into whatever you need. Touch the music icon, and up pops your music collection that you can flip through by album cover. Touch the text-messaging icon, and you see messages arranged by recipient and a fully functional keyboard. The Web browser displays real Web pages, ones that you can actually read.

Though I don’t plan on getting an iPhone — at $600 it is far too expensive — I’m definitely putting in a plug for an iPod. Maybe this summer, for my birthday, I could get one. By then the credit cards will be paid down from all the holiday gifts, car repairs, vacations and college textbook charges. Maybe if I hint and plead and petition and beg — maybe then someone will get the message. It sure is worth a try.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)

A Beautiful Beyond-Basketball Story

Basketball is a huge topic of discussion in my house these days. It is, after all, the beginning of March Madness when the top college teams battle it out for the National Championship. My husband and son will soon be feverishly working on their brackets, making picks, predicting upsets. As always, I'll root for my alma mater, Boston College, as well as an assortment of likely-win favorites and underdogs. Nothing, though, not even a major upset like a #20 seed knocking off Duke or U-Conn will move me as much as the story about the kid from the little town outside Rochester, New York.

For those who may have been in hibernation, the story is about Jason McElwain, the 5 foot 6 inch Greece Athena high school student who has autism. For the past two years as basketball team manager, Jason has been an enthusiastic supporter - keeping statistics, handing out towels, fetching water bottles, encouraging his teammates. He never missed a practice, made all but one game. For the last home game of the regular season, Coach Jim Johnson decided to give Jason, a senior, a chance to feel what it was like to sit on the bench wearing a uniform instead of his usual white shirt and black tie.

With four minutes left, Coach Johnson sent Jason into the game, hoping he might somehow get a basket, make a memory. After missing his first two shots, Jason got unbelievably hot, hitting a 3-pointer, and then another and another and another. In four minutes, he'd drained six 3-pointers and scored 20 points, tying a school record. His final shot, a nothing-but-net NBA distance 3-pointer swished through as time expired. The crowd went crazy, storming onto the court, surrounding him in a wild frenzy, as they whooped and cheered. It was a moment of pure magic.

There is so much to like about this story it is hard to know where to begin. With all the problems I've both witnessed and read about in youth sports these days - coaches yelling and berating, parents whining and interfering, fans complaining about calls-here was a refreshing example of the polar opposite. This story is a life lesson for coaches, teammates, fans and communities on how to do things right.

Here is a coach who showed compassion, giving a dedicated hard-working kid a chance at a dream. Here are players enthusiastically supporting their teammate/manager who they fondly refer to as 'J-Mac.' Here are fans - on both sides of the court - cheering, encouraging. And here is a kid, against all odds, achieving what he never dreamed possible.

The other part of this story goes back in time. Like many communities, the Greece Athena school system had been struggling with how to best serve kids with special needs. Six years ago, the school district was cited by the state of New York for not doing enough for kids with disabilities. Special needs students in this now progressive district are an integral part of the schools. The integration is so entrenched that at first the team didn't understand what all the fuss was about.

"Jason is so much a part of us and our program that we kind of forgot he was autistic," one teammate said. There is a lesson here for all communities - both large and small - about creating opportunity, embracing difference.

I missed the report when it was first broadcast, learning about it later from my husband and son who'd caught it on ESPN. When I finally saw it, I watched in awe and wonder. Like many people, I was completely overcome. It wasn't so much that this kid was making these amazing shots. It was the reaction of his teammates and the crowd that was so touching. It was the fans yelling and waving signs with Jason's picture when he stepped onto the court. It was the hooting and howling and jumping and screaming, over and over, longer and louder after each basket. It was the complete and unequivocal support for the "little guy."

After my son and I finished watching the report for a second time, I struggled to describe the feeling. My son turned to me and said, "It kind of gives you chills." Yes, that is it. That is exactly what it does.

This March Madness season, I'll be watching and cheering through the Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight, Final Four and Championship game. As in year's past, I'll go crazy over Duke and Gonzaga, U-Conn and Kentucky.

There will no doubt be buzzer-beaters and upsets, overtime games and amazing thrills. But there will never be a moment like the four-minute miracle in Greece, N.Y. Not the kind that leaves you breathless, stirred. Not the kind that takes you away to another place. Not the kind that leaves you trembling - in a good way - with incredible chills.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)

The Pleasure and Pain of a Ski Vacation

Like many families, we went skiing over winter school vacation. My son took a friend, and other friends with their teenage sons also stayed in Waterville Valley, so it all worked out quite nicely. It had been a while since I’d skied. My husband, kids and I vacationed at Mount Snow three years ago, and we skied in Canada several times before that. I have fond memories of those ski trips—the thrill of winding down a trail, the invigorating coolness, the quiet beauty of the mountains. Memory, it seems, is a very peculiar thing.

I’d forgotten all the work connected with skiing, which is much like camping in that respect. There’s the pre-trip task of finding things—long underwear and ski socks and goggles and mittens. There’s the renting of the ski equipment, and the schlepping around in those clunky ski boots, the ones that press painfully into shins. There’s the cold and the wind and the frost-bitten fingers and toes. And there’s the difficult mission of making it down the mountain, suffering quiet humiliation as kids whiz past, no problem.

There’s the long, arduous walk to the car at the end of the day—back straining, quads aching, shins bruising, skis and poles perched precariously on sloping shoulders. Since it’s only been a week since our trip, these are my memories. In time, I know I will recall the fond ones.
As a kid, I was an excellent skier. During my high school years, my family went to Utah every Christmas where we skied down the majestic slopes at Snowbird and Alta and Park City. The conditions were perfect—ankle-deep powder, no lift lines and weather so mild we’d often ski in our sweaters. We’d hit the slopes as soon as they opened, skiing all day on intermediate and expert trails with barely a break. We never thought of taking a day off to rest. Not a chance.

I had several things going for me back then that I don’t have now—limber legs, infinite stamina, agility and, most important, no fear. The trepidation I’ve developed since my youth led me to choose the No Grit intermediate trail over the True Grit double black diamond trail at Waterville Valley.

When I think about it, my pleasant memories from our recent trip have little to do with skiing. My most idyllic moments include sipping coffee with a splash of hot chocolate while reading my Pushcart Prize collection of short stories (during one of my many ski breaks), kicking off the shin-bruising boots at the end of the day and lingering in the hot shower back at the lodge. Mostly I loved sitting around in the evening with friends, talking about our day and our children.

If I try a little harder, I can recall some ski-related good times, like the thrill of making my way down Oblivion, Tippecanoe, And Tyler Too before the pain in my quads became unbearable, and my success getting on and off chairlifts without falling, or worse, wiping out a stranger. And I will never forget the beautiful sight of the snow-capped peaks from the top of Sunnyside.

Some not-so-great memories, though, are still on the surface. Like the panic we felt at the top of White Peak, when after stopping for coffee we were hit with winds gusting at close to 60 miles per hour. Skis and poles (thankfully not ours) were blown clear off the mountain as I crawled on my hands and knees to retrieve mine. The winds had blown most of the snow from the trails leaving huge patches of ice. In the midst of the blinding snow-swirling wind I thought, “This is about as far from fun as it gets.” I wondered how I’d ever make it down alive, and just how bad conditions had to get before they closed the lifts. After two more wind-whipped runs, all but one lift was closed for the remainder of the day.

For the most part, the bad memories are starting to fade. It seems there is a direct correlation between the level of pain in my legs and my recollection of what caused it; as the aches subside, so too does my memory. Like childbirth, in time I’ll forget—or at least repress—the pain, remembering only the good parts before eagerly choosing to go through it all again. Who knows? Next time I may even try True Grit.

In Pursuit of the Golden Oscar

Now that the quest for Olympic gold is over, we can turn our attention to another golden pursuit: the Oscar. Like their Olympic athlete counterparts, those who vie for the ultimate prize on Academy Awards night are hard working, determined and exceptionally talented. As in the Olympics, the field of competition plays a major part in who goes home with the gold. While the quality of the film and acting performance are obviously key factors, winners (and therefore losers) are often determined by which other films and actors happened to be nominated that year. And, like subjectively judged events such as Olympic figure skating, the Academy Awards voting process doesn’t always produce the “right” result.

The list of ‘great ones’ who never won an Oscar is both long and surprising. It includes actors Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Cary Grant, Claude Rains and Peter O’Toole. And actresses Greta Garbo, Gloria Swanson, Lauren Bacall and Judy Garland. Directors who never got an Oscar include Robert Altman (who will receive an honorary Oscar this year), Hitchcock, Fellini, Truffaut, Renoir, Kubrick and Scorsese. The problem was obviously not talent, but timing.

In no year was timing more significant than in 1939, undoubtedly the greatest year in American film history. While it is hard to argue with the decision to name “Gone With The Wind” best picture, in any other year, any one of the other nominated films could have taken home the big prize. The other films up for best picture that year were “The Wizard of Oz,” John Ford’s classic western “Stagecoach,” “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” and the haunting “Wuthering Heights.” Several other outstanding films were not even nominated that year—the classic adventure film “Gunga Din,” “Only Angels Have Wings” with Cary Grant and Jean Arthur, “Destry Rides Again” with feisty saloon singer Marlene Dietrich, and “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” with Charles Laughton’s unforgettably heart wrenching portrayal of Quasimodo.

Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett nabbed best actress that year, leaving Bette Davis ironically less than victorious in “Dark Victory,” and Garbo anything but laughing in the romantic comedy, “Ninotchka.” Robert Donat shocked all by winning best actor for “Goodbye Mr. Chips,” beating out three of Hollywood’s most famous and talented leading men in some of the best performances of their careers: Clark Gable as Rhett Butler, Jimmy Stewart as Jefferson Smith and Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff. Talk about a packed field!

Many times the Academy is asked to choose between entirely different films, with sometimes surprising results. There was “How Green Was My Valley” winning over “Citizen Kane” (1941), “Rocky” over “Taxi Driver” (1976), “Annie Hall” over “Star Wars” (1977), “Ordinary People” over “Raging Bull” (1980), “The English Patient” over “Fargo” (1996) and “Shakespeare in Love” over “Saving Private Ryan” (1998). It hardly seems fair, pitting such different but equally exceptional films against each other. It’s a classic case of apples vs. oranges—like asking us to choose between Michelle Kwan and Bonnie Blair.

Sometimes the problem isn’t a packed field, but a disgraceful mistake, like the Academy’s failure to even nominate Chaplain’s greatest film, “City Lights” (1931), the original “King Kong” (1933), the brilliant Cary Grant—Rosalind Russell newspaper flick “His Girl Friday” (1940), or Hitchcock’s “Rear Window” (1954). And perhaps the worst blunder in the history of film, when the entertaining but frivolous “The Greatest Show on Earth,” won best picture over “High Noon” (1952). It was enough to make Gary Cooper leave town for good, even if he did walk away with the best actor award.

This year is an interesting one, with the best picture nominees having more in common than in recent years. Four of the five films up for the top award are either biopics or based on real life events. As has been the case in recent years, I’ve been slow to see new films, having seen only two of those nominated—“Goodnight, and Good Luck” (terrific) and “Crash” (had some good moments, but a bit too neatly tied up). I suppose when choosing between venturing out into the cold and sitting at home curled up on my couch, I’ll choose home, even with the considerably smaller screen. And, being the old movie buff that I am, it’s likely I’ll watch something filmed in black & white. Unless of course, it’s “Gone With the Wind.”

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)

Missing Screwdrivers and Keys and Other Such Things

The screwdriver has gone missing again. This is becoming a regular occurrence at our house. The last time was about a month ago, when my husband and I were taking apart our daughter's bike to ship it to her at college. I'd searched in all the usual places - the plastic tub in the hall closet, the junk drawer next to the fridge, the assorted bins and boxes in the unfinished part of the basement - but came up empty-handed.

"I'll just run out to Home Depot and get another one," I said to my husband, grabbing my car keys.

"Oh, no," he said, in a don't-you-even-think-about-it voice. "We're not buying another screwdriver. We must have at least five of them somewhere in the house."

True, I thought, but somewhere means anywhere, which basically means we might never see any of those screwdrivers ever again.

We eventually found a sort-of screwdriver, a really old one with one tiny Phillips-style bit attached. The nicer, newer one, the one with the assortment of bit sizes and styles is still AWOL, probably hanging out with the sucked-out-of-the-dryer socks in who-knows-where-it-went heaven.

As frustrating as the missing screwdriver episode was, it pales in comparison to my two - yes, two - missing car episodes. The first such incident occurred many years ago, in the dark, creepy Central parking lot at Logan airport. This was in the days before they'd marked the floors near the elevators with cute pictures of Paul Revere and Boston Marathoners to help harried travelers remember which floor they parked on.

This was also in the days before rolling suitcases, so when I returned from my business trip late at night, I lugged my suitcase up and down floors and across aisles searching for my car. Now one might wonder how such a thing could possibly have happened. I'd done the smart thing and jotted down the number and letter identifying the location of my car. The problem was I couldn't find the scrap I'd jotted it on. After a half hour of frantic searching, I eventually found my car, so I guess it wasn't really lost, just momentarily misplaced.

The second lost car episode was at the outdoor parking lot at Green Airport. Learning from my previous experience, I'd cleverly marked the location of my car directly on my parking lot ticket, tucking it safely in my wallet. No paper scraps, no chance of losing it.

When the shuttle bus guy asked for the location of my car, I confidently called out my letter and number. Inexplicably, my car was nowhere to be found. After a half hour of searching (fortunately this time pulling a wheeled suitcase), I began wondering whether my car had been stolen. But then I thought who in their right mind would swipe a dented, scraped, sorry-looking 1996 Nissan Quest van with 145,000 miles on it?

I finally waved down the green pick-up truck guy who helps customers find misplaced cars, and after a few circles around the lot we found it right where it was supposed to be. The shuttle bus driver must have dropped me in a location other than what I'd announced, and being hot, tired and thoroughly confused, I'd circled around and around in vain. It was a true "Twilight Zone" moment.

Thankfully, I haven't had to park in an airport parking lot recently. Those experiences, though, have definitely affected the way I approach parking in general. I now have a fool-proof system guaranteed to cut down on searching time.

At my usual grocery store parking lot, I drive three rows down, make a right, and park in the space to the left of the shopping cart return rack. If my space isn't available, I go for the space on the other side of the rack. In the unlikely event both next-to-the-rack spaces are taken, I park as close to my usual spots as possible. So far, so good.

I don't have any more large missing things to report as of late, just the usual smaller things - scissors, tape, remote, eyeglasses. No cars, though every now and then, the car keys go missing.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)

New Driver Dread

Years ago when my daughter was learning to drive, I jotted in my journal to help manage my sometimes overwhelming anxiety. As with many things, humor helped me to keep it all in perspective. My daughter is now a fine driver and I'm sure my son will be the same.

Despite knowing this, I feel the tension building as I see friends on the road with their driving teens and think how I'll soon be going through all this again. So for all the parents out there, here is a primer on what to expect as you enter this new life stage.

Stage 1 - Denial and Intense Fear

Your teen has her learner's permit and you, the reluctant but supportive parent are strapped snuggly into the co-pilot's seat. At first you take pride in your clever strategy of keeping to parking lots and deserted side streets. At some point, though, you know you're going to have to bite the bullet and go where there are, gulp, other cars. The first few times out in traffic are a heart-thumping nightmare. You're convinced you're going to cross over that double yellow line, hitting oncoming cars, or drift too far to the right, leaving a trail of mailbox road-kill behind. The feeling that horrific things may happen is constant, even when your child is doing just fine. So when your kid does have a lapse in judgment, it's beyond terrifying.

Stage 2 - Self-preservation

You compare this experience to other times you've gently guided your child to make good decisions. After all, you want her to learn - to become an independent, well-functioning adult. When you're driving with your teen, though, all rationality flies right out the car window.

You constantly bark instructions, pump the invisible passenger's side brake and scream -"Slow down! Stop!" You meticulously check both ways (multiple times) at intersections before giving the go-ahead to cross. Your kid is also looking both ways, but she knows not to go until you say so. You realize this whole driving thing is severely straining your parent-child relationship. "You don't trust me," your kid says. You've got that right, you think, but instead say something like "it's not that - it's just that you need to get a little more experience."

Stage 3 - Letting Go (a bit)

During this next stage, you begin to let go. You may catch yourself before you yell an instruction, waiting to see if your child is going to do what you were about to say. If things are going well, more often than not you won't have to shout. You may even become complacent, not exactly relaxed, but not continuously terrified either.

Warning: This Is A Very Dangerous Stage. Though your teen is gaining experience and making nice progress, she is still a new driver. Keep alert for lapses in judgment. Just when you think everything is going smoothly, your child may make one of those tire-screeching-cutting-off-an-oncoming-car-type moves that makes your heart race. Don't despair. This is quite normal and all part of the learning process. You may find some defiance from your teen at this point. She is gaining confidence (a good thing) but thinks she is an excellent driver (not a good thing.) She may say things like "I can't stand driving with you" or, and this is really scary, but true, "when I get my license you won't be in the car telling me what to do."

Stage 4 - The Launch

If all goes as planned, your child will pass her driving test and become an official driver. She will have to wait six months before she can drive with friends (a good thing), even though she may say it is not a good thing. At this point, your tension level is back to Stage 1, experienced as overall anxiety any time your child reaches for the car keys. The only thing that helps at this point is time - you just kind of get used to your teen being a driver. Realizing the benefits such as running errands and shuttling younger siblings to sports practices helps soften the blow. You try to remember that you too, were once a new driver and look how competent you are now.

So hopefully this has helped to de-mystify the new driver experience. Like many life events, we all manage to somehow muddle through. They learn, they launch. This whole driving thing helps kids gain a bit more independence on their way to being on their own. We parents are learning too. We are learning, slowly, how to (gently) let go.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2006)

Life's Little Pet Peeves

The other day, my son was having trouble with his Xbox. The screen was freezing and the red lights were blinking and then the darn thing just wouldn’t turn on. I suggested he call the 800-number to see if he could get some help. After being put on hold for several minutes, he was finally transferred to the “customer service representative,” a pre-recorded voice offering tips — all of them useless — to help fix the problem.

After more waiting and music and robotic talking, he was abruptly disconnected. It was my son’s first introduction to a phenomenon I and many people have long dealt with — the infuriating world of non-service customer service.

I realize there are far more serious concerns than small, everyday annoyances like being placed on hold and talking to a fake person when you’re trying to get something fixed. But sometimes, especially on a weak day, these are just the things that put me over the edge.

Other customer service pet peeves include repair people who fail to show up, and stores that promptly distance themselves from any responsibility when the product you’ve purchased encounters a problem. Being bombarded with the hard-sell is also on my pet peeve list — the won’t-take-no-for-an-answer telemarketer, the person who asks if I “want to try a combo” or purchase the special of the week at the grocery check-out counter, the salesperson who asks “can I help you?” when I’ve barely entered the store. Equally irritating is the opposite problem of being completely ignored. For some reason this seems to happen a lot in shoe departments.

As annoying as aggressive telemarketers are, rude cell phone users are even worse. At least with a telemarketer I can simply hang up. Rude cell phone users are everywhere, and often in places where there is no escape, like when I’m trapped with one of them yakking away on a train or in an airport lobby or waiting my turn in line at the grocery store.

There is no bigger pet peeve category, though, than that of discourteous, dangerous drivers. Of particular concern are drivers who don’t use turn signals, tailgate, drive too slow in the fast lane, weave in and out of lanes, speed excessively, shave or put on make-up while driving, enter rotaries without merging, use the breakdown lane as a passing lane or run red lights. Though it is no surprise, I’ve noticed that drivers guilty of these dangerous deeds are often talking on their cell phones.

Other pet peeves include people who refer to themselves in the third person and those who ask and then answer their own questions. Professional athletes do this a lot. Also politicians like when they say “Are we in a difficult position in Iraq? Absolutely.” For some reason, people who refer to themselves in the third person tend to be those who ask and answer their own questions.

I also have a thing against bragging bumper stickers, like those that proclaim, “My child is student of the month, class president, on the honor roll and listed in ‘who’s who’ in America.” The best response to this kind of pronouncement was the bumper sticker that read, “My Golden Retriever is smarter than your honor student.”

Speaking of dogs, I have to add to the list of annoyances people who don’t clean up after their pets. Rudeness in general is a huge pet peeve of mine — people who honk for no reason, toss trash on the highway, cut in line, let their children run wild in restaurants, talk in movie theatres. I also have trouble with people who don’t return phone calls, interrupt, or go on and on about themselves.

Now I realize I’m far from perfect. I’m sure there are plenty of things I do that get under the skin of those around me. I know this is true because I’ve even managed to annoy myself at times. And as much as I try my best to be patient, courteous and considerate, I know I am not always successful.

Have I ever been guilty of one of my own pet peeves I profess to abhor? Absolutely.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2007)