Sister Miriam

I met her in church when my kids were just babies.  She would bustle through before or after Mass, always stopping to talk to the line of people who needed a prayer or a hug.  I could never remember her name.  Then when the boys were a little older (3 and 4 or so) we decided to try a one mile version of The Walk for Hunger to get them thinking about how lucky they were and to realize that not everyone was.  But they were sturdy wee men and made it to mile five before Mommy pulled the plug and flagged the "Toe Truck" to take us all back to the Common to catch the T.  And there she was, apologetic for quitting so soon, but she had such a bad back, and twenty years ago she was only a sweet young thing of 68.  We drove her home from the subway and Sister Miriam Patrice McKeon entered our lives.

When the boys went to school and I became a stay-at-home Mom, I often went to Daily Mass and, of course, she was pretty much always there.  So we started chatting.  Then we started having breakfast most days at a little diner in town, and I started to learn all sorts of things about her. She loved to sing, and to dance.  I was her partner for more than one polka at a party.  She had been cured of breast cancer the night before her surgery.  Really.  They couldn't find anything to operate on the next day.  And she began to cure others with her prayers and her joy and her love.

She could speak in tongues, and every so often she would grab me by the hand after Mass and say, "I got a Word for you from the Lord."  Then she would tell me what He wanted me to know.

She taught Bible studies at a home for unwed mothers and once a week I would babysit for the children who had already been born so their mothers wouldn't be distracted. Her faith was amazing to watch, and it was contagious.

She had a brilliant mind.  She led retreats and marches and sat on Boards of Directors for groups that helped the poor.  She was a highly coveted speaker and she cast spells with her kindness and her bright, burning love of God.

Then she had a fall and broke her hip and her arm, and she had to go to the Mother House in Wellesley to recover.  But she was getting older and frailer and her falls came more often, so she stayed there.  It was only  half an hour drive from my house, but I didn't make as many trips as I should have.  I started working full time in downtown and pretty much collapsed when I came home.  Last week one of the Sisters told me she wasn't doing well and I went to visit her.  She reached out her hand and took mine, calling me "Honey" and telling me how good I was to come.  She told me I was a "holy woman of God."  I was very moved by that until her funeral today when I found out she had said that to almost every one of the Sisters present.  But maybe she was right.  Maybe we all are "holy women of God."  It takes one to know one.

She was tired and couldn't hang on any longer.  Today I saw her for the last time, I listened to people tell of how much she had changed their lives.  And how much she was loved. I felt what I had always known in my heart.  I knew a saint, and we were all so privileged to have the opportunity to "walk her Home."  I will miss you, Mimsy, but I expect to see you again.  Meanwhile I will pray for you and to you, because if anyone can get it done, Sweetie, it will always be you. 

I hate crowds.  I don't do the Fourth of July on the Esplanade in Boston.  I don't go to the Saint Patrick's Day Parade in South Boston.  I don't do First Night.  And yet, I could not stay away from the Women's March which gathered on Boston Common yesterday.  They had planned for a crowd of 20,000.  The estimated attendance was somewhere between 100,000 and 150,000.  We couldn't move.  We stood for hours listening to the speakers and then trying to get out of the crowd and onto the streets to march.  I never actually did "march", but I heard every speech.  I saw nothing because if I were any shorter my hair would smell like feet (I stole that line, but it's a good one).

So there I was looking at a lot of pink hats and a lot of creative signs and a lot of extraordinarily pleasant people, largely female, but there was a fair representation of men and some children there, too.  There were many rainbow flags.  There were Muslim women in full dress.  There were immigrants, with and without papers.  Everyone showed up.  And the mood was not at all what I expected.

My reluctance to participate initially was largely due to my abhorrence of what large crowds have been known to descend into.  Violence terrifies me whether it's directed at me or not.  I thought the crowd might be looking for Trump's blood.  I thought there would be angry, shouting people shaking fists and turning red in the face.  Well, Trump was certainly unpopular with the crowd, but most of them weren't wishing him any physical harm.  What they made loud and clear was that they would not let him take away rights, or mistreat minorities, or take away healthcare coverage, or turn this country into a sea of hate without a fight.

But it was women.  We do things differently. People were offering total strangers snacks.  We were singing and laughing and talking to total strangers as though we had arrived together by plan.  My favorite sign was "Kind is the new sexy."  Do not mistake me.  We were all dead serious and joyful in a strange way.  We looked around and saw that we have power.  Everyone was astounded by the turnout, by the tone, and by the dedication to keeping America civilized.
There was not one arrest.  The Police Commissioner issued a press release thanking the crowd for their behavior.  

The marches in other cities, including the one my son was attending in Washington,
D.C., were no surprise.  When I later saw the accounts of supportive gatherings all around the world, however, I was moved to tears.   And for the first time in a very long time I felt hope.  And power.  And the world will be very surprised at what the power of women united can do.

50 years ago today my childhood ended at 6:30 in the morning when the doorbell rang.  My brother, Wayne, 22 years old and eight months back from Viet Nam, had died in a car crash going back to his base in Louisiana.  Nothing has been the same since.

You'd think that after 50 years I might have mastered the art of handling this information, that it would be an old scar never thought about.  You'd be wrong.  I called a priest friend in Wales this morning to ask him to remember Wayne in his prayers today.  My voice broke and the old pain surged up like a giant Jersey Shore wave that knocked me over and left me sputtering.  

Wayne would be 72, which I cannot picture at all.  Would he be gray?  Bald?  Would he be married and have kids?  What would life be like to still have a big brother as I approach 65?  It's the missing tooth that you forever seek with your tongue.  You poke and prod and constantly seek out that space, and although it has become part of who you are, it's never totally accepted, never comfortable.

There have been a great many deaths of people I've loved, and still love, since then.  Family and friends (who have been more "Family By Choice" or "FBC" as I call them).  I've gone through the stages of shock and the physical heaviness that grief brings, wearing it like a coat of lead.  I've gone through the guilt of having happy days without them.  I've learned that learning how to have happy days is exactly what we're supposed to do.  Still every now and then a song, a smell, a date on the calendar, will rip off the old scab and set the wound bleeding again.  And that's OK.  That means these people are still with me, still in my heart, still matter, are still loved.  

I guess I don't want to stop hurting.  I can't, won't and don't want to forget any of them and how they have been threads in the tapestry that is my life.  And if there are bare patches where these threads are missing, I guess that gives me an opportunity to glimpse what is on the other side.

Rest in peace, Wayne, but more than that, rest in joy.  Until we meet up again. 

It's been a nasty campaign, goodness knows.  And there 's no secret as to which side I've been rooting for.  What I wasn't prepared for was this latest salvo regarding sexual assault in all its various forms.  The gloves are off and I don't care who thinks what or who unfriends me or what the consequences are any more.  My button has been officially pushed.

It was forty years ago or so, but I was assaulted by someone I thought was a friend, someone much older, and in a position of power.  And now that humiliation, that pain, that shaking feeling inside, feels as though it all happened yesterday. That's why it "takes all this time to come forward" for these women.  It's not that we are making it up or that we want to give Hillary's campaign a boost.  It's because we push it down deep, hoping these awful feelings will never surface again.  That somehow we've gotten past it.  But we didn't.  And we don't.  And we won't.

The complete disdain Donald Trump holds for anyone who is not a white male, not "of use to him", makes me ill.  His throwing protesters out into the cold last winter and insisting they not be given their coats, his mimicking a reporter with physical challenges, his treatment of prisoners of war, of Mexicans, of Muslims, all of these things make him completely abhorrent to me.  This latest "revelation" (because it's certainly no surprise to anyone) is just the last nail in his coffin for me.  For all the "progress" I thought we'd made since the 60's, in feminism, in race relations, in open-mindedness, I have been sadly mistaken.  It's like walking in a pretty garden and turning over a rock to discover the maggots and slugs have taken over just out of sight.

I am stunned and saddened at all the people who still think that "immigrants" are to blame for their own lack of success. Facts are irrelevant to this group.  We are all immigrants or descendants of immigrants, except for the Native Americans, and we all know how they were treated and how they continue to be treated.  It's a national disgrace. 

And it just occurred to me that that may be the real reason I cannot stomach Donald Trump.  Because he's not the only one.  He has just made it public how much hatred has been simmering on the back burner in this country for years.  He has exposed the pettiness and greed, the lust and ignorance of a whole chunk of people.  We are luckier in this country than almost anywhere else on earth.  We have more than we need for the most part.  He fans all the fears that we won't have enough, that we won't "get ours" if anyone else is treated with compassion.  And a great many people whom I love and respect have bought into his fear of others, to my complete surprise and confusion.  I'm OK with different opinions.  I have voted Republican in the past and would again, presented with the right candidate. I don't need my friends to reflect my every thought.  I have mirrors at home for that.  But I will not vote for hate.  And I hope you won't either.

I have this theory that God lets your eyesight wane as you get older so you don't get depressed.  Every now and then, however, something will happen that reminds me that the bloom is off the rose.  Today's revelation was courtesy of the fluorescent lighting in the ladies' room at work.  There I was, washing my hands in the sink like the good girl that I am, and I realized that I suddenly had the chest of my first grade teacher.  With my shoulders back, my skin is smooth and pretty much wrinkle free, but if I'm wearing a V-neck, when I rub my hands together this puckered bottom of a riverbed in August appears, and honest to Betsy, it looks as though there is a staple in the middle of it holding it to my breast bone. What IS that?

The photographs don't help much, either.  I'm usually OK with the mirror (although I'll be doing the Katharine Hepburn scarves and turtlenecks as soon as the weather permits), but the photographs are a quick trip down the Humility Highway.  How is it that everyone else photographs normally, but the camera always distorts the half of the frame where I'm standing?  I've heard that the camera adds pounds, but what snarky twist of malice makes it only add them to me? 

One of these days (coming soon) I will be so disgusted at the pictures that I will get around to exercising and maybe succeed in changing the situation.  But when I stop to think about it I know that if my friends gain five or fifty I don't care.  I usually don't even notice.  I only see them.  I am glad to see them.  I accept them as they are, and who they are is so much more important to me than what they weigh.  It's so difficult to cut ourselves the same slack.  

Today I will thank my chubby little legs for carrying me back and forth to the subway in this brain- numbing heat.  My bones, even with their ever-fashionable osteoporosis, still manage to support me and move me to where I need to be.  I need glasses, but I can still see the smiles on the faces of the people that I love.  And my hands, which have not been "ring free" since my last kid was born, can reach out to pat a shoulder, or to type, or work in the garden (but hardly ever to dust).   So today is "Wonderful Me" day.  It should be "Wonderful You" day, too.  And tomorrow we'll go back to counting points on Weight Watchers.

It has been a very, very long time since I've sat down to write.  There has been so much going on.  Graduations and deaths and the accumulation of twenty pounds or so as the world becomes only palatable with the taste of chocolate or Chinese food have come between me and my  willingness to face the daily news.  One has to sit quietly and just let it all sink in sometimes.

There is so much hatred around every corner these days.  Is there another Civil War brewing in the USA?  Please don't laugh.  It could happen.  I've never seen so many people so angry about so much.  Everyone has a loud and unshakable opinion on the upcoming elections.  The language is bitter and not very becoming.  I don't like it.  We are all citizens of the Big Blue Marble.  There is no room for isolationism any more.  We must all learn to take care of one another.  To care about one another.  Different doesn't mean wrong, or threatening either.   Unfortunately, no one can hear anyone else's voice above the shouting, and memories seem depressingly short.  What happened to "Never again!"?

The internet has made experts and bullies out of the insecure and ill-informed.  Fact checking seems to be a quaint notion.  The bravery born of anonymity is a dangerous illusion.  Mob mentality is ruling on both sides.  

I can't find it in me to be funny right now.  I am tired and worried and more than a little sad.  Tomorrow I will try harder to rise above the confusion and the anger and the noise.  But right now I am going to sit here quietly and watch the clouds gather. And pray.

It's hard.  Winter isn't quite finished with us yet (e.g. the flakes outside the window looking as though someone is shaking out a pillow on a windy day), and yet the crocuses are up on my front lawn, confused and feeling betrayed.  Who could blame them?  And I'm getting sick of knits and fleece and corduroy and longing for crisp cottons and pastel prints and sandals, but that won't be happening anytime soon.

Today I am dressed in blue.  Blue jeans, light blue turtleneck, royal blue sweater, and a silk scarf of Van Gogh's "Starry, Starry Night" given to me by Son Number One at Christmas.  Today is Colon Cancer Awareness Day and those of us in the know are wearing blue.

Billy Hartford was a rascal.  He had a sharp mind and a sharper tongue if you got on his list.  But we loved him and it was mutual.  Himself really enjoyed Billy's friendship, which always rather amazed me, because they could not have been less alike unless they'd come from two different planets.  My tall, soft-spoken and quiet (but not shy) husband rarely uses a cuss word.  Billy dropped F bombs like the sky is dropping snowflakes.  But his heart was pure gold and God, did he make us laugh!  He was a generous and caring friend, as loyal as a pit bull and twice as scary if anyone gave his pals a hard time.  Then he found out he had Stage 4 Colon Cancer.  There was no warning.  He thought it was a stomach bug.  His daughter was a month old.  

There was nothing fair about it.  He fought like the devil.  He had surgeries and chemo and radiation and you name it.  He had a ton of friends who prayed their knees off.  He had an amazing wife who was and is the Rock of Gibraltar and who stuck by his side every minute, trying to balance the first year of motherhood with watching her best friend and hero fade in front of her eyes.  It was a battle nobody could have won.  We lost him on September 5 of last year, three and a half month's before his daughter's second birthday.  He was 49.

That's too young to get a colonoscopy for most people.  Who would have even given it a thought?  Well, today we're asking you to give it a thought.  If it's one of those things you've always put off because the idea is disgusting and embarrassing, too bad about you.  Do it anyway.  Do it for yourself.  Or your spouse.  Or your kids.  Or your friends who would never be quite the same without you.  Because sometimes it comes without a warning.  It comes out of the blue.  

It's been a long time since I've been moved to sit down and write.  The terror of Paris in November was just too much for me to handle.  Then came December, with the horror of San Bernardino.  Christmas came and went and the New Year, too. Until this week it hasn't been much of a winter.  The weather was too warm to inspire Christmas caroling, even after the second glass of wine on Christmas Eve.  The election process drones on forever, and I continue to be astounded at how Donald Trump tops the Republican ticket with his tirades of xenophobia, misogyny, and ignorance.  All in all, it's been a pretty sad few months.

Such huge issues, such displays of violence and malice in the world, seemed to ask for quiet meditation rather than a barrage of words.  I have learned the names of two more street people whom I pass every day on my way to work.  One, a young man who might be in his late twenties, or maybe not, is blind, his face a sad mass of scarred tissues.  I'd been avoiding him for a long time, looking the other way, and feeling more than a little guilty every time I went by cringing, without giving him something.  He was not, obviously, faking his injuries.  And he might be Christ in disguise for all I knew.  So I stopped because his illegible sign, scrawled on a piece of a broken cardboard box, was upside down.  I told him, and then offered to re-write it for him.  He pulled a big black marker from his pocket as I fumbled for a pen in my purse.  I screwed up my courage and asked his name.  "Andre", he said, so softly I had to ask him to repeat it twice.  And then, to my own surprise, I gathered the nerve to ask him how he had lost his sight.  "Gunshot," he whispered.

And my need for stillness and quiet to figure out what all this means in the world, continued.  How does this happen?  The bombastic political campaigns juxtaposed to the pained whisper, the hatred of strangers and the silly fear of Muslims in the face of families fleeing for their lives and their futures is puzzling to me.  I don't get it.  When did we get this scared?  When did we get this nasty?  Any celebrity or politician who raises his or her head above the crowd for an instant, becomes a target of ridicule and violent threats.  I seriously wonder why anyone wants to be famous these days.  

Global warming is a concern.  I've never seen weather patterns like this.  Since I'm on the "back nine of this golf course and heading for the clubhouse" it's not myself I worry about, but I do wonder what kind of a world my kids and their kids will face.

And now it's Lent.  I got up early to catch a Mass on the way to work yesterday and got my ashes on my forehead, an outward symbol that the exterior world is not all that it is about.  There's another dimension which requires and deserves our attention.  And as usual, when my heart is weary with the world, I place my sorrows and my worries in the lap of the Lord and just hope He doesn't stand up.

I'm pretty gullible.  While visiting a friend in Europe several years ago I was amazed to have Ben and Jerry's ice cream for dessert at our host's home.  He told me he had a friend in the embassy and had asked said friend to bring it (packed in dry ice) in the Diplomatic Pouch.  I gushed over his thoughtfulness.  My husband stood quietly by.  So when I saw the rows and rows of Ben and Jerry's on display in Tesco's when we went grocery shopping I felt like seven kinds of an idiot.

When I read on the internet that people, while sleeping, swallow an average of 10 spiders in the course of a lifetime I was horrified.  I didn't want to close my eyes ever again.  And then Himself said, "Think about this.  How did they do the research to come up with this?  Did scientists  stand in the corner of darkened bedrooms while people slept? And if they did, how did they see the spiders if it was dark?"  I felt better.  But I still felt like an idiot. 

I don't lie.  What you see is what you get.  In the early days of parenthood there were a few arguments.  I really had a problem with Santa, the Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and that crowd.  I was afraid my kids wouldn't trust me when they found out.  Himself thought my trolley had slipped its tracks.  So when people lie to me I am generally caught off guard.  Needless to say, I am having a very difficult time with the current Presidential candidates.  Who ARE these people???

There are a couple for whom I think I could vote.  There are some who really should be sedated until this whole thing is over.  And then there are the rabid fans of the super wack-doodles who just out and out scare me.  I have friends whose intelligence I've always respected who are saying very strange things.  Maybe they're kidding. I hope they're kidding.  But hey, what do I know?  I thought ice cream came in the Diplomatic Pouch.

I love living in a country where anyone can run for President.  Well, if he or she can afford it.  And is over 35.  And was born here.  We don't go to war over who will lead us.  That's a very big deal and an improvement over many countries in the world.  I've lived through some pretty stinky presidencies and here we are.  We've survived.  Whoever gets in (and I WILL vote for someone) we will all survive.  Still, I sometimes sing "Oh, Canada" just to watch the veins stand out in the necks of my more conservative friends.  I said I don't lie.  I never said I didn't have a mean streak.

Not every day, but often, as I walk across the Fort Port Channel Bridge on my way to work I see Valerie.  She is a street person.  I'm not sure where she spends her nights, but she starts her mornings looking at the water.  When she spots me her arms are flung wide and, as she continues to recline on the bench, she reaches for a hug.  Sometimes I slip her the price of a cup of coffee, but I think it's the hug that she really looks forward to.  Street people don't get hugged much, it occurs to me.

I've never asked her story.  It's none of my business.  Some days she looks rougher than other days.  She may drink or drug.  I don't know.  I'm not in the lecturing business and it wouldn't change anything if I were.  I had a spare rain poncho left over from my son's graduation which seemed like a good idea.  Mostly she can't take much because where would she keep it?

I asked her name because I saw her pretty often.  I've also asked the name of the guy in South Station wearing the Burger King purple velvet robe who hands out the Metro newspaper.  He's Dorrell.  It's a thing I believe.  If you see someone every day, you should learn his or her name.  We all need to be known.  And sometimes hugged.  But Valerie shares my first name, which caught me by surprise.  It's not a very common name, although it's certainly not rare.  Knowing we shared a name made me think about her in a slightly different way.  Maybe it was the "there but for the grace of God go I" thing.  Maybe I wonder how anyone can live with so few material possessions. Sometimes I just look at the water and try to see what she sees.

And here we are, riding on the same Blue Marble, day chasing day, seasons meaning a lot more to her than to me.  She knows where to find air conditioning or heat, of course.  But she has to think about it in a totally different way from the way I do.  For her it's life and death.  The shortened hours of sunlight mean danger, along with cold.

Meanwhile I mumble about the Red Line and dread shoveling snow in front of my own home, and digging out our two cars.  Every once in a while it's good to send a thought and a prayer to the other Valerie.  It keeps my feet a little more grounded to have to stop and appreciate how very much I have.

It was a nice trip in its own way, but so emotional.  The car was crammed to the roof all the way down to Washington.  Once we unloaded at his new apartment the car felt huge and empty, rather like the house feels now.  The place itself is very tidy and charming, and his roommates seem personable and welcoming.  The neighborhoods between his home and his work are a little....let's call them "quaint"...but he'll learn how to maneuver, and which streets are safe to travel and which aren't.

It feels so strange to talk about "his home" when it is so very far away from here.  This will always be his home to me, I suppose, at least until he meets someone and starts a "home" of his own.  But school is behind Son Number One for the moment, and the Real World Job starts on Monday.  He will blow them away with his intelligence and his charm and his affability.  Washington will be a great place for him to strut his stuff.  I think he's a little nervous about the whole venture, but I predict that within a week he'll feel as though he's been there all his life.

I am so grateful to live in the age of cell phones and text messages and Face Book.  It makes him feel nearer, and for a while I'm going to need that illusion.  It's a new phase for all of us, and I need to figure out how my end of things works.  I'm free to audition for more plays or take a class or (hah!) start an exercise program.  It's a little scary for me, too.  But we are both going to rock this.  And I'm counting the days until Thanksgiving!  But until then, go get 'em, Chief.  It's a whole new day and the world needs what you have to give!

The songbirds have already started heading south, and so, next week, will Son Number One as he begins his new career in Washington, D.C.  He's got a lovely job as a Paralegal with the Department of Justice, and we've bought him enough suits to keep him stylish down there.  But as with the exodus of my feathered friends, I have some mixed feelings going on here.  Granted, I was sure that with a degree in Political Science he was doomed to at least a year of "Would you like fries with that?", but he surprised me and is off to continue his charmed life elsewhere.  I know it's not far away, but it's light years from reading him and his brother a story every night (or the complete collections of "Harry Potter" or "Chronicles of Narnia"), and singing a lullaby in the dark.

He's a little ambiguous, too.  As annoying as we are as parents, there appears to be some affection left and he's actually going to miss us, I think.  We'll drive him down and get him set up in his new apartment before flying off to see his brother in Ohio where we will celebrate Son Number Two's 21st birthday, to my complete amazement.  And then we will fly home to a collection of empty nests, including our own.

In this day of Face Book and  Skype and cell phones it's not all that hard to keep in touch.  And as we've established, I'm quite capable of taking out the garbage and cutting the grass myself.  But I certainly will miss the muscular hugs from this grown man who traveled under my heart for 40 weeks and will dwell in it forever.  Look out, world!  Here he comes!  And he's going to be SPECTACULAR!!!

Another old friend has died.  This one not so close.  Oh we used to be close years ago when I would listen to every complaint and sympathize and "tsk, tsk" but at some point I pretty much said, "Get over it and suck it up!" and she gave me the ultimate insult by moving with no forwarding address.  But we'd bumped into each other over the last dozen years or so through a mutual friend and we rediscovered that we actually still liked each other and we were going to get together for tea or cocktails or dinner, but we didn't get around to it.  And then last week she died.  And now I can't.  And I'm so frustrated.

 I'm tried of saying goodbye.  I'm tired of reaching for the telephone only to discover that the person at the other end is REALLY out of my area code.  And every time someone slips over I remember all the others, and I remember that I'm not getting any younger either, and that being younger is no guarantee of anything anyway.  And damn it, this is my vacation week.

I know I should be cutting the hedges or cleaning my room or vacuuming the parlor, but it's really hard to get motivated when I have all these wakes to go to.  Bastille Day is tomorrow.  Yeah, I'm not excited about that either.  One kid is in Ohio for the summer and the other ready to move to  Washington, D.C.  I want to dig my heels into the ground and claw at the grass to slow down the rotation of the earth.  But that is not how that works, is it? 

One of my birds is serenading me as I sit on the front porch tapping away.  I love them.  I do.  But some days even they can't cheer me up.  And today is so one of those days.

June has been a whirlwind of a month.  Son Number One came home with all his piles and boxes (which landed in the living room and everywhere else)  and is preparing to actually MOVE to Washington, D.C.   Son Number Two left for his summer job in Cleveland and his new apartment before Senior year of college.  There was a delicious overlap of people here for a brief week, when every bed was filled and we had some family outings.  We went to see a friend playing the Duke of Somerset in "Henry VI: Part II", we went kayaking on the Charles River, we went to several college graduation parties and a few high school graduation parties.  Then once Son Number Two left there were more parties, and anniversaries, and friends passing through town.  I had odds and ends on my own, my niece's bridal shower, theater things, and an enchanting lady (with whom I went to college, but whom I really didn't get to know until the Xth reunion last year) who was  visiting from her home in Australia.   There was Father's Day/First Day of Summer when we were supposed to get up at 4:00AM to greet the Solstice Dawn at Nut Island, but thankfully, it rained and we slept in (except for 84 year-old Papa, who went by himself, assuming we were not the big wusses that we really are).

I'm having a little trouble realizing that July first is this Wednesday.  Here in Massachusetts we are still mentally digging out from that ridiculous winter.  I know, I know, but you had to BE here!!!  The speed of the passage of time is giving me whiplash.  How can I be legally sharing a summer beer with my kid?  How can it be less than six months before Christmas?  There have been other landmark events this month, of course.  There were murders in a church and the lowering of the confederate flag in South Carolina as the nation "face-palmed" itself and finally said a collective "How did we let this go on so long?"  There was a Supreme Court decision that all citizens of the United States are ...well, citizens of the United States, and that love is not a terrorist threat from which we need to be protected.    So all in all, it's been a busy, busy month, which is why I have been remiss in keeping you posted.  And it's been a mostly wonderful month filled with lots to do.  But I, for one, would like to invite you all to join me in digging your heels into the ground at the same time for just a minute.  Maybe we can slow the Blue Marble down a little so we can catch our breath.

It is finally happening.  This weekend Son Number One will graduate from college.  It's been a whirlwind four years.  He discovered a love for rugby (God help us all), had a romance or maybe two, and started to seriously figure out what he wants to do with his life and where he wants to be.  I'm so proud of him. He's a fine young man and impressive in a million ways.  He's so impressive that he's already found a job in Washington, D.C. with the Department of Justice and he'll be moving there sometime in July.  The problem is that in my head he's still cutting out pictures with blunt edge scissors for the third grade poster of "Who I Am" in Miss Abravanel's class and I'm not sure I'm ready for this.

Washington isn't that far from Boston, and I know he can visit or we can.  But it's not the same.  And I guess that's the way it's supposed to be.  There are so many feelings rising to the top of my consciousness that I feel as though I am bobbing in a swimming pool filled with champagne.  Too many things are rushing at me at once and I can't interpret them.  I'm happy for him.  He's earned this and he's going to make a difference in the world.  I'm proud of him.  I'll miss him.  I don't know how to be the mother of a grown man. I  have no experience here.  My own college life feels like last Tuesday, but it ended 41 years ago.  There is wonder at the passage of time, both his and mine.  There is awareness of mortality (mostly mine) and that's kind of strange.  But under it all is a hum of peacefulness.  This is what's supposed to happen.  This is good.  This is a chance for the world to renew itself and move on.  

Maybe he'll be a brilliant politician who will broker world peace, while his younger brother (who goes through this next year), with his sharp scientific mind will find a way to keep the poor Blue Marble from exploding, or imploding, or whatever we're hurling towards.  I'm stunned at how much they both know.  I've stopped trying to compete or to impress them.  It's time for them to grow greater and for me to grow...not lesser, but different.  I move up a notch into the "Wisdom Figure" category, supporting him and his brother with a mountain and a half of love and having the sense to step aside and watch them soar.  But for now, can you please pass me a tissue?

I've been doing a lot of theater recently.  After starring in "On Golden Pond" in the fall, I found myself reinfected by the drama bug.  I took a course in the dead of winter.  I've been working as "Associate Producer" on a musical which opens this Friday night at our local community theater.  That has involved (among other things) gathering props, helping to build and paint sets, and just finding out what life is like on the other side of the curtain.  The actors get all the glory, but the crew makes it all possible. I've also helped out at a couple of productions with which I had no connection except to put on my tuxedo tee-shirt and serve wine and beer as I squeezed my winter-widened posterior between packed tables surrounded by folding metal chairs.  Remind me not to waitress in the real world.  It's not one of my talents.Which brings me to my theatrical lesson in reality.  

Until Friday night I thought I could sing.  I do the occasional funeral and wedding, and sing solo regularly at church, and the nice people always come up to me and tell me how wonderful I am and I try to look humble, while secretly agreeing with them.  I even get to sing the National Anthem in public once in a while, and let me tell you, THAT song is not for sissies.  People even pay me to sing.  And then I went to see a friend in a musical production of "Kiss Me, Kate".   The production was nicely staged, and the cast was "capable" and then out came my friend in the starring role, sounding like an angel and hitting notes that were never written for humans.  She was amazing.  And while I truly celebrate her talent and love her to little tiny bits, I had that "slapped in the face with a flounder" feeling as I realized how much better she is at this stuff than I am.

Now back in the days of my misspent youth this revelation would have been cause for me to feel cranky for days.  But I'm oddly OK with it now.  Sometime in the course of the last few decades I discovered the delightful concept of "Good Enough."  I don't have to be the best at anything (like housekeeping, or cooking, as everyone knows by now,  or even at things I love to do).  I just have to love to do them.  So I'll continue to sing here and there, and act in the occasional play (and hate the publicity photographs which magically make everyone else look exactly as they do in real life but always add 30 pounds to my image) and I'll enjoy the process.  This growing up stuff is taking longer than I thought it would, but it's oddly comforting.  Who knows what I'll learn next?

My friend Jim would have been 75 today if he hadn't left us almost three years ago.  We seldom saw each other, he being in New Jersey and I being in Boston, but we spoke on the phone several times every week and I would be lying if I said it hurts any less that I can't hear that clipped New Jersey accent barking, "Hey!  It's me!" over the line.  For the first time in my #@ years I actually baked his recipe for Irish soda bread on Saint Patrick's Day.  It didn't come out anywhere near as good as his always did, of course, but it was a small way of paying tribute to a dear friend who is still sorely, sorely missed.
A couple of my friends have lost their husbands, which, I will readily admit, is a much harder deal.  To adjust to the absence of such a daily presence must be horrific, and I pray I never experience it.  One can only pretend for so long that he's out for the day or in the other room, although in fact, I do believe all our loved ones who have gone on ahead actually ARE in the other room.  But it's one to which we don't have access yet, which makes it a bear to bear.

We get used to the silences, the phones that don't ring, the call we can't make, but the echoes reverberate somewhere inside and it feels like an endless cavern within.  I read the other day that living with grief is like having a giant hole on your property.  You forget it's there the first few times and you fall in and it hurts.  Then eventually you learn to walk around it.  But it's always there.

The worst part of getting older for me is not the widening waist or the graying hair.  It's the number of "holes" I have to walk around.  "This is a day in our lives and it will not come again," said Jim (A.K.A. "Seamas") over and over again.  I miss your wisdom and your laughter, your love of Ireland, your gentle critiques of my writing, your totally dependable friendship, and the joy you brought to my life and the lives of so many others.  Today I fell in the hole. 

Doors are magical.  Every day we open our front door onto another surprise.  Sometimes it's snowstorms that change our perceptions of the world we live in, sometimes hedges defiantly peeping through piles of ice and dirt, and one of these days (please, God) a crocus or tulip.  We open the door to strangers selling things, to friends visiting, to our sons coming home for visits. When I was sick recently I opened my door and found a bag of chicken soup and treats and tea from a loving friend.  Even the mail is an adventure if you look at it the right way.

Sometimes I'm not going out.  I'm coming in.  Reactions can be "Ugh, I have GOT to clean this place before they film a Febreze commercial in here!" or "Ahhhh.  Home."  If someone is there to greet me the energy is different.  If it's my husband we putter and do our separate things in companionable silence sometimes, or chatter about our days.  Eventually we'll sit on the reclining couch to watch something (anything) on the TV and one or both of us will nod off to sleep half way through.  If the boys are home they are coming or going with friends or without, but sometimes they actually stay put for a bit and talk to us and play a board game or share a meal.  I memorize those moments, realizing that they, like the snow, are disappearing quickly.  When I open the door and there is no answer to my call, the emptiness is always a disappointment.  This is one of the reasons my house is not tidy.  I hate being there alone for any length of time.  Well, that and the fact that I don't like housework.

Then there's the Big Door at the end of our lives, the one through which we walk alone.  Who knows what surprises lie beyond that door?  I find that door is ajar sometimes.  There are times when my heart drifts through to get a look at what's coming up.  It stopped scaring me a long time ago, maybe because I have so many people I've loved who have joined my "Advance Team" and gone through first.  Other times I swear I feel the presence of those wonderful friends and family members who "visit" at the most unpredictable times.  I'll hear a song that I just KNOW is a message.  A car will miss hitting me by two coats of paint and I know I'm being watched over.  The connection is still there.  The love doesn't disappear just because it can't be expressed in a hug at the moment.  Any more than the world disappears when I close my front door.

Please understand that this ridiculous winter is not gone, but for the fourth day in a row we haven't had to shovel before going out of the house, and there is actually naked pavement visible in the center of many streets.  For the next six days the daytime temperatures will be above 32 degrees Fahrenheit, and there is no snow in the forecast.  The mountain of snow on the corner is down from ten feet to eight (I do not exaggerate) which is still pretty substantial, but if I look out the window I can see the front door of the house diagonally across the street.  I haven't had that view in a month.

The subway is running on a (relatively) normal and (fairly) reliable schedule again, which is one of those things you can only appreciate if you've gone through what we went through.  We are excited about getting to work in under two hours these days.  It's the same idea as not appreciating what it feels like to NOT have a toothache until you get one.  We'll be taking all this for granted soon, I know, but meanwhile hope is beginning to stir.

For a while we consoled ourselves when we would get the piddling one to two inch dustings (yes, Washington, D.C.  That's DUSTINGS!) by saying that at least it covered up the "dirty parts of the snow" and continued the illusion that a wicked wizard had imprisoned us in a perfect Christmas card.  But now we are seeing "snert," which is very exciting.  "Snert", for those of you who are not familiar with the term (and why should you be?  A friend of mine made it up.) is a combination of "snow" and "dirt".  It's ugly, but it's a stage, like adolescence, one has to go through to get to the good stuff.  When the melting is complete the streets will be filled with grit and sand and detritus from God Knows Where, which has been hidden in these silly mountains for months.  We will be tracking this stuff in on our shoes until Memorial Day.  But eventually, once we can park on the street again, we will do that wonderful and frantic scramble to move our cars when we hear the rumble of the STREET SWEEPERS coming down the block.  And if you think the first robin of spring sounds heavenly, you should hear THAT!

I love movies.  I've been doing theater since I was seven years old.  I admire creativity and talent.  Why, oh why, don't I care two figs about the Oscars?  Part of it is that I feel bullied.  Everyone expects you to watch, to have seen all or most of the movies, to have an opinion on who deserves what.   I've seen some of them and they were very good.  I've seen others that I didn't care for.  There are a couple under consideration that I wouldn't see at gunpoint.  I don't like the violence, the big explosions, the exploitation of women, the blood, the special effects as planets are destroyed.  Yeah.  OK.  I'm glad you like them, but I like to spend my money being entertained, and by entertained I mean "made to feel better than I did before I parted with my $12."  Give me musicals ("Into the Woods"?) or romance.  Give me comedies that make my sides ache.  I'm not a prude about sex at all, and I can cuss with the best and worst of the longshoremen, but show some intelligence, will ya?  Give me witty writing and a chortle or two in a darkened theater where no one around me is surreptitiously texting on his cell phone and I am a happy camper.

As for the self congratulatory excesses of the Academy Awards program itself, I've had enough of that as I have of snow this winter.  Beauty pageants, Golden Globes, People's Choice, Oscars, Grammies, they are all much of a muchness to me.  The only thing I find interesting are the dresses which I can easily view online the next day in about 30 minutes instead of staying up way past my bedtime and feeling lousy all the next day. The glamorous event seems to bring out a decidedly nasty side of the critics which I do not enjoy at all.  So I shall be watching "counter programming" tonight.  It fascinates me what the other networks find in their deep dark vaults that they choose to "throw away" against blockbuster programming.  Or maybe I'll watch a "Love it or Lease" it on Netflix and be inspired to redecorate my house.  Most likely, I'll fall asleep on my end of the reclining sofa while Himself sleeps on his, and around 11 o'clock we will nod at each other and drag our weary selves upstairs to get ready for another week.  And by the time I get to work I'll know who wore what and who won what and if I meet you at the water cooler I'll be so informed that you won't know I'm faking it.  The only thing that might give me away (outside of this blog) is that I won't be bleary-eyed with fatigue.  But hey, have a great evening! :)

I know, I know.  Everyone is tired of hearing about the snow.  But really, that's pretty much our life these days.  Each morning I look out the window and hope that it was a bad dream, but it's still all there.  It's all white.  It hasn't even had a chance to get to that "dirty snow" thing, because it never stops snowing.  There is always a new layer falling to cover up the exhaust fumes and slush piles.  Oh wait.  Slush would imply something had melted.  We haven't gotten that far yet since the temperature has hovered so far below zero that my brother-in-law in Alaska is feeling sorry for us.

Only one car is accessible in our single driveway, the other being tucked in the garage under.  I don't like having a car inside my house.  It's wrong on so many levels.  And it is sitting on a "donut" wheel anyway, so before we can make it go very far there is work involved and no one has the energy to do anything.  Commuting has become a tedious nightmare.  They say they have been working on the subway connections and that we should have full service tomorrow.  Maybe.  If it doesn't snow any more.  Which it always does.  One day last week I spent five hours on a round trip to a job where I work for eight hours.  And not a big job.  I'm no brain surgeon.  The pay is piddly, although the atmosphere is pleasant.  But come on, people!

I had tickets for community theater last night, but I was so spent I couldn't go.  It was snowing (again) and I'm getting over the flu, and I just could not move.  I was in my nightgown and robe by six o'clock.  On a Saturday night.  My grandparents used to go to bed at 7:30 and I would pity them and also laugh.  I'm not laughing any more. This is getting depressing.

If I weren't such a wuss about driving on ice and snow I'd go to the art museum. I find I am starving for color, for the sight of trees, for beauty of any kind that isn't white.  What I don't want to do is spent two hours at my open bedroom window, wielding a shovel which has been married to a broom handle through the magic of duct tape, trying to push snow off the roof of the porch below so that it doesn't collapse under the weight of the snow.  The curtains blow in my face.  The snow blows in my face.  And it looks as though I've done absolutely nothing when I've finished.

I'm getting so desperate that Himself invited me to join him at the gym and I'm going.  Just to move in a non-shoveling pattern.  Or drink coffee with strangers.  Or swim in the pool and pretend I'm in Bermuda.  Monday is coming up fast and I need to brace myself for the Herculean task of getting to work.  If you remember, for one of his labors he needed a shovel, too.

This is the view from my window today as I wait out the second blizzard in as many weeks.  Massachusetts is now closed on Mondays as a rule.  Our storms seem timed to the weekends, although I couldn't tell you why.  It's like living on the surface of a foreign planet.  I'm waiting for the TARDIS to land.  (That's a "Doctor Who" reference for those of you who don't follow that excellent Welsh program from the BBC.  I've told you about this before.  You really should check it out.)

We have not lost power, we have lots of food in the house, the heat is on, and Himself is excellent company (except when his nose is in the computer, but that's OK.  We're out of things to discuss anyway.)  There has never been a winter like this here.  The public transportation system is an antiquated and embarrassing relic.  It took me three hours to get to work on Thursday, a trip that usually can be done in 35 minutes.  It's a new nightmare every day.  God have mercy on the homeless or those who are low on food or heat. Even getting to a shelter is pretty much impossible at this point.

Depression is becoming a consideration.  All I want to do is nap or eat, and I am feeling very trapped.  Not that I have anywhere I want to go, but knowing that I don't have any options is  making me claustrophobic.  I assume my office will be closed again tomorrow.  i can't imagine the roads being passable by then.  The winds this afternoon are expected to gust up to 55 miles per hour.  While some of my neighbors are already out there with their snow blowers, I can't say that I think that makes much sense with the kind of drifting that comes with winds like that.

Somewhere under there are crocuses.  They're probably less than a month away, although that's a little tough to believe at the moment.  People live in Canada.  By choice.  My brother-in-law lives in Alaska on purpose.  Me?  I have deep respect for and new understanding of the bears.  Pig out every fall and sleep until the weather learns to behave itself. Sounds better and better to me.

I have a long-standing tradition of never complaining in the winter, no matter how snowy or cold.  You may well think this is stoic or hardy or patient of me.  The truth is I like to reserve my whining rights for the summer when I really find the weather intolerable.  Anything over 75 or so and you'll find me huddled near an air conditioner, whimpering.  I am about to break the tradition.

Last week I was stuck in the house with the flu.  OK.  I'm feeling better now, thanks, and did get to leave the house twice over the weekend (three times if you count church, which I suppose I should).  But once again Monday has arrived and my street has disappeared.  The view outside my window looks like an alien world.  I've watched "Doctor Who."  I know what those look like, so let me assure you I have some credibility here.  My six foot tall stockade fence is invisible.  We won't talk about what I vaguely remember as hedges in the front of my house.   There is a tiny pathway leading to the street and we only use that lately to get out the door, round the corner, and shovel out the driveway, which is another matter altogether.  I'm only the tiniest bit over five feet tall, so it has become more or less impossible for me to shovel, but my six foot tall husband has it no easier.  There is nowhere to put the new snow anyway. 

In less than two weeks we have had approximately six feet of snow.  And it isn't even Valentine's Day yet.  Spring in New England doesn't begin to think about arriving until somewhere around St. Patrick's Day, regardless of what the Pennsylvanian Rodent says.  On March first the Ice Creamsmith opens in Dorchester and I try to convince Himself that spring arrives on that day, but I actually do know better.  Wishing does not make it so.  I miss going into work and seeing people.  We are not running out of food (thank you, Lord) but the selections are getting a bit....oh, let's call them "creative".  I am so desperate for something completely different to do that I am planning on spending this "found day" cleaning.  How sad is that?

We New English (why don't they call us that, anyway?) are sturdy stock.  We will get through this, and in a month or so my hedges should re-emerge from the mini Alps which are currently my front lawn.  But just for the record, I have seriously had enough of the (insert your favorite expletive here) snow.

Let the record show that I never made any claim to be a good patient.  Or a patient patient, either.    This flu thing has gone on long enough.  I must be feeling better, because on this (Day Six) I am bored and cranky.  I'm too wobbly-kneed yet to go back to work, but I'm too well to spend one more day dressed in my fleece nightie.  I've had it.

I've learned a lot while I've been out of action.  I've learned how many wonderful and caring friends I have.  One even showed up with home-made chicken soup and bread, tea and cookies.  People have reached out via Face Book (I couldn't talk on the phone until yesterday without coughing up a lung on every third word).  My husband has been a sweetheart and extremely patient, especially as my mood has deteriorated into that of some wounded ferocious animal, or maybe one of those zombie teenagers I see staggering across the television screen, ripping limbs off anyone passing, and chewing on body parts for fun.  I've been much too tired to get up and find the remote to change the channel.  Day time TV has been another education.  It was nice to discover that I haven't been missing anything since the days when I had three monitors going at once in my office and could follow more than one soap at a time.  I've learned how wonderful and supportive my current boss is, and how motherly.  Which brings me to something else I've learned.  I don't care how old you are, or what kind of a relationship you've had, at some point if you're sick enough, the only person you want is Mom.  Now my Mom passed away two years ago, so calling her name made no sense, but it didn't stop me. 

But I'm starting to feel better now.  The weather is keeping me indoors and with the worst two weeks of winter in the history of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, we are about to get a foot more snow.  The wind chill factor this morning was -20.  I don't care.  I'm going out to my acting class tonight.  I may even go out for a drink afterwards.  If Himself isn't home from work to drive me I'll take a cab.  I'll rent a dog-sled team.  But I am so OUTTA here!

Getting sick is like having a toothache.  You forget how wonderful it feels not to have one until it starts throbbing.  I, like most of us, take my good health for granted.  Not everyone is lucky enough to be able to do that, so it's fine with me if the Deity takes a two-by-four every so often to remind me of how lucky I am.  I was thrilled to put on real clothes today.  I plan on a shower this afternoon (a very big deal, and a decision my fellow thespians will appreciate this evening, I'm sure).  And the next time I have a friend down, maybe I'll be the one to appear with the (store-bought) chicken soup and bread.  I want to be thoughtful, but I know my limitations.

It's the end of the Christmas break again, and it doesn't get any easier.  Son Number One took off for Washington, D.C. yesterday for some job interviews.  He will graduate from college in May.  How on earth did those four years go by so fast?  Son Number Two will leave for Cleveland tomorrow and I won't see him until May.  We will talk on the telephone, we will exchange text messages, but I won't get a hug for four months.  At least not from him.

Every time they leave I realize how close we are getting to the time when they'll have homes and careers of their own.  That is, of course, assuming they can pay off their student loans, which are beginning to resemble the national debt.  Son Number Two stopped me in the hallway yesterday, kissed my hair and rested his chin on the top of my head.  There is that height difference....  I think he senses the end of an era, too.  He is the more sentimental of my sons and every now and then when he's not paying attention I get a glimpse of that.

I surprise myself that I'm not holding on tighter, that I'm able to unclasp my claws long enough to wave as they board their planes.  This is how it should be, and it feels right.  I want them to be independent and resourceful.  I want them to succeed, to find a career they love and a special someone with whom to share their lives.  I even want grandchildren, although not any time soon, thank you.  They should be setting off to conquer the world.  God knows it could use some conquering here and there.  It certainly needs help.  Maybe they'll raise the average.

Still, I'll miss the empty peanut butter cracker wrappers on the arm of the couch, the rings in the bottom of the glasses of milk, the endless beep bop a boop of the video games which continue until stupid-thirty in the morning.  But I don't want the 40 year old living in the spare bedroom.  I want them happy and fulfilled.  So off they go and I'll try to be brave (again).  As long as they remember to come back once in a while.  Because that "motherhood" thing does not have an off button, as it turns out.