A Star Scattered Sky

Last night or rather really early this morning, say about 4 AM, I looked out of the bedroom window only to see the most beautiful star lit sky.

It was an unusual night. No moon, no clouds, only that crisp black, studded with celestial glitter. I don’t mean to pose poetic, it’s not my thing, but it was an incredible sight. If I could paint I would treat you to this vision. One or two twinklers but for the most part diamonds crowning the earth.

I remember once having the good fortune of being on a medium sized sail boat in the Caribbean. I think it was a sunset cruise with about ten people on board, virtual strangers prior to boarding.

We were treated to much rum, and a glorious sunset that quickly turned into an ebony night. Before heading back to shore the captain stopped our vessel and turned off the running lights. We were graced with millions of stars lighting up the night around us. Shoreline distractions were in the distance, the brilliance of the sky undiluted. No one spoke, each absorbing the experience in their own way. How unusual to get ten people on the same wavelength even for five minutes. It was the magic of the stars.

Last nights sky reminded me of that warm Caribbean night and the feeling that everything was okay. Don’t forget to look up once in a while. The best things in life really are free.

I miss your hugs!

A few years ago a friend shared a photo of two hands embracing. The focus was on the clasped hands. You didn’t see either woman but you could tell and feel that it was an adult holding her aged mother’s hand. Love flowed from one to the other. I loved the image.

This pandemic has stolen thousands of these precious moments from us. I didn’t realize how much the loss of touches had been effecting me. Feeling the sameness of every moment, the color was disappearing from life.

There is an emptiness in ones’ soul that comes with the absence of touch with those you love. An ache for your heart to be filled with their presence. Particularly the warmth of grandchildren.

Sorry guys but I have to tell you, grandchildren are the best. They never judge you, think your idiocincracies are hysterical, love your old time stories and you have the time to listen to their new adventures. They will even defend you to their parents. The actual people you gave birth to.

Yesterday was my husband’s birthday and the daughter who lives closest to us came with hubby in tow and three of four of the kids. Every one donned masks. The kids are not babies but are 16 year old triplets. Her oldest, Emily, is away at college but joined by video chat to wish her Poppy happy birthday.

Well it was Jim’s birthday but I got the best present. After a really nice evening of cake and chitchat, laughs and silly stories, my grands asked if they could hug me goodbye. I got the best long hugs from all three. The boys are taller than me now. Medicine for the soul. I have been smiling all day and still feel their arms around me.

Now I can’t wait to see my long distant grands for more of the same. Apparently I am a glutton for their hugs.

Depression and mental illness is on the rise. We miss our loved ones and friends. Don’t forget, even if you can’t get to hug them in person give them a call. Have a virtual visit. It’s good for all.

Artists in My Life

This has been a tough year for everyone and we all seek to do things while waiting out this dreadful virus. I, just like everyone else.

Besides the shut down of my country, state, city I have been isolated for almost two years because of other health issues. What makes it bearable, beside my Jim, is the talented artists that I have been fortunate enough to number among my friends. One of these is Leslie Pilgrim.

Through the artistry of her photography I have been able to hike through the woods at five o’clock in the morning to capture a snowy owl with her lens, Lie belly down on the dunes early on a frigid day, in order to spy on the seabirds, Or peek out of her kitchen window following the many hummingbirds in flight while feasting on the sweets Leslie supplies them with.

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By Leslie Pilgrim

Her’s are not just pictures of birds, they are photos of the souls of her creatures. When you look at them human characteristics are obvious. Arrogance, charm, loneliness, a flirtatious nature, are right there in the tilt of the head, the sparkle in the eyes. Sometimes his hair is a mess and other times they preen to spotlight pose.

Leslie has the artistic touch to see what I don’t see when I look at God’s gifts. She shares it with me and brings me along for the adventures while I sit on the burgundy sectional in my cozy den.

She is modest regarding her art perhaps as all true artists are, always delving for perfection. For me it’s all just right, allowing me to communicate with nature as never before.

Thank you my friend.

The Secret of Blue Haired Doll

Here is a memory that has recently and often come to mind. It was a miracle of sorts or perhaps just a funny coincidence. It is what you choose it to be. I do know this memory surely brings a smile to my face.

I have always and still love dolls. Especially unusual ones. I’m not a collector but on occasion some dolly strikes my fancy and I just have to have it. Apparently, my grandmother had the same itch in her. Something sweet or silly. A calico cat, a dancing ceramic fop with his lady, a bear in his Yankee uniform, a baby doll with blue tresses.

I was about sixteen years old when my boyfriend, Jimmy, and I traveled to Palisades Amusement Park on the Jersey side of the Hudson River. Always the gambler I put a thin dime on a number which hit and entitled me to choose one of the many prizes displayed. In those days the prizes were something of worth.

No contest, she sat on a shelf in all her glory. A beautiful chubby cheeked doll clad in a teal party dress with matching blue hair cut in a buster brown style, bangs and all. Her hair was made out of silk threads. I was in heaven. She sparkled.

I clutched her tight all the way back to my grandmother’s apartment in East Harlem where we lived. As soon as she saw my blue haired beauty, grandma went nuts. She could not stop touching her, adjusting her dress, fixing a wayward bang. What could I do? I told my beloved grandma we would share the doll. She promptly put her to sit in the middle of her bed. I never touched her again. You didn’t touch Grandma’s bed

Time went by as it will and we all grow older. Dolly sat in attendance for years in the center of the bed, only coming off each morning when the bed was made. Grandma’s dark hair began to show signs of gray. Remarkably dolly’s silky bright blue hair began to fade to gray. They aged together. In the end all her hair was a shiny gray. Am I speaking of dolly or Grandma? It’s your guess. Was it the sun coming through the bedroom windows or had dolly made a soul connection?

I have pondered that question many times over the years. Especially in my flights of fancy.

This was the color of her hair!

www.facebook.com/seashorememories/photos/a.659858860796913/937461773036619/

Love this photo!

The Joy of Sweeping

I haven’t lost my mind as yet. Just thought I would emphasize how this most awful of pandemics has reminded me of one of the many simple joys in life.

In a world where we are always caught up in a cacophony of noise, city noise – traffic, horns blaring, sirens, chatter, and suburban blasts – lawn mowers, blowers, stump grinders, truck motors and on and on for both city and suburbs, peace is elusive.

Last week I walked bare footed through the foyer and kitchen and felt grit under my tootsies. This puts me in a frenzy. While I love walking sans shoes and socks I detest the feel of crumbs or crap under my grape stompers.

Normally, Jim or I would drag out the vacuum and give it a whirl over the offensive debris, but it was a mercifully quiet day out here in Suffolk County. I couldn’t stand the thought of yet another motor jarring my world. Then it struck me, I have a broom. Not the battery one, not the plug in model, but an actual straw broom. Not one I would ride but a broom for sweeping. And as an added bonus a dust pan to pick up all that I might collect.

And so I had at it. I went to the broom closet, dug behind the vacuums, swifters, wax mops and so on and found the broom.

It was a Zen experience. I breezed over the floor and molding with almost little effort. A soft, gentle movement of my upper body. Barely a sound was made. I had moments to day dream and hum. Seconds to smile while awash in the simplicity of it all. It was a happening.

What can I say? It was a long forgotten ritual that I will engage in for the foreseeable future. Try it you’ll like the Joy of Sweeping.

Those Christmas Tree Decorations

8This year before I began decorating the 2019 Christmas Tree I vowed it would be the last year I would undertake this monumental task. Granted I had more help than ever from my husband, Jim, but the sight of all those boxes of decorations intimidated me like never before.

Why was I bothering? For the first time in fifty something years I wasn’t cooking for Christmas Eve or Day. I didn’t expect any drop ins and didn’t have the energy to host a holiday gathering, which I truly love to do. What’s better than being surrounded by genuine, loving, friends? But being me, I robotically emptied box after box, Santas, reindeers, elves, polar bears, poinsettias and more, in and out of the house, leaving the tree for last. That alone took me three days.

Jim put together the tree. We had long ago abandoned live trees. I think it was when the pine needles got in the shag carpeting. And I set about opening the tree decorations. Irobot fled as soon as I hung the first one on a branch. It was a huge iridescent ball that Carol gifted me at a tree trimming party I had at my house a few years before she left us. It brought a tear to my eye. Then the ballerina Crissy bought me after the first time she, Kyra and I saw the Nutcracker at the Staller Center. This tiny dancer gave me a laugh. After seeing the ballet my daughters and I promptly went up to Port Jeff and had too much to drink. We needed to be rescued by our men to get home.

There is the exquisite Tinker Bell from Linda and the Yankee Ball from Joel. Snowmen and women with our names on them handmade by Boom’s girlfriend. A snow globe given to me by Kyra. Gold nativity and Angel blowing her horn heralding the arrival of the baby Jesus, from Jeri, and boats, flowers, shiny shells from St. Martin. So many more. Each one with a memory. They make me laugh, smile, cry but they are mine.

How can I get a smaller tree? Anything less wouldn’t hold my memories for me to look at. So as long as possible I will push on decorating my Christmas tree.

As Bob Hope aptly put it so long ago. Thanks For The Memories.

The Uninvited

There are times when having a guest drop in on you can be a delight. You’ve had some forewarning that they were coming. There was some time to prepare your home for company, and you looked forward to the visit with eager anticipation. The guest arrives. Together you spend some stimulating and interesting hours. Perhaps you share a meal and a glass of wine. Then, as all good guests eventually do, they leave before they’ve worn out their welcome.

Such was not the case with Irene.

No one wanted her to come. She was not invited to our home. A most rude guest, she sent an advanced team hours before her arrival to be certain we were well aware of her intended visit. Even before the advance team began pelting us with hints of what was to come, we made extensive changes to our daily lives in order to make her appearance as palatable as humanly possible.

Our best outdoor furniture was secured. Flags of our allegiance certainly were removed from the standard holders by the front door, to be stored lest Irene snatch them away. She had already established a reputation of doing things like that. In fact, we had a relation of Irene’s storm on by two years ago. She had robbed a floral seat pillow from one of our wicker chairs. This left us with only three out of four, essentially ruining the set. I still haven’t gotten over it.

In case Irene might take it literally we removed the welcome plaque, which decorated one of the porch pillars, and hid it in the garage. We checked, then checked again all around the yard assuring ourselves that Irene didn’t find anything outside that she could toss around during a gusty temper tantrum. She could be such a bitch.

We had been forewarned that she might hang around for more than a day, but that didn’t diminish my anxiety. If she must come I was hoping on a short uneventful stop by.

And so she came. With all the promised bluster and roar. We tried to wait out her visit with good humor and an assist from alcohol. She did her best to disrupt our lives, but apparently we were ready for her. After a good long time and a few declarations of a possible return Irene finally bounded away. Good riddance.

While cleaning up her mess we realized she hadn’t come empty handed. Up in the sky was a promise. An exquisite double rainbow left by our uninvited guest. Stay happy, stay heathy. Wait until you meet my brother!

A Corsage of Kindness

A few weeks ago my granddaughter, Emily, hit a milestone, thirteen.  She is a teenager.  It’s a time of life that brings the highest highs and the lowest lows.  There is very little we can do to buffer either of these points except pray.  We all had to go through them, boys and girls alike.  Fortunately for Emily, and her brothers and sister, they are blessed with a Mom and Dad who are aware of the politics of teens and preteens.  While that may help some, there are still many hills and valleys that kids must traverse to get to the other side of teen hood.  But I digress.

Emily’s birthday brought to mind myself at about that age, actually fourteen to be exact.  I came from East Harlem on Manhattan’s upper East side.  It was a poor neighborhood filled with tenements and immigrants.  Not a ghetto yet, but still what was considered a slum.  Growing up there you didn’t know what the neighborhood was classified.  People lived in their little apartments and scrubbed their linoleum floors, polished the windows clean, often at great peril, and took Saturday night baths.  Money was scarce and the was no time for frivolous clothes or time to give thought with the raising of children aside from feeding them and keeping them warm at night.

I went to Our Lady of Mount Carmel elementary school which instructed students  from first to eighth grade. The teachers were sisters of Charity, a tough bunch of women to be sure.  During eighth grade you were required to take exams and apply to at least four high schools.  You were accepted by ability not by your grades, which was a good thing for me because about that time I was caught up in the rougher side of city life, rock and roll, gangs and boys.  Needless to say my grades were awful.  I hadn’t picked up a book since the fifth grade and got by.

Surprise, surprise, when the acceptance or rejection letters filled the little brass mailbox I was accepted by all of the four schools I had applied to.  One was Immaculata located in downtown Manhattan.  For some unknown reason I decided to go there.  None of my friends would be there, but I liked the uniforms and was somewhat aware that it was prestigious as it only accepted 34 boys and 34 girls from all of the five boroughs.

I am not telling this tale to boast about my accomplishment.  It only took them two years to figure out I wasn’t going to put any effort in, but to bring to life how different the world was for kids living in Harlem, and those who came from downtown.  Also, how a complete act of selfless kindness still resonates with me over fifty years later.

In the fifties there was a custom that I knew nothing about until I attended Immaculata.  Young girls would celebrate each other’s birthdays by making or buying corsages for the honoree.  To the best of my recollection it was a corsage of ribbons, bows and bubblegum for thirteen, dog biscuits for fourteen, lifesavers for fifteen, and it culminated in, of course, sugar cubes for sweet sixteen.  No one that I knew followed this custom.  In Harlem you marked passage of teenage years with other events.

On the day of my fourteenth birthday I attended school expecting nothing.  By then I was aware of this custom having seen other girls with corsages, sometimes three and four, but I had not gotten very friendly with others who attended the school. I didn’t even think about it.  It was a complete shock when a cherry, cheeked, fair-haired, blonde, presented me with a beautiful, blue satin, beribboned, and dog biscuit corsage.  She pinned it on my blazer, kissed me on the cheek and wished me happy birthday.  It was astounding.

To this day I can picture that young girl.  I don’t remember her name.  We had never hung out and I don’t know how she knew it was my birthday.  Perhaps she did this for everyone, but that corsage of kindness was the sweetest thing.  I often think of her and always I wish that life was at least that sweet for my flaxen birthday angel.  You can be sure that when I was still welcomed at Immaculata I found out when it was her birthday and made her a life saver corsage.

My Secret Passion

I believe it would very much surprise many of the people who know me to discover what my secret passion is. They could take guesses, but most times they would be wrong.  Even those friends who know me well.

Of course, there are many sides to my personality and over the years different aspects of who I am forges forward to dominate. When these distinct and different urges rumble, I give them the lead and allow them to show themselves to the world, be it painting, writing, fashion, music or whatever want rises forth for recognition.

When something is a secret passion it is usually not known by others, or acknowledged by even ourselves. Hence the word secret.  As a matter of fact, there are times when even we ourselves don’t know that it is a true passion until something triggers the awareness.  Today that happened to me.

I was speaking with my husband, Jim, about Thanksgiving.  My daughter and her husband generously invited us to her house for the day and the Thanksgiving day feast.  We accepted and look forward to the day with the family, however, something nagged at me.  It dawned on me, I would not be cooking a turkey, she would.  That takes something out of the holiday for me.  It leaves it almost two-dimensional.

Not that I love doing all the work it takes to putting together a holiday dinner.  Believe me over some 50 years I have cooked and orchestrated more than three hundred holiday meals for small or large crowds.  I know what it takes, and its exhausting to do it with a flair.  But I realized, and here is where I divulge the secret passion, I love cooking big.  Oh, not all the sides and salads, but a huge turkey, ham, pasta, gravy (sauce for American born), or anything that weighs a ton.

I love cooking a thirty pound ham or turkey that will feed a crowd, even when I need a strong person to help me pick it up.  My passion is that I loveeeee to cook big.  Put that fresh ham on a low heat and bake for six hours.  Baste that turkey every half hour all day and watch it go from a sickly white to a beautiful golden brown.

I am not going to try to psychoanalyze this passion.  I am just going to own it, enjoy it and find a reason to cook a humongous roast.

Buena Appetite!