A afternoon with Dr. Christiane Northrup

How I got to be in the third row to hear Dr. Christiane Northrup, New York Times best-selling author and today’s leading expert on women health issues, was pure luck.  Or was it?  I was one of over one thousand women who poured into the Penntop Ballroom on the eighteenth floor of the New York Hotel Pennsylvania on Seventh Ave. at 33rd  on Saturday, November 10, 2007, to hear Dr. Northrup give a talk on Menopause and Beyond: New Wisdom for Women.

Back in August is when I purchased my ticket as a gift to myself.  Dr. Northrup had been featured on Oprah, The View, Good Morning America, and PBS and I missed them all.  But, when I receiveda brochure about her tour coming to my area, I knew immediately this was something special that I did not want to miss and I called that very day.

In Northern Bergen County where I live, just across the Hudson River from New York City, you can easily commute during the week into the city by train, bus, or vehicle.  Once again, luck was on my side as the Pascack Valley train line weekend train service from my area to NYC that had been suspended for sixty years, just started again.  So, when I realized that New York’s Hotel Pennsylvania was directly across the street from Penn Station at Madison Square Garden, where the train line ends, I knew that my decision to take the newly restarted Pascack Valley train line was the right decision. 

Once I boarded and was settled in the red leather seat, I thought to myself, I wonder whom I will see that I know? It was a far-fetched notion but I couldn’t help feeling that I would run into someone that I knew.  Sure enough, while departing from the train at Penn Station, I ran into Susan, the librarian for my local Library.  Susan had saved the day for me many times when I was working my monthly newspaper column, A Slice of Life, for The Rockland Review, and needed help with research.  Pleasantly surprised to run into each other, we a friendly greeting and then proceeded to accompany one another as we wound our way up the stairs and out onto 7th Ave.

Susan was headed to West 42nd St. to see Pygmalion, one of the remaining plays not affected by the Broadway stagehands strike, and I was only headed across the street.  However, since we both had time before our respective events started we joined the throngs of people, and while making our way across 34th St. to Macy’s, we caught a glimpse of the stately Empire State Building. 

Once inside the historic store where “Miracle on 34th St.”, the story about a Macy’s department store Santa Claus was set, we were able warm up a bit while passing aisle after aisle of Christmas wreaths and bows and red and silver glittering decorations draped everywhere with salespeople spraying samples of perfume and cologne among perfectly styled Calvin Klein mannequins.  And, then it was back outside to view the famous Macy's Christmas windows wit scenes from "Miracle on 34th St.  Macy’s had once again created an enticing holiday environment for shopping, but we had more important things to do and soon headed back outside to say our parting good-byes and extend good wishes to each other for the rest of the afternoon.

It was only a short walk to New York’s Hotel Pennsylvania and once inside there was a buzz of activity.  Crowds of people were in long lines to check in, and other folks were sitting on the circular lounge just below a magnificent center crystal chandelier that offset the entire foyer.  Digging out my ticket I found my way to the elevators and after a fairly short ride considering how high we went, I stepped out onto the eighteenth floor to throngs of women already gathered.  The force was electrifying, as everyone seemed to exude the same essence of anticipation for a wonderful afternoon with Dr. Northrup. 

I was lucky enough … let me rephrase that because where I once may have thought it all luck, I now believe a force greater than mere serendipity is at work.  I believe that every step of the way my day was ordained by Divine intervention to remind me that God still has a plan for my life…even after menopause.  In fact, I feel like I’m just beginning.  After hearing Dr. Northrup explain how I’m not alone in that feeling, that many post-menopausal women are reinventing themselves and are the best they’ve ever been, I headed back to Penn Station for my train ride home with a new spring in my step. 

How did I end up in the 3rd row with hundreds of women in back of me?   Arriving early may have helped.  Deciding to position myself in line rather than wandering around like I may have done in the past and then ended up in the back row…may have helped too. 

You decide.  But, when Dr. Northrup suddenly appeared right in front of me in the hallway and I had the opportunity to stand right next to her, I flung my coat to the floor and quickly asked a passing lady who I’d never met and haven’t seen since, to snap a photo.  And then came a bonus.  Dr. Northrup complimented me on my new jacket and made my day!

         And then, for the next two hours with a short break in between, we were educated and entertained about important women's issues and our health.  Dr. Northrup even ended her program with us all standing and moving to some dance steps.   

         When the afternoon came to an end, I left armed with Dr. Northrups wisdom for women and coupled with God’s truths with no doubt in my mind that the best is yet to come.   

         Until next time…Top Blonde taking the day!

Christiane Northrup, M.D. Web Site (with personal permission from Dr. Northrup)

"Heavenly Delights!"

As I was walking by the candy store window, the various bins of brightly colored confections called out to me.  Temptation won and I soon found myself pushing through the clear glass door with the name Heavenly Delights artfully inscribed in white. 

I wasn’t hungry, and I wasn’t experiencing the need for a sugar fix.  No, my susceptibility to the mix of candy pumpkins with green stem, crazy corn, miniature corn, black licorice jellybeans, and other delights didn’t stem from gastric juices flowing.  My pull into the diminutive shop on 3rd Avenue in New York City, between 35th & 36th, stemmed purely from the retro recollections of Halloween festivity from my youth.  In those days of innocence, neither the calorie content nor nutritional value, or lack therein, dictated my adeptness at popping pumpkins one after the other into my mouth.

Life is different now from those carefree days.  With my own children grown and residing out of state, Halloween can come and go without any of the typical fanfare at my house of shopping for costumes, rushing to Halloween parades at the local mall, or creating ghoulish getups to wear at work.  No, Halloween festivity has never been my thing.  I don’t liked masks of any kind and haven’t yet out grown my skepticism of those scary, obnoxious, and ugly masks that seem to delight and thrill Halloween revelers.    

Truth be told that while Ishy away from the world of make-believe horror, blood dripping Dracula’s, and haunted houses surrounded by grave yards and ghosts, the warmer hues of autumn are the aspects of October that spark my endorphins flowing.  Those aspects include gobbling up the fall mix of plump soft chewy pumpkins and crazy corn candy.  For me, it’s the economically priced bag of candy that you can buy at the local A& P, that delights and thrills me. 

So, why did I spend $12.78 on my bag of “Heavenly Delight!”?  Only a lover of crisp falls days under the gray/bue of a late October sky would fully understand.  Not only do the warm hues of autumn spark endorphins, they also spark the intrinsic turn toward family and home as longer days bring us inside to warm by the fire.

As a child, I remember the fun that my brother and me had carving pumpkins and pulling out the slimy seeds entangled inside.  Once we felt we had given Mr. Pumpkin a perfect Halloween face, we stood back and admired our work. 

Each year, as an adult, I can’t wait to begin my tradition of tucking away summer and bringing out my fall decorations the week after Labor Day weekend.  My next step in setting autumn ablaze is lighting my cinnamonspice candle.  And, the final phase of my tradition is waiting for that perfect autumn day of dipping temperatures, and baking an old-fashioned apple pie like mother used todo, that fills my apartment with the aroma of home.   

            I spent $12.78 on a bag of Heavenly Delights! because that moment of indulgence reminded me of a lifetime of investment.  The memories I hold and cherish for making my apartment inviting to my friends and family, enriches my spirit.  And, to recapture a bit of those care free days. 

After getting home with my mix of Halloween candy, I tore off the Heavenly Delights! sticker that held the bag closed and started popping pumpkins in my mouth.  I have to admit that after eating a few, plump pumpkins and devouring a handful of crazy corn, I started to feel like a lump of sugar.  This was followed by the guilt of gluttonous consumption.  I can’t possibly eat all this!  What am I going to do with the rest?

A phrase came to mind that it’s more blessed to give than to receive, and I thought of two friends I was seeing over the next few days.  Suddenly, I had my answer. 

Remembering I still had two miniature Chinese take out containers left over from Christmas last year, I divided the remaining confections and filled the two containers.  Next, I curled some ribbon with the blade of a pair of scissors and placed them on top of each container.  This was helping to replace my self-incrimination with a renewed sense of warmth. 

Meeting one friend for breakfast at the Ridge Diner, and meeting another friend at DePiero’s for tea would surely bring me my own heavenly delight.

 

 

City Girl for a Day

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            The awaited weekend arrived.

            On Friday morning, I picked up my long time friend, Mary Jane, and her twenty -something year-old daughter, Mary, at Newark International Airport, who had just arrived from Buffalo.  Former residents of Bergen County, they had come for the weekend and our plan was to spend Saturday in New York City and specifically, journey through Central Park.  After fetching their luggage and making our way out of the airport maize, we hit the Parkway North back to the tree lined, winding roads, and rich heritage of our Pascack Valley. 

We hadn’t seen each other in five years and began our celebration of friendship and catching up over a leisure lunch at The Cheesecake Factory at the Palisades Center.

            Later, Mary’s friend, Francesca, also in her twenties and with her toddler son, Aidan, picked up Mary to spend the night with them, and then Mary Jane and I met mutual friends for dinner at a favored family pub, Peppercorns. 

Saturday arrived amid much excitement and with the anticipation of our transportation mode; a train trip into the city.  It sounded so cosmopolitan as I usually either drove in or took the bus from the Montvale Park & Ride and used the senior discount ticket that I barely qualify for.  And now, with Aidan with daddy for our girls day out, and with the promise of a fun day and the bright sun at our backs, we headed to the Ramsey train station with a transfer in Secaucus, for our final destination; Penn Station.

After maneuvering the maze madness of the station, we made our way out to the daylight of Eighth Avenue and a few blocks up trod over to Broadway and to the place with the fastest pulse on the planet; Times Square. 

As you would imagine, we first needed to revive ourselves in preparation for our trek up to Central Park so rather than trying to squeeze into TGIF’s or other trendy eatery along the Great White Way, we opted for the quieter and less crowded Times Square restaurant, Rosie O’ Grady’s, a few doors down and just off Broadway on 46th. 

Once we finished our repast and were refreshed, we made our way over to 5th Avenue and became part of the human mass heading toward Midtown East.

The lure of glitz and glamour and reverence grabbed at our senses and we were pulled into St. Patrick’s, Saks Fifth Avenue, Tiffany’s and Bergdorf Goodman.  Walking past the The Plaza in all its newly renovated glory, we came upon a long line of folks trailing after a guide and heading toward a bus.  I was curious and asked a passerby where they were all going.  The answer that was exubertently shot back at me was, “Sex and the City, the movie”.  Ah, yes!  If we looked closely, I chimed to our party; we might catch a glimpse of Mr. Big or Sarah.   But, not today, for we were on a mission and our next stop was finding Strawberry Fields, the Ladies Pavilion, and The Boathouse Cafe.

On the way to the entrance to Central Park by The Pond, we passed a group of break-dancers surrounded by a thick crowd and then a figure on stilts with green face paint waving a flag while portraying the Statue of Liberty.  I don’t know which was aching more; my feet from walking or my neck from turning this way and that for fear I’d miss some quintessential New York City experience.

We walked up a hill, then down a hill, we stepped over rocky paths, and when we came to a fairly narrow and steep stairwell my friend turned back reaching for my hand to steady me in descending the steps.

Even the twenty-something year-olds were now getting tired, but we bravely continued.  We were city girls for a day, and we weren’t going to allow sore feet or anything else to halt our pilgrimage.  Well, nothing that is except my bad heart telling my body that I’d reached my max for the day. 

Mary Jane, aware of my prostration, called for a colloquy at which time it was decided she and I would hail a bike buggy driver and we’d meet the girls at Strawberry Fields.  Soon, we were climbing into our carriage and being whisked past the walkers and bicyclists up to 72nd and Central Park West, the entrance to Strawberry Fields, where we both collapsed on the bench among the crowd while waiting for our youthful companions to arrive.

We snapped photos of the Imagine mosaic in honor of John Lennon and then moseyed our way on down the path toward the Ladies Pavilion.  The only other time I’d seen the pavilion was when I visited The Gates, by Christo and Jeanne –Claude, on a bitterly cold winter day in February 2005.  This time, boaters were enjoying an autumn afternoon against the backdrop of a magnificent New York City skyline.

 From the Ladies Pavilion, we wound our way through the woods and reached our final destination The Boathouse Café on Park Drive North.  We now had completed our pilgrimage and sat a spell to ponder our passage. 

Eventually, we hailed a taxi only to endure the most hurried and harried taxicab ride of my lifetime.  The driver was darting between cars and busses at a high speed all the way down Park Ave, which left me even more breathless than traipsing through Central Park! 

Once we boarded the return train, we all literally flopped in our seats.  I knew then that, in spite of the wonderful day and renewing of friendship, I could never be more than a city girl for a day. 

Until next time…Top Blonde taking the day.           

Life's playgrounds

            I’m not positive when the moment occurred that made me think any acrobatic ability remained in my bones.  Through a measure of agility shows up from time to time, it is usually slated for the most mundane of daily movements; walking, climbing into and out of bed, and the acrobatics you sometimes find yourself trying to master when trying to pick up an item that has fallen to the floor.  Not while on vacation and you have the hair-brained idea to see if you can still do a cartwheel. 

            Maybe it was the clean air and the crystal clear sky of Petersham in rural Western Massachusetts, the first leg of my vacation with friends that inspired such fantasy.  Whatever the inspiration, the gentle morning breeze began clearing out the city cockles of my mind and unleashing just enough voltage to trick me into believing that maybe I could pull this off.

            Within moments, I found myself kicking off my shoes, rolling upmy sleeves, and padding around a lush green lawn in contemplation. 

            I think I can, I think I can.

            Just what made me think I could is not something explanatory.  Maybe I just wanted to be a kid again.  Maybe I just wanted to ensure that the woman child residing in me was still alive and well.

            Would I break something?  Or, pull something?  Could I walk away and be content that the cartwheel I somewhat successfully pulled off slightly over ten years ago in a Montana meadowwould be my last?  It was serious decision-making time.  My fellow vacationers were out in front loading the car for the second leg of our vacation; Cape Cod and Nantucket Island. 

            And so, on a grassy knoll under the shade of a large beech tree, it was time to discover just how much, if any, acrobatic agility remained in my bones. 

            After a few deep breaths to muster courage, stretches for limbering, and visualization for success, I took the plunge.

            Disaster.

            Not one to give up easily, I tried again.  Visualizing helped, but I knew I’d need more than a technique to help this seasoned frame turn a cartwheel.  After several practice attempts it was time to step into sunny center stage of my backyard playground.

            Sometimes, you just have to give it what you’ve got, do the best you can, and see what happens.  A couple attempts weren’t half-bad, but nowhere near what would qualify as a bona-fide cartwheel.  Still, a semblence of reason won, and I knew it was time to stop.  Departing from center stage, I left with a sense of satisfaction and delight at the feel of the cool green grass under my feet.

            You would think walking with a slight limp the next day would cure anyone of silly antics on grassy knolls.  You would think.  If it weren’t for a playground next to The Church of the Redeemer, that my special friend, Harrison, and I happened upon during our time in Chatham, that might be the case.  We’d come out of the church and after walking through the gardens noticed the swings and slides off to the side. 

            Doesn’t everyone take a detour while on vacation to hop into a swing or zip down a slide?  Thankfully, neither requires major acrobatic agility.  All you need is a healthy dose of free spiritedness and the willingness to take advantage of life’s playgrounds.

            Untill next time...top blonde taking the day...

Never ready to say good-bye

The day started out like any other.  The ordinary daily life events that fill up all our lives were beckoning; starting the coffee pot, checking email, getting correspondence together for mailing, and a mid-afternoon doctor’s appointment. 

I’d wanted to call my mom, Helen, just to say “hello”, but in light of a full morning I pushed making that phone call back until that afternoon.  It wasn’t that my mom wouldn’t be up.  She lived on the West coast and even with the three-hour time change she’d be up and about scurrying around like the energizer bunny.  Her day and my step-dad’s always started early.  Early for them meant 6 to 6:30 AM.  “Pop”, as my sister Lezlie and me affectionately referred to him, was always showered and dressed by then and ready at mom’s call when it was time to implement their routine for that day. 

Given my mom’s age, 83, and that she lived with mild Parkinson’s disease; I liked to check up on a regular basis on she and “Pop”.  After thirty-four years together, they had built a life of quiet strength and persevering faith that sustained and encouraged our family.  “Pop” as a hardy ninety-three-year-old, has been in my life longer than my own father who passed away when I was twenty-four. 

     Mom and “Pop” were far from sedentary seniors.  On visits home I found I could hardly keep up with mom’s pace.  They went to a weekly, 7 AM Bible and Breakfast fellowship, a gathering of over 200 interesting and lively senior citizens from their church.  Mom was very social and enjoyed lunching with her sorority friends and also her classmate’s lunches from her graduating class of 1941. 

After my morning tasks were completed and my doctor’s appointment was in back of me, I set about to tackle my errands.  The only trouble was, I’d stopped at Shop-Rite first and now had a couple cartons of milk along with a few other perishable items.  Having perishable goods inside your car on a hot, humid day in the northeast has a way of dictating your next stop.  After making the left on Broadway past the new Woodcliff Lake time clock, I headed over the causeway toward home.

Rain was predicted and sure enough, like clockwork, as soon as I hopped out of my Jeep, Madame Merlot II, and ran around to the passenger side to retrieve my groceries, raindrops were falling on my head.  My neighbor, Joyce, had surprised me a few months back with a nifty cart for transporting belongings and bags.  While bending over to open the cart, my cell phone began ringing. 

Typically, I get excited when someone is calling.  But, with ducking inside my Jeep from the rain while gathering grocery bags, and trying to unfold the carrying cart that Joyce gave me, I seriously contemplated letting my voice mail pick up the call. 

The contemplation, however, was short lived as curiosity won and I dug in my handbag to reach for my phone.

Flipping it open, I figured it was one of my three daughters.  It wasn’t.  The voice I heard on the other end of the line was not one I readily recognized.  Though it sounded like my niece, Merri Elizabeth, her tone was alarming and I sensed that something was terribly wrong.  That’s when I learned that my mom had passed away that morning. 

Complete shock and disbelief followed.  I was sure I was having a bad dream and struggled with what I was hearing.  Why, I’d just talked with my mom on the phone on Monday.  I’d called her from New York City when I was in Grand Central Station.  She told me how she and “Pop” had eaten at one of the restaurants there in 1987 when they were on a church tour of the East coast.  I’d also just spoken with her the day before when I called to ask about a recipe exchange. Could I use buttermilk in my whole-wheat banana nut, wheat germ waffles instead of milk?  <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Within moments I realized the new reality for our family.  We’d lost my belovedmom, a dear and wonderful grandmother, a devoted sister, a loyal friend, a compassionate neighbor, an adoring wife, and a Scrabble-playing sister in law.

I had so many more questions, more stories about her life that I wanted to hear, more times to unsettle the frozen expression on her face that can come from Parkinson’s, by making her laugh.  And, laugh, goodness me.  She made me laugh.  She got funnier without even trying as the years rolled by.  I remember one trip home when she was in her bedroom and I’d called her because I needed her for something in another room.  When I walked in to see if she was coming, she simply dropped the clothing she was holding onto the floor.  As my mouth flew open at her spunk, she said with a sweet smile and a quick giggle, “Well, dear, you’ve heard of drop what you’re doing haven’t you?”

I simply wasn’t ready to tell my beloved mom good-bye.

Top Blonde…on the run…

Friendship reflections

Aging can be such a speculative proposition.  How many of us truly embrace our age reality with authentic eagerness?  It seems if you’re turning an authentic thirty-nine, perhaps.  But, for the rest of us, we may not always be forthcoming with the digits for our birth date and claim the Jack Benny mantra of turning thirty-nine ... every year.

            It doesn’t usually take much for me to have an excuse for celebrating life in general.  Perhaps it goes back to my childhood and the excitement and anticipation of being invited to my first birthday party.  I was in kindergarten when Robby Shore invited me to his birthday party.  Robby’s parents were both doctors.  They lived on a corner in a house that was big and grand and one that everyone studied when they drove past. 

Whoever said, girls just want to have fun, much have been a girl, but from my recall of Robby’s party, boys want to have fun too.  And, we did.  We were all caught up in the festivity of the day with giggles and smiles coming from everyone.  We proudly wore our birthday hats, blew horns, drank punch, and basically had the time of our lives. 

            So, just maybe Robby’s party set a precedent that continues today.  Like I mentioned above…it doesn’t take much for me to put a party spin on the celebratory circumstance of the day. 

            In light of my “sweet sixtyish something” birthday approaching, and then the subsequent dismay that my age reality did not quite equate to thirty-nine, I made a decision.  I called my friend, Marie, kind of based on that philosophy that if you want flowers on your table, perhaps you should plant a garden.  Thus, while we were talking, we collectively made another decision.  It was slightly spontaneous, I admit, but by the time we hung up, we had planned a soiree!

            What made it so amazing is that I’d had that idea tucked in my head for a few days but thought, how could I call my friend and plan my own birthday party at her house!  But, that’s exactly what happened.  My idea included baking myself a birthday cake and taking it over to Marie’s to share with my friends and help me celebrate my birthday.  How fun is that?

            I promptly pulled up my card-making program on my computer and created fun colorful post-card invitations to get in the mail.  The RSVP was to Marie and within a few days, the calls started coming in with replies.  Before we knew it, we had hors d'oeuvres, wine, a birthday cake, a few presents, and lots of regalement brewing.

            My idea was to have Marie tell the ladies who responded to our GNO (girls night out), no presents.  I didn’t want to put people on the spot.  Instead, what I thought might be meaningful was if everyone brought a hand written expression of what our friendship meant.  Perhaps, recalling a special moment of compassion, or a time of needed encouragement, or even a hilarious happening that made for a positive memory.  I’d had fun picking up and wrapping party favors to send everyone home with.  Our summer soiree was going to be a hit!

            Between putting the famous cream cheese frosting on the carrot cake I’d made from scratch, and then figuring out how to pack up the cake and get it into the car to take to Marie’s, in the middle of a torrential down pour, I was back at my computer.  This time, I was creating a design to tape on the front of a pink and purple-stripped notebook I’d gotten to hold the sentiments.  I titled it, “Friendship Reflections” and added in different scripts; loyalty, giggles, trust, laughter, and fun.  All timeless hallmarks of female friendships that help us face another year. 

            Who would only want to stay thirty-nine?

            Until next time…Top Blonde taking the day...

The fruit of forebearance

    My propensity to become separated from possessions looks like it's here to stay.  Either I lose something forever, or, my conviction is that the missing item is in the general vicinity. 

     Last month I had a visit from my oldest daughter, Nicole, who lives in Montana.  She is a 911 operator and having a relaxing and fun vacation was paramount.    

     On the day of her arrival I could hardly wait to greet her smiling face and give her a really big hug.  I had a beautiful bouquet of spring flowers tied up with a pink bow to add to her welcome.

     Her flight was landing late afternoon at Newark Liberty International Airport.  I didn’t have time to check for any arrival time discrepancies before leaving home to pick her up.  But, once Madame Merlot II (my Jeep) and I were on the New Jersey Turnpike, I called the airlines on my cell phone.  The recorded information said her plane was arriving early!  Not good.  It was really important to me to be standing ready at attention at the arrival gate when Nicole came off the plane .  With traffic down to two lanes, the likelihood of fulfilling my, from a mother's heart, airport scenario began to fade.  

     Once I arrived at Newark, found the right terminal, and pulled into the parking lot, I decided I needed guidance.  I wanted to know where to park to lessen my steps to the entrance to the terminal. 

     An airport security vehicle was parked on the outskirts of the parking lot.  I drove his way and hurriedly hoped out of Madame Merlot leaving my Jeep door wide open to seek input.  “Louie” directed me, and off I went.

     There must have been a recording glitch because I arrived in perfect time to enjoy a wonderful greeting with my daughter.  She had received a personal escort off the plane by her pilot, David.  After thanking him for safely getting her to New Jesey, it didn’t take us long to retrieve her luggage and make the trek through the airport back to my Jeep. 

     Once we were settled inside, I began searching for the parking ticket to get out of the parking lot.  It was nowhere to be found.  I even schlepped back into the airport.  I had thrown a piece of paper away on my way inside.  Had I inadvertently threw away the ticket?  “Mom, you didn’t go through the trash, did you?” Nicole said incredulously.  “Well, dear”, I offered, with a confident,  “I wanted to find that ticket”.  

     We continued searching between the seats, behind the seats, through my handbag, and still no ticket.  By now, our patience was waning and we were getting anxious to be on our way.  Nicole, kindly offered to pay the full price which was $30.  I wasn’t about to let her pop for that when I knew that ticket was somewhere in the vacinity.  I could feel it.  I just knew it was right under my nose but for some reason, it wasn't showing itself.

     Then, along came Louie in his shiny, white, security Jeep.  After hailing him down, I explained the situation.  Louie said to drive over to the ticket booth, and he’d meet us there to see what he could do.  Just then, a light went off in my head.

     “Louie”, I said excitedly, “Maybe the ticket fell on the ground when I jumped out to ask you where to park.”  He motioned us to stay parked and went to check.  Shortly, Louie came back with the illusive ticket in hand. 

Sometimes, you just have to trust your heart and belive beyond all doubt.  Nicole and I were quite happy we didn't waste our money.  We later put it to good use for dinner in Nyack!

     Until next time…Top Blonde ... taking the day...    

Whimsical serendipity

     Several years ago I was listening to Joan Hamburg on WOR radio 710 AM, when she mentioned a place of sanctuary called CedarHeart Lodge in Rosendale, New York (currently under new ownership with a new name).  Perhaps it was the combination of Mrs. Hamburg’s personable style and velvet voice that captured my attention.  She told the listening audience that the lodge was surrounded by cedar and white pine, was located near the famous Mohonk Preserve, Lake Minnewaska, and spectacular Catskill Park.  At that time, I didn’t know a thing about that area of the Hudson River Valley.  But, the word heart was in the name of this hidden treasure and that touched a chord.

     As Mrs. Hamburg continued describing the grounds, she talked of a pristine spring fed pond ideal for reflection and quiet contemplation.  She mentioned there were 17 acres of beautiful open woodland available for hiking or meandering.  As well, she, talked about a natural amphitheater nestled among the trees and of gazebos built with local stone and cedarwood.  Gazebos combined with heart; how could I not check out this haven?

     One thing that was stressed during the broadcast was the simplicity of CedarHeart Lodge.  Also, how the lodge adhered to the strong tradition of environmental activism that was popular in that area.  Which all meant that if you were expecting a Hilton or Marriott atmosphere with saunas, spas, and room service, you may want to rethink your stay. 

     Still, I couldn’t get this serene place of retreat out of my head and called the number that Mrs. Hamburg gave out to request a brochure.  When it arrived with a drawing of the Swiss style lodge on the front surrounded by pine trees, I knew it was time to get my name in their reservation book. 

     The excitement of embarking on a journey into the unknown is like beginning a treasure hunt without knowledge of the prize.  Rounding bends and discovering the breathtaking beauty of a brilliant sunset, quaint settings, or scenes that speak to your soul delivers blessings untold.

     I remember turning left off the Thurway toward New Paltz and feeling that thrill of getting closer to my destination like it was yesterday.  Passing the sign for Huguenot Street, along with a historic marker that told of the distinction of it being American’s oldest street dating back to the 1600’s, was mind-boggling. 

     Continuing on, I managed to find Route 32 North to Route 213.  As indicated, I turned left across the bridge to the intersection at St. Peter’s Church.  It’s so heartening to actually pass the landmarks listed in your directions.  After the final jaunt up and down a rather mountainous road, I arrived without a hitch at my destination.   

     Indeed, CedarHeart Lodge was environmentally friendly.  The wainscoting and railings were from fallen cedar trees, locally milled.  Other amenities included TREX decking-100% recycled material, Interface commercial carpet non-toxic and recycled, 100 % cotton bedding and bath linens, non-toxic cleaning materials, recycled paper products, cooperatively grown organic coffee, and local produce in season. 

     Though rustic indeed, the tranquility, clean air, and blue sky of CedarHeart Lodge perfectly suited my agenda.

     Since breakfast was the only meal served, I got recommendations and directions for dinner in High Falls, nearby.  Eating out by myself was challenging, but I knew I could do it and found myself at The Eggs Nest, a unique eatery unlike anything I’d ever seen before. 

     Not exactly being my nature to not talk to strangers, I ended up conversing with some of the locals who pointed me in the direction of the falls.  A street that began nearly 300 years ago had nothing on the steely blue of endless rushing waterfalls over an embankment that dates back to the Ice Age.

     In spite of the stillness and indelible quiet that night, I resisted drifting into slumber.  The anticipation of new adventure tomorrow might bring, kept dancing in my head.

After an organic, fiber healthy, fruit laden breakfast, I set out with my notes and directions from the previous evening.  Not only had the locals led me to the falls, they mentioned Woodstock.  Wow!  Historic Woodstock.  Not that I was ever a sixties groupie or flower child, heaven forbid, but I was so close.  If I waited until I got back here, I might never travel down this path again.  The day was mine and risking missing out on whatever serendipity lay ahead didn’t seem optional. 

     The allure from winding around scenic country roads was an experience I wouldn’t have missed for anything.  While trying to decipher my scribbled notes in one hand with arrows pointing here and there, and drive with the other, my heart was filled. The day had barely begun.  How could it get any better?

     While making a stop at a country store type gas station, a band of motorcyclists rolled in.  Men and women appearing to be in the baby boomer age range decked out in black leather from head to toe, descended their bikes.  This was no Kodak moment.  Jaw dropping was more like it.  But, as luck would have it, I did some deep breathing while subduing my prejudices and ended up exchanging polite pleasantries.  I discovered they too were headed to Woodstock. 

     What could be more serendipitous or American than a California girl following a gang of motorcyclists from Long Island into Woodstock, New York?  Until next time...Top Blonde taking the day...

 

Finding our "best self"

Have you ever noticed how many times you’re ready to head out the door only to discover you can’t find your keys?  Or, you’re ready to wrap a birthday gift and can’t locate the scissors and tape?  Or, maybe you’re like me; if I could only remember what I’ve forgotten I’ve lost…then maybe I could find it. 

We’ve all been down the road of “lost and misplaced possessions.” I’ll bet you have a few of your own stories.  Once, when on a trip to Washington D.C., I’d misplaced my sun glasses and asked the clerk at the hotel desk if anyone had turned in a pair.  The attendant on duty promptly grinned, as if on cue, and pulled out a basket literally brimming with lost designer lost sunglasses from Rayban to Gucci.  “See any you like?” He cheerily quipped.

Karla Jones, a professional organizer, speaker and seminar leaders, says, “Physical clutter is called Visual Noise.  Just as it is impossible to work and live productively with constant noise, so is it impossible to live and work productively when your environment is in chaos.”  Granted, de-cluttering one’s environment and better organization can do wonders. 

It’s always intrigued me how much time we spend each year looking for lost keys… but I can’t recall where I put that folder to give you that figure!  It must have sprouted little feet and moved itself.  Perhaps I should follow the suggestion I saw on the Internet, “setting up a database for lost and misplaced items.”  Can you imagine?

Is it the daily overload many of us carry around that freezes our brain from functioning?  Perhaps, it’s not enough down time?  Or, not enough quiet time?  Except we all know that quiet time is virtually non-existent in the Northeast or any other mega-metropolis.  Thus, we waste time trying to locate important documents, looking for a pen, or trying to locate the grocery list all while keeping the mad mystery of looking for things alive.

My daughters laugh at me as I keep a running list of things to find; keys, my passport, a 40’s style fur trimmed sweater that belonged to my eclectic Aunt Roberta, my headache pills, my reading glasses, and a glove.  That’s right; one glove.  Right now a solitary brown Fownes leather glove with black fir trim lay atop my dresser along side my list of things to find.  I thought I dropped the mate right in my own drive way while getting out of my Jeep one day.  But, ah, I know just where it is…the parking lot at the Weehawken Ferry Terminal.  I inadvertently dropped it while rushing out of the car when trying to keep up with a date to catch the ferry to the city...and hasn’t been seen since!  Neither has the date which turned out to be a positive item to lose.

  But, what if our challenge is less memory and simply more the daily dollops that fall into our lap?  I recently read that, “The main reason people misplace keys is actually not a failure of memory.  Factors such as fatigue and stress also play a part.  If you go without sufficient sleep, neglect goodeating habits, worry excessively, suffer an emotional upset, your mind will lose itsfocus.  The first solution is then preventative.  If you take steps to reduce stress and take better care of yourself, this would help one to return to the state of ‘best self’.”

Wonderful!  That sounds easy enough.  I’ll just add ‘best self’ to my list of things to find.

Until next time… Top Blonde taking the day…

The king of rolling pins

The range of my imagination is incalculable.  It never fails me… let’s just say it never falls short for painting a dramatic portrait of the human experience filled with all the flair life exudes. 

And so it was on a recent Sunday afternoon when Rob, my special guy, and I were strolling the streets in the river hamlet of Coldspring.  With the winter wind still nipping at our necks we found ourselves dipping in and out of one quaint shop after another.

Upon entering the next stop, Country in the Valley, we were pleasantly enveloped by the cozy charm of country decor.  Stars, scented candles, kitchen linens, jars of jelly, cute mugs, and walls lined with homespun looking wreaths and other antique artifacts made us feel like we were in a cottage in the country.  Over by the wall, a small table with a red gingham cloth had pots with hot coffee and a basket of crackers alongside a jar of seedless red raspberry jam as gratuity for the patrons. 

The wood floors and farm feel make for a hardy hominess that was only magnified the deeper we walked into the store.  What one would think of as the front of the shop, where the counter and register would hail, was in the back.

It was when we stepped up into that back room that our eyes grew wide.  We had a jaw dropping experience of simultaneously spotting the most unusual item either of us had seen in a long while.  A giant wooden rolling pin, the size of Paul Bunyan’s arm, lay diagonally across the counter. 

Mind you, I’ve seen a few rolling pins in my day.  I’ll bet you have too.  You can’t raise a family without a few variations of this nostalgic kitchen utensil.  I remember my mom’s rolling pin with the smooth wood and strong handles for rolling out the perfect crust for her infamous strawberry cream cheese pie.  My current rolling pin is the one with the handles painted that old fashioned green from the fifties. Though slightly dented, the smudge of flour caked on the handle ridges gives it distinction.  

My friend, Anna, surprised me last year with a beautiful ceramic blue and white rolling pin reminiscent of Blue Delft, which I treasure.  It has pedestals to position it on for display.  In light of my drop ability capability, I’ve not christened it just yet.

Kim Olert, the proprietor, told us that just before we arrived, an older man, whose name was Bill, was going by the store and felt that he was to bring her the monstrous masterpiece he had in his car.  She said that Bill told her, “It’s going to bring the store luck”.   We learned that Bill is an antique dealer, a writer, that he lives on a farm, but wasn’t from the area. 

As mentioned above, it doesn’t take much for my imagination to slip into overdrive.  I envisioned that the previous owner of this large capacity rolling pin must have been an Amish woman from the Pennsylvania Dutch country devoted to giving love, care, and nourishment to her family.  Ig so, she arose earlyto bake world class pies fit for a king.  For clearly, like a man or a woman with apast who God has redeemed, that rolling pin likely has a colorful history.  Yet now, its work accomplished, it is set aside and worthy of awe.

We may never know the mystery of Bill, the history of the giant rolling pin, or the truth about the hands that rolled this way and that to flatten the dough with back breaking accuracy for a favorite family delicacy.  What I can tell you is that once your eyes gaze over the smooth dark wood grain of this amazing relic, your imagination will no doubt fill a delicious slice of life.  You might even find yourself digging up your own rolling pin to bake a pie.

Until next time...Top Blonde taking the day... 

Winter silence

Reaching for the leafless branches and twigs sticking out of the frozen earth, I carefully inched my way down the incline to the frozen brook.  For the Northeast, our winter had been rather unusual with nary a flake or flurry of snow.  Until a day or two ago, that is when not only did we have snow but also freezing rain.  The perfect condition I’d been waiting for. 

Wrapped up in my Cape Cod sweatshirt and wearing Arnold Schwarzenegger like hiking/snow boots, my hat pulled down in front like my daughter, Lesa, who lives in Montana, showed me, I had that I am strong hint of confidence coursing through my body that being in the urban wild can bring.

Getting away from my desk and inhaling the brisk, clean air reminded me how much I loved the thrill of challenge.  I remember many years ago my Uncle Albert climbed to the summit of Half Dome in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Yosemite National Park.  That was awe inspiring to me, and I so wished for that level of mastery.  But, dealing with chronic disease …well, that may be too lofty a goal.  Hiking gentle grounds and soft slopes around Pascack Brook to photograph natural ice sculptures and try to capture the magic of the barren woods would have to suffice.  At least, for the time being, that is.

Advancing farther into the woods brought great fulfillment for this want to be photo journalist.  I found myself ducking under a barrage of branches; sprawling spread eagle on the frozen brook to snap what I hoped would bean Ansel Adams shot.  This free spiritedness brought about release and soon, my child within escaped.  I found myself maneuvering sexagenarian acrobatics for scooting across boulders and rocks and sliding across a floe to photograph miniature glacier like formations.

And then, it happened.  An object in the distance caught my eye.  Climbing over a pile of dead wood, tree trunks and other debris from the swift waters of days gone by, I came upon a football.  Possibly, it had belonged to a youngster and had gotten thrown just a little too far never to be united with its owner again. It was now my trophy of the day.  Just why my find was so exciting was a mystery.  It had no particular value.  Not like a lost Rolex watch or a hundred dollar bill nestled against the frozen leaves.  Nevertheless, I found myself erupting with glee and smiling over my new treasure. 

Sitting on a rock at mid-afternoon in the quiet and absorbing winter forest speak is something that continues to still my soul and lift my heart.  

           

"A pocket-full of patience"

After sharing a cup of Starbucks coffee and saying good-bye to my sister, Lezlie, at FAT (Fresno Air Terminal) in Fresno, California, I made my way toward security.  Along with everyone else, I started removing my jacket and shoes to place in the gray bin.  Relieved to survive my rite of passage, I headed down the long walkway to my assigned gate.

However, upon arrival at my gate, I became suspicious.  There was no signage indicating my flight number, departure time, or destination city.  Hum, should I be concerned?  Being uncharacteristically early, I decided it was premature for worry and that, in time, the electronics would kick in and all would be well.  For now, I’d just center down amidst the gaggle of other passengers and recall the wonderful time I’d had going home for the holidays.

However, as you may know from your own travel experiences, things don’t always go peachy at airports.  In fact, packing a pocket-full of patience along with food and water in your carry-on is paramount.  Stuffing in a sense of humor too can also be fruitful.

 By now, a crowd had gathered with people intermittently glancing at the still empty information board.  No flight attendants, pilots, or other officials were to be seen.  It was time to get answers.  That’s when I fished out my cell phone from my handbag, dug up my itinerary, and called the 800 number for the airlines. A couple of ladies standing around me were smiling and nodding while giving me thumbs up.  One of them, Theresa, who was also going to Newark, became my new best friend.

I learned from customer service that our flight was delayed due to high winds in Las Vegas.  Humph.  Not good.  At least I wasn’t stuck in Denver trying to get home for Christmas like my sister had been.  She didn’t make it home until Christmas night!

Thus began many trips over the course of the next few hours for supplies.  I made one trip downstairs for a bottle of water.  Another trip was upstairs for milk to go with the half of peanut butter sandwich my niece, Merri Elizabeth, made.  Then, back downstairs for a toothbrush and tooth paste.  Must be prepared.  My sister suggested getting a book.  I had my journal but decided she’s right.  I might need a good book for distraction!  That meant a trip back upstairs.  Since I’d already eaten the persimmon cookies mom tucked in, I’d need more snacks.  By the time it was all said and done, I’d worn myself out with travel and I hadn’t gone anywhere except to the concession stands!

  Finally, the information board lit up.  Flight attendants and pilots appeared.  And, an announcement was made that we’d be boarding shortly. 

My concern now was making the connecting flight in Las Vegas to Newark.  Earlier, when I was on the phone with the airlines associate, she assured me our since no planes were taking off or landing due to the high winds, our plane would wait for us.  It didn’t. 

            The next plane to Newark wasn’t until midnight … seven hours away.

Now just where did I pack that pocket-full of patience? 

Until next time…Jennifer

 

"Beyond the Door"

Rounding gentle curves that make up Rt. 304, we were headed to our favorite Nyack nook for brunch.  Though my “to do” list was expanding off the page, I’d agreed to some holiday merriment and was enjoying the easy Sunday sensibility.  After all, it was only December 3.  What better way to spend quality time the special man in your life than having brunch at The Strawberry Place, a decades-old, charming café on South Broadway? 

But, after settling into our seats, my thoughts went haywire.  A cloud of heckling guilt attempted to jinx my joy.  My stress level was demurely elevating and soon my toe was a-tapping.  And, it wasn’t to the tune of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

That is, until December brought a burst of crisp, clean artic air.  Not the freezing kind of oxygen but the invigorating kind that makes you want to breathe in every conceivable wonder that life holds.  The kind that puts you in the Christmas spirit have fun kind.  It was that kind of North wind that had swept into the Northeast making it hard to not go with the jingle of the season.  Especially, when the man you’re with is that rare mix of gentility from a bygone era.  You know the kind…debonair, kindhearted, and handsome, a sense of humor, agreeable and who still has hair and teeth.

When my Rob, my chivalrous escort, extended an invitation following brunch to continue celebrating the season by driving up to Cold Spring, I’d hesitated answering.  What was that about?  It wasn’t like me to not want to see what’s around the next corner, see how the day might unfold, or see what’s beyond the door.  But, there is all that work waiting at home for me to tackle.

However, once outside the café and the pristine air brushed my face there was no stopping the hitherto festive mood.  Soon, we were crossing the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Bear Mountain Bridge.  We passed Boscobel, then Garrison.  In a short time we were approaching the quaint historic village of Cold Spring nestled on the banks of the scenic Hudson River and driving down picturesque Main St.   

    Stepping back outside after a particularly engaging experience with the sales help in an outdoor kayaking type store, we felt as if we’d bumped into old friends we hadn’t seen in a while.  We met Teri, the owner who, like me, is a native Californian and who introduced us to the performance enhanced features of Merrell footwear.  Then, we met Bevan, the clerk, whose natural charm and joviality while ringing us up had us almost registered for a kayak class!  Their home spun friendliness and fireside like charm brought us so much fun they had us dancing with laughter on our way out the door.  

The cold dusk of early evening and an almost full moon glowed against the darkened night.  It’s funny.  We hadn’t won the lottery, found a pot of gold or stumbled upon an endless pile of Christmas presents.  But, as we buttoned up our coats and I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck, I realized the earlier guilt that tried to stifle my spirit had completely dissipated.  And now I couldn’t have been more ecstatic that I’d not only stepped out of my box but also risked stepping beyond the door.