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.