"Oh, dear, I dropped a stitch"

Knit one, pearl two.  Oh, dear, I dropped a stitch.  What’ll I do? 

What made me think I could just pick up an unfinished knitting project that has languished in my knitting satchel for years and years?  Most of the time, my hand made by Aunt Margaret, knitting satchel was poked way in the back of my closet, out of sight and most definitely, out of mind.  I mused myself by saying, One of these days when I’ve nothing to do, I’ll get back to that and finish those half completed slippers that I began over a decade ago.  Oh, I would pull them out from time to time but never worked on them with any consistency. 

That is, until now.   

My special friend, Patricia, a knitter, has been dealing with ovarian cancer and receiving chemotherapy.  Oftentimes, when I arrived at noon to relieve her husband from the morning shift while she was undergoing daylong treatments, she’d ask, “Did you bring your knitting?”  Silly me, I hadn’t and therefore was missing a great opportunity.  If I dropped a stitch or ran into a problem, Patricia was a captive audience to help me out.

One night, a group of us, that included Patricia, met for dinner at the Emerson Hotel.  Afterward, several of us went back to Patricia’s house for desert…and knitting.  That’s right.  We were having an old fashioned knitting bee.  Patricia’s sister and niece, from New England, had come down for the weekend, and part of the plan was for her niece to hone her newly learned knitting skill her Aunt Patricia had recently taught her.

That night, I made sure to bring my kitting satchel with the unfinished slippers with double strands of yarn; one strand of pink yarn and one strand of lavender yarn.  After desert, Patricia, her sister Gail, and niece Brook, and myself, settled in our chairs in her living room and with a cup of tea close by, began the clack, clacking cacophony of knitting needles along with the chatter of our conversation.  Just being out of the kitchen made us feel like we were in heaven.

The scene stirred up a memory from over forty years ago when my family and I were visiting my great Uncle Claude and Aunt Dolly in Southern California.  Aunt Dolly was a tall, strong and full-bodied woman with a wide smile and thick pure white hair pulled neatly into a chignon.  Aunt Dolly could knit and crochet in her sleep and on this particular family visit, Aunt Dolly taught my mom, my sister, and me, to knit.

I am no master knitter by any stretch of the imagination as I’ve mostly only made the slippers that Aunt Dolly taught our family trio all those years ago.  But, I have made enough double strand slippers to keep the feet of my family and extended family, warm.  A new pair of slippers as my family’s feet grew always made for a happy surprise gift.  Everyone in the family looked forward to getting a new pair and to finding out what color scheme I had concocted.  They also made great gifts and it was a sheer delight seeing the smile on the recipient’s faces from the gift of love knit together in “Aunt Dolly’s” slippers. 

When Patricia’s sister, Gail, asked me about the pattern, I could only respond that I didn’t recall ever seeing a physical pattern.  The directions seemed to only be in Aunt Dolly’s head and she was long gone.  So was mom, so that only left my sister, Lezlie, in Boulder, Colorado.  I phoned to ask if she could help me out with a pattern, or directions, but it had been many years since she too had made a pair of “Aunt Dolly’s” slippers.   In the end, I had to depend on my own memory of how to continue with the project I’d begun so many years ago. 

But, isn’t knitting like reviving an old friendship?  You simply pick up where you left off without the span of years in between making any difference whatsoever.  So far, I’ve discovered it’s not exactly that easy but then not exactly too much of a stretch either for once the steel needles are in my hands, my fingers go into recall motion.

The other night when I was knitting, I realized that on several rows back, I had knit a stitch that should have been pearled.  What’ll I do?  Straight knitting is one thing.  Fixing a problem is a whole nether thing.  Years ago, I recalled, I was able to undo each consecutive stitch until I reached the mistaken stitch and then repair it.  Could I still do that?  I figured there was only one way to discover if my mind still worked.  Gingerly, I undid each stitch and worked my way down to the incorrect stitch.  Somehow, which I can’t intelligently explain how, I did it!  I successfully repaired the incorrect stitch. 

This time, thanks to the continuing friendship I’m knitting with Patricia, if I drop a stitch, I’ll know who to call.

             Until next time… Top Blonde… on the run.

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Blue Skies Ahead

Who would think that simply going out for brunch would turn out to be such an exhilarating jaunt?  Especially, when it was only the 6th day of the New Year (Epiphany), when some of us are still trying to locate our daybook to learn where we’re supposed to be or what we’re supposed to be doing.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

However, when my special guy, Rob, a true prince of a man, invited me to brunch at the Greenwood Lake Airport Cafe, Blue Skies (formerly the Crosswinds Café), I perked right up.  It only took me a D.C. second to accept his intriguing offer. 

Going to brunch was semi-routine for us, but going to The Blue Skies Café at the Greenwood Lake Airport, sounded completely fun.  The novelty of it all cemented my decision to say, “yes”. 

I eagerly darted out the door to whatever divine script God had in store for the day without even a glance over my shoulder at the left over holiday remnants that needed to be put away.  However, no second thought on this one.  Storing away Christmas decorations would have to wait for another day.

Turning into the entrance to the Greenwood Lake Airport, we passed big wooden beams that Rob told me were left over from Jungle Habitat, the Warner’s-owned theme park that closed in October of 1976.  We then came upon the main structure, which included the airport office as well as the café and the huge structure jutting out of the building believed to be the only surviving Air France L-049, originally bought in 1976, Frank Lembo Enterprises, to be used as a restaurant and lounge.

Upon entering the newly renovated café with aerial artifacts displayed on the wall, we seated ourselves at a table by a window with a spectacular view of the parked planes.  Our waiter, a clean-cut lad, greeted us while we settled into our seats.  Enjoying the new experience in a semi-Casa Blanca setting, I then began telling Rob about a man at my church who has a plane and flies out of Greenwood Lake Airport. 

I still find it had to believe myself, but in less than three minutes time, a familiar looking couple entered the restaurant.

Blinking in jaw-dropping disbelief, I simply couldn’t believe my eyes.  The couple who’d just entered the restaurant and who were approaching the table next to us was Hans, the pilot I’d just been speaking about, and his wife, Liliane!

I jumped up and after exchanging greetings and introductions; we ended up chatting back and forth between the tables like old friends.  After brunch, we all moseyed on out to Han’s aircraft on the aircraftapron, to take a look. 

While Rob, Liliane, and I continued chatting, Hans untied his plane, a Cessna, and did the pre-flight check before taking off for a short spin over the Warwick Valley.  Upon landing and circling back to the apron area, he motioned to Rob if he’d like to go up for a ride.  Instead, Rob asked me if I’d like to go up. 

What…me go up?  Whoa…. I don’t know about that…Yet, right before my very eyes a door was literally open for an incredible opportunity.  I hadn’t flown in a small plane in 32 years but the entire stage was set!  The propellers were spinning, the overcast morning had evolved into a beautiful day, the passenger door was open, and with no time to think too hard, or get scared, I found myself climbing into the passenger seat, getting buckled up, and with my heart pounding, I was soon jetting down Runway 6 for take off.

We flew over Greenwood Lake, Rt. 17, and the Warwick Valley with WestPoint to the East and Mohunk to the North.  Thankfully, there was no wind, which made for a totally smooth ride.  Otherwise, I’m sure I would have been frozen in my seat with white knuckles instead of snapping photos right and left. 

I’ve often heard it said through Bible study groups or from the minister on a Sunday morning, that God’s timing in our lives is always perfect. 

The timing and events of January 6th were especially perfect as it was my deceased mother’s first birthday that I would be recognizing without calling her and singing Happy Birthday (though I still did sing Happy Birthday to her anyway that morning while in the shower).  Yet, the day turned out to be anything but sad and truly became celebratory and honoring as we flew across the blue skies.  Even though a few tears spilled down my cheeks as I thought of mom, the thrill of flying closer to Heaven was comforting and gave me the assurance that she was at peace.  That she wanted me to be fully present in my life and embrace all the blue skies that the New Year held. 

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

The Treasures of Tradition (Christmas 2007)

            Life continues to surprise me.  I was lamenting that with the recent passing of my mother, a welcomed tradition that she continued every year would no longer be a part of my holiday season.  And, then, this past week I had not just one, but two moments of glee that proved otherwise.

It seems everyone has a family tradition of some kind.  The other day while pushing my cart through the Shop Rite parking lot, I happened upon two ladies, Jodie and Linda, rearranging a box in the trunk of their car.  We got to chatting about their family traditions, and if they had any.  I learned that both of them had the tradition of going as a family to Christmas Eve church service, or mass, and then coming home and opening presents.

I remember the tradition my Grandmother Marie had of baking a mincemeat pie each year for the holidays.  Although, Grandma “Ree” only baked one, in the 11h Century, it was thought lucky to eat one mince pie on each of the twelve days of Christmas (ending with Epiphany, the 6th of January).  While I’ve never experienced that culinary indulgence, I have carried on my grandmother’s tradition with my own family.  However, that was one tradition I suspect they would not have missed had I let it slip bythe way side. 

Still, thinking you must have a mincemeat pie at some point during the holiday season, I offered to make one for the Christmas Day gathering of family and friends I’d been invited to.  The hostess wrinkled her nose up while simultaneously shaking her head and indicating an emphatic “no” on the mincemeat pie.  Cookies would be welcome, though, the hostess quipped. 

My mom’s passing signaled the end of her Christmas tradition of sending my sister and me a loaf of Stollen from Reimer's Candies, in Three Rivers California.  Each year, in late November, she would drive with Beverly Brown, her cousin, to the little red Gingerbread house candy store with white trim and old world charm located just miles from the gateway to Sequoia National Park, and order the sweet yeast German Christmas bread.  And then, in the early days of December, UPS would ring my doorbell with the delivery of a box with Reimer’s in red script on the side and a loaf of beautifully wrapped Stollen inside.

            And, now, the festivity of experiencing that delightful ritual and then phoning mom with my exuberant thanks would be no more. 

It’s a small thing, yes.  It’s only a loaf of German bread full of calories, but it was mom’s gesture of love that I knew I’d miss most.  My friend, Joan, mentioned she would also miss mom’s kindness.  Each year I would wait to open it until Joan could join me for our traditional cutting of the stolen and afternoon tea to steal away from the holiday stress.

Thus, I decided to start a new tradition.  I’d bake my own loaf of stolen.  Finding the rum was no problem but locating dried currants and ground cardamon proved more intense.  After several stops at different stores I located all the ingredients and placed them in a basket.  Finding a window of time to spend in the kitchen making and baking Stollen, which I’d never done before, became more challenging than anticipated. 

With the passing of the days, frustration set in.  I knew that typically, you make Stollen early in the season and now Christmas Eve was just a week away.  Where was I going to find the time?  That’s when kindness landed on my doorstep.

While dashing in from errands one afternoon, I came home to find the familiar Reimer’s box with the red script on the side, lying on my doorstep.  My heart leapt.  Had mom left a standing order at Reimer's, the candy store where she ordered the Stollen?  No, that’s ridiculous wishful thinking! 

Picking up the box and darting inside to rip it open, I discovered that Beverly, my mom's cousin, who knew about her tradition, sent the Stollen.  This Christmas season was turning out to be better than I thought it would be. 

Amazingly, the very next day, I found another Reimer’s box on my doorstep.  This time, the Stollen was sent from my daughter, Aimee, in Bozeman, Montana.  She knew about her grandmother’s tradition and how I’d ordered a loaf to be sent to my sister in Boulder, Colorado, as I knew she felt as I did about missing mom’s tradition.

This may not be the year for making my first loaf of Stollen but for sure, it is the year of treasured traditions and of rolling in Stollen.

            Wishing you and your family a happy holiday season and a happy and healthy new year!

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...