time – Don't Gel Too Soon

Big Birthday Memory #13: Best Friends Forever

NOTE: As I approach my 70th birthday, I’ll reprise a milestone post here each day until the end of May. Today – from November 17, 2007.

There we are – Jane and me on her porch one summer during college. Friends since Brownies, we’ve always had a warm, respectful and sturdy relationship, interrupted by years at a time but never diminished. Recently she sent photos of a family reunion – her four kids and their spouses and all their kids. And some things she had written. Beautiful things. Especially about her parents. I knew them well; I spent so many Saturday nights at their house, even going to church with them in the morning. They never ate breakfast before Communion but Jane’s mom always insisted that I eat something even though I was going with them After all, I wasn’t taking Communion so why not?.

A “nice Jewish girl” in a mill town suburb (here I’m on the right and Jane on the left,)I had no Jewish friends; Jane, Catholic, was my dearest. What might have been a huge cultural gap was just a curiosity; differences in our lives but not in how we felt about one another. We’d always sworn to be at one another’s weddings; I’ll never forget her beautiful one in the cathedral at Notre Dame. Years later, when it was my turn, Jane was living in Dallas and already a mother; she just couldn’t make it.
Then, just days before our wedding, she called. “Do you still have room on that boat of yours?” (We got married on a boat.) “I have to keep our promise- I’m coming!” It was so great and meant so much. Just as she knew it would.
That was 36 years ago; almost twice the age we were when the top photo was taken. But it doesn’t matter. The blessing of shared memories — of remembering each other’s parents and the Girl Scout trip to New York and her first love, who died in Vietnam — and mine, who ran off, perpetually stoned, to Santa Barbara — those memories make her part of so much of who I was and who I’ve become. What a gift to me that the one whose friendship blessed me was so blessed herself – generous and fine — helping me to be what she knew I had to be when I wasn’t sure myself what that was…not at all.

All Hail Rock and Roll

I don't spend my time talking about the "olden days" – really I don't. Working on the web has kept me very much in the present. But tonight I watched a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony retrospective and since you have to have given music at least 25 performing years to be inducted most of the performers were closer to my age than to that of my buddies here on the Web. And wow.

I feel the way you feel 2/3 of the way down a fantastic black diamond slope with the wind in your hair and frost on your ear lobes and your heart pounding. Where else is there the power that music brings to us? We go where it takes us — return to places we'd forgotten we knew, find pride in the memories we cherish and an abashed amusement in those that might have been a bit – um — less luminous. Our moods, our clothes, the way we're driving, or eating, or doing less discussable things, changes with the music around us. It's bits of soul reflected.

I was blessed to be at a couple of the most amazing inductions; I've written about that before but some of those moments appeared tonight and I could feel again the hair raising thrill of watching Ben E King and The Beach Boys and Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan and Billy Joel and Mick Jagger and dozens (literally dozens) of others performing together. Coming as we all do from a generation that did so many things as a tribe, it's particularly moving to watch them trade glances and cues — such a familiar pattern.

I love my life now and am so grateful to be a part of the explosion of the new connected world, but I am also grateful for the years those musicians gave us. They are brothers and sisters and inspirations and former fantasies and just plain fun. I know how many died of overdoses, I know there are seamy stories and I know that there are wonderful musicians who have followed them and will themselves end up on that stage when enough years have passed but my time was a wonderful time to be young and loving music. And once again tonight I remembered how many moments of my own personal Hall of Fame were accompanied by, or part of, or generated from – the music they gave us all.

So Long Mr. Salinger, and Thanks

All I wanted when I was a kid was to be Franny Glass. To be part of the Glass family, intellectual, quirky, and with lists of beautiful quotes on a poster board on the back of their bedroom door. They were sad and weird and wonderful.

And now, today, we lose their creator, most beloved for Holden Caulfield, the eternally adolescent hero of Catcher in the Rye. Holden is worthy of every affectionate word written about him, and his palpable pain is familiar to those who’ve journeyed through the teen years, but the Glasses — well — they were a different kind of lovely.

They are all the children of one man, and he died today. I wish I could tell you what it felt like to read Catcher in the Rye at 13. I can remember where I was sitting as I read it – how I felt – and the deep sadness that accompanied Holden’s story. It must have been traumatic though, because later, when my son and I read it together, I was shocked to learn that Holden’s brother had died. I had jammed that fact someplace hard to reach, which means it was even more disturbing than I remember. Reading it with my own child was a beautiful experience to share with a young man of deep compassion and great sensibility – a memory I cherish. So Salinger gave me that, too.

(I’m not mentioning Joyce Maynard here. She had a right – but sheesh!) And I really don’t have much to say about the quiet recluse in the hills of New Hampshire. Farewell to him, yes, but also to yet another connection to the days when I was young – and more like Holden than like women of a Certain Age. The passions, the pain, the poetic anger at people for not being what we expect them to be and the desperate longing to rescue the imperiled and the lost.

Anyway,
I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of
rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody’s around – nobody big,
I mean – except me. And I’m standing on the edge of some crazy
cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go
over the cliff – I mean if they’re running and they don’t look where they’re
going I have to come out from somewhere and <span>catch</span> them. That’s all I do all day. I’d just be the
catcher in the rye and all. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the only thing
I’d really like to be.”

I guess those who don’t dream of being the catcher long
to be the one who is caught. And those longings don’t go away whether you’re 13 or
63 (right – I first read it FIFTY years ago!) Imagine. No, it
doesn’t go away, but your perspective changes. The loveliness of that
kind of protecting — or being protected – it isn’t around much in the real
world. All the more reason to be grateful for the rare observer who can remind us of its sweetness, and of what we are capable of aspiring to.

And grateful I am. For Franny and Zooey and Seymour and all their craziness and for Holden, what he gave me then, and what I remember, even today.

Days Before a Son Marries; Mothers-in-Law Get Jittery Too

These two sweeties will be married on Sunday. One of them is my son. My first born. My baby. I don’t know why I’ve been so reluctant to write about it; it’s a beautiful relationship and a joyous moment in all of our lives. But I have been silent, or almost so, about it for some time. Can’t seem to let myself write. My sweet friend Karin Lippert, noting my cryptic tweet, wrote:

Congratulations… mixed emotions are the new normal, the new black? No, we have all always had overwhelming,wonderful emotions about our kids…

She’s right, I guess. The mix isn’t between wishing well and not so well, it’s between joy and respect for the place these two have found together in the world, and my profound sense of time passing, and of change. I’ll keep you posed when I can.

CHARMED, AGAIN. AND PROBABLY NOT FOR THE LAST TIME

NOTICE: YOU MAY NEED INSULIN TO READ THIS – IT IS REALLY SAPPY — CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED

Right now, I’m crying. Not just teary, crying. Right now, the third time I’ve been to this moment. It’s so embarrassing that until I complete this post I don’t even know if I’ll ever let you see it. Why such emotion on a sunny day so close to my birthday? Over a television show? The final epsiode of one that went off the air in 2006. One that’s about witches?

If, like me, you never paid much attention to CHARMED, appearing on the now-defunct and youth-oriented WB – about three sisters who are witches and who have witchy powers including, when acting together with the “power of three”, to best Ultimate Evil (I know, I know), let me tell you a bit about them. I’ve written about them before – when I first found them two years ago and again almost a year ago, after a wedding whose ritual reminded me of theirs, even though in theirs families gather from across the divide between living and dead. As I wrote then:

On my favorite guilty pleasure, Charmed, rituals of birth and marriage are attended not only by those who share the lives and loves of the Halliwell sisters (yeah they’re witches and their story spent 8 TV seasons enchanting us all) but also by those who came before. They summon, “through space and time” all members of “the Halliwell line.” Surrounded by these translucent figures of past
generations, today’s Halliwells celebrate marriages and new arrivals. Those fully and those ephemerally present conclude together “blessed be.”

What does this have to do with Jewish weddings — or any other terrestrial weddings for that matter? A lot. Eight years on the air, the longest running show with female leads, it dealt often with travel through time and space and dominions never imagined. But when really important events arose, all the magic was supplanted by a single, simple spell that basically –well — brought the family together.

I just looked the show up on Wikipedia and discovered that it went off the air on my 60th birthday – having run from October 7, 1998 to May 21, 2006. My
husband, when he’s in psychiatrist mode, talks about “anniversary reactions” – when we experience deep feelings but can’t quite figure out where they come from. Sometimes, they have to do with the occurrence of anniversaries we haven’t even noticed have arrived. In this case, though, I didn’t know the year the show ended, much less the date. In fact, I was in Paris with my family to celebrate this 60th birthday landmark on that day and didn’t even notice the demise of the long-running series. In fact, I first discovered it, in re-runs, airing as I worked in my office. I used it to keep me company (believe it or not, it’s on four hours a day – two in the morning and two in the afternoon.) Didn’t know a thing about the show or its success.

I got an earful from one of my sons when I asked though, who claimed that the show caused plenty of fights with his (then) girlfriend. Apparently, it was on at the same time as the Simpsons and every week was a negotiation.

But for me it’s somehow more than that. These three sisters, and their powers, are deeply moving. Their battles and solidarity, their humor and courage, their conviction that they could literally save the world from evil (p.s., they did) all resonated in a very weird way. Still do.

Hence the tears. The final episode, as the post-show future unfolds, feels like my own life. Endings. Loving farewells. The (hopefully) gratification of recognizing a life at least partially well-lived. The kids and their kids and an idyllic togetherness among sisters and their husbands and their children and their destiny. A lot to hope for and, I guess, as my own life moves forward, something to cry about.

SNOW — TOTO WE AREN’T IN LA ANY MORE!

Last week I took you to see this tree outside my office. It was just lovely. Then I went to LA and, as this storm was preparing to arrive, worked outside by the pool all afternoon. Never have I been so aware of the good side of the left coast – where I lived so unhappily but have come to appreciate.

Back home tonight, which is Wednesday, it looks like this. I seem to be on a real tear about seasons and changes. I left a fiery display of falling leaves and returned just in time to welcome the magical silence that is my favorite part of an all-day snowfall.

I’m posting this on Friday, just before Shabbat. Ending the week.
Thanking God. Wishing I knew an angel named Earl. Remembering snowy
night time walks down Broadway with my kids. And snow days. And ski
lifts.

And back again to that old circle thing. There isn’t much in life that doesn’t come in cycles, and if you observe the Sabbath, it begins at 4:30 in the depth of winter and 9:30 at the height of summer. Jewish holidays too are built around harvest and planting, the moon and its cycles; it’s far more connected to the earth and its processes than I ever understood until we began living this observant life. I wonder sometimes if, given my pleasure in the cycles and their passage, that pleasure isn’t yet another reason we ended up here.

Shabbat Shalom.

LAST OF THE LEAVES, LAST OF NABLOPOMO, HARRY CHAPIN AND LIFE

I can see this out my office window. In a couple of months it will be silvery with snow. Months after that, long after these last end-of-autumn leaves have fallen, new ones will bud in their place, and there will be a riot of color once again — this time with blossoms.

I titled a post a few months ago "ALL MY LIFE’S A CIRCLE, SUNRISE TO SUNDOWN" as I wrote about a beautiful Bar Mitzvah. For some reason, I’m feeling that way today. Listen to Harry Chapin’s wonderful words:
All my life’s a circle
Sunrise and sundown
Moon rolls through the night time
Till daybreak comes around
All my life’s a circle
Still I wonder why
Season spinning ’round again
Years keep rolling by.

Seems like I’ve been here before
Can’t remember when
I got this funny feeling
We’ll all be together again
No straight lines make up my life
All my roads have bends
No clear cut beginnings
So far no dead ends.
CHORUS
I’ve met you a thousand times
I guess you’ve done the same
Then we lose each other
It’s like a children’s game
But now I find you here again
The thought comes to my mind
Our love is like a circle
Let’s go ’round one more time.

All my life’s a circle
Sunrise and sundown
Moon rolls through the night time
Till daybreak comes around
All my life’s a circle
Still I wonder why
Season spinning ’round again
Years keep rolling by.

Beautiful, no? Tomorrow it will be December – NABLOPOMO will be over for another year and the year itself as fast approaching its final days. We’ve been through health scares and crises, major adventures and small pleasures, moving and rewarding family time and some times not so great. So I guess that’s why I’m kind of weepy, having loved the release of daily writing and aware of how fragile is life — and love — and laughter, ready to "go ’round one more time."

Here’s the song:

Have a good weekend.

TIRED TUESDAY

NABLOPOMO is almost over. I’ve spent half of it seven time zones to the east and another five days three time zones to the west, so, basically, I haven’t know what time it was all month. Oh – and in part of my head it’s still about…August. I can’t believe how fast this year has gone. We’ve had plenty of ups and downs and I’m sure there will be more, and slowly, over the year and most particularly over this month, I’ve discovered how important this blog has become. It’s not just an outlet or a project, it’s become something of a refuge. I love the freedom to think out loud, to write it all down — sometimes spontaneously with little or no discipline and sometimes with great care. In either case, I’ve reminded myself how much I used to love to write and how glad I am to have returned to the old habit. It’s still a bit premature to bid the big NAB farewell though; we’ve got the 28th, 29th and 30th left. More to come – and then it’ actually the last month of the year. Unbelievable.

BEST FRIENDS FOREVER

There we are** – Jane and me on her porch one summer during college. Friends since Brownies, we’ve always had a warm, respectful and sturdy relationship, interrupted by years at a time but never diminished. Recently she sent photos of a family reunion – her four kids and their spouses and all their kids. And some things she had written. Beautiful things. Especially about her parents. I knew them well; I spent so many Saturday nights at their house, even going to church with them in the morning. They never ate breakfast before Communion but Jane’s mom always insisted that I eat something even though I was going with them After all, I wasn’t taking Communion so why not?.

A "nice Jewish girl" in a milltown suburb (here I"m on the right and Jane on the left, I had no Jewish friends; Jane, Catholic, was my dearest. What might have been a huge cultural gap was just a curiousity; differences in our lives but not in how we felt about one another. We’d always sworn to be at one another’s weddings; I’ll never forget her beautiful one in the cathedral at Notre Dame. Years later, when it was my turn, Jane was living in Dallas and already a mother; she just couldn’t make it.
Then, just days before our wedding, she called. "Do you still have room on that boat of yours?" (We got married on a boat.) "I have to keep our promise- I’m coming!" It was so great and meant so much. Just as she knew it would.
That was 36 years ago; almost twice the age we were when the top photo was taken. But it doesn’t matter. The blessing of shared memories — of remembering each other’s parents and the Girl Scout trip to New York and her first love, who died in Vietnam — and mine, who ran off, perpetually stoned, to Santa Barbara — those memories make her part of so much of who I was and who I’ve become. What a gift to me that the one whose friendship blessed me was so blessed herself – generous and fine — helping me to be what she knew I had to be when I wasn’t sure myself what that was…not at all.

***NOTE: In order to observe the Sabbath, this post was written in late October and set to post on Saturday morning November 17th.

BACK TO THE FUTURE

Some picture, huh?

Yesterday a friend who is writing a book about the TV news business in the 60’s and 70’s asked me for some photos from the time we worked together. As I went through old albums and pulled out the few I had, I found this one. I remember the day it was taken – a sunny spring Sunday in Washington in a public garden. Newly out of college, newly employed, newly in possession of a Nikon, I’d gone with a friend to take photos of all things lovely. She took this one of me. (note to all curly haired people – this look was achieved by sleeping with hair wrapped around orange juice cans!)

Almost 40 years later, I am surprised that I look at this with pleasure, not sadness. I expected the familiar "ah I looked so much better then – so much was ahead of me" stuff but found none.

I’m sure something is still there – I got kind of weepy going through the books and seeing family photos from when the boys were little – so much time gone by. But that’s nostalgia for the joy that comes from wonderful children and the memories lucky families build. But this photo – no pangs at all.

Nope. I was a lucky girl. I had more adventures by the time I was 25 than many people get in a lifetime and I’m still having them. So there she is – the weekend me from the beginning of my grown-up life, young and happy in the sunshine.