When my cousin Donna slept over my house in Linden for the weekend, we stayed awake through the night, giggling, telling secrets, pretending we were movie stars. When I slept over her house in Elizabeth, we did the same. Neither of us had sisters, and anyway, sometimes cousins get along better than siblings. On the other side of my family, my mom’s, I was one…
ROUTE ONE INTO THE DEEP SOUTH—JANUARY 1955 When I was ten years old, I left New Jersey to hit the open road in the back seat of my grandfather’s gray Buick Special. Whenever we visited my mom’s parents in Glen Cove, Long Island, my “Zayda” took us for Sunday drives. But this was different—this was big. My mom Rose and my little brother Stuart would fly…
In some retirements, the lucky worker gets a gold watch, a pension, and a party. In my case, on a not especially memorable day in December 2016, nothing earth-shattering happened. I telephoned the Massachusetts Board of Bar Overseers to inform them that I did not plan to renew my license to practice law. They briefly explained how to remove my name online from the rolls…
🌹 My mom Rose, in her mid-nineties, was a nursing home resident for three years. She was assigned a roommate, Ellen, who was in her fifties. Ellen was very bright and an excellent conversationalist. She had flawless porcelain skin, smooth and silky hair to her shoulders, and a wide and winning smile. I have some sense of the maladies that landed her there . .…
When I was a preteen in the 1950s, my cousin Marlynne and I were fervent Marilyn Monroe fans. We subscribed to movie magazines—Photoplay and Modern Screen—with a feature on our favorite movie star in every issue. We made up scrapbooks and pasted in every possible picture and article we could find. When I visited my cousin in Philly, I always brought my updated scrapbook.We reviewed our new…
I’m still traumatized by getting fired without cause at age eighteen going on nineteen. I was thrilled to work for the summer at the five and dime lunch counter in downtown Elizabeth, New Jersey. I proudly wore my starched yellow uniform with the white apron, designating me as part of something important, in this case the great American variety store with the orange block letters…
I live in a 1956 ranch on an acre in a small New England town. There is a protected wetland on one side, a forest in the back bordered by an ancient stone wall, and a neighbor on the other side. No sidewalks. 🌱 The grass is mature, thick, and deep-rooted, leaving little room for interlopers, just the occasional sturdy dandelion and the clumps of sweet…
QUORA is an internet website used by two hundred million people around the world to ask and answer questions in a wide range of categories. I discovered the world of Quora.com through my friend Jill who has been awarded Top Writer status for five years in a row. Participants come from diverse backgrounds, ages, countries, interests, and beliefs. Some of my chosen topics are Aging,…
It’s a special event when one person gives a gift to another, for any reason. Gift cards or registries are now the most popular choice of gifting for birthdays, graduations, weddings, holidays, housewarming, etc. In some ways it’s impersonal, but in other ways it’s better. We’ve all given or received gifts for which we or the recipient have no use or liking whatsoever. 🎈 …
After a couple of days with temps in the eighties, I decided to put away my winter clothing. I may regret it, as May weather in New England can be unstable. We are advised not to plant tomatoes until Memorial Day weekend. The eager gardeners who cannot resist often regret it. ☀ ☀ 🌤 ☀ …
When I was born, my grandmother tied a strawberry pink ribbon around a curl on top of my head, my first hairstyle. In elementary school, I wore my stick-straight brown hair in a pony tail, with bangs across my forehead. Closer to my teens, my hair took on a darkly burnished auburn sheen, not quite the brighter red of my mom’s hair. She braided my hair each…
After a full week starting in New York City and ending at home this Friday afternoon, I have just enough energy to sit at the dining room table with a cup of hot tea. The day is dreary, the upcoming April weekend promising no more than low forties temperatures, and now, snow flurrying energetically like interference on an old television screen. Three trees lie in…
I’m just now recovering from my shock that cursive script is no longer taught in most elementary schools. And, I have learned that those who do not learn to write script cannot read it either, as if it were a foreign language. I own a family treasure, my parents’ fervent courtship letters exchanged in 1943. My dad wrote in a deliberate, ornate, vertical hand. He…
I took off to New York City last month to visit my daughter and her family. Each morning, after I leave my two-year old grandson at daycare — where his lifelong buddies Calvin and Aakash greet him with unrestrained glee — I head to the neighborhood patisserie for my coffee, brioche, and digital New York Times. On Tuesday of my Upper West Side week, I…
My dad spent a portion of his weekly paycheck on books for me and my little brother Stuart. If household funds were tight, my mom implored him to go to the library instead, but my dad had no will power when it came to buying books. He followed the publishing news to find out which new titles won the Caldecott or Newbery Medals, that brushed gold circle on the cover with embossed impressions for young fingers to touch…
When we moved here in 2003, I wasn’t quite ready for Wenham. My husband Paul and I downsized to our ranch house on Essex Street from our family homestead in Essex. On the same day that we passed papers, he turned on the ignition of his Kubota farm tractor and began to reshape the landscape, clear overgrown brush, take down trees to make room for…
THE CONNECTING THRILL OF HELLO BETWEEN LOVERS BRIEFLY ASTOUNDS THEM HAIKU (hi-koo’) is a form of Japanese poetry originating in the seventeenth century, usually with focus on an aspect of nature, the seasons, or the human condition. I wrote these pieces in classic haiku style in which there is a grand total of seventeen syllables in each poem, five in the first and…
In Part One, I related my experience of my son’s religious community with its own customs, dress, beliefs, and values — one of many ways of life that are different from what we know. I deeply believe that one-on-one relationships between individuals, families and groups from diverse societies and cultures is the way to increase understanding and — eventually — supersede the lack of acceptance…
I visited Israel for the first time in the year 2000 when my son Max (now Rabbi Mordechai Levine) was in his third year of religious studies at Aish Hatorah in Jerusalem. He rented a studio apartment in the Old City for me and my traveling companion, my mom Rose, hired an anthropologist to take us on tours, and introduced us to his new friends,…
I’m looking out the window at the flat two acres of fresh snow in my neighbor’s yard. A regal stand of mature pine trees lines the far end of her property, the backdrop for winter’s seasonal performance. Intermittent gusts of wind pick up the sparkling material and carry it in amorphous shapes over the pristine surface, ghosts rising and frolicking briefly in morning sun. 🌲 …