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Lee and Joanne

I first encountered her while doing laundry one afternoon, wordlessly, robotically, tending to our clothes. She taking them out of the dryer and me, placing them in. I can still recall that subterranean, no frills room, whose stark walls and dismal atmosphere would make the perfect backdrop for an Alfred Hitchcock horror film. That was, until the day I met Lee, and the mundane chore of doing laundry suddenly became a shade brighter.

She stood five feet tall and as the saying goes, appeared no more than ninety pounds soaking wet, but possessed a jauntiness that masked her slight frame. Her short white hair was cut in a blunt, bobbed style, and just grazed her chin. I loved her hair, so sleek, straight and perfect, like a Barbie doll’s and when she laughed, swung side to side. She wore a pair of dark, Jackie’ O style glasses which hid a pair of almond eyes, deep chestnut in color and if you looked close enough, reflected a life of both hardship and soul.  The few times I saw her with her glasses off, I recall how her eyes, often cold and suspicious, could change in an instant, and sparkle with delight when I told her a particularly funny story, of which I had many.

Though well into her late seventies, she possessed a youthful spirit, shuffling around the laundry room in her signature style; a pair of faded, Levi jeans cuffed at the ankle and flip flops embossed with daisies. I still remember Lee’s Flip Flops as she stood at the washer, arms teeming with clothes. Those tiny, yellow, delicate daisies in direct contrast to her fierce nature.

Before our friendship materialized, she cast an imposing and stoic figure frequently visible around the apartment complex where I noted with some dismay, she was often arguing with someone. And as I recall, always won. I vowed to keep my distance as I generally disliked confrontation.

But a shared love of the sea sparked a connection that was instant and a memory that remains, though Lee is long gone. She had admired a tee shirt I was folding, pure white in color with just one perfect, turquoise blue wave splashed boldly across its center amid the evocative words, “California Dreaming.” “I love the beach,” she told me.

Her fondness for the seashore was instilled as a young girl. Growing up her family had owned a small cottage on Breezy Point located on the western end of Jamaica Peninsula in Queens, NY. Lee had inherited the cottage after her parents died. She loved this getaway from the chaos of the city and would visit at every chance possible. She described a grueling journey involving a bus ride, followed by the subway, two transfers and a decent walk before she reached her final destination. Breezy Point! and paradise found, her port in the storm. I hailed from Long Island, home to the epic Jones Beach, just a stone’s throw away from my home. And like Lee, found any excuse to escape to the seashore which we visited in abandon as children, teenagers and young adults.

I was a young mother during my friendship with Lee and we would sit in the apartment complex’s playground, mid-afternoon, as my young son raced in and out of the sprinklers. Those green park benches, ubiquitous back in the day, though scratched and chipped with age, offered a simple comfort and I imagine, could tell countless stories of the many who sat there before us. And during those lovely, endless summer days, we talked of life. The ebbs and flows, the highs the lows.

Lee was married to Marty a kind and gentle man who worked as a Super in a nearby NYC building and who I had met only a handful of times.  Her only daughter Joanne, who lived with Lee and Marty on the ground floor of their two bedroom Stuyvesant Town apartment, often sat with us on the park bench contentedly. Her age, was unknown to me, as she could morph from six to thirty-six during the course of a simple conversation.

As my son sat happily in the playground’s sand box one bright and sunny afternoon, Lee shared with me one of her life’s most dark and secret tragedies, describing how Joanne as a young girl fifteen years prior, while home alone in their apartment, was attacked by a maintenance man she had innocently let into the apartment. I never knew, nor had the heart to ask, if the incident, which clearly left Joanne traumatized, caused her innocent, childlike behavior, and the reason she did not work or have an apartment of her own.

We eventually moved from my beloved “Stuy Town,” to the Connecticut suburbs leaving Lee, Joanne and those comforting green benches far behind. On the morning we were leaving, Joanne, bestowed to my toddler son as a parting gift, her beloved teddy bear, its knotted fur, bruised and worn no doubt from years of hugging it close. “I don’t need this anymore,” she said simply. “I want him to have it…” Lee, who sat on the bench watching intently, nodded wordlessly.

Lee and I, as if in mutual acceptance of our impending loss, never spoke in person again but continued to exchange Christmas cards, each year penning a special note of remembrance to each other.

One year I quoted a Charles Dickens passage in my card, recalling how she had loved him. It was from one of her favorite tales, “A Christmas Carol.” Lee replied shortly thereafter with a note of her own, penned in her typical hurried, but artistic script:

“Only you could find this beautiful quote. You were always different. Stay that way.”

I have kept that sentiment tucked away in my dresser drawer, forever special to me as a compliment from Lee, rare in occurrence, was a thing to be treasured. I knew this one, had come from the heart.

Ironically, it was Joanne not Lee who I kept up with after we moved away. Every two or three months I sent her notes or cards often containing photos of my two sons as they aged from toddler, to teen, to adulthood. I would choose bright and colorful cards adorned with owls which she loved, and write of our lives in Connecticut. She would reply with a note of her own and always included an expression of gratitude for my friendship and a mention of love, from her mother Lee.

Before he left for college, my son approached me holding Joanne’s teddy bear gifted to him so many years before. “Let’s send it back to her mom, maybe she needs it more.” And we boxed it up with a heartfelt note, and returned the bear to his rightful owner who I imagine, welcomed it back with open arms.

And then one day, a letter from Joanne, more difficult than usual to read. She scrawled that she was frightened. Lee was sick and couldn’t remember things. She had something called, “Alzheimer’s Disease.” She didn’t know how to talk to her mother. 

I responded, “Ask her about Breezy Point…”

Not quite six months later, she wrote to tell me Lee had died. A life now folded away neatly, like those laundry days we once shared.

I continued sending brightly colored cards and notes to Joanne, throughout the years. My sons were now young men, off in college. I would tell Joanne of my oldest, a springboard diver who had won his first competition and that my youngest was attending university in Ireland, the land of his grandmother’s birth. She wrote how she loved to receive my cards. She wrote of how she missed her mother. She wrote of how she loved me and my family and wished we still lived close.

And then one night, after a lapse of communication from Joanne for more than three months, I returned home to a phone call on my answering machine. A male voice, unrecognizable, wracked with grief, his words delivered stuttering and stammering. After re-playing numerous times, I at last interpreted the garbled message and from whom it came.

“Kathy, this is Marty. Kathy, Joanne died.”

A long, painful silence followed, then his final words, “I never knew it would be this hard…”

I called Marty back the next day. He did not answer and has never returned the call.

I wondered from what illness, if any, did she die and searched endlessly for an obituary, desperate for an answer. I hoped she was remembered. I struggled for weeks seeking closure but could not bring myself to call her father again.

And then I realized, I never really knew her. And how she died mattered little. For I am certain I brought her joy through my cards and friendship, just maybe, during a time in her life she needed it most.

And that was all the closure I ever needed.

I sometimes think of those long-ago days as that young mother, sitting beside Lee and Joanne in the serenity of Stuyvesant Park. I can hear their voices still; Lees’s tone is shrill, her words tumbling out knowingly and confidently, Joanne’s is slow and steady, lilting, with a warm innocence, always aiming to please.

It is said that people come into your life for a season or a reason. I believe I was lucky enough to experience both, in my short good fortune of knowing Lee and Joanne.

,

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Memories of Bear Mountain

Everybody in the Pool! The iconic swimming pool at Bear Mountain State Park circa 1967

It’s the tiny bear trinket I remember, possibly more than the place itself. A delicate little figurine with a soft sprinkling of fuzzy fur on its body, which I loved to carry around and stroke as if it were a real pocket pet. My dad bought this cherished gift for me and my three sisters one summer afternoon at Bear Mountain, a frequent day trip we took from our home in Queens, New York.

I recall as if yesterday kneeling in front of the glass enclosed case of the bustling gift store and seeing the wee bear which sat forlornly in the stark enclosure. It was positioned away from the other bears just begging to be taken home. “We’ll take four!” my father sang out in his lovely baritone voice, whose accent betrayed a touch of his childhood years raised in Glasgow, Scotland. “Gifties,” he called all souvenirs and presents. I believe he took more pleasure in buying them than in the souvenir itself, though I could tell he too admired the look and feel of the little bear. When my sister Anne dropped hers only moments after leaving the shop, she cried and pleaded for him to buy her a second but alas it was not to be. My dad did not budge and although I know it killed him, taught us a lesson that day in responsibility and the value of a dollar – though she did get a new one on our next trip.

I often wonder, fifty years later, what became of my little bear but that is not important. I still have the memory of those day trips to Bear Mountain that magical destination situated in the rugged mountains rising from the west bank of the Hudson River.

Although Fall was a popular time to visit with the gorgeous colors that framed the mountains, we often went in the summer to escape the heat of the city. Its expansive pool held promise and delight for hundreds of children and parents alike who arrived in droves weather permitting. On one visit when I was around five-years old, I slipped through my inner tube and a woman sitting nearby jumped into the pool, fully clothed to save me. I remember my father insisting I go up to her and say thank you afterwards and how embarrassed I was in doing so. The photo above was taken by my father. I discovered it in a box of old Kodak slides last year and on a whim, posted the iconic shot to a Facebook group called “Historic New York City.” Within hours it received over 1,000 likes but it was the comments I read that made me realize the memory of Bear Mountain did not belong to me alone. Scores of New Yorkers and others from surrounding areas most now likely in the twilight of their years, recalled their own special memories…

“Beautiful Bear Mountain Memories..”

“I think Bob Dylan wrote a song about going to Bear Mountain…”

“We would take the ferry up the Hudson from NYC to Bear Mountain with our cousins. We still talk about those days…”

“We would sometimes sneak into the pool late at night as I lived close by..”

“Possibly one of my favorite childhood activities was leaving the city for Bear Mountain, picnics and swimming with family, hikes, sledding in winter. Such good times.”

“Did you see the guy on the high dive?? He is doing a handstand!!!”

“My brother Warren got his head stuck between the bars and had to be rescued!”

“My high school graduating class took a day trip to Bear Mountain. One signature in my yearbook reads “Bear Mountain till the bears turn bare…”

“That’s me in the red swim suit!”

Then, the one comment that made my heart stop..

“I still have my little bear ornament from the Bear Mountain gift store…” a stranger wrote. Accompanying the sentiment was a graying and faded but still recognizable photo of the bear souvenir. Not exactly the one in my memory but there it was nonetheless.” I wasn’t the only one…

I have not returned. For reasons I am uncertain. Too painful to visit without my beautiful dearly departed parents by my side? Too much of a heartache to see how the Bear Mountain of yesterday overshadows the reality of today? But it really doesn’t matter. have my phenomenal photograph of the pool with that forever unknown guy doing a handstand on the high dive.

And always in memory, that tiny, bear ornament my father bought me so many years ago…

The wee bear I loved
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Whisked Away

My mother was a minimalist who disliked clutter of any sort.  Our home was beautiful, warm, open and airy but devoid of any type of knickknack, or paraphernalia she deemed unattractive or cumbersome. A snapshot of our living room: simple sheer white linen curtains, a silky cherry baby grand piano adorned with one family photo and a small Belleek Scotty dog atop its finely polished finish.  Two or three tasteful paintings and a crystal Waterford bowl which sat center on the coffee table.  If there was a word to describe the opposite of hoarder it would characterize my mother.

We all learned quite early on not to leave anything within her reach or it would simply disappear, forever.  We had a theory, my sisters and I, that all those belongings, mostly certain items of clothing, were shipped off to her beloved homeland Ireland.  We imagined our relatives or their friends or friends of their friends were the delighted recipients of the new American fashions which arrived in a package stamped “overseas.”

I don’t know how this idea was formulated among us.  Had we heard my father in anger accusing her of this rather underhanded deed when he could not find his adored sweater? Had we seen a large UPS box tucked away in a hall closet? Had we heard my mother speaking to a distant relative in hushed tones, promising a shipment would soon arrive? No I do not believe we ever had absolute evidence, it was just a truth we knew existed, though one we could never quite prove.

My best friend once left her prized jean jacket at my house. I swallowed hard three days later when she came to my door ready to reclaim it.  Ransacking the house together I finally shook my head in defeat and told her she must have left it elsewhere. But deep down I knew, it was no doubt en route that very moment, via Aer Lingus, to greener pastures.

Another time, my college roommate came home with me for the weekend and left her favorite sweatshirt in my room. She too would never see it again. I imagined another teenage girl, but this one Irish by birth, clad contentedly in the Manhattan College sweatshirt, perhaps strolling the banks of the Liffey on one of those chilled and damp Irish morns or sipping a Guiness in a local pub hugging the sweatshirt close.

My sisters and I were swimmers and divers and over the years accumulated many trophies as a result of our efforts.  Years later as young adults, we noticed their absence and asked my mother where the trophies had gone. Silence.  Our school yearbooks too had a short shelf life as did report cards, photographs and artwork.  And at Christmas, our annual tree trimming, generally a happy and festive time, on more than one occasion ended in angry words and confrontations as ornaments usually of the bulky or unattractive variety, evaporated into thin air.  “Check another box,” my mother would suggest.

I think it was my father who bore the brunt most deeply.  He would sit in his recliner on Sunday mornings, peacefully reading the papers. Leaving for a short time to drive me to a friend’s house, he returned to find the papers he had left at the foot of his chair, not fifteen minutes before, gone.  He would later find them stacked neatly in the garage, whisked away before he even had the chance to get through the sports page.

Was there a method to her madness? I think she simply disliked excess and when she felt we had too many items of clothing we had not worn in a while, decided it was time for them to be on their way.

You might think that this habit of my mother’s caused anger, frustration and hurt within our family. Sometimes true, but it only lasted a day or two being that we could never really prove it was her doing. Though while looking at a Christmas card one year of my four beaming Irish cousins, I could swear the youngest was clad in my old rolling Stones tee-shirt.

As an adult, I too dislike over accumulation and clutter. I am of the school that less is more.  I understand my mother’s obsession with less more clearly now. I don’t agree with donating others belongings without permission though have been tempted on more than one occasion, to “whisk away” a number of my husband’s KU sweatshirts.  I refrain.

And on those days I long to look at an old high school yearbook, I return to my old friend’s house. The one whose jean jacket went missing.

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Finding Mary

A visit to a cherished next door neighbor, fifty years later, revealed a surprising revelation; you can go home again.

When my father died, the memories that encompassed me, swirling in and out of my consciousness in the futile hope of comfort, were not of the time and place I spent the majority of my life with him. Rather, my mind returned to a tidy, brick row house where we lived my first six years and whose address remains forever etched in my mind. 34-52-73rd Street, Jackson Heights.

It was not so much my childhood home in Queens to which I longed to return but instead, to a woman I cannot seem to forget. An Italian born seamstress who lived next door to my family and who will forever remain in my heart,

Mary Balducci.

She would be nearly ninety years old I calculated.  Her husband Alfred had died unexpectedly shortly after we moved and her only son Johnny, had long married and moved away.  We had not kept in touch after leaving Jackson Heights though in the weeks and months after, while driving home from New York City where my father worked, would make impromptu visits.  On those trips I would recall my father suddenly announcing in a jovial voice “Who wants to stop and see Mary?” and as my two sisters and I shrieked in excitement he would turn the car around for the short detour to 73rd street.  While my father sat curbside, we would race to her front door, ring the bell then wait hopefully. Mary never disappointed. She was always home.  Embracing us tightly with the same words, repeated again and again “my babies, my babies.”  Over the years these visits became less frequent and as we settled into the rhythm of life, eventually ceased all together. 

And I tucked the memories of 73rd Street and Mary Balducci neatly away.

The search was simple really.  No intense sleuthing, no years of tracking down leads on where she had gone.  No heartbreak in discovering she was no longer alive.  Just a google search revealing her address, followed by a phone number.  A chance to return to a past lifetime suddenly lay before me; Maria Balducci, 34-52-73rd Street, Jackson Heights.  She answered on the eighth ring, in the warm, lilting Italian accent I recognized immediately.  “Mary?” this is Kathy your old next door neighbor. My father died.  Can I come see you?”

They say you can’t go home again…

She greeted me in a simple faded housecoat and pink slippers, her black hair still thick and luxurious, defying her ninety one years.  “My baby, my baby,” she repeated over and over as I entered the hallway. “Come! Walk around! Go upstairs! Look! Remember!”

I tentatively entered her dining room and stood before the breakfront. I recall the bottom drawer always being filled with Juicy Fruit gum which Mary allowed us in abandon.  As she nodded, I grasped the two gold rungs and the drawer slid open easily, gratefully, as if all these years awaiting my return. It is said that our sense of smell is more closely linked with memory than any of our other senses. The aroma of Juicy Fruit gum filled the air.

They say you can’t go home again…

I walked into the kitchen where I had sat countless days at her table eating bowls of “skinny spaghetti” on top of which she painstakingly grated Parmesan Reggiano cheese bought from a market in Little Italy. Gazing out the window I spotted across the way, the neat line of row houses and then my eyes fell upon the one I sought out most, that of my childhood crush, James Latieri.

Years later after we had we left Jackson Heights, I encountered Jimmy quite by accident, at a Chaminade High School dance in Mineola, Long Island. After the dance , later that evening, I sat with my best friend Janet in the outdoor pavilion. We were soon joined by another group of teens we did not know but it was of little concern, being young and carefree we became friends in short order. Smoking cigarettes and contemplating life, the conversation somehow evolved to where everyone was born. The next few moments remain in my memory jumbled, but I recall the words “Did you say Jackson Heights?” I glanced at a lanky boy seated next to me. “Whoa! My best friend Jimmy was from Jackson Heights and he is on his way here right now!”

And then as if in a dream Jimmy Latieri, my six year old crush, materialized before my very eyes. Sauntering up to us, cigarette dangling from his lips he flung back his mop of long black hair and listened silently to the story of our connection. Trying to maintain his aura of cool, he lost it for a minute when he excitedly asked: “Kathy, is it really you?” We laughed together that balmy night transported from six to sixteen in an instant. His family like mine had moved to Long Island though he would never return to Queens or to 73rd Street. I imagined because Jimmy never had a Mary Balducci living next door.

Gazing out Mary’s kitchen window, I noted the tall looming high rise apartment building still standing adjacent and in that moment, remembered the terror of “the gray-haired lady.” As we played in the garden below she would appear at the window, ten stories above, fling it open and then toss an empty Vodka bottle out which always seemed to miss us by only inches. It was not being hit by the bottle I feared, but the strange, calm smile that would appear on her face right after she threw it. I often dreamed of the gray haired lady for years after we left who unlike Mary, represented a darker side of life during my short six years in Jackson Heights.

I asked Mary about the turtles. Could we walk out back to her garden? The line of row houses each had a small, fenced in yard behind them, a backyard of sorts. Mary’s husband Alfred, tended to several Box Turtles which he kept in a beautiful pond he had created in the corner of their garden. As a child, I loved to help him feed them and attribute my lifelong love of turtles to this early introduction. As Mary and I entered the garden we stood silently in front of the pond now dry, overgrown and turtle-less. But in that moment I felt the spirit of Uncle Alfred beside us and knew in my heart he was once again caring for his turtles, in another place and time.

She had remained in her home on 73rd street, at ninety one years of age, a testament to her will and independence. She still left her front door unlocked and insisted she was not going to any “old age home” as her relatives urged. She continued to take the subway to Little Italy to purchase the finest ingredients for her Italian recipes. She told me of old neighbors on the street, the ones who had gone and the few that remained. I told her about the lives of my sisters and how we had remained as close as ever but it was an unspoken understanding that she and I had always shared the closest bond. I expressed to her the heartache of losing my father; she told me she never quite got over our leaving Jackson Heights and the loneliness she felt after.

And then it was time for me to leave her once again.

Six years later, my mother died. I had no contact with Mary since our last visit but once again felt the need to see her. She would be ninety seven years old now. What were the odds? I waited for weeks then picked up the phone. After several rings a recording. The number had been disconnected. I was not surprised but nonetheless felt I needed closure. I pondered my next step. And then I recalled that Mary’s only son Johnny, lived in Bayside Queens. As a child living next door I had met him only a handful of times. I searched for his name and found the address. But instead of calling, I wrote him a letter. Maybe because I did not want to hear of Mary’s dying through an impersonal phone call, maybe to buy a little more time to process she might be gone. I wrote him of my visit with his mother six years ago. I described how I sat in his childhood kitchen eating tri color ice cream at 10AM in the morning from a china bowl. I shared the indescribable feeling of walking around his home and how it had felt exactly the same. I told him about the still faint aroma, fifty years later, of the juicy fruit gum. I wrote of my memories of feeding the Box Turtles with his father. I told him how much I had loved his mother and my need to know what happened to her.

I ended my letter to Johnny with the simple words “you can go home again.”

Johnny called back two weeks later. I was strangely relieved not to be home that day, as if to be spared the dreaded news. He spoke to my husband and told him how much he enjoyed my letter. He loved the part about his father and the turtles, he had not thought about the Box Turtles in years. He recalled how much his mother and father loved our family and Mary’s heartache when we moved away. She never quite got over it, he said. Yes, she was still alive but they had sold the house on 73rd street and had moved her to a nursing home just last year. It was unsafe for her to live alone and she had experienced recent dementia. He had the address if I would like to visit…

There is a portrait which hangs in the family room of my home. It shows myself and my sisters as children, alongside my beautiful and youthful parents. A picture that if I brought to show Mary in the nursing home, would be easily recognizable. Her babies. Four smiling girls, frozen in time. I have taken the picture down off the wall so I can easily place it in my car. It sits waiting in the corner of the living room. Waiting. It has been there for a while now. Yes, next week for certain, I will visit her.

Maria Balducci died in 2016, at the age of 99 years.

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On the Road Again, A Mother’s Day Tribute

“On the road, again, just can’t wait to get on that road again.

Going places that I’ve never been.

Seein’ things that I may never see again.

And I can’t wait to get on the road again.”

Willie Nelson

“Your mother,” began Jimmy Dillon, who sat contentedly perched on the bar stool next to mine. It was Christmas Eve and the atmosphere rang of merriment and festivity. Publicans was our beloved hometown bar; a place where many had enjoyed their first legal drink and to where they returned once again on these holiday weekends, to bask in friendship and bygone days.

I studied Jimmy, a boy I had known briefly from my neighborhood who had gone on in later years to become a fire fighter. Close to 50 now, his twinkling blue eyes and shock of red hair still mirrored his sixteen year old self. He continued on, his tone a mixture of fondness and fear. “Probably the nicest woman I have ever met, but the day she picked me when I was walking home from school? I saw my life pass before my eyes!” He took a long swig of his beer in an attempt to quell the memory, then proceeded to mimic how my mother would ask him a question while driving and then turn full around to where he sat in the back seat, for his answer. He weaved and bobbed on the bar stool his hands flailing wildly as he re-lived the moment. The last thing I remember him saying as he made his way into the crowd was “would you give her my best? She was just the nicest lady…”

We had heard it all before you see, my sisters and I, as my mother was somewhat of a legend for her driving. Our father perhaps bore the brunt of these mishaps most deeply while fielding numerous phone calls in regards to the fender benders my mother had incurred over the years.  Our Insurance Agent, Joe Kilhenny, was a fixture at many our family’s Sunday barbecues and in later years attended my wedding.

Growing up on a farm in rural Leitrim my mother’s mode of transportation was her trusty bicycle which she rode around the countryside. Growing up she often told me, just how much she loved riding her bicycle. She described a nearby orchard where she would stop and pick apples on her way to school, and she laughed at the memory of being chased by a farmer after tucking a choice few into her pocket one visit.

 In her mid-twenties she left her cherished Ireland for New York City and became a pediatric nurse at St. Vincent’s hospital in Greenwich Village. Meeting my father shortly thereafter, they married had four daughters and settled in a suburb of Long Island. And for a good awhile she survived without the need to drive, walking to the nearby market and relying on the kindness of friends when needed.  But as the years passed the kitchen calendar grew full. Sports, birthday parties, doctor’s appointments, the rhythm of life – all requiring a car and a licensed driver. She could put it off no longer. And so it began.

It is always debated among our family exactly how many times she took her road test.  We settled at nine though the exact number will always be a mystery. The eighth time she failed, her fiercely loyal best friend Eileen Anello, outraged at the injustice of it all claimed she “knew a judge.” And whether by the hand of god, my mother’s ability or that nameless judge, my mother at 50 years of age at last passed her road test.

When I was in Middle School, she drove through the McGuire’s backyard. Claiming the road was slippery from a recent rain, she careened through some hedges, jumped a curb and stopped dead set in the middle of the tidy backyard. Finding no one home she left a note with her name and number, no other explanation needed. I recall the childhood chant… “your mother drove through the McGuire’s backyard!!” echoing through the school bus, haunting me and my three sisters for years.

Connell, our Irish Wolfhound caught on early.  We never knew exactly what happened but one morning, after numerous trips driving with my mother to the dog field and other shopping excursions, he stubbornly refused to get in the car. Nothing worked. Tugging, pushing, or dog treats. He sat calmly before my mother, who stood before him, dangling a piece of bacon in a futile attempt to lure him into the passenger seat of her car. But Connell stood firm, a silent declaration that he was forever done as my mother’s driving companion.

In our early months of dating my future husband was unaware of my mother’s driving escapades. Visiting our home for the first time through the garage he noticed a refrigerator positioned against the back wall sporting a severely dented door. Entering the house he asked my father, “Bill, what happened to that refrigerator’s door in the garage?” Without looking up from his paper came the weary reply, “Oh, Mary uses the fridge as a measuring device of sorts. When she gives it a good whack, she knows she has pulled in completely.”

Then there was the time my sister was homesick at college and my mother as mothers often do, came to the rescue. Never mind we lived in New York and my sister’s college was in Pennsylvania or that my mother had never before driven on a major interstate highway. There was no question she would go. So she called on the service of her best friend Lily, an Irish cousin who lived close by and in their youth grew up on an adjoining farm. And off they went that Saturday morning, my mother at the wheel and Lily riding shotgun, to visit my homesick sister.  As night fell, I watched my father pace back and forth. It was before cell phones and I had never before seen him so nervous. He clearly realized the seriousness of the situation. And then a phone call from my sister…Mom and Lily had arrived!  They were a little later than expected having ended up first in the state of Ohio due to a wrong turn but all was well as they prepared to go to dinner. I always wondered if Lily had aged a few years during that ride to Villanova University as I believe we all did.

Though my mother had a series of accidents throughout her life, what saved her I believe was the fact that she always drove far under the speed limit, an unseen angel on her shoulder or more likely, the brake pedal. A good deal of the trouble was that her attention was simply elsewhere, like the day she sheared off the side view mirror of a parked car while adjusting the radio to her favorite Irish station. My sister described turning back to see a dangling mirror as they drove onward, my mother blissfully unaware of the damage left behind. They returned to leave a note on the battered car’s windshield. It too a silent victim.

My wonderful mother has since left this world but her memory lives on in all who knew and loved her.  I see her now, in a faraway place and time still charming all with her brogue and still angling, at any chance possible, to get behind the wheel once again.

”I am happy to drive down to the gate to pick up our new visitors,” my mother offers. God ponders a moment always touched by her helpful nature. But he is a realist. “Well thank you Mary but it is a beautiful day. Perhaps you could ride down to meet them on your bicycle?” My mother smiles. If disappointed it does not show. She always did love riding her bicycle

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The Days of Wine and Rosie’s

In the summer of 1982 my sister Sheila and I worked as waitresses at Rosie O’Grady’s in midtown Manhattan.

Rosie’s was a haven for all those Irish and all those who wished to be. Co-owners Mike Carty and Austin Delaney both Irish-born, could always be counted on to find work for a new arrival, fresh off the plane from their homeland, sometimes holding nothing more than a few dollars in their pocket and hope in their heart.

Everyone, sooner or later found their way to Rosie’s. It was that sort of place.

My father Bill Dickinson, was General Manager and suggested that a stint learning the restaurant business would be a summer well spent for my sister and me. So on a hot afternoon clad in white blouse, black skirt and comfortable shoes we left our Long Island home headed to W. 52nd Street, NYC.

That summer almost forty years ago, remains one of my fondest and most cherished. I remember those days. When the lights of Broadway still shone brightly and the theme of each and every night at Rosie’s, was laughter and merriment.

And the band played on…

Glancing at the clock above the waitress station whose hands that night seemed to be moving counter clock-wise, I pondered which song the band would play to wrap up the evening. It was without fail one of two ballads; “Good Night Irene” or “Show me the way to go home.” I made a silent bet with myself on the latter and smiled as the bandleader struck up the tune to prove me right. “Show me the way to go home. I’m tired and I want to go to bed. I had a little drink about an hour ago and it’s gone right to my head…” I knew every word by heart to those Irish songs and on certain days when life seems to be going at a speed I cannot control, return to sweet Rosie O’Grady’s and a time and place, where my father is alive once again. Young and handsome he stands tall at the front door welcoming patrons.

We can’t go back again, but we can remember.

Dabbing my finger to my lips to reapply my gloss, I tapped my foot merrily to one of my favorite tunes, “Lovey Leitrim,” the county of my mother’s birth and a song especially dear to my heart. Smoothing my apron as I hummed along, I glanced at the kitchen door which at that very moment swung open with a bang. I spotted my sister Sheila with whom I partnered as a waitress.  As her eyes met mine I could have sworn for a moment, they narrowed. It had always been a source of friction between us, our roles in the waitress hierarchy.  Waiters and waitresses were comprised of a team of two -one working outside on the floor and the other inside the kitchen. Sheila felt her job, (the inside) which consisted of standing in the kitchen under the hot lamps of the steam table and then bringing the food to the awaiting customer was the more laborious and unglamorous. I, (the outside partner,) took cocktail and dinner orders. How these roles were initially decided upon remains a mystery though I believe it was reasoned that she was the more physically stronger and better suited to toting the often back breaking trays.  I watched her approach a corner table as she balanced two plates of prime rib like a seasoned juggler, a glint of perspiration on her brow.  Maneuvering the steaming platters her arm shaking under the weight, she appeared to lose her grip allowing a stream of gravy to spill evenly onto the stunned diner’s lap. Casting the unpleasant scene from my mind I made my way to the bar. I would no doubt hear all about it on our car ride back to LI that night. After all, she had the harder job.

It was the people I met while working at Rosie’s who remain with me. The charming, charismatic bartender, John Carroll whose twinkling blue eyes could transfer a teetotaler into a seasoned drinker and whose life ended in a tragic auto accident far too soon. In contrast was his fellow bartender Miles, who had a smile and wink for every customer but with his quick wit and razor tongue an insult for the rest of us, all in good fun but scathing none the less. There was Mary “O” the vivacious, carefree, fun loving blonde waitress who was rumored to later become a NYC policewoman and her partner Kathleen, who enchanted customers with her Irish accent and sweet smile. Who could forget the middle aged team of Anne and Paula who bickered good-naturedly yet worked together like a finely oiled machine and on more than one occasion, held their own during late nights at the Blarney Stone throwing back shots with the younger crew no worse for the wear the next morning. I remember the beautiful, ethereal Laura who waited tables to earn money for acting school like so many other young dreamers and the gregarious and big hearted chef Mohammad whose brilliant smile radiated over the heat of the steam table and whose quick temper terrified those who had not yet discovered his kindly nature. I recall the retired detective Brendan who as host during the day charmed the ladies with his lilting Irish brogue and at dusk, magically transformed into intimidating bouncer ready to escort the occasional unruly patron to the door. “We can do this the easy way or…”

The night would officially end around 2AM. With tables cleared and tips counted we headed to our home away from home, the Blarney Stone for an after work drink or two. And in those late night hours we spoke of life and the occasional difficult customer while Bob Seeger sang soulfully on the jukebox.

But summer days are short. In what seemed the blink of an eye we bid farewell to Rosie’s, retired our aprons and headed back to Long Island to return to school.

With us we took fistfuls of cash, a new trade learned, friends we vowed to meet again and memories to last a lifetime.

I am older now with a family of my own. My parents have dearly departed. Sheila and I remain as close as ever. Each Christmas we gather at her house in gratitude. During our last celebration while sipping a glass of wine in her family room, I glanced into the kitchen. Sheila, clad in a tidy white apron was removing with some difficulty, the steaming turkey from the oven. Her arm was shaking under the weight of the tray as she balanced the bird. Looking up suddenly as if sensing my stare, her eyes met mine and in that moment I could have sworn, narrowed.

The history they say, has a way of repeating itself. I promised myself I would clear the table for her that very night as both a penance and memento to our days at Rosie O’ Grady’s.

Sheila (left) and me outside Rosie’s almost 40 years later – minus the aprons…
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Bear Mountain


“Everybody in the Pool!” Bear Mountain State Park Swimming Pool Circa 1967

It’s the tiny bear trinket I remember, possibly more than the place itself. A delicate little figurine with a soft sprinkling of fuzzy fur on its body, which I loved to carry around and stroke as if it were a real pocket pet. My dad bought this cherished gift for me and my three sisters one summer afternoon at Bear Mountain, a frequent day trip we took from our home in Queens, New York.

I recall as if yesterday kneeling in front of the glass enclosed case of the bustling gift store and seeing the wee bear which sat forlornly in the stark enclosure. It was positioned away from the other bears just begging to be taken home. “We’ll take four!” my father sang out in his lovely baritone voice, whose accent betrayed a touch of his childhood years raised in Glasgow, Scotland. “Gifties,” he called all souvenirs and presents. I believe he took more pleasure in buying them than in the souvenir itself, though I could tell he too admired the look and feel of the little bear. When my sister Anne dropped hers only moments after leaving the shop, she cried and pleaded for him to buy her a second but alas it was not to be. My dad did not budge and although I know it killed him, taught us a lesson that day in responsibility and the value of a dollar – though she did get a new one on our next trip. I often wonder, fifty years later, what became of my little bear but that is not important. I still have the memory of those day trips to Bear Mountain that magical destination situated in the rugged mountains rising from the west bank of the Hudson River.

Although Fall was a popular time to visit with the gorgeous colors that framed the mountains, we often went in the summer to escape the heat of the city. Its expansive pool held promise and delight for hundreds of children and parents alike who arrived in droves weather permitting. On one visit when I was around five-years old, I slipped through my inner tube and a woman sitting nearby jumped into the pool, fully clothed to save me. I remember my father insisting I go up to her and say thank you afterwards and how embarrassed I was in doing so. The photo above was taken by my father. I discovered it in a box of old Kodak slides last year and on a whim, posted the iconic shot to a Facebook group called “Historic New York City.” Within hours it received over 1,000 likes but it was the comments I read that made me realize the memory of Bear Mountain did not belong to me alone. Scores of New Yorkers and others from surrounding areas most now likely in the twilight of their years, recalled their own special memories…

“Beautiful Bear Mountain Memories..”

“I think Bob Dylan wrote a song about going to Bear Mountain…”

“We would take the ferry up the Hudson from NYC to Bear Mountain with our cousins. We still talk about those days…”

“We would sometimes sneak into the pool late at night as I lived close by..”

“Possibly one of my favorite childhood activities was leaving the city for Bear Mountain, picnics and swimming with family, hikes, sledding in winter. Such good times.”

“Did you see the guy on the high dive?? He is doing a handstand!!!”

“My brother Warren got his head stuck between the bars and had to be rescued!”

“My high school graduating class took a day trip to Bear Mountain. One signature in my yearbook reads “Bear Mountain till the bears turn bare…”

“That’s me in the red swim suit!”

Then, the one comment that made my heart stop..

“I still have my little bear ornament from the Bear Mountain gift store…” a stranger wrote. Accompanying the sentiment was a graying and faded but still recognizable photo of the bear souvenir. Not exactly the one in my memory but there it was nonetheless.” I wasn’t the only one…

I have not returned. For reasons I am uncertain. Too painful to visit without my beautiful dearly departed parents by my side? Too much of a heartache to see how the Bear Mountain of yesterday overshadows the reality of today? But it really doesn’t matter. have my phenomenal photograph of the pool with that forever unknown guy doing a handstand on the high dive. And always in memory, that tiny, bear ornament my father bought me so many years ago…

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For the love of a sheep

It was a late February morning on Achill Island and the clouds looming above the Irish sea were tinged in silvery gray. Working in unison, they waged war with the sun whose halfhearted attempts to breakthrough fell short, resulting in only faint slivers of light which fell meekly on the ground. The wind though temperate, possessed a fierceness that cautioned. I squinted at the landscape before me and the ubiquitous sheep, scattered in every direction. Their fleece sported a splash of varying hues, from cotton candy pink to a dusty sky blue, a way for farmers to claim a restless rogue who may have wandered off, whether by chance, or choice. I had two things in mind as I stood high on the hillside that beautiful day; to gain closure after the death of my Irish born mother and to find the perfect sheep, by which to remember her.

My mother loved sheep from as far back as I can remember. A love I imagine, which began in an earlier chapter of life, while growing up on a farm, in Cloone, County Leitrim. Though she left Cloone in later years to become a nurse in New York City, her love for Ireland and the gentle creatures who reminded her of her home, never ceased.

A memory materializes. Long gone but cherished still. My family is on a two week summer holiday in Ireland.  I am six-years-old, tailgating my mother contentedly, as she makes her way in and out of the local Irish gift shops, in search of the most beautiful and authentic souvenir sheep. Who, if chosen as a result of my mother’s discerning eye, would be gifted with a one way journey back to the United States, via Aer Lingus.

She ultimately chose two sheep, one white, one black. I cannot say, which one was dearer to my heart, as each possessed a unique charm. The black sheep, its tiny horns curled, stood defiantly in our living room, which my mother placed atop the piano, a sentry of sorts, before the addition of our German Shepard, Brandy. The white one, with its soft, knotty curls of white fleece and spindly black wooden legs, was strategically positioned on the always meticulously polished cherry side table of our family room, directly overlooking the front yard. A view not of the sea, but appealing given the jade green grass and vivid pink hydrangea which blossomed in the spring. Yes, I believe our two Irish sheep were pleased with their new American home, and proud to assume the role of ambassadors of our heritage.

 The sheep often came to my rescue in times of stress or discord, each assuming a different role. I recall after a particularly hurtful fight with my best friend, holding the white sheep in my hand and stroking its fuzz. That placid, calm face and silky wool, somehow righted all wrongs of the moment. The black sheep in contrast, was a symbol of courage, boldness, perseverance. Holding him in my palm, eyes closed, his sensible nature always prevailed.  And if the black sheep could talk, I imagined might offer the wise words of an Irish proverb I had once heard or read somewhere, and loved “There is nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.”

When my parents departed this world, aside from the carpets, paintings and other furnishings amassed in life, my three sisters and I each took turns expressing a particular item we desired, one which held a special place in our hearts as a remembrance of our much loved mother and father.

My younger sister Caroline, had hoped for the grandfather clock, a two hundred year old beauty purchased at the Lord Edward in Dublin whose hourly grand chime, never failing to produce memories of my one-of-a-kind father. 

My sister Sheila asked if she might have my mother’s Irish Shillelagh, which for a lifetime hung unused in her bedroom closet, its blackthorn wood carved with care, a forever symbol of Irish heritage and a reminder of her home across the sea.  

My older sister Anne had always loved our family’s oriental gong, an item purchased at a local tag sale which appealed to my Scottish/Irish father’s sometimes eccentric nature. He never failed to delight in pinging the gong four or five times dramatically before a special family dinner, its vibrating echo I can still hear to this day.

And for me, well perhaps you can guess?  I asked to be caretaker of the sheep, both the white and the black, as there was no way the two could be separated after all those years together. To this day, they sit serenely in two rooms of my home a wee bit older, ambassadors still.

But after the death of my mother, those two little sheep for the one time in my life, were of little comfort. Instead I longed to return to Ireland, the place of her birth, in search of something I could not quite define. 

So there I stood on that late February day on Achill Island, high on a hilltop, lost in thought. And when my eyes fell upon one sheep, grazing not three feet from me, I had to wonder if it had been there all along or if its presence rather, was an illusion. The sheep remained for a good long moment, its black spindly legs planted firmly before the glistening sea. It stared at me placidly then turned and made its way downhill but not before, in that brief encounter, I captured its photograph.

A large canvas print of that perfect Achill sheep presently hangs on my kitchen wall. It is in clear view of both the black and the white sheep, who will never be replaced and forever hold a special place in my heart.  I shared my photograph on several Irish websites, my image garnishing over 7,000 likes on one Facebook page entitled “Postcards from Ireland.”  I found I was not the only one who was enchanted with sheep, both among Irish and Americans alike and every other nationality sprinkled in. Some favorite comments…

“God’s Hand at Work”

“As far as we’ll get to heaven in this life”

“I want to be a sheep overlooking the ocean in my next life”

“This photo makes me so happy!”

“Magical Achill, where time stands still”

I recently had the privilege of returning to Ireland once again, this time in celebration. It was my son Owen’s 21st birthday.  His grandmother Mary, would be proud to know he is spending his four college years in the land she loved so well. 

 As we walked through the colorful town of Doolin, famous for both its music and iconic Cliffs, a small shop beckoned. Entering, Owen tailgated me contentedly as I examined the beautiful handmade gifts, neatly laid out before us. The proprietor, an older woman with world wise eyes, watched wordlessly then offered “Can I help ye find something special to bring home?”

I paused for a moment, then my eyes fell upon a small, black sheep, half hidden on the shelf, its spindly legs standing boldly before me. Approaching, I picked up the tiny woolen figure.   

It was as if he was waiting for me all along.

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You Get What You Pay For

I first saw him in the elevator of my office building, tall, handsome and impeccably dressed. We exchanged nothing more than a few fleeting glances/smiles over the next couple of months and then one afternoon, somewhere between the 9th and 12th floor, he uttered the words I had dreamed of…would I like to meet for a drink that night?

Ecstatic I floated back to my office, furiously contemplating where I could find a more enticing outfit than the frumpy gray suit I was wearing, ideal had I been operating the elevator. I needed something special… cute, flirty, fun. But where to find in 3 hours? And then a light bulb. The $19.99 and under dress store which sat in the lobby of my building. I had never entered the store but passed it daily on my way to the elevator bank always pondering the type of dress you might find for $20 bucks. But desperate times call for desperate measures I reasoned. Did I dare?

The bar, an iconic NYC pub called “Ryan McFadden’s” located on the corner of 42nd and 2nd Ave was packed with after work patrons both young and old. My office was a stone throw from Ryan’s, an absolute favorite neighborhood haunt with a great crowd and live music. I had never felt more attractive and carefree as I sipped my Tequila Sunrise, in that cobalt blue, stretch cotton mini dress (yes, dear reader, score for the $19.99 and under dress store!) I admit it may have been a tad tight and perhaps the material a bit thin, but for the price, what could one expect? It was how it made me FEEL that was important. Plus the fact, real or imagined, that my date could not take his eyes off me! Our conversation flowed easily and the bar pulsated with energy and possibility.

The music was phenomenal! After my 2nd cocktail, I boldly asked him to join me on the dance floor, something out of the norm for me but the dress fueled my confidence. As we jumped in time with the crowd to the strains of “SHOUT” I suddenly felt myself losing my footing. The floor, ladled with beer from overzealous imbibers was awash. The next thing I knew, I was horizontal. Brushing myself off and struggling to maintain my dignity, I slowly rose to my feet. Several people behind me were laughing. “Your dress,” one sympathetic woman whispered, “it’s totally ripped up the back…”

My last memory was the disappointed look in elevator guy’s eyes as he wrapped his rain coat around me and hailed a cab. And with that gesture, the night was officially over.

For the next six weeks, I took the stairs up to my office – all twelve flights. For that reason or others unknown,  I never ran into the elevator guy again.  The $19.99 and under dress store closed shortly thereafter as well and ironically, a tailor moved into its space.

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On the Road Again

My beautiful mother “pre” license

“On the road, again, just can’t wait to get on that road again.

Going places that I’ve never been.

Seein’ things that I may never see again.

And I can’t wait to get on the road again.”

Willie Nelson

“Your mother,” began Jimmy Dillon, who sat contentedly perched on the bar stool next to mine. It was Christmas Eve and the atmosphere rang of reunion and festivity. Publicans was our beloved hometown bar; a place where many had enjoyed their first legal drink and to where they returned once again on these holiday weekends, to bask in friendship and bygone days. I studied Jimmy, a boy I had known briefly from my neighborhood who had gone on in later years to become a fire fighter. Close to 50 now, his twinkling blue eyes and shock of red hair still mirrored his sixteen year old self. He continued on, his tone a mixture of fondness and fear. “Probably the nicest woman I have ever met, but the day she picked me when I was walking home from school? I saw my life pass before my eyes!” He took a long swig of his beer in an attempt to quell the memory then proceeded to emulate how my mother would ask him a question while driving and then turn full around to where he sat in the back seat, to hear his answer. He weaved and bobbed on the bar stool his hands flailing wildly as he re-lived the moment. The last thing I remember him saying as he made his way into the crowd was “would you give her my best? She was just the nicest lady…”

We had heard it all before you see, my sisters and I, as my mother was somewhat of a legend for her driving. Our father perhaps bore the brunt of these mishaps most deeply while fielding numerous phone calls in regards to the fender benders my mother had incurred over the years.  Our Insurance Agent, Joe Kilhenny, was a fixture at many our family’s Sunday barbeques and in later years attended my wedding.

Growing up on a farm in rural Leitrim my mother’s mode of transportation was her trusty bicycle which she rode around the countryside. She often described a nearby orchard where she would stop and pick apples on her way to school.  I remember how she laughed at the memory of being chased by a farmer after tucking a choice few into her pocket one visit.

 In her mid-twenties she left her cherished Ireland for New York City and became a pediatric nurse at St. Vincent’s hospital in Greenwich Village. Meeting my father shortly thereafter, they married had four daughters and settled in a suburb of Long Island. And for a good awhile she survived without the need to drive, walking to the nearby market and relying on the kindness of friends when needed.  But as the years passed the kitchen calendar grew full. Sports, birthday parties, doctor’s appointments, the rhythm of life – all requiring a car and a licensed driver. She could put it off no longer. And so it began.

It is always debated among our family exactly how many times she took her road test.  We settled at nine though the exact number will always be a mystery. The eighth time she failed, her fiercely loyal best friend Eileen Anello, outraged at the injustice of it all claimed she “knew a judge.” And whether by the hand of god, my mother’s ability or that nameless judge, my mother at 50 years of age at last passed her road test.

When I was in Middle School, she drove through the McGuire’s backyard. Claiming the road was slippery from a recent rain, she careened through some hedges, jumped a curb and stopped dead set in the middle of the tidy backyard. Finding no one home she left a note with her name and number, no other explanation needed. The chant of “your mother drove through the McGuire’s backyard!!” echoing through the school bus, haunted me and my three sisters for years.

Our Irish wolfhound caught on early.  We never knew exactly what happened but one day after numerous trips driving with my mother to the dog field, he stubbornly refused to get in the car. Nothing worked. Tugging, pushing or being cajoled with dog treats. He was done.

In our early months of dating my future husband was unaware of my mother’s driving escapades. Visiting our home for the first time through the garage he noticed a refrigerator positioned against the back wall sporting a severely dented door. Entering the house he asked my father, “Bill, what happened to that refrigerator’s door in the garage?” Without looking up from his paper came the weary reply, “Oh, Mary uses the fridge as a measuring device of sorts. When she gives it a good whack, she knows she has pulled in completely.”

Then there was the time my sister was homesick at college and my mother as mothers often do, came to the rescue. Never mind we lived in New York and my sister’s college was in Pennsylvania or that my mother had never before driven on a major interstate highway. There was no question she would go. So she called on the service of her best friend Lily, an Irish cousin who lived close by and in their youth grew up on an adjoining farm. And off they went that Saturday morning, my mother at the wheel and Lily riding shotgun, to visit my homesick sister.  As night fell, I watched my father pace back and forth. It was before cell phones and I had never before seen him so nervous. He clearly realized the seriousness of the situation. And then a phone call from my sister…Mom and Lily had arrived!  They were a little later than expected having ended up first in the state of Ohio due to a wrong turn but all was well as they prepared to go to dinner. I always wondered if Lily had aged a few years during that ride to Villanova University as I believe we all did.

Though my mother had a series of accidents throughout her life, what saved her I believe was the fact that she always drove far under the speed limit, an unseen angel on her shoulder or the brake pedal. A good deal of the trouble was that her attention was simply elsewhere, like the day she sheared off the side view mirror of a parked car while adjusting the radio to her favorite Irish station. My sister described turning back to see a dangling mirror as they drove onward, my mother blissfully unaware of the damage left behind. They returned to leave a note on the battered car’s windshield. It too a silent victim.

My wonderful mother has since left this world but her memory lives on in all who knew and loved her.  I see her now, in a faraway place and time still charming all with her brogue and angling at any chance possible, to get behind the wheel once again.

”I am happy to drive down to the gate to pick up our new visitors,” my mother offers. God ponders a moment always touched by her helpful nature. But he is a realist. “Well thank you Mary but it is a beautiful day. Perhaps you could ride down to meet them on your bicycle?” My mother smiles. If disappointed it does not show. She always did love riding her bicycle

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Whisked Away

My mother was a minimalist who disliked clutter of any sort.  Our home was beautiful, warm, open and airy but devoid of any type of knickknack, or paraphernalia she deemed unattractive or cumbersome. A snapshot of our living room: simple sheer white linen curtains, a silky cherry baby grand piano adorned with one family photo and a small Belleek Scotty dog atop its finely polished finish.  Two or three tasteful paintings and a crystal Waterford bowl which sat center on the coffee table.  If there was a word to describe the opposite of hoarder it would characterize my mother.

We all learned quite early on not to leave anything within her reach or it would simply disappear, forever.  We had a theory, my sisters and I, that all those belongings, mostly certain items of clothing, were shipped off to her beloved homeland Ireland.  We imagined our relatives or their friends or friends of their friends were the delighted recipients of the new American fashions which arrived in a package stamped “overseas.”

I don’t know how this idea was formulated among us.  Had we heard my father in anger accusing her of this rather underhanded deed when he could not find his adored sweater? Had we seen a large UPS box tucked away in a hall closet? Had we heard my mother speaking to a distant relative in hushed tones, promising a shipment would soon arrive? No I do not believe we ever had absolute evidence, it was just a truth we knew existed, though one we could never quite prove.

My best friend once left her prized jean jacket at my house. I swallowed hard three days later when she came to my door ready to reclaim it.  Ransacking the house together I finally shook my head in defeat and told her she must have left it elsewhere. But deep down I knew, it was no doubt en route that very moment, via Aer Lingus, to greener pastures.

Another time, my college roommate came home with me for the weekend and left her favorite sweatshirt in my room. She too would never see it again. I imagined another teenage girl, but this one Irish by birth, clad contentedly in the Manhattan College sweatshirt, perhaps strolling the banks of the Liffey on one of those chilled and damp Irish morns or sipping a Guiness in a local pub hugging the sweatshirt close.

My sisters and I were swimmers and divers and over the years accumulated many trophies as a result of our efforts.  Years later as young adults, we noticed their absence and asked my mother where the trophies had gone. Silence.  Our school yearbooks too had a short shelf life as did report cards, photographs and artwork.  And at Christmas, our annual tree trimming, generally a happy and festive time, on more than one occasion ended in angry words and confrontations as ornaments usually of the bulky or unattractive variety, evaporated into thin air.  “Check another box,” my mother would suggest.

I think it was my father who bore the brunt most deeply.  He would sit in his recliner on Sunday mornings, peacefully reading the papers. Leaving for a short time to drive me to a friend’s house, he returned to find the papers he had left at the foot of his chair, not fifteen minutes before, gone.  He would later find them stacked neatly in the garage, whisked away before he even had the chance to get through the sports page.

Was there a method to her madness? I think she simply disliked excess and when she felt we had too many items of clothing we had not worn in a while, decided it was time for them to be on their way.

You might think that this habit of my mother’s caused anger, frustration and hurt within our family. Sometimes true, but it only lasted a day or two being that we could never really prove it was her doing. Though while looking at a Christmas card one year of my four beaming Irish cousins, I could swear the youngest was clad in my old rolling Stones tee-shirt.

As an adult, I too dislike over accumulation and clutter. I am of the school that less is more.  I understand my mother’s obsession with less more clearly now. I don’t agree with donating others belongings without permission though have been tempted on more than one occasion, to “whisk away” a number of my husband’s KU sweatshirts.  I refrain.

And on those days I long to look at an old high school yearbook, I return to my old friend’s house. The one whose jean jacket went missing.

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Ode to a Pheasant

“See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings”

Alexander Pope Quotes , Source: Windsor Forest (l. 111)

pheasant

I cannot say for certain when I first made his acquaintance or tell you the exact day he stole my heart.  We had just moved to a small town in Connecticut from New York City following the 9/11 tragedy.  Our new home’s family room sported an enormous glass window which overlooked the back yard, a spectacular bucolic setting of manicured jade green grass, magnolia trees and a pond, all bordering a 200 acre nature preserve.  I was growing accustomed to the ubiquitous deer and red fox sightings but  had never before encountered a pheasant and was not prepared for the effect his physical appearance bestowed, both in brilliance and beauty.

His presence, generally either early morning or late afternoon, was always announced by a loud and strange-sounding squawk, echoing eerily through the landscape. I grew to love this sound.  Emerging from the tall hedges of the nature preserve he would strut and bob in all his splendor, slowly cruising the yard, pecking and flapping his great wings in a display of cockiness and valor.

I often pondered from where this lovely creature came.  Was he an exotic pet from some grand estate who had fled to explore new pastures? Or perhaps a restless migrant in search of a mate? I researched the presence of pheasants in Fairfield County Connecticut and discovered that these fascinating birds were indeed not native to this area and rarely seen.   My research further allowed that wild pheasants only live approximately five years in the wild unlike raised pheasants which can live up to twelve years in captivity.  Our pheasant was chasing the years.

Sadly, the pheasant never did find a partner but instead took up with a group of wild turkeys who too frequented our property.   I would often see him among the pack, his brilliance a gem among the other gray birds.   The turkeys were a friendly lot and took him in with little fanfare.  I loved them for that.  I was pleased he had found companions though daydreamed about finding him a soul mate of his own, perhaps from some pheasant farm if that sort of thing existed. I imagined visiting, picking out a female pheasant and bringing it home. And like in a fairy tale they would live happily ever after and create for our town a whole new flock of pheasants for all to enjoy.

I longed to see him daily but as if sensing his importance he arrived only once or twice a week.  In an attempt to lure him closer, I bought a bag of wild bird seed and scattered them in a line, starting at the opening of the preserve from which he emerged and ending just inches from my bedroom window.  The very next morning, I heard him, louder than usual and realized with glee that the seed trail had worked.  He stood majestically, so close to my window that I could reach out and touch him and in that brief moment snapped his photograph which still hangs on my refrigerator and atop this story.

There was something about the beauty of the pheasant and his calm demeanor that somehow made everything so right even on those days that were not.  He became a fixture in the neighborhood and neighbors became proprietary. They began referring to him as “our pheasant” if he spent any amount of time on their property.  He became somewhat of a celebrity in our small town.

When he went missing for sometimes weeks at a time, he became a topic of concern. I would see a friend in the local market and ask “Have you seen the pheasant.”?   I imagined putting posters on trees in the area with his photo and the simple word “Missing.”   No explanation necessary.

The pheasant enchanted us with his presence for over seven years, surviving hurricanes, snow storms and numerous predators.  After one particularly fierce winter storm I fancied making up a tee-shirt for him stating “I survived the blizzard of 2010” and sending his photo to our local newspaper to feature in their wildlife section.

Then one day as magically as he had appeared, the pheasant returned no more. It has been over a year now.  We no longer ask each other “Have you seen him?” There is an unsaid understanding among us. Nothing gold can stay.

Yet I still stare hard when I see the wild turkeys trotting by my window, hoping, praying for that glint of brilliant color amid the backdrop of the woods.

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Love Letter to Ireland – the Gift of My Mother

Dear Ireland, It is not the distinct and lonesome scent of burning turf from distant cottages.  Nor your fields of brilliant green.  It is not the timeless waterfalls that cascade in hidden woodland. Nor your winding rivers whose beauty inspire poets. It is not your majestic cliffs that stand like loyal sentry men over the wild Irish sea. It was not the magical taste of my very first ninety-nine ice cream cone with a flake bar neatly tucked atop. All of these things which you have given me I have loved.  But none compare to my most prized possession.  How do I thank you for the gift of a mother who almost never was?

My beautiful mother, Mary

I would start at the beginning as stories often do and tell you of a girl named Mary Foley from Cloone, Country Leitrim, tomboy by nature, explorer by heart. Who at age nine for reasons unknown, contracted Rheumatic Fever. As the days turned into night and her fever raged on, hope began to fade. A local priest was summoned to give her last rites. But then dear Eire, I would tell you of a miracle. My grandmother Rose heard of an old man who lived alone in the countryside. A man said to have the gift of healing. And on that very day, desperate and determined, a mother walked seven miles to see him and tell him of her daughter’s plight. As they sat together solemnly in his stark thatched cottage the old man spoke, “your daughter will get well, but in her place an animal will die.” As the sun rose the next morning in Drumharkan, Glebe, a rooster crowed, and a child’s fever broke. And in the stillness of the barnyard a cow lay dead. And that was the day I got my mother back.

She left her home in Cloone to become a maternity nurse at St.Vincent’s hospital in NYC, was married and raised four daughters, though her heart never strayed from Ireland. I can still envision her singing and tapping her feet to a favorite Clancy Brother’s tune in our Long Island kitchen. “I’ll tell my ma when I go home, the boy’s won’t leave the girl’s alone…”  Her best friend and first cousin Lily would visit often. I would arrive home from school to the sound of laughter and the whirr of the blender concocting their favorite orange daiquiris as they talked of memories of home.

My mother was fiercely independent, stubborn and determined but above all loved by all who knew her.  She took her road test late in life and after her eighth go proudly waved the coveted certificate before us announcing she had passed – never mind how long it took her. I remember her driving instructor now a close friend, nodding enthusiastically in approval as he sat sipping tea and eating a slice of her famous apple pie.

Though my parents settled in the U.S. they celebrated their Irish heritage each and every day.  My father was General Manager of Rosie O’ Grady’s restaurant in midtown Manhattan, a haven for all those Irish or those who wished to be.  An Irish band played nightly and my father never failed to have the band sing “Lovely Leitrim” when my mother would visit.  During summers my father would rent a house for two weeks in a suburb of Dublin.  My love for Ireland was solidified during those summers. I recall the misty weather and our Irish friends announcing “a heat wave” once the temperature reached 70 degrees as they ran to the beach.  One summer, my father took us to a nearby farm where we picked out an Irish Wolf Hound pup we named Connell. My mother and Connell became inseparable and were a familiar sight around town; she driving and Connell sitting tall in the passenger seat. Each St. Patrick’s Day, my mother and Connell would travel to New York City to proudly march side by side in the parade. A tradition they shared till Connell’s death at age six -Wolf hounds do not live long due to the size of their huge heart…

My mother Mary like her beloved Connell, left us too soon. At her wake, an old man who I did not know walked in and quietly sat in the back of the chapel. As the hours wore on and the crowd thinned, he approached me to pay his respects. “My name is Michael Dillon. I lived in the same town as your lovely mother and we walked to school every day. Then one day, she got very sick and I didn’t see her for many weeks.” As he turned to leave, he paused, then added: “but your mother got well and a strange thing happened. A cow died.” And in that moment a legend I had heard for so many years became a truth and my gratitude for having her as a mother forever realized. And for that Dear Ireland I thank you.

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    Memories of a Fifth Floor Walk up

    My best friend Janet and I shared a fifth floor walk up apartment on E. 83rd between Park and Lexington Avenues in NYC during our early twenties. The neighborhood was phenomenal, ideal, a combination of serenity and vibrancy just a stone throw from both the Lexington Avenue subway and the majestic Metropolitan Museum of Art.  

    On the floor above us resided two young men, Dave and Barry, new to the city from the Midwest. Both possessed polite and kindly natures and we struck up an easy friendship often playing monopoly or simply running up and down the stairwell to each others apartments just to say hello or drop off a plate of brownies. . The casual relationship we shared with the boys gave our apartment building a feeling of dorm living and shelved the belief that living in New York meant never getting to know your neighbors.

    Our apartment was a tiny two room structure, the first room comprised of the kitchen and living room and the second containing two twin beds crammed so close together our toes almost touched.  A visitor entering our living room with two bottles of wine under each arm once remarked, “I’ll just put these in the kitchen!” to which I replied, “You’re standing in it.”  

    I remember one hot summer day our window air conditioner dripping rhythmically on the unit directly below us, prompting the downstairs tenant, an eccentric but pleasant woman to pay an impromptu visit pleading, “please, can you do something? that drip, drip, drip is driving me mad. Why the sound is going right through my teeth!” I handed her a pillow to muffle the offending din and politely bid her adieu shrugging the encounter off as typical city living, neither of us no worse for the wear.

    Tuesday was “Beauty Night,” a weekly ritual  we cherished involving face masks, pedicures and chilled cucumber slices on eyelids.  These do it yourself escapes soothed both body and soul though I do recall an unpleasant incident involving a peppermint foot cream which caused a burning reaction on Janet’s feet.  I remember one dateless New Year’s Eve cozily holed up in our apartment watching the entire 24 hour Twilight Zone marathon thrilled to not be out with the hoards attempting to hail a cab on a bitter night.

    Though it took some getting used to, our apartment’s five floor ascent allowed us the best physical shape of our life and in no time we could sprint up all five floors like marathon runners. An added perk was the old fashioned candy store we frequented only steps outside our front door on the corner of 83rd Street, a neighborhood landmark that has stood the test of time and still serves homemade lemonade and egg-creams.

    But as the saying goes, all good things must end.

    We bid farewell to our fifth floor walk up and moved to a larger apartment in Stuyvesant Town, located in lower Manhattan.  My dad had put his name on the waiting list five years earlier. “Stuy Town,” as it is affectionately known, allowed more space at a rent controlled price an offer we could not refuse.  So we packed up our bags and headed downtown to a two bedroom, elevator building on East 20th Street carrying too, memories bittersweet.

    I visited my old fifth floor walk-up last summer, thirty years later, with my sister Sheila, who too lived in the building on the floor below me. Standing on the doorstep, I marveled at the appearance of my first New York City apartment, virtually unchanged. I snapped the below photo as a testament to those cherished days, and memories I will always hold close to my heart.

    Back in the hood with my sister Sheila…

    And somewhere right now, I feel one thing is certain. Uptown or down, east side or west, an apartment lies waiting. Devoid of all; a completely blank canvas. And somewhere right now, two young people are searching. Perhaps, for that very canvas, on which to paint their hopes and dreams. Their tapestry of life.

    As I did, in a fifth floor walk up.

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    Weekly Word Challenge,”Spare” The Lonely Sweater

    Spare (Defined) “Not currently in use; in reserve”

    Glancing in the window of a recently closed children’s consignment shop, I spotted this tiny, orange sweater hanging forlornly in the now abandoned store front.  I pondered why this one vibrant item adorned with teddy bears, remained.  Perhaps a testament to a dream that was not to be or more simply that the sweater was left in haste?  I like to interpret it as a statement of fortitude left behind from the proprietor.   A symbol that whatever the future brings, he or she will survive.     I shall leave the interpretation to you gentle readers.

    sweater

     

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    WPC “Half-Light”

    halflightNature’s first green is gold
    Her hardest hue to hold.
    Her early leaf’s a flower;
    But only so an hour.
    Then leaf subsides to leaf.
    So Eden sank to grief,
    So dawn goes down to day.
    Nothing gold can stay.

    Robert Frost

    https://dailypost.wordpress.com/photo-challenges/half-light/

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    One Word Photo Challenge – Change

    Nothing that is can pause or stay;
    The moon will wax, the moon will wane,
    The mist and cloud will turn to rain,
    The rain to mist and cloud again,
    Tomorrow be today.
    ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    bro2
    Brothers then…

    brps
    And now…

    .

    oyn
    My older sister Anne, whose gentle hand I still feel on my shoulder. Then…

    sisann
    And now. (Anne on left)


    tree2
    Our backyard tire swing. Joyous come Summer….

    tree1
    Lonely in Winter

    https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/change-2015/

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    A picture paints a thousand words


    men

    I discovered this image taken over fifteen years ago in a small town on the Amalfi Coast, while going through a shoebox filled with old photos.  As I strolled past a beautiful old church I was struck by these four men sitting together on a Sunday afternoon, the middle two deep in conversation, the bookends, content in their own thoughts. Each gentleman bore a unique expression though their emotions are difficult to interpret.  As only in Italy, the fashion sense impressed, particularly the vivid blue socks and old style fedoras.  The fellow on the far left sported a more casual but equally dapper attire with his jaunty tweed cap and stylish sneakers.

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    WPC – Symbol – Irish Worry Stone

    stone1  I am not superstitious by nature, but this lovely, simple symbol of my Irish heritage is never far from my side. In fact, I keep it tucked in a small zippered compartment of my purse.  Made from Connemara marble, the Irish Worry Stone so smooth and cool to the touch, is reputed to keep worries at bay and bring a sense of comfort to those who hold it.   My mother loved these worry stones and often brought them back to friends as souvenirs when she visited her homeland of Ireland.  My close friend Joe, who was diagnosed with Non Hodgkin’s Lymphoma at 32 years of age was the recipient of one of my mother’s worry stones.  When he died, I visited his apartment where his mother was staying temporarily.   As we comforted each other with memories of her wonderful son she asked if she could show me something. Entering his bedroom she gestured toward his night table.  On the corner closest to his bed, lay the worry stone. I like to think that it brought him comfort.

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    Daily Post Word Challenge – Early Bird

    “Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, with charm of earliest birds”   John Milton

    dawn
    Dawn of Christmas Morning 2014

    pheasant
    Our beautiful resident pheasant. He graced us with his presence, early morning, for over three years. Then one day, came no more…To learn more about the bird, please read my short tribute “Ode to a Pheasant” https://nynkblog.wordpress.com/2014/12/23/ode-to-a-pheasant/

    https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/early-bird/

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    Magic Drinks

    kodak

    ROCHESTER, September 26 — Eastman Kodak Company today announced its intent to stop making and selling slide projectors by June 2004.

    “The Kodak slide projector has been a hallmark for quality and ubiquity, used for decades to produce the best in audio visual shows throughout the world,” the company said. “However, in recent years, slide projectors have declined in usage, replaced by alternative projection technologies.”

    One of my happiest and most comforting memories of childhood was our family slide shows.  These coveted movie nights which generally took place once a year, consisted of nothing more than three simple ingredients:  a blank wall  in our living room, a Kodak carousel slide projector with my father at the mast and myself and three sisters,  huddled on the sofa,  pressed together in anticipation like peas in a pod.  My mother, who had seen the slide shows too many times to mention, usually busied herself with other things, occasionally stopping in to comment on a particularly beloved picture.  Prior to turning off the lights, my father would announce in a deep theatrical voice “Who wants a magic drink?”

    They were always different in taste and made from whatever struck his fancy that night; orange juice with a splash of pineapple juice and Grenadine or perhaps apple juice and ginger ale with a jigger of seltzer.  The ingredients were unimportant.  It was the anticipation of what was to be and the lovely ritual of our movie night routine that we cherished.  Those magic drinks were just part of the show.

    There was always one slide, without fail, that was turned upside down. This would halt the show momentarily, as my father with a slightly frustrated “tsk” would right the renegade slide. And we were ready to go once again.

    I loved that Kodak carousel projector and the faded yellow boxes of slides stacked beside it. They were never labeled so each reel was a surprise in itself.  Who might appear on the screen that night was anyone’s guess — my six or sixteen year old self?  Our first family pet Bubbles the beagle, or our gentle giant of a Great Dane we called Jenny?  My mother posing on the beach in her youth, or proudly cradling her first grandchild? The lack of chronology only added to the experience.

    Some days, in the quiet of my mind, I can still hear the slow deliberate click of the projector, advancing slowly, telling without words the story of our life.  Slide to slide, toddler to teenager, mother to grandmother, youth to twilight.  An entire lifetime displayed on the wall of the darkened living room.

    When my parents died, I cared about no other of their possessions albeit that time warped machine that could somehow transform me back to family vacations, birthday parties and people and places no more.  With my sister’s blessings, I brought it to my own home with the promise to bring it to family gatherings, a carousal reunion of sort.  Though it is yet to be.  It sits up on a shelf in an unused room.  I have taken it down one or two times in a half -hearted attempt to have my own family slide show but then, as it spits and jams due to age, return it in frustration to the lone closet.  Surely there is somewhere that can restore the Kodak carousal to the beauty of its youth so we may once again enjoy those magical images.

    And I will mix for my own sons, those magic drinks..

    Let Them Eat Cake

    We have all been there. Being presented with the dreaded fruit cake during holiday gift giving. This Americanized and far different version of the light and lovely, Italian Panettone, is often a leader in the well meaning but often sneaky world of “re-gifting.” Fruit cakes have been the core of cruel jokes the world over and polls demanding an honest answer, “fruit cake, feast or famine?”

    This Christmas day, it was my turn. And so I sat with a frozen smile as my mother-in-law proudly bestowed the brilliant golden box before me. My three sisters moved their chairs closer and looked on with feigned interest and hidden smirks.

    The lovely box was adorned with a bright red bow and contained several descriptive lines describing its contents; “Light as a feather and made with love from mother…” I pondered what mother, could do that to her family?

    The enticing prose of the copywriter flowed “a painstaking seven day process to perfection in each loaf…” seven days might provide an explanation for the rock hardness of the cake.

    And then the final line, “Bringing Families Together for Centuries.” Or apart for years. The real reason why families members don’t speak? Someone gifted another with a fruit cake.

    Returning home that evening, I placed the gift on my kitchen counter furiously contemplating to whom I could pass it on. The Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” echoed in and out of my consciousness. Glancing again at the festive box it represented a cruel dichotomy – the outside an innocent Mr. Hyde and the inside, the despicable Dr.Jeckyl. In the end, I did the only reasonable thing possible. Pay it forward.

    Our home borders a hundred acre nature preserve with every creature imaginable in residence. Waiting till night fall I carried the fruit cake out to the woods and removed it from the box. I gingerly placed it just off the walking trail near a bush resembling a small Christmas tree. With a new found lightness in my step I returned home. God Bless us everyone!

    The next morning I poured myself a cup of coffee and with a pounding curiosity, made my way outside. Approaching the tree underneath where I had laid it the night before, I stared in confusion. The cake in all its splendor stood – untouched. Several pieces of fruit had been dislodged from the foundation and now lay scattered aside amid a large chunk of crumbled cake. I imagined a wily raccoon, delighted with his Christmas morning find, removing several with his delicate and agile paws, gobbling them furiously and then realizing in grave disappointment he had been duped. It was a fruit cake, plain and simple.

    Inedible to both man and beast.

    To David on his 60th Birthday

    I hold a photograph in my hand. A picture from long ago. Though frayed and fading, it is one that tells a story. A melancholy tale of family, friendship, love and loss. And the unrelenting passage of time.

    I study the image taken with my father’s old Polaroid camera. Fifty years have come and gone, yet that day, forever etched in memory.

    Two young brothers sit together on the front steps of our Long Island, New York door stoop. Clad in hand-woven Irish sweaters, their cheeks are ruddy, speckled with rosy patches gifted from the late autumn chill. Their skinny, knobby knees are scraped and dirtied from a recent romp in the yard. The older boy David, is dark-haired and although the photo holds no date, is likely around six years old. His younger brother leans contentedly onto David’s side. His small hand is just ever so slightly brushing his brother’s, whether in comfort or familiarity. He is fair-haired with a sprinkling of freckles on the rung of his nose. I guess him to be four years old.

    Their younger sister, Aideen, appears to be no more than two and a half years. She is held by her mother Maureen, who stands behind the boys. Aideen nestles her small chin neatly onto her mother’s shoulder. Maureen gazes steadfastly into the camera with just a hint of a smile, her beautiful face a portrait of strength and calmness.

    The children’s father, David Sr., is seen in the distance. He stands in the yard, lost in thought. He has been a close friend of my father from earlier days and a name spoken with admiration in our home for as far back as I can remember. Their paths have crossed in and out each other’s lives over the years, sparked by a shared love of the restaurant business; my father a restaurateur in New York City and David, in Dublin and the Southwest Coast of Ireland.

    Though their roots and I suspect hearts, have never left Ireland, David and his bride Maureen relocated to the U.S. some years back, where they married. David has followed his passion. A career he has always loved, working once again back at the helm of the restaurant world, this time in New York City. Three beautiful children followed.

    The family is visiting this Sunday afternoon for a day in the suburbs. The atmosphere is relaxed, one of contentment, the kind that old friendships evoke. And the sweet rhythm of life plays on.

    Shortly thereafter, it all falls apart.

    It was a day like any other. A visit to New York’s Central Park. A far cry from the emerald green hills of Ireland, but a reprieve from the city’s endless skyscrapers, nonetheless. As the boys played, a Rabbi who was seated on a nearby bench approaches Maureen. “Your son,” he says, motioning to David, “is ill. You must bring him to a doctor.”

    And with those words, a family’s life changed forever…

    For years and years I forget this family my parents held so dear and the tragedy of young David, who shortly thereafter the Rabbi’s omen, was diagnosed with Leukemia. And at age eight years, while back home in Ireland where his family had returned, quietly slipped from this world.

    I had forgotten this family from my childhood and the sadness that be-felled them, until the arrival of an email, written more than a half century later. A letter, that I now understand, returned them to me.

    It was written from a now grown Aideen, the baby in that long ago photograph, who was seeking my help. Did I have any photographs or stories of David from their family’s visits to us in New York?

    A string of emails followed, chasing the years.

    We spoke of our parents now gone, and their everlasting friendship. Of our current lives and families; Aideen’s in Ireland and mine in Connecticut. She talked of her three siblings; two younger sisters who were born back in Ireland after the family’s return and her older brother who had remained in Ireland to raise a family. We touched on the good times and bad, the highs and the lows, the laughter and the tears.

    Aideen and David

    We spoke of her brother David.

    It would be his 60th birthday on December 20th, of this year. His mother Maureen, who perhaps bore the brunt of losing David more deeply than the rest of the family, never spoke of the loss of her first born son. It was simply too painful. So Aideen and her siblings carried on, from childhood to adults, with just a scant memory of an older brother they never really had the chance to know.

    But now, all these years later, Aideen felt it time to not just remember David, but to celebrate him.

    We felt it only fitting to meet at the beloved Irish establishment Rosie O’Grady’s in Midtown Manhattan, where both our fathers and families had worked together so many years before. And we had little doubt their spirit was with us that night, pleased to see we had reunited once again. A friendship found, through one departed.

    “He brought us together you know,” Aideen said to me later that evening as we stood on the corner of West 51st street, saying our goodbyes. And amid the backdrop of the bright lights of Radio City Music Hall, I snapped the below photograph, to prove her right.

    A gift to David, on his 60th birthday.

    Aideen (left) and me, NYC Aug 2025

    The Soup Thief

    This afternoon I visited the small market that inspired this story. There was a chill in the air which prompted the need to re-share with all my fellow soup lovers…

    Day One – Torture. It is nearing lunchtime and I am missing my daily fix. Surely I can make it till dinner. Or can I?

    Day Two – I am ashamed to say that I broke down and drove past the store, but success! did not enter, just circled, three times…

    Day Three – The cravings have ceased and I have scheduled an exercise class for the same time I usually case the store, though it is unfortunately, directly across the street.

    I am addicted to soup. There I have said it. They say that is the first step.

    It began in those formative years of childhood. My mother a soup lover herself made it a family staple. My son’s kindergarten “All about me” poster highlights “Tomato soup with a touch of milk” as his favorite food. He and his brother still have soup almost daily for lunch. I just heard of a study that claims as an adult, you crave those foods you loved most as a baby and youngster. I have loved soup for as far back as I can remember. Zesty Tomato, the steamy, soothing broth of Chicken Noodle, the silky smoothness of “The Creams”… Cream of Chicken, Cream of Celery, Cream of Mushroom, Chowders, both Manhattan and New England battled for top dog in my dreams. When I was bitten by a Dalmatian as a child, I recall the calming words of my father as we drove home…”we will make you a nice bowl of soup.” Yes, I love soup. So the day I discovered a certain market in a certain area of Connecticut that offered complimentary samples of their soups, I was hooked.

    But then it turned dark. What began as a simple game of choice spun out of control as I found myself visiting the store often on a daily basis for a quick sample of the fabulous soup. I could never have just one.

    The “sample” turned into two, then three as I maniacally went from pot to pot, ladle in hand. I had different routines. Sometimes, I would stand and sample all six choices at a time. Other days, I would ladle one sample into the small Dixie cup set out for those customers who could indeed have just one, and cruise the store casually, cup in hand pretending to find other groceries on my list. On good days, there would only be two soups of the six whose flavor struck my fancy. On bad days which was more the norm, I was torn between all six, repeating the sampling of my favorite ones again and again. When Manhattan Clam Chowder was set out, I could go easily through four dixies.. The travesty of this whole affair was that after my obsessive sampling, I was no longer hungry enough to buy a cup of soup and ended up leaving the store with one or two other needless items I picked up hastily, guilt ridden. I could not help it you see. I really intended to buy a cup of the soup but as each sample turned into one more delicious than its predecessor I found I could not stop, all the while wary of a hidden camera or wily store manager who would pop out from behind the fruit stand and accost me “You!!! NO MORE SAMPLES! We are on to you!”

    Yes, I had become one of those people I would watch at Costco or Stew Leonards as they lingered at the sample cart, wolfing yet another pig in a blanket, then circling and returning not ten minutes later for the second tasting. Lunch in samples. I had hit rock bottom. I was that person. I was a soup thief.

    I often drive by that market and recall the soup bar. I pray that I am not the feature attraction at the company holiday party. I visualize a group of employees, eggnog in hand, a happy hour of sorts at my expense. They revel around the television as the tape plays. They pause, freeze, then replay again amid snide comments: “Watch how she walks to Produce, picks up a head of lettuce and then circles back again for another “taste” of the hot and sour!” Howls of laughter. “I wonder what happened to that lady, she never comes in anymore…” I squelch the delusion and pray it is only that. I feel relieved I have conquered my addiction. I no longer frequent the store.

    I was in Stop and Shop yesterday and spotted their soup bar. Three simple choices of soup were set out in a tidy row, their steam and flavorful aroma beckoning shoppers. I approached the soup bar, my heart pounding. There were no cups for sampling.

    I was saved.

    Where have you gone, Uncle John?

    I remember how he would greet us, his four young nieces, with a cock of his head and a shy smile. Then without fail, that playful wink of his eye. And every time he winked at me, I felt like the most important person in the world.

    On each and every visit to our Long Island home, he held a gift, generally a box of chocolates, tucked under one arm, and topped off with a simple tidy bow, for he would never dishonor my mother and arrive with “one hand as long as the other,” a favorite of her Irish expressions and a nod to proper etiquette.

    Fresh off the boat from Ireland, the world was full of promise and dreams yet realized for my Uncle John. He had immigrated to America, like his older sister before him, to settle in Woodside, Queens where a job in construction awaited. Across the Irish Sea he came, to a land far different from the green fields of his home in Cloone, County Leitrim. And a new life beckoned.

    I can see him clearly still, sitting quietly at our round white Formica kitchen table, contentedly reading the Irish newspapers as my mother prepared his breakfast. Always the same; a poached egg on one slice of toast and a cup of tea. For that he was grateful. I could see it in his eyes as he nodded at my mother as she placed the plate in front of her younger brother. A gentle and modest man he visited our family’s home once or twice a month, the frequency I imagine, having something to do with how far the scale tipped toward loneliness at any particular point in time.

    And then he would be gone. No chocolates, no comforting wink, often, for months at a time. “Where is he,? Where is my Uncle John,?” I would query my mother, staring up at her intently with the innocent eyes of a six year old, who nevertheless, demanded an answer.

    On some days when I asked her of my uncle she would turn from me but not before I glimpsed her eyes, dampened and shiny with tears. On other occasions when he went missing for a particularly long stint, she would simply retreat to her bedroom too distraught to respond to interrogation and I imagine as well, to quell the pain of a missing brother no longer shielded from the woes of the world by her fierce and protective arms.

    But then he would return. Once again sitting at the same kitchen table, fork in hand, eating his poached egg on that single piece of toast made lovingly by his sister. On some days I noticed his hand would tremble as he lifted the cup of tea, served in my mother’s finest Lenox china, as beautiful and strong as her love for him.

    And in that moment, all was right once again.

    As the ebb and flow of life rose and fell over the passing years, my uncle John’s visits became a wee less frequent. And as I grew older, I at last learned the reason for his absences and my mother’s periodic sadness. “Your uncle has a disease,” she told us, “a terrible disease of drink, an affliction called Alcoholism.” And I learned that day that his sickness, was harder than most to conquer as there existed no pill or tonic to ease his pain. A terrible life sentence for her younger brother, my sweet Uncle John, whose cure required the mental strength of Goliath.

    It has been three months..six months..eight months now. The longest stretch he has gone missing. I carefully watch my mother. Her mood shifts with time. In the early months, worry. And as the hands of time advance, desperation, followed by a simple aching sorrow. And in the end, the helpless inevitability of acceptance.

    Her brother John, forever gone.

    My mother never did learn what became of my uncle as it was likely he had lost all forms of identification during his drinking bouts. A face without a name, a body never found and tips from people who had known him from the neighborhood, that never quite panned out.

    A man’s life ended. The hows and the whys forever unknown.

    “He is probably buried in some pauper’s field,” my mother lamented as I sat on the edge of her bed one particularly bleak afternoon as she cried. For it was certain now, my Uncle John had died. And then she told me a story. A story which few knew. A story, which broke my heart.

    Before he came to the U.S., my Uncle John was in love and planning to marry a local Irish girl. But then, a dismaying discovery; his fiancee was a distant cousin. So distant in fact no one could quite trace the lineage. But it mattered little. Being a small town in rural Ireland, gossip often ran rampant. My mother said my uncle was mercilessly chided by all who learned the tale. They insisted he could never marry this young girl whose heart he held so dear. He too agreed and came to the realization it was not to be. Beaten down, my uncle John broke off the engagement and headed to America with a deep and profound sadness as heavy as the trunk that accompanied him. Shortly thereafter, his struggles with alcohol began, perhaps in trying to dull the memory of his one true love and a life together that would never be.

    I often think of my mother and her heartache in losing her youngest brother with an ending always left untold. I wish I had thought to suggest a memorial for my gentle Uncle John, but never did. I am sorry for that, mom.

    But though sadness engulfed his later life, I will remember my sweet Uncle John and his visits to my mother. His generous nature forever recalled in those cherished boxes of chocolates and heartfelt winks, bestowed so generously in happier days☘️

    Amazing Grace

    I remember her laugh. That mirthful, contagious laughter which often caused her eyes to well up with tears as she relayed one of her many tales. She loved a funny story.

    Some days I drive slowly down Catbrier Lane, past her old house. It holds new owners now, people I have never known. Her family have long departed. As falling burnt orange and red leaves dance in the breeze amid the ubiquitous, grinning and glowing Jack-o-lanterns, I remember too, how she loved Halloween.

    Twelve years have come and gone but that day is still etched in memory. The day life became a shade grayer, following the news that my beautiful friend Grace had without warning, departed this world at 49 years of age.

    I had just seen her the day before, as always, a vision of fortitude and strength. She asked me to meet her at a furniture store where she had placed a large, antique mirror on hold. Could I help her get it into her car? And then the next morning, when she complained of back pain I reasoned it was from of course, moving that big mirror.  

    By nightfall, she was gone.

    We met at drop off on the first day of nursery school. And then as the years rolled on, we found ourselves again entwined when both our children now in their teens, joined a springboard diving team in a neighboring town. And a friendship which began slowly, progressed from the occasional wave in the market to daily phone calls, often exceeding an hour in length.

    In an age of computers and texting, I loved those phone calls. We delighted in discovering commonalities from our youth—how we both loved teen idol Scott Baio and the dreamy David Cassidy or debating the merits of which was the better beach? the Jersey Shore (her choice being a Jersey girl) or Jones Beach (mine, growing up on Long Island). I would cradle the phone under my chin as I made the beds, never wanting to hang up as there was always just one more story. And always more laughter.

    Her tough façade shielded a gentle heart. She once trapped a possum that was ravaging her vegetable garden, in a cage she had purchased at The Home Depot. That was so Grace. Why call a professional when she could do it herself? The next morning as she crept up to check the cage, she was devastated to discover that in trapping the creature, it had perished. As she dejectedly opened the trap door, the possum sprang out. She laughed and laughed as she told me she had forgotten that possums played dead.

    Grace was steadfast and unwavering in her beliefs; a formidable participant in any discussion.

    A topic that came up frequently between us was the amount of driving time needed to arrive at a certain locale. We often carpooled together to diving practice and Grace claimed it took her no more than twenty minutes from her home to the YMCA, wherein I would argue that was impossible, as our house was closer and I could not get to the Y in less than twenty five. There were never any loud arguments or bad feeling, just a persistent impasse.

    “Perhaps you drive faster than me?” I would remark. And she would confidently smile and say, “No, 20 minutes door to door . . .” and so it went on for years, the debate of distance with no declared winner, just a constant volley between us.

    Her two favorite words were “divine” and “fantastic,” which she used in abandon. You felt like there was nothing she could not accomplish. She was the definition of a doer, a ying to my yang.  Confrontational, strong, never wavering in her beliefs.  

    Loyal, funny, and protective, she loved Hugh Grant movies, Estate Sales and the city of London where she had lived for a period during her single years. She cherished her childhood friend Diana, who shared her Polish heritage of which she was so proud. Her joy was hosting summer barbecue pool parties, always being among those she loved. She visited the ocean at any chance possible and delighted in finding exotic locales for family vacations.

    Above all, Grace loved her family, the true joy and light of her life. And there is no doubt her spirit, strength and determination live on through her two daughters Maren and Devon, who I have watched grow into beautiful young women.

    Although I will not see my cherished friend again in this world, I keep close to me the memories of her voice, mannerisms, and of course, that laughter. If I am to take anything away from this tremendous loss it is that age-old advice that life is fleeting. I am not one for hugging, but what I would give to hug her one last time and tell her how happy she made my life during our short time together.

    And during those times when I don’t feel her near, I ponder where her spirit may be. And then, a vision comes which goes something like this . . .

    A calm, deep, soothing voice is heard, “Grace, it is time to leave to greet our new friends. It will take you 15 minutes to reach the gate, and if the clouds are thick, it may take some extra time . . .”

    A steady, confident voice replies, “It takes only ten minutes. I have been there twice now and there is no way it takes more than ten minutes.” The voice begins to object but then reconsiders. She has not been here very long, but he is already aware of her capabilities. That is one of the reasons he chose her for this job. He responds calmly, “Very good, Grace, I trust your judgment.”

    We all did.

    Magic Drinks

    ROCHESTER, September 26 — Eastman Kodak Company today announced its intent to stop making and selling slide projectors by June 2004.

    “The Kodak slide projector has been a hallmark for quality and ubiquity, used for decades to produce the best in audio visual shows throughout the world,” the company said. “However, in recent years, slide projectors have declined in usage, replaced by alternative projection technologies.”

    One of my happiest and most comforting memories of childhood was our family slide shows. 

    These coveted movie nights which generally took place once a year, consisted of nothing more than three simple ingredients:  a blank wall  in our living room, a Kodak carousel slide projector with my father at the mast and myself and three sisters,  huddled on the sofa,  pressed together in anticipation like peas in a pod.  My mother, who had seen the slide shows too many times to mention, usually busied herself with other things, occasionally stopping in to comment on a particularly beloved picture.  Prior to turning off the lights, my father would announce in a deep theatrical voice “Who wants a magic drink?”

    They were always different in taste and made from whatever struck his fancy that night; orange juice with a splash of pineapple juice and Grenadine or perhaps apple juice and ginger ale with a jigger of seltzer.  The ingredients were unimportant.  It was the anticipation of what was to be and the lovely ritual of our movie night routine that we cherished.  Those magic drinks were just part of the show.

    There was always one slide, without fail, that was turned upside down. This would halt the show momentarily, as my father with a slightly frustrated “tsk” would right the renegade slide. And we were ready to go once again.

    I loved that Kodak carousel projector and the faded yellow boxes of slides stacked beside it. They were never labeled so each reel was a surprise in itself.  Who might appear on the screen that night was anyone’s guess — my six or sixteen year old self?  Our first family pet Bubbles the beagle, or our gentle giant of a Great Dane we called Jenny?  My mother posing on the beach in her youth, or proudly cradling her first grandchild? The lack of chronology only added to the experience.

    Some days, in the quiet of my mind, I can still hear the slow deliberate click of the projector, advancing slowly, telling without words the story of our life.  Slide to slide, toddler to teenager, mother to grandmother, youth to twilight.  An entire lifetime displayed on the wall of the darkened living room.

    When my parents died, I cared about no other of their possessions except that time warped machine that could somehow transform me back to family vacations, birthday parties and people and places no more.  With my sister’s blessings, I brought it to my own home with the promise to bring it to family gatherings, a carousal reunion of sort.  Though it is yet to be.  It sits up on a shelf in an unused room.  I have taken it down one or two times in a half-hearted attempt to have my own family slide show but then, as it spits and jams due to age, return it in frustration to the loneliness of the upstairs closet.  I have made myself a promise. I will find a way to restore that Kodak Carousel to the beauty of its youth.  

    And I will mix once again, those magic drinks..

    The Marvelous, Mystical Cure of a Bath

    What is your favorite hobby or pastime?

    “There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.”

    Sylvia Plath

    I am addicted to baths. It began in my childhood, at what age I cannot say for certain. I can envision myself and my two sisters bobbing around in our bathtub, a simple no frills fixture unlike the whirlpool spas of today. My mother, who instilled this love of baths in us, laid peacefully center.  It was those calming waters which somehow righted every wrong and made life at the end of the day oh so much more delightful.  “Can you start the tub?” we would call to my mother nightly and upon hearing the rumble of the water racing through the faucet, would immediately feel comforted.

    As I grew into older childhood my nightly baths and love of, continued.  I remember bringing into the tub different props for amusement. My fondest memory involve the Barbie dolls which I would plunge into the water, their perfect bodies and pointed toes gracefully leaping from the soap holder which I would use as a makeshift diving board.

    When I left for college I realized with some dismay, that my nightly baths ritual would become a thing no more. Bathing in a dorm bathroom shared by who knows how many others was something I did not find appealing – not to mention the cleanliness factor. Yes sadly, my nightly baths ceased upon entering freshman year in college and were promptly replaced by a shower.

    Yet one night, the old urge struck. Returning from a night out and perhaps one Tequila Sunrise too many, I made my way to the dorm bathroom.  Perfect! At 3AM on a weekday there was not a soul in sight. I undressed and proceeded to the sink, my towel tightly wrapped around me. As I began to brush my teeth I felt the towel slipping. As it fell to the floor I was faced with two choices: pick it up immediately or finish brushing and then retrieve the towel.  Given the late hour and the desolateness of the dorm, I opted for the latter – my fatal mistake. As if in a dream I watched the bathroom door swing open to reveal a tall sleepy male, no doubt someone’s boyfriend as my dorm was all women. His eyes, which only moments before were half slits were now golf balls as he gaped at me standing before him, stark nude, tooth-brush still in hand.  I shrieked, tore past him and jumped on my roommate’s bed. Babbling and breathless I attempted to explain to her what still rates as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.  Oh bath, how could you have forsaken me?

    When I became engaged and began staying overnight at my fiance’s apartment I learned the meaning of true love.  Craving my bath one night, I mentioned that his tub did not seem well, completely clean.  I asked where I could find his cleaning supplies. “Do you have to have a bath every night?” he asked with some annoyance as he disappeared into the kitchen. Returning with a can of Comet and scrub brush he for the next 15 minutes, painstakingly cleaned the tub for me. And with that gesture, I knew I was marrying the right man.

    I have two sons who have inherited their mother and grandmother’s love of baths.  I can hear the water running nightly and I have caught them filling up the tub to play their own Barbie doll type of diving game but instead they use pencils.  They catapult the pencils off the side of the tub in their own game of acrobatics.  At any hour, morning or night, at the slightest hint of a stomach ache or joint discomfort from sports, a tub is running.  Aqua therapy of sort. 

    I realize this is a luxury in our society and lecture them on the number and length of time spent in the bath.  But it often falls on deaf ears as my son races in from school, drops his back pack in the corner and heads up to the bathroom to turn on the bath.  He too understands the healing of the waters.

    My adult bath ritual has changed only slightly since childhood.  I still take one every single night, but instead of the Barbies I bring one guilty pleasure which I lay on the side of the tub; four Hershey Chocolate kisses.  My second favorite comfort in life.

    The wit, courage, love, perseverance and humor of the Irish, particularly, my dearly departed mother☘️

    What aspects of your cultural heritage are you most proud of or interested in?

    “On the Road Again”

    “Your mother,” began Jimmy Dillon, who sat contentedly perched on the bar stool next to mine.

    It was Christmas Eve and the atmosphere rang of reunion and festivity. Publicans was our beloved hometown bar; a place where many had enjoyed their first legal drink and to where they returned once again on these holiday weekends, to bask in friendship and bygone days.

    I studied Jimmy, a boy I had known briefly from my neighborhood who had gone on in later years to become a fire fighter. Close to 50 now, his twinkling blue eyes and shock of red hair still mirrored his sixteen year old self. He continued on, his tone a mixture of fondness and fear. “Probably the nicest woman I have ever met, but the day she picked me when I was walking home from school? I saw my life pass before my eyes!”

    He took a long swig of his beer in an attempt to quell the memory then proceeded to emulate how my mother would ask him a question while driving and then turn full around to where he sat in the back seat, to hear his answer. He weaved and bobbed on the bar stool his hands flailing wildly as he re-lived the moment. The last thing I remember him saying as he made his way into the crowd was “would you give her my best? She was just the nicest lady…”

    My mother

    We had heard it all before you see, my sisters and I, as my mother was somewhat of a legend for her driving. Our father perhaps bore the brunt of these mishaps most deeply while fielding numerous phone calls in regards to the fender benders my mother had incurred over the years.  Our Insurance Agent, Joe Kilhenny, was a fixture at many our family’s Sunday barbeques and in later years attended my wedding.

    Growing up on a farm in rural Leitrim my mother’s mode of transportation was her trusty bicycle which she rode around the countryside. She often described a nearby orchard where she would stop and pick apples on her way to school.  I remember how she laughed at the memory of being chased by a farmer after tucking a choice few into her pocket one visit.

     In her mid-twenties she left her cherished Ireland for New York City and became a pediatric nurse at St. Vincent’s hospital in Greenwich Village. Meeting my father shortly thereafter, they married had four daughters and settled in a suburb of Long Island. And for a good awhile she survived without the need to drive, walking to the nearby market and relying on the kindness of friends when needed.  But as the years passed the kitchen calendar grew full. Sports, birthday parties, doctor’s appointments, the rhythm of life – all requiring a car and a licensed driver. She could put it off no longer. And so it began.

    It is always debated among our family exactly how many times she took her road test.  We settled at nine though the exact number will always be a mystery. The eighth time she failed, her fiercely loyal best friend Eileen Anello, outraged at the injustice of it all claimed she “knew a judge.” And whether by the hand of god, my mother’s ability or that nameless judge, my mother at 50 years of age at last passed her road test.

    When I was in Middle School, she drove through the McGuire’s backyard. Claiming the road was slippery from a recent rain, she careened through some hedges, jumped a curb and stopped dead set in the middle of the tidy backyard. Finding no one home she left a note with her name and number, no other explanation needed. The chant of “your mother drove through the McGuire’s backyard!!” echoing through the school bus, haunted me and my three sisters for years.

    Our Irish wolfhound caught on early.  We never knew exactly what happened but one day after numerous trips driving with my mother to the dog field, he stubbornly refused to get in the car. Nothing worked. Tugging, pushing or being cajoled with dog treats. He was done.

    In our early months of dating my future husband was unaware of my mother’s driving escapades. Visiting our home for the first time through the garage he noticed a refrigerator positioned against the back wall sporting a severely dented door. Entering the house he asked my father, “Bill, what happened to that refrigerator’s door in the garage?” Without looking up from his paper came the weary reply, “Oh, Mary uses the fridge as a measuring device of sorts. When she gives it a good whack, she knows she has pulled in completely.”

    Then there was the time my sister was homesick at college and my mother as mothers often do, came to the rescue. Never mind we lived in New York and my sister’s college was in Pennsylvania or that my mother had never before driven on a major interstate highway. There was no question she would go. So she called on the service of her best friend Lily, an Irish cousin who lived close by and in their youth grew up on an adjoining farm. And off they went that Saturday morning, my mother at the wheel and Lily riding shotgun, to visit my homesick sister.  As night fell, I watched my father pace back and forth. It was before cell phones and I had never before seen him so nervous. He clearly realized the seriousness of the situation. And then a phone call from my sister…Mom and Lily had arrived!  They were a little later than expected having ended up first in the state of Ohio due to a wrong turn but all was well as they prepared to go to dinner. I always wondered if Lily had aged a few years during that ride to Villanova University as I believe we all did.

    Though my mother had a series of accidents throughout her life, what saved her I believe was the fact that she always drove far under the speed limit, an unseen angel on her shoulder or the brake pedal. A good deal of the trouble was that her attention was simply elsewhere, like the day she sheared off the side view mirror of a parked car while adjusting the radio to her favorite Irish station. My sister described turning back to see a dangling mirror as they drove onward, my mother blissfully unaware of the damage left behind. They returned to leave a note on the battered car’s windshield. It too a silent victim.

    My wonderful mother has since left this world but her memory lives on in all who knew and loved her.  I see her now, in a faraway place and time still charming all with her brogue and angling at any chance possible, to get behind the wheel once again.

    ”I am happy to drive down to the gate to pick up our new visitors,” my mother offers. God ponders a moment always touched by her helpful nature. But he is a realist. “Well thank you Mary but it is a beautiful day. Perhaps you could ride down to meet them on your bicycle?” My mother smiles. If disappointed it does not show. She always did love riding her bicycle