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Songs my Father Sang

One of my most treasured memories of my father was when he would sing to us.

His serenades were not a constant, but occurred spontaneously, generally while he was driving. The destinations of those day trips I cannot recall. What I do remember is the feelings his singing evoked; safety, comfort, simple happiness, like stepping out your front door after a particularly harsh winter to the first embrace of springtime.

And when my father sang, the world could do no wrong.

His repertoire was vast and varied and his choice of song could fluctuate depending on his mood in that particular moment of time. Though not a professional singer, he could hold a tune quite nicely. His voice, deep and strong, betrayed just a hint of a Scottish accent, and always sounded just a wee bit higher in pitch when he sang of his beloved homeland.

Although his mother was Irish born and his love of Ireland fierce, my father’s favorite tune undoubtedly, was “Loch Lomond,” a traditional Scottish folk song.

“By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,
Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond
Where me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.”

And my father, a poet at heart, would never fail to share the meaning of those melancholy lyrics involving two Scottish prisoners of war, one to be released and the other to be hung. The high road represented the normal road of life and the low road represented the road that the soldier sentenced to death would take, his soul returning to his homeland in the highlands.

On some days my father quoted strange, yet interestingly captive poems I recall to this day:

‘Who killed Cock Robin? I said the sparrow, with my bow and arrow. I killed Cock Robin.’ That one never quite sat well with me as a child or for that matter an adult, as I could never bear the thought of the robin being speared.

When in a whimsical mood, my father might sing this nonsensical children’s song of which I still know not the meaning, yet it never failed to lighten the mood if someone was having a bad day:

“Oh! Mairzy doats and dozy doats
And liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too, wouldn’t you?

And how can I forget the many romantic songs my father sang? I recall one tune performed by Perry Como which my father sang often…”I wonder whose kissing her now?” Though as a child, I often pondered from the back seat of our station wagon, why my father would be kissing another woman…

And then there was the Louie Armstrong number he loved, “Oh when we’re dancing and you’re dangerously near, I get ideas. I get ideas…”

Or, the slightly more madcap and risque: “Cigarettes! and Whiskey! and wild, wild women. They’ll drive you crazy they’ll drive you insane!” The tune so catchy, my toddler sister would sometimes sing along, much to my mother’s dismay.

Another selection my father sang throughout his life, was from the classic movie, “My Fair Lady.” An uplifting song I too found so lovely, that I chose it for the dance with my father on my wedding day:

“On the Street Where You Live”

“I have often walked down this street before
But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before
All at once am I, several stories high
Knowing I’m on the street where you live”

When his four daughters prepared to leave home for college, my father had a ritual, this one too in song. He never failed to serenade us with this Scottish favorite, delivered in his native tongue. Entitled:

“We’re no awa’tae bide awa”

Whose translation, goes something like this: “Oh, we are not away to stay away, We are not away to leave you. We are not away to stay away. We will always come back and see you.” And as our family gathered around the dining room table the night before the departure, my father would raise a glass and in that high pitched tone, sing these words earnestly in tribute. My mother, understandably sad a daughter was leaving home, did not share his enthusiasm and often left the table in tears but not before casting a few choice words at my father. But he never wavered, delivering the lyrics without a hint of sadness or woe, as was his nature.

And I will forever love that Scottish sentiment of leaving – but always coming home.

He often sang “My Darling Clementine” a song which told the tale of a miner who lost his daughter to drowning and whose tragedy always tugged at my heartstrings…

“Oh, my darlin, oh my darlin, oh my darlin, Clementine. You are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine..”

And Stephen Foster’s gorgeous yet forlorn, “Beautiful Dreamer..”

“Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee,
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
Lulld by the moonlight have all passed away!”

There is one more song, which when I hear it present day, brings back the spirit of my father; the pining, sentimental lyrics of “Seasons in the Sun,” a worldwide one hit wonder made famous in the 1970’s by singer Terry Jacks.

“We had joy we had fun we had seasons in the sun but the wine and the song like the seasons all have gone… All our life we had fun we had seasons in the sun but the stars we could reach were just starfish on the beach…”

My dear dad himself departed this world, far too soon… But not without one last song to be sung.

On one of my last visits to see him, I slowly walked that bleak and sterile hospital hallway, knowing my father was nearing the end of his life. Approaching his room I paused. There it was. That distinct high pitched voice in serenade. Entering, I saw my sister in the corner and his three grandchildren neatly tucked beside him.

And knowing his days were dear, he sang to us the song he loved.“

“You take the high road and I’ll take the low road but I”ll be in Scotland afore ye.” Where wild flowers spring and the wee birdies sing
On the steep, steep side of Loch Lomond”

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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, 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 rather to the woman who lived next door; an Italian born seamstress named Mary Balducci whose name remains, fifty eight years later, forever in my heart.

She would be nearly ninety years old I calculated.  Her husband Alfred had died 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 simple search revealing her address and phone number.  A chance to return to a past lifetime suddenly 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?”

She greeted me in a simple faded housecoat and pink slippers, her black hair still thick and luxurious, defying her ninety one years.  Entering the living room she encouraged, “Come! Walk around! Go upstairs! Look! Remember!”

I tentatively entered her dining room and stood before the breakfront. A memory materializes; 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 gently pulled. The drawer slid open 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 a neat line of row houses materialize and then my eyes fell upon the one I sought out most, my childhood crush, Jimmy 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, now sixteen materializes 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 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 sometimes dreamed of the gray haired lady 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 area 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 and overgrown. And in that moment I felt Uncle Alfred right there 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, the few who remained. I told her about the lives of my sisters with 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 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 these 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 three sisters as children, alongside my beautiful and youthful parents. A picture that if I brought to 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 silently in the corner of my 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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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.

Friendship in the Big Field

Yorkshire Terrier standing in a meadow beneath a countryside sunset

After three years of pleas, promises and prodding, on my thirteenth birthday, my parents gifted me with a twelve-week old, Yorkshire Terrier puppy I had found through an advertisement in the newspaper.

Clutching a buttery soft, sky-blue chenille blanket tucked safely under my pre-teen arm, we departed our Long Island home, my father and I, on a gray and drizzling October evening. The pup was the last of the litter. The “Runt” was the name they called him much to my dismay and we were to pick him up in a fourth floor walk-up apartment, somewhere in Brooklyn, the one borough of New York City unfamiliar to both me and my father. And because he was the last one unclaimed of the four puppies for sale, they cut $25 off the price, for which my father was grateful.

Exiting the Gowanus Parkway we proceeded onward, navigating the dark and winding cobblestone lanes of an unfamiliar and slightly unsettling Brooklyn neighborhood. I glanced at my father’s hands clutching the steering wheel, his knuckles white and strained. It was before the time of GPS and all navigation was done via map or through the talent of a keen sense of direction. My father’s face, which generally bore a carefree and amiable expression, tonight was different, displaying just a hint of uncertainty to which I was unfamiliar.

And as we continued on in the steady rain, which competed with the rhythmic sounds of the windshield wipers, I made a silent pact with myself; I would not forget that my father did this for me. This voyage into unknown territory for a birthday present which brought unbridled and forever joy to his daughter.

And just four hours later, back in the comfort of my Long Island home, all was right again as I cuddled the tiny treasure I named Rascal in my arms.

But this story is not about Rascal or my father. It is about a random woman I met one day in the “big field,” a name our family christened the patch of ground on the outskirts of our Manhasset, Long Island neighborhood, where dogs, young and old, large and small, frolicked in abandon and where I took Rascal each week after school.

I first noticed her standing alone in the big field, deep in thought. She told me her name was May and her manner was brusque, direct and all knowing. An unlikely friendship you might say. A thirteen year old teen and a woman of a certain age, but each bearing a common denominator – owner of a Yorkshire Terrier, the wee but courageous and sometimes fearsome warriors of the dog world.

May knew all things Yorkshire Terrier and enjoyed ticking off a laundry list of dos and don’ts, the breed’s likes and dislikes, the pros and cons of owning the tiny tinkers (a word my Irish mother coined for Rascal). May spoke little of her home life other than she lived nearby and for some reason, I chose not to pry further. There was something I sensed that was to remain unsaid. Our dog connection was all I ever needed to know about May.

One visit to the field, May told me of the importance of constant teeth brushing as the breed was notorious for dental problems and offered to show me the correct way. Since my house was only a stone’s throw from the big field, we drove there. Placing Rascal on the kitchen counter, atop a small towel, toothbrush in hand, May then proceeded to demonstrate the best technique for optimal results. At that exact moment my mother who was out shopping, returned. I will never forget the look she gave me when I introduced my new friend; a stranger, standing in her kitchen brushing our dog’s teeth…

Our friendship continued over the course of a year and then as suddenly as she had appeared, May was gone. We had never exchanged phone numbers as our weekly visits were a constant so I had no way to contact her. I continued visiting the big field with Rascal for several months after May’s unexplained absence, with the hope of once again encountering my Yorki-whisperer friend. And after each visit, would leave in disappointment with a nagging curiosity as to where in the world she went..

And then one day, as I approached the field, I glanced up to see May’s dog, high on a hill, but it was not May he was with, but rather an elderly man. I watched as Rascal raced to greet his canine friend and then gingerly approached the gentleman. He stared at me for a moment or two then said simply, “You must be the girl who met my wife here each week. I am sorry to have to tell you that she died six months ago. She was very sick with cancer.

Then turning to leave he added, “she spoke of you often.” And as I watched him walk away I had the distinct feeling in words unspoken, we would not see each other again.

I still think of May, the “big field,” my long gone Yorkshire Terrier, Rascal and that rainy night my father drove me to Brooklyn.

It is said that people come into your life for a reason, or a season. And you truly never know what another person is going through. May never uttered a word to me of her illness. And although she had no control over her own life struggle, I like to believe that our short time together gave her purpose and meaning in her role as a friend and mentor to a young girl, and two Yorkshire Terriers.

Undercover – Memories of Dating a G-Man

Leather holder with FBI identification card and FBI Agent badge labeled 1234
Just the facts Ma’am

We met them on a balmy summer evening at New York’s South Street Seaport.

In a place and time where the iconic twin towers still loomed tall and proud in the background. And where hoards of young singles, desperate to toss off the woes of a stressful work week, gathered amid the setting sun of New York harbor.

We stood among the after-work crowd that Friday evening, surveying the scene. As always, it was one of sheer jubilance. As my sister Anne and I sipped our “buckets of beer,” compliments of Jeremy’s Ale House, two shadowy figures stood directly opposite us in silence. They looked like any other nine-to-fiver in their dark gray suits and smartly polished shoes but there was something else. Something at the time, I could not quite put my finger on that set them apart. I think it was their eyes, keen and sharp, taking in the crowd not missing a single beat. Rather than a relaxed stance they stood alert, like sentry-men, studying, and without expression, examining the scene of merriment before them. Though there was a calmness in their manner.

Then suddenly, as if deciding to call it a day, their demeanor changed. And in unison, as if they had practiced this move for years, reached into their suit pocket and smoothly placed a pair of Rayban aviators upon their tanned faces as they approached.

“Mine,” was tall and lean with a neatly trimmed mustache, initially to my chagrin, as I generally preferred a clean cut face, yet he was good looking and smiled easily. He held out his hand in greeting and introduced himself as Johnny. I was immediately taken with his voice so velvety smooth which hinted at just a touch of a Midwestern accent when he said my name and certain other words. My sister Anne’s object of interest was William. He was very handsome with a dark, clear complexion and brown eyes so large and expressive, they made you forget he was somewhat short in stature.

As we checked off the laundry list that goes with a first meeting; where you lived, worked, hailed from, I could not help but notice a gesture, that both men made frequently. Leaning in as we spoke they would open their blazer, ever so slightly, just enough to allow a peek of a gun neatly tucked in its holster. I wondered if my sister had noticed their somewhat unusual accessory but I knew she had given the frequency in which they performed the action.

After several minutes of playing “Guess my Profession” which included Policemen, Bounty Hunters, Armored Car Security, and Private Bodyguards, my sister and accepted defeat. “What do you do?” we asked, our curiosity now peaked.

“We work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” came the reply.

Though originally from the Midwest, both men now lived in Manhattan, William ironically in the same East Side apartment complex as my sister and I. We chatted amiably for some time, then parted ways but not before exchanging phone numbers with the promise to get together soon.

Our double dates with the FBI Agents generally took place on a Friday evening. We did not return to the South Street Seaport venue but instead would often drive around the city in Johnny’s Chevy Convertible as he pointed out scenes of the most notorious crimes in the city. It was like having our own personal tour guides displaying the darker side of life. Some evenings we would drive slowly past the locale of one of the most famous mob murders in history; Crazy Joe Gallo at Umberto’s Clam House on Mulberry Street in Little Italy or stop curbside at the infamous Chelsea hotel where Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols murdered his girlfriend, Nancy Spungen. Johnny and William where seasoned historians of these crime-laden landmarks, each bearing a sinister past. And Anne and I, a most captive audience.

Yes, our dates with the FBI agents were far from dull.

I still don’t know if I dreamed it but believe on one occasion, my sister and I may actually have been unintentionally involved in a stake out. We had just viewed the impressive Dakota Hotel on the Upper West Side outside of which John Lennon was tragically gunned down, when William’s pager buzzed. No words were spoken. Johnny simply turned the car around and raced downtown. Apologizing for the disruption he advised we had to make a brief stop. Pulling up to a deserted building, decrepit and dark, we sat curbside. We remained parked in silence for over thirty minutes while Johnny and William studied the building, which was definitely not on the tour. After our second query of “What are we doing here?” we decided it might be best to remain silent. On the ride home, they apologized for the impromptu interruption but never gave us a reason for the strange detour. “Just part of the job” was what I think they said. Both were clearly honorable and professional and would never put us in danger but still I wonder…

I loved their sharpness and intelligence. We could never put anything over on them. One day our close friend Regina was visiting my apartment. While I was down in the laundry room, Johnny happened to call and Regina picked up the phone. When Regina told him I was not around, he asked “with whom am I speaking?” The cleaning woman,” came Regina’s reply. “Really? came Johnny’s measured response. “Why its uncanny. You sound exactly like Kathy’s friend Regina!” He had met Regina just once for five minutes tops, but her voice never left him.

When my sister and I met Johnny and William for dinner the night before our four day trip to Ireland, they playfully remarked, “you girls better not go out with any Irish lads. We have already faxed a copy of both your photos over to our agency in Dublin. Just for safety. They’ll be looking after you…” I glanced at my sister who like me, had no idea if the comment was fact or fiction, but had no doubt as to the scope of their abilities.

Our dalliance with the FBI agents was brief, exciting and memorable. Several months after meeting them, a new assignment in Kansas City took them away from New York and out of our lives forever. We never kept in touch.

Just yesterday, I thought about Johnny and William. They were kind, clever, amusing, smart, capable, protective; a credit to their profession. And I have to admit, it is always fun to tell people I dated an FBI Agent.

I sometimes wonder, almost forty years later, what became of the two. What do they look like now? Where do they live? Are they still with the bureau?

I could look them up on Social Media, and in an instant find the answers to my questions.

Just one quick glimpse…

But on second thought, I refrain.

Best to keep it classified.

The Day the Music Died

Re-sharing this story on Kay’s 62nd birthday…

It is 6:45 AM and the sun is slowly rising over the hospital’s still silent campus. Entering the conference room for morning report, I wonder as I always do, what type of day is in store. But the moment my eyes fall upon my fellow Psych Tech and friend, Kay Bauer, seated at the table, her hair adorned in two, tiny sparkling pink butterfly clips, I have no doubt it is going to be a good one.

I am not sure which of Kay’s many talents would take first prize; her epic guitar playing, “you hum it, I’ll strum it,” her way of making everyone she encountered feel like they were the most important person in the world, her endless witticisms, her generosity. The unique way of throwing her voice to mimic barking which never failed to produce a confused search by all, of a dog, that never materialized. The list goes on… Yet sprinkled in all of her talents was a humility and kindness seldom seen in one so accomplished. That was Kay.

We would sit together in the hospital dining room during meals, as the patients called out song requests. The selections wildly varied. From Frank Sinatra, to the Eagles, to Lynyrd Skynrd, Kay accommodated all. Her guitar playing delighted and soothed, with the unique capability of changing a patient’s mood from distraught to joyful, with just a few verses. I too benefited from her playing, requesting many of my own favorite 80’s rock songs, which she never once refused. I loved those days sitting with Kay, I too healed by her music, magically transported back to a time in youth, with one simple song.

Kay loved Duchess for lunch and always asked me and anyone else working that day, what she could bring back. Her favorite was undoubtedly the chicken tenders and I would happily steal one or two, upon her return which she would place on the desk of the nursing station, for all to enjoy. I am a soup lover and on more than one occasion, she would return with a large container of Chicken Rice, that I had never asked for, absolutely refusing to accept the money she had paid for it.

She owned a variety of beautiful hand held fans which I often admired. One morning she bestowed me with a brilliantly colored one, adorned with flowers. In return, during the Covid pandemic, I gifted her with a hand painted mask, bearing a guitar. Another time, I gave her an Irish worry stone, a favorite souvenir of mine from Ireland, whose smooth marble was said to alleviate worries. She told me she kept it close at all times.

But it was her affect on our patients I believe, I will remember most. Beloved and cherished by countless, she recently showed me a book sent to her by an ex-patient and author, who had written a note of gratitude for something which came so naturally to Kay, she was not even sure what she had done to merit it.  I recall her on the busiest of days, foregoing her break to sit with a struggling patient who after their talk, never failed to be brighter and more hopeful. A young patient once approached me during my shift, asking for the guitar to play during his free time. When I responded that I did not know he had a guitar on the unit, he replied that Kay had brought in one of her own, for him to use at any time needed.

Kay’s greatest joy in life was her only child. She told me of her pride in a recent 21st birthday and the celebration they enjoyed together. Her second favorite thing in life I believe, was performing in a band, and how grateful she was having been recently asked to join a new one. She would often tell me stories of her days at a venue called Crave, which I have little doubt were among the best of her life, doing what she loved, making people happy.

At the hospital, we ask patients during group, to name one thing they are grateful for. Mine, for today and always, is having known Kay Bauer.

I am saddened at the loss of my friend. Her light, humor, generosity and spirit will remain with me always. And I imagine at this moment, in a different place and time, a group of people stand, patiently waiting. Young and old, tall and short, far too many too count. Lining up, they are all eager to put in a request for a favorite tune. And in the middle of the crowd, guitar in hand, sits Kay, her twinkling blue eyes smiling. She is more than happy to oblige.



The Gymnastics Game

Nadia Comaneci

In the summer of 1976, at the ripe old age of fourteen, my best friend Janet and I signed up for an eight week Gymnastics class offered on Tuesday nights at the Buckley Country Day School. The Buckley school boasted a fine and renown reputation offering rigorous training in all things gymnastics; the beauty and creative routine of floor exercise, the breathtaking allure of the uneven bars and the heart thumping thrill of the “pommel horse,” a contraption with a soft bench and two bars used to hoist yourself airborne.

Yes, our excitement unlike those treacherous uneven bars was unparalleled and dreams of acrobatic excellence not yet achieved but now within reach, all consuming.

The eight week class flew by in a flash but did little to cure our love of gymnastics. Obsessed with the recent 1976 Olympic miracle performance of the tiny, Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci, who scored both perfect tens and the love of the world-over, we made a silent pact that we too, with a little practice, could become Gymnast proteges. But this time our training took place through our own device, performed in the tidy green grass of my Long Island back yard. The only instructors being Janet and myself.

Clad in leotards, ponytails and ballet tights we would take turns scoring each other, following strict Olympic style as we delivered a numerical award ranging from one, to ten. We created home-made score cards to hold up when the performance was complete and placed a simple lawn chair front and center to aid in the comfort of the judge.

“Four and a half!” Janet would announce authoritatively and with absolute finality as she held up her scorecard upon completion of my routine. “You didn’t point your toes!”

On more than one afternoon, those Saturday sessions we dubbed “The Gymnastics Game” would end hastily, tearfully, following angry words and hurt feelings due to a low score or particularly harsh criticism delivered.

We were never quite able to agree on what constituted the perfect toe point…

There is one particular Saturday, while playing “the Gymnastics Game” on that jade green lawn with Janet, in the comfort of my Long Island backyard so very long ago, that I will remember, oh so vividly.

Janet was judging. Poised to begin my routine, and fueled by a surge of confidence and zeal. I stood tall on tip toes, and stretched my arms high to the summer sky. Racing across the lawn, I bellowed for affect, shrieking at the top of my lungs…. “NADIA COMANECHI!!!!!!!! Completing a cartwheel, round off and forward front summersault I landed firmly on the ground in front of Janet’s chair my arms once again, raised to the heaven’s in triumph and glory.

But something was wrong.

Janet’s face was beet red, laughing wordlessly, tears streaming down her face. She pointed discreetly, toward the distance of the lawn behind me.

Spinning around, I came face to face with Jimmy Johns, our lawn boy and neighbor, still clad in his senior Eagle Scout uniform, gripping the lawn mower. His be-speckled face sported an expression of both shock and interest. I shall leave it to you, dear reader to interpret what he saw but let’s just say my leotard had shifted upward considerably, no doubt a result of the theatrics of the arm raising. One might say I had given Jimmy a “rear” glimpse, far more interesting than that, as the old saying goes, of watching the grass grow.

I still love gymnastics. Janet to my good fortune, still remains my best friend. We often reminisce about “the Gymnastics Game” played in my Manhasset back yard, now, over fifty years ago.

We had so much fun.

In honor of my sixtieth birthday, while celebrating in Florida, I did a cartwheel on the beach. I sent the video clip to Janet.

“It was definitely not a perfect ten,” she said authoritatively.

“Your toes were not pointed.”

The Summer Wind

Joe and I at a friend’s wedding

He answered after the third ring.

It was not his voice I remember, but the strains of Frank Sinatra crooning in the background.

“The summer wind came blowin’ in
From across the sea
It lingered there to touch your hair
And walk with me”

And when he did at last speak, his voice was direct, suspicious, no-nonsense. “Yes, this is Joe. Who is this? I can’t hear a thing. Can you hold a minute? I just need turn the music down.”

That’s how it began. My fast and furious friendship with Joe Nephew.

My roommate’s mother, Joanie Johnson, who was good friend’s with Joe’s mother, made the introduction after discovering during a random conversation that we all lived in the same New York City apartment complex known as Stuyvesant Town. And, our apartments were just a block from one another! “Have you called Joe Nephew yet?” Joanie would ask me each and every time I saw her. “I know he would love to meet some new friends!”

One of seven brothers, Joe grew up in Garden City Long Island a stone’s throw from my own hometown of Manhasset, NY. We often spoke of childhood and our love of Jones Beach and Long Island. Though we both attended Catholic Schools, Joe, a devout Catholic, often attended mass mid week. He never wavered in his faith. I remember one Sunday, a friend of mine Sue, who was Protestant, decided to join Joe and me at Catholic mass. After mass Joe chided Sue having noticed she had received communion. He told her that being that she was not Catholic she should not have received. She responded by sticking her tongue out at him. He laughed and laughed but did not stray from his view.

Joe had a sharp wit and sometimes sarcastic nature but his stoic facade masked a gentle heart. I recall a story he told me of his frustration with a co-worker who one summer, suddenly began bringing her seven year old son Ronnie, to the office. As her boss, Joe tried to be understanding, but as the days crept into weeks his patience wore thin. Ronnie was a spirited young lad taken to shrieking in the office when bored and one day pulled the fire alarm causing further mayhem. Joe struggled with how to solve the dilemma as his co-worker was a single mother, yet knew the situation could go on no longer. He sat her down one day with the best of intentions determined to tell her she could absolutely no longer bring her son to work. But ended up instead meekly asking “Am I going to see Ronnie tomorrow?”

Though often appearing stern and serious to those who did not know him, he valued his friendships and family deeply. I recall a time he was distraught having argued with his best friend who also worked at his office and whose name, I cannot at the moment recall. But what I do remember was Joe’s absolute angst at their being at odds. At not being able to talk to his friend who meant the world to him. “We saw each other in the conference room today and ignored each other for the third day in a row,” he would tell me. “Just talk to him,” I would respond. You guys are acting like third graders..” And sure enough they next day Joe would tell me the “fight” was over. For Joe, righting that relationship was everything. He was a loyal friend.

One of our favorite neighborhood watering holes was Molly’s Shebeen on Third Avenue and 22nd Street where we would often meet after work. Joe loved Molly’s with its charming Irish bartenders, throwback wall juke box and best pint of Guiness in maybe, all of the city. Those simple days, perched at the end of the bar, listening to the chatter of the after-work happy hour crowd, the lull of the bartender’s brogue and the endless classic rock tunes while sitting alongside my friend Joe Nephew, is a memory I will always cherish.

The phone call from Joe came on a Saturday morning. I can still feel that place and time, as if it were yesterday. I can envision exactly where I was standing as I looked out the window of my apartment watching two young children gleefully leaping through the sprinklers in the green asphalt playground of the park below.

“I need to see you, he said. I need to tell you something. It’s important.” But rather than agree to see him in person, I childishly pleaded with him. “What is it Joe? Why Can’t you just tell me now? Please I can’t wait…”

I always regret making him tell me over the phone. He delivered his words steadily, clearly in that familiar, no-nonsense voice. “I am sick. I have Non-Hodkins Lymphoma. I think I am going to die Kathy.”

There is a beautiful Irish symbol of strength and peace known as an Irish Worry Stone. It is made of jade green, Connemara marble from Ireland. My Irish mother loved these stones and often brought them back as souvenirs for close friends. On her last visit to her homeland, she brought one back for Joe Nephew. When you stroke the smooth, cool marble it is said to bring calm and banish worries. After my beloved friend died, I visited his mother who was staying at his Stuyvesant Apartment. As we consoled one another she motioned for me to follow her into Joe’s bedroom. On his night table lay my mother’s Irish Worry Stone. I would like to think it brought him peace.

Thirty years have come and gone. But on certain days, I pause…

A Frank Sinatra song is playing.

And I remember him.

The Summer Wind

“Like painted kites
Those days and nights, they went flyin’ by
The world was new
Beneath the blue umbrella sky

Then softer than a piper man
One day it called to you
I lost you
I lost you to the summer wind”

Three Little Things

There are three memories of childhood that stay with me almost sixty years later. Small things bestowed by my mother. All took place in the Queens neighborhood of Jackson Heights where I was born and lived, my first six years. Though there were countless other places my mother took me and my three sisters throughout our lives, it is these three things, I remember most.

The Choo Choo Train Restaurant – On a busy strip of Queens Boulevard lay a special place straight out of a Walt Disney movie. Its name still remains unknown, but my sisters and I called it the Choo-Choo Train restaurant. On special occasions my mother would take us to the luncheonette where I would order my very favorite (still to this day) selection from the vast and varied menu, a medium cheeseburger and black and white shake. When the order was ready, a small whistle would sound simulating a steam train’s “choo choo.” I would watch in fascination as the little train holding my plate would snake around the counter and in short order be delivered neatly in front of me. As an added bonus, the cashier gave all diners a pack of chicklets with the check. I have never to this day experienced anything quite as whimsical and creative as the Choo Choo Train restaurant and am forever grateful to the clever creator who left me this magical memory.

All Aboard!

Hot chocolate with whipped cream – Normally a treat reserved for cold or snowy days my mother would take us to a diner but this one tucked away on a quiet and residential side street, for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. On special occasions our cousins would join us. I recall the bustling atmosphere of the family run establishment and my confusion at hearing the short order cook yelling out strange slang I could never quite understand. We only came for the hot chocolate which was home-made, deep chocolaty, steaming and comforting. But the hot chocolate alone was not the draw. It was the light and billowy whipped cream sprayed in abandon atop the hot chocolate mug that was the real masterpiece. I still see the waitress now in her apricot colored uniform and neat white apron giving me “seconds,” and on very special days if I asked nicely, thirds. I don’t think I will ever forget the sound of that hissing, manic whipped cream canister delivering forever remembered joy as I twirled atop the counter’s orange padded stool.

Remove syrup spilling on sides
The more whipped cream the better

The little dolls – I have searched the world over to find these treasures again, but alas to no avail. It is if I dreamed them all along.

On very special occasions my mother would bring us to a small toy store on Northern Boulevard and buy for us a magical trinket. They came in a square, shiny and smooth aluminum tin. Lifting the lid you would find two little flat shaped dolls lying neatly to greet you. They were of different shapes, colors and sizes and you never knew just whom you may encounter. But it was not the dolls that were the true delight, it was the little dresses and various outfits that accompanied them. Somewhat like Colorforms, the clothes would adhere to the dolls body but you would first brush their front with a clear colored crayon. Creativity knew no bounds allowing you to style the dolls in any fashion that struck your fancy. A short, A-lined, scalloped bottom light yellow dress and tiny matching hat, a pair of bright red polka dot peddle pushers and white lace blouse. A long, sparkling cocktail gown for that special girl’s night out. And if interrupted you could neatly tuck them back into their tin for both safe keeping and the next encounter. I was in heaven outfitting these beautiful little dolls and recall an oh so vivid moment, of sitting with my sister Anne on our apartment steps, contentedly dressing them for hours. So small, tidy and perfect.

Little dolls we dressed

Three little things.

And how I wish I could tell my mother just how much they meant to me.

The Blind Date

“Just one question,” pleaded my best friend Sue as we went over last minute details.

Make man slightly slimmer upper body

“Is it bad?”

“Very,” came my swift reply.

I gently placed the receiver down not allowing a single second for her response. I imagined Sue, phone still in hand, slowly digesting my words. Her mood once brimming with hope and anticipation, now fading to dread.

Sue was doing me a favor, a great favor indeed in agreeing to meet my husband’s childhood friend and former business associate, a one Joseph Hannon who was visiting the big Apple from his hometown of Wisconsin to attend a business conference in NYC. I had never met Joe and my husband as men often do, had little to say when I asked him what Joe was like. Though I could have sworn I heard him utter “a little eccentric” under his breath.

His very first time in New York City, Joe had hoped to spend time with my husband whom he had not seen in over ten years. But being that we had a wedding to attend the one night Joe was in town, I suggested my friend Sue might meet him for a drink, our stand in of sorts and tour guide to the city.

Bright, blonde, attractive, and single, Sue was generally up for anything though she had never before been on a blind date which I must admit, took some persuading to get her to agree.

And now the night was upon us.

When the buzzer rang I volunteered to meet him at the elevator. And as the doors slowly parted like velvet curtains before the opening act of a much anticipated play, Joe Hannon jauntily stepped out. The first thing I noticed as he held out his hand to greet me, was the enormity of his eyeglasses which framed a pleasantly handsome, round and youthful face. His skin was of pale pallor, and like a baby’s, completely unlined. His stature is what my father sometimes referred to as “pear shaped.” He sported a tall pair of scuffed cowboy boots which stood in stark contrast to his tidy gray business suit.

Walking down the hallway toward the apartment, I mentioned that the hall lights, for some reason, were unusually bright. Joe stopped, gazed up at the ceiling, then methodically back at me. “Well,” he said slowly his voice brimming with authority, “Being that you are quite fair skinned, you are likely highly ocularly sensitive to harsh light. There is a direct correlation you know.”

I swallowed hard and tried not to think of Sue, likely at this very moment en route to the Cadillac Bar.

At least I had prepared her….

As they sat at a small table overlooking Second Avenue, Joe confided that he disliked air travel so had opted instead for a taxi cab ride from Madison, Wisconsin to New York City. A hefty tab and bit of a time commitment but absolutely worth every penny for the peace of mind, he added. He told of his life in the Midwest where he worked as a Securities Analyst at a large bank. He enjoyed a close relationship with his family and spoke proudly of his Croatian mother, who painstakingly made soap in the basement of her home. Joe stressed to Sue of the importance in the precise proportion of lye to oil which if miscalculated, could be disastrous.

At one point in their conversation Joe leaned in close and asked “Sue, can you please speak just a little bit louder? I have terrible ear wax and can only hear ever other word.”

Glancing out the window desperate for a diversion, Sue’s soul left her body as she spotted four of her co-workers from Kidder Peabody, steadily making their way toward the entrance. She would never live this down. Thinking quickly she convinced Joe to try a new bar across the the street which she thought he might enjoy and in no time had successfully whisked him out a side door just seconds before her co-workers entered.

Sitting in “Heifers and Hogs” a dim and dank Western-themed biker’s bar, Sue breathed a sigh of relief – she did not know a soul in the place. From the darkness of her perch on the bar stool she could see her four co-workers directly across the avenue seated front and center at the window table of the Cadillac Bar. She wordlessly thanked a higher power. Joe, on the other hand, was truly in his glory. “I love this place!” he gushed then proceeded to inform Sue of the actual difference between a heifer and a cow. Scarfing down her third drink as Joe waited in line for a go on the mechanical bull, Sue no doubt cursed me silently, praying come tomorrow, this would all be a distant memory.

I sometimes reminisce of Sue’s blind date with Joe Hannon. To her credit and loyalty, she told me that after she had asked me if it was “bad”, and I responded “very,” she laughed and laughed but still decided to show up.

I loved her for that.

I sometimes ask my husband what became of his friend from Wisconsin but he has long lost touch, though he had last heard from a mutual friend that Joe was working with his mother as CFO in her now thriving, all natural home-made soap business.

When I am out socially and the question “have you ever been on a blind date?” ever arises, the story of Joe Hannon is first and foremost in my repertoire.

And it is never fail, a winner.

*Although my story took place in NYC, names and certain locations have been changed.

In the Company of Women

I am one of four daughters, attended all girl, Catholic schools, have no idea how to change a tire and never experienced the bright stadium lights of a night-time football game. My father did put up a basketball hoop once in our driveway, though its use was short-lived when the basketball sailed through the glass pane of the garage door. And apart from the occasional sport-enthusiast friend visiting, stood neglected for years. A testament to the boys my mother never had.

My Scottish reared father never once expressed regret at not having a son. Rather, he reveled in his four daughters and life among them. He loved his girls. Though there were times we tried his patience.

A flashback materializes; my father’s screams from the shower after being cut by his worn down razor blade used by too many female teenage legs. Or equally maddening to my father was the smell of nail polish remover. He hated the smell of nail polish remover.

Yet aside from the occasional inconvenience of living with five females, my father loved women, both young and old. I often pondered where this comfort among women came from, as my father himself was one of four boys. Perhaps missing growing up with a sister prompted him to love females even more, in his later life.

A close friend of mine once told me a story about an encounter between her mother and my father at a neighborhood cocktail party. Although half a century has passed, her mother, presently 85 years young, still remembers his words. “Libby Spivey, you are without question, the best looking woman in the room!” Though my father never came across as an operator or a flirt. His charm and affection was genuine and always from the heart.

During our bridal showers, all four of them, rather than fleeing for the afternoon as most men might, my father would delight in being part of the celebration. There he would sit center stage, in his recliner, newspaper in hand (a ploy to feign disinterest) among the squeals and chaos of thirty females. Every now and again as a new gift was unveiled he would lift his head up casually and remark “Ah what’s this one? Hold it up a little closer Kath…

In addition to my father there was in fact one other male in our family. A big, beautiful Irish wolfhound, brought back from a holiday in Ireland. I recall listening in on a now famous conversation in our family between my mother and the vet. “I need to bring Connell in to be spayed” The vet’s patient reply: “You mean neutered Mrs. Dickinson. Connell is a male dog.” My sister and I stared at each other, and then burst into laughter. We thought that something must have gotten lost in translation as my mother, Irish-born, often had her own interpretation of words. Looking back however, I think she simply believed Connell like the rest of us, was female. At least in theory.

I married and ironically, have two sons. The eldest and first born male in the family I named William, in honor of my father.  My husband has taught them the things his own father has taught him; how to throw a ball, fix a leaky kitchen faucet, use common tools for simple jobs, be kind and respectful. Work hard. My sons have followed in their grandfather’s footsteps. They too love women. Though they do not have a sister they have five female cousins whom they see frequently with the added bonus of always have a date for the prom if ever in need.

My wonderful father departed this world far too soon but his love and joy in raising four daughters is forever woven in his legacy. A few months after his death, my family welcomed an addition. A tiny, Toy Fox Terrier we named Anabel which in my father’s Scottish heritage translates as “beautiful grace.” She is female.

I have a feeling he would have loved her.

The Crockpot

Slow cooker filled with beef stew containing carrots, potatoes, and celery

I should have gone with the pot roast.  A traditional, home spun, simple recipe. A crowd pleaser.  But rather, I chose what I imagined a more elegant entrée for the upcoming dinner I would be preparing for my husband’s brother and new girlfriend.  “Slow Simmer Halibut,” was the name the recipe book had dubbed it.  I had illusions far more grandeur with perhaps a tweak or two.

It is an age-old struggle.

That nagging but harmless question swirling in and out of my daily consciousness, “What should I make for dinner tonight?”  My sister once told me she had read a magazine article advising that the ten top stresses in life included not only the death of a loved one and public speaking, but what to make for dinner.

So, when I saw the gleaming crock pot that day in Costco, it was not the actual appliance that beckoned, but, rather the shiny, four-color recipe book attached, wrought with possibility.  Arriving home with this fabulous trophy I sat in bliss, pouring over the pages in awe and wonder.  But first things first — what to make for the special upcoming dinner?  I again turned to the halibut recipe, ignoring the nagging voice whispering, warning “never try a new recipe for a special occasion, never, never, never….”

Later that evening, I lounged with our guests on the sofa, sipping wine and chatting contentedly.  The table was set, the ambiance was jovial and my divine creation simmering in the kitchen, ready to be served at a moment’s notice. The beauty of a crock pot I thought happily, was that the dish could simmer indefinitely allowing more time for cocktails and chat.  Now where exactly did I read that?  “More wine anyone?”

At last the hour was upon us. My guests sat in anticipation at the elegantly set dining room table, amid flickering candle light and the strains of Nat King Cole.  Approaching the crock pot I lifted the lid then stared down in confusion.  The four pieces of halibut, which hours earlier had appeared firm and beautiful, had vanished.  I frantically ladled the mixture hoping to uncover the wayward fish.  Gone.  My dinner had turned to liquid.  Could I possibly pass it off as bouillabaisse?

I realized it was the tweak. Earlier in the day in a flurry of over confidence and mania, I had tossed a cup and a half of heavy cream into the pot in the hopes of achieving a rich and velvety texture to the halibut.  This tweak that was not found in any recipe book but rather, was spurred on by the excitement of owning the shiny new crock pot and the endless opportunity for creative enhancement. Yes, creative cooking at its finest.

I poured the entrée into four serving bowls and confidentially approached the table. As I placed the first dish before my brother in-law, I carefully refused to meet my husband’s eye. “Rolls for dipping” I sang, as I disappeared back into the kitchen. Thank god the guests were family, I thought.

“What exactly is this called?” ” My husband finally dared.  “Halibut a la cream!” I replied casually, my voice steady and confident

And as our spoons clinked in silence, somewhere in the distance, I heard Julia Child sobbing.