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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” whose tragedy always tugged at my heartstrings…”

“Light she was, and like a fairy, 
And her shoes were number nine; 
Herring boxes without topses, 
Sandals were for Clementine.”

And Stephen Foster’s beautiful though always forlorn “Beautiful Dreamer…”

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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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; Lee’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

 

If there was a word that existed to define the opposite of a hoarder, it would indeed describe my mother, 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: sheer white linen curtains, a simple, beige sofa two tasteful paintings which hung amid otherwise bare white walls and a coffee table on which a Crystal Waterford bowl sat center.. A baby grand piano was tucked neatly in the corner of the room and placed atop it, only two lone items, a framed family photo and the small Belleek China Scotty dog, my Irish born mother so loved. 

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 Irish relatives and their friends the delighted recipients of the new American fashions which would arrive in a large parcel carefully wrapped in simple brown paper, stamped “overseas.”

I don’t know how this idea was formulated among us.  Had we heard my father in anger accusing my mother 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 relation 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 Louise, 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 the unpleasant truth… 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 American made sweatshirt close.

My sisters and I were swimmers and divers and over the years accumulated many trophies, 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 life span, as did report cards, photographs and our childhood 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.

My father loved going to tag sales on weekends. A voracious reader, he sought out interesting novels bearing tales of war and far away voyages; many of the tomes old and yellowed. I recall one Saturday, him returning home toting a large box. Entering the back door he came face to face with my mother, who glancing at the box remarked somewhat hostilely, “More bloody books!”  Witnessing the exchange I worried little. There was no doubt their shelf life in our home, would be short lived.

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 of 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 college 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, 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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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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On the road, The Wild Atlantic Way

Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so, on the road…Jack Kerouac

doolin
https://ceenphotography.com/cwwc-cees-which-way-new/

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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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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.

    Featured

    Daffodils in the snow

    Daffodils, 

    That come before the swallow dares, and take 

    The winds of March with beauty…

    William Shakespeare, “The Winter’s Tale” 

    image.jpg
    Daffodils in the snow, Weston CT April 3, 2016

    Flower of the Day (FOTD) Challenge

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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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    WPC “Time”

     cloudy

    “So come with me where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!”J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


    https://dailypost.wordpress.com/photo-challenges/time/

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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/

    Featured

    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..

    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.

    Waitress placing food on a diner counter served by a miniature train carrying plates
    All aboard

    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.

    Remove syrup spilling on sides
    The more whipped cream the better

    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.

    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

    Couple sitting at a bar counter in a busy NYC Times Square bar, drinking and talking.

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

    “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.

    One year gone but never forgotten our”Lovely Lily”

    It is a Friday, late afternoon, and I have just gotten off the school bus. Walking up the front path of my Long Island home, I hear laughter from inside, amid the whirr of a blender. Following the sound of merriment to the kitchen, I spot my mother and my Aunt Lily sitting together at our white Formica table. Before them are two Waterford crystal glasses filled generously with their favorite cocktail, a Whiskey Sour, served on special occasions or simply to celebrate the onset of the weekend. Lily welcomes me graciously, then the two chat on, never quite running out of things to say.

    My mother and Lily are first cousins and best friends, having grown up on neighboring farms in County Leitrim, Ireland. We were never quite sure who was the older of the two as they kept that secret neatly tucked away. They have had the good fortune once again of living in close proximity to each other, though this time, on suburban Long Island.

    As evening draws near, my father arrives home, entering the kitchen through the garage, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. Seeing Lily, his face lights up, “ELIZABETH!” he croons with a smile. Lily is always delighted to see him and returns the smile. She always loved my father.

    A few words that come to mind when I think of my aunt are strength, devotion, and elegance. Her loyalty knew no bounds.

    A story remembered…

    My newly licensed mother, at last passing her road test after the ninth attempt, asked Lily if she would drive with her to visit my homesick sister, a freshman at Villanova University, in Pennsylvania. The drive is four hours.

    Even with the knowledge that my mother had never driven on a major highway before, Lily’s answer is swift and without question. “Yes, dear, of course I will go!” And like Lucy and Ethel, I watched them drive off that morning, my mother at the wheel and Lily riding shotgun.

    Later that evening, seven hours after departure, no word. My father whom I had never seen nervous, paces the floor. Then a phone call. From mom and Lily.

    “We made it! With just a small delay. We somehow missed Pennsylvania and ended up in Ohio. Going to dinner now, goodbye!”

    I have no doubt Lily aged a few years on that car ride, but never once mentioned the incident.

    Her devotion to family was steadfast and could paint a far different side of Lily than she ever revealed and most ever glimpsed. There was nothing she would not do for her family. 

    One summer weekend in my youth, I accompanied my cousins to Atlantic City, New Jersey. Arriving back at the parking lot that evening after a day at the casino, we discovered that our car had been towed. Arriving at the towing lot, a burly, no-nonsense man stood at the desk, his T-shirt boldly displaying the words, “No excuses.”

    “That will be $200 cash, no credit cards,” he growled.

    My uncle Jimmy, after a day of gambling was short on cash and pleaded for another solution. British born and always the gentleman, it was not in his nature to argue. We all stood distraught, not sure what to do next.

    The tow man then glanced at my uncle, his gaze slowly lowering to the beautiful gold watch my uncle always wore on his wrist. “That might do,” he said slowly with a smile.

    Lily, who until that moment stood in the background, quietly approached the counter. Her face revealed a look I had never seen before. Staring at the tow-man, she spoke slowly, fearlessly, her lilting Irish accent laced in fierceness.

    “I am a Christian woman. But, God forgive me, if I had a gun right now, I’d put a bullet through your head…”

    We got the car back.

    “If you are not laughing, you are crying,” she often told me.

    She lived her life true to these words following the untimely death of her beloved husband, Jimmy, the loss of her second partner, the wonderful and kindly, Al, and maybe the hardest and perhaps least talked about blow, the death of her beautiful and charismatic son, John, in an auto accident while still in his youth.

    As always, her faith got her through. “I pray to the lord every day, honey.”

    But it was the phone conversations Lily and I enjoyed in later years after the death of my mother that I will remember most.

    During each call, which generally took place twice a month, we would touch briefly on recent goings on but then always circle back to those joyous moments of yesterday.

    Returning to those days, most close to the heart; Thanksgivings in Lynbrook while the movie, “March of the Wooden Soldiers” played on the television, my Uncle Jimmy meticulously setting the china tea mugs on the table for breakfast, as he hummed contentedly in a way that somehow, mimicked a trumpet. Summer days spent at the iconic Malibu Beach Club and family cabana on Long Island, Lily’s second love in life after her family.

    I learned of her childhood days living in Mohill, Leitrim, and how her grandmother, once a year, would board a horse and carriage heading for a spa weekend in Galway. She loved how her grandmother, hell or high water, would take that trip each year. She spoke of how she lent my mother the money needed for her to attend nursing school and told me how much she missed her. “She was my best friend.”

    And in those phone calls, that often exceeded two hours, we spoke only of the best of times.

    I often think about Lily and feel saddened that our phone conversations will now only take place in memory. But my melancholy slowly eases as I envision the following scene, taking place at this very moment…

    The whirr of a blender competes with the sound of laughter. Always that laughter. Lily and my mother are sitting at that same Manhasset kitchen table. But this time, Uncle Jimmy is there. He hums in that same endearing little way he had, of mimicking the trumpet, as he busies himself making that perfect cup of English tea. My father sits at the table between them, his jet black hair and wide grin, so vivid it takes my breath away.

    I glance out our kitchen window. A stream of people are slowly and steadily making their way up the walk. Lily’s parents, her brother Thomas and sister Mae and other long-gone relations, childhood friends, and the ever amiable Al. Lastly, I see my handsome cousin, John. Lily’s cherished son.

    He looks so happy.

    The procession continues up the path following the sounds of merriment to our kitchen. 

    All eager to join in the reunion.

    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

    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.

    Love Letter to Ireland – the Gift of My Mother

    Happy St.Patrick’s Day☘️ Re-sharing.

    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.

      Screwdriver Parties

      Pulling into my driveway late one afternoon, my eyes fell upon a dark sedan sitting idly.  Unable to recognize a face through the tinted windows and noting a New Jersey plate, a state from which I knew no one, a slight feeling of unease ensued. And then as if in slow motion, a window went down and a familiar voice I had not heard in many years, bellowed, “Kathy, it’s me, Jim Cappello!” I drove all the way from New Jersey to visit you.  Look in the trunk!”

      I gazed in astonishment at the grinning face of my old boss Jim Cappello, whom I had worked with for over ten years at a publishing company in midtown Manhattan. Now eighty five years old and long retired, he had driven over two hours on a whim, to visit me at my home in Connecticut.

       It was the pretzels, he said. The pretzels made him do it.

      He explained he was at his regular supermarket in New Jersey saw a bag of pretzels and then suddenly a memory slowly materialized. A memory he told me, so cherished he could not in that moment cast it away. And standing in the aisle of Stop n Shop he recalled the screwdriver parties.

      Every Friday at 5:30PM, in our small office on the 12th floor of the Chanin Building, in midtown Manhattan, we partook in a ritual…sharing a screwdriver together before we parted ways for the weekend. Jim and I sold the display advertising and Barbara and Irene who worked adjacent to us, sold the Classified advertising. But the four of us in that dingy, non descriptive office were far more than co-workers. We were family.

      I can still hear his voice now,  “Irene, get the ice! Barbara open the pretzels, Kathy go down and buy the O.J!” and Jim, well Jim always was in charge of the vodka which he kept in his desk in the bottom drawer. He was the perennial salesman. Outgoing, tenacious, social and charming.  He loved a party. Our own little Madmen ritual in that tiny office on the twelfth floor.

      “Look in the trunk!” He urged again. I gazed down at two brown paper bags, one filled with a giant bag of pretzels and a container of orange juice, the other, a bottle of vodka.  “

      “Let’s have a screwdriver!  For old times.”

      We sat in my kitchen, Jim and I, and talked of our lives since the magazine closed. He shared how his beloved wife of fifty years had died three months before and how lost he felt in the weeks that followed.  I told him of the difficulty I experience in leaving my life in New York City behind for a small CT town in the suburbs.

      We telephoned the classified girls, Barbara and Irene, who as luck would have it – were both home.  As each picked up the phone I would announce “Do you recognize this voice?” And then hand the phone to Jim who would bellow “Irene! Barbara! It’s Jim Cappello!  I am at Kathy’s house. We’re having a screwdriver party! For old times.”

      But it was not those Friday parties that bound the four of us together but rather the cadence of everyday life, the highs and the lows, the joys and the sorrow working side by side in that tiny office as the years ticked slowly on.

      The last thing we did together before Jim left was to walk down to the bus stop where my two sons, whom he had never met, were due home from school. As we walked back up to the house I wondered…was it the pretzels he had seen in the supermarket that prompted his visit or rather the need for comfort often found in days past?  The reason was unimportant.  It was a day I have never forgotten.

      Eight Years later…

      As is life, there is no freeze frame. Time stands still for no one. Though I thought of him often, I had not spoken with Jim in several years. Deciding it was time, I picked up the phone but to my dismay discovered a disconnected number. After a bit of sleuthing I reached his granddaughter Colette, who often visited her grandfather when we worked together at the New York office and who I remembered fondly. She told me that Jim had been stricken with the Covid virus, quite severely and was currently in a nursing home in upstate New York.

      Would I like his phone number?

      But rather than call him, I decided I would take a page from his book and pay him a surprise visit just as he did for me eight years before.

      So here we are, together once again. But we are not at our desks. We are sitting in his nursing home room, his daughter Annette by our side. The daughter for so many years I heard Jim speak of, but had never met until today. He recently celebrated his 93rd birthday. His smile is just the same.

      The screwdrivers I made for us and transported in a thermos, were served in two shot glasses I brought hidden in my bag from the eagle-eyed nurses. They may have been a wee bit smaller than those of yesteryear, but tasted just as sweet, nonetheless.

      We toasted to those unforgettable days working in that small, midtown office. We toasted to the everlasting friendship we shared. And just before I left, I raised my glass one last time to this special man with whom I shared, the very best of times.

      Jim Cappello died two weeks after our reunion.

      A farewell to springboard diving

      “We had joy, we had fun we had seasons in the sun but the wine and the song like the seasons have all gone…” Terry Jacks, Seasons in the Sun

      “Describe a phase in life that was difficult to say goodbye to”

      Dear Liam,

      I always believe you were meant to be a diver. I remember the night I entered your room and glanced in at you sleeping peacefully in your crib. Unlike other babies sleeping on their back, side or stomach you were folded over completely, legs straight in front of you, forehead resting on your ankles, perfecting a front dive pike even before you were old enough to walk. When you would would sit in your high chair instead of legs dangling down, one would always be inserted up and over the tray positioned comfortably among the scattered peas, like a double jointed circus performer. 

      As you grew, you fell in love with the sport. From your very first penny drop on the pool deck at age seven with beloved coach Jeanine, to winning states in high school, to qualifying for nationals during your college years, your talent and dedication were always evident. Everyone who watched you dive was mesmerized. Then and now.

      So here you are a senior where you will compete for the very last time during college and possibly your lifetime. I feel you found a great home as a member of the Denison Swim and Dive team with Russ as your amazing coach. The friendships you made will likely last a lifetime. I hope you always look back at your college years and diving career with pride and joy in what you accomplished on and off the boards.

      There are many things about how you handled yourself over the years in diving and life for which I am proud; overcoming your fear of learning new dives; wearing your red welts with courage after smacking numerous times on 3 meter; always maintaining a cool demeanor; your solid sportsmanship; accepting that life is not fair when you qualified for nationals but could not attend when it was decided additional swimmers would win the team more points than one sole diver. Then qualifying for nationals once again the next two years only to have the dream shut down due to Covid. You always accepted these disappointments with calmness and dignity as is your nature. You also juggled a fierce work load as a student athlete balancing early AM practices with school work which I know was not easy. I know all these positive traits you possess will serve you well in life though don’t ever be afraid to fight for what you believe in.

      So go out into the world and find your happiness. And as you navigate life, consider these tips from the six diving groups that may also help you outside the diving well:

      FORWARD: “Sempre Avanti” – Always forward

      BACK: “Only look back to see how far you’ve come”

      REVERSE: “Anything that works against you can also work for you once you understand the principle of reverse”

      INWARD:    “It’s not about outward appearances but inward significance”

      TWISTING: “You can’t drive straight on a twisting road”

      ARMSTAND: “If you feel like you have the world on your shoulders, do an armstand and have the world at your feet”

      And above all, have fun!

      Love, Mom xxo

      Liam placed third his senior year at Denison University in the 3 Meter event of the NCAA’s, his very last time on the boards….

      Ode to a Pheasant

      My beautiful rogue 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.