Songs my Father Sang

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On the Street Where You Live”

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

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

“We’re no awa’tae bide awa”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

    The Lonely Sweater

    Glancing in the window of a recently closed children’s consignment shop, I spotted this tiny orange sweater, hanging forlornly in the now abandoned store front.  This sad sight left me to ponder why this one vibrant item adorned in grinning teddy bears, remained. Perhaps a testament to a dream that was not to be or more simply that the sweater was left in haste?  

    I like to interpret it as a statement of fortitude left behind by the proprietor.   A symbol that whatever the future brings, he or she will survive. That brilliantly colored, wee tangerine sweater, a symbol of strength, faith, hope.

    I shall leave the interpretation to you gentle readers…

    sweater

    Thursday Doors

    “Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door…”

    Emily Dickinson

    Re-sharing an old post this morning for Thursday doors, because you cannot have too many reminders…

    Barbara Marshall

    For Leslie

    “Mom, there’s a lady in the bushes,” said my six year old son nonchalantly. He sat fixated in front of the television, mesmerized by the dance moves of his very favorite group “The Wiggles,” icons of the ten-and-under set. The charismatic foursome clad in identical black pants and vividly colored tee shirts, were singing one of their most popular songs, a catchy tune called “Central Park New York.” Ironic I thought, as we had just last week moved from Manhattan to suburban Connecticut. Yes, we were finding that life was different from the city in many ways. A neighbor in the bushes, was just one of them.

    I pulled the curtains open to indeed see a figure aside our front door, tiny in stature but clearly spry, admiring the pink hydrangea. Her gray hair was styled in a chic bob and she was handsomely clad in a bright red poncho and navy Ked sneakers. Her face was devoid of makeup emitting a healthy and outdoorsy aura and I guessed her to be around seventy. As our eyes met she smiled broadly then spoke, “Why my dear! I had no idea anyone had moved in. My name is Barbara Marshall and I live right across the street with my husband Ronnie. Welcome! I am so pleased to meet you.”

    And so it began, a fast, fun-filled and everlasting friendship.

    We shared many similarities. We had both lived and moved from New York City to Connecticut though Barbara was born there, a true and tried New Yorker. She had moved to the suburbs over thirty years ago or rather, as she put it, “was taken kicking and screaming” from her beloved Park Avenue to the wilds of Weston, CT. It was her husband’s doing, she told me. His company was relocating from NYC to Connecticut and there was nothing to be discussed. They were moving. And alike the plot line in the old sitcom, “Green Acres,” with Ronnie playing the role of Eddie Albert, the husband who longed for country life, they shortly thereafter departed.

    For as long as I knew her, Barbara never quite considered Connecticut her true home and always longed to return to her beloved New York City. Despite her protests, she and her husband Ronnie, remained in the semi-rural but pleasing town of Weston, CT where she raised her son and daughter, now grown and flown. And as with everything she did, Barbara with her own unique flair, sought out the very best and most interesting that small town life offered.

    We saw each other frequently. I was a stay at home mother and Barbara worked part time at Planned Parenthood. We lived directly across the street making it simple, at any opportunity, to seek each other out. And as if sensing I needed a Barbara fix, I would sometimes open my front door to find her standing on my stoop preparing to ring the bell.

    She was theatrical, witty, and a master story teller. Our town was ideal for anyone who wished to live anonymously due to its vast open space with two acre zoning and as a result, was home to many a celebrity back in the day: Bette Davis, Robert Redford, Eartha Kitt, Christopher Plummer, Rodney Dangerfield. Barbara always seemed to have a personal anecdote about each and every one.

    She told me of the many Weston cocktails party she attended with her husband Ronnie back in the 1960’s and 70’s some of which sounded legendary. A great beauty and conversationalist, Barbara on more than one occasion received invitations from her many admirers for weekends away in exotic locales. Though she never once took them up on their offers I laughed as she candidly shared her sometimes regret in not doing so.

    She described how our town was once the backdrop for the award winning movie, “The Swimmer” starring Burt Lancaster and where many of the homes featured in the film were located. And I imagined how effortlessly she would blend in if cast as an extra in the iconic film.

    She was fiercely strong minded, ever curious and opinionated, never shying away from voicing her opinions on politics, fashion, family or frankly, any other topics of which she felt passionate. I admired her for that but it could sometimes wreak havoc depending upon the nature of the person with whom she was debating. A common scenario when we were out and about town together was Barbara confiding, “Oh look, there’s Joan Bradley. She was such great fun…when we used to be friends.”

    My two young sons adored Barbara and delighted in a story I would often tell them involving the legend of Big Foot which they equally loved. Our back yard abutted a nature preserve with every creature imaginable, lurking morning, noon and night. In my version of the story, Big Foot was not fierce but a shy, amiable and lovable creature who ended up taking residency in the woods behind our house. And who possibly but Barbara, a nature lover herself, would I cast as the main character? The short tale I would tell them at bed time went something like this: while out strolling one evening in our backyard, Barbara suddenly comes face to face with our resident Big Foot. But rather than fainting in fear or being dragged away into the preserve, Barbara and the creature form a deep and everlasting friendship. She teaches him to stand up for himself, be bold and face life’s fears and challenges. Each time I told my boys the story, Barbara and the Big Foot would be embarking on another escapade together, always looking out for each other. I completely envision this story being true to life as Barbara Marshall was a faithful friend to all, both man or beast.

    She took great joy and humor in my telephone answering machine’s outgoing message which stated, “We’re not here right now, please leave a message and we will call you when we can…” I had not given the message a second thought but understood her point. It was as if we were saying “don’t expect a call back anytime soon.” Barbara after advising she had called earlier and left a message, never failed to repeat the last line on the machine while laughing delightedly, “We will call you when we can! Oh my dear, I just LOVE that line, “when we can!”

    She loved our small town market then known as “Peter’’s” where she would often stop for groceries, a particular favorite being their fresh fish. She knew each and every employee by name and they her, from the butcher to the check out girl and could often be spotted standing in the aisle, deep in conversation with Jim, the general manager. He would be nodding enthusiastically as she expertly instructed on just how the salmon could be better prepared to make it just a touch more flavorful. In addition to her other talents. Barbara was also an outstanding cook.

    In warmer weather, she enjoyed nothing more than lying in her backyard in one of those simple metal lawn chairs with the plaid green material. Clad in shorts, bare feet and simple but stylish sunglasses, a tall iced tea at her side, she was in heaven. I loved seeing her lounging there, and can envision Barbara still, the New Yorker magazine on her lap and bright sunshine on her face.

    But then one day, I turned around and noticed something quite shocking; we somehow, had both grown older. And as hard as I tried, could not say when or how it happened. But here we were; my two sons away at college and Barbara a grandmother of two possessing her still large but suddenly weaker heart.

    Our visits were still a constant and her fascinating and unique stories continued to flow. I could never quite get enough of Barbara’s stories. In springtime she enjoyed strolling the path of our jade green back yard, admiring the plentiful daffodils in full bloom and the chirping of the peepers soon to be full grown frogs. For a city girl, she always loved nature.

    As the months ticked on, I began to see her less and less. Frequent hospital visits took my friend from me. She was in her eighties now. A small fact that I never really registered. Although she was old enough to be my mother I always viewed her as a peer; a partner in crime. Our friendship and connection transcended age.

    “I’d like to just fly away,” she would say to me in those later years when we talked about death. “Nothing complicated my dear. So very simple. I”ll just fly away.”

    The last I saw of my cherished friend was not among the flowers and frogs, but rather in a simple and stark hospital room, its unadorned walls so very much the opposite of the brilliantly bright, colorful canvas that was Barbara Marshall. She had taken a fall two days before and had not regained consciousness. Her husband Ronnie and two children, David and Leslie, close by her side.

    She was at last ready to fly away.

    And as I sat with her that final day I said a last goodbye, grateful for those joyful years having known her. And then, truly believing she still could hear my words, I leaned in, just a tiny bit closer and made my friend a promise.

    “I’ll call you when I can…”

    Camera Shy

    It is 3:30 PM on a balmy Friday afternoon and school has just let out for the weekend. My best friend Janet and I stroll down Plandome Road with no particular direction in mind. Our mood is jubilant, carefree. We chatter about the three most pressing matters in the life of a high school freshman; the boys we have crushes on, upcoming house parties occurring over the weekend and looming midterms. All, in that exact order.

    Plandome Road in our hometown of Manhasset, NY is just a stones’s throw from our all girls, Catholic High School and offers an array of shops, restaurants and activities: Manhasset Bowling for the young and old alike, Gino’s Pizzeria offering up the best slice on Long Island, Plandome Caterers with their succulent fried chicken sprinkled with seasoned salt and an old school town Pharmacy run by two gentlemanly brothers. On some occasions when in need of a “glow up,” we skip Plandome Road and head over to A&S dept store where Janet and I try on makeup in abandon, then endlessly critique each other’s color choices.

    Another after-school favorite is JJ Newberry’s, whose lower level houses an exotic pet department complete with African frogs and tiny turtles. Though not on Plandome Road it is worth the trek to the other side of town as the lunch counter offers a special draw…”Pop a balloon containing a secret slip of paper and pay from 1 cent to 99 cents for our famous Banana Split!” Spoiler alert: Not once did either of us ever get the one cent balloon but that did little to deter as we twirled on our swivel stools scooping up spoonfuls of banana, hot fudge, and whipped cream, still a bargain at 98 cents.

    But this fateful day, we do not go to JJ Newbury’s but continue down Plandome Road making a sharp right on Park Avenue, with a mission in mind… The hope of sighting a glimpse of a Sophomore boy Janet likes, whose family happens to live on that very street and according to Janet was often seen playing basketball on his driveway.

    Walking furtively but with purpose we pass a small storefront. Phillipe Photography, a shop that in my recollection seems to have been there forever. Gazing in through the panoramic and spotless glass window, several family as well as solo portraits are strategically positioned on handsome easels. Gazing out smartly at passerbys, they make it impossible for one not to pause for a second look.

    “Hey, isn’t that Billy Bradshaw?” Janet asks me, pointing to one of the large, four color portraits positioned artfully, center stage of the window. She opens the shop’s front door and I follow, curious to see if it is in fact Billy, a star Lacrosse player at the boy’s high school, whose female admirers span several towns, all within a ten mile radius.

    Entering the studio we are greeted by a stark silence. A small black box sits neatly upon a handsome desk with a note card propped up neatly against it. “I am working downstairs in the studio, please press intercom if you need help.” Fondly, Philippe

    I glance at Janet who knowingly and steadily returns my stare. There is a glint of mischief in her eyes. It was as if we both came up with the same idea at that exact same moment in time. The “please press intercom” command, was all we ever needed.

    The next few minutes remain both mixed and jumbled in memory. Knowing it is wrong but throwing caution to the wind, I press the intercom. When a deep voice responds, “Yes, may I help?” we shriek into the box, uttering a series of nonsensical words followed by peals of laughter. We then tear out of the store, fleeing at the speed of light down Park Avenue. One thing I do remember clearly; Janet’s crush standing on his driveway, playing basketball, watching the whole scene unfold.

    What transpires next is quite possibly a miracle of athletic feat. The spry photographer, with the speed of a gazelle, somehow manages to ascend the stairs of his subterranean dark room in seconds, quite possibly setting a new Olympic record in the process.

    He catches us halfway down the street and with a look of utter triumph, grips us each securely by the arm.

    Leading us back into the studio we stand before him, hearts pounding. He stares stonily weighing his options, before he finally speaks. His voice is steady, yet tinged with rage. “You two! You come into my studio and say terrible words into my intercom. I must call your parents immediately!”

    Heads hung, we await our sentence wordlessly. I can swear I hear Janet’s heartbeat. Suddenly, an alarm sounds from the dark room below and Philippe pauses. “I will be back momentarily! Do not DARE move!” As he turns his back to us and jaunts down the stairs, I turn to Janet. No words are needed. The message is delivered telepathically between us. We jump up and race out the door, this time in the opposite direction of the photographer’s studio taking refuge in the hall of a dental office nearby.

    Success! We make it to safety and vow to avoid Park Avenue for the rest of our days.

    Fast forward, one year later.

    I am sitting in the kitchen of my home and my mother enters. “Don’t make plans for Saturday. I am getting a family portrait done for your father’s birthday. There is this wonderful photographer, on Park Avenue. His name is Phillipe. He will be coming at 10AM…

    As my soul leaves my body, I weigh my options. First, feign illness on the morning of the portrait, but that will never fly with my strong Irish mother who would no doubt drag me out of bed before letting me miss the sitting. Second, come clean and tell my mother what happened. Never. Third, pray that Philippe has had so many clients, he simply won’t remember me. This option seems the least plausible of the bunch. Wouldn’t a portrait photographer have a knack for remembering faces?

    In the end, he never said a word. Either he indeed did not recognize me as one of the intercom villains or chose to be professional and not resurrect the unpleasant past. Though I like to think in the end that in addition to his speed, Philippe turned out to be man of compassion.

    I am not proud of that long ago day I entered the studio and yelled into the intercom, but chalk it up to the sins of youth, and a lesson learned. That beautiful color portrait taken by Philippe of myself and family currently hangs in my living room. Studying it just yesterday I note that my hair is curled and styled in a way completely different than I had ever worn before. I am smiling broadly.

    No doubt from relief.

    *The photographer’s name and studio along with others mentioned in this story are fictitious.

    Lovely Lily

    Our Queen, Elizabeth

    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.