Shangri-La

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.

Irish Summers Remembered

Describe your most memorable vacation…

“Last night I had a pleasant dream I woke up with a smile. I dreamt that I was back again in dear old Erin’s Isle” (Lovely Leitrim)

“Now this looks interesting!” pondered my father a hint of excitement in his voice as he sat studying the Irish paper. It was the summer of 1974 and our family’s very first day in Ireland. We had found a two week rental in a suburb of Dublin, which served as the perfect base to explore the city and take day trips to the countryside.

Stretching back in the tidy living room’s handsome leather recliner, he was truly in his glory. General Manager of an Irish restaurant known as Rosie O’Grady’s in New York City, my father relished these trips to Ireland. My Irish born mother too was in heaven as she loved returning home and visiting friends and relations. Adjusting his reading glasses my father continued, “Live music tonight. Drinks and refreshments included. “And girls! Would you believe it is right up the street?”

I glanced at my sister who lay sprawled on the floor lost in an Irish book entitled “Tales from the Bog.” Being teenagers in a quiet suburb we were at a loss for what to do our first night – but things were looking up! I envisioned the evening unfolding as we stood amid a crowd of handsome Irish lads chatting us up and then with even greater aspirations, imagined a surprise appearance from Bono the U2 superstar who was often said to drop in at venues and perform with local musicians.

We flew upstairs and amid a flurry of makeup and hairspray, readied ourselves for a night in Monkstown with the highest of hopes…

Walking up the barren street, the distinct smell of peat filled the air, a scent for me that is always reminiscent of Ireland. Searching the house numbers we approached a stone cottage which from the outside appeared deserted but then I noticed a sign “Live Music Tonight,” carelessly taped to the front door.

Entering we stood face to face with two nuns who smiled in delight. “Ah, some young people. Welcome now, welcome. Enjoy, enjoy.” Avoiding the dejected eyes of my sister, I glanced at the stage where the live music had just begun. No Bono, but six Irish step dancers kicking high into the night. We were ushered to a table where thick slices of Irish Soda Bread lay neatly on simple white dishes, alongside pats of butter. Not a cocktails or pint in sight. The crowd consisted of middle-aged and older locals, chatting amiably as they tapped their feet to the lively tunes.

My sister and I sat glumly, the sole two teens in the packed room. Attempting to make the best of it, I poured us each a cup of steaming tea. I thought of my father and imagined him smiling to himself at that very moment. I vowed to somehow get even.

But things changed dramatically shortly after meeting Chris, a bespectacled, Irish boy who lived next door and vowed to show us the best of Dublin city. One night while in route to a popular bar, a song from Michael Jackson, came on the radio. The title was “Pretty Young Things.” “Oh, I am mad for this song!” shrieked Chris as he blasted the volume and sang along in abandon. At each chorus he banged on the hood of the dash to further accentuate his delight. But Chris’s version was unique as he dropped the H in “things” to “tings.” To this day, whenever I hear the song “Pretty Young Things,” I fondly think of Chris and always sing along with the Irish version he coined. In appreciation for his friendship we asked my father to hire him as a bus boy at Rosie’s the very next summer where he learned to be a waiter in New York City.

In contrast to vibrant Dublin lay the Irish countryside, hypnotizing in its beauty and people. Each visit we would stay at a bed and breakfast called “The Tooman House” and in our younger years, would jump from the barn loft into the loosely piled hay below as two resident Border Collies nipped at our heels.

Returning to my mother’s childhood farm in Cloone, Leitrim was always bittersweet as is often true with leaving and returning to a past place and time. Her best friend from childhood who remarkably shared the same first and last name, was Mary Kate Foley. They grew up together and in later years attended the same Dublin nursing school. At age twenty-five, Mary Kate died suddenly from a burst appendix. One trip back, my mother expressed a desire to visit Mary Kate’s home which she had not entered in over thirty years. Sitting in the car with my father, I watched as she hesitantly made her way up the walk. I recall the front door slowly opening and Mary Kate’s elderly father standing before my mother. It took a few moments but then his eyes widened in recognition. Embracing her he broke down and wept for his lost daughter they both had loved so well.

My family over the years, spent three summers in Ireland each one holding a special place in my heart. Both my parents are gone now but my memories of those summers in Ireland stay with me always.

Here are a few of my favorites:

☘️Getting lost in Blackrock and a blind man showing me the way home.

☘️My father buying an Irish Wolf Hound puppy from a nearby farm who we named Connell. Each year until his death, Connell represented his homeland by proudly marching in the New York City St. Patrick’s Day parade, alongside my Irish mother.

☘️The Dublin Horse Show

☘️Meeting the Irish author Maeve Binchy in a pub in Dalkey. She invited my mother (a huge fan) and me to sit with her and was as just as lovely as the books she wrote.

☘️Friendships with the many Irish neighborhood children who called us “The Americans” and welcomed us so warmly. I remember their joy racing to the beach when a “heat wave” was proclaimed.

☘️Sitting atop a small, ivy covered brick structure in our Irish friend’s backyard having “tea” as Gilbert O’Sullivan sang “Alone Again Naturally” on a small transistor radio beside me.

☘️The taste of my very first 99 ice cream cone. The sun staying out until 10PM.

Ah and what a splendid time it was.

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.

Memories of a Popover Girl

What jobs have you had?

My father always instilled a strong work ethic in me and my three sisters. I never lacked for a job whether it be putting on a marionette show for a birthday party when I was twelve or waitressing at Rosie O’Grady’s in New York City during college break. My fourteen year old son recently asked me for some ideas on how he could get a summer job to save up for a computer. Since sixteen is the legal working age, I was at a loss, but it did bring back some vivid memories of my own past summer jobs as a teen. I have highlighted below, three that I will always remember.

Popover Girl – Lorraine Murphy Restaurant, Manhasset, NY

“Miss! watch those tongs! You almost took out my eye!” I smiled apologetically as I placed the still oven warm, feather light popover, on the angry patron’s side plate and hastily made my way to the next table. Flashback to age sixteen, on the very first evening, of my very first job. “Murphy’s” as it was affectionately known, was a rite of passage for Manhasset youth. Everyone knew someone who had worked there, whether it be sister, brother or cousin. Lorraine Murphy was a family run restaurant catering to “the geriatric set.” I still recall the line of walkers and wheelchairs lined up in the lobby. But it was their popovers that will always be remembered and whose recipe is still rumored to be undiscovered. Sadly, Lorraine Murphy is no longer but the memories of my time as a popover girl remain fresh.

Pros – All the popovers you could devour.

Cons – During the holidays, the hostesses were required to go from table to table singing Christmas carols. I still recall the beet red face of Cynthia Pierce, frozen in smile, the only one among four of us, singing. One of the girls started laughing which set off a chain reaction. Cynthia however, refused to succumb. She sang the whole last stanza in solo. I always admired her for that.

Fitting Model – Haseena – I was hired as a fitting model for a small store specializing in traditional Indian clothes such as wrap around skirts and henna tee shirts. I would stand silently as the nervous tailor draped fabric around me, tucking and pinning aside the eagle-eyed owner who barked orders.

Pros -Discounted fashionable clothes, calling myself a model even though it was a gross exaggeration, and location within walking distance of my high school.

Cons – The occasional pin prick and standing for long periods of time. I was fired less than a month into the job as the owner thought I was “too skinny” and my thin figure did not do her fashions justice. I heard my mother tell her friend that I quit because the tailor was peering in the fitting room at me while I changed, a total fabrication possibly because she couldn’t face the fact I was fired.

Cashier/Concession/Usher – Manhasset Cinema – By far, my favorite job. The cinema played upscale, foreign films so I never had to deal with unruly teens. The amiable manager wore a tuxedo nightly and the cool, darkened art deco theater was serene and beautiful.

Pros – Free movies and popcorn. Learning about Fellini films at a young age.

Cons – Having to pass a March of Dimes donation box throughout the audience at intermission. The shock of Julie Andrews (known until then for her role as Maria in Sound of Music) baring her breasts in Victor/Victoria.

Salesgirl – Lane Bryant – Another of my most enjoyable jobs though a bit of a departure as fashions were for full-figured women and as mentioned above in my short stint at Haseena, I was very thin. I loved selling shoes at Lane Bryant and would often busy myself in the stock room taking a little extra time if I had a particularly busy day. I received an extra commission for each pair of shoes sold.

Pros – Creative license in selecting outfits for customers. My best friend worked there too.

Cons – I recommended my sister Sheila for the job when I left for college and she was fired her first day. The manager pulled back the dressing room curtain to find her “resting” inside, after only a few hours on the job. My reputation was tarnished and I never returned to Lane Bryant though my memories remain fond.

To the toils of my labor over summer jobs past. I miss you all, each and every one!

Paper Plate of Positive Traits

As the end of the school year draws near, I am reminded of a lovely moment on the last day of my son’s kindergarten class, now twenty years ago, I am re-sharing.

The instructions were simple, even for a kindergartner…

Write something positive about your classmate on the paper plate, then pass it on to your neighbor, to do the same.

The plates were created then given to the children on their last day of class. A keepsake and memento of year end and their first foray in the serious business of kindergarten.

This simple but lovely exercise always touched me. Heartfelt and honest words, scrawled with earnest sentiment in the hands of a child.

One phrase, that appeared on my son Owen’s paper plate several times, was the phrase, “You are always so nice to me!” I loved that compliment. Being kind to others. So easy to do and forever remembered.

Yesterday, I found Owen’s paper plate, tucked atop a closet. Taking it down gingerly, I re-read the words of the children, some long gone from our lives, others who still remain. A bittersweet moment; a reminder of the fleeting passage of time. Yet the words on his plate remain true to life. Owen is still a kind soul.

Today, I am going to take a page from that very fine kindergarten teacher, who shared this wonderful keepsake with her students, so many years ago. I will tell someone I care about, something I find positive about them – a virtual paper plate of positive traits.

And who knows? just maybe, they will return the gesture to a special someone in their lives.

Full circle.

The Galetti Guest House

We sit together miserably, my sister and I, on the sofa of our NYC apartment. Though close in proximity we make sure to stay at least a foot apart, not daring to chance brushing up against each other, even for a split second. The sweltering heat, still villainous at 10 PM, permeates every nook and cranny of the apartment. I dip my washcloth into a large bowl of ice and water beside me, and place it on the nape of my neck, for the umpteenth time. Our apartment development, known as Stuyvesant Town, is a massive complex stretching from East 14th St and Avenue C to East 22 and First Avenue. Built in the 1940’s for returning World War II vets, it was never wired for air conditioning. And so here we are, forty years later, slowly dying of the heat. I silently curse the Stuy Town founding fathers for their lack of insight.

It is the Thursday night before Memorial Day weekend, a weekend wherein hordes of city dwellers depart for greener pastures. A weekend where dreams of crystal blue swimming pools, sandy beaches, boating on lakes and serene woodlands, runneth over.

Yet here we sit in our stifling city apartment with no holiday plans in sight, whatsoever. It is the very first summer we opted out of a summer share house. Angry, frustrated, defeated, my sister and I spend the good part of the evening casting blame. Each accusing the other of being lax in securing a weekend accommodation in the Hamptons, the playground of the young and carefree. Being sisters, we can say cruel things to each other knowing there will always be forgiveness. But for our third roommate, and best friend Janet who has not yet arrived home from work, and who often takes the brunt of our quarrels to heart, forgetting is not as easy. I have little doubt Janet will still be sore from this morning’s unpleasant scene between the three of us, which transpired on the corner of 1st Avenue and 14th Street. Shamefully, after my sister and I finished attacking each other, we started in on Janet. Why couldn’t she have found time to make a plan for our Memorial Day weekend?

After fruitlessly going round and round again with no resolution, we angrily, leave each other, departing to our work offices, in three different directions.

Later that evening, Sheila and I ponder what mood Janet will arrive home in, then suddenly hear the sound of a key turning. She enters smiling broadly. I breathe a sigh of relief – all is forgiven. Holding up a newspaper with an ad circled boldly in red marker she blurts out in excitement, “Well roomies, I come bearing good news. This weekend, Westhampton calls! I have taken charge and just booked us for the weekend in the Galetti guest house!”

The ride to Westhampton takes less than three hours from the city and the three of us are in high spirits. We have done it! or rather Janet has, finding a last minute place in the Hamptons, on the busiest weekend of the year. We discuss numerous options for night life and anticipate who we might see. We blast the car radio in celebration of what is certain to be an epic weekend.

Pulling into the driveway, a touch of disappointment looms. The Galetti Guest House looks like any other suburban dwelling. Just a regular house in a regular neighborhood. Approaching the front door, a yellow post-it note, is stuck haphazardly, instructing, “come in and make yourself at home, your bedroom is top of the stairs on the right. See you for breakfast!” Entering the stark living room, we are greeted by dead silence. A church organ, prominently positioned in the corner, just begging to be played, beckons. Janet not missing a beat drops her overnight bag and races to the bench. Pounding on the keys dramatically, she sings the chorus of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebrate Good Times, COME ON!!” in abandon as Sheila and I join in. We dance around the small living room madly, jubilant we had made it out of the city or more likely, just taking advantage of having the house to ourselves.

Heading upstairs we enter the bedroom where the three of us will sleep. Strewn about the floor are hundreds of unopened, insulin pen needles suggesting a diabetic in residence. Atop the nightstand is a large 8 x 10 portrait of a woman, with shocking red hair and alabaster skin, sporting a graduation cap and gown. Mrs. Galetti? Though oddly, her age appears to be around seventy, rather than the typical twenty-one years of a senior in college. A late graduate perhaps? Her vacant, saucer eyes haunt and appear to follow our every move. I turn down the picture quickly and put the unpleasant scene out of my head. It is Memorial Day weekend and we have made it to the Hamptons! So what if the guest house is a bit offbeat? We are only here to sleep.

We awake to the smell of bacon and the aromatic brew of coffee. Peals of female laughter ring out from the downstairs kitchen. A male voice is singing in abandon, in what sounds like Italian Opera. Making our way to the dining room we spot a middle aged gentleman, spatula in hand, standing at the stove, tending to the skillet. No doubt, Mr. Galetti. He is clad in boxer shorts and a tight, white tee shirt. A red bandanna is tied around his head which is crowned in tight curls. He greets us warmly, “Welcome to the Galetti Guest house! One egg or two? ” Three, twenty- something girls, seated at the table, shriek and laugh, hanging on his every word.

I glance at Janet and Sheila. They return my gaze, eyes widened in disbelief. In Janet’s, I detect something akin to an expression of guilt, perhaps in finding our weekend accommodation.

After breakfast, we decide to spend a low key day at the guest house. Tonight will be our big night out and we need to rest up. The Galetti Guest House boasts a salt water swimming pool and it is a scorching day. Making our way out to the backyard deck an above ground pool materializes. A rickety, three rung ladder leans aside its torn tarp. Stepping upon the ladder which sways under my weight, I glance down at the pool water below. Dead leaves and debris float aimlessly atop. A pool unfit for man or beast. I glance at Janet who refuses to meet my eyes. The kitchen curtains sway and I swear I see Mr. Galetti staring out at us from the window.

We opt to go to the beach instead.

Our last evening of that forever memorable Memorial Day weekend, Janet, Sheila and I, enjoy a fantastic night at St. John’s East night Club, dancing our cares and the Galetti Guest house far, far away.

Early the next morning, as the sun is slowly rising, we drive home in silence, bound for New York City. No words uttered, no blame or harsh accusations cast. A mute understanding is shared among the three of us. We cruise along Dune Road, Sheila at the wheel of our rental car as we take in the majestic homes situated along the Atlantic Ocean, in Southampton town. As retribution, we will stop for dinner at our favorite place, the Lobster Inn, as we did so many weekends before in summers past, when we were smart enough to go in on a summer share. Lesson learned in spades…

Motoring along windows cracked, the sea breeze works its magic; the mood is slowly lifting. We howl in laughter as we recall the vision of Mr. Galetti frying bacon in nothing but his underwear and the decrepit above ground swimming pool. We all agree this will be one for the books and a Memorial Day not soon forgotten. At the Galetti Guest House

Pillow Talk

I strive to be a good host.

Our guest room contains a comfortable Queen bed, its soft, silky sheets adorned in tiny yellow, delicate daisies. A satin eye mask is within reach to ward off harsh morning rays which occasionally assault, come sunrise. A wee book I purchased some years ago at the New York Public Library gift shop, “The Language of Flowers” lies upon the night table for reading pleasure and a small Tiffany lamp casts a golden light which both warms and soothes the soul. Three Hershey chocolate kisses are strategically positioned upon the pillow, a small offering for the guest who like myself, might just happen to share a chocolate addiction.

So you can imagine my surprise and frankly, shock, when a recent overnight guest, a co-worker and dear friend of several years, looked me squarely in the eyes the morning after she had just stayed over (in said guest room) and candidly remarked, “why I didn’t get a wink of sleep! It was the pillows. They were just awful.”

I stood before her with a frozen smile, my thoughts racing. My mind conjured a myriad of responses, which for the sake of our friendship, remained unsaid. I calmly replied, “I wish you would have told me, Lisa. I have an array of other pillows I could have offered you.” She responded something about not wanting to bother me, then continued the tirade.

“Why I felt like Goldilocks, from that childhood fairy tale, wherein she could never quite find the right bed, but for me, it was the pillows. One was too hard, the other too soft and the last well, just not right…”

And then, I did what any other good host might do. I apologized for her discomfort promising next time, I would have a better quality of pillow to assure a more pleasant night’s slumber. She thanked me. Later that morning, as I watched her depart, sleepily making her way down our front path to her car, I thoughtfully pondered the pillows and her critique.

There were three I had placed on her bed, the first a firm Tempur-Pedic the second, medium-firm with down feathers and the third, a very soft pillow wherein your head almost sunk straight through to the mattress; I personally loved the very soft one.

The next day, I visited the guest room to further examine the alleged offending pillows. My friend had unleashed the most fury on one pillow, claiming it contained “little beads” that hurt her face which indeed, appeared slightly splotchy the following morning, giving the expression “beauty sleep,” new meaning. I picked it up. Its interior did feel strikingly similar to small nodules or pebbles. Moving on to pillow two, the extra firm Tempur-Pedic, which ironically cost a fortune,I found it not much better than the former, being not only heavy in heft, but as hard as a rock. The last one I examined, the medium down, was lovely but as I lay down upon it, several of the duck feathers poked out ominously in random places, like sharp talons.

My heart sank in despair as I came to a grim realization…

My friend was right. The pillows were a disaster.

I vowed to buy new ones before hosting future guests, but alas, my promise was short lived. Tossing and turning more than usual last night, my husband suddenly sprang up like a frustrated Jack-in-the Box, his pillow gripped tightly in his arms. Tossing the offending villain to the floor, quite forcefully, his words stung amid the darkness of our bedroom.

“You gave me the Lisa pillow!”

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. 52^nd 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…

The Resume

“I just need you to look it over for typos. I want to get it out as soon as possible.”

Lounging on my sister’s living room sofa, contentedly eating Hershey chocolate kisses from a small bowl, I leisurely leafed through a copy of Glamour magazine. It was a lazy Saturday morning with the most pressing matter in our young lives being which club we would visit that night – Heartbreak or, The Limelight?

I glanced over at my sister Anne, who sat pensively at her kitchen table, ballpoint pen in hand. A frequent visitor to her NYC apartment during summer and college breaks, I loved visiting my sister and was well aware of the coming and goings on in her life which at this moment, was updating her resume.

After working for several years caring for patients in a New York hospital’s Day Surgery unit, she was entertaining a foray into the corporate side of nursing. The job to which she was applying, involved working aside a prominent older scientist, a one Dr. Jonathan Mackey, assisting with medical research. Though she would miss bedside nursing, this new job would allow better hours and be less physically demanding.

Nestling into the depths of the cozy cushions, red marker in hand, I carefully proof-read the resume before me. Priding myself in both writing capability and creativity I was pleased to help my older sister who for my entire life, had looked after me. Several minutes later, I handed her back the sheet of paper containing just one simple addition I had scrawled under the category of “Interests.”

Studying the resume with a puzzled expression she looked up and remarked, “But I don’t play chess! Why would you add that?” “Trust me,” I replied. “It will set you apart from the average applicant. It shows you are a strategic thinker. Most chess players are highly intelligent!” My sister studied the resume once again, carefully entertaining the idea. She was of honest character and did not like to tell even a small white lie. “I don’t know Kathy…”

She called me the following week, her voice brimming with excitement “I have an interview for that job with the professor on Friday, 2PM! Wish me luck…”

My sister over the years, still tells the story, of the resume, generally at family gatherings or when someone is seeking a new job. And most often, after a glass of wine or two, when her resentment is at its lowest. It goes something like this.

Sitting in a small, nondescript office on that fateful Friday afternoon, my sister for the umpteenth, proofread her resume. She relaxed, feeling capable in her abilities. She smiled several times into the mirror of her makeup compact, having once read smiling to yourself, boosts confidence.

A distant whir of something that sounded like a motorized vehicle suddenly broke her concentration as Professor Jonathan Mackey glided into the room. A distinguished looking man, with a salt and pepper tinged head of hair, he wore an expression which conveyed a no-nonsense efficiency.

Holding my sister’s resume before him, he glanced up and down his eyes darting rapidly. Then suddenly, his facial expression changed, and appeared to soften, quite markedly. “Why Anne Marie!” he bellowed with a grin, “You and I seem to share a common vice…”

My sister’s heart beat rose ever so slightly. No, he couldn’t, he could not possibly mean…

“Chess!” Dr. Mackey added emphatically.

As my sister’s soul left her body, her mind raced for some sort of reasonable response. He continued, “To be honest, since I broke this damn ankle, I have been spending more time than I like to admit watching televised matches. I’ve been playing the magnificent game of Chess since my grand father first taught me, when I was only seven years old.”

The words “to be honest” hung thickly in the air…

She had two options, she told me and I knew at that moment, before she even uttered the words, that she had chosen the first.

“Well, I actually don’t play chess, Dr. Mackey,” she stammered. “My sister put it on my resume because….she thought it sounded good.” Silence followed for what seemed an eternity. Digesting my sister’s declaration of deceit, her potential future boss cleared this throat and re-positioned himself in the wheelchair. He then uttered just one phrase.

“You tell your sister, she would never get a job with me…”

Though she did not get the job, I am still welcome at my sister’s apartment. She has traded in New York’s East River, for the Hudson, and now resides in Tarrytown, New York. A rescue dog named Shorty, devoted to my sister, is the newest family member. The chocolate kisses still flow in abundance and Anne, has long forgiven me for the resume mishap.

Just last week, while visiting my sister for the weekend, we took Shorty for his evening walk. The sunset was particularly impressive and a cruise boat, chock full of New York tourists, could be seen in the distance slowly making its way up the Hudson. As we followed the path that wound along the river, I glanced at a small garden off to the right, directly ahead of us. Two older gentleman, seated at a small wooden table, sat opposite each other, deep in concentration. Playing chess.

And in that very moment through the grace of god or some other divine intervention, Shorty, spotting another dog approaching, jumped up abruptly. My sister, desperate to avoid a confrontation, yanked on the leash and quickly pivoted in the opposite direction.

I was saved.

A Mid-Summer’s Daydream

Standing amid a sea of tourists on the teeming Boulevard Saint Germain, I watch as the sidewalk artist works his magic on my sister, who sits posed before him. We are in Paris for the weekend, the result of an incredible airfare originating from Dublin, where we are spending two weeks of the summer with our family. With only forty-eight hours to explore the city of lights, we make a solid vow to take in every sight and sound.

“The likeness is very good,” comes a voice from directly over my shoulder. Glancing behind me, I spot a wiry, young man, his hands jammed deep into his faded jean pockets. He stands aside the artist, studying the portrait with a fierce intensity. His accent appears to be French, and a wave of blonde hair falls over his forehead as he nods enthusiastically. “Yes, he captures her beauty quite well.”

A short while later, portrait in hand, which did bear an incredible likeness to my sister Anne, we stroll together with our new companion. Fabrice who speaks English fluently, is a twenty-something ice cream vendor who lives in a nearby suburb of Paris. He is in the city to meet his best friend and co-worker Danielle, for a work event that evening.

Perhaps we might like to join them for a cafe au lait?

I glance at my sister who steadily returns my gaze, her large, blue eyes reflecting a hint of disbelief. Fabrice, was gorgeous. And French. As we walk or rather float onward to meet Danielle at a neighborhood bistro which comes highly recommended by Fabrice, my mind tries to focus on the scenario before me. Pinching my arm sharply, it is confirmed. I am not dreaming.

Danielle, if possible, is even more handsome than Fabrice with one caveat; he does not speak English. Not a word. But we find it matters little. He smiles and nods amiably, with Fabrice as our translator. Our new french friends are fascinated to learn we live in NYC. Keen to visit having never been, they beg us for tales of the city. We sit at that sidewalk cafe for what seems hours. It is situated directly adjacent to the Eiffel Tower which at dusk becomes illuminated, in golden light.

As we ponder the best Parisian sites to visit the next day, Fabrice shakes his head. “Forget the tourist traps. Danielle and I will show you a different side of France.” He then proceeds to tell of a place, little known to tourists. A unique retreat, just an hour outside of Paris. They will take us if we are willing. And can pick us up at our hotel the next morning. 9 AM sharp.

Later that night, sipping a Keir Royal at our hotel bar, my sister and I ponder if our handsome French tour guides will in fact show up. We flip a coin allowing destiny to be the decider.

The weather the next morning is ideal for a day trip. Mild and brilliantly sunny. I sit in the passenger seat next to Fabrice who is driving. Anne and Danielle sit in the back. They are holding hands, proving the language barrier, non existent. Roaring down the autobahn that day, I can still feel the warm wind billowing through the open windows, and how it tasseled our hair in every direction.

Another memory. A soulful song that comes on the radio. Lenny Kravitz’s, 1980’s hit, “It ain’t over till it’s over.” Followed by Fabrice’s enthusiastic declaration of, “I love this song!” He sings along in abandon, a little off key, but his lilting French accent charms. To this day, every time I hear that song, I remember.

‘So many tears I’ve cried
So much pain inside
It ain’t over ’til it’s over’

Chateau de Chantilly is everything Fabrice and Danielle claim it to be, and more. A true sojourn from the bustling city, we walk along ancient stone walls, flowering gardens and a working stable. The serenity and beauty are unquestionable. A perfect destination for our last day in France.

After snapping several photos, my favorite of Fabrice at my prompting, sitting astride a large stone lion, I notice both he and Danielle, staring up the path at a nearby ice cream truck. Excusing themselves, they approach the truck, but instead of buying ice cream, circle it three times, staring at the vendor in a somewhat menacing manner. Upon their return they explain that the truck has infringed upon their territory and is not supposed to be there. I glance at my sister, worriedly anticipating a possible ice cream war but the scene dissolves with little fanfare as the ice cream truck drives hastily away.

As evening draws near, the four of us sit wordlessly in the grass. We watch as the huge French sun, glowing in muted tones of tangerine, slowly sets on the hillside. It is a fitting close to a perfect day; nature’s farewell to our weekend in Paris.

I take down the worn shoe box from the highest shelf of my bedroom closet. It sits most days undisturbed, often for long periods of time. It holds various letters from special friends throughout the years and a stack of photographs showcasing my life from youth, to present.

I remove one photo from the box.

It is old, faded. I study the image of a youthful Fabrice, who in present time would be around sixty years of age. He is sitting atop that stone lion at Chateau Chantilly, waving his arms and grinning wildly as he stares into my camera. I received a few postcards from him over the years, the last postmarked from the South of France where I imagine the ice cream trade lucrative and the vendors ubiquitous. I wonder where Danielle is now.

We wrote of reuniting some day. But it would never be.

For to meet once again would take away the sweetness of that mid-summer’s day in Paris so long, long ago…