I first saw him in the elevator of my office building, tall, handsome and impeccably dressed. We exchanged nothing more than a few fleeting glances/smiles over the next couple of months and then one afternoon, somewhere between the 9th and 12th floor, he uttered the words I had dreamed of…would I like to meet for a drink that night?
Ecstatic I floated back to my office, furiously contemplating where I could find a more enticing outfit than the frumpy gray suit I was wearing, ideal had I been operating the elevator. I needed something special… cute, flirty, fun. But where to find in 3 hours? And then a light bulb. The $19.99 and under dress store which sat in the lobby of my building. I had never entered the store but passed it daily on my way to the elevator bank always pondering the type of dress you might find for $20 bucks. But desperate times call for desperate measures I reasoned. Did I dare?
The bar, an iconic NYC pub called “Ryan McFadden’s” located on the corner of 42nd and 2nd Ave was packed with after work patrons both young and old. My office was a stone throw from Ryan’s, an absolute favorite neighborhood haunt with a great crowd and live music. I had never felt more attractive and carefree as I sipped my Tequila Sunrise, in that cobalt blue, stretch cotton mini dress (yes, dear reader, score for the $19.99 and under dress store!) I admit it may have been a tad tight and perhaps the material a bit thin, but for the price, what could one expect? It was how it made me FEEL that was important. Plus the fact, real or imagined, that my date could not take his eyes off me! Our conversation flowed easily and the bar pulsated with energy and possibility.
The music was phenomenal! After my 2nd cocktail, I boldly asked him to join me on the dance floor, something out of the norm for me but the dress fueled my confidence. As we jumped in time with the crowd to the strains of “SHOUT” I suddenly felt myself losing my footing. The floor, ladled with beer from overzealous imbibers was awash. The next thing I knew, I was horizontal. Brushing myself off and struggling to maintain my dignity, I slowly rose to my feet. Several people behind me were laughing. “Your dress,” one sympathetic woman whispered, “it’s totally ripped up the back…”
My last memory was the disappointed look in elevator guy’s eyes as he wrapped his rain coat around me and hailed a cab. And with that gesture, the night was officially over.
For the next six weeks, I took the stairs up to my office – all twelve flights. For that reason or others unknown, I never ran into the elevator guy again. The $19.99 and under dress store closed shortly thereafter as well and ironically, a tailor moved into its space.
On a certain section of the Connecticut Post Road in a town called Westport, a row of neat but nondescript stores sit quietly amid the frenzy of traffic and rhythm of life.
One storefront stands out.
An Irish flag positioned aside an American one guards the entrance and on certain days if the breeze from the nearby Long Island Sound kicks in, its tricolours of green, white and orange wave gently – a tribute to the owners, Brian Ellard and Margaret Kirby who hail from Tipperary. I can’t recall the first time I visited Peggy’s Cottage, but I do know it was that Irish flag that beckoned and once I stepped foot inside, there was no going back.Growing up, my life encompassed all things Irish. My mother was Irish born and my Irish/Scottish father managed a well-known Irish pub called Rosie O’Grady’s in New York City. A few charmed summers we visited Ireland and rented a house for two weeks, memories I will always cherish. We owned a huge but gentle Irish Wolfhound we brought back one trip who was the talk of our neighborhood. There was no getting away from my Irish heritage and my love for the country and people. And then in later years after moving from the city to Connecticut, life became a wee bit grander when I discovered Peggy’s Cottage.
A warm and welcoming refuge, modeled after an authentic thatched Irish cottage, Peggy’s offered all the magical treats of my youth. The lovely, light pork sausages my dad so loved, served with fried tomatoes and steak sauce on Sundays mornings. The many varieties of Cadbury delights (the Flake bars undoubtedly being my favorite). The “drinking chocolate” my mother made for us on chilled winter mornings before school and the Bird’s Custard she would use in her famous Irish Trifle. It was not just the foods of my childhood that brought comfort but the many authentic touches displayed throughout the store: the “himself/herself” set of Irish mugs I use daily, the gorgeous handmade knit sweaters and tweed caps and my absolute favorite find in Peggy’s Cottage – the Irish Worry Stone, a smooth, emerald stone carved from Connemara marble you could tuck into your pocket and gently hold when worry or anxiety struck. My mother always brought worry stones home from Ireland as souvenirs. The day I discovered them at Peggy’s was no doubt a nod from my mother that she too approved of this special place.
Although I loved the many Irish offerings, the real reason I returned was Peggy herself. Margaret, Peggy, Peg or the name I chose to call her “Mag,” was my calm in the storm. Her quiet presence seemed to right everything. Each time I came through the front door I would spot her, a slight, pretty woman sitting contentedly behind the glass display case in the rear of the store. She would greet me warmly and we would talk of life. My son had just entered college in Dublin and was struggling with the isolation of being in a country so far from home. Each visit, Mag remembering my worries would question “How is Owen getting on?” and I would tell her of his ups and downs. One day while in the shop, I FaceTimed Owen to introduce him to Mag. The three of us enjoyed a good laugh as I showed him around the store, knowing he too would find the comfort which Mag and her cottage so effortlessly offered.
But as is often the case in life, I never really knew of her own struggles. And when I learned that she had died last month after a long illness of which she never spoke, I felt such a profound sadness it took my breath away. Sadness in never getting the chance to say goodbye. Sadness for her lifelong partner Brian and son Darren who she left behind and a sadness in knowing when I return to Peggy’s Cottage my greeting from Mag will be only in memory.
There is a line from an Irish song, which tells of a deep love for a place, no matter how far away you roam, “It’s a long, long way to Tipperary but my heart lies there.” I imagine a part of Mag’s heart will always be in Tipperary and the other right here in Connecticut, in the little shop bearing her name which she loved so well.
“On the road, again, just can’t wait to get on that road again.
Going places that I’ve never been.
Seein’ things that I may never see again.
And I can’t wait to get on the road again.”
Willie Nelson
“Your mother,” began Jimmy Dillon, who sat contentedly perched on the bar stool next to mine. It was Christmas Eve and the atmosphere rang of reunion and festivity. Publicans was our beloved hometown bar; a place where many had enjoyed their first legal drink and to where they returned once again on these holiday weekends, to bask in friendship and bygone days. I studied Jimmy, a boy I had known briefly from my neighborhood who had gone on in later years to become a fire fighter. Close to 50 now, his twinkling blue eyes and shock of red hair still mirrored his sixteen year old self. He continued on, his tone a mixture of fondness and fear. “Probably the nicest woman I have ever met, but the day she picked me when I was walking home from school? I saw my life pass before my eyes!” He took a long swig of his beer in an attempt to quell the memory then proceeded to emulate how my mother would ask him a question while driving and then turn full around to where he sat in the back seat, to hear his answer. He weaved and bobbed on the bar stool his hands flailing wildly as he re-lived the moment. The last thing I remember him saying as he made his way into the crowd was “would you give her my best? She was just the nicest lady…”
We had heard it all before you see, my sisters and I, as my mother was somewhat of a legend for her driving. Our father perhaps bore the brunt of these mishaps most deeply while fielding numerous phone calls in regards to the fender benders my mother had incurred over the years. Our Insurance Agent, Joe Kilhenny, was a fixture at many our family’s Sunday barbeques and in later years attended my wedding.
Growing up on a farm in rural Leitrim my mother’s mode of transportation was her trusty bicycle which she rode around the countryside. She often described a nearby orchard where she would stop and pick apples on her way to school. I remember how she laughed at the memory of being chased by a farmer after tucking a choice few into her pocket one visit.
In her mid-twenties she left her cherished Ireland for New York City and became a pediatric nurse at St. Vincent’s hospital in Greenwich Village. Meeting my father shortly thereafter, they married had four daughters and settled in a suburb of Long Island. And for a good awhile she survived without the need to drive, walking to the nearby market and relying on the kindness of friends when needed. But as the years passed the kitchen calendar grew full. Sports, birthday parties, doctor’s appointments, the rhythm of life – all requiring a car and a licensed driver. She could put it off no longer. And so it began.
It is always debated among our family exactly how many times she took her road test. We settled at nine though the exact number will always be a mystery. The eighth time she failed, her fiercely loyal best friend Eileen Anello, outraged at the injustice of it all claimed she “knew a judge.” And whether by the hand of god, my mother’s ability or that nameless judge, my mother at 50 years of age at last passed her road test.
When I was in Middle School, she drove through the McGuire’s backyard. Claiming the road was slippery from a recent rain, she careened through some hedges, jumped a curb and stopped dead set in the middle of the tidy backyard. Finding no one home she left a note with her name and number, no other explanation needed. The chant of “your mother drove through the McGuire’s backyard!!” echoing through the school bus, haunted me and my three sisters for years.
Our Irish wolfhound caught on early. We never knew exactly what happened but one day after numerous trips driving with my mother to the dog field, he stubbornly refused to get in the car. Nothing worked. Tugging, pushing or being cajoled with dog treats. He was done.
In our early months of dating my future husband was unaware of my mother’s driving escapades. Visiting our home for the first time through the garage he noticed a refrigerator positioned against the back wall sporting a severely dented door. Entering the house he asked my father, “Bill, what happened to that refrigerator’s door in the garage?” Without looking up from his paper came the weary reply, “Oh, Mary uses the fridge as a measuring device of sorts. When she gives it a good whack, she knows she has pulled in completely.”
Then there was the time my sister was homesick at college and my mother as mother’s often do, came to the rescue. Never mind we lived in New York and my sister’s college was in Pennsylvania or that my mother had never before driven on a major interstate highway. There was no question she would go. So she called on the service of her best friend Lily, an Irish cousin who lived close by and in their youth grew up on an adjoining farm. And off they went that Saturday morning, my mother at the wheel and Lily riding shotgun, to visit my homesick sister. As night fell, I watched my father pace back and forth. It was before cell phones and I had never before seen him so nervous. He clearly realized the seriousness of the situation. And then a phone call from my sister…Mom and Lily had arrived! They were a little later than expected having ended up first in the state of Ohio due to a wrong turn but all was well as they prepared to go to dinner. I always wondered if Lily had aged a few years during that ride to Villanova University as I believe we all did.
Though my mother had a series of accidents throughout her life, what saved her I believe was the fact that she always drove far under the speed limit, an unseen angel on her shoulder or the brake pedal. A good deal of the trouble was that her attention was simply elsewhere, like the day she sheared off the side view mirror of a parked car while adjusting the radio to her favorite Irish station. My sister described turning back to see a dangling mirror as they drove onward, my mother blissfully unaware of the damage left behind. They returned to leave a note on the battered car’s windshield. It too a silent victim.
My wonderful mother has since left this world but her memory lives on in all who knew and loved her. I see her now, in a faraway place and time still charming all with her brogue and angling at any chance possible, to get behind the wheel once again.
”I am happy to drive down to the gate to pick up our new visitors,” my mother offers. God ponders a moment always touched by her helpful nature. But he is a realist. “Well thank you Mary but it is a beautiful day. Perhaps you could ride down to meet them on your bicycle?” My mother smiles. If disappointed it does not show. She always did love riding her bicycle
Whenever I need a quick pick me up I glance at this photograph of my niece Alaina alongside an Emu she befriended while on holiday in Australia. At each viewing, I am struck by the two vastly different moods displayed. My niece nonchalant, as if posing with the creature is an everyday occurrence and the bird itself which resembles an enormous stuffed toy and sports an expression of wide-eyed delight in being included in this impromptu photo opp.
Although warned by the owner of the farm the emu could be extremely dangerous, Alaina took it in stride as she does in every aspect of her life. A poster child for courage and perseverance, she is my hero. She lost her own hero, her beloved father, to pancreatic cancer four years ago. Yet as is her nature, she pushed through the heartache. Completing college she moved to New York City and landed a challenging job she loves, all the while being a solid support to her mother and younger brother. I believe we should all should take a lesson from my fearless niece in facing life head on, as shown below in this wonderful portrait.
“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 1977 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.
A visit to a cherished next door neighbor, fifty years later, revealed a surprising revelation; you can go home again.
The simple days of summer and backyard swimming pools Jackson Heights, Queens NY 1967
When my father died, the memories that encompassed me, swirling in and out of my consciousness in the futile hope of comfort, were not of the time and place I spent the majority of my life with him. Rather, my mind returned to a tidy, brick row house where we lived my first six years and whose address remains forever etched in my mind. 34-52-73rd Street, Jackson Heights. It was not so much my childhood home in Queens to which I longed to return but instead to my next door neighbor, Mary Balducci, an Italian-born seamstress who made a lifelong impression in my heart.
She would be nearly ninety years old I calculated. Her husband Alfred had died unexpectedly shortly after we moved and her only son Johnny, had long married and moved away. We had not kept in touch after leaving Jackson Heights though in the weeks and months shortly 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, but she was always home. She would embrace us with the same two words, repeated again and again “my babies, my babies.” Over the years these visits became less frequent and as we settled into the rhythm of life, eventually ceased all together. And I tucked the memories of 73rd Street and Mary Balducci neatly away.
The search was simple really. No intense sleuthing, no years of tracking down leads on where she had gone. No heartbreak in discovering she was no longer alive. Just a google search revealing her address, followed by a phone number. A chance to return to a past lifetime suddenly lay before me; Maria Balducci, 34-52-73rd Street, Jackson Heights. She answered on the eighth ring, in the warm, lilting Italian I accent I recognized immediately. “Mary?” this is Kathy your old next door neighbor. My father died. Can I come see you?”
They say you can’t go home again…
She greeted me in a simple faded housecoat and pink slippers, her black hair still thick and luxurious, defying her ninety one years. “My baby, my baby,” she repeated over and over. “Come! Walk around! Go upstairs! Look! Remember!”
I tentatively entered her dining room and stood before the breakfront. I recall the bottom drawer always being filled with Juicy Fruit gum which Mary gave to us in abandon. I approached and as she nodded, grasped the drawer which slid open easily, gratefully, as if all these years awaiting my return. It is said that the sense of smell is probably more closely linked with memory than any of our other senses. The aroma of Juicy Fruit gum filled the air.
They say you can’t go home again.
I walked into the kitchen where I had sat countless days at her table eating bowls of “skinny spaghetti” on top of which she painstakingly grated Parmesan Reggiano cheese bought from a market in Little Italy. Gazing out the window I spotted across the way, the neat line of row houses and then the one I most sought out, my childhood boyfriend James Latieri. Years later after we had we left Jackson Heights, I encountered Jimmy quite by accident, at a Chaminade High School dance in Mineola, Long Island. We sat in an outdoor pavilion, smoking cigarettes swigging Budweiser from a quart bottle and contemplating life. We were all strangers but being teenagers that little mattered. And then the conversation somehow evolved to where everyone was born. The next few moments remain in my memory jumbled but I recall hearing the words “Did you say Jackson Heights?”repeated by a lanky teen 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 seeing Jimmy Latieri, my six year old crush, materialize 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. Trying to maintain his aura of cool, he lost it for a minute when he excitedly asked: “Kathy, is it really you?” We laughed together that balmy night transported from six to sixteen in an instant. His family like mine had moved to Long Island though he would never return to Queens or to 73rd Street. I imagined because Jimmy never had a Mary Balducci living next door.
Gazing out Mary’s kitchen window, I noted the tall looming high rise apartment building still standing adjacent and in that moment, remembered the terror of “the gray-haired lady.” As we played in the garden below she would appear at the window, ten stories above, fling it open and then toss an empty Vodka bottle out which always seemed to miss us by only inches. It was not being hit by the bottle I feared, but the strange, calm smile that would appear on her face right before she threw it. I dreamed about the gray haired lady for years after we left who unlike Mary represented a dark side of life during my short six years in Jackson Heights.
I asked Mary about the turtles. Could we walk out back to the garden? The row houses each had a tiny, fenced in yard behind each home. 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 and stood before the spot where the pond now dry and overgrown once lay, I felt Alfred with us in spirit and hoped he was once again caring for his turtles in another place and time.
She had remained in her home on 73rd street, at ninety one years of age, a testament to her will and independence. She still left her front door unlocked and insisted she was not going to any “old age home” as her relatives urged. She continued to take the subway to Little Italy to purchase the finest ingredients for her Italian recipes. She told me of old neighbors on the street, the ones who had gone and the few that remained. I told her about the lives of my sisters and how we had remained as close as ever but it was an unspoken understanding that she and I had shared the closest bond. I expressed to her the heartache of losing my father; she told me she never quite got over our leaving. And then it was time for me to leave her once again.
Six years later, my mother died. I had no contact with Mary since our last visit but once again felt the need to see her. She would be ninety seven years old now. What were the odds? I waited for weeks then picked up the phone. After several rings a recording. The number had been disconnected. I was not surprised but nonetheless felt the need to have an end to this story. I pondered my next step. And then I recalled that Mary’s only son Johnny lived in Bayside Queens. As a child living next door I had met him only a handful of times. I searched for his name and found the address. But instead of calling, I wrote him a letter. Maybe because I did not want to hear of Mary’s dying through an impersonal phone call, maybe to buy a little more time to process she might be gone. I wrote him of my visit with his mother six years ago. I described how I sat in his childhood kitchen eating tri color ice cream at 10AM in the morning from a china bowl. I shared the indescribable feeling of walking around his home and how it had felt exactly the same. I told him about the still faint aroma, fifty years later, of the juicy fruit gum. I wrote of my memories of feeding the Box Turtles with his father. I told him how much I had loved his mother and my need to know what happened to her. I ended my letter to Johnny with the simple words “you can go home again.”
Johnny called back two weeks later. I was strangely relieved not to be home that day, as if to be spared the dreaded news. He spoke to my husband and told him how much he enjoyed my letter. He loved the part about his father and the turtles, he had not thought about the Box Turtles in years. He recalled how much his mother and father loved our family and Mary’s heartache when we moved away. She never quite got over it, he said. Yes, she was still alive but they had sold the house on 73rd street and had moved her to a nursing home just last year. It was unsafe for her to live alone and she had experienced recent dementia. He had the address if I would like to visit…
There is a portrait which hangs in the family room of my home. It shows myself and my two sisters as children, alongside my beautiful and then youthful parents. A picture that if I brought to show Mary in the nursing home, would be easily recognizable. Her babies. Three smiling girls, frozen in time. I have taken the picture down off the wall so I can easily place it in my car. It sits waiting in the corner of the living room. Waiting. It has been there for a while now but next week, yes next week for certain I will visit her.
Maria Balducci died in 2016 at the age of 99 years.
We have all been there. Being presented with the dreaded fruit cake during holiday gift giving. This Americanized and far different version of the light and lovely, Italian Panettone, is often a leader in the well meaning but often sneaky world of “re-gifting.” Fruit cakes have been the core of cruel jokes the world over and polls often taken asking, “fruit cake, feast or famine?”
This Christmas Eve it was my turn. And so I sat with a frozen smile as my mother-in-law proudly bestowed the brilliant golden box before me. My three sisters moved their chairs closer and looked on with feigned interest and hidden smirks. The lovely box was adorned with a bright red bow and contained several descriptive lines describing its contents; “Light as a feather and made with love from mother…” I pondered what mother, could do that to her family? The enticing prose of the copywriter flowed “a painstaking seven day process to perfection in each loaf…” seven days might provide an explanation for the rock hardness of the cake. And then the final line, “Bringing Families Together for Centuries.” Or apart for years. The real reason why families members don’t speak? Someone gifted another with a fruit cake.
Returning home that evening, I placed the gift on my kitchen counter furiously contemplating to whom I could pass it on. The Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” echoed in and out of my consciousness. Glancing again at the festive box it represented a cruel dichotomy – the outside Dr. Jekyll, the inside Mr. Hyde. In the end, I did the only reasonable thing possible. Pay it forward.
Our home borders a hundred acre nature preserve with every creature imaginable in residence. Waiting till night fall I carried the fruit cake out to the woods and removed it from the box. I gingerly placed it just off the walking trail near a bush resembling a small Christmas tree. With a new found lightness in my step I returned home. God Bless us everyone! The next morning I poured myself a cup of coffee and made my way outside. Approaching the tree underneath where I had laid it, I stared in confusion. The cake in all its splendor stood – untouched. Several pieces of fruit had been dislodged from the foundation and now lay scattered aside amid a large chunk of crumbled cake. I imagined a wily raccoon, delighted with his Christmas morning find, removing several with his delicate paws, gobbling them furiously and then realizing like his human counterparts, he had been duped. It was a fruit cake plain and simple.
The instructions were simple, even for a first grader.
“Write one nice thing about your classmate on his/her paper plate.” The plates were distributed to the children on the last day of school to take home as a memento of the year.
This simple but lovely exercise always touched me, particularly the heartfelt but honest sentiments scrawled by the children. One phrase that appears several times for my son was “You are so nice to me!”
I loved that compliment. So easy to do and clearly too so very much appreciated. After all, who doesn’t like to hear something positive about yourself?
I found this paper plate tucked away in a closet yesterday while preparing for my son’s college departure. It was bittersweet but a great reminder.
On this day professing love, find something positive in someone, even if you have to dig a little. You may receive the compliment in return. Full circle. St. Valentine would be proud❤️
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!
Shangri-La 