It started the day my father, he too a frog lover, brought my three sisters and me, to the downstairs pet department of Woolworth’s five and dime. Standing before a random aquarium, I spotted a brilliant flash of jade green, gleefully darting around the tank. And then, as if sensing my fascination, the teeny frog swam directly up to the glass, and pressed his face against it, to get a closer look at the little girl standing mesmerized, before him. The affection was clearly mutual. Yes I believe in that formative moment I was sold, as was that amiable African frog and his three tank mates. My father had the attendant scoop up all four, that wonderful and memorable day, one for each of his daughters. And we jumped up and down with a jubilance that only a new pet could bring.
The African frogs were a fragile lot and sadly, not with us for the long haul. A few years later, they were replaced by hundreds of tadpoles that materialized every Spring in our backyard pond. As they grew into froghood, we would fish them out of the pond in abandon, eagerly but delicately, with big, green nets purchased at the local sporting goods store and which still hang in our garage, a little worse for the wear; a testament to frogging days of lore.
On a trip to Puerto Rico in my early twenties, I returned home with a pocketful of souvenirs for friends and family all the same in theme: a key chain with a tiny frog attached. Known locally as the “Coqui,” a tree frog that only comes out at night and whose chirp-like chant mimics the word “Co-kee Co-kee” as if singing. Legend has it that if you spot one of these elusive frogs during daylight hours, good luck is yours for the remainder of time.
While recently organizing my closet, I found the Coqui keychain from so many years ago, its paint faded and chipping, tucked away in a shoebox. I contentedly held it in my palm and vowed to start using it again.
As I grew older, it was not necessary to see the physical frogs themselves, the simple sound of them was all I needed. Walking our dog through the dark woods behind our home, the distant sound of a high pitched peep would fill the air. The peepers serenade, and a sign of Springtime and frogs, reborn.
So, when we recently moved into a rental home that just happened to have a salt water swimming pool, I was not prepared for the traumatizing daily event awaiting me, involving the creatures I held so dear.
Each morning, generally after a heavy rain, I would discover several small frogs, who had perished overnight, floating on the top of the water, their tiny legs splayed outward, as if in silent defeat. More painful, for me were the ones that had sunk to the bottom, a clear symbol of all hope, gone. Devastated I do the only thing I can think of .. scoop them out and place them behind a large, shaded rock I discovered adjacent to the pool, upon which sits a small statue of a praying figure. Next to the rock, is a small strand of wind chimes, its rhythmic music masking a prior tragedy. I take comfort in this peaceful resting place for the little frogs, who in life, brought me so much joy.
But on some mornings, I approach the pool to spot one or two little outliers. Tiny sole survivors, treading water, floating hope. Scooping each up, I gingerly place them down on the concrete and pour a bit of plain water, ever so gently over them, in the hopes of ridding the salt from their body.
And as I watch them slowly leap away, we are both, for the moment, saved.
In my role as a Psychiatric Technician, the goal is to care for patients with professionalism and warmth while maintaining boundaries, within that working relationship.
But sometimes, there are certain people who touch your heart in a way you do not expect.
The reason may not be clear; they remind you of someone dear from your past, or present; a grandfather, aunt, cousin, friend. Sometimes, the answer is as simple as watching a transformation; from lost, to hopeful, to whole again, and the epic gratitude expressed by that patient as they reach their destination of wellness.
Once a patient is discharged, you know not of their future and can only hope for the best. Other times, you have the good fortune to witness it. The following are three patients, I have cared for (names changed), all of different circumstances, and personalities, who left an impression I will remember.
Glen
It is always difficult entering a hospital for the first time. Emotions run the gamut. Fear, anger, anxiety, shame. But one middle-aged gentleman arrived so dejected, he could hardly speak. As the days went by, I searched for any positive change in behavior, without success. Glen would walk around the unit, head down, the only hint of optimism that peeked through was when he spoke to his wife and family on the telephone. One afternoon I sat with him, attempting to pry even a few words out of him. Nothing. We sat in silence as he blinked back tears. About a week into his stay, the day room began to fill up for one of the hospital’s more popular groups, Yoga. It was a beautiful summer evening and the doors to the patio were, as is the rule when not in use, locked. One patient asked if we could open them to allow more air into the room and because we had extra staff, were able to accommodate. I noticed Glen standing in the hallway, peering in through the window as patients positioned their mats on the floor. I motioned to him to come in and join the group. He hesitantly entered, was given a yoga mat, and lay down with the others. Fifteen minutes later, I glanced around the room. The class was in full swing. A faint scent of lavender filled the room and a warm breeze billowed through the open patio doors. I glanced at the patients before me, and spotted Glen. Eyes closed with an expression that conveyed complete calmness, he lay among the other patients performing a set of deep breathing exercises and for the first time since his arrival, seemed to at last be enjoying a moment of peace.
Three weeks later, I sat in the Silver Hill library, filling in for our librarian, who was out that day. As I pressed the buzzer to allow a visiting patient inside, a gentleman entered whose face, I could not at first, place. He was clad in a vibrant, tie-dyed tee shirt. Glen! He had left the ACU inpatient unit to begin our Transitional Living Program a couple of weeks before. “Great shirt!” I greeted him. He responded brightly: “You are the third person today that asked me about this shirt. I made it yesterday in group.” I smiled back at him, amazed that this was the same patient I had cared for last month. Whether due to medication, therapy, or just sheer will and strength, before me stood a new man, transformed and whose journey to recovery, was well on its way.
Vanessa
Upon arrival on the inpatient unit, she was angry and frustrated, which is not uncommon for new patients. “I don’t need to be here!” she bellowed as she swept down the hallway to her room. But her frustration disappeared shortly, and her enthusiasm and brightness became a magnet to other patients and staff alike. She came from a line of artists who had clearly passed down an obvious talent. Her solace was sitting quietly, drawing or painting, with whatever materials were available to her. She often sketched other patients or staff members then presented the recipients with her work of art. Vanessa also loved poetry and carried a small book in her pocket which she would pull out and quote whenever the occasion presented itself.
Beautifully dressed in flowing vibrant colors, her personality was infectious. Entering her room, an aroma of an exotic spice filled the air, from where it had originated was a mystery. She told stories of her world travels that held everyone on the edge of their seat. She was a fountain of knowledge in describing the different cities she had seen and the special magic they held for her. I often wondered if these travels were fact or fiction, but it mattered little, her descriptions and tales made you feel like you too were in Paris on the banks of the Seine, right alongside her. When I first met Vanessa, we discovered a mutual love of Irish Music. During the Art Therapy group, the instructor would often allow a patient to pick a song, dear to their heart and play it for the group. Vanessa never failed to choose an Irish ballad and would sing along in abandon sometimes accentuated with a little jig as well. On the day of her departure, she packed her suitcases filled to the brim with stuffed animals, silk scarves, and various lotions and potions from her world travels. We sang one last Irish tune together before she left. I will not soon forget her free spirit and joie de vivre and picture her, at this very moment, in a gondola in Venice, charming her fellow travelers.
Alex
A young man with a gentle soul, Alex stayed on our Acute Care inpatient unit for several weeks. During this time, he delighted all who encountered him, with his kindness and caring nature. He excelled in Math and could perform any complicated equation in a matter of seconds. “I don’t like to tell a lot of people” he confided to me shyly one day, “but my IQ is of genius level.” I had little doubt. Alex’s other talent was the art of Origami. He delighted in creating figures of animals and birds and then gifting them to other patients on the unit who had been kind to him. I recall one patient, denied an origami creation, due to an argument with Alex the day before over the TV remote. He would sit for hours in the day room, his brow furrowed in concentration, folding and unfolding, perfecting the colorful, delicate tissue into exquisite works of art. One afternoon, I was the recipient of not one but two, cobalt blue, elegantly crafted origami swans which to this day, sit on my kitchen window. When I thanked Alex, complimenting him on his masterpiece, he replied with a nonchalant “oh that’s nothing, I once made 2,000 origami figures in one afternoon in my kindergarten class…”
On each unit, a locked wooden box with a one-way slat hangs on the wall. Beside the box is a neat stack of blank cards in the shape of “stars” allowing each patient the opportunity to write a note known as a “Silver Star,” to a specific staff member. The messages range from simple words of thanks to a more comprehensive note of gratitude. The morning he was leaving, I noticed Alex carrying a huge stack of cards in his hand, written painstakingly in his neat penmanship for almost every staff member, including housekeeping. A reflection of Alex’s huge heart.
I read a quote recently which said, “Somewhere out there a stranger remembers you, because you were kind to them, when no one else was.” I like to think this sentiment is true and just maybe, I am remembered too💛
Sometimes, it is those in the background, the ones who are not center stage, that make a difference. The heroes among us who do their work, unceremoniously unnoticed. I have chosen three colleagues of mine from the Psych hospital where I work, who touch the lives of our patients every day and whose acts of kindness, surely will last a lifetime.
The Music Man, Jeff our Driver
“Music acts like a magic key, to which the most tightly closed heart opens..” Maria von Trapp
On a gray and misty day outside the Acute Care Unit of the hospital, a steady drizzle of rain falls. Ten patients, ranging from 22 to 70- years-of age, await the van which will take them on the short ride across campus, to breakfast. The group is sullen, downcast. Whether it be from their own personal circumstances, or the weather, is uncertain. The van materializes in the distance, then slowly climbs the hill, coming to a stop. As the doors open and the boarding procession begins, the driver, Jeff, greets all with a warm hello. I wait, knowing what comes next. “So, what’ll it be today?” Jeff calls out to a younger patient seated in the first seat. The boy looks up with some uncertainty, then responds, “Sweet Caroline?” In the moments that follow, a meaningful change takes place. The van comes alive as one, then two, then all on board sing the refrain “Sweet Caroline, good times never seem so good. So good, so good, SO GOOD!” And Jeff, who always seems to know the exact song needed at any given moment, may sometimes sing along. He may also sense at any given time, that the sound of silence is the best selection because every day, like every patient, is a little different. Such a simple and small gesture, in offering a favorite song and in using the power of music to transform. A brightly colored, hand crafted sign, hangs prominently inside the front of the van, penned by the kids who are staying on our adolescent unit. “To Jeff. Thank you for everything you do!” Another positioned just beside the first reads, “To Jeff, the Magic School bus driver!” The appreciation is clear; the gratitude displayed in their artwork. But playing songs on the radio is hardly Jeff’s only talent. Few know, he is a talented pianist with a penchant for Billy Joel songs, often played so beautifully you would think it was the piano man himself at the keys rather than our resident driver. We thank you Jeff. Your music allows our patients a means of expression when their words sometimes cannot.
The Book Whisperer, Anne, Librarian
“The only thing you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library” Albert Einstein
A young woman sits quietly in her room. Newly admitted she is reluctant to join others in the milieu and has chosen to isolate. I sit down next to her and ask how I can help. “Is there anything that might make you feel more comfortable?” She is near tears and confides “I forgot my Harry Potter book at home and reading is the only thing that helps me feel better.” I smiled and told her about our wonderful library right here on campus and even better, our gem of a librarian, Anne Romano who has the unique knack to track down any book a patient might request, even if not presently in our library. If she cannot deliver a specific book, she will find one that is a close second to a patient’s interests. In less than thirty minutes, after a phone call to Anne, not only was the Harry Potter book found, but personally hand delivered by Anne herself. Two hours later, I approached the woman who now sat contentedly in the day room chair, absorbed in her novel. Calm and content, I am not certain who had worked their magic more, Harry, or Anne. The small library hosts an array of choices. Books, both fiction and nonfiction, Young Adult, Poetry, Biography, Magazines, Newspapers, and for those who may not wish to read or lack the concentration to do so, a gigantic crossword puzzle laid out on a table. Anne has filled the library with little touches, all adding to the welcoming atmosphere. A Buddha sits serenely perched in the corner, his half smile welcoming patrons. A wide array of brightly colored bookmarks are free for the taking and a bowl of hard candies in a small dish sit on the ledge for those with a sweet tooth. Extra reading glasses are available for patients in need. A cozy sofa and armchair sit in the corner of the room, awaiting that someone, who may want to do nothing at all. The small and intimate library, offers an oasis of calm and learning to visiting patients, on what can sometimes be a bumpy road to recovery.
A quote by Judy Blume comes to mind when I think about Anne, who is always there to go that extra mile for our patients. “Librarians save lives by handing the right book, at the right time, to a person in need.” Yes, we most definitely agree.
The Magic Man – Psychiatric Technician – Josh
“Where there is kindness, there is goodness and where there is goodness, there is magic” Cinderella
It is mid- afternoon on our inpatient unit. A therapeutic walk previously scheduled, has just been cancelled due to icy conditions on campus. The patients are disappointed and beginning to get restless. “Hey Josh!” someone calls out, “how about a card trick?” To describe Josh’s talents as the performer of a simple card trick does not do him justice. Not only is Josh warm and amiable in his role as a Psychiatric Technician, but he is also a master illusionist that can hold patients mesmerized and delighted with his skills. Several moments later, I glance in the living room. Josh stands center as a group of patients gather around him, transfixed, as he shuffles the cards in a blur of agility and speed. “Who wants to go first?” he asks the group, and several hands fly up instantaneously. Next comes instruction on shuffling as several try their hand at new tips learned as a result of Josh’s expertise. The room has been transformed, the patients engaged and focused as they learn coveted tips from the master. Josh’s dad is an avid poker player which is what first sparked his interest at age eight. He presently owns over 1,200 decks of cards. His favorite, called “Cherry Casino” is named for a nonexistent casino, and was designed by his friend. It has been sold by the thousands. We are so grateful to Josh for working his magic through both his card skills and attentive nature, in caring for our patients.
In the words of Lewis Carroll, “One of the deep secrets of life is that all that is really worth doing is what we do for others.” Thank you Jeff, Anne and Josh. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
“Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door.”
Emily Dickinson
We visited the Amalfi Coast on our honeymoon twenty-five years ago. One distinct memory was the colorful tiles which hung aside the front door of each hillside dwelling displaying the home’s number. Each different in theme and no doubt chosen to reflect the personality of the resident. The majority were bright and colorful alike the ubiquitous lemon trees for which the region is known. This door, with its weathered wood and ivy framework portrayed a cool serenity. Its simple beauty proving nature to be the preferred decorator.
If there was one word that would best describe the essence of Margaret Sullivan, I believe it would be grit. Throw in madcap, resilient, stubborn and fearless and you might just capture her spirit perfectly. She was a delightful olio, stirred, shaken and generously poured into the life of those fortunate enough to have had known her. I count myself as one of the lucky ones.
I first met Margaret on my wedding day in New York City. She was the best friend of my mother-in-law Mary, whom she referred to as “Rocky” due to Mary’s maiden name of Rock. In their younger years, the two shared an apartment together in Washington, D.C.. Margaret adored Mary, her outgoing personality in direct contrast to Mary’s unassuming one and although they sometimes appeared to be like oil and water, enjoyed a friendship that spanned through their twilight years.
She wore bright red lipstick, in startling contrast to her large eye glasses and shock of white hair. When she stared at you, the glasses magnified her deep blue eyes. And when she grinned at you, Margaret exuded pure joy. In fact at every glance of Margaret Sullivan, wherever she might be, at whatever moment you happened to catch sight of her, she appeared to be having the time of her life.
It was not until Mary’s death, that I truly came to know Margaret. That was when our weekly phone calls began. She was now in her 80’s, suffering from emphysema though still living independently in DC, the city she always loved. She never once complained except for the time her oxygen tank was on the blink and the company refused to give her a new one. She had some choice words for that company. And in those cherished phone conversations, which sometimes exceeded two hours or more, little by little I got to know and love, Margaret, as I learned of her life, which was slowly nearing its end.
Given up by her teenage mother as an infant, Margaret resided in a Washington, D.C. orphanage. At age six, she was adopted by an Irish nurse, and it seemed at last, her life was on course to be a normal one. But then came the stock market crash of 1929. Her mother, who up until now had been a loving fixture in her life, lost every cent she had. Never quite recovering, she spiraled into despair and a pattern of abuse began towards young Margaret.
She ran away three times before the age of twelve attempting to leave far behind, a mother who was becoming increasingly unstable. Her attempts at freedom, always ended the same. She was found, returned home and ordered back to school. During eighth grade Margaret had reached a point of increasingly disruptive behavior. Her home room teacher, on more than one occasion, perhaps seeking a deeper reason for the acting out, tried to speak to Margaret. Yet with each attempt, received the same belligerent reply, “I bet I could knock you down in one punch…” One afternoon, she clearly had reached her limit as Margaret again taunted, with the now familiar, “I could knock you into the middle of next week..” Picking up two sets of boxing gloves, which were hanging in the back of the classroom, her teacher responded, “Ok, Margaret, let’s put your money where you mouth is.”
And at the end of the school day, the entire eighth grade class, with a mixture of shock and delight, followed their teacher and fellow student out to the school yard, the air thick with anticipation. Moments later, with, one swift jab, Margaret met the ground, the match ending before the end of the very first round. It was a defining moment, she told me, with the only bruise incurred being to her ego. And from that day on, her outlook and behavior changed for the better. Her teacher, became a mentor and life long friend.
She put herself through secretarial school and worked as an Executive Assistant for the government. Highly intelligent and hard working, Margaret excelled in her career. After a brief courtship, she married. For their honeymoon, her new husband took her to his native Puerto Rico where he had hoped to convince Margaret to settle. I recall her lamenting about the number of large bugs and lizards that scurried everywhere, due to the warm and humid climate. But alas, the marriage was not meant to be. When I asked Margaret the reason, her deadpan reply, “Well honey, when your husband won’t sleep with you on your wedding night, you know there’s a problem.” Life goes on, she told me, never playing the victim. It was, what it was. “And there was a silver lining to it all,” she added. When I asked what that was, she replied, “I couldn’t have possibly lived with all those creepy crawlers!”
Margaret (left) with her lifelong friend Mary (Rocky)
She told me of a dress she had bought in a small Washington D.C. boutique, many years before.. She described it as jade green in color with a delicate, neckline, and just the right amount of swing to the a-line skirt. “I felt like a million dollars in that dress…” A close friend, admiring it on one occasion, asked Margaret if she might borrow it for an upcoming ocean cruise. Margaret, ever generous, didn’t think twice in her response. But upon her friend’s return, bad news at sea. A cigarette burn in the delicate silk. Irreparable. Margaret was brokenhearted. She revisited the boutique in an attempt to find a duplicate but was told it was one-of-a kind and could not be re-ordered. She never quite got over the loss of that jade green dress. Her story always stayed with me as it portrayed a side of her I had never seen. The Margaret I knew was practical, no nonsense, never “frilly,” yet the dress seemed to bring out a softer more whimsical side of Margaret, rarely glimpsed by those who knew her well.
One of her favorite memories, was a European tour she took with Mary, while in her twenties. Never mind that she contracted hepatitis while abroad. She described feeling suddenly ill, while sitting in a pub in rural Ireland and then laughed, recalling an Irish lad, whose earnest advice was to take a shot of Irish Whiskey, certain to right her in no time. Instead she ended up in a local hospital, fever raging. But the hepatitis was now, just a distant memory. Rather she spoke of bright and brilliant cities, the music and song, and the wonderful people she met during this trip of a lifetime, so many years ago.
Toward the end of her life she spoke of of a dear, old friend Lydia, now stricken with Alzheimer’s, the passing of her beloved Rocky, old movies we both loved and the simple nuances of life. She confided how she had once attempted to find her birth mother and when she finally succeeded through the help of a detective agency, her heartache in discovering she had died, only months before. A reunion never to be had.
She departed this world at age 91, Mary’s son Rick, a lifelong friend, by her side. She left this life gently, quite oppositely of how she had lived.
“Throw my ashes in the garbage. It makes no difference to me. When I am gone, I’m gone.” Margaret’s flat sentiment when asked of her wishes once she had departed this world. No pomp or circumstance. No celebration of life or loss. A simple goodbye. Just remember the good times,” she would say.
I have a vision of Margaret right now, wearing her signature, bright red lipstick, and that joyful grin. She is in a place far too beautiful for words to describe and she is dancing. In a jade green dress.
It is 6:45 AM and the sun is slowly rising over the hospital’s still silent campus. Entering the conference room for morning report, I wonder as I always do, what type of day is in store. But the moment my eyes fall upon my fellow Psych Tech and friend, Kay Bauer, seated at the table, her hair adorned in two, tiny sparkling pink butterfly clips, I have no doubt it is going to be a good one.
I am not sure which of Kay’s many talents would take first prize; her epic guitar playing, “you hum it, I’ll strum it,” her way of making everyone she encountered feel like they were the most important person in the world, her endless witticisms, her generosity. The unique way of throwing her voice to mimic barking which never failed to produce a confused search by all, of a dog, that never materialized. The list goes on… Yet sprinkled in all of her talents was a humility and kindness seldom seen in one so accomplished. That was Kay.
We would sit together in the hospital dining room during meals, as the patients called out song requests. The selections wildly varied. From Frank Sinatra, to the Eagles, to Lynyrd Skynrd, Kay accommodated all. Her guitar playing delighted and soothed, with the unique capability of changing a patient’s mood from distraught to joyful, with just a few verses. I too benefited from her playing, requesting many of my own favorite 80’s rock songs, which she never once refused. I loved those days sitting with Kay, I too healed by her music, magically transported back to a time in youth, with one simple song.
Kay loved Duchess for lunch and always asked me and anyone else working that day, what she could bring back. Her favorite was undoubtedly the chicken tenders and I would happily steal one or two, upon her return which she would place on the desk of the nursing station, for all to enjoy. I am a soup lover and on more than one occasion, she would return with a large container of Chicken Rice, that I had never asked for, absolutely refusing to accept the money she had paid for it.
She owned a variety of beautiful hand held fans which I often admired. One morning she bestowed me with a brilliantly colored one, adorned with flowers. In return, during the Covid pandemic, I gifted her with a hand painted mask, bearing a guitar. Another time, I gave her an Irish worry stone, a favorite souvenir of mine from Ireland, whose smooth marble was said to alleviate worries. She told me she kept it close at all times.
But it was her affect on our patients I believe, I will remember most. Beloved and cherished by countless, she recently showed me a book sent to her by an ex-patient and author, who had written a note of gratitude for something which came so naturally to Kay, she was not even sure what she had done to merit it. I recall her on the busiest of days, foregoing her break to sit with a struggling patient who after their talk, never failed to be brighter and more hopeful. A young patient once approached me during my shift, asking for the guitar to play during his free time. When I responded that I did not know he had a guitar on the unit, he replied that Kay had brought in one of her own, for him to use at any time needed.
Kay’s greatest joy in life was her only child. She told me of her pride in a recent 21st birthday and the celebration they enjoyed together. Her second favorite thing in life I believe, was performing in a band, and how grateful she was having been recently asked to join a new one. She would often tell me stories of her days at a venue called Crave, which I have little doubt were among the best of her life, doing what she loved, making people happy.
At the hospital, we ask patients during group, to name one thing they are grateful for. Mine, for today and always, is having known Kay Bauer.
I am saddened at the loss of my friend. Her light, humor, generosity and spirit will remain with me always. And I imagine at this moment, in a different place and time, a group of people stand, patiently waiting. Young and old, tall and short, far too many too count. Lining up, they are all eager to put in a request for a favorite tune. And in the middle of the crowd, guitar in hand, sits Kay, her twinkling blue eyes smiling. She is more than happy to oblige.
“Everybody in the Pool!” Bear Mountain State Park Swimming Pool Circa 1967
It’s the tiny bear trinket I remember, possibly more than the place itself. A delicate little figurine with a soft sprinkling of fuzzy fur on its body, which I loved to carry around and stroke as if it were a real pocket pet. My dad bought this cherished gift for me and my three sisters one summer afternoon at Bear Mountain, a frequent day trip we took from our home in Queens, New York.
I recall as if yesterday kneeling in front of the glass enclosed case of the bustling gift store and seeing the wee bear which sat forlornly in the stark enclosure. It was positioned away from the other bears just begging to be taken home. “We’ll take four!” my father sang out in his lovely baritone voice, whose accent betrayed a touch of his childhood years raised in Glasgow, Scotland. “Gifties,” he called all souvenirs and presents. I believe he took more pleasure in buying them than in the souvenir itself, though I could tell he too admired the look and feel of the little bear. When my sister Anne dropped hers only moments after leaving the shop, she cried and pleaded for him to buy her a second but alas it was not to be. My dad did not budge and although I know it killed him, taught us a lesson that day in responsibility and the value of a dollar – though she did get a new one on our next trip. I often wonder, fifty years later, what became of my little bear but that is not important. I still have the memory of those day trips to Bear Mountain that magical destination situated in the rugged mountains rising from the west bank of the Hudson River.
Although Fall was a popular time to visit with the gorgeous colors that framed the mountains, we often went in the summer to escape the heat of the city. Its expansive pool held promise and delight for hundreds of children and parents alike who arrived in droves weather permitting. On one visit when I was around five-years old, I slipped through my inner tube and a woman sitting nearby jumped into the pool, fully clothed to save me. I remember my father insisting I go up to her and say thank you afterwards and how embarrassed I was in doing so. The photo above was taken by my father. I discovered it in a box of old Kodak slides last year and on a whim, posted the iconic shot to a Facebook group called “Historic New York City.” Within hours it received over 1,000 likes but it was the comments I read that made me realize the memory of Bear Mountain did not belong to me alone. Scores of New Yorkers and others from surrounding areas most now likely in the twilight of their years, recalled their own special memories…
“Beautiful Bear Mountain Memories..”
“I think Bob Dylan wrote a song about going to Bear Mountain…”
“We would take the ferry up the Hudson from NYC to Bear Mountain with our cousins. We still talk about those days…”
“We would sometimes sneak into the pool late at night as I lived close by..”
“Possibly one of my favorite childhood activities was leaving the city for Bear Mountain, picnics and swimming with family, hikes, sledding in winter. Such good times.”
“Did you see the guy on the high dive?? He is doing a handstand!!!”
“My brother Warren got his head stuck between the bars and had to be rescued!”
“My high school graduating class took a day trip to Bear Mountain. One signature in my yearbook reads “Bear Mountain till the bears turn bare…”
“That’s me in the red swim suit!”
Then, the one comment that made my heart stop..
“I still have my little bear ornament from the Bear Mountain gift store…” a stranger wrote. Accompanying the sentiment was a graying and faded but still recognizable photo of the bear souvenir. Not exactly the one in my memory but there it was nonetheless.” I wasn’t the only one…
I have not returned. For reasons I am uncertain. Too painful to visit without my beautiful dearly departed parents by my side? Too much of a heartache to see how the Bear Mountain of yesterday overshadows the reality of today? But it really doesn’t matter. have my phenomenal photograph of the pool with that forever unknown guy doing a handstand on the high dive. And always in memory, that tiny, bear ornament my father bought me so many years ago…
In the fall of 2020, my son Owen left our small Connecticut town to embark on a journey; his first year attending Trinity College Dublin, in the land of his grandmother’s birth. Though Covid had the world firmly in its grip, Owen held high hopes. We all did. And arriving the next morning at 5AM, Irish time, he lay down his bags, eagerly awaiting the arrival of five flat mates; four from Ireland and one a country unknown.
But when Owen called home that evening, his voice was downcast, “No one came mom.” And so it was. Those four Irish flatmates never did materialize, choosing instead to study remotely from home, with the continued bonus of their mam’s home cooking. Owen’s meals, supplied by the college, arrived by phantom delivery, vacuum packed and sterile. The students that did come, were confined to their flats, the only allowance being a short jaunt around the courtyard for exercise. Classes for the foreseeable future, remote. A country in lockdown. A college dream on hold.
Then a text from Owen the next morning, a glimmer of hope in his words, “My first and only flat mate just arrived from India mom. His name is Nikhil, he is 6”6, and a gentle giant.”
And with those words, a friendship was born.
They have remained together as flatmates over the past three years and are currently experiencing a far different world; in person lectures, participating in sporting events and clubs, attending the Trinity Ball or simply enjoying a pint of Guinness together in a Dublin pub. They have traveled to neighboring European cities to learn of different cultures and have visited both the near and the far corners of the magnificent Irish countryside.
Life, is good again.
Nikhil is a constant fixture in not just the flat they share, but in Owen’s room as well and often joins in on our FaceTime calls. He has been encouraging Owen to take up soccer once again, and to join him for daily swims in the Irish Sea, a brave undertaking due to the frigid water. Owen has been teaching Nikhil American slang and laughed as Nikhil, a quick learner, enthusiastically described the “sick” party they attended the other night.
Their admiration for each other is evident. Owen describes Nikhil as the nicest person he has ever met. And Nikhil, an only child, once told me, “Owen is my best friend Mrs. Simmons, and will be the best man in my wedding someday.” When I remind Owen to be wary late at night returning home to campus, he responds, “oh, no one would ever dare bother us when Nikhil is around. Everyone is afraid of him given his size. If they only knew how nice he is.”
They are friends as the saying goes, in good times and in bad. One evening Owen called to advise he thought he had a fever but had forgotten to pack a thermometer. “Can you ask Nikhil if he has one?” I suggested, worried it might be covid. I heard the sounds of my son’s furious texting and then, not, 30 seconds later, a frantic rap, rap, rap on the door – Nikhil to the rescue, thermometer in hand.
Owen and Nikhil moved into their new flat yesterday, on that spectacular Trinity campus, steeped in history. They will begin their final year of learning amid the splendor of Dublin City, alive once again with music and song. They are both keenly aware it may be the last time they room together in their lifetime.
Shangri-La 