Memories of Howard Johnson’s Takeout Counter

Lobby of the Chanin Building NYC and once home to Howard Johnson’s Take Out Counter

One of my very favorite memories of working in New York City was a ritual I enjoyed each morning before the onset of my work day. Tucked neatly away in a corner of my office building lay a parallel universe of culinary delight known as Howard Johnson’s. Famous for its orange roof, fried clams and 28 flavors of ice cream, Ho Jo’s as it was affectionately known, also offered a first rate breakfast. Whether a short stack of piping hot pancakes topped with a dollop of butter and jigger of syrup or a deep and dark cup of their aromatic coffee, for me there was simply no better way to start the day.

Located on the northwest corner of 42nd Street and Lexington Avenue the Chanin building’s lobby of gilded gold never failed to impress and within it, Howard Johnson’s an icon in its own right, had found the perfect home. Each day, at approximately 7:30 AM I ascended the subway escalator and made my way through the building’s sleepy corridors, still devoid of the morning rush. Entering the doors which led to the restaurant’s takeout counter I joined a line which snaked around the premises and boasted patrons of all ages, colors and creeds sharing the simple commonality of breakfast.

It was not just the Howard Johnson takeout counter I remember with fondness but the Irish waitress who worked there daily, never missing a shift. Neat and polite she was exemplary in her job, friendly and welcoming, beloved by all. She uttered two words the moment before each patron stepped up to place their order. Briskly wiping down the spotless counter, she would smile warmly and call out, “Now….NEXT!” Always the same two words delivered with grace and confidence. I grew to love this phrase and her lilting Irish accent, a badge of efficiency and never ending optimism.  

One morning, I noticed the line was almost double in size. I heard murmurs among the waiting customers and sensed a definite feeling of dissent in the air.  The Irish waitress was nowhere to be seen. In her place was a short and stout woman with a tuft of orange hair which she had carelessly bobby-pinned into a frenzied bun. Heavy streaks of rouge framed her face and two dangling earrings one in the shape of a fork and the other a knife adorned her earlobes.  An endearing overbite added to an expression of confusion though her demeanor was kind and friendly. A thick smear of tangerine lipstick framed her mouth which sported a perpetual grin as if she were having the time of her life rather than working. She suddenly held up in each hand, two plates of eggs then called out loudly, “Who ordered the fried eggs?”  A stern looking older woman, dressed impeccably, immediately stepped up. She called to mind the old school description of “ladies who lunch” though this time it was breakfast.   “I ordered eggs but specifically asked they be cooked over-easy. Which ones are mine?” The waitress stared intently, furiously studying the two plates before her. Then taking her index and middle finger placed them atop the eggs on one of the plates and pressed down gingerly. TWICE.  Smiling in relief she looked up and reassured, “These are definitely over-easy, guess they are yours…”  I watched the older woman’s expression as she attempted to digest what she had just witnessed. Firing back at the waitress she asked “You expect me to eat those eggs after you just put your fingers on them?” Needless to say we never saw the new waitress again and breathed a sigh of relief when the Irish waitress returned the following day.

Last month I returned to the Chanin Building for a visit. As I walked through that beautiful lobby, ghosts of the past amiably welcomed me home. My beloved breakfast haven that once pulsated with life like the entire chain of now shuttered Howard Johnson restaurants, is now a distant memory. A bygone era. I sometimes recall the Irish waitress whose work ethic and demeanor I so admired and wonder with some regret why I never asked her name. Besides fond memories of those takeout counter days she also left me with two words I will never forget, “Now…Next!” which I sometimes use in her honor while serving dinner to my family.

My Sisters

For it was ever our delight,
To love each other day and night,
Nor would I do a thing to spite
My Sister.
~”Mr. Lynch,” 1800s, in imitation of Ann Taylor (1782–1866)

Nothing quite like a night out with my sisters

Enjoying a screening of the iconic movie, “Napoleon Dynamite” tonight at the Tarrytown Music Hall. The three original stars who played Napoleon, Uncle Rico and Pedro were in house for a fun Q@A.

You Get What You Pay For

I first saw him in the elevator of my office building, tall, handsome and impeccably dressed. We exchanged nothing more than a few fleeting glances/smiles over the next couple of months and then one afternoon, somewhere between the 9th and 12th floor, he uttered the words I had dreamed of…would I like to meet for a drink that night?

Ecstatic I floated back to my office, furiously contemplating where I could find a more enticing outfit than the frumpy gray suit I was wearing, ideal had I been operating the elevator. I needed something special… cute, flirty, fun. But where to find in 3 hours? And then a light bulb. The $19.99 and under dress store which sat in the lobby of my building. I had never entered the store but passed it daily on my way to the elevator bank always pondering the type of dress you might find for $20 bucks. But desperate times call for desperate measures I reasoned. Did I dare?

The bar, an iconic NYC pub called “Ryan McFadden’s” located on the corner of 42nd and 2nd Ave was packed with after work patrons both young and old. My office was a stone throw from Ryan’s, an absolute favorite neighborhood haunt with a great crowd and live music. I had never felt more attractive and carefree as I sipped my Tequila Sunrise, in that cobalt blue, stretch cotton mini dress (yes, dear reader, score for the $19.99 and under dress store!) I admit it may have been a tad tight and perhaps the material a bit thin, but for the price, what could one expect? It was how it made me FEEL that was important. Plus the fact, real or imagined, that my date could not take his eyes off me! Our conversation flowed easily and the bar pulsated with energy and possibility.

The music was phenomenal! After my 2nd cocktail, I boldly asked him to join me on the dance floor, something out of the norm for me but the dress fueled my confidence. As we jumped in time with the crowd to the strains of “SHOUT” I suddenly felt myself losing my footing. The floor, ladled with beer from overzealous imbibers was awash. The next thing I knew, I was horizontal. Brushing myself off and struggling to maintain my dignity, I slowly rose to my feet. Several people behind me were laughing. “Your dress,” one sympathetic woman whispered, “it’s totally ripped up the back…”

My last memory was the disappointed look in elevator guy’s eyes as he wrapped his rain coat around me and hailed a cab. And with that gesture, the night was officially over.

For the next six weeks, I took the stairs up to my office – all twelve flights. For that reason or others unknown,  I never ran into the elevator guy again.  The $19.99 and under dress store closed shortly thereafter as well and ironically, a tailor moved into its space.

A Thousand Welcomes

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

My beautiful mother “pre” license

“On the road, again, just can’t wait to get on that road again.

Going places that I’ve never been.

Seein’ things that I may never see again.

And I can’t wait to get on the road again.”

Willie Nelson

“Your mother,” began Jimmy Dillon, who sat contentedly perched on the bar stool next to mine. It was Christmas Eve and the atmosphere rang of reunion and festivity. Publicans was our beloved hometown bar; a place where many had enjoyed their first legal drink and to where they returned once again on these holiday weekends, to bask in friendship and bygone days. I studied Jimmy, a boy I had known briefly from my neighborhood who had gone on in later years to become a fire fighter. Close to 50 now, his twinkling blue eyes and shock of red hair still mirrored his sixteen year old self. He continued on, his tone a mixture of fondness and fear. “Probably the nicest woman I have ever met, but the day she picked me when I was walking home from school? I saw my life pass before my eyes!” He took a long swig of his beer in an attempt to quell the memory then proceeded to emulate how my mother would ask him a question while driving and then turn full around to where he sat in the back seat, to hear his answer. He weaved and bobbed on the bar stool his hands flailing wildly as he re-lived the moment. The last thing I remember him saying as he made his way into the crowd was “would you give her my best? She was just the nicest lady…”

We had heard it all before you see, my sisters and I, as my mother was somewhat of a legend for her driving. Our father perhaps bore the brunt of these mishaps most deeply while fielding numerous phone calls in regards to the fender benders my mother had incurred over the years.  Our Insurance Agent, Joe Kilhenny, was a fixture at many our family’s Sunday barbeques and in later years attended my wedding.

Growing up on a farm in rural Leitrim my mother’s mode of transportation was her trusty bicycle which she rode around the countryside. She often described a nearby orchard where she would stop and pick apples on her way to school.  I remember how she laughed at the memory of being chased by a farmer after tucking a choice few into her pocket one visit.

 In her mid-twenties she left her cherished Ireland for New York City and became a pediatric nurse at St. Vincent’s hospital in Greenwich Village. Meeting my father shortly thereafter, they married had four daughters and settled in a suburb of Long Island. And for a good awhile she survived without the need to drive, walking to the nearby market and relying on the kindness of friends when needed.  But as the years passed the kitchen calendar grew full. Sports, birthday parties, doctor’s appointments, the rhythm of life – all requiring a car and a licensed driver. She could put it off no longer. And so it began.

It is always debated among our family exactly how many times she took her road test.  We settled at nine though the exact number will always be a mystery. The eighth time she failed, her fiercely loyal best friend Eileen Anello, outraged at the injustice of it all claimed she “knew a judge.” And whether by the hand of god, my mother’s ability or that nameless judge, my mother at 50 years of age at last passed her road test.

When I was in Middle School, she drove through the McGuire’s backyard. Claiming the road was slippery from a recent rain, she careened through some hedges, jumped a curb and stopped dead set in the middle of the tidy backyard. Finding no one home she left a note with her name and number, no other explanation needed. The chant of “your mother drove through the McGuire’s backyard!!” echoing through the school bus, haunted me and my three sisters for years.

Our Irish wolfhound caught on early.  We never knew exactly what happened but one day after numerous trips driving with my mother to the dog field, he stubbornly refused to get in the car. Nothing worked. Tugging, pushing or being cajoled with dog treats. He was done.

In our early months of dating my future husband was unaware of my mother’s driving escapades. Visiting our home for the first time through the garage he noticed a refrigerator positioned against the back wall sporting a severely dented door. Entering the house he asked my father, “Bill, what happened to that refrigerator’s door in the garage?” Without looking up from his paper came the weary reply, “Oh, Mary uses the fridge as a measuring device of sorts. When she gives it a good whack, she knows she has pulled in completely.”

Then there was the time my sister was homesick at college and my mother as mothers often do, came to the rescue. Never mind we lived in New York and my sister’s college was in Pennsylvania or that my mother had never before driven on a major interstate highway. There was no question she would go. So she called on the service of her best friend Lily, an Irish cousin who lived close by and in their youth grew up on an adjoining farm. And off they went that Saturday morning, my mother at the wheel and Lily riding shotgun, to visit my homesick sister.  As night fell, I watched my father pace back and forth. It was before cell phones and I had never before seen him so nervous. He clearly realized the seriousness of the situation. And then a phone call from my sister…Mom and Lily had arrived!  They were a little later than expected having ended up first in the state of Ohio due to a wrong turn but all was well as they prepared to go to dinner. I always wondered if Lily had aged a few years during that ride to Villanova University as I believe we all did.

Though my mother had a series of accidents throughout her life, what saved her I believe was the fact that she always drove far under the speed limit, an unseen angel on her shoulder or the brake pedal. A good deal of the trouble was that her attention was simply elsewhere, like the day she sheared off the side view mirror of a parked car while adjusting the radio to her favorite Irish station. My sister described turning back to see a dangling mirror as they drove onward, my mother blissfully unaware of the damage left behind. They returned to leave a note on the battered car’s windshield. It too a silent victim.

My wonderful mother has since left this world but her memory lives on in all who knew and loved her.  I see her now, in a faraway place and time still charming all with her brogue and angling at any chance possible, to get behind the wheel once again.

”I am happy to drive down to the gate to pick up our new visitors,” my mother offers. God ponders a moment always touched by her helpful nature. But he is a realist. “Well thank you Mary but it is a beautiful day. Perhaps you could ride down to meet them on your bicycle?” My mother smiles. If disappointed it does not show. She always did love riding her bicycle

Fearless

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.

https://ceenphotography.com/2022/05/04/cmmc-may-close-up-or-macro-2/

Summers Remembered


“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.

And what a splendid time it was.

 

Whisked Away

My mother was a minimalist who disliked clutter of any sort.  Our home was beautiful, warm, open and airy but devoid of any type of knickknack, or paraphernalia she deemed unattractive or cumbersome. A snapshot of our living room: simple sheer white linen curtains, a silky cherry baby grand piano adorned with one family photo and a small Belleek Scotty dog atop its finely polished finish.  Two or three tasteful paintings and a crystal Waterford bowl which sat center on the coffee table.  If there was a word to describe the opposite of hoarder it would characterize my mother.

We all learned quite early on not to leave anything within her reach or it would simply disappear, forever.  We had a theory, my sisters and I, that all those belongings, mostly certain items of clothing, were shipped off to her beloved homeland Ireland.  We imagined our relatives or their friends or friends of their friends were the delighted recipients of the new American fashions which arrived in a package stamped “overseas.”

I don’t know how this idea was formulated among us.  Had we heard my father in anger accusing her of this rather underhanded deed when he could not find his adored sweater? Had we seen a large UPS box tucked away in a hall closet? Had we heard my mother speaking to a distant relative in hushed tones, promising a shipment would soon arrive? No I do not believe we ever had absolute evidence, it was just a truth we knew existed, though one we could never quite prove.

My best friend once left her prized jean jacket at my house. I swallowed hard three days later when she came to my door ready to reclaim it.  Ransacking the house together I finally shook my head in defeat and told her she must have left it elsewhere. But deep down I knew, it was no doubt en route that very moment, via Aer Lingus, to greener pastures.

Another time, my college roommate came home with me for the weekend and left her favorite sweatshirt in my room. She too would never see it again. I imagined another teenage girl, but this one Irish by birth, clad contentedly in the Manhattan College sweatshirt, perhaps strolling the banks of the Liffey on one of those chilled and damp Irish morns or sipping a Guiness in a local pub hugging the sweatshirt close.

My sisters and I were swimmers and divers and over the years accumulated many trophies as a result of our efforts.  Years later as young adults, we noticed their absence and asked my mother where the trophies had gone. Silence.  Our school yearbooks too had a short shelf life as did report cards, photographs and artwork.  And at Christmas, our annual tree trimming, generally a happy and festive time, on more than one occasion ended in angry words and confrontations as ornaments usually of the bulky or unattractive variety, evaporated into thin air.  “Check another box,” my mother would suggest.

I think it was my father who bore the brunt most deeply.  He would sit in his recliner on Sunday mornings, peacefully reading the papers. Leaving for a short time to drive me to a friend’s house, he returned to find the papers he had left at the foot of his chair, not fifteen minutes before, gone.  He would later find them stacked neatly in the garage, whisked away before he even had the chance to get through the sports page.

Was there a method to her madness? I think she simply disliked excess and when she felt we had too many items of clothing we had not worn in a while, decided it was time for them to be on their way.

You might think that this habit of my mother’s caused anger, frustration and hurt within our family. Sometimes true, but it only lasted a day or two being that we could never really prove it was her doing. Though while looking at a Christmas card one year of my four beaming Irish cousins, I could swear the youngest was clad in my old rolling Stones tee-shirt.

As an adult, I too dislike over accumulation and clutter. I am of the school that less is more.  I understand my mother’s obsession with less more clearly now. I don’t agree with donating others belongings without permission though have been tempted on more than one occasion, to “whisk away” a number of my husband’s KU sweatshirts.  I refrain.

And on those days I long to look at an old high school yearbook, I return to my old friend’s house. The one whose jean jacket went missing.

“We had joy we had fun we had seasons in the sun…” A Farewell to Diving

Highlight of the year, the annual Florida training trip – Liam in silhouette

Dear Liam,

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

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

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

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

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

FORWARD: “Sempre Avanti” – Always forward

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

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

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

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

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

And above all, have fun!

Love, Mom xxo