The Day the Music Died

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.



Bear Mountain


“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 Comfort of Strangers

Forever room mates

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.

A friendship, stronger than any pandemic.

The Good Doctor

The one and only, Dr. Mark O’Neill

Today marks the 15th Anniversary of the death of my friend, Dr. Mark O’Neill. He departed this world in his prime, after a long illness of which I knew not. It is said life is fleeting. Glancing at this photograph taken at my annual NYC Christmas party, thirty five years ago at which Mark was a fixture, I would tend to agree.

My first encounter with Dr. Mark was when I was in my early twenties. I met him at a nightclub known as “St. John’s East,” in the Hamptons, a string of seaside communities on the east end of Long Island. A mecca for throngs of young New Yorkers eager to escape the concrete jungle on summer weekends, the Hamptons was the place to be if you were lucky enough to score a share in a summer house. To say he stood out in a crowd was an understatement. A cross between a college professor minus the pipe and an amiable St. Nick with his neatly trimmed whiskers and twinkling blue eyes, Mark was not easily missed. On casual occasions he donned jeans and a brightly colored bow tie; on more formal ones, a sharp, impeccable tux, complete with cummerbund and brilliantly colored pocket square. Approaching my sister and me in the packed nightclub, he did a two step as he held a glass of champagne above his head then toasted us with a wink and a smile.

The next Monday morning as I sat at my desk in the small New York ad agency in which I worked, I sleepily answered the first phone call of the day. A familiar drawl that I could not quite place followed, “Kathy, this is a client of yours… from “St. John’s East….” And in those witty words I was forever captivated and a friendship born.

We learned he was a Thoracic surgeon in NYC with a private practice, though his work schedule never seemed to cut into his teeming social life. A dapper fixture at every black tie event that took place in New York city Mark could be spotted dancing in abandon and charming all he encountered. He was a lover of classic cars and on weekends often visited our apartment to take my sister and me for a spin around the neighborhood. He was known throughout the city due to his wide social circle. Uptown or down, he never failed to run into someone he knew. On one occasion, we had stopped at a traffic light outside the famous Pete’s Tavern a historic NYC pub where O.Henry was rumored to have written “the Gift of the Magi.” I was seated on my sister’s lap in the front seat of his bright red MG convertible. Looking out the window, I watched a car pull up on our right. The driver sat studying us with a somewhat puzzled expression, then remarked, “Why, Mark O’Neil, is that you?” Glancing over Dr. Mark waved casually, floored the accelerator and we roared off on that bright and beautiful sunny day.

I loved his quirkiness. He once phoned me to ask the length of a yam’s shelf life as he prepared to cook one for dinner. Yet in all the parties, black tie affairs, horse races, and charity events, wondered if deep at heart, he was lonely.

I think my favorite memory of Dr. Mark O’Neill was from the very last NYC Christmas party my sister and I hosted and from which the above photo was taken. At the end of the night, one reveler began a game of sorts called “The Challenge Dance” wherein the person up would do his or her interpretation of dance in any way they wished. Mark was the last one to go. Standing in the center of my living room, urged on by the clapping and hooting crowd encircling him, he bobbed and weaved up and down simulating what could only be described as a cutting or snipping motion with both hands. When someone called out what what in the world he was doing, he replied in true Dr. Mark fashion, “the surgeon dance.”

The last time I spoke to my friend Dr. Mark O’Neill was at my home in Connecticut a few months before he died. My sister had run into him at “The Hunt” an annual tailgate and horse race which took place in New Jersey. I had not seen or talked to him in a year or so and was so happy to hear that familiar slow drawl… “Hey Kathy, I was lucky enough to run into your sis today. I wanted to call to tell you I missed you…”

We miss you too Dr. Mark, always💕

For the love of a sheep

It was a late February morning on Achill Island and the clouds looming above the Irish sea were tinged in silvery gray. Working in unison, they waged war with the sun whose halfhearted attempts to breakthrough fell short, resulting in only faint slivers of light which fell meekly on the ground. The wind though temperate, possessed a fierceness that cautioned. I squinted at the landscape before me and the ubiquitous sheep, scattered in every direction. Their fleece sported a splash of varying hues, from cotton candy pink to a dusty sky blue, a way for farmers to claim a restless rogue who may have wandered off, whether by chance, or choice. I had two things in mind as I stood high on the hillside that beautiful day; to gain closure after the death of my Irish born mother and to find the perfect sheep, by which to remember her.

My mother loved sheep from as far back as I can remember. A love I imagine, which began in an earlier chapter of life, while growing up on a farm, in Cloone, County Leitrim. Though she left Cloone in later years to become a nurse in New York City, her love for Ireland and the gentle creatures who reminded her of her home, never ceased.

A memory materializes. Long gone but cherished still. My family is on a two week summer holiday in Ireland.  I am six-years-old, tailgating my mother contentedly, as she makes her way in and out of the local Irish gift shops, in search of the most beautiful and authentic souvenir sheep. Who, if chosen as a result of my mother’s discerning eye, would be gifted with a one way journey back to the United States, via Aer Lingus.

She ultimately chose two sheep, one white, one black. I cannot say, which one was dearer to my heart, as each possessed a unique charm. The black sheep, its tiny horns curled, stood defiantly in our living room, which my mother placed atop the piano, a sentry of sorts, before the addition of our German Shepard, Brandy. The white one, with its soft, knotty curls of white fleece and spindly black wooden legs, was strategically positioned on the always meticulously polished cherry side table of our family room, directly overlooking the front yard. A view not of the sea, but appealing given the jade green grass and vivid pink hydrangea which blossomed in the spring. Yes, I believe our two Irish sheep were pleased with their new American home, and proud to assume the role of ambassadors of our heritage.

 The sheep often came to my rescue in times of stress or discord, each assuming a different role. I recall after a particularly hurtful fight with my best friend, holding the white sheep in my hand and stroking its fuzz. That placid, calm face and silky wool, somehow righted all wrongs of the moment. The black sheep in contrast, was a symbol of courage, boldness, perseverance. Holding him in my palm, eyes closed, his sensible nature always prevailed.  And if the black sheep could talk, I imagined might offer the wise words of an Irish proverb I had once heard or read somewhere, and loved “There is nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.”

When my parents departed this world, aside from the carpets, paintings and other furnishings amassed in life, my three sisters and I each took turns expressing a particular item we desired, one which held a special place in our hearts as a remembrance of our much loved mother and father.

My younger sister Caroline, had hoped for the grandfather clock, a two hundred year old beauty purchased at the Lord Edward in Dublin whose hourly grand chime, never failing to produce memories of my one-of-a-kind father. 

My sister Sheila asked if she might have my mother’s Irish Shillelagh, which for a lifetime hung unused in her bedroom closet, its blackthorn wood carved with care, a forever symbol of Irish heritage and a reminder of her home across the sea.  

My older sister Anne had always loved our family’s oriental gong, an item purchased at a local tag sale which appealed to my Scottish/Irish father’s sometimes eccentric nature. He never failed to delight in pinging the gong four or five times dramatically before a special family dinner, its vibrating echo I can still hear to this day.

And for me, well perhaps you can guess?  I asked to be caretaker of the sheep, both the white and the black, as there was no way the two could be separated after all those years together. To this day, they sit serenely in two rooms of my home a wee bit older, ambassadors still.

But after the death of my mother, those two little sheep for the one time in my life, were of little comfort. Instead I longed to return to Ireland, the place of her birth, in search of something I could not quite define. 

So there I stood on that late February day on Achill Island, high on a hilltop, lost in thought. And when my eyes fell upon one sheep, grazing not three feet from me, I had to wonder if it had been there all along or if its presence rather, was an illusion. The sheep remained for a good long moment, its black spindly legs planted firmly before the glistening sea. It stared at me placidly then turned and made its way downhill but not before, in that brief encounter, I captured its photograph.

A large canvas print of that perfect Achill sheep presently hangs on my kitchen wall. It is in clear view of both the black and the white sheep, who will never be replaced and forever hold a special place in my heart.  I shared my photograph on several Irish websites, my image garnishing over 7,000 likes on one Facebook page entitled “Postcards from Ireland.”  I found I was not the only one who was enchanted with sheep, both among Irish and Americans alike and every other nationality sprinkled in. Some favorite comments…

“God’s Hand at Work”

“As far as we’ll get to heaven in this life”

“I want to be a sheep overlooking the ocean in my next life”

“This photo makes me so happy!”

“Magical Achill, where time stands still”

I recently had the privilege of returning to Ireland once again, this time in celebration. It was my son Owen’s 21st birthday.  His grandmother Mary, would be proud to know he is spending his four college years in the land she loved so well. 

 As we walked through the colorful town of Doolin, famous for both its music and iconic Cliffs, a small shop beckoned. Entering, Owen tailgated me contentedly as I examined the beautiful handmade gifts, neatly laid out before us. The proprietor, an older woman with world wise eyes, watched wordlessly then offered “Can I help ye find something special to bring home?”

I paused for a moment, then my eyes fell upon a small, black sheep, half hidden on the shelf, its spindly legs standing boldly before me. Approaching, I picked up the tiny woolen figure.   

It was as if he was waiting for me all along.

Please Mom, May I’ve Some More?

My mother, a splendid cook and never one for following a recipe, on Sundays only, always prepared a roast. Whether it was the traditional roast beef or a succulent loin of pork I recall the aroma as if it were yesterday. The evening always began pleasantly, peacefully, as my family sat around the dining room table. And then the roasted potatoes arrived. Six roasted potatoes in that beautiful Lenox bowl, for six of us, including my 6”4 father. And at that moment, the dinner deteriorated with the frustrated pleas of my father as to why, why? my mother couldn’t make more than six potatoes. She never really gave an answer, but simply disappeared into the kitchen. This ritual went on for as long as I can remember during those Sunday night dinners and the question forever unanswered. Though I do recall her saying on more than one occasion that you should leave the table just a little bit hungry. It makes you remember how delicious the meal. I believe she just didn’t like peeling potatoes…

My best friend Janet, a fixture in my home during those years, always summed it up perfectly. “Your mother made the BEST hamburger I had ever tasted. But I always felt like it was the size of a meatball!”

Another old friend, well familiar with my mother’s cooking or lack of, used to taunt me “I hope you never have boys. They drink QUARTS of milk out of the refrigerator and full boxes of cookies at a sitting. And forget about it if they bring their friends over! They will eat you out of house and home!” Her words left me paralyzed with fear and right then, I secretly prayed for girls.

Three adjectives that come to mind in describing my mother’s portions… taste, spoonful, sip. “Give Kathy another taste of the string beans.” “Your father would love a spoonful of the turnip.” “Can you pour me a sip of orange juice please.” Get the idea?

I fear that I have carried on her tradition. My two sons, aged 12 and 14 are of average weight and seem to be satisfied with my portions but it is their peers that take notice when their plate is a little lacking. Just yesterday, a friend of my son asked politely if I would mind filling up his entire glass rather than only half. “Seconds” are a word so unfamiliar in my home that it is only understood as a time value. And, yes I guess I have to admit that when I make hamburgers for the family they are more slider than burger. Actually, my mother may have coined the term slider fifty years ago without even knowing it!

But unlike my mother and the potatoes, I am open to change. While preparing my list for the supermarket this morning I have made a decision. I will buy twice the normal quantity of everything. For tomorrow, let there be leftovers!
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Nuns at the Colosseum

On my honeymoon, over thirty years ago, we visited the timeless and breathtaking Colosseum in Rome. Quite by chance, I came upon these three nuns, clad in pristine white habit who too were enjoying a day of sightseeing. I snapped this candid photograph which I still recall with fondness at each and every viewing. Also evokes memories of my catholic school days…

Autumn in Connecticut

“Come little leaves,” said the wind one day, “Come to the meadows with me and play. Put on your dresses of red and gold; For summer is past and the days grow cold.”

George Cooper

https://lingeringvisions.wordpress.com/2022/10/06/festival-of-leaves-2022-week-3-framed-by-the-dogwood/

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 bare 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.