Of course, it did me no good over last weekend to ask the rain to go away.  But it didn’t keep me from going to an outstanding performance of Ionesco’s “Rhinoceros,” at Harvard’s ART theater.  Written in 1959 and still captivating, I can’t imagine how the actors can possibly do two performances of that play every Saturday.

Since 1980, the ART has brought fine theater to Harvard Square, but next year at this time, it will have moved to an almost-built new center across the Charles River, just past the Harvard Business School.

Fortunately for me, still walkable. AND, even better, next to a Trader Joe’s!

It’s been six weeks since my grandson, Grady, and his dad came from Maryland to collect my 2016 Toyota Prius that now belongs to Grady. 

Since my new condo does not have dedicated parking, and since I am just a seven-minute walk to the subway, I decided to go car-free. What could be better than keeping the car in the family?

I’d been a driver for 72 years.  In all that time, I was accident-free except for one teeny-tiny fender bender.  Only my ego was hurt.

I’ve loaded up my Subway T-pass at the senior rate, and I am making the most of it.  One day, I  even managed to make two round trips. 

Quitting while one is ahead is a good plan.

Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday for as long as I can remember.  No gifts, just huge amounts of delicious food.  So, with the first hint of fall in the air last week, I made my plane reservations because our Thanksgiving takes place in Maryland now, hosted by my son Jeremy’s family.

When I looked for flights, I was relieved to see that there were a couple of seats left to DC at the best price, and I grabbed them.

Remember when there was just first class and coach and only one price for seats in each?  Remember when there were no sweatpants on passengers?  Remember magazines being offered by smartly dressed flight attendants (then called stewardesses).

Those were the days…

On a recent Sunday, two generous couples who live in my apartment complex hosted a catered barbecue in the garden behind our buildings, inviting all the residents. On the menu–delicious spareribs with all the trimmings, sheet cakes for dessert, and a wide selection of beverages. With a small group of musicians adding to the festivities, it was a lovely event and a good opportunity to meet some of my new neighbors.

Most of the attendees seemed to be, shall we say, “in my age category.”  But lo and behold, a family with two young children arrived and then a maybe-30-something woman whose name I had seen on many packages in the mail room.  

It’s beginning to feel like a community…

We are all familiar with “Your call is important to us…”  And we all have our strategies for coping with the wait.  But the other day, I think I set a length-of-time record. 

I placed a call at 4:30 and was told the usual. While waiting, I did the following: straightened my desk, folded my laundry, and began to prepare dinner.  Then I ate my dinner.  When I started the “wait time” was “more than 30 minutes.” Then, “under 15 minutes” Then “under 5 minutes.”

At 6:45, I was connected. My call lasted about two minutes. 

Sound familiar?

Yesterday was a gorgeous early fall day, and I spent a good part of it visiting an extraordinary exhibit on the grass mall in the center of Commonwealth Avenue’s in Boston’s Back Bay.  On the mall was a herd of one hundred-thirty life-sized elephant sculptures.  Each elephant was constructed by indigenous artisans in India from the leaves of the invasive plant, Lantana camara.

Everyone (but me) was taking photos. I just looked at the elephants and everyone loving them. (People thankfully obeyed the “do not climb on elephant” signs.)

Back Bay, especially with its collection of 19th-century Victorian brownstones, always attracts Boston visitors, but The Great Elephant Migration brought out residents as well.

For those in greater Boston, today is the last day of the exhibit.  Go, if you can. 

Why does summer feel shorter than January?  As if I didn’t know. 

But somehow, while I was on my quick trip to Brazil, summer left New England.  Stepping out of Logan Airport to await the shuttle to the subway station, the air seemed different from just a week earlier.  And when I took a quick trip to the Farmer’s Market just a block or so away in the afternoon, there was a definite chill in the air (not to mention some unexpected rain).

I am gearing up for the New England fall, choosing a class to take, reserving books at the library, ordering tickets, the usual.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose!

Why does summer feel shorter than January?  As if I didn’t know. 

But somehow, while I was on my quick trip to Brazil, summer left New England.  Stepping out of Logan Airport to await the shuttle to the subway station, the air seemed different from just a week earlier.  And when I took a quick trip to the Farmer’s Market just a block or so away in the afternoon, there was a definite chill in the air (not to mention some unexpected rain).

I am gearing up for the New England fall, choosing a class to take, reserving books at the library, ordering tickets, the usual.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose!

I have had two wonderful grandsons for quite a while.  One is just out of college, and the other is a sophomore in college.  So, imagine my delight to learn that I was to have a new grandson.

Jacob Peter Silva Kugel was born on August 8^th in San Paulo, Brazil to my older son Seth and his Brazilian wife Dani. As I write, Jacob sleeps in a carriage six feet away.

His dad has lived in Brazil for a long time, and I have visited him there often, including for his wedding to Dani.  But never with as much anticipation as coming to meet Jacob.

Do you remember how delicious newborns smell and feel?  Jacob does only three things, eat, sleep and cry.  But he does them all perfectly.

Just not in the USA.

The stately sycamore trees along the Charles River on Memorial Drive near Harvard Square have been a star of the Cambridge landscape for decades.  I have a (perhaps somewhat faulty) memory that Jackie Kennedy helped save them decades ago when they were almost on the chopping block.  Once, when she visited the Kennedy School, I shook her hand, and I recall that I thanked her for taking up their cause.

Now, decades later, in my new home, a 6^th floor apartment along Memorial Drive, their sweeping branches are the first thing I see through my shades-not-drawn bedroom windows every morning.

Thanks to Mrs. Kennedy.