I have forgotten many things that were once important in my life.   And I have remembered a lot of things that weren’t.  Take haircuts, for example.

As a child I had very thick hair.  Phil, my mother’s haircut person, always had to use thinning shears on my hair.  Before that, my hair was always in two neat, be-ribboned pigtails.  I remember well when my mother decided that the pigtails should go, and she and my Aunt Ruth literally chopped them off as braids.  Those braids remained stashed in a brown paper bag in our dining room buffet for years.

I had several non-memorable haircutters (at least one was named Chuck), and then for more than forty years, Kelly was my hairdresser.  She probably knew more of my secret thoughts than any of my close friends.  When she moved out of the city, I followed her until a few years ago when the 45-minute drive each way seemed just too long. It was a tearful parting.

Post-Kelly, I had my haircut by a perfectionist for a couple of years.  Honestly, I think he cut one strand of hair at a time.  The half-hour drive plus the two-hour haircut finally became too much. 

Now I go to Young.  I’m in and out of her salon in 30 minutes.

That works for me.

I had an unusual fourth of July this year. I spent it alone.  For the past seven years, if I wasn’t out of the city, I joined fellow-condo owners celebrating in the condo’s garden. Of course, that building is no longer occupied.

Years ago, when I lived on Beacon Hill, my roommates and I sauntered down to the Esplanade to watch the Boston Pops and the 4^th of July fireworks.  In more recent decades, Peter and I were content to watch the celebration on TV from a comfortable sofa in our family room.

This year, I went on a solo July 4th morning walk. I caught snippets of phone conversations, such as:  Man on a passing bike: “At this point, my mother would say…”  And a man walking in the opposite direction…“I wouldn’t want to be young and single in London.” 

It was a relatively cool and very clear fourth of July morning. Usually, I love overhearing bits of conversations and imagining what would come next.  But this year, I felt

Just a little lonely.

Two Strangers…is a delightful musical about a young Brit and the sister of his future step-mom who somewhat unwillingly meets him upon his arrival in the U.S. for his father’s wedding, and then (eventually willingly) shepherds him around New York City.

I don’t go to the theater as often as I used to, but things have changed in the last decade.  For example, ticket prices have skyrocketed.  Tickets on Broadway can range from $300-$600 per ticket.  (And I thought $220 each was a lot for my 85^th birthday celebration in 2023!)  Local theater prices are lower, but still less affordable than just a few years ago. 

In addition, audiences dress more casually now-a-days.  T-shirts and jeans or shorts prevailed among the unusually young audience on a recent summer evening. 

I do love the anticipatory buzz in the theater before the play begins. But I note with a bit of regret that at the end of all the plays (and concerts) I’ve seen of late, the audience rises to their feet and shouts their approval. They weren’t all that good.

On the other hand, good people have worked very hard to give us an evening of pleasure, and for that, I am grateful.

It’s been hot in Massachusetts.

I had been concerned about the people enduring recent heat waves in other parts of the U.S. It was quite different to experience one myself. 

I had heard that excessive heat is harder on the elderly, and I find that to be true.

I managed to stay inside during the first over-90-degrees day, but I did venture out that evening, and I couldn’t wait to get back to my cool apartment. And when I had to go out the second day, I was grateful for my air-conditioned car.

On the third day, my normal 3-mile walk became a 20-minute walk.  

It’s easy to convince oneself that it is possible to avoid many of the perils of aging.  But when it comes to extreme heat,

I have met my Waterloo.

There have been wonderful surprises in my five trips to Brazil, but this trip brought a surprise that had nothing to do with Seth and Dani’s wedding.

A little background—for a decade, Seth has had a video channel in Portuguese called Amigo Gringo.  It always amuses me when people recognize and call out to him as I walk with him on the streets of São Paulo.  Once, when I and some relatives were standing on a corner with him in Medellin, Colombia on our way to a cousin’s wedding, a young couple passing by recognized him.  My relatives were quite impressed.

On the morning after Seth and Dani’s wedding, three white-haired wedding guests (including me) were walking down the Avenue Paulista, a São Paulo street that is closed on Sundays for music, dancing, cyclists, street vendors, etc.  An older woman shouted from the sidewalk as we walked down the middle of the street, “Are you Amigo Gringo’s mother?’

It’s true that I have participated (starred?) in several of Seth’s videos and it is true that most older women in Brazil don’t have white hair.  But I was astonished.  When I said “yes,” she came up to us and in not-too-bad English told us how much she enjoyed his videos and how excited she was to see me.

I couldn’t get over it.

Seth, my older son, turned 55 last month.  Over the years, my husband Peter and I had met several lovely women in his life, but he remained single--a great uncle, a wonderful brother, brother-in-law and son. But the right woman had not appeared on the scene.

Until August 26, 2023.

And on June 14, 2025, in São Paulo, Brazil, in front of 140 or so guests (including their dog Ekaterina), Seth married Dani, a wonderful Brazilian woman.  I loved her from the moment he brought her to Cambridge to meet me.  She is beautiful, smart, and very, very kind.

Because American guests had to travel so far, there was an optional post-wedding 3-day trip to Rio, consisting of wonderful dinners, optional sightseeing adventures and perhaps the most beautiful sunsets in the world.  

Seth and Dani will live 4,797 miles away. 

So grateful for Facetime.

A Life Worth Working, a podcast hosted by Michelle Weise and Dana Allen Walsh, recently interviewed a woman who has had an unusual career trajectory.  With an MBA, and after a twenty-year career in venture capital that ended badly, Meredith Parfet pivoted to become a chaplain and death doula.

Parfet effectively urges us to accept death.  It is the one truth.  As she put it, “I might not know what I am going to have for dinner, but I know I’ll die.” She helps those suffering to not fear death.

The podcast is worth a listen.

I never gave much thought to resilience—I just did what I had to do.  But what I had to do “back in the day” looks darn easy in retrospect.

In the last four years, I’ve lost my husband, good friends, my home and the names of a lot of people. (That last one is constantly annoying!)

My children tell me I am resilient, but I think my resilience needs a little work. I have looked into the subject, and here’s what I’ve found to be the qualities associated with resilience.

Optimism

Purpose

Self-Compassion

Acceptance

Adaptability to Changing Circumstances

Meaningful Relationships

Community connections

It looks like I have some work to do.

A gaggle of kids lived on Bartlett Street in Pittsburgh where I grew up, and we played together nicely despite our age differences.  On the longer days of the year, we all gathered outside after dinner for Capture the Flag, Kick the Can, Red Light Green Light, etc.

In 2025, I am in touch with only one of those neighbors, my friend Etta.  Her family had the first TV on the street, so we gathered there often during junior high school.

I never lived in Pittsburgh after college, but Etta and I have stayed in touch twice-yearly with birthday cards, and more recently emails.  We’ve each lost our husband, and our children do not live nearby, but we haven’t missed each other’s birthdays in seven decades.

I hope the young kids living on the street where I grew up leave their phones in the house and go outside to play after dinner.

I wouldn’t bet on it.

I have known my friend Christa for sixty years.  She and her husband were our biking partners for 25 summers.  Christa has just been diagnosed with glioblastoma, an incurable brain cancer, and she has decided to forego the brutal treatment that might extend her life for a short period of time.

I missed a call from her the other day, and the message included the following, “I just wanted to thank you for what a wonderful, wonderful friendship we had over the years and tell you how much I enjoyed having you in my life…"

Loss is something we 80-somethings are learning to accept.  It’s never easy.