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December 2023

A Different Path

I am a regular user of my local branch of the Cambridge Public Library, because I am at the de-accessing stage where I need to limit my book buying to the absolutely irresistible. 

My library branch is about a mile away, and normally I walk the same route, partially because it takes me by the house where Peter and I occupied the third floor when we were newlyweds many decades ago.

But on a sunny post-Christmas Tuesday, I decided to walk home a different way.  Unbelievably, I walked down a street I have never walked on in all my years in Cambridge.  It’s a curving hilly street with a gorgeous assortment of Victorian houses painted in a vast array of colors, e.g., purple with yellow trim and a red door, green with orange trim, etc.

I met an irresistible five-month old puppy (and its proud owner) and a friendly mailman making his rounds.

Off the beaten path is fun.

P.S.  Happy 2024 to all!


Argue and Listen

A long-ago roommate and I had a rare phone chat the other day.  We talked about our near-perfect offspring (and their perfect offspring), the woes of the world, and our own challenges and good moments. 

We were on the phone for a verrry long time.  We are both widows after strong marriages and although we both have rich lives, the sadness from losing our partners is with us every moment.

The most memorable thing about our conversation, however, is some advice she shared (not original with her) that has stuck with me.  Here it is: 

Argue as if you are right; listen as if you are wrong.”


A 27-Hour Gift

When my son Jeremy realized he had to use some vacation days by year-end, he checked with me and booked a one-day flight to Boston this pre-Christmas week. 

On Wednesday, I met him (with just his backpack) at Logan Airport, and we hopped on public transportation to go to lunch at Fogo De Châo, an eat-all-you-can Brazilian buffet in the Westin Hotel, where I ate the equivalent of about five of my usual lunches and lost count of what Jeremy consumed.  For anyone who can’t eat gluten (me), what a treat Brazilian cuisine offers! (Farofa anyone?)

From there, on a cold but sunny afternoon, we walked from Boston’s Back Bay to home in Cambridge—up beautiful Commonwealth Avenue and across the Charles River.  About 16,000 steps for this 85-year-old.  Piece of cake.

Full of laughs pizza dinner with a dear friend and her granddaughter, a leisurely morning and he was gone.

I’m living on the fumes…


What I Hope My Children Will Say

In response to my 12/17 post about my mother, a thoughtful “80-something” reader wrote to ask me what I would like my children to say about their Mom when they are in their 80’s.

For starters, here’s what I hope they won’t say: “She meant well.” 

No parent is perfect. (Neither is any child.)  But I hope (and think) that Peter and I always did our best to set a good example and to be “there” for Seth and Jeremy no matter what.  We tried to give them good values.  We usually knew when to draw the lines, and we also tried to let them make their own mistakes.   I hope they know how proud we were to watch them become productive, kind adults with strong values.

I hope that they will know that although I loved their father more than I can say, they are what made my life complete.

I hope they would say that I loved them sufficiently.

And that I made an awesome French Silk Pie.


My Mom's Birthday

If my mother were alive, she would turn 120 today.  She was born on the day the Wright Bros flew at Kitty Hawk. She died thirty-four years ago. 

But on her birthday, I think of her as she was when I was growing up—beautiful and smart and loving.  Like my friends’ mothers, she played bridge and canasta, volunteered and did what most middle-class mothers did back then—be a housewife. 

Dinner every night was served on a crisply ironed tablecloth.  There were pads on the table under the cloth—I know because it was my job to put them there. 

We always had an appetizer at dinner—half a grapefruit or tomato juice, I think.  And our dinner plate always had a protein, a starch and a vegetable.  Most important, our dessert was usually an apple, berry, or toasted coconut pie. Despite my best effort, I have never been able to duplicate my mother’s pie crust.

In the dining room, there was a buffet—what some call a sideboard, I think. That’s where there was always a box of delectable chocolate candy, ready for company, and a bunch of stuff I don’t remember.  But that is also where she kept a manila envelope containing my pigtails, still braided, having been cut off by my aunt because my mother couldn’t bear to do it.

I wonder what my children will say about their mother when they are in their eighties…


This and That

First, thanks to all for your good wishes for my infected finger recovery.  After a week of four separate trips to various doctors, I am happy to report that I am on the mend.  The finger is still purple, still swollen, but going in the right direction.

Even that medical issue hasn’t kept me from being troubled by all the news of the world—of course, the horrendous loss of lives (and homes) of the people of Gaza and Israel, but also the turmoil surrounding the testimony of the college presidents before the House of Representatives. I don’t pretend to have the answers to these and other challenges, but especially the loss of innocent lives needs to end.

I try to not let worries about things I can’t control take over my life.  So I am celebrating beautiful white roses from a friend and (mirabile dictu!) my newspaper appearing at my door in time for my morning coffee on Tuesday.

It helps a little.

 


Urgent? Care

With all the things wrong with the world these days, it seems silly to complain about things like the use of words.

But I’m going to do it anyway.

I was a bit careless with a paring knife the other day and nicked the middle finger on my left hand just below my fingernail.  It was a tiny cut.

As my mother taught me long ago, I stopped the bleeding with pressure, put some antibiotic ointment over the cut, added a Band-aid, and went on with my life.

However, the next morning I had a spot of deep reddish-blue surrounding the wound.  It was about the size of a nickel.  I decided a bit of soaking was in order.

Long story short, the entire top third of my finger swelled, turned blue and a red line was heading for my hand.  That got my attention. I called to get an appointment and my doctor’s office told me to go to urgent care.  But believe it or not, urgent care requires an appointment and I had only two choices—3:30 that afternoon or in the evening at a less convenient location.

The urgent care doctor prescribed an antibiotic and told me to come back in two days. 

But here’s the thing.  What is the meaning of urgent?  In reality, it’s “care that we will give you when we have an open appointment.”  I guess that’s too long a name for a service.  But urgent?

If it’s really urgent, my advice is head to a hospital emergency room. 

You won’t need an appointment.


Semester's End

Tuesday was the last class of “Loss,” the extraordinary course I audited this fall. I’ve never been so sad to see a semester end.  We tackled some very tough issues, and I, for one, now feel better equipped to handle the inevitable losses that we all face.

One takeaway from our last class—Try to use “At least…” to be mindful of the positive past moments even in a time of sadness.

Our class was small—maybe 35 undergraduates, but the applause was huge, and well-deserved. 

I wasn’t the only one reaching for a tissue.


Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

I have been faithfully auditing an undergraduate course at Harvard called “Loss”.  It’s about all kinds of loss—loss of a home, loss of a loved one, a country, a beloved animal, a war and more.  It is brilliantly taught by a classicist on the faculty.

Thursday’s class was about the Vietnam Memorial, built in Washington, DC to honor those Americans whose lives were lost, despite the war itself having been so controversial. No student in the class was alive during the war, but all engaged in the conversation. 

The professor played a YouTube recording of Peter, Paul and Mary singing “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”

It's not the first time that class has brought tears to my eyes.