We assigned a writing prompt to the women in our SPARC Writing for Women class, due this week, on the topic, “Who Would You Most Want to Have Dinner with, and Why?” In the spirit of running a workshop, the other leader and I will be sharing our own efforts – both to show writing styles and to offer something of ourselves and our concerns. So, my subject is….Caroline Kennedy, daughter of the late president, John F. Kennedy, and his fashion icon wife, Jackie; and handsome, maybe reckless younger brother, John-John. That Caroline Kennedy.

I wouldn’t invite her to dinner here at home – I’m not much of a cook and it’s a lot to ask my husband, Donald. I suppose we’d meet in Manhattan, where she lives with her husband and three children – someplace nice, discrete, where the staff would not make a fuss. And, being two middle-aged ladies, we’d likely order a healthy lunch, salad perhaps, and a glass of wine if we’re not driving.

Caroline Kennedy is about the same age as I am, from a French and Irish Catholic background, a big family with many cousins and aunts and uncles — and she lost her father young, as I did.  A year apart. Kennedy was 42, my father 39; we girls were each around 6.  Both men were promising sons of large families who pinned a lot of hope and expectation on them. Both Navy officers. Both of their fathers had been larger than life figures who ran businesses and were involved with politics – my grandfather locally. Both patriarchs had a deep respect for education and married women who were committed to family advancement.

Our fathers’ deaths, while very different, were sudden and unexpected: a gunshot wound; a fast moving cancer. We both had dark, slim, stylish mothers who bore their grief quietly, building a reserve that was almost impenetrable. Caroline, of course, remained rich, famous and in the limelight most of her life, while my family’s fortunes declined for some time after my father died. Her father’s death was a shock to my family, and to my father – the violence and the loss of hope in a decade that grew increasingly turbulent.

Then there are the other, almost-crossed paths: her schooling at Concord Academy, not ten minutes from where I live; a wedding at a small church in Centerville, MA, where a cousin of mine married. Vacations on Cape Cod or Martha’s Vineyard. The overlapping years in New York; the many different writing and arts-related jobs. She didn’t change her name after marriage, and neither did I.

For Caroline Kennedy, money and fame did not hold off tragedy, but perhaps invited it. Many people have suffered and lost, but not so many in the public eye. She alone is left of her closest family. Gone mother; father; stillborn sister; baby brother, Patrick; beloved brother, John, Jr.; two uncles; several cousins – tragically, before their time.  I would like to know how she lives with the loss and grief, for which success was no insurance. Who does she talk to of her fears and sorrow?  What does she tell her children?  Can she be friends with anyone who hasn’t had the kind of experiences she has?  How does she get up in the morning? Is there any medicine or self-help practices that help her cope? What gives her pleasure and something to look forward to?  What does she hope for?  And what sense does she make of all that has happened in her life?  Does she believe in God or in the Kennedy curse? 

I think of her, Caroline Kennedy, from time to time, with a pang in my heart. I’m drawn to her picture as a little girl in the White House, wholesome, natural, loved.  I admire that she is raising a family and still goes out in public on occasion to speak for things she supports. I’d like to tell her how much I feel for her; I think we’d have a lot to talk about.

Motown has survived 50 years! 50 years! And I have been a fan for 48 of those 50 years. When I hear a Motown song I can sing along; "Stop in the Name of Love", "Dancing in the Streets", "Tracks of your Tears".  And Motown makes me want to dance.  I remember dancing to all the Motown songs in high school and after.  I learned to dance to Motown; the strong beat made it easy to move my feet. To this day, I like nothing better than to dance to an old Motown song.

Detroit is not a sophisticated city like New York or Los Angeles.  It is smack dab in the middle of the midwest.  And I am midwestern too having been brought up in Ohio.  So we claimed Motown as our own. We didn't have to wait for the cross country transport of the Beach Boys with their alien songs of surfing.  No, Motown was right in our backyard and we could relate to its neverending declarations of love and romance without feeling left out of a world of California girls and New York boys .

I know the history of Motown.  I know the genius of Berry Gordy.  I marvel at his control of the startup company.  I have read of the lessons on posture mandated for the stars. I know of the composing teams of Holland- Dozier- Holland and Ashford and Simpson.  I watched Stevie Wonder develop his harmonica playing to become one of the biggest stars in the world.  I was there when Diana Ross left the Supremes to venture out on her own.  I mourned the passing of Marvin Gaye. 

Today I hear Motown on the radio, my Ipod, cds and I'm transported back to the good ol' days instantly.  The days when I adored Smokey Robinson, Diana Ross, The Temps, little Stevie Wonder, Martha and the Vandellas, Marvin Gaye.  The list goes on and on.  There were so many great Motown artists and I loved them all!

I am amazed that Motown is still so widely played today.  We had no idea that "Tracks of My Tears" would be on the radio 50 years later.  We would never have guessed that Motown is so mainstream that it is continually  used in advertisements, muzak, golden oldies. Many of the stars are gone, but others are still making music and I applaud them for their longevity.  But it's the old songs that make me smile, shake my booty and and sing at the top of my lungs.


Real Estate Hint - It is important to allow your Realtor at least one day's leadtime before you see houses.  It is not only necessary for the Realtor to arrange her schedule, but appointments with the owners should be made at least one day ahead of time. 

The older I get, the more I am convinced that the universe is speaking to me, although I’m not yet old or wise enough to understand the messages.  I’m referring to six-degrees of separation, and genealogy, and coincidences of all kinds, those kinds of connections that are apt to increase the more years we spend on earth. I understand logic; I believe in the scientific method; I am open to theories involving manifestations of energy in all its forms.  Yet, I can’t help thinking that some of these messages are personal, and that I am meant to pursue the meaning behind them — and perhaps, to act.

Through my genealogical discoveries, I find I have relatives near and far without looking very hard.  With French-Canadian ancestry, it’s kind of a game to find descendents from a relatively small immigrant group of 10,000.  But what to make of the fact that, dominated as my parenting life has been by hockey, I’m related to at least a few of the most famous hockey players: Mario Lemieux, Ray Bourque, Maurice “The Rocket” Richard.  Perhaps I should not have been surprised to find relatives in the South – Louisiana and Texas. But bloodlines linking me to Beyonce, the music star with Acadian roots, and Marie Laveau, the “Voodoo Queen” of New Orleans?  Marie and I descend from the same Rivard ancestors, one of whom followed the Mississippi south.  Through the internet, I met a man living not 45 minutes from here whose g-g grandfather was the brother of my g-g grandfather – and traveled from Canada to Rutland, VT together – this is the g-g grand-uncle who fought in the Civil War.  One of my writing group partners is half-Canadian French, and I was able to trace our family connection – through the Breton and Gagnon lines.  Of course, we are ALL related, but I’m a bit spooked by all these hidden connections that come so easily to light. Who am I, really, and what does it mean I share blood with all these people?

Then there’s the voice of Gil Scott-Heron, a spoken word/musician artist/activist, who died earlier this year.  I’d met him once, years ago in UC/Santa Cruz, when he was performing and I was house manager at the theater.  I never really knew much about him, or his music, but I remember very well the sound of his voice. He later had drug problems, and health problems, and kind of faded away. Then, recently, I heard a new rap/hip hop song on the radio, “Take Care” with Drake and Rihanna, and in the middle is a sample – a piece of music taken from another recording.  And after 30 years, I know the voice, Gil Scott-Heron, and it’s like he’s standing next to me again, waiting to go on stage.  And, like he’s dead, but not really dead, and wants to tell me something.

Finally, Jack, a friend, not close, who died an untimely death. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to go to his service, but another friend did. A woman, who I’d been friendly with for a long time, but hadn’t seen much of lately. And, out of the blue, she called up to invite us to join her family for Thanksgiving – if we were available. We weren’t since we were hosting the meal here, but I was so touched at her gesture. She told me she was inspired by something she’d heard at Jack’s service, about his reaching out, and including others, and making connections.  What a beautiful legacy.  Just following this conversation, I received an on-line invitation to make a connection on “LinkedIn”, the business networking site – from Jack, although he’d been dead already for days.

It's Thanksgiving morning and I just read a commentary in the Boston Globe by Marianne Leone about her Italian family's take on Thanksgiving.  In years past her parents and grandparents, new arrivals in America, had celebrated Thanksgiving with familiar foods from their native country.  Her childhood memories of the feast included antipasto, capon, and of course pasta dishes.  Only later did they switch to Butterball turkeys and mashed potatoes although continuing to include pasta as a necessary addition to their American cuisine.

This got me thinking about my own traditional meals at holidays and how much I enjoy them.   When it comes to Thanksgiving I insist on turkey, stuffing, potatoes (preferably sweet), cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie.  You get the idea - all the fixings that make Thanksgiving such a tried and true delicious meal.

I do know that different regions of this country have their own Thanksgiving specialties.  My friends who are born and bred New Englanders insist on mashed turnips (ugh!) and my first husband liked cornbread stuffing instead of Pepperidge Farm which showed his southern roots. But, by and large, we Americans all eat the same thing on this holiday.

Once my mother cooked a duck instead of a turkey for Thanksgiving.  Now I love duck but not on Thanksgiving.  My sister and I insisted that she never vary from the traditional turkey again.

The funniest Thanksgiving meal I ever heard of was told by my ex-husband's neice.  She was a new bride of a young man who had grown up in Russia.  His parents, who now lived on Long Island, invited the newlyweds to their house for Thanksgiving.  Knowing the menu, but not the recipes, his mother laid out a Swanson turkey TV dinner still in their aluminum dishes in front of each person at the table.  What a hoot!

So today I am off to my friends' house for the Thanksgiving meal.  I have been invited to their house for prior Thanksgivings and I am happy to be among their guests because I know they are as traditional as I am.  I can be assured that there will be turkey and potatoes, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.  No nouveau cuisine, no vegan, no ducks or capons.  Just good ol' American Thanksgiving dinner.  I'll eat pasta tomorrow...




Real estate tip:  I don't care if you are a buyer or seller nor if you are worried about your offer, your mortgage or your closing date.  Please please please don't contact your realtor on a major holiday!  Everything can wait until after the holiday!!!

“She died a thousand deaths,” is one of my mother’s quotes on parenting. That, along with “This too shall pass.” And “It’s not the stuff you worry about, but the stuff you never even saw coming.” And lastly, “I’m glad I’m not raising kids nowadays.” Thanks, Mom.

But Mom’s right about the thousand deaths – every time something bad or unexpected  happens to your child – injury, fever, teased or bullied, acne, weight. What’s hard is to witness the sadness or the pain or the fear, and not to be able to fix it right away or fix it at all. My first-born in the NICU with jaundice and a low grade infection: picture this robust, orange-colored baby boy with “shades” on to protect his eyes from the artificial sunlight that would cure him of the jaundice. To leave a new baby in the hospital for a week, while you fret, worry and recover yourself – it’s not easy. Or, my second son with his febrile convulsions – his eyes rolling back, his back arching – possessed, it seemed, not himself. Thankfully, only once, and not for long.  The report from the doctor that one of my boys looked like a candidate for early adolescence – and would stop growing early, before he reached full height.  That was the worry that never came to pass, i.e., they don’t know everything. The things you read about in the paper: SARS, Lyme disease, swine flu, diabetes or childhood cancer. The foods that are bad; the toxins in the air; the plastics that erode.  Scary, unrelenting and not for the faint of heart. And the temptations of drugs and drinking — the price of being social, ways to handle stress – how will they handle these?

All these things: to watch your child go under anesthesia; to see him knocked down or knocked out in sports; to lose him at the mall; to leave him off at camp; to imagine him roaming the halls of the high school; leaving for a cross-country trip with his college roommate.  It’s enough to make your heart pound. 

All those things, and learning to drive, too.

Riding in the car with a teen and a newly minted permit is exciting, to say the least, nerve-wracking at times, potentially quite dangerous.  I can truly say that I have envisioned the crash, the wreck, the veering off the side of the road quite clearly in my mind as I have died those thousand deaths.  But I keep the veneer of calm. I remember that he needs the skills to grow and learn.  I try to keep to myself my own irrational driving fears, born of other insecurities, and a life-time of observation of less admirable qualities of human nature.  My voice drones on – notice this, notice that – as my feet work invisible pedals, and my hand brushes the passenger side door, keeping the shrubs and mailboxes away. 

He’s fine. Really, he’s doing great.  But I know the thousand unique driving situations that he may encounter and not be prepared for.  And I experience the thousand deaths – the end of both of us – so that he may pull into the Dunkin Donut’s drive-thru and and order iced-coffee with the greatest of joy.

We are neighbors, practically, our little town and the good citizens of Salem, MA, including its considerable Witch or Wiccan community.  It’s about a 45-minute ride into the center of Salem to visit the Peabody Essex Museum or grab lunch at Pickering Wharf.  Or, best of all, a couple hours to explore the old city center, the narrow streets, quaint old inns and houses, and the dozens of boutiques and restaurants with their intriguing names and clever, arty window displays – at least half of them on the theme of witches.  Witches, witches, everywhere. Yes, the hokey, wart-nosed, story-book type. And the for-real, spell-casting, Samhain-celebrating witches. And, too, the so-called witches, several dozen or so people, who were tried and hung in Salem in 1692.

There is no end to the fright fest which is Salem, MA in October.  Haunted Happenings Magazine publishes a guide of all things witch-related: The Witch Dungeon Museum, The Witch History Museum, The World of Witches, and the Witches Cottage. Let us not forget the Witches Hide, The Witch Mansion, and “Cry Innocent”, a reenactment of the 1692 trial.  Along the marked trail, tourists can also find Frankenstein’s Lab, Count Orlok’s Nightmare Gallery, Terror Fantasies, and Salem’s 13 Ghosts. I’m not making this stuff up.  If there’s a way to make a buck off the spooky and supernatural, someone has figured it out.  Somewhere along the line, the fright aspect of Halloween in Salem became commercial and festive. With costumes, decorations, and candy, the darker aspects of the history of witches in America were white-washed and defanged.

And yet, real witches do live and practice in Salem. I picked up a pamphlet published by the Witches’ Education League, a non-profit organization whose purpose is “to educate society about the truth of Witches and their beliefs” by answering FAQ’s such as “What is a Spell?” and “Is every Witch in a Coven”?  In addition, they have a website and a list of charities they donate to.  In Haunted Happenings Magazine, one of the events for October 31 is the 15^th Annual Samhain Feast, a Dumb (Silent) Supper, and Witches Magic Circle on the Salem Common, featuring ritual drummers and a candlelight procession. These witches are serious, they’re public and they’re a definite presence among the festivities in the city. While not seen as dangerous or subversive to mainstream society, they still are seen and see themselves as those apart.

Both of these developments stem from and refer back to the witch trials of 1692 – still a mystery to historians and students of human nature. From the 21^st century point of view, it doesn’t seem likely that an active coven of witches in the Salem (Danvers) area truly conspired to cause harm and mayhem. Today, we think it likely the “hysteria” arose from fear, repression, anger and jealousy – the constraints, particularly on women, of living in Puritan New England. As I wandered through the memorial stones of those women (and a man) that were put to death by their neighbors, I wonder what the truth is. I don’t believe any of them were in pact with the devil to cast evil spells. On the other hand, it’s possible that the practice of Wiccan or witchcraft was carried across the sea by some women. Or that Tituba, or other slaves, developed an underground market in herbs and rituals. That part of our society, the secret knowledge of women, has existed for thousand of years, and will continue, as long as needed. And the fear and persecution of those perceived as different or a threat to the power structure will last as long. But I don’t believe there was evil in 1692, until the judges agreed to murder; when mercy is lost, the devil has won.

What I take away from this latest visit to Salem is a particular memory – a note inside a plastic holder placed on the memorial stone of one of those hanged women. A woman had come there to appeal to other visitors, if they might be related, cousins, descendents of that woman who died as a witch. The note writer had done some genealogy research and traced her line back to that other woman, long dead. She had children, and they had children, and their gggg grandchildren walk the earth today. A most human story, nothing supernatural about it.