Every Other Minute

Family Trees

Peggy Yalman — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 17:38:22 GMT

Rabbi Geffen
1700's Lithuania

My 88 year old father has discovered a new hobby - growing the family trees. He is researching 4 trees - both his and my mother's maternal and paternal families. He spends hours on the computer, writes letters to offices and clerks, connects with distant relatives, writes down every piece of new data he discovers and spreads the information to other family members. It is truly remarkable how he has taken to this pursuit.

On my mother's maternal side - the Geffen family - there is an existing family tree online that covers 8 generations beginning in the 1700's in Lithuania. Included on the site are descriptions of little villages, photos, videos, memorials, updates. It is an outstanding piece of work and has won an award. It even links to Steven Spielberg's archive of films depicting Jewish life prior to and during World War II. I encouraged my father to send our small twig of the tree to the creator of the site as it stops with my maternal grandmother and neglects to mention my mother and father and their offspring including me! (Note: Google Ourfamilystory.net/GeffenFamilyTree and marvel at the wealth of information on the site- a true model family tree!).

On my father's maternal side - the Rice family - my father is caretaker of the famly bible which has a handwritten family tree on the inside cover that my father has extended to include his family - my sister, myself and my son. Following the branches of this tree has been a bit easier since my father has newspaper reports of marriages and deaths that his mother had collected. Interestingly, this family has some southern branches.

Turning to his father's paternal side - the Yalman family - has taken my father on a real detective hunt. Again, this branch started out in Lithuania - the same shetles mentioned in my maternal grandmother's family tree. My grandfather changed our name from Yalowitz to Yalman but he was the only one in his generation to make this change. My father actually tracked down a long lost relative in Indiana and was sent a very detailed family tree although it stopped in 1985. Again, my father needs to fill in the blanks. Who knew a branch ended up in South Africa??

My mother's paternal side - the Ostermans - has proved most futile. Nothing is on the web, nothing shows up, no documents, no letters. This branch spread out from Latvia and my grandfather's family arrived in America in the early 1900's but that is the start of the tree so far - no mention of the family back in the old country.

Anyway, all this research provides my father hours of pleasure. He has found a subject that is fascinating, full of surprises and needs his input. He feels that every family should cultivate their family tree...before it's too late.

Real Estate Hint - Please be sympathetic to a broker on vacation. Brokers need to get away just like other people! But, real estate goes on and on. Brokers usually get someone else in the office to cover for them while they are away. Please understand that this "temp" broker will show you properties, write offers, attend home inspections, but they may not be as diligent as your "real" broker. But, it's only for a week or two! Please don't buy a house with a competitor while your broker is on vacation! Brokers need to take a break now and then just like you do! But they don't want to lose a sale while sailing!

To Clean Refrigerators And The Like

Beverly Breton Carroll — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 03:04:00 GMT

I am much better these days at keeping my refrigerator produce drawer clean. I'm mostly vegetarian so my produce drawer can become quite full, including some pretty squishy vegetables like tomatoes, and some prone-to-rotting choices like peppers and cucumbers. Shielded by, perhaps, a triple pack of lettuce, or a bag of celery or baby carrots, some of these likely offenders can filter down to the bottom of the drawer, become forgotten, and start to dissolve into decidely slimy results. But I'm keeping the drawer clean these days, wiping it out and getting rid of any potential offenders before they offend. In fact, I'm not just keeping up with the produce drawer; I'm doing much better with keeping the entire refrigerator clean.

This is of import because...?

Because I never question why God designed a world where twinkly-eyed three-year-olds die of cancer. Where an exuberant young mother dies giving birth to her firstborn. Where a newlywed husband gets hit and killed by a drunk driver. Where a considerate teen gets shot and killed by countering a mugger. For some reason, I can accept that there is a grand design, and that a person's time here is finished exactly when it is supposed to be.

What I do question, often and always, is why did God make it so easy for those of us living to obsess on everything that is wrong? What we haven't done? What we can't accomplish? What it looks like we will never succeed at now?

These are the kind of thoughts I find myself, and my friends, all competent women living lives full of a myriad of successes, focusing on:

I've haven't gotten over to my mother's to help her with fill-in-the-blank. (No thought given to the hundreds of times and hundreds of helpful tasks she HAS completed for her mother.)

I sprained my ankle weeks ago and I haven't done the rehab so I can't run like I could when I was 12. (She doesn't really need to run like she was 12 anymore, and if fact, doesn't even like to run.)

My house/car/office/purse/laundry/junk drawer/you-name-it needs to be cleaned. (Forgetting every other item and locale that she has been keeping clean.)

I keep trying to leave work early enough to see my son/daughter's fill-in-the-sport game, but I've missed every one. (Yup, she's a bad mother, making a living to keep food on the table, the car on the road, a roof over her children's heads, not to mention sports equipment in their hands.)

And this is before we get to the subset of the writer's life.

I've rewritten the beginning page 30 times, and it still sucks. (According to her.)

I still can't figure out plotting. (Maybe she's not quite James Patterson yet.)

Every time I start revising, I can't get beyond the first chapter. (Perhaps that is because she saves no time for herself to do the revising.)

I've come up with 20 titles, and none of them are good enough. (And on and on and on...)

I realized several years ago that however difficult, the key to successful aging (assuming this is not an oxymoron) was going to be accepting what is no longer part of my life, and rejoicing about what is a part of my life now at this age that was not a part of my life at an earlier age.

So there it is. The refrigerator. I'm doing a good job keeping my refrigerator clean these days.

Getting Back to Nature - 2012

Erin McCormack — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 17:07:03 GMT

In the coming year, I would like to renew my relationship with nature. My time in nature has always been precious to me, yet lately, I feel it has been pushed to the back burner. My time has filled up, my energy has slowed down, and I’m reluctant to go out if it’s too hot or too cold. I put on my IPod to get me up and down the street in twenty minutes, but I miss the pleasures of the natural world, and I lose perspective on what’s important. I also miss the beauty of nature, both in growth and decay, and the surprise of discovery, even in places that I’ve walked so many times before. Spending time in nature, for me, is a spiritual practice, and like any practice, it needs to be attended to, to gain any benefit.

Over the years, spending time outside in nature was part of my daily life, giving me exercise, fresh air, and a sense of being part of the greater world. Growing up in a fairly rural area, playing outside was a big part of my childhood. All of us kids spent time in the woods or on the mountainside; we enjoyed the freedom and were not afraid of being in the great outdoors. In my college years, I spent time near the shore or hiking in the woods with friends. When I had my own family, I spent lots of time with my sons outside, just going to the ponds, streams and woody areas around our house. It was important to me to help my children establish their own relationship with nature – to be familiar and comfortable with it, to feel a part of it.

As an adult and as a writer, I would go to the Great Meadows Wildlife Refuge in Concord, MA, two or three times a week, observing the changes in seasons, or taking my binoculars to do some bird watching. Even at the most trying times of my life, these experiences gave me some balance and breathing room, and a good way to get out pent up energy. Plus, I had the entertainment of watching creatures at their daily lives. Many times, even as I was scanning the sky or marshes for signs of life, I would be working out writing problems in the back of my head. Every step I took and every breath I inhaled gave me new energy and fuel for the creative process.

This past year, I had a chance to get away to two places that gave me some of the joy and inspiration of nature. The first was Dorset, Vermont, for a family reunion in the towering and majestic Green Mountains, where the shadows of the clouds on the mountain sides are like small boats on an ocean. For a writing retreat, I spent a weekend in Ogunquit, ME along the rocky shore. The waves pounding on the cliffs and the far off horizon give such a perspective to my little problems, and the feeling of being just another of God’s creatures in this natural element. These getaways were like a wake up call to remind me how much my relationship with nature means, and how much I miss it when I don’t make the effort. And that, sometimes I have to put it first.

You Know

Beverly Breton Carroll — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 03:06:00 GMT

In January, when most people's focus turns to starting the new year, I'm finishing off the old one, trying to catch up with everything that's happened from Thanksgiving on--like sewing buttons back on clothes, breaking down the Christmas wrapping station, and going through the piles of nonessential mail. I love to read, and I have freelanced at one time or another for just about every different type of publication that arrives in my mailbox--newpapers and newsletters, catalogues, magazines, nonprofit missives, annual reports, academic magazines--so reading these is also a professional undertaking. At the moment, the stack is REALLY high, so yesterday, I began to tackle it.

About an hour in, I opened the October O magazine (okay, clearly the schedule started to go awry before Thanksgiving but I had actually read half of this magazine; I just hadn't made it through to the end). This issue featured Breakthroughs, a topic that works well for January, too, so I figured my timing on this one was just fine. What I soon discovered is Number One on the list of how to achieve a Breakthrough, to get by that dreaming stage of a project or goal and start to make it happen, is to go public. Tell people what you are going to do, like the woman who decided to run a marathon in every state that year, and not only told all her family and friends, but started a blog. This technique, of EVERYONE knowing what you are thinking of doing, is supposed to motivate you to follow through, overcome your fears, get off your butt, conquer whatever is holding you back.

This tip immediately converged in my mind with the article I'd perused early in the hour in the Erickson Living Tribune, a senior community newspaper I receive courtesy of one quick visit to the community years ago with my mother. This article was about ANXIETY, offering up symptoms of General Anxiety Disorder, or GAD. Here they are: heart palpitations, upset stomach, difficulty sleeping. I have them all. I know I can be plenty anxious, so the fact that I could have GAD wasn't a big surprise, although one has to admit that giving anything a name that includes Disorder certainly raises the bar. The article also said the best treatment is regular exercise, also part of my daily routine, so perhaps I can continue to keep this newly-diagnosed condition under control.

What I immediately knew for sure was that broadcasting what I'm thinking about accomplishing in 2012 far and wide so that everyone I know, and anyone I don't know who cares, could witness my progress, or lack there of, was not my path to a breakthrough, but to a full-blown crisis-level case of GAD.

Years ago, a fellow mother/writer and I wrote a proposal for a common sense guide to parenting. This project was the result of all the years the two of us spent raising young children, reading each expert who had the absolute way to raise children, in contradiction to the absolute ways espoused by all the other experts. At the core of the book was that once you enter into parenting with consciousness and positive intent, we are best off trusting our common sense and our gut on what works best for us, and our families, in parenting--and in life, I believe. (The proposal garnered an agent and a lot of interest and may still become a book some day...) This is not to say I don't read self-help experts and articles. I do, all the time. I write them, too. But I'm learning to read with a filter. What's right for you might not be right for me, and vice versa.

I had a Breakthrough in 2011--I made a long-time dream a reality--and it wasn't by broadcasting my ideas before I started. I achieved this breakthrough by engaging in the project with consciousness, positive intent, energy, and a strong belief that this was the path for me--because my gut, or really, my heart, kept telling me so. And that's what's on my mind for 2012 that I am talking about, listening to your heart. Happy New Year.

My Dinner with Caroline Kennedy - A Writing Assignment

Erin McCormack — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 19:51:03 GMT

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.

DANCING IN THE STREETS

Peggy Yalman — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 17:10:14 GMT

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 Universe is Speaking (to me, I think)

Erin McCormack — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 01:29:44 GMT

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.

THANKSGIVING AL DENTE

Peggy Yalman — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 15:47:49 GMT

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!!!

Penn State Proud? Not Any More

Beverly Breton Carroll — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 02:02:00 GMT

I am a Penn State grad. Twice over, actually. I was only there for two and two-thirds school years, a transfer student from a small private school in Pennsylvania, but I was conferred two degrees from The Pennsylvania State University. At the time of my transfer, I considered myself a lucky out-of-stater to be given the nod. In-state or out, undergraduate acceptance into Happy Valley was not easy to obtain. With so many branch campuses to shunt applying students off to, Happy Valley could choose the best of the best.

And State College was idyllic. Set in a lovely valley in rolling Pennsylvania terrain, the town was all about Penn State and the students. The sun shone. The birds sang. The squirrels cavorted from majestic tree to majestic tree. The students went to class, licking ice cream cones from our very own campus creamery. Everyone, students, business owners and townies, rejoiced and celebrated the magnificence of the university.

But where were the best of the best at the one and only Nittany Lion football game I attended? Where were they when the crowd all around me began pushing and pushing, yelling for the stadium door to open? My breath tightened as my anxiety rose, and the air was pushed out of my lungs, so tightly was I being forced against the people in front of me. The stadium doors opened just in time...mere months before a Ohio concert where the timing wasn't so on point, and members of the crowd got crushed to death as the crowd stampeded the entrances.

Where were the best of the best when, during the second quarter, the drunken young spectators in my section started throwing crumpled up paper cups and hitting other people in the crowd? When a brainiac decided to throw a crumpled can instead, and hit a Down's Syndrome teen in the eye? The scratch on her temple began to bleed, and she began to cry.

I walked out, sick to my stomach. And angry on that cold windy day in Happy Valley. Yes, I walked out on Jopa--god almighty--Terno and his Penn State team, before half time. I didn't care if the Nittany Lions were about to tackle cancer down there, I could not be part of a scenario that hurts defenseless children.

But apparently I am part of that scenario, once again by association. During my time at Penn State, the years before, and the years after, Football Coach Jerry Sandusky was being given free reign to hurt defenseless children, over and over and over again.

I've been around sports a lot, more than most people, I would wager. My husband is a professional basketball coach. I've been in a lot of back hallways standing outside college and professional teams' locker rooms. I've watched to what lengths people will go to to bow down to a winning college coach. I've stood astounded at the NBA owners' groups busting into the locker rooms after the game--wives, teenagers, young children. And I've seen these male athletes, incredible specimens of human prowess, close up and personal many times over. One would have to be dead not to be aware of the malstrom of power and sexuality that surrounds these elite players and their leaders, the oxygen that feeds this flaming obsession with athletes and sports. And yet, despite all I've seen, I can not get my head around what happened at Penn State. Coaches, university officials, and university staffers knew one of their own was sexually abusing young boys in the shower in the football locker room, AND THEY DIDN'T STOP IT!

Joe Paterno has uncovered himself as a complete, and dangerous, fraud. He has tarnished Happy Valley for hundreds of thousands of graduates. Standing at the powerful helm of the biggest thing going in Happy Valley, why did Jopa not step forward and get his very sick, sick assistant coach some help? That would have made him a real hero. He could have saved the future victims of Sandusky's twisted affections from having their own lives ruined. And he would have preserved the intergrity that I thought was part of the valley I lived in, and the academic institution I attended, for the better part of three years of my life.

And where are the best of the best now? Apparently some of them think Joe should be coaching his team out there on the field, if the news reports are true. That Joe got a raw deal.

Penn State Proud? I'm Penn State Mortified.

A Thousand Deaths - A Meditation on Parenthood

Erin McCormack — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 19:34:00 GMT

“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.

To the Witches of Salem

Erin McCormack — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 21:34:31 GMT

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.

Halloween Scrooge

Beverly Breton Carroll — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 00:12:33 GMT

The nursery where I work has started putting on a Halloween event for the kids. When I worked at a floral shop in my former floral design life, all of us were, by definition, creative--we designed with flowers. What I never realized is what a like-minded family I would also find with people drawn to working with plants. There is not a person working with plants at the nursery that isn't artsy or creative in some way, shape or form, many in a number of venues. I love this, all this artsy, creative energy. We like dressing up in costume and creating Halloween theater for the kids. We like building a burlap/ corn stalk maze. We like drawing fantastical examples for the draw-a-monster station. We like creating a witch hunt to find strategically-named and accessorized witches, like the water pond witch ready to enhance her brew with a toad in one hand and a mushroom in the other. New this year, and one of my favorites, was the origami mummy station, designed by one of the guys, a single father of two, after discovering these folded-paper googley-eyed creatures with his own kids. I already knew this fellow liked to write; yesterday, I discover he likes origami, too. Fabulous.

Our resident college-aged costume master this year showed up as Belle come to life from Disney's Beauty and the Beast. She had taken her lemony-yellow bride's maids gown--and good riddance, too--and found the exact perfect fabric match to make an overbodice with dropped shoulder-strap sleeves exactly like Belle's. Then she and her friend worked into the night to pinch the skirt into tucks held up by buttons all around (check the cartoon; this was perfect). She made her entrance with her dark-brown Belle-colored hair crowned with a little top knot wrapped with yellow ribbon and long yellowish (the dye didn't work quite perfectly but the effect was so dreamy this was insignifcant) gloves, her sparkling "diamond" teardrop earrings finishing the effect. When I pulled up the theme song from Beauty and the Beast on YouTube so she could waltz around the bulbs and seed racks, her bell skirt swinging perfectly, I almost needed a pinch to be sure I wasn't dreaming.

For two hours, we entertained the kids who showed up with their parents. Dressed as a Gypsy fortune teller, I called GHOST bingo and helped the kids "paint" little pumpkins with magic markers. Our human resource-manager-turned-witch-for the day helped our greenhouse-manager/chef-for-a-day run musical chairs, then took a break from standing in her mean-looking black leather heels to read a couple spooky stories. Origami father, dressed in an eighties Disco Dancer costume, also took a turn running pumpkin bowling, which is as it sounds--using a small round pumpkin to bowl over the pins, and, as I discovered last year when I tried it, crazy good fun because the pumpkins are, of course, not completely round.

In the middle of this happy mayhem, on a slight breather between activities, I found myself near the check-out counters. A tall attractive white-haired woman asked me if she could pay the rest of her landscape bill. I'm the florist. I rarely use the register for the simplest of transactions; this one was over my head. Belle was stuck on the phone with a customer who seemed to have no end of questions, or maybe just one specific question that couldn't be be answered, but the customer was going to keep trying. I waited with the tall women, watching Belle, thinking she was going to be finished any second, but she wasn't.

The woman was becoming more and more impatient. "I'll have to come back next weekend."

No, this was not optimal. I could see from the bill in her hand she had a sizable balance to pay off, and it was all of our jobs to facilitate this. So I turned my gaze to the other staffers, seeing if there was someone I could pull away that would know how to do this transaction. The woman turned her gaze with me. But we could both see, everyone was engaged with the children.

I tried to get the chef's attention. No luck.

"Really," our New England resident exclaimed, in a tone not unlike a British school marm. "There's quite a bit of mayhem here. I'll come back." Her expression tight, she was clearly rather put out. I looked around some more. Disco Dancer was nowhere to be seen--outside, no doubt in the outdoor bowling alley aside the statuary garden. Human Resource Witch was helping run musical chairs surrounded by an audience of parents, shovels and rakes.

I turned back to Belle. Lemony, sunny Belle now stood gripping the phone in her gloved hand, a deep furrow in her forehead, still making no progress. Just when all was about lost, and one didn't need the second sight to know the only thing that was going to keep this customer waiting any longer was me grabbing her with my be-ringed ands, one of our owners reentered the building. Saved. He made the transaction.

But as I walked back to my GHOST bingo post, I couldn't help but feel a bit put out myself--by the women's attitude. Halloween is for the kids. And for the kid in all of us. A bit of fun crazy mayhem is exactly what belongs going on around Halloween.

So Halloween Scrooge, I have to say, Boo to you!

And to everyone else, a most HAPPY HALLOWEEEEEEEEN!!

They Make my Heart Go Pitter-Patter

Erin McCormack — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 22:54:00 GMT

I thought my attraction to the Inspector Morse/ Lewis TV series was due to my innate love of good mystery stories and awe of well-done British programs. Turns out it was the sex -- the sexual appeal of the three detectives who star in the series: Morse, in his 50’s to 60; Lewis, from 40’s to 50’s and Hathaway in his 30’s. No, it’s not X rated, or even R. And none of them ever takes off their clothes, which is probably a good thing. As smitten as I am, I’m quite sure these guys would not make it onto a hunks calendar or a People Magazine listing of most sexy men. In the course of fifty or so episodes ranging over maybe 15 years, only three or four times is there a suggestion that desire is consummated. It’s just not like that.

There’s plenty of adultery in the show. It’s a common theme in mysteries, but for modern British drama, almost a requirement. It’s what they do for fun. All of the upper class, God knows. And much of the intelligentsia, since the show takes place in Oxford. A viewer might conclude that not cheating shows a lack of initiative, or that what the English look for in marriage is not life-long devotion and loyalty. A bit European that way, while we Americans are stuck on “happily ever after”. In any case, it’s not these guys who are cheating. Morse is a life-long bachelor, Lewis is happily married until his wife dies in a car accident, and Hathaway contemplated the priesthood before becoming a cop, and wavers a bit over his sexual orientation early on.

But, were I not married, and they were real, not characters, I could fall for any one of the three. They couldn’t be more different: Morse, a bit arrogant and snobbish in a city of snobs; he loves operas and crosswords, and to drink. Lewis, up from the working class of Northern England with his Geordie accent -- not so refined, but cheerful and easygoing, until his wife’s death makes him sharper and darker. Hathaway, tall, thin, and blonde with his drawn, horselike face, “an awkward sod” as Lewis describes him, gifted but shy. To me, all three are romantic in the sense that they yearn for closeness with a mate, and yet remain skeptical that they are able or worthy. It’s the way they relate to women, always respectful and trying to understand their point of view – part of the job. Working around death on an everyday basis gives them a depth others don’t have. And because they rely on each other at work in solving problems and in seeking justice, they know the importance of human relationships, which not all men learn easily.

Largely, it’s their voices, I think, but not simply the accents. And their foibles and eccentricities, that the English do so well, without having to make it comic, a la “Monk.” It’s their imperfections and their suffering, not their super-powers and straight, white teeth. And the histories they carry with them. In one of the most affecting scenes, Hathaway goes to dinner with a childhood friend, Scarlett, on the eve of her marriage to a rich fellow to save the family fortune. They share a line from A.E. Houseman about the “land of lost content” -- their shared childhood, when he once walked her down the aisle while playmates cast petals. It’s all the old affections, regrets, and innocence lost, along with wine and loneliness that pull them together. All those levels of caring and meaning, not simply “what a catch.”

Real attraction, I think, works that way. It’s hardly ever about beauty and merit – but more about the cracked pot and the broken lid that come together to make a whole, even if temporarily. No question that people are attracted to men and women of status -- or think they are. Also, that desire is motivated by how they think others will view their esteemed object – what we used to call in literature, “mediated desire”. That is, Sam wants Pam because she is valued by Tom, for whatever reason. But this I believe, in private, desire is much simpler and more to do with being seen, heard, and felt, than with seeing or possessing. That’s why passion flares in unlikely places and between unlikely people, depending on the circumstances. And that fat doesn’t matter, or blind, or poor, especially to the young and open-hearted. Sure, we are animals and respond to someone who looks fit and strong, but that’s hardly ever enough to touch our hearts.

Maybe I’m fooling myself, and these are just myths I like to believe. But I’ve been around the block a few times, and I’ve seen a few things. I still think that, in a given situation, that a certain look, a certain signal, and most guys are good to go – with someone who likes them, who smiles nicely at them. Alright, maybe that’s the old days, and not so true anymore. Haven’t tested that theory in a while. What I do know is that if there’s drinking and flirting, there’s danger, and so I keep a distance since I want to preserve my marriage. There’s desire that burns, when it’s one-sided, or the timing is not right. But there’s desire that’s sweet, with the most human of men – like those on Morse.

I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.

Erin McCormack — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 14:34:46 GMT

Last week, I went into Boston with some friends and we saw the tent city of Occupy Boston, the people protesting Wall Street greed. It’s about jobs, I decided, and the slide of the middle class into economic insecurity. It can happen. I’ve been there. So have many people, but not in such large numbers since the Great Depression. It made me think of “Mag”, a poem I used to teach at the community college, written by Carl Sandburg about a man who can’t support his family.

MAG

I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish you never quit your job and came along with me.
I wish we never bought a license and a white dress
For you to get married in the day we ran off to a minister
And told him we would love each other and take care of
each other
Always and always long as the sun and the rain lasts anywhere.
Yes, I'm wishing now you lived somewhere away from here
And I was a bum on the bumpers a thousand miles away
dead broke.
I wish the kids had never come
And rent and coal and clothes to pay for
And a grocery man calling for cash,
Every day cash for beans and prunes.
I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish to God the kids had never come.

A good poem to teach: simple language, repetition, no obscure references except bumpers (trains/boxcars); specific, concrete details: license and white dress, rent and coal and clothes. There’s that alliteration we like: bum, bumpers, broke; and long…last. And a beautiful image of love, “always and always as long as the sun and the rain lasts anywhere” – isn’t that just the “better or poorer” part of the wedding vows? And, not least, the strong, clear emotion. I liked to offer this in comparison to the lyrical lines of Yeats, “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven,” – also from a man to his beloved.

And, I always used to joke, what about that name, Mag? Kind of like nag? Kind of like “Maggie” in Rod Stewart’s Song: “Oh, Maggie, I wish I’d never seen your face?”

I tell them it is a love poem. But what has happened to the love? Listen, I say, to “bum on the bumpers a thousand miles away dead broke.” How does that sound? Bam-bam-bam – that’s the sound of a man punching his wife – since he can’t express his anger, his frustration, his failure and humiliation in other ways. Or, he becomes verbally abusive. Or he leaves his family high and dry. Because he can’t do his part to “take care of each other always and always….”.

I thought the lines were safely dated, but they ring true today about people I know. If Wall Street greed brought everyone more jobs and more prosperity, I could understand how the wheels of capitalism must be allowed to turn freely. But it doesn’t. It brings larger gaps, more social problems, suffering and violence. And doesn’t it damage the souls of those who accumulate wealth they can never spend in some kind of crazy gamesmanship with other rich people, while others struggle to provide beans and prunes to their children? And watch love turn to bitterness?

Call it Wonderful!

Peggy Yalman — Sun, 02 Oct 2011 14:05:12 GMT

It is a well known fact. When you try something new and different you don't always get the results that you expect; sometimes the results are more wonderful.

I volunteered to work the 1-5 shift at a marvelous old home in Concord that was one of seven on Concord's first Private Library Tour. I had decided to devote the entire day to the affair because a. I love to see houses - any and all - which is one of the reasons that I sell real estate; b. I believe in participating in community service; c. I am an avid reader and fan of the Concord Public Library and d. It's always good to get out in public to interface with old customers and prospective customers. So, I was pleased when I was made "Captain" of the house and put in charge of welcoming everyone and checking their entry tickets.

Everything was going well. The libary had sold over 400 tickets and we had a constant stream of bibliophiles streaming into the house. The homeowners were gladly answering questions about their vast collection of books and antiquities. The light rain was not a deterrent and everything was proceeding with ease.

I looked up to see a nice looking couple approaching my check-in table - they seemed about 50 years old; he with reddish hair and she with black and gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. He stared at the name tag I had plastered on my chest, " Are you any relation to Dr. Yalman who taught chemistry at Antioch College?"

"Why, yes, he's my father."

Bruce Meltzer then launched into an excited tribute to my father - his professor and mentor. He told me that my father had been an inspirational teacher; had launched him in his career as a Chemist; was funny and kind and unforgettable.

The whole day seemed to take on a different feel. I was thrilled to hear the accolades placed on my 88 year old father who had spent his entire career teaching at Antioch. Bruce told stories about the first day of class, imitated my father's laugh, remembered he had an Irish Setter who actually belonged to his daughter, Margaret (me!).

While Bruce was talking I had to excuse myself every once in awhile to let other tour attendees into the house - nuisances at this point - but I kept turning back to Bruce to tell me more. Bruce's wife, Ellen, even chimed in, "Bruce so often talks about your father especially now that our daughter is taking chemistry in college."

As Bruce was finishing up one of his stories I said, "Actually my father is arriving on October 7th for a 3 week visit with me."

And that is when Bruce and Ellen laid out plans for a dinner party - a few alumni who live in the Boston area - all Chemistry majors - who would love to see my father after 40 years. We exchanged phone and email information so that the party can be planned in detail. What a delight for my Dad!

Call it fate - call it coincidence - call it wonderful!

Real Estate Hint - When your house goes on the market make sure everything is true to the season! Take down Christmas decorations including wreaths and those icicles that hand from the eaves in warm weather. Put away lounge chairs and portable swimming pools in the fall. Hide the shovels in the spring. The impression should be that you are up-to-date; not a season too late.

Write Away, Now--At Home, or In Ogunquit, ME, With Us

Beverly Breton Carroll — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 03:04:00 GMT

What I know for sure about improving one's writing:
Read more. Write more.  And your writing will improve.

Read.  Newspapers. Magazines. On the Internet. Discarded newspapers if you are watching your budget. Go to the library. Pick up books at used book sales. Book swap with friends or family.

Notice why you liked something you read, and didn't like something else.

Write. Grab a pad, or a piece of paper--even the back of a flyer that arrived in the mail--and write what was on your mind today. After work. This morning when you woke up. After you had the disagreement with your partner. What words most clearly express what you are thinking? Feeling? Wishing had happened? Wishing would happen? Describe your dreams in living color. Tell your story. Play with words. Taste them. Savor them. Then let them go...

Then what? Your appetite is whetted. You want more time to taste, savor, explore these words, your thoughts, your stories. Grabbing moments here and there to read or write is rarely enough for either professional writers or writers working to become published authors. Life interferes and moments to read, ponder, write, are always too short, too few.
A common question at writing retreats and workshops and in critique groups is always, How do you find time to write? Many of us are parents, all of us have family and/or professional obligations.

HOW can I find time to write?

Two of us writers have decided to do something to support this hungry writer in us and our colleagues, to support this desire to believe enough in ourselves to take this time, to answer the urge to clear the decks, get away from the rest of our lives for awhile, and write.

And Writeaway Retreats was born.

Meet your hosts:

Me, Beverly Breton Carroll, a professional author, nonfiction and fiction, who started her career selling travel pieces to the Baltimore and Washington, D.C., newspapers and in-flight magazines.

And my colleague, Robin Grace, a travel guide with Collette Tours and former newspaper reporter currently polishing her first book.

We have embarked on creating reasonably-priced, writing-focused retreats. There is power in numbers. Not only for the pocket books, but for the muses. The collective energy of writers meeting and writing together is unquestionably more than the sum of the parts. Seems our muses can't resist flocking in to join a good party of their own!

We hope all of you writers out there, looking for this supporting space and supporting place, will join us. Our upcoming retreat is November 3-6, 2011, in Ogunquit, Maine, oceanside, at the Anchorage by the Sea. Write in our designated writing area, work in your room, or brainstorm in one of the inn's public spaces. Sit at the ocean’s edge, inspired by the sea air and sound of the waves. If a reflective stroll is what you need, the scenic Marginal Way walking path borders the inn. Swim in the pool or relax in the Jacuzzi to rejuvenate the mind and body. Join an informal roundtable to talk about a specific aspect of writing, or share your work at a retreat community reading. Whatever your pleasure, you will be indulged.

Write on!

For prices, and to register for the upcoming Ogunquit retreat, go to www.writeawayretreats.com

Odd Hobby

Erin McCormack — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 19:19:30 GMT

I have an odd hobby. Not so much weird as unusual. Lots of people have odd hobbies – or so it seems to those who don’t share their interest: war trophies, Princess Di memorabilia, bug collections, etc. But mine is unique among people I know. Yet it gives me pleasure, takes up a fair amount of my mental time and space, and has driven me to new levels of creativity that I haven’t found in my writing. Every couple months, I rotate the décor in my main bathroom according to themes, primarily seasonal, ethnic and cultural -- everything from Venetian Carnival to wildlife and marshland. A travel brochure in a bathroom; a booth at the world bazaar. Something to look at while toothbrushing or on the pot.

It started, I think, with a change from the generic color-matching décor of the house we bought in 1994 to something more holiday and Christmassy. The bathroom is a sandy/beige color tile with hunter green wallpaper with tiny white flowers. This we inherited from the original owners in very good shape, except for the tell-tale nail holes where they had hung their pictures, etc. There is a HomeGoods store in our town which goes mad with inexpensive holiday decorations. After decorating the living room and kitchen areas, it was easy to spread into Christmas towels and a Rudolph wall hanging. And a small snowman. Then I found, by accident, a Christmas-themed shower curtain, and I was hooked. A couple candles, star-studded cup and toothbrush holder – the room was transformed.

Halloween came next – a fun holiday when you have small children, and so many easy decorations to put up. That was a natural, especially after I found a shower curtain with some cheerful pumpkins. I simply took down the old pictures and dry flower ornaments from the wall, and replaced with cats and ghosts in the same nail holes. Easy. From there, summertime and the sea, then France, Ireland, Chinese New Year, the American southwest, Mexico, Africa. Armenia, my husband’s background, was a challenge; and French Canada, I had my doubts. A few hockey sticks, the red maple leaf, a printout of my ancestor’s genealogy, a beaver and a canoe – voila!

The principles are simple: inexpensive, lightweight items, easy to hang or place on the toilet tank, and not breakable, except when I ventured into decorative plates and plate hangers. Items from thrift shops, Homegoods or ebay, if necessary. I have good luck at the annual “baggage sale” at a local assisted living, where many professors and world travelers have come to retire. As close to authentic and/or homemade as I can find. The items from Japan, for instance: a Noh face mask, a nori curtain, a hand fan, chopsticks and holder, all Japanese made. Ireland – a dish towel and tea cozy that I picked up on my trip in 2005. One of the most fun items is a shower curtain with Mexican lottery cards – beautiful illustrations with the Spanish word for each object.

Why? I think to share the world with my children. To make a sense of occasion. To learn and study, and to have fun. A substitute for travel, or way to display my travel experiences? I don’t understand myself exactly why I do it, and I admit it smacks of the eccentric. For a person who tends to examine her motives quite closely, I don't get this irrational drive, this quest. In honesty, I don't get too passionate about much, perhaps from my legacy of early loss, and learning not to hold on to things. But just when I think I have no real yearnings, I find myself on the hunt for a Navaho wedding pitcher or a French fur trade cross. And when I find it, the excitement, even while I smile, recognizing that it's a bit silly - for a bathroom, for heaven's sake. Still, maybe I like the idea of that mysterious force that moves me, recognizing there are still parts of my heart unplumbed.

No one sees the decor but us and our occasional guests. None of the things are valuable, and most will eventually be donated or given away. I think, perhaps, I’m coming to the end, as there are not too many other themes that call to me, and my attention now goes to other things. But for a time, decorating the bathroom was my great pleasure and my odd hobby.

Let The Sun Shine In

Beverly Breton Carroll — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 03:25:00 GMT

sun

August is vacation time for me. I run a full schedule the rest of the year, often taking on more professional and personal commitments than is wise, but August signifies time for rest and relaxation. That means beach for me. I spend as much time as I can at any beach, day trips, week vacation, visiting friends or relatives at the beach.

When I begin my regular routine again in September, catching up with everyone I haven't seen, this is what I hear, repeatedly. "Oh, you got a lot of color." I don't say thank you. I'm not sure this is a compliment. They may be thinking, what are you, nuts? Ruining your skin? Encouraging skin cancer? Shortening your life for those few moments in the sun?

My mother was a self-professed health researcher. She came by the profession naturally. Her father was a research chemist and professor. She was a nutrition major with a chemistry minor. She spent the latter several decades researching health. Not what was making the 6 o'clock news. She delved into what wasn't making the 6 o'clock news. From the very beginning, she said stay away from sunscreen; that stuff is full of chemicals. Like many of our fabulous synthetic concoctions of the 20th and 21th century, sunscreen presented to her as just another substance that allowed you to override your body's natural signals. I believed her then; I believe her now.

I love the water, the sand, and yes, I love the sun. But I don't stay out in it all day. I'm out in the morning and in the afternoon. Through the middle of the day, I stay out of the sun because...it will BURN ME!! That does not seem like a good idea. When I can feel the sun getting too hot, before my skin starts feeling brittle and dry and uncomfortable, I get out of the sun. Is this rocket science? Over time, my skin behaves the way it was designed to, and produces a golden--dare I say it?--healthy-looking bronze tone. Taking in the sun's rays feels good to me. Hmmm. Hard to decipher why this would be? I do have a bachelor's degree in science, but I don't think one needs any B.S. to recognize that the large majority of living organisms on this planet require sunlight for growth and vibrant life. Sun is good for us. In moderation, like anything else.

The new spin in all the magazines and on the news is exactly this: that humans benefit from being in the sun. Wow. News flash. We are now not only permitted, but encouraged to take 15 minutes a day without sunscreen in the sun. And, interestingly enough, sunscreens in number that approach three digits are now frowned upon in most circles. Skin professionals have stopped recommending anything higher than around 30 because the chemical content is too high. Let's think about that...and take a guess that using tons of 15 or 8 or whatever probably isn't the greatest idea either.

One could say to me, you are lucky, you have that "mediterranean skin," as my mother called it, that tans such a nice golden color. What does a fair-skinned red head do? Wears sun screen when unavoidable, and stays under the umbrella! I can burn, too. I live under the umbrella much of the time. And I've worn sunscreen. When I'm going out on a boat, or doing some adventure day trip in the tropics or something and I know it's going to make life really difficult if I try to get completely out of the sun for much of the day. But I don't embrace slathering on the fancy-smelling stuff like I'm doing something really healthy for myself. Slathering on sunscreen and going out for hours in sun that is too intense for your skin seems akin to drinking too much or smoking cigarettes. It may seem to be just what you want at the moment, but it is clearly not something your body agrees with!

Before media entered every facet of our lives, attempting to make anything and everything the next big story, people used their common sense more. There is a reason that a peak, fabulous experience came to be called "your moment in the sun." Good morning, sunshine.

The Writing Life....Not Quite as Expected

Erin McCormack — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 01:02:31 GMT

I can now say I’m a writer. I have a book to show it is so. Of course, a writer is one who writes, and may never share anything with the world. So, perhaps a writer doesn’t need an audience, other than him or herself. It’s more, perhaps, the act of discovering what you think and feel as you write sentences on the page that defines a writer.

Still, I have a book. And I have a growing audience. Yet, it’s not as I pictured it – both better and worse. There was no grand announcement of a newly published book, cleaned, vetted and gussied up by a traditional publisher with knowledge, experience and reputation. No advance, of course. No fancy cover designs to choose from. No marketing blitz. No display at the bookstore.

Just a book, self-published. I like the cover well enough, but it could be better. Some days after I submitted the approved files to createspace.com, the self-publishing website, the page for my book appeared on Amazon.com – without fanfare or even an email to tell me it was there. Sometime later, createspace distributed the book to Barnes and Noble, and other channels – again, a surprise to me. In fact, the timing of the published book – June, coincided with end of school year, Dylan back from college, summer vacation, no one around, and kind of a general black hole of communication. The plans I had for marketing and promotion all went on hold.

Yet, things are happening. At this point I’ve sold over 80 copies, and given away a good 20 more – to my mom, those who helped me, etc., some as gifts. Readers from 18 to 92 (my Aunt Tesha). So far, four male readers, including my brother, a brother-in-law, and a former sweetheart in California. Slowly but surely, the word is spreading, and I hear, out of the blue, someone else has read it – and, liked it, it seems. Ladies from church, neighbors down the street, Facebook friends, my son’s roommate at Duke’s mother who lives in California, an acquaintance from my brother’s high school class, a college friend of Donald’s! My book has been taken on vacation to Canada and Cape Cod. A friend has downloaded it on her Kindle to read while undergoing treatments at Massachusetts General Hospital. Maybe funniest, is one of my mother’s friends in Dillsburg, PA – from that hearty German stock that the protagonist, Gretchen, comes from, with their good hearts and sometimes narrow religious views. The story seems to have passed muster with New Yorkers, Midwest folks, Hispanic folks, and readers of various religious persuasions who have read it. I encouraged them to tell me otherwise.

And the book clubs. I expect most of the members of my book group will order it, and I think probably vote on it for a book to read in 2012. My mother-in-law, God bless her, has taken orders for 14 books (plus 2 Kindle) for her book group, who will read it for October meeting, where I will be a guest. My sister-in-law is trying to get my book lined up for her book group. And, so it goes.

In truth, it’s a funny thing to be read by those who know you, or think they do. For some of them, it’s a bit awkward. They want to read the book, to support me and out of curiosity. But, there’s a certain fear they might not like it, or find it not that good. Plus, the actual difficulty of knowing me, and wrestling with what part of me is in the story events or in the characters. Plus, fellow writers have an eye toward writing blips – which all writers have – and sometimes can’t distance themselves from some of the problems, in spite of what else might be quite good, or easier to accept for someone with more distance. One of the most gratifying moments I had was the response from a woman in my writing group, who had slogged through all the early drafts and false starts. But, on vacation this summer, she read it through and enjoyed it! I think she was as surprised as I was that, in spite of its imperfections, there really is a story there.

Anyway, I write. I think I have a story in mind, and it comes out quite different than what I originally thought. I think I have a certain audience in mind (the community college students), and yet, there, too, it’s others entirely! To write is to change, and I’m quite certain that the person I am now is not the same person I was when I set out to write this book quite some time ago. In truth, it's been quite a long time that I've been writing - since elementary school, perhaps. But, now I'm a writer with a book and with readers!

Disaster in My Wake

Erin McCormack — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 14:56:00 GMT

There seems to be a pattern of natural disasters in areas I have recently visited, myself and/or with family. This sounds absurd, but I don’t find it so funny. Let’s review the facts:

Most recently, I visited -- Vermont! The region in this area most devastated by the recent hurricane, which turned into a tropical storm, inconveniencing many. But Vermont got the worst of it, including Rutland, my dad’s hometown, and a little town called Rochester where my Aunt Betty and Uncle Ed live, which has been cut off from the rest of the state. I hope to hear news of them soon. Another cousin informed us there is no power and no phone service, that helicopters were delivering medicine, folks with ATV’s were being asked to cross mountain roads to deliver water, cow herds were swept down river, folks were left homeless and caskets had risen out of the cemetery. The name of this storm was Irene, also the name of our family matriarch, whose history I had compiled.

This is my most recent disaster. Others date back at least until 1989, Hurricane Hugo in Charleston, SC. Donald and I happened to be there at a WWII reunion of his father’s where we were attempting to sell souvenir items. One week we’re lounging on Isle of Palms beach drinking beers under the moon; next week, it’s blown away.

And then the April 2005 trip to New Orleans, 5 mos. before Katrina. How many people take their school age children to Bourbon St., I ask you? But I wanted the cultural experience, and it was our point of departure for a cruise. At the aquarium, the docent assured me that New Orleans was in a bowl, and the experts knew it was a matter of time before the levies failed. They were right.

Then there was Tahoe 2008 wildfires. Another April trip, visiting brother in law Tom. We were poolside when we saw the smoke. I approached a firefighter on the roadside: “We’ll evacuate if it gets bad,” he said. Then the fireplanes and helicopters. I told Don I wanted to leave for Reno airport a day early, just in case…the smoke cloud followed us for miles.

Another vacation, another disaster – this time 2009 Myrtle Beach, SC. Myrtle Beach! We saw a smoke plume as we were driving – seemed so far away. And then, after dinner, leaving the restaurant, what seemed like little gnats, in fact were ashes falling from the sky. But no panic, no warning, and we returned to our hotel next to the beach….safe, of course. At night, I awoke to acrid air – the slider open only an inch. I turn on the TV: the wildfire is out of control, and not a mile away. Outside the window the smoke was so dense, I couldn’t see the shoreline below. “Close doors and windows, put wet towels at cracks. Visibility nil, stay off the roads.” I didn’t wake the boys; what would we do? The next morning was safe to travel, so we went south of town to get out of the bad air.

Another trip…more recently. We were safe in Sandestin, FL, but our friends that we visited, who had come down from Birmingham, AL, returned to face the worst tornado in their history, just following. I’d asked them over dinner, “Was it ever a problem with tornados coming through? They assured me, not.

Santa Cruz, where I went to college, wrecked by an earthquake.

New York City, where I lived for three years, terrorist attacks, no less deadly than natural disasters.

There’s my record. The question is, what to make of it? Is there some meaning I am supposed to find? Modern travel brings me to all kinds of destinations? Global warming is touching us all? Just unlucky, or causing bad luck – a karma thing? Or, a force field around me so powerful it disturbs the atmosphere? Some other kind of superpower that I don’t realize I have?

My critical thinking self says, just coincidence. My spiritual, superstitious self says it’s a message of some kind.

We choose, don’t we, whether to find meaning in things? If there’s a message, I think it has something to do with nature, and something to do with suffering. And it may be something to this effect: what you do matters, influences the rest of the world, and you must do something to help this world, not merely observe, staying safe and comfortable. Because, in time, disaster touches us all.