Knocking the Doors Down

Curled up and leaning on the trapunto stitched blue and white toile headboard on a lazy Friday night, my darling Grandma Alice, for whom I was named, would rub my back and tell me that all good things were in store for me.

We spoke of boundaryless travel and thousand-count boudoir linens and entertaining at home ... and of course, romance.

She was a restless romantic.

I inherited that from her.

We wear our hearts on our sleeves and turn a blind eye to faults and warning bells and red flags. And, flames. Wow, have the Alices been burned. But rub on the salve, cover the wound with cotton gauze and with a flip of the head race in for more.

I'd listen intently, soaking up her glamour. Her femininity. Her siren songs. Lost in the Rodeo Drive and I. Magnin wonderment of what was to come my way. The gold cigarette holders dangling gracefully from a turned hand while men in Packards sped me to a candlelight supper where the Los Angeles (that's a hard 'g') lights twinkled through the windows onto her dreamy world.

Ooops. Did I say me? I wanted, with every fibre of my being, her word would portend my future. That my darling Grandma Alice was a soothsayer about my future love life. The deep, dark and alluring matinee-idol eyes which would peer into my hazel green eyes glistening with wonderment ... and who would wine and dine me and line up down the block waiting to take me ... oui moi ... out on the town.

Ha!

Not on match.com ... nor jdate ... nor baddate.com. Sadly, not in the Harvard personals or an exotic airport lounge halfway around the globe ... nor the boardrooms of Manhattan ... a friend's dinner party. Nope. No line of eligible, drama-free, emotionally healthy males waiting for little ol' me. Much less clamoring and teetering to get past the butler through the portal to my lair.

But I know in my heart. I truly do. Every time it flutters with hope and knowledge. That my guy is out there. The one who will make my spirit sing and my soul giggle. Who gets me in a way that is natural. Who lets me be me. And, I him.

That we will connect inspires me. Motivates me. Ignites the fuel that will connect the two of us in some unimaginable way.

Cheers to my lover ... I am getting better with age ... and so is he!

55 ... and Floating

Happy birthday, sweet William.

Today would have been your 55th.

A celebration marked not by joyful toasts and the tinkling of ice cubes, but whispers to the universe.

You are close by always, tucked safely into that velvet pocket in my heart. We speak often. Of jazz, of entrepreneurial insights, of raising sons.

I miss you, darling brother. Cheers!

La Mama, A Wedding Cake House and A Fellow Lexingtonian

My beautiful mother gracefully slowly swung her long still-coltish legs to step out of the car. I was there to balance her step into the gravel shoulder on Summer Street.

Her deep brown liquid eyes scanned the historic homes and manicured landscape taking in every minute detail. Her face glows. Her smile, her signature smile, spread across her face beaming.

It is a gorgeous September day. One of those clear bright ones where the sky is so blue that the vibrancy of each autumn leaf pops with definite edges. The palette is breathtaking. Vivid reds, rusty orange, lemony yellow.

Quintessential New England brilliantly color-coordinated by Mother Nature herself. The other decorator extraordinaire.

Mom has impeccable taste.

Always has.

Whether it is the warmth of a gracious life reflected in her interior design.

Her bountiful gardens laden with budding bougainvillea vines leafing over trellised porticoes. Or the clematis and wisteria snaking up and over twin pergolas framing her screened veranda overlooking the harbor.

Or, the elegant style of her clothes ... whether jeans or dressy slacks or evening attire. Accessorized perfectly from her over-abundant collections. Scarves tossed casually, perfectly accenting her outfit. Whether Maine

Mom's got it in a way I can only hope to imitate.

Her soft Kentucky drawl breaks my rambling thoughts. She wants to bottle today. Protect and save its ephemeral beauty with her treasures. Those collected over a lifetime. Her eighty-plus years.

A warmth envelopes my being. She is elegant, my Mom. Simply stunning. These days, too, are fleeting. We turn to each other and nod knowingly.

On to our business. Touring the rarely opened Wedding Cake House. Hosted by its eccentric octogenarian owner, Jimmy Barker. A fellow Lexingtonian. A Southern gentleman art dealer of the first order. A character in his own right with homes here on the coast of Maine, in the rolling bluegrass of Kentucky and in swanky Palm Beach.

We purchase the tickets which will benefit local food pantries and stroll the immaculate grounds. Birds sing. A few leaves swirl and fall to the ground. The gentle breeze flutters flower petals in the English urns on either side of the front door. We take a seat on a lovely painted Chinese Chippendale outdoors bench. And wait for the small group to assemble.

Inside the Wedding Cake House we are treated to its fabled historied past. The furnishings are period some. Others fine pieces giving the home an eclectic spirit. Old and new. Like us. Our style. I escort her from one room to the next. Up the narrow winding 18th century staircase built by out of work ship carpenters. Like in my home.

Jimmy Barker himself is there. Cooking for his dinner guests. The lovely walnut trestle table set in a riot of colors. He spins around looking spry for his eighty-something years. He and Mom connect. Stories from earlier times in their old Kentucky home roll excitedly off their tongues. Memories of people long forgotten stream back.

I stand aside and take it all in. Happily. Mom is enraptured. There accents so thick a knife might not cut through. It has been a fun afternoon reminiscing. Visiting old friends in an out-of-context surroundings.

Cheers, darling Mama, with all my love and deep devotion ... and then some! May you live forever.

Five Cubic Metres, Five Cubic Centimetres

How will he ever pack his belongs in five cubic metres? The American equivalent of 6.5 cubic yards. Impossible.

The past six years we have overstuffed the rear of whatever Volvo station wagon I am driving. Squeezing pillows and posters and bedding with squash gear and lamps and rugs. Ooooh. I almost forgot. Clothes for every possible event. Several choices, in fact. Into half that space.

This he gets from me.

And my Grandma Alice. She of the grand steamer trunks replete with silk lined drawers and monogrammed leather trim.

You might need this for that event. And of course what about this for the other event? What if so-and-so invites you to meet the Queen? Be on the safe side. Take both. It might rain. Snow. Not. Be flexible. It's yours. it should be with you to remind you of home. Your sense of humor. Camp adventures. Middle school buddies.

The more the suitcases. the more the merrier. Except for our ten day university tour by train through Great Britain and Scotland in early winter. Might need boots? Check. Extra scarves? Right-o. Dressy clothes? It's close to the holidays. Your school books? Midterms are the week after our return.

Four heavy very heavy roller bags later we embarked. Heavy as lead suitcases that we had to hoist from train platform through quickly closing doors and hop in behind. Four different hotels in less than two weeks. And horrors ... we never wore the boots. Nor our festive outfits. In fact, I wore the same pair of black pants nearly every day. Could have done the entire trip with a carryon. But shhhhhhhhhh.

We are crazy. Bonafide, over-packers. You are more than welcome to acknowledge the fact. We are nuts Did we learn from our sore backs and aching shoulders. HELL NO! Our motto - Be prepared for anything!

Schleppers extraordinaire.

Barely able to see over the piles smoonched into the back of the car and filling every gap under our feet, I have pulled out of our driveway or the circle in front of one of his Andover dorms or Grays East in Harvard Yard ... where yes, you can park in Harvard Yard and his single in a five-man suite was formerly inhabited by the then brilliant super geek and now infamous, jailed for life Unabomber) or Lowell House with the lovely bell tower silhouetting the Cambridge sky, a stone's throw from The Fly (finals club of FDR ... and my darling son).

The conundrum? Our latest dilemma?

Transporting piles of need-to-have accouterments, wardrobe and vast library of books across the seas to his new home in the Far East.

Can it be done?

Should it be done?

Will it even fit in his company-provided apartment two blocks from the office?

Our vote ... drum roll please ... is to take three suitcases packed with clothes and a very few mementos of home. Period.

Cheers to enlightened world travelers who may just finally get it.

[Postscript: Charlie's shared apartment is minuscule. His bedroom the size of a sleeper car in economy. A bunk bed loft over the closet with steps doubling as dresser drawers ... and a desk with chair. His entire personal space less than five cubic meters! Lesson learned, I think ;-)]

Of Mice and (Wo)Men

Here we are. Me and my baby sissor. That's Robin. Road trip. Kind of. Driving a law abiding 25 through the streets of Salem, Massachusetts in search of the Peabody-Essex Museum showcasing the most fantabulous collection of Chinese art and artifacts this side of Beijing's Forbidden City and Summer Palace.

When lo and behold out of the corner of my eye a grey image darts up the driver's side of the windshield. Robin is redirectioning her iPhone's GPS. But I know. Immediately. Like one knows the cries of her baby in the navy blue middle of the night ... and whether they signify a wet nappy, hunger or loneliness. That was a mouse.

A mouse? How?

Backstory: Yesterday Charlie and I drove our pewter Volvo V70 wagon the 90 minutes from the coast of Maine to the lovely 18th century saltbox colonial of my sweet sister and Ken for a farewell visit.

Parenthetically, before I go further and to further illustrate how I seem to be able to find the perfect partner for everyone sauf moi ... that's her husband. The result of my yenta-style match making in the early 1980s when Robin sauntered into downtown Boston to meet me for lunch. And right there amid the not-so-attractive metal desks of a dozen bank trainees in varying modes of pre-noon preparations (read: distractions) lightening bolts sparked.

On the itinerary is a day trip to Salem. Home of witches, pilgrims and Nathaniel Hawthorne. But since we have different end destinations ... Robin and Ken back to their home, us to Maine ... we are driving in two cars.

Ooops, I forgot to mention that they reside in the country. The leafy Boston exurbs. And that their dog food (kept annoyingly open in their three-car garage) attracted colonies of teeny mice over the winter. The country one. Brownish grey with oversized ears.

Back to the future: We are driving through the rambling streets of Salem. Robin fumbling nervously as I keep repeating obnoxiously "was that a mouse?"

Approaching the parking garage scary things roll through the crevices of my mind. What if it is a mouse and it jumps in the car while I reach through my window to grab the ticket from the automatic attendant? Or worse, suppose an entire family is nesting under the hood wreaking havoc in the insulation surrounding the engine? Even more disastrous, chewing cables and wires that will render the car inoperable at the worst possible moment?

My head swirls as I head up the ramp. Bravely I lower the driver's window. Just far enough to grab the ticket and hit the up button. No more than necessry. Safe. No mouse jumps in.

Oh ... did I mention that Bailey is curled up in the back of the car? She joined us to visit her canine cousins, the Doodle Brothers. An open sack of her kibble on the floor. Treats, too. Mouse bait. And, it is over eighty degrees outside. Windows must be opened a bit the sunroof slid back to let air circulate.

Up the ramp we drive. Floor 2. Robin is still fooling to align the GPS software with our new coordinates. I am sweating bullets. I slide the car into a space on the shady side of the garage. Steel myself and slowly open my car door. I peer up onto the roof.

There, clinging cartoon-like by every toe on its teensy feet to the edge just below my face, is one very scared large eared mouse. Petrified. Both of us.

I beg with my sister to put down her iPhone (we are at our destination for god's sake). Hand me something to swat the mouse off its perch. She grabs Bailey's leash. What am I? A circus act? Am I going to whip the frightened rodent into submission? No.

I spy the Maine atlas of road maps is peeking from the pocket behind my seat. My weapon! Grab that. Please. Tentatively (and I might add more freaked than our roof top passenger) she cracks her window. Barely. And shuts it so quickly that the map book gets stuck. Hurry. Pleeeeeeeze.

Hunter Alice. Armed with the clumsy, page flipping open atlas I sweep the roof of the car. The mouse darts from side to side and then falls into the channel on the hood between the wipers and the windshield. Eeeks. Is it going to go under the hood? In the dimly lit space I cannot see the color-coordinated mouse. Yikes.

I sweep the booklet one more time. With gusto. And purpose. Bingo! The mouse jumps to safety and scampers along the concrete and steel girders. Far far away from its transportation. Farther from its family and friends. Alone on an adventure in rugged Salem.

My heart pounds. I jump back in the driver's seat. Turn the key in the ignition firing up all cylinders post haste. And screech the car in reverse heading to another floor. God knows that I do not want to vacate my open-sunroofed vehicle. The mouse might just be thinking this is the mothership.

Gheesh!

Boogey Woogie Bugle Boy

Happy birthday, Dad!

That's him. Second from left. Back row. The 23 year old Army Air Corps captain from Kentucky. Pilot of the Goin' Jesse. A storied bomber in the Asian theater. WWII. Survived Japanese fooz fire fights. Saved his crew.

You know. I always felt like I could be in a crashing plane with him and we'd be okay. He was just that way. Instilled confidence in me. A trouble-shooter extraordinaire. Could see the forest for the trees, so to speak. Hone in on those leaves in the midst of the shadowy woods, distill the issue, define the problem. Then with the steady precision of a bombardier hit his mission. Solution. Resolution. Case closed.

I got that from him.

You'd be 89 today. Your ninetieth year.

I baked a cake to celebrate. Your fave. Pearl's dot chocolate cake. Milk chocolate icing. Baker's red box of unsweetened but not so bitter cocoa. To celebrate you, the birthday boy! Okay. Okay. And I confess: to delight my sweet tooth, my cravings for sugary confections. Hey, Dad, what do you think this is? Your birthday? You bet it is!

But I am stymied. The choice of ice cream has me a bit confused. Ha! A real quandary.

Remember when Charlie enrolled in a Saturday morning class for kids at the local community college? To learn about how ice cream ends up in the freezer case at our local markets.

Assignment 1: Interview your family and friends to see who prefers what. Easy. We all have our beloved cold, creamy taste treat to memory.

Everyone had an immediate response. Not you, the most decisive thinker on the planet. My mentor who instilled within me the ability to make a decision with the facts on hand. They might change. But don't look back. Be confident with your choice.

So, Charlie quickly wrote down Grandpa Bill's selection: definitely mint chocolate chip from Baskin Robbins (especially with the Tuesday senior discount). That's the one. Charlie said he missed you and handed the phone to me.

Then I heard: "Wait a minute ... its Neapolitan." You remember, that layered block of strawberry, vanilla and chocolate ribbons? Served at 1950s birthday parties. Whoa. Not so fast ... Grandpa Bill is rethinking his selection. In my opinion that is three flavors. Not one. But who am I to judge. Back to my son to work this out with his grandfather.

While they were discussing all flavors, my mind scrolled back to my childhood. Speed Avenue. Past our bedtimes. The house dark. Not yet asleep. Probably reading with the closet light streaming across my bed. From my bedroom's vantage point across from yours ... and at the top of the stairs ... I watched as you tiptoed down the elegant winding staircase in your pajamas. Into the faux brick floored kitchen.

Just as quietly I'd follow. Yep. There you were. Caught! Dipping a silver ice tea spoon into the carton. Closeted in the large pantry. Door closed. Ice crystals be damned. That large floor freezer could hold a side of beef in its frosty cavernous belly. The half gallons of Sealtest perched precariously on freezer burned boxes of Green Giant green beans and frozen peas next to the steakettes. Whatever they were.

Ah, but I digress.

Young Charlie was trying gently to confirm that the Neapolitan (which he never heard of) was Grandpa Bill's final pick. You said YES ABSOLUTELY. Then NO!

It was actually homemade peach. Churned in the backyard on a hot, humid summer day.

Then you though it just might be plain ol' chocolate.

Charlie handed the receiver back to be bemused and confused.

So you know my conundrum. Bought them all (except the ribboned one ... yech). Ate them with an ice tea spoon in your honor. Right out of the carton. Interspersed with bites of the moistest cake this side of the Mason Dixon line.

Off point. Way.

Dad, you are my cerebral guide. I commune with you for all things of the mind. Daily. Your adventuresome, unconventional journey influences mine. Your deep intellect and ever-curious mind inspires me to dwell in possibilities. Your enthusiastic, roll-up-the-shirtsleeves vision motivates me to seek unparalleled opportunities.

Additionally ... and most important ... I thank you, not for your amazing ability to emulate the greatest jazz pianists of our times by your keen ear (Robin inherited that), nor your athletic prowess (missed out on that one, too) to master skiing at 47 and hitting a tennis ball that put you in the ranks of Rod Laver ... but the minuscule grey hair atop your abundant (even at 77) hair! Yep. Over the years you saved me beaucoup of much needed dollars!

Cheers! Happy birthday, JW ... I love you! The tinkle of the ivories and the strain of jazz piano lets me know you are near. Choice of ice cream be damned.

Robin's Egg Blue

My sister Robin is wise. An old soul. Her wisdom spans time. She is a quiet spirit. Contemplative. A natural guide. Instinctive.

Twice she has led me out of the quagmire. Two times.

Not that I wasn't already about to make my moves, but her insights confirmed my beliefs. Easily. Propelled me to take the action necessary to free me from the brambles which were strangling the essence of me, detrimentally.

Twice. The only even prime number. Divisible only by itself and one. Primality. Simplicity. A compositness test. The basis for cryptology. Hidden meanings. With her honed intuition, she nails the issue. Frames it logically, if not a bit emotionally borne from a decade of turmoil.

Perceptive. Not unlike me. My innermost thoughts that propel my journey. Rightly. Or, wrongly. Fueling the direction of my travels. Unhooked from societal demands. Unconventional. Strategic and brave.

A debt of gratitude for once again illuminating my path so that I can remove the danger lurking so closely.

Cheers to my darling baby sissor, for whom I have a deep and loving connection, whose heartstrings are intricately interwoven with mine!

Cousins, Cousines

Last night I had the most marvelous dream. It was warm and delicious in a way that sepia toned pictures connote well being and nostalgia. The edges were slightly crinkled. And the smells. Ah the scent of freshly cut grass and mint by the back door. The aroma of Pearl's sweet yeast rolls rising cloverleaf in the aluminum cupcake pan.

The setting was Lexington, Kentucky chez Grandmother and Grandfather. Pretty formal for Ma and BaBa which were their names when we were toddlers. Somehow Rose and Lester determined we were getting too big, too grown-up for the tom-foolery of babied nomenclature.

The season? Why summer of course. The year? Late 1950s most likely if the hi-fi in the corner of the grey chintz living room held the clue. Also grandfather's appearance in the dream at all. He barely made it into the 1960s, totally missing the JFK presidency which he would have loved. A handsome, tanned leader of the pack with a bright toothy smile. That would have made his refined, regal styled self proud.

The players: all the girl cousins and my little brother. Meredith and Leslie, my sister-cousins. Robin and Mary, my sister-sisters. And darling Willy who followed us everywhere then. My Mom had gathered us for supper on the brick terrace while she visited with her mom and decided which new dresses from Town and Country were appropriate for the parties back home.

We had been driven the 75 miles along old route US60 past white fences bordering rolling bluegrass fields, the Old Stone Inn, through Shelbyville and antique stores renowned the world over, the state capitol building in Frankfort with flower clock on the lawn in front of the DC styled dome-topped landmark. When we passed Calumet Farms where breeders had developed the perfect formula for birthing Kentucky Derby winners we knew it would be moments before we passed the Campbell House Inn on our way to Culpepper Road. Ninety minutes of rollicking fun in the back seats of the Ford Country Squire station wagon with the faux wood decals on the sides. Not a real 'woody', but way more modern.

In the dream we were darling southern girls, sweet and demure. My baby brother mimicking our every move. Hiding our mischievous grins while mooning the neighbors. Who knew we'd be patzed on the tokie by Grandfather when his neighbor reported our antics. Then sent to bed on the second floor with no central air and only the attic fan to stir a hot, humid breeze. But the dream ended well. I awoke with the distinct remembrance of being with my beloved family and feeling as if they were all still here with us.

Cheers to Grandmother and Grandfather ... and Willy! Come visit often. You are always welcome ;-)

Sump Pumps, Wet Vacs and a 4.4 Quake

Bummer. Pots of gold? Luck of the Irish? Hardly. More like pots and pots and pots of ground water seeping from every crevice and crack in my 160 year old cellar. Five more inches of rain soaked the already saturated earth. Sump pumps humming. Wet vac working overtime. I really didn't need this. Not now.

Arrived home to a starry mild dark blue night. The gorgeous off the chart week of sunshine, my darling sister's celebration week brilliant in my mind's eye. Perfectly orchestrated. Paradise. All of it. Sister time. Niece and nephew time. Extended family and childhood friends. Picture perfect in and out. Through and through. Newport Beach cloudless azure skies. Snow-capped San Gabriel mountains In the distance. Rocky Catalina Island just a waitin' for me!

Wouldn't you know it? Just as the calm spread like silk through my being, fury was erupting on the other coast. A heads up that anyone can be thrown out of paradise. Doesn't take much. A bite from an apple. A rejection from the big apple. The apple of my eye.

A spring Nor'easter churned the clouds again. Poured rain by the foot. The weather gods and Mother Nature angry. Very. Flexing their muscles. Conspiring and cajoling. The Los Angeles ground shimmied at 4:30 yesterday morning. The harbinger. The alarm to get out of bed, get dressed and move, girl. Don't miss the flight. Not the BIG one, mind you. But most assuredly a wake up call to get my ass in gear. A creaking realignment by the psychic omniscient chiropractor. The atmosphere fraught with subliminal messages. My inner peace at risk. Shaken. Not stirred. Olives banging me on the head. Zapping me to reality.

LLBean duck shoes. My nightgown wrapped around my waist. Middle of the night treks to the damp, now mildewing basement to suck the water oozing through the cracks. Tears mixed with streams of water lapping at my feet. Need to dry it up. Bring on the vermouth.

Forecast for tomorrow? Drier with less puddling. Cheers to the lemony crocus peering out of the soggy earth!

Club Izzy

What a night! What an event! Party planning extraordinaire. My sister amazingly recreated the bright lights big city scene at Limelight in 1980s Manhattan (sans the Bolivian marching powder!) for her daughter's birthday bash on the other coast some twenty five years later. Planned lovingly for nearly three years. No detail overlooked. My god. She did it. Gracefully. Club Izzy rocks!

Strobing flashes of brilliant multi-colored hues transforms the chocolate brown room into a riot of benign pyrotechnics. Streaming video of the evening's guests laced with snapshots from what seems like another lifetime blasts onto the silver screens. White hot pulsating notes permeate our bodies hopping up our heart rates as we half walk-half dance through the darkened tunnel papered with all things Izzy into the pink cloud.

On the dance floor the music was almost visible. Neon bracelets sparkle chartreuse, azure and tangerine around the slender arms of newly minted teenage girls and their tween friends teetering on metallic strappy high heels. Their mini-dresses adorably short short reveal scrapes from their childhood afternoons on the soccer field. Giggling like children they morph sophisticated into young ingénues right before our eyes tossing their shiny tresses like Miley or Taylor. Excitement oozes from every movement as they balance on the brink. Life unfolds before them like the tunnel from which they had just emerged. The young boys slicked their blond locks into spikes trying to conceal the innocence their faces betrayed.

Lightening pulses of colored lights pop around the room. The DJ warms up the crowd. Whipping us all into a frenzy. Even the fifty-something crowd whose not as taut arms are held high in the air clapping to the hip-hop beat. While our post-menopausal hips sway wildly our muscle memory from frat parties in the sixties and early 70s not missing a trick. The men, the daddies, watch bemusedly from the sidelines, swilling scotch.

Plumes of the hottest cherry blossom pink ostrich feathers festively adorn the tables. A life-size boa circling Club Izzy's dance floor. Disco tempo. Adrenalin rush. The excitement palpable as we await the entrance of my precious niece, Isabel, who earlier in the day rocked Temple Bat Yahm with her poise, dedication and glorious voice.

Isabel, our precious, precocious Izzy, the star of this evening's festivities, swirled in brilliant pink satin and emerges rocking a pop tune into her hand held mic, twirling a boa and pointing to her screaming 'fans' clapping to the hyper beat and cheering her on. It was only yesterday when this innocent twinkly eyed girl bopped around her pale pink carousel decorated bedroom gyrating wildly to the radio, a shampoo bottle in her hand, a tiara tangled in her curly hair. A glimpse fast forwarded to this long awaited moment in time when she would wow her friends, family and DJ dancers with her incredible talent and confidence.

Izzy, our darling, is poised confidently at the threshold of young womanhood a steel magnolia. Graceful. Self-assured. Resilient. Enthusiastic. Embracing life's potentials. Imagining the possibilities. Her mother has taught her well. She celebrates this joyous occasion in a festive blur of cotton candy confections, adoring BFFs and swirling dancers young and not so. Mamma Mia!

Cheers to Mary, my darling sister! I lift my glass in awe. Your beloved Isabel Rose rocked the house.

Come Fly With Me

It's o'dark thirty and the house has been busy for hours. Boonie, my mother's eighty-six year old convivant, was unloading the dishwasher a few hours ago, the sound of clanging pots and clinking glasses awakening us way before the alarms on our cell phones could beep us awake. Yikes. We had hours before the car service would fetch us for the 90 minute drive down the coast to Logan airport.

Mom, looking fresh and revitalized after a recent visit to her "skin" doctor, fidgeted with her contact lenses and after dropping them in the sink one too many times uttered a few unmentionables not befitting her mostly graceful octogenarian demeanor. Gave up on them altogether and grabbed the Sophia Loren oversized glasses from her Longchamps bag. Looking oh so chic. Even at this ungodly hour.

I was being paged. Loudly. Seems I couldn't get attired quickly enough. Boonie needed an assist ASAP. Oh my. This morning had all the makings of a very hectic day. Holding my index finger against the side of my neck I massaged until I could get my being to relax. Patience. Patience. I needed some Zen calming potion and an OM thrown in for good measure. All this and the sun hadn't even erupted into the eastern sky.

We managed to jam five heavy heavy suitcases, three carryons and our purses into the back of the tightly packed Jeep and pile into the car. My stepfather's still nose bleeding from a deep gash on his left nostril from hasty shaving in the middle of the night. Our driver's eyes drooping from working the late shift. I tightened my seat belt and stared out the window as the sky turned pinkish purple and the stars vanished before my eyes.

Mind you I am in charge. The three of us ... two octogenarians and me ... dropped in the middle of the access road near the terminal with our overpacked luggage some wheeless and nary a skycap in sight. Gone with the 9/11 rules for a streamlined 21st century travel experience. So I was the man. The guy. The one who had to figure out how to manage all these suitcases, my aging parents and my not so awake self and herd unbalanced us through the long, passenger filled maze twisting around toward the check in counters. I needed some serious meds. Sadly have none. Zen. OMmmmmmmmmmm. Deep breaths.

Finally the bags were on the conveyor belt to the bowels of the airport. I was praying they wouldn't make it onto the plane so JetBlue could taxi them to our hotel in Newport Beach. The thought of dealing with these on the other side rang terror in my almost calmed heart. At least for the time being it was manageable. Not. The long security lined loomed. I looked at my mom, her 'boy' friend and the grey plastic bins were we would place most of our clothing and shoes for the x-rayers to examine.

Yikes. Flying today was all the more hectic after the underpants bomber's Christmas escapade. Hospital gowns with the hiney flaps flying in the breeze comes to mind. My Mom finally agreed to remove her neck pillow, all her jewelry and jacket. But somehow the alarm still sounded. In the next aisle, my step-father was dripping blood from his shaving wound. Thin skin closes very very slowly. Yep. Herding ducks.

We slid into our seats at the gate. Exhausted. The sun was just peeking over the horizon. In moments we would be nestled on the big silver bird jetting across the country. Naptime for all.

A round of Bloody Marys for all ... cheers ... and happy flying!

Fire and Ice

Crimson red. Her favorite color. Always. Dresses. Scarves. Shoes. Sweater sets. And one ridiculous looking felt chapeau. Through the years we could see her coming. Larger than life smile. The straightest, whitest teeth. Framed by Revlon's Fire and Ice reflecting her moods. 1950s chic. Elegant. Sensual. Cool. Nails enameled brilliant. Oh la la. I couldn't wait to stop biting mine so I could wear brilliant nail polish comme ma mere. Magic and adventure awaited.

Every day she'd search the bottom of her large purse until the familiar tube emerged and she reapplied the crimson stain to her lips. Even when she awoke in a hospital bed from an anesthetic-induced haze she begged for me to apply a smear of Fire and Ice to her grey parched lips before her surgeon made his rounds. To be dressed, presentable had little to do with one's attire ... but everything to do with a flourish on the lips.

1980s Manhattan. Enter Red Door Red. Le salon Elizabeth Arden on Fifth Avenue a city block or two from my mid-town corner office in a building of glass and steel. Up to the third floor reverie and quietude. Tres elegant. Tres chic. My darling Cuban manicurist, Anna, filed my nails adoringly every week so I could channel the look found on the most fashionable Paris runways and in midwestern American since the early fifties. And, so she could gossip.

Like my mother, my lips and the tips of my fingers dared all women to adorn the enduring look. To flirt with Fire and dare to skate on thin Ice. That was me. My SATC self. Midnight negotiations winded down and we used the fired up adrenaline to dance the night away at Limelight before cooling down at Odeon for cafe au lait and a sweet then headed back uptown to shower and dress and begin the cycle anew. Red lips and nails still shiny. Provocative. Smart. Sassy. Exciting. In charge.

This afternoon my mother and I went to the local shopping mall to return some lingerie and look for a birthday gift. As we prepared to head out the door of her stunning, antique farmhouse on the river leading to the sea she reached in the base of a brass candleholder on the familiar lowboy in the entry hall and swiped her pursed lips with that familiar brilliant red streak. Memories from my childhood flooded the room. I picked up the black plastic tube with the gold endcap and read the color name on the teeny round paper label on the base with even smaller type: Fire and Ice. And blotted my lips in sisterhood.

"In the factories we make lipstick; in the stores we sell hope." How well Charles Revson knew women. My mother. Her friends. And, well, me.

Cheers to our dreams! Lipstick stained glass rims be damned.

When Pigs Fly

Now it's available! The H1N1 vaccine. For free even. At the Catholic church on Route 1 in my New England coastal village. I pull my silver Volvo wagon into a vacated parking spot and head through the crowded parking lot. Saturday morning residents chatter familiarly while waiting patiently, sipping coffee from styrofoam Dunkin Donuts cups. The columned portico abuzz as we await access through the large white panelled wooden doors to the clinic inside. Familiar memories from another Saturday morning nearly fifty years ago flood my mind's eye as I stood in queue for an innoculation from the next available SMMC nurse.

It was 1962, not sure of the season but it wasn't too hot or too cold outside. My three siblings and I piled into the family Ford Country Squire with the faux-wooden side panels for a routine morning of Saturday errands. Mom behind the wheel. I, the eldest, perched happily in the passenger seat. Our first stop? Saint Francis of Assisi, the century old parish on Bardstown Road in the Highlands where my best friend, Valerie, went to school. Odd. Very. We're Jewish.

Thought we were headed to the Winn Dixie at The Loop for our weekly grocery extravaganza. Not yet. Quiet eerily replaced our noisy bantering. All eyes riveted to the throng of families milling about on the sidewalk. Mom pulled into a space on the side street bordering the church, moved the shift poking out of the steering column into Park, grabbed her purse from the leatherette bench seat sans safety belts and got out of the car. Keys still in the ignition.

Maybe she had to pick up something on the way to the market and would be right back. Instead motioned for us to join her outside. Robin hesitated not quite understanding. Mom reached through the open window and gently cupped her hand around Robin's shoulder so she could join me on the sidewalk. Mary and Willy tumbled out. No explanation needed from this Howdy Doody raised brood. We followed politely.

Inside the granite stone rectory long tables were staffed by nurses in starched white uniforms with even stiffer caps perched on their over-sprayed hair-do's that Daddy often called "hair don'ts". Everything about these women was imposing. Trays held neat columns of hundreds of tiny pleated paper rinse cups from the dentist office. A small white cube rested inside each.

A newfangled vaccination awaited. No shots. No visit from needle-happy Harris, our house-calling pediatrician who scared the bejeezus out of us when he walked in our front door carrying the dreaded worn black leather bag hiding syringes, rectal thermometers and brown glass vials of antiseptics the color of rubies that caused more pain than the scrape it protected. The first of three doses of Sabin oral. Pink medicine on a lump of sugar. No hospital smells here. Candy dispensed drugs that would inspire Timothy Leary and entice my generation into a psychedelic haze. Blotter acid's precursor. But ah, I digress.

Back on point: The burning question of today. Where was the stockpile of this virulent flu vaccine when I really needed it?

Nowhere to be had in July when, arriving at the Beijing Capital International Airport jet-lagged and crumpled after a sixteen hour flight over the pole, a dozen of the tiniest USA-doubting men-children boarded our 767 to register the temperature of entire rows of passengers with an errant wave of a wand over our heads. The slightest deviation from a standard 98.6 Fahrenheit risked a two-week quarantine in some facility deep in the quagmire of the People's bureaucratic labyrinth.

And definitely not available a few months later to prevent three weeks of miseries I succumbed to just as my son arrived home for a relaxing, fun-filled Thanksgiving vacation. Had been inoculated for the seasonal flu in a very public traveler-crowded concourse at the Atlanta airport, my Delta flight home delayed. Had a mani, too. But noooo ... nothing worked. Over-zealous, I partook of every known precaution out there. Every single one. I incessantly wiped germs and the 'good' bacteria from grocery carts and door handles with an inordinate amount of Purell. My sandpaper dry hands flaked like the snow falling outdoors. Every one except the H1N1shot.

That little piggy went we-we-we right into my lungs. Hacking and limp for most of the holiday season. I hadn't been sick in nearly a decade. Proof? The expiration dates on the various cold and flu meds from Walmart's had expirations circa 2003.

Anyhoo. It is a moot point now. Anticlimatic. Useless, really. But hey, I'm card-carrying now. Vaccinated and ready to sit on the tarmac of any airport in China confident that the pigs are locked in their stys ...

... at least until tomorrow. Cheers!

Wyeth and the Beans of Egypt, Maine

In October, Mom and I jumped into her dark green jeep with the thin red pinstripe just under the windows for our long talked about road trip to view the Andrew Wyeth's autumn inspired collection at The Farnsworth Art Museum on Maine's mid-coast.

The day was gorgeous. Spectacular in a way that artists capture and poets describe. The embodiment of a picture perfect New England fall day. One you could bottle. Treasure. Ephemeral. A final vestige of warmth and color in the fleeting weeks before daylight savings ends abruptly draping afternoon sunshine with winter's grey shroud.

On this day, the cerulean sky cloudless. Dry air defined the crisp edges of each brightly-hued leaf bordering the highway. Breathtaking. I-95, the turnpike that would lead, or so we thought, to U.S. Route 1 and Rockland. Our canvas boat bag packed with a few bottles of Poland Springs and apples from the nearby orchard was tossed casually on the back seat. Ooops. No GPS. No map. No problem. Just follow the highway toward LL Bean and then along the shore road.

Not a happening thing. Not in Maine. I-95 is a north-south highway wending its way north from the tip of Florida through the densely populated megalopolis of the east coast, parallel to the Atlantic Ocean. Right? Uh-unh. It veers left at Portland and heads straight through interior Maine to the Canadian border. North! Who knew north was not along the coast as it was the entire length of this super highway? Who knew the meaning of 'downeast'? Not this mapless Kentucky-bred driving duo beelining on a course directly into moose territory during wild turkey hunting season. If only the sour mash variety.

Lost in animated conversation, unwittingly staying the course on I-95 to the exit for the coastal route. The one that which would lead us through the picturesque antique village of Wiscasset past Bath Iron Works shipyard at the mouth of the Kennebec River (which further upstream was a torrent of white water rapids that our Willy canoed during his childhood summers). Instead, we sailed into the heart of Maine, a comedy of errors.

Ooops. Zoomed past the exit for Augusta. Augusta? The state capitol. Maine's epicenter. The democratic location for every state house in the nation ... except Boston. The toll collector surely would redirect us. But, and this should have been a tip-off, he didn't exactly know the way. No problem. We did what every self-respecting lost driver would do: headed to the nearest filling station to reset the course. I popped inside and asked the woman selling Lottery tickets and slushies at the counter. She rambled off a series of turns, landmarks, route numbers. My ears numbing out the turn right at the blank, then left at the other blank, around the rotary, past the quarry to a route number we never found. I nodded as my eyes glazed over. So deeper into rural Maine we drove. This time on country back roads.

Phew. Mom spied several men in camouflage gear unloading their rifles from the pickup's gun rack. They'd know. Men are so much better at directions. We slowed onto the gravel shoulder, rolled down the side window and hoped the shotguns were not loaded. Smarter now, I jotted their convoluted directions on a piece of scrap paper stained with a crimson lipstick blot. I know they were chuckling as we pulled off on a wild goose chase. Pin the tail on the donkey dizzy. A museum? Yup.

We zigged and zagged past fields and barns and rusty tractors. No route numbers. No signs. Nothing. The double yellow line luring us into a false sense of confidence that this secondary road would take us somewhere. Anywhere. Ahead a farmer pulled his red Ford F-540 dualie to the mailbox on the edge of road. His kind eyes met mine and I knew, the way one knows that his directions would be honest ones. And, we'd be on our way. I explained our predicament to this patient man whose steely grey eyes locked onto my face. When I had stopped talking, he shrugged and shook his head, his hands on his ears indicating he couldn't hear. Pitiful. A deaf mute with a driver's license. We were screwed.

Late afternoon. Our resolve gone. I positioned the setting sun on the right side of the jeep and headed toward what was assuredly the coast. Miles later Mom squealed. Ahead at the bottom of the hill a sign for Route 1. Finally. Not knowing whether to turn right or left to reach the Farnsworth we threw our hands in the air laughing at our trip to nowhere. With growling tummies, we stopped for barbecue at Naked Buck's juke joint outside Freeport.

So, where is this going, this column of mine? To Rockland! To the Farnsworth. Andrew Wyeth's winter collection in the main gallery. This time for real. The correct way. The only way to reach it by land from southern York County. I-95 to I-295 to Route 1. A confident passenger in another classic green automobile heading downeast. My seasoned sailor at the helm. The wind at our backs. The sun in our eyes. The Gulf of Maine at the tip of pine covered peninsulas, scattered with deserted islands on our right looping in and out of view. Monhegan Island appears on the horizon. We are nearing our destination.

Poland Spring water bottles clink. Cheers ... until tomorrow!

Campaign Chests and Steamer Trunks

Channeling my grandmothers, for unique reasons, casts brilliant insights as to why no matter where I am visiting, the length of the journey, the season or how many items I remove before zipping ... my bags are both stunning and heavy. And, I want to lighten up. A conundrum, indeed.

Rosie, an adventurer and connoisseur of all things fine - English and American antiques, couturier and classic ladies clothing, Oushaks from Turkey and the finest Italian leather hand picked during her travels abroad - targeted to the carriage trade and instilled within me a love for collecting, a discerning eye and wanderlust.

Grandma Alice, on the other hand, was a most graceful time traveler refined and elegant, purchasing only the finest garments of cashmere and silk, stunning sleek automobiles, luggage from Paris befitting her genteel lifestyle in LaLa Land. Her cucumber and watercress sandwiches and artfully arranged crudites adorned with citrus and avocado slices from the trees in her Hancock Park garden. She inspires my dinner parties still.

So it comes to me naturally. A 1950s child twirling at birthday parties and holiday festivities in patent leather Capezio mary janes with pearl buttons closing the strap delicately across the top of my instep in layers of petticoats puffing hand-smocked dresses embroidery skillfully applied by the ladies of Madeira. Best & Company finery. Caroline and John-John had nothing on Billy and Bobbie's precious brood promenading to celebrations and parties wearing boiled wool chesterfield coats in pastel hues trimmed in velvet. Frame by frame memorialized by the Super 8 my father always seemed to have at the ready. Kodak moments from my prior life.

In the early sixties before sex and drugs and rock & roll shook us by the core and stripped our closets bare leaving only Swedish clogs and Landlubber jeans hanging on the satin hangars of our childhood, we were outfitted twice a year at Town & Country, Grandmother Rosie's classic shop for the 'horse crowd' in Lexington, Kentucky. My beautiful mother in Bonnie Cashin and Dior, her daughters in Lanz, Ladybug and Villagers. Headbands holding back silky long hair matching knee socks with heather wool sweaters and skirts. Etienne Aigner straw creels and Lily of Pulitzer shifts poured out of French armoires and pine etageres and into our Florida-bound suitcases every spring.

Yes. The die was cast. No way I am going to dodge both a penchant for both matching a classically styled French handbags with my crocodile shoes AND packing way too many outfits in my luggage.

Oh how I envied Karen Lack who accompanied her husband and me (his banker) to the U.S. Virgin Islands for a weekend jaunt to conduct due diligence and market assessment for the UHF television station he was considering. Arriving at JFK with only a carry-on, Karen somehow managed to fit an entire coterie of wardrobe changes into a bag that could be placed under the seat or in the overhead compartment with room to spare. In it were sophisticated outfits for a casual lunch in the resort's al fresco dining patio, sunning on the beach, meetings with broadcast executives and even tennis attire and a racquet. Mine, all 45 pounds of it, was stowed deep in the underbelly of the 747. And this was decades before attached wheels became de rigeur. Plus, did I mention both a purse and a carry-on?

I was, and still am, hopeless. Nary a porter in sight, I schlep over-packed bags all over the world. Never wearing more than a few pairs of black pants and some lovely tops. The rest? Ballast. The lesson? Apparently unlearned. Need to rethink packing strategy. This is a must for third world travel. A must.

Cheers, darling grandmothers. Until tomorrow.

Birthday celebrations and anniversaries remembered

She sat reading, sleepily propped up in her bed cozy with rose covered boudoir pillows and down. It was late at night. Too late really. Captivated by the historic fiction she adores the pages flip slowly as the story unfolds. She stays up too late and misses half the next day slumbering. But this is her way. Especially now. Her time of solitude when TVs are off and the phones have been quieted. Alone time stolen from a zillion years ago in another lifetime actually when her brood of four slept quickly tucked into childhood slumber. The night shorter then somehow.

The January sky of deep navy velvet punctuated with glittering shines of a thousand diamonds cocoons the Maine night. Just beyond the slightly opened window a round moon casts sharp, twisty shadows of naked trees across snow meadows rolling to the sea. Lost in thought she feels a slight graze on her elbow and absentmindedly flicks off the summer lady bug nowhere to be found. A soft glow shimmers in the corner of her eye over by the chintz covered arm chair draped with her yesterday clothes. A bear hug slowly embraces her 85 year old body warmly, lovingly across a decade of memories lost. Willy has come home to wish our darling mother a happy birthday.

Cheers, sweet brother, visiting from across the clouds ... you are with us until tomorrow's tomorrow's tomorrow.

Hollywood, My Very Own Tinseltown

What is it about awards shows telecast around the world that catches my imagination? Jazzes my spirits? Quickens my pulse. When my compassion, my passion should be engulfed by the natural disasters claiming lives of untold thousands, uprisings holding infant nations hostage, genocides going unchecked, famines and scourges threatening millions daily. When over-the-air, free network television audiences are at an all time low with 24/7 social networks, Internet surfing, Wii, YouTube, electronic gaming and boredom usurping our time. I am both appalled at my distraction and curious as to my need for a fix of cheesy red carpet glitz delivered to my bedroom on the small screen. Cinderella-induced dreams swirling scarily while half the world suffers. My heart bleeds for the injustice. I should be ashamed.

But, I'm hooked. Not on Extra or TV Guide Network reportings voyeur-style by babes in toyland and 6" heels. Not on the late night talk shows featuring mere mortals groomed (or not) to sell makeup, clothing lines and lifestyles hawking their wares, plugging upcoming films unashamedly. What is it then? What is the spark that ignites the passion of this fifty-something sophisticate, jaded by an unconventional journey my life reflected through slightly smudged lens. Is it the craft? The art of story telling? The process of creativity? The collaborative effort? The structure of the deal? Or, the fairy tale? Whatever the magic ... I watch unabashedly, mesmerized and totally immersed.

The movie biz. It's in my blood. Both branches of the family tree. My maternal great-grandfather, Michael, a true fiddler on the roof forced out of Russia by the pogroms jumped into a passing freight train heading west to avoid conscription into the czar's army. Entered mid-19th century America with nothing but the clothes on his back, determination and imagination. Ending up half-way across the growing country at the 1884 St. Louis Exposition peddling eye glasses from a push cart. A new-fangled moving picture projector caught his fancy. Trading his wares for the crazy contraption he went back to Kentucky married his sweetheart and opened a thriving luncheonette and bakery. Daily after the last sandwich was served, entrepreneurial Michael and Annie turned the bentwood chairs toward the bare white wall, dimmed the lights, served confections and showed silent movies to awestruck patrons. Magical entertainment. Pizzazz. And, action! His picture show houses throughout Indiana, Kentucky and Tennessee prospered.

Fast forward a half a century, my elegant Grandma Alice, my dad's glamorous widowed mother, relocated to a 1940s Los Angeles (that's a hard 'g') to an upscale hotel on Wilshire Boulevard. Sound and color had punctuated motion pictures. The industry abuzz. Aglitter. A diversion to the horrors of world war. Distractions. Fripperies. Leading ladies Greta Garbo, Lana Taylor, Lauren Bacall, Ingrid Bergman had nothing on my gorgeous grandmama. She dated movie moguls resembling Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy, Gary Cooper and Humphrey Bogart. Was ferried around town in her Packard convertible, gold cigarette holder daintily accenting her speech. Smoke rings evaporating into the air. Lunched on Cobb Salads at the Brown Derby. Frequented premiers at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. And, bought peignoir sets for me, her infant granddaughter and namesake at I. Magnin's around the corner from Rodeo Drive. I channel my grandmother. Sadly sans the gorgeous matinee idol leading man ... or the gilded life!

A natural cinema buff, moi. Bona fide. Viewer of over two thousand films. Industry connoisseur. Financier for film and broadcast media projects during the final quarter of the last century. A twentieth century fox. When Hollywood was still ... well ... the 'old' Hollywood. Pre-drag, pre-drugs, pre-TMZ, Idol and 'tweens. HBO a new venture. Cable wiring less than 20% of the country. Three over the air networks. Free TV. Motion picture production companies still run by the fathers of the industry or their proteges. Real honest-to-god movie stars. Back lots. Acres and acres of empty terrain nary a gated community nor high rise apartment-office-shopping mega-complex in sight. Monthly bicoastal jaunts from NYC to LA kept me abreast of emerging trends in 1980s independent programming for screens of all sizes.

You see. The thrill. The magic. Flows through my veins. Is proudly stamped on my DNA. My pulse quickens when the lights fade to dark in a movie house or on a sound stage of flimsily constructed sets befitting a school production but with cameras and sound booms and monitors and ... wow. You get the picture.

Cheers! Credits rolling. Until tomorrow!