Ocelots, Darling Young Men ... Friends for Life

The day is warm. Hot in fact. Especially for this spring day in Cambridge. The mercury is expected to rise well into the nineties before lunch time. Guaranteed to wilt. Everything but our spirits. The immeasurable joy emanating from this propitious occasion. Harvard College Class of 2010.

2010! Wow. When I held my pink newborn son in my arms on that very hot day in August over two decades ago I counted the years on my fingers until his college commencement. It seemed light years away from that well-appointed pre-war co-op on the edges of Central Park. The English pram loaned to me by a darling friend parked in the hallway by the door to our gracious home. Yellow days. Green ones, too. My bright inquisitive infant gazing intently on the lemon or at the tulip leaves depicting the color. His inner mind a'whir. Soaking in the lesson. The learning process.

Now here I am. Across the universe of time. Awed. My darling Charlie's intellectual curiosity and scholarly appetite propelling him through the years of building blocks, Math teachers covered in chalk dust, classmates studying frantically into the wee hours for that dreaded exam, the archives deep in the hallowed halls of an English university.

Wooden folding chairs cover the quadrangle in rows, some neat, others zig-zagging around tall oaks and along the pathways. Harvard Yard. Zillions of them stretching across the lawn shaded by tall oaks. Families and friends from all corners of the earth gather excitedly, cardboard coffee cups in hand, chatting gaily. Television monitors capture the excitement. The flourish. The robed men and women in loose formation behind a Scottish bagpiper in full regalia approach through the arched gates walking slowly, proudly from Lowell House across the square. They gather ceremoniously under branches dripping with the rain from the early morning shower. They have grown, flourished among the ivy-covered brick courtyards where great thinkers came to play, learn, and step into their adult selves.

Following commencement exercises we adjourn to Lowell House for a picnic lunch in the courtyard and the bestowing of diplomas well earned. Charlie's friends gather to celebrate the beginning. Not the end. The future is theirs. On a silver platter. Some of these darling young men will squander their gifts, their talents. Others will leverage every god-given attribute to build not only character but to craft a life worth living. Sadly I will not be around to see the fruits of their labor. How they met their challenges and circumnavigated the rocks strewn, as they always are, along the path.

Cheers to these wonderful men! May each be blessed on their separate journeys and may their paths cross often and with grace.

On the Cusp

My cherished son. My precious Charlie. The sweet center of my life. You are standing on the cusp. On the threshold of the rest of your life. Your tomorrow's tomorrows. And I am swollen with immeasurable love. With immense pride. With intense joy.

You are prepared. Highly. For your amazing leap into adulthood. You carry with you in your heart, on your shoulders and within your soul the requisites. All of them. You have honed each of your special talents and distinguished yourself beyond my most imagined dreams.

As you venture across the globe this autumn your expansive intellect, compassion and zeal for life's discoveries to this unique opportunity to rise in one of those storied, diversified trading companies upon which trade to the East flourished three centuries ago opening routes into the heart of China across emerald rivers, transversing curved mountain ranges to the frozen sea in the north.

This is but a most remarkable journey upon which you have embarked. Soak it in. Make it one with your heart and mind. You, my darling son, are ready.

Your roots are deeply planted and my confidence in the man you have become will provide the loft to fill your wings so that you can soar on high. Journey on with joy, curiosity and always, dearest Charlie, imagine the possibilities.

Cheers!

Babo Beavers

Can you believe this one?

Scene: Mid-1970s. Low. U.S. deep in the throes of a major depression. Losing the Viet Nam 'skirmish' brought the military-industrial complex fueled economy to its knees. Arab sheiks in flowy white floor length dishdasha thobe and red checked shimagh head scarf conspired to stop us dead in our tracks. OPEC oil embargo sent the stock market diving.

The big 3 in Detroit lobbied Congress hard. Big bucks were invested in a developing a spiderweb of interstates criss-crossing the country to the detriment (and subsequent deterioration) of our rails upon which our proud nation expanded west from sea to shining sea. Highway littering now a misdemeanor. Thanks Lady Bird.

Jerry Ford, our illustrious less-than-one-term prez, directed his staffers to design what would soon become a doomed PR ploy. To lift the sagging spirits of a spoiled nation out of the crapper. WIN! Yep. Pom-poms and confetti. A high school pep rally. Whip Inflation Now. Good god. Our intelligences once again insulted. Gheesh.

A handful of intrepid female souls, snuck into the ranks of the all male graduate school bastions. Hadn't Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan and Bella Abzug ... and a whole slew of bra-burning, birth control pill poppin' women freed us a decade earlier? You bet.

And we were smart. Very. Just couldn't get jobs. The real ones. The ones that bypassed steno pools for those of us who couldn't type a lick and offered a route to the corner office. The glass ceiling looming large. Out to the stratosphere. Too far far away to bump our now coiffed noggins.

So with need-to-get-there-anyway-I-can, applied in person to b-school. Wanted one of those freshly minted MBAs. A fast track to the pay tier that would fund the style to which I was accustomed. What's 78 cents to the dollar of our male counterparts between friends?

Finally, no one would care if we typed 15 words per minute. Or, had zero Dictaphone transcribing speed. Timer be damned. We were arriving. fast. Inductees. Wannabees no longer. Nope. We'd become integral contributing, card carrying member of the club. Floppy ties and man-tailored suits. The skirts were arriving. Look out boardrooms!

Talked myself into Babson's MBA program in leafy, verdant Wellesley Hills. Famed for their sole not-so-winning sports team. Swimming ... the Beavers!

Armed with my college transcripts earned several years earlier at BU I marched confidently into Dean Burak's office. Asked for a coveted place in the MBA class of 1979. Just asked. Brass ones, I tell ya. Hadn't taken the GMATs. Couldn't read the stock quotes in the Wall Street Journal. Or decipher graphs. But hey, the way I figured it this newly co-ed program needed double Xs. Right place at the right time.

I matriculated with Gale and Peggy and Julie and Judy. We banded together. Thick as thieves. Joined study groups. Stuck out like sore thumbs. Beat the guys at their own game. Aced one class after another. Sistahs.

Gale and her dear husband asleep in my guest room. Visiting from their Colorado Rocky Mountain home. Friends for life. Thirty one years post ivy covered halls when computers were the size of my dining room. In and out of high powered, high octane careers. Time off to raise our babies into confident, successful men and women. Picking up almost where we'd leave off. Wiser. Seasoned. Integrity intact. We had it all. Not the huge bank rolls. But the utter contentment that comes with a life well spent. Choices well made.

Here we are. Sitting around a candle lit table assembling fish tacos. We know where we are ... still darling friends ... after a life time of careers, child rearing and arthritic knees. Gale and I share a familiarity born deep in our womanhood. And for that I am deeply grateful.

Cheers to the Babson Beavers ... the ones of us who rose above the din!

Mouse Patrol

Our home is a clapboard structure close to the village street that began its life 160 years ago in the traditional colonial cape style. Center entry. Living salon on the right. Dining room to the left. An attached barn housed the kitchen, the double seater and the workshop. A delicate curved staircase was crafted by out of work ship carpenters when the tall ship building business that fueled the mid-19th century economy in my town was shrinking. It winds to the second floor bedrooms.

Over the past century and a half it has morphed, expanding as new wings have been added and porches winterized. Thirteen spaces on the teeniest footprint. You already know that!

Needless to say, the foundation materials vary dramatically. Granite. Brick. Cinder block. Interconnected in a meandering jerry-rigged improvised construction. Net result? A porous base. Perfect for tunnelling by rodents of all types. Their very own outward bound obstacle course.

The winters here on the coast of Maine are freezing. But you know that, too.

The mice ... and the chipmunks ... and the voles are in survivor mode when the mercury dips below 32 degrees. They join forces and dig tunnels worthy of the Viet Cong. Leading from the crumbling paths and flower beds that are way to close. Making their way into the warmth of my expansive, multi-level basement to raise their furry families in abundant nooks and crannies.

So ... twice a year, spring and fall, I bring in the troops. Exterminators armed with bait smelling of peanut butter and cheese in triangular plastic cases that are placed strategically on the ledges and sills throughout my cellar. The same pest control moguls that educate their sons and daughters in the finest schools in the land. And jaunt around town on the weekends in BMWs and Audis.

You know the reason. Yep. They are on retainer to most of the owners of antique and rural homes in the entire county. Lucky sots.

But, hey, when it is o'dark thirty and Bailey stares at the wall listening to scratching noises of nesting vermin the exorbitant cost is justified. What's a home owner to do?

Kudos to the eradicator of these tiny beasts ... and for trapping the three, count 'em three, red squirrels cohabitating with a grey field mouse in my barn garage!

Winning the Lottery ... If 3 Constitutes a Win!

Okay. Something's up. I have purchased lottery tickets sporadically for years. One here. Two there. Mostly quick picks. Some chosen favorites. Dates juxtaposed. Ages. Events. Number of jelly beans in the jar. Whatever.

Occasionally a singular random number matches one in the winning combo. Often not. The odds are more in my favor during the spring meet at Churchill Downs when I handicap the field not by past race results, but by placing a $2 bet on the markings of the jockey's silks. The colors. The hallmarks of the Thoroughbred's training stables. The longest shot.

But my fortune has changed this past week, for the better. Amazingly. When buying chances at the jackpots for Mega Millions or Power Ball the gods smiled. Matched three numbers three times!

Yes, folks. Three winning tickets. $21 to reinvest. 3 squared. Number 9. Number 9. Number 9.

Definitely not a retirement strategy. But fun. Way fun. In a roulette-go-to-Vegas-spin-of-the-wheel kind of way. Chance. Dreams. Good fortune.

Sure know how to spend the dough. Educational trust for my children's children first. A sibling, too. My passions ... non-profits, programs. Then travel. Trips to nowhere. Anywhere. And just in between.

Here's to the lotto gods! May they smile good fortune on my tickets a few times more. Who knows where the chips may fall? And hey ... you cannot win if you do not play. After all, 90% of life is just showing up.

Cheers!