RESURRECTION

Yesterday, I made my third trip to the Holocaust Museum. I went with my sister-in-law and her 16 year old boy who said it was on the top of his list to visit. He wasn’t sure why. Just had heard about it.

And my experience was similar to the first two times. The brief black and white grainy film of Hitler’s rise to power…the shtetl with its magnificent photos of a small village, photos stacked up three floors high….sisters, mothers, uncles, babies….all lost. And then the shoes. The room full of shoes with their absent color and musty smell – without size or decoration, a dark leathery pile.

I saw again the emaciated faces of men in striped pajamas and the arrival of Eisenhower’s men to shepherd survivors back to safety after documenting the Nazi shame for all of us to see.

What was different this time were the new images in my mind and heart. Images of my unborn grandchildren who are Jews. They are not yet in this world. I have not met them but am already connected to them through my daughter, my son-in-law and his parents and extended family.

In March, I found myself in Straubing, Germany through a series of totally unexpected events. My brother-in-law’s surgery in a German hospital and the resulting complications… the phone call from my sister asking me to lend a bit of support. So there I was and one night I went out for some food and was carrying back a box of German pizza to the hotel where my sister waited. And I heard the siren. The same police siren that I associate with the Nazis – you would recognize it from all the old movies. I heard the siren and I began to cry – walking with the pizza box. I rested the box on a wall and wept loudly for what seemed like a long time. Beneath me were bricks and I knew that below them were stones and eventually, dirt. I felt the footsteps of those who had walked this street and the stones and the bricks that carried their energy. I cried alone in this strange country for those whom I later came to learn had been massacred or cast out of Straubing, not in the 1930s and 40s but in the 14^th and 15^th centuries. Absurdly, I wept in the spring rain in the evening shadow, carrying my pizza box, knowing no one.

Since that time about six weeks ago, I have reflected on the persistence of all that comes up through the ground – pushing through dirt toward the light. It is in the tulip and the daffodil which make again their amazing debuts each year. It is in the dogwood with its bloody crosses floating almost horizontally against the dark bough at the edge of the woods. And it is also, persistently, in the human spirit. Those who will not cower and will not stop. Who carry their cherished past and with a great degree of grace rise again to the day, pushing back against the stones.

LIZA

There she is. Shiny as a new penny and filled with new life. It’ a strange experience for Paul and me to kick back on Monday nights and watch her on NBC. We are happy that it makes her happy and that she and Afro Blue are bringing jazz to a new generation. Whether they win or not, they have already won.

Liza always loved the stage, often, paradoxically, in a shy way. We didn’t know her voice had matured into a strong, clear soprano until we heard her solo in Guys and Dolls at Moon Valley High. She began the lines of “If I Were a Bell” and we both wept.

Her path to Howard was a private one. I don’t think she thought much about being in an environment where she would be a minority – she just went for it. And when she auditioned for the top a capella group, she was selected. It was that simple. Nothing special. On the bus I ride every day, she has a cheering section of five African American women who tell others on the bus about Liza noting that, “She’s the Caucasian one.”

When Paul and I were growing up, differences among races were like walls. Prejudice and anti Semitism were everywhere. A woman might be referred to as a Negress or a Jewess, just so you’d know they were the “other”. It wasn’t necessarily mean-spirited or thought through, just common practice. All kinds of ethnic distinctions were made – “Manny, the Portagee baker”, “ Gina the Italian woman from church”. Distinctions that our kids’ generation have thankfully set aside.

And there’s Liza getting to sing jazz – one of the greatest gifts that African Americans have given the world – and she joins the harmony of ten kids with the world in front of them.

You go girl!

JUNE 5, 2011

So here you are and here we are all these years later … today is your 64th birthday! When we met, we were both 21. I looked up from my poetry anthology and cardboard bowl of French fries in the Rhode Island College cafeteria and you were standing there with one of my best friends. She introduced us and I was astonished to feel a bolt of lightning strike. You were polite and warm, pretending not to notice the flash of light.

We grew up together, battling our own insecurities, finding our way. We married. We moved. We earned degrees. We moved again. We brought up our fabulous girls. And we were good for each other as we are now. You with your stores of common sense and me with the crazy optimism that, in the end, has served us both well.

You have been everything I wanted in a partner and the best father imaginable for Eliza and Diana. Your talents and preoccupations have been passed on to them – music, language, history, visual art. Beyond that you have given them – and me- so many lessons in kindness that our spirits have grown just by knowing you and your generosity.

And today – crossing another temporal threshold – I rejoice in you and in my hopeful way look forward to the coming decades spent together. Happy Birthday, Darling.

Being Satisfied

When my life is ended and my time has run out
My friends and my loved ones, I will leave there’s no doubt
But one thing’s for certain, when it comes my time
I’ll leave this old world with a satisfied mind (Hayes and Rhodes)

Turning 64 felt like any other birthday at first. Then a few days later, I realized that something was shifting in my thinking. I had been perseverating on the mild dissatisfaction I was feeling at work – some challenges with controlling personalities and the frustration of bureaucracy. By the time the gifts were opened and the cake was gone, my job and my life were looking different.

Today I have been 64 for five days. Here are the things that constitute my life:

I live on a mountain in a lovely warm house with a fireplace and a grand piano which I rarely play because I have never been satisfied with my degree of talent.

My partner in life is an amazing, loving, sensitive, handsome man with whom I often grow impatient because he can be so unconventional.

My children are two exceptional, bright, caring women who light up my heart like a candle. I complain when they don’t call me often enough or if I don’t understand their decisions.

I have three sisters who are each unique. They are as different from me as they are from each other and sometimes those differences cause me consternation.

My friends are fantastic. I have made many new friends in the past five years and continue to dote on the old Rhode Island friends. Sometimes I don’t hear from them and I whine.

But I declare all that to be over because I am truly satisfied and will now focus on that satisfaction for the years that I have left. If you hear me complain about what I don’t have or what’s wrong, you can tell me that:

On the long train ride to work at 5:30 AM, I get to see the beauty of dawn breaking in the Maryland sky.

When my low back aches, it’s a gentle reminder to strengthen it with more exercise.

When I look in the mirror and see that I’m no longer young, my spirit has no age and my mind-only the limits I impose.

When I look in my bank account and worry about retirement, I don’t really want to stop working and if I inherited my Mom’s genes, I have lots of good years left.

And so I enter my 65^th year with a better attitude - lacking nothing, open to the last stage of winter as it gives way to spring.

BEYOND BLAME, BEYOND SOLUTIONS

What happened in Tucson on Saturday was begotten by laws.
The laws that allow mentally ill people to go untreated.
The laws that allow guns with fancy magazine clips to be easily purchased.

Guns that are clearly not for hunting animals.
We made those laws because they reflect our values as a community.

That’s where our laws come from.

Good mental health treatment is expensive and voluntarily purchased by people who can afford their problems.

We don't want to spend the money that provides treatment to those who can't.

Only those who demonstrate that they are a danger to themselves or others can be court-ordered for treatment. If they are planning or plotting or getting ready to act… if they are frightening their classmates with their bizarre behavior… they are still free agents.
We agreed to this.
So rather than blame Sarah Palin or Glenn Beck or anyone else for senseless violence, we can look to our laws for root cause.

And we can look to our history.

We are and always have been a violent country. We have settled our grievances with guns and with bombs. We covered a swath of states with 620,000 corpses from 1861 to 1865 over an essential disagreement. We have destroyed Japanese cities and napalmed Vietnamese villages. We have sanctioned and carried out political assassinations.

This is how we do business.
Our films and our television shows reflect this. We like “action”. This is rooted in our DNA.

And so when one of us goes over the edge, whether it be at Virginia Tech or at a Tucson Safeway, we look for someone to blame.
If we truly wanted to prevent the violence, we would have done it by now.
We haven’t.
So now we need to look into the eyes of our nine-year-old children and carefully explain to them why Christina Taylor Green had to die.

The Tree

It’s more beautiful this year than ever before.
We say that every year.
Which doesn’t mean it’s not true.
It holds our memories-
and celebrates our survival as the most delicate of ornaments survive with us.
Each one has a story.

This is the baby carriage that was on Paul’s first Christmas tree

And the one that we added when Diana was born.

This was the flower that Liza wore in her hair in Hawaii.

She wore one like it in Glendale.

This is the snowflake that my friend Kathy made for me.

And this is the sled that Diana made in third grade. (She will know if that’s right or if it was really second grade).

This is my personal favorite that I bought in Wickford, Rhode Island on a lovely day with Jo-Anne.

This was a gift for Eliza (collector of Pigbos) from Jo-Anne this year.

This is one of thirty wooden hearts. Paul made them for the Christmas of 1987 when we were very broke. He was painting goose plaques in Fredericksburg and the hearts were the throw-away part of the plaques. They are the ornaments that we can never lose.

This is the 2008 bride and groom commemorating Liza and Jon’s wedding.

And this is the dreidel that brings Hanukkah to the tree.

Here is the elephant that we just bought in New York to help us remember Thanksgiving with the Berkons.

And this is the whole tree on Christmas Eve.

Lastly, here we have a very tired Christmas poodle.

The end.

Happy Anniversary

“Grow old along with me
The best is yet to be…”

We heard these words of Robert Browning when we were kids. I can remember rolling my eyes at the thought of life being better when you got old – when your hair turned gray and your hands were as lined as Shredded Wheat. I saw my elderly neighbors the Budlongs, the Belgers, Marsha Soar’s grandparents. They moved slowly – sat for hours on the porch – took the front steps gingerly.

My mother had no use for aging. She fought it with everything she had. She refused to tell her age and kept her hair blonde and her dresses pink. She encouraged us to kiss her octogenarian mother’s cheek “even though her face is so wrinkled”.

And so it has come as a big surprise that the “best” is indeed coming to us at this time of life. Paul and I celebrated our fortieth anniversary a week ago and realized that our fortieth year of marriage has been the best yet. Despite the inevitable marks of age – the graying hair, the lined faces, the stoop at the neck – we are laughing more and feeling more simpatico than at any other time.

Our married life began when we really had very little in common. He was the artist and intellectual, and I, the political junkie and party lover. We discovered early on that there was something powerful and ineffable that connected us to each other and have yet to define it. But it’s still there – after all the relocations, the dashed expectations and the hard-earned successes. It’s been reinforced by all of that and by the joy of our daughters from their births to the immediate present. Our interests now seem to have converged. He's come to appreciate my passionate devotion to Chris Matthews and Hardball and I am finding new beauty in slightly injured ladder back chairs and peace in the small stretches of the Appalachian Trail we've been exploring.

Marriage is a mystery. We will never know what really goes on the in the marriages of others and we barely know what’s really going on in our own. That said, I thank my dear husband for being by my side all these years and promising to hang out with me here on the mountain for as long as we have left. It’s a great wondrous ride together.

HOW WE SPENT OUR SUMMER VACATION

Our week in Rhode Island after a 26-year absence was both familiar and novel. We gaped out the plane window trying to find our old house on Canonchet Ave. and argued about whether we were spotting Wickford or Pawtuxet Cove. After arriving and sharing lunch with Jo and Lee-Anne, we actually got lost on the 40 mile drive to Misquamicut and found ourselves in the cul-de-sac of Route 108 and Point Judith. Our beach rental set on a huge salt pond was perfect.

Paul took me on my first canoe ride soon after we got there and we were delighted to find that the pond was lovely and quiet and provides a habitat to so many egrets and herons. At night we could hear the ocean at high tide and the crashing waves lulled us to sleep just as they had so many years ago.

Our visit was planned around seeing all of our dear RI friends. John and Mary came on Sunday bringing their kayaks and after paddling to our hearts’ content, we had dinner at a restaurant with tables right on the beach so that we could feel the cool sand under our bare feet while we ate. Monday we stopped in to see Diana Loeffler in East Greenwich and brought her to have lunch by the water. Newport was on the agenda for Tuesday. Paul spent the day with Fred while Jo-Anne and I dined at Castle Hill and followed that up with pedicures in town.

The next evening we were reunited with Gary whom we hadn’t seen since 1984. Fresh from his London film award, he was as fit and funny as ever. Paul and I extracted his promise to come to Harpers Ferry before long.

The next few days were filled with hurricane warnings. Predictions were dire and we envisioned Earl barreling up the coast (it never happened) and wiping out homes and boardwalks. Paul eventually prepared our rental for the worst, taping up windows and garaging the porch furniture. We changed our plan from a Friday house party to a communal dinner at Twin Oaks. And although the storm petered out, the alternate plan was a great one.

Gathering after so many years – more than 40 years of friendship - we were chatty and energized. We were also grayer, more lined and worn by the decades. We caught up on kids and grandkids, parents and friends who have passed, ways we are spending –or hoping to spend- retirement. Everyone looked so good. That used to mean something different. Lookin’ good was wearing those sexy high heels or the new lipstick or, for the guys, the black turtleneck and jeans. Now the turtle’s neck is a permanent part of each of us. Looking good means looking pretty healthy and bearing a fair resemblance to how we used to look. We all recognized each other!

We also recognized the humor, the political insight and all the Rhode Island-isms. The waiter asked, “Hower ya doin’?” with the unique Cranston accent and we knew exactly where we were. There is so much in common – RI College, politics, memories of social service jobs and – of course – Volkswagens. Karen, Bill, Carole, Al, Rick, Martha, Mary and John all with generous hearts and kind words, we revelled in their company. Dinner was followed by a cabaret of sorts at the airport hotel where we resurrected the 60’s in song (shedding a few tears in the process) and pushed through the lyrics of a few show tunes as well. It was a lovely time. And even though we are in our 7th decade, it’s not too late to start an annual tradition.

OUR SUMMER SO FAR

In Italia

It’s really impossible to talk about a trip to Italy. You must go and experience it. The daily life is so different from what we know in the U.S., that words can’t do it justice. I could go on and on about the art and architecture, the food, the fashion, the antiquity that coexists with contemporary living. But you wouldn’t feel the charm and the pace. It’s easier to talk about what we brought back home.

· We live in a Protestant country. We never fully realized that before. This is a country where we are conditioned to be cautious and careful – not to eat or drink what we really want, not to dance or sing on the street, not to be too flashy with our wardrobe choices… too sinful. In Italy, everything has color, aroma and sounds. The church bells in Venice don’t ring modestly on the hour, they peal for twenty minutes – churches all over the city, at different pitches and tones. Italy awakens all the senses.

· And reason doesn’t trump joy. In Rome, they checked us into our plane by “zones”, led us down a jet-way to a bus where they mixed us all up again. Then they drove us to the plane and had us enter via two staircases so that we all had to fight an oncoming stream of passengers to find our seats. Crazy – but it was Italy. Just as crazy and more wonderful was the spontaneous street opera in Venice. The young company of Don Giovanni had just finished for the night and sat on the opera house steps to enjoy a glass of Campari and soda before heading home. Paul chatted with a few of them, requesting just one song and they then sang aria after aria, drawing a crowd of about 200 from all the nearby bars and trattorias. On other nights, we danced under the stars, took the clichéd gondola ride (which turned out to be really beautiful) and stayed out very, very late in the piazzas talking to strangers with whom, as it turned out, we had almost everything in common.

· The “big guys” are not necessarily the greatest artists. Michelangelo’s Last Judgment left us cold. Donatello’s David was far more interesting than Michelangelo’s and a painting in the same Uffizi room with “big Mick”, the Visitation by Albertinelli, took our breath away. It got us thinking how the category of the “greatest” creates an absurd ranking of artists at every level. It’s so American.

· The Vatican is scary. Not the beautiful architecture and collections but the compound itself. St Peter’s Basilica speaks of empire and power, whereas so many of the smaller churches conveyed a sense of sacred space and reverence. And our walk through the hushed passages beneath St Peter’s where so many late popes are entombed was more memorable than the tour of what’s built over it.

· Make the trip. Then take another trip. It’s so easy to tell yourself there’s not enough money or time. There never is. And there’s never a perfect time to start a family. And falling in love is messy and fraught with danger. All the best parts of life challenge us and once we give over to them, we’re so much happier and truly alive. For three days after we returned, we were sure we wouldn’t do a trip like this again. All the walking, “boomer” back and knee pain, sweaty planes with sneezy passengers – no way.

And then, on the fourth day, we pulled out the brochures on France.

The Sticky Poem and the Crumbly Cake

Thursday was a weird day. It actually started Wednesday night when I baked a chocolate cake – the one from an old recipe a Providence coworker had given me that is topped with nuts and chocolate chips and is usually moist and delicious. It was in the oven when Diana called and I was so into talking with her at length about everything from lipstick to algorithms, that I lost track of the time. When I took it out it looked fine but I had a sense it was overbaked. I decided to bring it to work anyway and let the (chocolate) chips fall where they may.

I packed the cake up very carefully and carried it safely to the train and to the Metro and through the security scanner in my building. There was a lunch in honor of my coworker Carolyn who transferred to another branch on Friday and this cake was on the menu. Luckily, there were assorted cookies and brownies as well because when I cut into said cake, it had no cohesive properties whatsoever. It was pretty amazing have quickly it became a million crumbs. This was a particularly humbling experience since I had stated vehemently the day before that I would never use a cake mix and always baked from scratch. That‘s exactly what it looked like….cake scratchings. It tasted good but had few takers. I brought 80% of it back home on said train and delighted Paul with its return. He loved it! He comforted me as usual by saying “There’s nothing wrong with this. It’s great!” This was the same very dear husband who last weekend when I used a new box of hair color that was supposed to be reddish brown and my hair turned out black said to me – with a straight face, “Looks great!”. You gotta love this man!

Meanwhile, back to Thursday. When I checked my emails in the morning, Diana had sent me a beautiful poem about spring by Richard Wilbur. I did a copy and paste so I could print it out but for some reason, it didn’t paste. I tried it two or three times without success.

Later that afternoon, I was sending out group emails to my grantees telling them about a change in project officers and introducing their new contacts. One grantee responded and I noted that my email to her, which was attached, had the POEM hanging off it at the end like flypaper! It was repeated several times. The poem had a biblical title and so it looked like some religious fanatic had taken over my Federal government role and was promoting the King James!

I checked my sent emails and saw no sign of the poem so called IT to come and investigate what was going on. At the same time I sent new emails to all my grantees asking them to disregard any emails they received with poetic appendages. (One sweet man from South Dakota responded saying “I didn’t get the poem. Can you send it to me?)

Thursday was pretty embarrassing but also yielded benefits. I learned not to brag about my baking, Paul gained almost a whole cake and now you, too, can read this poem.

Ecclesiastes 11:1

We must cast our bread

Upon the waters, as the

Ancient preacher said,

Trusting that it may

Amply be restored to us

After many a day.

That old metaphor,

Drawn from rice farming on the

River’s flooded shore,

Helps us to believe

That it’s no great sin to give,

Hoping to receive.

Therefore I shall throw

Broken bread, this sullen day,

Out across the snow,

Betting crust and crumb

That birds will gather, and that

One more spring will come.

Is Obama Too Nice?

If you take a look at any of the books on President Obama and the ‘o8 campaign that have already been published, it’s hard to find anything very objectionable about the man. If I try really, really hard I can come up with a few things he has said or done that aren’t perfection. He still smokes... he made fun of John Boehner’s perpetual tan, ummm... maybe he has an ego that’s what, typical of ambitious men?

The problem, the flaw that may be his undoing is also his greatest strength. He’s a nice guy. Not just a nice guy the way your neighbor is nice. He seems to genuinely respect other people. Maybe not their ideas, but their right to have ideas and to fully express them.

During the campaign, it was clear to me that Hilary Clinton had no problem whatsoever going for the jugular. Sometimes it was active: “And, if I'm not mistaken, that relationship with Mr. Ayers on this board continued after 9/11 and after his reported comments, which were deeply hurtful to people in New York...”; sometimes passive, “He’s not a Muslim, as far as we know….” When Obama kept his arguments cerebral and did not attack, I thought that as the first serious black contender for the office he was well advised to avoid showing anger toward a white woman. But here it is more than thirteen months since the inauguration and he’s still that nice guy! He doesn’t attack and he doesn’t insult.

Nothing demonstrated that more than last Thursday’s health care “summit”. Obama took on the dual role of leader/facilitator for the meeting. This was community organization at its finest. He listened to everyone. He was able to adroitly hear the content and manage the process at the same time. THAT'S SO HARD!! I’ve done this with workgroups or “stakeholders” in past government jobs and it is extremely challenging. How much easier would it have been if Obama had someone else facilitate the meeting. He then could have retained more gravitas with his comments interspersed strategically from time to time. So why didn’t he do it that way? My guess is that he wanted maximum control of the six-seven hours and he knew he could manage both roles. But he also wanted, by facilitating it himself, to maintain a high level of civility in the tone of the meeting. I was in awe of how well he did this and could still take a humorous jab at “well-prepared” Republicans like Eric Cantor, “Let me guess, is that the 2400 page bill?”

It was clear early on in this meeting that no Republican compromise would be reached. It appears that the GOP sees more benefit in defending health insurers than expanding coverage to the millions of uninsured. But did Obama miss an opportunity? Could he have upped the ante by calling out Republicans on their failure to be constructive? I worry that the level of respect he shows the opposition translates to: “He can be rolled”.

In the summer of 2008, it looked like Obama was lacking the chutzpah and fire in the belly that gets you elected. Nevertheless, he sprinted to the finish and began his presidency with intelligence and grace, restoring regard for the US on the international stage. But as the health care initiative drags on and is in danger of getting bollixed up forever in Senate procedural argument, can the President do more? Or is it his nature to let the “community” work out their own differences?

What are your thoughts?

TIME

I’m a planner. I always have one eye to the future. The next vacation, next time we see the girls, next holiday. Preparing, shopping, packing.

This week time stopped and filled itself up with snow. At first, it was 32 inches – then a two-day breather followed by 16 more inches. The federal government is now closed for the fourth day. And the highway connecting our mountain road to the rest of the world is also closed. Here we are.

At first I felt restless and was glued to the local news channel waiting to hear what? That there was no school anywhere and even Starbucks was closed? Gradually, I began to use the time to relax and do some fun stuff.

The first thing was to cook. I had bought some eggplant and tried some Italian cooking, turning it into Eggplant Parmesan with tomatoes and some leftover mozzarella. Then I baked a batch of chocolate chip/peanut butter chip/walnut cookies and an oatmeal apple crisp. Having just seen Julie and Julia, I was inspired to order Mastering the Art of French Cooking which is sure to come in the mail as soon as we start having mail again. During our next record-breaking blizzard I will serve Boeuf Bourguignon. I asked Paul why I cooked so seldom in Arizona, and he suggested that my kitchen island has made the difference. It’s true. Cooking is like a dance from one spot to another and here the distances and resulting tempo are perfect.

In the afternoons, we have been watching TCM and discovered some treasures from the 1940s from Cover Girl to Kiss of Death. At odd times we can find Law and Order episodes, seen and unseen, and marvel as the channel guide goes by with promos for shows like Biggest Loser and Real Housewives of wherever. Who watches those?

Paul is reading two or three books about Italian sculpture and Abraham Lincoln…the usual suspects. I’m just starting The Given Day at Diana’s recommendation and actually getting through last week’s New Yorker.

I played a little piano on Sunday and Monday but am ready to really tackle something today – something I haven’t played before to get into learning mode. Maybe a jazz tune.

This must be what retirement feels like. Filling time with things you enjoy and having lots of time to relax and do nothing if that’s what you feel like.

For the record, I’m not ready. I need to be out there doing my sometimes challenging, sometimes maddening bureaucratic thing, connecting to healthcare systems and hoping to make things better. I need to do it at least a few days a week. Moving forward. Into the future.

Making something happen with all this time.

A Perfect Sunday

It started with a visit to what used to be called the “Church of Tim Russert”, the three hours give or take of back-to-back new shows. Today the topic on all networks was the Massachusetts election and its impact on Obama’s presidency. This topic, complex and leading to wild speculation of all kinds, was addressed by White House surrogates, Republican senators, commentators and scholars. I hung on every word as I ate leftover mushroom quiche and downed five cups of coffee.

During the commercials and after the shows ended, I read the Washington Post, my favorite newspaper, saving the online NYT columnists for later.

Paul and I then sat in our little parlor with a blazing fire. Outside it was grey and overcast with two inches of rain projected for the next 24 hours. Daisy slept soundly in her newly washed white fur, smelling much better than she did last night. We listened to an Ipod playlist that includes a song Eliza had recorded and both of us smiled when that number came up.

Later as the fire faded, I revved up the piano and pulled out some old Bach pieces, breaking them down to separate hands and taking them sloooow.

Five o’clock brought a glass of wine and a simple chicken dinner followed by an old Cary Grant/Doris Day movie and an episode of Law and Order Criminal Intent. Then sleep around 9:00. Paul stayed up to see Masterpiece Theater.

When I was young, I would have thought a day like this insufferably boring. Today I thought it perfect. We count our many blessings.

RETRO RESOLUTIONS

It’s so tiresome to make endless resolutions – usually the same ones, year after year, only to find that few or none of them survive more than a month and we end up feeling shitty. This year we’ve decided to do something different and consider the resolutions we have already kept… even though we never made them. We feel so proud. It’s a great way to start 2010.
Here, then, are our resolutions for 2009:

1. Take more risks: On July 11th we left our home in Tucson and traveled 1900 miles to rural West Virginia to buy a home that Paul had only seen on the Internet.

2. Get a new job: I began this new federal job in public health on August 18th, funded by the stimulus, and am still not sure what I do exactly, but I feel like I'm helping the president.

3. Retire: Paul retired officially in June ’09 and is loving the role of full time artist/gentleman farmer.

4. Give the girls their space: I stopped telling Diana and Liza that they should call me more and in 2009 they called me more.

5. Save money: We have only just begun to seriously save. Our total retirement is predicated on very good health and a stable economy, but we are saving.

6. Travel to Europe: On December 29th, we placed a deposit on a 10-day trip to Italy for Late May 2010.

7. Be kinder and gentler: Paul has no issues with this. I, on the other hand, have become irascible with age and often take it out on customer (dis)service representatives. On December 31st, I spoke with a Delta agent about a lost voucher and was nice as pie and the situation was resolved very satisfactorily.

8. Spend more time reading: Paul reads about six hours/day and has for decades. I am finally reading actual books (rather than Newsweek and newspapers) due to the travel time on the train. Resolution kept (had I actually made one).

9. Take the time to do more home cooking: I am rapidly becoming the soup queen of Persimmon Pear Lane (a hard-fought campaign) and have been dusting off the old cookbooks from Rhode Island days. Paul is smiling and appreciating the nod to his French-Canadian culture.

10. Take more photographs: This resolution needs more work. The lovely photo that introduces this blog was actually taken by our friends Don and Kathy , New Year's Eve in 2007. But we still look a lot like this. Even retrospectively, we can’t be perfect. Call it the early Catholic influence.

WINTER

It’s the first “real” one in 25 years. We drove down the mountain last Saturday in a fine snow and headed out to Gettysburg for our anniversary weekend. The snow flew horizontally against the windshield and though it wasn’t yet sticking to the road, the pines began to take on a light coat. No deer around that day. We wondered where they huddled.

The first four months of our new adventure have been rich and comforting. All the rolling farmland in nearby Virginia and Maryland changes its appearance daily as the slanting of the light moves toward the solstice. Rain, too, has been frequent but even rain looks different through the late autumn colors in our wooded yard. Our big kitchen is the heart of our new home and I find myself cooking old recipes from cards that have stains going back to the Warwick days!

Both of the girls were with us Halloween weekend and Liza has been out a few times since. She catches the late Friday train with me and we shop together on Saturday or get our hair done. Diana will be back for Christmas and Neil will join her. Jon will be back soon from a brief assignment in the Philippines. We bought a ping pong table and set up a movie room in the basement for those nights between Christmas and New Years when they’ll all be home.

It’s only now that we can reflect on the move, after the craziness of the furniture delivery and the huge adjustment to the long commute. It does feel normal now and the house feels like ours.

Paul’s Civil War passion is constantly fed by this environment. Lately it’s been focused even more on Lincoln, and his early Christmas present is a life mask of Lincoln that was cast from the famous Volk piece. He reads book after book about the 1860’s and I’m finishing Ted Kennedy’s beautiful memoir and then will start David Plouffe’s book about the Obama campaign. Little more than 100 years separates our interests!

All of this year, I’ve been terribly aware of getting older – both the sadness and beauty of feeling one’s own mortality. Here near the woods and the two rivers and the naive deer – many of whom don’t survive their first encounter with our machines – one can’t ignore the passing of seasons. But for millennia, humans have tried to fill their dark December nights with as much light as they could create … both with their fire and their stories. So tonight we will build the fire, put candles in the windows and make that marvelous lentil soup from Sunset magazine. We’re ready for your visit!