Get Pickled this Holiday Season

My family never embraced the age-old tradition of the pickle, yet it was always there dangling somewhere in the periphery of my Christmas chaos. I’d heard of, but hadn't practiced this custom in which humans hide a pickle ornament (blown-glass, hand-painted, tin, plastic – material dependent on social and economic status, I suppose) amongst other garish baubles and first-grade handprints hanging from the ever-shedding pine needles on their holiday trees. 

 Apparently there are variations on the theme, but the gist of it is that whoever finds the pickle on Christmas morning is rewarded with a year of good fortune and good health, leaving the rest of the family doomed and distressed.

 

But why a pickle? My buddy Chat GPT gave me a bunch of stories – it may or may not have been rooted in German folklore. Or a downright marketing ploy. Or just one of those if it looks like a pickle, acts like a pickle, and glimmers through the tree branches like a pickle, then it’s probably just a pickle.  

 

While certainly not a woo-woo by any stretch of the soul, I do have this side of me that loves to find the seridipitousness in everyday living. Like when you get frustrated waiting to make a left turn so you go right instead even though you have to go three miles to the next U-Turn. And then there it is, a Ben & Jerry’s calling your name. Or when you make a last minute switch and go to the Stop n’ Shop instead of the Shop Rite and lo and behold, there is Jean in the frozen food aisle. Or when you randomly choose a place to play pickleball, despite there being many way more convenient facilities, and it becomes the home-away-from-home you never knew you were missing. 

 

I’ve written about “these people” before. About the text chains that bing incessantly, about our obsessive need to play through sore elbows, weak knees, and clearly transmittable diseases (just kidding, I only did that once). But as our friendship has grown, so has our socializing and we recently took it off the courts for some holiday fun we never knew we were missing.

 

The first party was at the lovely Lori’s house on the Monday following Thanksgiving. As one might imagine, I went kicking and screaming. Who needs more food, more socializing, more crap coming into the house? The crap being the white elephant / grab bag / Chinese auction – whatever you want to call it gift that you know you are not going to want and before you get there are already thinking about where, when and how soon you’re going to re-gift it.

 

But as these things tend to go, it was a hoot. Twenty of us gathered with our gifts, some of which were highly coveted, swapped and traded multiple times. I still haven’t admitted (because you didn’t have to) which gift I brought because, despite going over the price limit, it was neither oohed nor ahhed over and was received with a forced smile and hope for a steal that did not come. Next year I will gift gummies. 

 

Two weeks later, Patty hosted a hoopla at the family bar – not as in the bar where the family drinks together, though I’m sure they do -- but rather the bar at which they are proprietors. There was a lot of alcohol and a lot of happy over-tipped Uber drivers and a lot of loose tongues. We barely recognized each other in our glitter tops, lipsticked lips, and pointy-toed heels having spent all our time together in leggings, hair clips, and T-shirts.

 

Which led to serotonin-fused sentiments as I looked around at this group of happy picklers and wondered how the heck I ever got sucked into their circle. 

 

Despite my widely diverse friends and interests, I have always been intimidated by wealth, looks, and age even though I know full-well that I could be a whole lot poorer, uglier, and older. But you feel what you feel and the first step in getting over these things is admitting your problem publicly. 

 

Or as an alternative, you could just meet on an even playing field. 

 

When we first became friends, which was kind of a gradual glomming on process, we knew virtually nothing about each other. Sure, we could count wrinkles on our faces, batwings under our arms, skunk stripes when we didn’t get to the beauty parlor in time, but we didn’t know exactly how old we all were. Some of us believed that our Amazon labels could actually be mistaken for the Lulu logo. No one knew who owned the sole Hyundai in the parking lot. We hadn’t yet Zillowed each other’s homes to find out who lived in the multi-million dollar mansions and who paid a mere one point two for their second homes. We didn’t know who worshipped Trump and who, under different circumstances, would have immediately nixed them from their contact list. 

As our friendships grew, so did our awareness. We learned that many of us gravitated toward the same OrthoFeet court shoes. Because guess what – even the youngest and spryest amongst us have bunions. We suspected that the Hyundai girl may or may not have been the one who stuck the magnetic flowers on the Escalade who got the last parking spot in front of the tile store. And when the anti-Trumpers were unearthed, we were teased not chastised. Though I must admit, the liberals may have done a little more chastising of our counterparts because hey, that’s just who we are. 

We learned that even the most successful of us have screwed up our kids, our marriages, and our careers. We have had cancer and knee replacements, we’ve become widows, been cheated on. We play in a band as well as dabble in mahjong and canasta. We go to the US Open, watch nine-year olds shoot hoops, and support our Nets, Jets, Mets or Knicks, Giants, Yankees with an occasional Red Sox fan thrown into the mix. We watch all the latest Netflix series and read all the Reese Witherspoon book club suggestions without shame. We travel far and wide – to Europe, to all-inclusive Mexican resorts, and go camping in the Adirondacks. We have lost our mothers, our friends, our siblings, and our dogs. Maybe even a cat or two. We buy into overpriced facial creams, get Botox, and what’s that other thing called, Michelle?

We have attended wedding proposals overseas, married off our kids in both posh country clubs and ashrams. We have cringed and cheered for those same kids as they got their dream jobs that turned into nightmares, moved into their fifth-floor walk-ups, stating through gritted teeth that at least THEY got all new furniture while WE had to use our great-grandmother’s sofa until we were twice their age. We've comforted those kids as they broke up with the loves of their lives, keeping to ourselves that we knew all along it was just a divorce waiting to happen.

 

We have gotten glimpses into our past lives, learning that all that glitters is not gold. We have twisted our ankles, tweaked our shoulders, gone full-out, down on the court with a bum knee, ball in the eye, the head, the boob, and yet we get up and do it again. We have learned the humiliation of the dreaded pickle and how to turn it up in the next game to play it right into someone else’s hands. 

We spend more money on the sport than we do on Amazon packages. Though, admittedly many of those packages do include pickleball paraphernalia. We are slammers, dinkers, and just happy to get it over the netters. We are as different as different can be. But as we play on, we learn that we are more alike that we realize. At least in our hearts, where it matters most. 

 

As the world celebrates this crazy, over-hyped season in so many different traditions, my wish is that we all find our pickle in life. It may not look like a pickle, it may not act like a pickle, and it may not glimmer through the tree branches like a pickle. But sometimes you find your pickle where you least expect it. And with an open mind and an open heart, it could change your life. And with any luck, maybe even the world around you. 

Defining Success

Sitting on the rooftop terrace at Top of the Hill in Chapel Hill (the vantage point from whence the iconic photos of Franklin Street dressed in a sea of Carolina blue after far too infrequent NCAA championships are taken), Tom tossed out one of those random, thought-provoking prompts for which he’s known and loved. 

“So, how do you define success?”

 

This came on the heels of a conversation that started with Bill Belichick’s lackluster showing as UNC’s football coach and morphed into a discussion of the unconventional life choices and recent elopement of my youngest son. 

 

We, the parents of five roommates who can’t let go of a friendship formed when our girls met as freshmen, reconvene every year or two in this quintessentially beloved college town. The girls were back at “the house,” with their spouses, toddlers, and make-up bags, prepping for the night’s gala at Sutton’s Drug Store slash diner which we long ago decreed our own personal venue.  

 

The “house” being where Sandra and Stephen live. While waiting to board a plane to North Carolina at the start of freshman year in 2010, Lauren and her parents met a friendly couple in the Denver airport who were heading home to Chapel Hill. They insisted that Lauren take their number for “anything she might need—even if it's just a friendly face.” 

And that’s how it all began. 

 

Over the past 15 years, Sandra and Stephen have offered the girls sustenance and love, fed and housed them as well as their parents (us), random friends, occasional lovers, husbands, babies, cars, and IKEA furniture. Despite the sheer number of our growing group (this year we hit 21 and would have, should have been 23), and myriad health issues, Sandra and Stephen always insist that as many as will fit stay in their home, just a short walk down the cobblestone path from campus.

 

Sally was the first to respond with something akin to success not being how much money you make or how far you rise in a company, but it's being happy with your life after putting your whole self into whatever it is you've chosen to do. Thank you, dear friend, for validating my wandering son who has succeeded in skirting traditional trajectories in exchange for a happy and peaceful life.  

 

In all our post child-rearing wisdom, we clinked our sauvignon blanc glasses. 

 

Not one to let a good discussion dwindle, Tom tossed in a supplement. 

“Who is the most successful person you know?”

 

Of course, everyone knew my answer. 

 

Taylor Swift. 

 

Someone who has managed to keep her side of the street clean (IYKYK – actual lyrics), make billions, be a role model for millions, and has the uncanny ability to make you, whoever you is, believe that she wrote that song with you in mind. 

 

There were some eye rolls and thoughtful pauses while we wracked our brains for real-life successes. Someone we actually knew. 

 

“I’ve got it. The most successful person I know, is someone we all know…” Tom said. 

 

Drumroll.

 

“Stephen Rich.”

 

Yes, that Stephen. As in Stephen and Sandra, our consummate hosts. 

 

And then came the chatter which made it clear that this was not an Aaron Judge / Cal Raleigh kind of debate. Stephen was a unanimous Shohei Ohtani shoe-in version of success. 

 

Stephen is one of those guys who asks the kind of questions some of us throw out just to fill space. He is curious and generally interested to know the name (and elevation) of the mountain Tom last climbed, how many babies Jenny delivered last month, where (and why) Leo got married, Ruth’s favorite herb, how many teeth baby Jack has, how often Julie has to go into the office, who likes Maribelle better, Lauren or Rob, who likes Bowie better, Jackie or Tom, who liked (RIP) Griffey better, me or my ever-loving spouse. He actually cares.  

As well as conversing in the fluff of life, Stephen hears as we talk about the myriad divisive issues of our times. He soaks in each and every one of our diverse views without the judgment some of those views deserve (had to get that dig in there). Even if his beliefs don't line up with your own, he never scoffs, belittles, or makes you wish you had kept your trap shut. Instead, after interacting with Stephen you somehow always feel better about yourself and your circumstances, whether it's a job that’s not fulfilling, a travel budget that’s too small, a waistline that’s too big, or a social issue that’s consuming your soul. 

 

Stephen respectfully brings new ideas. questions, and experiences to every discussion without one-upping anyone else’s stories – despite having the best stories in the group. He is smart and wise which are two very different things and is positive, upbeat, thoughtful, generous, and kind. Always. 

 

Besides hitting the jackpot with his bride, the open-hearted, can’t-leave-the-house-without-bringing-home-a-friend, Sandra; their still-makes-house-calls veterinarian son, lovely daughter-in-law, and two remarkable grandsons, Stephen’s illustrious career with Coca-Cola afforded him the joy of retiring in the town of his alma mater. 

 

Who gets to live a life like that and still manage to stay humble and grounded?

 

As has become our custom when in town, our friends at Sutton’s hosted a private soiree for us on Saturday night. A couple of years ago we were given ownership of a booth designated by a plaque engraved with the girls’ names and the Thomas Wolfe quote that reads:

                           “As close to magic as I’ve ever been.” 

After growlers of beer, gallons of wine, the best burgers in the ACC, big hugs and tearful toasts (we’ve had years and years of tearful toasts), we wrapped up yet another Chapel Hill weekend. Over the past 15 years, our group has evolved. We’ve added new spouses, new babies, new houses, new careers, new dreams. We’ve worn our Carolina blue proudly through Duke buzzer beaters and an NCAA championship, traipsing through Brooklyn, trekking up Mount Whitney, and sipping cocktails poolside in Mallorca. 

Yet, it's not all fun and games. When the storms of life hit, as they always do, each and every one of us will get through -- feeling the love, support, humor, and joy that our unique friendship has brought. 

And that, my friends, is surely the pinnacle of success. 

The Way We Were

Had I been on the prom committee I would have protested the choice of The Way We Were as the theme for our graduating class. Of course back then I wouldn't think of serving on a committee, any committee, and barely went to the prom. But I did get an A or two in high school, one of which was in Creative Writing. And while it’s up for debate whether or not I practice what I preach, I believe that words matter – even in sappy prom songs. I would have suggested Jimmy Buffett’s Why Don’t We Get Drunk, but in reading the room I’d have quickly pivoted to a song that captured a high schooler’s actual truth like Janis Ian’s At Seventeen, or Linda Ronstadt’s When Will I Be Loved, or even War’s Why Can’t We Be Friends. After all, we were just a bunch of narcissistic teenagers who, had we been looking anywhere other than in a mirror, would have been looking forward, not backwards. We were still becoming, so there was not yet a way we were. It simply didn’t make sense.

 

Half a century (repeat with me – half a CENTURY) later I had finally made the cut. I was a highly-coveted member of Springfield Township High School's 50^th reunion committee and took my position very seriously. While others were busy buying pumpkins and deliberating over soft pretzel nuggets and Philly Cheesesteak eggrolls, I was still trying to unpack that prom song to the tune of the myriad responses we received from former friends and lovers.  

“Totally in. I might be dead by the next one.” (Triple bypass survivor). 

“I appreciate you!” (Mother of a millennial who still lives at home).

 

“Will Dave ____ be there? (Was it Dave Hissey / Wagner / Asher / Durchsprung / Ferrino/ Troyer? I’ll never tell for the sake of their past and present marriages.)

 

“Can’t wait to see everyone. It will be a blast!” 

 

Those were some of the almost word-for-word (close enough for a creative writer) emails we got while gauging interest for the big reunion. But, there were also these:  

 

 “Cross my name off the list. I wouldn’t come if you paid me a million dollars.”

 

“High school was the worst time of my entire life.”

 

“I can’t go. I’ve gained too much weight.” 

 

“What if Joey Wilson is there?” (Name changed to protect the guilty). 

 

As often happens, those negative responses weighed heavy and got me wondering. For 50 years I’ve carried nothing but fun memories of those glory days. Could I be misremembering? Or rewriting history to serve my adult narrative? 

 

There was only one way to find out.

 

I dug out my high school diary and started reading. It wasn't easy, but it had to be done. And so, down I went into the rabbit hole. 

 

The opening entry was written three days before the first day of eleventh grade. 
Let me describe myself. Well, I’m fat and have red hair and freckles. I like to play golf and read. I decided to keep a diary because so much goes on and I just forget it all. Too many memories pass away!

 

And the last came almost exactly two years later.
Well, this is it. I cannot believe that I am leaving for college tomorrow. It’s really scary. I say goodbye not only to you, but to this phase of my life. The high school days will probably be forgotten or become less important as life goes on. Thanks for listening these years and for watching me go through all the changes I have. Maybe I’ll write again, but somehow I kind of doubt it.

 

Oh, and all those days in between! Every other entry talked about how fat I was (I had no idea I’d never be that “fat” again), and how much I HATE (fill in the name, any name) followed six hours later with I LOVE (same name) sooooo much.

 

Because most of you don’t live an open-book life like I do, I’ll keep your names out of this, but trust me, you were there. You were all there. 

 

When the cops chased us from the woods at Harston Hall during open campus, you were there. You sat next to me eating chicken and mashed potatoes at the annual Oreland Girls Softball League banquet as I waited to be awarded MVP but never was because my father was the coach. You rode on the roof of my mother’s wood-trimmed station wagon down Bethlehem Pike. You were by my side when we discovered the nighttime scene at Curtis Arboretum. And were part of the vow to meet up in the Bermuda Triangle, no matter what, when we turned 40. 

You were the one who, when lost in Kensington (long before it gentrified) said, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if someone invented a gadget that would tell us exactly where we are when we’re driving?” You were the one stealing money from the register at Yum Yum and I was defending your honor to my parents who owned the ice cream shop. My father laughed at you for being afraid of our Great Dane. And you were afraid of failing English class so I tutored you for your “30 Days to a Better Vocabulary” test. 

You sat with me on the curb of Surrey Road waiting for day to break after being ditched by the popular kids. You threw an egg in that jerk's face on Mischief Night. You were the guy who said no one would date me because I was too nice. You listened to me whine about my frizzy hair and taught me to “wrap” it. Meanwhile, I told a white lie assuring you that guys liked you for your brains, not your bosoms. 

 

I wrote your essay for English class while you consoled me for being the ONLY person who didn’t get invited to the football dance. I was with you on the beach in Nassau, or in the bar drinking yellowbirds with our teacher chaperone. I made you laugh through your tears on the bus ride home from losing our state championship hockey game and you thanked me for it. You were the one who was in the school play with me who wrote in my yearbook, “You look good without your “mask.” You took me on vacation with you to your family’s island in Canada and another you took me to Wildwood for the day where your father told us to just “walk in and act like you belong” so we could hang out at a hotel pool all day. 

 

We went to the Eagles concert and the Yes concert and to see Bachman Turner Overdrive at the Spectrum. We went to the Phillies’ games and cut school to go to the Flyers’ victory parade. We stole your father’s car from Oreland train station while he was at work and got caught because we left the gas receipt on the floor. You were the one who smoked, I told my mother, when she accused me of smelling like a chimney. You kissed me at a party and laughed about it with your friends. 

 

We took the bus to Ocean City together when neither of our parents would let us drive. Then piled four-in-the-front of a Karmann Ghia and drove to Cape May just for fun. You were on the school sponsored canoe trip down the Delaware revealing deep, dark secrets around the campfire. You were the one I stuck up for when the hard guy called you ugly. You pushed me into the football party with a “YOU go first!” We practiced our foreign language by sending notes back and forth in French. You got yelled at by a substitute teacher for writing on the desk in Consumer Math. 

 

You were part of the Woods Gang, not the Woods Road Gang. But every now and then our antithetical paths would cross. You thought you had made it when you were finally invited to a party at the big house by the country club only to find a random sophomore making out with your three-days long boyfriend. You held my hair when I threw up that bottle of tequila and I drove you to the Cheltenham bar that would sell you a six-pack of Rolling Rock. You mocked me mercilessly for being the first Hunsicker to go to a state college even though you didn't go at all.

 

You were in Mr. Matula’s office with me more than once. I defended your auditioning boyfriend saying you can’t judge him on who his parents are or even who his friends are because he’s only 17 and hasn’t had a chance to make something of himself yet (he never did). You were high as a kite when you said that we have plenty of time to change all the things we’re doing wrong. You said you couldn’t go to Plymouth Meeting Mall with me because your parents wouldn’t let you out and then there you were with a much cooler group of friends. 

 

We talked about our future families. Who we would become. What we would do. Where we would live. We knew for sure we would all do a better job than our parents did. We were going to be teachers and psychologists and lawyers and artists and all live on the same block in Wyndmoor. 

That was you. I didn’t make any of it up. You were there.

 

Interweaved amongst the stories that would have my parents rolling over in their graves were deeply profound and poignant thoughts. I questioned my choices, my personality, and my friendships while trying desperately to hold onto a modicum of self worth. Yet, I penned the words:

Maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t imagine ever having as much fun as I’m having in high school. 

 

I cried, I cringed, I laughed at the me I was 50 years ago and have to confess that I still got a little lurch in my stomach when certain people checked in at the table the night of the reunion. But I took a deep breath, stood up and hugged that guy who would have died a thousand deaths had I done that in high school, remembering what I wrote way back in 1975:

I had this thought. Life is just one person thinking he’s above another. Maybe if druggies, hard guys, jocks, cheerleaders, hippies, fatsos, geeks and brainiacs all put themselves all on the same level, life would be so much better. 

 

And there it is, in all its glory, in black and white.

I closed my diary but not before googling the words to The Way We Were. And when I did, how I marveled at the forward thinking brilliance of those who selected such perfect lyrics.

 

Memories

Light the corners of my mind

Misty watercolor memories

Of the way we were

Scattered pictures

Of the smiles we left behind

Smiles we gave to one another

For the way we were

Can it be that it was all so simple then

Or has time rewritten every line

If we had the chance to do it all again

Tell me - Would we? Could we?

Memories

May be beautiful and yet

What's too painful to remember

We simply to choose to forget

So it is the laughter

We will remember

Whenever we remember

The way we were.

Leave it to Leo

                                                                                                                        

          Or as Vio says, "What a year this week has been." 

“Aren’t you mad?” one of my friends who recently spent well over 150K on her daughter’s wedding asked when she learned my youngest child had eloped. 

I sat on that question for a minute. I am a human who can feel a myriad of emotions in a split second, but mad didn’t even teeter on the brink of the list.

 

It could have been that I was with my sister, Nancy, on a food truck (which really isn’t a food truck anymore) at a horse show in Maryland. We were working 12-14 hour days helping our friend who owns the business and filling    in for Leo who has worked there for the past five or six years but opted out of the final two weeks of the season. I didn’t have a whole lot of time with a line of 30 hungry horse riders and their stable hands standing in front of me to process the text. The text that showed my mother’s engagement ring on the finger of the very lovely, Vio (yes their names rhyme) at Flat Rock Brook Nature Center. When I apologized to the woman in front of me for blanking out on her very simple order of a turkey club without the turkey, she reached over and grabbed my hand. 

 

“Congratulations,” she said. “This is big news. Don’t worry, I’ll just take the turkey off of the sandwich myself.”

 

Three days later, still on the on the food truck that isn’t really a food truck anymore, I got a  phone call – one of a handful I’ve ever gotten from this youngest child of mine. 

“We’re getting married on Friday in Portland, Maine,” Leo said. “But don’t go telling everyone.”

 

Now what would ever possess me to do that? 

 

Sure enough, a week after their engagement, Vio became a Voreacos in a civil ceremony, witnessed by my ever-loving spouse and their ever-loving bestie, Tehilla, who was there way back when the love couple first laid eyes on one another.

 

To give this all a little more context, Leo was once a baseball player who had little control over his life. If he wanted to play on an elite team, he had to do x. If he wanted to play in college he had to do y. He followed the program all the way through, sacrificing or enhancing - depending on whom you ask, and when - his childhood for his dream. There wasn’t much wiggle room or deviation. He loved every minute of it. Until he didn’t. 

 

He hung up his cleats midway through his freshman year of college saying wistfully of his teammates, “These guys have reached the pinnacle of their lives.” He switched his major to philosophy, graduated on time, and then set out to find something more. 

In his quest, he walked 500 miles of the Camino de Santiago. Twice. Alone. He picked up odd jobs here and there but nothing that did much more than finance his minimalist living style. He floundered and as his mother, I struggled as well.

 

Along the way, Leo discovered the art of meditation. And then a random card his father had picked up at a Bikram yoga class led him to an ashram in upstate New York. Which prompted  him to explore the Sivananda Yoga Retreat in the Bahamas where he lived in a tent for three months. He followed the yoga karma program, followed by an intense teacher training course  – working, learning, growing and cosmically connecting with a young woman from Israel who needed help setting up her tent. 

I didn’t hear much from Leo during that time. The environment was intense, the training was rigorous, the hours were worse. But he did call one day and of course my first question was, “Did you make any friends?”

 

He told me about Tehilla and Vio who had become a trio, sitting on the dock in their spare time tossing food to the gulls and laughing their heads off.

 

“I hope you meet Vio one day. She’s the most joyful person I have ever met.”

 

And of course my next question was, “Are you interested in her as like, you know, a girlfriend?”

 

Leo responded with an eye roll that I could not see but knew was there. “No, Mom. We’re just best friends.” 

 

Mmm hmm, I thought as subsequent texts mentioned this girl over and over and over again. 

 

Once Vio went back to Israel, they confirmed what we already knew. Leo bought a ticket to Tel Aviv but the war broke out and he couldn’t go. They courted by FaceTime and What's App and finally had their real first date when they rendezvous’d in Peru a year after they first met. From there they went back to the Bahamas for an advanced yoga training course, then to New Jersey to meet the family, then to Athens, Gdansk, Georgia (the country, not the state), and a bunch of little places along the way to Afula, then back here for one final stint before their ultimate move to Israel.

 

Which is happening as soon as their honeymoon in Italy is over.

 

Vio is fluent in English, Russian, Hebrew, and Chinese. She understands every one of my nuances and quirks. She has a beautiful soul despite our differing opinions on whether or not to domesticate our backyard squirrels or save the spiders crawling in our basement. She is smart and savvy and stylish. But most importantly, she knows how to handle Leo. And loves him in spite of himself.

                                          

We managed to throw together a beautiful family celebration last week in the few days between their marriage and move to the Middle East. Max and Kaylina and their five-month-old puppy, Koa, flew in from the west coast and we toasted the love couple along with Leo’s best friend, Koree and the rest of his family. Through the years that our lives were intertwined with the Hargraves, this was all we talked and cared about -- that our kids would find the person who would help build a happy family like theirs and ours. Of course if they became professional athletes, we'd be just as happy. 

There were heartfelt toasts and speeches and sage marital advice from both the young and the old. It was the kind of intimate and meaningful celebration all the cash in the world just can’t buy. We came back to the house for pictures and hugs and constricted throats as everyone said goodbye to Leo and Vio. 

 

I left the next morning for Pennsylvania to help run my 50th high school reunion. But not before Leo and Vio asked if I could make it back in time for a blessing of their rings on Sunday. At noon. In the Catskills. In the midst of the impending nor’easter that was plastered all over the media. 

 

And so after too much fun at the reunion (that story is still to come), I drove back early Sunday morning and then up to Temple Israel in Catskill, NY with my ever-loving spouse and the ever-loving love couple. 

 

Leo and Rabbi Zoe had a connection through Tehilla and also a swami (whatever that is). She prepared the most beautiful, heartfelt, spiritual experience I'd ever had. She combined Christianity, Hinduism, Buddism, and Judaism in a moving ceremony beneath a heart made of dried flowers under a sukkah decorated with gourds and reeds and bamboo and colorful papers on which people wrote names of those to be remembered. And of course, wearing her engagement ring, one of those names was my mother's. 

“How can you possibly be OK with your son moving to Israel?” another friend asked.

 

Well, you can’t have it both ways, I responded. You can’t raise your kids to love and accept everyone, to follow their dreams and travel the world and then be surprised when they do. All I feel is the joy that they bring each other. Honestly. I’m not even making that up.  

And thanks to Rabbi Zoe, I didn’t miss my last-born and ironically first-married son’s wedding. 

 

                                       

The only thing I missed was that first dance to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s Teach Your Children. 

 

Teach your children well

Their father's hell did slowly go by

Feed them on your dreams

The one they pick's the one you'll know by

Don’t you ever ask them why

If they told you you would cry

So just look at them and sigh

And know they love you. 

 

But I’m holding out hope for that dance. I’ve still got two other kids. Wink. Wink. 

 

Fabulous Finds

“You wouldn’t believe the number of books in this house,” my ever-loving spouse exclaimed upon entering his sister’s house in Fredericksburg, Virginia after her unexpected death.  

 

 “Don’t you dare bring another book into this house,” I boomed before checking myself. “I’m so sorry. I know how difficult this is for you.”

 

Sorry serving as a double entendre for the death and the veto of bringing more books into our house. 

Susie was seven years older than my spouse and while they had similar intellectual sensibilities, they were worlds apart emotionally. She was a private person who didn’t buy into the know-all and share-all philosophy to which I subscribe, though she did enjoy an occasional raucous holiday with my side of the family. She had no children nor much interest in today’s youth, had been married twice eons ago, and had finally found great joy with Bob in the final days of her life.

 

Unbeknownst to any of us, including herself, cancer was getting the better of her. By the time she finally went to the hospital she could barely breathe and it was too late for treatment.

 

Susie was well-educated, quick-witted, historically-minded, and an avid collector of all things – spatulas, umbrellas, glass figurines, lamps, eye glasses, jewelry, framed artwork, wine, power tools, pets, and most of all books.  

 

When I saw the initial photos of the book room – filled with wall-to-wall shelves and piles of books yet to be catalogued, I knew I had to work my magic. After all, bibliophilia is real. 

My biggest fear was that our home in New Jersey would become a foster fail for thousands of dusty and well-annotated books. I landed upon Fred Books, calling them and only them, all because of a Google review that read, “This is the most magical place for books.” 

 

It proved to be both a magical and serendipitous phone call. 

“Start boxing the books,” I reported back to the spouse who was sifting through his sister’s belongings while I was 300 miles away managing a bathroom renovation and a leaky roof, trying not to dwell on the death of our beloved 15-year-old pooch who left us one day prior to Susie’s hospitalization. 

 

By the time I joined him in Virginia over the weekend, there were at least 50 boxes of books stacked by the rocking chairs on the wrap-around porch waiting for Fred Books to come and cart them away.

 

“You think they’ll show up? ” I wondered.

“They’ll show up,” the spouse answered. “The question is, will they actually take the books?”

 

Shockingly, they did.

 

Because I’m a curious sort, I learned within minutes that Larry is older than he looks, Carlo has a young tot with an adorably dexterous name, the two of them met at random book sales (plural), they finally gave into fate and opened a store of their own, and that Larry’s wife, Cynde had just left her job at FEMA and was starting a new venture giving new life to old treasures. 

 

“You think she’d want something like this?” I asked holding up an undefinable glass something. 

 

Larry’s eyes lit up.  

 

And so I began snatching many colorful curio items and filling boxes for the Cynde I had yet to meet rather than sending them off with good will to dubious donation centers. 

 

Out went another dozen boxes. 

 

“These guys are probably scammers,” I said a couple days later after Carlo, Larry, and Cynde left with their fifth car-load full of more books and treasures. “You think there’s really even a book store?” 

 

My life is a constant quest for befriending random people. I welcome the unwelcomable, I talk to the strangest of strangers and I dig deep into the psyche and stories of anyone I encounter. And while I live for launching new relationships, I'm inexplicably cautious about being duped. My sister, usually eager to amplify my conspiracy theories about human nature, offered an unexpected response:  

 

“Do you care? The books are gone. Besides, it’s not like they stalked the obituaries and came looking for us. YOU called them.” 

 

“But who does this?” I asked. “They said they’re coming back to help us again next week.” 

 

Another raised eyebrow. 

 

My sister-in-law’s beautiful four-bedroom house on a wooded lot in Virginia was chock full of fabulous finds, but because of the sheer distance and my spouse’s need to be on constant alert for breaking news meant we didn’t have the luxury of time. We needed to salvage what we could, repurpose what we couldn't, gift as much as possible, and move as quickly as our aching senior citizen bones would allow. 

Once word spread of Susie’s death, friends showed up with open hearts. Gary drove over several times from Charlottesville, Jeff came from Philadelphia on two consecutive weekends to assess the artwork, Nancy traveled from DC to box books (going home with only a couple rolls of high-end wrapping paper), Kat graced us with her grace two different times, and Bob was there almost every day, even when we weren’t. My sister, Nancy, a master of estate sales, downsizing, cleaning, transforming, repurposing, triaging and everything in between, was the foreman who kept us focused on the finish line.  As we cleaned out the house we welcomed friends and neighbors offering muscle, solace, and hope.  

 

At the crux of it all was Cynde and Carlo and Larry.

 

That is who does this.

 

We spent a month of long weekends unearthing a lifelong library of possessions, sorting through letters dating back to World War II, shaking our heads wondering why she kept this battered whisk, that cracked serving dish, or these mismatched earrings (Swedish Death Cleaning was invented for a reason). And yet we persisted.

 

By the end of our feat, hundreds and hundreds of boxes and items for their Fabulous Finds shelf had been loaded into Larry and Carlo’s vehicles and carted off to Fred Books where they’ll find new homes during their next sale on August 20^th. The books that don't make the cut get donated back to the community through the many connections they've made and nurtured. They believe with all their hearts that every book deserves a second chance and that even the ghastliest don’t belong in landfills.

As we pulled the door shut behind us last weekend, Larry showed up once again.

“Want to go see the bookstore?” 

 

Of course we did. 

 

“This is what we should do when I retire,” my spouse said, looking longingly at the shelves and shelves of books. “What a perfect job.” 

 

I grimaced at the thought of carrying hundreds of boxes out of dead people’s houses, storing other people’s junk in my garage, living room, bedroom and kitchen while inventorying thousands of items into Google docs. But then I thought about the characters I would meet, the books I would save, the stories I could tell, the people I could help.

“Absolutely perfect,” I answered.

 

I know we’ll never own a used bookstore.  

 

But at that moment standing there with Larry in the place he and Carlo had built from nothing more than a love of books and people, I realized that just about anything is possible. Six weeks ago we showed up in Fredericksburg, sad and shocked with no plan, no contacts, and no reason to believe that we’d go home feeling good about any of it. 

 

And yet there we were, filled with warm and fuzzy feelings about all we had accomplished, thanks to a little help from our friends. 

Which for some misdirected reason made me start thinking about the fractured world we live in. How a misspoken phrase, misaligned political view, misunderstood religious belief, or a misinterpreted tattoo can sever a relationship, incite a riot, and turn everything inside out and upside down.

 

Larry texted yesterday: “It has been over a week since we all spoke, so I just wanted to toss out a “hello, and we miss ya!” 

 

Which way more logically, led me to imagine what a magical place the world would be if we could all live our lives just a little bit more like Larry. 

What a Pickle We're In

“I just don’t get the whole pickleball thing,” my trend-contrarian friend scoffed. “Why are you so obsessed with it?”

She, whose name has been redacted for security purposes (mine not hers), rolls her eyes when I suggest swapping her Stanley water bottle for an Owala. She wouldn’t use Chat GPT if her resume depended on it – and believe me – it does. She still aerobicizes in her living room with Jane Fonda via VHS tape, and refuses to watch White Lotus, Succession, or even the completely innocuous Ted Lasso for reasons she can’t or won’t articulate. 

 

So it completely follows that she wouldn’t even attempt to jump on the pickleball bandwagon. Why I waste a moment of my aging energy thinking about her opinions is an enigma even to me. The me who prides herself on being self-aware enough to know when my pickleball partner’s sigh means, “I can’t believe you didn’t back me up,” and when it means, “Please, please shut your mouth – I really don’t care about your bathroom tile, the news alert on your apple watch, or your daughter’s latest job interview.” 

 

Self-aware or not, down the rabbit hole of wonder I went. 

 

Wondering what possessed me to take up a court sport after successfully avoiding doing so for the first 65 years of my life, except of course for a brief stint with racquetball in the early 80s when I was looking for love in all the wrong places with all the wrong people. 

 

I wondered why pickleball has usurped all those other workout obsessions that have flitted in and out of my life. Walking five miles a day in 95-degree heat, ice-covered sidewalks, and umbrella-defying windswept rains; flailing my limbs in water aerobics with other crepe-skinned seniors; bicycling 20 miles to the Piermont Pier only to discover that the slow leak was now a full-fledged flat tire; or pseudo-jogging on treadmills next to sweat-flinging buff bodies. They were all quite appealing ways to stay in shape. And yet, I left them all behind.

 

The early days of pickleball were quite trying. Read this and weep for me. But for some reason, which I think I’ve finally figured out, I kept going.

 

At least four days a week I drive 17 miles each way to Bergen Pickleball Zone which can take anywhere from 25 to 45 minutes. I bide my time listening to my books on tape or talking to my sister on the phone, then play for an hour-and-a-half or two. After which I get back in my car, sit in traffic, returning half a day later to my messy house which I no longer have time to clean. 

 

It’s a time suck for sure, but I’ve still got another 32 ½ years to live, so I’m good..

 

“Gmorn. 174 texts?”? Christine, who clearly has a life outside of pickleball finally chimed in on Saturday morning to our group chat that had begun the night before. “Cliff note version, please.”

 

Note that this 25-person chat group is just one of several floating through my phone. It began with The Despickleballs, a league we formed and the need for shared contacts to send reminders or secure subs. From that came other sub groups, some with overlapping participants, some with completely unique members, some with numbers we have yet to match up with a human. We all have dozens and dozens of friends in our phones with the same last name. Pickleball. 

 

Because you never know which chat is going to start chatting, half of us miss half the fun, but most of us get most of the pings. If not from one chat, then certainly from another. We have all been pinged in the darndest places. Joan, our resident dentist, forgot to silence her phone when performing a root canal; Michelle got pinged while sipping tequila with a potential boy toy (yes dear, we know you’re “just kidding”); Orit was in the midst of trying desperately to close an if-I-get-this-I-can-retire deal; Nora was wheeling her booted mother to physical therapy; Lisa, leading a group tour through Portugal; the other Lisa as she trekked the peaks and valleys of the Adirondack mountains; Loretta on a Charleston weekend with her college-aged daughters, “Mom, would you please put your phone down!” 

Ping. 

Marianne heard the bottomless pings as Theodore reared his ugly head in the emergency room one random Monday night; Leslie, in the midst of convincing her kids that a hotel home would be tons of fun and that their dream home would be worth the interminable wait; Mary as she played patty-cake with her adorable granddaughter; Martha while walking the streets of Teaneck with a dog-less leash in hand; Nancy with double dogs on a leash; the other Nancy while on the IL, (not the DL, because as we learned through those texts, an injury does not make one disabled); our resident pediatrician, Stephanie, as she tried to convince a parent that a measles shot is not a mistake.  

Ping. Ping.

 

Leeza heard the texts come loud and clear from across the ocean in the middle of the night in that foreign land from which she hails; Jodi as she patiently procured that one last spot for the next Friday fun day; Christine while staring longingly at the hole in her backyard, promising Grace that the pool would be finished before school starts in the fall; Debbie in the throes of organizing her volunteers; Laura sneaking peeks while teaching teachers how to teach (presumably without smart phones); Gina while slamming shots in Florida (double entendre); Jill as she pretended to prioritize those non-kin kids she cares for.

 

Ping. Ping. Ping.

The texts came as Patty and her 97-year-old mother sipped Purpletinis and toasted a life well lived; Jeanette as she nursed a hangover independent of Patty’s; Joann as she nursed her never-ending bout with Shingles (no shot, no need); Paula missing us more and more with every ping; Belinda who just wanted an answer about who and how to pay for playing as a sub. And Lori who just wanted an answer to “anyone want to do an overnight pickleball camp?” giggled her way through the hundreds of responses that devolved into conversations we wouldn’t want found on our phones after our demise. 

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. 
And then there’s me, who is smart enough to keep my phone on silent. 

 

Except for Friday happy hours and a few off-campus events, most of us are not in each other’s daily lives, yet somehow we’ve become one big pickled family. 

 

But it hasn’t been all fun and games. Our biggest battles have been fought off the court. One of us became an unexpected widow (what an ugly word), another an unexpected orphan. We have lost dogs, mothers, in-laws, best friends, and fathers. We’ve seen each other through spousal surgeries, home renovations and hoarding horrors. We’ve cheered each other on through pickleball elbow, knee surgeries, shoulder soreness, and a mysterious mass that showed up with no warning. We’ve praised each other’s kids as they’ve won awards, made their first communions, graduated, gotten married, birthed babies, moved to Manhattan apartments and landed jobs with starting salaries worth salivating over.  

 

We come from different walks of life. We line the parking lot with our Mercedes, Lexuses (Lexi?) , Audis, Hyundais, Hondas, Jeeps, Subarus, and Mini Coopers. Some of us can barely afford our monthly pickleball fees while others rent their second homes for a you’re kidding me amount. We’ve got someone who plays with a Fox News paddle, while another protested at the last anti-Trump rally. One of us hobnobs in the Hamptons, while another spends weekends wolfing down hot dogs at CitiField. One of us has a second-grader, some of us have kids old enough to be that pretty princess’s parent. We are single, married, divorced, widowed (that word again), looking for love and lonely in love. We are business owners, big time execs, writers, teachers, retirees, and kept women. 

 

We are Jewish and Catholic and everything in between. We live in gated communities, townhomes, 100 year-old houses, and brand spanking new mini mansions. We raised our kids both homogenously and in towns were they were minorities in the schools. We care for our kids and our parents even when we don’t particularly care for them. We are jiggly and fit, old and young, wrinkled and botoxed. We are empty nesters and never-nested.

 

But it seems as though the minute we walk through those doors, all our differences dissolve and it doesn’t matter from whence we came or where we’ll go or what we think about the world’s woes. 

 

And surprisingly it doesn't seem to matter if we’re good or bad at the game, if we swing and miss, if we flub a serve, step where we’re not supposed to, hit the ball out of bounds, poach our partner, or hit the ball into our opponent’s eye (get the googles, girl). 

 

And that’s my answer when my pickle-free friend asks why I’m so obsessed. Yes it’s tons of fun to play the game, but the real fun is in those unexpected pings. The menopausal memes, the TikTok reels, the multiple Michelle reminders, the recommendation requests for an orthopedist, gynecologist or psychologist, the let’s support this event,  the how’s your mom, how’s your kid, how’s your knee, how’s your dog (dead) texts.

 

It’s knowing that while most of didn’t even know each other two years ago, we’ve formed a bond of friendship that transcends all of our differences. And in today’s world, that’s a really fine pickle to be in.