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. 

Here's to another 33 years

Here it is, the eve of my 67^th birthday. I am anxiously awaiting the impending snow storm and an Eagles’ victory, though I have to admit, I was conflicted for no other reason than… Taylor Swift. Yes, she still looms large in my life. So large that I’ve thought this all through. Last week she didn’t go home with the coveted Grammy, which means if Travis doesn’t go home with the coveted Lombardi it would, shall we say ,even the playing field. 

So Fly, Eagles Fly!  

As I sit here reflecting on the life I’ve lived, those Grateful Dead lyrics keep running through my head:

 

Woah, oh, what I want to know

Where does the time go?

 

We’re having our 50^th high school reunion this fall. That's 50. Five-Oh. The reunion 17 year-old me thought she’d never live to see. Not the way she was running through her life. 

 

And what a run it’s been. 

 

Those of you who have run with me, know that getting this far has been nothing more than a stroke of good luck. 

 

My mother is 99 years old and still living on her own, so I’m fairly certain that genetics coupled with advances in health care will keep me around to 100. If it works out like I’m thinking it will, it means I have 33 more years to go. It seems like a lifetime and I guess technically it is. But we all know, a lifetime goes by in a flash.

 

The daughter was born two weeks after my 34^th birthday, 33 years ago. Then 31 years ago came the middle one followed by the youngest two years after that. It was very important to me to have them spaced evenly. 

 

I remember it all too well. 

 

After the daughter was born, CNBC allowed me to work two days a week from home. This was a cutting-edge concept, long before it was the norm, let alone expedient. I had to fax ad copy in to my boss, as something as basic as email was just emerging. I had to attend creative meetings on the phone without the benefit of a button to mute my toddlers’ tantrums, though luckily there was not yet such a thing as Skype or Zoom or FaceTime. I hedged my bets, sneaking out to the zoo or the grocery store or the Children’s Museum, hoping there wouldn’t be an emergency press kit to write for E Jean Carroll. I’d say, “Working on it,” when they’d call to ask how the Consumer Ticker Guide was coming (my professional claim to fame – I wrote an entire brochure on how to read the ticker guide and to this day still have no idea what I was talking about). Once the kids went to bed, I’d spend hours banging out clever word combinations on my electric typewriter and subsequently on my Dell PC to the tune of the dial-up modem.

 

My insides were constantly shaking.  

 

Shortly after all three were in school for six blissful hours a day, CNBC dissolved the creative services department and we were all laid off. Except for a few short-term gigs, I never worked in an office again. I tried to make a living as a freelancer. Tried being the operative word. Then to assuage that guilt, and to make it look like I was doing something productive, I took on the town. Alongside my best friend Claire, from whom I learned how to multi-task motherhood, we became PTA presidents, Little League board members, and the ultimate soccer, baseball, wrestling, swimming, cheerleading, basketball and football moms. I had meetings several nights a week and a spouse who worked long and grueling hours so my meager freelance earnings went toward covering the cost of babysitters. Toward covering. Not covering.

 

In the midst of it all, I had a slew of medical blips – a hip replacement, a hysterectomy, double mastectomy, emergency gall bladder surgery, a three-week stint in the hospital with pancreatitis, and two knee replacements at once. And though we joked that I’d do anything to get a break, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

The years kept flying and our toddlers became tweens then teens which meant a house full of random kids who were doing “nothing” in our basement. But somehow we all survived and none of us were arrested on my watch. 

 

We spent thousands of hours, dollars, and unhealthy amounts of emotional energy perched on the bleachers, dreaming of college scholarships and how to manage the inevitable multi-million dollar professional sports contracts. 

 

The kids went off to far-flung colleges and chose majors that would have surprised our younger selves:  Peace, War, and Defense; Economics/Marketing; and Philosophy. One now lives in Brooklyn, one in Los Angeles, and one in Gdansk. Though on any given day it might be Afula, Tbilisi, Athens, Nassau, or Cusco.

 

And in a blink of an eye 33 years went by. 

 

It was a different kind of living than the first 33, but there was a lot crammed in there. I feel like I can finally catch my breath. But I also know that I can’t rest for too long because though the back end won’t have the same tour de force, I still have a lifetime to go.

 

So when I start to stagnate preferring to watch The Diplomat over meeting for cocktails, when I balk at flying across the country for a girls’ trip, when I say I can’t play pickleball more than four days a week, when I say I’m too old to go or do or be….

 

Just dangle those Eagles or Taylor Swift tickets, and I’ll be there. This year, next year, or 33 years down the road. 

What's Next?

“You’re going to Portugal with ten people you don’t know?” my pickleball friend asked incredulously. “You are really brave.”

 

I clarified that it wasn’t full-out blind faith, but maybe more like cataract faith. There were actually 12 of us going on the trip, but I had met both the life coach and the group leader at an Erma Bombeck conference in April and was pretty sure that they were fun and decent humans. So it wasn’t a full-out know no one trip.

 

“Life coach?” pickleball friend asked, picking up on an understandable travel oddity. 

 

I fumbled my way through the explanation that I wasn’t sure how she identified – whether she was a certified master of transformation or “just” a bonafide author, team builder and life-changer. But I figured she was into all that touchy-feely stuff I love and oh, yeah – I saw her perform a pretty funny stand-up comedy routine. 

 

Pickleball friend smiled and said, “Your serve.”

 

I met Desiree (the leader, not the coach) in the lobby of a Marriott hotel at the University of Dayton. She was holding court, touting a book she had written after gleaning inspiration from fellow conference attendees. She had a box of wine by her side (yes, a box) and introduced herself as “I know, I know, I have a stripper’s name.” Then there was Karen (the coach, not the leader) dressed in abstracts, chronicling her husband’s come to Jesus moment. He had been hanging a mega-huge and heavy cross (occupational hazard) when a cable snapped, taking him down and landing him in the hospital with myriad injuries. I followed her around like a puppy dog for the rest of the conference, though I didn’t see much more of Des once the boxed wine went dry. 

 

But like so many random acquaintances in my life, I immediately requested their Facebook friendship. And like so many new Facebook friends, their feeds algorithimmed their way into mine. 

 

Shortly after the conference, Desiree posted that she had lost her job and to stay tuned for news about her next venture. I followed with feigned interest and hearty likes (as opposed to hardy, though I'm fairly confident she wouldn't be able to tell the difference) as she unveiled her new business, Des Miller Travel Media. The plan was for her to serve as a hands-on travel consultant, organizer, leader, entrepreneur, friend. Another 💜 like. 

 

One of her first trips was described as a What’s Next? women’s retreat to Portugal – you know, for anyone who is widowed, divorced, fearing (or cheering) the empty nest, searching for a new career, or just looking for new meaning in life. Oh, and by the way, Karen Grosz (as in Karen from the conference) is going to do the coaching.

 

True to form, I immediately messaged her. 

 

“I’m happy as a clam, I have a pretty perfect life and I’m not looking for what’s next,” I wrote. “But if you need a body, I’d love to support you.” 

 

I sent in my deposit and buried the itinerary in my Vacations folder. Time passed, as it does, and soon it was time to meet and greet on Zoom. I thought about making up an excuse for missing the call, I really did. I had been uncharacteristically good about not obsessing over this trip and knew that with a week left before departure, there was still plenty of time for fussing and fretting were I to see or hear something I couldn’t unsee or unhear. 

 

“So, what did you think?” my pickleball friend asked the following day, knowing I had been uneasily anticipating this encounter. 

 

“Put it this way,” I said, mincing words as I sized up this 52 year-old friend beside me on the court. “I’m at least 10 years older than most of them. I’m not looking to reinvent myself and my next is most likely the morgue. I’ve never had a life-defining tragedy or felt the need to do anything more than just keep on keeping on. They all have worthy “nexts” and I just wonder if I should make something up so I’ll fit in.”

 

Wide-eyed she tossed me the ball.

 

“Your serve.”

 

Despite a miraculously vacant middle seat, it was still a sleepless overnight flight to Lisbon. Desiree was there to meet me at the airport and with brilliant foresight, swept me away to a hotel room across the street where we waited for the next victims to arrive. 

 

The first woman I met was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. A young single mom – with a kid who could easily be my daughter’s kid without raising any eyebrows. I loved her immediately. And I think she loved me too. You know in that motherly kind of way. 

 

The next two were yes, 54 years old and best of buds from their college days at UNC. I homed right in and began regaling them with stories about my kid’s Chapel Hill experience as if they had been peers. They were polite and pretended they cared before leaving us behind for a wine tasting in town. 

 

And that’s how it went. One by one I met my travel companions, looking for common ground with these random women whose lives couldn’t be more different from my own. 

 

We started every morning with Coach Karen, who led us through exercises that unearthed our excuses, revealed our restraints, unpacked our fears, exposed our vulnerabilities, and unleashed our lives. 

 

And then off we’d go to explore Portugal.

 

We saw mummified children, monasteries, convents, forts, and castles; ancient buildings that had been earthquaked and tsunamied; a Fado show (google it); and the Belem Tower. We walked along gorgeous coast lines in Nazare and Ericeira; strolled through Obidos, a medieval walled city with modern gelato; and ate in what’s got to be the hugest food court in the country. We shopped in the oldest bookstore in the world where I found the book I was currently reading (Sally Rooney’s Intermezzo) printed in Portuguese; boated around the caves and crannies of Berlengas Island; and visited a tile factory where we painted our own creations. We had two mouthwatering chefs over to our villa to concoct a mouthwatering meal; beheld breathtaking sunsets; sipped wine (boxed and bottled); danced in the villa; and slugged Portugal’s iconic cherry liquor out of chocolate shot glasses. 

 

All the while we adhered to the rules of changing seats, changing up our buddies, and most importantly, changing ourselves. Day after day we dug deeper, got closer, embracing each other's pain, humor, and boundless beauty.  

 

Then it was over. 

 

And now we are home.

Back to our divergent lives filled with all the people and places and circumstances that ultimately brought us together. Back to our dogs and kids and parents and pickleball, cooking dinners, running errands, seeing doctors, and raking leaves. Yet two weeks later, our phones are still pinging with affirmations and affections, reminding us of our tears and fears and triumphs and failures and the sacred specifics we shared with one another. 

 

No matter What’s Next, and there will always be a next, I know that even the most skeptical of us will for a long, long time hold on to the inspirational love, trust, and encouragement that was spawned by the entwining of a dozen random souls for a magical week in Portugal.

 

Imagine that. 

A bunch of women I didn't know and couldn't imagine caring about have weaseled their way into my heart (not to mention onto my Facebook feed) where they will reign forever and ever amongst the best of the best. 

Baby, We Were Born to Run

While I’ve always professed to being tone deaf, the great musician, Michael Hinton, assured me that technically, I was not. After all, I can indeed tell the difference between Happy Birthday and The Star Spangled Banner. But give me a lesser known rock song and I often can’t identify it until the lyrics chime in. Which is not to say that I haven’t enjoyed the marks music has left in my life. 

I’ll forever equate You’re my blue sky, you’re my sunny day with Morgantown, West Virginia. Perched on the sloped roof of 204 Grant Avenue Fran, Linda, Kevin, and I would wave to the passersby as they sang along to the Allman Brothers blaring out of our 2nd floor window those first days of spring. Helen Reddy’s Delta Dawn will be ever reminiscent of Karen Shea’s first my-parents-are-out-of-town high school party. I can’t hear Lay, Lady, Lay without thinking of Emily, Margaret, and Todd Nuttall and giggle knowing that Todd would have zero frame of reference, nor would he likely remember any of us, except of course, Margaret. 

 

I do know every Taylor Swift and John Prine song and would like one of each played at my funeral 34 years from now – requesting Dave Moyer for Souvenirs, and anyone can do Taylor's Long Live just as long as they sing with sincerity. 

 

Which brings me to the hungry heart of this story. Bruce Springsteen. I’ve never been a fan. Never been a hater. I just kind of threw him in the same pot as say, Journey, both have a couple of songs I could belt out at a bar but neither have been on my personal playlist nor on my bucket list to see live in concert

 

But alas, I had seen Bruce live. In 1974 I went to visit my sister at the College of William and Mary. 

 

“Want to go to see this guy play tonight?” Emily asked. “His name’s Bruce something. Springsteen maybe?”

 

“Never heard of him,” I said.

 

“Me neither.”

 

So we went. And there was nothing memorable about the night except that I remembered it once he got famous. 

 

Fifty years later, my ever-loving spouse propositioned me. 

 

“Want to go see Bruce Springsteen in Baltimore with Gary and Chuck and their brides?” 

 

“Absolutely not,” I responded. “You go and have a good time with your high school friends.” 

 

“I think you should come. It will be fun.” 

 

As pointed out more than once by the daughter, I have a habit of defaulting with NO. Rarely will I say, "I'll think about it," or a simple, "No, thank you." More often than not an emphatic NO followed by a tirade of something akin to "Why would ANYone voluntarily do ANYthing like that?"  or "In what world would you think I would actually consider what you have suggested?" 

 

Then I ruminate over it, obsessively, usually feeling guilty about my extreme reaction. But every now and then I surprise us all and reverse my decision, saying "OK, I’ll do it." Mind you, not "I’d LOVE to do it." Just an "OK. I’m in. But I warned you, I didn’t want to do this."

 

Which is what I did a few weeks ago. 

 

After all, I have a 50 year-history with Bruce. 

 

Along with the unmemorable concert in the college pub, my friend Patty and I had our own Bruce Springsteen incident. We were on the first of our many annual cruises together and stopped in the ship casino. Neither of us had any idea how to play craps but we moseyed up to the table anyway. My Patty somewhat resembled Bruce Springsteen’s wife, at least enough for a drunken craps player to whisper to her cohort, “I think that’s Patti Scialfa!” 

 

Mind you, we were on a Carnival Cruise. An old, yet-to-be-refurbished ship. The kind of ship Patti Scialfa may have boarded in her youth, but considering her current net worth, it was highly unlikely that would be how she’d choose to vacation. 

 

Naturally, we went with it. 

 

“I’m so happy Bruce let you come with me!” I said really loudly.

 

“You’re just happy he paid for your cruise,” my Patty replied. 

 

As word of a celebrity sighting spread like a norovirus through the ship, my Patty smiled and finger-tip waved to countless cruisers in the buffet line as they nudged each other, mouthing, “That’s her!” 

 

I felt I owed it to both Patty, who is no longer with us, and Patti who has been diagnosed with multiple myeloma, (and to my ever-loving who thought it was such a nice gesture to buy the tickets) to go full circle and attend the concert. 

 

Which isn’t to say I was excited to finally go to a mega-concert as a senior citizen. I know, I know, I went to LA to see Taylor Swift in an arena almost twice the size of Camden Yards, but hey, that was Taylor. And I was a full year younger. 

 

I did prep though. I downloaded Bruce’s set list and crammed for a week prior to the show. After googling lyrics and playing his songs on repeat, I knew I could endure the three hours – and the three-and-a-half hour drive – but still didn’t get the hype. 

Let me reiterate. If I’m in the car, I listen to books on tape or sports on the radio. If I’m at home, I choose silence. Music for music’s sake does not move me. But I was certainly moved when Bruce took the stage at exactly 7:30 pm. It wasn't lost on me that he considered our time valuable. Or maybe it's just that he's 75 years old and couldn't stay up that late. I looked at my watch. Great. We’ll be out by 10:30. I can do this. 

 

Of course he opened with Hungry Heart.  Got a wife and kids in BALTIMORE, Jack and the crowd went wild. As did I.

 

I was absolutely mesmerized. The band, even to my self-professed tone-deaf ears was amazing. The energy was infectious. And perhaps best of all, most of the audience was just as geriatric as I. 

 

I was still amped up the next day and we listened to Bruce the whole way home. We watched Springsteen on Broadway on Netflix the next night, and I devoured his memoir in two days. But the point of this story is not to detail my transformation to Bruce Trampdom (yes, I googled to see what Springsteen fans are called), or a testament to how easily I am star-struck. But rather a reminder for all of us to open up those too-often closed minds and to every now and then embrace the things in life we thought were unembraceable. 

 

Though my father’s words will always ring loudly in my head, “Expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed,” the worst is rarely as bad as expected. Sometimes it can be life-changing, I say as these words pour out of my once silenced computer speakers:

So you're scared and you're thinking
That maybe WE AIN’T THAT YOUNG ANYMORE
Show a little faith, there's magic in the night
You ain't a beauty, but hey, you're alright

To put my money where my mouth is, I’m off to Portugal on Monday for a What’s Next? retreat with a bunch of women I’ve never met. 

Why? 

Because Baby, We Were Born to Run.

Don't Stop Believin'

Don’t settle. Don’t panic. Just wait. You will know.

 

My mother, who will turn 99 years old in October, drilled this mantra into the hearts of her four daughters throughout our entire dating and mating years. My parents lived one of those fairy tale love stories with my father proposing on their very first date. My mother laughed him off until she realized that he wasn't kidding. They were married just three months later and adored each other every day of the nearly 50 years they were together. 

 

As my sisters and I searched for our Prince Charmings we kissed a pond-full of frogs, hoping that their abundant warts would magically disappear. We tried so hard to limbo into love, but the bar my parents had set was pretty darn high. Just when we began to question my mother’s sage advice, two of us got married in the same year.  And while my sister Nancy’s union didn’t last into old age, she did produce my favorite niece and nephew. 

 

As cousins, the daughter and Olivia are the closest thing to a sister each will ever know. They swapped plenty of their own frog stories through the years with nothing healing their hearts like Nana’s marriage mantra. It gave them hope. It gave them calm. It gave them courage to get back on those dang dating apps. 

 

Just about two years ago, the daughter, and subsequent maid of honor, called in a love alert. 

 

“Don’t say anything yet, but Olivia went on a date last night. She thinks she’s found her person.” 

 

Perhaps because I’m living my own version of a happily-ever-after story, I immediately bought into it and started peppering the daughter with the pertinent questions. Is he rich? Is he handsome? Is he smart? Knowing of course that the yet to be determined were the only questions that mattered: Is he kind? Is he a good person? Does he love Olivia? 

 

It turns out that yeah, he is all of those things and more.

 

On a Friday evening in early September, Olivia and Kevin tied the knot at a beautiful old estate in the Philadelphia suburbs. Nancy, the mother of the bride, has extraordinary vision as well as the talent, the connections, and the wherewithal to bring those creative inspirations to life. So it was no surprise to any of us that the venue was decorated with adorable touches that epitomized the couple’s personalities. There were dozens and dozens of hand-baked cookies made by the incredible Mary Crate, golf-clubbed flower arrangements, cupcakes (almost) too pretty to eat, golf balls with fun sentiments printed on them, a mini-golf course by the barn, an abundance of food and drink, and an eight-piece band that kept four generations of guests dancing the whole night long. 

The highlight of the party came when Olivia and Kevin choreographed and karaoked their way through Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ (they didn't), You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feelin’ (they haven’t), and that ever-fun I’ve Had the Time of my Life.

 

 

It was a night of pure joy with everyone the two of them love (and some whom they don't) all together, celebrating their union.  

Somewhere between the bacon-wrapped scallops and the donut wall, I started blinking back sentimental tears realizing that a niece or nephew’s wedding is about as good as it gets. You’re right there in the lineage line, without the stress of hosting…or paying. My three kids along with two significant others came from across the country to share their familial love with their cousin and her new spouse. As any empty-nester knows, when all your adult offspring are together in one place (as long as it's not living in your house), it brings fuzzy feelings to a parent's heart. 

I suspect I've attended close to 100 weddings in my long-lived life. And despite all the time and travel (not to mention money) that has entailed, there's still no event I enjoy more than celebrating the first day of the rest of a life together. It goes way beyond toasting the happy couple – it’s the fun of witnessing the merging of two (sometimes more) families composed of completely different characters (and there are always characters), the blending of friends with both sordid and solid histories, and being part of the pile of hope that the newly united couple will indeed make it.

 

Everyone smiles on their wedding day -- it’s the days and years after when the bills need to be paid, the children fed, the toilets plunged that the real work begins. Which is why when you start in a place knowing absolutely and unequivocally that your partner is THE ONE, all the minutiae of life is a whole lot easier to navigate. 

 

Here’s to Kevin and Olivia, and to the parents who made them, the siblings who tortured them, the cousins who envied them, the friends who supported them, the bosses who hired them, and the dogs who adored them. 

 

If your happily-ever-after is even a fraction as much fun as the day you were married, it will certainly go down in the books as a love well-lived.

My wise old mother will likely not make it to Olivia and Kevin’s tenth, let alone 50^th wedding anniversary, but for the rest of her life she will beam with pride and love, knowing that her first-born and first-married grandchild did as she was told.

 

Don’t settle. Don’t panic. Just wait. You will know.

Joyful, joyful, we adore thee

   

                                          

When we vowed our eternal friendship as college freshmen, we had no idea what we were signing up for. We were just a bunch of 18-year-old girls living a life in which our biggest challenges were figuring out how many classes we could skip without flunking out, how many beers we could consume without passing out, and how many boys we could kiss along the way. 

We grew up (debatable), got married, pursued careers, bought houses, birthed babies, had body parts finagled, lost jobs, siblings, and parents. We found our places in society, dabbling in PTAs, art leagues, floral design, elder care, massage therapy, classrooms, butterflies, blogs, Bunco and book clubs. We created unique worlds for ourselves with different family dynamics, issues, and goals. But every one of us knew that wherever we went and with whomever we lived that the girls would always be a top priority. For nearly half a century we’ve gotten together as often as possible and touch base weekly with a relevant Quote of the Week sent on the text chain. Whether those words of wisdom are ignored, raise an eyebrow, or spark a conversation, they serve as a continual reminder that we are never more than a millisecond away.

 

Within our group there are different configurations of our friendship. Some of us see each other only on our annual get-together. A couple of us talk on the phone on our morning walks. A few of us keep in touch with another’s children or siblings or friends. But generally, the way we know each other’s families is through the stories we tell.

 

And sorry, significant others. We talk about you. All.The.Time.

 

We know which guy is the most likely to ride a bicycle 100 miles for charity, and which one rides just for the joy of pedaling. We know who loads the dishwasher correctly and who has never, not once put a dish away. We know which one does the most cooking, drinks the most beer, watches the most TV. We know who controls the money, who is the most stubborn, who is the most appreciative and the most appreciated. We know who can build a deck and who can’t hang a picture, who is most likely to go away with the guys, and who prefers a solo fishing trip. We know who brings home flowers and who needs a prompt to remember an anniversary. We know who encourages, who tolerates, and who is oblivious to the girl's trips. We know the snorers, the socializers, the skiers, the lovers, and the fighters. 

 

We all ended up with guys who love us madly (how could they not), support our whims, tolerate our quirks, and try their best to keep us happy. Some of us complain louder than others, some sugar-coat more than others, some are more dramatic than others, and there’s no doubt some of us have been luckier than others. But in the grand scheme of things, we’ve all done good. 

 

Every now and again we catch a look at the significants through our own objective eyes. It happens as we are sharing a table at a wedding, talking politics over a bourbon, meeting in New York City, sailing through the Penobscot Bay, or cheering from the soccer bleachers in Central New Jersey.

 

Suddenly we see a totally different creature than the one we have known through the myriad eye-rolling, snarky, or sickeningly sweet love stories we’ve heard. We see the miser pick up the dinner tab, the anti-social spouse work the crowd, the heavy drinker sipping soda, the perfect partner making a major faux pas. These real-time, real-life insights remind us that the venting, romanticizing, or worshiping words we share with the girls are just words. Words spoken merely for validation, advice, or support from those we’ve loved longer than the men in our lives. And that no matter how much we’ve been told, we will never, ever know what love looks like in any heart other than our own. 

 

But we can get a pretty good idea. 

 

Larry, perhaps the least likely to intentionally screw up a high holy day, died on Mother’s Day after an exhausting bout with a grueling cancer. His first grandson was born in early June so the girls gathered in Atlanta last month to support our friend, Susan, and to celebrate the circle of life with a baptism and a memorial service.

 

It was a beautiful weekend filled with friends and family and a very funny priest. After all the pomp and circumstance, held in the same sanctuary in which we had toasted Jessie and Chris's nuptials, we reconvened at Sue’s place. Back at the house that Larry had renovated we found ourselves amongst faces familiar to us from the wedding two years prior – perhaps more sober but not necessarily more somber. Humor worked its way into our quips and conversations as we swapped stories with friends and family who each had their own unique relationship with Larry. 

 

There were siblings who knew him since the day he was born, children who knew him since the day they were born, friends who worked with him, laughed with him, and prayed with him. There was the seven-week old baby who was hugged by more hearts in that one day than in his whole long life combined; sugared-up toddlers, lovable Gen Z-ers, multiple millennials, boisterous baby boomers, a 90-year-old great grandmother, and an old, tired dog snoring on the living room floor dreaming of long walks with her beloved Larry. 

 

So much love, so much grief, so many woulda, shoulda, coulda's. Yet somehow through the sharing of narratives, connections, and perspectives, joy found its way in. A video highlighting Larry’s twinkling blue eyes showed us the multiple facets of a well-loved man. He was not simply a father, a son, a brother, a buddy, an uncle, an in-law, a co-worker, a mentor, a coach, a patient, a boss, a cousin, a parishioner, a builder, a fisherman, a dog’s best friend or a best friend’s husband. 

Larry's soul showed itself in many different ways.

While contemplating life and death and the myriad layers of love and loss, I've realized that our tears, and grief, and memories are ours alone to have and to hold. Yet no one can lay claim to another person's soul. Because souls are fluid little things, flitting from place to place, person to person, touching down and making their impact in the most curious of ways.

What an honor and privilege it is to witness what a soul has sparked; the inspirations, the convictions, the knowledge, the dreams, the talent, the love, the smiles, the grandchildren. And how heartwarming it is to know that all the while our own souls are out there doing the very same thing. 

Perhaps that's all it takes. A bunch of commingling souls working their magic to make sure that we can feel the joy in the midst of our sorrow. 

What a good soul you shared, Larry. What a good soul.