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.