Anchors Aweigh

My friend Claire has rightly accused me of being a cold-hearted Episcopalian, even though I've been a Presbyterian for over 30 years now. She doesn’t say this with any ill intent because she would never say anything with ill intent. But facts are facts. I am stoic and tough and would rather pee my pants in public than be seen shedding a tear. At least the former could be crafted into a good story. 

 

But, this has not been a good week for my stiff upper lip. 

 

I lost my buddy, Patty. 

 

I’ve powered through death before. It’s never been fun, but with all due respect to the dead, it’s been doable. 

 

I’m not sure this one is.

 

“This one is tough,” I said to my friend, Ann, who has had way, way more experience with hard deaths than I ever will. I was just trying to flesh out the guilt I now harbored for not mourning others more. 

 

“It’s different,” Ann said, in her infinite wisdom. “Patty was a soul mate.”

 

Patty and I had unspeakable fun on a couple of cruises in our 20's. It took us another 25 years before our lives were aligned enough to allow a repeat performance. Once we did, we did it every year. Patty and I were perfect travel partners on the kind of vacation that serial over-indulgers look forward to 51 weeks a year. We went on a dozen cruises together and have dozens and dozens of fun stories, most of which are received with blank, “Guess you had to be there” stares. 

 

This year’s cruise sailed on March 8^th. If you think back to what was going on then, you might feel a little empathetic angst for us. I’m a fretter, but my anxieties revolve around things like securing an extra cup of ice, or the fear of forgetting a favorite pair of shoes. Patty worried about the catastrophic, like hurricanes, and school shootings and ….Covid.

 

My spouse begged me, literally begged me, not to go on this cruise. He’s a journalist who knows things. At the time, the only Covid cases were on cruise ships. But, for once, the tables were turned. I was the one who was scared. Patty wasn’t the least bit concerned. It was one of our best cruises ever. 

 

We didn’t die. And no one got Covid. 

 

But, it was the last cruise. The ships haven’t sailed since.

 

I’m a big believer in signs and omens and twisting reality to fit my fate. I can’t help but wonder if Patty insisted we go because somehow, some way, she knew that this was would be our last cruise. 

 

I had the good fortune of spending a week a year with Patty, so many of my most vivid, top-of-mind memories include fun on cruise ships. 

One year, two porters, seeing the 20 dollar bill dangling from Patty’s fingers, got into a fist fight over who would take our bags. A literal fist fight. 

On another cruise, our one and only time at a craps table brought us inexplicable luck, drawing a huge crowd.   

“I think that’s Bruce Springsteen’s wife,” someone whispered. Patty, who shared the same name, and after six drinks, perhaps a slight resemblance to the Boss’s wife, ran with it. We had half the casino fully convinced that Mrs. Springsteen and her friend, Betsy, were vacationing incognito, asking them please, please not to blow our cover. For the rest of the week we’d hear "that's her," whispers as we passed by.

 

Another time, Patty announced we had to start ticking things off our Bucket Lists. Little did I know how close we were getting. She somehow convinced me to go zip-lining in Jamaica, something that would have made my Bucket List maybe half a slot above sky-diving. She later admitted a tinge of fear when the adolescent zip-line operator kicked the milk carton out from under my quaking body, way before I was ready, laughing hysterically as I flew down a flimsy wire through a thick, far-below jungle. 

 

We laughed at horrendous karaoke, got lost on a bike ride in the Cayman Islands, convinced our room stewards to bring us chocolate covered strawberries every afternoon at 4, placed our towel animals in compromising positions, "stole" copious amounts of shampoo and dinnerware, got involved with a family of shysters, and made hundreds of friends over the years. After all, who wouldn’t want to hang out with the two old ladies who acted like teenagers?

 

In the past month when it became clear that we might lose Patty, I spent a lot of time with the high school girls, texting, talking, and Zooming. Despite our overwhelming sadness, it was cathartic sharing memories. 

 

We talked about how it all began. Three beguiling girls, soon to be known as Patty, Anna, and Donna, dressed in rolled up to high thigh uniform skirts, appeared without warning in the waiting-for-the-bus line at Enfield Jr High. 

 

I have a long history of sizing up potential soul sisters by sight and bee-lining to befriend them. I went in for the kill, but so did half the school. There was nothing more intriguing than new blood in the hallowed halls of adolescence. Especially if they were cigarette-sneaking, make-up wearing Catholic school girls, bussed in for gym, music and art classes just a couple times a week. 

They were instantly the “it” girls. 

 

By the time we got to high school, and they had become full-time public schoolers, I had weaseled my way into Patty’s heart, bringing along Rachel, Madge, and Debbie. Our girl gang intersected somewhat with the Anna, Donna, and Patty contingent, swapping boyfriends and Budweisers, but we became our own entity, vowing eternal friendship. 

 

Patty was the only one of us who had older brothers around and that opened up a new world for us. We watched Super Bowls at Jimmy’s house, and stormed Steve’s apartment under the guise of studying at the library. We basked in the beauty of being young and illegal. 

 

Once we came of age, or at least close, her brothers introduced us to a neighborhood bar, dubiously dubbed The Fly, where “everybody knows your name.” Steve and Jimmy made sure we were treated like royalty and protected from harm. Keeping in mind that harm has a rather diverse definition.

 

We reminisced about summers in Canada at Rachel's Charleston Lake house, and how Patty always, always baked bread from scratch. We recalled listening to the Beatles over and over and over in the Beech Lane bedroom, driving around and around and around in our parents' cars, and spending October weekends at the Kaller’s shore house. We argued about who dated Const first, Debbie or Patty, and laughed at the irony of me being the one who ended up his prom date. We remembered one day at Morris Arboretum, pinky swearing that no matter where we lived, we’d all meet up in the Bermuda Triangle the year we turned 40. 

 

Forty had different plans for us. Rachel was in California with a son and husband she had met in college. Debbie was dealing with a teenager. Madge was juggling a law career and motherhood and Patty was on the road to becoming a school principal in South Florida, future ex-husband and an English Bulldog named Binks by her side. I was in the throes of parenting three small children, and though I was likely the most tempted, couldn’t chance having it all disappear in the Bermuda Triangle. 

 

The five of us saw each other only sporadically during those tumultuous decades, but we always kept in touch, often receiving hand-drawn cartoons from Patty, detailing her life in little, witty squares. After her future ex-husband officially became the ex, and our kids became sufficiently self-sufficient, Madge, Patty, Rachel and I welcomed our 50s in Las Vegas. I brought my high school diary and we roared over excerpts never to be released to the public, unless of course, the daughter publishes them upon my demise.

 

That friendship revival brought a vow to see each other more regularly and was the impetuous for Patty and my yearly cruises. We brought Madge one time, but she had the same turned-up lip response my spouse had after his maiden voyage, “A cruise really isn’t my thing, you and Patty go, and have fun.”

 

And we did. We always, always did.

 

Patty was funny. Patty was smart. Patty was a true artist. Everything she did or said had a wacky, creative twist to it. Patty loved adventure. She loved animals, including squawking parrots, rescue dogs, and feral cats she fed on her porch. She loved her friends. She worshipped her brothers. She adored their wives. Patty was an esteemed educator, a consummate volunteer, and an avid reader. 

 

On paper, Patty was a pretty perfect person. 

 

But. 

There's always a but. 

In recent years she had been suffering bouts of depression, anxiety, and an eating disorder which she powered through by self-medicating. As her brother, Steve, so eloquently and honestly, said in her eulogy, Patty was a strong and independent person, perhaps too proud, or too ashamed to seek or accept help. 

 

Once the downward spiral began, I felt myself heading down the rabbit hole of guilt. I was one of Patty's closest friends. Shouldn’t I have been more aware? Couldn’t I have done more? Patty and I talked about everything. Everything. Except, apparently, the demons that were destroying her life. That, she kept that to herself. 

 

Until the very end. 

 

We talked as long as she could when she was in the hospital. Some days she even sounded like the old Patty. She skirted her diagnosis and her prognosis, but the last text she sent me read: 

“We’re not going to be able to do the unlimited drink package next cruise.” 

 

I smiled through my tears. In her witty way, she had finally fessed up to what she had tried so long and hard to hide.

 

I climbed out of the rabbit hole and back into my memories. There's no guilt. There's no shame. There's just Patty. 

Patty, who in my dreams, is dressed in a flowy, white caftan and a bold, jeweled necklace. She's draped over the balcony of a big cruise ship, pointing out flying fish and tossing breadcrumbs to swooping seagulls. She shrieks in delight as she spots me on the pier, flailing my arms and blowing her kisses as the sun sets over St. Thomas. The fog horn sounds its three short blasts and the ship slowly pulls out of port, sailing away to a place where my dear friend, my soul mate, can finally find the peace that surpasses all understanding. 

  

Life is Long

Had there been a 1990 CNBC yearbook, Janice would have surely topped the Most Likely to Stay Friends with Betsy list. 

Because our spouses also liked each other, it made perfect sense to be eating ribs and sipping wine with Janice and John Kerswell, in their backyard, in the middle of a pandemic, 30 years later. What makes it notable is that we haven’t seen each other in over twenty years. 

 

We bantered back and forth trying to pin down the exact date of our last encounter. 

 

“I know for sure, you were at my surprise 40^th birthday party,” I said. The one that I knew was brewing as I excessively agitated, having spent the two weeks prior (not to mention the two months after), picking lice out of the daughter’s hair and praying that the party was not going to be take place in my small and infected house. 

 

It didn’t. It was in the back room of Vitales Restaurant where I was greeted by 60-some people waving popsicle sticks adorned with photos from various stages of my life. Others held paper fans declaring, “I’m a Betsy fan.”

 

“I still have the book you gave me for my birthday” I declared. It was a prayer journal and I remember thinking, a part of you, a part of me. At the time, Janice and John were deeply involved in their church, and I was deeply involved in wanting to become a famous writer. 

 

“But, the last time we really hung out,” Janice said. “Was right after Leo was born.”

 

“He’s 24 years old” I gasped. “It can’t be that long ago.”

 

“On my way home from meeting him,” Janice continued. “I got this funny feeling and thought I better stop at the CVS and pick up a pregnancy test. Sure enough, that was the day I learned that Ben was in my belly." 

 

“I know we would have come bearing gifts after he was born,” I said. “My ever-loving spouse would never miss an opportunity to hold a baby.”

 

It was a shoulder shrug. Maybe we did. Maybe we didn’t. Ben was the caboose of the collective gang, each of their kids born one year after ours. Our offspring are now  28, 27, 26, 25, 24 and 23 years old. We wouldn’t know each other’s kids if one of them stuck an IV in our vein at Hackensack Hospital. But, it didn’t matter. We spent the evening zig-zagging from kid to kid, sharing tales of their successes, setbacks, and everything in between. 

 

It’s quite curious to consider the mark our memories make and why one person remembers in sordid detail that which another has zero recollection. An advantage of not seeing friends for over 20 years is that there’s no shame in not knowing who did what or when or why or with whom. Our collective memories reconstruct our past lives to fit our current agendas. 

 

But, there are some unmitigated truths. Janice and I started at CNBC in the same month of the same year. Her husband, John, loving her enough to want to work with her as well as live with her, encouraged his bride to take a job at the fledgling cable station where he’d been employed since its inception. I had recently gotten married and moved to New Jersey and my spouse convinced me that it would be in our best interests to apply for the secretarial job opening at CNBC, with the hopes that I would rapidly move from fetching coffee to writing copy. 

 

I was surprised to learn that Janice and I only worked together for one year. She left to open a fulfillment center where all the CNBC (and subsequent other companies’) marketing materials and merch were stored, inventoried, and shipped. She wasn’t even 30 years old. I stayed another eight years until the creative services department (yes, I got that copywriting job) was dissolved and repurposed to California. John was there for almost 20 years before getting a dream job at the Metropolitan Opera where he puts his musical and technical gifts into connecting the world to the Met. 

 

Despite not being able to differentiate between Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water and Van Halen’s Jump until I hear the first lyrical line, the musical genius of the entire Kerswell clan is not lost on me. Besides, my spouse, who I often turn to during The Voice and ask, “Is she a good singer?” assures me, the Kerswells are the real deal. Luckily, they seem to like me regardless of my passive passion for music. 

 

I wasn’t surprised to learn that Janice is now doing some kind of work that I can’t even begin to comprehend. I heard the words analytics and math and engineering and electronics and systems and master’s degrees in data science and plastered a smile on my face to counteract the vacancy portrayed in my eyeballs.

 

What I completely forgot, never knew, or blocked out in empathetic PTSD, was that Janice, in sound mind and in good conscience, home schooled their three children from start to finish. And finish they did. Every one of them is smart, successful, and seemingly unscathed. 

 

We turned our attention to my hard-working spouse who shared the news stories he sleuthed, the insights he gained, and the political opinions he is loath to voice in keeping with his impartial journalistic persona.  

 

And, then it was my turn. It was abundantly clear that I was out of my element with these smart and talented people. 

 

I tried to make my freelance career sound more meaningful, puffing out my chest and waxing poetic about the websites I’ve written, the essays I’ve edited, the clients I’ve had, the book I won’t finish. 

“Finish it,” Janice said firmly.

 

Which launched my litany into how writing a book (fame and fortune included) has been my life goal since Mrs. Dreifus handed the class mimeographed copies of Pokey the Turtle, the story I wrote in kindergarten. 

 

“Finish it," Janice repeated. "What’s the worst thing that can happen? Give it all you've got for say three years. If it  doesn’t sell, you move on. Change your goals."

I scoffed. 

"Betsy, life is long,” she said. 

 

With ever-growing evidence that life is short, I found myself perplexedly pondering her proclamation. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was her conviction. Or maybe it was just the right person at the right time. I let her words sink into my soul.  

 

Maybe success shouldn't be based on kindergarten goals. Maybe I'll help launch a business. Edit a friend's book all the way to the NY Times Bestseller List. Teach a kid to write a killer college essay. 

Maybe it's OK to not do what I always thought I'd do. And maybe somehow, someway, as I turn a phrase or tie a tongue, my words will make their mark. 

Maybe someone will have a Janice and John call them out of the blue after two decades and instead of saying, "Let's get together soon!" they'll say, "Tonight is perfect. We'll bring the wine."

Go for that Doctorate. Win that Grammy. Earn that Pulitzer. Write that Great American Novel. But, as you're doing it, keep your eye on the real prize. 

Friends. 

The best of whom are forever and ever. Amen. 

One Mother's Super Power

I have long held onto a super power that has persistently proven problematic, yet I have continued to possess it way past its practicality. 

You see, I know exactly what someone’s going to say before they say it. 

I am so sure of myself, in fact, that I often just relinquish any real life conversation and act upon what I know for sure is coming next. 

 

For a long time, I thought it was specific to child-rearing, but I’ve found that my super power transcends all walks of life.

 

When I was in the throes of three children, four years apart from top to bottom, I expended a lot of energy wasting a lot of words.

 

“Child Number Two,” I’d say. “Will you run down to the basement and grab Number Three’s cleats for me?”

 

Of course, I knew before the words were out of my mouth that the response, verbatim, or a very, very similar narrative would be,  "Number Two can do it himself.”

 

“You’re not doing it for him, you’re doing it for me.”

“No thanks. I’ll be in the car.”

 

Then there were these conversations:

 

“What’s for dinner?” any one of them at any given time would say as he or she breezed through the kitchen, dropping a backpack, jacket, and one sporting paraphernalia or another, on the floor.

 

“Meatloaf.”

 

“Gross. I’m not eating.”

 

“it tastes exactly like hamburger.”

 

“I hate hamburger.”

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since forever.”

 

And as they grew and were given chores:

 

“Don’t forget to cut the grass.”

 

“It’s Child Number Two’s turn.”

 

“He did it last week.”

 

“I did it the three weeks before that. Gotta go, Evil Coach Tony’s here. Basketball practice.” 

 

Or: 

 

“So how was the party?”

 

Blank stare.

 

Or: 

 

“What is Friend Number Eight doing these days?”

 

Shrug.

 

“Does he have a job?”

 

Shoulder hunch.

 

“You don’t know or you don’t want to tell me? “

 

“I don’t know.” 

 

“Weren’t you at his house last night.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And it never came up? You never asked, ‘Friend Eight, what are you doing these days?'”

 

“Nope.”

 

“I’ll just text his mother.”

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“Why won’t you tell me?”

 

“I. Don’t. Know. What. He’s. Doing."

 

So, through the years, I learned to: 

A) Retrieve any cleats, books, jackets, backpacks, dogs, cats, remote controls, empty toilet paper rolls, egg-stained dishes, 2/3 full water bottles, or other misplaced items, myself. 

B) Become a short-order cook.

C) Buy a push mower (despite possessing super powers I won’t use power tools).

D) Limit offspring questions to those answerable by a simple yes or no. 

 

Having muddled somewhat successfully through motherhood, I have transferred my talents to the workplace. I’ve been a freelance writer for over 20 years, during which time our family has experienced some rather lean years. So, once the youth moved into the young adult phase and my child-oriented volunteering duties waned, I dabbled in getting a “real” job. It seemed way easier than trying to boost the freelance business that wallowed in the words, pro bono. 

 

“Why don’t you apply at (fill in the blank),” my ever-supporting spouse would suggest. 

 

“They’ll never hire someone who’s over (fill in the age),” I’d retort.

 

“You don’t know that,” he’d rightfully respond. 

 

“They’re going to say I’m over (or under) qualified. That they’re looking for a brunette/ Episcopalian/introvert/activist/ (fill in the blank).”

 

I would reluctantly fill out an application on Indeed and when they didn’t so much as acknowledge receipt of my resume, I’d smugly tip my hat to my super power. 

 

My sister, Emily, has always been one of my strongest advocates.

 

“My friend is looking for a freelance writer,” she’d say. “You should call her.”

 

“She knows I exist. She reads my blogs. She’d contact me if she wanted me.”

 

“Not necessarily. She may not know you’re looking for work.”

 

I shrugged over the phone line. 

 

“She’s never going to pay me enough,” I continued.

 

“How do you know?”

 

Oh, I know, my super power thinks.

 

“Just tell her you’re looking for X dollars an hour. You paid that much for SAT tutors and baseball lessons.”

 

“If I say X dollars, then then there will be dead silence and then I’ll say, OK, how about half that much and then she'll say OK, and then I'll be bitter because I’m working for half my worth.”

And of course, there are the doctor visit convos: 

"They're going to tell me I have to give up chocolate/bourbon/Words with Friends. I'd rather die than get that diagnosis." 

 

A couple weeks ago I was riding my bike in Saddle River Park, a spot reserved for mid-week, mid-day rides to avoid the crowds. But, on this particular day, I had underestimated the competency of virtual learning and it was mobbed with kids.  

 

Three miles in I was faced with my worst nightmare, second only to the Labradoodles on 20-foot leashes criss-crossing the path while their owners talked loudly and obliviously from their air buds. Six boys somewhere between 13 and 16 years old (I can no longer tell the difference) rode three astride, zipping betwixt and between pedestrians, doing wheelies, and riding long stretches standing up with no hands. And of course, no helmets. But, I couldn’t have cared less about that. 

 

I turned on my super power conversation starter but knew exactly how it would end. So, instead of following the politically correct bicycle protocol, announcing “On your left!” I circled the duck pond an extra time so they would get far enough ahead of me that I wouldn’t have to deal with them at all.

 

But, alas, at Milepost 5, I caught up with them again.

 

“On your left,” I resignedly said in my head.

 

“On your left,” the boy with the man bun (well, boy bun) would mock, veering over into my lane.

 

“Don’t be that person,” I’d call over my shoulder as I slipped by, slilently praying that I wouldn’t hit a tree root and land on the ground in front of then. Which would, sadly, start an entirely differnet conversation. 

 

“Don’t YOU be that person, you fat pig!” the one with the saggy shorts would yell.

 

“Think about what you are saying,” I’d calmly cry. “I could be your mother.”

 

“Grandmother,” boy with the music blaring from his handlebars would spit back.

 

“Grandmother? More like great-grandmother,” the wheelie popper would pop.

 

At which point, I’d blink back my tears and fury and pedal as fast as my granny legs would let me before the conversation escalated. 

 

Yup, I knew for sure exactly how this was going to go. But, I had to do it. I had to get past these evil adolescents. 

 

I took a deep breath.

 

“On your left,” I called meekly.

 

I clenched my jaw. 

 

“Thanks!” Boy Bun responded as he and his posse veered to the right.

 

I flashed a peace sign as I passed.

 

“Peace out!” Saggy Shorts screamed..

 

“Have a great day!” Wheelie Popper bubbled.

 

I thought about that encounter for the rest of my ride and all the way home. The home where I was greeted by a front lawn of long and leggy blades of grass rising through the weeds. 

 

I put my bike in the garage and eyed the push mower in the corner, playing the ensuing and unsatisfactory conversation in my head. 

 

But, instead of cutting the grass myself, I decided to test my super power one more time. After all, the misfire at the park was probably just an anomaly. 

 

“Child Number Three,” I called as I burst into the kitchen. “I have a job for you.”

 

I was greeted by raised eyebrows.

 

“Can you cut the grass?”

 

I realized I was gritting my teeth and flexing my fists. My mouth hung open, ready for sparring.

 

“Sure,” he said.

I crinkled my brow and let his answer compute. 

As I did, I slowly came to the conclusion that while listening to the voices inside your head can be quite amusing, more times than not, they're misleading. And, that while you may believe with all your heart that you possess a super power; the truth is, they're only real in fairy tales. 

What our Mothers Do to Us

I will never turn into my mother. I know, I know; we all say that. But, in my case, I can promise you it won’t happen. 

I will never look like her. Unlike me, she never carried so much as an extra ten pounds on her svelte self, excepting, of course, when she was carrying nine-plus pound babies. Unlike me, she never had to tame thick, frizzy, locks. Nor did she ever limp around from bad knees, aching hips, or bulging bunions.  

I will never be like her. I never came close to mastering the fine art of formal dining, let alone executing consistent family dinners. I didn’t inherit her flair for incorporating contrasting palates and patterns into picture-perfect living spaces. Nor did I pick up her penchant for perfect present wrapping. No one was happier than I was when the gift bag came into vogue. 

And I will never, much to my chagrin, act like her. I simply don’t have the calm gene, the keep-your-thoughts-to-yourself gene, the live-and-let-live gene, or the feign-love for the family dog gene. Instead, I proudly and loudly proclaim my perceived rights and slights, and transgressions of others.

But, of course, I am an anomaly. 

At a certain age, as we grow into grown-ups, so many of my friends shriek with horror as they recognize that they have, indeed, turned into their mother. 

For some, it starts with something as innocuous as tube of toothpaste. Arthritic hands wail for relief as day after day, the tube is squeezed and rolled and flattened, trying desperately to save three, maybe four cents worth of Crest. It could be an old-fashioned adage like “I’m sweating like a whore in church,” that rolls right off the tongue. Or recognizing that Mother’s meatloaf has unwittingly, but undeniably, become the ultimate comfort food of choice. 

And for some, it’s not a specific thought, word, or deed, but a rite of passage of sorts, an unsuspecting seeping of one soul into another. 

I’ve had myriad relationships with my friends’ mothers. Some wished I were their own, while others wished with all their hearts that I had never befriended their own. And that goes both ways. Patty’s mother is one who endured the test of time, as we all revolved and evolved through the years.

I can still picture Mrs. Ellis perched on the couch in the living room on Beech Lane, giving me an all-in-one eye roll, smirk and back-flip wave of her hand.

“Please. Just call me Jean.”

And, then she pushed the glass ashtray to our end of the coffee table in a, “You think I’m stupid?”  gesture. 

“Go, have fun,” she’d say as we broached the subject of taking the little tan Corvair for a spontaneous spin down to the shore. We lied to the other mothers (sorry, Mom), assuring them we were spending the weekend at a friend’s parent’s house when actually we had no idea where, or with whom, we’d be staying.

Patty, of course, had the advantage of being the youngest of three; her two older brothers, Steve and Jimmy, were even more, shall we say adventurous, than Patty and company, and had come out the other side, if not unscathed, at least alive. So, perhaps that’s the reason Jean was a little more permissive with us.

But, it may just have been her deep faith in God, mankind, and the revocability of mistakes. 

Jean was lucky in love. She was also unlucky in loss, seeing both of her husbands through not-so-great deaths. But, Jean pulled up her boot straps and prevailed. 

At some respectable point after Patty’s father succumbed to ALS, Jean found herself at Fingers, a favorite local restaurant, bantering on a barstool with Bill. Bill was a fun-loving, no holds-barred type of guy, ready and willing to accompany Jean through Act Two of their lives. We all were invited to their wedding. Patty, Steve, and Jim’s friends ate, drank and were merry, toasting the new couple as if they were peers, not parents. 

When Patty moved to Florida and met her future ex-husband, they had the northern version of her wedding celebration at Fingers. When Patty and I were both in town for holidays, we’d meet Jean at Fingers for a cocktail. And when Bill died about 10 years ago, the repast was held at Fingers. 

Fingers isn’t Fingers anymore, but our memory of it is filled with Jean.  

It wasn’t until Steve spoke at the covid-compliant, socially-distanced, live-streamed, funeral service that I realized that it had happened. Steve spoke of Jean’s passion for the written word, her love for all things sports, especially the Phillies, her wanderlust, her social life. He reminded us (as if we needed it) how much she loved her family, her friends, her kids’ friends. But most of all, she loved life. She loved to have fun. And loved when her loved ones did the same. 

Yes, I smiled, and nodded my head into the abyss of the Facebook funeral. 

But, it wasn’t until I read her obituary that I laughed out loud. 

“She would also want you to tip your favorite server or bartender in her memory.” 

Yup. For sure, Jean had indeed osmosed into all three of her kids. They are all well-read. They are all sports fanatics. They all love to have fun. 

Patty and I shared Phillies’ season tickets in our formative years, dreaming of meeting Manny Trillo and Shake-and-Bake McBride. I believe our seats were bequeathed to us by Steve or Jimmy, or both, when they took off for Florida. Patty and I talk about our book clubs, sending reading recommendations back and forth. “Just try it!” she’ll exclaim when I say that Erik Larson way eclipses my Jennifer Weiner pay grade. 

And, anyone who knows me knows that the great highlight of my year is my cruise with Patty. After all this time, we’re pretty compatible, meaning that she knows it will be smooth sailing if I get my choice of beds, shore excursions, and sundeck locations. But, tipping is one thing we do squabble about. 

I am way cheaper than she is, and now I know exactly where she gets her generosity. 

Patty and I were on the last cruise out before Covid struck. As a matter of fact, it hit hard while we were on the high seas, every day waking to news of another institution shutting down on the mainland. 

Getting on the ship was a bit of an emotional challenge. I flew down to Patty’s house in Florida the night before, as I always do. It was a bit out of character for me to be nervous about something that was still so unknown, but my ever-loving and never-over-reacting spouse thought it was a bad idea for us to go. A very bad idea. Especially because, in early March, people were getting quarantined on cruise ships at an alarming rate. 

Patty wasn’t the least bit concerned, but acknowledged my stress as text-after-text came in from my spouse citing horror stories, which in hindsight, were hardly horrific considering what was to come. 

“Let’s call your mother,” I said as I shoved a handful of m&ms in my mouth while sitting at Patty’s kitchen table. “See what she says.” 

Jean was on the cusp of turning 92 years-old and had finally and reluctantly moved to Florida to be near all three of her kids who had permanently migrated to the Sunshine State. She lived in one of those cruise ship-on-land graduated living communities to which I aspire, refusing to give up her independence and move in with one of her children, all of whom had plenty of room. 

Jean didn’t hesitate. 

“Go!” she said. “Life is short. Go and have fun.”

And so we went. 

The celebration of Jean’s life brought me back to our last day on board with Patty and I bickering back and forth over how much to leave our favorite servers. 

“We prepaid our gratuities!” I argued. 

“Think of all that extra bourbon they poured in your drink,” Patty retorted. “Besides, they count on their tips for their families. And who knows when they’ll even sail again.”

“Oh, please,” I said, tossing another 50 dollars into the till. “Watch, this Covid thing will be contained in two weeks.”

Gulp. 

Because we had been on a cruise ship during the outbreak of the virus, Patty wasn't allowed to visit her mother for two weeks, so Jean missed out on our annual vacation debriefing. Instead, when I got home, I mailed her a copy of Susan Orlean's The Library Book and shortly after received a gushing thank you note saying, "Thank God for books or I would be a nut case with this lockdown." 

She signed it, "Stay close to your buddy! Love, Jean."

While Patty and her brothers would be reluctant to recognize themselves in their mother, the truth is, she managed to get under their skin in the best ways possible. She was fun. She was kind. She was generous. 

And in her death, she did what all good mothers do. She took that last long breath and smiled, sending the best parts of herself off into safekeeping, into the souls and spirits of those she loved the most. 

It is What it Is

“It is what it is,” the late, great Tim Moraski said after my son was benched mid-inning in the middle of a baseball tournament. You know, the stakes-are-high kind of tournament at which college scouts swarmed.

I could have confronted the coach. But anyone who knows Coach Leon knows that that tactic wouldn’t have gone over real well. I could have placated my little baseball star with dinner at  Fuddrucker’s, and probably did. I could have jumped ship, giving up my prestigious Team Mother position, which I didn’t. Or, I could have just bought into Tim Moraski’s ever-calming candor and repeat his mantra in tumultuous times, which I did. And still do.

Tim didn’t coin the phrase. As a matter of fact, it was so commonplace that I came across an It is What it Is T-shirt in a mail-order catalog and sent to him anonymously. Now, a lifetime later, the words have resurfaced as both a dis and a dose of reality in today’s covid-cluttered political arena. But, to me, it’s still as bi-partisan a sentiment as the Serenity Prayer, silently uttered to help us get through the trying times.

No matter which side of the party line you’re toeing, these are indeed trying times. Covid-19 has spent the last six months snatching away our schools and sports, celebrations and ceremonies. And while many people are feeling a newfound sense of freedom as they’ve learned to navigate the ways and means of the virus, I think it was much, much easier in the beginning when the lines weren’t quite as blurred. Back when a trip to the grocery store was both an outing and an ordeal. When we were zooming with long-lost middle-school friends and playing Boggle after family dinner with spouses we had barely seen in the past 30 years. When we all just stayed home like we were told.

My faraway friends mock the me I’ve become. I was always one to throw caution to the wind, to leave the umbrella at home, to go on a cruise the week the world closed down. Now I cringe when they suggest a weekend away and they teasingly promise they’ll all wear PPE and institute hourly temperature checks. Of course they won’t. And of course I’ll go. I’ve long suffered from the fear of missing out.

But, I try to explain, it’s not my fault that I’ve got a touch of Covid fear in me. Living in the nation’s first epicenter did it to me. No one within a stone’s throw of Teaneck, New Jersey has ever so much as whispered the word hoax in conjunction with Covid. Our friends were sick. Our friends were hospitalized. Our friends were dying. We were scared. We were traumatized. But we were united. We shared toilet paper and jigsaw puzzles. We got cookies from neighbors and fed the elderly. We dropped paperback books on our friends’ porches and forwarded town texts about the rising, then falling numbers. We placed bets on when the world would reopen and we were all off by months. We cheered in July when the email blast said NO Covid cases in Holy Name Hospital! It was both a blessing and a curse to be literally face-to-face with this virus.

I am so thankful that Covid hit when it did. I have said no less than 10,000 times how lucky I am that I don’t have a kid missing their high school prom, their college graduation, or their wedding. I am so, so fortunate not to have to entertain adolescents, hawk-eye teenagers, or rally for in-person, or virtual classrooms. I am so happy that I am not a 22 year-old who would surely be at one of those 200-person parties, that my hard-working spouse is still working hard, and that I have enough work to sustain my chocolate habit. I praise my new knees and freelance freedom that allow me to go for hours-long bike rides and walks, have lunch on my mother’s deck with my Pennsylvania people, and paddle in Kathy’s pool with Holly and Ann who graciously allow me to repeat, and re-repeat, from six feet away, the stories that the people I live with 24/7 won’t.

When I have a cocktail or ten with Jean and Tom, when Claire comes by for a sit on my front porch, when I talk and text with Mary Anne, Lisa, my sisters, the daughter, when I collude with the college girls, the high school girls, the local girls, the church ladies, the writer's group, the book club -- the conversation always comes back to Covid.

I scroll through social media way more than I ever did, cringing when I see ten unrelated humans arm-in-arm, holding red Solo cups in the Caribbean Sea. I wince when I witness a group leaning in for a picture at a picnic table. I furrow my brow as people travel from coast-to-coast, completely oblivious to the concept of quaranting.

And the truth is, I’m not even a Covid fanatic. I have taken my share of risks. I participated in a crowded Black Lives Matter march, I visited my college friends who had been here, there, and everywhere. I spent the day at a lake with eight other people, five of whom had just flown in from red hot states. I have friends who chide me for my mask-free backyard socials, for not wiping down groceries, for using public bathrooms.

Yet, my fingers ache from all the responses I’ve written, and promptly erased. All the “So much for social distancing!” All the “You know, this is why the virus is still spreading.” All the snarky, judgmental remarks that are swirling through my head. Because we are all, every one of us, making up our own rules, pushing our Covid comfort zones, and just hoping for the best.

And to be perfectly honest, I’m just plain jealous.

I want to go to the shore and stay in a cheesy motel with a polyester bedspread. I want to walk on a crowded boardwalk and ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl without being sprayed with sanitizer. I want to eat at a table-clothed restaurant and chide the waitperson for forgetting my extra glass of ice. I want to fly to California and meet my grand-puppy, Rocky. I want to go to a party where I don’t know a single soul. I want to be simply grossed out, but not terrified, when a mask-less runner hawks up a loogie at my feet. 

I want to go see a play, sit alone in a movie theater, and make the mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving at Emily's. I want to bring back our annual Christmas bash, socialize without asking, “Masks or no?” and walk in any direction I please in the supermarket aisles.

I want to go to Charleston, play mahjong with Susan and Janice, do a Woolley weekend. I want people to walk in my house unannounced again. I want to belly laugh with Theresa and Karen, go to Outback with the Hargraves, walk in Overpeck with Grace, meet the daughter in a Brooklyn bar, check out Madge's new digs, and play hearts at Bob's lake house.

I want to go on a cruise with Patty, laugh my way through Aquacize class with Cynthia, go to a wedding without a mask, and watch the Mets lose, in person. I want to resume our monthly rendezvous with Ann and Gail at the 101 Pub and have Friendsgiving Eve at the Schaeffer's.

I also want to lose 20 (okay, 30) pounds, get a new kitchen, become a famous novelist, and meet Taylor Swift.

In the meantime, I just have to hope that the risks we take won’t take our lives, hurt our families, or turn us into the told-you-sos of our social circles.

That we forgive our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And that most of all,  since we can't control anyone's behavior but our own, that we just bite our tongues behind our masks and instead, think of what Tim Moraski would say.

It is what it is.

Farewell to a Friend

“I am so jealous of you,” I whispered across the church pew, back in the days when we could belt out Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee at the top of our off-key lungs without worrying about cross-pollinating covid. 

Jack smiled, knowing exactly what I was talking about. 

Every Sunday, I jockeyed for position in the back quarter of the right-hand side of the sanctuary, my ever-loving spouse always on my left so I could be closer to the Peters family on my right. Sometimes, when the whole gang was there, they’d take up two pews, one in front of the other. They could all fit in one, but my Christian spirit only spreads so thin. If I gave up my God-given right to my personal pew, I wouldn’t be able to make faces at Matthew sitting in the shadow of his maxi-me, gentle giant of a grandfather. 

Karen and Jack grew up in Leonia. A teenage love story that lasted; they married young, reproduced early and raised two daughters with dueling personalities but similar senses of service. Kristen is a middle school teacher and mother of Madison and Matthew, a funny kid who looks, acts, and loves all things firefighter like my own son, Max, had at his age. Maryellen, is a New York City hospital nurse who fearlessly fought through the darkest days of the Covid virus. She, too, has a girl and a boy, Maesyn and Jackson. Kristen and Maryellen’s spouses are both firefighters, and one is also a police officer. Jack, a retired Leonia cop, was, among other things, a volunteer firefighter for 47 years. Both Karen and Jack have been active in our church and community their whole adult lives. 

This is a family who knows the meaning of giving back, paying it forward, and doing the right thing.

And though being a cop, being a firefighter, being a pillar of the community, was a huge part of who Jack Peters was, that's not who Jack was to me. 

I wasn’t in his fraternity. I wasn’t his confidante. I wasn't the girl whose pigtails he pulled in algebra class. But, I was his buddy. 

We’d sit next to each other at church meetings when we both served as elders, he a little less irreverent than I. But, he knew how to keep things in perspective. In the midst of the most contentious of conversations, he’d give me a surreptitious nudge, directing my eyes to the phone he held on his lap, offering me live updates of the Mets games. 

All the while, he was a die-hard Yankee fan. 

For years, I watched that man with those four grandchildren of his, green envy oozing out of my pores, knowing that I would never have what he has. He lived a lifetime in Leonia and his children and grandchildren live one block and one town away. The four cousins, ranging from age 11 to 6, have no idea how lucky they are to be in such close proximity to each other, but more importantly, to their grandparents. 

“Can’t make it, the kids are coming over,” I heard Jack say once or twice, or a hundred times since the oldest was born. 

Jack, just three years older than I am, had the good fortune to become a grandfather back when I was still in the throes of raising my first go-round. 

“I’m so jealous of you,” I whispered across the pew as my ever-zealous spouse elbow-jabbed me in the ribs and recited The Lord's Prayer. 

“There’s nothing better,” Jack said, pulling one of his blessings close.

Jack, on paper, was a perfect person. I’m wise enough to know that, in real life, there’s no such thing. But, he perfectly portrayed a person filled with compassion. Honor. Pride. Loyalty. And something we all need a little bit more of. 

Love. 

I adored Jack Peters. 

And I will miss him terribly. But, in his death he left me the gift of hope. Hope that, like him, when I am blessed with my own little grandkiddies climbing on my lap, no matter what faux pas I've committed, no matter what words misspoken, no matter what actions incongruous, that those little faces will love me unconditionally, fully and forever, carrying a piece of my truest self courageously and confidently out into the world.

What a Difference a Year Makes

“We can get you in the last week of June,” my smiling orthopedist’s happy assistant announced. 

“That soon?” I lamented.

“That soon,” she confirmed. 

“But…”

But if I get both of my knees replaced the last week of June, I can’t work on the food truck in Vermont and Carrie will never forgive me (she did). But, if I get my knees replaced, I won’t be able to drive, exercise, cook, clean, vacuum up dog hair, socialize in the manner to which I am accustomed. But if…

If I’ve learned anything in the past year, it’s that life is filled with But ifs… and There’s No Ways…  and that most obstacles are temporary and, in my case, often the product of overactive and misfired mind games.

The pain in my knees had gotten so bad that I basically crawled up the stairs to Ann’s yoga attic, grimacing through a series of downward dogs, praying for the end when she buffered my knees with a bolster for shavasana. I was the limping lady escorted to one of the coveted chairs in Gail’s living room when I stopped in for a Shiva call. I was the one dragging my sorry self around Overpeck Park with Grace, oh so proud if I could hit 5,000 steps on my Apple watch. I dreaded grocery shopping, getting out of a chair when anyone was watching, or even when they weren’t, and navigating CitiField.

I opted to fight New York City traffic, pre-securing parking in steep-less ramped garages, as taking the bus from my corner would mean hobbling my way down the Port Authority stairs. I made exertion vs pain calculations in my head when planning my day, sometimes grossly overestimating my capacity. Like thinking I'd be able to manage an afternoon of trying on dresses for a wedding. Or imagining I'd have no problem hiking a wooded trail with quite modest hills. Or being able to endure two-inch leg room at To Kill a Mockingbird. And, of course, I ordered everything online, from aforementioned toilet paper to Hershey’s kisses to huge bags of food for the aging canine, all to avoid a trip to the store.

I lumbered through life with the utmost certainty that I was more comfortable with my known discomfort than that of the unknown. I wasn’t the least bit afraid of the post-surgical pain of a double knee replacement; that I could handle. I was petrified of the post-surgical agony known as inconvenience. 

There was no way I could give up two months of my life recovering. No way I could give up my independence. No way I could fit in weeks and weeks and weeks of physical therapy to my busy schedule. No way that I could sleep flat on my back with immobilizing braces on my knees for six weeks. And absolutely, without a doubt, no way that I could make it through a night without getting up to pee.

Spoiler alert. I did.

I flushed the opioids after two weeks, and to celebrate, picked up the vacuum and resumed laundry duties. I danced at Michael and Kristen’s wedding at week three and drove the following day. At five-and-a-half weeks I was taking two mile-long walks a day and drove to Pennsylvania for my sister’s birthday barbeque at the Schaeffer’s. At six weeks I got on my bicycle and pedaled around the block, and at nine weeks, rode 19-and-a-half miles. I did my physical therapy with Brittany three times a week, religiously for three months.

And, for 31 nights, after disposing of sleep aids and painkillers, I laid flat on my back with those dang immobilizers, not dozing for a single second. People told me to just ditch the braces, that their doctors didn't even prescribe them. My doctor even told me I could ditch them two weeks early. But, I didn’t. I was a rule follower. All night long I played Words with Friends, read books on my kindle and watched the clock tick slowly and surely toward 6:00 am. Then I’d rip off the braces, run, well, wobble, to the bathroom, and then snooze in the La-Z-Boy recliner for four hours straight. 

I didn't cheat a single day. But, you better believe I threw the braces in the trash can on the morning after the night that marked six weeks post-surgery.

And, that was the end of that.

When I got off my bicycle today after a 28-mile ride through North Jersey, I thought about how far I’ve come in a year. Every day I walk at least five miles or ride at least 20. I look forward to my outings at the grocery store. I’d kill to go to a Mets game. Or a Broadway show. Or take the bus into the city for dinner with the daughter. 

But, alas, we can’t have it all.

So, here we are, a year later. In March, while on the last great cruise of 2020, the world shut down. Talk around the cocktail table turned to Coronavirus. Some pronounced that they would voluntarily quarantine for two weeks after getting off the ship. Some were awaiting permission from their employers to return to the office after taking the cruise gamble. My ever-loving spouse suggested staying in Florida for a couple weeks just to make sure I hadn’t picked Covid up on board. 

Quarantining at Patty’s house in Florida sounded pretty great to me. 

But, as we walked the gangplank back into civilization, the texts started rolling in. My town of Teaneck had become an epicenter of the pandemic. Friends were in the hospital. Friends were on ventilators. Friends were working their jobs as doctors and nurses and educators and other essential workers, all doing their best just to stay one step ahead of what we were heading into. 

I was able to change my flight home for free and nabbed a first-class seat for 50 bucks. At that point, I knew life as we knew it was over. 

Despite the fear and chaos around us, once my spouse and kid stopped disinfecting everything I touched, we settled into a nice little routine. We saw more of each other than we have in decades, and I thought, hey, I can do this for a week or two. 

And, here we are. Almost four months later. If we'd been told way back when, that we'd be doing this for 16 weeks and counting, I would have been the one leading the chanters through different versions of "There's No Way." 

But, guess what? We did it. At least the lucky ones did. And we keep on plowing through, day by day. Walking our miles, zooming our friends, virtually book-clubbing, masking appropriately, eating our take-out from our favorite local restaurants, playing our Boggle, doing our jigsaw puzzles, posting our memes, eating our chocolate, and hoping that a year from now we will look back, barely being able to recall the pain.