The Bo-Betsy Stories: Chapter One

Eight years ago while approaching the long-anticipated empty nest, I started Old Minivans Die Hard, a blog filled with brutally honest stories of motherhood. The nest never went full-throttle empty for long, rather it remained fluid, morphing from half-full to half-empty to fully-full. Over the course of those offspring-juggling years, I feel as though I’ve told all the tales I have to tell. 

But sometimes you just have to go back to the beginning. 

The Bo-Betsy Stories, written for my Day One friend Margaret to read to her children, are innocent tales of a time gone by. They offered our kids a candid look at what life was like for us growing up and allowed me to subtly share the good, the bad and the ugly of our formative years. 

 

I’ve changed the names and some defining details to avoid unintended humiliations, forced retractions and potential lawsuits. My hope is that I’ve captured the essence of a childhood grounded in a much less complicated world and that you’ll see yourself, or your ancestors, in this storyteller’s stories.

 

And so, with nostalgic delight, I welcome you to the next chapter of my blog: The Bo-Betsy Stories. 

 

 

The Bo-Betsy Stories

 

A long, long time ago, when your mother was just a little girl, not much older than you are now, she had a friend named Bo-Betsy. Bo-Betsy lived not right next door to your mother, not in the house next to the house next door, but in the house next to the house that was next to the house next door. They lived on Woods Road, a road with lots and lots of trees and lots and lots of kids to play with. Woods Road was a magical place because if you lived there, it meant you would always have friends to play with. For the rest of your life. 

 

 

Chapter One: The Metal Trash Can

When your mother was young, she was the proud owner of a beautiful blue Schwinn bicycle. It had shiny silver fenders and a seat that was half white and half blue with a big S that swirled through the middle of it. It didn’t have fancy gears or streamers coming out of the handlebars. It didn’t have a horn or a bell or a basket for carrying Pookie the cat. In fact, it was a rather ordinary bicycle, but one that your mother loved dearly because it got her where she needed to go. 

 

On this particular day, where she needed to go was just three doors down to the house in which Bo-Betsy lived. She could have easily walked and, in hindsight, probably should have, but there was always a chance that the two friends would want to ride their bikes around the Fairways later. The Fairways was what they called the neighborhood built on the edge of North Hills Country Club where Billy Andrews, Joey Rankin, and Pink-Pink-We-All-Turn-Pink-Cause-Harry-Rogers-Stinks lived. But more about them later. 

 

It was a Wednesday, which meant it was trash day. There were garbage cans at the end of every single driveway on Woods Road, except for in front of the Duncan’s house. The Duncan’s didn’t have any trash because they didn’t have any children. The houses that were filled with children, like Bo-Betsy’s and your mother’s, had two and sometimes even three cans at the end of the driveway – all waiting patiently to be emptied into the big, loud trash truck. 

 

And therein laid the first problem.

 

You see, back in the olden days when your mother was a girl, there was no such thing as a plastic trash can. There were no yellow or blue or green or black trash cans like those that you see nowadays. No, back then all the trash cans were metal. And all the trash cans were silver. 

 

Such was the scene of that spring day long, long ago, as your mother came flying down the driveway at 308 Woods Road. Her driveway was one of the steepest on the street, with the Gardner’s in close contention. It was so steep that once her father – who later became your grandfather – forgot that he was no longer a teenager and went so fast down the driveway on a skateboard that he fell off and broke his ankle.

 

But back to your mother. She was fearless. So fearless, in fact, that she didn’t put the brakes on the whole way down the steep, steep driveway and all the way down to Bo-Betsy’s house.

 

Therein laid the next problem. 

 

Faster. Faster. Faster she rode. Past the Sorenson’s white brick house, past the Edward’s barking English Setters, past the Hunsicker’s (that was Bo-Betsy’s last name) azalea bushes. The pedals were spinning fast, fast, faster than her feet could go, so fast that she had to make a split-second decision. Should she pump the brakes or go for the gold? The gold being the elation she’d feel, not to mention the subsequent praise, after making it all the way to the top of Bo-Betsy’s driveway without ever pedaling at all. And because Bo-Betsy’s driveway was steep, but only half as steep as hers, she knew what she had to do. 

 

Just as she leaned into the turn, just as she looked up to see Bo-Betsy’s wild red hair furling around her gap-toothed smile, just as she was getting ready to pump her arms above her head in victory…

 

CRASH! 

 

Your mother slammed into one of Bo-Betsy’s metal trash cans and fell off her bike, flat on her face. 

 

“AHHHHHH!” your mother screamed.

 

“OWWWWW!” Bo-Betsy replied.

 

There was an awful lot of commotion and Bo-Betsy’s mother, followed by Pongo, the family dog, came running out to the driveway. Your mother was standing up by now with blood pouring down her leg. But she didn’t shed a single tear. Your mother was really, really brave. 

 

Mrs. Hunsicker wasn’t quite so brave. She took one look at your mother’s torn-up leg, put her hand on her heart and said, “Oh dear. Go, go! Go on home and get that taken care of. Right away.”

Even though Mrs. Hunsicker had four children of her own, who were forever getting cuts and scrapes, she simply couldn’t stand the sight of blood. So your mother abandoned her Schwinn bicycle and hobbled all the way home to get her cut cleaned up by her own mother who was far less queasy than Mrs. Hunsicker. She probably should have gone to the hospital to get stitches, but if she had, she wouldn’t have a scar the length of her leg to remind her of the incident. 

 

Once the 23 Band-Aids were removed from her leg-long cut, your mother fully recovered and was able to ride her bike again. But in the meantime, word got out about her accident and someone, somewhere, decided that maybe metal trash cans were just a little bit dangerous. And that perhaps the fearless, the daredevils and even the basic bicycle-riding children of the world deserved better.

And that, my dears, is precisely why plastic trash cans were invented. All because of your very brave, but very scarred mother.

 

Just Another shot in the Arm

I wouldn’t call myself an anti-vaxxer. Rather, it's probably a case of being more like our former fearless leader than I’d care to admit. I have an irrational aversion to projecting weakness. I’ve barely had the sniffles in the last decade, let alone the flu, shingles, whooping cough, or anthrax. So, why would I bother with all those unnecessary vaccines?

Now, my kids, they're a different story. I offered them up as guinea pigs the day the chicken pox vaccine came out, friends and foes decrying, “Your future grandchildren will be born with two heads, four arms, red hair!” I later had them all shot up with the brand-new HPV vaccine despite other parents declaring it permission for promiscuity. If a vaccine was covered by insurance, my kids got it. After all, if they got sick, it would be I who would have to deal with it. 

 

Ten months or so ago, I was a soldier in the “I’m not getting a vaccine” camp, even though I knew far too many people who had been stricken, or gulp, died from Covid. It was an easy proclamation to make because, back then, I thought I had half-a-decade before I’d have to think about getting, or not getting a vaccine.

Yet, here we are. 

 

And there I was. Years – let me repeat – years away from 65^th birthday, perched at my computer, searching websites, registering, re-registering, filling out forms, refreshing browsers (plural), for hours on end in hopes of landing the coveted Covid vaccine appointment. 

 

Thanks to the Kathy and Jean’s in my life who would text me with “Go on NOW. The website’s live!,” I miraculously succeeded in getting my shot-in-the-arm last week. Because I am who I am and can’t keep anything to myself, I did what everyone else was doing and immediately posted when I became a card-carrying member of the first dose club. 

 

But, in my excitement about being one step closer to cocktails on a cruise ship, I forgot about the emotions that Covid unleashes. While I’m basically a rule follower, I’m also an instigator. The kind of instigator who encouraged Madge and Debbie to shoplift earrings from Korvette’s back in high school. Something I clearly supported, but would never in a million years do myself. The same kind of instigator who would rally friends and lovers to do everything in their power to get the vaccine whether they’re technically eligible or not. Yet I’d be way too sheepish to jump the line myself. 

 

In answer to all the read-between-the-lines Nice to take it from a 90-year-old with COPD kind of comments, no I’m not 65, but in my state I am "legal." I have my share of qualifying underlying conditions, any of which I would gladly trade for a waiting another month or two for the shot. 

 

So no, I don’t feel guilty at all about getting it. 

 

What I DO feel guilty about is all the people I may have infected before I got vaccinated.

 

Now, I know we don’t know what we don’t know, but if we go with the science like my friend Mr. Fauci suggests, then somewhere along the line, I unknowingly and asymptomatically contracted the coronavirus. In August, I had my first Covid and antibody tests, both of which were negative. In December, still no Covid, but came up positive for antibodies. Six weeks later, positive again for antibodies. 

 

I haven’t taken a whole lot of risks, though Covid has re-defined and re-categorized the term, making it mean different things to different people. I’ve so envied the posts and pictures of happy brides-to be at bachelorette parties, Tom Brady fans boomeranging beer mugs in indoor bars, and friends visiting loved ones, here there and everywhere. I’ve rolled my eyes at those who spent Christmas with their immediate bubble of 30 and those who rented an upstate Airbnb with a dozen of their closest and pre-tested (yeah, right) friends. I’ve wanted to be that babe on the beach, that throw-caution-to-the-wind chick, that invincible younger version of myself. 

 

But, it’s not about me. For once. 

 

And so, I’ve plodded along day after day, washing my masks, zooming my social fix, logging steps on my Apple watch. I binge my Netflix shows, add books to my Goodreads page, and dream of the day I can eat in restaurants, go on vacations, and kiss random strangers. 

 

Though somewhere, somehow, it seems I picked this thing up. But when, where, how?  

 

And so, the sleuthing begins. 

 

Was it that jogger who hocked up a loogie as I passed him on Queen Anne Road? That woman who sneezed as I stood obediently in my six-foot-apart circle at Home Depot? The daughter who came home for Christmas albeit with a negative test result? One of the aforementioned, but nameless Airbnb renters? The hygienist who scraped my teeth? The plumber who snaked my 100 year-old pipes? My sister on my mother’s back deck? The receptionist at the doctor’s office? The doctor herself? At the gym that I deem safer than my own house? The backyard, four-person birthday party? The friend of my son’s I hugged at Votee Park just because it seemed righter than wrong?

 

Shoulder shrug. 

 

I’ll never know. 

 

I don’t know if I spread it to anyone else. I don’t know if I can get it again. I don’t know if my body produced antibodies just because it likes me. All I know is that I never had a single sniffling symptom. 

 

“You watching Sound of Music?” my sister, Emily, texted the other night. “Your song is on.”

 

Emily remembers everything about me, including lyrics I’ve long ago forgotten I loved.

 

But, because I’m years – let me repeat – years away from turning 65, I still have glimmers of memory intact and knew exactly what she was talking about. But it probably has less to do with my cognitive and more to do with my innate understanding that despite those underlying comorbidities, those yet-to-be obtained life goals, those kitchen cabinets that don’t close - for some strange reason, I keep coming out on top. 

 

 

Nothing comes from nothing
Nothing ever could
So somewhere in my youth or childhood
I must have done something good

 

But what, Julie Andrews, what? 

The only thing I can think of is rescuing Tiny Tim, that teeny-tiny tabby cat of a kitten that Margaret and I found on Woods Road, way back when. We saved him from the elements, protected him from the wildebeest, loved and cared for him for two full days. Until, of course, he was subsequently eaten by the family pet, Pongo, when someone unwittingly left the garage door ajar.

This Land Was Made For You and Me

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” my ever-loving spouse announced when he picked me up from the airport after one of my girls-only trips several years ago.

 

“What. Is. It?” I asked through flipped stomach, my mind running the gamut of possibilities. Perhaps he had painted the living room a lovely shade of lilac, or purchased a memory foam marital bed. Maybe he installed a new compost bin to reside on the back deck, you know, to make it easier for me to embrace. Or maybe he brought home a kitten, a puppy, a parakeet, or a friend for an extended stay. After all, we have the room.

 

“You’ll see,” he grinned. “You’ll like it.”

 

“I’m sure I will,” I grimaced, trying to remember how lucky I was to have a spouse who loved me.

 

And sure enough, as we pulled up to the front of our creaky old house, the house with the beautiful front porch, the house with the multi-colored dahlias and daisies and zinnias and marigolds lining the walkway, I saw the surprise. In all its glory.

 

Hanging from the brick wall, right outside my front window, the window I look out for hours and hours a day, the window from which I guard the neighborhood and measure the local puppies’ growth with every passing walk. The window from which I watch the pink dogwood tree bud, bloom, and turn back to green, while the woodpecker with the little red head pecks away. The window from which I watch the rain, the snow, the sun, as I work at my desk, stewing, sweating, cursing, and creating. Yes, hanging right outside MY window, was none other than the American Flag. 

 

“You’re kidding,” I said and my spouse’s face fell.

 

I don’t have anything against the American Flag, I really don’t. I believe it should be flown on all the flag-flying holidays. And absolutely, fly it high, fly it wide outside all the state buildings and libraries and sporting arenas and VFW halls across the continent. But not on my house. And certainly not every day. 

 

I’ve never been a God Bless America kind of girl. I’m not crazy about 4^th of July parades or the Star Spangled Banner. I don’t even wear flag earrings on the holiest of holy American holidays.

 

But I’m not a bad person. I’m just not particularly patriotic or overly political, though it’s been hard not to be in the recent past. I live in a very normal neighborhood with very normal people and as one who cares deeply what others think of me, I didn’t want any of them suspecting I was supporting a president we all didn’t support. 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the ever-sensible spouse said. “It’s our country. Not just the Republicans. Not just the Democrats. Flying a flag doesn’t mean you lean one way or the other.”

 

I raised my eyebrows, went inside and was thankful to see that the living room was still intact, still that pale shade of yellow, chipping at the seams. I sat down at my desk to scrutinize the trauma I’d have to endure. The American Flag was front and center, flying, furling, blocking my view, distracting my thoughts, making my insides shake.

 

So, this is how it’s gone for the past too many years. My hard-working spouse rises and shines a good four hours before I do. (Though in my defense, I go to bed at least three hours after he does). He walks the beast and places the flag in its post on the wall outside of MY window. I eventually get up, cringe, go for my walk, come home, take a shower, eat my dry toast, and then very calmly venture outside, remove the flag from its holder and stash it behind the yellow wooden bench on the front porch. There is where it remains for the rest of the day while I work at my desk with a clear view and a guilty heart. Guilt, only because that spouse of mine was so proud of his surprise. 

 

We don’t talk about the flag. It’s a silent game we play. He puts it out at 6 am. I take it down at noon. Every single day. 

 

This morning, I broke routine. I didn’t go to the gym (it’s very safe there, I promise, and if it proves not to be I’ll be the first to admit it), I didn’t go for my five-mile walk, despite being just a half-hour from completing The Midnight Library on Audible. Instead, I would dedicate my day to watching the peaceful transfer of power. 

 

By the time I emerged from my chambers, it was close to 10 am and the White House festivities were well under way. I filled my coral-colored Yeti with Diet Coke and settled into MY (note a pattern here) chair by the fireplace. I flipped on the TV and was greeted by a picture-less screen, blank but for a Sorry this channel is not available alert. 

 

OK. So, MSNBC is having technical difficulties, I thought. I’ll just watch CNN. And when CNN had the same message, I tried CBS. Then ABC. I even tried Fox. Nope. Cable down. Internet down. All of my connected Optimum devices, dead. My first thought was that it was Trump taking his last stand by crashing the system to make sure America couldn’t watch the inauguration. 

 

But, I have something called a smart phone and was smart enough to live stream from the palm of my hand. 

 

I have to admit, despite being a self-professed non-political person, I have never been so politically aware as I have been these past four years. I watch cable news ad nauseam and could pick Paul Manafort out of a crowd. I would tape Trump’s Rose Garden press conferences and watched him with a sort of rubber-necking incredulousness. Much to the chagrin of many family members and friends, I devoted way too much time trying to find the good side of Trump, the compassionate side, the human side. 

 

I pretty much gave up on that for good a couple weeks ago. 

 

I didn’t vote for Donald Trump, but I have a lot of friends who did. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and even wrote a blog in November 2016 with these very words:  Let’s hold on to the hope that maybe, just maybe, one day we will all look back, across our party lines, and be able to say, “He did it! He made America Great Again.” After all, stranger things have happened. 

 

Stranger things did indeed happen. 

 

While I watched the inauguration from my iPhone, I found tears, real tears, stealthily slipping their way down my cheeks. Being tone deaf, my love for Gaga is limited, but there was something that tugged at my heart when she belted out the National Anthem. Garth Brooks isn’t my all-time favorite country singer, but when he sang Amazing Grace, I did what I was told and sang along - albeit off-key - to Amazing Grace. I've never been much for poetry, but Amanda Gorman's cadence and content changed that part of me forever. And somehow, when Jennifer Lopez, who lost my admiration when she took up with a certain ex-Yankee, sang This Land Was Made For You and Me, I believed her. 

 

Even though I have never felt under-respected as a woman, and will never know what it’s like to be a person of color, it wasn’t until today that it hit me, really hit me, that the times they are a-changin’. And that we are one small step closer to liberty and justice for all. 

 

When Joe Biden solemnly took his oath, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of calm. I believed with all my heart that before us stood a decent and kind human being who was there for only pure reasons, starting and ending with love of our country. 

After viewing the pomp-less circumstance on my handheld device, I headed back to my unconnected laptop to do some long neglected work. I sat down at my desk, looked out my window at the furling flag, and smiled. 

 

Today, I will let it fly. 

 

Is it Here Yet?

I don't know about you, but I'm kind of Covided out. Yet I'd feel somehow remiss ending the year without writing one more Coronavirus missive. 

I can only recall feeling sheer unadulterated terror three times in my life. The first was in the final days of my first pregnancy, knowing that the permanency of motherhood was not only imminent, but irrevocable. The second was on the morning of 9/11 as I sat on a plastic-backed chair in a waiting room of a car dealership, watching as crashing airplanes changed the world. And the third time was this past March when I found myself on a cruise ship – despite Dr. Fauci’s warnings, despite my ever-loving spouse’s pleading, despite the Covid outbreaks surging at sea. But it was still all so new then. Who woulda thunk that each day of vacation would bring a new, terrifying story of shudderings and shuttings back on dry land? 

 

Since we were all in the same boat, we coped as all avid cruisers do. With an umbrella drink.  And another. And another. Until we were tippsily sure we were safe and sound. Though no matter how many umbrellas we collected, we never passed a Purell station without taking a double shot. 

 

We were the last mega-cruise allowed to set sail – unbelievably, to this day. We were the sole ship given permission to dock in St. Maarten that week because we were the only one with a completely Covid-clean manifest. I bought two silver bangles, at full-price, from a shopkeeper in Philipsburg who was petrified, knowing her business relied completely on cruise ship traffic. I’ve never taken the bracelets off.

 

I’ve been on many, many cruises but this was one to remember. I’ll never forget the buddies we bonded with on that roller-coaster of fear and fun, with all conversations eventually turning to Covid. Throughout the week, March Madness was cancelled, the NBA shut down, schools, casinos, bars, gyms, and hair salons were closed. Every day brought more chaos and uncertainty. I remember my gut sinking when I got the text from my friend, Janice, telling me her husband and his brother were both in the hospital. I remember how, with each passing day, we came to believe we were safer at sea than at home. But most of all, that cruise will be forever etched as a scar in my heart as it was the last one with my soul- and shipmate, Patty. 

 

Because, by October, Patty was dead. 

 

When I arrived back in New Jersey, I learned that my little town of Teaneck, whose claim to fame was that it was the first in America to voluntarily integrate its schools, was now known as one of the first to voluntarily quarantine its residents. I had returned to the epicenter of Covid-19 where toilet paper shortages and restaurant closures were the least of our worries. Our friends were sick. Our friends were dying. 

 

It was a really strange and scary year, especially back in March and April. I kept lists. A lot of lists. Lists of how many miles I walked. How many hours I biked. How many friends got sick. How many friends were hospitalized. How many friends died. And, in my trusty moleskin planner, I kept track of everything I did in 2020. You know, just in case it was needed for contact tracing. Or my memorial service. 

Never in a million years would I have thought that late-February dinner in Maplewood with Tom and Jackie Shea would mark one of two times I ate indoors in a restaurant. The second was in October when my sister, who I hadn't seen since Christmas, came up from Charleston. We couldn’t eat outside because it was raining but found a restaurant with a high-ceilinged atrium and wide-open windows. We shivered through our shellfish, but no one got Covid. 

 

Never in this friend-craved life of mine would I have thought I could count on two hands the number of times I socialized this year. We had only two back deck dinners with the Santostefano’s. In the best of times, we eat and drink them out of house and home, sharing a second Thanksgiving dinner cooked up by Jean, watching 4th of July fireworks with them, celebrating Christmas together, and spending the past umpteen New Year’s Eves bemoaning the fact that we “have” to go out. 

 

We had a couple of New York City, grab-a-slice and go meals on the sidewalk, and a lovely Indian summer dinner outdoors with the Riverols and the Pintos. In real life, I hate to eat outside, primarily because my extra cup of ice melts too fast. But, desperate times…

 

Monthly lunches with Ann and Gail were replaced with one single outdoor gathering at which Gail replicated our 101 Pub salads. She continues to feed my spirit by leaving containers of homemade tzatziki on my front porch. 

 

We couldn’t have a 95^th birthday party for my mother, but I was able to spend a lot of days on the Daisy Lane Deck with her and two of my sisters. 

 

I haven’t seen Karen and Theresa at all. 

 

Yoga with Ann and Holly and Kathy somehow didn’t translate to the screen. Maybe because I couldn't hear them breathing. So up until the beginning of December, which also marked the beginning of too cold even for the fire pit weather, the four of us bubbled together to grouse and gripe and share Covid war stories. Because it always seems to come back to Covid. 

 

In a normal year, I go away at least half-a-dozen times, often twice that many times. Since Covid, not counting the cruise because the cruise was technically pre-pandemic, I’ve slept outside my home exactly once. We canceled our annual jaunt to Maine, but in the middle of July in the calm after the storm, which turned out to be the calm before the storm, four of the college girls met at Jeanne’s in Pennsylvania. We sat somewhat distantly at her sprawling picnic table, getting closer and closer with every bite. But we all made it out alive, and the risk was well worth the reward. 

 

We were invited to four weddings in 2020, none of which happened. Two of the couples got married on the date they had planned and all four will celebrate or re-celebrate in 2021, hopefully without masks. 

 

I walked and walked and walked, air pods tuned to all-Covid, all the time, news channels. I had a constant loop of doom and gloom going in one ear and not going out the other. But as the new normal normalized, I found my diversions. I started borrowing audio books from my library and always had at least one book beckoning me by my bedside and another one encouraging me to walk -- just 1,500 more steps -- to get to the end of the chapter. I read or listened to 48 books this year, with The Heart’s Invisible Furies, Daisy Jones and the Six, The Great Believers, and The Rules of Civility topping my list.

 

I watched tons of TV. I even taped the Trump press conferences because the needler in me loved to see how long it would take before the journalists made him blow. I flipped back and forth from MSNBC to CNN to FOX to see who was saying what, and why. And, then I stopped. Not completely, but I scaled way back. 

 

Instead I began binge-watching. First Ozark, then The Americans, both crazy plot-twisting shows that made our current situation seem somewhat sane. My friend, Peggy, had been telling me for years to watch Schitt’s Creek. But, I don’t like nonsense, so I refused. When I finally gave in, I found it was indeed nonsense, but genius nonsense, and will go down as one of my very favorite shows ever. 

 

I went from being alone in my big, old house with my hard-working spouse gone for 12 hours at a stretch, giving me the freedom to write at will, take my shower in a not-steamed-up bathroom, and eat my salad greens (and secretly-stashed chocolates) without an audience, to a life of the spouse, the youngest child, and I together. All. The. Time.  But we’ve taken tons and tons of day trips, exploring the Hudson Valley, Central Park, and other hidden gems -- something we haven’t had time to do since our kids were contained and constrained in car seats. 

 

The daughter comes and goes from Brooklyn, getting swabbed more regularly than she does laundry. The middle one visited once, demonstrating our conflicting definitions of Covid caution. When California shut down again, New Jersey ramped up again, and everyone and his brother begged the country not to travel, he/we decided to keep him on the other coast for Christmas. I mailed him and his girlfriend, Taryn, a huge box of presents on December 14^th. They have yet to arrive. 

 

My weekly mahjong games with Susan and Janice have been tabled. My book clubs, church services, work meetings, and writer’s group have been relegated to Zoom. I miss my college girl weekends. Vacations. Weekend at the Woolley's. Restaurants. Chapel Hill reunions. Thanksgiving in Pennsylvania. Claire at my kitchen table. Leo’s friends sneaking in the side door. And yes, even yoga. 

 

I snickered as I pulled a fresh bayberry candle out of the kitchen drawer this morning, wondering if perhaps last year I had forgotten about this family tradition that is reputed to bring good fortune and good luck. 

But then I remembered rushing out of the house after cocktails with Jean and Tom on our way to dinner at Amarone’s last New Year’s Eve. Jean chided me for leaving a lit candle, knowing my fear of fire. I explained that it was bad luck if you didn't let it burn to the socket and simply moved the candlestick to the sink as my mother had always done. When we arrived home in the early hours of the new year, it had burned out. 

 

As I light the bayberry candle this afternoon, it occurs to me that it did do the job last year. 

Losing Janice Preschel and Phil Pinto and so many others to Covid seems so surreal. Jack Peters and Phil Rodgers' deaths still hurt my heart. And the pain of losing Patty feels like it will never go away. 

 

But despite all we have lost, all we have given up, and all of the ways the world has changed, all of us, and all of you, still have the good fortune of being able to burn the midnight oil into 2021.

 

Happy New Year!

Broken Traditions

"Think of the excitement we are usually feeling at this time, on this day,” Sister Emily texted this afternoon. I had just returned from the grocery store, picking up potatoes for tomorrow’s mashing. 

On a normal Thanksgiving Eve day, I’d be on the turnpike right about now, imploring Siri to send a text to Sister Emily. “Be there in 45 minutes. Stuck in traffic at Exit 8.”

 

We’d buzz around her house, scrutinizing the step-by-step dinner directions sent by Sister Nancy, making a call to Sister Susan to confirm pick-up duty of our mother the next day, me running to Wawa for a bag of ice after determining that it would take way more than 24 hours for her ice maker to make enough ice to freeze away my fears of a lukewarm water glass. While I was gone, Sister Emily would have showered and put on the outfit of the year, me nodding from her high and fluffy bed with approval, perhaps selecting a bright accessory to enhance her image. 

 

And then, off we’d go to Schaeffer’s house. Not The Schaeffer’s house, for some reason, but just plain Schaeffer’s house. Every Thanksgiving Eve, including the year Nancy (not Sister Nancy, but ex-housemate Nancy who married John Schaeffer III out of IV) gave birth to her third, out of four sons that very week, we descended on Schaeffer’s for an inter-generational food and drink fest. 

 

We’d chatter away on the six-minute ride over, pre-gaming our hopes wondering who would be there. Would Taylor and Jenna fly in, literally, like he flies his own plane? Will this be a dancing night? A fire pit night? Which Schaeffer son will fill the house with the most friends? Would Tommy Dickinson and Jane really show? Would we beat Rob and Mon there? Is this Kit’s year to come and will Mark make an appearance with his bride-to-be? What kind of vegan delicacies would Johnny IV showcase between the filet and the pigs-in-a-blanket? And will Michelle’s bunion finally be healed? 

 

Every year at Schaeffer’s, while always different, is always the same. It’s the one time of year that there are no words to regret (well…), no calories to lament, only thankful thoughts that we have had a lifetime of tradition with lifelong friends. 

 

Thanksgiving Day has had many incarnations in my 60-odd years of life. But, it’s always been the same basic tradition. Always on fine china, always a big bird, always a family feast; first on Woods Road, right down the hill from Schaeffer’s, eventually morphing over to Sister Nancy’s gourmet kitchen in Oreland, and when she moved to Charleston, over to Sister Emily’s house on Preston Road. One year, and only one, we deviated. It was the year my father died, and for some odd reason, we all thought we’d feel better if no one cooked and cleaned and fussed and fumed. Of course, we were wrong. 

 

Thanksgiving is my very favorite time of year. It’s the perfect blend of everything I love most – friends, family, and food. And once the food has fermented into flab, the weekend is always topped off with a Friendsgiving feast at the Santostefano’s. What’s not to love about Thanksgiving? The most I ever had to do was mash the potatoes and show up with a bottle of Basil Hayden. 

 

Anyone who has known me for 15 minutes knows that I have many rules and proclamations, most of which make absolutely no sense to anyone. Least of all myself. 

 

For instance, I have never had a cup of coffee or tea in my life. I will never sleep without a fan blowing in my face, not at home, not in a hotel, not on a cruise ship, whether it’s 90 degrees or nine. I will never order a drink, neither water or whiskey, without an extra cup of ice. 

 

And I will never cook a Thanksgiving turkey.

 

This year, by no fault of our own, traditions have been broken. Hearts have been broken. Rules have been broken. 

 

But don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m still not cooking a Thanksgiving turkey. 

 

For the first time in as long as I can remember, there’s no Wednesday night at Schaeffer’s. No turkey and stuffing with my mother and sisters. And, no friends’ dinner with the Santostefano and Formisano families. 

 

And for the first time ever, I’m hosting - if you can call it that - Thanksgiving. It will be me, the ever-loving spouse, the youngest son and the only daughter. We don’t need a leaf in the table, we don’t have to borrow fold-up chairs from the Hargraves (actually, we never returned them from the daughter’s high school graduation party), and I don’t have to cook a 23-pound turkey.

 

Because the irony of it all is, along with everything else, my oven is broken. 

 

But we’ll improvise. The daughter’s good at that. I just have to take a deep breath and allow another human in the kitchen (my mother’s fault – she didn’t let anyone in until she turned 90). We’ve got an air-fryer, a crock pot, a microwave, an indoor grill, an outdoor grill with no propane, and a stove top. And, don’t judge me, a nice, small pre-cooked, pre-sliced turkey breast from Trader Joe’s. How bad can it be? 

 

We’ll get through the day. We’ll call the sisters. We’ll call the missing son. We’ll eat a week’s worth of food in a matter of hours. 

 

And, if the mother stays calm, once the kitchen is clean, I just may break another rule and descend the steps to the basement and succumb to the daughter’s wishes for a family viewing of her favorite movie. 

 

Because, despite our world being (temporarily) broken, there’s no denying the fact that It’s a Wonderful Life.

It's Not Covid, It's Not Cancer...

Well, it was, but, that was then, this is now. 

Ten years ago today, on the morning of my bosom buddy Claire’s 50^th birthday, I was admitted to the hospital to have my cancer removed. Ten years ago I couldn’t imagine ten days forward, let alone ten years. Yet, here I am. Alive and well. 

 

It never occurred to me that I would die from breast cancer, even though my college housemate, Betsy, (yes, same name – we also lived with Sue and Sue) relayed a cautionary tale when I was debating whether to get a lumpectomy, a mastectomy, or a double mastectomy. Her mother had died the previous year of breast cancer and told Betsy that she regretted not opting for the most radical treatment from the get-go, which may have prevented the recurrence which ultimately killed her. 

 

While that conversation sealed the deal for me, I knew that part of my decision had to do with logisitics. To me, it was way easier to lop them off than to drive myself to radiation every day for six weeks, endure chemo, hair loss, vomitosis, dependency on other humans, and all those other horror story side effects. And, while I was at it, I may as well do the two-for-one special so reconstruction, while double the everything, would be more symmetrical. 

 

Instead of focusing on the seriousness of the surgery, I obsessed over the minutiae. I made my friend, Janice, promise to come sweep the leaves off my back deck twice a week, if not daily. I worried about the meals Gail set up to be delivered to my house. Should I sit in the chair and moan so my friends would think I truly deserved their care rather than bounding to the door? Could I ask Claire to take me to yet another follow-up appointment, or should I just go ahead and drive, dragging drains and pillows with me into the driver’s seat? And, was it self-serving to put myself on the prayer list at church, another ploy for attention? These were the kind of things I worried about. 

 

When all was said and done, and I woke up, flat-chested for the first time since I was ten years-old, I was informed that it was indeed a good thing I had had a double mastectomy because there were cancer cells that had not been previously detected in the "good" breast. Which made me feel a little less selfish. 

 

Of course it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The drains were disgusting, I had a lot of discomfort and frustration in not being able to do things myself, but pain, not so much. I sent my spouse back to work right away so I could embellish my stories as friends rallied around me, helping me lug laundry baskets, wash my hair, wash the dishes, clean the house, and of course, sweep the deck. 

 

The best thing that came out of it was that I won a bet with my plastic surgeon, the Good Doctor Troy Callahan, that may well have saved me from future bariatric surgery. He, having done one or two reconstructions in his tenure, pushed back when I said I wanted to go smaller, way, way smaller with my new implants. He warned me that I would be way, way out of proportion if I went with the size I wanted. 

 

“What if,” I said sucking in my stomach as far as I could, which was not very far at all. “I lost 100 pounds. Then they’d be in proportion.” 

 

I won on both counts. I’m in proportion and I didn’t have to bolster big bosoms ever again. I lost 100 pounds in 14 months and have kept off 80 to 85 pounds of it (depending on the recent intake of ice cream) for the past 10 years. And while I bemoan regaining those 20 give or take pounds, what woman at my age isn't crying the same tears?

 

In the decade before the breast cancer, I had a hip replacement, followed four months later by a three week stint in the hospital for pancreatitis and an emergency gall bladder removal. Three years later, I had a hysterectomy – nothing urgent there, just pre-cancer cells. But, it was a lot while in the throes of child rearing. 

 

I made it a full nine years after the breast cancer with no surgeries and then had a double knee replacement. And while I had become quite good at managing my hospitalizations and rehabs, I put it off way longer than I should have. After recovering so well, and because there were no future surgeries looming, I went back to the Good Doctor to see about having extra weight-loss skin removed (I know, gross). 

 

But, then Covid hit and I put that on hold. 

 

So, here’s the It's Not Covid part of the story. In July, three of my college friends wanted to get together for an overnight at Jeanne’s house. It was summer, we could be outside, we could be safe. When I balked, they mocked me promising they'd take their temperatures every hour on the hour and dress in full PPE. I rolled my eyes and went. Of course I went. And two bourbons in, completely forgot about Covid for the first time in four months. 

 

I opted to sleep on the couch in the basement so I'd have my own private bathroom. When I woke up the next day with a stiff neck, morning after guilt kicked in. Was this a new Covid symptom? Was I going to bring the virus home and infect my whole family over a little bit of selfish fun? 

 

Two days later, the neck was fine, but my jaw was killing me. Killing me. I couldn’t open my mouth all the way which made it very hard to stuff with food, yawn, or over-talk. I got a Covid test. Negative. I went to the dentist and had no signs of an abscess. I got an antibody test thinking maybe it was a Covid after effect. 

 

Negative.

 

Then my right hand started hurting. It had actually been bothering me for a while, but I thought it was from playing too many Words With Friends games on my phone. Now it was so bad I couldn’t make a fist. I couldn’t grip the handlebar of my bike. I couldn’t tie my shoes or hold a pen the way I was taught in kindergarten. My finger looked like a sausage, gnarled like the Wicked Witch of the West, and felt like there was hot lava flowing through it. 

Oh, and then my neck kicked back in. It felt like a normal stiff neck like when you can’t look over your shoulder at the oncoming 18-wheeler as you merge onto the highway, but add excruciating pain. I couldn’t sleep on a pillow and if I rolled over at night, I had to put my hands on either side of my head to hold in the hurt as I turned. And my back, oh, how my back ached. 

 

Went to the doctor who pooh-poohed my guilt-Covid theory, especially since I tested negative. And, tested positive. For something called rheumatoid factor. 

 

Off to Dr. Anna Zezon I went, a rheumatologist I randomly picked by a random google search. Despite the unwelcome diagnosis she bestowed upon me, she quickly became my new favorite doctor, which in no way diminishes the love and respect I have for all my other favorite doctors. 

 

“You’ve got psoriatic arthritis,” she announced. 

 

Psoriatic arthritis. The chronic, incurable, autoimmune disease that closely resembles rheumatoid arthritis except for the scaly skin lesions often found on the scalp. (I know, again, gross). And here I thought I just had the everyday Head and Shoulders kind of dandruff. 

 

I’m clearly no stranger to pain. I can live with it for years and years and years. But, the thing is, you can’t really let this go without treating it. It will continue attacking, gnawing away, until there's permanent disabling damage to the joints.

 

Which brings me full circle to what I wanted to avoid ten years ago. Chemo. OK, it’s not really chemo, but it is methotrexate, which is a chemo drug. I am on a low, low dose so I may well avoid suffering those evil hair loss, mouth sores, nausea side effects. But, just in case, I take a daily dollar-a-day pill to help keep that all at bay. 

 

I have to shoot up once a week. For the rest of my life. 

 

I got a few free samples of an auto-injector, which is basically an encapsulated needle. You pull off a lid, push down on the end and you hardly know it’s happened. Especially if you have an extra two inches in your stomach to sink it into. But, alas, insurance didn’t cover it, so the out-of-pocket cost was a mere $133.08 a shot. For that price, I had no problem honing the fine art of shooting up with a vial and needle. The apparatus for which was mostly covered, costing me a total of $2.10 for three injections.

 

Miraculously, I received a letter from the “specialty pharmacy” informing me that my insurance decided to cover the auto-injector after all...for a $100 a month co-pay. By this time I was enjoying the progress I was making doing it the old-fashioned way so I told them I wasn't interested in forking out even that much money. But wait! Just call this toll-free number (and subsequently sit on hold for 33 minutes), and we'll waive the co-pay. Which I did. And they did. I’m now back to the auto-injector, but I assume it will be like a cable company deal. Once they’ve hooked you and the year is up, the cost will be back to $133.08 a piece, or most probably, even more. 

 

So, here I am, ten years cancer free, shooting up a chemo drug. The pain isn’t completely gone, and I don’t know if it ever will be, but I’ve learned to hold a pen between my first and middle fingers, work my bicycle brakes with half a hand, and have gotten really good at using back up cameras and rear-view mirrors.  

 

In no way do I mean to make light of anyone else’s cancers, or conditions, surgeries or sufferings. I just find for me, if I can laugh my way through the absurdity of it all, if I focus on the minutiae rather than the gravity of the situation, that getting through to the other side is way more bearable. 

 

So, until cancer or Covid gets me for good, I’m going to keep airing my dirty laundry, and thanking my lucky stars that for some unbeknownst-to-me reason, I just keep drawing the long end of the stick. 

Half a Lifetime

It’s official.

I’ve been married for half my life. 

 

At least for a year. 

 

I’d been looking forward to this milestone, but then did some simple addition and realized that this time next year when we reach our 32^nd anniversary, I will no longer be married for half my life, because I’ll “only” be 63, not 64.  Anything mathematical, statistical, or logistical hurts my brain so I don’t really understand this phenomenon, or at what age I’ll be when I fully cross over and can say with conviction, for the rest of my life, that I’ve been married over half my life.

 

All I know is that half of a lifetime, or anything close, is a really long time. 

 

“What’s the best thing about being married?” my youngest, not-so-young son asked us the other day in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere. I paused, still somewhat baffled that any semi-grown child of mine, would actually choose to be with me. I can say with unwavering confidence that the last place I’d be on a Saturday afternoon in October at the age of 24 would have been hiking in the lower Catskills with my parents. 

 

But, that of course, was a lifetime ago. 

 

“The best thing about being married?” I repeated, buying time. I’ve known from parenting for 45.16 percent (I googled it) of my life, that certain responses, certain reactions, certain non-answers can not be reconstructed or reversed. Ever.  

 

You know, the fury-filled, “I told you not to go” when you get the crashed-car on a snowy day call.

 

Followed by the, (gulp), “Yeah, I’m fine, Mom. Thanks for asking.” 

 

Or the, “You’re kidding. He’s asking HER to the prom?”

 

Followed by the completely innocent, “What’s wrong with HER, Mom?”  The HER who becomes HIS girlfriend three months later. 

 

“I DO like her,” you insist.

 

“Whatever.”

 

“The best thing about being married,” I said. “Is having someone you love with you all the time.”

 

I looked sideways at my ever-loving spouse who remained silent. 

 

“You know, like you never have to go to a wedding alone. Or make decisions alone. Or take care of the dog alone. And, of course,” I continued, mother gene kicking in. “Having kids together. Because no matter how much your grandmother or aunt or best friend pretends they care about the color of your baby's poopy diaper, no one cares like a parenting partner.”

 

“So, then,” asked the introspective son. “What’s the worst thing about being married.”

 

I laughed.

 

“Having someone with you all the time,” I said, without skipping a beat. 

We walked along, the three of us, scuffing at the fallen leaves beneath our feet. 

“Which is why you have to marry the right person,” I added.

 

“And, how do you know it’s the right person, Mom?” 

There's that question. The one akin to What’s the Meaning of Life? or Which Came First, the Chicken or the Egg? The one that every unmarried, soon-to-be married, and sometimes even married, person on the planet wants answered. 

 

I knew if I gave my stock response of “You’ll just know,” to my philosophy-major son, it wouldn’t fly.  

 

We’re talking the rest of your life, he’d undoubtedly argue. People evolve. Circumstances change. 

 

Instead, I just said, “You know, I’ve been married to your father for half of my life.” 

 

Long enough to launch three children, bury three parents, buy a big, old,front-porched, till-it-falls-apart or till-death-do-us-part house, lose a job, change a job, pray for a job, total a couple of cars, raise a couple of hounds, survive more than a couple surgeries, kill a cancer, shock a heart, buy two new knees, a hip, two bosoms, knowing we’d willingly double our troubles to mend one of our kids’ battered body parts or broken hearts, of which there’ve been many. 

 

Thirty-one years is a long, long time. 

 

But of course, if you marry the right person, no matter how you do the math, half a lifetime isn’t nearly long enough.