Son of a Preacher Man

Dear Priscilla,

I thought of you in yoga class this morning.  In the early class I attend the instructor plays the most fabulous playlists and since I recently realized that “my brain is 70% song lyrics” I frequently choose my yoga classes based on how well I like an instructors playlist.  I go to the 8:15 class a lot.

Today I heard “Son of a Preacher Man”.  I have no idea why that song reminds me of you dear Priscilla, but it is your ring tone on my phone and has been since I figured out how to customize ringtones.  Remember that time you called when I was in church?  How apropos, especially considering you are the religious one.

I’m pretty sure I connect you to the song because of one line: “Bein’ good isn’t always easy, no matter how hard I try.”  There is something about both you and me in that line.  We do try, and sometimes we succeed. Sometimes we fail miserably, but we always have each others back when one of us crumbles.  We take walks, we tell each other everything is all right, and we’re always learnin’ from each other.

But, that’s pretty much all I have in trying to figure out why that song reminds me of you.  Especially since you don’t like boys.

Love Wins

My imagination has been running wild lately and I would like to put a halt to it. Hannah leaves for college in a week and here is what I have been imagining:

  • Roommate troubles
  • Wild & raucous parties
  • Orgies
  • Hemorrhaging money
  • Her first drunk dial home
  • Wanting to go anywhere but home for the holidays
  • Lost cell phones
  • Academic probation

19023330_10155464312578216_2640556330581430746_oI have no idea where any of this is coming from. Hannah has always been a great kid, a solid student with awesome friends. Why does a mom’s brain always go to worst case scenarios? It is a paralyzing pattern fueled by my crazy imagination. Well . . . maybe also fueled by personal experience and her three older siblings.

But I will break this pattern with brain training. Here is a productive (and healthy) image:

  • Hannah will build her communication skills with her roommates
  • Her parties will be civilized and infrequent
  • She will get a small job and save money
  • She will call us every week (sober)
  • She will miss me
  • She will excel

This is going to be tough.

My human brain also runs rampant with worst case scenarios, but lately the most horrifying thing is that those images are not my imagination.

  • Neo-Nazi’s and other white supremacy groups are marching in the streets in battle fatigues and armed with assault rifles
  • Two leaders of nations with nuclear capabilities are playing a horrifying game of chicken
  • Russians hacked our elections
  • Healthcare for women is under attack
  • #notmypresident is a spineless, infantile, misogynistic, ignorant, demagogue

We are living in horrid times. I am feeling as nervous, scared, anxious and uncomfortable as I was right after the election. This is not the world I want to launch Hannah into. And frankly, I don’t need this added stress just days before sending my youngest off to college. Can I just call everyone home, snuggle, watch movies, play games and hide from the world? A few good rainy days (or even weeks) forcing us to stay inside would be helpful. So would potato chips, popcorn, Milk Duds and Reese’s.

But no. What I need to do right now is more brain training and set an example. I must be a kind person and send loving energy into this ugly world and hope that the ripple effects keep Hannah as well as Emma, Ross, Max, Kate and Carter – and everyone else I love safe.

  • I will shower my family with love – always
  • I will do my best to look everyone in the eyes and smile
  • I will not shadow my heart with judgements and prejudice
  • I will use my voice to stand up to bigotry and hatred whenever and wherever I see it
  • I will advocate passionately for reproductive rights, gun violence prevention and climate justice

I live to support my children and grandchildren and help them find their way to peace and happiness. Through all this we will do our share to make this a world of peace. This part should be easy.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.  –Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.20729363_10155696593743216_7517340660322051388_n





The Beginning and The End

'17 Flower Assembly-38.jpgI cried last Friday. It started with that choked up feeling in my throat. That feeling that I know will soon spill over from eyes and down my cheeks. Dabbing away those first few tears, throat sore and swelling, I hid behind my camera as she knelt to the kindergartner that was handing her a flower. By the time the girls were singing the Alma Mater tears were rushing like a spring waterfall and I could see that many of the seniors also felt overwhelming emotions with graduation on the horizon.

I remember the trepidation Hannah felt when she went to Laurel School for the first time those many years ago. But last Friday I could feel her excitement as she got into her uniform for the last time. Over the years, she has loved every Laurel School tradition that has grounded her in this amazing community. Last Friday’s tradition is the one that marks the beginning and the end. This ritual is so special as each kindergarten girl is invited to give a single flower to each senior girl on her last day of classes, thus launching each generation into a new and exciting chapter in their lives.

But this is also a beginning and an end for me. It is time for me to define myself as more than just a parent. I’ve started to look for myself in the mirror again and I’ve been easing myself into periods of uninterrupted leisure. For Mark and me, it is a beginning that we never had. We have only known each other with children around and I relish the thought of getting to know him as if we were young and carefree. Our dreams of travel are getting bigger and grander as we peruse the guidebooks.

On the other hand, after a full 30 years of raising children, my baby is about to launch (throat swelling starts here.) My time will no longer be dictated by “who has to be where” and “what do we have to eat?” I am not young and certainly not carefree and when I look in the mirror I make sure the lights are soft and dim. One more child is entering the big bad world of adulthood and she will ride the roller-coaster of life mostly on her own for a while, hopefully confident in the knowledge that mom will always have her arms out to catch her.

I cried this morning and I choke up almost daily. I think I’ll go buy myself a flower.


The Kindness of Strangers


Tuesday was a gorgeous, sunny spring day. The morning was warming up quickly yet still a bit of a chill in the breeze.  I had an appointment in Shaker Square and as usual I was early. I parked my car and headed out in one of my new favorite outfits, hair washed, make-up donned and feeling confident this meeting would be mutually beneficial. As I made my way around the square for a time-eating stroll, a large, disheveled, toothless man stared me down. As he approached he tipped his head toward me, smiled wide and said, “gooooood afternoon beautiful.”

I know in these days of rabid feminism (of which I often participate) I should have been appalled at the frank objectification of my looks. I know many would admonish me for even looking at the person who gave the impression of being homeless, let alone broadly smile at him and respond right back with a “good afternoon to you too”. I also know that his well-intentioned compliment made me stand a little taller, smile a little broader and made the sun feel just a bit warmer.

We are always so quick to judge people by their looks, their clothes, their demeanor. We often try to look beyond words for other meanings, nefarious or otherwise. But on this beautiful spring day a kind man on the square made me feel good, not just because of his words, but because we were both eager to accept the kindness of a stranger.

As I came around the other side of the square I saw my new friend once again approaching me. I smiled and waved to him like we were old pals, he tipped his head  and we said hello, again. The folks coming and going around us at the rapid station gave us quizzical and curious looks but we were just happy to see each other again.

Spring is in the air. There is still kindness in the world and I remembered to keep my judgements in check that day. I hope I made his day as much as he did mine.

Ode to a Friend

Dear Priscilla,

cbkSo I drove by the Euclid Tavern the other day.  It has truly been decades since I even thought of that place, but when I did I was instantly carried back to a certain Sunday in 1995.

Back then, Mark didn’t know us very well and he erroneously gave us his tickets to a Sunday Performance of the Cleveland Orchestra. When he so graciously handed them over he told us about the regulars that he had known for years, that he only saw on concert days.  He knew their intimate mid-concert sleepy noises, he knew their proclivity for splayed legs, but he didn’t know their names.  He was so proud of his occasional participation in this elite social circle.

You and I, however, were on a great adventure that day.  With abject disregard for socially acceptable behavior in the confines of the great concert hall known as Severance, we headed out in our leathers (I do believe yours was borrowed), jeans and heels to the nearest bus stop.  Smiling at strangers and chatting with vagrants we were a bubbly pair waiting for the #5. Waiting, waiting and waiting – at least an hour until some kind soul informed us that the bus didn’t run on Sunday. So we walked, and walked and found more friendly faces to smile at.  By the time we made it down Murray Hill we were parched.

Having just finished law school, I of course knew the best dive bars in the area.  The Euc was the closest, so cheap beer it was.  Upon entering on that sunny Sunday afternoon, we knew we had found “our place”.  Our feet peeled off the floor with a tug at each step and that sour hoppy smell of last night’s party assaulted our noses with a familiar odor reminiscent of college days.  The light was dim, the music was loud and the sunlight streaming through the open door carried in the promise of redemption.  We were the only people there at the time and the biker-girl bartender (generously, yet arguably tastefully tatted up) slammed a couple of beers on the bar. And so we were off to solve the problems within ourselves and to share our adventures with the world. (Do you still have our notes on napkins?) It was 1995 when we first decided to document our adventures.  It’s now 2015.

When I passed by the Euc the other day I noticed it had a bright and shiny new neon sign.  However, when I looked inside it was still the dingy, poorly lit space with uneven, sticky floors and I swear I smelled a Moosehead.

I was instantly struck with the thought that the Euclid Tavern stands as the perfect metaphor for our lives.  It’s been there forever – and yes dear Priscilla, we have known each other long enough to admit that we have been together forever.  We too have shiny new signs.  We have reinvented ourselves many times over the decades.  Not always in a good way, but always with a shiny new sign. And we remain the same inside: dark, craggy and sometimes stinky but always with that ray of sunshine we call redemption, or hope, or change, or whatever is needed that day.

The Serious Side of My Trip to Oklahoma


Around May 24 of this year the Kingston Oklahoma area was deluged with rain storms that flooded rock solid, parched grounds. Since homes are not built with basements in most of the south, people saw water in their living rooms up to 1’ high. On June 18, new rains and swollen rivers and lakes flooded those same homes. Homeowners were then seeing flood levels of 2-3’ in their living rooms.

Our UMC East Ohio Conference Early Response Team of 15 was divided in two and one team was sent to a Lake Texoma neighborhood while my team went to Tishomingo, birthplace of Miranda Lambert, her Pink Pistol gift shop and the Pennington Creek neighborhood. Both communities were feeling the stresses of disaster: confusion, isolation, helplessness and hopelessness.

On the shores of Lake Texoma many families were devastated that their beautiful homes were soaked. Fortunately, they were able to move many of their possessions to upper floors, rent storage pods and stay with relatives or neighbors nearby. The community came together and helped each other find resources such as UMCOR Early Response to help when all seemed hopeless. The Lake Texoma team removed carpeting, some drywall and did mold remediation.

In the Pennington Creek Community the lake and creek had flooded their banks, washed out roads, soaked living rooms, destroyed possessions and rendered people almost homeless from their small, one-story bungalows. Dennis, our homeowner was a recovering alcoholic with 2 years of sobriety. He had had 18 years until he found his wife dead of a prescription pain killer overdose. Dennis was rapidly running out of money to pay for the local hotel that had given him a discounted rate for 2 weeks. There we also met Donald, in his 80’s, staying at the same hotel but only for 2 more nights. We also had another senior stop and beg us for help as she was living in a borrowed camper next to her home until she could get assistance.

 FEMA and the Red Cross responded to both communities after the first flood. But by the time our team arrived 2 weeks after that second flood, they hadn’t been heard from again.

My team removed all of Dennis’s possessions out of his home. We removed drywall from floor to ceiling, removed moldy, wet insulation from all the walls, and pulled out paneling, hardwood flooring, linoleum, refrigerator, cupboards, bathtub and toilet. We literally gutted Dennis’s house. We had to leave all the debris on his front lawn because the city had not provided dumpsters to the neighborhood. Moldy, stinky piles were collecting in front of houses throughout the neighborhood. And just like his neighbor, Dennis was hoping to borrow a camper to live in next to his home until rebuild teams could help out.


I’ve been on several Early Response trips and have always left knowing that I have been the hands of god helping in times of disaster. I have left with the faith that others will follow to finish what I had started – basically healing and rebuilding lives. But on day 2 of this trip I developed a nagging, uncomfortable feeling that I couldn’t shake.  I talked about it with a friend and again with our Team Leader. The more I talked about it the louder my gut screamed and the more visceral my emotions became. I left Tishomingo with a deep concern that this poor, aging neighborhood would remain neglected and unserviced. On our last day, we heard hushed rumors that FEMA would be back to condemn many of the homes.

At a particularly low point for me, our Team Leader, Jason Frazer shared this prayer hoping it would settle my soul, and it did. I would like to share it with you:

“A Prayer for Prayer” by Rabbi Sheldon Zimmerman

O My God

My soul’s companion

My heart’s precious friend

I turn to You.

I need to close out the noise

To rise above the noise

The noise that interrupts –

The noise that separates –

The noise that isolates.

I need to hear You again.

In the silence of my innermost being,

In the fragments of my yearned-for wholeness,

I hear whispers of Your presence –

Echoes of the past when You were with me

When I felt Your nearness

When together we walked –

When You held me close, embraced me in Your love,

Laughed with me in my joy.

I yearn to hear You again.

In Your oneness, I find healing.  In the promise of Your love, I am soothed.

In Your wholeness, I too can become whole again.

Please listen to my call –

Help me find the words

Help me find the strength within

Help me shape my mouth, my voice, my heart

So that I can direct my spirit and find You in prayer

In words only my heart can speak

In songs only my soul can sing

Lifting my eyes and heart to You.

Open my lips, precious God,

So that I can speak with You again.

I continue to pray for the flood victims in Oklahoma and especially for Dennis and his neighbors in the Pennington Creek Area. I ask you to pray for them as well.


Joys of Camping


Newago State Park, Michigan

Day 1

I have to admit, I momentarily regretted my decision to camp by myself. After dropping Hannah and Abby off at camp, I drove from the sparkling waters and sunny skies of Lake Michigan toward the stormy grey skies and unknown lands of Newago State Forest. The beautiful summer day became cloaked in the steel grey and pastels of weather brewing. But, not to be defeated, I turned on my headlights, turned on some loud music and drove into the forest.

Things were quite different a few hours later as the tent was pitched, the dog was walked and fed, fire wood had been purchased, kindling chopped and the sun was out like a still life in the late afternoon sky. I decided to celebrate – chips, dip and chardonnay.

After cocktail hour, a stroll around the lake was magic for my senses. The turquoise blues of the massive lake complemented the vibrant wet, luscious greens of the dense pine forest. The warm setting sunlight created shadows that danced on the water and played hide and seek through the trees. I spied small oaks seedlings in massive quantities worried that they may have been of the poison variety so I prayed to the gods of forest to spare me last trips misery – yet another itching return from camping.

My nose was teased by the damp, earthy scent of moss and by the thousands of gnat-like insects eager to tickle my sinuses. I could literally smell the green in the woods. The pine, the oak, the maple all newly watered by the rain was full of life and vigor. The smell was better than Old Spice, any day. Slowly the breezes brought the smell of campfires and dinner cooking which was comforting in a way.

The woods were alive with a symphony of sound. Woodpeckers provided percussion, boats on the lake provided the hum, waves lapping the shore were the tympani and in the alcove of a small campsite I stumbled upon an upright bass, a fiddle a banjo and a most haunting voice to complete the effect. I was definitely in the enchanted forest.

Wandering on I was overjoyed by the discovery of the perfect marshmallow stick. This perfectly straight, 3 foot long hardwood beauty needed only a carved tip to provide orgasmic goodness to my taste buds later in the evening.

So overwhelmed by my sensory experiences I sat by the shore of the lake to take it all in. Within moments I was close to hysterical watching Darby, my six month old, big eared, short-legged welsh corgi bravely protect me from the 2-inch waves slapping at us. His barks were adorable, his legs were sinking in the sand and he was pitifully unable to stop those darned waves. Then, the light bulb went off, his head cocked just a bit towards me as it occurred to him that digging might actually be the appropriate method of attack. So dig he did. A great one-foot hole that almost swallowed him up. A hole that he stuffed his nose into and immediately inhaled copious quantities of sand and brackish water.

He vomited a good portion of that night.

Day 2

Ahh, morning. Not a bad night’s sleep considering my air mattress doesn’t hold air. It had been a long time since these bones had slept on the ground. Darby woke me up bright and early and we crawled from the tent to greet the chilly yet beautifully foggy morning. The new day began with steaming coffee and a roaring fire.

The morning fog gave way to a sunny, breezy, beautiful summer day. The sounds of birds, boats, wind and children filled my ears. I grabbed my journal, my camera and my dog, had breakfast at a picnic table near the lake and felt perfectly content.

Later I took a walk by the dam. I walked and walked and walked. I walked through woods, across an embankment and across fields. The Muskegon River stayed 75 feet below me down an eroding wall of mud, the kind that could swallow you whole if you slipped. Across the river were summerhouses with docks, boats, waterslides and beaches.   Families playing and splashing in the river shared coolers full of sodas and beers.

Being quite the adept party crasher (a talent honed by solitary camping over the years) I was eager to make new friends and share in their beverages. Yet Darby and I continued to trudge on, parched because I forgot our water canteen. The sun continued its trajectory to the top of the sky, burning brightly, sending serious 90-degree rays directly at us, the kind that only SPF 75 can protect you from. Finally, the sound of rushing water was loud enough to make me believe we would have wet toes soon. My hot feet were tingling at the thought of a cold, wet stream. Darby’s thirst was checked for just a second as he dashed toward the sound. But alas, the view of the rushing tributary could only be seen from the 3-foot wide, wooden bridge, suspended 20 feet up from the crashing, cold water. Foiled yet again by the eroding embankment.

Later that day . . .

I was completely convinced that I had single handedly eliminated 90% of the park mosquito population with my smoldering campfire. The firewood purchased at the stand down the road was so wet that it absolutely refused to flame. Two Sunday papers and a trip to the store for lighter fluid later, I had a small flame.

Meanwhile, Darby was completely zonked out. As I was enjoying my mid-afternoon smokefest, a plate of cheese and salami, and a glass of chardonnay, Darby remained complete immobile under the picnic table. I do admit that we walked a lot that day and a nap was definitely under consideration.

That evening I sat at yet another picnic table, scarred by initials, stained with food, overlooking the lake. I watched boaters take their last turns around the darkening lake. I listened to the retching of the skier having failed yet another attempt to get up. Apparently having swallowed another gallon of lake water. Darby sits perched at the edge of the embankment, curious and fascinated by the vista.

As the sun set behind the trees, as quiet calm comes over the lake, I breathe. The loudest noises I can hear are the gentle waves on the shore. The evening ends with peace.

Day 4

The peace and serenity that charmed the campground for the past couple of days was completely obliterated by the unruly rambunctiousness of new arrivals. Last evening four women and their 8-10 children descended on us with annoyingly loud noises irritatingly like a pack of laughing hyenas. The screaming children were up until 12:30 and the drunk women made a ruckus until 2:00. Sadly, the demeanor of the friends I had made changed by morning, as we were all tired from disturbed sleep and disappointment at the loss of serenity. I didn’t linger long after breaking camp that morning.

While it was a disappointing end to a glorious preceding couple of days, the peace I found at Newago State Park is still with me – as is the cold I caught.

Gold Star Day

Well last Saturday was certainly a gold-star day. Remember the feeling of getting that star on your grade school paper, or the taste of the glue when you were allowed to put one wherever you wanted it? Perfection.

My grandson, Carter, was born last Saturday morning. A snowy, blowy, cold winter morning made brighter by the birth of a child. So ironic that this new, beautiful life was brought into my world on the one-year anniversary of a day that almost shattered my faith in humanity. Carter was born on the anniversary of the Sandy Hook Elementary shooting.

That morning, Mark and I were at the hospital with the in-law’s, joyfully anticipating Carter’s birth. We were able to cry, congratulate, hug and love our growing family as he entered the world.

By noon, Mark and I were home celebrating with a champagne brunch.  After a short nap we returned to the hospital with Hannah, Emma and Kate, where for the first time since the same date last year, I truly felt that all was right in the world. We were actually the larger, more boisterous family! A photograph in that hospital room showed every one of us at our smiling best – no scowls, no closed eyes, no one turned away.

I am enough of a realist to know that moment of perfection was fleeting, but I am also cognizant enough to know that particular moment was divine – that despite all the cruel, crazy evil in this world we can find our moments of perfection in the birth of a child.

I was given the true gift of Christmas last Saturday.

Carter & Gramma

Warm Glow

Black and white negatives. I don’t even remember when or where I found them, or how they got on my desk.  Occasionally I held the strips up to the light, thinking “it’s been at least a decade since I’ve used film” or “I can barely make out any faces.” I did however recognize my brother Pete. Of course I recognized him, he always stood out.  I was pretty sure I saw Andy and George too. But for some unknown reason I concluded that these negative’s were Pete’s, not mine and I often wondered why they made their way to my desk. Pete died almost two decades ago yet artifacts of his keep appearing in the strangest places.  These were obviously not something that needed my immediate attention. So I kept putting them down, still within reach, but definitely out of priority range.

But I kept these film negatives on my desk knowing that one day I would make prints.  I would tell myself that I would get to it eventually. A label applied to many an item on my desk.  It’s what I do – get to it eventually.  I put off doing anything about it; I didn’t even rank them it in priority as there is so much going on in my life and in our world that needs my immediate attention.

Well, I got to it last week. I’m not sure if it was the holiday spirit that got me reminiscing or something more mysterious. On the other hand it may have just been the frenzied pre-holiday ritual of clearing my desk before December knowing that not much else will be accomplished in the last month of the year.  But I took those negatives to the camera shop and lo and behold, they were mine. Snapshots in time, circa 1980.  A flashback to a time of wonderment, excitement and electricity and a trip back to a place of laughter, friendship and yes some debauchery.

I’m still not sure when he put those negatives on my desk, but I’m pretty sure I know why I printed them when I did. It’s the holiday season, a time to laugh, love, reminisce and feel the warm glow of all those souls (both departed and still with us) that have touched our lives.

May the spirit of those souls that have touched your life keep you warm, smiling, and full of love this holiday season.  Share that warmth with everyone you see.

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At this time of year (around Easter) I spend time reminiscing about the souls that have touched my life. This essay is a tribute to unconditional love and awe inspiring moments.

It was a beautiful January morning.  The kind we seem to get every January nowadays. The snow had melted; the sky was a cerulean blue.  That magical yellow orb, high in the sky, spread warmth across my kitchen windows like butter melting over toast.  Looking outside I saw nothing but clear skies and the promise of warmth.

However, in my heart I was hollow.  For this was the day that I would have to lay our beloved Rufus down.

I went through the motions of getting breakfast ready.  After pouring the coffee, I knew I couldn’t eat a thing and since Hannah had planned to come with me to the veterinarian’s office, I knew her appetite would be non-existent as well.  So I gathered my hot steaming cup of Joe and sat on the living room floor with our dog.

The cancer came on quickly and was taking him from us even faster.  He hadn’t been able to muster that “catch me if you can” glint in his eye from the edge of the driveway for weeks.  He looked at me with his deep, melancholy brown eyes, obviously asking me what was happening to him.  I didn’t know how to tell him that it was almost over.  That soon he would be running through fields of sunflowers, chasing deer, pulling cat tails and chewing a never ending supply of organic rawhide.

The drive to the doctors’ office was too short.  Rufus couldn’t muster the strength to poke his head the window.  The air was cold, not the warmth I perceived in the kitchen.  Tears wouldn’t stop.  They silently fell as Hannah and I tried not to look at each other.  I lifted Rufus out of the car and we made the slow, sad walk to the barren examination room.  Even the doctor cried with us.

Hannah wasn’t able to stay in the room during the injections, but the doctor was kind enough to give the three of us as much time as we needed for acceptance.  As Hannah and I sat on the floor of the cold barren room, we felt the soul of our beautiful canine pass its way from his lifeless body into our hearts and smelled the result of his body’s last emission assault our noses.  Yes, our beloved Rufus passed gas.  We accusingly looked at each other before we realized that it was from him.  Then we looked at each other for permission to giggle, and we did.  We knew then that it was OK to leave.

The day was still breathtakingly beautiful, so we drove to the Family Life Center and walked the labyrinth.  We silently completed our circuits and silently hugged each other at the center.

We drove home and tried to muster a hunger for lunch.  A quiet calm enveloped us as we sat at the table together.  We didn’t smile, but we did reminisce.  As we ate in our “goldfish bowl” of a dining room we were joined by miraculous menagerie: a flock of birds at the feeders; 4 deer staring at us through the front windows (remarkably not eating the roses); an unknown cat, stoically perched on the boulder just outside; two turkeys peering from the edge of the driveway; and a pack of squirrels unusually calm in their scurries up the walk.  Never before had so much wildlife appeared so magically and so needed.  We were enchanted.

God was with us all that day and is with us every day.  God warms us when we felt cold inside.  God cracks a joke when we are reaching despair. God gives us peace when we need quiet contemplation. And God gives us friends to lift us.