I wore no wig, no makeup, no heels—just the dress, set off by the full beard I wore at the time.
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Every female mammal has some form of them. They are functional. Yet for centuries, (mostly) men have dictated style and ferver about female breasts, both how much was decent to expose in fashion and how large was fashionable at any given moment. From the annals of art history and “Rubenesque” women in the 1600s to the Flappers of the 1920s, to the Vargas pin-up girls in Playboy, styles shift dramatically with time. Yet somehow, many girls, myself included, defined ourselves by our proportions. As the Julia Roberts character said in the movie Notting Hill, “They’re just breasts!”

My mother came of age in the 1920s, grew quite large and bound her breasts to achieve the flat look that was fashionable in that era. She broke down her muscles and had to wear custom-made bras for the rest of her life. She was self-consious about the size of her breasts, though men loved them. I developed late and she always told me I was flat-chested. She said that with envy, but I believed her and was ashamed.

Everyone in my 6th grade class seemed to need to wear a bra except me. Finally, late in the school year, I pestered my mother enough and she bought me one, announcing loudly to the sales clerk that I didn’t need one, as I only had two “mosquito bites”. I remember what I wore that first day: a light blue skirt and white blouse, through which one could see the outline of the bra. I had choir practice at temple that night. On break, one of the social queen bees came up to me, put her arm around me and asked if I was, indeed, wearing a bra. I exulted that she had noticed. “Well congratulations!”, she offered. It did not cheer me up. She was mocking me.

The years passed. I grew in self-confidence and chest size, got away from Mother and home. I took off my bra at my all-night party on high school graduation night and only put it on again when absolutely necessary: for a role in a play, for a special dress, four years later when I married and went to work. Twice in my life I’ve been on birth control pills, which caused me to gain weight and go up one whole cup size. I didn’t like being on the pill and got off it as quickly as I could and go back to my normal proportions.

I took great delight in nursing both my children. When researching it, I found great benefits for the baby, so kept it up for a year and had healthy babies. My father had never seen anyone nurse an infant, as that was not in vogue with his generation. He was in awe. He thought I was the Madonna.

But our fascination with breasts has taken on all sorts of twists for gender, be it female or male. My younger child has several diagnoses, including Asperger’s syndrome and mood disorder. His doctors tried many sorts of medications at various points in his life, including Risperidal while he was undergoing puberty. One of the side-effects was gynecomastia; swelling of his breast tissue. His doctor told us to wait to see if it would recede, but it did not. He left for college, and wouldn’t wear a towel to the bathroom, opting for a bathrobe instead and was teased about it. He had surgery to remove the extra breast tissue over Christmas break during freshman year. It was the equivalent of a double mastectomy.

This was further complicated when he wrote a blog called “Vi.improved” and told us he had gender dysphoria; in other words, unbeknownst to us, he had struggled for years with his gender identity. Some time after sharing the blog with us (which told us she wasn’t happy with the breast removal, which was also news to us), she came out as a woman, first called Vi, now Vicki. She taught us many things about gender. It is not binary; purely a he/she sort of thing, but a spectrum and she falls somewhere along that range, but more female than male. And sexual feelings and gender are not the same. Who you are attracted to has nothing to do with being male or female. We are still learning, supporting, loving. She is on testosterone-suppressing hormones and estrogen hormones and now has, again, grown breasts, which makes her feel womanly. She has come full-circle, but having breasts is certainly part of her ability to feel feminine.

There is an epidemic of breast cancer around the world. Too many of my friends and family have been touched by this hideous disease. Many have opted for double mastectomies and reconstructive surgery. But not all. Do they feel less feminine? I think not. They are thankful to be alive, once they get over the terrible treatment options and whatever disfigurement may result. We move past the definition of “breast as beauty” and appreciate life more fully. Perhaps we have gained wisdom and are no longer defined by the male-oriented definition of that dewey ideal. It depends on your point of view. Being alive has its own rewards.

Costumes and candy, trick-or-treating, pumpkin carving and leaves rustling under foot, parades at school. All made up happy times when my kids were young and Halloween rolled around. Autumn in New England is so beautiful with the brightly colored leaves on display. We always hoped it wouldn’t be too cold or too wet when we’d head out to gather candy. Scary decorations already adorned the door, we’d hustle out and make the rounds in the dark neighborhood.

Sometimes we’d be lucky and Dan’s parents would come to visit. Erv was a pumpkin carving expert. The kids sat up on the window sill above the sink and watched their grandfather scoop out the center and carve some spooky face into their desired pumpkin.

1991

Eventually that tradition passed on and I was left with carving duty. We’d go out to a farm and buy the biggest pumpkin I could carry, along with a kit, though I could never follow a pattern. I learned tools were not all that useful. I had to really dig in and get my hands dirty, scooping great hand-fulls of seeds out of the center, doing the best I could to carve a face with jagged teeth on the grinning Jack O’Lantern. I did this for years, hoping that it didn’t rot or get smashed before the big night, so I could light the candle in the center and my children could admire the full effect. We’d place other pumpkins and gourds around. The house was ready for the season.

Kids ready to Trick or Treat, 1996

As we marched from door to door, so did all the other ghosts, goblins, Ninja Turtles, or whatever was the costume du jour. We also live one block from Boston College, so, as the crush of younger kids passed, college students would come begging for candy. One year we actually ran out. I ran to the drug store to restock, and pulled into the driveway as Dan held them at bay at the front door.

Another year, poor little Jeffrey came down with chicken pocks. He only had one or two spots, but I knew what was coming. I called ahead to a few neighbors to see if we could at least come to their homes. He had to stand back, while I went up to the door to retrieve candy for him. He weathered his bout fairly well. David came down with them on Veteran’s Day and was so much worse, down his throat and everywhere. He was miserable, missed days of school and I sat up with him for three nights, unwrapping the new Rocky & Bullwinkle tapes I had purchased to amuse the kids when we went to see the grandparents over Thanksgiving; the tapes were put to good use.

Children grow up, traditions fade, neighborhoods change. We don’t have little monsters come a’calling any longer. I don’t carve a pumpkin or buy gourds. If we are home, I might put up a decoration or two, just so the house looks approachable, but the last several years, not a soul has come trick-or-treating on Halloween, not even the college students.

Now I don’t even put up decorations. I try NOT to buy candy because I will wind up eating it. We see on the news that some schools have cancelled their Halloween parade…they don’t want the kids to feel pressure about what to wear or how to dress up. Traditions fade, times change. Of course with the pandemic, no one went out in our neighborhood last year, but still, the kids have grown and moved away; all is quiet now.

The problem is The French Laundry is tiny and only takes reservations two months in advance.
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My birthday falls at the end of August, which is a lovely time of year, but a terrible time to have a birthday when you are young.
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I was watching the tiny rain drops sprinkle the surface of the water on the swimming pool this afternoon and all of a sudden I was whisked away to a day when I was 12 years old standing alone in some green rubber rain gear by a small lake my father built for me. It was cloudy, the light rain was drizzling and I could hear the thunk, thunk of the rain drops as they hit the rain gear that lay over my head.

My fingertips were cold as they stuck out of the end of the raincoat while I held my fishing rod and stood quietly so as not to spook off the rainbow trout. The trout don’t mind the rain and they even enjoy the offering of a red earthworm if you stand real still. Thunk, thunk, thunk, more rain and now I can feel my teeth begin to chatter. Dad never seems to get cold but I am always cold it seems. How does he do it? Wait…. did you feel that? That was obviously a bite. I don’t feel the cold any longer and the long walk down thru the pasture and down the old cattle trail to this special place was worth it after all.

Then the line takes off and the hook has fond it’s mark as the hungry rainbow makes his run and the drag on the reel sings out as the rod tip bends and shakes. I am as serious as if it were a 225 pound sailfish in the Sea of Cortez as I bite my lower lip and feel the shake and pull of the trout as he pulls the light fishing line to test it’s limit. I allow the rod tip to give way at the exact time so it won’t break off. Then as I lift the rod tip and slowly dip it down I begin to reel in line as I work around the small limbs of the alder saplings so that the line wont tangle as this wise trout tries to head for cover. But there comes the time when the trout tires and I know the battle is over and finally I see the side of the rainbow come within my grasp. As I gently lay my hand under the side of the fish and raise him so I can see this creature, so amazingly beautiful that it would make a diamond jealous, I can see his eye looking at me. As I lay my rod in the damp grass and carefully grasp him he tries one more time to slip away while I remove the hook from the corner of his lip.

As I slide my hand back into the cold green water and release, he slips gently back into the wetness and he is gone. As he slipped away…. Reality returned and I realized it was only a swimming pool…. no alders, no green raincoat, no trout. Even though I realized my fingertips were cold, and the trout was released, I had captured a moment which has lasted me a lifetime.

The Who, in their song My Generation, famously said “Hope I die before I get old.”
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I was rushing to pack for Boston, but took the phone call. It was my client at the Farm Bureau Insurance in Indianapolis, calling to say the signed contract was being FedExed to my office. Perfect way to start my birthday weekend. Dan and I had lived apart for almost 8 months by this point, but we saw each other every second or third weekend and every one felt like a holiday. This weekend included my birthday and his company Christmas party. I had to look outstanding, as none of his friends understood why he “let” me take this job and move to Chicago to start my career in sales. I was going to WOW them.

To that end, I had gone shopping. I didn’t have much money, but decided I wanted a “knock-’em dead” dress for the party. This was 1978, the height of disco. A friend referred me to her favorite store in Chicago’s Gold Coast and I’d found a dress I really liked the previous Saturday, but wanted a male opinion, so called J-P on Monday. J-P was a client, but we had become good friends. He lived in a high-rise next to my office, had great taste, never made a move on me, claimed his girlfriend was in primal scream therapy (I never met her) and we had fun together, going out often. He was also a six foot tall black guy with a huge Afro. He had an unusual backstory…too long for this tale.

I called and asked if he could meet me at My Sister’s Circus over lunch. He warned me he was wearing “George”. “What was ‘George'”? His full-length fur coat! There was not doubt the folks at the store thought J-P was my pimp, but we didn’t care. We were having too much fun. He approved of the dress (which had long slits up both sides and was cut low in the sleeve holes). He taught me to sit like a lady in it. He loved the cinched-in electric purple belt. Later in the week, we shopped for an alternative belt and hair barrettes, as I wore my hair longish with a body wave. I was ready. I still have all of it (I stitched the skirt slits part way up for a little more modesty). I wear the barrettes all the time. (The featured photo was taken four years later before the Cultural Ball, once I had moved back to Boston; I got good use from the dress.)

Dan lived with two other guys in an untidy apartment in Brookline. I rather dreaded staying with them, as no one cleaned. And Dan had just bought his first BMW. He emptied our bank account without asking me. I had threatened divorce and seen a lawyer (my brother’s college roommate, but still…I was upset). So this was a delicate point for both of us. He met my flight, took me to his apartment, where I changed and off we went to his company Christmas party. We were staying the night with friends in Norwell, south of Boston, so I didn’t have to deal with the dishes in the sink and the all-male bathroom.

And wow them I did! I danced the night away to Donna Summer, Gloria Gaynor, and the other Disco Queens of the moment. Everyone marveled at how stunning I looked, and I could brag that I had closed business that morning. A large group of us went to Locke-Ober for dinner after, a historic, excellent restaurant, now unfortunately shuttered, but really high-end at the time, famous for its Lobster Savanah. Then on to our friends overnight. They made a lovely breakfast for us and we lingered and chatted.

To my great surprise, instead of heading to Brookline, our next stop was Boston. We pulled up in front of the Ritz, the elegant old hotel across from the Boston Public Garden on that crisp winter day. It was my birthday. I thought, “How wonderful, Dan is taking me here for dinner”, but he told me to take my suitcase as well. I couldn’t believe it: we were checking in! And not just into any room, but a suite with a working fireplace and a view of the Public Garden!

A butler laid a fire in the fireplace, Dan presented me with a dozen long-stem red roses as well as my birthday and Chanukkah presents. For my birthday he gave me a delicate peignoir set. It didn’t fit (nothing ever does, but he got a lot of points for the thought) and for Chanukkah (a December baby frequently just gets one big present…not fair!), he presented me with a book by Balanchine describing every great ballet. He knew how I loved ballet. I was taking a wonderful class in Chicago at the time. It was so thoughtful and much appreciated.

We dressed and went to the beautiful dining room. He reserved a corner table overlooking the the Public Garden. By now it was dark and all the Christmas lights sparkled in the vista below. It started to snow lightly and we were engulfed in a magical winter wonderland. It was SO romantic. We had a marvelous French meal, topped off by profiteroles, our favorite dessert. The entire evening could not have been more perfect.

I flew back to Chicago the next day, warmed through and through with all his romantic gestures. Years later, when we talked about that glorious weekend, Dan jokingly said that the snow was the most difficult to arrange.

I devised an ingenious way to break the arrangement to my mom. Or so I thought.
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