In one of life’s ironies we moved to an even nicer part of town when my father fell ill. Our new house, set on a hill, had an enormous backyard and an adjoining wood lot wildly overgrown with flowering shrubs, abandoned rock gardens and a crumbling stone wall. One side was steeply graded and seemed to me a mountain’s slope. All was shaded by a thick canopy of towering maples that would dwarf Jack’s beanstalk, I was sure. It was here as a little girl I wrote myself into the fairy tales and legends that were the staples of my childhood reading.

In Summer I might climb up into one of the smaller trees and wait for Prince Charming to arrive with my glass slipper, at least until lunchtime. Again in a tree, I might be the dazzling, long-tressed Rapunzel in her tower, saved from the evil witch by a different prince and her/my own wits. There were so many trolls under the bridge, so many Grimm misadventures to survive to a happy ending. My brothers were off somewhere becoming older brothers, and that was O.K. They would not understand.

Some days I might switch sex, jump “ship” (the wall) and, brandishing a tablespoon grabbed from the kitchen drawer, become a pirate digging for gold doubloons in the fragrant dark earth. In yet another scenario I might be on the trail of an Indian brave, searching for arrowheads, my fantasy fulfilled when I found one.

In Fall’s waning light I waded rapturously through thigh-high mounds of crisp golden leaves in my own Enchanted Forest. It was a race against time until The Brothers dutifully raked up the gold and broke the spell.

In Winter I gazed out the window upon my frozen kingdom and wished for Spring. Until then I settled in with my storybook favorites and Aesop’s morality tales.

It was from a fairy tale, The Fisherman and His Wife, that I came to believe that wishes could come true, if they were noble ones. It was via fairy tales that I worked out my young feelings in dreams both romantic and dark. Hansel and Gretel and The Pied Piper of Hamlin terrified me, but I suspect these stories had their purpose.

This is in fact the premise of child psychologist Bruno Bettelheim’s book, The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales. In it he argues for the importance of fairy tales in a child’s journey from immaturity to maturity. The cruelties and cruel characters in these stories, he suggests, serve as a “reflection of a child’s necessary “killing off” of successive phases of development and initiation.”

Fascinating stuff to consider. But all I can say for certain is how very much I miss that backyard, and the magic it held for me.

When I saw the original classic Disney cartoon (1950) of Cinderella as a child, I totally bought into her song of "A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes."
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We continue to get lots of catalogs these days, enticing us to buy everything from fancy cruises to kitchenware to clothing. The deforestation caused by these is disheartening. Being so small, it is difficult for me to shop from a catalog, but I do have tried-and-true brands that suit me well.

Through the years, I’ve bought all my bathing suits from the Land’s End catalog. I have this style in multiple colors. I like the fit and it doesn’t fall off my narrow shoulders.

Lots of stores where we do business will send us catalogs announcing sales, like Bloomingdales, which has a brick and mortar store around the corner from us, but may not have everything listed in the catalog. But this will entice me to go check things out.

Sometimes, I’ve never heard of the outfit sending us the catalog. It quickly gets tossed.

 

Dan looks at all the fancy trips and cruise offers, since we’ve done business with a few of these companies before. Given the current state of our finances (along with everyone else’s), we are not likely to splurge on anything like these in the short term, so they, also, are quickly tossed, as are all the home goods catalogs.

I have a brick and mortar Anthropologie a mile from me and like to try things on before I buy, but when on Martha’s Vineyard, that isn’t possible, so I am more apt to catalog shop when on Martha’s Vineyard.

Amazon has become our go-to spot for everything while on Martha’s Vineyard because there is such limited local inventory, whether it be replacement magnets for the shutters on our windows, printer ink, or any other item one might think of. Rents are very high and more and more interesting stores are going out of business. They can’t afford their rent, or sadly, their landlords are greedy and want to turn the stores into housing, thinking they will get more money from the constant shuffle of tourists than from their long-time tenants. That puts the whole local economy into turmoil and we have to look elsewhere for everything. Unfortunately, frequently, it means browsing Amazon for what we need. Those smiley-faced boxes clog up our trash, but bring everything from shoes to books to bedding to kitchenware. Amazon has become America’s marketplace, like the Sear’s catalog of yesteryear.

My grandmother had given up cooking by the time my mother lived at home with her parents after her year studying dance in New York in 1935, so she didn’t learn to cook from her own mother. After she married at age 32, she learned a few basic recipes from her oldest sister’s housekeeper. That sister also didn’t know how to cook.

As a result, she didn’t like to cook, claimed that having me around her in the kitchen made her nervous, so I had only basic skills when I married at the age of 21 in 1974. I had taken Home Ec rather than being in the 8th grade choir, understanding that I wouldn’t learn anything from my own mother. I could follow a basic recipe. I enjoyed baking brownies from scratch from the recipe on the Baker’s Chocolate box. Those are still in my repertoire.

My father, being the youngest in a large household and, like my mother, also single until the age of 32, enjoyed cooking, even making his own mayonnaise at times. He taught me the famous “Sarason family pancake” recipe (add syrup and vanilla to the batter), which is what I’m making in our first apartment in the Featured photo, and he always made them for me whenever we were together, as in his last visit with us in Oct, 1989. He died four months later.

I received many cookbooks as wedding gifts; here is one shelf’s worth (I have several more). I rarely use them.

My mother wrote me letters with her recipes; I used some. Her brisket was dry, but I make a good spaghetti sauce from scratch. Dan always liked my meatloaf. I used my mother-in-law’s recipe for macaroni and cheese, which of course used Velveeta. Dan wouldn’t have it any other way.

I talked to a cousin who had been in the Boston area during my four years at Brandeis. She typed up lots of 3×5 cards with various recipes and I tried many. My in-laws moved away when we had been married only three years, but I always make her Thanksgiving dinner, using her exact recipes. Thanksgiving Forever. She lent me her recipe box in 1984; I took it to work and copied the entire collection, which I still have. The sweet and sour meatballs were a big hit. She used to say she wished she had more time with me; she could have “done something with me”.

There was a fantastic meat shop up the street from us when we moved to Newton in 1986. Not only did they sell the best meat and poultry, they also provided recipes on how to cook everything. They expanded and became a gourmet shop, but no longer exist. Their rack of lamb was my go-to company meal.

I had long ago assembled my own looseleaf of menus, collected through the years, broken out by meat, poultry, dessert, salad, Thanksgiving; everything is neatly taped inside for easy reference.

And random articles that I find and clip might just be slipped into the front. I am amazed at what I found.

While visiting Patti in Palo Alto (she is a fantastic cook), I watched her work and learned to make carbonara, which became a favorite of Dan’s, but it took a lot of prep work. I often made it when we had others over for dinner.

Too bad Dan has such a limited palate. When he retired, more than 20 years ago now, he had so little to occupy himself that going out to eat (not fancy, just neighborhood restaurants) gave him something to look forward to, to break up the day, so we eat out almost every night. It is his daily entertainment. Plus, he does not help with the shopping, food prep, cooking or cleanup, so if he is retired, I thought it was time for me to as well. And that is why I no longer do much cooking.

 

Until December of 1969, I had never been on an airplane. When it became clear to my father that I’d go away to college (the choice came down to Northwestern in suburban Chicago, or Brandeis in suburban Boston) and I would fly to either location, Dad agreed to let me go to a mini-camp reunion in the Washington, DC area over New Year’s Eve. Valerie, visiting us from Wichita after Christmas, would accompany me on this first flight, which made both my father and me feel better about the whole thing. She was an experienced traveler and could show me the ropes.

We flew to Washington National on December 30, 1969 and went straight to Alexandria, VA where WC Frome hosted the group on the first evening. He was Emily’s camp boyfriend, his younger sister also attended camp and several people stayed with him. After dinner, the group staying in DC-proper made our way to Chris Kelley’s stately home. I believe her father was in the diplomatic corps, but I’m not really certain. Both our hosts had been Voice and Drama majors at camp, like all of us.

The following day, the last of the year, we gathered in DC and saw some of the fantastic sights our nation’s capitol has to offer: Folger’s Shakespeare Library (most of us had been in “Midsummer Night’s Dream” the previous summer, so relished this opportunity), Arlington National Cemetery (paying our respects to JFK’s grave), ending the day as the sun set on the Lincoln Memorial, which was even more haunting and impressive as the sun went down on 1969.

Chris hosted the New Year’s Eve party, which was good fun (the Featured photo). And finally, on New Year’s Day, we flew back to our respective homes. It was my first time flying alone, without the support of my girlfriend. There was no security in those days, so we could sit with each other for a while before our flights. Of course we dressed for our flights. We weren’t allowed to wear pants at school yet, we certainly didn’t wear pants to fly. My father was at DTW to meet me. All had gone well and I had a wonderful visit with my dear friends. Since August, 2020, many of those listed above have Zoomed on the first Tuesday of each month, more than 50 years after we first met. These are deep, lasting friendships.

Valerie invited Emily and me to visit her over Spring vacation and Dad thought I needed the practice to learn how to check in by myself and this time, I’d have to change planes in Chicago to connect to Wichita – another lesson to learn on my journey. Big airports can be overwhelming, but I looked carefully, took my time, read the signs and made it all the way. Valerie met me at the other end. Emily had already arrived, so got to room with Valerie. I was in older sister’s Kyra’s room. This was Easter weekend. We ran around with Valerie’s boyfriend and his friends, had a great time, but also went to her father’s country club for a big Sunday lunch on Easter, after attending services. I had appropriate clothing for each event. I had good manners and knew how to behave (even if my date and I came in late for curfew one night…oops!). The three of us remain dear friends.

Valerie gave me a crêpe paper flower to take home, which I hand-carried. I made it to Chicago and sat at that gate for some time, holding my large blue flower. I’d had such a good time that I was tired and fell asleep. When I awoke, the gate area was empty. I was panic-stricken. Where was everyone? Why had no one bothered to wake me up? I rushed to the counter. The plane had NOT taken off; they were making the last boarding call – I ran onto the plane. Hindsight is everything. And a lesson learned about flying and paying attention. I guess that is why my father wanted me to practice before going off to Boston on my own for four years.

Flying During Covid

We expected our first grandchild in mid-December, 2021, in London. And my birthday is December 10, so we decided to spend most of December in London, since due dates are only approximations and we thought it would be fun to celebrate my birthday with our London kids and get to meet Anna’s mother and sister as well. However, the Omicron variant was rising, particularly in the UK (they tended to be several weeks ahead of the US in the pandemic trends). In fact, new testing regulations went into effect the morning that we flew. As we thought about ways to stay safe, we decided to do something we’d never done before: we flew first class! We each had our own personal seat pod (and the seat folded flat on our overnight flight so we could actually sleep), but best of all, we were not sitting close to anyone else. We know that planes have good ventilation, and we had to wear masks the whole time (unless eating), but we felt much safer in less-congested quarters. Also, being away for a month, we carried large suitcases and first class allows more weight for package, so our big suitcases were no problem at all. We felt quite pampered the whole flight, both going and coming back, and totally safe. Still during peak COVID, the flight was also considerably less expensive than during normal travel times. We thought it was a good investment, but one we cannot repeat. It was just for COVID-times. Unlike in my early flying days, I wore very comfortable clothing. I confess, I am a bit aghast when I see what people wear on airplanes these days, but everyone wants to be comfortable.

One week after arriving, Omicron peaked in the UK. There were ads on TV, exhorting the citizens to get the “jab” and we tested every day before seeing our kids (David told us how to get free test kits, which were readily available; we came home with a good supply). We stopped taking public transportation, walked everywhere, or took an Uber to our kids’ home (very high vaccination rate in the UK, no crazy vaccine hesitancy).

But we ate outside for my December 10 birthday dinner. There was a small overhead heat lamp for one side of the table, but my feet were frozen by the end of the meal.

Rosa was born on December 24 (a week after her due date). Anna had a tough delivery, stayed in the hospital for a few days, so we all celebrated a postponed Christmas on December 29 at their home. Again, everyone tested before getting close to the new baby and Anna’s mother and sister prepared the wonderful meal, but we could be together and feel safe.

We stayed until January 3, 2022 and enjoyed our first class seats on the return flight home. First class check in is really something at Heathrow. We were driven to a separate entrance, exclusively for first class passengers, whisked through security, baggage check and into the first class lounge with free food ordered from a lovely menu, WiFi and superior accommodations as we waited for our flight to be called. We were far from any crowds and well-cared for. We could get used to that, but we knew it was a luxury just to keep us safe during the height of COVID.

And it did.

 

 

 

Sofa-Bed

Our first living room couch was really a sofa-bed –  we bought it thinking when it wasn’t being a living room couch it could double as a guest bed – and it did,  legions of our friends have slept on it over the years with no complaints.

And as I remember it was originally covered in a navy blue suede and was very well-made –  and understandably so as we got it at W & J Sloane’s,  at the time a successful New York furniture store.

Opened in 1843 in lower Manhattan by William Sloane, a Scottish weaver,  and his brother John,  the store became known for tapestries,  carpets and finely-crafted,  upscale furniture.

But we weren’t so upscale ourselves at the time and so we bought the sofa-bed on the installment plan,  agreeing to make monthly payments.

We made the first month’s,  but after that we never got another bill.  I guess somehow our account was lost!

I kept meaning to call Sloane’s to ‘fess up,  but it kept slipping my mind,  and by the mid 1980s the store had fallen on hard times and closed,  and so then it was too late to make amends.

And by the way as is my wont,  I’ve had that Sloane’s sofa-bed reupholstered more than once.  It’s now beige corduroy and has been relegated to the den.

But bless W & J Sloane’s,  that sofa-bed is still comfy after all these years,  and worth every penny we never paid!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

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