Our grungy basement was perfect for free play, a thing all kids need.
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Death is an impenetrable wall.  I can etch messages into my side of it, yearning, regretting, remembering with exquisite fondness her smile...
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Unlike the barracks and prefabs we had lived in, the modest new house in East Lansing had a righteous Midwestern full, unfinished basement.  Wooden staircase near the back door, cinder block walls, divided in two sides.  Washing machine and dryer, furnace, storage, and tools on one side; if we had canned, the fruits and vegetables would have been stacked there too. Ultimately, the other side got painted walls, linoleum, a couch and TV, toys and doll furniture. In case of a tornado warning, the basement’s northwest corner was our shelter.

Heaven forbid we would have a TV in the living room, so in the evenings we would watch it downstairs–Mitch Miller (sing along!) and Perry Como–while my mother ironed the clothes.  They were stacked in damp rolls inside a dish towel before being smoothed into shirts and dresses and then placed on hangers.  Suddenly realizing that the people on TV might have actual lives, I asked, “Do you think Perry Como has a wife too?”  Mother: “I imagine so.”  Filled with wonder, I followed up, “Do you think she could be ironing while watching his show, just like us?”  My mother, probably with an eye roll: “I doubt it.”

One day a shipment arrived from afar—a whole case of nuoc mam (Vietnamese fish sauce), which my dad developed a taste for while we were in Saigon. It was destined for the storage side of the basement.  Somehow in the excitement of the delivery, the case was dropped and at least one bottle was smashed, creating an overwhelming pungent pall of fish throughout the room that lasted for weeks.  My mother was not amused, especially as she not only didn’t share his love of nuoc mam, but also had to schlepp up and down the stairs regularly for the laundry.  This now meant braving the persistent odor while she hung the sheets on the basement clothes lines .

When we moved to Bethesda during my high school years, there was no basement, just a “utility room” on the ground floor.  My mother hated that room, which she quickly renamed the “futility room”.  It was maybe 11 cramped feet square, stuffed with a washer and dryer, a furnace and very little storage space, She complained bitterly.  She still hung up the sheets, but it created a dense maze in the tiny room. That was just how sheets were done, even though cotton was becoming cotton blend and less wrinkly, and dryers were more efficient.  And of course, there were no fitted sheets—the top sheets were rotated each week to the bottom before being washed.  By now, we girls were old enough to inherit the job of retrieving the clothes from the dryer while they were still damp, rolling them up and stacking them in the dishtowel, and then ironing with the steam settings, still watching TV but in the adjacent family room.  Shirts were done collars first, then shoulders, then cuffs and sleeves, then front and back.  It was the sixties, and my mother grumbled about the assumption that she was responsible for my father’s laundry at all.  After the kids moved out he took his shirts to the cleaner’s.

Years later, when I bought a little house in Oakland, I was thrilled to have a washer and dryer tucked a bit awkwardly into the generous crawl space under the house. No more laundromat for me! It helped that I was not very tall.  When my mother visited, I bragged about how great it was to have the appliances, and how perfect that they were out of the way in the (albeit small) basement where laundry belonged!  But I must have mistaken my mother’s scorn of the “futility room” for a dislike of laundry on the same floor, because she raised her eyebrows quizzically—wherever had I gotten that idea?  She had always loathed going up and down stairs into the basement to do laundry.

When we renovated the house where I now live, the laundry went right next to the bedroom, with a pass-through chute.  My mother would have approved.

 

I am not exactly sure when I knew I would in fact live forever. Oh, not in the same body of course. “Reincarnation” I thought to myself, “yeah that’s the ticket.”

As for this body I feel like I have a responsibility to keep it in reasonably good shape and healthy and so I behave myself and treat others kindly so then I can sideslip Karma and have an even better life in my next life. What defines better? Trying different things; this life I seem to be focused on The Arts; music, writing, Playwright, stand up comedy, painting, sculpture and a stint as an Impresario.

Do I sometimes feel like I’ve met others in a previous time, a previous life? Yes. I was lucky enough to ride up the old World Trade center elevator once with Cameron Diaz where I tried to convince her that we were married to each other in a previous life (no really) but she could not remember. Her loss.

Knowing I have been here before, that I am here now and I will be here again has made me a very patient man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

David was a very shy youngster, so shy that his nursery school teachers wanted him to do a transition year. We thought that was not in the best interests of a child who was already interested in reading and math, so instead, we found a small private school for his kindergarten year. There, his best friend was Ollie Murphy.

Ollie lived with his mom, Juliet (she explained that her mother was reading the Shakespeare play when she was born; an immediate connection for me) in a South End condo. They commuted out to Chestnut Hill by the MBTA each day. The stop was a block from the school. Juliet was herself in school to finish her degree. Ollie’s father worked in broadcasting for the Christian Science Monitor, which was also close by and lived a few blocks away. They had parted amicably just after Ollie was born.

Ollie, too, was shy and he and David became fast friends. He frequently came back to our house after school, or I’d drive over to the South End and visit with Juliet while the boys played. I noticed posters for various high-profile play productions in the hallway along the entrance of the condo. It was a one bedroom condo and Juliet showed David the futon she pulled out to sleep on so that Ollie could have the huge bed. David loved playing with Ollie.

Jeffrey was a little boy at the time; sometimes Dan took care of him, but often Jeffrey would come too. Since Juliet didn’t have a car, I’d take them all when we went to various places around greater Boston to play…out to the Old Grist Mill in Sudbury (near Longfellow’s Wayside Inn) to run around, or take in the Children’s Museum. Or play make believe at our house. Clearly at one of these venues (probably the Children’s Museum), there was a photo booth and David and Ollie crammed in together to have a souvenir of their deep friendship and time together. David barely made it into the photo. Ollie must have the other snap shot.

David spent one year at the school, then came out to our public school. Ollie remained in the area for one more year, but it was less easy for them to get together. When Juliet finished her degree, she took an offer from her mother to teach at the American School in Vienna, where her mother was Head of School. David was bereft to lose such a close friend. We tried writing, but Juliet wasn’t a good correspondent. They came to visit once or twice. Below is a snap shot of one of those visits, in August, 1993. You can see how happy David was to be with his friend again.

As a gift for David, Juliet brought a little flag stand with a French, American and Austrian flag standing in salute. I no longer remember the relevance of the French flag, but David was delighted and kept it on top of his bureau, where it remains to this day.

During the year that David was in kindergarten with Ollie, they slept over at each other’s homes a few times. Juliet and I became close as well. She finally confided in me how she was able to afford such a fine condo in the South End (even before it became the hottest location in Boston) and why there were those theatrical posters, hanging in the hallway. The condo belonged to her brother – Harvard grad and former theatrical “wunderkind” Peter Sellars, who had moved to California, but kept the condo, as he still worked often enough in Boston to make it worth his while to have the place when he came back. He now worked mostly directing operas. This was an interesting revelation, which I kept to myself. I tried to not be over-awed. As a theater person, of course I knew of him, but it had nothing to do with how I related to Juliet or Ollie.

We missed them very much when then left. We haven’t heard from them in years.

 

 

 

 

Russian athletes have systematically cheated for years. The Wikipedia page is too long and complicated to try to condense and enumerate the many faults, going back decades for this story, but let me give you some “highlights”.

For years there was state sponsored systematic doping. They have been stripped of 46 Olympic medals. The most flagrant abuse was discovered after a whistle blower complaint to the World Anti-Doping Agency. It was discovered that tainted urine and blood samples were being swapped out for clean ones through a hole in a lab wall, before the samples were tested for illegal drugs. This went on between 2010 and 2014. Many of the major athletes were banned from the Olympics in 2016 and those that were allowed to compete had to do so under a neutral flag.

Russia was banned from all major sporting events in 2019 for four years, but the Court of Arbitration for Sports reduced the ban to two years in 2020. But rather than suspending the athletes themselves, the coaches and the whole Russian Olympic Federation, the punishment was only that future athletes couldn’t compete under the Russian flag. Rather, they had to compete under the neutral Olympic flag. If they won, their national anthem wouldn’t be played. Big deal. They could continue to compete with barely a slap on the wrist.

Compete and cheat they did. This time, they were allowed to carry a flag that showed the Russian colors and the team was called the “Russian Olympic Committee”, whatever that meant. If they won, strains of Tchaikovsky’s “Nutcracker” would be played during the gold medal ceremony. That showed ’em.

During this winter season, a 15 year old skating phemon was on the rise; Kamila Valieva. All the professional commenters swooned over her. They’d never seen anyone so talented, so lovely and she could do multiple quad jumps (never before landed in competition) like it was child’s play. Yet, at the Russian National Competiton on December 25, 2021, she tested positive for a banned substance: trimetazidine, a heart medication that no 15 year old would ever be prescribed. It could be used to boost endurance during training. She was banned from the team for a day, then reinstated. The bad sample was sent to the official testing lab in Switzerland…not to be heard from for weeks and weeks.

She went off to China and competed in the first round of the Olympic Winter Games. She was flawless and exquisite, helping her team win gold in the team skating event.

Suddenly, the Swiss lab came back with the definitive test results. Yes indeed, her sample was tainted, she had the banned substance in it. Why had it taken so long for them to test it? They were short-handed due to Covid, they claimed. Who knows what the truth is. A hasty plea for arbitration was made. She is only 15, a “protected minor”. This gives her special status. The adults around her spoke for her. She appeared over Zoom and said she drank some water from a glass that her grandfather, who took the medication, had also sipped from (WHAT?).

She performed well enough the night of the individual short program. She sat in first place as she waited for the committee to decide her fate. They decided that, since she was ONLY 15, she shouldn’t be punished. (This was provisional, waiting for a final ruling that could takes months to decide.) She was not responsible for what went into her body.

The Americans who provided “color” commentary cried foul. Tara Lipinski, herself a gold medal winner at the age of 15, said she was drilled at an early age to know EXACTLY what she ingested and to be careful about everything. Johnny Weir, another former Olympic skater, said this would ruin their sport, it could no longer be trusted that everyone was playing on a level field. He was furious. Both agreed that she should not be allowed to skate, as much as they thought she was a prodigy. Her cheating should not be rewarded, even if she was only doing what her coach (who was notorious for getting results while emotionally abusing her charges) told her what to do. Another example of Russian bullying tactics.

One could sense her nerves when she went onto the ice the evening of the long program. And she fell apart. She landed on her butt twice. She couldn’t land her quad jumps, which had been gorgeous in the team event just days earlier. She is only 15 and the world had turned against her. She had no one to protect and comfort her. She had to be perfect for the Motherland and she didn’t have the emotional maturity to do that. She left the ice in tears. Rather than consoling her, her coach chided her. Kamila finished in fourth place.

Thomas Bach, the President of the International Olympic Committee went on TV the next day to chastise the coach and the system that did not support this poor young girl and finally understood why it would have been better to keep her out of the glare of the spotlight. One just doesn’t do that to a 15 year old. The question of her eligibility was only provisional. It is still being adjudicated. The Russians could still lose their gold medal in the team event, and deserve to do so.

With the Russian invasion of Ukraine, all Russian athletes are now banned from international competition, as part of sanctions being imposed to isolate Russia from the civilized world. A different young Russian figure skater won the gold medal at the Olympics, but will not be able to defend that title at the World Championship. For the moment, the ban settles the issue of cheating, but only for the moment.

 

 

Does time just really stop, or is our definition of time just really wrong?
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When I was a child, we traveled mostly to visit relatives and stayed with them. Starting in 1959, we did spend one week in August for five summers up in Charlevoix, a very nice resort on Lake Michigan in northern Michigan.

We stayed in The Schutts Guest House, a large house with a broad lawn run by the most wonderful woman. This had been her family home, but with everyone grown and gone, she turned it into a guest house, with several rooms to rent. Most of them had some form of private bathrooms too (the tubs were cast iron with the old claw feet). Some rooms had closets that had been turned into tiny bathrooms with showers so small, one could barely turn around in them. There were two large rooms on the ground floor. Three unmarried sisters rented those out each season.

On rainy nights, all the guests would gather in the living room. Mrs. Schutt made braided rag rugs. I helped her braid them in front of a roaring fireplace. I’d bring out my Barbie dolls for all to admire. Everyone was friendly. It seems idyllic to look back on it now; men reading the papers, women reading books or knitting, some small talk, or engaging with little me.

Since my family had young children (my brother started at the National Music Camp in Interlochen, about an hour away, in 1961, so only joined us for two summers), we were given kitchen privileges; we could keep milk, cereal for breakfast and cookies there for an after-dinner snack. Sometimes, if I was lucky, Mrs. Schutt’s grandson, George, would visit while I was there. He was about my age and was a great playmate. We’d run around in the large backyard and have a great time together. I have very fond memories of our weeks at the guest house, except for the night of all the commotion outside our room. The transom window was open and there was a lot of hollering. Rick finally got up to see what was going on. Lots of running around with a long broom trying to chase out a bat! Gracious!

After Dan and I married, we had little money for travel. Eventually, we traveled a lot for business, but I never stayed at any place fancy, unlike my husband, who always stayed at the Waldorf when in New York, once even in the Presidential Suite!

We saved up for our first big trip to Europe in 1983; to London and France. We stayed someplace minor in London, but at the fabulous Hotel George V on the Avenue George V in the heart of Paris. That was grand! Later, we traveled through the Loire Valley and stayed in an actual chateau, once owned by the Coty family, makers of the perfume brand.

We had decided to take the Hover Craft back across the channel. We drove north through driving rain, visiting a few spots until we reached Calais on the English Channel. We did not have reservations and there were only three hotels in town. We went from one to another. No room, no room, finally the worst hotel had one, tiny room for $19! There was a bed that we barely fit in. We put our suitcases on a rack at the foot of the bed. There was no room left to turn around. Behind a plastic curtain was a wash basin that stank. Clearly, lazy folks who didn’t want to use the communal bathroom in the hallway had relieved themselves in this sink and it didn’t get cleaned often! From the sublime to the ridiculous. But it was the only bed available in town, so we took it, barely slept and got out without bedbugs.

We’d gotten a taste of the fine life and we liked it.

After our children were grown, we took three fancy golf trips, which were primarily cruises, but one, which was a trip through the Riviera, had an extension to Lake Como, which we also booked. We stayed at Villa d’Esta (the Featured photo), the most beautiful hotel we’ve ever seen. Not only is the interior all marble, gorgeous crystal chandeliers and floral arrangements, but the views out to the lake are stunning. The veranda, where one can order food or just enjoy a drink, overlooks a pool that is suspended above the lake.

The grounds are magnificent, between the various gardens, statues and terraced views out to the water. Just stunning. We ache to return.

With the birth of our granddaughter in London, we now spend a lot of time there. London has many fine hotels (and more being built). We spent 28 days there in December, between wanting to be there for my birthday (December 10), and waiting for the baby’s birth (who of course came a week late). Even with pandemic-depressed rates, we weren’t going to pay for 28 days at a fancy hotel. Instead we used Hilton points and stayed at a DoubleTree (which Hilton owns) that was next to Victoria Station.That would have been convenient, had it not been for Omicron, which peaked during our second week. We stopped taking public transportation altogether. Thank goodness, vaccination rates are high there, so we took Ubers to and from our son’s home, less than 4 miles from the hotel.

On our second visit, in February, we were only going for six days, so decided to live it up a bit. We had wandered through lots of neighborhoods and eaten at several restaurants we liked a lot during our first visit two months earlier. One was LaLee, named for Lillie Langtry’s private railroad car. It was the dining room of the Cadogan, in Chelsea; a very nice neighborhood and a recently renovated, elegant boutique hotel (Langtry had lived there at some point in her life, as had Oscar Wilde). We treated ourselves and stayed there on our most recent trip. It was wonderful; excellent service, heavenly bathrooms (heated toilet seats!), quiet, posh, just lovely.

But the world turns, terrible events cause havoc and treats like that are off the table right now. It was fun while it lasted.

 

 

The French philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal is reputed to have written words to the effect that  “This letter would have been shorter if I’d had more time to write it.” Perhaps if he’d had a reliable watch, a relatively modern invention, what short time he had wouldn’t have gotten away from him.

For years, I preferred pocket watches. So elegant, intricate, and beautiful. And many with a history. I have two, but don’t know much about them; my grandfather owned them. Unfortunately, we never discussed them.

I love taking the back off and looking at the gears and jewels inside. It’s more than the gears and jewels, however. There’s often a story etched into the case — either on the outside, or inside of the watch..

The one pictured on the right shows the name George Denton, and a date, May 5, 1927. Perhaps Mr. Denton lost it on an ill-conceived wager, like the oak table in our kitchen that my grandfather was said to have won in a poker game. There are also several sets of initials and dates etched in extremely tiny letters (too small to be seen here) in the inside of the back. I’m told these represent the identities of jewelers who serviced the watch over the years.

There’s no name inside the watch on the left, but there’s a florid “JFL” (my grandfather’s initials) engraved on the back. I’d like to think my grandmother got it for her husband; again “time has passed” and those who knew at one time can no longer tell us.

About once a year I’ll wear one of these watches. But I’m too hard on them, so, rather than running the risk of breaking them, I wear a stainless-steel Casio – battery powered wrist watch which syncs with the atomic clock in Fort Collins, Colorado. I take some comfort in the analog dial (I can’t stand digital), but I still miss the gold elegance of the pocket watch.