Anita's Garden

I am drawn to yellow Black-eyed Susans and pink Echinacea, white daisies, peonies and other long-stemmed flowers that gently sway in the morning breeze; sunflowers that remind me of big, happy faces (and my mom); and deep blueish-purple petunias, which literally make me stop and stare, marveling at the inherent artistry of Mother Nature.

Belmont Inn is a Bed & Breakfast in the charming little town of Camden, Maine, that David and I have enjoyed every summer for many years. What I noticed upon arrival the very first time we stayed there was the magnificent garden that was overflowing with an endless bounty of wildflowers. Each day as we’d sit on the wraparound porch of this old Victorian house, we’d see the lovely innkeeper, Anita, joyously laboring in it and presiding over it. While I knew this was special to witness, I also felt at times that the relationship between Anita and her garden was almost too private for an outsider to observe.        

This summer, we probably won’t be going back, due to the pandemic (boooooo) and trying to stay in tip-top shape for our grandchildren (yaayyy!). Although I think this decision is for the best, David knows I’ll miss it, as will he. In an effort to brighten our spirits during this period of long, sometimes melancholy days – and have me spend more time with him outside – he suggested we create our own version of the Belmont Inn garden, just steps away from our own porch.

When he first brought it up, I wanted to remind him of who I am and who I am not. I AM an admirer of a beautiful garden, that’s for sure, but I am NOT someone who wants to do the digging to make it happen. This is in direct contrast to his interest and satisfaction in taking such wonderful care of our property. 

I like doing some planting each spring, like in pots, and I’m pleased to report that the flowers usually live through the end of the season, but that’s a far cry from planting flowers in the ground that actually bloom each year and add to the picturesque quality of the landscape. This requires a lot of work, and if you were to ask me “What would you rather do outside…garden or shovel snow?” There’s no question; I’d pick the snow option. I also love a great sushi meal but would rather enjoy it out than learn to make it in my kitchen.

Seeing that David was so enthused about his idea and had already painstakingly cleared a portion of our grounds for it, I wanted to be a good sport, not to mention that I have p l e n t y of time and energy, so why not just do it with him, even if it’s not something I’m dying to do. I’d have been a real jerk to say “not interested, buddy,” even though that was my first inclination. 

He ignored my lack of enthusiasm, I’m glad to say, and repeatedly suggested that I contact Anita, who has become a very special friend to us over the years, to pick her brain about the cultivation of our own garden. I’m sure he was hoping she’d offer some guidance that would translate into excitement for me and success for us in embarking on this new undertaking.   

I could feel Anita’s smile and passion for her Belmont Inn garden when we talked about it, which led to my feeling more invested in the idea, like I was embarking on a project that would bring the three of us gratification. By the time I was done jotting down all of her suggestions, I had some 20+ flowers on my list along with her commentary for each one, such as how big and full it would become, the colors, placement, and so on. As she talked, I scrolled through the myriad of pictures I had taken each year we visited. 

A couple of days later, David and I went to a local nursery and walked down the perennial aisle, picking up 10 flowering plants that she either recommended or to which we were attracted. When we got home, the process to plant them was similar to everything else we do together:  he moved speedily and I kept slowing things down so I could think about all the specifics that Anita told me to keep in mind, such as how big each plant would grow and where it should be placed, whereas he had either already done that in his head or it would have come naturally as we had gotten started.  

Phase One is complete.

Now living in Oregon to be close to her daughters and grandchildren, we’re hoping that one day not too far off, Anita will come visit us and see our creation.

2 Grandmas

My daughter Allison and her husband Dave, who live in southwest Florida, just gave birth to a little girl. 

Allison’s mother-in-law, Andrea, and I decided to take a road trip to visit them since in today’s Covid-19 world, we did not feel comfortable flying. We planned for a ride each way of somewhere between 18 to 20 hours, which would include a one-night hotel stay.

While excited about the adventure – and of course seeing our kids and welcoming sweet Zoey to our families – I had a bunch of thoughts swirling around my head for weeks leading up to our travel.  

In no particular order, here’s the list:

1 – How will I manage pumping gas?  I figured we’d have to refill at least 3 or 4 times each way.  It had been 36 years since I had pumped my own gas, being a New Jersey (and very spoiled) resident.

2 – How will Andrea and I get along?  It could go either way with 2 people spending that much time together in such close quarters. 

3 – Will we feel skeeved out if we had to stop along the way, either for a meal/snacks and/or a bathroom? I certainly didn’t want my snack-a-holic habits to become a problem for my driving companion, nor did I want my frequent trips to the bathroom to be an issue either.

4 – Will we feel safe in the hotels?  If not, then what? 

5 – Am I going to wish I had colored my hair before the trip? It had been 5 months. I had begun seeing my mom when I looked in the mirror.

Here’s how it all played out: 

Pumping gas was a bit hairy at first, with the gas dripping down the side of the car initially but, by the second time, I had it nailed.

Andrea and I yapped for 10 days straight, including 30 out of 40 hours in the car. It wasn’t an effort…we are w o m e n…need I say more? We threw in some podcasts for variety, listened to music from our earlier years, compared the recordings of songs like “Both Sides Now” (Joni Mitchell and Seal) and the Dreamgirls song “And I Am Telling You” (Jennifer Holiday and Jennifer Hudson), and sang to Motown and her favorite: country music, of which I might be a new fan.

This one is especially impressive…we did not stop one time to go to a bathroom! It may not have been the healthiest decision, but limiting our fluid intake that day (I had none; Andrea had a cup of coffee) certainly made for an easier ride. We had also brought a ton of food, including delicious egg salad prepared by Andrea that we stuffed inside of raisin bread, fruits and vegetables, lots of other snacks…and chocolates too, of course.

Regarding my gray locks…Baby Zoey’s eyes were drawn to lights, so I wandered in to the kids’ bathroom a few times so she could see them and, while there, I was compelled to examine the blueish hue of my gray/white hair as I looked in the mirror. I was sure that I looked more like a “MomMom” than Andrea looked like a “Grandma Andi,” but I actually found the gray kind of cool, given the times. 

Our hotels were fine; we wore masks in common areas and wiped down door knobs, faucets, surfaces, remotes, lamps and so on, and we also brought our own pillowcases. ……………………………………………………………….…….....................................................

As you would expect, it was love at first sight when I met Zoey, and I got the feeling she felt that way about me, too 😊.

All week long, I reveled in seeing my daughter as a mommy, and Dave as a daddy.  It is truly remarkable to witness our kids transform into parents.

I am grateful that they allowed us to be part of such a special time in their lives and that we got to give Zoey some squeezes and kisses, albeit through a mask.

Thank goodness for FaceTime and for all the videos and pictures so easily accessible on my phone that will remind me of her beautiful smile, her sweet sounds and the sheer magic of this time.  All these things will help to ease the separation blues I already have for her and that keep me well connected with my other loves, Eliana and Ethan.     

  

I am blessed with three grandchildren for now – with a fourth one on the way – how amazing is that?!?!? 

My heart is growing and growing and growing and growing...

Father's Day 2020

It’s Father’s Day, and I am so excited for all the new daddies out there! 

We have 3 in our family alone: my son, who just became a dad for the second time 2 months ago; our son-in-law, whose baby was born last week; and our other son-in-law, who will become a first-time daddy next month.

This is a great time to become a dad, as compared with some 50 years ago. 

Back then, societal norms summarized dads as the providers for the family and maybe the disciplinarians for the children, with women staying at home and doing everything else for the kids, from changing diapers to teaching them to ride their bikes to cleaning the house to kissing away salty tears and on and on and on and on.

That particular division of labor may have made sense at one time, but it set up minimal expectations for dads, sending the message that men aren’t needed as caregivers. It also implies that women wouldn’t want or need careers or to contribute to the world beyond their own families. 

At some point, a shift began to emerge. I saw it when I worked with young moms who separated from the baby daddies and were trying to work out child support.

In one particular instance, a dad insisted on a 50/50 split so he wouldn’t have to pay the ex-partner as much as if she had the kids the majority of the time. I remember being mortified that this dad felt it was appropriate to set up this arrangement to avoid paying more, and that the judge allowed it floored me. Over time, however, I began to eat my words, as I started to see some tremendous benefits. Not only did a greater involvement with dad free up my co-worker to continue building her career, but the dad and son started to develop a relationship that would never have happened otherwise. 

  

I don’t recall having had much alone time with my dad other than for Saturday morning car washes and one particular weekend when my mom went away to be with her girlfriends. I’m sure he had been nervous about the weekend, too, and I bet he was relieved when she came home.

I contrast my childhood relationship with my dad with the times I see my son having with his kids, primarily his playful 2 ½ year old daughter. She paints his toenails sparkly pink, together they sing and dance to Disney songs, they run around in sprinklers in the back yard, dig in the dirt and throw a football around when it’s his turn to pick the activity. I’ve never seen my son look as happy and relaxed. Playtime is healthy and fun for everyone, regardless of age.

There is infinite potential for dads to get in the game, to bond with the baby early on and right alongside their partners. Moms may start off one step ahead, given that they house the baby in utero and can nurse them with milk they produce (if they decide to). 

While this unique distinction can’t be overlooked, the fact remains that a good man who wants to be a good dad can parlay this parenting gig into anything he wants it to be.

“The Times They Are a-Changin”

It’s that time of the year again to pick the Pennell Elementary School essay winners. This school was in my Philly neighborhood when I was growing up.

In 2006, my mom started the “Councilman David and Florence Cohen Award for Academic Achievement and Good Citizenship” which selects one male and one female 5^th grade student who writes the most compelling piece in response to the question, “What does Pennell mean to you?” 

The winners, which our family chooses each year, are announced at graduation, and they read their essays to the audience. We also present gifts to them.   

If this sounds familiar, it may be because I wrote about this contest 5 years ago (June 14, 2015), to the day. At that time, I didn’t mention that Pennell is predominately black, and that the award was created in the spirit of wanting young black men and women to take pride in their school and school work, to stay in school and achieve great things and to not follow in the path of others who dropped out before graduating from high school.

It didn’t seem necessary back then to mention skin color when talking about an elementary school contest; I was going through life with the assumption that not talking about race was better than talking about race.   

But today’s events – the murder of George Floyd, police brutality, racism in all its ugly forms – has made me realize what a teenager recently said so well:  It’s harder to tackle problems that largely remain unspoken.

After years and years of racial injustices, blacks are now sharing their stories with the world, and lots of people everywhere, of all different ages and backgrounds, are listening. Why did it take so long to get this conversation started? Will change actually occur?

My parents had lived in the Pennell neighborhood since about the mid-1950s, about 50 years before my mom established the essay contest.    

Shortly after they moved in, they got a taste of the black experience, when a white neighbor moved out and a black family moved in. 

This exchange of white for black sent panic to the other white neighbors on the block of row houses as well as to other surrounding blocks and, before long, lots of houses were up for sale, with more and more blacks moving in.

When my parents asked their white neighbors why they were moving out, many of the responses centered on wanting “good” schools for their children and not wanting their own kids to be bused out of their neighborhood as a result of efforts put into place to combat segregation.

No whites admitted to the fact that they weren’t comfortable living among blacks.

My parents were appalled by this mass exodus.  They made the decision that they were going to stay and be of service to the community, however they could.    

Knowing they felt that way forced me to open my eyes, too.    

There was a gang of young black men that hung out on a street corner that I had to walk by to get to elementary school.  They either tried talking to me or ignored me, but every time I walked by them, I wondered why they were always there at that corner, on those steps, at 8:30 a.m. when I walked to school, when I came home for lunch, when I went back to school after lunch, and at 3:30 p.m, when I walked home from school.   

“Don’t any of them work?” I’d ask my parents. They explained that some haven’t been able to get a job for 2 main reasons:  1 – they may not have graduated from high school so their knowledge and skills are limited and 2 – they may have been in trouble with the law – deserving or not – which had prevented them from getting employment…so they had essentially nothing to do all day, and there were no job training programs at the time. This made no sense to me. How would things turn around for them, just hanging out all day? This would likely lead to more bad outcomes.  

A number of our neighbors ended up in jail; calls to my dad by crying and scared parents to help get their kids get out of jail were a regular part of the dinnertime hour. He was so angry about the system that was rigged against blacks:  rampant abuses toward residents regarding the arrest process such as not being read the Miranda Rights and poor access to legal representation and police brutality throughout, with no accountability. He was honored to help and did so free of charge for decades, all the while sickened by the reality so many black families faced on a daily basis.

My parents did all they could in their lifetime to even out the score, to try to provide for the community what whites had at their fingertips, to try to advance the lives of blacks in every way they could. 

Today’s youth has me feeling hopeful. They are open-minded and aware and want the world to be a better place. They are learning to listen to voices of blacks and other marginalized groups, to identify racism in all walks of life and to protest police brutality. 

We will have a ton of new voters come November, and they will be casting their votes for better leadership in all levels of government.

They too will do what my parents and so many others did and are doing:  creating change where they can. 

Maybe one day there actually will be a world that everyone can call their own.

Something Seems Fishy

When it comes to choosing fresh fish at a grocery store seafood counter, my eyes are W I D E open.

This focus on detail may seem out of character given last week’s story about using my hand mixer for cauliflower leek soup instead of an immersion blender but hey, we all have our priorities.

I start off checking out all the fish that’s in the running (salmon, tuna, branzino, trout, and a few others) and compare my options. I determine the most appetizing fillet(s) based on color, shine, cut, and so on, depending upon the type of fish it is.

Salmon is our go-to for 6 reasons: 1 – It’s always available; 2 – It looks appealing, even raw; 3 – It can be made in a variety of ways; 4 – We like it hot and cold; 5 – It’s reasonably priced; and 6 – It’s a very healthy omega-3 fatty acid-packed meal option.

My typical order sounds like this: “I want about 2 lbs., thick side please.”

It’s always under or over the 2 lb. mark, never spot on, and the person behind the counter might ask if that’s OK. I say yes, because I don’t want an additional nothing piece which would be a pain to cook as it would be way thinner than the larger fillet. Or, they’d cut off a piece, which seems quite wasteful given we will eat it if we have it.     

I never really thought about what was done with these discarded pieces that are left behind by other customers, until we entered the Covid world and food delivery.  

  

We ordered our usual 2 lbs. of salmon each week. The first few deliveries consisted of one fillet (perfect), later orders included one large and one small piece (OK) but then we got to an order of “ends” (not OK).

Ends as I define them are the thin/puny segments of a one-time larger fillet, often around the tail.

Talk about UNappetizing. These little suckers looked quite nasty.   

I know there are far more important concerns in life, and I debated with not saying anything at all, knowing I am lucky to be having salmon, having it delivered to my door AND having a husband who is going to make it, too.   

Plus, there’s no way I could realistically expect store personnel to scrutinize the fish like I would, with the overload of orders and stress these employees are experiencing.

At the same time, it didn’t seem right to let it go when were increasingly dissatisfied with our purchases. We also know this store strives to offer good customer service, which has kept us loyal customers. However, we didn’t want to get anyone in trouble, either.  

  

David decided to email the store, stating our appreciation for the hard work of their staff and for the market’s responsiveness to meeting the needs of the community. He also acknowledged that we know our feedback about the salmon isn’t their top priority. 

He received an apologetic reply with a comment about better training the employees and that a gift card was on its way.  

Wow! Great customer service!

We had fun trying to guess the gift card amount.  I guessed $25; $50 would be amazing (albeit unlikely).   

It came a few days later…boy was I way off…it was for $15. It covered the majority of the cost of the salmon, so I couldn’t really complain, even in jest to David, without sounding greedy. 

He was skeptical about ordering the salmon from them again, but I assured him that our account would probably be flagged in some way and it’s likely that we’d get a scrumptious fillet next time.

I couldn’t wait to open the package.

WOMP WOMP… awful!

This time the package consisted of 4 small pieces of contrasting thicknesses, 1 of which was mealy looking and another was dried out and had no skin. It’s not like they were uniform and sold as individual portions. They were definitely the scraps. 

David contacted the store again, and they reimbursed our credit card for the entire portion of fish.

We have a new order of salmon in the frig…any guesses?

Looks like you’ll have to tune in next week.

Mixing It Up

My girlfriend told me about a delicious cauliflower leek soup she had just made, so I asked for the recipe, as I am always eager to try something new. 

She mentioned that the recipe required the use of an immersion blender, which she loves because it allows her to keep the soup in the pot to puree instead of transferring it to a blender.

I didn’t have an immersion blender but was already hooked on the idea of this soup, so I decided to proceed with – don’t judge me – a hand mixer, which I could also utilize in the soup pot. I was certain that I could make it work, one way or another. 

While the soup was very tasty, the consistency was way off with the hand mixer, like 1,000 tiny pieces of cauliflower floating in liquid. Not exactly how I envisioned my soup. 

The next day, I poured my mixture into the blender and created a truly delicious soup but frankly, by that time, I was sick of the cauliflower.

David had seen me fussing with the soup over a 2-day period, and I’m sure he wondered what I was doing. He would have enjoyed using this scenario as yet another opportunity to explain that having the appropriate tool to do the job – whatever it is – should always be at the starting point of any project. 

Since he has retired, he is constantly working around the house and seems to feel the need to buy a new gadget for every task he takes on.        

“Can’t you just use what you have?” I ask him, time and time again.    

Meantime, he consistently echoes a different frustration to me.     

“You always use the wrong tools,” he says, which is annoying to hear because I view so much of his purchases as overkill; yet, there’s no doubt that his precision consistently leads to a good outcome.

Every now and then, he manages to convert me to his way of thinking.  

Take knives, for example. He made a big stink one day that we need a knife specifically designed to slice bagels. I thought he was ridiculous and indulgent…What’s wrong with the knives we have?  I asked.

He insisted that I try the knife when he got it, and I have to admit that I became an instant believer. Its serrated edges are perfect for a clean and safe cut, which I especially appreciate given that I almost sliced my finger off some 20 years ago when I used a utility knife to slice a bagel.    

I started to daydream out loud about how good the cauliflower leek soup would have been had I used an immersion blender.

David was so excited that I was actually open to getting one that he immediately went online and started researching them. 

Guess what was in yesterday’s mail?

Grandparents

My daughter Allison is having a baby in a couple of weeks, and she’s trying to take care of the last-minute details before the little one enters the world.

One of the items on her to-do list included a text message to all the parents announcing the grandparent names we have chosen for ourselves.

I looked at the list and was floored that this baby is going to have 7 grandparents!

What a lucky kid! That’s a whole lot of love for this baby of theirs, not to mention for all 7 of us chomping at the bit to experience the joy that she will bring. It’s amazing that one little baby can make so many people so happy, just by being born.

This bounty of grandparents is the direct result of the unfortunate divorces in each of the new parents’ families. Talk about something so sad giving way to such delight.  

    

My own kids hit the jackpot with their 4 doting grandparents, each bond unique and creating cherished memories. Now sadly they have just 1 grandparent, PopPop. The humor and affection he so freely gives has been extended to the next generation, as he’s recently been promoted to Great Granddad, a badge he wears with pride. 

In stark contrast was my upbringing, void of the presence of all 4 grandparents. Two of mine were already gone when I was born, I never met my dad’s father, and I can’t picture my mom’s father’s face or voice; he passed when I was 5. I can vaguely recall his wife’s white-silver curly hair and coral-colored lipstick, and I can visualize my siblings and me sitting on hard plastic furniture covers in their living room while wishing I could have an ice cream cone instead of the hard candies in the glass bowl that were offered to us.  

In my 20s, however, I did enjoy the amazing warmth and tenderness of my then-husband’s grandmother MomMom, who scooped me up and made me one of her own. Because I wanted to learn and she reveled in teaching me, she spent eons of time sharing her skills and knowledge so that I could become a “balabusta” – the Yiddish expression for being a good homemaker – and patiently sat with me so I could practice crocheting a granny square afghan, baking kamish bread and preparing matzoh ball chicken soup for the Jewish holidays.

There was something so gratifying about being a novice under her watchful eye and loving heart; these days, I could easily find information on YouTube, given that everything is just a click away.  But I'd miss so much, in comparison.         

As you can see, I relish the precious connection between grandparent and grandchild.

By the way, the name I chose for myself is MomMom.