Mountains Are Like Walls


Mts are like walls
They make me feel claustrophobic
Mts are big, tall and fierce
They scare me
Mts are steep and rugged
They cause me fear
Lakes are flowy and open
They bring me peace
Oceans are wide and reflect the sun or moon
They bring me joy
Pools are blue and bright
They make me happy
Evergreens are  full of life
They make me feel protected


A woman’s guide to a girlfriend break up or something a man will never experience

A woman’s guide to a girlfriend break up or something a man will never experience

I loved my hamburger, we were best friends.
I ate one every day.
Then one day I introduced my hamburger to cheese.
They got along famously and became best friends.
I was pushed aside, no longer important.
It hurt for many years, my calls unanswered, my attempts futile.
But as the years marched on I became a vegetarian.
I learned to love new healthier foods, and felt better and better.
I let go of the need for beef and ultimately wanted only the best for the
hamburger and it’s sidekick: cheese.
Forgiveness is a bitch, but it’s the only thing that ever cured a hurt.
And since it works both ways, I hope those I’ve pushed aside forgive me too.

60, the age of letting go and holding on

At the age of 60 I let things go while holding on tight.

I let go:

old love letters from boyfriends decades ago

thousands of redundant photos of our kids and other people’s kids

friends who serve no purpose

dreams of accomplishments that no longer have meaning

self criticism

I held on:

our kids who live near and far away

my husband who makes life worthwhile

family and close friends

mental and physical health



Death: The Ultimate Deadline

I hate deadlines, but I’m quite good at keeping them.

If it’s an event, party or just a holiday family dinner, I’m all over it months in advance: planning, organizing, my e-calendar in full tilt describing each day’s chores until that day comes . “Go time” appears to others as effortless right down to the finest detail. I sweat from the minute I know the final date until the day of reckoning when I drink too much wine and let it all flow.

So it should be no surprise that my house is beyond organized, alphabetized, not a thing out of place, not a place without a thing, nothing wasted, nothing useless, all in view and perfectly arranged. No opaque boxes in the attic to store things I don’t need or want.
As my kids have grown and left the nest I purge more and more, the opposite of the nesting one does when starting a  family. I want to make sure all my possessions land with someone who will love them when I’m gone. Death, you see, is the ultimate deadline, and I’m already preparing EARLY,  like 40 years early.
In the end of my life I will have given away or sold everything I now own. All my possessions will be spread far and wide, with 100-year-old me sitting in a chair that’s already claimed, surrounded by my loved ones, ready to meet my maker.

It Takes a Community

Moving is easy, building a community is hard.

I say this, though I’ve really never truly moved as an adult, it seems easier to just rent homes all over the country without pretending to fit in somewhere new. In this way you won’t feel the sting of feeling like the outsider.
My home base is my community. I’m an insider here. We raised all three kids in this tony Boston suburb. I know everyone I need to know, including the mailman, the police chief and the local barber who gave each of my boys their first crew cuts.
On my morning walk to the local coffee shop, I wave to my hair dresser, my husband’s trainer, our car mechanic, the neighbors who saw my kids grow up, and everyone in between. I know their cars before they wave, unless they’ve traded up to a Tesla. I feel like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, running through Bedford Falls announcing “Merry Christmas you wonderful old  Building and Loan” as I recognize every inch of my walk over 25 plus years, blanketing each phase of my life and the lives of our kids.
“Move to Boulder”, people often say, live near your 2 kids who moved away. “Stop your bellyaching about how you miss them and move there”. For one thing we have one son here in Boston. Why leave him when he is the one who stayed? He’s the loyal son, and as the eldest, most likely to take care of us.  But more prescient is the fact that this is my community. Friends don’t need to be replaced, they go where you go, as I’ve learned. If they are worth keeping they are worth keeping from any distance. But a community does not grow quickly, it takes years and years and sadly we have only one life. If I had two or three lives, I’d surely build a few communities, moving every 25 years. Time would work in my favor here.
I imagine as you grow very old, your community gets smaller which makes it easier to move closer to your kids who live far away. They, and your grandchildren, become your only focus after your spouse passes on and your friends die off. Besides you don’t travel like you used to.
Sometimes after a few glasses of wine, or worse yet, a martini, I imagine the courage to do something outrageously out of character. What might that be? For me, it’s buy a house somewhere out West: Colorado or maybe even Santa Barbara or San Diego. I’ve certainly had it with winter, in my one and only life.  But then I sober up and take my dog for a walk in my hood.



No Choices

You think it’s easy staying home all day trying to cobble together a meaningful life?

Well It’s not.
Sometimes I fantasize about getting a powerful job in  NYC. I’d wear my high heel Manolo Blahnik pumps, expensive power suits and return home to a glass of expensive red wine , kick off my heels like Alicia Florrick in The Good Wife. I’d share my stressful day’s stories with my other half who will have prepared a delicious and healthy chicken and quinoa dinner to enjoy by candlelight.
That sounds so nice. Not choosing  what shall I do today because you’ll already know.
Or what shall I eat today because you most likely will skip a few meals.  Not thinking what exercise class shall I take, as you’re glued to your office chair. What latte size shall I order,  who shall I hang with, walk with, talk to, e-mail, Facebook. What a dream it would be to have no choices, know where I’m going and when I’m coming home. No choices sounds so nice.

My Son Lives in Australia


My son lives in Australia.
Or he might as well.
The time zone is different, the landscape is foreign and you can’t get there without a long flight.
Others tell me when I moan about missing him that I should be so proud. He established his life, full of close friends, various interests and a great job. He is independent and thriving.
Besides he picked a location that you will love to visit.
But pride and visitation rights don’t fill the void in my heart.
Like all young children, but this one in particular, he started out clinging to my hip,  preferred being carried to walking. I used to think he would crawl back into my womb if given that option. His playground grew larger as he slowly learned to gain confidence and independence,  then took all that to a new level, opening himself up to the world like a flower to the sun. His goal to be his best self and find what would bring him the most joy took him far away. Australia it seems has lots to offer his ever expanding mind.   My husband and I live in New England, an often cold, and consistently mountain-less landscape devoid of the inspiring awe with nature he seeks, unless you consider the Atlantic Ocean the full monty.
Australians are the lucky ones. They live full time with the most loving, curious, creative, humorous, open, sensitive, joyful person I know. While I’m only able to get him part time.

A porch with a view

Even on a dark, rainy day the view from our 1920s porch overlooking Lake George cannot be beat.
Whether you are gazing at a blazing sunset or a misty due hanging over the mountains there is never a bad view from this window.

My Comfort Zone



I can roam the halls of Bergdorf’s in NYC as easily as a Walmart in Queensbury, which is in upstate NY.
I can talk to corporate moguls vacationing in Aspen with their private planes as easily as a welder who grew up in Ft Anne, NY, and likes to “blow shit up” as a hobby.
I am city, suburbia and a little bit country.
I am designer resort wear and full out don’t care about my clothes, as long as I look thin and the fabric is breathable.
I never stop looking for my next home, though I’m at home  where I’ve always been.
I belong with my Bill and long to be near our children.

Reservations Please


New Englanders are by nature cold, like their winters.

 No one who studies social dynamics should argue with this fact, despite the many exceptions to this rule. Where else can someone you greet make a 90 degree day in July ooze with chill?
As an extreme extrovert, I’ve poked my nose into the lives of strangers, acquaintances, and friends from Lisbon to Costa Rica, two locales of which have the world’s friendliest people. 
People are not cold in Chicago, Kansas City, San Diego, or Nashville. Nor Boulder, Denver, L.A., or Napa Valley.  It’s New England. Explanations for this phenomenon are hard to muster since all of America is made up of  cultural roots spanning the Earth, yet New England still has the greatest concentration of cold, unemotional, non expressive folks no matter what country of origin.


As I walk my “hood” in late July I count how many front doors are slammed shut, even with a glass storm door behind the big oak door. Mine is the only door that is opened to show the inside, as if to say, Come on In, the Water is Fine.”

No one hangs out on their front stoop waiting to greet a neighbor. In these parts when you go to work you enter your car head down and when you return at night, same posture. “Head down, don’t shoot”, or more like “don’t talk to me” in this tony town.

Exhibit A:
I go to my local supermarket after a month in our country home and run into a  woman whom I’ve travelled social circles with for 25 years, whose kids played with my kids, and still do. If you were a fly on the wall observing our encounter at the fruit section you’d think she doesn’t like me, but you’d be wrong. She actually does like me. Our conversation is filled with me asking the usual family questions,  sharing how I feel about this and that, only to be met by a lack of facial and/or body expression.
I’m thinking if this is how folks around here respond to positive encounters how is it they act if  they don’t like you? Maybe it’s the same. Confusing.
On the other hand, the bagger, who walks me to my car, and hails from Brooklyn, NY, like my own parents, returns my bombastic social proclivity with a heated conversation about the Brooklyn Dodgers leaving for LA in 1957, the year I was born. Bam. Warmth from the stranger.
Exhibit B:
I walk my “hood” where I have walked nearly every day for 26 years but on this day after a month away I run into a neighbor who knows me well, whose parties I’ve attended. The reception is as flat as the street below my feet,  more like what you’d expect from someone with Asperger’s or Autism— no offense to either of these conditions.
They say around these parts that New Yorkers are the worst, and in many ways, that’s true. But they are warm. They hug you while modulating their voice to match a show of emotion. And in California they fake warmth all day long, which is entirely all right with me.