Out With the Old?

colonial manor

“We are not makers of history. We are made by history.”   – Martin Luther King Jr.

“The church, on my corner, was built in 1922.

Due to recent changes in leadership at my ninety six year old church, things are being tidied, cleaned out, and cleared out. The closets and filing cabinets have been emptied and I have been told that the mother church sees no reason for us to hold on to old books or hymnals, or paperwork and records, including meeting minutes.

“We don’t need to keep anything that is over seven years old,” the church leader told me.  “No reason to hold on to the past,” he said, after he had used a bolt cutter to remove the lock that secured the oldest records.

The church, on my corner, was built in 1922.

By then, the builders of the church had been meeting in each others homes for quite awhile, reading from the Bible, singing from borrowed hymnals. and wishing for a place of their own.

In 1919, the Colonial Land Company had bought up the Shivers Farm, and subdivided the fields into lots. They advertised in the area newspapers, not just advertising lots for sale, but advertising a neighborhood, a community, a way of life.  In the years after WWI, families came and built, with some buying kit houses from the Sears Roebuck, Aladdin, or Montgomery Ward catalogs and watching as the house parts came via rail car and were delivered to the train stop in North Woodbury.  Others relied on local construction companies, like Rose and Budd Builders, to design and build their dream homes.

The young families in the new Colonial Manor wanted a community and worked together to build one. They formed their own fire brigade and some desperately wanted a church.

Those determined neighbors met for worship in each other’s homes. Eventually, they convinced the Colonial Land Company to give them a piece of land and the large property at the corner of Elberne and Tatum was theirs. Although there was no building where they could gather, they wasted no time and purchased wood from Holloway Lumber and built benches to be used as pews. Kemble Church donated a few song books and these faithful neighbors began holding open air services on the empty lot.  In July and August, 1922, the Colonial Manor Methodist Episcopal Church met every Sunday, without an actual church building.  Ministers from Camden, Woodbury, and Verga came to preach and they had over 70 attendees at some services that summer.

Preliminary masonry work was done that summer, but the big day was October 21st, 1922, when the neighborhood held a Building Bee.  Thirty-seven men were engaged in construction on the church building, and an equal number of women, back at their homes, worked on preparing food for the working men. Their motto was “A Church in a Day,” and they aimed at doing most of the major construction in a single day.  Amazingly, by 6:30 pm, when the men finished working for the day, the structure of the church was in place, and the women were able to serve a meal in the completed church basement.

I know all this, and more, because I had access to written records that happened to be over seven years old.

Those handwritten minute books were incredibly detailed and were written in the most careful and proper penmanship.  They told the large and small stories of the church and also of the town. They told about the quest for a bell to fill the empty bell tower.  They gave details of times of prosperity and generosity, when the church had money to share, and every child was given candy and an apple on Christmas, and also of lean times, when church members picked up donated coal cinders that had already been burned, to sift through and use in the church furnace, since the church could not afford coal.  The surnames of the church members in those books are the same surnames of some of my current neighbors.

But alas, those records were greater than seven years old. To some, that meant they were valueless.

The church, on my corner, was built in 1922.

Today, on this Palm Sunday, the pastor of the church told the story of Jesus’ parade into Jerusalem and told, in detail, about the crowds laying palms on the ground and shouting Hosannas. His detailed sermon relied on the narratives of the Gospels, but also provided historical facts about Jerusalem in Christ’s time from other sources.  He talked about the politics of Rome and of the Jewish temple leaders. As he preached, his words let me see the streets of Jerusalem that Christ struggled through, carrying the cross.

I left church feeling uplifted and thankful for those who preserve history.

I may not understand the mindset and goals of our mother church right now, but I am grateful for those that HAVE preserved historical records over the last two thousand years.  Walking home, I silently thanked God for those that wrote down the stories of Christ’s life, so long ago, and those that risked their personal safety to preserve them.

And I thanked God for modern archivists, in small and large churches, in universities, museums, and at the Vatican, who continue to think it wise to keep written documents that are over seven years old!

To the Greater New Jersey United Methodist Church, I say this: You are making a terrible mistake. When you forget your history, you forget yourself.

old church picture - full color

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Is It Bread, or Is It Pudding?


The leftover rolls from Christmas dinner would not fit in my freezer, no matter how much rearranging I did . There were only two choices. The trash…..or bread pudding.

Joe loved my mother’s bread pudding and repeated the same query whenever she served it. “Is it bread, or is it pudding?,” he would laugh as he shoveled spoonfuls into his mouth. “It’s both.”

Bread pudding, made from stale bread or rolls, was a staple dessert during the Great Depression. Nowadays, we throw that day-old bread away without blinking an eye. But at a time when households were operating on an incredibly lean budget, a family could not afford to throw away food that might have some life left. Bread pudding was born out of the necessity of hard times and is upcycling at its culinary best.

My mother’s bread pudding was simple, with only a few ingredients. She did not add nuts or raisins or apples to spruce it up, but instead relied on the right ratios of bread, sugar, and milk.

But whenever I tried to recreate that recipe, I fell short.  My versions were either too dry or too mushy, too sweet or too plain. When she was alive, I would badger my mother for advise, but she would explain her recipe with only vague and uncertain measurements.

“Tear up some bread and add about one sugar bowl of sugar,” she’d say.  “Add an egg and some cinnamon and a teaspoon of vanilla and mix it up. Then cover it all with milk until it is mostly covered. It’s that easy!”

What kind of recipe was this, Mom?  I wanted precise instruction, so how much stale bread is the right amount?  And how much, exactly, is some cinnamon? A teaspoon? A tablespoon? And since when is a sugar bowl a standard measure? Whose sugar bowl should I use?

But alas, in life, my mother couldn’t answer these questions. She explained that her original sugar bowl was long gone, so she had to eyeball it. And as far as covering it all with milk, this just required eyeballing too. “You can add more sugar if you need to,” she’d say. “Or more milk too.”

What the heck? In the end, I decided that my mother’s process was more about feelings and less about measurements. Yet, every single time she made it, her bread pudding was perfect.

“Is it bread, or is it pudding?” Joe would ask with a smile as he dug in.

After her death, I continued to try to recreate Mom’s flavor, determined to document an actual recipe. I approached it systematically and tried different sugar bowls and wrote down the sugar and milk measurements for each failure. Still, it was too dry or too wet, too eggy or too sweet. After many attempts, I gave up and resolved that her recipe was out of reach.  I would stick to brownies instead, where the exact measurements are conveniently printed on the box!

This Christmas, though, the freezer was full. I had over a dozen rolls headed for the trash. The conservationist in me knew I had no choice.

But instead of trying to find the right size sugar bowl this time, I decided to relax and just feel. I tore up bread until I felt like stopping. I poured on white sugar and then decided to add some brown sugar too! I added an egg and some sliced almonds and cinnamon and a splash of caramel sprinkles.  I covered it all with half and half until it felt right.

There were no measurements and it is unlikely that I will ever be able to recreate this same recipe again.  After 45 minutes at 350 degrees, it was done.

It was nothing like Mom’s, except that it was perfect.

Many years after her death, I am still learning from my mom.

“Is it bread, or is it pudding?,” Joe laughed as he dug in. “It’s both!”



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She was waiting patiently in line, wearing a pink tea-length skirt, a yellow silk blouse, and a white flapper hat with a pink bow. Her long string of pearls came almost to her waist and was tied in a fashionable knot. The outfit she was wearing was more appropriate for a Sunday church luncheon, or maybe for a 1922 speakeasy, than for her medical check up.

I asked how she was doing and she answered confidently, “I am 95 years old and I am still on this Earth, standing on my own two feet. So I am okay.”

I complimented her glamorous outfit and she smiled broadly,  extending her gloved hand.

“Well, you know, she said, “I just don’t know how long I have left.”

“And I don’t mean that in a sad way, dear,” she reassured me.  “I just mean that it doesn’t make sense to wait for a special occasion to wear my favorite things.”

“So when I want to dress up, I dress up.  And when I feel like wearing pearls, I wear pearls. Life is just too short to leave my favorite pearls in the jewelry box.”

This week, a terrible and tragic loss, experienced by another, reminded me of the fragility of life.

So remembering my 95 year old friend, I asked myself a question:  Why am I not wearing pearls? Why am I not wearing pearls every single day?

So whether life turns out to be short or to be long, let’s make smart use of the time while we are on this earth, standing on our own two feet.

  • Let’s not wait for a special occasion to wear our favorite clothes.
  • Let’s not wait to do our favorite activities, or to spend time with our favorite people.
  • pearlsLet’s try to to learn new things every chance we get.
  • Let’s get the best dishes from the china cabinet when its NOT Thanksgiving and eat pizza on fine china.
  • Let’s love each other generously and if we can, unconditionally.  At times, this could be hard.
  • Let’s laugh as often as we can, at both really good and really bad jokes. This should be easy.
  • Let’s talk to strangers in medical office waiting rooms and share our age and maybe even wear lace gloves.

And above all, if we feel like wearing pearls, let’s wear them. Because life is too short to leave those pearls in the jewelry box.


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Words….frickin’ words

swear word2

I said frickin.

But I didn’t use that other f-word or the d-word or any other less than desirable word. I was doing my best to remain calm and to be respectful, but suddenly, the word blurted out.

Language is a powerful tool. I have always advised my children to steer clear of using swear words casually, because they could suddenly pop out of your mouth when you least expect them. But that day, my emotions impacted my language, and I spoke before I thought.

The person on the receiving end was offended and made it clear to me and to others that he considered my use of the word frickin to be crude and disrespectful.

Now, of course, this person was upset with me and was trying to paint me as a potty mouth. But here’s the thing……frick is a fake swear word.

To me, frickin” is like flippin”, or frackin”, and many people don’t always hear these as curse words.  In fact, fricking is listed both in Webster’s and in the Oxford dictionary, and it just says that this word is “used for emphasis or to express anger, annoyance, contempt, or surprise.”

Although I don’t say these words regularly,  fake swear words do fill a void when I need an expletive with weight.  Fake curse words, like dangdarn, holy schmoley, and fishsticks, let me emote, but without sounding like a trucker.

In the hit NetFlix comedy, Kimmy Schmidt drops the f-word all of the time. But for her, the f-bomb is fudge. When Kimmy asks “What the fudge?” or says “Fudge it to heck,” we aren’t offended.  We recognize the difference between curse words and, well…….fake curse words.

In TV and movies, we hear plenty of fake swearing.  Robin Williams, as Mork, gave us Shazbot and Tommy Boy gave us Schnikes.  And Yosemite Sam introduced us to rassafrassin and rackafrackin.

Orbit Gum took fake swearing to a new level and showed how Orbit can clean up a dirty mouth by introducing us to What the French Toast and Son of a Biscuit-Eating Bulldog. 

So I was surprised when this individual expressed such indignation at my use of frickin’. It’s fake, for pete’s sake!  Clearly, he was overreacting….right?

When we were little kids in Oak Valley, the nuns at the area convent were on the lookout for blasphemy and were alert for any child who might casually take our Lord’s name in vain.  A kid on a bike who uttered “oh my God” would land in hot water, but so could any kid using a sound-alike interjection. Kids got called out for “oh my gosh” and “oh my goodness” and for “Jeez,” “Jeez-Louise,” and even “cheese and crackers.”  The nuns cautioned that these words were just substitutes for things we weren’t supposed to say and that, in our heart, we were saying the real thing.  The nuns would speculate about what was really in our hearts and they warned that we couldn’t hide that from God. We knew that we also couldn’t hide from those nuns, who worked to expose sin like it was their job, cause it was.

So were the nuns right? When we use a substitute word, are we really saying the real thing?  In my heart, was I really cussing that individual out?

Well, if I am honest (and the nuns would want me to be honest), I am pretty sure that I wanted to follow that isolated frickin with a frickity, fricking, frickety frick frick!  I was hurt and let one substitute curse word slip.  But in my heart, I wanted to say something worse.

So Son of a Gun and Gobb Dash It!  That individual was right to be indignant.

So moving forward, I will look into my own heart and will try to moderate my fake swears.

But then again, maybe I won’t.

Expletives and interjections help us to express frustration, anger, or pain. I would love to grow, as a person, to a place where I don’t ever have swear words in my heart. But sometimes I am wounded and my heart hurts. And while I cannot always control what is in my heart, I can try to control what comes out of my mouth.

So I cannot promise that I will never again let out a frick, frack, fudge, fiddlestick, or phooey, especially when I am upset or hurt.

And to the person who acted so high and mighty and appalled by my language,  and who went out of his way to speak badly about me, I can ask just one thing: What the French Toast?


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Dog Dreams

RoofTop Chalie is coming around the final curve. He is running close to 45 mph and he can hear the hum of the crowd as he moves closer to the finish. He can feel his spine stretch as all four of his feet leave the ground and then touch back down, pulling him forward in a frantic gallop. 

moon-1749422_960_720Joe and I were startled awake by the rattle of metal. Chalie’s paws were moving rapidly again and his crate was shaking. Chalie was breathing hard and whimpering in his sleep.

“Shhhhh, buddy, it’s all right,” Joe whispered in the dark to Chalie, whose sleeping crate is next to our bed.

Chalie’s legs were still running and he was whining now, so Joe whispered again, but a bit louder.  “Wake up boy. You’re okay; you’re here with us.”

The rattling of the metal crate stopped suddenly and I knew that Chalie was awake. Although it was dark, I assumed his eyes were open and he was taking in his surroundings, realizing that he was in his own bed at home, and not at the racetrack.

Chalie has been retired from his career as a race dog for almost eight years now. He came to our home as a bright eyed two year old, after competing in less than twenty races.  As a retiree, Chalie still runs, but now he bounds around in a big circle in our backyard.

In sleep, Chalie is a prolific dreamer. He runs, or he chases, or he is chased, we don’t know which, every single night and during most daytime naps.  We wish we could know what images fill his brain in sleep and why he often whimpers or cries out in his dreams. Is he running at the track in Birmingham, where he spent his youth? Or is he running in his own backyard, trying to catch that elusive rabbit who always ducks under the shed before Chalie can reach him? Or is he being chased by something menacing, like the aliens or vampires that plague my own nightmares?

I often wonder if it is simple genetics that drive Chalie’s dreams. After all, Chalie is from a long and well-documented lineage of successful race dogs, each hand picked to pass on his or her running genes to the next generation. Chalie’s father, or sire in race dog language, was an Irish racing champion whose athletic genes were passed on to over 5000 offspring.  Maybe Chalie can’t help but dream of the race, given that he was selectively bred for this purpose alone.

And if our genetics could truly drive our dreams, this might explain why I so often dream of work. My own lineage is that of working class people and like Chalie, I descend from the Irish. My own ancestors worked hard to make a living in this country and worked as factory workers, waitresses, craftsmen, and at other honest, but laborious jobs. So after a long day of working hard, I often fall asleep, only to continue working in my dreams.

If only Chalie and I had descended from royalty or from the privileged upper class, then in our sleep, instead of running hard, or working hard, Chalie and I could dream of eating bonbons on the beach.

Chalie sleeping

RoofTop Chalie, deep in sleep, and hopefully dreaming about his tea party with the Queen!

Maybe tonight, when Chalie is back at the racetrack and I am either being chased by that alien or crunching data sheets at work, Joe can help us shake off our lot in life.

“Shhhhhh,” Joe might whisper to us in the dark. “Shhhh, you’re okay.  Your having tea and crumpets with the Queen.”







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Changing Perspective and the Purple Flowered Snow Boots


I was up at 4:45 am, preparing for a conference call about the storm.  And by preparing, I mean that I was watching the news and cussing at the weather woman, who was taking professional vagueness to a whole new level.

When that meteorologist told me and the greater Philadelphia audience that the snow totals and the timeline for the storm would vary so much from neighborhood to neighborhood that she could give no real prediction, I knew that the bosses would decide to keep the office open. And so I went to work!

Snow always makes me super cranky. I resent the vague and inaccurate weather forecasts and  feel anxious driving in poor visibility, high winds, and in a pool of slush.

Walking with wind and sleet in my face adds to my unhappiness and my unhappiness builds to anger when I remember that the City of Philadelphia is fast to declare a state of emergency, but is crazy slow to plow the streets or treat the sidewalks .

And then there is stepping in ankle deep puddles, climbing over knee high ice hills and then falling in super slow motion with my arms flailing, just to land on my fanny.

All of these things happened that day, so for the record, I was having a bad day. Cause like I said, snow makes me cranky.

But then –

I could hear them before I saw them.

Our waiting room had been empty all day, with only seven out of one hundred scheduled patients making it in.

But now the waiting room seemed filled by just two little girls who were holding hands and jumping in a circle, and chanting about snow. They were preschoolers and they were smiling and laughing and hugging each other in our big empty waiting room.

“Look at our boots,” the two smiling girls said to me, each sticking out one foot for my inspection. They were both wearing purple suede boots that were embroidered  with pink and yellow flowers and trimmed with light purple fur.

“We are friends,” said one of the cuties, still smiling broadly. “And we have purple boots.” They both stuck out one foot for my inspection again.

It turns out that these little girls were not sisters or cousins or even neighbors. They had just met that day, in our large and empty waiting room. Of course they connected immediately, across the open space, because they were wearing the exact same purple flowered snow boots.

“Wow, girls!,” I asked, “Isn’t it neat that you both have the same boots?”

“It is because of the snow,” one little girl said confidently.

snow, snow, snow,” the other whispered softly.

“We get to wear our boots because of the snow.”

“snow, snow snow.

The whispering chant grew louder as the hand holding circle jumping resumed.

snow, snow, snow, snow, Snow, Snow, Snow, SNOW, SNOW, SNOW..”

“If it didn’t snow,” one of the gals said suddenly, as if this was just occurring to her, “she wouldn’t be my friend.”

For a moment, they looked at each other thoughtfully and considered this.

When the staff called the first little girl in to see the doctor, those two hugged goodbye and held onto each other like the oldest and dearest of friends until their mothers pulled them apart.


Perspective can come from experience. My experience that day involved planning my day without a reliable forecast, walking in the city with sleet beating my face, and navigating, on foot, the untreated sidewalks of Philadelphia.

But those little girls had faced those same experiences and yet, they were now holding a rave in the lobby and making friends.

Of course, I had also fallen on my butt in the snow. But these girls had fallen several times right in my presence as they ran and slid across the wood floor and had jumped up, unfazed.

So how was their perspective so full of positivity, while I was caught up in my own grumpiness?

Was it due to naivety or a childhood unburdened by responsibility?  Was it due to youthful wide-eyed wonder at a landscape covered in white?

Or was the joy of those girls driven simply by those purple suede boots with the yellow and pink flowers?


Today, the weather report told me indecisively that winter may not be over. The temperatures are still below freezing and that snow on the ground is lingering. Another storm could be on the horizon.

It might be time to find that new perspective.

I wonder where I can find purple flowered snow boots in an adult woman’s size 8!

snow, snow, snow, snow, Snow, Snow, Snow, SNOW, SNOW, SNOW!!



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Restoring Courtesy on the Train

A young mother boarded the train, holding the hand of a toddler who was pulling her arm energetically and looking ready to bolt.  I stood up and offered my seat. The mom quietly thanked me, sat, and plopped the boy on her lap, tightly wrapping both arms around him.

At the next stop, the conductor hit the breaks and I veered forward, stopping myself just before I smashed into the young man standing in the aisle alongside me.

Okay- I may be a bit sub par in coordination and balance. Plus I also worry about safety more than the average gal.  But I always follow the valuable instructions I found on SEPTA’s website regarding safe train travel and I hold on tight to a pole or seat rail and I also keep my feet shoulder width apart with knees slightly bent.

Clumsy or not, I am a competent and safety conscious commuter.

If I were in a car, of course, the rules would be different. I’d be expected to wear a seat belt and that energetic toddler would be harnessed into a federally approved safety seat.

I do abhor the train. But it is not because of how deeply I hate having to stand in a moving vehicle.

The reason I despise the train is because the rules are different there, and I don’t mean the rules about seat belts. It is the rules of human interaction that differ and that lead to my disappointment in fellow travelers, every single day.

The woman with the toddler walked past four rows of seats before reaching  me. She passed 16 seats, whose occupants kept their eyes straight ahead. Burly men in work coveralls, professional women in business attire, and students in school uniforms, all avoided eye contact with a woman who seriously needed a seat.

passenger-trainEyes straight ahead is the rule, not the exception, on the rush hour train. People move like worker ants through the turnstiles, file into the train from the platform, and with their eyes glued to the morning newspaper or to the bright screen of a smart phone, they completely ignore everyone around them.

I have stood on the train, without a seat to give, alongside a very pregnant woman, an elderly woman with a cane, and another mother and child, while others sat with eyes straight ahead.

The Urban Dictionary calls this phenomenon Tube-face, named for the London subway system, the Tube. The fact that this is an international phenomenon, and not unique to Philly and South Jersey, makes me worry more.

But I am not accepting the Tube-face status quo. I will be the change I want to see on the train and I am making it my mission to model and exemplify good old-fashioned common courtesy.

“Achoo,” the woman sitting in front of me sneezed loudly. Both instinctively and purposely, I replied with a heartfelt “Bless you!”  I was the only rider in the car to speak. But the sneezer, seated inches in front of me, did not reply.  But since she and I have similar commute times, we will share a train again, sooner or later and cold season is coming.  In time, I will break her down.

“Excuse me,” I said when I accidentally  bumped a seated man with my purse as I walked down the aisle. He did not respond. I considered hitting him again with my purse, so I could apologize again. Maybe next time.

Thankfully, during this crusade to bring manners to the Tube-faced commuters, I have also witnessed a splash of courtesy. I  have seen mannered folk offer their seats to those in need. And exiting the PATCO station last night, the man in front of me lingered to hold the door.

And once, a teenager even offered his seat to me!  On the El train, I was swaying as I held on  tight to a pole, knees bent, of course. “Ma’am,” he said politely, “would you like to sit here?”

Once safely seated, I smiled at the young man. But he did not respond, eyes forward. I realized, with disappointment, that he may not have abandoned his seat for the sake of manners alone.

Instead, he may have given up his seat in the simple hope that I would not fall on him.

But clumsy or not, I will continue to spread manners and courtesy on public transit!  So look for me on your area trains, buses, and trolleys!!

But for your own safety, be prepared to offer me your seat!



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To My Neglected Friends: Smartphone Technology Is Hurting Our Friendship

THEN: Sitting around my  kitchen table, eight friends passed around vacation photographs. One friend told anecdotes of his summer adventures as I filled wine and soda pop glasses and fetched beers for our guests. Sharing vacation pictures was a great excuse for a get together.

NOW: Today I saw my friend’s beach vacation pics on Facebook on the same day they were taken. To show her my heartfelt interest, I posted, “Have fun in the sun!” To show her that I really meant it, I added an emoji of a smiley face wearing sunglasses.


THEN: I stopped after work at the area card store to pick out a funny birthday card for my friend. Of course, the super market had a greeting card aisle, but the selection at the card store was so much better. I needed to hurry to get it in the mail so that it arrived in time for her birthday.  On her actual birthday, I called her house phone during the day (this was before cell phones) and sang Happy Birthday to her answering machine so she’d hear it when she got home from work. 

NOW: I wished my friend an awesome birthday by posting a picture on her Facebook page of a hamster wearing a birthday hat and eating a cupcake with a birthday candle.


THEN: Planning a friend’s surprise party, I spent an entire evening calling our other friends to ask for food donations and to give the details of the big bash. Of course, I had to allow at least fifteen minutes for each call, since we also needed to catch up on kids, family, and work updates.

NOW: These days, I make a Facebook invitation, send a group text, or use Sign Up Genius for parties and holidays. This year, since I didn’t have to actually speak to everyone to find out who was bringing pasta salad or desserts for Easter, I was able to invest that time searching for the perfect adorable bunny image for the cover pic of the Facebook invite.



Technology has certainly changed the ways we communicate. And modern tech, like email, texting, and Facebook can be a giant time saver in our busy lives.  Nowadays,  I can send out a text and also get a response, in less time than it would take to dial a rotary phone.

But efficiency, sadly,  has trumped quality and true interaction, and frankly, I am neglecting my friendships. A hamster in a birthday hat is not a replacement for a phone call. A smiley face with heart-shaped eyes is not a replacement for an afternoon visit.

So to my neglected friends, from your neglected friend: I promise to do better. I promise to try to call you more often and to chat. I promise to invite you to go shopping or to have lunch. I promise to make time for real conversations that involve actual spoken words.

In this frenzied world, your friendships are the glue that keeps me feeling sane. I lean on you in hard times and I love your company in good times. Without you, my dear friends, my life would be sorely lacking.

So expect my call. Expect a push for get-togethers and for coffee klatches.

And if all my calling and bugging you for visits becomes an inconvenience, our newfangled modern technology should help, since you now have caller ID. So when I do call, if you aren’t free, or if you just don’t want to chat, then don’t answer.

smileyTo keep me from feeling neglected though, you might want to send a quick text that says “Can’t talk right now.” Even better, you can add a cute emoji like the smiley face with sunglasses, or maybe a funny picture of a cat in a shirt and tie, or a pug dog on a rocking horse.

That way I will know that you really do care!



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New Addition

To the yard sale family on Warren Street, thank you for giving him up.

Because when I laid eyes on him, I could tell that you had loved him once. But now he was old, neglected, and ragged. As I assessed his well-being and strength, I could almost hear Sarah McLachlan singing softly in the background. You and I both understood that he deserved a home where he would be appreciated again.  Patting him gently, I imagined him cleaned up and in better shape, maybe in a warm home with laughter, friendship, and music. I don’t know if it was hard for you to part with him, but it was clear that you were relieved to see him relocating. I think you knew that you were doing the right thing.

So I handed you the five dollar fee and your son helped me wrestle his bulky body into the trunk of my car.

All cleaned up and refreshed, that once battered wood cabinet, with the chipping veneer and the badly mismatched handles, found its new home today.

Wait. You did know that I was talking about a piece of furniture, right?

For me , the labeling of an inanimate object as a “he” or a “she” is not so much personification, but is more of a reminder that this object has history. This old cabinet was brand new once and was a part of a human household for a very long time. It was there as children were raised, as holidays were celebrated, and as the homeowners aged.  If this cabinet had eyes, what would it have seen in its many, many years?   If furniture could people-watch, imagine the stories they would tell!


This five dollar treasure was purchased specifically to be used as a turntable cabinet at Josh’s new rental in Philly.  Short on time, I gave him a quick restoration with a bit of sanding and a touch of paint, plus some glue to affix the peeling veneer, and two new knobs from Home Depot. It was such a quick fix, in fact, that I actually screwed the new hardware in place right in the Home Depot parking lot, en route to Josh’s this morning.

Arriving, we parked illegally and dropped off the cabinet at the door for Josh and his roommate to carry inside while Joe and I found street parking. By the time we walked back, it was like that cabinet had been part of this household from the beginning. The sun was streaming in on him from the dining room window and Josh, his roommate, and my adopted cabinet were relaxing and listening to the cool big band sound of Artie Shaw, the King of Clarinet.

He will definitely have a good life here.



Postscript:  Although my cabinet is a “he,”  he does not have a name.  But to my surprise and pleasure, it turns out that the six wooden dining room chairs at Josh’s apartment do. I learned today that the two that are a matching pair are affectionately known as the Twins. Then there is Nicholas, Bluie (rhymes with Louie), and of course, the sturdiest one is known as Bestie. With equal logic, the chair that is in need of repair and that seems as if it might collapse beneath you at any moment is rightly named Sh*thead.

So being an advocate for keeping good furniture in good homes,  I gave Josh some suggestions for poor neglected Sh*thead. Hopefully with the tightening of some screws and a bit of wood glue, that old boy will have a good long life alongside my cabinet, listening to jazz and people-watching.


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Little Black Purse

black purse

“I don’t know why you are still carrying that hideous purse after all these years,” my sister chastised.

We were at a wedding and since I was dressed in my fanciest clothes, I was also carrying my fanciest bag, a black leather clutch with a kiss lock clasp, circa 1960.

“That bag is old and downright ugly,” my sis went on. “The Prada knockoff that I gave you for your birthday is much cuter than that.”

My sister, by the way, is a bit of a purse-a-holic. She knows about purses and buys new handbags often. But in the wide arena of purse obsession, she is not alone.

Every year, the fashion world watches the New York and Paris runways intently, waiting to view the IT bags of the season. The most coveted handbags carry five or six figure price tags and lengthy waiting lists for the uber rich who will proudly display those bags all around Hollywood.

And according to studies, the average American woman grooves on handbags as well, and she purchases three purses every year.  Department stores carry an extensive variety, many imitating those runway favorites. At my local Kohl’s, I counted close to 100 different purses for sale, some with price tags up to $200.  One in ten American women say she is very comfortable spending $150 or more for the right purse.

But even for those who are NOT among the one in ten big spenders, purse admiration and purse envy are still very real for some women. I have noticed that my black and white floral print bag from Relic, retail price $64 (before my 30% coupon, of course) draws more compliments than my clothes, shoes, hair, my professional work, or even my stellar personality!

So it seems that a snazzy purse can draw attention. Some even assume that purse choice makes a statement about who you are and what you value!  When it comes to my little black purse, these assumptions are absolutely correct.

I am not the first owner of this black leather clutch. Before it was mine, I borrowed it, again and again. My mother kept that purse wrapped in layers of tissue paper inside a shirt box, tucked in the top of her bedroom closet. She always unwrapped it with a bit of ceremony and fuss whenever I asked to borrow it.  I have carried that purse to five high school reunions and to almost every wedding I have ever attended.  The purse became mine after my mother’s death.

My mother was a strong woman who was strong because it was her only choice. She became a single mom at age 37, with four children, including an infant, at a time when divorce was uncommon. Desperately needing to take care of her brood on her own, she went to work and she learned to drive. It was a time before car seats and Baby Lisa (me) traveled in a bassinet, laid on the back seat of our big sedan. But those big ole automobiles of the 1960s were not exactly built for a petite 5 foot female driver so my Uncle Herb helped out by strapping wooden blocks to the gas and brake petals so Mom could more easily reach them.  Sitting tall atop a phone book or two, my mother managed to get us where we needed to go.

To my 2016 sensibilities, this scenario sounds ridiculously unsafe and a lot like a wacky sketch from I Love Lucy, with reckless, but comical, driving and lots of screaming by Lucy and Ethel.  But it was 1967 and times were different.

Like all moms, mine did some things very well and some things not so much. Like most of us, she was a work in progress. But she was gritty and resilient and she stood back up when she was knocked down. I watched her face hardship and extreme grief and she soldiered on. Because, as a mother who loved her children deeply, she had to keep doing her best, for us.

So occasionally, I carry her little black purse.  And it does reflect what I value.

My favorite picture of my mother is from New Year’s Eve, 1966. She is wearing a cocktail dress and a New Years party tiara adorned with crepe paper and glitter.She has a cigarette in one hand and a high ball glass in the other. She is nine months pregnant, as the photo was taken just days before I was born. (Different times, remember? )  Given the flux she was experiencing in her life at the time, I imagine that she was mustering strength for the challenges to come.

And given her fancy dress, I also imagine that sitting on a table, just outside of the photograph’s frame, was that little black purse.

To all of you scrappy, resilient REAL moms who have worked hard and put your kids before yourself, even when motherhood wasn’t all white picket fences and Prince Charmings, I applaud you.    

 Happy Mother’s Day!  




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