I haven’t been the least bit shy about asking people, now that the  Water Dragon New Year has begun, about their Chinese astrology signs.  My dental hygienist was close to tears when she whispered that she was a rooster.  “I don’t feel like a rooster — they’re so noisy.”  As she quietly set up her tools for her work,  I could sense her deep distress, and with a touch of compassion that’s believed to come with being a  Water Dragon,  I attempted to calm the stage before the dental scaling  was set to begin.  I humbly held back my proud declaration of...

“Weave, weave, weave me the sunshine out of the falling rain. Weave me the hope of a new tomorrow and fill my cup again.”  (Peter Yarrow, 1972) You may have noticed the campaign button on top of my home page.  Al’s name pops up in my bio and my 36 Days blog, too.  He was my boss/hero during the Summer of ’78,  when I joined his Congressional Primary brigade as a $40 a week staffer, answering phones, fanning the NY  heat, helping pedestrians decide.  We watched Al turn his rival upside down in debates and  interrupted each other enthusiastically at Puffing Billy.  When...

I am surrounded by my mother’s work. Weavings hang on every wall,  a pastel creature that once smiled above my son’s crib now rests on stand-by.  Her sculpture roars in her apartment far away.  She told me once that when she was little, she drew pictures long into night.  My brother keeps her sketch of Abe Lincoln,  that could have been a photograph.  Her eye brought balance to what surrounded her, even the way she entered a room. I remember a pink empire raincoat she wore to the ballet, moving on to poodley fabrics and orange knit suits. And then, later in time, she followed her...

I still can’t believe she was right. And I didn’t give in easily or with very much grace because after all this time I was sure I knew the best way to say it. “It’s an SAT word that I memorized — I know exactly how it’s pronounced.”  Since I don’t have a video attachment on my land line, I can’t confirm whether she was shaking her head at my unwillingness to change my mind,  alphabetizing tax receipts, or  wondering if I actually was right.  I said it again, my way,  like I was saying my name — waited for a wiggle,  and she...

My husband starts peeling garlic cloves before the table’s even set.  He tastes my soup with a wary tongue, and then ambushes the flavor with pepper.  He was there when fire was first invented.  And like father/like son, having witnessed the taste battles close at hand, our progeny heads off to the trail where only spice hunters go. For a long time, I tolerated the macho spicing ceremonies —  with a good share of disdain.  And while they grabbed for their SpiceMan mustard, I inched my way to the the milder blend, proud that my knowing taste buds managed well on their own.  I was once...

“Bring More” was my father’s nickname for my alma mater, which drained about $3400+ each year from our family’s savings.  Back in the early 70’s, that was a significant sum for a college education  —  four decades later, an updated version would ring true as:  “Bring Lots and Lots  More.”   I’m delighted to say, with graduation now a springtime away, our academic debt is settled, and this last lap is — well, I think of it as “free.” It’s a hard point to argue, but definitely a breezy time after That Long College...