You Can Count On Gracie

Last night at a gig with my bluegrass band "Too Blue" a friend questioned my lack of blog posts.
"I check back every now and then and you haven't been writing..."

I was touched by her interest in "Doing It With Grace"; there's a lot of stuff out there and it's nice to know that your work shined through every now and then.

"Grace" was conceived at a somewhat tumultuous time in my life. My father had been recently diagnosed with lung cancer, a little over two years after my mother's struggle and death from dementia. The Senior Tour, as I called it, involved about six years of running between New York and Pennsylvania to manage my parents' declining lives. My own existence was so centered around theirs, that, when it was all said and done, someone asked me, "So what are you going to do now?"

Very good question, grasshopper.

Well, for a while, I carried out my duties as the executrix of my father's estate. ( Ya gotta love that moniker-
I envision myself strutting into the Register of Wills all decked out in studs and leather. ) My brother and I worked through the details and successfully sold the family manse to a lovely young couple, who, we are told,  are a wonderful addition to our beloved neighborhood.

The focus of "Grace" then shifted from reminiscing to living, which involved a fair amount of hanging out with a certain golden retriever. Oh yeah, and my band recorded and released our second CD in 2011, "Trouble With the Grey". It's a terrific project we accomplished with the help of producer/recording engineer extraordinaire Bob Harris.  Shameless self promotion insists that I insert a link to our band website -
www.toobluemusic.com.

Now back to Grace.

I've been photographing this crazy dog for years now, the results of which have shown up in blogs or on greeting cards sent to friends. After hearing repeated chants of "You should do something with these", I decided to do something with them. A counting book. "You Can Count On Gracie". Now isn't that clever.

As it turns out, this relatively simple concept has taken well over a year to transform into a physical product.

I didn't use any of the photos I had previously taken of Grace; instead, I came up with eleven new scenarios to illustrate 1 through 10, adding and 11th shot to tie it up. Ms. G and I executed  the photos after I had scoured the internet and trolled through Michael's Arts and Crafts, gathering props ranging from fake carrots to a children's swim mask and flippers. Warning: just when you think your life can't get any weirder, you may find yourself in an art store wondering how you can transform your dog into a flower.

A year or so earlier, I had met graphic designer Paula Smith through Gracie's obedience school. Paula's daughter Amelia was conducting tests to measure dogs' intelligence for her school science project. If you're interested in knowing how my golden supermodel fared on her tests, you can read about it here- http://doingitwithgrace.blogspot.com/2011/03/dog-smarts.html.

While I generally don't delegate many creative tasks, I decided it would be best to assign layout and design to a professional. Paula took my photo pile and transformed it into my vision of "Simple elegant fun."  To say that I am proud of the result is an understatement.

Knowing that getting the attention of a publishing house or even an agent is next to impossible for someone of my obscure literary stature, I decided to go the self publishing route. I've created my own company, "Little Minute Publishing" and am presently working on the website where "You Can Count on Gracie" will live. www.littleminutepublishing.com. The book will be available for sale on the website and on Amazon and I'll also be doing my best to get it into as many bookstores as possible. I will also be posting about the book and my marketing journey (readings, signings, etc.). "You Can Count on Gracie" went to print two weeks ago and I expect delivery in about a month. In the meantime, I've been schlepping the approved proof around and getting rave reviews. Everyone it seems, has a child in mind for whom they've pledged to buy the book. Even  "Big Kids" say they want a copy of it for themselves.

So, while I may not be posting on "Doing It With Grace" very regularly, I will be doing plenty with Gracie as we promote our collaboration. I had a wonderful time creating my beautiful book and I expect to have an even better time sharing it. Please join us on our journey- I'll be posting on a new blog called "Up to the Little Minute" once the website goes live and the book is available. www.blog.littleminutepublishing.com.

A Thing of Beauty

It's official. If my regular bouts of crankiness haven't yet earned me the karmic award of returning to earth as a larvae, I'm coming back as a golden retriever.

"What a beautiful dog!"

No doubt about that. Leggy, lanky and blond, she might give any Sports Illustrated Model a run for her money if it weren't for an overabundance of hair.

"What a lovely face-it looks like she's smiling."

She is the canine Cameron Diaz with an ear to ear elastic grin. By the way, you'd be smiling too if you had someone at the ready to pick up your poop with a Ziploc bag.

"Her fur is so soft; you must spend an awful lot of time brushing her."

That's right- I am Rapunzel's lady-in-waiting with a brush surgically incised to my hand. No matt would even consider forming in my presence; burrs run screaming at the mention of my name.
Truth be told, Grace is pretty much a wash and wear gal. Aside from her monthly after-bath brushing and a hindquarter trim to avoid the unsightly "saggy butt" look, she's on her own.

"She's so well behaved"

Admittedly, at times Gracie makes me look like the dog whisperer's prize pupil. She is sweet, affectionate and well practiced in focusing her attention on a new acquaintance. By accident or by design, she conceals the counter-surfing juggernaut who would happily snatch a donut out of the hand of a sleeping old man.

"Look-she really likes me!"

Please pardon the roar of bursting bubbles, but she likes everyone. She couldn't care less if the hand stroking her head is attached to King Kong, Godzilla, or the Son of Sam.

"You're so lucky to have her."

Wisecracking cynicism aside, I know I am. No one on the planet will ever be so happy to see me when I come home. She rarely turns down an invitation and always pays her way in good will. Who can blame me for giving in to jealousy? Compliments are showered upon her and she can accept a public body massage without fear of sexual harrassment. The moment is hers as she grabs it and hangs on for a good time ride.

Trust me- next time around, I'm going to be on the other side of the leash.

Photo: Gracie chills out after enduring hardcore petting sessions  during her hike to the falls at Bash Bish Falls State Park in southwestern Massachusetts.

Dog Smarts

"It is absurd to divide people into good or bad. People are either charming or tedious." ~ Oscar Wilde

According to veteran freelance writer Robert Brault, http://www.robertbrault.com/, "Charisma is a fancy name given to the knack of giving people your full attention." Having a knack for something indicates a genetic predisposition; either you have it or you don't. While we can  hone our social skills, the ability to "charm some one's pants off " comes with the territorial DNA. We've all admired the sparkling beacon in the center of a pantless crowd and muttered, "Maybe she's born with it." Whatever the source of the magic, the results are easily measured by the reactions. Case in point: a certain golden retriever named Gracie.

She is the canine "It" girl and I'd like to think that this assessment is not the product of a stage mother's pride. I've witnessed her ability to engage and amuse without any coercion from my end of the leash. No doubt about it, she was born with it.

As Grace adds to her growing ranks of admirers I often hear, "She's so smart!" While I can't disagree that she is entertaining as she jockeys for attention and executes her repertoire of tricks, I haven't attributed her actions to a heightened sense of intelligence. Perhaps I've let her affable nature and goofball countenace get in the way of a fair assessment; can problem-solving and the desire to roll in deer poop coexist in an enlightened creature? Well, boys and girls, according to the results of a fifth grade science project, the answer is yes. Feel free to roll in deer poop without damaging your academic status.

About a month ago, I received an e-mail from Candice Cunningham, the owner of Gracie's alma mater, Positive Paws Training School, http://www.positivepaws.org/.  Amelia Smith, a local fifth grader, needed help in compiling data for her science fair project, "Dog Smarts - What's Going on Behind Those Puppy Dog Eyes?" 

Hi Everyone,

I would like to ask all of you to consider participating in this Science Project with your dog! On Monday (2/7) Amelia and Paula (Amelia's mom) will be at our Hopewell Location ready to interview any willing dog and owner. They will arrive around 5:30 and prepare to "test" dogs before class and during class.  Each dog test will take about 3 minutes. Students that are currently enrolled in the 6pm Elementary Level or 7pm High School Level class will have the opprtunity to participate during class. Any other interested people should plan to arrive around 5:30pm to participate before the 6pm class begins.

Again, please do consider helping Amelia with her science project.

Thanks!

Candice

Unable to pass up the opportunity to do something fun with the diva and perhaps settle the intelligence question, I packed up her highness and headed to Positive Paws' Hopewell Junction, New York location at the Golden Dog Grooming Salon. Owners and their puppies were preparing for class while Amelia conducted her tests in the back of the room. Gracie stood in the doorway, set to full exuberance and ready for a good time as we took our place in line and observed as the other participants were put through their paces.

Watching the black and white blur of a border collie whizzing through his tasks, I looked at Grace and said, "We can leave now if you'd like." Apparently unaware of the vaudevillian's advice to never follow a dog act, she grinned and chose to stay. We introduced ourselves to Amelia and her mother Paula and prepared to determine the extent of Gracie's genius. Poised and focused, Amelia described the three tests and explained the facets of intelligence each would measure. Impressed by Amelia's sweet, yet serious nature I imagined that her mother must be proud of her daughter and  her dedication to her project. I remained skeptical as to whether or not my four-legged debutante would do the same for me.

Does a dog realize that an object still exists even when they can't see it?

Amelia showed a treat to Gracie and then placed it under a tin on the floor. Lassie did not immediately tell me that Timmy was in the well, but she did knock the tin over after I jiggled it a little, demonstrating that she was indeed aware of the treat's out of sight existence.

How well does a dog understand spatial relationships between objects, especially horizontal objects?

Holding a pillow on a tray above Gracie's eye level, Amelia showed her a treat and then dropped it on the pillow, which was used to silence the treat's landing. Gracie's gaze went to the pillow, a sign that she understands the way that horizontal objects relate to each other. I filled out her application to Harvard in my mind.

Can a dog figure out how to get around an obstacle to retrieve a desired object?

Amelia showed Gracie a treat and then dropped it behind a V-shaped barrier formed by two chairs on their sides. Gracie quickly went around the chairs to retrieve her prize, rather than barreling through the barricade. Her response may have been because she had encountered this situation before, or is adept at looking at physical problems and coming up with solutions. Either way, hers was the big-money response and she went to the head of the class. I mailed her application to Harvard in my mind.

Three weeks later, I attended the Science Fair at Amelia's school. Standing in front of her beautifully designed  presentation, she fielded questions and explained her research like a seasoned pro. She had tested 100 dogs and displayed the results with carefully executed charts and graphs. Normalizing the scores ( 3 being the highest ), she arrived at a mean score of 2. Only 8 dogs scored below 2, and while she did observe differences in breed performance, Amelia concluded that, overall, there is a lot of thought and intelligence behind those puppy dog eyes. Sorry if I doubted you, Grace.



Photos:   1.Amelia with Gracie at the Golden Dog Grooming Salon. 2. Amelia and her presentation at the Science Fair. 3. Gracie's 15 minutes of fame.

Thanks to Paula Smith and her daughter Amelia. Her interest in dogs continues beyond her project and has led her to competing in Junior Showmanship with her Norwich terrier, Diesel. I hope to follow her progress and look forward to seeing her at Westminster one day.

The Storm of the i: An Artobiography

"Storm of the i", an "artobiography" by author/artist Tina Collen, is a cohesive marriage of exhibition and memoir. She opens her life's portfolio and gives us a dazzling view of her aesthetic triumphs while battling the bedevilment of unanswered questions. The target of her father's irrational anger, she is plagued by the apparent absence of his love. Though she may never completely transcend her disappointment, she certainly gives it a run for its money, living creatively and tenaciously. Beautifully designed and well-written, her book pays homage to the scraps, trophies and mementos that have become her tapestry. Images of her artwork, family photographs, treasured relics and poems treat us to a candid and refreshingly amusing view of her personal and professional journey.

I began writing "Grace" as my father entered his final months. Chronicling the ordeal at hand, I also found myself packing up my past as I reviewed the contents of my life. Memories provoked tears and laughter while the souvenirs of a simpler time brought me the warmth of comfort. The love of supportive parents shines from artifacts I have retrieved and brought to my own home; they ignite emotions and serve as a visual diary. They tell my story and I'm more than willing to listen.

Tina has crafted a compelling portrait of her search for a truthful and rewarding artistic existence. "Storm of the i" is a clever combination of storytelling and artistic expression that begs the reader to revisit and reflect; one woman's unique journal reminds us that loose strings and unfinished business should not prevent us from moving forward.         

"The most unusual thing about this remarkable memoir is that it's not about the author-it's about the reader."       ~Marilyn Van Derbur,  Award winning author, motivational speaker, Miss America 1958



Please welcome Tina Collen as she describes the birth of "Storm of the i". May she experience continued success with her book and with the work in progress that is her life.

Q:

            You've said that it was a performance at the Aspen Comedy Festival that started you down the path to this emotional and revealing book ( How it all began ). What happened after the festival?

A:

            Back home in Boulder, Colorado, while still under the festival spell, I happened to glance at a ceramic figure I’d made in my early twenties. It was displayed prominently in a bookcase built along a wall going up my stairway— I’d seen it thousands of times before. This time, however, I saw something different.  Here's how I describe that moment in the book: “There in front of me was the incarnation of longing, disemboweled and exuding a feeling of eerie emptiness. The piece was an archeological relic I’d been unable to decipher until that very moment. Though it has hands and feet, it has no eyes, no face, no internal organs. No voice. I could see that the figure has no self. Its insides are an empty space, a void—perhaps, waiting to be filled. And the piece was about me.”

So I was standing there on the steps all alone and yet I felt extremely vulnerable and exposed. Everyone has a wound—I was looking directly at mine. I felt nauseous. And at the same time, I felt excited by the idea that maybe other pieces of my work also contained messages. I quickly went up the stairs and into my bedroom where I saw an album cover I’d made in college. It was hanging on the wall opposite my bed. When I’d made it I thought I was just doing an assignment using a photograph I had taken for a photography class the day before and writing the words of a song I had heard across the top. It never occurred to me, in all the years that this piece followed me to every apartment and house I lived in, it never occurred to me that the piece was about me. "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child," the album cover read. My childhood was seeping out everywhere. Hiding quietly in plain sight, it was a message to me. . . from me. I was touching the unconscious. 

            Vaulted into a frenzy of activity I began unearthing relics from my past. I was captivated by the intrigue of decoding my own cryptic clues unwittingly planted over a lifetime. From closets and flat files and computer hard drives I began pulling out written pieces, sculptures, etchings, art photographs, letters, newspaper clippings, journal entries, poems—everything I could find. Unraveling inner mysteries, no doubt to reconcile a difficult family dynamic, has been an endless quest for me. 

            As pieces haphazardly fell beside each other, some of them seemed to exhibit a magnetic attraction and once locked together moved as a pair. Startling juxtapositions began to emerge. A faded quotation, clipped from the pages of my later life, fell arbitrarily next to a series of small paintings I’d made in college shortly after I was married. 

            The paintings, one leading to the next, showed the evolution of birth. “It’s never too late to be what you might have been,” the quotation read. The image of an unborn child right next to those words catapulted me back to that time in my life when I faced the dilemma that would become a major life struggle—to what degree do I follow my own path. 

            Each of the items in front of me, whether written or graphic, turned into puzzle pieces as they fell into place. The objects with which I had surrounded myself, I discovered, were telling me the real story of my life. Hours morphed into days and then into months as the landscape of my life was laid out in front of me. The objects worked synergistically to reframe personal issues that had been floating disconnected inside of me for years—issues that, until then, would only occasionally bob to the surface. 

            Working out this complex and often contradictory collection of memorabilia and memories liberated me in ways I never imagined possible—for as I found order for the objects and pieces of paper in my hands, I myself was reassembled. 

If you'd like to see a bit more about how Artobiography came into existence  click here.

To purchase a personally autographed copy of Storm of the i go to www.TinaCollen.com 

 and in the comment box include how you'd like it signed. Books are also available at Barnes & Noble, Borders and Amazon. If your favorite bookstore doesn't have it on the shelf they can order it for you. I look forward to hearing from you. Tina

 

The next stop on Tina’s blog tour is on Monday, February 7. She’ll be visiting on Minding Spot at http://mindingspot.blogspot.com/.

We’re giving an autographed book away in a contest, asking people to leave a comment answering this question:

Oftentimes the objects we hold onto contain cryptic clues that point towards something deeper about ourselves. Take a look around your house (or your room) at the things with which you have surrounded yourself. Is there anything you are still hanging onto that seems to contain a hidden message for you? What do you think it is? 

Snow Bored

Although she spends a large portion of her day traveling back and forth between a couch and a comfy chair, my retriever Gracie is by no means your garden variety potato. The jingle of a leash brings this sassy senior to her feet in seconds; the human equivalent of 61, the golden girl is in standby party mode and ready to rock at a moment's notice.

Mounds of snow, bitter temperatures and sloppy, salty roads have kept the diva indoors and put a serious dent in her social life. You would have thought she had made the call when the cable guy arrived to check our service.

 "Hello- I'm experiencing an interruption in the transmission of butt rubs and head pats. May I please schedule an appointment? Between 8 and 11? Yes, someone over the age of 18 will be here."

Understanding that no one thinks your dog is as incredibly cute as you do, I did my best to keep the socialite at bay so the technician could do his work. Although he didn't seem to mind when she opportunistically nosed her way underneath a free hand, I lured her away with a bag of pita chips and hummus. When our issue was resolved, Gracie followed her new best friend to the door, made him promise that he would call and bid a wagging farewell. I looked into her limpid pools and said, "You need to get out more, girlfriend." She agreed.

The list of places to take a dog on a chilly weekend night in January pretty much begins and ends with Petco. So off we went to the pet-friendly superstore so the queen could hold court with her subjects.

Her anticipatory whines rose to a fever pitch as we pulled into the parking lot and she couldn't get through the store's automatic door fast enough. She did a quick survey of her kingdom, planted her lanky front legs and went into a full body shimmy, smiling at the highest setting. "Well, well... Hello Dolly, well, Hello Dolly, it's so nice to have you back where you belong..." Stock boys danced through the aisles, accompanied by cashiers on their registers, while the manager served up a glittering silver platter of  the finest canine haute cuisine. "Bridge that gap, fellas. Find me an empty lap, fellas. Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away again!"

The music faded into the background and the spotlight shifted from our heroine to the Petco piece de resistance- the Treat Bar. "We feel the room swayin', for the band's playin', one of your old favorite songs from way back when..."   Brightly colored plastic scoops rest atop mounds of biscuits and cookies spilling forth from their bins. I decide that it is a contemporary still life worthy of the old Dutch masters; Gracie decides that it is an open invitation to petty thievery.

 Subtlety is not one of our girl's strengths; she shoots toward the bar like a heat-seeking missile and scores a mouthful while a nearby group of boys  can hardly contain their laughter. I assure them that there is no charge for the entertainment and I attempt to redeem my dog-training credentials by demonstrating one of Gracie's brilliant tricks. A small crowd gathers, and in no time at all, the bandit is the belle of the ball. Perfect-yet another felon catapulted to celebrity status. Pretty soon she'll be
headed to rehab.

Mistaking Grace's audience for a potential onslaught upon her register, the lone cashier called for reinforcements. Basking in the oohs and ahhs of a
 few teen aged girls, Gracie snapped out of her trance long enough to see a familiar figure scurrying towards the front of the store. Darlene, our favorite Petco employee hurried to the aid of her coworker, stopping when she recognized the center of attention. "It's Graaacie!" She stooped down to greet her highness, who immediately demanded a massage. Darlene happily conceded,  golden curls running  through her fingers as she kneaded Gracie's shoulders. "I love this dog-she's my favorite." Like a sidelined stage mother, I smiled in agreement.

Darlene returned to her duties and we finished our shopping. Our social mission accomplished, we made our way to the checkout, where Gracie racked up a few more head rubs and earned a couple of treats. The lights dimmed, and we exited stage left. "Wow, wow, wow, fellas, look at the old girl now, fellas... Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away again."                                 



"Money, pardon the expression, is like manure. It's not worth a thing unless its spread around, encouraging young things to grow." ~ Dolly Levi















Top photo- Gracie with Petco employee extraordinaire, Darlene. She is warm, professional, and a huge fan of Ms. G.
Bottom photos- No explanation necessary. 

Literary Grace

 I'm honored to be part of the virtual blog tour for "Storm of the i", an extraordinary memoir by Tina Collen. Her struggle to make sense of an unfulfilled relationship with her father weaves throughout her creative and personal life, speaking to the unanswered questions we face everyday. Please stop by on February 4, 2011 for a guest posting by Tina.
                                                                                                                                                                              




Virtual Book Tour Announced for

STORM OF THE i: An Artobiography

Her father didn’t speak to her for 15 years and she never knew why.
Then she wrote the book she needed to read.

BOULDER, CO -- January 21, 2011 -- Author-artist Tina Collen will begin a Virtual Blog Tour on Jan. 31 to promote her award-winning memoir, Storm of the i: An Artobiography. This virtual book tour will take the author around the country via ten blogs that include book reviewers, literary commentators, fellow artists and even a Los Vegas stand up comic(!).

"A project five years in the making," Clay Evans wrote in his review for the Boulder Camera, "Collen’s slick, clever, refreshingly unpredictable labor of love, is like no other book you’re likely to read any time soon." Going a bit further, Sara Davidson, TV producer, and New York Times best-selling author describes STORM OF THE i: An Artobiography as "a fabulous hybrid, a memoir that's alive with foldouts, paintings, drawings and a surprising lift-up flap. (There's even a pop-up that hands the reader a fortune cookie with a message inside!).

Beneath the playfulness, however, lies the story of an artist trying to understand her father's lifelong anger towards her. At the pinnacle of her career, an exhibition of her work in Paris, Tina Collen finds herself inexplicably weeping. It takes courage to probe a father's lifelong rejection, but Collen has wonderful tools: her humor, memories and the trail of art she created. (I discovered Collen through her Fleurotica collages. At first glance, I thought I was looking at lush paintings of wildflowers, but on closer examination, I was in the world of the Kama Sutra. Based on the idea that flowers are simply sex organs, Collen created her wildflowers from risqué magazine scraps. She took something forbidden and transformed it into something witty, beautiful and acceptable.) In Storm of the i, she takes a heartbreaking story and transforms it into something witty, beautiful — and unforgettable."

"A reminder—vivid and visual– that the parent-child bond is the bedrock on which lives are built," wrote Stewart Oksenhorn, book reviewer for the Aspen Times.

After receiving an EVVY (1st prize for autobiography) and a 1st place Tech Award (for layout & design) from the Colorado Independent Publishers Association, Collen went to the Benjamin Franklin Awards in NYC—and with her book #3 on the best-seller list at the Boulder Bookstore back home, she walked away with a Silver medal for memoir. The next night she collected a bronze IPPY.

Demand for Collen’s multimedia presentations has been growing steadily. Her most recent author event in Denver was for an audience of 250. At these events, Collen concludes with a shocker—the story of what transpired between her and her 93 year old father after she finished writing the book he never read.

Excerpts of this remarkable work can be seen at http://www.tinacollen.com/

If you're curious about Fleurotica, Images in Erotic Montage you can also see some of the collages there.

Please join us on our tour by clicking the links on the days each review will appear. We hope you'll stop by with a question or comment.

TOUR SCHEDULE

Week 1

1/31/11 - James R. Ament - http://www.jamesrament.com/
2/1/11 - Book Fetish - http://bookfetish.org/
2/2/11 - Found Not Lost - http://jmomfinds.amoores.com/
2/3/11 - Sandra's Book Club - http://sandrasbookclub.blogspot.com/
2/4/11 - Doing it with Grace - http://doingitwithgrace.blogspot.com/


Week 2

2/7/11 - Minding Spot - http://mindingspot.blogspot.com/
2/8/11 - CIPA Bookshelf - http://booksatcipa.wordpress.com/
2/9/11 - Faye Quam Heimerl - http://fayequamheimerl.wordpress.com/
2/10/11 - Thoughts in Progress - http://www.masoncanyon.blogspot.com/
2/11/11 - Linda Lou, Live from Las Vegas - http://www.vegaslindalou.blogspot.com/


For ongoing blog tour information, go to Tina's blog at http://www.tinacollen.com/bookselfpublish/#

Artist/author Tina Collen begins a virtual book tour for her book Storm of the i: An Artobiography on Jan 31, 2011. Collen's book has been described as a fabulous hybrid, a memoir that's alive with foldouts, paintings, and a surprising lift-up flap.

Get It Off Your Chest

A few years ago, my friend's sister and her family made a trip from their home in San Fransisco to New York City. Primarily a baseball pilgrimage planned around a game at Yankee Stadium and a trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, the ladies decided to meet in the city to grab some "girl time" in an otherwise chock-full boys' adventure. Somewhere between the cheesecake and the observation deck of the Empire State Building, they hopped into a cab and made a trip to Linda's Bra Salon on Lexington Ave. Though not on the general public's list of tourist attractions, the salon pampers its clients with personal service and attention to detail. Two very important details, to be exact.

Linda "the Bra Lady" Becker and her bra-fitting team have  matched thousands of women with the proper foundation garments for over twenty years. While attending a mastectomy bra fitting class hosted by the American Cancer Society, Linda was shocked to find out that most women were wearing the wrong bra size and operating under the medieval notion that an uncomfortable fit was acceptable. She has since built a business committed to helping women of all sizes find bras that look and feel great.

My own bra epiphany came in the form of an e-mail lingerie advertisement which contained a sizing calculator much like the tool used to figure out a mortgage payment. By entering the measurements around the rib cage and across the fullest part of the breast, the correct size magically appears with the press of the button. I had become frustrated with my 34A riding up my back, and decided to see if this Internet Ouija board would give me an answer. Note to tiny self- don't ask the question if unprepared for the answer.

Imagine my horror when 36AA popped up in the little box on my computer screen. While I realize we're talking about a bra size and not a jail sentence or cancer diagnosis, as a 50 year old woman I thought I had left the training wheels behind in junior high. A quick online search found few 36AA's that weren't decorated with polka dots or bunnies. I suddenly found myself breaking out in hives before the high school dance. Oh my God! Is that a zit? Really? He said he likes me? Really?

I yanked myself out of algebra class and eventually found an age-appropriate model made by Wacoal, ordered it and blessed them for their sensitivity to the smaller set. When it arrived, I tried it on, took it for a test drive and it's been smooth sailing ever since.

Last week my friend forwarded me an e-mail for Linda's Bra Salon. She and her sister had indeed found the perfect fit on their visit and received regular e-mails from the store. Teaming up with Bra Recyclers, Linda is donating gently used or new bras on the one year anniversary of the earthquake in Haiti. A discount will be e-mailed to all those who donate, the size of the discount depending upon the number of bras sent. Soon a box filled with 34A's will be on its way to Linda and Bra Recyclers, who will in turn make sure they reach the women who so desperately need them. If you'd like to help them reach their goal of 1000 bras, you can send used or new bras to:

Linda's Online
c/o Operation: Bras for Haiti
68 Jay Street Suite 401
Brooklyn, NY 11201

Be sure to include your name and email address so they can email the discount to you.

You can also drop items off at the store at 828 Lexington Avenue between 63rd and 64th streets in New York City. While you're there, you might want to treat yourself to a little attention from Linda and her staff.
Of course, you can always benefit from Linda's expertise by visiting her website at http://www.lindasonline.com/.
Believe me, there's nothing like a great fitting bra that knows its place and stays there. I'm proud to say that
soon my 34A's will find their place in Haiti.

Photo- Against the backdrop of my vintage childhood bedspread, Ms. Grace models one of my retired 34A's. I must admit it fits her better than it ever fit me.

Old Dogs, New Chicks

While working on my latest article for the magazine Caribbean Belle, titled "Old Dogs, New Tricks? The Art of Aging Creatively.", I found myself in search of  inspirational accomplishments by people generally considered to be past their prime.  As I added athletes, musicians and artists to my list, a friend asked, "How about Hugh Hefner?" The pajama-clad mogul's business savvy and apparent staying power aside, I laughed off the suggestion and decided not to go down that particular bunny trail.

A few days after I had finished and submitted my article, I fired up my computer, navigated to my home page, and found among Optimum Online's newsworthy items a beaming Hugh Hefner alongside a (surprise!) beautiful young blond. "Playboy's Hefner gets engaged to a Playmate again" headlined the Associated Press blurb. In a Twitter message the day after Christmas, he said that he had given a ring to girlfriend and Playmate Crystal Harris and that she had burst into tears. "This is the happiest Christmas weekend in memory," he wrote. Now if  he could only remember what he did with the last Playmate.

Largely regarded as the father of the sexual revolution, Hefner founded Playboy magazine in 1953 and over the course of the following half century built an empire with one of the most recognizable brands in history. He championed the "Good Life" and outlined his philosophy in an editorial of the first issue of Playboy.

"We like our apartment. We enjoy mixing up cocktails and an hors d'oeurve or two, putting a little mood music on the phonograph and inviting in a female acquaintance for a quiet discussion on Picasso, Nietzsche, jazz, sex... If we are able to give the American male a few extra laughs and a little diversion from the anxieties of the Atomic Age, we'll feel we've justified our existence."

Bring on the nuclear warheads, Hugh.

As the Internet blogs and tweets its disapproval of the May-December liaison, the 24 year old Harris has no problem with the disparity in their ages. "A lot of people talk about the age difference between Hef and I, but I don't see the age difference at all. If anything, I feel like I'm the adult and Hef's the kid," she said.

She'll get no argument from me on that one, but I would advise her to supervise his play dates and keep a close eye on his BB gun.

Up until about a month ago, Hefner had been dating twins Karissa and Kristina Shannon at the same time as his involvement with Harris. In an interview with Fox News, he described monogamy as "something that has been invented along the way to take care of children." Whether he recognizes his own need for daycare or he is simply a hopeless romantic underneath the bathrobe, "Hef" is offering an ironic stamp of approval to the institution of marriage for the third time. May I offer my sincere wish that this will indeed be the charm and that the happy couple will enjoy many loving years together. However, should paradise find itself in trouble, I'd like to direct Mr. Hefner's eye to the available leggy blond in the photo above.

Photo- "Is that a biscuit or are you just glad to see me?" Gracie lives out her boudoir fantasy.

Dream On

In a recent installment of "Green Monkey Tales", my friend and fellow blogger Shannon Kennedy laments her loss of the "Past Love Story" writing contest. Disappointment and denial of recognition have delivered a powerful blow; go to self-doubt, go directly to self-doubt. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.00.

 Grantland Rice, the great sportswriter once said, 'It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game.' Well Grantland Rice can go to hell as far as I'm concerned.
-Gene Autry

I'm with the Singing Cowboy on this one. Losing didn't launch his career, keep him on Forbes magazine's list of the 400 richest Americans, or pen "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer". Yep, pardner, it's fun to win and it sure as shootin' pays more.

Contests are a double-edged sword; preparation and practice can lead to the exhilaration of victory or the embarrassment of holding an empty bag. Unfortunately there are a lot of empty bags out there. I'm pleased to report that by the end of her post, Shannon had come to terms with her defeat and decided that it wouldn't stop her from writing. Here's to looking at that bag as half full.

As competitive as I am, I'm not a great competitor. I can be totally undone by nerves and I'm not terribly receptive to criticism. My mother used to tell me, "You're thin-skinned, just like your grandmother." Apparently, "Ma'am" used to talk through television shows while remaining quiet during the commercials. No matter how gentle the reprimand, her beautiful blue eyes would fill with tears and she would clam up for hours. I guess you could say she was "Good to the Last Drop."

Genetic hyper-sensitivity coursing through my veins, I search for signs of validation as I now stand on the far side of the half century mark. Music and art have remained a constant thread throughout much of my life, though I haven't pushed either pursuit to its limit. Little victories aside, I, like Ralph Kramden,  have yet to "hit the high note". But I'm not dead yet and I'd like to think that the drill team competition I won in high school was not the apex of my creative accomplishments. Outside of reality TV, you can only go so far with white boots and a pair of pom-poms. Now there's a thought...

So while I prepare to take on the Kardashians as a banjo picking, dog loving, pom-pom waving mid life maniac, I'll keep reaching for the ring, brass or otherwise.

I know that Shannon will do the same.

Shannon Kennedy is the colorful force behind "Green Monkey Tales". Her writing is exuberant, poignant and hopeful. Please visit http://greenmonkeytales.blogspot.com/

Dear John

Your daughter Jenny called me yesterday. Memories and anticipation rode shotgun as she drove to the airport a day earlier than planned. After nearly two weeks in the hospital, the doctors are sending you home to end your eight year battle with Alzheimer's. In the arms of a remarkable and loving family, you are quietly slipping away as you say goodbye. I am brought to tears.

Imposing and brusque, you scared the hell out of me as a kid. Your wife Donna once described you as "a complicated man."; I accepted that explanation and played by its rules. Your opinions were iron-clad and your respect was hard won. You weren't easy.

I grew up alongside Jenny and, over time, became a member of your extended family. During your oldest daughter Holly's graduation party in the backyard, a contingency of underaged revelers sampled some Sloe Gin on the front porch. Bounding down the steps to dispose of the evidence, I found myself locked in combat with the fire of your steel blue eyes.  I don't remember the exchange of words as you took the bottle out of my hands; for that matter, I don't recall any major repercussions resulting from our antics. I do remember, however, looking for toilet paper in your bathroom many years later. As I searched through the cabinet under the sink, I found the empty bottle of Sloe Gin. Why you kept it, I'll never know, but I felt an odd sense of honor wash over me that day.

You walked your daughter Holly down a lovely makeshift aisle as she was married in your backyard. The spirit and warmth of that day so impressed me that I could think of no other place to have my own wedding. My own parents were surprised and somewhat concerned by my decision and didn't know you all that well at the time. Who in their right mind would want to host someone else's daughter's wedding? What will our friends think? Well, their friends wound up having such a wonderful time that they asked my folks if they had another daughter to marry off the next weekend. Your hard work and generosity resulted in one hell of a party and the beginning of a wonderful relationship with my parents. They loved you and made several trips to visit you when you moved south of Pittsburgh, to your beautiful "Booth Hill" in 1991. I have heard many fond recountings and will always be grateful that they were treated to the luxury of your friendship.

A farmer at heart, you approached life with a no-nonsense attitude. After giving many years of compassionate and intelligent service to the Pennsylvania State Game Commission, the farmboy from Mansfield, Pennsylvania has come full circle. "Booth Hill" fits you like a glove; you've taken good care of each other. I carry with me the memories of my own visits and a lifetime of love from you and Donna.

I texted Jenny today, asking for an update on your condition. She answered, "I am not gonna lie...this is rough, but there is a strange beauty to it..." Less than a year after my own father's death, it is not surprising that I should remember the nights I spent by his bed, with Gracie asleep at my feet. I watched as he stirred and sputtered in his sleep, his hands at times reaching in the air to capture morphine-induced hallucinations. There was a great deal of sadness among the suspense, yet I felt a singular sense of purpose and peace. All I had to do was be by my father's side; nothing else mattered. Nothing else was needed.

You are now surrounded by your family as they do their best to let you go. You won't be forgotten; your hand has touched them in ways that they have only begun to know. If there is an afterlife, I'd like to imagine it as a large sun-drenched porch complete with bottomless glasses of mint-laced iced tea. You are needling my mother as she bursts into one of her trademark giggles; my father and you enter into a lengthy mechanical conversation about tractors. Please tell them that I said hello and that I love them.

Thanks,
Joan

Photo:  John Booth  at "Booth Hill". Unidentified cat and  faithful pickup "Roger" are in the background.

John Ainsworth Booth, September 1, 1929 - September 1, 2010.
    

Better Late Than Never

I had every intention of publishing this post on July 25, the day my mother would have turned 86. Unable to pull it together in time, I came to the realization that a delayed posting was, in fact, the perfect tribute. My mother was always late.

She never caught the beginning of a movie. Accustomed to the out-of- breath whirlwind digging through her purse for money, the ticket vendor always allowed her to come back to watch the start of the next showing.

Dinner at 5:30 was out of the question, and the plates reached the table later with each passing year. While a moonlit meal in Paris brings to romance to mind, the same scenario in Trucksville, Pennsylvania brought only an empty stomach and gas pains. We knew she meant well and did our best to enjoy leathery steak sentenced to death by one of her many distractions. I often tried to rescue the meat while Mom bustled about the kitchen; my efforts were at best 50/50  as she chastised me for being impatient. So much for my career as an EMT.

The concept of an early start was elusive and seldom realized. A trip to the mall never began any earlier than 1:00 and ended with her Chevy Caprice flying up the hill  just in time to be late for dinner. "There's Dan Gurney," my father would say, making reference to the famous Formula One driver. "Do you know that she can back out of a driveway faster than most people pull in?"

Though governed by a skewed time zone, she managed our lives and schedules and was a loving hands-on mom. I may have gotten my behind into the dentist chair nanoseconds before the Novocaine hit, but I got there. She had all the time in the world while I agonized over the latest fashions in a fitting room. I didn't return the favor, fidgeting and whining before she could get one finger in a glove. She chauffeured my friends and I to the mall, where we would go our separate ways after determining when and where we would later meet. Manning our post well past the appointed time, we would eventually hear the screech of heel clatter as a five foot two inch bullet barrelled towards us like a bat out of hell.

While I can't lay claim to my mother's good nature and sweet disposition, genetics' sense of humor has kept this apple pretty close to the tree. I carry on my mother's tradition of dysfunctional time management while making a mad dash for the finish line. She recognized my gift and often told me, "You'll be late for your own funeral." God, I hope so.

Happy Birthday, Mom.


Photo- Rosemary Devine Harrison and unidentified beau.

Out Standing In My Field

Okay, so it's not my field. But it is a field, and a mighty big one at that. Packed to the tree lines with pickers, grinners and listeners, the Walsh farm in Oak Hill, New York becomes the home of the Greyfox Bluegrass Festival every third weekend in July. Named the International Bluegrass Music Association's Bluegrass Event of the year in 2009, Greyfox has assembled the finest talent and steadfast fans for over thirty years. Neither rain nor sleet ( hmmm...) nor gloom of night keeps the legions of devotees from lining up in anticipation of the opening of the Greyfox gates. While at its former location in Ancramdale, New York ( the festival moved in 2008 to Oak Hill ), a pre-festival tradition of camping  at the bottom of the hill began in order to secure prime camping real estate. Dubbed "The Foxhole", it is now held about 4 miles from the current festival site on the Allan farm. Bluegrass enthusiasts Elsie and Jim Allan welcome the not yet tired and weary as they pick and party their way through the week before the actual event. "Gumbo Night" serves up a grand finale to the Foxhole and the masses move on to the "Really Big Shoe".

Born in 1976 and christened the Berkshire Mountains Bluegrass Festival, the gathering was eventually named "Winterhawk" and spent its first 30 years in Ancramdale, NY on a beautiful sunset-blessed hillside belonging to the Rothvoss family. Ten years ago, Winterhawk became Grey Fox when one of the founding partners decided to part ways with the administration.  In January 2008, the Rothvoss farm was sold and an intense search ended at the Walsh farm in time for that year's festival. Renamed and relocated, the spirit of Grey Fox lives on and flourishes as more fans discover its magic.

I first experienced Winterhawk in the mid-eighties as a fledgling banjo player. Lacking the confidence to insert myself into a jam, I stood on the sidelines and watched as musicians traded solos and sang in harmony. While I may have been under equipped to join in the music making at the campsites, I was able to bask in the talent flowing from the main stage. The best of the best in bluegrass took to the floorboards year after year, from the Father of Bluegrass, Bill Monroe to the progressive heat of the powerhouse New Grass Revival. Doc Watson's brilliant guitar stylings were served with the warmth and humor of his front porch demeanor. A young Alison Krauss celebrated a birthday during a set, going on to win 27 Grammys during the course of a career that continues to spread the bluegrass word. In 1989, I watched as Pete Wernick of Hot Rize took the stage after surviving the crash of United Airlines flight 232 in an Iowa corn field. There are eight million stories in the Naked Bluegrass City; this has been one of them.

Twenty years later, I'm setting up a tent on a patch of grass thoughtfully reserved for me by my friends. It's hot. Sweat pours from my face as I put together the poles and bid farewell to my vanity. My hair will be flat, my feet will be dirty and my hygienic routine will be compromised. I could very easily forgo camping these days- my home is situated on a wooded lot and offers daily access to Mother Nature and her wonders. As I question the sanity of signing up for three days of blistering sun and steaming Porta-potties, I hear the answer.

A novice fiddler practices intently alongside her parents' camper, while a spirited jam session kicks up a few sites away. Young, dreadlocked, and decidedly bohemian, the folks on the other side of our temporary road pay homage to Jerry Garcia. A cluster of old timers play it like Jimmy Martin; a young man on jazz keyboards plays it nothing like Jimmy. Music. It's all here and it's all good.

We arrive with our instruments and our arsenals of material in hopes of sharing our musical thoughts and enthusiasm with fellow pickers. Although the main stage line-up is top notch, I am drawn to Grey Fox by the promise of finding that special jam session, that moment where it all comes together. Even if it never happens or if I come up against material I don't know or can't execute, I pack up my shortcomings and head home to prepare for the next festival. Move 'em out, Rawhide!

Music as an art form is organic and ever changing.  Bluegrass traditions are preserved while new ideas emerge and evolve. Having spent his lifetime pioneering and creating the "high lonesome sound", Bill Monroe considered himself the father and caretaker of bluegrass. When a new band didn't perform to his standards, he would say, "That ain't no part of nothing." With all due respect, I disagree. It's all part of something; something which draws thousands of people to festivals across the country. We step out of our lives, into our cars and campers, and settle down in the middle of  a musical encampment that will disappear in a few days. It is our Brigadoon, if you will, but we don't have to wait a hundred years for the gates to open again. See you next year.


Photo by Dan Tressler. Thanks, shmerrr.

Walk On

I let my feelings get the best of me today, which in turn brought out the worst in me. Mindless chore completion and a trip to the gym did nothing to soothe the savage beast. Nonsense spewed from her foaming mouth and when it became clear that she would remain until day's end, I decided it might be prudent to leave her to her own devices. Why not take a walk? Why, it's right up there with the daily apple or prune juice to combat attitude malaise. Add a dog to the prescription and you're on the road to recovery.

I packed up the canine and drove to Poughkeepsie. Hardly the Disneyland of the northeast, it does boast of a marvelous new attraction- the Walkway Over the Hudson. The longest pedestrian bridge in the world, its 1.28 mile span offers unobstructed views of the river set to the heartbeat of scores of walkers, joggers and cyclists. From the moment our feet and paws hit the pavement, I could feel my inner monster loosen her grasp. Just what the witch doctor ordered.

Walking with Gracie makes me laugh. She is a fur-covered dose of Prosac without the side effects. Her goofy grin set to full power, she scores head pats, butt rubs, and at the very least, charmed smiles from our fellow walkers. A party waiting to happen, she issues countless invitations to her festivities and receives few refusals. Her guest list grows exponentially as I follow in her four footsteps. "It's okay-I'm with the dog."

The realization of 20 years of reclamation efforts, the Walkway Over the Hudson is the rebirth of an abandoned railroad bridge damaged by fire on May 8, 1974. Failed attempts to save it led to popular opinion that it would eventually be torn down. Bill Sepe, a local handyman obsessed with the idea of a pedestrian walkway, formed Walkway Over the Hudson in 1992. While his original plan to restore the bridge with volunteer labor and funds didn't work, the organization took over ownership of the bridge in 1998. In 2004, a new board with a greater vision was in place, and in 2007 joined forces with the Dyson Foundation to raise the necessary funds. The project took 16 months and $38.8 million dollars to complete. Managed by the state as an historic park, the handyman's obsession stands as a glorious tribute to the tenacity of its supporters.

In our precarious economic times, even the most successful projects face the pressures of downsizing. New York State is considering the closing of 41 state parks and 14 historic sites, and the Walkway may feel the sting of that decision. A charge for parking may be in place by summer and the winter may find the Walkway closed on certain days. One trip across this masterpiece will prove that these problems are well worth tackling.

As we finished our stroll, I realized I no longer carried the weight of my miserable mood. Unable to stand the euphoria brought on by clear air and spectacular views, she must have hurled herself into the river. A glass of Cabernet and a salad at one of my local haunts would keep her there.

Like Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz", I had found what I needed in my own backyard, or more specifically, in Gracie. Sweet and short-sighted, she offers immediate relief to anxiety and access to the simplest of pleasures. When in doubt, listen to the dog.

For more information on the Walkway Over the Hudson, visit www.walkway.org.

Please Don't Eat the Daisies

I sat in my father's kitchen and stared at the wallpaper. Daisies. Crazy daisies. Avocado and harvest gold crazy daisies. Elvis may have left the building, but the building never left the seventies.

Classic fodder for an HGTV episode of "House Hunters", I hear the paper-hating moans of prospective buyers. Were it another house on another show, I'd be right there with them. I found my present home nestled in a time warp and diligently brought it up to date, unencumbered by the memories of former owners. The family manse, however, is another matter. While I question how much work I want to do to stage the home for sale, I wonder if I'd rather keep the museum intact as long as I can. I have the luxury of visiting with these artifacts and listening to their stories. Call me crazy, but those daisies sure can talk.

They remind me of the Tuesday night I stood in the kitchen with my Mom as we finished doing the dishes. "Marcus Welby, M.D." was on TV ( The television is also still in the house and would willingly corroborate the daisies' story.) and I noticed the ceiling light flicker. "Mom! It's a bat!" She channelled her inner shortstop and snagged the creature with her dishtowel. It lay in a ball on the floor and Mom grabbed its edges and ran through the living room. She threw open the front door, snapped the towel and released the invader onto the porch. As I caught my breath, I turned and looked up the stairs to our second floor. Bats swooped back and forth like barn swallows. I sounded the alarm for the second parent. "Dad!"

He ran into the living room to find two clearly distressed damsels and a growing formation of bats. They had begun to descend down the stairs and one had attached himself to the dining room wall. Armed with a tennis racket, Dad decided against its use. "Too messy.", he said. He ran to the hall closet and returned with the vacuum cleaner. Before we could read the animal its rights, Dad had sucked it into the canister, his eyes fixed on his next victim. The Nightmare on Vonderheid Street had just begun.

About a half an hour into the skirmish, I went down to the basement in search of a sweater to cover my halter top. The thought of a scantily clad pubescent Barbarella might be titillating, but I felt underexposed. I opened the door and was horrified to find another airborne visitor. If Chicken Little thought his sky was falling, then this was the end of my world. My brother and father responded to my screams, manned the vacuum cleaner and motioned me upstairs to guard the second floor.

Holding two tennis rackets, I nervously stood at the bottom of the stairs. Within seconds, I had trapped a bat on one of the treads and stared at his beady eyes through the grid of the strings. Another circled my head as I kept it at bay with the other racket. Just as I began to review my life, my Dad and brother relieved me of my duty. Batman and Robin were going to save Gotham City.

Well after midnight, the battle appeared to be over. Nineteen bats, an exhausted family of four, and one hardworking Electrolux. We concluded that the bats had come in through the ceiling of the unfinished second floor bathroom. Workers had finished putting up our aluminum siding that day and covered up the hole that had allowed them to come and go as they pleased. Two stragglers surfaced over the next few days and the official total stands at twenty-one. Months would pass before I could open my closet without fear, but I had survived "The Trucksville Horror".

My thanks go to the craziest of daisies for their retelling of this tale. I'm dying to hear what the shag rug has to say.

Cloud 8

As Dad and I approached the buffet at a Mother's Day brunch, he pointed at a little girl all decked out in lacy white tights.

"Y' know, Joan- they shed those in the spring."

Well into my teens and equipped with a fully-functioning adolescent attitude, I did my best to dismiss his comment as ignorant and inappropriate. Stifling the laughter swirling inside my chest, I moved along the steam table, filled my plate and walked past the corn chowder. I knew I'd never make it back to the table with both the thought of his remark and a bowl of soup intact.

What the teenager chose to ignore is what fills this adult with the warmth of humor. No doubt about it, my father was one funny son of a bitch.

His delivery was direct and dry. Governed by common sense, he made no apologies for uncompromising opinions or close-minded commentaries. "If someone has a problem with it, they can shit in their hat." I never understood how that would benefit either party, but it did put and end to more than one blossoming argument.

Dad's culinary tastes were basic; he rarely strayed from his comfort zone. The mention of garlic brought a curl to his lip and an exaggerated shiver to his spine. Although he generally stuck to his script when dining out, my mother might convince him to try something new once or twice a year. "Y'know- I like that French Onion soup with the Maserati cheese on top." His review may have been more Grand Prix than Food Network, but at least the old man gave it a shot.

My father had a low tolerance for upper-crust affectations and the putting on of airs. He had no interest in elevating his social standing or mixing with the society page crowd. "They think their shit's ice cream."

One scoop or two?

Fashion placed no pressure on Dad during his retirement years; the suited executive became the "regular guy" in a plaid shirt, tan pants and slip on loafers. No alligators, no pleats, none of those crazy "moon shoe" soles. Keep it simple, stupid, and top it off with a bucket-shaped "Go to Hell Hat". I have no idea where he came up with that one, but I'm sure you wouldn't find any shit in it.

He may not have shared my obsession with fitness, but he understood its' importance. "I saw on TV that Tina Turner takes pierogie classes." Proud Mary, keep on rollin' that dough and filling it with potatoes.

My mother loved Dad's description of the end of one his youthful romances. "She sent me a John Deere letter." What a pain in the grass.

When one of my father's employees received a promotion, he told us "He was so happy he was on Cloud 8". I joked and said, "Well, I guess he wasn't really THAT happy." Now I know better.

See you on Cloud 8.


Dad would have been 84 years old on April 17. He left behind a tired pair of loafers and a "Go to Hell" hatful of memories.

If I Had a Hammer

My mother loved Easter. As a matter of fact, she was on the front line of any holiday celebration. An Olympian in the shopping arena, her ear was finely tuned to the desires of her loved ones; a passing thought about a lovely blouse could propel my mom towards the mall in search of it. She was relentless in her pursuit and rarely came up short.

Once she had her prize, she spared no details in its presentation. Our gifts were impeccably wrapped; I have yet to achieve the perfectly folded corners that were a trademark of her packages. For that matter, my bed making skills are not up to her standards and I may never iron a T shirt- certain practices are best left to the masters.

"That Joan- she's always into something..."


At times my mother may have uttered that phrase with a hint of exasperation, but she used my "cyclical obsessions" to her advantage. Her shopping expeditions were fueled by a purpose and the results of her hunt were creative and often humorous.

I was fortunate to grow up in an era unbound by the overwhelming fear of abduction and Amber alerts. A three hour bike ride or an afternoon hiking expedition gave our parents little cause for concern. No eyelashes were batted when I announced that my friends Laurie, Jennifer and I would be building a fort in the woods; dolls and dresses had long ago given way to more unconventional interests. We were told to be careful and were off on another adventure.

As the self-appointed project manager, I went over the plans with my friends; we could outdo ourselves on this one. We would find four trees to use as our corners and layer about two feet of field stone to connect their bases. Walls finished with pine trees horizontally nailed into the corners supported a sturdy roof doubling as the perfect hi-rise patio, complete with safety railings. Of course, our project should be kept under wraps to avoid sabotage by the neighborhood boys. We quietly crept into the woods after school and went to work.


Pooling our financial resources, we were able to buy enough nails to begin construction, but the tools were another matter. I knew that I couldn't casually borrow from my father's arsenal without consequence; his was a territorial tribe that frowned upon lending. We could make do with one saw, but we each needed our own hammer to make any serious headway. While grocery shopping with my mom, I saw the answer to my fort-building prayers.


"The Ladies' Hammer" caught my eye as we made our way down one of the aisles. It had a dainty head and the handle grip was a soft shade of red. Hanging from a card decorated with a goofy 70's cartoon of an aproned housewife brandishing her very own cartoon hammer, it was perfect. I pointed it out to my mother, who responded with minimal interest while moving on to the Tastykakes. Her apparent indifference threw me for a loop; she was generally an easy mark. Deciding against my usual display of theatrics, I quietly headed toward the checkout, sans hammer.

Stumbling down the stairs on Easter morning, I couldn't wait to see my basket. Overflowing with sparkling green grass and adorned with a big shiny bow, it was filled with coconut nests, jellybeans, speckled malted eggs, marshmallow peeps and an over-the-top assortment of solid white, pink and milk chocolate bunnies and chicks. As I emptied the contents and prepared to bite the head off my first victim, a silver glimmer shone through the grass. Delighted and surprised, I reached in and pulled out "The Ladies' Hammer".

Wait until Laurie and Jennifer see this.


The hammer in Grace's basket is indeed "The Ladies' Hammer". Its chipped face and bent neck give testimony to many years of use, reminding me of childhood dreams and one very cool mom.

Bringing Up The Rear

The ass is where it's at.

I set my sights on the glowing golden buttocks as they swoop and sway down the road in front of me. Brazenly strutting her showgirl stuff with the confidence of a drum major, Gracie brings a smile to my ordinary day. She may be going nowhere in particular, but she'll have a good time getting there. The hostess with the mostess makes no discrimination and invites everyone to her party. Throwing Cesar Millan's pack-leading advice directly into the wind, I follow the dog.

I've often said that I'd like to have a room in Gracie's head. Sunny and spacious, complete with singing birds, I imagine it to be a place with no agendas, no malice and very few rules. Disagreeable feelings are easily pushed out the door by a biscuit or a butt massage; you're not even guaranteed that level of service in a five star hotel. Assuming that said room is perpetually sold out, I console myself by traveling in her good-natured wake.

Our road quietly cuts through the woods and offers little in the way of entertainment; traffic is light and we rarely encounter other pedestrians. When we do run into the occasional road crew, Gracie throws herself at the workers like a bubbly tween at a Jonas Brothers concert. Living in the moment leaves no room for the maintenance of decorum and "Her Heineyness" does not apologize for her enthusiasm. A master of the head butt and posterior press, she demands attention, preferably in the form of heavy petting. She rarely walks away empty-pawed.

While I may draw the line at rubbing up against strangers, I'd like to join in Grace's appreciation of the simplest of pleasures. Galumphing along with purpose and conviction, she always takes time to stop and smell the roses. Although her roses may come in the form of a dead squirrel, I remind myself to do the same.


"Dogs are the leaders of the planet. If you see two life forms, one of them's making a poop, the other one's carrying it for him, who would you assume is in charge?" - Jerry Seinfeld

Snow Way!

I really thought I had it figured out. After a productive installment of cleaning my parents' house in Pennsylvania, I'd pack up the dog and head back to New York. Sure, the weather was threatening, but I gathered enough information from the 3 channels on my father's 13 inch television to convince myself that I could sneak home between the episodic snowstorms set to pummel the Northeast. I went about the prolonged business of securing the homestead, and got on the road at 5:30 p.m. Tiny snowflakes had begun to fall among intermittent raindrops, but I didn't consider them a cause for concern. After all, I'd have the storm at my back and would be home well before the snow hit the fan. Or would I?

Passing Scranton on Route 81, I reveled in the absence of rush hour traffic I had anticipated. Mistaking my relief for arrogance, the gods put me in my place about 10 minutes later as I turned onto Route 84. Someone shook the snow globe and I was in the middle of one nasty whiteout. Tightening my fingers around the wheel, I set my mind to the task and my eyes on the tail lights of the car ahead of me. Fast asleep beside me, Gracie had a first class seat in blissful ignorance as Amelia Earhart prepared to cross the Pacific.

Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains may not be on par with the Idaho Panhandle or an icy switchback in Montana, but I'd think twice about passing through in a blizzard. Exits separated by dark and lonely stretches of woodlands offer little in the way of respite; I decided to forgo my usual pit stop in favor of continuing in the wake of a Honda Accord traveling at a comfortable rate. Traffic was light and I was at least spared the anxiety of tail gaiters and Indy wannabes passing at inappropriate speeds. My back straight and my knuckles white, I fixed my gaze on my new best friend in the Honda and crept along at an excruciating 35 miles per hour.

Our two car caravan continued until my guide grew a set of cojones and left me in the slush. On my own and suddenly surrounded by eighteen-wheelers, I fishtailed as I made the descent into the Delaware River town of Matamoras. Unnerved by the performance of my all wheel drive, I felt Dumbo's feather slip from my grasp. Regrouping by reminding myself that I had made it to the halfway point of my trip, I regained enough confidence to pass up the chance to make a rest stop and carried on. Within minutes, the gods were at it again. The parade came to a dead stop on the bridge and my overfull bladder woke up with an attitude.

Feeling the bridge quiver as I waited among the idling cars, I looked over at Gracie who had heaved herself up from her nap. She calmly surveyed the situation while I imagined the structure collapsing under our weight. To hell with the camera, to hell with the banjo, to hell with my new boots; I would hold onto Grace's collar and swim us both to safety. As I struggled to reach an onshore rock, my grip loosened and my beloved best friend was swept away by the icy foam. My cries went unheard and as my eyes closed in desperation, I was pulled from my fantasy by the flash of red brake lights; the traffic had begun to move. Gracie let out a low whine as she was summoned by her own needy bladder. "Knock it off, Grace- I tried to save you, really I did..."

She whined again.

Moving at a respectable crawl, we finally reached a rest area. I went inside, checked each stall for axe murderers and relieved myself. Upon returning to the car, I grabbed Gracie's leash, brought her outside and waited for her to do the same. Through the veil of huge falling flakes I could see the lights of a truck pulling into the parking lot. I couldn't stop my mind from racing to the scene in "Pee Wee's Big Adventure" where Pee Wee accepts a ride from a mysterious lady trucker on a lonely, foggy night. Her name was Large Marge...


On this very night, ten years ago...
Along the same stretch of road, in a dense fog just like this...
I saw the worst accident I ever seen.
There was this sound, like a garbage truck dropped off the Empire State Building.
And when they finally pulled the body from the twisted, burning wreck,
It looked like... THIS! ( Marge's eyes pop out of their sockets.)
Hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo haaah!
Yes sir, that was the worst accident I ever seen.


The instant Grace raised her haunches, I hoisted her into the car and pressed the automatic door lock. A raging river, an insane trucker's ghost and then what? The flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz? I threw my overactive imagination on the back seat and pulled on to the interstate faster than you could say, "I'll get you, my pretty!"


Slowly negotiating the remaining miles of Route 84, I managed to keep calm in spite of the occasional rodeo cowboy at the wheel of a tandem Fed-Ex truck. I decided to head north on Route 9 instead of the dark, shoulderless Taconic Parkway. Dehydrated by the window defroster, Grace's tongue flapped in a continuous pant. We stopped at a Dunkin Donuts where I grabbed a coffee for myself and an ice water for my co-pilot. Refueled but bedraggled and heading east through Poughkeepsie on Route 44, I was finally on the last leg of our journey.


Doing the math as I turned north onto Route 82, I realized that my usual sub-3 hour trip had taken over 5 1/2 hours to complete. I supposed that it could have been worse; we were safe and the vehicle was intact. Only eight miles from home, I noticed the snow-covered trees drooping a la Dr. Seuss and considered the possibility of an outage. Five minutes later, my husband called to tell me that the power had gone down.


"How did it get so late so soon?
It's night before it's afternoon.
December is here before it's June.
My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?"

-Theodor Seuss Geisel, aka "Dr Seuss"