Taking the Leap, Coming of Age

It took enormous courage. You were all alone on your climb, though a knot of friends was usually there, too - urging, cheering, goading. The basics clicked through your head as each rung took you farther from the cement. Breathe. Keep moving up. Don't think about it. And for goodness sake, don't look down. Just jump.

Taking that first harrowing climb and leap off the high diving board used to be a milestone coming of age experience for a kid. Most of us reached it at 8 or 9 or 10; some did it younger; a few couldn't screw up the courage until they were 12 or 13. But you had to do it. Had to. Or you couldn't move on. Kid-pride was as stake. And if you broke your neck (which I never heard of anyone ever doing), well, at least you'd taken the leap.

I took my first brave jump at 8 or 9 off the high board at Harrison Bay State Park pool near Chattanooga, the very one in the photo on the right. I can only liken the rush of adrenaline of the climb and leap to the excitement of creeping in to the Christmas tree early Christmas morning. More fearful, of course, but the heart-pounding energy was the same. And, oh! Once I realized I had actually survived, why, I got out of the pool and joined the line to climb and jump again.

Sad to think most high diving boards have been dismantled, blowing to smithereens the opportunity for current and future generations to make the climb of terror, the long plunge to success. We all know why. There are no more high dives for the same reasons there are no more wooden-seated swings, tall metal slides, or unhelmeted bike rides on a sturdy Schwinn. Maybe it's about improved safety, though I suspect it's more about insurance risks and law suits. Sure, there are high diving platforms for the Olympic-types, but even if a kid gets the chance to try one out, the missing element of peer pressure - all those friends encouraging or teasing - would dilute the true coming of age experience.

If you find a great outdoor pool with a high diving board, make the climb. Feel the terror. Feel the exhilaration. Feel the triumph when you realize you've survived. And encourage your kids to do the same. That jump builds character and memories.

Of Humidity, Honeysuckle, and Hydrangeas

The air's getting heavier, just shy of turning into a wall of mist, as storms roll into Atlanta for the week. I am not a big fan of heat and humidity, preferring the good cool snap of an autumn breeze or the steely cold of a few inches of snow. However, we're heading full steam (yes, steam) toward June, so I must find whatever joy I can from sauna-season.

My neighborhood walks are helping me find that joy. The humidity brings out the most delicious fragrances of grass, new foliage, and every bloomin' blooming thing. The scent of honeysuckle is particularly heady this spring, simply yummy. Just a whiff of honeysuckle is all the incentive I need to keep up the pace for a few more minutes.

And colors really pop in the moist air.. The greens are greener, the yellows yellowier. A shout out to the hydrangeas out there! Your coconut-size blooms are particularly colorful this year - the blues and pinks and purples are simply brilliant. Hooray for you!

So for the fragrant colors of an Atlanta spring, I will suffer the overly-dewy skin and lank hair that humidity brings and find joy in how it heightens the senses. I will also find joy in my air conditioned home once my walks are over. Onward to June!

10 Questions About the Met Gala

The top 10 questions (OK, more than ten) that popped into my head while trying to avoid most of the news about this:

1.  How many people are invited to this thing? I assume it's "invitation only;" do the invites come from Anna Wintour only, or can others get folks on the list, as well?
2. I think the gala/ball is $25K/per person, so obviously you don't pay at the door. Do they give you little plastic, glow-in-the-dark wristbands, or stamp your hand, or what, to show you've forked over? I mean, what if someone on Anna's Pooh-List shows up uninvited/paid for? Who's gonna know? 
3. The Met Gala is also called a Ball. Once they prance up that long flight of steps, do they go inside and dance somewhere? Is it like a Cinderella kind of ball?
4. If there is, indeed, dancing, what space at the Met is used for that? The entrance hall? The Temple of Dendur? The American Wing? Is there a marquee out back in Central Park? As large as the Met is, there's not one space big enough for everyone to line-dance, so where?
5. Once the women get inside, do they change into something more comfortable/movable/cover-up-able? Seriously, even if there isn't any ballroom dancing going on, how do Rihanna, Beyonce, SJP, et. al., keep from tripping and falling into priceless artworks? (The men don't have to worry because they're dressed relatively normal.)
6. Is there drinking? If so, then I am really worried about all those Greek statues, Medieval armour displays, Tiffany glass, Rembrandts, and, yes, even the Temple of Dendur. Drinking, plus impossible-to-maneuver dresses, spells disaster to me.
7. Is there eating? Aren't they worried they'll drip BBQ sauce down the front of whatever it is they're wearing? Do they hand out big lobster bibs? Or has everyone actually changed into jeans by the time the food is brought out?
8. I get that it's a fundraiser for the Met's Costume Institute, but really, women, have you no decency? Have you no shame? Crazy is fine, but some of what makes its way up those steps looks like 1978 Frederick's of Hollywood.You could use a few style tips from Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis.
9. Why do we never see pictures of people leaving the gala/ball? Do they just go up the steps and out the basement exit (no dancing, drinking, or food)? Is it really just one big photo op, then off to Starbucks?
10. What in the hell are any of the Kardashians doing there? (And, yes, I'm embarrassed I can spell "Kardashian.")

I'm sure I could Google all of these questions and get answers, but I just cannot be bothered to spend one more millisecond of energy on this thing. Just please clean up after yourselves when you leave. Thank you.

Why I'm not thinking about Nepal this very minute

Social media and headlines are asking, "Have we forgotten Nepal already?" Strike "Nepal" and insert "kidnapped Nigerian girls," "Syria," "the migrants who drowned in the Mediterranean," or "ebola." Such media-nudges make me feel guilty at first, causing me to wonder if I'm shallow in my concern for global mega-events. But once I wrestle with the guilt, I'm left with confusion.

Since the earthquake in Nepal, Baltimore has erupted, various political announcements/pronouncements have been made, a princess was born, Tony nominations were announced, car bombs went off in various places, Ben E. King, Jean Nidetch, Ruth Rendell, Calvin Peete, and Jayne Meadows died, there were never-ending stories about NFL draft/NBA playoffs (OK, I really don't care about either of those, but they do take up news space), and some horse won the Kentucky Derby. The constant news bombardment can be blamed on technology and the infamous 24-hour TV/internet news cycle, but that's really just the outside world part of it. Life requires getting up, moving forward, even with mundane, ordinary stuff.

So to the big news items of the week, add deadlines at work requiring long hours, a couple of family birthdays, helping with a yard sale, getting a grandchild to/from choir rehearsal and performance, first of the month bill-paying, helping with a yard sale, a fabulous St. Helena's Chapter dinner meeting, laundry, eating, sleeping, bathing. You know, just the things of life that everyone enjoys or copes with.

Certainly, most of the daily news and everyday stuff can't hold a candle to massive global tragedies. But living one's own life, a life that is made up of family, friends, work, play, and taking care of mental, physical, and spiritual health, is what we human animals do. It sounds self-centered, but I suppose much of life is self- or family-centered. That doesn't mean I don't have a caring, mission-focused heart. I do care. Deeply. But which catastrophes stake their claims on my life and stay for extended periods of time? How do I decide what to worry about, send money to, or put on work boots and travel to the ends of the earth or around the corner for? Yes, there's the confusion (and admittedly, some guilt).

Have I forgotten Nepal already? No, certainly not. The people of Nepal, as well as rescue and aid workers, are in my prayers. I donate to relief organizations, which are much better at real, practical help than my constant worrying could possibly be. But, truth be told, I'm not thinking about Nepal or any of those other awful world news things 24/7. Bills to pay, deadlines to meet, sleep to sleep.

So, news media and Facebook friends, don't assume I've forgotten. Just know that living life sucks out an awful lot of energy every day. Keep reminding me.

The Thinking Porch

One of the hardest things for me to do is to just sit and think, to let my mind wander where it may. Maybe because that sounds kind of dangerous. Who knows what crazy ideas might come out of taking the leash off my brain? Still, it does get tired of kicking into action for all the practical day-to-day stuff, for work or in a crisis. But there never seems to be the right time or place to go beyond the energy of immediate thinking.

For the past few months, I've had a deep need to get away from practical thoughts. Yes, to just sit and think. To dream, explore, wonder. To not think about the everyday or the have-to stuff.

So why can't I do that any time, any place? I'm guessing it's my appalling lack of self-control in responding to technology, petty household chores, and the need for mani/pedis, unnecessary trips to Publix, and naps. I own my lack of self-control in these areas and more, but my brain was in need of a good spring cleaning, so I decided to do something about it. Last week, I took a little vacation time, found what looked like the perfect getaway location, and headed for the hills.

My room was the only one at the hotel with a private porch. Granted, the (very unbusy) parking lot ran along one side of it, but the porch faced the lake, hills, and lots of azaleas, wild honeysuckle, and evergreen trees and made a nice little nest - wooden chair with several cushions, a little table to prop up my feet, side tables for the stacks of things I'd planned to do to unwind. Read. Write. Draw. Drink tea. Yes, big plans.

But once I settled into my little outdoor nook, I found myself not energized to read or what have you; rather, I was constantly being called out of my books and journals by wind in the trees, chattering birds, and the wet-on-wet sound of water in the garden fountain. After wasting some time trying to stick with the program I'd set for myself, it dawned on me that I should take advantage of the sights and sounds around me, lay aside the books, and just see where my mind would take me.  Fortunately, where it called me wasn't work or money or other routine things that usually demand brain-time. I was called to let my head go wherever it wanted (yes, perhaps a little dangerous), to indulge in the luxury of deep thinking with no real purpose, no endgame thought-goal. And it was divine.

I won't bore you with what I thought about or what life questions and answers I worked out. The point is that spending early mornings, afternoons just before suppertime, and late into the nights on that thinking porch was exactly the spring cleaning my fuzzy old brain needed. Cups and cups of tea helped, too, by the way. As I let the mountain sounds sink in and blow through, really listening to the birds, frogs, insects, wind, and rain, I realized the reading and writing could wait. The thinking couldn't.

I didn't miss TV or my laptop. I didn't miss being in a fancy-schmancy hotel, though I had every necessary comfort in this small mountain inn. I didn't miss sticking to a plan. I let it all go. Just to sit. Just to listen. Just to notice. Just to think.

Now I'm 64

Yes, the day has come. The day that seemed so far off to a 16-year-old in 1967 when she first heard a catchy little Beatles ditty. I am 64.

Unless something suddenly changes today, there are folks who need me and feed me (well, I can still do that myself). I have grandchildren on my knee or with arms around my neck, though it's Liam and Charlotte, not Vera, Chuck, and Dave. I can let my own self in if I come home at quarter to three (very rare, that), go for a ride on Sunday morning (or any other day of the week), do some damage to a bottle of wine, and can mend my own fuses (though I can't knit, by the fireside or any other side).

It's hard to imagine what 64 is like to a 16-year-old, or to a young songwriter, for that matter. Knock wood for continued good health, I look beyond today to continue putting my heart and soul into my family, my friends, my vocation, and whatever God leads me to do. I hope to write more. I hope to pay more attention and take time to reflect on the small stuff that makes up life. I want to give in more to joy and give in less to stress.

The great thing about getting older is that I just don't give a damn what you think about my clothes, my weight, the wrinkles on my face/hands/etc., my religion, my political views, my choice of reading material, or the color of the rug in my living room. In short, I'm here to be true to myself and be the best mother/grandmother/sister/aunt/friend I can be in my doddering elderdom.

So, 64, I embrace you! Pass the wine!

Everything Points to the First Rhubarb Pie

Nothing pleases my poor little would-be writer's heart more than discovering the work of a real, true writer. Someone who absolutely nails descriptions, ideas, and life-stuff to such a degree that I slow down just so I can savor the words. Such is the case with Verlyn Klinkenborg's book, The Rural Life, based on his New York Times column about life on his small farm in upstate New York.

The book sat on my shelf for a year or two, one of those situations where I read a good review of it and ordered right away (damn you, Amazon, for so easily indulging my biblio-cravings!) but never quite got to it. I mean, really, The Rural Life. What was I thinking? I am all city-girl. The rural life appeals to me not one iota, though I can stand 3-4 days at a time without bright lights, traffic, sirens, and people, people, people. Much beyond that and I start to wither a little (damn you, extrovert/A-type personality!). So, no, not a rural girl in the least. But what drew me to the book originally was the idea of getting more in touch with the seasons and changes of nature, plus having read many of Klinkenborg's columns in the Times. 

Somehow, winter seemed a good time to pick up The Rural Life and see what I might be missing in my brightly-lit world. The book is organized by months, and it was January, so, yeah. A good time to start. January. It's now April. I'm still reading. Here's the kicker: It's only 212 pages, and I'm only halfway through (July, if you're interested). But I find myself  re-reading chunks of chapters and whole chapters, just so I won't miss some glorious bit of prose. A yellow highlighter sits handy to underline phrases, sentences - yea, verily, even paragraphs - that must be mulled over and remembered.

A few, a very few, of my too-good-to-forget images from The Rural Life:

• "Other seasons come abruptly but ask so little when they do. Winter is the only one that has to be relearned."
• "A garden is just a way of mapping the strengths and limitations of your personality onto the soil."
• "In this part of the world each day seems to bring a different, contradictory season. But everything points to the first rhubarb pie." 
• "Everyone reaches for fullness in summer, but the fullness that most of us know best belongs to the memory of childhood. What was it that made summer days so long back then and made the future seem so distant? What was the thing we knew or didn't know?"
• "The root of the New England character is incredulity, a state of chronic, weather-induced heartbreak .  . ."
  

The language speaks to me. The order of the words speaks to me. The soul-grabbing images speak to me. I want to remember all of this. I want that hope of the rhubarb pie, or trying to discover what I knew or didn't know all those summers ago. The writing demands deep reflection, something I'm not very good at. I'm working on it.

There is a slight downside to all of this, though. While I purely love exceptional writing, it does hit home that I will never achieve this level of expression. Oh, I can tell a pretty good story - and storytelling is so, so important, I get it - but I'll never write anything that demands yellow-highlighter proximity, phrases that must be remembered. Nothing that will ever point to the first rhubarb pie. But I can surely appreciate the ones to whom the gift has been given.

Best Flat Belly Detox Recipe

Is a flat-belly detox on your New Year's resolution list? So many concoctions have cropped up on social media over the past week, with ingredients ranging from kale and strawberries to sawdust and cow dung. Just run 'em through the blender, ingest via the mouth (or wherever) four times daily for two weeks, and bam! No belly. No body toxins. And probably no appetite for anything else, once you've wrapped your lips around a cow-dung smoothie.

But do not believe a word Gwyneth Paltrow might say. I, yes I, have your perfect detox recipe right here. You don't even have to work it into your system several times a day. Or week. Or month. In fact, I recommend once a week, max. OK, pay close attention. Here it is:

• 2 (or 3, depending on how detoxified you want to be) scoops vanilla ice cream
• 1 (or 2, depending on how flat you want that belly of yours) cups hot fudge sauce
• handful of walnuts, pecans, or almonds (or all three)
• 1 cup (or 2, depending on how brave you are) freshly whipped double cream
• 1 fake cherry, or another cup of hot fudge sauce, or both (depending on how bat-shit crazy you are)
• 1 big ol' spoon

Now, if you're lactose intolerant or nut-allergic, well, this won't work for you until you check yourself into a clinic and get un-lactose intolerated and de-nut allergerized. (It'll be worth it in the end, truly.)

After you have one of these unbelievably tasty detox brews per week, or even every two weeks, you, too, can be flat-bellied untoxicated.

A couple more things are required: get 20-30 minutes of exercise at least 5 times a week (walking briskly is fine, as are a couple of sit ups and vacuuming the living room). And let your kidneys, liver, lungs, and skin do the job they are meant to do - remove the toxins from your system. Unless your natural body-included detoxicators aren't working properly (yes, another visit to the clinic), that's all you need to detox anything you may ingest except for alcohol and drugs. That's right! Your body regularly detoxifies itself! Unbelievable news, I know.

Please don't put these organs out of work. Let them do their job. And don't forget your feet. They like to walk. OK, pass that hot fudge sauce. I have a resolution to keep.

Resolved: Not to care what you think

When I started blogging almost ten years ago, I was looking for a way to clear my head of the silly stuff stuck in there that was holding me back, pissing me off, or simply occupying valuable space needed to move on to more important things. Many of my early blog posts focused on hilariously trivial things, whatever was on my mind and with few limits on language or range of thought. I mean, no one was reading them, so what the hell? Great therapy, minimal cost.

Somewhere along the line, though, things changed. The blog stopped being random, free-wheeling, whatever's-on-my-mind stuff, and started being something else. I think I can pinpoint the change around the time I started sharing links to the blog on Facebook.  My blogs became tempered in tone, less fun, more middle-of-the-road. I certainly didn't want to offend any friends or family with what I was writing, so I kept it safe. Not that the older blog posts were dangerous in any way, but they were certainly more unbridled.

So, I'm going to try my best to get back to the original intent of this blog in 2015. I plan to use it as a brain-dump. Whatever's going on in my head. I won't set out to offend you, but neither will not worry about whether what I post will upset you. Feel free to disagree or get your panties in a wad, just don't rant about it to me. Write your own blog.

Be assured that I will still stay away from politics, Botox, the Kardasians, and trials and tribulations of work or family. But I'm sure I'll find many other topics guaranteed to bug, discombobulate, or hack you off. ~ shrug ~

I love ya' and honor your right to your own thoughts and beliefts. And it's time for me to honor my own. Let 'er rip!

Scram, Old Man 2014

It's been a tough year, full of uncertainties, sadness, illness, and stress. We all carry stuff around that most folks don't know about, living our lives juggling whatever comes along. Sharing what we can, bearing what we must. So be it. But 2014 has been particularly filled with crazy negativity, and I'm looking forward to leaving it behind.

Of course it wasn't all bad. Some wonderful memories were made. I loved when my family visited New York and we took in everything from the Statue of Liberty to Coney Island and Broadway. I've loved settling back into the rhythms of Atlanta and being with family and friends again. I loved the day out in London with friend Joanne, catching up on two years' worth of our lives, tracking down the Twinings Tea Shop in the dark. And watching Liam and Charlotte grow over the past 12 months has brought me infinite joy. For all of those things, and more, I give great thanks. 

But would I want to relive it? No. I'll look ahead with prayers and good thoughts to the new year. I will bring the lessons I learned in the past 365 days with me in hopes that they will inform my thoughts and actions in the future. But beyond that, I'm happily shoving Old Man 2014 out the door.
So buh-bye, Mr. 2014. Don't let the door hit you in the ass as you leave.

Wishing you good health, laughter, and love in the coming year. A very happy 2015 to one and all!

The Bones of Winter

I love winter. I love it for many of the reasons that most people hate it. I'm partial to cold weather. I love that it's Mother Nature's way of saying "slow down!" I love lying around on the weekends, feet in cozy socks, with a good book and cup of tea while the winter winds blow outside my window.

One of my favorite things about this time of year is the beauty of naked trees. The winter sky sets off the shapes of branches hidden under the leaves and flowers of other seasons, creating shapes and patterns we rarely get to see. I suspect most folks think the foliage is the glory of a tree, but to me, the true glory is the branches. Tree bones come in infinite designs - from stalwart and straight to complex filigree, and it's only when they are bare that a tree can show us what it really is.

These bones of winter remind me to look deeper than whatever spring green, summer shade, or autumn color hides the real tree. Or person. Look up, my friends, and appreciate the glimpse of reality that God and nature give as a blessed gift in winter. Yes, look up and rejoice!

God Bless Us, Every One

One of the big advantages to being in my own home for Christmas is that after all the wonderful, dear family time, I can come back at the end of the day and spend Christmas night doing whatever I please. That always involves cozy clothes, re-heated leftovers, and a night of Christmas movies. Even though I've watched each of them several times during the season, I cram as many into Christmas night as possible.

This year, I'm watching every version of A Christmas Carol/Scrooge that I have access to. Thanks to Turner Classic Movies, I've added the 1935 Seymour Hicks version to the mix, followed by 1938's Reginald Owen version, 1951's with Alistair Sim, and moving into Albert Finney's musical version from the 1970s, George C. Scott's from the 80's, Bill Murray's Scrooged, and The Muppet Christmas Carol (Michael Caine is phenomenal, really). Amongst the full-length films are sprinkled Mr. Magoo's version, as well as versions from the Flintstones and Mickey Mouse. That should keep me busy this evening (I'm with Alistair Sim at present).

I love the message of Dickens' work and feel the need to remember its lessons of redemption and living into one's own history, being aware of the present, and casting an eye to the future. I'm hoping that if I spend Christmas night with Scrooge, Fezziwig, the Cratchits, and several ghosts, I'll be more apt to retain these things.

Christmas is not over after midnight tonight. Technically (church-wise), it lasts through January 6. I'm happy to keep it up until then, and pray I can keep it up beyond.

“I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!”

A very Merry Christmas to everyone! 

Home for Christmas

For the first time in nine years, I have a Christmas tree. A real one, not one concocted out of stacked books and a few well-placed ornaments. I'm in my own cozy place, not camping out as a visitor, and watching my own Christmas DVDs, surrounded by my own books and all the Christmas cards that have come my way. Because for the first time in nine years, my home is where my family is. My stuff doesn't reside a 800 miles away. I am home for Christmas.

Do I miss the crazy splendor of New York at Christmas? Yes, of course. I haven't seen the trees at Rockefeller Plaza and The Met. I find myself wondering about the theme for the windows at Bergdorf's and Sak's. The holiday markets at Union Square and Grand Central had to do without me this year.

But I got to attend pageant rehearsals, Christmas programs, and holiday family outings spread out over the month of December, rather than being packed into 3-4 hurried days. I've baked Christmas cookies with Liam in my own little kitchen and watch Charlotte yank on the ornaments at the bottom of my tree. I've gotten to catch up with dear friends at a party or two. And none of it involved the purchase of an airline ticket.

In short, I'm back in the fold of family and community. It feels good. It feels right. I love New York and always will, but my place and my heart are here. At home. For the holidays and beyond.

Merry, Merry Christmas!

Novembering

We're in that sweet spot between Halloween and Thanksgiving. If you don't give in to the early Christmas push all around you, it's a great time to slow down and savor the color, the cooler air, the smell of the dried leaves before the year-end onslaught. The season calls for joyful reflection of nature and life in general. I call it Novembering.

Novembering is my best Advent effort, since real Advent hits at a time that, no matter how we try to resist, is jam-packed with obligations not to be ignored. So I do my watchful waiting between Halloween and Thanksgiving. It's a time for extra reading, extra thinking, extra kindness. There's time right now. No trees or presents, no parties or performances. A chance to tap the brakes and pull off the road for a few weeks, intentionally, without the stress or guilt that will pile on in a month.

I'm not sure I could commit to Novembering without the color and glory that is autumn. There are fine reasons, I'm sure, to live in places without brilliant red maples or blindingly yellow ginkgos, but none come to mind. Deserts and beaches, nah. Not in November. Maybe in January or February, but definitely not in November.

So I'll use the color and crisp air to spur honest reflection in the days running up to Thanksgiving. No early Christmas for me, even though it's my favorite holiday, because I need this time for other things. Like appreciating the slowing down of nature, even if life in general doesn't slow down. Like thinking deeply about what I'm thankful for and why.

Novembering lets me prepare myself first for the day of Thanksgiving. And if I'm prepared for that, I'm well on my way to being mentally and emotionally prepared for Christmas.

'Twas the Night Before Halloween

When I was a little girl, I could never get to sleep the night before Halloween. It was a couple of notches down from the keyed-up restlessness of Christmas Eve. After all, I didn't have to listen for reindeer on the roof or a big ol' red-suited elf falling down the chimney into my living room. But the butterflies-in-stomach excitement was there all the same.

What kept me awake, I wonder? Was candy such a big deal? Was dressing up as someone or something else worth losing sleep over? I really can't remember what had me in such a dither the night before Halloween.

My costume was usually homemade - seems like I was always a gypsy - except for when I was 7 and 8 years old. One year for some reason Daddy sprung for a Siam Princess costume from the dime store. I think it cost a whopping $2.98, and I remember choosing it. Siam Princess? I liked the mask and the shiny yellow and bright pink coverall with some sort of intricate sparkly design.  I got two Halloweens'-worth of wear out of it, so when you amortorize the cost, well - practically free. Of course, it was a little big the first year and a little small the second, but no matter.

One thing that kept me awake, I think, was the anticipation of being allowed to go door to door, never knowing who'd give you what, trying to set a goal of how many houses you could get to or how big a paper sack you'd be able to fill. We always took paper bags to collect candy - no plastic pumpkins or trendy little totes - except for the big kids (and you really weren't supposed to trick-or-treat over the age of 12 - but some boys pushed it to 14), who carried pillowcases.

The idea of collecting candy, or whatever - because you were just as likely to get apples or homemade cookies - was exciting. That stuff just wasn't as readily available to us on a day to day basis. Candy, cookies, Coca-Cola - those were all for special occasions. Like Halloween. I don't remember getting much chocolate; it was mostly hard candy or wax lips or bubble gum. I well remember the fun of getting home and dumping it all in the middle of the floor, pooling our resources, trading this or that, with big brother David coming in at the end with a bulging pillowcase (or two) to add to the loot.

As we got too old for trick-or-treating, there were usually parties or the coming-of-age thrill of getting to answer the door and hand out candy.

I tried to provide the same good Halloween memories for daughter Kate when she was growing up, and I think I did. Her costumes were more elaborate, though we did have several rag-bag homemade ones, and the decorations grew well beyond a simple carved pumpkin, though not to the level of many houses today.

And now I get to re-live Halloween excitement with grands Liam and Charlotte. Liam, at 4 years old, is just coming into his own where the euphoria of Halloween is concerned. The super-hero costume, the thought of trick-or-treating with his family and buddies, the anticipation of what candy he’ll acquire for his efforts - yes, the thrill lives on.

And tonight? Well, I think I'll sleep tonight without difficulty. Tomorrow I’m helping Kate with Liam’s school party, then taking on the delightful job of dressing up as a silly witch (at Liam’s request) to hand out candy at their house while they’re out trick-or-treating. I will love seeing the little cuties come to the door - some in awe of the whole thing, standing there dumb-founded, some shouting "trick or treat!" so loud they blow out all the candles in the house, the princesses and the cowboys, the Captain Americas and the Harry Potters.

Still, if I lie in bed tonight and try to dredge up the feeling of being an 8-year-old Siam Princess again, who knows? Maybe I won't get much sleep after all.

Redefining Fun Size

Halloween. That time of year where every Walgreens and Target proudly declares in big bold letters sales for fun-size candy. Fun-size is a marketing term meaning tiny. I can never understand why tiny equals fun, especially where candy is concerned. Maybe if the tiny candy did a little dance or karaoke, yeah, that would be fun, but just tiny? No. Not fun.

My idea of fun-size? A giant candy bar that with every bite you lose a pound. Need to lose 20 pounds? Eat the candy in 20 bites. Sounds like fun to me.

Or a piece of peanutty chocolate candy the size of your fist that automatically deposits $50 into your bank account with every nut you hit. A really fun way to pay off your credit cards. Giant Baby Ruth, anyone?

Or a thick slab of chocolate and caramel that leads you on a crazy scavenger hunt where you unlock mystery doors and meet fascinating new people. What could be a funner-size than that, hm?

Really, I could come up with thousands of ideas for fun-size other than tiny. Tiny may be convenient. Tiny may fit better into Trick or Treat bags and candy bowls. But tiny, where candy is concerned, is not fun. It's the opposite of fun. So, dear marketers, you are fooling no one. Fun-size, indeed.

Confessions of an Unrepentant Empty Nester

My Darling Daughter,

It's that time of year again when parents wave bye-bye to their college-bound, newly employed, or recently married children. Social media is teeming with tearful parents, contemplating their lives without their little darlings taking up room on the sofa in front of the TV. And every year at this time I feel the need to apologize to you for not wearing sack cloth and ashes as you pulled out of our Atlanta driveway headed for Boulder, Colorado, 13 years ago. Actually, I seem to remember waving gaily. Godspeed! Drive safely!

For many years it was just us. I wouldn't trade that time for anything in the world. The day-in/day-out routines of getting up-and-at-'em for school, work, and church, school plays, choir practice, dance classes, Girl Scouts, a variety of camps, lots of fun birthday and Halloween parties, arts and crafts, friends coming and going, wonderful vacations and family gatherings - enough great memories to take us through a couple of millennia.

I knew sooner or later all that would end, that we'd move into another phase of mother-daughter relationship. I did my best to give you wings, and then at the appropriate time, pushed you out of the nest - though, truth be told, you had an arm and leg out of it already. I believe we were both ready for me to clear the nest. It not only let you test your wings, it let me test my almost rusty ones, as well. You had your adventures; I had mine, like seeing if I could live and work in Manhattan for almost 9 years.

So I never saw the empty nest as something sad. It wasn't an ending, it was a beginning. For both of us.

But reading all these weepy, oh-woe-is-me-my-baby's-gone posts on social media makes me feel guilty. What kind of mother am I, to not have fallen into a deep depression when you flew away? I can't believe anyone can love you as much as I do. We were joined at the hip for many years, you and me against the world (with a fabulous support system, of course). So why, oh, why wasn't I beside myself with grief when you drove away that day?

I don't have the answer to that. I don't think either of us has ever doubted our love for each other (OK, maybe a couple of times during the teen years). I guess I always knew I could be with you whenever I wanted, really - a phone call, a car trip, an airline ticket. You weren't leaving me, you were starting your own life. To me that continues to be a joyous thing. 

However, since there's obviously something wrong with me as a mother, next time you come over, I promise to do a little Old World wailing when you depart. Will that make up for all these years of not regretting my empty nest?

And is the nest ever really empty? Seems fuller than ever with all the new family members you've brought in!

Your loving Mama

Being Home

So. Here I am. In Atlanta. Home. Funny thing, though. As much as I loved living in New York City, as much as I completely adore that old town, I really haven't thought much about it since I left 25 days ago. Of course, I've been busy - fighting with movers, digging into boxes, figuring out what goes where, getting into the working-from-home groove (harder than I thought it would be, by the way), and spending as much time as possible with the two adorable babes who call me GrandMary.

Yep, I've fallen back into driving everywhere, even to the bank, nail salon, and grocery store, all just across Peachtree Road from me. A shorter distance than from my apartment on 115th to the 116th subway station. Seriously. (Note to self: sheesh, at least walk to the bank and the salon!)

I'm loving all the trees. And the absence of constant noise, noise, noise, which I thought I'd miss, but, no. No I don't. I love hanging out at Atlanta Botanical Gardens and the Center for Puppetry Arts. I've yet to use my High Museum membership card. Too busy. (Another note to self: get thee to the High!) I'm loving real fried chicken and Zesto's soft serve ice cream (like buttah!).

Most of all, I love the familiar faces, the hugs, and the "Welcome, back!"s I get from family and friends. I love going to my own church. I love having loved ones schedule lunches and dinners and drinks, just to catch up. I love being back among my own.

One admission: I listen to the Broadway channel on Sirius in the car. You can take the girl outta Broadway, but you can't take the Broadway outta the girl.

Yet I find it amazing how quickly I folded back into Atlanta, to the normal, to the familiar. New York was a marvelous adventure. But being home is the stuff of life.

Give My Regards

My last night as a resident of New York City. The past couple of weeks have been stressful and tiring, and my experience with the movers on Wednesday just about did me in. What I thought would be a teary final walk-through of my Spanish Harlem apartment the next day turned out to be surprisingly unemotional. I was ready to close that door, and I did. Goodbye, SpaHa!

At this point, I'm ready to leave. I've loved living here. It's been crazy and fun and sobering and brilliant. It's the greatest city on the planet, and it will kick your ass. But then, my ass always needs lots of kicking, so, yeah.

What will I miss? Well, I guess, Central Park most of all. It's big, it's varied, it's iconic at every turn, and it's free. And of course, I'll miss being able to indulge my love of the most spectacular theater whenever I want (and whenever I have the funds). I've seen spectacular performances and the craft of all the folks it takes to put on a Broadway musical or play. And Times Square at night never gets old. Center of the known universe. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, certainly; it's my go-to place when I think humanity is just a big ol' mess, a necessary reminder of what skill and a creative soul can accomplish.

I'll miss coming through Grand Central and the Chrysler Building on my way to and from work. And the little guy who hands out the free papers at the top of the stairs to the downtown bound #6 116th Street subway station. Ooh, and the wasabi ice cream from Sundaes & Cones on East 10th. And the Union Square farmers market, where you can buy the freshest of the fresh, as long as you get there before Danny Meyer and the other restauranteurs.

I'll miss my favorite scratch-off lottery games, Bingo Doubler and Cashword Doubler - they relieve stress and many times I win back, and then some, my $2 investment. And how will I get along without my all-time favorite meteorologist, Janice Huff, on the local NBC station (she sometimes pops up on NBC Nightly News)?

I'll miss living in a place that's liberal, progressive, and has a can-do attitude about everything. And contrary to popular belief outside of these 5 boroughs, it's the most American, patriotic city in the country.

I'll miss being in a place where just walking from Grand Central to the office on Second Avenue I pass every sort and condition of human being, every race and nationality, the richest of the rich and the poorest of the poor and everything in between. The Big Parade does, indeed, go by.

And the history. Oh, I'll miss living in a place so important to the founding of this country - the native Americans, the Dutch, the British, George Washington and the Sons of Liberty, the first US capital, the Gilded Age, the Progressive Era, the immigrants and huddled masses yearning to breathe free, Harlem Renaissance, the Wall Street crash, the Times Square kiss at the end of WWII, Mad Men, Greenwich Village music scene, Warhol, Studio 54, 9/11. Try telling the story of the United States without New York City. Can't do it.

Still, it's time to leave all the marvelous things behind, at least having them close by 24/7. 

So give my regards to Broadway. Remember me to Herald Square. And Central Park. And the Met. You crowd, you cramp, you're still the champ, NYC. I shall return as a visitor. But now, I'm ready to get back to family and friends, cheaper rent for a much bigger place, wide supermarket aisles, all the trees, and a different kind of American history.

Atlanta, I'm coming home.

Uprooting the SpaHa Rose

This is my last night in the little Spanish Harlem apartment that has been home since February 2007. Most of the major sorting/throwing-away/giving-away has been done, and now it's just me and the stuff of my life that will follow me back to Atlanta. Though I've contracted the movers to pack me up as well as move me, I'm spending the energy, what little I have left, to fill up the last of the boxes of the items I'd rather pack myself.

It's hard for me to believe that this time tomorrow evening, the movers will be hauling out my furniture, books, and assorted boxes. When everything's out of here, I'll head farther down the island to spend the first of three nights in a hotel and give my final-final farewell to the City as a New York resident.

Eight-and-a-half years ago, I had no idea if "I could make it there, I'll make it anywhere" in New York. I sold my Atlanta house and traded a comfortable, familiar life for a big adventure. There were so many challenges, but I took 'em as they came and soon realized that, hell, I could handle New York City. Some things were easier (getting around town via subway or on foot, the convenience of everything), some were harder (finding an affordable place to live, surviving the tourists). New York City and I became good friends very quickly.

So on this last night in my little SpaHa digs, I wax melancholy about the Metro North trains running under my windows and the loud Latin music blasting out as I come up from the 116th Street station in the evenings. I'll miss the incredible sunsets from my west-facing windows and having my own personal fire escape, though I'm glad I never had to use it. Oh, and being just 5 minutes from Central Park.

So. My last  night in 5B. No longer the rose in Spanish Harlem, but looking forward to reclaiming my Georgia peach-hood.

Now, back to packing boxes.