Cool Kid

Cool shades, guy!

I was never one of the cool kids growing up. I know, shocker.

That’s OK. I’ve (almost) gotten over it.

 

It’s funny, now that I’m 65, there are all new criteria for “cool” and, finally, I think I qualify. Now, it doesn’t matter how well I play kickball, or even if. No one is looking at my sneakers to make sure they are an approved brand. I am no longer judged by the TV shows I watch, or the video games I have mastered, or the amount of pepperoni pizza I can consume in one sitting. 

 

Instead, I am “cool” because I do work I enjoy, because I am lucky enough to have a wonderful family, because I usually finish the book club book at least 30 minutes before the meeting begins. And while I do rely on eyeglasses now, I still have most of my hearing, my original knees and all of my teeth (as of this writing). 

 

To make sure I maintain my cool status, I like to spread the rumors that driving at night, exercising (of any kind), or knowing any Ed Sheeran songs make you decidedly UN-cool. Trust me, all the cool Nanas are in bed by 9, and watch Trevor Noah on the internet the following morning (the jokes are much funnier when you’re awake, right?)

 

I think I’ve figured out the key to “cool” (and why it was such an elusive goal for young, insecure me): you need to be yourself, and not care too much about following the crowd. My own offspring were a mixed bag when they were little, but now that they are in their 20s and 30s they are all proudly individuals, and indisputably cool. 

 

It only makes sense that Sheridan’s children would take after their dad (Sher never much cared about being a follower) and even at tender ages are both proud individuals. Aiden and Peter’s different drums are beating loudly, and it is music to my ears. 

 

Aiden is finishing up second grade soon, and while there are of course some areas where he conforms, for the most part he likes what he likes, whether it’s drawing elaborate comic strips, singing in a boys choir, or geeking out on math problems. He is not on a township sports team, but is instead learning tennis. He loves to play chess with his dad, and watch old episodes of “Garfield” on TV. By not worrying about being “cool”, my grandson actually is. 

 

So my cool guy will be 8 on Friday, and he wants a classic Beetle Bailey cartoon collection as a gift, and Mama’s noodle soup as his special dinner. I look at this boy I love so deeply, with his goofy grin, gangly frame and penchant for clowning around, and I pray he will never stop being wonderfully quirky and unique Aiden. It’s my prayer for us all, to be the only people we were created to be. Ourselves. 

 

Happy birthday, sweetheart. You’re absolutely one of a kind.

Mustaches are really cool

On Thin Ice

Bet you thought this was going to be a climate change post! Fooled ya! While I do indeed fret about the melting glaciers and other indications that our planet is in BIG trouble, I’d rather write about something cheerier: ice skating! We have, not one, but two enthusiastic skaters in the family these days, and while they aren’t ready to be in the ice dancing pairs competition at the Winter Olympics (yet), we’re proud of both Rose and Peter. My oldest daughter and youngest grandson love the sport, and are making great progress.  

  

Rose has always preferred solo to team athletic endeavors (surfing over soccer, etc.) and has been taking skating lessons up in Queens. I threaten to go up there and embarrass her by screaming, “You’re doing great, honey!” during her class, and maybe now that I’m retiring I may do just that some Sunday. In any event, I’m eager to see her in action. Peter I do get to enjoy, thanks to the weekly videos Ya-Jhu takes of his lessons at Wissahickon Skating Club. By lesson #2 he was skating without holding onto anything for balance, and runs (runs!) across the ice with tremendous enthusiasm.   

I have no clear memory of learning to ice skate, but any lessons I did take must have been utter failures, because I fall down even just thinking about stepping onto the ice. I recall sisters Mo and C skating now and then, but not me. Watching skating superstars spin and twirl on that impossibly slick surface is an ordeal, because I’m always waiting for them to have a televised wobbly landing or missed triple axel (isn’t an axel part of a car?) Btw, time out for education: I just Googled and, as always, was instantly enlightened. The axel jump is named for Norwegian figure skater Axel Paulsen, which I guess is better than a jump named for Peggy Fleming or Scott Hamilton (“Incredible! He just completed a perfect double peggy!”) Back to our regularly scheduled blog post.  

 Even though I realize that the ice at indoor rinks does not have ten feet of freezing water beneath it, therefore not much chance of falling through a crack, why risk it? Amy March fell through the ice, remember? And almost drowned! I make it a point to avoid travails endured by any of the Little Women, including dying from scarlet fever (Beth) and having to write my books in longhand (Jo). So I will forever be on the sidelines, white-knuckling my cup of hot cocoa and holding my breath as the kids dart around on those razor thin metal blades.   

We’re all on thin ice these days, my friends, aren’t we? With so many perils lurking beneath (and all around) us. And so: do we quaver in the corner of life, or do we lace up our skates and enter the fray?  

I know I’m sick of quavering. But do I have what it takes to glide gracefully into the future?   

Time will tell.        

No Excuses

Julie, one of my favorite excuses, all grown up and married

I am the Justification Queen. While I admit I accomplish a decent amount, I have ever-ready excuses when I fall short. For ages, having five children let me off the hook for lots of stuff; no time to deep-clean the house when there are diapers to be changed and homework to check!! Nowadays, I glance around my still unsterilized surroundings and realize that, with my youngest child age 27, it’s probably time for a different excuse. And I promise you, I WILL find one. Wait, got it! My live-in grandsons!! They’re only 5 and 7, so that buys me at least another decade of good excuses for a little grime. Whew!

For the past 20 years, my full-time job at Christ’s Lutheran Church has been the justification for scads of writing and submitting that didn’t happen. Thursday, my day off, was my main writing day. That, along with some very early morning sessions, summed up all the time I had to pen my deathless prose. No wonder that novel never happened--I was busy! Never mind the stories of prolific authors who are also doctors, lawyers, etc. Those people are just weird, right? And probably not very plugged in to their main jobs either! Would you want your appendix removed by a poet who is figuring out rhyme and meter in his head, and paying no attention to the location of your organs? I didn’t think so.

 

Well, now here we are. I’m 10 days from retirement. My Big Excuse will soon disappear, and then I will have all day, every day, to be a writer. My friend Rochelle is a writing coach, and her slogan is “'Maybe Someday’ Becomes Write Now!” I know, Rochelle, I know. But I really like living in the world of Maybe Someday! In that enchanted land dwells, for example, my solo show, which I’ve been yakking about doing for years. Except for one course I took last year (which was really inspirational, and I was briefly inspired), and two short stand up gigs,  I have made zero progress on getting a one woman show written and produced. Guess I actually have to DO this thing now? But I'd prefer it still existing as a smash hit in my dreams!

 

For the past eight months, since I gave my notice at church, I’ve been blithely telling people that I’m not a bit concerned about getting enough writing work. And there truly are a great many opportunities out there, especially with the exploding digital media scene. So why, now that my last day at CLC is imminent, do I clearly envision Monday, May 23^rd as a day, not of tremendous literary output, but instead a day of panic and a blank computer screen? By Tuesday the 24^th, will I be sleeping late, then binging on Netflix series? But I’ve been sleep deprived for decades, and all that TV is great writing research!

 

Nope! MY new slogan: “No Excuses!”

 

Or…”BETTER Excuses!“

 

Yes, that’s more like it.

Oh, it's OK! You can disturb me!

Up-to-Dating

I enjoy seeing photos of kitchen re-dos. It’s so nice that SOMEONE has the time, interest and money to tackle these things! Our kitchen has not been touched, really, since shortly after our 1989 move-in. Oh sure, we planned to replace those horrible wooden cabinets someday, install decent flooring—at one point we even thought of taking down a wall so that we’d have more than five square feet of space (that dream died when our architect friend Mark gave us the sad news that it was a “bearing” wall, without which the ceiling would collapse). 

But renovation has its pitfalls. An obvious one is the fact that everything surrounding the new part immediately looks old and decrepit—a whack-a-mole situation, where the freshly painted family room highlights the really ancient windows, and the arrival of a new chair instantly causes the neighboring sofa’s upholstery to fade and rip—which makes the new chair look shabby too, and so on.

 

This also holds true with many revivals of movies and plays. Bringing an old favorite into the present day tends to either spotlight the weaknesses of the original, or remind the viewer that the original really was better and shouldn’t have been tampered with. I was reminded of this phenomenon during our last two New York shows—a revival of Stephen Sondheim’s Company, and a bold reworking of the classic Cyrano de Bergerac.  

 

We had loved Company in its first incarnation back in the early 1970s. It was smart, funny, and perfectly captured the energy of New York City at exactly that point in time. But for whatever reason, it was decided to make bachelor Bobby and his hovering married friends, bachelorette Bobbie and hers. It strained credulity when the husbands were the ones who fretted about Bobbie’s single status (my hub, like most others, wouldn’t have noticed had she grown a third arm). As we watched “Another Hundred People” whipping out their iPhones as they sang and danced (hey look! It’s gotta be 2022!), it just served to remind us that we vastly preferred the premiere production.

 

Cyrano, which was written 130 years ago, and set in 17th century France, would seem to be another case of a revival that couldn't work. Instead, though, it was such a significant re-imagining that it totally worked (for me; Steve, who has played Cyrano twice, wasn’t 100% on board). While allusions were made to Cardinal Richelieu and Molière, one character also referenced Roxanne, Steve Martin’s movie from 1987. The cast was in modern dress, and tossed mics around as they ably rapped many of the lines. Heck, star James McAvoy wasn’t even sporting the huge nose that is always THE prominent feature of the title character. By excavating the play down to its bones and rebuilding, the show felt thrilling and new, and not an awkward attempt to modernize.

 

Moral: when updating, either go big or go home.

 

So instead of new curtains, I guess it’s time for a bulldozer!