Hurricane Watching

It’s been a minute since I was last under an official hurricane watch, but weather reports suggest this may be a bad season for them, and October’s off to a windy, rainy start here in Oreland.

Naturally, I’ve been following the story of Hurricane Ian’s deadly progress, through Florida and up the Atlantic coast. It’s raining here today, the storm’s last gasp. Though the name “Ian” conjures up a gentle Scottish lad in a kilt tending sheep while playing bagpipes, this is one nasty weather system. Many Floridians who stuck it out lost everything. Bridges and causeways have collapsed, isolating places like Sanibel Island. Alligators and snakes are everywhere. No one is sure when power will be restored. 

 

“Hurricane Season” factored into my childhood, because my Nana and Aunt Rose insisted on staying in their rental cottage in Normandy Beach, NJ, through the end of September. If a hurricane was brewing, they were evacuated--which meant my dad, the only driver in the bunch, had to leave NYC and go fetch them. There were occasional big storms, but our part of the Northeast was usually spared. 

 

It wasn’t until our church mission trips that I understood the full impact of hurricanes. In 2009 we went to New Orleans, four years after Katrina. I remember we repainted an elderly couple’s home (they had finally returned from staying with relatives in Baton Rouge). The owner showed us where the highwater mark was; it was amazing there was a house left at all. The same was true after Harvey in Houston. There, folks shared pictures with us of houses in their little town of Vidor, submerged up to the roofs. Our 2019 trip to Puerto Rico reminded us of the struggles after Maria (and we were so upset when these good people had to deal with Fiona recently). 

Vidor, Texas--house submerged

So who the heck would choose to live near the water?

 

Me, if I could afford it. 

 

While I wouldn’t be foolish enough to build along the beach itself, I can definitely see us in coastal Lewes at some point, at least part-time. Even seeing pictures this week of the Ian-sparked flooding in town, I’m still not dissuaded. Though I am by nature fretful, on some level I guess I don’t really grasp that a natural disaster could involve me personally. Why do I think I’d be spared? I don’t know. But that false sense of invincibility is part of who I am, who many of us are.

 

As our climate rapidly changes, it’s clear that there’s really no “safe” place; tornadoes and typhoons and blizzards are only getting worse. I pray we humans will wake up before it’s too late, that we (myself included) realize that no one is magically immune from disaster. 

 

This is the only world Aiden and Peter have ever known. How fair is this to them?

 

The alarm bells are sounding, everywhere. Will I listen? And act? 

 

As I write this, the rain’s tapering off. We’ve dodged a bullet. This time. 

Lewes Beach sandbar with the boys

Jumbled Up

Photo by Heidi Kaden on Unsplash

It’s not even October, and I’m already sick of pumpkin spice. There, I said it.

Before you assemble a lynch mob and head on over to my place, let me clarify: I am NOT forbidding you, or even discouraging you, from enjoying the plethora of pumpkin spice flavored or scented items all around us. Go ahead and gobble that muffin, slurp down that latte, light that candle! (One has to wonder: is “Pumpkin” one of the Spice Girls? But I digress.)

 

I don’t care if you paint your house orange and dress up as a cinnamon stick for Halloween. Just please don’t assume I’m on the same autumnal bandwagon. I’m still baking with blueberries and steaming asparagus, and scenting my home office with a “Seaside Solstice” votive. 

Yes, I know I should adhere to the sacred cycle of the seasons, eschew produce that has been imported here from different climes and so on. I do realize that farm-fresh tomatoes and juicy peaches are at their peak of flavor during July and August. However, I am easily bored, and my palate demands constant variety. I know of people who eat corn on the cob every single day in mid-summer, but as of the fifth or six cob-full, all I’m craving is a nice candy cane. I like to squirrel away Trader Joe’s maple leaf cookies to consume on the beach, and the ONLY time Thanksgiving dinner has any appeal to me is in the late spring. 

 

Contrary? Definitely. But life is short, so I figure I’d better eat some strawberry shortcake in February, just in case. As I write this, I am thawing a tub of lump crabmeat I bought months ago down in Lewes, and look forward to a summery supper on a cool fall night. For years, I have been hunting vainly for lemon custard ice cream, which I hadn’t tasted since childhood at Normandy Beach, NJ. Finally, three weeks ago, I unearthed a half-gallon of the stuff in Shop N Bag! Hooray! But when I returned for another carton, lemon custard was gone. In its place? You guessed it: pumpkin spice. 

 

I used to look longingly at magazine photo spreads for cruise wear and island vacations, that would appear on the newsstands in January. How heavenly, I thought, to be able to escape the frosty chill of the Northeast US, and steal away to a sun-kissed tropical paradise! Yet if I were to live full time in a REAL tropical paradise (like my sister C, who resides in Honolulu), I know I’d be pining away for snowflakes and crackling fires within hours. My short attention span makes it impossible for me to hunker down and truly experience one season at a time. Bring ‘em all on at once, I say!

 

My veteran retired friends cautioned that I’d lose track of the time once I was no longer working at church, and that has certainly been true. But guess what? It doesn’t matter! Tuesday? Sunday? Winter? Spring? 

 

Yes, please.

Leaders of the Band

  

Teenage pianist Evan, taking a bow at a local jazz festival

Conductors used to puzzle me. How necessary were they? The instrumentalists or singers knew their parts. The music was right in front of them. Did they need a musical traffic cop too? After all, you never see a play's director on stage cueing the actors during a performance. At that point their work is done! Conductors often seemed to be merely grandstanding, perched at podiums, waving batons in the air, doing their best Leonard Bernstein impersonations. 

 

I did feel for the poor conductor of the elementary school beginner’s orchestra, which was usually a muddled mess. We dutifully attended every concert, stifling chuckles at the onstage mishaps. There was the time a very small cellist, sawing earnestly away, let go of his bow, sending it flying into the wings. Often the sheet music for “Be-Bop Parade” or “Halloween in Scarytown” was knocked off stands and fluttered to the ground, leaving the players unsure of whether to retrieve the papers immediately, or just sit there and wait until the break between numbers (kinda like timing an entrance in jump rope). 

 

But later, as the bands and orchestras increased in quality, I must admit that having a good conductor made a difference. Just that commanding, unifying presence improved the results--as long as the young musicians chose to glance up once in a while. My children had several memorable music directors (they must be memorable, because I—who cannot recall last night’s dinner--can remember them.)

 

Sean Kennedy at Sandy Run Middle School, a busy professional drummer himself, often invited his accomplished musician friends to come talk with, and perform for, the kids (even sit in with them sometimes). When Evan reached high school, he traded his trumpet for jazz piano, and felt very confident playing solos—and we knew many other young people who'd gained similar self-assurance. Being in Mr. Kennedy’s jazz band was VERY cool, and a great chance for some middle schoolers who might have struggled to find their place, to shine. 

 

By the time Sheridan was playing with the Philadelphia Youth Orchestra, Joseph Primavera had been leading PYO for nearly 50 years. The maestro was known for being demanding, brusque and intimidating. He would stand outside the downtown rehearsal hall on Saturday mornings as the kids hustled in. Lord help you if you were still running down 15th Street at 9:01 AM! Primavera was a yeller, and didn’t suffer wrong notes gladly; several times his outbursts brought a hapless violist or clarinetist to tears. Decades later, Sheridan speaks of him with admiration for his musicianship (if not his manner).

 

Rose sang for several years with the Temple University Children’s Choir, and their conductor, Holly Phares, was terrific. Their concerts were excellent. Rose learned a lot, and still thinks of Holly very fondly.

 

Now that both Sheridan and Ya-Jhu conduct choirs and other ensembles, I’m truly appreciating the magic the conductor creates, weaving a stage full of individuals into a seamless musical unit.

 

Bravo, music leaders. Long may your batons wave!

Sher in 8th grade, conducting a group at church

The Best Time

Anything but THIS!

I never used to give much thought about when I should do things, send things and go places. Oh sure, I knew that driving down to the shore on the Friday afternoon of Fourth of July weekend might not be the wisest decision, but even then, the traffic was rarely too extreme. There was one Fabulous Fourth years ago, though, when I was stuck for several hours in a major jam on Highway One headed to Rehoboth Beach with my mother, plus those of my children who still needed diaper changes and frequent nursing (Steve got the older ones for his car, lucky dog). Note: my mom was by far the most difficult passenger of the group. Joanie was a non-driver, and wondered—aloud, with increasing volume, and every five minutes--why it was taking SO DARNED LONG to get there. Gee, Mom, I don’t know. What say I drive on the shoulder at 125 MPH? Better?

Mostly, I carried on with life, blissfully ignorant of the desired time windows within which I had the best chance of success. Recently, however, it seems there is a magic moment for just about every endeavor. Grocery shopping? Avoid lunchtime! Going on a trip? You’d do MUCH better booking your airline ticket on Wednesday morning (lowest prices, best selection)! And don’t EVER go to Europe in August! Or Vermont at peak foliage time in the fall! Or New Orleans for Mardi Gras! If you’re really into travel bargains, you’ll have an app on your phone which sends you regular updates about your desired itinerary. One morning I got the notification, “Hey Elise! Don’t book that Munich trip yet! Prices will be going down soon!” So I waited, checked again a few days later and got, “Uh oh! Prices did go down, but are now sky high again. You missed your deal!” I felt like a clueless stock market investor, and was reminded again of why I am not involved in the stock market.

 

As a freelance writer, I’m learning those rules too. Sometimes the reasoning is obvious; other times, I just have to have faith in the source of advice. Submitting a pitch to an editor and want it to actually be read? You’ll want to send that email Tuesday mid-morning (once they’ve had their coffee), unless Monday is a holiday, in which case you want to wait until Wednesday (of course). Got an essay about Christmas? Don’t send it as late as November! Or as early as September! The sweet spot is October 15^th at 2:10 PM. By 2:11, the magazine has naturally moved on to Valentine’s Day stories. 

 

One of these days I’m going to schedule a Disney World vacation for spring break, saunter into the supermarket with the lunchtime crowd, and just send my pieces out to editors willy-nilly. Will the end result be bitter disappointment? Undoubtedly, yes. But at least I will have asserted my independence from the terrible tyranny of timing! 

 

And, really, what’s more important than that?

Feedback

Feedback: more than just static on a mic!

I’m lousy at giving feedback (not so super at receiving feedback either). In my desire to never, under any circumstances, make someone else feel badly, I often avoid saying anything whatsoever (remember that old saw: “If you can’t say anything nice…etc.”?) Even though I know constructive criticism is a thing (a good thing), I infinitely prefer coming up with multiple superlatives to describe whatever I’m looking at/hearing/reading. 

My hubby and some of our kids are in jobs where giving feedback in terms of hiring/firing/performance reviews is an important part of the position. Steve needs, from time to time, to tell an actor that they are missing the mark. Chef Patrick needs to let cooks know that walking out mid-shift is actually unacceptable behavior. Rose and Julie frequently need to advise support staff when they aren’t pulling their weight at work. My feedback-giving family members all seem able to handle it without a lot of torturous soul-searching, quite unlike their wife/mother.

 

So naturally I have just joined an online comedy writing sprint group, where feedback is the main point. Oh, that and speed: the six of us are supposed to share five pitches and one completed draft of a humor piece every week. And offer detailed feedback on everyone else’s pieces. 

The most prolific among us (NOT me) posted a draft of a very funny parody of a Sondheim song she’d tossed off and asked for help finding a title and other feedback. While I have four other significant writing assignments to work on today, including prep for the two classes I’m teaching beginning next week, I spent a good 20 minutes thinking of possible titles for someone else’s piece. As soon as I sit “send” another group member wrote “I don’t know the song.” The writer immediately responded, “That’s what I was afraid of. I won’t continue with the piece.” It was the perfect example of someone identifying a core issue, and someone else wasting her time (I’ll let you guess which one I was).

 

I struggle as well with things like posting reviews of books, restaurants, plumbers and the like. If I’m satisfied, then I see no reason to repeat the same raves thousands of others have shared. If I’m unhappy, I tend to blame myself (how can I expect a real page-turner, excellent service, an unclogged drain, when I would be so inept doing any of those things? Plus they were no doubt just having a bad day!) and not post anything at all. 

 

I just got a message from one of my former students at church, asking if I could be a job reference. I said “Of course!” as I always do, ready to blab about what an amazing neurosurgeon/youth ministry worker/bartender they would make. It dawned on me that perhaps some feedback might be really valuable, and possibly save this young person from launching into the wrong career. 

 

Yes! I’ll do that! Right after I come up with many more titles for that discarded humor piece! 

Whatever this person is reading is FABULOUS!

Checking Expiration Dates

Check the date! Better not risk it!

I'm a constant checker of food and medicine expiration dates. Even though I’ve read that, in many cases, the item may still be good days if not weeks after its “use by,” to me, if it’s one minute past midnight, out it goes!! I’m proud to say that, on my watch at least, no Seyfrieds have gotten food poisoning, nor have they ingested any dud Tylenols. I’m making pork tenderloin for dinner tonight, and even though we have several more days in the safe zone, according to the package label, I’m still just a tad leery. 

Therefore, my dream the other night was a puzzlement: in it, I discovered my passport had expired. Surely that was just as nonsensical as most of my other nocturnal sleepytime adventures! Impossible to imagine I’d let something that vital slip through the cracks, right? Yet something made me go and check the following morning. You (may have) guessed it: it actually HAD expired, in April of 2021!! And we are due to leave for Europe in exactly seven weeks (too soon for a regular passport renewal to be processed and received). 

So it was a hasty and expensive lesson for me, ponying up first the extra $60 to expedite the application, then another $20 to overnight it to the State Dept., then ANOTHER $20 for them to overnight the new passport back to me. And I’m sure I’ll be pacing the next six weeks until it’s safely in my grubby little paws. I don’t want to think about the festive steins of beer and tasty German sausage that $100 might have purchased, so I won’t. But you can bet this sort of slipshod expiration date forgetting will never happen again!!

Pat and Julie in Germany, 2013--they didn't let THEIR passports expire!

I’m writing this on the final day of August, and it’s been a scorcher of a season. I’d love to look at this as summer’s expiration date, with cool and breezy autumn arriving right on time tomorrow morning. But that ain’t how Nature works (and it’s even worse now with the various and sundry climate changes). In fact, we just don’t know when the hot weather will end for good this year, nor can we reliably predict winter’s temps and snowfall. The seasons expire when they darn well want to, it seems! 

 

Appliances and technology also have only approximate dates beyond which they bite the dust (although that date is always, always after the warranty runs out). As we are not a family with the means to just buy an extra refrigerator to have on hand in case, we live with the realization that warm milk and rotten fish may be right around the corner. 

 

If I were Queen of the World (as Lucy in Peanuts would say), I’d have crystal clear expiration dates slapped on everything and everybody. Then it’d just be a matter of checking to see what day my wrinkles will reach critical mass, or when it’ll be no longer safe for me to drive a car. 

 

Guesswork. Such a nuisance!

Tipping the Scales

Work-life balance (photo by Elena Mozhvilo for Unsplash)

This summer I broke a 20 year habit, namely, my church career. You see, even down at the shore, I’d be busily plotting the next program year. There would be many emails back and forth with staff and church members, and numerous phone calls with the pastor. I might have been sitting on a porch in July, but it was December in my head as I was finalizing the Advent Prayer Center stations. I’d spend tons of time bookmarking ideas for games and crafts (because neither of those came naturally to me, at all). I’d read Scripture and commentaries, trying valiantly to stay a step ahead of my adult Bible study class. The goal was to arrive at Rally Day (the traditional kickoff) fully prepared for the seasons to come.

Since my May retirement, I’ve noticed that part of my brain still refuses to acknowledge that I am no longer a spiritual formation director. Why else am I continuing to jot down notes about Bible songs that’d be fun for the kids to sing in church, and how to make a popsicle stick Nativity scene? It isn’t that I have nothing else going on—now that I am a full time freelance writer there are constant publications to pitch, pieces to write, deadlines to meet. But I’m so used to the details of my old job that I need constant reminders that I am not employed there any more, so maybe it’s time to stop watching YouTube video cartoons about The Prodigal Son.

 

The pandemic has spawned quite a few new words and concepts relating to the workplace. There’s my personal least favorite four letter word (“Zoom”). How about “The Great Resignation," as more and more folks left the workforce entirely? A new one for me is “Quiet Quitting.”  QQ is really a misnomer; for the most part people haven’t given up on doing their jobs completely. But the shakeup of our priorities during the past three years has given many pause. Should they really not be taking ANY of their vacation time? Should they really feel guilty leaving work at 6 PM? So, a large number of people have decided to do exactly what they were hired to do, and not a scintilla more. They have chosen to have lives that include more leisure, hobbies, family and friends time, and less overtime. And I think that’s very healthy.

 

Needless to say, I was not a Quiet Quitter (by the time I left, my self-created job description was running several single-spaced pages). But now, for the first time, I can aim for a better work-life balance. I may even (gasp) turn down occasional writing assignments! For starters, though, I can at least stop checking out youth ministry websites and daydreaming about mission trip destinations. It will be someone else’s job to do as they see fit—and I hope, for their sake, they don’t wildly over extend themselves.  

 

How we spend our lives’ precious hours is our choice. Let’s choose wisely.

On a recent Sunset Cruise--ahhhh!!

In the Bardo

 

Steve and Ruth at Sheridan's wedding

I am writing this in Texas, at the Houston airport. It’s currently 4:45 AM. In typical me fashion, I insisted we get here ungodly early. We can’t even get coffee, as the restaurants don’t open for another hour. Here at gate C36, all is calm, all is bright (fluorescent lights). We are in liminal space now—neither with Steve’s family, who had gathered to mourn brother-in-law Rod’s death—nor yet en route home. 

 

I’m glad we are availing ourselves of this in-between place, so that we can begin to process the past few days. Rod and Steve’s sister Ruth were married 55 years, raised four wonderful kids and have 18 grandchildren (nine from one daughter, Leslie) The reminiscences from both family and his many friends painted a very consistent picture: Rod was a big Southern boy through and through, tough at times, but fiercely loyal and loving. We heard about his crazy childhood escapades. We also heard how tenderly Rod cared for Leslie’s family when her baby daughter Rose died. He was a pillar of their Catholic church, and had a great sense of humor. 

 

Rod’s last four years were brutal, with a lung transplant that led to continual infections and complications. Through it all, Ruth (his “buddy”) was by his side, unfailingly positive and upbeat. In the end, it was Rod who decided to stop all treatment; his poor body had had enough. He entered hospice care, and he and his beloved Ruth had time alone to say, as Ruth shared, “everything that needed to be said.” Rod continued joking around, but when he said, “Party’s over. Lights out,” his meaning was quite clear. 

 

During his last few days, Ruth tested positive for COVID, and she was unable to see Rod. The kids, however, rallied around so their dad was never alone. When Ruth finally got the all clear to return to the hospital, she didn’t make it on time. But Ruth was totally at peace, knowing she had been there for and with him, for over half a century. 

 

Buddhist culture describes the time after death as “the bardo,” a place of waiting for what comes next. A wonderful novel I read last year, Lincoln in the Bardo, re-imagines the tragic death of Abe’s little son Willie, and the grief that tears the great president apart. He stays in the cemetery, unable to release the soul of his child. But Willie needs to move on. 

 

I think of the bardo as a place where the dead, as well as those who mourn them, linger a bit. It’s just so hard to let go of this world. But, little by little, story by story, Ruth and her family are releasing Rod. He is free of pain at last, and it’s time to move on, and figure out life without him. 

 

May I, may we, honor our own bardos, when we'll sit in our quiet airport between death and what comes next, waiting, not with dread, but with anticipation and, even, joy. 

Child Prodigy

 

Aiden can write his name in the sand in Chinese! Genius, right?

I don’t remember explaining entire made-up worlds to my mother and father. I was not a fantasy book reader, for one thing, and for another, the internet had not been cooked up yet. My parental units and I shared a (very limited) knowledge base, and Mom and Dad knew about Tweedledum and Tweedledee, that Charlotte was a spider, and that Superman and kryptonite were not a good combo. 

But now! Aiden so very earnestly recites the many whimsical characters in “Prodigy,” his favorite computer game that (ostensibly) Makes Math Fun!!! Sister Mary Alphonsus (Alphonsus Mary? My memory doesn’t serve) had zero interest in Making Math Fun for us, even had Prodigy or its ilk been around in the 1960s. Math, like going to confession, was a trial you just endured, something that would, somehow, at some point, make you a better person. 

As the Nana-of-the-Year Wannabe that I am, I’ve been watching Aiden play, and learned the following: there are dozens of pets with catchy names like Bluefury Magmayhem and Shivertusk, which are monsters until you battle and catch them (maybe?), epic battles and quests. Aiden has told me the names of his pets approximately one million times and, again, memory doesn’t serve. I don’t even understand how math figures into this! But my grandson has been yearning to become a “member,” and finally this week he achieved that high honor. I assumed it came upon reaching a superior level of aptitude, but (SURPRISE) “membership” is a paid opportunity (the game is otherwise free). 

And even if there had been intricate online worlds of wonder for tots to explore, my folks would have been no more intrigued by them than the average parent of that era was (which is to say, not at all). I believe it was my generation that was the first to rewrite the old saw “Children Should Be Seen and Not Heard” to “Children!! Always Seen and Ever Heard!! Be Quiet, Grownups, Little Susan is Speaking!!” As long as we let them adult in peace, Joanie and Tom didn’t know or care what soap operas we were watching (say, boys and girls, can you spell “illegitimate”?) 

By the time my five kiddos entered the picture, we parents were expected to rattle off every single Sesame Street character, and have more than a passing acquaintance with the Goosebumps, Amelia Bedelia and Magic Tree House series. Sadly, this knowledge came at the expense of the various wisdom-nuggets we’d accrued before having children. Seems I cannot recite Robert Browning’s poem “My Last Dutchess” anymore, because that brain-space has been permanently invaded by the entire TV lineup on “TGIF.”

Thanks mostly to Ya-Jhu, the boys are not spoiled rotten, so I feel we can indulge them from time to time. And it is very cute to see Aiden bursting with delight when playing his beloved video game. Will he use these finely honed skills to become an astrophysicist? Doesn’t matter. To me, he (and Peter) will always be Child Prodigies.

Prodigy the Game (yeah, I don't get it either)

40 Years of RSCT--A Celebration

Tomorrow night marks 40 years since Steve and I opened the Rehoboth Summer Children’s Theatre. We have planned a gala celebration at the Nassau Valley Winery here, and invited current and former actors, board members, and friends of the theatre. Delighted to report that over 60 folks will attend, some traveling from as far as NYC and Massachusetts.

We’re especially tickled that four of five Seyfried kids will be here too—the gang certainly deserves recognition, beyond just being our long-suffering offspring. Over the years, Sheridan and Evan played keyboard for our musicals. First Rose, then Julie, baked the yummy chocolate chip cookies we sold before the shows. Julie was also box office manager, and helped with the theatre camps. Sher and Patrick even performed in several shows. All hands (and aching backs) were on deck for our annual, “fun-filled” strike of the set and stage (which had to be carried in pieces up to the attic of the church) after each year’s final performance.  

 

Looking back now, it’s hard to believe we pulled it off at all, juggling five little kids and doing everything else needed to produce a full season of mainstage shows, touring plays, and theatre workshops and camps every summer. But we were too naïve to understand that by rights we should have failed, and so we forged ahead and made it work. (Btw, this “ignorance is bliss” approach is how both RSCT and Family Stages have stayed afloat all these years.)

 

The other day, Steve and I posed in front of All Saints Church Parish Hall, our original venue in Rehoboth, for a photo. While so much has changed in town, the little beach block church (at least from the outside) remains the same. As I stood on the brick front walkway, I was suddenly overwhelmed with memories (good, bad and funny) and the bittersweetness of it all. Our program for tomorrow night will have both this photo, and a pic of us from that first summer in the exact same location. I’d love to tell you that we haven’t changed a bit, but it’s a sin to tell a lie. We look the just like the grandparents and senior citizens that we are. 

 

With Sheridan’s expert help, we’ve put together a video retrospective that we’ll show at tomorrow night’s party. It includes clips from our goofy version of “Aladdin” featuring a really young, super talented pair of actors circa 1995 (now parents of teenagers themselves!!) as well as a cute scene from “Snow White,” with Stevo as the beleaguered dwarf Mr. Lumpy, and yours truly as the airheaded ingenue. We’ll also sing a number from “Goosefeathers.” 

 

We joke that we are doing this anniversary up right because the odds of us still producing RSCT at the half-century mark are slim to none, but it’s true. And it does remind me (yet again) to savor every milestone on the road of life, a life that really has, on balance, been filled with blessings. 

 

Party Time!