Through a Glass, Dreaming

Chihuly Masterpieces

Until recently, I gave very little thought to glass, except for a vivid memory of falling out of my crib onto a glass bottle at age two, and my dad picking little shards out of my back. My brain has tried to fill in some logic gaps…where was my mom? She was probably at Gristede's Market the night the alleged incident occurred (Mom would wait until my father came home so she could scoot out and shop in peace). But then, where was my one-year-old sister Mo? And why were there no scars? Seems this über-dramatic happening, likely only happened in my dreams.

I did grow up with a healthy fear of broken glass, though; several times I stepped on a jagged piece on the kitchen floor and learned just how much a foot can bleed. But for the most part, I didn’t even register the difference between a $100 wine goblet and the cheapo kind you could pick up at Walmart. Much later, on the road touring in children’s theatre, Steve and I performed in Corning, NY, and while we did visit the famous Corning Glassworks, I don't remember much about it. And even as late as 2018, we did not go to Murano during our stay in Venice, Italy. 

 

But then I learned more about the glassmaking process. Glass blowing is a very delicate and unforgiving art. Silica sand and lime is heated to over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit. When it is molten, it is collected on the end of a metal pipe and inflated by blowing into the pipe. Then it must be rapidly shaped before it cools and hardens. I suddenly had a new interest in, and respect for, glass makers (though I was horrified to imagine ever working with anything that hot and breakable).

 

A few years ago, Evan and I visited the Chihuly Garden and Glass Museum in Seattle. Dale Chihuly is revered as a master glass artist, and his work is breathtaking. Rainbow-colored blown glass flowers and gorgeous, fanciful glass sea creatures abound in his exhibits. 

But what was truly impressive to me, was Chihuly's devotion to his artistic vision in the face of great physical challenges. In 1976, he was in a serious car accident, and went through the windshield, causing, among other injuries, permanent blindness in one eye. Three years later, a body surfing accident resulted in a badly dislocated shoulder, after which he was unable to safely use a heavy blowpipe around hot glass. He then transitioned into becoming the artistic director and choreographer of his glass studio, teaching and guiding his students to continue his work of creation. Chihuly says this different perspective makes it possible to create ever larger and even more ambitious pieces. 

 

I now appreciate glass as precious, and rather miraculous. From mirrors to stained glass windows, from simple wineglass to complex sculpture, this “amorphous solid” substance is  endlessly useful and, with the imagination and passion of a Dale Chihuly, can be, truly, the stuff of beautiful dreams. 

 

Hothouse Flower

 

A few of my fellow hothouse flowers! (Photo by Matthias Boeckel on Pixabay)

Since when did I become so darned persnickety about the weather? As a child, my two sisters and I would bed down happily on sheets spread on the living room floor in front of a box fan during blistering summer nights. In my teens, I rather enjoyed bundling up for winter (so long as I wore very fashionable boots and a flattering, not-too-puffy coat). 

I did notice my tolerance for temperature extremes start to wane as I hit my 40s, when I began to muse (not TOO seriously) about living in a more moderate clime (Hawaii leapt to mind). The greater Philadelphia area, with its infrequent (but brutal) blizzards and frequent cold snaps in winter, and thunderstorms and heat waves in summer, had become too “seasonally diverse” for me now. I’d read about Tornado Alley in the Midwest and thank my lucky stars that I didn’t live in Kansas. Alaska in January had zero (make that -50° F) appeal, with all that darkness and ALL that snow. 

 

My sweet sister Carolyn has long been a lifestyle artist (in addition to being a fabulous watercolor artist). C knows exactly what she likes, and makes a point of arranging it if at all possible. I well recall her habit to cranking up the AC in her bedroom, just so that she could snuggle under blankets in July. How silly, right? Except…I do that now, too. Yeah, yeah, high power bill, yada yada—but I figure having a happy spouse is WELL worth a little poverty to Stevo. Right, honey?

 

I am also, in my dotage, becoming much pickier about the food I eat, and the fabric of the clothes I wear. Given the choice between consuming a single Flamin' Hot Dorito, and dying of starvation—well, it’s been nice knowing you all. Also, wool has become too scratchy, linen too wrinkly, and satin too slippery. Cotton? Too cotton-y. My ideal outfits would be made of shimmering rainbows and feather-soft clouds, I’ve decided. Failing to find THAT perfect but unattainable wardrobe, I suffer (not in silence, however).

 

I always found literature’s hothouse flowers rather obnoxious. You know, the Regency and Victorian heroines given to constant fainting spells, and life-threatening bronchitis from the slightest draft. Get over yourselves, girls! I’d think. And it was really galling to notice everyone (the men especially) dancing attendance on them, while the spunky, uncomplaining gals were completely ignored. I used to identify with the Jo Marches and the Anne Shirleys, with their sharp tongues and their unglamorous attire. They had better things to think about than creature comforts!

 

Now, in my third act of life, I see the wisdom of being more like Gone With the Wind 's Aunt Pittypat, a little bit high-strung and quite fluttery—but still beloved. I’m going to enjoy MY creature comforts to the max, while I still can. So, my dear ones, turn down that thermostat and fetch me a cozy quilt! 

Oh, and please peel me a grape while you’re at it. 

Coach Elise

Costa Rica Mission Trip 2005

I swear, for someone whose life is not meticulously plotted out, I’ve sure been coached an awful lot. Not much in-person, one-on-one stuff, because I am also a cheapskate, but there’s no free/inexpensive resource I have not consulted over the years.

Beginning way back in my “theatre phase,” when I held my nose and plunged into the performing deep end with zero training, I read Uta Hagen, Stella Adler, and Michael Shurtleff in search of the acting Holy Grail. Sadly, these superstars of theatre pedagogy proved to be inadequate to the herculean task of making me a great (or even, let’s face it, very good) actor. Their tomes gathered dust on my shelf for years, though, silent proof that I was serious about my craft. 

Moving along to my next reinvention: church spiritual formation director. Wow, did I go all in on THAT one! My youth ministry guidebooks, Bible studies, mission trip and retreat manuals were clutched in my hot little hands, as I tried valiantly to get up to religious speed. My “coaches” at this time included Doug Fields, Kara Powell and Mike Yaconelli. I took the buffet approach to these teachers, taking a fun ice breaker from one, a deep dive discussion from another but, always, feeling at least 30 years too old for that job.

 

Now that I’m a full-time writer, there is no shortage of folks who coach. Some offer their wares gratis, but most charge. I often wonder where my writer-newbie tribe gets the moolah for an $$$ hour consult, or six-week class. I took one online course several years ago that promised to unlock the secrets of the NYT's coveted “Modern Love” column. The result was a depleted checking account, and NO love (modern or otherwise). 

 

I will put in a plug here for NYC’s Sue Shapiro. Her classes are pricey, but she delivers the goods—I’ve met a variety of prominent magazine editors, and gotten some really solid advice. Her fellow students have also been great sources of information and encouragement. Sue’s terrific book The Byline Bible spells it out for anyone seriously interested in publishing their pieces.

 

Anyhoo, I’m inspired to hang out my coaching shingle because why not? Working now on my pitch to the hordes of would-be actresses/Christian educators/scribes searching for a mentor (you know who you are. Also, who ARE you?). 

What do you think of this, hive mind?

 

Do you yearn to be cast in a minor supporting role in community theatre? Do your dreams also include teaching praise songs to totally disinterested youth? Is your life goal 1000 essay rejections in a single week?  If your answer is “yes,” I am the coach for you! I will share the 5 (3? 13?) Magic Steps that guarantee your success! For a mere $100 monthly ($750? $10,000? Still figuring that out) you will become the Shakespeare-quoting, Bible toting Op-ed writer the world has been waiting for!

 

Now I know how Vince Lombardi and Bear Bryant must have felt.

Super Coach!
photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Grabbing an Uber, Bolting from a Lyft

wherever I go, there they are!
(photo by Neil Ni on Pexels)

For the longest time I resisted using a rideshare. In New York, I stubbornly kept hailing taxis (even if I had to stand on a corner for 20 minutes). I don’t know why I hesitated, but I do have this pattern of refusing to face the future. I had to be dragged into the world of personal computing, kicking and screaming. My flip phone-to-iPhone journey was long and painful, as well. But I finally capitulated and installed the apps, once I was reassured of the safety of these cars-for-hire. I do my due diligence always, triple checking the license plate before getting into the auto, and requesting a female driver whenever possible. Indeed, I do everything but run my own criminal background check on every single driver-to-be. Better safe than sorry, I say! 

Lately, I find myself using these services often when traveling abroad. I've discovered that, almost everywhere, there's Uber, Lyft, Bolt or some other iteration. In Southeast Asia the company is called Grab, and using it was almost a necessity in the countries we visited, several of which had poor public transportation.

 

Of course I have tales to tell. There was the Lyft driver whose profile indicated that he was deaf. I maintained stony silence for my entire 45-minute ride. As I exited the vehicle, out of habit I said, “Thank you” and my driver suddenly called out, “Your’re welcome! Have a nice day!” I almost climbed back in and apologized for being so standoffish. Then there was the Uber I called in California to drive me to one of Sheridan’s concerts. The driver had no earthly idea where he was going. He dropped me in the middle of a maze of buildings on the UC Irvine campus, and by the time I located the performance hall it was showtime.

 

In Vietnam, we’d booked an adventure—making tofu in a village with a local family. To get there, we had to take a ferry across a river. Meeting time was 5:30. AM. Our driver not only spoke no English, he wasn’t inclined to use Google Translate either. We were dropped at a pitch-dark crossroads, with no river in sight. Steve was with me, but I still begged the driver to stay with us while we got our bearings. My frantic charades had zero effect. With a firm shake of his head, Mr. Grab roared off. Thankfully, Steve figured out where the river was before too long. 

On that same trip, our flight from Bangkok to Chiang Rai, Thailand was really delayed, and I texted our driver not to wait. Hours late, we deplaned—and there was our cheery and VERY patient chauffeur. He'd stayed put all afternoon. 

 

I have tremendous respect for folks who take on these assignments, which I could never, ever do. For many, it’s a second or even third job. I always tip very generously, and am grateful that wherever in the world I may be, my next ride is usually only 1-3 minutes away.

Terminally Lucid

Last words of Sir William Wallace (AKA Mel Gibson) in Braveheart. Don't tell ME his hairdresser wasn't on duty!

I have been with several family members and friends during their last days of life (a sad but not un-typical experience when you get to be my age). I’ve held their hands, shared memories, and prayed. I have NOT sung to them, because I didn’t want them to think they were in Hell. The common denominator? These dying folks were really quiet. Most of them were sleeping; all of them had stopped eating and drinking. No famous last words, no disoriented jumping out of bed. Theirs were relatively peaceful final hours. 

I’m glad for them, though part of me wishes they’d risen (!) to the occasion, and suddenly shared a deep, dark family secret, or their recipe for a perfect piecrust. But no such luck. 

 

Control freak that I am, I’m planning my far-in-the-future, super-dramatic exit from this mortal coil in advance. Just have to remember to write down this plan, because I don’t want to blank out last minute and drift silently away. I want my grieving deathbed witnesses to get their money’s worth!

 

It goes without saying that I will be dolled up to the nines—complete with a flowery bed jacket (does Temu sell these?) My dentures will be floating in a festive glass of champagne. My deathly pallor will be disguised by cosmetics. I prefer     Maybelline “Great Lash” mascara (no unsightly smearing should I begin to gently weep), and for my lips, I’d go for a shade of red that is kinda purply, but not too purple. Maroon? Plum? Hmmm. Will need to give this more thought. If I am still coloring my hair at that point, I will request that my hairdresser Sue join the mourners, and give my roots a quick touch up. To quote the very handsome, very deceased actor James Dean, “Live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse.”  Too late for the first two, but hopefully I can still attain the last!

 

I understand that overwhelming grief may cause my stricken visitors to forget my farewell utterances, so I highly recommend recording them; iPhone’s “voice memos” app makes this easy-peasy! These tapes can be used later, at my funeral, to induce even more tears and rending of garments.

 

My last meal? How about foraged morels, goose barnacles, and fugu? My friends tasked with collecting these rare items will feel more invested in the tragic beauty of my demise. Btw, fugu is a puffer fish that is deadly if poorly prepared (the liver, eyes and ovaries are extremely poisonous). I’ve always wanted to taste it, and since I’m dying anyway, why not?

 

I’ve read about “terminal lucidity,” a strange phenomenon where a person who has dementia suddenly snaps to at the very end, and starts reciting the Bhagavad Gita, or warbling hymns from their childhood. How perfectly cinematic! Even if I retain my memory, I think I’ll still treat my final earthly companions to an angelic “Pie Jesu” anyway, sung in my pure soprano.

 

Note to self: begin voice lessons, pronto.

Scratch the bedjacket. I want to wear THIS to meet my Maker.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lettuce Lessons

 

Belly up to the (salad) bar? No thank you!
photo by Filipp Romanovski on Pexels

I hate to say “I told you so.”

 

Well, to be honest, it’s one of my favorite things to say. Ask my kids.

 

At any rate, I DID tell you so. I knew, long, long ago, that eating healthy was dangerous. And so, I embarked upon a prominently fatty and sugary diet. And it has never let me down. Think about it: when was the last recall of Hostess Twinkies? Land O’ Lakes butter?  And yet, over and over we’ve been warned about scary contaminants in produce. Green onions were a big no-no for a while. Then came romaine. 

And now, the dreaded cyclospora has appeared in iceberg lettuce, and has been causing severe and nasty intestinal illnesses. There is widespread vegan panic! Out with the baby spinach and bagged Caesar kits! All the health nuts are purging their fridges of acres of arugula and cilantro and basil and bibb. As they do that, they are also throwing away the “green” that is their $20s and $50s, moolah that was so foolishly spent on rabbit food. 

 

Preservatives are called that for a reason, people: they preserve us from disease! Oh sure, those Cokes and Entenmann’s coffee cakes may cause a little bit of tooth rot, and maybe a smidge of extra tummy. But the sacrifice of our appearance is well worth it when we consider the alternative: ending up in the ER because we insisted on ordering the house salad instead of the fries at that restaurant. Bonus, btw: my diet is easy to chew (see “tooth rot” above.) No crisp celery and crunchy carrots for me! My preferred snacks of cinnamon buns and brownies are both delicious AND easy on the gums. 

 

Now, I’m no purist. I do love fish and seafood, especially recipes like a Chinese specialty featuring deep fried shrimp coated with a sauce made with lots of honey, mayonnaise and sweetened condensed milk. And I have been known to indulge in some asparagus from time to time, so long as there’s plenty of buttery hollandaise smothering it. Then there’s good old chicken. Those watching their "BMI"s broil the heck out of it, seasoning with pepper (no salt!) and fresh herbs. Not me! Give me Poulet Cordon Bleu every time, where those bird breasts are over stuffed with Swiss cheese and ham, and topped with bread crumbs and cream sauce!

 

I don’t even know my BMI; when the doctor mentions it, I just put my hands over my ears and sing “lalalala” until he stops talking.

 

Full disclosure: I have been trying to knock off a few pounds, for my outward "look", and not my inward health. And so, just a month ago, I made a resolution to eat more green things, and cut back on the tater tots. Ironic, isn’t it? Now, to remain out of the hospital, I am being warned AGAINST those very same green things! 

 

Remember “scared straight”? Well, this recent leafy menace has me scared, straight back where I belong.

 

The bakery.

I love making these "healthy" pumpkin cheesecake cookies!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Applause, Applause

I admit it—I am becoming THAT crotchety old lady. At least 80% of what is going on in this country annoys the heck out of me, from the major horrors of the current administration, to the minor--but still irksome--stuff. You know:

People who gab in the movie theater as if they are watching Netflix in their living rooms. 

Drivers who go too fast or too slow; NO one seems to go “just right” anymore—except me. 

The poor quality of every modern appliance I buy. Are we supposed to replace our stoves and fridges every year? My late mother-in-law’s electric skillet still skillet-izes just fine after 70+ years! Those old skillet-crafting artisans should be proud!  

And so on.   

Lately, audience etiquette has been sticking in my craw—particularly the surfeit of insincere applause. Clapping much too much. Clapping between movements of classical works. Automatic standing ovations (with cheers and, yes, more applause) at the end of the most mediocre plays imaginable. I find myself grumpily remaining seated, hands in my lap, a silent (and pointless) protest against such boorishness.  

I decided to research the strange custom of putting our hands together like trained seals with their flippers, after any and every type of entertainment. Did you know that applause was originally designed to show DIS-pleasure, specifically to drown out BAD performances? Those ancient Romans would be appalled to see their Nays become today’s Yays! 

Nowadays, the ever-polite Japanese favor tejine (a formalized clapping style that brings events, business meetings and religious ceremonies to a dignified close), while the Scandinavians prefer slow, rhythmic claps that naturally lead to perfect unison. I think the deaf community has it just right—they silently wave their hands in the air to show their appreciation. I fear, though, if I did that in a theatre, the actors on stage would assume I was asking them a question.  

I think what bothers me the most, is that this age-old gesture is so overdone that it means nothing anymore. Let’s face it, isn’t a standing ovation primarily a way to easily scoot out of the venue and beat the other attendees to the parking lot? And don’t get me started on the raucous, beer-spilling sports fans and their incessant noise-making! I long to return to a quieter, more thoughtful time, when people applauded briefly, sincerely, and only if so moved.   

What do I think of applause for ME, you ask?  

That’s different. 

I’m heading to Des Moines, Iowa tomorrow to speak at the WELCA Triennial gathering. I have worked really hard on my presentation. I therefore expect a massive response, commensurate with all my effort expended. Clapping! Cheering! Standing on their seats! Whistling and hooting and hollering! Yes to all of it! I want those Lutheran gals doing The Wave, and shouting “Amen, sister!” after each of my brilliant remarks! I will be satisfied with nothing less than a revival tent level of enthusiasm!!!   

After that, everyone needs to just pipe down. Show some decorum, for Heaven’s sake.

Who's the Boss?

  

now we're talking executive desk!
(photo by Edwin Petrus on Unsplash)

Though my Grandpa Berrigan and my Uncles Jack and Gerry were all insurance executives, otherwise, mine has been an executive-less life. Oh, my dad embraced “executive time” long before Trump perfected it: start the day very late, finish the day early, account to no one about your activities. But sadly, Dad had neither the position, nor the salary, nor the employees, to be an actual “executive.” Generally speaking, a traveling salesman who only works from 11-3, making no sales, is a pretty sub-par traveling salesman. Also, Dad didn’t own a suit that quite fit; again, though, DJT, for all his quadrillions, apparently doesn’t either. 

 

Steve is CEO, CFO, and COO of Family Stages/Rehoboth Summer Children’s Theatre, our little entertainment empire. My hubby works all the hours Dad didn’t (and then some), and the actors who work for him respect him greatly. And we are much better off financially than the Cunninghams ever were. But there’s a certain je ne sais quoi that Stevo lacks. He dresses kinda like the guy who delivers the Starbucks order to the executives’ meeting. He could make more of a sartorial effort, I guess, but at his age, after 46 years of successfully running our business, why should he bother?

 

My work role was never what you’d call “executive” either. During my 20 years at church, I hired and fired no one. I gave no one a raise, or a warning. While I could make suggestions, mine was never the final word on anything. Visually, my office was quite small, with no fancy boss-level desk. It doubled as a dressing room for the acolytes on Sunday mornings. I admit I exerted very little effort in the decorating department, either. For at least a decade, a wall sported a giant poster left by my predecessor, featuring one verse from every book in the Bible (and not necessarily the best ones, either), written in calligraphy. I hated that thing, but didn’t take it down until it almost fell down. I also bought a little denim sofa for visitors (which included youth and adults coming to me for spiritual support.) It was cute as a button, but there was a reason it was on final clearance at Pier 1. One would plop down, anticipating a soft cushion, only to find it not nearly as comfy as a cement bench. The tears shed on that sofa were more about bruised bottoms than broken hearts.

 

But I discovered something exciting!! It’s called executive functioning!! This is the area of the brain (the prefrontal cortex) that governs focus, control of emotions, goal-setting and some other stuff I don’t remember. And we all have it! Even me! Yippee! I’m an executive!

 

But THEN I discovered something else: executive dysfunction (struggles with focus, self-control, and organization.) This is caused by ADHD, depression and anxiety, and some other stuff I don’t remember. This all sounds much more “Elise,” alas. 

 

So, I’m making an executive decision: 

 

No more thinking about executives!

 

I feel so...bossy!

A Little Perspective

  

Long may we wave! Photo by Luke Michael on Unsplash

I LOVE writing about math! Almost as much as I love writing white papers on "Forensic Accounting in Virtual Economies," apology letters from Dentina, the Tooth Fairy, who was always late visiting our house, and the same to-do list that I’ve been tweaking since, well, 1976. 

 

JK. Math is NOT my favorite subject.

 

But I do enjoy expanding a relatively small number by breaking it down into teensy bites. Par example, I am currently on a bit of a weight-loss excursion, and my recent diminishment by 15 lbs. doesn’t pack quite the emotional punch I’m seeking. So, instead, I consider the fact that I’m down a whopping 240 ounces (W-O-W), and I am then happily motivated to continue drinking enough water each day to float the QE2. 

 

Right now, we’re all about the 250^th anniversary of Our Country Tis Of Thee, and we’ll continue to wildly celebrate this milestone until at least 12:01 AM on July 5th, after which we will collectively return to marking our cherished Taco Tuesdays instead. 

 

Sadly, unlike the Centennial and the Bicentennial, this year is the Semiquincentennial (or Sestercentennial, meaning quarter-millennium). Neither of these words rolls trippingly off the tongue. The first sounds like a new GLP-1 drug (which, for the record, I refuse to use myself, because I believe in suffering). The second sounds like a festive gathering in Utah of 100 “sester” wives. For starters, then, we need another appropriate Latin term for this Big Party Year. My Latin expertise begins and ends with Catholic prayers, so unless we agree to call 2026 the “Pater Noster,” my contribution will be useless.

 

While we’re pondering, let’s revisit my Theory of Making Big Numbers Out of Little Ones!

 

Sure, 250 years seems like a long time ago. I barely remember those carefree childhood days of rolling my hoop down the dusty cobblestone streets of Colonial Williamsburg, wearing my cute little powdered wig. But what if we consider that it’s also…

 

3000 months? “3000” refers to the MLB “3000 Hits” Club, whose illustrious batters include Henry Aaron, Willie Mays, Ty Cobb and Pete Rose (*). USA, you’re in good, if sweaty, company!

 

And it’s 13,000 weeks as well! AI informs me that 13,000 weeks is the average human lifespan. My goodness! That would mean the average Joe or Jane makes it halfway to 500 years old? You goofed, AI! Though I DO believe another artificially intelligent assertion, that the beloved soap opera The Young and the Restless hit 13,000 episodes on November 13, 2024. Because of course it did.

 

91,000 days too!! 91,000 tons is the weight of the Washington Monument (it might consider trying some Semiquincentennial?) In any event, it’s a scale-busting number!

 

I could go on, but my 500-word limit looms. Suffice it to write, it’s been quite a while since our Bouncing Baby Republic’s birth. 

 

As my childhood bestie Benjy Franklin would say, ours is “the best form of government, if we can keep it.”

 

I vote to keep it. Happy Birthday, dear America.

Ty Cobb: known as "abrasive, combative and difficult." Note Stephen Miller resemblance.