Good Morning, Friends!

Upper Dublin Friends Meetinghouse. Shhh!

“Good morning, friends!”

That is the way Quaker meeting ends, with the Clerk standing up, then breaking the silence with this pleasant greeting. When I visit the local Friends Meetinghouse with my Confirmation classes, I’m always a bit relieved when the moment arrives--though I do enjoy the peace and quiet, it’s really hard for me to keep my mouth shut for a solid hour. I guess I would make a lousy Quaker. I’d probably do best at one of those churches where non-stop babbling is called “speaking in tongues” and is actually encouraged!

Anyway, It has been a nice little break from blogging, but it’s good to be back, “talking” with you all using my trusty keyboard. True to form, I’m not letting you get a word in edgewise, am I? Sorry!! But I do think of you all, and hope you are, and remain, well as we head (creep?) into Week #7 of The Big Shutdown. I had promised myself I would vary my post topics and not make this Corona Blog, and I have tried, but ignoring our world situation completely is both difficult, and a little tone-deaf.

Things are all good Chez Seyfried at the moment, for which I am profoundly grateful. If a bit of boredom is my worst symptom, I am lucky indeed. Here are a few things I’m learning:

How to Teach a Kindergartener Subtraction. Aiden has school time every day. The school district sends videos and lesson plans, which is helpful, and we take turns working with him. I’m enjoying my sessions, maybe because I know this will be the one and only time I’ll ever feel smart enough to teach any Math Concept, to anyone.

School Time with Aiden and Mama

How to Write Comedy Better. I entered a contest this week for humor writers. Each person makes up and posts 10 titles for possible pieces, then all the entrants vote for each others’ titles. Entries are then written using their most popular titles. There are some REALLY funny people participating, and everyone seems very supportive. I got the most votes for “Chicken Soup for the Soul-Crusher” so that will be my subject. Win or lose, It’s been a welcome diversion.

How to Make a Grocery List for At Least Two Weeks’ Worth of Food, Then Change All Menu Plans Because There’s No Flour, Ground Meat, Eggs or Salad Greens.

How to Zoom. Also FaceTime. Plus Google Hangouts. Getting very used to seeing people in little boxes and wondering which Brady each of them most resembles.

How to Translate Vacation Bible School to a Virtual Format. 

I promised the parents a fun-filled, socially distant week for their tots. How hard could it be to play “Red Rover” online? About to find out!

I do wonder whether I will retain any of these new skills (knowing me, probably not), but for the moment I’m feeling pretty competent.

I will stop here while my post title is still accurate. Until next Saturday, stay safe!

End of the Beginning

Peace out, for now!

"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning. "

                                         —Winston Churchill, November 10, 1942

My fellow blog readers,

I sit before you today, not as the famous, eloquent prime minister of war-torn England, though I am shamelessly using his idea to begin this post. I am not about to make a pronouncement about a battle won, or give a soul-stirring call to action. The only battle I have won so far today has been deciding what to write. The only action I call you to, is to spend however long it takes you to read 500 words, with me, your virtual friend.

The Churchill quote could certainly apply to our current situation. As much as we all want to rejoin the rest of the human race, re-entry has to be slow and it has to be safe. I know it will be a long time before I am comfortable in a grocery store, even after the toilet paper is finally re-stocked. I read that it is a distinct possibility that the handshake will disappear from our culture, and that makes me sad (though I suffer from cold, sweaty palms, so perhaps those I encounter will be relieved when they no longer have to shake my personal hand). Along with the rest of the world, I await Vaccine Day with more eager anticipation than a child on Christmas Eve.

But I do feel we are reaching the “end of the beginning,” Phase One of the Nightmare. At least I hope that’s true. If, as the great philosopher John Lennon said, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans,” we’ve all gotten a heaping dose of Life recently.  

I, too, am today marking an ending, or a beginning of an ending, or…marking something, anyway!! And that is: this is my 400^th blog post. This is my 31^st daily blog post in my Pandemic Write-a-thon. My idea bank has been overdrawn, and also I don’t want to wear out my welcome in your heads. So….I decided I am scaling back to less-frequent postings. You will hear from me once weekly, on Saturday mornings (that’s the goal at least), and the rest of the week you’ll have to struggle along by reading actually good literature. It will be OK, I promise! If you, like me, have an approximately 500 word attention span, start with Hemingway, and work your way up to Proust! If even that is a stretch in these distracted days, you can always read the ingredients list on the cereal box. I bet you’ll be amazed at what you have been putting in your mouth all these years! And the teensy print will be a great vision test!

In closing, some pearls of wisdom from the Lysol spray can: This product disinfects and sanitizes whirlpool interiors. Also salad bar sneeze guards.

With that, friends, fans and random browsers, I bid you a fond, temporary farewell!

Lysol: promises made, promises kept

Aftertones

Of all the rabbit holes I have gone down during this time of isolation and strangeness, music has been perhaps the most fruitful. I had set up my hectic life in a way that precluded a great deal of “listening for pleasure.” I was either busily screening VBS songs I could teach the young kids to sing in church, or selecting the meditative tunes to play as background for my Advent Prayer Center, or choosing the Contemporary Christian numbers that would work well for the Confirmation and Mission Trip videos. I might attend a classical concert and fall in love with this or that concerto or chamber work, only to let it quickly fade from my memory. I was often overwhelmed by the tsunami of choices, so would end up in paralysis, listening to nothing at all.

But now, experiencing live music only an option when Sheridan and Ya-Jhu play at home, I am learning to appreciate the choices I still have, thanks to the internet. Evan is a reliable curator of interesting electronic music, and I take full advantage of the legwork (earwork?) that goes into his thoughtful selections. Sher challenges me regularly to recall classical music I have enjoyed (this morning he had me hum my favorite movements of Brahms’ symphonies).

It was, however, a passing remark of Julie’s last night that swept me right back to my youth. She inquired about a lyric to Gilbert O’Sullivan’s sweet little song “Clair,” and suddenly I was a teen again, lying on my bed in Atlanta, listening to “Alone Again (Naturally)” and many of his other hits. One musical memory led to another, and today I’ve been rediscovering albums like “Close to the Edge” by Yes, Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon”, Carole King’s “Tapestry” and James Taylor’s “Sweet Baby James.”

Steve is a staunch proponent of the music of HIS younger years, and the mellifluous sounds of the Kingston Trio and Peter, Paul and Mary echo through the house frequently (often played by Stevo himself on guitar). My kids know “Charlie and the MTA” and “Golden Vanity.” So why have I so rarely played the oh-so-special tunes of MY past? On Family Feud, would they even be able to name a single favorite of 15 year old Elise?

That’s a shame, because popular music was so very important to me then. There was a melody for my every mood--many of them melancholy (as I was prone to be). And they still pack quite an emotional punch. Why, just a few minutes ago I played Janis Ian’s “Aftertones” for the first time in decades, and it brought me to tears.

I know that Oasis and Weezer albums spark similar recollections for my offspring;  every era has its anthems. I hope they carve out moments to listen and remember. It takes time to make memories, but it also takes time to solidify those memories. This afternoon, I have an unexpected gift: free time. How will I spend it? Listen…

"Aftertones"--Janis Ian

In Each Other's Shoes

This is My Brave Cast 2018--they get it

Ever since my diagnosis of bipolar disorder in 2006, I have been trying (hard) to explain what it feels like to people who don’t live with it. Mania? Actually it’s more than just doing lots of stuff fast. Depression? More than just feeling bummed on a rainy day. I’ve searched for the words to describe the wild mood swings that would send me from one extreme to the other, and back again, sometimes within hours. Friends and family members would nod at me, and try to comprehend, but I could tell they didn’t really get it. And that’s understandable. They had never experienced anything like what I’d been going through. They’d respond with sympathy, but not empathy. They felt badly for me, but couldn’t put themselves in my shoes. 

Well, here we all are, in the midst of what feels like an international mental health crisis. The frightening reality of coronavirus has touched nearly every corner of the earth. For those of us for whom dread and worry are constant companions, these recent developments have us feeling much like we usually do—only more so. 

But for those who have never had to deal with a mental health issue—they are coming face to face with fear, uncertainty, foreboding. They have nightmares, and waking nightmares too, as the headlines and TV reports scream the latest numbers of those infected. And, daily, the bad news comes closer and closer to their home towns, even their homes. It’s just about impossible to get away from it. For maybe the first time ever, they are living with anxiety and depression. 

Turns out, we are, in a way, closer than ever—even though we cannot make physical contact. We understand each other, finally. We are sharing this huge crisis, and we are all searching for ways to cope. 

As someone who has benefitted greatly from therapy, I am so glad that psychiatrists and psychologists are making virtual therapy sessions available to their patients online. I’m so thankful for the amazing people staffing suicide and other help lines—they are providing hugs with their listening ears and wise words, during a time when real hugs are impossible. I hope that people who find themselves dealing with overwhelming emotions and paralyzing fears, can seek help—it’s out there. 

May this difficult time produce something good, as it gives opportunities to bring out the good in all of us. On that glorious future day when we can once more step into the sunshine and reunite, may we remember how we felt—how all of us felt. When a more normal life resumes, may those for whom these feelings were temporary, never forget the many of us who will continue to fight the battle inside. May they truly have empathy and understanding, after this time of sharing our everyday struggles. And may that new awareness inspire more conversations and more reaching out, among families and neighbors and even strangers. 

Hang in there, friends. We’ll get through this, together.

Senioritis

Not college material?

I have noticed people posting their senior high school portraits on Facebook lately. Ostensibly this is in solidarity with the unfortunate Class of ’20, who have been cheated out of proms and senior trips and graduations. But I wonder—is this display really cheering them? I can’t honestly picture the average 18 year old scrolling through and thinking, “Wow! Things could be worse! I could have had a mullet! Or had to dance to ‘My Heart Will Go On’? I am lucky indeed to be homeschooling in isolation with my stressed out parents and my obnoxious kid brother!” I doubt it.

However, If it makes our current senior crop feel any better, I offer this perspective:

My mom Joanie graduated from Ursuline Academy in New York in June, 1944. The world was in turmoil, but the young ladies of Ursuline still carried on, including their traditional May Day Procession to Our Lady. I don’t have a number on the college-bound gals, but I know Mom was not one of them. Grandpa Berrigan asked her point-blank what she planned to do with her life. Apparently she flunked the answer, and was told post-high school ed was a closed door for her. She ended up at Katharine Gibbs Secretarial School, where her shorthand skills served her well when it was time to jot down recipes from TV shows.

My own senior year, while including a few fun and memorable moments, is basically a blur. I played the lead role in the Spring musical “The Boyfriend.” I guess I took the SATs at some point. I was dating Steve, an all-consuming activity that culminated in my Graduation Day Extravaganza at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, where I had my commencement with a side order of engagement ring. Bottom line: 46 years down the road, I could have gone to Disney, or to the moon, in 1974, and it really wouldn’t have made much difference in my life’s trajectory.

Three out of five Seyfried kids opted out of the year entirely. While Evan and Patrick went through the whole rigamarole, the rest of my brood bailed. Sheridan spent the year writing music and practicing instruments, in anticipation of applying to music conservatories. Rose, fresh from her life-changing junior year in Thailand, couldn’t bring herself to return to the hallowed halls of Upper Dublin for a swan song. And Julie? Never a huge fan of school anyway, Jules watched her older sibs happily navigate life without Senior Year, and decided she could do the same. They each have diplomas from the sketchy-sounding but perfectly legit “PA Homeschoolers Association”, and their post-grad lives have gone wonderfully well, including college degrees from terrific schools.

Rose in Chiang Rai 2006

Who knows how the educational landscape will change in a post-corona world? For now…

I send love to the seniors, and reassure them: your hearts will go on. You’ll do great in college, and life.

And if you’d like a photo session with caps, gowns and horrible hairdos, just give me a holler.

Easter Aloha

With Evan on Kaneohe Bay Easter 2011

Hau'oli Lā I Ala Hou Ai Ka Haku (“Happy Day of the Rising Again of the Lord” in Hawaiian) 

Nine Easters ago, I was on a pontoon boat in the middle of Kaneohe Bay on Oahu. Evan was still in the Navy, and had been put in charge of a farewell party for a few officers finishing their duty. He was surprised that a pontoon rental that Sunday morning was so easy to obtain, until he remembered what day it was. Plans went forward anyway, and we had a delightful time out on the water. 

I remember talking with Rose on the phone that afternoon, and raving about our fun excursion. “Mother!!” she responded, sounding appalled. “I was in CHURCH!” It was the truth, Rose was living in Seattle and attending a Lutheran church there. I felt badly about not being in a pew myself, but have come to believe I was in the perfect place—with my son and his friends, celebrating a gorgeous day. At one point it began to rain, and I feared our revels were ended, but no. Evan predicted that the shower would be over within 10 minutes, and there would be a rainbow. Sure enough, there was. The display of glorious colors over the bay was like a benediction, and I absolutely felt God’s presence at that moment. 

In my wildest imaginings back then, I could never have predicted the character of Easter, 2020. Once again, I’m not in a church, but for a completely different reason. I can’t be with Evan today, or Rose, Patrick and Julie—and they can’t be with one another. Sheridan, Ya-Jhu, Steve and I are watching/participating in online worship services with three churches. The closest I will get to Hawaii will be a Zoom visit with my sister C later this afternoon (she and Rob moved to Honolulu five months after my one and only trip there; I am eager to return and be with her next time). 

I loved Oahu, and think about that trip often. I did experience a bit of “island fever” though, after about a week. This phenomenon affects some people who are on islands, especially islands far out at sea. It is a kind of panic, a realization that you are cut off from the rest of the world, hours and hours away from the mainland. 

I’m feeling some island fever myself, right here in Oreland, and I bet you are too. We are all on our separate islands, aren’t we? And maybe weeks away from congregating again. The gulf between our houses could be an ocean, since we are prevented from being together. 

But then I think of the song “No Man is an Island.” The verses remind me that “no man stands alone. Each man’s joy is joy to me, each man’s grief is my own.” By joining our hearts and minds, by sending love to each other, our island fever recedes. 

 We are never alone. God makes sure of that. 

 Aloha. (Literally, "Love and Peace" in Hawaiian)

Rainbow

"No Man is an Island" Mormon Tabernacle Choir

Sew and Sew

Rose's handsewn mask--the height of coronafashion!

Like so many life skills I lack, I never really understood why anyone enjoyed sewing. I made one brief and catastrophic venture into the world of Butterick and McCall’s patterns in a class in high school. I made a pair of hideous plaid pants that I’d never choose to wear (and, it turns out, never could wear anyway, as I had sewed them backwards and inside out.) I could spot a homemade dress or blouse a mile away (or assumed I could), and frankly they never looked worth the effort I know went into them. We do not dwell in the Little House on the Prairie people!! There are oodles of wonderful garments available for sale everywhere, fully assembled!!

I have several crafty friends, most of whom learned to sew at their mothers' or grandmothers' knees. Their daughters’ American Girl dolls therefore sported entire handmade wardrobes, just as some of my childhood playmates had owned original Barbie clothes. For me, clumsily putting endless tiny snaps on tiny outfits would be a punishment suitable for Dante’s Eighth Circle of Hell. I contented myself with store bought everything, and felt not a twinge of guilt.

So I was surprised when Rose began showing keen interest in this pastime. Our neighbor Sally Will gifted her with a Singer machine of a certain age, which was ideal for her getting started. Over time, her busy life circumstances relegated sewing to a back burner. But during the past few years, Rose has once again become Suzy Homemaker, at least in this area. She sews for fun, and challenges herself to make complicated stuff, just for the heck of it. Why, she made herself a gorgeous tote bag, from scratch! It took her quite a while, and many many ripped out stitches, as she is a perfectionist. But the finished product is a wow, and Rose is justifiably proud of her handiwork. To my daughter, this is not torture, but instead a delightful activity, and I have to ask myself—was she switched at birth? You’d have to go back quite a few branches on the Family Tree to find a dedicated seamstress –at least on my side.

Totebag by Rose

However, Steve CAN sew, specializing in buttons and hems, and I take full advantage of his skills. He can often be found sitting on the sofa, working on a costume for our theatre (though he hires out for anything complicated). His sewing kit is a refitted tackle box, and is kept near his cheery orange toolbox. I am no more comfortable with the needles and pincushions in the one, than with the Allen wrenches and screwdrivers in the other. Indeed, the only creative implements I enjoy using are ballpoint pens and whisks.

Someday, when I am on my way out, and my loving family gathers around my bedside, they will talk about practical lessons learned from good old Mom. It will be a brief conversation, and it will NOT involve teaching them to sew.

Sew sorry, kids!

A Good Friday Reflection

The Crucifixion is a tough topic for young children. When I give children’s messages around Holy Week, I’m tempted to gloss over what actually happened on Calvary. It’s easier to skip from the celebration of Palm Sunday straight to the triumph of Easter, without that scary stuff in between. 

For years, we used a Vacation Bible School curriculum from a publishing house that insisted on using Jesus’ death as the subject of the Thursday activities that week. You could feel the combination of puzzlement and upset among the 4’s and 5’s in the room, as we’d have one of the teen helpers trudging up a make-believe hill carrying a cross. Finally we switched to another company that selects more “appropriate” Bible stories. 

But I think back to my childhood, and the fact that Catholics did not do much to downplay the Good Friday story. We attended the Stations of the Cross; we said the Sorrowful Mysteries on our rosaries. Between 12 noon and 3 PM that day, we were supposed to be thinking and praying about the hours of his suffering. I don’t remember being scared, just sad for Jesus. It seemed so unfair, and I hated to think about someone so good, hurting so badly. I realized that sometimes bad things happen to wonderful people, and that people die, and I don’t think it scarred me for life. On the contrary. Easter morning, when it came, meant much more to me, because I was aware of what came before. 

We are in an almost Biblical time, with this modern-day plague spreading across the world. And because we are used to vaccines and cures, we feel nowadays more like the ancients, who had neither when tragedy struck. It has been a solemn Lenten season, extra meaningful to me even though I haven’t set foot in a church for over a month. And I yearn for Easter and what it promises more than ever: healing. New life. Joy in the morning. 

We struggle with how much to say to Aiden about coronavirus. He knows more than we think, I’m sure--or at least that a lot of people are getting very sick, and that we have to stay home to protect ourselves and other people. We want to promise him that it will all be OK by a specific date, but we can’t honestly do that. We feel like Jesus’ family and followers, watching helplessly that terrible afternoon, praying for a miracle that isn’t arriving on schedule. 

But the lesson for me, and for Aiden, is: things will get better. Not as quickly as we hope, but this dark time will not last forever. And the day it ends, we will feel greater joy because we knew sorrow. It will be a time of healing and new life. It will be Easter, whatever day it is on the calendar. 

 So today I observe The Three Hours, by writing. By praying for the sick and dying. 

And by looking forward to resurrection.

You Gotta Believe

With Tug, our friend Connie, and toddler Sheridan

That was the name of famous Phillie Tug McGraw’s “feel good” segments on TV’s Action News, decades ago. McGraw was known for saying that phrase, and for his incredibly optimistic outlook on life. Steve and I were lucky enough to be interviewed by Tug early in our children’s theatre career. I don’t think we still have the video, but at least there’s a photograph. These mementos have greater personal value after the person in them has passed away (as Tug did, much too soon). I am no sports fan, but I vividly recall that long ago day (especially how thrilled Steve was to meet him). 

This morning, a dear friend posted a link to a remarkable article in the Philadelphia Inquirer. It told the story of a video clip from Kobe Bryant’s first freshman high school basketball game-- Lower Merion playing Upper Dublin (where we live and where our kids went to school). A young Upper Dublin player scored a three pointer in that game. His name was Bobby McIlvaine, and he was a scholar athlete who would go on to excel at Princeton and beyond. Bobby was at a meeting in the Twin Towers on 9/11, and was killed, just before his 27th birthday. 

After Kobe died this fall, through a serendipitous series of events, the short video clip made its way back to the McIlvaine family in Oreland. They were able to see their son and brother on film, after all these years. The piece is beautifully written, by an Inquirer writer who is also an Upper Dublin grad and friend of Bobby’s, and as I read it I immediately thought of my own miracle story, which I’ve shared here before. 35 years after my sister Maureen’s death, I was contacted out of the blue by someone who dated her back in the 1970’s. Besides being a terrific person, Michael is blessed with an phenomenal memory. When we reunited, he told stories about Mo that I’d never known. I “saw”my sister again through his words, and it was an amazing gift. 

“You gotta believe”? Well, many people read or hear these stories and are unconvinced that they are any more than total randomness. As for me, I gotta believe, because I feel certain that this is not our only reality. I am convinced here is a spiritual realm just beyond us, and that there are breaks in the veil between the heavenly and the earthly sometimes. If we’re lucky, we find ourselves experiencing one of those breaks, which in Celtic spirituality are called “the thin places.” And when we do, our perceptions change. We come to realize how much we never dreamed existed. We get a glimpse of a fuller life, an eternal life, that is ours now, and will be ours forever.

So this morning, I see a suburban high school gym, Kobe vs Bobby. I see my beloved sister. I see ebullient, charming Tug. 

They’re still around. And I’m thanking God for the thin places.

Inquirer article about Kobe and Bobby

Essential Workers

She made it! Aiden's a quarter richer! Thanks, Tooth Fairy!

I think about the workforce labeled "essential" a lot right now. I am struck by the sacrifices they are making to care for the sick, respond to police and fire emergencies, stock the grocery store shelves--at significant risk to their own health. Thanks to them, I can be assured that my family will not go hungry, that we are safe, and that if we do become ill with coronavirus, our hospitals will be staffed.  The debt of gratitude we as a nation owe these folks is enormous, and I pray we will remember that when the crisis has passed. We need to reassess the ranking of positions in our society, and compensate our minimum wage earners fairly going forward. 

I am NOT deemed an essential worker (at all). It seems the world keeps on turning without my physical presence in our church--which has taken me down a peg I admit (but don't they NEED a Spiritual Formation director on site at all times??) I am doing a lot from home online (Bible study, Family Table, etc.) but some things must wait, including the parts of my job that require in-person contact (hard to lead Preschool Chapel time without the preschoolers!)

I do have to say I've been quite concerned about two particular workers in recent days, both of whose jobs involve visits to multiple homes. One is gearing up for his (her?) Big Day on Sunday, and the other is required to be on duty almost every night. I'm speaking of course about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. So it was with great relief that I read New Zealand's wonderful prime minister, Jacinda Ardern, has confirmed their status as "essential workers." And I know legions of children join me in saying, "Whew!"

Where would we be without the delightful characters of our young imaginations? Santa's Christmas Eve arrival may recede from our consciousness once we grow up, but St. Nick comes roaring back just as soon as little ones enter our lives again. And while we have a more mature understanding, we still grasp the importance of what these figures symbolize: Hope. Joy. Generosity. Our kids scramble to collect jelly bean-filled eggs and find baskets of chocolate, and are reminded that Spring is here to celebrate--and that a mysterious Someone loves them enough to leave them treats. They trustingly tuck baby teeth under pillows, and are delighted by the magic of the tooth/coin exchange in the night. Again, they believe there is a Loving Presence literally counting (and valuing) every tooth in their heads.

What’s essential in this life is not always “real” by the world’s standards. Right now, the intangibles—kindness, loving, giving—are inspiring the actions that are saving us, all of us. And while some actions are heroic, small things count too: making little eyes sparkle and gap-toothed kids smile. Keeping the wonder of childhood alive in hard times. And those things, our dear, fanciful, essential workers, are doing, so very well.

Seyfried Easter Basket circa 1996

Plan B

We'll get there! Someday!

One week from today, we were going to be in Germany, the first leg of our grand European adventure. In the days that followed, we’d be touring Austria, Hungary and the Czech Republic.

Instead, we are looking forward to a whole lotta nothing for the immediate future.

But I’m determined not to be glum!! After a mere four hours on hold with the airlines, I was able to rebook our flights for September, so hopefully we’ll be able to enjoy our trip then.

Meanwhile, here’s the upside:

I have five whole months to lose the fifteen pounds I swore I’d jettison before we left on our vacation. Of course, sheltering in place is not the most conducive atmosphere for weight loss. So perhaps, my amended resolution is not to gain fifteen additional pounds! Attainable goal!!

I have time to sock more writing money away to pay for all those beers and schnitzels. Of course, most publishing outlets aren’t buying anything not laser-focused on coronavirus right now, and I’m sick and tired of thinking about this pesky bug, much less writing about it. Maybe by summer I can sell my humorous essay about the macarena! Evergreen topic!

Autumn in Europe will probably be lovely, weather wise. Of course, Spring would have been too, so scratch that upside.

We’ll have more time to practice our German, Hungarian and Czech! Or the people of those lands will have more time to perfect their English (I vote for the latter)!

Our passports will surely turn up between now and then! Right?

Additionally, I can use my fertile imagination to virtually experience what we’re missing out on! Here we go:

Munich: Bike tour of the scenic city for Steve, café and people watching time for me.

Oreland: Bike tour of the not-so-scenic neighborhood for Steve. I will take my coffee to the living room window and watch for someone to walk by.

Salzburg: Hallein Salt Mine

Oreland: Iodized? Kosher? Sea? My pantry salt choices are numerous!! And they’re all “mine”!

Vienna: Mahler symphony concert by Vienna Philharmonic followed by romantic dinner for two

Oreland: Play CD of Mahler symphony, followed by mediocre meatloaf dinner for six. Sehr gut!!!

Budapest: Enjoying the public baths

Oreland: Enjoying a private shower (after removing all the toys from the tub)

Prague: Medieval Astronomical Clock in Old Town Square

Oreland: 2010 Microwave Clock in Old Seyfried Kitchen

Other highlights, like our planned visit to Kutna Hora (historic church filled with sculptures made of human bones), and a goulash dinner in a fine Budapest restaurant, can’t be as easily duplicated. I guess I could build something out of Legos and open a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, but it won’t be quite the same.

To complete our fantasy, we’ll spend the first and last evenings sitting upright for eight hours, while Peter kicks the backs of our chairs. And we’ll sleep in a different uncomfortable bed every night a la Airbnb.

Only 152 days to go!! But who’s counting?

Me.

Salt (Mine)

On the (Tiger) Beat

Julie, her friend Laura, and some Beanie Babies

“Tyger, tyger burning bright

In the forests of the night…”

                                                   --William Blake

As desperate as I am for diversion these days from the current state of affairs, I’m not desperate enough to watch Tiger King. Even my daughters, whose tastes are considerably broader and edgier than my own, and who often tout this or that film, TV show or book to me, have warned that it’s not my kind of entertainment (and I agree, from what I’ve heard). If I want to experience tiger-themed stuff, I don’t need to put myself through the bizarre and troubling antics of Joe Exotic and his big cats. There are so many other, “tamer” options!!

Let’s start with the #1 fan mag of my youth, which I’m delighted to report is still around: Tiger Beat. I started reading it (though “reading” is a generous term for my perusals of the glossy pix and breathless prose) when I was about 10. I soon became a walking encyclopedia of Fan Girl gossip about Bobby Sherman, David Cassidy, and Davy Jones. I knew their fave colors, flavors of ice cream, dream dates, etc. Nowadays it’s Chase Hudson, the Dolan twins and Shawn Mendes, but the non-threatening look hasn’t changed: preteen girls want to crush on boys who look rather like—preteen girls.

Then there’s my favorite cartoon sidekick, from Bill Watterson’s classic strip Calvin and Hobbes. The genius of the idea: a stuffed tiger who only comes to life for his little owner, as a sarcastic, philosophical yet loving sidekick. My kids had very active imaginations, and there were many happy hours spent with Beanie Babies (Julie would ransack the linen closet for washcloth “blankets” for her menagerie), but I don’t think they engaged in that elevated level of colloquy with any of them. I may be wrong.

“Tiger Mothers” refers to a certain type of Asian parent. I met quite a few of those before I learned the term: the Chinese and Korean moms whose kids all scored perfect 1600s on their SATs, played first violin in the All State Orchestra, AND led the school robotics team to a national championship, all before breakfast. For a Tiger Mother, that was just what the kid was expected to do (A minuses were punishable failures). For their children, playdates and sleepovers were rare occurrences, because the pursuit of excellence never took a holiday. I myself was more of a "Monkey Mother" (noisy and nosy and hyperactive).

And finally we come to Tigger from Winnie the Pooh. I really identify with Tigger (see "Monkey Mother", above), who is forever bouncing around boisterously, nattering on and oversharing with his friends. Though often annoyingly enthusiastic, this tiger is 100% harmless. Bounce on, Tigger!

So there you have it: the only kinds of tigers that interest me are not really tigers at all (which is my honest feeling about most of the animal kingdom, I confess).  

I guess this means I am uninvited to your Tanzanian safari, but that’s OK.

Bengal tiger (photo Mike Marrah)

The New Normal

May they grow up in the New Normal

There’s a phrase much bandied about these days: “this is the new normal”; “When this is over, there will be a new normal.” But that begs the question: what IS normal? And when does/will the “old” normal change? As for my family, I venture to say that we are, emphatically, NOT normal by any regular measure. We are a quirky lot, musicians and actors and writers. 

But generally? If “normal” is an Ozzie and Harriet world, where Father Knows Best and we can Leave it to Beaver, then no, America has never really been normal like that. In the ‘60s it was “normal” to be a hippie (or look like one). What was the “normal” of the 1970s? Disco? and 1980s? How on earth did we ever think those shoulder pads were “normal”? The ‘90s and ‘00s went by in a blur (or maybe it was just that, with five kids, I wasn’t sleeping much) but I recall the past several decades as pretty selfish times in the USA, when we seemed to have lost sight of what’s important.

Which brings us to the present day. Do you remember life pre-isolation, carefree trips to Shop N Bag without looking like the hazmat-suited characters in E.T.? Now, we compulsively wash our hands and the groceries when they (the groceries) enter the house, and also the doorknobs we touched on the way to entering that house, and…well, you get the drift. 

With things so topsy-turvy, I think this is a golden opportunity to reshape reality going forward. I hereby declare 2021 the Year of The New Normal! 

 And what might this N.N. look like? 

Well, for one thing, we’ll have made our peace with queuing up, with waiting our turn. 

We’ll be conscious of others, in a whole new way. We’ll pray for each other in tough times, and rejoice at good news about each other when it comes. In other words: we’ll finally act like a loving family. 

When we’re at last able to stroll around freely, we’ll cherish our planet Earth, and do what we can to keep it clean. 

We’ll stay home when we feel sick, and give others grace when they do the same. 

We’ll stop taking for granted restaurant dinners, shopping at the mall, concerts, plays, and ball games. Going to the beach. Hugging our friends. 

We’ll stop taking for granted: touching our faces. 

We’ll realize at last that we’ve been taking way too much for granted. 

I pray that the New Normal will not involve heightened suspicion or fear or hate or division. Haven’t we all had enough of this? 

May the New Normal provide a safety net for our brothers and sisters in need, because we’ve learned what need feels like. 

May the New Normal usher in a time of kindness and caring, across the board.

And after we’ve experienced this New Normal for a while, may we, and our children, forget that things were ever any different. 

 I can’t wait for the New Normal.