Cool It!

Once in a while I will encounter Life’s Big Questions: would you rather be too hot or too cold? I always ace the answer (“Neither”) and move briskly on to: would you rather be too short or too tall? Eat just ice cream or just pizza for the rest of your life? Live with only one arm, or one leg? (“Tall, pizza, arm—as long it’s not my writing arm. C’mon, what else have you got?”)

But, truth be told, while I do prefer tropical to Arctic climes, in reality I’m only happy in the hot weather when there’s air conditioning close by. I’m old enough to recall the signs on the deli doors in NYC, courtesy of Kool cigarettes “Come in, it’s Kool inside (air conditioned!”) We lived on the 7^th floor of a Manhattan apartment building, and long summer nights would find my sisters and me sprawled on the living room rug, fighting over which sister was hogging all the "chilled" air from the big box fan. Our early cars were air cooled by opening the windows as we hit 60 MPH, an experience much like putting your head inside a clothes dryer. My point is, I remember when A/C was not a given.

Moving South in the late 1960s, we got lots of summer sniffles from our travels (freezing store to sweltering parking lot and back again); it was in “Hot-lanta” that my addiction to freon really took hold. As an adult, I may have only enjoyed the central air life in the summers at the shore, but it was enough to convince me that life as a human stir fry was no life at all. 

Steve, on the other hand,  literally NEVER feels the heat. A visit to his home office in July renders the unlucky visitor flushed, disoriented and dizzy, while hubs hunches over his computer keyboard, completely oblivious to the scalding temps. 

In recent years, climate change (and I’m sorry but yes, it is a thing) has taken expected weather patterns, shaken them up and spilled them haphazardly across the landscape. Just a couple of weeks ago, a “heat dome” settled over Evan’s new home, Portland, Oregon. Oregon summers are usually quite temperate (highs no more than 80); suddenly the thermometers were soaring to 112 degrees. I panicked, picturing my son collapsing from heatstroke. It seems, however, that Ev is not quite as bothered as his mother. He weathered the weather just fine, he told me on the phone, as I sat not two feet from the “High Cool” setting on my window unit, yet still sympathy-sweating.

Summer is only two weeks old. It’s bound to get hotter, and I am bound to find myself in an un-air conditioned setting from time to time. At those unfortunate moments, I will fall back on my Catholic upbringing and “offer it up” for the poor souls in Purgatory.

But I’d still rather figure out a way to air condition Purgatory, so that we’d ALL be comfortable.

My two cool cats, "digging" the Lewes Beach sandbar

On the Hunt

Rose Brooklyn show 2013

                                                              (click the link above for a bit of her performance)                                       

                         

Honestly. What is my problem? 

I am neither hoarder nor pitch-er, but dwell in the twilight zone between. This means that I save tons of random stuff BUT I take care to always throw away the important things. This becomes evident during my infrequent deep digs, on the trail of a special photo, school paper, CD, etc. that I just KNOW is here somewhere. When the spirit moves me, I upend my life in search of The Missing Item. As the hours pass, the hunt takes on a frantic quality, the importance of the quest blown all out of proportion. It’s sort of like looking for a soccer participation trophy, circa 1995, with the same zeal as looking for the Holy Grail.

Often, one lost thing leads to the next, and then the next. Case in point: a few weeks ago, Rose and I began working on updating my website. In addition to streamlining the descriptions of my essays, I decided to add to the “video” section. The first few additions were easy (film from my virtual Story Slam performance, my presentation in my This is My Brave production.) But then…

I became obsessed with locating the video of an interview I gave when my second book, Underway, came out in 2012. I KNOW I had it at one point, though in what form I haven’t a clear memory. The ensuing rabbit hole was littered with searches of YouTube, Vimeo, every single promising file on my computer. I even went back through every last email from 2012 that had an attachment which could possibly be the video. No luck.

From there, it was an easy leap to Rose and HER missing materials. Where, oh where, was the tape of her Berklee College of Music audition (2007)?? I cannot imagine losing track of my daughter singing “Your Daddy’s Son” so sweetly (and successfully-she was accepted). And yet I obviously did. When I came up empty there, my next search was for her solo show in Brooklyn in 2013. Shockingly, there wasn’t a trace of it on my laptop. Julie to the rescue, however; she sent me a few clips she’d filmed that night of her sister onstage, performing original electronic music. But…but…where was Rose’s senior recital? Heck, Steve and I had driven all the way to Boston for it and, as I recall, been super-impressed with her work. Not, apparently, impressed enough to save a single snippet.

So here I am, reflecting on MANY hours I’ll never get back, looking in vain for things that I really, really should have kept tabs on. I am surrounded by a multitude of saved test papers from 4^th grade and Preschool cut-and-pasted “artwork” instead. 

Guess I’d better toss the junk in a box once again, and resign myself to the loss of my treasures.

But wait. Don’t I still have the VHS tape of Evan playing jazz piano in that high school concert? Surely I’d never throw THAT away! 

Or…would I?

Thank the good Lord I saved THIS gem!! (Btw those aren't zeros, they are O's for Outstanding!!)

A Little Tubing Trip Down the Ol' Alimentary Canal

Get well flowers from Pat and Ashlyn

For my first blog post of Summer 2021, an appropriate subject would have been the delightful pastime of floating on an inner tube lazily down a river. Believe me, I’d much rather write about THAT kind of tubing trip! Instead, buckle up for the dramatic saga of my NG (nasal-gastric) tube and its perilous journey down the alimentary canal, AKA my digestive tract.

Looking back with my usual impeccable 20/20 hindsight, I should have taken my recent bouts of heartburn as a warning. I think I just didn’t want to be bothered with antacids and the like. I remembered my mom’s lifelong battle with acid indigestion. Instead of changing her diet, quitting smoking, etc. Joanie opted for chugging Maalox straight from the bottle. That form of self-medicating had zero appeal—I much preferred to tough it out. The stinging sensation always passed eventually, and hey! It wasn’t nearly as bad as labor! Btw that is my benchmark for all my illnesses and injuries—does it top the exquisite agony of childbirth? Not quite? Then it’s nothing!

But neglecting myself caught up with me last Monday night, when I woke up and suddenly began (trigger alert) vomiting blood. My first response was to just go back to bed, but then it sank into my thick skull that this could possibly be something serious, so it was off to the ER at 4 AM. What followed was 14 hours of misery, languishing in an emergency room cubicle bed because the hospital had no available rooms. I figured I’d be stuck with needles and X-rayed and tested for this and that, and I was. I did NOT factor in the NG tube (cue the foreboding music in a minor key).

Pre-ordeal, this procedure was variously described to me by the attending medical personnel as: “pretty unpleasant,” “ a little uncomfortable” and my personal favorite, “not the most fun.” So what? thought I. Couldn’t be as bad as labor!

Turns out, it was—or at least the insertion of the ungodly long piece of tubing into my nostril, down my throat and esophagus and into my stomach gave my old contractions a run for their money. It didn’t help that the nurse assigned to this task was more drill sergeant than Flo Nightingale. His was a “tough love” approach, barking orders at me as I gulped and gagged and swallowed. When I finally got it down, I croaked, “how long will this be in?” He gruffly responded, “As long as it takes!” and disappeared, never to be seen again. 

In the end, it was nine miserable hours before the tube was removed, after an endoscopy. Ouch!

I shouldn’t complain; many other people have endured The Notorious NG. And turns out I only have a little gastritis, remedied by some dietary adjustments and time. I’m home now, with just a sore throat and swollen neck to remind me of my “not the most fun” tubing adventure. 

Happy Summer! It can only improve from here! Right?

Finally got a room for the  overnight stay...

Birdcalling

 

I guess there’s something about getting older that makes you zero in on earthly things you’ve been taking for granted. While I am still no one’s definition of Nature Girl, I’ve recently been focusing on (at least registering) the symphony of sounds in our yard. In addition to the usually pleasant tones of Aiden and Peter’s voices at play, or Stevo’s colorful language when the BBQ grill coals don’t heat up fast enough, I discovered that there is plenty of noise from actual BIRDS on the Seyfried property!! SINGING birds!! As I assume these chirpers and trillers have been making music for a while now, the missing link has been me, the would-be listener.

But I’m making up for lost time, thanks to a terrific picture book I bought for the boys, The Little Book of Backyard Bird Songs. In addition to full color photos and great descriptions about the local feathered friends, there are buttons to push that play their individual calls. As of today I can distinguish between the cardinal’s and the blue jay’s voices (the cardinal is very tuneful; the blue jay sounds just like an obnoxious heckler at a comedy club). We have a number of mourning doves hanging around, and “mourning” is an accurate name for them. Their cooing is indeed plaintive! I’m tempted to hire them to play my funeral, fluttering around the church and inspiring intense grief from the gathered, much like the hired mourners of old. With my luck, however, they wouldn’t make a sound, and would just anoint everybody with bird poop, so maybe I’ll rethink that plan. I’m still slightly confused between the calls of the house wren and the robin, but I’m sure that’ll come clear with a bit more study of my--I mean, the boys’--little book.

Animal communication is fascinating. Julie and Rose tell me that when they bring their dogs together for a Brooklyn walk, Ruby (who is normally silent and undemonstrative in the extreme), runs in happy circles, tail wagging wildly, when Lumi rounds the corner and comes into view. Is Lumi aware of Ruby’s rare display of emotion? I’m guessing so, on some level. And of course there are many touching stories of chimps who use sign language (I think they only do that with Jane Goodall, but I might be mistaken), elephant babies who pine forever for their lost moms, etc. So people have company in the talky/feely department!! Who knew? (I didn’t, or at least never gave it much thought). 

Lest you think I am becoming the female equivalent of Doctor Doolittle, rest assured I am not. I have no ambitions to “talk with the animals,” and plan to chat mainly with human beings. But enjoying the orchestra of birds in my own backyard, and imagining their rich treetop conversations, charms me, and reminds me to pay more attention to the natural world in general. 

Off to the deck with my coffee, ready for another concert performance. This is pretty cool!

Birdsongs Seyfried Yard

Viva il Pomodoro!

 

You say "tomato," I say "awesome way to get organized"!

When is a tomato not a tomato? 

When it is a timer!

The “Pomodoro” method of time management has been kicking around for several years. Developed by Francesco Cirillo, who was inspired by a red, tomato-shaped timer (“pomodoro” is “tomato” in Italian), it’s basically “slicing” your productive/creative times into 25 minute segments of focused work, followed by five minute breaks. You re-set the timer and repeat as many times as you like (or need for your project), remembering to take one longer break after every four Pomodoros. 

I found out that 25 minutes is apparently an optimum chunk of time for full concentration, which makes sense to me—my mind begins wandering off 25 minutes into a movie, or a church service, or even a conversation! Those little five minute breaks (enough for a drink of water) are sufficient to refresh and regroup for the next round of tasks. 

After learning about this nifty technique, I of course put it right out of my head until the other day, when I noticed that Ya-Jhu had purchased one for Aiden. I oohed and aahed, and she promptly gave it to me (not to worry, she’d bought a spare). 

So now I have a glistening ruby red timer ticking away on my desk. My maiden Pomodoro voyage was during a session of an online writing group I joined recently, The London Writers' Salon. The LWS (which is indeed UK based) is a virtual space for writers to gather and spend 50 minutes silently working on their own projects. I have loved it (it’s on Zoom, and we keep our cameras on for accountability); just knowing I’m in the (quiet) company of at least 120 writers from around the world is really inspiring. 

I am not exactly a Math Whiz, but even I could figure out that the LWS sessions are exactly two Pomodoros long. I try to choose “bite-sized” activities (a blog post, a meditation for church) that I can polish off in that time period. It’s often a race against the clock to get it done before the bell rings, but so far I’ve been successful. 

I am determined to see this experiment through (unlike my “Best Self” daily journal that I update only sporadically, so I guess I’m not really my “Best Self” after all, or setting the alarm on my phone for an hour and then totally forgetting why I set the darned thing). The whimsical shape of my little timer keeps me from taking it all too seriously, but the relentless ticking reminds me that I have a job to do and 25 minutes to do it. Plus “pomodoro” gets me reminiscing fondly about our trip to Italy a few years ago. That food! Did I ever tell you about the incredible seafood dinner we had in Venice? In that adorable trattoria in that little square? 

So delicious!

Oops! Off track, perhaps, but I hit my 500 words, so I pronounce this post complete!  And with five minutes to spare! 

Garden Spot

My five, in the verdant paradise that is our back yard these days

For most of the 32 years we have resided at our house in East Oreland, our back yard has served most reliably as a punchline in my stories. My confession that I have the black thumb of doom. The former owners somehow sensing when another of their exotic plantings has expired on our watch. The tale of the dead tree that almost crashed through our family room window. 

Then there are the incidents that have not made it into print (until now), like the sink hole that appeared on the lawn, gradually (then not so gradually) sinking deeper until I had nightmares of Aiden or Peter disappearing into it. Steve finally did something about it, purchasing several times as much fill dirt as was needed. The look (and safety) of the back yard instantly improved, but the eyesore of the extra pile of dirt remained for months in our driveway, available (free!) but unclaimed. 

We planted tulip and iris bulbs once or twice, quite haphazardly, over the decades. Each spring we were either disappointed when nothing at all bloomed, or amazed when random daffodils and peonies blossomed instead (relics of the Master Gardeners who'd previously resided at 122). Surprise!

Eventually, the excuse that “we are at the shore all summer” wore thin. For one thing, we were no longer away from mid-June until Labor Day; it was more like 6-7 weeks tops. Also, Sheridan, Ya-Jhu and the boys are at the beach for some, but not all, of that time. Finally, Steve travels back and forth a lot, overseeing our busy Family Stages performance schedule in the Philly area. But still our property languished, until…

Until the pandemic, and its enforced idleness, inspired my hubby to make something of our little plot of land. Last summer he redid our back deck, an achievement that has brought us endless joy, as we have been able to see family and a few friends for safely distanced gatherings outdoors. This winter he planned our VERY first vegetable and herb garden, and planted it in early spring. Things are coming up: radishes mostly so far, but also parsley, chives, basil, mint, tarragon. It is a real luxury as a cook to just step outside and snip the herbs I need for a recipe (rather than shell out $$$ at the market for miniscule amounts). 

I love watching my grandsons watering the plants and oohing and aahing over the sprouting seedlings, an experience I had never had in my entire life. Evan, who was home recently for a visit, has become quite the plant and tree aficionado, and pointed out a variety of spruce that I had heretofore identified as “that big one over there”. 

I am humbly grateful that there are now Farming Seyfrieds, and can’t wait for the zucchini and peppers. As we finally emerge from the pandemic, hope for the future springs up, just like the feathery carrot tops. 

And as I survey our small Eden, I see that it is good. 

Garden of Eden (embroidered panel, British, 16th century)

Journal of the Plague Year

I remember reading this classic by Daniel Defoe when I was in high school. It is set in 1665, when a dreadful plague ravaged Europe, and it's a tough read even when you aren't living through a not-so-dissimilar situation. Of course, we are infinitely luckier than the folks trying to survive with no vaccinations, no decent sanitation, etc. But still, a global pandemic is a century-defining event, and COVID-19 has been no exception. 

Back in the day, pestilence, natural disasters and other kinds of mass suffering were seen as God’s judgement on, and righteous anger towards, God’s creation. Even now, there are many people who still pin the responsibility on sinful humanity, and on a Divine Power they see as exacting appropriate punishment. 

In Bible Study we are reading Exodus, and last week we discussed the ten plagues of Egypt. These vivid passages frequently make the cut for children’s Story Bibles and Vacation Bible School lessons, and for the life of me I don’t know why some saner soul doesn’t actually READ the darned things (and we’ll throw in Noah’s Ark here too) and say, “Yeah, yeah these are colorful tales but…a flood that destroys most of the earth? A series of horrors that culminates in the mass murder of babies? Uh, no.” 

I find it interesting to dig a little deeper and discover that the plagues were actually set up by the writers of Scripture as a competition between the Egyptian gods and the God of Israel. Each plague symbolized defeat of a different Egyptian deity: Frogs--Hequat, goddess of fertility; Flies--Khepri, god of regeneration; Boils--Isis, goddess of healing. Israel’s God, of course, beat them all in an epic smackdown. We now can identify almost all the plagues as natural occurrences (the waters of the Nile sometimes turned “blood” red with a certain type of algae, intense dust storms did “blot out the sun”). 

Bad stuff happens, happens often, and I don’t see it as Divine Retribution. The ending of Defoe’s Plague Year is, I hope, not prescient (as that plague receded, the people returned to their old ways, having learned absolutely nothing from the ordeal). I pray this will not be us. What I do take away, as the plague survivors in Defoe’s book do not, is the importance of remembering. Doing what we can, with the knowledge we have now, to avert future calamity (like, I don’t know, doing something about climate change maybe?)

But mostly, pulling together in these times of sorrow, and caring for each other. 

As, hopefully, our Plague Year Journal comes to a close, I am promising myself not to ever forget the lessons I learned. I will try to watch out, always, for the most vulnerable people in our society, and do nothing to further endanger them. 

When my mask is finally put away, may I not discard the habit of extra caring for my fellow humans. THAT is where I can see a loving God at work in this world. 

Maybe not the best preschool choice?

Going Solo

 

My talented friend Nimisha, whose solo performances inspire me!!

Tomorrow is my third (virtual) solo show class, and I can’t wait. I’ve long pondered the idea of a one-woman performance. I regularly do readings from my books, and of course had a lengthy career in children’s theatre “once upon a time,”  but this would be different—.a good bit scarier, for one thing. In our first class, we all shared our biggest fear around developing and sharing our solo shows, which was: our stories will be boring to an audience! It’s all been said/done before!! Our teacher had asked us to write the story of our lives to fit on one typewritten page, which we then read aloud. After the five of us had finished speaking, she asked, “Were you bored?” The answer, of course, was “no”—the other stories were fascinating, funny, poignant. I’m still not 100% sure about mine. 

Each week, we have a really cool assignment, which we present in class, and then do different theatrical exercises. We are also supposed to read, and watch videos of, other solo performers between classes. I’ve become re-acquainted, for example, with the work of the late great Spalding Gray, who used to sit alone at a table onstage with a glass of water, and tell spellbinding true tales about his life. It is quite intimidating to see how effective many of these performances are: just one person talking, minimal, if any, props and costumes. I’ve always relied on either reading my essays (clutching the book for dear life), or on Steve (my partner in show biz and forever, the Wizard to my Dorothy, the Hook to my Pan). But this would be without-a-net stuff, and I find it hard to imagine walking a tight rope, even if there was a huge net, the rope was six inches off the ground, and my feet were superglued to it. 

For tomorrow, we had to write, and will perform, a short piece in the character of one of our parents. Each presentation needs to include: a joke, a song, and a costume piece of some kind. Luckily, my choice was a simple one: I wrote as my mom, Joanie. Channeling my extremely quiet father would only work if I was portraying a chain-smoking Marcel Marceau. Joanie, however, is a relative snap (she was naturally funny, sang hits of the 1940s and 50s nonstop, and I think I still have one of her purses). 

I’m learning SO much valuable info during these sessions (choosing a persona, stating the “I Want” that focuses the show, developing conflict). Even if “The Elise Files” remains a fantasy, I will use many of these nuggets to enhance my writing. 

I have taken several classes and attended quite a few conferences since the pandemic hit—all online.  I think this is one way I’m coping with the many losses of the past 15 months—with value-adds. I may have missed travel, visiting friends and in-person concerts, but they can’t take “Writing Topical Satire” away from me! So there!

                                     Spalding Gray (from "Swimming to Cambodia")

thirtysomething

 

Back when he was "PJ"--and blowing out just 10 candles!

When my sister C and I reminisce about the time she spent living in Philly (and, for a while, with us in Oreland), the subject of the TV shows we watched together often comes up. At the top of our list is the oldie-but-goodie thirtysomething. This was the story—sometimes funny, sometimes deadly serious—of a group of friends in their early thirties: their work lives, romances, adjustments to marriage and parenting. It was especially cool that the series was set in Philadelphia. The acting was superb and the scripts were terrific. As an early thirtysomething myself, I could identify with at least some of their triumphs and trials (though new mom Hope always looked impossibly lovely, whereas I had to double check my sweats for spit up stains before venturing to the grocery store). In any event, this was my tribe: the maybe-a-bit-older-than-young adults. 

Well, not only have I LONG passed that particular decade, but, as of Saturday, four of my five kids will be “thirtysomethings,” with the addition of Patrick to that demographic. It scarcely seems real, this mothering milestone that reminds me once again of my mortality. Wasn’t it yesterday that I was not supposed to trust anyone OVER thirty? And didn’t that advice make sense to teenaged, hippie wannabe me? Now, of course, I tend to trust some people (not all) both over and under thirty, realizing in my maturity that trustworthiness is not a character trait unique to one age group. 

Our own 30 plusses are, I think, typical of Millennials: they have each had several jobs already, and anticipate continuing to jump from occupation to occupation as the years go by. For them, the idea of a pension and gold watch is baffling—why would anyone stay put their entire working life? Rose, at 32, is not close to tying the knot with anyone, and that’s just fine with her. Evan at 34 is in the same boat. Sheridan waited, and the other kids are waiting, or even deciding whether, to have kids of their own. Aiden and Peter may someday be far older than any future cousins on the Seyfried side. 

While they are frozen in time on film, the cast of thirtysomething no longer looks like those trendy friends depicted on the show (though Mel Harris, the actress who played Hope, is still infuriatingly pretty). They have gone on to produce, direct, and occasionally still perform on television. Rumor has it that a sequel is in the works, with most of the original cast returning, and a storyline including a new generation of thirtysomethings—and their sixtysomething parents. 

Maybe, if I see the characters of little Janie, Leo, Ethan and Brittany being portrayed by full grown people, I’ll finally process the indisputable fact that my brood are grownups. Until then, I will continue to see Patrick and siblings as the precious children they once were, and as Pat blows out 30 candles on his cake, I’ll sing—and, very possibly, also cry.

Open (Human Library) Book

I always said I was an open book...

As a writer, and a good friend of several librarians, I blush to disclose—I’m not a huge library goer. It may hearken back to my childhood, when lost library books and sky-high late fees were the norm at the Cunningham house. My sister Mo died in 1981. I later found a Sandy Springs Library copy of Jane Eyre Mo had checked out—but never returned—in 1972. I was so terrified that the fine would be in the thousands that (blushing again) I STILL HAVE NOT RETURNED IT. I comfort myself with the knowledge that this book is not exactly a first edition, and I’m guessing it has been replaced by now, but still…

As an adult reader, I buy my books, almost exclusively. Paperbacks overflow my bookshelves at home and at church. My Kindle is jam-packed with titles. Surely it’s because I want to support my fellow authors that I continue to shell out money for my reading material, right? And not that combo of acquisitiveness and laziness that are my trademarks? 

So it was a bit strange that on Sunday afternoon, I found myself in a virtual “book depot” at a Human Library event, making my debut as a Human Book. To explain: this is an awesome project based in Copenhagen, aiming to promote dialogue and understanding through the sharing of stories of people society deems “different” in any way. In my ongoing quest to raise awareness and increase acceptance of those with mental health issues, I applied to be a Human Book. There followed a decently long process of screening, interviewing and training. In normal times (what are those? Anybody remember?) the Human Book Events were held live, and they were local. With Zoom, these events are open to “readers” from all over. 

I was identified by my first name and the title of my “book”-- in my case, “Bipolar.” Some of my fellow books included “Adopted,” “Asian-American,” “Autism,” “Transgender,” “Gay,” and “MS.”  We logged on at 1:30 PM, met each other, went over the plan for the afternoon, and waited to be summoned to breakout rooms (one room per book) where we’d meet our groups of readers. We were supposed to speak briefly about ourselves, then open things up for questions. We needed to be prepared, we were told, for a wide variety of inquiries. Saturday night, I had dreamed my “readers” were snarling, antagonistic haters who hurled insults and then left the virtual meeting in a huff. 

My fears were not realized—my four readers were delightful people, two men (from Sweden and NYC) and two women (from France and Philly), who asked terrific, respectful questions. The hour passed very pleasantly, and at the end I felt they did understand bipolar disorder a little more. I’m excited to continue with this program and do more events. 

The Human Library Project’s slogan is “Unjudge Someone.” If we really could approach each other with open, UN-judging minds and hearts, what a world it could be! 

1848 rare edition--I swear it isn't this one!