Shadowloss

photo by Tiana on Pexels

I’ve reached the age when the deaths of dear ones are increasingly common events. I remember that my Nana always turned to the obituaries first when she read her New York Times. She would joke that as long as she didn’t appear in print as one of the deceased, it was bound to be a good day. That chipper remark aside, I think Nana scanned the ages and causes of death, for reassurance that she herself most likely still had some time left. We have a tendency to rank death as quite the worst thing that can ever happen. 

But there are many other kinds of losses. I recently read that these non-fatal, but still very sad, events are called “shadowlosses.” Examples could include being fired from a job, a bitter divorce, the end of a friendship, a cancer diagnosis, moving from a long-time home. These occurrences are usually ranked as much less important than death, but I think some of them are almost as painful. And what adds to the pain is the way they are so often brushed off with “well, it could be worse.” Perhaps, but the empty spaces in our lives that used to be filled with good health, a rewarding career, a beloved neighborhood, can nevertheless cause tremendous sorrow. 

 

I mourn the demise of certain relationships. Even decades later, the thoughts of these lost friendships continue to sting—especially when I dwell on what I did to contribute to the final rifts. I totally understand the folks who mourn a major move from a house they’d loved, those who feel really adrift after retirement, those who greatly regret the dissolution of a marriage.

 

We tend to divide our lives into “before” and “after” certain pivotal events.  I agree with John Greenleaf Whittier that “what might have been” are the saddest words. For me personally, while the deaths of family members and close friends have been wrenching, my “before” and “after” event is the year before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. That is my biggest shadowloss. I became a nasty, out-of-control stranger to myself. I caused many people pain. I completely lost what I’d always understood to be my personality. That horrible year changed me then, and I remain a changed person. Luckily, I got the help I needed, and I have a good life now. But I’ll never go back to being the Elise of my first 49 years—and I’ll always wonder what might have been, if I never had a mental illness.

 

I’m glad that we’re starting to talk about shadowlosses. I’m hopeful that we’ll stop minimizing other people’s sadness, stop encouraging them to “just cheer up.” Time will pass. They/we will, someday, feel better. But in the meantime, it’s OK to cry. It’s OK to feel genuine sadness, and not have to justify it on some sliding scale. Life is tough. Period. Recognizing the validity of these different losses is a great gift we can give to others—and to ourselves. 

Joro's Web

  

Picture this....ONLY MANY TIMES BIGGER
(image by Albrecht Fietz on Pixabay)

The other night we were eating dinner out on our deck, and my eyes wandered to a weathered blue flyswatter hanging on a hook by the sliding glass door. I instantly recalled the jolly (if a bit macabre) sport that Aiden and Peter played a few summers back: Kill (ALL) The Spotted Lanternflies!! The weird, gaudy insects were clustering on, and damaging, our black walnut tree, and in general behaving dreadfully. We actually encouraged the boys to dispatch as many as possible, whacking away with the swatter.

 

Haven’t seen a single lanternfly this year, so I guess my grandsons are solely responsible for their extinction. Good work, gentlemen!

 

But wait! There’s more bug trouble on the horizon! Have you heard? The gigantic Joro spiders are coming!!!

 

These bizarre creepy crawlies, originally from Asia, coming to an American backyard near you, are, it is reported, as big as a human hand. They spin webs of up to 10 feet in diameter. Oh, and they are “mildly” poisonous as well. I haven’t slept since reading about them, and I fully expect the Joros to be just as horrifying as described. Oh, the press has since walked it back a tad: the mega-spiders will mostly be found in heavily wooded areas. They spin their webs high up in trees, not in a corner of your living room. They are “afraid of people” (but don’t they say that about EVERY terrifying creature, from grizzly bears to sharks? I find this notion preposterous. Why in heck would THEY fear US? I mean, there is the gun thing, I guess, but aside from that…) Let’s face it, though--even if the reports are exaggerating, even if a Joro’s only as big as half a human hand, that’s still too darned big for a spider. 

 

On the plus side, this alarming news item temporarily pushed other major nightmares (climate crisis, war, long COVID, politics, Ye) to the sidelines of my brain. But it’s a stretch to call the arrival of giant spiders a “welcome diversion.” A welcome diversion would be the announcement of a million butterflies heading this way (wouldn’t that be beautiful? Sigh.) This is just one more Terrible Thing we’ll have to face, in a world that seems to have more than its fair share these days.

 

At any rate, I am thinking of prepping for a real-life remake of Arachnophobia, by dusting off my copy of Charlotte’s Web. The gentle E.B. White tale of a wise and lovable spider is, of course, a great classic of children’s literature. I remember finding Charlotte indeed both wise and lovable, and I wept when she died at the end of the book. But alas, I don’t remember my affection for a fictional character changing my mind about real spiders. Hated them then, hate them now. 

 

It seems every time I decide to start loving nature, there’s something that gets in the way. I don’t WANT to despise the Great Outdoors! It’s all the Joros’ fault! 

I even fear cartoon spiders.

There's an App for That

 

my iPhone, all apped up

I remember back when “app” meant Sour Cream Onion Dip. It was a “mobile app” if you took it to a potluck. 

 

I’m no inventor.  If I were George Washington Carver, I would have stared at the humble peanut forever, without finding a single use for it. If I were Thomas Edison, I’d still be in the dark. While I may have a bit of ability as a wordsmith, I will never come up with a clever way to make coffee using a hamster-on-a-wheel for energy. I am in awe of anything resembling a fabulous life hack, though I stop short of sending my hard-earned $49.99 (in four easy payments) to the manufacturers of the Incredible Instant Ice Cream Calorie Remover/Lawn Mulcher.

 

So naturally, when I decided to come up with a few whimsical ideas for mobile apps for this blog post, I struggled. For one thing, there are (as of Summer 2023) NINE MILLION apps available, with something like 1200 new ones cropping up daily. That’s some high-powered imagination, folks!

 

And every time I thought of something really outlandish, I discovered there was already an actual app for it. “Fake-an-Excuse” exists, my friends (this app offers realistic sounds to play during an unwanted phone call—burst water pipe, crying baby, swarm of bees- to give you an excuse to hang up.) So does “Run Pee” (tells you exactly when, as a movie viewer, it’s a good time for a bathroom break without missing important plot developments). “Carrr Matey” helps you find where you parked your vehicle--using a pirate voice. For reals. Arrr.

 

But there is one area where I feel there’s still room for innovation, app-wise. It’s the field of personal development and relationships. Here are a few random thoughts (patents pending, so don’t try pulling anything!)

 

“UnAltared!” Ditch that loser fiancé in church, right before you say, “I do!” During the Wedding March, your phone emits a piercing nuclear attack warning siren. As the petrified guests scramble for the exits, you can calmly take off your veil and disappear into the wilds of the Amazon (jungle, not shopping site). 

 

“Is My Child a Cereal Killer?” This app secretly records late night forays into your pantry, exposing four-year-old Bobby as the unprincipled Cocoa Puffs binge-eater that he is. 

 

“Am I Becoming My Mother?” This is a super-simple app. Whatever you ask it, the answer is always, “Yes. You are becoming your mother. Just stop.” In the paid version, an electric shock is added.

 

And then there’s “Tok-Tik-Chat-Snap”, where you can spend hours recording your own little video masterpieces, and just as you're about to share, they disappear forever. Great for reminding you of the depressing futility of life!

 

Finally, “Heading to Heaven” charts your every thought, word and deed, day and night (dreams included), so you always know what progress you are (or are NOT) making on the road to the Pearly Gates. Think of it as a Confessional in Your Pocket!

 

Go ahead. "Apply" yourselves, gang! Time’s a wasting!

Baking Communion bread with Sunday School--in the plus column for "Heading to Heaven"? Maybe?

Y.I.M.B.Y. (Yes, In My Backyard)

After two weeks in the UK, I am settling back down to home, and my comfortable routine. While it was lovely to eat different foods, meet new people, and see different historical/cultural sights, it has been nice to be on familiar turf once again, sleeping in my own bed (strange beds NEVER bothered me before. Nowadays? One lumpy mattress and I can barely function the next day). 

But I did have a memorable experience not four miles from the house last week. In neighboring Glenside, there is a beautiful restored old theatre, The Keswick. The Keswick is regularly booked, with a wide variety of events. I’ve been there a handful of times over the years, but many of the acts are not hugely appealing to me. I generally assume that it’ll be mostly tribute bands and the like, catering to an aging suburban crowd (and NO, that does NOT describe ME!) If I want to see a favorite performer, I anticipate a trip into the city will be necessary.

 

To my surprise and delight, however, I heard that Rufus Wainwright was coming to Glenside for a concert. For the unfamiliar (and I was, for a long time), Wainwright is the son of famous singer-songwriters Loudon Wainwright III and Kate McGarrigle. From childhood, Rufus has carved his own eclectic path in music and life, singing and writing candidly about the years of his drug use, about being gay. His lyrics can be very witty, and also very challenging. He writes for piano, guitar and orchestra. He’s written a musical and an opera, in addition to many albums of what's been called "lush, theatrical pop." His latest project, a Requiem Mass, will premiere in Paris, narrated by Meryl Streep.

 

When I mentioned getting tickets to Rose, she was very enthusiastic, and took the train down from NYC to join me for the performance. I expected a terrific concert (not disappointed there), but did not expect the size and nature of the audience. Where did this savvy bunch come from? There were people of all ages--lots and lots of them! And they knew and loved Wainwright’s music! In this solo show, Rufus did not just play and sing beautifully, but he chatted amiably with the crowd, saying he loved being at The Keswick (and apparently has played there many times before). This from a guy who has headlined in London, Tokyo, Berlin, Barcelona! 

 

That night, as has happened often in my life, my expectations did not match reality (see: Scotland, last week’s blog). Glenside rolled out the red carpet for a sophisticated, uniquely talented performer, and its affection was warmly returned. I’m quite proud of my neck of the woods, and you can bet I won’t be writing The Keswick off again anytime soon. Or “aging suburbanites” for that matter. Someday, far into the future, I may be one of them myself. 

 

Thanks for stopping by, Rufus. And thanks for reminding me of the gems to be found in my own backyard.

Scots Wha Hae

 

Golfing at Lettoch Lochs (I was just along for the stroll)

 

There are some places on the planet that I feel are slightly overrated (I realize I am speaking for myself, a minority of one). These include Disney Anywhere, cruise ships, Caribbean islands, Disney cruise ships bound for Caribbean islands, etc. My take: if you’ve seen one sun-drenched, palm-tree-festooned, rum-punch-adjacent isle, you’ve pretty much seen them all, with or without Mickey. That electric turquoise blue water color is indeed amazing, until you realize how prevalent it is in many parts of the world. And honestly? I can sit on a beach chair and read my book in Lewes, DE, for a fraction of the cost. 

 

I used to feel similarly about Scotland--no palms or turquoise waters there, of course, but I did always picture a somewhat lesser Ireland (which I have always adored). I mean, do kilts truly flatter anyone's figure? Isn’t there a good reason the bagpipe music repertoire is so limited? And haggis—whose brilliant idea was that? 

 

But as our plans for a UK trip took shape, my loving husband expressed a keen desire to include Scotland in the journey. He’s always wanted to play golf there, for one thing, and he’s a big history buff too. And so, we added the Plaid Place to our itinerary. 

 

Well, I have to admit, I’ve been selling that country WAY short! For one thing, it has a rugged beauty that is very different from the Emerald Isle, what with its heather and its Highlands. Also, Scots proudly speak with an accent that sounds nothing like Irish, and their cows (pronounced “coos”) are really adorably shaggy. 

Right?

Every day there, more of my assumptions were upended. I learned to like haggis (at least in the form of the popular restaurant appetizer Haggis Bonbons—ground lamb offal--livers and other bits--mixed with spices and oats, made into balls, rolled in breadcrumbs, sauteed, and served with a sauce). We toured Blair Athol distillery, and I realized that my lifelong aversion to Scotch whisky was in fact an aversion to cheap Scotch whisky—the single malt stuff is pretty tasty. And Stevo reported that golfing in Pitlochry exceeded his expectations.

 

Literarily speaking, I was eagerly anticipating our time in William Wordsworth’s and Beatrix Potter’s Lake District in England, not so much our visit to Robbie Burns-ville (Edinburgh). Much to my surprise, touring the Writers Museum on the Royal Mile gave me a whole new appreciation of the beloved Burns—he wrote tons more songs and poems than “Auld Lang Syne” during his brief lifetime, and helped keep Scottish culture alive. 

So there! says Robert Burns

 

I've felt somewhat disloyal writing this paean to Scotland, almost like I’m betraying my Irish roots. But I’m coming to understand that, just as a mother always has room for another child to love, so I can harbor a deep affection for Ireland, England, and Scotland, too.

 

So break out the cullen skink, laddies, the neeps and the tatties! And don’t forget a dram of Glendranoch to sip (those darned castles are FREEZING)!

Mr. Toad's Latest Wild Ride

Caution: hill, cows, sheep, and stone wall are much closer than they appear

For aficionados of Kenneth Grahame’s classic The Wind in the Willows--remember the part where the wealthy Mr. Toad buys a motorcar and careens recklessly through the English countryside? Well, Steve and I have been traversing the same narrow, winding, stone-wall-bordered roads this past week, and we have a whole new sense of horror at the thought of Toad’s escapades. Believe me, “careening” is the LAST thing you should do, especially while remembering to drive on the left. 

When I planned our UK adventure months ago, I had thought that we’d have the best of all possible worlds—a week in London and Edinburgh, utilizing their fine public transport, followed by a week behind the wheel, as we drove to less accessible locales. It would be a lark! We’d be able to really enjoy the picturesque villages as we passed! In fact, after the hustle-bustle of the cities, our motoring sojourn would be relaxing!

 

Now mind you, nowhere in my fantasy did I picture myself being the driver. No, this idyllic daydream always featured my intrepid hubby as chauffeur. I mean, Steve actually enjoys driving in New York City. This would be a piece of (tea)cake! 

 

Fantasy careened into reality from the moment we arrived at the rental car desk in Scotland. I’d made sure our credit card covered all required insurance, and I’d reserved a small Peugeot (small being the operative word). Nevertheless, we were somehow talked into a much larger vehicle ($$$) because the agent said it would be “safer,” PLUS the rental company’s extra insurance ($$$) because it would cover “absolutely anything that could go wrong."

 

From there, Steve was given the keys to a big BMW and we were sent out of the lot and into Edinburgh traffic on a rainy day. Poor Steve! It was a (nearly) crash course in driving on the other side of the street, plus he had to deal with my abysmal map reading skills (the car’s GPS did not work and we had to use directions on our phones). 

We made it out of the city and onto a highway toward the coast, our next destination. Along the way, we learned a) roundabouts are EVERYWHERE b) you want "M" roadways when possible; those are the biggest highways, followed by "A"s and finally "B"s (which are the real back roads) c) British signage is different (“give way” means “yield”, “lay by” means “pull off,” heavy traffic ahead is “queues likely”) and d) were we kidding? Driving is far too intense to even NOTICE the scenery, much less “relax.” 

Hettie's in Pitlochry, Scotland--worth the drive! Almost! 

It's our final day in Europe, and we will be very sad to leave. But I will not miss our “wild” rides through the English countryside. My arm will be sore for weeks from gripping the passenger car door handle, leaning my body towards the center line (my magical way to remind Steve not to hug the curb).

 

Heading back home to Philly, where only the death-defying Schuylkill Expressway beckons. Should be relaxing.

"separated by a common language," indeed

Women Rising

 

I have always had ZERO trouble talking. My role model was my mom, that indefatigable chatterer Joanie. Mom cherished and nurtured her female friendships, setting an example for her three daughters of how to converse on a pretty deep level. Now, some of Joanie’s habits didn’t stick with me—I never did learn how to enjoy talking on the phone, whereas the receiver of that black, curly-corded thing on the kitchen wall, was surgically attached to my mother’s ear 24/7. 

 

But I knew that women had more to offer the world than the culture of the 1950s and 60s had us believe—and that these very valuable contributions need NOT eternally revolve around men. I cringe to recall the Gals of TV Land, the June Cleavers and Harriet Nelsons and (His) Little Margies. Even the incomparable Lucy yearned mainly to be affirmed by doofus Ricky Ricardo! Even the much-more evolved Golden Girls (who, eeek!!!, were considered “seniors” but who were at least a decade YOUNGER than me!!!) spent an inordinate amount of airtime obsessing about the opposite sex!

 

Gradually, women are taking the reins of corporations, leading governments, producing and directing movies. Of course, they accomplish all of this while still being vastly underpaid, compared to their male counterparts. But I have hope for my daughters, all the daughters, that things will continue to improve. 

 

A lot comes down to awareness of our situation. To that end, the amazing writer/cartoonist Alison Bechdel (she wrote the book-turned-musical Fun Home) has what is known as the Bechdel Test. Simply put, women’s conversations with other women are scored by what percentage of them DO NOT MENTION MEN. AT. ALL. I’ve applied the Bechdel Test to theatre dialogue, books, even overheard real life convos, and the results are pretty disheartening. Blah, blah, men, blah, blah, men. We women still have a ways to go! 

 

Think about the guys, in contrast. While they do talk about women, it is often in chauvinistic, dismissive terms. Think of all the cultural offerings featuring testosterone-y soldiers, superheroes, cowboys and business execs, with nary a female to be found. I was struck anew when I searched for an original episode of “Project Greenlight” for my newsletter. The series, about aspiring filmmakers competing for the opportunity to make their movie, premiered way back in 2001. It was the brainchild of lifelong buddies you may have heard of, Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. When I viewed Season 1 Episode 1, what did I discover? With one exception, every single would-be director was a white male (to add insult to injury, the early seasons were produced by the disgraced Harvey Weinstein). Forget about that idea!

 

It's still a cause for comment when women rise to the top, but I pray that soon it will be an unremarkable given. May this become a world where women talk with other women, passing the Bechdel Test with flying colors. 

 

Oh, and let’s throw in some equal pay while we’re at it. That’d be cool.

photo by Melissa Askew on Unsplash

Cost of Living

Our pretty, pricey needlepoint pillows, purchased on Nantucket in 1997 (and we had no business even buying those!)

It began innocently enough. I was surfing the 'net one day, when my board wiped out at an ad for a house for sale in 'Sconset, Nantucket. Steve and I had traveled to that gorgeous island for our 20^th anniversary many years ago, and marvelled at the beauty of the little “cottages,” which in season are covered with climbing roses. I wondered what such a sublime tiny dwelling cost, so I clicked on the listing. $3 million!!!!! Alrighty then. Approximately $2,999,000 over our budget. 

That should have ended my perusals, but instead I became addicted to virtual house hunting. I checked the listings in our beloved Lewes so often that a realtor started reaching out to me directly, asking if he could show me some homes in the area. I don’t have the guts to tell the truth about my financial situation, so I’ve been kind of stringing him along, not saying “yes” but not saying “no” either. 

 

My late sister Mo used to take things a step further. She and a friend would doll themselves up and attend open house showings in Atlanta. She loved checking out the splendid abodes, even as she struggled to afford her modest apartment rent. There was always hope for a filthy rich future, and Maureen wanted to be ready when that happy day might dawn! 

 

A recent obsession for me has been a weekly feature in The New York Times called, appropriately, "The Hunt." Every Thursday they spotlight a prospective buyer, their budget, and three possible places from which they choose. The gimmick is that you don’t find out what they decided upon until you guess. The cost of just about every place in New York City is staggering. Does Jennie get a) the apartment with a kitchenette, one tiny bedroom, and a teensy backyard (which may or may not have a slight rat problem)? Or does she settle for b) that fixer-upper (sold as-is, as-is not including closets)? Perhaps the best choice is c) the fifth floor walkup? It’s really nice, but without an elevator I cannot imagine the torturous moving day and subsequent grocery lugging. 

I ALWAYS guess wrong, and shake my head at Jennie’s bad decision to sink a fortune into a place that would cost a fraction of the price were it just located in, say, West Boonieville. Jennie, Jennie, expand your horizons! I hear West Boonieville has a rustic charm, and you could afford an actual kitchen too!

 

In the end, I always console myself: I don’t have to move anywhere right now. I’m lucky enough to have a perfectly nice house, with a reasonable amount of stairs and a rat-free yard. But someday, when I become a bestselling author and/or win Powerball, I’m sure I’ll be tempted to trade up. What’ll it be? A wee little rose covered Nantucket cottage? Bayfront splendor in Lewes? Or will I be seduced by closet-less living in the Big Apple?

 

Guess I’ll cross that multimillion dollar bridge when I come to it.

Stuyvesant Town, NYC, my childhood home. You do NOT want to know what the rent is these days.

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