Saint John of the Bridge

 

“Pray. Then move your feet.”

                                                                                                                                                                         --John Lewis

 

As a tenderhearted young boy, one of 10 children in a sharecropper’s family, John was responsible for taking care of the chickens. He fed them and read the Bible to them. He baptized them when they were born and staged funerals for them when they died. His siblings called him Preacher.

 

When he was 15, John heard about the horrific murder of 14 year old Emmet Till, and thought: that could be me. Then he listened to Dr. Martin Luther King Junior’s sermons on the radio, offering the possibility of another, better way for us all to live. This epiphany led young John Lewis to join King’s non-violent civil rights movement. He participated in sit-ins; he marched for voting rights. He was rewarded with a split skull from a club wielded by police on the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama on Bloody Sunday, 1965. But John was ready—this group of peaceful protesters had prepared for this possibility, practicing being hit, pushed, and spat upon. They were not naïve; they were just committed to the way forward.

 

John Lewis’ lifelong quest for justice continued. He served multiple terms in the House of Representatives before his death last week at age 80. Lewis was known as the Conscience of the Congress, his physical presence a bridge to history (he was an original Freedom Rider). His was a moral compass that never wavered; he always spoke with measured wisdom coming from his deep faith in God.

 

My friend Molly Newton’s son Sam interned for Rep. Lewis just a few years ago. Said Sam, "He was my first boss on Capitol Hill. He showed me not all politicians are conniving. He was genuine, he was humble. He was what all men should strive to be." It was so refreshing to hear that John Lewis really was exactly as he seemed.

 

One of Lewis’ final acts, just before entering the hospital for the last time, was to appear on Black Lives Matter Plaza in DC, to show his support. He recognized that the fight for justice is far from over. John Lewis left us with these words, from an essay in the New York Times published after his death:

When you see something that is not right, you must say something. You must do something…Each generation must do its part to help build what we called the Beloved Community, a nation and world society at peace with itself.

Ordinary people with extraordinary vision can redeem the soul of America by getting in what I call good trouble, necessary trouble. Voting and participating in the democratic process are key.

There is a movement to rename the Pettus Bridge for this incredible man, and I hope it happens. In any event, it is sacred ground, where a modern-day saint named John stood up for freedom. It is our job to carry on, and to remember.

 

RIP, John Lewis. May your memory be a blessing, and a challenge.

Die, Spotted Lanternflies!! Die!!

Beware!!

Well, it figured. Our family has (so far, please Lord) been spared COVID-19, and we haven’t seen any murder hornets yet; therefore we were due for another kind of plague on our house/property. And here it is: our trees are currently infested with spotted lanternflies. For the unfamiliar, these are hideous insects that rather recently came to the United States. These most unwelcome visitors prey on several types of tree (including our black walnut). After feeding on the sap, they excrete a nasty sticky substance, that leads to mold growth. Eventually the mighty oak (or whatever) is killed. The lanternflies may be a new addition to the Critters of Southeastern PA, but once they arrived they were EVERYWHERE. And the thing is, they aren’t ugly, like tarantulas or scorpions. If you didn’t know better you’d think they were rather pretty and certainly harmless. Never judge a planthopper by its hindwings, I always say!

How to get rid of these pests? Short of using a powerful insecticide, neighborhood folks are putting bands of sticky tape around the trunks of their trees. The flies get stuck to the tape—in theory, problem solved. In reality, though, while our tape is loaded with the loathsome spotted l’s, there are plenty more who escape—and I’ve heard horror stories of butterflies and even small birds who have gotten stuck. Yuck!

I checked out the Penn State Extension website, and learned that we are in a race against time. In just a few weeks, the flies will begin laying their thousands and thousands of eggs. We have to act now, or our yard will be filled with baby lanternflies—and chewed and dying trees. I have never before felt a shred of emotion regarding flora and fauna, but I’m really bothered by this shameless assault on our landscape.

Ya-Jhu the farmer’s daughter is quite concerned; she is our #1 Tree Inspector and Tape Dispenser. Aiden and Peter understand that these are NOT like Very Hungry Caterpillars, that these bugs are pure evil. Aiden is on an eradication quest—he even has a special stick he uses to squash the ones who land on the deck or patio furniture, our brave six year old doing battle against the Arch Villains. We all cheer his kills, and I wonder if we feel extreme glee at the sight of dead insects because as yet coronavirus has no cure. By swatting and stomping on spotted lanternflies with abandon, perhaps we are releasing pent up anger at our current, rather helpless, situation. If we can’t kill THAT kind of bug right now, at least we’re doing our part to wipe out another.

So here we are, a house full of Loraxes, trying desperately to Save the Trees. And I, Mild Mannered Mom turned Cold Blooded Killer, will not rest until every last nasty bark eater is slaughtered. “Die, Spotted Lanternflies!” I scream, shaking my fist at a disgusting branch full, “Die!!”

It’s a whole new Elise. You better watch out.

The infamous sticky tape!

The Gambler

Royal Flush--Never Have I Ever

You've got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em

                                                                –Kenny Rogers

I’ve done really well in the stock market over the years--that is, I’ve stayed miles away from it, and as a result I have lost zero dollars. Winner! Even if I had the disposable income, I have enough self-awareness to recognize what a disaster any foray into buying and selling would be for me. If I had to watch the ups and downs of a particular stock it would absolutely drive me up the wall—because I would watch, obsessively, throughout every day.

 

Growing up, there was only one Wall Street investor in the family. For years, my Great Aunt Rose made a huge deal out of her vast “holdings” in AT&T, and often hinted that we would be the recipients of a fortune upon her demise. Turns out, there weren’t that many shares after all, and what there were, disappeared as if by magic once my father, her only heir, cashed them in.

 

The phrase “I’ll take my chances” has never passed my lips, because I emphatically WON’T. I remember when we were young marrieds living in Mt. Airy, and it was suggested we buy our first house in downtown Camden NJ, because it was “sure” to explode in value. Still waiting for the big Camden boom, and glad we didn’t speculate. But I am sorry we didn’t attempt to buy even a tiny cottage at the Delaware shore in the 1980s, because those property values DID skyrocket, and have been out of our reach for a long time.

 

Right now we are holding onto our Europe plane tickets. Our trip was rescheduled from April to early September, and of course as of now it isn’t happening. But in order to get a refund of the ticket price, we have to wait for the airline to cancel the flight, and that's a bit of a gamble. Needless to say, as Americans we are understandably personae non grata to the countries who have gotten COVID under control, so I’m optimistic that we’ll get our money back. But it’s really stressing me out to wait.

 

According to philosopher Blaise Pascal’s famous “wager,” if we choose to believe in God, and God doesn’t exist, we haven’t lost anything. However, if we choose not to believe, and there IS a God, we stand to lose everything—so the wise person bets on God’s existence. While intellectually I get this reasoning, it doesn’t square with my concept of God at all. There are many wonderful people who, for one reason or another, do not or cannot believe in God. Does God send them tumbling down to Hell? Or does God never, ever give up on God’s beloved children?

 

I rest in the confidence that I have a heavenly home, and so do my brothers and sisters who struggle with faith, in an eternity big enough for all of us.

 

I’m no gambler, but I consider that a pretty safe bet.

 

A bettin' man

Convenienced

Nectar of the Gods?

Searching for a topic for my Saturday post can be challenging, but not today! Because it’s July 11th. 7/11. Get it? And I’m thinking of convenience stores I have known and (sometimes) loved. Haven’t set foot in one since before the pandemic, and I wonder how they’re all getting on, those small purveyors of our to-go coffee and soda and candy bars—those necessities that keep us adequately sugared and caffeinated throughout the day. Not to mention the beef jerky, so I won’t.

My first experience of a 7-11 was in July 1968, in Atlanta. We had just moved down there from New York. Mom, my sisters and I were left on our own from Monday to Friday with no car, while Dad traversed the highways and byways of the deep South as a salesman. His herculean task was to sell weird-looking Danish modern chairs, tables and lamps to Granny Lou’s Furniture Emporium in Ruralville, Tennessee (as you might guess, Dad usually struck out).

Meanwhile, Mo, C and I had a sole outdoor activity: walking over a mile to the 7-11, for slurpees. We’d trudge back to our apartment in the blistering July heat, savoring the sticky blue sweetness of our drinks until the very last slurp.  Our lives revolved around that little daily trek. 7-11 became, looking back, the symbol of that long hot summer in a strange new place.

During our years traveling with children’s theatre, Steve and I became connoisseurs of the  mini-marts of the Northeast, learning which chains had drinkable coffee and edible food (and which did not). Sometimes these roadside spots were the only places still open when we’d stop for the night in a small town. They offered indigestible dinners of hot dogs, chips and Twinkies. Not fine dining establishments, but they filled the bill in a pinch.

I had no idea how important the 7-11 is in Southeast Asian culture until Rose spent a year in Chiang Rai, Thailand as a teenager. She reported that they were EVERYWHERE. I still scratch my head imagining the marketing genius who was able to sell this crummy food to people whose native cuisine is so spectacular. Let’s see, shrimp Pad Thai at home, or stale pimento cheese sandwich in plastic wrap @ 7-11? Tough choice, right?

Back in the Philadelphia region, along came Wawa, and the quick market landscape changed forever. We went there, not because it was a last resort, but because the hoagies were really delicious, as was the rest of their fare. When a new Wawa opens (as one did in Rehoboth Beach a few years back) it is truly cause for celebration. A new era indeed for the lowly convenience store!

The Oreland Quik Mart is right down the street, owned by a lovely family. I rarely patronize the store, save the occasional milk run. But when I’m in there, I’m suddenly 12 again, at 7-11 in Doraville, Georgia, when life was simple and a slurpee could turn the whole day around.

Of Bottle Rockets and Roman Candles

Mount Rushmore second trip, with 2015 Mission Team (Presidents in background)

I believe I missed the memo about the mandatory nightly fireworks lately. The showy displays of pyrotechnics happening all over the place are either a) a defiantly festive response to our current state of woe or b) set off by people who get a perverse kick out of making babies scream and dogs cower under beds. Any other rationale that has eluded me?

I confess that I’m not a huge fan of cherry bombs and firecrackers, even when they go off at the proper times (which are July 4^th and New Year’s Eve. Period.) For many years, the ultra-wealthy Rollins family would treat the town of Lewes to a huge display over the Delaware Bay, right off the beach. We would dutifully drag the small Seyfrieds there, spread a blanket on the sand, and wait for the spectacle (as the bugs ate us alive and we dodged the sparklers being hurled dangerously around by our fellow beach sitters.) By the time the rockets and their red glare showed up, our kids were either asleep or terminally cranky, so we usually missed 99% of the show.

My first mission trip, and several thereafter, involved being away on the Glorious Fourth. In 2004, our group joined the thousands who arrived at Mount Rushmore at midday so that we could nab a “choice” parking spot only two miles from the park. Spoiler alert: one can see and appreciate (or not) the giant stone Presidential Faces in about 20 minutes. After that, we ate overpriced bison burgers from the concession stand, and waited. And waited. Shortly after 6 PM (and hours before dark), I volunteered to drive whoever was ready to leave, back to Rapid City, where we were staying. Most of the youth came along with me. Those who toughed it out later said it was awesome—but they also said the overwhelming crush of humanity leaving afterwards, was not. After a 10 year ban on fireworks there (sensibly, because of the huge amount of dry vegetation all around the mountain), they'll be back tonight, sizzling and popping for five presidents (four carved, one breathing) and a horde of socially proximate folks. Sigh.

Later July Fourths were spent in Alaska, Alabama, New York City and Texas. In each case, we were in the middle of mission trip weeks, and by then all horribly sleep-deprived. But of course nothing would do but go find the nearest booms and flares, and stare up at them for what seemed like eons, before returning to the “comfort” of sleeping bags on a church floor.

This year, I will observe Independence Day, independent of all but my immediate housemates. Even without fireworks, it’s been a pretty explosive year so far, and I doubt things will calm down anytime soon. And so, as darkness falls over East Oreland, I will send a little prayer Heavenward, perhaps hitching a ride on a Roman Candle:

Please God, get us all safely to 2021. THAT will be something to celebrate.

Amen.

Fireworks over USS Alabama, 7-4-16 

Not Going Gently

Can you see the gray hairs? Can you see them? I can!

“Do not go gentle into that good night

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

                                                        --Dylan Thomas

While inside I still feel like a 30 year old, my outside hasn’t matched that rosy image in—well—33 years. Signs of aging, subtle at first, began to pick up steam as I neared 40. There’s a photo of me with baby Julie at the pool. I guess Jules looks cute in it, but honestly? All I ever notice about that pic are unmistakable gray hairs (mine, not the baby’s). Shortly after that, I hit the dye bottle, and it’s been chug chug chug ever since. My hue of choice is a darkish brown, though during summers at the beach (a hundred miles from my hairdresser) the color fades to reddish. Before I am unpacked back in Oreland in late August, I always have an appointment to get the hair done.

For a while there, my wrinkles bothered me terribly. I spent well over $100 on a bottle of lies which was supposed to smooth out my face within weeks. I would pick one particular rough patch of skin (say, the “laugh lines” around my eyes), and check multiple times a day for signs of rejuvenation. If anything, my creases were deepening, but I finished every last drop, in desperate hope of a late-inning turnaround. No dice. When next I visited the cosmetics counter at Macy’s, I spent my c-note on perfume instead; if I was going to look like a prune, I might as well be a fragrant prune. Nowadays, I solve the problem by taking off my glasses when approaching a mirror. 

The pandemic has challenged us all in myriad ways, but notably those of us still fighting the Battle of Vanishing Youth. None of us who color our tresses have been able to see a stylist since mid-March. As a result, we look more elderly with each passing Zoom meeting. I finally got to see two of my best friends for a socially distanced glass of wine on a back porch the other night. We had a great conversation, the centerpiece of which was: “Should we give up at this point and just go gray?” Our buddy who is blonde, we concluded, should totally save her L’Oreal dollars, as the hints of silver are very subtle and attractive (she wasn’t convinced). My other friend, who has darker hair, was all for surrendering—until she got a call from her hairdresser that the salon was back in business. I am the same: I have an appointment on Monday at 8:45 AM, and it feels like Christmas is coming!

I guess going gently into that good night is not an option for me yet, and I’m a little sad that I can’t just enjoy looking my actual age. But, as Popeye so eloquently put it, “I yam what I yam,” so I’ll keep on raging.

If I’m over 90 during the next pandemic, however, I’ll definitely go gray.

Maybe.

A recent birthday (the lighting is perfect)

My Hermit Crab Essay

Exhibit A

I’ve decided to spend a bit of time studying the writer’s craft (why not?) One thing I’ve been hearing about has been the “hermit crab” essay. I did a little research and discovered that these are essays “hidden” inside other forms (for example, stories written in the form of recipes, or shopping lists, or email exchanges).  I fully intend to write one of these very soon, but meanwhile I prefer to write what I’d first supposed these were. Hence, my hermit crab essay…

 

I bought my children many a hermit crab back in the day—they were pretty cheap pets (if you didn’t count their Taj Mahal homes and their tins of food made apparently from gold dust). They were quiet and fairly clean. We would return home from the Sea Shell Shop in Rehoboth Beach with our latest crustacean friends and accessories, and I would briefly feel like Wonder Woman (how can she raise five kids AND a menagerie? Amazing!!) 

In short order, the critters would be named, fed, stared at briefly, then forgotten. I could hardly blame the kids, as these creatures provided the exact same amount of amusement as empty shells would have. So they were watered, nourished, and had their cages cleaned (very) sporadically by yours truly.

 

This state of affairs would continue for, at most, a week or so until 1) they died dramatically, their wizened bodies out of their shells, sprawled across the cage or 2) they somehow escaped (THEN no doubt died dramatically, only this time in a closet or behind the sofa).

 

I have no stories of enjoying our delightful “fur babies” or the like over the years. But I proudly point to the hermit crabs when my now grown offspring complain about their pet-deprived childhoods. “We had so MANY of them!” I remind my kids. “Doesn’t that count for something?” I don’t mention that we had so many because they all perished from neglect.

 

I fear there will be a reckoning. My nightmare is that when at last I reach the pearly gates, every last crab will be there, over that Rainbow Bridge, along with our other doomed pets-- the goldfish and the hamsters and Speed the turtle. They will shake their tiny heads as they ponder whether to let me into Heaven, she who had no business bringing them home, she who doesn’t even LIKE the animal kingdom. 

Towards dream’s end, I have been reincarnated. I huddle in my striped tree snail shell in my dirty cage. I wait in vain for breakfast, for companionship. I plot my escape to the smelly sneaker under my son’s bed. I awaken in tears, sorry at last for my cavalier attitude towards these, God’s precious creatures.

 

Maybe it’s not too late! I will buy hermits for Aiden and Peter this summer at the beach! Yes!  This time, I swear, I will be a WONDERFUL pet mom. These little crabs will live for decades, treasured members of our household.

 

And I will be redeemed.

Give me one more chance!

Yes With My Heart

Makin' Movies!

For much of my life, I personified the Oklahoma! character Ado Annie, whose big musical number was “I’m Just a Girl Who Cain’t Say No.” Now as I recall, what Annie couldn’t say “no” to was kissin’ fellers, so it isn’t an exact match. My reticence about refusals was more along the lines of agreeing to do lots and lots of things I didn’t want to do, from serving as club leader, to room mother, to plant sale organizer (yes! They were that desperate!)

 

Nowadays, while I still tend to fill the awkward silence after my “no’s” with “I’d normally love to—check back with me next month ---let me think about it some more--oh, OK”, I’m learning that those two letters form a complete thought. So when I do say “yes,” it is (usually) with my heart.

 

Recently, I have been writing a lot of meditations and devotions. Especially in these extremely unsettled days, reflecting on Scripture has been very helpful for me. The Bible reminds me (over and over again) that while there have always been tough times and evil in our world, God’s love and grace are always with us as well—a sustaining thought for sure.

 

Another faith-based activity I’ve been involved with has been a new one for me: making videos each week for a YouTube channel for kids. “Faith Finders Fun” offers a different short video every day of the week, each with a different theme: “Treasure Tuesday” “Science Friday” “Magic Wednesday.” I hopped on board for an eight week cycle, and am now halfway through my small productions. My topic is not really a specific topic at all (“Random Saturday”), so I get to choose any spiritual subjects that appeal to me—and I get to avoid doing science experiments and magic tricks, either of which would be an unmitigated disaster in my hands.

 

To date I have walked an outdoor labyrinth, celebrated the church’s birthday (Pentecost) with candles on a cake, and talked about the Jewish prayer The Shema (did you know you can make a mezuzah from an empty glue stick? Truth!) My next one (about the Christian Fish secret symbol) is set for this Saturday.

 

So far these have all been accomplished in one take, which has pleased my iPhone videographer Stevo no end. They look pretty smooth, except for the fact that my hubby’s finger is often featured up in the corner of clips. This is, of course, accidental, but now I’m coming to appreciate it as a Hitchcock-esque touch (the great director always made a cameo appearance in his movie mysteries) and am tempted to leave it in.

 

On July 11^th I will produce my final film. I am already working on my Oscars speech, in which I will thank my several dozen loyal viewers (hey, we can’t all be John Krasinski). Seriously, though, It’s been a great experience, and a way to spread some positivity in a not-so-positive time.

 

Sometimes, saying “yes” feels just right.

I love writing these!

Taking Off the Training Wheels

Like uncle, like nephew!

Aiden has had his snazzy new bike for more than two weeks now. While he looks tiny perched on it, it was definitely time to move up in size to a 20”. His old bike had fallen apart, so he had commandeered Peter’s red trike. It was comical to watch our kindergartener careening down the street on the small tricycle, pedaling like mad. At one point Aiden rode right into the side of a parked car and fell over (no damage to car or cyclist). It looked for all the world like the recurring gag from Laugh-In where Arte Johnson kept crashing into things while riding a trike, and I was reminded how far humor has come since 1968.

 

While still on Bike #1, Aiden’s training wheels had come off. It was a magic moment—suddenly he could balance all on his own. Another step towards being a big kid, and my grandson was ecstatic. I recalled my kids’ special firsts: Evan climbing the kitchen doorjamb for the first (not last) time while watching me make dinner. Evan climbing through the window between the screened porch and the living room in our summer cottage in Lewes. Evan climbing…well, you get the idea. Like all of his sibs, Ev was eager to get going on this wonderful thing called independence.

 

I too had yearned to grow up, as I was not a happy child. I imagined the rosy life I would lead as an adult, free from schoolwork, jetting around in my private plane (paid for by a fabulous job, of which I only had the vaguest vision). But even early on, my attempts at doing things by myself were shaky. I never even became a bike rider, much less a pilot. Sports were a slowly unfolding nightmare (I only learned to catch a ball because it was needed for a play I was in—in my mid-twenties!) Bottom line: I wanted independence and mastery of the grown-up world, without knowing how to prepare myself for it.

 

It didn’t help that my sisters and I were raised so haphazardly. I look at a mama bird tenderly feeding her young, gently nudging them from the nest at precisely the right moment. My mama’s feeding process: “Hungry? There’s the kitchen. I’m on the phone.”  As for readying us for flight, at some random point our nest just tipped over and we were left to fly, or to plummet.

 

As a result, I hesitated to remove my kids’ training wheels, probably for far too long. But they managed to grow up anyway, as children are wont to do. These days, I’m trying to focus on Aiden and Peter’s joy as they learn new skills. I can’t stop them from falling off their bikes, but I can be here to kiss the boo-boos. As I watch them wobble, then soar, I know that this is the essence of parenting (and grandparenting too): get them going, then let them go. And love them through it all.

Patrick learning to swim (I never could really swim either)

 

 

 

Completely Engaged

Awwww.

I never did much speculating about my children's future spouses—all I really cared about was that they be good people. I married a wonderful person, and wanted the same for my kids. It’s just as well I didn’t waste time on guesswork, as every significant other has been a (mostly welcome) surprise. The only married Seyfried so far is our oldest, Sheridan, and he struck pure gold. I adore Ya-Jhu, and sing her praises to all who will listen. What were the odds that happy lightning would strike twice?

Well, it’s taken several years, and more than several boyfriends and girlfriends among them, for the next in line for matrimony to take their place. But Thursday night it happened: Julie, our youngest, got engaged.

The day they met in New York City, Julie’s first impression was that Gil Gavish was kind of a grouch. I know MY response would have been: he obviously doesn’t like me, I’m out. But not my daughter. She told me later that she took it as a challenge, and immediately began a campaign to make him smile. I think it took her a week, but she got that smile.

By the time we met him, he was all smiles—the kind of guy our little Aiden instantly grabbed by the hand and led downstairs to see his truck and car collection. Gil did not emerge for quite a while. Julie went down to “rescue” him, only to be told, “I’m fine. We’re having a good time.” They’ve been best buddies ever since.

Gil is, on the surface, Julie’s opposite: tall, bald, with a few impressive tattoos and a wardrobe featuring T-shirts from rock bands. Gil is not American, or Lutheran, either: he’s a Jewish guy from Israel. Gil also happens to be a brilliant artist who, with his partner Amit, owns a wonderful VFX (Visual Effects) studio, realmotion, in Manhattan. Amit hired Julie as post production coordinator (after Rose introduced them).

Throughout their years of dating, we were consistently struck by Gil’s teddy-bear gentleness and humor. We began to wonder when things would get serious, but Julie had college to finish and a career to begin. She did both of those things, with Gil’s wholehearted support. They eventually moved in together. It may be that their contentment during these past months of quarantine sealed the deal. In any event, on Gil’s birthday, my daughter got her ring. We anticipate a wedding in the US and a big celebration in Israel when the time comes.

Gil said to Jules the other night: “You’re going to have the best life, because of me.” As a mom who tried so hard to give her kids a happy childhood, to hear someone promise to give her daughter "the best life" fills me with joy. It’s all I ever wanted for her, and I truly believe Gil will move heaven and earth to make it happen.

Mazel Tov, dear Julie and Gil. Such a blessing you are to us!

We're going to need a bigger sofa (and Ev isn't even in the picture!)

Aiden's buddy