Life Inside the Bubble

Posted on July 22, 2013 by 40andover

(I will get to SOS’s visiting day SOON)

My mind has been all over the map. I visited SOS at an idyllic summer camp, where his best friends are all shapes, sizes, colors, religions, athletes, mathletes, geeks and jocks (ok, quasi jocks). Yet, the preponderance is white and Jewish, let’s not get carried away.

We drove home that night back to New York City because of ULOB’s condition. The night has a mournful quality, mused POB.

It was particularly mournful. On the highway, in the darkening day that gave way to night, I thought about Trayvon Martin and my son.

I don’t know much about the facts (if any) that came out in the case (as opposed to the media) and I didn’t listen very closely to the proceedings.

Why?

Because if the police tell a man who says he is afraid of an “interloper” to stay in his car, and he gets out and goes after the ‘interloper” with a gun, and the “interloper” dies, there is no question that the first man is not only criminally responsible for the death of the “interloper” but, in this case, of felony racism.

It never occurred to me that George Zimmerman would go free.

Not because I don’t have “ist” tendencies — we all do. But because in my world, I have learned so much from my child and his friends. Children can teach their parents about life and community, if only parents wouldn’t poison them with prejudice.

Children don’t naturally draw lines; they just want to play with whomever wants to play with them.

But they feel societal “norms” in their bones. So, when my son was 7, he was having a play date with his best friend, and said to us: “I just want you to know that he is bi-racial.” OK, SOS is being raised by two moms. We couldn’t care less. Meanwhile, up in Riverdale, his best friend was telling his parents, “Just want to let you know that [SOS] has two moms.” And they are a biracial couple and they didn’t care about our sexual orientation. In fact, we parents are friends, simply because we like each other and we have fun together WITHOUT THE KIDS.

Both sets of parents called each other and immediately giggled and then sighed at our boys who are leading the way. Our children opened up a way to discuss differences in a way that helped their parents.

“Teach your children well, and their fathers’ hell will slowly go by … “

And sometimes I forget that two generations — including mine — have to die out before our children can make the decisions.

And then Trayvon’s death makes us remember.

And let’s focus on this young man’s tragic death. A young man, who died not on the battlefields of Afghanistan with the condolences of a grateful nation, but in a silent and unacknowledged skirmish along race lines.

Did he smoke pot? I don’t know and I don’t care and, hell, I did. Did he do some bad things? I don’t know and I don’t care and, hell, I did. But I got a free pass (or six or seven). Why do you think?

Trayvon was a kid. Did he hit Zimmerman? Hell, I don’t know and I don’t care and, hell, I would, if I got the better of someone after me with a gun. I would have beat the guy with all my might. I would have kiiled him.

Let’s imagine the worst, and Trayvon was doing something bad. Trayvon was shot dead. If I were shot dead (and doing something misdemeanor-ish), Zimmerman would be in jail or on death row.

BUT THE PITY OF IT ALL IS THAT WE HAVE TO IMAGINE THE WORST OF TRAYVON. IF TRAYVON WAS A WHITE , DARTMOUTH FRAT BOY NAMED TREY (OR TRIP), THE ENTIRE POLICE DEPARTMENT WOULD HAVE BEEN FIRED AND THERE WOULD BE A WHOLE CAMPAIGN TO WIPE OUT NON-LICENSED SECURITY SERVICES.

Close your eyes. And don’t think about the fact that Trayvon is black. You know the answer. The same damn answer that has plagued generations. But, PLEASE, let’s not poison our children who have a real chance not to repeat this travesty.

If George Zimmerman has the right to be judge, jury and executioner, then we all have that right and Zimmerman should be very afraid. As should we all because then society is irretrievably broken.

Trayvon was a young man — a kid — why did he have to die?

A young man a little older than my son died violently. And the killer went free.

A killer went free.

Four words that indict our society. And the victim was a young person with a life ahead of him, full of hopes, dreams, disappointments, and we hope happiness and success (as he saw it). Like any of us.

We enabled this to happen. Look in the damn mirror.

We should all turn ourselves into local precincts.

Every child is simply too precious to lose to this kind of travesty.

ULOB, Part II

Posted on July 21, 2013 by 40andover

SIDEBAR: Visiting day at camp with SOS was great. More about that later.

On Saturday evening, I spoke with SOB about ULOB’s status. It was critical enough to get in the car at 6pm, after a long (and wonderful) day with SOS at camp, to drive 5 hours home to New York City.

End of life can be harsh, unforgiving and terrifying.

Today, I met SOB at the hospital at 10am-ish. I had packed my gym clothes, planned to stop by the office, see Dad and get ready for a Sunday late afternoon wedding.

But ULOB didn’t look so good. I felt a foreboding aura.

Life in the hospital continues to move along, no matter whose heart is still beating. At 10:30am, in his room, the intercom interrupted my panic. “Mildred, please call the nurse’s station. Mildred, please call the nurse’s station.”

After SOB called POULOB to say that things were looking grim, I decided to walk around the corridors of the hospital, for “fresh” air. A disturbed woman was walking around and I thought I could help her by pointing her to the other side of the floor — the Addiction Unit.

SIDEBAR: I later learned that what I surmised was a drug issue was actually the absence-of-psyhotropic-drugs issue.

She found her former girlfriend’s room. But the putative father of the former girlfriend’s baby was there as well. Apparently, the disturbed woman had put her former giirlfriend in the hospital. Upon seeing the boyfriend/ex-boyfriend, the woman grabbed a mop as a weapon. When that weapon was taken away, she reached for a glass vase and threw it at the former girlfriend. And then another. SOB was within range and I could not get to her — there was a battle line between us. Security, the cops, crazy calls from the jilted woman threatening to kill the ex-girlfriend patient followed. “She’s coming back. She ain’t stupid. She’s psychotic. Why you think I broke up with her!”

And, in a room in the midst of a war zone, lay my uncle not so gently dying of complications from a fall. His lungs were full of fluid and no antibiotic was helping. He was not lucid.

12:00 noon: “Mildred, please call the nurse’s station. Mildred, please call the nurse’s station.”

SIDEBAR: Who is Mildred and why is she MIA? And why did her parents name her that?

ULOB’s breathing became increasing labored. Sometimes he looked like he was in sheer terror and I told him to squeeze my hand, and he squeezed so hard that I felt faint.

Other times, I think he was in a different time and place. At one point, I said, “Am I Elsie?” referring to my mother, his sister. He nodded and calmed a bit. He had happy memories with Mom.

But mostly there was desperation at not being able to catch his breath. Regardless of the oxygen in his nose and the medicines coursing through his veins, ULOB couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe easily and couldn’t shake the pneumonia that developed in his lungs. He was in a death spiral.

1:00pm: “Mildred, please call the nurse’s station. Mildred, please call the nurse’s station.”

Mildred, for G-d’s sake, please answer the page or quit. You have been AWOL for hours!!!

POULOB arrived in the time it took for my to drive from the middle of Cape Cod to Stamford, Connecticut. (3 hours.)

ULOB perked up when POULOB came. POULOB didn’t want to understand the severity of the situation. She wanted to know what to tell his friends when she went dancing tonight, as ULOB and POULOB often did.

SOB, POULOB and I took turns holding his hands and reassuring him.

3:30pm: The ex-girlfriend patient was at the nurse’s station retelling the story to anyone who wanted to hear what happened. Needless to say, many patients in hospital garb with open flaps were in the hallway to hear the story that proves life is a carnival (i.e., a freak show).

5:00pm: “Mildred, please call the nurse’s station. Mildred, please call the nurse’s station.”

Really, Millie?

5:30pm: ULOB had some chivalry left in him. He didn’t fall of the cliff, as it were, until POULOB left.

SOB and I held his hands and whispered gently in his ears that we loved him and he was safe as his breathing got shallower, and as he got less agitated, thanks to modern medicine.

6:00pm: “Shia, wakey, wakey!!” ULOB’s roommate was asleep for too long and needed some exercise. Earlier, another inmate had come by, looking to be amused by the man who talks to himself. But Shia was sleepy, sleepy.

Note to self: if there are no private rooms, go to a different hospital.

In the cacophony of the world, ULOB’s breathing got slower and the blueness of death was in his fingers.

Slowly, gently, quietly, ULOB left this world living life on his terms, except for these last ten days.

Time of death: 7:15pm.

Rest in peace, Uncle Larry.

ULOB

Posted on July 15, 2013 by 40andover

I had a wonderful, relaxing weekend. No one else in my family did.

I was away and SOB wanted to protect me from the weekly crisis.

On Friday afternoon, ULOB was not answering his phone. POULOB, panicked, called SOB. SOB ran to ULOB’s fourth floor walk up in Hell’s Kitchen (where he lives in voluntary squalor). She found him, half dead. He had tripped on a cord and probably grabbed for the chair (with piles of stuff on it) and brought everything down on top of him.

SIDEBAR: We had been begging him to use LifeAlert for so long. But he is stubborn and independent. You could buy him every gadget in the work and he won’t crack open the box, let alone wear it. He doesn’t use an umbrella when it rains. Why? “My father never did.”

ULOB had been lying there for quite a while (based on the level of dehydration). Had SOB not gotten there when she did . . . . Well, let’s just say that she found him in the nick of time.

SIDEBAR: What a difference a day makes. His friend Frank spoke to him on Thursday afternoon. By Friday afternoon, his world had changed.

SOB “unburied” him, got him water, and called an ambulance. She called BOB (who was in town, taking the Dad call) to meet her. SOB rode in the ambulance. BOB and POULOB came later.

Still, SOB did not call me. She wanted me to have a fun weekend in Boston. Even if she was left to deal with ULOB while the other adults were kicking back with cold ones. Even holding back the the gross details of what happened to the urine-soaked pants, and ULOB’s aspiration of gross smoker’s phlegm.

Saturday afternoon, I turned my phone off after seeing my college friends. I really wanted to disconnect a little. What could happen in 12 hours? Hell, I didn’t even know about the last 24 hours.

But during those 12 hours, when I went off the grid, that’s REALLY when SOB needed me.

ULOB worsened significantly as the pneumonia took hold and needed a ventilator. Thank G-d for HOSOB who anchored SOB and kept ULOB entertained.

Sunday morning, the hotel phone woke me. POB, who was having her own nightmarish weekend tending to her much-diminished and ornery father, called and said, “Call your sister. It is not your Dad.”

I called SOB and got the download. I hopped into my car and drove straight to the hospital.

When I arrived, ULOB was on the ventilator but he was alert, hungry and cranky. In reasonable shape, all things considered. We will take the future day by day.

Strong work, SOB. From now on, I will sleep with my phone beside my ear. I will never let you go through an episode like this again without me right next to you.

Hairless and Fearless Part II

Posted on July 14, 2013 by 40andover

(For Part I, see: http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5058)

This weekend, I saw my dear friend who has cancer.

SIDEBAR: I would say, “had,” but I am too superstitious. There is still radiation, to eradicate any stray cells.

I had arranged to drive up to her house in late April, but I got sick. And no one who is a friend goes, when sick, to see someone undergoing chemo. And I knew that to battle my friend’s cancer, the doctors were taking out the big “chemo” guns. The remedy would eradicate the cancer, but she had to survive the remedy. I worried every day about that. (The perils of having a doctor in the family.)

This weekend, the stars aligned. She finished chemo; I am healthy; and she has a break before radiation therapy to make sure the “big guns” got it all.

I drove to the suburbs of Boston. I was early, so I parked a street away and let my thoughts run wild — through the fears of what chemo had done to her body; through the fervent belief that my friend would be there, just as she always was, although maybe a little paler, a little weaker, and little less hair; through everything in between.

I waited 30 minutes, and still I was early. I couldn’t wait anymore. I pulled up to the house. Her husband and I hugged.

“She’s upstairs resting. I’ll get her.”

“NOOOoooooooooooooooooooo!!!!! Let her rest!!”

Very soon afterward, my friend comes down the stairs. Thinner. With a head scarf. But, same smile. Same beautiful eyes. My friend. An indomnitable spirit and with a certain grace that even poison cannot kill.

Letty Pogrebin’s article about her friend’s fight with cancer prepared me for the difference in my friend’s appearance. I knew to focus on the windows to my friend’s essence — her smile and her eyes.

And then she took off her scarf and showed me that her hair was growing back. I ran my hands over the short growth. It was good to feel softness. The regrowth process started gently. I was glad to think that recovery might be as gentle and kind from here on out.

And she is beautiful without hair. And she was relaxed and happy to laugh and recount some of the crazy, Seinfeld-like, stories of various people’s reactions. And eager to listen about the crazy stuff in my life and in Soeur J’s life. Soeur J lives not too far and rearranged her schedule to match mine (thank you).

We had a fun, funny visit. But it was too soon time to go.

I told my friend not to wait for me to pull away because I had to input GPS coordinates back to Boston.

In truth, I needed to let the tears stream down.

Tears? Of gratitude that my friend survived chemo. Of gratitude for her and Soeur J’s friendship. Of gratitude that I, a healthy person, and my friend could look each other in the eyes and be grateful for the moment, the years of friendship, and an abiding love.

Radiation starts on Wednesday. Keep my friend in your thoughts and prayers.

Life as it is

Posted on July 7, 2013 by 40andover

In my experience, life is about getting up after you have been smacked down. Every privilege has an underbelly. Even a smack-down has an empowering attribute.

Of course, I am speaking from the position of society’s fortunate daughters.

Recently, I have witnessed or heard about profound loss, familial estrangement, financial issues, etc. The “imperfect” side of our perfect, privileged world.

A world, in which ten years ago, POB was edited out of our class alumni news.

SIDEBAR: Was it an issue of space in our alumni column? Nah. Other significant others, who were not alums, made it in print.

A world in which having a hard time raising kids is glossed over with pretty pictures of vacations in exotic places.

A world in which marriage is for keeps, no matter how those bond have disintegrated.

A world in which money woes don’t exist because everyone must be wildly successful.

A world in which one’s children must be the best and the brightest.

A world that doesn’t really exist, except in alumni bulletins.

Because life isn’t easy, except for the very few or the profoundly disconnected. I bet there are people struggling everyday under the weight of issues they never thought they would have — or should have — considering their pedigrees.

Life is hard. That is real. The prep school, college and/or graduate school alumni magazines are kicks for a peek into the world of the clueless.

I can’t keep up with our classmates’ glossies. My life is a mish-mash of love and estrangement, life and loss, money and not-so-much-money, health and illness, and a wonderful, yet imperfect kid (who has wonderful, yet wholly imperfect parents).

Sometimes, it is too damn hard to raise kids. And let’s be honest about that. Those who don’t know that haven’t gotten their hands dirty with the details of their children’s lives. We dip into our savings to give SOS all we can. We won’t go on vacation this year because it is more important that he go to camp. Ok, I am not rich in dollars this year. But, successful? Depends on how you measure it.

And, what have we — the perfect and imperfect, alike — done with our lives after 50 years? Have we inspired people to do good? Have we educated the next generation? Have we reached out a hand (and resources) to make a young person’s dream of higher education come true? Or will we have so many meaningless toys at the end of our lives and have squandered chances to make a real difference?

My mother, as she lie dying, blessed each of her children and said, “I had a good life. I wish it were longer. I love your father. And he is such a wonderful man. And I am proud of you [the kids], and I think I helped people and healed the world just a little. It was a good life.”

I want to be able to repeat my mother’s words about my life, when my time comes. I promise you I will not be rich in dollars and cents. I hope I am rich in what matters.

The week that was

Posted on June 30, 2013 by 40andover

Whoa! What a week. From the minute to the momentous. From everyday slights to the evisceration of things we hold dear. From personal triumphs to the deathbed of a world hero.

What a difference a week makes.

The Supreme Court taketh away and the Supreme Court giveth (with caveats). But before all the epic decisions, the Supreme Court punteth the ball. Yep, punt on affirmative action, gut the Voting Rights Act, and hold that the Federal government cannot demean or injure what a state seeks to protect, in matters within a state’s purview.

So if you are a gay, non-white Democrat in a Red State, you can’t get married to your partner, you may not be able to vote and you certainly cannot have the totality of your identity and your life story considered in any application to higher education.

If, however, you are gay, white, Democrat in a Blue State, you probably get to claim an iPad as a winning contestant in the Supreme Court sweepstakes.

How’s that for “equal protection under the laws”?

I am thrilled that Edie Windsor, who in her own words, was “just an out lesbian suing the United States of America,” prevailed and DOMA is DEAD. It was a thrill and an honor to go to Sabbath Services on Gay Pride Weekend to hear Edie, who talked about her spouse, Thea (of blessed memory), just a little before Edie started to cry, and then have hundreds of people standing up to cheer her.

Get the documentary on them. It is beautiful and sad and just simply a true (non-Hollywood) love story.

People sometimes ask, “why gay PRIDE?” Because if you have felt marginalized, shamed, invisible, unwanted, a veritable punching bad for angry people and all of society’s ills, then you need to own your identity and say that you are proud and not ashamed. It is important for those still in the closet — of any kind — and our children.

I suspect that Mandela is hovering between life and death only through the curse of modern medicine, while politicians figure out the best time to announce his death. Call me cynical. The world will be different on the day that the man who presided over immense change in Africa and, indeed, the whole world, is declared dead. One person can make a difference, but there are only too few in any generation who are truly capable. We will have lost (or did we already lose) a hero.

SOS went off to sleep away camp for seven weeks. Both POB and I were happy, sad, scared and proud that he hopped on the bus with someone he met previously who was also going to the same camp. Hugs, but no tears. A watershed moment in our baby’s growth.

I stopped a client in the hallway of our firm and greeted him. He was momentarily caught off-guard and then said, “[Blogger], you look great; I would never have recognized you!!!” And then he dug himself deeper to a point at which I had to say, “Don’t worry, a little hair color and make-up can really make ALL the difference . . . ” I expect that from Dad’s mother (“You look so gut, I vouldn’t recognize you, dahlink.”) but not anyone born after World War II.

Fom petty slights to soaring heights. From a widow’s indignation to liberation for so many. From tiny family triumphs (and the funny slights) to a loss for all humanity. From the mundane to the immortal. From the set-backs to the steps forward and then reluctance to decide. The juxtaposition of all of these make the important events stand apart, in stark relief — some to be celebrated, some to be worried over, one to be mourned.

What a week it was. Good thing I fastened my seat belt.

Surviving Father’s Day — CHECK!

Posted on June 18, 2013 by 40andover

So, on Saturday morning, I had a talk with SOS, who is dad-less and mom-ful. We talked about how he felt about this dumb Hallmark holiday (ok, I didn’t say that) and whether there were men in his life whom he wanted to celebrate.

“No, I think that I just want to help you both celebrate your dads.”

Whoa. Pretty amazing for an almost 11-year old.

Then, on Sunday, at Father’s Day dinner, I was doing the customary toasts and I started with:

“First, a toast to my son, who is here celebrating fathers even though he doesn’t have one and, worse yet, he has two moms. And, boy, is that a tall order!!”

[Everyone applauded SOS]

“And then, to all of us who have fathers wherever they may be, let’s toast them. Let’s eat!”

SOS was very happy that I toasted him. “Father’s Day is ok, Emom. Really.”

No, my little baby, you are just fabulous.

Surviving Father’s Day

Posted on June 10, 2013 by 40andover

As is family tradition, we have the extended family over for Father’s Day. We have made an extra special deal about it for Dad, FOPOB and ULOB because of their enfeebled states. I think we are over-compensating for our anxiety about losing them, no matter how nuts they make us.

In the midst of a conversation with Dad and SOB about Father’s Day, I overheard SOS say to POB, “but I don’t have a father.”

[Yes that gag you heard breaching the silence was my heart leaping into my throat and cutting off my breathing.]

I forget that we are not like every other family. But SOS doesn’t forget. He has two moms, and not a mom and a dad. I know he misses not having a dad because we have talked about it.

HOSOB, Cousin Gentle, CB, ULOB, Dad and FOPOB will be around the table next Sunday. All have been role models (after a fashion) for SOS. But no one is “dad”.

He knows that POB was never going to settle down with a man and have children. He knows that I am not replacing anyone because either he would have two moms or he wouldn’t exist.

But he is a pre-adolescent boy and this isn’t about societal norms, social/sexual movements or equality. He is starting to experience that his family is different in ways that sometimes matter.

SOS sees what is around him and he sees the differences. I understand how hard it is to be different but, when I was a pre-adolescent/adolescent, no one knew that I wasn’t straight (except me). My son can’t hide us, and he has to deal with it everyday. I know he loves us and our family. But still . . .

It was POB’s and my decision as adults to have him and it is now his reality to carry into adolescence.

But most devastating is that I forgot his feelings in my fixation on giving the elders, especially Dad, events to look forward to. I am his mom and I didn’t have his back.

And, really, I should have been thinking about a boy — my boy — and his feelings on Father’s Day.

Because this is really about a boy — my boy.

I am sorry, buddy. I can’t change things — I will never be your dad — but we will talk about it and I will try not to cry.

The Challenge, Part 2

Posted on June 8, 2013 by 40andover

I decided that I am wearing the same clothes each time I go to the Rings (see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5182) so that no one can look at pictures and remember a time when I totally sucked at this. The good news is that I go to the rings once a week (and laundry is done in between) so I won’t smell.

So, without Wendy, my trainer, I dutifully headed out to the Rings to practice. There is a group that generally forms around the Rings at 10am on a Saturday. Fencers (who practice a little away from the Rings), acrobats and others who want a hard work-out.

A handsome, handsome, guy with dredlocks was hanging out, breathing heavily from a go at the adult Rings. (Since I am short with a limited wing span, I need to swing on the kiddie Rings.)

SIDEBAR: While my orientation may be toward women, beauty is beauty, Rasta Man is so striking, that he turned my head. Back to the blog.

I was having a bad time getting my rhythm on the Rings. I almost gave up 5 times. But I watched Rasta Man. He inspired me. And he came over when I looked defeated. He gave me pointers on getting momentum to move “effortlessly” from Ring to Ring. So, I tried to do what he said.

Then a couple came along. A perfectly normal woman, with a total dweeby boyfriend — maybe, to give her credit, a blind date. They were at the other side of the rings. The DWEEB, with black sneakers, black socks up above his calves and black polo shirt and shorts, beckoned me to go first, in an impatient sort of way.

I shout: “Don’t worry, I won’t make it to the second Ring!! So, I will be clear of the Rings when you make it over here!!”

The DWEEB grabbed two Rings and tried to lift himself up.

Count with me: One mississippi, two mississ —-

ON THE GROUND.

“This is hard!”

I couldn’t hold back: “No SHIT, Sherlock.”

Notwithstanding my harsh comment directed squarely at the Dweeb in the sand, his date/girlfriend came over to me and gave me more pointers.

Then, she swung from Ring to Ring with the ease and grace of Tarzana. MY HERO.

Except for the DWEEB.

DUMP THE CHUMP.

Ah, if not Lord of the Rings, at least the Fellowship of the Rings.

Family Camp

Posted on May 29, 2013 by 40andover

Like any other family road trip, this had to start with an invasive procedure because SOB needed to make sure that I was healthy enough to drive 8 hours to Cape Cod for family orientation weekend at camp. (SOS is going this summer; I am not, although in my mind, I am at Wingate, 1972-81.)

Of course, SOB had to take a picture of the ENT doctor’s putting the scope up my nose and down my throat. The doctor waited about a second after he injected a numbing agent to start the scope. Needless to say, I felt everything.

After the scope, SOB declared me fit for travel.

“I feel so much better now that we had this procedure done.”

“Who ‘we’, [SOB]? I was the one with that camera up my nose and down my throat!!”

“Details,” concluded SOB in a most satisfied manner.

*******************************************************************************************

It was an epic schlep to cold and rainy Yarmouth. I forgot that camp is outdoors. Even when we were in the bunks, we were not that much removed from nature and all those creepy, crawly things. And, certainly, not the cold and wet weather.

SIDEBAR: I was (must have been) far more rugged as a child. Now, I merely whimper in the drizzle.

There was no heat in the bunk where we stayed. ACTUALLY, the camp owners FORGOT to tell us about the heat, so we just froze unnecessarily. Well, at least SOS was comfy in his super-duper-good-for-the-tundra sleeping bag. POB and I were not so fortunate. Will (you know who you are), I am deducting from camp tuition any co-pays on any cold meds POB and I need to purchase this week. And we are expensive patients. Just sayin’.

I tried to give SOS a wide berth so he could feel independent and get to know the camp and its lay-out on his own. But, there were some activities that I had to watch. It was Mom who made me watch when my little baby was in harm’s way with only one life preserver (not discernible in the photo).

Mom wanted me to feel her anxiety, and more importantly, continue her tradition of writing psychotic letters about real and imagined horrors of sleep-away camp. To channel Mom, I need a mental (and actual) picture on which to concentrate all my anxiety while he spends SEVEN weeks away from his loving (read: over-protective) mother, doing any number of life-ending activities.

And I didn’t even show the picture of archery WITH REAL ARROWS.

SIDEBAR: Ok, Will (you know who you are), I am deducting sedatives from the camp tuition.

SECOND SIDEBAR: Pearl (you know who you are), you are so lucky that Mom didn’t do the same. Just sayin’.

Put one of those arrows in my heart and get it over. Mom, if you are listening from Heaven, WALK AWAY FROM THE PHONE. No grandchild of yours is playing with bows and arrows. Did I mention that each arrow is doused with curare? OOOOOooops, but Heaven is not listening, thank G-d.

Because of the rain, campfire was indoors. (no, Mom, they have sense enough not to start a REAL fire indoors.) The current owners invited those of us who had been campers in decades past to light the fire (figuratively). It was moving.

It was also a passing of the torch from one generation to another.

The place had echos of the camp of my youth, but it is a different camp. A camp that SOB, BOB, and POB can share with SOS, but different enough that it will be his special experience alone. And that, for all my nostalgia, is what matters.

SOS had a great time, in the rain. Which means, he will have an extraordinary time in the sunshine this summer.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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