Moving to New York

I’m sorry I’ve been so absent from my blog of late.

In case you didn’t know, I’m in the process of moving.

I’m one of the lucky people who gets to live amidst the unsurpassed beauty of the Hudson Valley area in upstate NY.

My husband and I felt inexplicably drawn to this area the first time we visited. Later, we found out there’s a saying that does explain it. It goes something like this: Spend three days in the shadow of Overlook Mountain and your heart is there forever.

The mountain that stole our hearts is one of the Catskill Mountains. Before I went to Woodstock, the only thing I knew of the Catskills was that the movie “Dirty Dancing” was supposed to take place in a resort there. Don’t hate me, but I could never watch that movie all the way through.

Oh, and in high school I used to see ads in the back of Seventeen magazine urging me to spend my honeymoon in a heart-shaped bathtub somewhere in the Catskills. So at that time the Catskills didn’t seem that much different in my mind from the Wisconsin Dells. I had no idea there was a connection between Woodstock, NY and the Catskills. (You'd think Seventeen would have mentioned that, it was the 70s after all.)

One day, five years ago, my mailman delivered an ironic magazine dichotomy addressed to my husband. The latest issue of Rolling Stone and the newest issue of AARP. I guessed he must have gotten a bit overzealous checking off boxes to get free trial subscriptions. Well, maybe the AARP one wasn’t exactly a free trial, as evidenced by the stack of them I already was ignoring.

I flipped through the Rolling Stone and came across a fascinating story about Levon Helm, the legendary drummer for The Band. He was performing concerts on Saturday nights with his friends in his barn in Woodstock, NY, and you could order tickets and go – the event being called a Midnight Ramble. I decided I had to get tickets for this to give my husband as a birthday present. I did have a moment of sympathy for him as well. I mean, how in the world would he ever top this? (I was in favor of watching him try, however.)

So, off we went, and had the most wonderful trip of our lives. We accidently arrived on the peak weekend of the fall foliage splendor. Everywhere we looked resembled a cheesy jigsaw puzzle from Woolworth’s. We swore a lot just looking out the car windows.

The Midnight Ramble itself was beyond magical. You must go if you can.

Another happy accident that weekend was the Woodstock Film Festival. We took in a few related events, and this set the tone for the rest of our visits to Woodstock for the next four years. We’ve discovered great places to eat, sleep and read – all my favorite things. But above all, it’s the people we love. We’ve encountered so many people we’ve felt like we’ve known forever. We’ve had conversations that could go on and on, and we’ve just gotten started.

Some of the people we’ve met have been subjects of blog posts.

Around December, we had the opportunity to make “living there one day” happen sooner than we’d thought. And here we are, a few days away from our journey to New York.

I’ll keep you posted.

You know I will.

Vintage Seventeen Magazines

Some mysteries were solved when I started looking at a few of my vintage copies of Seventeen Magazine. Mysteries about why my taste is what it is -- or more like -- what it isn't.

I have several issues from 1971-75. Which may or may not be when someone you know was in high school. Samples below. Click on the copy for a better view if you're nosy.


So, you're trying to figure out what to do with your hair one morning before school in 1971.
Any one of these would be NO problem! Simple and natural.

And might I mention, who DESIGNED this page?

Your paste-up is showing.

It looks like a placemat I made my mom for Christmas in third grade with family photos.


This was the Christmas issue.
Trust me, my Christmas cookies did NOT make me the talk of the town.
Some other stuff they don't mention here did though, I think.



I did spend hours dreaming of enchanting lands.
That's why I couldn't afford Faberge at $15.



Is it just me, or does this chick looked stoned out of her gourd?
And about thirty years old?
Love Cosmetics, Havoc, Jovan--these were the BOMB!
But we didn't say that then.
And Mary Quandt -- don't get me started.



I DID wear a sweater over my overalls, just like this.
Note the basic lack of any organic fibers. Synthetics were all the rage.


So these bimbos have taken over some radio station,

and all HELL is breaking loose.
They look like badasses, too.
The girls in knee socks were the ones you had to keep your eye on.


Nothing says luxury like plastic furniture and electronics.
I had a clock radio just like this.
But I couldn't imagine how cool it'd be to have a personal TV, especially such a tiny one!

The oversized stuffed carrot on the top shelf leaves me wondering.

Don't forget your Hanes with your shortshorts, for heaven's sake.

Dear copywriter: you maybe should have re-considered that

"SHEER HEEL" in all caps thing.

Reads as "SHEER HELL" at first glance.

Which is a more apt description of panty hose, as it turns out.

This ad creeps me out in every way.
What the HEEL is it supposed to be? A cocoon? A pod? I'm lost.
Maybe it's a bird, her hair has a definite bird vibe.

This whole deal screams free love somehow.

And "pantyhose" is singular? Hm.


Tune into all the new ideas. Forget uptight rules.
That's right, take the afghan right off your granny and whip it into a pair of shorts.
Don't forget your tights.
Then, never mind all those hair styles we just showed you up above.

We changed our minds. Just whack your hair off.
It's all groovy and revolutionary.

Sheesh. No wonder I still can't figure out exactly what I should be wearing.
NOTHING made sense during my formative years.

Miracle

The last seventeen years of my mother's life were blessed with the miracle of my only child, my daughter. My mom said -- repeatedly -- she was the best thing in her life. I finally did something right.

Here they are on the first day they met, in December 1988.

Ok, back to me. Just look at my beautiful girl!

So, how did this happen? Same girl, bigger beach. Sky's the limit.

My mom and my daughter loved hanging out together. They had a mutual admiration society. Mom presented her with her first bike, first rollerblades, first crayons, her lifelong security lamb -- and a great deal of her personality.

She's funny, brilliant, beautiful, talented, creative, sad, happy...a miracle.

Happy Mother's Day to us.

Sharing the snowy day with Grandma, 1992.

Finally, here's a perfect summary

of the very complex mother/daughter dance

by my friend, Martha Frankel. Enjoy.

Happy Mother's Day

Mother's Day without your mom isn't good. Everybody had a mom at one time. Way less than half the world's population IS a mother, but everyone HAS a mother. So no matter what, the day is there for you, one way or another.

My mom died on February 9, 2006. She'd been diagnosed with cancer on Christmas Day, following surgery that day to find it. Once she knew there was a possibility it be might there, she wanted it out, now. Spending Christmas eve/day at a hospital out of town was small potatoes compared to getting this show on the road.

A few weeks after the surgery, which confirmed to us that she had ovarian cancer, she started chemo. Three days after the second treatment, her kidneys failed. Three days after that, she was gone. She was 79.

Her life was filled with laughter and sadness. She tried vainly to run the sadness off with laughter. She was born a twin, and fiercely loved her brother Bob. They were an infamous team, both fast runners and scrappy athletes who loved winning.

She had an older sister named Janice, who died from a heart condition at age 23. She adored Janice, her opposite with her quiet femininity. I wish I'd known her. Her rings and shoes fit me perfectly. I have her wedding china.

The twins. No question which one is more alert and curious--Betty, on the left. She's already glaring at her mother, I just know it.

The twins, looking like part of Al Capone's gang. My mama is not at all pleased with what's going on here. She was never afraid to show that, trust me.

I can't stop looking at this picture and wondering what happened to all these people. What a crew! This was in a tiny Iowa town, which my mom and her brother completely took by storm. She's the one on the right end, second row. He's next to her. Not sure if he's toying with the lad in front of him, or doing the ear-pulling out of meanness. Somehow I get the feeling mom told him to do it.

Marching band was a huge thing in her life. This is a photo from high school. She went on to be the drum majorette of the Drake University marching band, and was eternally proud of it.

Ok, so this guy could have been my dad! He was her boyfriend in high school and college. I still have memorabilia with his name on it: a bracelet, a ring, cards, even mittens. I don't know why they didn't get married, it was one of those things I never thought to ask about.

Photo from college years, right around the time her sister died. I know this was a deep sadness her family, especially her mother, never could move beyond.

Second from left, life of the party. She never stopped being the life of any party until the day she died. Wish I was kidding. I inherited this trait, and spent many years honing it to perfection.

My dad is on the right. He was the youngest in a family of powerful Irish New Haven athletes, an All-American baseball player at Notre Dame. She met him when she was the hostess at a classic hotel called the Lakeshore, in Clear Lake, Iowa.

At her funeral, one of her best friends told me a story I love. My dad had been working for a Hamm's beer distributor for awhile, also being catcher/manager for a local semi-pro baseball team the beer distributor sponsored. He was a ringer, in other words. They made him into a salesman.

He was the new guy, the tall, dark, handsome stranger. His fellow salesmen and their wives were very excited one night to hear that he was bringing a date to a bash at the lakeside ballroom where they all hung out and drank Hamm's like fiends.

Her friend told me, in these exact words: "He walked in with this tan girl with a beautiful dress and a huge smile and great laugh. She sat him down and danced all night with everyone else's husband or boyfriend. And it was OK with all of us! She was like that. By the end of the night, all the men loved her, but the women loved her more. I've never met any other broad like that."

I cherish this story. I'm not sure I know any woman I could describe that way. Seriously.

Well, it worked on him, too. They were married in 1953. Days after that, my dad's Irish immigrant father died back in New Haven. A few years later, one of his three brothers died too, leaving a young wife and several sons. This truly broke my dad's heart. My brother's middle name was Edward, after him.

So, we've gone full circle here, to the twin daughter all grown up, still glaring at her mother, who must've taken this picture. Glaring at your mother is a big thing in our family. We're all champions at it.

A few years after this picture was taken, more sadness descended. My mom's dad, whom she worshipped, died of a heart attack at age 61. She was devastated. I remember details of this vividly. I don't think her heart ever healed.

When my adorable brother was 22, he passed away from cancer. That was really more than this beautiful couple could endure --neither of them had the tools to deal with the staggering loss. Seriously, who does?

We all muddled through. Both of them are gone now, my dad going first in 2003 after a ten year battle with Alzheimer's. I'm not kidding, she had that happen to her too.

So, Happy Mother's Day to my beautiful, fierce, funny, sad, smart and tough-as-nails mama.