My youngest brother always enjoys these little rants from me---like the time at Thanksgiving, when I was ready to punch out the attendant at the YMCA. I'll never live that one down. I had my foot firmly in the door, blocking her attempt to shut us out and send us into the rain because, after all, it was 7:56, not 8:00 when the Y officially opened.
Well, this time it was the Stop n Shop deli on a Friday night at the shore. The store seemed pretty empty and I just wanted to pick up a few cold cuts for sandwiches on the beach the next day. Two young women employees, suntanned and ponytailed, manned the counter and only one other customer was already having her order filled, so I figured I didn't need to print out a number.
First bad sign was that neither employee made eye contact--no problem for me--long day, sick of customers, watching the clock? I didn't need to be Chatty Cathy with the local deli girls. The dark haired employee was waiting on the one customer, while the blonde employee was very busy, slicing meat, rewrapping it, tidying up, so I called out. "We're not together here", gesturing to Customer #1, a short older woman sporting a gray haired Dorothy Hamil wedge hairdo and a handbag embroidered with beach umbrellas and seagulls. She had just replied affirmatively for the 6th time to the inquiry of "Anything else?" I wanted to ask her: "Do you ever cook? You now have a quarter pound of just about every meat or cheese on sale." Maybe one more and her weekly shopping would be done.
Meanwhile, the cone of silence surrounded the blonde employee and she continued robotically slicing, wrapping and puttering around. I scrutinized her for earbuds, but found none. She was just customer deaf, until I wandered over to the completed orders shelf, where shoppers who had left an order while they cruised the rest of the store, could return to pick up their order--no waiting. I poked around the 5 orders, wondering if I could find one close enough to what I wanted, when the formerly deaf employee found her voice.
"Do you have a ticket, ma'am?"
I took a deep breath, but then heard Customer #1 saying : "I'd just like a large dill pickle and that will do it," so I gathered in all my anger management skills and continued waiting politely. The end was in sight.
Deli Girl #2 disappeared into the back room for quite a while. Was she rooting around refrigerators for the pickle or perhaps catching a quick smoke? She finally emerged with pickle in hand, only to confront a line of 5 more people awaiting service. I moved aggressively to the middle area of the counter and looked customer #3 ( I considered myself #2) squarely in the eye. "I'm next. I've been standing here for 10 minutes." She was easily cowed but Deli Girl #2 decided to explain to me in detail the numbered ticket system. She pointed to Customer #4 who had now abandoned the line in favor of the ordering kiosk. He unwittingly became part of her defense team. "See," says DG2, we take the customers in number order, even the ones who fill out an order to be be filled while they're shopping.
"Ah," I say sarcastically "so you could have 5 or even 10 people in line here, but instead you will continue to fill orders for those shopping around the store?" I gestured wildly toward DG #1 who was cramming yet another pick up order into the shelf cubbyholes, as the rest of the line shifted weight and sighed. "And," I continued, "these customers won't be back for at least 15 or 20 minutes?"
Yes.
That's ridiculous.
Yes, but I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't.
Oh, so you have to avoid eye contact with customers. That must be the #1 rule.
Yes. It's company policy.
Not to make eye contact?
No, but to fill all orders by number. We hate it. Go complain to the manager. They don't listen to us.
I looked at her more closely now and the telltale lines around her eyes and slightly leathered skin made me revise my initial estimate of her age. Definitely approaching 40 and not a young, bored, apathetic kid like deaf blondie next to her.
I stalked off to find the manager, but now I felt some empathy for the deli girls and a job that sucks. The previously empty store was jumping and the earnest manager was scurrying around, looking for help he could assign to open another register and finally settling for bagging groceries himself.
I was suddenly very tired and slipped into the self check out lane. I would fight another day.
My bad luck continued, however, as I was behind another senior buying 2 Rollo bars with cash. I didn't think that was even possible at self checkout, but she was shoving quarters in like it was an old time slot machine. I had to wonder what kind of Rollo craving she had that she had to pop out to the grocery store on a Friday night. No milk, no bread on the conveyor belt, just 2 lonely Rollo Bars spilled down toward the bagging area. I turned to the woman behind me and rolled my eyes. "It's madness," she said. I smiled--a kindred spirit--took a deep, 'serenity now' breath and waited patiently. The night air was cool and refreshing, as I finally strolled across the parking lot and into my car.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
Peter Yarrow
When I first saw the announcement in the community bulletin I was conflicted. Should I be really happy at the opportunity to see Peter Yarrow, of Peter, Paul and Mary fame, for $10 on a Tuesday night? Or should I be sad that a former folk legend was reduced to playing in a senior village community center at the Jersey shore? I felt better when I learned that Peter is good friends with one of the residents and does the program as a favor to her. I still had doubts, though, about the fan base among the community. They just didn't seem like veterans of the tumultuous protest movements from Civil Rights to Vietnam, in which Peter, Paul and Mary were prominent voices. Here, for example, is the entrance to the center:
I felt I should add an addenda to the sign: .....and Damn the Leaders who Commit Us to Unworthy Wars. Or perhaps, Where Have All the Flowers Gone?
I settled into an aisle seat and surveyed the crowd filing in. The chairs were a random assortment of upholstered maroon ballroom chairs (preferred) and hard white plastic ones (avoided). I figured choosing a white chair with several others in a row would isolate me from the crowd, who nodded inquiringly at me, as if to say How did you get in here? But, I was wrong. A lady asked if I were saving seats and then plopped down next to me. "Hi, I'm Helen. I live at 22 Boulevard--you know, the house with the controversial wheelchair ramp." I responded in kind. "Hi, I'm Ginny-- from the Boulevard, too." I remember my mother talking years ago about "the controversy," which was a staple at the neighborhood meetings. Apparently residents were dismayed that the ramp, because of the steepness of the driveway, had to zig zag up the front lawn in an unsightly manner. My mom loved to hear the old biddies complain about it because it added a little zest to the meetings and also steered her away from the more vociferous complainers. I felt bad this woman, years later, still felt compelled to wear this as her scarlet A.
Helen was a talker and I kept turning slightly to my left to see what Peter Yarrow was doing. He was dressed in a maroon tee shirt, slacks and senior oxfords, chatting with people in the back corner. Helen barely came up for air and the saga now included more people than I could keep track of. Was Keith her husband or son or the son's friend or the mason who did the work?
At last Peter Yarrow approached the stage and sat on the stool, guitar in hand. At age 74 he knows his peers. "Do you remember your first love?" he asked the crowd of about 80 residents and then sang Lemon Tree, a sweet ballad of love found and lost. He followed up with The Wedding Song, which I was surprised many people didn't know. It was one of the songs at my own wedding, so I was happy to hear it and a little smug that I was more of a PPM fan than most that were there. This was later confirmed when someone requested he play Stewball and only three hands went up as knowing the song.
The beauty of folk music is that it's easy to sing along and most people joined in--in fact they loved that part. Peter joked that he would signal when it was the chorus, so we would know when to sing, but he also added that he knew some would sing chorus and verse because they didn't know the difference or because they just wanted to! That was also OK with him.
Yarrow has a comfortable stage presence. I wondered if he had ever tried to calculate how many times he had sung If I Had a Hammer or Blowin in the Wind. He joked with the audience, mimicked a heavy Jewish accent at times, sang the Colonoscopy Song and had an amusing anecdote for each song. You have to love the senior crowd, because toward the end, one older woman on a walker said a bit too loudly, "He's talking again; I can't sit this long." She was shushed as she headed out the door. Another lady had stage whispered earlier to her friend: "That's John Denver's song, not his." (Turns out she was half right: John Denver wrote Leaving on a Jet Plane, but it became a signature hit for Mary Travers and PPM)
He got serious at times, talking about the civil rights movement and about performing in Veteran's hospitals, but did not mention Vietnam protests specifically. I think he knew his audience. After singing the requested antiwar anthem, Where Have All the Flowers Gone, he opened his Apple computer to share a recent recording of the song in English and Ukrainian. He marvelled how that would have been unimaginable in the height of the Cold War. He also talked about his current initiative, an antibullying program for schools in the US and around the world that uses music and song to build a foundation of acceptance for all kinds of kids.
I was not the youngest one there. Two twenty-something French girls had been visiting one of the residents. Hard to imagine what kind of exchange program that was, but the girls seemed nice and friendly and not bitter that they had been sent to live in a retirement community. Afterwards, they spoke to Yarrow, and together they sang a few lines of different songs in French. Peter speaks some French, but his daughter, he said, is fluent in both French and Spanish. Behind me in the crowd of autograph seekers, one woman remarked, "Well, you'll need Spanish the way this country is going." "Hey, what about all that singing of peace and brotherhood?" I wanted to ask her. I shook hands with Yarrow, told him I first saw them at Cornell in 1969 and had The Wedding Song when I got married in 1973 and had really enjoyed the evening. As I left, my new friend Helen called over to me, "Hope to see you again--Ginny of the Boulevard." What a great evening and it was still only 8:30.
I settled into an aisle seat and surveyed the crowd filing in. The chairs were a random assortment of upholstered maroon ballroom chairs (preferred) and hard white plastic ones (avoided). I figured choosing a white chair with several others in a row would isolate me from the crowd, who nodded inquiringly at me, as if to say How did you get in here? But, I was wrong. A lady asked if I were saving seats and then plopped down next to me. "Hi, I'm Helen. I live at 22 Boulevard--you know, the house with the controversial wheelchair ramp." I responded in kind. "Hi, I'm Ginny-- from the Boulevard, too." I remember my mother talking years ago about "the controversy," which was a staple at the neighborhood meetings. Apparently residents were dismayed that the ramp, because of the steepness of the driveway, had to zig zag up the front lawn in an unsightly manner. My mom loved to hear the old biddies complain about it because it added a little zest to the meetings and also steered her away from the more vociferous complainers. I felt bad this woman, years later, still felt compelled to wear this as her scarlet A.
Helen was a talker and I kept turning slightly to my left to see what Peter Yarrow was doing. He was dressed in a maroon tee shirt, slacks and senior oxfords, chatting with people in the back corner. Helen barely came up for air and the saga now included more people than I could keep track of. Was Keith her husband or son or the son's friend or the mason who did the work?
The beauty of folk music is that it's easy to sing along and most people joined in--in fact they loved that part. Peter joked that he would signal when it was the chorus, so we would know when to sing, but he also added that he knew some would sing chorus and verse because they didn't know the difference or because they just wanted to! That was also OK with him.
Yarrow has a comfortable stage presence. I wondered if he had ever tried to calculate how many times he had sung If I Had a Hammer or Blowin in the Wind. He joked with the audience, mimicked a heavy Jewish accent at times, sang the Colonoscopy Song and had an amusing anecdote for each song. You have to love the senior crowd, because toward the end, one older woman on a walker said a bit too loudly, "He's talking again; I can't sit this long." She was shushed as she headed out the door. Another lady had stage whispered earlier to her friend: "That's John Denver's song, not his." (Turns out she was half right: John Denver wrote Leaving on a Jet Plane, but it became a signature hit for Mary Travers and PPM)
He got serious at times, talking about the civil rights movement and about performing in Veteran's hospitals, but did not mention Vietnam protests specifically. I think he knew his audience. After singing the requested antiwar anthem, Where Have All the Flowers Gone, he opened his Apple computer to share a recent recording of the song in English and Ukrainian. He marvelled how that would have been unimaginable in the height of the Cold War. He also talked about his current initiative, an antibullying program for schools in the US and around the world that uses music and song to build a foundation of acceptance for all kinds of kids.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
CSI: New Jersey
Looks like a pretty bad crime scene, doesn't it? And from my bedroom! Call in Dexter to do the blood splatter analysis on this one.
Actually I was overtired the other night, but thought I should fix up my toenails in anticipation of a visit to the beach. I must have loosened the cap on the polish, then turned to do something else. When I swooped the bottle up, I got a nice spray on myself, the rug, the bed skirt and sheet. I hurried into the bathroom and returned with nail polish remover, half expecting to see a Dexter-like web of red strings tracing the origin and pattern of the spill. But Dexter wasn't there; only in my imagination and I vowed not to watch any more episodes.
I had started season one on Netflix and got through two and a half episodes on the recommendation of my son, who wanted me to catch up on all four seasons, so we could watch season five together. Too much blood for me and now I have a constant reminder. Here's the real crime scene mystery: anyone have a suggestion for removing dark scarlet nail polish from a light blue rug?
Monday, July 9, 2012
the 42 dollar dilemma
I spent a wonderful, hot week at the shore. We went out to a lovely, small French restaurant one night where the food was excellent and the owner made a point of visiting each table for a pleasant chat. After the meal, I sought out the restroom at the end of a narrow hall, past the kitchen. As I opened the door marked Femmes, I noticed a scrunched up wad of money on the floor. It could have fallen out of my own mini phone purse which I use constantly, since I overstuff the inside slots with cash, credit cards and driver's license. I like to travel lightly, although I know big bags are en vogue, and it's not uncommon for me to slide out my phone and spew a trail of cards and dollars with it. I was startled for a moment, as I fingered the roll of 2 twenties and 2 singles. Of course, my brain is not that addled and I realized I had just stepped into the room, with purse still securely zipped, so the bills could not possibly be mine.
Or could they? "Finders keepers," I smiled and shoved the bills into my purse. On second thought I had a vague recollection of two women at a neighboring table visiting the restroom before they started to eat and speculated that it may belong to one of them. I clutched the money in the palm of my hand and when I saw the waiter, standing by the kitchen door, I took that as a sign to turn over my prize. He said he would pass it on to the owner who would discreetly canvass the customers.
Returning to my table, I felt Girl Scout proud of myself, until I related the story to my party. Did I do the right thing or was I just stupid?
"I hope you didn't give it to our waitress!" (She was not a favorite---reserved and slightly snooty or maybe just defensive, since my brother began the meal with a few pointed comments.)
"No, the waiter." I replied. (Four sets of eyes turned on him with laserlike intensity, as if we had collective xray vision to scan his pockets for the $42.)
The poll was inconclusive: one vote for finders keepers; one non-committal; one for doing the "right thing", accompanied by a similar story involving money found floating in the ocean years earlier. I learned in that incident, the police held the money, a considerable sum, for six months and then returned it to the finder, a young friend of my nephew. You have to wonder who goes swimming with a fistful of big bills in their pocket, but this is New Jersey.
It became the question of the weekend. What would you do if you found $42 in the restroom of a restaurant? A no-brainer for most, but I feel somehow that I'm golden now. Should I head to AC, play the 4 and the 2 on the roulette wheel and let it ride? Are these my new lucky numbers? Today I followed a van that was vehicle #42--coincidence or karma? Or was the $42 my good luck that I gave away? One request: the next time we eat out, please don't quiz me when I return from the bathroom to see how much money I found this time. It gets old quickly and besides, how do you know I didn't make this all up?
Or could they? "Finders keepers," I smiled and shoved the bills into my purse. On second thought I had a vague recollection of two women at a neighboring table visiting the restroom before they started to eat and speculated that it may belong to one of them. I clutched the money in the palm of my hand and when I saw the waiter, standing by the kitchen door, I took that as a sign to turn over my prize. He said he would pass it on to the owner who would discreetly canvass the customers.
Returning to my table, I felt Girl Scout proud of myself, until I related the story to my party. Did I do the right thing or was I just stupid?
"I hope you didn't give it to our waitress!" (She was not a favorite---reserved and slightly snooty or maybe just defensive, since my brother began the meal with a few pointed comments.)
"No, the waiter." I replied. (Four sets of eyes turned on him with laserlike intensity, as if we had collective xray vision to scan his pockets for the $42.)
The poll was inconclusive: one vote for finders keepers; one non-committal; one for doing the "right thing", accompanied by a similar story involving money found floating in the ocean years earlier. I learned in that incident, the police held the money, a considerable sum, for six months and then returned it to the finder, a young friend of my nephew. You have to wonder who goes swimming with a fistful of big bills in their pocket, but this is New Jersey.
It became the question of the weekend. What would you do if you found $42 in the restroom of a restaurant? A no-brainer for most, but I feel somehow that I'm golden now. Should I head to AC, play the 4 and the 2 on the roulette wheel and let it ride? Are these my new lucky numbers? Today I followed a van that was vehicle #42--coincidence or karma? Or was the $42 my good luck that I gave away? One request: the next time we eat out, please don't quiz me when I return from the bathroom to see how much money I found this time. It gets old quickly and besides, how do you know I didn't make this all up?
Friday, June 29, 2012
RIP Nora Ephron
I didn't realize what a Nora Ephron fan I was, until I read her obituary in the New York Times this week. Like many people, especially women, I liked her romantic comedy movies and her essays and rumination on topics ranging from getting breasts and 'what she wore' to death and aging. When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, Julie and Julia, Silkwood, and writings I Feel Bad about My Neck, I Remember Nothing, Crazy Salad--an impressive list.
But what really struck me was her view of life, which was reflected in all her work. As Meryl Streep said in the article: "Nora just looked at every situation and cocked her head and thought, 'Hmm, how can I make this more fun?'" So, no matter what the crisis (divorce, love, everyday annoyances) she was always thinking of how to turn the disaster into a humorous piece.
I was raised somewhat similarly to render life as a good story, (but not, of course, to include the family's dirty laundry or anything too personal.) I remember working one summer as a postal clerk, a decidedly boring job, and staying with my aunt. I usually worked past the family's dinner hour, so my aunt would have a plate warmed up for me when I got home. She was not a good cook, but creative, folding rice and leftover vegetables into orange jello or pouring thousand island dressing over pork chops. She'd pull up a chair, settle in and then say, "Tell me what funny things happened today." Luckily for me, although the job was mundane, my fellow employees at the post office, with very little exaggeration, were right out of central casting for a sit com.
As for the dirty laundry, you'll find none of us in my family writing plays about their ugly divorce from husband #2 or revealing adolescent angst about body changes.
The other great quote in the obituary was from writer Sally Quinn, explaining why so few people knew that Nora had leukemia for several years. "She had this thing about not wanting to whine. She didn't like self-pity. It was always, you know, 'Suck it up' ".
I believe my grandma's translation of this was "this is my cross to bear" but it included the same fundamental belief that everyone had something and it was best to know this and carry on--quietly. I talk to a lot of people about breast cancer and I'm always amazed at people and their stories: some are resilient and others mired in deep despair. Of course, circumstances may be different: the amount of disease progression, degree of support from family and friends, the person's age and role in life. But looking for humor and sucking it up should be vital ingredients in anyone's arsenal for coping and living well. Few have the talent and work ethic of a Nora Ephron, but all of us have benefitted from her perceptive wit that made us laugh and made everything in life a little easier to take.
But what really struck me was her view of life, which was reflected in all her work. As Meryl Streep said in the article: "Nora just looked at every situation and cocked her head and thought, 'Hmm, how can I make this more fun?'" So, no matter what the crisis (divorce, love, everyday annoyances) she was always thinking of how to turn the disaster into a humorous piece.
I was raised somewhat similarly to render life as a good story, (but not, of course, to include the family's dirty laundry or anything too personal.) I remember working one summer as a postal clerk, a decidedly boring job, and staying with my aunt. I usually worked past the family's dinner hour, so my aunt would have a plate warmed up for me when I got home. She was not a good cook, but creative, folding rice and leftover vegetables into orange jello or pouring thousand island dressing over pork chops. She'd pull up a chair, settle in and then say, "Tell me what funny things happened today." Luckily for me, although the job was mundane, my fellow employees at the post office, with very little exaggeration, were right out of central casting for a sit com.
As for the dirty laundry, you'll find none of us in my family writing plays about their ugly divorce from husband #2 or revealing adolescent angst about body changes.
The other great quote in the obituary was from writer Sally Quinn, explaining why so few people knew that Nora had leukemia for several years. "She had this thing about not wanting to whine. She didn't like self-pity. It was always, you know, 'Suck it up' ".
I believe my grandma's translation of this was "this is my cross to bear" but it included the same fundamental belief that everyone had something and it was best to know this and carry on--quietly. I talk to a lot of people about breast cancer and I'm always amazed at people and their stories: some are resilient and others mired in deep despair. Of course, circumstances may be different: the amount of disease progression, degree of support from family and friends, the person's age and role in life. But looking for humor and sucking it up should be vital ingredients in anyone's arsenal for coping and living well. Few have the talent and work ethic of a Nora Ephron, but all of us have benefitted from her perceptive wit that made us laugh and made everything in life a little easier to take.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Reunion thoughts
Just celebrated my 40th reunion from college, which included seeing a core of old friends, dancing to the rock music of the 60's and 70's and ziplining across a gorge. Pretty nice mix of activities! I've been thinking about the weekend since returning and here are the really interesting things.
The times we lived through! Our reunion tshirt said it all and dubbed the Class of 72 Reunion the Forever Young tour. Events from our four years were printed on the back of the shirts and ranged from end of women's curfew and parietal hours (restrictions on visits to dorms by members of the opposite sex) to building takeovers and Viet Nam war protests. Turbulent times that defined our generation and also resulted in a few pass/fail semesters. I think it would have been interesting to have a discussion group on how these times really influenced our political and social world views or choice of profession. Given the preponderance of NY lawyers in the crowd, many working for large corporations, had the four years of political activism and long, philosophical discussions on justice and war and inequality just been a blip in our lives? Chalk it up to youthful idealism and naivete? Or had we made choices in life true to that initial activism? Maybe we hadn't gone to jail or joined the underground, but how different were we because of our experiences?
Memory is a tricky thing. I read somewhere that we remember most those things that are associated in our minds with an emotional component. So, if we are emotionally invested, the memory will remain clearer, although all memory gets filtered through the perspective of time. One of the events listed under senior year was the Collegetown Block Party/Riot. Returning home from somewhere else, we passed through Collegetown quickly that night, sensing that the Ithaca Police in full riot gear lined up along the side of the street would be only too happy to try out their new toys, given the least provocation. Sure enough, the rumblings began and as we ran through the side streets and backyards off College Avenue, the sting of tear gas seaped through the air. My partner in crime that evening does not remember it at all. Did I fantasize about the whole event, insert myself as an unwitting player just for bragging rights or had we each processed the night in totally different ways, one of us filing it away as stories of an almost-rebellious life and the other simply discarding it as a minor inconvenience?
Was I really so clueless? Seeing the innocent faces posted along the walls of our reunion dorm was sweet. Clean cut young men, girls with long straight hair and flashing white toothed smiles--the fresh faces of a promising group of new students. I had one conversation with a woman from my freshman floor who was also from upstate NY but I had always thought of her as sophisticated and assertive. We compared notes about our freshmen roommates. Mine was a California girl, whose father was an alum. She spent a week in New York City shopping before descending on campus with her Vidal Sassoon hairstyle and a wardrobe that included a leather skirt and a fur skirt. When my parents and I arrived at the double bedded room, clothes were piled on both beds and I had a sinking feeling this may not work out. My floormate had a similar experience: "I felt the same way," she said, "like I was an upstate clod next to my glamorous roommate. Don't you remember that white fun fur jacket she had?" I laughed because I had envied that coat, but I had never thought it bothered her because in my eyes she was extroverted and self confident. We had more in common than I imagined and wasn't that a wasted opportunity that we had never shared it or become better friends?
Did we really need the reunion? By the time you hit the 40 year mark, there aren't a lot of new people you expect to see at reunions. It tends to be the same crowd with the women looking predictably better than the men, many of whom sported sizable guts and gray hair. You stick to your small group of friends. Add to that the grousing about long buffet lines, too many appeals for donations, limited activities and music that was too loud. (Yes, we're getting old!) and you wonder if you should just pick any weekend to return, enjoy the beautiful campus, eat in the better restaurants in town and sit and talk as long as you want without shouting over the DJ. It's an interesting possibility, assuming all could agree on a date, but return we must. It's a good thing, even for one weekend to relive those years, to catch up on where we are, to stare at our innocent freshman eyes looking out to the future and try to divine if those eyes recognize the women and men we've become.
The times we lived through! Our reunion tshirt said it all and dubbed the Class of 72 Reunion the Forever Young tour. Events from our four years were printed on the back of the shirts and ranged from end of women's curfew and parietal hours (restrictions on visits to dorms by members of the opposite sex) to building takeovers and Viet Nam war protests. Turbulent times that defined our generation and also resulted in a few pass/fail semesters. I think it would have been interesting to have a discussion group on how these times really influenced our political and social world views or choice of profession. Given the preponderance of NY lawyers in the crowd, many working for large corporations, had the four years of political activism and long, philosophical discussions on justice and war and inequality just been a blip in our lives? Chalk it up to youthful idealism and naivete? Or had we made choices in life true to that initial activism? Maybe we hadn't gone to jail or joined the underground, but how different were we because of our experiences?
Memory is a tricky thing. I read somewhere that we remember most those things that are associated in our minds with an emotional component. So, if we are emotionally invested, the memory will remain clearer, although all memory gets filtered through the perspective of time. One of the events listed under senior year was the Collegetown Block Party/Riot. Returning home from somewhere else, we passed through Collegetown quickly that night, sensing that the Ithaca Police in full riot gear lined up along the side of the street would be only too happy to try out their new toys, given the least provocation. Sure enough, the rumblings began and as we ran through the side streets and backyards off College Avenue, the sting of tear gas seaped through the air. My partner in crime that evening does not remember it at all. Did I fantasize about the whole event, insert myself as an unwitting player just for bragging rights or had we each processed the night in totally different ways, one of us filing it away as stories of an almost-rebellious life and the other simply discarding it as a minor inconvenience?
Was I really so clueless? Seeing the innocent faces posted along the walls of our reunion dorm was sweet. Clean cut young men, girls with long straight hair and flashing white toothed smiles--the fresh faces of a promising group of new students. I had one conversation with a woman from my freshman floor who was also from upstate NY but I had always thought of her as sophisticated and assertive. We compared notes about our freshmen roommates. Mine was a California girl, whose father was an alum. She spent a week in New York City shopping before descending on campus with her Vidal Sassoon hairstyle and a wardrobe that included a leather skirt and a fur skirt. When my parents and I arrived at the double bedded room, clothes were piled on both beds and I had a sinking feeling this may not work out. My floormate had a similar experience: "I felt the same way," she said, "like I was an upstate clod next to my glamorous roommate. Don't you remember that white fun fur jacket she had?" I laughed because I had envied that coat, but I had never thought it bothered her because in my eyes she was extroverted and self confident. We had more in common than I imagined and wasn't that a wasted opportunity that we had never shared it or become better friends?
Did we really need the reunion? By the time you hit the 40 year mark, there aren't a lot of new people you expect to see at reunions. It tends to be the same crowd with the women looking predictably better than the men, many of whom sported sizable guts and gray hair. You stick to your small group of friends. Add to that the grousing about long buffet lines, too many appeals for donations, limited activities and music that was too loud. (Yes, we're getting old!) and you wonder if you should just pick any weekend to return, enjoy the beautiful campus, eat in the better restaurants in town and sit and talk as long as you want without shouting over the DJ. It's an interesting possibility, assuming all could agree on a date, but return we must. It's a good thing, even for one weekend to relive those years, to catch up on where we are, to stare at our innocent freshman eyes looking out to the future and try to divine if those eyes recognize the women and men we've become.
Friday, June 1, 2012
The end of "A pink ribbon race, years long"
Suzanne Hebert, wife, mother of two, optometrist, friend, colleague, mbc advocate and vice president of the Metastatic Breast Cancer Network (MBCN), died on May 30 after living with mbc for over seven years.
The Times article was not the first or the last time that Suzanne shared her story, speaking out for all of us with mbc, advocating for more treatments and more research on metastases.
"People like the pretty story with the happy ending,” she said. “We don’t have the happy ending.
You
always hear stories about women who ‘battled it’ and ‘how courageous’
they were. Cancer doesn’t care if you’re courageous. It’s an injustice
to all of us who have this. There are women who are no less strong and
no less determined to be here, and they’ll be dead in two years.”
But the initial reduction in tumors did not last and soon after that, Suzanne stepped back from her involvement with MBCN, wanting to spend more time with her family. I was surprised in April to read about her again in Cancer Today magazine, but her previous optimism and unflagging hope were gone, replaced by the cold, hard facts of reality and the grim statistics of this disease.
Asked about some new research, she expressed 'guarded' optimism. “After more than eight years of living with this, I’ve seen so many things that sound like the next great thing,” she says. “You never hear anything else.” In reality, hope arrives “in very tiny increments,” says Suzanne. On the release of the newest 'successful' metastatic cancer drug, which extends life by 2 and a half months, Suzanne said: “That’s not really something to bring the trumpets out about, but that’s the best that we get,” she says. Still, it’s better than nothing. “I’m 46 and the mother of two,” says Hebert. “I’ll take it.”
Sobering words, especially from Suzanne, who lived and breathed lightness and hope. Was it succumbing to despair and frustration or was it resignation and final acceptance of the cruelty of this disease? I reread the article and felt the sadness settle upon me.
The last time I spoke with Suzanne, she was in hospice. We laughed a little, cried a little and she said "You know you're going to get to this point, but it seems unreal. And all the work we did doesn't matter anymore."
"I know, I know," I replied, although I didn't really know or didn't want to understand and accept it.
I'm a better person for knowing Suzanne, working with her and living in her light. Her race should have been longer, much longer, but it did matter, Suzanne, and we thank you for that.
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