COUNTRY

Art and I are in Connecticut visiting his family.

We have been coming here together for about seventeen years. Every time we’re here, we are overwhelmed by the beauty of this place. Late September is, of course, an ideal time of year to visit. The leaves are magically beginning to turn – yellow, red, gold. The sky can be grey and heavy one day, blue and sparkling the next.

Coming from Los Angeles, it seems as if we have stepped into another world altogether. The majority of the houses are very old by American standards – many over two hundred years old. The style is “Cape” or “Victorian”, “Saltbox”. There is no “landscaping”, as we know it in L.A. There are trees, taller than the houses, thick and substantial. You wouldn’t see so many trees clustered together in the West, because they would have been struck down by fire far too often. Here there is plentiful rainfall, so the fire danger is minimal.

At night as you drive down the winding country roads, there are almost no lights, save for the lights inside the homes. If you look up, you can actually see stars against a black background.

Being here makes my heart beat a little slower. In fact, everything slows down just a little. I feel serene, calm, unhurried. (Even though there is a lot for us to do here).

I would recommend that you visit New England, but I’m afraid you would. We don’t want to have the place even more overrun than it is already. But then, I feel very guilty because everyone should experience this at least once in their lifetime. To come here is to go back in time. To go back to a time when neighbors knew their neighbors and looked out for one another. A time when you couldn’t go shopping on Sunday. A time when people felt safe leaving their keys and their pocketbook in the car (as my sister-in-law did last night). A time when there really were small towns holding meetings to decide what is best for the community (as the Town of Morris did last night). Here, the American Dream is not a dream.

I recommend you come and experience it for yourself. Before it disappears.

FAMILY

When I was very young and stupid, and even when I was not-so-young and stupid, I thought nothing of pulling up stakes and moving to a strange city. I had the peculiar notion that I could simply uproot myself, transplant my life, and thrive anywhere I happened to land.

What I have learned is that it just doesn’t work. If I am a rose, I simply can not plunk myself down in the middle of a cactus patch and expect to be happy. Maybe some flowers are different, but for me, I need family. I need roots. I need to feel connected.

All of this has been becoming crystal clear to me for the past couple of days. Art and I came back to Connecticut in order to connect with his side of the family. His parents are in the middle of a very emotional move. They’re leaving the ancestral home of forty-eight years – It’s just time for them to consolidate a little. To live in a less demanding environment so that they can relax a little. And while there is ample reason for them to make this move, it is nonetheless extremely difficult for them. At the same time, Art’s brother is facing a serious health challenge. How could we not be here? Finally, we are in the process of buying a condo here in Connecticut so that we can spend more time with Art’s family. For most of our married life we have lived in Los Angeles, and this has been wonderful for us – especially since my mother and two sisters and their kids live in L.A. But it has meant that Art’s family gets short shrift. Neither of us wants that – so here we are.

Today we spent the day packing boxes and lugging them out of their old house. We spent hours just sitting at the trestle table in my in-laws’ kitchen talking about anything and everything. We took out pizza for dinner from the Italian restaurant across the street. It’s been a hard day, in some ways, and to tell the truth, I’m pretty wiped.

But I just want to say this – Family is not something you are born into; it is something that you create with your heart and your hands. What makes people family is not blood ties. Blood ties just create genetics. To be truly related as family requires many small acts of kindness. If you think about it, your mother, your father, your aunt, your sibling, are not important to you because of an accident of birth, but rather because they made you chicken soup when you were sick, or because they took you to a Twilight Double Header, or because they let you cry when you needed to.

Family is a blessing. I’m tired, but I’m happy.

LAX TO JFK

Yesterday we flew from Los Angeles to New York. Have you flown lately?

This was my first post-9/11 flight from a major airport. Usually Art and I like to fly out of Burbank (now renamed Bob Hope International). I keep wondering how it got to be international, because as far as I can see, the longest flight out of BHI is from Burbank to Nashville. Anyway, for yesterday’s flight we decided to brave LAX so that instead of having to change planes in Dallas or Chicago, we could fly from coast to coast.

So the first thing we had to do was take a taxi from our house (which is way out on the East side of town in the hills) way out to the extreme West side of town. We had to get up at 5:00 a.m. in order to be ready for the taxi at 6:00 a.m. Art made it known to the driver that he had already checked with the taxi company and knew that the approximate cost of the ride would be $37.00. The driver, who did not speak perfect English, pretended he had not understood. Art repeated himself carefully so that he was sure the driver had understood. I had the distinct feeling that this did not sit well with the driver. In any case, he zoomed us out to LAX like a bat out of hell. He dumped us unceremoniously at the Delta terminal and drove off.

I looked at the long line snaking out of the terminal and on to the sidewalk and wondered, “Why didn’t these people print out their boarding passes on the computer at home, like we did?” Then we got inside the terminal and quickly realized that these people were not waiting for their boarding passes; they were waiting to go through security.

The line snaked through the terminal and it took us about 15 minutes to get up to the head of the line. A couple of people tried to cut in front of us, but Art was having none of that. He scolded them and pointed to the back of the line. They looked red-faced and ashamed and dragged their sad little roll-around bags to the back of the line. As we got closer to the front, we realized that, not only did we have to lay our bags flat on the table to be X-rayed, but we also had to remove our jackets and our shoes. I thought to myself, “Good Grief! One misguided fool decides to turn his shoe into a weapon of mass destruction, and all these poor grandmothers and grandfathers and maiden aunts and peculiar uncles all have to take off their Weejuns or their Easy Spirits or their wing tips or their sneakers and stand there in their stocking feet. At one point, a man in front of me took off his jacket by lifting it over his head, and his shirt came off with it so that he was standing with his bare back to me in his bare feet and for a split second I had the uneasy notion that they were going to strip search all of us right there in front of God and all his children!

On the other hand, I guess none of us are totally immune to the paranoia of a post-9/11 world. I saw a woman wearing a veil a few rows ahead of me, and I actually wondered whether this was something I should worry about. Of course, I reasoned to myself, this flight is going to JFK, and it is a connecting flight to Barcelona, Morocco, and South Africa, so of course there would be people of all sorts on the flight with no plan more sinister than going home or visiting friends. But this is the natural result of terrorism, to have these thoughts. I told myself that I had to shake it off. You just can’t live your life cowering in a corner. (Even if, like me, that sometimes sounds appealing, given the right corner).

Anyway – for those of you who know me – you know that I was none too fond of flying anyway, pre-9/11. So it’s all the same to me. It boils down to this: Take my little “mother-of-the-bride” pill, and enjoy the ride.

Our flight was actually pretty smooth. There was a little turbulence, but I’m starting to understand that a little turbulence is normal. So I did pretty well. We had to rent a car and drive from JFK up to Connecticut, which was, as you would expect, pretty slow and riddled with traffic until we got about an hour outside New York. But the Connecticut landscape rewarded us with gorgeous trees just starting to turn colors and gently rolling hills that went through picturesque little towns. And we’re so happy to be here with Art’s family.

Now that we’re here, I’d say it was well worth it. Even having to take off our shoes.

PACKING

Tomorrow we’re getting on a plane to go to visit family in Connecticut.

We’ve known about this trip for several weeks. This time tomorrow I will be on the plane. All I’ve got packed so far is socks, underwear and t-shirts.

Every time we travel I imagine that the next time I will be more organized and efficient. I imagine that I will make a list a week ahead of time and will check each item off the list as I pack. The night before leaving, I imagine Art and me enjoying a candlelight supper, our bags packed and waiting by the front door. I imagine that I will get on the plane knowing that all is in order. I imagine that I will not panic as the plane takes off, thinking that I have left the stove on. I swear to myself that I will not forget one of the following items: bras (it was awful), sweaters, nightgowns, vitamins, toothpaste, toothbrushes, shampoo, camera, umbrella, socks. . . all of which I have forgotten before.

Now, as my grandmother used to say, it’s not like we’re going off to the wilderness; we can find just about anything we need wherever we’re going (except for prescription medicine, which we can’t buy in another state). But it gets expensive and inconvenient, buying stuff that we already had at home. And you wind up spending more time at Wal-mart than you had planned. Usually, maddeningly, the forgotten item is left sitting on top of the bathroom sink or the nightstand where I specifically left it so that I would not forget to pack it.

I tell myself I will make a list. Then I sit down to type out my list. I start with the obvious: underwear, socks, shoes, toothbrushes, toothpaste. . .and I feel like an idiot. I am embarassed to type the list. I abandon the list. Who could forget anything so obvious as, say, underwear? Well, I have.

Now, part of the problem is that we don’t want to check any bags. So, here we are planning a three week trip. We each get one carry-on bag that has to fit underneath the seat, and one “personal item”. I have learned to stash my pocketbook in my carry-on, which allows my “personal item” to be a small bag for toiletries, my books, and my endless array of comfort items for the plane. My husband has to bring his computer, of course. That leaves us with our carry-ons. (Mine is the green one with the wobbly wheels.)

So, you might ask how in the world can you pack for three weeks with only one carry-on a piece? Well, you take two pairs of jeans, a week’s worth of underwear and socks, a couple of t-shirts, one sweater, one pair of shoes, and you do your laundry once a week. (Then you just ship anything else U.P.S.).

The day before a trip I always have the vague feeling that I am forgetting to do something important. I usually am. Besides the packing, there are the cats to be taken care of, the paper to be stopped, the mail to be handled and the plants to be watered. The garbage has to be taken out so that your house doesn’t smell like a dump when you get home. Emergency numbers have to be given to friends and loved ones. The taxi has to be called for 6:00 a.m. so that you can make your 8:00 a.m. flight. Some lights are left on. Some lights have to be left off. The house has to be locked, front and back.

And I have to check the stove yet one more time.

BORCHING

To borch (Yiddish origins) is to bitch. To bitch is to moan. To moan is to complain. But to complain is not the same as to borch. Borching is usually relentless, always vocal, and never intellectual. It has a visceral connotation. Its value is cathartic. A sure-fire guilt-inducer. Usually a source of irritation to the listener.

There are two schools of thought on borching. The first is that we should all be stoic, bear up with stalwart determination. It is the British school of borching, which goes with the British stiff-upper-lip credo. The belief is that if we ignore pain, anger, annoyance, grief, fear, or indignation, it will disappear.

The second school of thought on borching is that we should vent. This is more the American school by way of Vienna. The theory goes that borching builds up like steam in a kettle, and that if we don’t somehow expel the energy in a slow, measured, controlled way, the energy will inevitably explode, shatter the tea kettle, and cause irretrievable harm to all.

There are some people who are gifted at listening to people borch. I like to think that I am one of those gifted people. That’s why I used to be a marriage and family therapist. I am an experienced receiver of all kinds of borching, both one-on-one and in groups. I think you have to be a really good borcher yourself in order to be a good borch listener. I have given up being a professional listener in order to listen more attentively on a private basis. This seems to work well for me. But let’s face it, the whole idea of talk therapy is based on borchers and borchees. And it works exceedingly well.

This morning at breakfast I asked my husband how he was. Art barely answered, except to say, “Okay, for an old guy”. “What” I asked “does that mean?”. He said, “Oh, I have my usual aches and pains. They may go away and they may not.”. This is a curious blend of both schools. On the one hand, there is the British stoicism apparent, since he did not go on to list the specific aches and pains, as in “My lower back is in a spasm. My right baby toe is numb. I have the beginnings of a sinus headache. My stomach is a little rocky.” On the other hand, he made vague allusions to “aches and pains”, which stirred a bit of guilt in me. This makes sense. My husband is half-British. But he’s been married to me for fifteen years.

I, on the other hand, am unambiguously Jewish. I start out the morning by listing my complaints: “My allergies are back. I couldn’t breathe last night and now my nose is running. And now I’m tired because I didn’t get any sleep. I think I’m fighting off a cold.” This gets my tea kettle emptied out right away and has the added bonus of eliciting Art’s sympathy before he’s even had his first bite of breakfast. Do you wonder that we have such a great marriage?

Of course this morning as I went through my morning litany, I began to think – Maybe the Brits are right. I mean, suddenly it’s just no fun to vent anymore. And getting Art’s sympathy is like shooting fish in a barrel. I mean, he’s such a nice guy that there’s just no point in it.

Besides, I have the Blog. Blogging is a lot like borching. Every morning I get to pick out a new subject to borch about. You, dear reader, get to “listen”. Of course, there are some mornings that I have nothing to borch about, and I am forced to choose some other topic. Like today, for instance. I feel fine, so I just decided to talk about borching.

THAT’S NEWS TO ME

In three days we are going to Connecticut. We were there just last month, but events have piled up since then, so we’re off again.

When my mother and I talk on the phone nowadays, we ask each other “What’s new?”, and our favorite reply is, “Not a thing!”. Then we both say together, “Thank God!”.

There seems to be some kind of a hard-wired mechanism in the human brain that seeks the novel, the unusual, the exception to the rule kind of phenomena. I guess it’s stimulating. But as we acquire more and more experience with that sort of thing, we come to appreciate the notion that “Less is more”. News tends to be of the unpleasant type, and once the initial buzz has worn off, as in: “Gee! That’s new and exciting”– I’d say within ten seconds – We are left with the reality of the situation: “How depressing!”. Maybe that’s why news shows – especially local news shows – are so fond of the “10-second sound bite”. By the time the viewer’s initial buzz has evaporated, so has that particular story, and we’re on to the next. And what with our ever-shrinking attention span, thanks to the MTV school of entertainment, and our ever-shrinking memory, thanks to living in an age of overwhelming amounts of information, by the end of the broadcast we are numb. News, sports and weather all become nothing but a big blur. If it’s the eleven o’clock news, we are generally asleep by 11:15. (Okay, I didn’t take a survey, but I’d be willing to bet I’m not the only one).

But I digress.

The point is – Change is difficult. Anything new in our lives requires change. Anything new and unpleasant in our lives is doubly stressful, since it not only requires the effort of change, but also the optimism to get through the unpleasantness. It’s not easy – but it’s inevitable. Nothing stays the same for very long. And this comes as a shock, since we all start out as tiny little things for whom time goes by at a snail’s pace. It seems to us when we are in our formative years that certain things are permanent: Mom and Dad, sister and brother, home, school, friends, Fido and Fluffy, even the corner grocery. All take on the quality of Mount Rushmore in our minds. These basics are indestructible, and there is tremendous comfort in that. We feel that as long as these few things remain the same, we are safe and secure. This is the basis for nostalgia, and the reason we love artists like Norman Rockwell and TV shows like “Happy Days”.

But in the past three weeks, here is what has happened in our own family: Art’s brother was diagnosed with a serious illness and is slated for surgery by the end of the month. Art’s sister and her family had to put down their beloved dog, Jet, which was devastating to all of them. Art’s mother and father finalized the sale of their home of forty-eight years and are packing up to move. And Art and I got word that our offer on a home in Connecticut was accepted, so we will now be officially bicoastal. This is a potent mix of stressors (distress and eustress, but all stress). We’re going to Connecticut now, in great part, to try to dilute the stress and spread it around a little more so that it doesn’t all fall on shoulders that were already pretty weighted down. There’s not much we can do, except to be there and offer emotional support, but sometimes that can be a lot.

Meanwhile, back here in Los Angeles, I just pray that the earth stays solid, that my family’s health continues, that the fire season doesn’t start early, and that the governor won’t do anything to get recalled. In other words, I pray for what doesn’t happen, as opposed to what does. Let things be boring – I can take it.

DOMESTIC DEVIATION

Art and I have had the same CPA for as long as we have been together. I like Herb. He’s a straight shooter. He doesn’t try to sugarcoat our tax returns. He just tells it like it is.

So one day when I was looking over his work for the year, I was appalled to see that in the space where he had to give my profession he had written in, “housewife”.

Well, it’s true that I don’t bring in a paycheck from the outside world. None of my songs have made any money to speak of. My writing seems destined to be an act of altruism for the rest of my life, which is not by choice, but okay with me. But – a professional housewife?

Look, let me make this clear. Martha Stewart I am not. I don’t dig in the garden because I’m afraid of worms. (Another little phobia). I don’t make my own wrapping paper. I don’t bake souffles. The majority of my cooking goes from freezer to microwave. I dust with Endust. I vacuum once, maybe twice a week. Ironing is considered optional (and rare). I prefer the Swiffer to hands-and-knees scrubbing. I do not perfume the sheets or count their threads. I have several drawers and cupboards that look like Fibber McGee’s closet.

Once when we went to another couple’s house for supper, I wanted to help clear the table after we ate. I looked around and said, “Oh, these butter knives look like they weren’t touched. Do you want me to put them back in the drawer?” She looked at me like I was a two-headed creature. “Oh, no! Once they’ve been out on the table. . .” Her voice drifted off – I guess she thought it was useless to try to educate me. She just picked up the knives and stashed them in the dishwasher. I felt my face redden. She had recognized me for the slob I am.

Another time when we lived in Tennessee we hired a crew to come out and clean our house there. It was a very large, rambling, open floor-plan of a house with very high ceilings. Once in a while we both agreed it was time to call in the professionals. They would be able to reach the places I couldn’t reach and scrub clean what I could not. There was one spot that bothered me more than anything in that house. It was the spot behind the faucet in the bathroom. There were green hard water stains and greyish-black mold there, and no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get them out. The woman who had come out to help us assessed the situation: “Well, that’s been buildin’ up for quite a long time. Some people just don’t bother with it fer a while and then you get those tell-tale rings around the. . .” She stopped herself, since she and I both realized that she was well on her way to scolding me for my unacceptable cleaning practices. She cleared her throat and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”.

On the other hand, I have known people who think nothing of leaving great piles of newspapers and magazines stacked in their living rooms for months, if not years on end. People who have a constant pile of greasy dishes left in a greasy, grey sink. People who see no need to change the sheets more than once a month. People who make a regular habit of pulling their wardrobe out of the dirty clothes hamper or off the floor. I once knew a guy who was a smoker who habitually flicked his ashes into his shirt pocket. There are people who would not feel at home without a half-inch coating of dust on their furniture. People who do not sweep the dirt under the rug because they don’t sweep, period.

Art and I like to watch Home and Garden TV. (It’s the most benign thing on television, even if it does tend to be a little vapid at times). We enjoy the “before” and “after” stories. We like to imagine how we would refurbish an old Victorian or craftsman style home. But just once I would like to see a follow-up to some of these make-overs. What does the house look like six months or a year after the designers have done their magic? And I don’t mean when the owner has been forewarned of an impending visit. I’d like to see the place au naturel; the way the family really lives. I always think – What’s the good of having a Queen Ann bed piled high with European pillows and shams – if there’s a half-eaten Domino’s pizza perched in the middle of it and a Coors can on the matching nightstand?

I was taught from the time I was little that “Cleanliness is next to Godliness” (especially when I was being dragged to the bathtub). But another part of me would like to paraphrase Oscar Wilde: Housework . . .”is the refuge of people who have nothing better to do”.

So, I guess on the bell curve of cleaning I fall somewhere in the middle, not more than one standard deviation from the norm. I try to keep a modicum of tidiness without falling into an obsessive pattern. I can’t work in too much clutter. I can’t even think in too much clutter. (There’s already too much clutter in my head). I guess that’s what saves me.

So, Herb – On our next return, could you please put down “Domestic Diva”?

TIC-TOC

Time seems to be a theme with me these days.

Last night our family gathered at my sister’s house to say goodbye to my nephew, Noah, who is starting his freshman year in college today. This morning his father took him up to U.C. Riverside. This marks a new chapter in Noah’s life – it is the official beginning of his launch into adulthood. I couldn’t help but look at this handsome, soft-spoken young man and remember the night he was born, only eighteen short years ago.

At the same time, our nephew Keith, 25, is about to move to New York. New York. The other side of the country. Might as well be the other side of the world. He is now a strong, capable young man with a million possibilities placed before him. We gave him an organizer as a going away gift. Suddenly, he’s going to have to consult his “book” before making appointments.

Our nephew, Luke, is well on his way, too. Sixteen years-old, with a sophisticated and dry wit, confident, and with a burgeoning career already as a gifted drummer/percussionist.

I’m so impressed with all of them.

Kids have a nasty habit of growing up, leaving you to ponder, “If he’s grown up, what am I?”. Well, the answer is obvious: a potential great aunt. Put it another way: old enough to be somebody’s grandmother. A member of AARP. Old enough to contemplate retirement. Old enough to get the senior discount at the hardware store. Old enough to live in Leisure World. Old enough to be called “Ma’am” by the boy bagging my groceries. Yikes.

Old enough to know better. Chronological age is a number. It has little to do with one’s physical or mental fitness. However, time on the planet does seem to render us a little wiser than we might have been 20 or 30 years before.

But maybe that’s an illusion, too. I still put my socks on inside-out, most of the time. I still burn the rice on a regular basis. I still have a secret vice of eating Twizzlers, even though they’re horrible for me. I still snack before dinner most nights. I still have a tendency to procrastinate to the point of making myself late for almost everything. I still lose my carkeys and/or my sunglasses nearly every day. I still get a belly laugh out of “I Love Lucy” reruns. I still cry at the end of “The King and I” (and I’ll bet I’ve seen it 20 or 30 times). I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

Regardless of what the calendar may tell you, it is past Labor Day, and that means it is autumn. This is my favorite time of year. I think of crisp apples, pumpkins, cider, and of course, the beautiful colors of the leaves in my native Pittsburgh and around my husband’s ancestral home in Connecticut. There is something so poignant about autumn. We tend to remember in this season better than any other, that we are mortal. Like the leaves we must give up our spot on the tree to make room for new life in the spring. I like to think that, also like the leaves, we are never more beautiful than during the autumn of our life, when we have reached full maturity and begun to be illuminated from within.

At least, that is what I tell myself when I am waving goodbye to Noah, in all his splendid green, tender vibrancy.

Vanishing Youth

The other day, for the first time in a couple of years, I took out our wedding album and leafed through the pictures. There was the happy, handsome groom and the smiling, pretty bride. We were only fifteen years younger then. Fifteen years goes by so quickly, sometimes it seems it’s just a blur: Wegotmarriedonasundayandthenitwasmonday

andchristmascameandnowit’sfifteenyearslaterwhathappened?

It’s not that we don’t fight tooth and nail to stay young, we do. (Well, maybe not tooth, but definitely nail). We do all the things expected of our Baby Boom demographic. We eat healthfully, exercise, stay active both physically and mentally and get great haircuts. We dutifully dress in jeans and t-shirts, even when we go out to dinner. I color my hair and I’m not ashamed to say so. We wear sunscreen. We moisturize. And yet.

I look through those pictures, only fifteen years old, and there is a distinct difference between my face then and my face now. There’s no getting around it: Youth is leaving me. I feel like I’m chasing my youth through a dense forest, running faster and faster to catch up, but the harder I run, the faster it goes, and I don’t know how long it will be before I run out of breath or determination and accept that it has gone and gone for good. Some would say, “Never! Never give up! Never give in!”. I wonder, are they right?

Living in Hollywood as I do, I also have to wonder – Is it youth I’m chasing, or is it vanity? And if I could have youth back, would I want it? I mean, youth is not all about having smooth skin and taut muscles. It’s also about believing in your immortality and taking foolish risks. It’s also about not having enough money for rent and food. It’s also about being concerned with things that no longer concern me, like fashion. It’s also about taking too much for granted that is precious, like friends. It’s also about being a slave to your hormones. Do I want all that? Certainly not!

Another part of youth is being interested, involved and active. Can I do that without actually being young? Yes, of course. But there is a natural slowing of the body over time. Maybe I don’t have to run. Maybe I can just do a brisk walk. That’s okay with me. (I never liked running anyway). But does there ever come a time when even a walk can be too much?

Now, let’s get back to the smooth skin and taut muscles part. Well, I woke up this morning and caught a glimpse of something that I had never noticed before. There was a large, purplish area on my calf. I couldn’t figure out what it was. A bruise? A spider bite? Some weird kind of tumor? My husband looked at it and calmly announced that it was spider veins. And he added, “I remember when my Mom got those – She was really upset.” In other words, this is a natural result of age. Nowadays they can remove these things.

Then I’m faced with a decision. Should I or should I not have the spider veins removed? If I go out in a pair of shorts, will people notice? Do I care? Will the neighbors be clucking their tongues and saying, “Tsk Tsk. She shouldn’t be wearing shorts at her age!” Do I want to spend the money on having these removed when others will probably pop up on my other leg tomorrow? Or should I just replace all my shorts with slacks and resign myself to schvitz in the hot weather? Where does the blood go if the little veins aren’t there anymore to carry it along? What does it cost to have spider veins removed? And how much do I want to invest in chasing down my youth, anyway? I’m not an actress, so who really cares besides me and possibly my husband? (Oh my God, I better ask him!) And do I want to add to the delusion that nobody ages in Hollywood? (Of course I do, but to what extent?).

At what point do you simply bid adieu to the elusive little fox that was your youth? At what point do you resign yourself that this is just more work than you signed on for? And isn’t it the very hallmark of youth that it is never self-conscious or labored? Take a look at anyone under 30, and you will notice how remarkably relaxed they are – at least about being young. Aaah. To age gracefully. What does it really mean?

Mental note: Ask hairdresser about blond streaks tomorrow.

TEA

There is no problem that can’t be solved over a cup of tea.

Art and I have been drinking tea together now for about seventeen years. We have tea every morning with our breakfast, and usually, another cup of tea in the afternoon. We both like it with milk (the preferred British way), but our favorite tea in the morning is Irish Breakfast (no offense to all you Brits, but it’s a little stronger).

As you raise your cup there is a fine, subtly astringent aroma. Then you take your first sip – heaven. The warmth and comfort permeates your body, gently rousing you from early morning dreaminess. You can actually feel all those sweet little antioxidants going to work and waking up your immune system. Aaaaah.

How can you possibly squabble at such a moment? You can’t. You would have to put your teacup down and walk into another room. When friends announce engagements or get married, my first thought is to give them a tea pot, because if more people drank tea in this country, there would be less divorce.

Truly, the best tea should be brewed in a pot, even if you use tea bags (which I usually do, myself for convenience). I know that I am not the first to praise the beauty of ceremony in the presentation of tea. The more lovely the presentation, it seems, the better the tea tastes.

I like to linger over tea. I like to sit there for at least a half hour, preferably an hour. Art and I like to discuss our plans for the day over a cup of tea. We like to solve the household problems over a cup of tea. We have even written a few songs over a cup of tea.

When we lived in Tennessee, we discovered a wonderful tea room called Miss Mables out in Dickson, Tennessee. There is not much in Dickson, apart from a Wal-mart, a few fast food restaurants, maybe a hardware store, a few churches, and a couple of antique stores. But Miss Mables is a bastion of civilization. It is strictly in the British Victorian tradition. It is decorated with lace curtains, a mish-mash of floral china pieces, with hardwood floors and Oriental rugs. There is a traditional English garden outside of the renovated Victorian house. Art and I tried to get there at least once a week in the early afternoon. We would sit there for over an hour eating scones and sipping tea.

Once we went when there was a private party in the main dining room, and we were forced to sit all alone in a small outer room. Over the course of two hours, we drank so much Buckingham Palace (a very special tea blend which has just a hint of Earl Grey), that we got giddy on the caffeine. We started to tell each other funny stories and found ourselves laughing uncontrollably. The owner, Faye, came in several times to check on us. We had to explain that we were “drunk” on the tea. She gave us a funny look and left us to our own devices.

For our eighth anniversary we had a party at Miss Mables. It was an early evening party, and of course, there was plenty of tea for everyone. The food was light and delicious. The atmosphere was warm and festive. I dressed for the occasion in an antique Victorian looking dress. I may have looked dorky, but we had a great time, and I think all of our guests did, too.

Every time we watch one of our favorite shows, a Brit-com on PBS called, “As Time Goes By”, I wait for the moment when Judy Dench serves tea (she almost always does). Out comes the silver service and the china cups, the lemon wedges and the sugar cubes, and can smell the tea right through the television screen. It makes me want to get up and make us yet another pot, but I refrain since the show is on at night, and the caffeine will keep me awake.

By the way – It has been my experience that decaffeinated tea tends to taste like fish. I would suggest rather that you decaffeinate your tea yourself. Here is how it was explained to me by Mary at the Rose Cottage Tea Room in Pasadena (a fabulous place, but you will need reservations well in advance): You pour just enough boiling water over the tea to cover it and leave the water on the tea for just 5-10 seconds. Then you dump that water. Most of the caffeine will go out with that water. Then you pour the boiling water to fill the pot. Voila, decaf tea. I’ve done it myself, and I do believe it works to some extent (although not completely).

Of all the wonderful things in life, tea may be one of the best and least appreciated (at least in this country). I’m sure your mother gave you tea when you were sick as a child (probably Lipton, with dry toast). Now that you’re grown up, try the healing properties of tea when you’re well. You’ll feel even better.

P.S. “Herbal tea” is not tea. But that’s a subject for another day.

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