I have come to realize that as a little girl I had a complicated doll history.  A child of the fifties, there were a slew of iconic dolls that came on the market in that decade and the next.  Betsy Wetsy who if you poured water in her mouth she “wetsied” in her diaper or on minature toilet you could purchase as an accessory.  Tiny Tears, as the name implies, cried real tears if supplied by water poured in a hole in the back of her head.  Other options were Chatty Cathy who talked up a blue streak if you pulled a string in her back and the first cloth bodied doll, Baby Dear, who had plastic limbs and head but could be snuggled and hugged with her cushiony torso. Later, Betsy McCall came along with bendable limbs fashioned after the McCalls magazine’s famous paper dolls.

As the youngest of the family as well as ten years after the eldest, a son, you might suspect I owned them all.  Or at least one.  Or none. No, my mama, whose kind heart was no doubt more concerned about saving the world  than following doll trends, chose for my Christmas gift at around age five, Poor Pitiful Pearl.  Yes, you read it correctly.  That was her name and she had looks to match.

She arrived in a tattered patched dress replete with worn black  knee-high socks and  a red bandana to cover her uneven bangs and tangled hair.  But not to fret, included in the box was a a party frock and shiny Mary Janes. The small print in the bubble beside Pearl as pitiful says, “Help, I need a Mommy!” and on the right, dressed in the provided party dress, Pearl pleads, “Change me from pitiful to pretty.” So where do I begin?

Compared to my friends’ dolls there was no wetting or crying or talking or hugging.  Just a clear message to make Pearl pretty and change her life. The far reaching effects of that suggestion alone is enough to change a young girl’s personal aspirations but being the dutiful child that I was, I did my best to save Pearl.  I tried to make her bangs even but nearly cut them to the roots as they were barely there to start with. I managed to get her unkemp hair into a ponytail, changed her clothes and somewhere between trying to make my parents think I loved her and hiding her in the bottom of my closet to escape her haunting face, I lost one Mary Jane and a black sock.

Luckily, Pearl eventually ended up in my mother’s beloved antique toy basket that sat by the hearth for grandkids  someday to enjoy. I was relieved of the guilt of failing to change her life trajectory and handed the baton for that duty to the next generation. One Christmas Eve sitting by the fire remembering poor Pearl, we searched among the toys to find her.  My sister and I were home with our children who were scattered throughout the house doing what children do as Santa time approaches, being seen but not heard. We found a shoe and Pearl’s head scarf in the basket but no sad-faced doll.  Finally we asked the kids if anyone had played with Pearl.  All looked befuddled, palms flat, elbows bent at their sides until we heard a small voice from my old bedroom whisper, “I put her in the mailbox.” My sister’s oldest son peeked his head from behind the door and shamelessly uttered, “I wanted her to go back where she came from.” Redeemed, the next generation had the guts to admit what I already understood.  Even toys are hard to love sometimes.

A small redemption in my doll collection came when one birthday I received a Barbie.  After my friends had owned the blonde cotton candy ponytail version, plus Ken, the car and the playhouse, I finally joined the ranks of Barbie owners receiving the flash- in-the-pan Barbie Bubble Cut. Yes she existed.  But she came and went quickly as she had thick course “done once a week at the beauty salon teased hair” and clear gloss lips.  Not the signature red pout. I tried to paint her lips with ruby-colored nail polish. In an effort to make it smooth and long, I brushed her hair so hard her head popped off. So poor headless Barbie soon joined the ranks of basket fireside toys.

I won’t go into the gory details of the hard plastic baby doll I owned that had a silver dollar-sized microphone in her stomach that made a mournful cry when you tipped her forward.  Soon after she came along her “voicebox” fell out leaving a gaping hole so she became a tiny alien looking thing.  Or the Besty McCall doll that had a broken hip repaired with a bandaid so her flexible joints did not live up to the hype.

You may be wondering how I survived a childhood without the requisite hallmark dolls of my era.  Pretty well I might say because never having exactly what you want builds character I have heard.

Truth be told, and I admit this with a bit of chagrin, my doll disappointments only made me more of a perfectionist to find just the right thing for my home or closet or go without until I can. I suppose there could be worse mantras. Carefully choosing a few good men vs. endless consumption shows some self-restraint.

But I am not immune to retail therapy. I can roam a store with no intended purpose. Just like the box directed, sometimes on a bad day, I still succumb to dress me up and make me pretty.

I saw my doctor yesterday, who happens to be a dear friend. He was my friend before he became my doctor. But after too many Saturday night outings with me asking his opinion concerning my medical care, it only seemed fair for him to be my doctor.  The problem was, how would I handle the first physical? I mean, this man has an easy smile and some of the kindest eyes I have ever met, but examining me in a hospital gown was not an option if he was ever going to see me fully clothed again.  So I settled for wearing a hot pink Speedo under the gown and told him my gynecologist would take care of the rest.  In typical good humor, he played along, both of us pretending we were just chatting poolside.

With that, my friend became my doctor and my doctor remained my friend.

So I saw him yesterday for flu, Covid, bad cold, or all of the above.  And after he assured me it was the latter, we chatted as we often do.  Once the medical stuff is out of the way, we will catch up on life, love and happiness. In this conversation, he shared a new TV series he is enjoying that he thought I would, too.  It is a medical show which appeals to us both, his interest obvious and mine being my hypervigilence about my well being, or as some might say, hypochondria.  He referenced one episode he found especially impressive.

An ER doctor is discussing the care of an unconscious 92-year-old man with his adult children. Although the father has signed a DNR, the daughter is fighting vehemently to override this document and the son wants to honor it. As the temperature rises and an emotional power struggle begins, the physician offers a Hawaiian mantra to handle the overwhelming grief, complicated emotions and uncertainty of parting with a parent.  He suggests they might spend a moment with their father, alone or together, and recite his version of the prayer for healing and repair:

I love you.

Thank you.

I am sorry.

Please forgive me.

With the doctor’s help, they both eventually let their father go. Listening, I was moved by the profound impact of those four short sentences.

I thanked my friend for his thoughtful sharing and left feeling more spiritually healed than simply treating a cough and dripping nose.

Later, I looked up the prayer to see if is was just a good TV script or authentic, and it is indeed a Hawaiian prayer for healing and forgiveness. I love its simple, heartfelt message.

It got me thinking about the final goodbyes I have had to say in my life. I lost my father, my mother, my brother–all within the span of a few years. Although the circumstances of all three were different, I had the luxury of letting them go while they could still see and hear me. I was also able to choose that moment rather than standing beside their motionless body, their soul drifting away.

People are different that way.  Others in my family wanted to be there for their last breath. And I respect that. But I wanted to tell them what I loved most and what I would miss even more and know that they heard my words. And then I felt OK to let go.  I wanted to remember them alive.

My dad was buried and had an open casket. At the visitation the night before the funeral, I could not look at him. I wanted to remember his beautful carpenter hands moving and creating, his gentle blue eyes consoling me and the smell of his Old Spice cologne lingering on my jacket after a good bye hug.

My mother and brother were cremated.  I still have a portion of both their ashes tucked in special places in my house.  Somehow, I feel this keeps their spirits closer to me.  And often, when I least expect it, I swear I smell my brother’s cigarette smoke in my kitchen late at night or hear my mama’s footsteps in the hall, padding along in Dearfoam slippers, headed to the kitchen for a midnight snack.  Two night owls, just passing by for a visit.

Wherever they all are, I want to believe the three of them are together.  And I trust they know I forgive them. More importantly, I pray they forgive me for every hurtful word I ever said, and understand I am sorry for any slight I might have inflicted. Above all, I want them to know just how much I loved them.

And I will forever thank them for loving me.

Lately I find myself asking where is “home?”  Where is the place that spiritually never leaves me? David Brooks in his insightful and thought-provoking new book, How to Know a Person, muses that a person can leave home but their home never leaves them. In my experience, some people embrace their home and others spend their life trying to erase it. But we all have a place that is more familiar than anywhere else.  Where, if we were fortunate, we spent our childhood. For me, home is where we go when no one else will take us in.  Home is where we can just be. No judgment, few questions, just love.

Whenever I am asked where I grew up and what I call home, my answer is always West Virginia. The mountains, the air, the trees, the people, the colloquial language–it all represents my youth.  It’s the place that first reflected who I was in this life and what my purpose might be.

Still owning a house there, a feeling of peace surrounds me every time I cross the Ohio River and enter my home state.  When my kids were little, and we passed under the “Welcome to West Virginia” sign that hangs in the middle of the span of the bridge, we always honked.  I now do the same with my grandkids and even if I am alone.  It’s a a sort of “Hello there, I am back.” Much like my mother’s goodbye tradition of waving on the front porch long past our taillights disappearing over the hill.

After I married, I left my home and created a life in a new city that my children call home. Now that they are grown with families of their own I, like many people my age, am questioning if I should stay in the home their dad and I created for them. The four walls, the house, this address began as just that, a house.  But through years of having babies and sleepless nights and first days of school and graduations and tears and laughter and heartache and repair, it became a home.  The center of my family’s life.  These four walls are filled with the sounds of all those years.  Memories of the love we shared here that made this house our home.

Unlike turtles, we don’t carry our homes on our backs but in our hearts. And though not all of us have warm and fuzzy memories of where we grew up, it is nonetheless a large part of who we are and what we become.

Home isn’t always a place.  It can be a warm embrace from a trusted face or the hand that reaches out just when you feel you may break in two. It can be the fragance of a familiar flower or the feeling the envelops you in the slow darkness of the twilight hour in a best-loved place.

For me, I still find home in the Appalachian mountains. The people have my grandfather’s Scots/ Irish sense of humor, his warmth, his easy conversations. The air smells clean and crisp even on the rainiest of days and the stars still shine brightly in the night sky. As familiar as it is though, twentieth century American author, Thomas Wolfe, was correct when he wrote the  novel, You Can’t Go Home Again.

As adults when we do go home again, it is often not the same people. Many family members are long gone. Your high school has been torn down and redistricted for population fluctualtions. Restaurants are closed. Ball fields have new commercially sponsored names. But somewhere among all the changes, I still find a sense of peace I experience nowhere else.  I slide back into a slower pace of life. In those mountains, I feel a safety unlike any on earth. I find a feeling of belonging I think many of us spend our whole lives searching for.

My nephew, who also grew up in West Virginia, recently sent me a podcast from Today Explained that explored the international, universal appeal and popularity of John Denver’s famous ode to West Virginia, Take Me Home Country Roads. Although it has only recently been officially made our state song, Denver’s ballad has become profoundly popular in the far reaches of the world.  Folks in the United Kingdom sing it with tears of pride, Nigerians sing it and change the name of the destination.  It is sung in Japan, Sweden, France–the list goes on and on.  After exploring this phenomenon, the podcast delved into “why.”  And finally they concluded the reason is quite simple. “Everyone has a home and every home has a road to it.”

Human beings inherently have a deep pull toward a sense of place.

A place to call home.

During the holidays, I think about my parents, gone for over a decade, and my brother who died a few years ago. They each left a palpable hole in my life, and my heart. My father was quiet and reliable, a reassuring lap and as comforting as the sun rising each morning.  My mother was a dreamer, a warm, loving, gregarious woman, a bit of a flirt, who always had a ready hug. My brother is nearly impossible to describe.  A true individual, a wild and determined spirit who could not be told anything but what his soul dictated. He loved hard, played harder, laughed easily and sent himself to an early grave doing it all full throttle with no regrets.

Growing up in my family was unique in some ways. My brother was nine years older, my sister, who I still have in my life, six years before me and I was the “the caboose.” The church, where my parents met in the choir, was the center of our social life. We attended services Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night prayer meeting. We had Sunday night potlucks and summer Bible School. We didn’t go to movies on Sunday. So you might think we were a buttoned up, serious sort heeding only a life that kept us on  the staight and narrow.  But we were so much more than that.

Our house, when money was not being discussed, was full of laughter and people from all walks of life. People my mom might have talked to for ten minutes in the grocery store that she would ask to “stop by” for tea and her famous homemade brownies. My grandfather who lived to be 103, was often around captivating us with one of his tales.  He was a great story teller and had an even better sense of humor. Neighbors came and went, some not even bothering to ring the doorbell. There were animated discussions of politics, religion, school curriculum and the weather.

Snow days were a great neighborhood event. Living in West Virginia, our neighborhood was hilly so the fathers would block off the steepest street with saw horses, build a bonfire in a huge black metal garbage can and we would all sled, moms and dads included, until dark when the last of the marshmellows had been roasted on the dwindling flames of the fire.

But what I loved most about my family is that we danced. Just us. Whoever was in the room or in the mood. We would push the coffee table against the couch to clear the floor. Someone, most often my dad or my sister, would being out the faux leather suitcase-like turntable case, plug it in and flip the lid.  We usually played some old Mills Brothers album. Setting the speed to 33 rpm, we’d drop the needle on the vinyl and after a few seconds of muted crackling, “Paper Doll” would fill the air.  My dad was shy but on a dance floor he fourished.  He took my mom’s hands in his and he would lead her around the room. She would smile up at him as though he was the only man ever born and whenever she missed a step or bumped into his shoe, she would throw in a girlish giggle and keep gliding.

As kids, my brother and sister and I joined in with our own version of “gliding” and later we were the DJ playing The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, if my brother was home from college.  He always did hitchhiker, thumbs out pointing directions just below his hips while my sister and I just tried to look cool.

So on this first day of 2024, I passed this photo of my dad and me dancing at my bestfriend’s wedding and I am reminded to dance.  With music blasting in my car, or with my grandkids or alone in my kitchen. Forget what others might think or what is happening in the world and for a moment find the joy in letting go.

Just dance.

As Mark Twain wrote so perfectly, “Sing like no one’s listening, love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like nobody’s watching, and live like it’s heaven on earth”

On February 27, I went to bed in my sixties and on February 28, I woke up “old.”  I was on a Mexican vacation, where I have had the privilege to be for birthdays in the past few years, and I assumed this one would be the same.  All sunshine and balloons and happiness. But this birthday was different. I turned 70.  It is a sobering number.  But rather than dwell on the sober part of this transition, I drank tequila whenever it was offered, sat in the winter-break sun and wrinkled my skin and pretended I was still just 69.

It wasn’t until I returned home that the number really hit me.  When I mentioned to someone that I went away for a big birthday, the ever too often question was, “How old are you?” I innocently replied with the truth. And the response was “Wow, you don’t look that old.”  Now where I come from, that is a backhanded compliment. I was both flattered and nagged by the “that old” part.

Turning 70 does give one pause. It is more time lived than time left.  No matter how you swing it, unless you live to be 140, you have passed the halfway mark.

I remember a time in North Carolina at a family beach vacation when all of us were married and alive. Mom, dad, my sister and brother and I had traveled to the ocean with our families.  The first evening, I sat watching my mother feeding my six week old (yes we flew without all vaccines in the unenlightened times way back then), children running everywhere, my eldest nephew throwing cheddar cheese spit balls at everyone and everything until one glued itself to the vaulted ceiling. Adults were scattered on the deck, by the beer cooler, in the porch rockers. The moon was rising over the ocean, its reflection sparkling on the black night ocean and in a moment of clarity, I realized this was fleeting. I said,” This is as good as it gets, isn’t it mama?  And she answered, “Yes, it is darlin’. Savor it. Enjoy every minute.” And so I did. I have. Most of the time.

But, suddenly being “old” is a startling reminder of the truth of my mama’s words. Now that life has slowly chipped away at my sense of invincibility, I understand her insight better, and the evidence is everywhere. Actors I admired and idolized as a younger me are dying and I am shocked. I hear Raquel Welch is dead and my first thought is, “Oh my, was she hit by a car?” Instead, the news reports she died peacefully in her sleep after a short illness surrounded by family. What?! The iconic sex symbol of my formative years died of the obit euphemism for “old age”?  Burt Bacharach and Chuck Jackson, who sang many of Bacharach’s songs, died also, their ages startling me as much as the fact that they were gone.

Mulling over this new found reality that I, like many of my peers and idols, are sliding toward the downward slope, I have diverted my thoughts to the positive aspects of being “old.” One advantage is I don’t take bullshit answers for much of anything anymore. I am making a conscious effort to spend time with people who replenish me. Value my input. Make me laugh. Share my tears.

I watched an interview with one of my favorite, quirky, beautiful girl-next- door actresses, Andie McDowell, who was asked why she was letting her signature dark curls go grey.  Her reply at 65 was simple.  “I want to be old.  I am tired of trying to be young. I don’t even want to be young. I have been young.” Easy to say when her perfectly salt and pepper hair tumbles around her still model-worthy face, but I loved her honesty. Her acceptance.

I was recently watching a great new show my daughter introduced me to called Shrinking.  I was so proud. As an “elderly’ person, I signed up for Apple TV+ all by myself, copied the QR Code on the TV screen, matched it on the computer and then triumphantly I got to the show but it had subtitles which I couldn’t figure out how to switch off. Just too much technology for me to tackle in one sitting.

So I watched it anyway. And at first, I found it distracting and then two episodes in, I realized it was like reading before bed with visuals.  I didn’t have to turn up my volume so loud that the neighbors could hear it and I didn’t have to rewind to hear “what did she say?”  It was perfect. I am not hard of hearing, of course, except in crowded restaurants where people across the table always whisper or straining to understand my grandchildren’s soft voices or my adult children when I don’t want to hear what they are saying.  But this subtitles discovery is perfect and not to mention, magic.

I have always had a nagging yearning to do one memorable thing before I die.  As I get older, I realize raising three kids into adulthood, and seeing them as compassionate, responsible adults, makes a beautiful mark on this world. That is quite something to have accomplished. And I actully like them all.  Alot.

They have six and soon to be seven children between them. I always say grandchildren are our chance to love a child unconditionally without the angst of making them perfect. My youngest, due later this month, is having her first in her mid-thirties.  Her pregnancy is called a geriatric pregnancy. Don’t even get me started on what that makes me as the grandmother. I feel certain the word would be right up there with senile purpura, the medical term for those ugly purple ink blots that appear on my forearm if I look at it wrong or sneeze too hard.

Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard said, “Life can only be understood backward but must be lived forwards.” When I was younger, I mused about its irony but recently I better understand its grave validity. I constantly remind myself to stay in the “now” and live life as it is happening. And I attempt to temper my experiences with some comprehension in the present.

One thing I know for sure, we only get one chance at this life. And I plan to live the hell out of it, no matter my age or society’s notions about that number.

For now, I am going with 70 is the new 50.  And if I am still standing at 80 or 90, I will  just up it a decade and keep it on repeat.

A friend of mine recently asked while we were walking, “What is your daily  routine?”  I paused and said, “As in self-care or what jammies do I sleep in?”  She laughed and said, “Any of it. I am pretty bad at it all.”

I pondered her question and realized not everyone has a specific routine or are not as particular as I am about the products they use or even know if they prefer sleeping in crisp cotton vs. an old t-shirt.

I have thought about this since we worked our way to our three mile mark and 7,000 steps.  And I realized there are items I am devoted to and have used for years with only a few new additions.  Even if I was served 500 Instagram ads to switch or abandon them, I would not.

So look out Oprah, you are not the only one who can have “favorite things.”  I am here to contest that.

1.Vanicream Gentle Facial Cleanser: I have used this for years, morning and night.  Super gentle and great for skin that tends to be red or sensitive. Purchase at Target, any drugstore or on the addictive monster Amazon. Less than $10.

https://www.walgreens.com/store/c/vanicream-gentle-facial-cleanser-for-sensitive-skin/ID=prod6238095-product

2. CeraVe Hyaluronic Serum: Hyaluronic acid is the buzz word in every brand of moisturizers these days. It is really not acidic at all but a naturally occurring moisture locking source in everyone’s skin. I have tried all the expensive brands and this super hydrating serum is by far the best. Often on the top five lists from dermatologists. A light gel cream that doesn’t clog pores or irritate even the most sensitive skins. Use alone or with a heavier moisturizer. Also at Amazon, Target, Ulta or drugstores. $20.

https://www.ulta.com/p/hydrating-hyaluronic-acid-serum-pimprod2002096

3. Thrive Lash Extensions Mascara: As a thin lashed blonde, I have used every mascara known to woman–waterproof, smudge proof, fillers, no fillers. This one hands down is the best by far.  Not only does it thicken and lengthen your lashes even with one coat,  it encourages growth without all the icky chemicals and hormones. And it washes off with soap and water. Added bonus, a portion of proceeds are give to women’s organizations to help women thrive.  A win/win! $24

https://thrivecausemetics.com/products/liquid-lash-extensions-mascara

4. Patchology Flashpatch Rejuvenating Eye Gels:  I have discovered in my over-sixty facial routine, that most eye creams are targeting wrinkles rather than puffiness.  Having the latter as my bigger problem, I realized that wrinkle reducers puff the skin to erase the lines.  So after wasting my money on too many miracle eye creams that gave me puffy eyes, I have landed on these nifty little gel patches that I apply in the morning while I am making tea.  Work like a charm to reduce the overnight puff and moisturize skin.  Also good to perk up eyes before a big night out. Available at Nordstrom, Amazon, Ulta. $35

https://www.ulta.com/p/flashpatch-rejuvenating-eye-gels-xlsImpprod12791007

5. Sisley Stylo Lumiere : This hydrating undereye concealing cream comes in a pen-like wand and is super easy to apply. It covers the puff or wrinkles while brightening eyes. Can be used as a highlighter on other parts of the face if you are a Hollywood type that makes your face “set ready” before you leave the house.  For minimal makeup, I use this under eyes, mascara, lip gloss and a little bronzer. One of my favorite items. Comes in colors. Use #2 if you have pink in your skin and #1 if you have yellow. At most department stores. I get mine at Nordstrom. $75

https://www.nordstrom.com/s/sisley-paris-stylo-lumire-highlighter-pen/5037951

6. Sisley Blur Expert : My other Sisley indulgence is this powder. One color for all skin. It is a silky smooth light powder that literally blurs redness, dark spots, freckles and even a blemish or two into one smooth, even skin texture.  I am not a foundation  person, so this is it for my face, with or without a little bronzer. Invisible on skin and so are the imperfections! $105

https://www.nordstrom.com/sr?origin=keywordsearch&keyword=sisley%20Blur%20Expert

7. Sonia Kashuk Powder Blending Brush: After years of buying way too expensive eye shadow and face brushes, I finally found this brand at Target.  This one works for any face application for me and they have every angle of blush and eye shadow brushes, too. These brushes are easy to clean and don’t flatten like the expensive natural bristle ones. Vegan/Cruelty Free $20

https://www.target.com/p/sonia-kashuk-8482-professional-powder-blending-brush-no-137/-/A-76615600#lnk=sametab

8. Chanel Rouge Coco Lip gloss:  I have been wearing this moisturizing lip gloss rather than lipstick for at least 25 years. I vary the colors with the seasons or as the spirit moves me.  My current favorite is Icing #176.  I keep a tube in my purse as well as most coat pockets.  I love the texture, the amount of shine and most of all, it has zero “flavor.”  Nothing like raspberry vanilla wafting up your nostrils as you are powering through the grocery store. I rarely walk out the door without this gloss and sunglasses. At Nordstrom, Bloomies, Neiman Marcus, Ulta. $32

https://www.bloomingdales.com/shop/product/chanel-rouge-coco-gloss-moisturizing-glossimer?ID=2525259&CategoryID=2921

9. Olaplex Hair Perfector No. 3:  I recently discovered this hair elixir that does way more than condition hair. It magically strengthens and, according to the directions, “bonds” hair strands so that frizz and split ends disappear.  With a weekly ten minute application, your hair will be silky smooth but not flat. Manageable even on the most humid days. Available at Amazon, Sephora, Hair salons $28

https://www.sephora.com/product/olaplex-hair-perfector-no-3-P428224

So, after you have gathered all these miraculous face and hair transforming products, what should you keep them in?  Voila!  Another favorite:

10. Nomi Network Make Up Pouches:  The Nomi Network is a wonderful organization whose mission is to end modern slavery and help the world’s most vulnerable women avoid or survive sex trafficking.  They teach young women skills to empower them to be self-sufficient and less likely to fall prey to exploitation. Their motto says it all, “Buy her bag, not her body.” The bags I love are made in Cambodia from recycled rice bags.  I have them in three sizes: toiletries, make up and medicine pouch.  All come in great vibrant colors. $20-25

https://shop.nominetwork.org/products/medium-accessory-pouch

Whether you are at home, on a business trip, or visiting some exotic land, before you drift off into dreamland, my last two favorites for me are a must.  Cotton jammies and a quiet room.

11. Marigot Collection Pajamas:  Not by design, I have saved my most expensive indulgence for last.  My daughter actually intoduced me to these as a Christmas gift. Ironically they were on one of Oprah’s first favorite things list. I have been wearing them for over 15 years and still actually have my first pair. They are the perfect weight pima cotton printed in playful designs and classic stripes.  I prefer the Lorient prints.  They are great for travel–light yet cozy enough for year-round wear.  I buy a medium for the “borrowed a man’s pj’s” look. My grandsons picked out my last pair.  Yellow squid with black ink. $165

https://marigotcollection.com/collections/new-arrivals/products/lorient-block-print-long-pajama-set-new

12. Serene Evolution White Noise Machine:  I have bought and searched for the most compact but powerful travel-sized white noise machine and this one by far is the winner.  Barely larger than a face powder compact it includes a power plug but can be used with a USB port. This little bit of peaceful sleep is a keeper. Diverse choice of sounds. Use for home or travel. $20

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B095XF8RSZ/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_search_asin_title?ie=UTF8&psc=1

And there you have it! Everything you need to freshen up, get where you are going and sleep well when you get there.

Who would have ever thought we’d be on year two of this pandemic? The daily stresses, the emotional and economic costs, the deaths. The dogfights to receive a vaccine, the dogfights about the validity of vaccines. And still two years in, to mask or not to mask remains the question.

This epidemic has been the most divisive of any event I can remember in my lifetime.  And I say that having grown up in the sixties.  I witnessed the civil rights movement, the anger and controversy of the Vietnam War and political assassinations. But I have never experienced or felt the national and international division this pandemic has created.

It has been frightening, confusing and isolating. And most of all, it has left me with a deep sense of grief and loss.

Loss of loved ones, jobs and time.  College graduations, a proverbial rite of passage into adulthood, diminished to a one-by-one square on a computer screen where the sound of Pomp and Circumstance is completely absent, the whooping and cap-in-the-air throwing something a large chunk of this generation will never know. Our local grade school has a wonderful tradition of a bicycle safety exam.  Written and turf tested, it awards second graders the ability to ride their bikes to school alone in third grade. But that tradition, too, was lost to taking virtual courses on iPads in their bedrooms.

So much letting go, from the trivial to life altering. I, for one, have had a double dose of loss and isolation.  In the midst of Covid lockdown, my husband of 45 years decided he wanted a divorce. After a few months of perfunctory marital counseling, leave he did as soon as we stopped wiping down groceries with Lysol and cars were back on the road. He had taken a year off at twenty years into our marriage but we reconciled and renewed our vows.  Recommitted to each other and to raising our kids under one roof, with one set of parents.

But the second he placed his house key on the island, I knew this time was for good.

Rather than go into the gory details of working remotely with attorneys or the laborious division of assets or whose fault this divorce really is and how we got to this point after nearly half a century of being a team, I prefer to address how I have survived the loss of love in the time of Covid.

The isolation has been everywhere for everyone, but facing the fear of this disease, of death, of a life we knew that feels it will never be the same, facing it solo has been daunting to say the least.  I was married when I was barely 20. I did not have my first apartment alone, never bought my first car by myself or supported myself paycheck to paycheck.  I shared all those hallmarks of being an adult with my husband.

In the last year, I have moved through Kubler-Ross’s model of grief–denial, anger, bargaining, depression and I am easing into acceptance.  I am accepting the end of a commitment that I have spent most of my adult life honoring. And that acceptance has not come easily.  It took countless hours of professional guidance and endlessly unloading my tangled emotions on faithful friends who have listened with open hearts and offered hours of support until they, too, probably wanted to divorce me.

If “time heals all wounds” as my mama would say, when this pandemic is over and this divorce is final, I will be just me again.  No Mrs.  No spouse. No guaranteed date for the movies or a getaway trip to anywhere. Being married young and for so long, I have realized that, like those college graduates and third graders,  I have I missed my own rites of passage. And the unexpected luxury of being “just me.”

I have lived much of my life sharing someone else’s dreams. Now it is time to live my own dreams. And slowly but surely I am hearing a persistent, quiet voice inside that knows where I want to go and what I want to do.  I just allowed her to get muffled by my vision of  how life is supposed to be and doing the right thing.

I allowed “me” to get lost in the “we.”

That me, that little girl was born with hopes and visions of her own for the future.  And many of those I have lived.  But I am realizing that a big part of that feisty little girl, who got marched out of church for talking through the sermon most Sundays, is still in there. Fighting to be heard.

One of the most prolific and gifted writers of the 19^th Century George ( born Mary Ann) Eliot wrote, “It is never too late to be what you might have been.”

And wisely, Eliot started by changing her first name, not her last.

I was thrilled she asked to run to the bathroom, being newly potty trained and in the middle of playing with toys at my house she doesn’t see at her own. Mostly she chooses cars, well, always cars.  No dolls.  Just cars.  If you hand her a doll or a stuffed animal, she drives it across the windowsill as though it has wheels making a “vroom vroom” sound.  Our little Danica Patrick.

Still clutching a firetruck, she hopped onto the toilet as only a two-and-a-half-year-old can. When she finished, thinking she would ask me to flush, she leaned forward with the cutest nearly imperceptible lisp you have ever heard and said, “How do you like my dress? ” I swear.  Those words.  Her mother is a stylist, but I have to think it was me being her fashionista Yaya, she just had to share.  I had admired it all day.  The pinkness of the flounce.  The ink black print against the pale cotton but I had not thought about what the tiny creatures were until she asked.  I tidied the skirt a bit and said,”I love it!  Are those squid?  Octopus?”  She looked befuddled.

About that time,  her 6′ 5″ dad walked in, lifted her off the toilet seat like a papa bear grabbing its cub with one paw, and said matter of factly, “Jellyfish, Yaya.  Can’t you see? The tentacles?”  Gathering up her blonde curls and retwisting her scrunchy onto her whimsical little ponytail he scurried her back to the family room with a “play ball” pat on her bottom. Tucked behind a chair in a corner, her brother had hoarded all the cars in the three-minute span she had taken for her potty break. And who wouldn’t?  Who wants to give up their first born status to a sister who not only is the first granddaughter but prefers his cars to dolls and ballet lessons?

Oh, this new world of basketball dads that do scrunchies and moms that pitch baseballs. And children that pick toys and sports they love, not ones we program them for. Gotta love it.

I was out of town for nearly a month and in my absence a couple of robin pairs must have thought my home was an abandoned property because they built not one but two nests right outside my front and back door.  I mean at eye level and touchable.  Well, I think it is two couples unless one male lets these nest-bound ladies think he is on a business trip as he darts from front to back feeding them both and now their babies.

I say babies but in the last week I have become confused if it is the mom or one of the kids giving me the stink eye when I come in or out the doors.  Robins are so good at the one eye west death stare with their beady black eyes. These babies are now indistinguishable from their parents and I wonder if teenaged birds are “Gen Zs” now, too?  I mean, if you are big enough to fill the nest, get off your fat white speckled robin ass, stop the selfies, drop the phone and get on with it. Go from virtual to actual and get out in the world. Get an education or get a job digging worms or a degree in twig choices for nest building and move the hell on.  Make a contribution to your society. These parents are wearing themselves out feeding, guarding , swooping, squawking and keeping the danger at bay while this brood just sits there waiting for DoorDash to fly up with a fresh stack of mealworms or cicada meat.

Watching them I realize that nature has so much to teach us about life in general. And like the world we are raising our children, grandchildren and budding Gen Z’s in, birds in particular not only model admirable shared parenting skills but they are also gender neutral. Many birds raise their babies in same-sex partnerships. Barn owls, house sparrows, even chickens often prefer the company of a same-sex partner. Actually the chickens are easily understandable if you have ever spent any time watching a rooster strut around the barn.

Flamingos are also often in committed same-sex relationships that involve living together and raising their young together. One fifth of all swan couples are gay.  Scientists gave a female penguin couple an abandoned egg and they raised it to adulthood, all a blur of black and white bliss waddling into the sunset.

So to come full circle from my car-loving granddaughter and the shared household and child-rearing duties I watch all my children demonstrating in their marriages, I am impressed. As confusing and often confounding as this brave new world can appear to our generation, I think it is great progress.

Maybe, just maybe, they know more about the birds and the bees than we do.

It appears given the days since my last entry, this blog is currently bi-annual.  But with Covid-19 turning most everything we perceived as our reality upside down, I feel I have an excuse for my lapse in sharing my occasional musings. If we have learned nothing else in the last ten or so months, it is that life can turn on a dime. I mean with back flips and more fanfare than we have ever wanted from the vicious, heinous, invader we call Covid-19.

It is an unrelenting enemy.  It will take all it can and then when you think you don’t have another cell left to surrender, it will invade that with a mutated version of itself. This virus has affected our hearts, our souls, our jobs, our schools, our social lives, our politics, our family lives. We can’t take a breath without thinking of it. Take a step without worrying about it.  Our fight or flight instincts are constantly on high alert.  In pre-Covid days, we said “bless you” when someone sneezed.  Now we bolt in the opposite direction and ask if the perpetrator is sick? Have you been swabbed? Is that a N95 mask or is it just your t-shirt pulled over your nose?

But beyond the social distancing, the masks, the hand washing, the constant vigilance to avoid infection, we must remember what we were before this virus entered our lives and what we can be after we are vaccinated and God willing Covid-19 fades into the background or on to future history books.

We will return to being social beings. We will touch, we will hug, we will kiss, we will wipe tears. We will mourn the confounding loss of human life, the families with an empty chair at the dinner table. We will share their loss. Some of us may suffer our own. We will grieve with our friends, we will grieve for strangers, we will grieve for our nation.

But how will we talk? What words will we use?  Our vocabulary is so permeated with Covid-19 jargon, will we ever speak normally again? What will we mitigate if we are mingling freely with no social distance?  Will we go back to flattening the curves with Spanx? Will we ever describe anything as going viral again? Will herd immunity return to a concept for cattle with hoof and mouth disease? Will we ever again think of an aerosol as an air freshener or hairspray?

These questions amuse me on good days but the prospect of using them as we did pre-Covid-19 fills me with hope. Our survival as a nation depends on a world where love, perseverence and doing the right thing for humanity, not just our own selfish needs or political views, prevails over the virus and the chaos we now find ourselves battling in our homes, our cities, our states.

I believe we will get there. But it takes the fortitude to overcome Covid fatigue and avoid 2 a.m. doomsurfing on the web and going back to good old healthy Amazon shopping that we forget by dawn what we bought. It will take ignoring fake news, staying home, wearing masks and continuing our new normal until a new less daunting normal arrives.

But aside from all my optimism that we will get to the other side of this, I know it will never be the same as it was pre-Covid.  And perhaps some of that is good. We will have to face the partisan ideologies and social climate that made this a politcal issue as much as a world health crisis. And if we are ever able to shake hands again, maybe just maybe, there can be some of that across the current divide.

These days I think often of Dickens’ famous opening lines to A Tale of Two Cities.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief…it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

It was a tale of class wars and an eventual spiritual resurrection.

I hope we can follow suit and with an abundance of caution, get there.

I have a particularly precocious and loqucious four-year-old grandson.  When I enter his house he often asks me, “What are you doing here?”  And later “Why are you still here?”  At first, I was taken back by his sassiness.  And then I thought about the fact that I am there to help tutor his older brothers. His whole family are all there, every day. His parents are both working from home (WFH) and his brothers are home schooled virtually. He no longer attends preschool. And I realized he may really be asking what I am doing there, too?

If all of this reversal of familiar norms confounds adults, what does a little guy with only four years under his belt think of our social isolation?  The virus. The constant hand washing. The masked living.  The fear of touching other human beings. The adults around him adjusting to ever-changing guidelines.

So I ask myself, what AM I doing here most of these unprecedented days?

Hanging on by a thread and hoping the spool stays intact.

Like many of you, the last two months have been the most unexpected and unpredictable in my life.  And this is coming from a woman who has experienced a school shooting, stood by as her husband took a marital “vacation” and has seen a son through a couple of cancers.  So my propensity to constantly wait for the other shoe to drop has some merit in reality.  In addition, I inherently have a rather strong fight or flight instinct anyway.  Given that, I am drawn to the familiar.  The more predictable my experiences in life the better.  You will never catch me with a parachute on my back or ice clip hiking in the Alps.  Like my dad, I like the same routes, clear skies and caller ID.

So you give me Covid-19 with all of its unpredictability and confusion and mixed messages and unclear treatments and models of prevention that vary city to city, state to state, country to country, doctor to doctor and I am on tilt.  Like those fruits and numbers that reel by as you wait for a slot machine to land on three images, that’s my brain. While my head feels like someone turned my ninth-grade record player up from 33 rpm to 78, the outside of my body feels like that awful sound when someone rips the vinyl disc out from under the needle and cracks the record over their knee. Again, an allusion to said father if I was listening to music after midnight when he had to get up at 4:30 to provide an album or two and put food on the table.

No the outside of my crazed brain, looks nothing like the album cover I had two months ago. Needing a haircut and highlights (of course I am a natural blonde, I just “augment” it) before self-isolation began, I am three months into facing the real me.    Mousy, unkempt, dark blonde hair, a little paunchy from perhaps more than one glass of wine a night or the fact that most days I just go from my daytime pajamas to my nighttime pajamas. And the kiss of death for any model figure is a drawstring waistband.  To top it off, I have a stye in my right eye which I never get unless my husband has one, which he did, or if I am extremely stressed, which I am.

I swear I have aged ten years in the last couple months.  Either that or the fact that with no distractions beyond Outlander and The Last Dance, I have too much time to notice myself as I pass a mirror. And I refuse to resort to Tiger King to avoid that.

But as we head into month three, or perhaps two years, of uncertainty and masked living, I have a few good things that I have discovered while sheltering in place with my husband, the parking garage CEO.

First of all, as for living daily under the same roof, it has been an unexpected surprise. Before this all began, we had been on a lower dip of the proverbial roller coaster called marriage.  Forty five years is hard enough to navigate alone, much less side by side with a person of the opposite sex. When he stepped out of his role of running a company and stepped back into the shoes of helping me run a household,  because I am a princess and we had a housekeeper before, most days he is a pretty nice guy.  He grocery shops, cooks, helps clean and even feeds my birds. He has learned why I am at war with squirrels and chipmonks on our back patio who destroy those feeders. Has even accepted that I stay up watching “whatever” until after midnight and sleep in the morning to make up for it.

And I, having to listen to his constant Zoom meetings, which cannot be avoided since for some reason he feels he has to speak into a megaphone to be heard, have a better understanding of what he does everyday under more normal circumstances. The challenges, the frustrations, the conflicts. Especially in a world when the entire driving universe came to a screeching halt and garages have stood empty or half full at best for weeks.

We walk almost everyday. We don’t argue over stupid things like we used to.  I guess life seems a little more precious. Or precarious. But it’s been OK for us in general. For the most part.  On most days.

But if the Japanese Killer Hornets, which I just read about this morning, that are the size of small birds and bite the heads off of whole hives of bees and can kill humans with their thumbtack-sized stingers become the pestilence that follows, or accompanies, this pandemic I will most certainly be done with all this perspective.  I will need professional help.

Or begin to model their behavior.  One can only be so perfect for so long.