The Deadbolt

The deadbolt wouldn’t latch. It was a door in my house that I didn’t usually use, but I was quite sure it had been secured when I’d opened it. I pushed harder with no luck. And then I pushed harder still. I didn’t have time for this. I braced myself against the opposing wall and gave it a stronger shove. Still the deadbolt would not budge. I could feel myself getting annoyed.

What was I doing wrong?

I loosened my grip on the knob and pondered. Then, relaxing, I allowed the door to come ever so slightly forward. I tried again, and the deadbolt slid easily into place.

I can’t help but laugh at myself now when I think of this silly little incident. It was the perfect metaphor of my personality. I push. I never want to appear weak.

Interestingly, I was recently called out on this very thing by a new acquaintance. He’s been studying me, and he pulled me aside at a party to share his insight about me. I felt exposed. And, yes, that made me feel weak and vulnerable.

I know that my family tires sometimes (maybe often) of my stubborn unwillingness to quit pushing and back down. Would it really hurt so much to give in sometimes? To let that door swing open just a bit?

I’m not planning to rewrite my personality. I like who I am. But even at my mature age, I can see that there is plenty of room for improvement.

If I open my mind a little more, maybe I’ll learn from other people’s ideas. If I open my heart a little more, maybe I’ll be more empathetic. If I could learn to relax a little more and to push a little less, maybe I could allow this new acquaintance to become a friend.

And if I learn to back down and quit pushing, I’ll be able to allow things to fit themselves into place.

The Nature Lesson: Butterflies

I cringed when she opened the package. It was my daughter Kelsey's 10th birthday, and she'd received a butterfly kit from a well-intentioned relative.

Well, at least it wasn't a chemistry set. The little booklet made it seem like a pretty easy lesson about nature, I thought, as we filled out the enclosed form to request the caterpillars.

Waiting for the little critters to show up in the mail, I pictured my family of five all hovering around the plastic cage, observing this lesson as we watched Mother Nature at work.

These painted lady butterflies would be brief and interesting visitors, unlike the long-term commitments of the Golden Retriever we'd brought home from the SPCA and our Blackie cat we were still mourning. We also had recently brought a new rescue kitty, Chloe, into our home, and she'd promptly established herself on Kelsey's desk. 

When the caterpillars showed up, we were ready to begin the lesson. We moved Chloe off of the desk and out of the bedroom, and we set up the habitat. As the caterpillars crawled around and eventually spun themselves into their little chrysalises, I regretted my initial unease. I know I tend to be the family fun-sucker. I worry. That's my job.

But this was kind of fun. And interesting. And educational. Moms like simple lessons about life. We all enjoyed the anticipation of opening the bedroom door to peak in at Mother Nature's progress. And as we secured the door again, we'd wonder what would be next in this lesson of observation.

The next part of the lesson was that of patience. It would take a little over a week for the pupae to transform themselves during the metamorphosis stage.

At last, right on schedule, they emerged. Painted lady butterflies! Bright orange and speckled, they were beautiful!!

Having the miracle of metamorphosis display itself right before our eyes was amazing. They rested magnificently inside their plastic habitat as their wings hardened.

We planned to release the butterflies into the yard as part of the lesson. We hoped that they would stick around during their brief two-weeks of remaining life expectancy.

But the next part of the lesson turned out to be the most difficult, as one day Kelsey walked up the stairs to her room and was surprised to find the door ajar. And just inside, crouched on the floor, was Chloe, happily eating a butterfly. The lesson had become a butterfly massacre.

The habitat was knocked over, and the bedroom was covered with shredded butterflies. Most were dead. A couple quivered their torn, spotted wings. Not a single one was unscathed.

We gathered up the survivors and took them outside to the garden. And the lesson of Mother Nature came to an end.

The Mensch

Mensch: A decent, upright person. In vernalacular, a truly good person.

Do you know that person? Every family should have at least one.

During the second week of October, 1971, I sat in the lobby of the Panorama City Kaiser Permanente hospital while my family went upstairs to say goodbye to my grandpa. I wasn't allowed upstairs. I remember the loneliness of sitting downstairs. Waiting for someone to keep me company.  Not being allowed to take part in the family togetherness.

My cousin Leonard came and picked me up. I don't recall a lot of the details,  but I remember that he took me home with him. He tucked me into bed that night along with his own daughter who was my age.  He took us to a baseball game,  the Dodgers vs. the Astros. Of course, I was still sad, but I felt so much less alone.

Years later when my own dad was in that same hospital, I flew down to southern California. I was plenty old enough to rent a car and get myself to the hospital,  but Leonard insisted upon picking me up.

That's the kind of person Leonard is: a mensch.

I wonder sometimes how Leonard came to be the person we thought to call when we needed someone there. But he is the one who has been called first by several different cousins when there's been need to rally the family. As the executive director of a very large organization, he certainly didn't have the type of job that made it easy to get away, yet he managed. 

When my dad passed away, Leonard broke away from an important business meeting to take my call, and he and his wife made the three-hour drive to be with my mom. He sat with her until I could get there,  only to turn right around and make a late-night return trip in order to be back at work the next morning.

It's not always the bad stuff. My mom's 80th birthday? He was there. My film project being screened at a film festival? He was there. 

I'm grateful that our family has this man, this mensch, to show us what being decent and upright is all about.

A Long Conversation

"I like to start my notes to you as if we’re already in the middle of a conversation."

That's part of a line from one of my favorite movies, You've Got Mail. It has always resonated with me because that is exactly how I feel about my text messages.

As phones have become more computer-like, and computers have become more mobile, I've gotten into the habit of considering each person's preferred communication method when I want to get in touch with someone. Is he using his tablet. Is it too late to text? Does she understand the little red notification message at the top of the screen?

Email, Facebook, text message, land line, cell phone. Everyone has his preference and will adamantly argue why his is the best choice.

"I'm on the computer all day at work and don't want to look at it at home." "I don't text." "I don't answer my home phone." "I'm not on Facebook because I don't care what people are having for lunch." At least one of these applies to you, right?

If you want to reach me, use whichever method you prefer. I'll answer...well, maybe not the house phone.

Personally, I cringe at the thought of talking on the telephone, any telephone. I've never mastered the art of interpreting people's emotions or figuring out when it's my turn to speak on the phone. My brain doesn't stay focused well enough to follow along for more than a few minutes before I start thinking about the dishes in the sink or wondering what type of cookies are in the cupboard.

Email and Facebook have their usefulness, but I'll pick up my cell phone and send a text whenever I can. My text messages are parts of long conversations. I like being able to scroll through previous texts to remind myself of those words of encouragement, snippets of gossip, and advice offered or received.

When I replaced my phone in the fall, I sadly visualized all of those long conversations disappearing. I even considered trying to save them, but I didn't want the guy at the store to think I was silly.

And so I started building new conversations that I look forward to continuing.

Indignation

Let's play a game. I'll list some names, and you tell me how you feel about them.

Bashar al-Assad

Jane Fonda

Michael Jackson

Roman Polanski

Joseph Stalin

Donald Sterling

Michael Vick

Joffrey Baratheon (All right. I know he's not real, but I'm glad the old bat did him in.)

It's so strange to me where society does and does not decide to jump into the frenzy. One may be splayed and skewered while another is practically ignored.

Donald Sterling's private comments show him to be pathetic and small-minded. As far as I'm concerned, however, that's as far is it should go. Ordinarily I wouldn't put any more thought into the situation because I certainly don't follow the entertainment genre of professional sports. Unfortunately, it's nearly impossible to avoid the barrage of "news" about it.

I'm bothered by the capriciousness of public indignation.

Some of the names on my list may mean nothing to you, and others might make you feel sick right down to your core. Entertainers usually get a free pass because, after all, they're artists. Or, if we really like their movies, it doesn't matter what they've done. And then there are the opinions that they've never been found guilty in a court of law or that they've paid their time.

Again, I go back to Donald Sterling. I don't see a secretly recorded private conversation going very far in a courtroom.

My original intention in writing about the baffling habit of punishing some bad behaviors while ignoring others was to draw a conclusion about which groups of people are most likely to be found guilty in the court of public opinion. As I ponder this question, I'm still utterly baffled.

Trial in the Court of Public Opinion

I want to hear what you think about the Donald Sterling punishment!! Please weigh in. Vote and/or comment. Nite: to view the poll on a mobile device,  you must view the Web version.

Daily Mitzvah

It was a loving tribute to his new bride.

I had the honor of attending the wedding reception for my cousin Benjamin and his wife, Esty, a few years ago. He was the only one of my cousins to enter into a good, old-fashioned arranged marriage. I'll admit to being equal parts curious about how this was all working out and grateful to have something happy to celebrate. And so, with two of my adult children, we made the trek from Sacramento to Los Angeles to be a part of the festivities.

We all liked Esty instantly. She's one of those people who makes you feel that she's interested in you. It was obvious that whoever had decided that these two should be a match really knew his stuff.

As we sat visiting and catching up with family news, Benjamin stood and got everyone's attention. He wanted to introduce his wife (our newest cousin) to us so that we could see her through his eyes.

That was several years ago, and Benjamin's words have stayed with me. 

At the end of every day, Benjamin said, before she goes to bed, Esty thinks through her day and makes sure she has done a mitzvah. He was referring to the modern, colloquial definition of mitzvah, "a good deed." Because she'd made this a part of her life, the essence of her inner being, she needn't worry about disappointing herself. She could go to sleep at night feeling content.

A mitzvah. It doesn't have to be anything huge or monumental. Just something. Phoning a friend who's feeling down, thanking a veteran for his service, donating to a worthwhile cause, or  perhaps visiting an elderly neighbor who could use some company.

What a great way to end the day!! It must be very comforting to Esty to fall asleep with that thought every night, way more pleasant, anyway, than counting sheep or ruing an overloaded to-do list.

Benjamin entreated us, his friends and relatives, to follow Esty's lead by doing our own daily mitzvot. Planting that idea was his gift to us to celebrate his marriage.

Although I've made a point to follow Benjamin's encouragement, I'm not quite there yet with the same confidence. Sometimes I get so caught up in my own day and my own schedule that I forget to reflect about whether I've done my daily mitzvah.

Perhaps my mitzvah for today could be to launch a mitzvah brigade. I entreat you all to do a good deed today. Anything!! And tonight, when you go to bed and reflect over your day, you, too, can have the comfort of knowing that you've done your daily mitzvah.

Simplicity

I peered into the refrigerator hopefully.

Tortillas. A bag of shredded cheese. Salsa. Hmmm. And some leftover rice. BINGO.

This was going to be a perfect afternoon meal with friends.

I'm not always this easy-going when it comes to food. In fact, I will always remember that night I sat at the kitchen counter crying in front of my son's friends because I had made a mistake with his birthday cake. I'd spent four hours on that cake!!

And I've spent 3 hours on a lasagna. It was DELICIOUS!!

I like to cook. I do a pretty decent job of it. I rarely stick to the recipes, and it's fun to have an audience for my creations. But it's easy to get so carried away with planning and preparations that I run out of energy to enjoy the moment.

This particular day with friends in the backyard was after we'd spent the morning out in the boat. It was hot, and we were all a little tired when we got back to my house.

I gathered up the bounty that I'd found in the sparsely stocked refrigerator and headed outside. As we all sat and visited, I started assembling quesadillas on the barbecue. We ate them about as quickly as they were coming off the grill. We were all busy people, and it was so nice to be able to relax for a change. And because our relationship usually revolved around our kids, we enjoyed the opportunity to focus on each other. We don't do that enough.

Although it was simple and took very little effort, our impromptu meal turned out to be one that I'll always fondly remember.

Real Heart, Real Soul, and a Jewish Easter Picnic

The phone was ringing as we opened the door, and we all knew what it meant. Even though I wasn't quite 8 years old, I'll never forget that sound. It was the news that my grandpa had died.

October 10, 1971.

We had just returned to Northern California after the family had spent the previous week in Los Angeles saying goodbye to him. By family, I mean everyone besides me. I wasn't allowed upstairs to his hospital room. I was told I was too young. 

Although I understood what had happened, my older brother still sat me down to tell me. But then he said something that didn't make sense. I don't remember his exact words. It was something like, "He wasn't our real grandfather." I remember the word "adopted" being part of it.

Simultaneously,  I realized two things: that my teen-aged brother was bad at explaining things and that blood didn't matter. Of course he was my real grandpa. He loved me.

My earliest memory of my grandpa's love was Easter when I was maybe three or four years old. We'd driven down to LA from El Dorado Hills the day before. Like most little girls, I was excited about Easter, and I asked my grandparents if there would be an Easter picnic.

My grandparents looked at me as if I was some strange, extraterrestrial creature. They were Jewish. But I had a Baptist father and lived in a very Protestant neighborhood. Easter was part of my normal.

My grandpa loved me. He also liked a good party and a good story. So he immediately started working the phone. He managed to rally my grandma's family, and they all showed up, a little perplexed perhaps, for the Easter picnic. Although my memories of that day are a little fuzzy, I remember happily hunting for Easter eggs under the shade of my grandparents English walnut in their North Hollywood backyard.

And I remember feeling loved.

So back to that awful night in 1971. Was he my real grandpa? Absolutely. The fact that he insisted upon adopting my mom when he married my grandma made him all the more real. It was an affirmation of his commitment.

Grandpa was a screenwriter. So, you see, my need to write is not in my blood. It's in my soul.

Bella Bru and Bicycles

I opened the birthday card and discovered a gift card for Bella Bru. I wrote a note to thank the friend who had given it to me and told him that I love going to Bella Bru, but I didn't really tell him why. So now, I will.

It's the bicycles.

Sure Bella Bru has decent enough food, and it's a convenient hangout for the locals to meet for lunch. But to me, it's all about the vibe. The feeling that comes with the bicyclists.

Bella Bru in Carmichael is one of the few spots near enough to the American River Parkway where bicyclists can gather. I'm not talking about the guys who race in Amgen. I'm talking about that nice neighbor couple down the street, a group of retired friends, a family, and sometimes a more serious set who are fueling up before a long ride.

They come in all different shapes and ages and abilities. And they bring with them a certain energy. It's an energy of anticipating their rides or of that sense of accomplishment when they're finished. And there is always an added verve that comes with that bond of friendship and camaraderie. That's what I like.

When I arrive at Bella Bru on my bicycle and order that slice of mixed berry pie, I enjoy it just a little bit more than if I'd driven there. I'm not one of those sporty types with the fancy bike and the clippy bike shoes. But I don't enjoy my bike any less than those guys with the all the gear.

I like to linger long enough to take it all in. There's often a group of older people who are enjoying their retirement years together. I sit and hope that when I'm their age I will have that group of friends who like to get out and do things together. I also can't help but think of those I know who haven't made the time in their busy lives to forge those friendships or to enjoy the outdoors.

So now you know. And if you ever happen to be in my neighborhood, want to go for a ride?

Her Favorite Things

The radio host had my full attention. He often talks about subjects that are deeply personal to him, and he might have been speaking directly to me with this one.

Jack Armstrong of Armstrong and Getty had a very old dog, and he was speculating aloud about how he would know when it was time to euthanize his dog. Someone had once told him that a very clear-cut gauge was when a dog could no longer do its two favorite things.

A dog has two favorite things? I didn't know that! I had a very old dog. Did she have two favorite things? Could she still do them?

I thought back to when we'd first brought Shena home 11 years ago. She was two years old, and we were her third family. Her two favorite things then were chasing my cats and digging enormous holes in the backyard. We considered returning her several times, but, for one thing, I'm very stubborn and did not want to admit defeat, and, for the other, we had a very strong feeling that there would not be another chance for her at the shelter.

Shena is a Belgian tervuren mixed with whatever you get at the SPCA. She was big and fluffy and cuddly and sweet and very full of energy.

When we moved to a house with a larger backyard, her two favorite things became chasing squirrels and running circles around the yard. Shena caught quite a few of those squirrels, and that made me very happy. And we were amazed at Shena's speed and agility as she raced around and around the yard. She was so full of joy.

Now that she is over 13 years old, her hearing  and vision are almost gone, and her old legs and hips are too stiff for running. Those darned squirrels sit in the trees and taunt her. Sometimes they even throw things at her.

But does she have joy? Absolutely!

Now her two favorite things are to go for her daily walk and to sit in the back of the car and look out the back window. She knows when we are getting ready to drive to the mountains and waits by the car for somebody to help her get in. And when we exit the freeway, we roll down the window so she can smell the fresh air and the trees.

I feel for Jack Armstrong because I know how hard that decision is to make. We've had to make the decision to say goodbye to some of our furry friends. Somebody we'll need to make that decision again. But not just now. Not as long as I know that Shena has joy.

My Divided Life

Riding home on the bike trail, I looked up at the levee and saw a familiar face. I looked twice and then again. Yes, there she was, walking her dogs with her husband. I happily thought that when I got home, I should send her a message telling her that I'd seen her.

And then I remembered that we weren't friends anymore, and I felt sad.

The last time I'd heard from her, I was sitting in my car in the parking lot waiting for her to show up for our lunch date. I was a few minutes early. And then my phone range, and she was on the other end making an excuse about a contractor and saying that she would call back to reschedule. That was years ago. I'm still waiting.

We used to go for long walks, or we'd sit and talk while our kids were at practice. We met for lunch. We seemed to have a lot in common. What happened to our friendship?

I remember exactly when it started to fade. The day she first seemed a little cool to me.

I'm an actress. I was telling her about a particular job I'd had. I'd done a commercial in which I gave a testimonial for a product. At first she seemed interested, and then she asked what the product was. "I don't know," I said.

She looked at me indignantly. "How can you give a testimonial about something if you don't even know what it is?" she asked.

I attempted to explain to her that most of those commercials use actors. That's what acting is. I mean, really, the Skipper and Gilligan weren't really lost, Flo doesn't sell insurance (well, she does in a way), and Meryl Streep can't possibly be both a Holocaust survivor and the prime minister of Great Britain, now can she?

As I spoke to her, I saw the look on her face shift from indignant to disinterested to distant. And that was the beginning of the end of our friendship.

I have many friends in the acting community, and we can bond over discussions of  "being in the moment" or that very awkward love scene. But I've learned that with non-actor friends, it's best to use caution with those topics. I've learned to watch for queues on a person's face (actors had better be good at that) and recognize when it's time to change the subject.

So, to my actor friends, thank you for being a part of this crazy process with me.

And to my non-actor friends, I hope you understand why I don't always like to talk about this other life that I lead.

Lunchtime Madness

All that food was going to waste. I couldn't believe it. I watched as child after child tossed his orange into the trash.

This was wrong for so many reasons. And it was also so predictable.

I often spent lunchtime at the elementary school. We lived in what we euphemistically referred to as a "mixed" neighborhood. Although many of the families had been living there for years, others came and went too quickly to get to know them.

And most of them, 75% in fact, qualified for free lunches. This meant that I had paid for all of these oranges with my tax dollars. And, to be politically correct, these were the kids who most needed good, nutritious lunches. Then why were they throwing them away?

Quite simply, they were throwing the oranges away because they didn't know what to do with them.

Federal mandate at the time required that each child receive one-half of a piece of fruit. So what did the lunch-lady do? She cut each orange in half. She didn't peel it. She didn't cut it into slices. She gave each child a half of an orange. She put the minimum amount of effort into feeding these children that the federal government told her to do.

I've served up quite a few oranges during my years as a parent. And I can't imagine ever handing a kid, particularly a kindergartner, an orange that way. What's a kindergartner supposed to do with that? Those few kindergartners who did attempt to eat their oranges returned to class with sticky faces.

And for goodness sake, even McDonald's has figured out that if you want to get kids to eat fruit, like apples, you've got to slice it up for them!!

So why is this scene from nearly 20 years ago so important to me today?  The memory of that day came back to me when I read an article reprinted from the LA Times about food waste in schools. You can imagine my lack of surprise.

According to this article, in Los Angeles Unified School District, the nation's second-largest school district, students throw away $100,000 worth of food EVERY DAY. This is understandable, if, as one student mentioned, the apricots were "sour," and the meat was "nasty."

The article refers to the 2010 Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act championed by First Lady Michelle Obama which places more government regulations on school lunches. And the article also names several different studies that are in progress on how to get students to eat the sour apricots and nasty meat. Of course, all of these studies require even more public funds.

While I'm sure that our first lady had good intentions, I'm also sure that she would not have any luck convincing Sasha and Malia to eat sour apricots and nasty meat.

And adding more studies and regulations only increases the levels of bureaucracy involved in getting good, healthy food to our children. The problem with bureaucracies is that they need to function at EVERY level in order to work. Clearly something is not working in a school district that is throwing away $100,000 worth of food every day.

So what's the solution? In the first place, I'm a firm believer that the federal government needs to get out of the business of micromanaging local schools and food programs. More community involvement and less governmental regulations will help find solutions that are tailored to local neighborhoods. More involvement from enthusiastic individuals like celebrity chef Jamie Oliver (and, well, you or me) can help to encourage new ideas. Oliver has done tremendous work with his Food Revolution, helping school districts to make food options more healthy and tasty. We, as individuals, can be the eyes and ears at our children's schools. We can form relationships with administrators so that when we point out areas that need improving, the administrators will be receptive to our ideas. We can also encourage our children and their friends who come over to play to make healthy choices by providing them with nutritious snacks.

And to those of you who are directly in charge of providing meals at school, for Pete's sake, slice the oranges so little kids can actually eat the darned things.

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This was a long post, wasn't it? Thanks for sticking with it 'til the end! Shall we touch on health-care next?

The Decision to Love

What if you can fall in love every day? I can, and I do.

Think about this. Every time you see a character fall in love on the stage or screen, it's got to be really happening or else you, as an audience member, are not going to believe it. That actor needs to be actually falling in love with that actress at that very moment in the scene. The way my acting coach explains it, you need to be able to find something in that person's eyes or on his face that can make you fall in love. The same holds true for anger, sadness, joy. They all have to be real in order to be believable. This is one of the hardest tricks about acting, learning not to act.

But what if it's not really a trick? What if it is a very useful tool that we can all learn to make our lives more enjoyable?

We all dictate our own emotions to some degree. When you force yourself to stand up a little straighter, you feel more confident. When you smile, you feel a little less grumpy. And remembering a day on a warm, sunny beach makes you feel calm.

My husband often tells me that he chooses to be a happy person. That doesn't mean that life is always wonderful. I know that things sometimes don't go the way he wants. But every morning when he wakes up, my husband decides that he is going to be happy. And he is.

Terry and I have been together for a very, very, very, very long time. 

And during that time, we've learned to push each other's buttons. But then, even through my annoyance, I remember that we made the decision to love each other. I look at his blue eyes or something on his face, and I fall in love.

Homemade

All of the other kids took their cookies and ran outside. But not Joseph. He stood there holding his.

Joseph was born to a drug addict mother. I assumed that was the cause of his physical and cognitive challenges. We never met the mother. I heard that she had eventually OD'd and died. Joseph's dad counted his sobriety in months.

I often think about him and wonder whatever happened to him.

Ours was one of those Kool-Aid houses that always had a collection of kids after school, and I usually offered some type of snack like grapes or watermelon. In fact, we kept a stack of red plastic cups, and the kids all knew to look in the cupboard for the cups with their names on them.

It was no big deal for me to whip up a batch of Toll House cookies. No recipe needed. I could have the dough ready in ten minutes if I didn't need to stop to tie a shoe or mediate a disagreement.

Even though Joseph lived the closest, he didn't come over very often. He was older than the other kids, but he couldn't really keep up. I think he was often home alone after school, and he wouldn't come to my house without permission.

The other kids had gone about their play, and Joseph lingered. Then he looked up at me and said, "I've never had a homemade cookie before."

I don't know the rest of the story. We moved away soon after that.  I hope that somehow it had a happy ending.

Planes, Trains, and Go Karts - Rucksacks and Tiny Spaces

32 days, two rucksacks, 10 countries. We were learning a lot about independence and about ourselves and about each other. For instance, I had learned that precisely 20 minutes after Kelsey first said she was hungry, she would start to get grumpy. I don't know how I'd never noticed that before!!

We'd learned that we could compromise, and we could be flexible. And we'd also learned that good experiences could sometimes happen even when things weren't going our way. Like when a train strike prevented us from going through Italy on our way to Switzerland. We needed to change our plans and travel through Lyon. When we arrived in Lyon, it took us a while and a couple wrong turns to eventually find a hostel. I planted my daughter there while I went off looking for food. We were well past that 20-minute hunger mark, and her foot hurt. And, being vegetarians, it always took a little longer to find meals that would make us both happy in Europe.

When I finally arrived back at the hostel, I found Kelsey waiting for me on the back patio. She was chatting with another tourist. We were on a terrace overlooking the city at dusk. And it was beautiful. I felt grateful with the turn of events that had landed us in this spot on that terrace with the lights of Lyon just starting to come on at sunset. That meal of barely warm spinach crepes was one of my favorite meals of the whole trip.

Our next stay was in Interlaken, Switzerland. Although it was full of young people having all kinds of amazingly sporty adventures, we had to tailor our plans for Kelsey's darned foot. We chose instead to go on a go-kart tour in the alps. And it turned out to be another magically beautiful experience.

And when we left a hostel where we didn't feel comfortable in Salzburg, we ended up at the cutest little cottage in the countryside outside of town.

When we had another bad hostel experience in Copenhagen, we ended up in the tiniest hotel room that I've ever seen. It was clean and comfortable and safe. And it was small. The beds folded down from the wall. The shower head in the minuscule bathroom operated from a diverter on the sink.

Disappointed a few days later that we were too late to see tulips in Holland, we found windmills.

And when she was finally ready to take off that awful walking book and go for a run, it was in Amsterdam.

All in all, it was a great adventure. No, it wasn't always fun, but we made some fantastic memories.

Planes, Trains, and Go Karts - Greg the Dockworker

The white paneled van pulled up alongside us. I needed to make a quick decision.

We were only a few days into our month-long European vacation, and my daughter and I had already experienced a few challenges. For one, we hadn't planned when we booked our plane travel that Kelsey would be spending most of the time in a walking boot due to recent surgery. I had started off our trip by mistakenly checking us out of our hostel late at night in a jet-lagged daze. And now, on our third day of the trip, we were having trouble finding the port where we were supposed to catch our ferry.

We had taken a municipal bus to what we thought would be close to the port. But after walking for quite a ways in each direction, we realized that it was getting late. We were worried that we weren't going to catch the ferry that we'd booked to get us on our way to Great Britain. As we huddled together, the dreary Irish mist turned to drizzle.

When I saw the van pull up alongside us, I realized that this was the same van that I'd just seen leaving the shipyards. The driver must have done a U-turn and driven back to us.

"Do you ladies need help?" the driver asked. I remember all the times my mom told me not to talk to strangers. All those times I'd been admonished never to get into a strange car. And, especially, to avoid white-paneled vans.

And so we got in.

I told the driver the name of the ferry line that we were seeking. He thought for a moment and then said, "I think I know where that is." Then he looked around nervously. "I could get in so much f***in' trouble if anyone saw you get in my van," he said.

I'd learned by this time, not to be offended by the expletive. In Ireland, or at least in Dublin, it is an obligatory element of nearly every sentence.

Greg the Dockworker cheerfully got us to our port in plenty of time to board.

Planes, Trains, and Go Karts - Wide Awake

I opened my eyes and looked at the clock on my PDA. 10:45. OH NO!!! We'd overslept! How did that happen?

My teenaged daughter Kelsey had spent two years talking me into this trip. Just the two of us. 32 days. Backpacks. No schedule. My only lifeline home would be my trusty little HP Jornada PDA with wifi.

This was not a good way to begin.

Because she was paying her own way, we were on a tight budget. That would mean staying in hostels, riding trains, and using public transportation.

We started in Dublin. We arrived after a long overnight flight and spent the day wandering around the crowded,  drunken city. Then, using our guidebook for recommendations, we checked ourselves into our very first hostel. I felt so out of place. It was a little scary but exciting at the same time. Checkout time was 11 a.m. the next morning.

When I saw that we'd overslept, I woke Kelsey up, and we quickly threw our packs together and headed past a perplexed-looking clerk and out the door into the dreary Irish daylight.

I didn't know much about the customs of Ireland. I expected that most kids would be in school this time of day. But we didn't see any children at all. Not even babies in strollers.

And the stores were closed. Only the bars were open. I remembered that when I was a kid, it was fairly common for stores to be closed on Mondays. Was that what was going on?

Kelsey and I wandered for a couple blocks charting our plans, still in a sleepy,  jet-lagged fog. This dreary city seemed to be getting drearier. It was almost as if ... no ...

I pulled my Jornada out of my bag and looked again at the clock. Just after 11 o'clock.

11 o'clock p.m.

11 o'clock p.m. on Sunday night!! Could that be true? But it wasn't dark. Were we that far north?

Yes. I realized now that it was true. Somehow, I'd slept for only an hour and had misread the clock. The dreariness was, in face, twilight. And why, then, would there be anything but bars open on a Sunday night?

Sheepishly, we headed back to the hostel. I explained my folly to the clerk and asked if we could please have our beds back.

He very politely didn't laugh at us. At least until we were out of sight.

Although Kelsey was a good sport about my blunder, this was a story that she will never, ever let me live down. She keeps reminding me. And, as further penance,  it was her idea that I share it here with you.

So this is for you, Kelsey.

Great Expectations

When teenager Rachel Canning sued her parents for financial support and college tuition, it made the news.

When a boy named Anthony had his own relatives turn against him, it did not.

I don't know Rachel. I know only what I've read or heard on the news reports. It is a very sad story about a family that has fallen apart, and, apparently of a young women who is not willing or able to fend for herself. It is difficult and scary for someone who is only 18 years old to be suddenly on her own to have her life take this unexpected turn.

Anthony rarely knew anything besides turmoil.

Anthony was born into foster care. He ended up with a grand-aunt who was abusive and neglectful. She died of cancer when Anthony was 14 years old. Then another aunt, Joan, stepped in to raise Anthony. She tried to undo the damage caused by her sister, but she died of a heart attack when Anthony was just 17 years old. She died right in front of him.

Like Rachel, there were lawyers and legal battles, but it wasn’t about private school. His remaining relatives tried to cheat Anthony out of the small amount of money that his Aunt Joan had wanted to be left to him.

After Rachel left home, she moved in with friends.

Anthony didn’t have that option.  When his beloved aunt died, he didn’t have a network of friends who were able to step in.

Rachel is 18 years old. She is legally emancipated.

For a foster kid, emancipation is a scary thing. For Anthony’s remaining year before emancipation, he was sent to another foster home and then to a group home. He was feeling depressed and suicidal, but there were no friends or loving relatives to help him.

Rachel goes to private school.

By the time Anthony was emancipated he had gone to six different high schools. He never did graduate.

Emancipation for a foster kid, even one who is being housed in an unhappy home, is not a time of parties and freedom and celebration. It is an unceremonious slamming of the door. There is no more money. No college tuition. No emotional support.

Anthony turned to public speaking as a way of healing. He caught the attention of assembly representative, Fiona Ma, who offered him a job in her capitol office. While working there full time, Anthony started taking classes at the community college.

It hasn't always been easy for Anthony. He's never had that built-in support network that even people from humble backgrounds have. But he's persevered. And he has built an impressive resume.  He’s completed study abroad programs at Oxford University and in Israel. He is President Emeritus, Lambda Chapter, Alpha Delta Gamma National Fraternity.

And now, in just a few months, he'll complete his bachelor's degree. This isn't the end of Anthony's story. It's scary to graduate from college. Who knows what he'll find to do next?

Although he doesn't have that traditional group of people applauding for him. I'll be cheering.

The latest news is that Rachel Canning has reconciled with her family, although she hasn't dropped her lawsuit, or her expectation of what is owed to her. I wish her well.

Currently, Anthony is interviewing for graduate school programs, and, in fact, has recently had a second interview. I know that when we read about him in the news, it’s going to be a story of his own accomplishment.

____

Hear more of Anthony’s story. 338: The Spokesman, August 10. 2007

A Missed Friendship

This couldn't be happening.

I wanted to yell it out loud.

I was sitting in a cafe with some friends from class. We were chatting about class. Films. Projects. Across the table from me sat my friend. But this couldn't be. He had recently passed away. I knew that I had to be in some type of time warp or something. And there he was, laughing and talking.

My friend had warm, soulful eyes and a beautiful smile. He was kind. He seemed interested in people, and he had a way of connecting that made you feel is if he knew what you were all about.

I regretted that I'd never gotten to know him better. Who was he besides this man from class? Who were his wife and children? Did he have a dog?

So here we were sitting in a cafe. I wanted to yell, "Stop! I want to get to know you better." I felt as if I'd been given a second chance to get to know him, and all they wanted to do was talk about class. I could see now that he already showed signs of the disease. Did he know?

And then I woke up.

I was angry that my dream had ended so abruptly. I wanted so badly to get back inside of it. I wanted to have just five more minutes to get to know my friend from class so that I would feel as if I truly deserved to be called a friend.

---

Roderick, I wish I'd had a chance to get to know you better.

A Piano, a Saxophone, and a Didgeridoo

There's always been music. I never knew anything else. I'm not talking about what you hear on the radio, I'm talking about music that you make.

My relatives were concert and studio musicians. My own home had a steady stream of my mom's piano students. And when I was young, I spent many nights falling asleep to the sound of the neighbor boy, Mark, playing the trumpet in his upstairs bedroom. Then his brother, Paul, got a set of drums.

That was my normal.

It was a surprise to me as I grew up to realize how many people didn't have music. It made me sad.

I never fooled myself into thinking that I'd make a career in music.To me, it was a sense of belonging. As I drifted to percussion as my preferred instruments, I found that I enjoyed my place in the back of the band, the variety of instruments we had, especially the timpani, and how our parts felt like the spine of the music.

As a music minor in college, I savored the solitude of the practice rooms in Ives Hall where I could play the piano for hours.

I  bought a piano when my children were young and taught them the basics. I never pushed. I let them decide where they wanted to go with music.

When our family settled into a neighborhood that had an excellent school music program, my kids naturally joined in. It was a fantastic way for the kids of all abilities to be part of a group. During the next nine years, we gladly hosted fundraisers, practice sessions, spontaneous get-togethers. Even during ordinary homework sessions, kids would end up at the piano or the drums.

They were happy.

The collection of instruments at my house grew and fluctuated: a saxophone, a clarinet, an oboe, an erhu. I was thrilled when my younger daughter came home from Australia with a didgeridoo, a beautifully painted aboriginal work of art.

They are all gone now. My husband and I are empty-nesters. But my children are close by and can come to visit.

I pull my car into the garage. I open the door. I hear the sound of the piano inside my home.

I feel ... joy.

Whose Letter Is it, Anyway?

We still get the newspaper delivered to our house every day.

Over the past few months, I've written a few letters to the editor. That's what retired people are supposed to do, right? A couple weeks ago, I was thrilled when I saw my name listed as the author of a letter. My glee turned to disappointment, however, when I started to read. My letter had been altered.

I understand the need to edit the occasional letter for spelling, grammar, or clarity, but this was much more than that. My content and the tone of my letter had been neutered.

I called The Bee and left a message for the page editor expressing my unhappiness. He called back with an apologetic voice mail stating that he felt my letter was too much of a personal attack, and that he regretted editing my letter without first discussing it with me. Had he called with that concern, I would not have given him permission to sign my name to his version of my letter.

I still read the letters to the editor. But now when I do, I wonder how closely they match the author's original intention.

------

This is what I wrote: George Sheridan’s letter to the editor on Feb. 3 makes the statement, “Our students need the best education we can provide.” I cannot think of anyone who would disagree. Certainly those “wealthy individuals” he lambasts want the same thing.

I am neither an educator nor a lawmaker. I am just a parent who has had many, many years to observe public education. I’ve seen those teachers who no longer had the skills or desire to teach. I’ve also seen a new and promising teacher dismissed because the principal was on the fence about getting into a tenured commitment. 

Although George Sheridan did not identify himself as the union representative for the Black Oak Mine Teacher’s Association, it was very obvious in his letter that his objective is to spout union propaganda. It is not to assure that our children have the best possible teachers.

This is what The Bee printed: Re "Experienced teachers add value" (Letters, Feb. 3): George Sheridan's letter makes the statement, "Our students need the best education we can provide." I cannot think of anyone who would disagree.

I am neither an educator nor a lawmaker. I am a parent who has had many, many years to observe public education. I've seen those teachers who no longer had the skills or desire to teach. I've also seen a new and promising teacher dismissed because the principal was on the fence about getting into a tenured commitment.

George Sheridan did not identify himself as a representative for the Black Oak Mine Teachers. The objective of the letter was to state the union perspective. It was not to assure that our children have the best possible teachers.

-- Deborah Adair, Sacramento

The Wisdom of My Dog

If you are passionate about something, wag your tail.
If you don't have one of those, just wiggle or smile.

A leash means something good is about to happen.
Well ... usually.

Sniff strangers.
You can learn a lot about people by the way they smell.

If you make a mistake, look really, really sorry.
It's amazing how far a sincere apology will go.

Be empathetic.
Our furry friends are often the first to notice when we are feeling down.

If it looks yucky or smells funny, eat it.
You never know. It could be delicious.

If there is a party, stick close to Grandpa. He's usually good for a handout.

Be loyal to your pack.
They protect us, and we protect them.

Take naps.
We should all learn to do that.

Don't bark too much.
Again, something we should all learn.

Get lots of exercise.
Lots and lots and lots and lots.

Do not pass up an opportunity to have fun.
Really, just don't.

photo by Samantha Adair

The Wisdom of My Children

If you are passionate about something, go for it.
Don't be afraid to aim high. You may just succeed.

Surround yourself with people who share similar values.
It's not about economics or race or religion, or even politics (well, perhaps a little).

Talk to strangers.
Yes, that's right. Talk to them. What interesting people my children have met.

Travel.
My kids have created opportunities for themselves to travel and explore and meet people like I never would have dreamed of doing when I was young. It has made them confident and independent.

Don't listen to people who say you can't.
You are usually your own best judge of what you are capable of doing.

Diving off this rock will impress everyone.
Yeah, well, maybe not.

If it looks yucky or smells funny, don't eat it.
Why do we bother trying to get our kids to eat things? Offer healthy choices. They'll figure it out.

Be loyal to your friends.
I'm so proud of the way my kids have shown their friendship during some unfortunate circumstances.

Dress appropriately for your age.
I'm not sure whether this is about looking out for her parents or that our youngest child does not want us to embarrass her. Either way, we've learned to listen when she has a critique about what we're wearing. She's always right.

Read voraciously.
My children are full of interesting facts and knowledge of literature.

Get lots of exercise.
Lots and lots and lots and lots.

Do not pass up an opportunity to have fun.
Really, just don't.

The Wisdom of My Parents

Always leave your campsite cleaner than when you found it.
Substitute your own location as it may apply to you: beach, park ... planet.

Think about the comfort of your passenger when braking or turning. 
I've been driving for 34 years,  and I can still feel my dad cringe beside me if I approach a stop sign too quickly.  

Make square corners.
Can you guess this one? My dad was a Marine. He wanted to be sure his children knew the appropriate way to make a bed. I think he was trying to teach us that there is a right way to do things and that we should take pride in our work. Or maybe he really liked square corners.

Pasta: lid off. Rice: lid on.

Every good boy does fine.
My mom was a piano teacher.

Say "please" and "thank you."
Remember when we heard those words all the time? Is it really that difficult to be polite?

Count how many days you're going to be gone and pack one pair of underwear for each day plus one extra.
In case of accidents, I suppose?

Hold out your hand and let him sniff.
My parents loved dogs, but they always respected the fact that they were animals. They never ever let us approach an unfamiliar dog without that admonishment.

Let go of your anger.
Holding onto anger toward the person who treated you badly lets him keep control over you.

Keep banging on this pot with this wooden spoon while we hike. You'll keep the bears away.
Why do parents tell their kids these things?

If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.
Ah. Now, you know why I tend to sit quietly so often.