lindasunshine22

Ashes to Ashes

Aunt Clair’s ashes were sitting in a cardboard canister in the closet of our Manhattan apartment. The third anniversary of her passing was coming up soon. Her final wishes were to have those ashes spread over her parents’ graves. For many reasons, it had not been possible to make that happen, and as her yahrzeit (Yiddish for anniversary) approached, I was distressed.

When Aunt Clair died, I made the arrangements with the funeral home. She had no spouse or children, only nieces and nephews. I was her health care proxy. I had to identify the body before cremation. It was jarring to see my aunt without her spirit, it almost didn’t look like her, but sadly it was. The representative of the funeral home was kind and explained how things worked. I wrote about her funeral and shared the eulogy on this blog previously (https://stories-i-tell-myself.com/2021/11/08/a-eulogy-for-aunt-clair/.)

The first problem with fulfilling her wishes was that when I inquired at the cemetery, I was told it wasn’t permissible to spread ashes there. We could buy a plot and bury the remains, but there wasn’t a spot near her parents, and it was expensive. After consulting with family members and my own conscience, I decided that we would at least spread some of her ashes there discreetly. I imagine that the cemetery had its reasons, but I doubt it was because it would harm anything. I also didn’t want to take the chance of calling attention to ourselves, so I didn’t want to plan to spread all of the ashes there.

One of the things I learned through this process is that the amount of ash was more than I had imagined, though I had nothing to base my idea on. The canister was heavy, and it was tall.

I thought, given her love of biking and the frequency with which she would cycle from her apartment in Greenwich Village to her sister on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, that spreading the rest of her ashes through Riverside Park would be appropriate. I looked on the city’s website and believe it or not, it is legal to spread ashes in city parks*. It is not permissible to spread them in bodies of water within a park.

So, why were her cremains still sitting in my closet three years later? Life and death happened.

I recall when I picked up the ashes from the funeral home, the representative said, “You know how common it is for people to move into an apartment in New York City and find an urn with remains buried in a closet?”

I looked at him incredulously, “No.”

“You’d be surprised. People don’t know what to do, they put them away out of sight, forget, and they sit there for someone, years later, to discover. I’m just letting you know.”

“That won’t be the case here” I reassured him, and as I walked away, I thought, “That’s crazy. Who would let that happen?”

I have a better understanding now.

I had no prior experience with cremation; it isn’t a common choice among Jews, though apparently more are opting for it according to the guy at the funeral home. Aunt Clair wanted to be cremated, but she also requested that a memorial stone be laid at the foot of her mother’s grave. She had arranged for a footstone at her father’s grave in memory of the family he lost in the Holocaust in Poland, so she thought this was possible.

After the funeral, I brought her remains back to my apartment. After a few months passed and thinking that we would have an unveiling for the footstone on the one-year anniversary (and we would spread her ashes at that time), I began the process of ordering the memorial stone. This proved to be complicated to arrange. It was not a typical request. The cemetery didn’t want it to be confusing as to who rested in the plot. After a lot of back and forth that isn’t worth detailing, we came to an agreement about what the stone could say. It wasn’t exactly what Clair wanted, but it was the best we could do. It took more than two years for the stone to come to fruition.

When the stone was finally available, other things were going on in the family. We were not able to arrange a time for the ‘unveiling’ of the memorial and we didn’t spread the ashes. In the interim Clair’s sister, Aunt Diane, passed away, as did my mother. A whole generation was disappearing. Another year passed.

As Aunt Clair’s third yahrzeit loomed, I decided I didn’t want to wait any longer to fulfill her wishes. I wrote an email to my brothers and cousin and said I would like to visit the cemetery and spread her ashes on Friday, November 15^th. Jewish cemeteries are closed on Saturdays (the Sabbath) and my Mom’s unveiling was planned for Sunday, November 17^th. It would be a good time to make this happen. My cousin, who lives in Massachusetts, responded that her daughter’s due date was November 20^th so she would not be comfortable traveling to NYC so close to that time. Aunt Clair would certainly understand that, as did I. It turned out the timing didn’t work for anyone but me and thankfully Gary. Despite that, I decided to go ahead with the plan

November 15^th was a cool, sunny day as we drove the Jackie Robinson Parkway, a narrow, curvy roadway that connects Brooklyn and Queens and passes through a series of huge cemeteries. The trees were not yet entirely bare, the yellow and gold leaves shone in the sun. I had the location of my grandparents’ graves written down and we drove to the appropriate section of the cemetery. I thought I remembered my way to their graves. Gary and I combed the rows and couldn’t find them. I checked and rechecked my notes. Finally, I remembered I had taken a picture the last time I was there and maybe that would help. I searched my phone, those smartphones can be quite helpful and in the photograph I found a couple of landmarks that helped – a majestic tree and two large grave markers in front of my grandparents’ more modest ones with the name Feingold on them. We found the spot and now understood why we hadn’t seen them before – they were entirely blanketed in ivy.

Gary and I peeled away the ivy and exposed all the markers. Aunt Clair’s stone was there, as expected. I looked around and seeing nobody around, I took the baggie with a portion of Aunt Clair’s ashes out of my pocket and spread them over the graves. “May you rest in peace, Auntie.” I said. Gary and I paused and stood quietly for a bit. Then we got back in the car and headed back to Manhattan. Part one of my mission had been accomplished.

The sun was still shining brilliantly as we made our way to Riverside Park. It was also quite breezy. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this. I carried the canister in a canvas bag. As we walked, a plan revealed itself to me. We passed a garden, now gone to seed until the spring, and I thought this was a perfect spot to provide what perhaps could be fertilizer. I looked around and nobody was paying attention – I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I also worried it might be disturbing to onlookers. I spread a good deal of the ashes throughout the garden, and nobody seemed to notice. There was still a lot of ash left.

We continued walking through the park and came upon a memorial to the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. The shrubs surrounding it presented itself as another opportune spot. Though Aunt Clair was not a religious Jew by any means, she was fiercely proud of being Jewish. This would be a meaningful location, as well. Gary reminded me to stand upwind as I poured the ashes over the bushes. I had not been as mindful of that the first time.

The canister was still not empty, and I knew of one more spot that I wanted to visit. Aunt Clair was an admirer of Eleanor Roosevelt and there is a statue of her at 72^nd Street just inside the park. We continued our walk south to find it. I was pleased to see that there were plantings around the memorial. I spread the remaining ashes there.

Throughout our walk, aside from talking about mundane things, Gary and I shared memories of Aunt Clair. I felt good about what we were doing. I was grateful to have Gary to share it with. He knew her well and shared his own unique relationship with her. We had come darn close to fulfilling her wishes and I think we honored her spirit. Part two of our mission was now accomplished. I was glad she was no longer sitting in my closet.

We took a different route through the park back to our apartment, walking along the Hudson River. I felt peaceful. The sun lowered and its rays glistened on the water. The day was fading, and I was satisfied.

*This is where I found the information: https://portal.311.nyc.gov/article/?kanumber=KA-03480#:~:text=New%20York%20City%20Parks%2C%20including,the%20site%20of%20cremated%20remains.

An Unveiling

We gathered at Riverside Cemetery in Saddle Brook, New Jersey. In Jewish tradition, a year or so after a person is buried, you have an unveiling – literally the unveiling of a headstone or footstone that is the marker commemorating the individual’s life and death. Though it has been less than a year since my mother passed, my family gathered to observe this ritual for her on Sunday, November 17^th, one day after what would have been Mom’s 91^st birthday.

19 of us stood around her grave on a brilliantly sunny day, unusually warm for mid-November in the northeast. It was appropriate weather given Mom’s sunny disposition (she was an eternal optimist, though, for better or worse, she shared her fears and complaints with me). She is buried between her mother, my Nana, and her husband, my father. The plot is part of an area that was established by the burial society founded by immigrants from Strickover, Poland where her father was born. Ironically, he is not buried here, he rests in Florida. But, other family members surround Mom, her brother, grandfather, aunts and uncles. There is something comforting to me about them all being together.

We began the ceremony by reading the portion of Ecclesiastes that tells us so eloquently that to everything there is a season – reminding us of the cycle of life. Then we uncovered the stone which reads:

Feige M. Brody

Nee Spilken

November 16, 1933 – February 27,2024

Cherished Wife, Mother, Grandmother, Sister and Aunt

Life-long Learner

Standing beside me were representatives of all those roles – her children, brother, sister-in-law, grandchildren ( a great-grandchild, too), nephew, nieces, and great-nephews.

I read these words: “On behalf of all of us, we consecrate this memorial to Feige Brody as a sign of our eternal love and devotion. May her soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.”

The cemetery had provided a booklet with selections that could be read, and it offered the following passage which I am transcribing here because I thought it was insightful, comforting and appropriate and might be helpful to others who are grieving a loss:

“We gather here today at the final resting place of our beloved mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, Feige to unveil this grave marker dedicated to her memory and to call to mind our cherished memories of her. When Feige passed away, we assembled here to pay our respects. At that time our grief was deep, and we felt intensely the pain of loss. Now, with the passage of time, the pangs of our initial grief have softened, yet we still feel sorrow in our hearts whenever we remember her.

Jewish tradition teaches us that those memories of Feige, which each of us cherish, can provide us with a measure of comfort. Those memories also serve as a form of immortality that comes to those we love when we remember them, and when we live our lives in emulation of the virtues they taught us by example.

Our presence here today is already an indication that Feige has achieved that immortality that comes through remembrance. Our presence is also a sign of the respect and admiration in which Feige is held by us. We still feel an emptiness in our lives when think of her because she played such an important role in each of our lives as a beloved family member and friend to many. Feige was devoted to us as we were devoted to her, a relationship of love and affection that we recall today.

Throughout the months since Feige passed away, we have each had occasions to remember the impact that she had on our lives.

We are comforted by our memories of the joys she brought to people and by the contribution Feige made to the betterment of our world.

In the biblical book The Song of Songs we learn that “The bonds of love are stronger than death.” Our memories today prove the truth of that teaching.

Even though Feige is no longer present in person, the love that we shared and the way our lives were touched by her continue to be felt. The pain of loss and separation is the price we have to pay for the years of Feige’s love and devotion.

Therefore, it is with sorrow, yet at the same time with a deep sense of gratitude, that we thank God for the years during which we were privileged to have had Feige as part of our family’s life and as a member of our community. We thank God, as well, for the love that bound us together with Feige in life and that inspires our cherished memories. It is with these thoughts in mind that we now pay tribute to Feige by dedicating this grave marker to her.”

That passage provided comfort to me. I am consoled by the notion that we attain a measure of immortality by being remembered – it helps me to reconcile the loss of my mother and father, as well as other people who I have loved in my life and still think of regularly. And, it is meaningful to me to think of how, by carrying forward their values, by emulating their integrity and generosity, I am helping to preserve their legacy. Those thoughts help me to come to peace with my own mortality. Hopefully I will have touched friends and family in a way that merits remembrance.

After reading that passage, we said a concluding Hebrew prayer and Uncle Terry read a touching poem he had written in tribute. Aunt Barbara, as a self-described “out-law” welcomed into the family by Mom, offered her heart-felt perspective on Mom (and Dad’s) generosity and the importance of our family bonds. Terry noted that he had Barbara would, when the time came, rest in this same area of the cemetery, just across from where we stood. I said a silent prayer that that would not be any time soon.

Another Jewish tradition when visiting the grave of a loved one is to place a rock on the marker. This is to signify a visitor’s presence, that the person who has passed has not been forgotten. Several years ago, when we gathered at my father-in-law’s grave, my sister-in-law Doreen painted some rocks with pictures of things that she shared with her Dad or represented him. I thought that was a wonderful gesture. I decided to do that for my parents. I painted one rock to look like a bookshelf with items my dad read regularly: Economics, Puzo (he loved The Godfather and read it multiple times), L’Amour (he loved westerns) and History. I painted another stone with Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (my mother’s favorite of her novels, and she read Austen every summer until dementia made that impossible) and a final stone with a blueberry bush (when my parents lived in the Catskills and the grandchildren came to visit, they went blueberry picking and baked muffins). I felt good placing those rocks that embodied precious memories, knowing that they would sit there for a while at least before the elements wear them away.

No Spilken/Brody gathering would be complete without partaking of food. So, we adjourned to the diner that was just outside the cemetery. Though the service was painfully slow, and we had to wait, and the orders got mixed up (no day goes by without some aggravation), we enjoyed each other’s company before going our separate ways and returning to our lives – some in New Jersey, some in Massachusetts, some in Connecticut and the rest in Albany, New York. Hopefully our next gathering will be a happier occasion, but I am left with a feeling of warmth, believing that Mom and Dad rest easy knowing that our familial bonds are strong and that we are doing our best to live out their values.

A Trip to Pittsburgh in the Aftermath

A view of downtown from the top of Mount Washington after riding the Duquesne Incline

I could write a book about our trip to Pittsburgh. We were traveling there for a mini medical school reunion.

So many thoughts flood my mind:

The choices we make in our lives, being reminded of a turning point and what might have been. We could have settled in Pittsburgh but wanted to be closer to family. The road not taken is hard to resist imagining.

The side trip that took us at least 90 minutes out of our way, not to mention the time spent at the stop itself, a museum to see an exhibit of Andrew Wyeth’s paintings. When I suggested the detour, Gary initially didn’t want to take the time knowing what a long drive it was already from Albany to Pittsburgh. Then when we got in the car to start what should be a seven- or eight-hour trip, he said, “What the heck. We aren’t in any rush. Let’s go to the museum.” I think he took pity on me, knowing my spirits were low from the results of the election and imagining a stop to look at art might help. He was right – it worked…for a while anyway.

The juxtaposition of gleaming office buildings, the beauty of the confluence of the three rivers and the unhoused, hurting people on the streets of that same downtown area. It is painful to see folks strung out, young people panhandling, wondering what’s worse: to walk by with a shake of the head and a murmured “sorry,” or to give some money? Our society must do better taking care of its own. The wealth suggested by elaborate skyscrapers, high-end stores and fancy hotels, side-by-side with people whose possessions are held in a bunch of plastic bags begs for a more humane economy. Below is evidence of the issue in Pittsburgh.

Gathering with friends from 40 years ago, some we did see eight years ago but others we had not, in the aftermath of an election that broke my heart but likely brought joy to some of theirs, was daunting. I was worried about how it would go.

It turned out that our reunion was warm, and we avoided politics, but I did have some interesting discussions with the woman I knew best all those years ago. We sat next to each other during the Pitt-Virginia football game that neither one of us was interested in. I knew she was a Trumper, and she knows I’m a bleeding-heart liberal. We would not change each other’s minds about anything. I come away as mystified by how I feel about folks who voted for Trump as I was before. Maybe I understand a bit more about her thought process – she sees the world differently than I do. One part of our conversation I will share because I think it is revealing.

I explained that I could not forgive Trump for, among other things, his reaction to the unite the right event in Charlottesville where the marchers chanted, “Jews will not replace us” and carried tiki torches. Trump responded saying there were good people on both sides. My friend explained that Trump was referring to the people who were trying to prevent the removal of confederate monuments – that he was sympathetic to their cause – not to the chant. I said that I didn’t understand his statement that way and if that was the case he needed to make it clearer. She told me that it was obvious to her that’s what he meant. I said that even if that was what he meant, those monuments needed to come down. She disagreed. She asked me if knew anything about Abraham Lincoln. I said yes. She went on to explain that Lincoln supported monuments and naming forts after confederate generals to allow the South to save face. I responded by saying that may well be, and may have made sense in 1865, but it is now 2024, and the country needs to understand that the South lost the war. Those statutes and stories can be displayed and explained in museums and history books. Monuments in public squares should help us to remember and celebrate our better selves – the people honored don’t have to be perfect, but they do have to be on the right side of history. She just shook her head saying history should be preserved. I said, let’s change the subject and we did.

The game took almost three hours. There was a lot of conversation. Most of it was ordinary stuff about family, travel, health, but we couldn’t help but return to politics every so often, after all some of those subjects involve policy. Every time we did, we had to agree to disagree. At one point she said, amused, “You’re just too woke.” I smiled and said, “Exactly – that’s no insult to me. I work at being woke.” We both laughed.

I was proud of myself. I didn’t pretend that I didn’t disagree with her, but we didn’t get heated. I was able to hold on to the good times we shared, aware of the pain she’s had in her life, the disappointments and struggles. I assume she could do the same for me. We hugged when we said our good-byes.

Gary was sitting next to his friend and former classmate, her husband, who shares her politics. After we left, Gary and I compared notes about our experience of the game. Interestingly, they had not discussed politics at all. Not surprisingly they were more focused on the game, but they talked about other subjects too – work, memories, family, being grandpas. No politics, though. I wondered how they managed that.

I am still processing the entirety of the trip. It was only 4 days, including all that driving, but it represented so much. I am also still processing the election results. It is going to take a long time to digest it all.

The best part of the game that Pitt lost – the half time show. The band was terrific.

My Closing Argument

I can’t wait for this election to be over. The relentless ads on tv, the frequent text and email solicitations for money, the anxiety about the country’s future are all hard to put aside. No matter what happens, it will be a relief when it’s over.

That’s not true, exactly. I will not be relieved if Trump wins and/or if there is a red wave. I will be devastated, as I was in 2016 when I didn’t want to get out of bed for days after. But, I will try to take heart in the surprising closing message of Jon Stewart at his performance at the Palace Theater in Albany, which I enjoyed very much. He pointed out that democracy is work that doesn’t end. Regardless of the result on election day, we need to soldier on, doing our part every day to work for the ideas we believe in, not just on a single election day. He reminded us how shattered we were after 9/11. We thought the world would never be ‘normal’ again, and in some ways, it was forever changed. But we couldn’t give up, we needed to continue to participate in our civic life. We can’t give up hope, hard as that might be. So, I am promising myself, if I need to mourn for a bit, I will, but then I will pick myself back up and keep trying to make this country a better place in whatever ways I can.

But, before I turn the page on this presidential campaign, I have some thoughts to share. I doubt many of my readers are Trump supporters, though there may be a few. I have always tried to be respectful. I don’t like the crude remarks or snarky takes that insult folks who view things differently than I do and I don’t plan to start now. I do need to ask a few serious questions for those who are planning to vote for him:

After Trump’s behavior these past few weeks, do you believe he is fit for office? For those who believed in him in 2016 or even in 2020, do you not see the changes? He is more impulsive and less coherent. Those are not qualities a president should have.

So many of those who served under him have abandoned him. Are they all part of some vast conspiracy? The generals? The cabinet members? His vice president? His daughter? No one is continuing to stand by him. Doesn’t that say something important about what they know about him?

For those who say ‘policy’ is the reason for voting for him, what policy? Is it about prices in the grocery store? If so, there are many factors that led to inflation (pandemic and supply chain issues to name two) that would have happened even if there had been a different president. Our rate of inflation, aside from the fact that it has been brought under control without a recession, is far less than other countries. Also, just as the health of our economy is more than the Dow Jones Industrial Average, it is more than the price of eggs.

Is it about the border? Do you really believe immigrants are ruining this country? Where is the evidence of that? How has your life deteriorated as a result of the influx of immigrants? Is crime that much worse and if it is, is it because of immigrants? I don’t believe the data supports that crime is worse, much less that the crimes that are committed are by illegal immigrants (other than sensationalized, or in some cases fabricated, stories on social media). My experience here in Albany and in NYC doesn’t back up those claims either. All of which isn’t to say that illegal immigration isn’t an issue that needs to be addressed. The demands on social services and housing, among other things, are challenging, especially to our cities. We can’t simply have open borders, but exaggerating the problem doesn’t help to solve it (neither did tanking the border bill). And blaming Kamala Harris for it is absurd.

Trump supporters like to ask if you are better off today than you were four years ago. By what measure? Four years ago, we were in the midst of the pandemic. Before vaccines, before treatments. Well over a million Americans died of Covid. Other than the divisiveness stoked by Trump, I do believe we are better off today.

Is Israel your reason for supporting Trump? Trump is an opportunist who will support whoever or whatever is in his self-interest at the time – the Saudis, Putin, possibly Netanyahu (maybe not, if he thinks Bibi doesn’t like him anymore). The incidence of antisemitism has soared since Trump came on the scene. How do you square those things? And, in order to support Israel, we need to be a functioning democracy not an oligarchy or monarchy.

Do you think children are going to school as one sex and coming home another, as Trump claims? Schools can’t apply sunscreen without parental permission. Not to mention that it takes more than a day to transition. Having worked in education policy for many years, I am well aware of the complicated questions posed by students who are trans, especially in regard to the role of parents. But, making trans students, or trans citizens in general, some kind of crisis (it can be a crisis for those individuals and families) that threatens our nation is ridiculous. I urge everyone to watch the movie Will and Harper (it’s on Netflix) to get some perspective on this. These are human beings who face challenges, not freaks who endanger our way of life.

Do you believe Kamala Harris is ‘dumb as a rock,’ to quote Trump? Really? I hear an articulate, intelligent woman. I see and hear people surrounding her who are competent and educated, not the racist, misogynist venom that spewed at the Trump rally at Madison Square Garden (and not just from that vile comedian).

Bottom line, for me, isn’t policy, though anyone who knows me, knows policy is near and dear to my heart. The bottom line is that Donald Trump is a despicable human being. He has normalized lying and cheating. I do not want my grandchildren to watch him or hear him. Our president, even if I disagree with their policies, should be someone children can watch without worrying that they will hear or see lewdness or vulgarity. And, I have granddaughters!!!! – I haven’t even mentioned reproductive rights. Or January 6th! I won’t get started on those or I will be writing another thousand words.

I will get off my soap box now. Honestly, after all of this, if you are still voting for Trump, please, please don’t tell me.

The Baksts Take Portugal

The Baksts took Portugal. That isn’t entirely accurate. One Johnson, our son-in-law, Ben, and one Bakst-Johnson, our granddaughter, were with us. And, we didn’t take all of Portugal. Though it is small, relative to other countries, we went to only two locations – Cascais, on the coast, and Lisbon. But, we took in a good deal of those two places!

The impetus for the trip was a phone call from our daughter. She had an opportunity to present her research at a conference on neuroeconomics (what is that?) in Cascais. She wanted to go and she wanted to extend the trip to do some sightseeing and have her husband and toddler come too. She wondered if we would be willing to go and give a hand so it would be more manageable to travel with the little one. She didn’t need to ask twice.

I knew the trip would be different from any I had taken before, and I was right.

After considering staying in the resort hotel where the conference was held, we agreed that taking an Airbnb was a better option. We thought, in general, that minimizing the moving around from place to place would be less disruptive for the little one. We reserved an apartment in Cascais that wasn’t too far from the conference site and another in Lisbon. We spent five nights in Cascais and four nights in Lisbon.

All of my other overseas travel involved staying at hotels or on cruise ships. And, all of those trips, not that there were that many, were either part of a tour or were organized by a travel agent with local tour guides. This was a departure from that. I was excited to see how that might change the experience.

Aside from the difference in accommodations, there were some other obvious distinctions. When our children were toddlers, the farthest we traveled was to visit the grandparents in Florida. We were not so brave as to undertake overseas trips with little ones. I admired Leah and Ben’s willingness to give this a try. I think in asking us to join them, there would be more hands on deck and that would hopefully make it less stressful.

In addition, Yom Kippur fell during the conference. Gary and I had some discussion about that, and we considered joining them after the holiday. It was a little surprising to us that the conference was scheduled to overlap with Yom Kippur, but then again maybe it isn’t surprising. In any event, we decided it would be interesting to observe the holiday in another country. I did some online research and found that there was a Chabad in Cascais! (Chabad is a branch of Orthodox Judaism that includes as part of its mission providing opportunities for Jews to pray and observe the rituals of the religion all around the world. For instance, there is a Chabad in Shanghai.)

Usually before Gary and I travel, I do research, especially if we have time on our own, looking for museums, points of interest, national parks, gardens, etc. This time I searched for things that would appeal to children. I learned that Lisbon has a world renown aquarium. We learned when we were there that Ben’s father’s architectural firm designed it. How cool is that!

So what were my takeaways from this trip?

I loved staying in the apartment(s). We lived among people who were going to work, to school, living their lives. We went to the supermarket – we didn’t cook any meals, but we had breakfasts and lunches mostly at the apartment. I enjoyed walking in the neighborhood and getting to know the streets. Though the word gets overused, it felt more authentic than staying in a resort or hotel.

Scenes from Cascais:

Though none of us spoke Portuguese, we managed. Not everyone spoke English, but between knowing some Spanish, using Google Translate and a lot of pointing and gesturing, we communicated. Most menus offered an English version. The overlap between Spanish and Portuguese wasn’t as much as we expected, though, and the spoken language sounds more different than I realized. Sometimes Portuguese sounded almost Slavic or Germanic to my ear.

We visited so many playgrounds! Ben had an app on his phone that located playgrounds wherever we were – now that is a useful app! Our granddaughter had a great time. One playground in Cascais was in a beautiful park that had interesting sculptures and landscaped areas. It also had chickens roaming freely. We were surprised to find wild chickens commonly in parks/playgrounds, even in Lisbon!

Roosters in parks:

In general, it seemed that Portugal was more family-friendly than the United States. If you had small children, you could avoid lines. This came in especially handy when we visited Sintra – more on that in a bit. Establishments expected and accommodated strollers. The restaurants we went to had kids’ menus, too.

I don’t know how people who have mobility issues get around safely in these old cities – and they are centuries old. The sidewalks are narrow, and they are cobblestone! It looks charming and pretty but presents obstacles. The surfaces are uneven and the topography is hilly on top of that. It made for a good workout, but if a person was in a wheelchair or if they had balance issues, it would be very challenging. I am grateful that Gary and I do not face those difficulties.

Views of hilly Lisbon:

The coast of Portugal is beautiful. The ocean was wild. The currents looked strong. It wasn’t swimming weather anyway, but even if it had been, I’m not sure I would have been willing to venture in. I loved walking by it and listening to the thundering surf.

Our experience attending services at the Chabad was interesting. Security was tight – there was one entrance. Two men guarded the door and if they did not know you as a member of the congregation, they interviewed you. We were asked several questions and had to show them our passports – this was in addition to filling out an online form in advance. They were nice enough about it and we were allowed in. Not surprisingly, given that it is an orthodox synagogue, men and women sit separately. Though, I would have preferred to sit with Gary, it meant that I spent my entire time observing the women around me. They were a mix of Orthodox women (wearing modest clothes that covered their arms and legs, wearing wigs) and women in jeans and casual tops. In my experience, one doesn’t wear jeans to high holiday services. I was wearing a dress. There were a lot of children running in and out of the women’s section creating a bit of chaos. The prayers were recognizable, and melodies mostly were, too. The rabbi, who greeted us warmly when we walked in, was originally from Crown Heights in Brooklyn. His limited remarks (he didn’t give a sermon) and directions (announcing the page number, to rise or sit, etc.) were in English, he provided page numbers in Portuguese too. The prayers were in Hebrew. All in all, it felt familiar which is kind of amazing given we were in a foreign country. I didn’t get much out of the service in a spiritual sense, but that’s not unusual. I appreciated that they made the services available to us and they were welcoming.

I can’t say much about the food and drink (not meant to be a comment on our fasting for Yom Kippur, though we did fast for that one day). I enjoyed the little bit of Portuguese wine that I had. Given that most of our meals were with our granddaughter, food and drink were not a focus of our attention. Gary and I aren’t exactly foodies so this wasn’t much of a sacrifice. The food was fine. I was surprised by the number of pizza places! The pizza was good. We had good Indian and Mexican meals, too.

On our way to Lisbon we stopped in Sintra to see the Palais de Pena. Sintra is a charming, ancient town in the mountains. There are a number of castles there. For the duration of our stay in Portugal we rented a car because we thought that would be most convenient, and it was, except for traveling to Sintra. Should you choose to go, and I do recommend it, take public transit or a tour or some other means, do not drive. There was a prominent sign on the wall of a building that said “Sintra, a traffic jam in paradise,” or words to that effect. They weren’t lying. We were there on a Monday (not a holiday) and not during high season either, so I’m not sure when it might be less crowded. Anyway, the palace was spectacular and so were the views. And this was an occasion where having a toddler got us fast-tracked through the line!

Views of the Palais de Pena in Sintra:

Lisbon is a great city – vibrant, with lots of restaurants and shops. It was far more multicultural than Cascais and that was reflected in the types of restaurants and stores. We took the metro to get around and that worked out very well. It wasn’t spotless but it felt comfortable.

We stayed one extra night after the kids left to go home. We took a hop on/hop off bus. The route was great and we saw a lot, but I don’t know if it was just Gray Line (the brand we used), but the buses didn’t run that frequently. Everything took longer than it should have and the buses were so crowded people were standing in the aisles. In addition, the audio that played, which gave information about the city, wasn’t synched to what we were seeing. Perhaps another bus line would have been better because in our experience it is generally a good way to get an overview of a city.

More views of Lisbon:

Belem Tower on the Tagus River in Lisbon

We decided we would go out for an authentic Portuguese meal for dinner. We asked for a recommendation at the hotel we stayed in for that final night – the Airbnb apartment wasn’t available for that last night. The woman at the desk offered a number of possibilities. Bacalao (cod) is a dish that is considered a national tradition, so we went to a restaurant that specialized in its preparation. I like cod, and the meal was fine, but not something I would need to have again.

The house special: cod, potato and cabbage

We were glad we had the experience – the restaurant was lovely, it was busy with folks who did not appear to be tourists, the service was good – but we didn’t love the food. Dessert, I ordered the chocolate cake with strawberry sorbet, was the best part of the meal.

Our main goal in taking the trip was to bond with our granddaughter and offer support to Leah and Ben. If we got to see some beautiful sights and learn something about Portugal that would be gravy. Given our granddaughter’s delighted reaction to seeing us each morning and her playfulness with us, I think we can say: mission accomplished. And, we did indeed see beautiful places and learned a great deal. I’ll leave it to Leah and Ben to decide if we were supportive, but I suspect we did all right on that count, too.

Note: Most of the photos were taken by me. Six of them were taken by Leah, Ben or Gary, though I am not sure which ones. Sorry for the poor attribution.

Joy in Mud(Met)ville

Note: The following was written by my husband Gary Bakst, lifelong Met fan, which means 65 years, except the Mets are actually 3 years younger than that. But you get the idea. Anyway, I hope you enjoy his prose as much as I did.

I put Gameday on my laptop as I saw my afternoon patients yesterday. I was nervous, anxious, worried. Dan, my son, texted to ask if I was stressed and that is exactly what I was feeling. The Mets gave up 2 runs in the 3rd inning and another in the 6th and were down by 3-0 going into the eighth inning. It was looking like yet another of those miserable late season games in Atlanta. We have been here before. We have seen this movie. And we never liked the ending.

Then, out of nowhere, the Mets erupted for 6 runs in the top of the eighth inning capped by Brandon Nimmo’s two run home run way deep into the right field stands. Finally, a better ending was coming into view. All of those demons would be erased. The Mets were just 6 outs from the postseason. What could possibly go wrong?

And then came the bottom of the eighth. Maton came in to pitch it and was ineffective and they brought in Edwin Diaz to try to get a 5 out save coming off a thirty something pitch save Sunday. Diaz failed to cover first on a ground ball to Pete Alonso and one double later, the Mets were suddenly down by 7-6 heading into the ninth inning.

Of course. Of course the Mets couldn’t just lose by 3-0. They couldn’t just fail in an ordinary way in front of the brainless Braves’ fans. They had to first get our hopes up with an historic eighth inning only to give it away in the bottom of the inning. They had to take our hearts out. They couldn’t just let the patient die mercifully. They had to make it painful, long and heartbreaking.

This could not be an ordinary loss. This had to be a Mets fan special. I was almost sure that blood was coming out of my skin, my pores and slowly spilling onto the floor of the exam room. The ninth inning would surely be just one, final, painful chapter in a sad, tragic story.

And then. And then, with one out, Starling Marte got a base hit and suddenly, our guy, our MVP, back from his back, strode to the plate. Francisco Lindor, batting from the left side, hit a ginormous home run. Perhaps the second biggest home run in Mets vs Braves history (Piazza, of course). The ball was well struck and carried deep into the Atlanta late afternoon gloom. It seemingly broke open a new dimension. It carried hope and joy and goodness and love and was itself carried by will and determination, by desire and honor and the conviction that, in the end, goodness will triumph over evil. It was propelled by a force both divine and human and when it landed angels called from the heavens, doves flew overhead and lions lay down with lambs.

And it sailed over the right centerfield fence and suddenly, out of nowhere, the Mets were up by 8-7 and only three outs separated them from the post season, from an opportunity to celebrate right there on the turf of their most arrogant nemesis. And it left one giant question: Who was left to get those last three outs? It couldn’t be Diaz. He had thrown a ton of pitches on Sunday and a bunch more in the 8th inning. And yet, the sad reality is that they really don’t trust any other reliever.

And then. And then, emerging from the dugout with the look of a man on a mission, came Edwin Diaz. He was back and he was going to find a way to finish the job. And somehow, despite the fact that it looked like his right arm came onto the field well after the rest of him, he got it done.

The Mets were in the playoffs. A great miracle happened there. It was not the ending Mets fans have been accustomed to, not the ending we have been trained to expect. And it was just so sweet and so amazing. I had to look at the screen on my laptop for a while to make sure that it was real. Wait, they’re gonna call for some kind of do over, right? Somehow, they’ll say it can’t be over until the Mets lose. But it was real. And it was good.

The Mets are in Milwaukee today for a 5:30 PM (eastern time) wild card playoff game).

#LGM

It all started back in Spring Training and we were there.

A Tourist in My Hometown #2: Back to Brooklyn

In an unusual turn of events, Gary and I had a free day in New York City. The weather forecast was perfect – sunshine, no humidity, high temperature in the low 70s. I had an idea for what we should do with this unexpected free time. “Let’s go explore Brighton Beach,” I suggested.

Brighton Beach is a neighborhood in Brooklyn. It has been nicknamed “Little Odessa,” because it is home to many immigrants from Russia and Ukraine and it is by the sea (like its namesake on the coast of the Black Sea in sadly what is now war-torn Ukraine).

Usually, Gary turns his nose up at Brooklyn – it is a running joke between us. He thinks Queens is the far superior borough since that is where he grew up. It is true that when we were children more of Brooklyn was impoverished and crime-ridden; Queens had some unsafe areas, too, but more of it was middle- to upper-middle class residential neighborhoods. It has been a lot of years though since Brooklyn recovered, gentrified and became the favored place to live among hipsters and artists. Brooklyn still has rough areas, but it is nothing like it was in the ‘70s. So much has changed since I lived there.

To my surprise, Gary agreed to my proposal. He was curious about it, too. I did a bit of research online about restaurants and sites. We decided to drive, though public transportation is readily available, because it would give us more flexibility. One advantage to visiting the outer boroughs, especially if you aren’t intimidated by the prospect of driving through the streets, is that you can find free parking. Anyone who has had a car in Manhattan knows what an expensive proposition parking can be. We waited until rush hour was over, around 10:00 a.m., and headed to Brooklyn.

I can’t remember the last time I drove to Brooklyn. We headed downtown along the west side of Manhattan and went through the Hugh Carey Tunnel. Back in the day we called it the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. I took that tunnel many times with my family when we came to Manhattan to visit either of Dad’s sisters.

We emerged from the tunnel in Brooklyn and proceeded onto the Gowanus (an elevated highway with a lot of truck traffic). I remember it as a depressed industrial area on one side of that highway and residential on the other. The residential side looked better maintained and the other side seemed to have new developments, some of which was still industrial, but the area looked more vibrant than when I had last seen it.

The Gowanus took us to the Belt Parkway, the roadway that travels along the edge of Brooklyn, skirting the entrance to New York harbor and then Jamaica Bay. We passed under the Verrazzano Bridge. I thought about how big Brooklyn is and I remembered getting around the borough as a teenager on buses. There was a store not that far from the Verrazzano, Korvettes, that had good prices on records. My brother Steven, who had a huge record collection, would give me a list of albums he wanted for his birthday, and I would go to Korvettes to pick one out for him. It was quite a schlep– involving several different buses. I didn’t mind, though, riding through various neighborhoods and looking at the people and stores. Korvettes is long gone, now a Kohls and Target sit in its spot. Some things change but remain the same.

We exited the parkway and made our way to Brighton Beach Avenue, looking for parking. We noted many fruit and vegetable stands, and spotted a market bearing the name of the capital of Uzbekistan, Tashkent.

The influx of Russian and Ukranian immigrants to Brighton Beach began a long time ago in the 1970s. When the Soviet Union relaxed its prohibition on Jews leaving, many of them found their way to Brooklyn, especially to Brighton Beach. Then when the Soviet Union dissolved in the early 1990s another wave came – this time from the former Soviet Republics such as Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Georgia, etc. The new immigrants established shops along Brighton Beach Avenue catering to their tastes.

We found an unmetered parking spot on a residential side street. The Riegelmann Boardwalk runs along the beach – named after Peter Riegelmann, the Brooklyn Borough President in the 1920s – it stretches almost three miles through Brighton Beach past Coney Island. We got on the boardwalk where it starts and meandered almost the full length of it, passing iconic landmarks like the Cyclone, Nathan’s and the renovated aquarium. It was not yet noon, so it was quiet, everything was just opening. We passed a few fellow walkers, joggers and fishermen/women. We heard a polyglot of languages being spoken, including Yiddish. The sky was clear, there was a warm breeze, and the water glistened in the sunshine. We stopped to watch the waves breaking on the shore. Only a few umbrellas dotted the sand – public schools in New York City had opened that day so there weren’t very many people.

We reached a very long fishing pier, walked out to take in the view, and then turned around and started back.

We got off the boardwalk and went up to the avenue to look at the variety of stores and find a restaurant for lunch. The sidewalks were crowded with shoppers and merchandise. Elevated train tracks provided shade for the sidewalk. Periodically we heard the screech of the subway above us.

We looked at a few menus posted in windows and selected a restaurant that offered traditional Eastern European fare. We decided on the Ocean View Café, the menu was in what we thought was Russian (or maybe it was Ukranian) but it had English translations.

There were just a few empty tables, so it seemed to be a popular place for the locals who were speaking a Slavic language to the waitstaff. We ordered stuffed cabbage as an appetizer, chicken kebab with mashed potato and cheese blintzes, we shared each dish. The food was excellent.

We left the restaurant and were grateful to have a bit of a walk to the car. The cherry on top of our great day was that we didn’t hit much traffic heading back into Manhattan, only one bottleneck. Gary and I agreed it was a terrific outing. We timed it just right – nothing was too crowded, but it wasn’t desolate, the weather was an ideal example of late summer perfection, and we felt like we had visited another country – all while in New York City.

Turning the Page…I Hope

On July 8, 2024 I posted a blog asking Joe Biden and Donald Trump to step aside. One of them did. On July 21^st, President Biden stopped his campaign and endorsed Kamala Harris. Before I published that blog, I sent an email to the White House thanking President Biden for his excellent service but suggesting that it was time to end his candidacy in favor of a younger person. Do you think I can take credit for his decision? Have I become an influencer? I’d like to take credit. I’m kidding, of course, I am not delusional. Without taking undue responsibility, I will admit to being relieved and energized by the turn of events.

Now if only the Republicans would take heed of the Democrats’ success and dump Trump and offer America a good alternative, then we could have a real, substantive contest. We have a close race now, but for many of us the possibility of another Trump presidency is horrifying. He is not a serious person, he is a cartoon character who doesn’t have values or policies; and, more than that, he is dangerous because he is impulsive and ill-informed. It would be better for our country if we could choose between two respectable, intelligent people who simply represent different visions of how the country can achieve success.

I did not watch a lot of the Democratic Convention. I saw snippets and caught up with some of the speeches after the fact. The most meaningful scene that I did watch live was Tim Walz’s speech when his son leapt up in enthusiasm and love and shouted, “That’s my Dad!” How could you not get chills and/or cry seeing that? This moved me on many levels. First, I am thrilled that the Walz family and the campaign saw no need to hide Gus (I don’t know what went on behind the scenes, hopefully campaign advisors had either no say in how this was handled or were supportive of his visibility). Not that long ago, I can imagine that a candidate might make a different choice. Gus may have an observable disability, but that should not be a bar to participating in his family’s moment of pride. He should be there to celebrate and express himself (as long as it was a healthy, positive choice for him). It is important for us as a society to see the full range of humanity.

Then there is the freedom with which Gus showed his emotion. Good for him! Many of us, including women, are much more constrained. We can all learn from that and get comfortable with tears of joy and sorrow. Though it may be more socially acceptable for women to cry, at least in some contexts, it can still be judged negatively. I find it ironic that Trump’s histrionics are ignored, and even celebrated, but Gus’ s tears have been mocked on right wing social media. For folks who make those kinds of comments, the world is upside down. Cruelty is celebrated, signs of strength are seen as signs of weakness, wrong is right…that is Trump World.

It was also heartening to see such a raw, genuine expression of love for his father. It says something important about Tim Walz and his character. After his selection as the nominee, I did some reading about him. Before I knew next to nothing beyond that he is governor of Minnesota and I might not have even known that! The articles I read revealed that he was an exemplary teacher (in my view, excellent teachers share many of the qualities of wonderful parents). Former students have said glowing things about him. If you haven’t read this article, which recounts how his class predicted the Rwandan genocide, I urge you to. It is an example of what fine teachers can do: provide students with an opportunity to think, to analyze and to understand. They participated in an exercise that went beyond learning important dates and names and gave them skills and ideas that will make them better citizens of the world. Here is the link to that article: https://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/23/education/23education.html

This type of teaching makes me think of my dad, who was also a high school social studies teacher who wrote curriculum on the Holocaust, and that is a high compliment. Dad was a great teacher and father.

The more I read, the more I see of them, the more impressed I am with the Harris/Walz team. Maybe, just maybe, we are beginning to turn the corner. I am hopeful that the fever has broken and Trump’s hold on the Republican party and a good portion of America is breaking. There is plenty of room in America for different views of policy without the vitriol, without the ugly threats and negativity, without the fear of devolving into violence. Let’s do our part to turn the page.

The Beauty Business

“Are you doing your eyebrows again?” Sue asked.

My college roommate opened the door to find me sitting at my desk, a magnifying mirror propped in front of me, the lamp on, poised to pluck another hair.

“Yes.”

“Do you do that every day?” she asked incredulously.

“Not EVERY day, no, but if I don’t do it regularly, they get out of control.” I replied self-consciously. I didn’t much appreciate her question. I made a mental note to try to do it more discreetly in the future, but there were limited opportunities given that I was tripled and privacy was hard to come by.

This was part of my war against a unibrow that had been ongoing since puberty. My brows were thick and dark and threatened to meet in the middle if I didn’t tame them. It was 1977, long before the popularity of Frida Kahlo made dark brows that edged toward the middle a chic choice a woman could make. In 1977 it was totally unacceptable, totally unfeminine.

I remembered that exchange during a recent phone call with my daughter. Leah called to vent about standards of beauty for women and the mental space, time, effort and money required to meet them. She objected to the fact we still labored under the onus of unreasonable expectations. “Who decides what is acceptable?,” she asked rhetorically. “And then we judge ourselves against that standard! Do men worry about that? Do men ask themselves if an outfit flatters them? Maybe there are men that do, but the average guy is probably asking themselves whether the shirt is appropriate to the occasion – are they going to work, a concert, to exercise? And that’s it. Maybe they think about the weather – should they wear long sleeves or short. They might think about whether the shirt matches their pants – maybe. We worry about so much more. I resent the whole enterprise! Ben has never asked me if a shirt he chose to wear makes him look fat!” Leah conceded that she doesn’t ask Ben that question either, but not so much because she wasn’t concerned about it, more because if the thought occurs to her, she rejects it because she recognizes that it is absurd, and she knows Ben is too smart (and kind) to answer with anything other than a positive comment about how she looks.

I agreed that it isn’t fair, women spend much more time tending to their appearance than most men. We both thought that women (and men, too) who enjoy the process and results of taking care of their skin, hair (the hair we want and the hair we don’t), nails, choosing outfits and accessories should feel good about their efforts – we would not stand in judgment. We should not think of them as shallow. People should be free to play with their appearance and have fun with it. But those of us who don’t enjoy that, shouldn’t be burdened with the expectations of others. Right now, that is nearly impossible given the messages we have internalized about what women should look like. Sadly, at least for me, I would like the results: no stray hairs where they aren’t supposed to be, soft skin without blemishes, manicured nails, a fit, shapely body that can wear the latest fashions, feet that can wear cute shoes without pain, without putting in the time. I want to magically look put together and attractive. I think my daughter, and many women, want the same thing.

Leah railed against the mental energy being spent on all of this. “If half the mental energy and resources spent on the beauty and wellness market were spent on the world’s problems, think about where we would be,” she pointed out. “If the effort that went into that, went into problem solving how much better off would the world be? And who is profiting from this?”

I had no answer for her. It did bring to mind another conversation I had – this one with my very good friend, Merle. I shared my memory with Leah who commented, “Merle knows what’s up!”

Merle and I were in the San Francisco airport at the conclusion of our visit with her brother after our sophomore year of college. It had been an eventful, eye-opening experience being in the Bay City in 1978. We were tired and waiting for our flight, our nerves frayed when we got into a disagreement on the very topic that Leah and I were discussing 46 years later.

Merle made the case that “they” were forcing beauty products on us. “Who are ‘they’?” I asked. “Corporations – the ones selling the products, the magazines, the ad agencies, the clothing companies,” she explained. I wasn’t buying it. “But we are part of ‘they’,” I argued. After going back and forth, somehow I was taking it personally, we decided to take a break. We each took a walk in the opposite direction in the airport. We met up at the gate and didn’t discuss it further.

I had trouble accepting the idea that anyone was controlling me. I wanted to believe in my own agency – and not just in my own, everyone’s. Merle was being exposed to other ideas; she was taking Women’s Studies classes. The notion that there was a patriarchy and financial powers heavily influencing our choices resonated with her. I was not ready to believe that.

It isn’t that I haven’t thought about these issues in the intervening years. I have, and I have moved a lot closer to believing Merle’s argument. I had not, though, come as close to revisiting the topic in the same way until Leah called to vent.

So, have things changed? In some ways, they have not. Leah feels as oppressed by unrealistic standards of beauty as I did and do. It is still big business selling products and services that promise youth and attractiveness to women (now we’re supposed to use whole body deodorant!), lots of money, influence and power are associated with the industry. There have been some changes: perhaps there is more room for variation in body types – we do see chunkier women and more women of color in advertisements. Perhaps the market has broadened in that now men are targeted too, though I’m not sure that is a good thing. Women hold more positions of power today than they did in 1978. Today women hold 29% of the seats in Congress; in 1978 we held 4%. But we are 50% of the population! It remains to be seen whether a woman can be elected president, we haven’t been yet.

Given the persistent disparity in wages between the genders, the difference in the way female political candidates are treated, the continued violence against women, we have not made as much progress as I wanted. I only hope Leah will have a different conversation with her daughter when she is an adult.

Three Day Jaunt: Ausable Chasm

When I was a child, my family didn’t take many vacations. My parents were teachers and money was tight. The travel we did do was associated with my dad’s continuing education. There was one exception. We took a tour of upstate New York. We lived in Brooklyn, so this was an economical, practical choice. As I recall, Dad consulted with Uncle Jack to set the itinerary. We went to Niagara Falls, Corning and Cooperstown. Uncle Jack also suggested Ausable Chasm, but that wasn’t included since it is in the northeast corner of the state; it was too far afield from the other places and would add too many miles and too much time. For some reason, the idea of going to Ausable Chasm stuck in my mind as a place I wanted see. All these years later, Gary and I made the trip this past weekend. I’m glad we did.

When Gary cut back his schedule to three days a week back on April 1^st, I had visions of taking many weekend jaunts. I have a list of places that are reasonable drives that I want to go, including Ausable Chasm. Somehow, we haven’t taken any of those jaunts. Life gets in the way and Gary’s work responsibilities have not been reduced as much as I might have hoped. But, finally this past weekend presented an opportunity, so off we went.

I looked for a bed and breakfast or inn in the area (the closest city is Plattsburgh) but I didn’t have much luck finding something for all three nights. I found one place that we could stay for one night, but they had a wedding that would take up the inn for the remainder of the weekend. I decided to book that and then find another place for the other two nights.

We arrived at the Valcour Inn and Boathouse which sits on a beautiful property that faces Lake Champlain. It was an interesting place, very comfortable and lovely, but everything was handled online – there was no person to greet us. We received instructions for checking in via email. We entered the necessary codes, and we went to our room. We had access to a wide porch that ran the length of the building that looked out on the lake.

There were Adirondack chairs available – perfect to sit, read and enjoy the view. Though it felt odd not to talk to a human being, or be able to ask questions directly, the accommodations were quite comfortable. They also posted a list of recommended restaurants in the area and we chose one for lunch.

We went to Rove’s Café and Kitchen in Peru (yes, there is a Peru, New York. As a side note, it is interesting that our state has towns named Athens, Cairo, Mexico, among other famous world locations.) The café was a small, unassuming looking place. Appearances aren’t everything – our meals were terrific. We went back for breakfast on Sunday morning and again were not disappointed. It’s great to find a small, local place that serves excellent food instead of going to the ubiquitous chains.

Keeping with the theme of taking advantage of local amenities, we went to Peru High School to play tennis. It was sunny but windy which made hitting the ball a bit of an adventure, but we had fun. The tennis courts had lines for pickleball and, in fact, two different sets of people showed up to play pickleball on the court next to ours but gave up because of the wind. Score one advantage to tennis which uses a heavier ball.

After perusing Google, I found an Italian restaurant in Plattsburgh for dinner, about 10 miles north of where we were staying. Nonnalisa turned out to be excellent. Again, it didn’t have much in the way of ambiance, but the woman who waited on us, who may have been the owner, was friendly and accommodating. The food was fresh and very tasty. The shopping center where the eatery was located didn’t look too lively, it was kind of desolate actually, but the restaurant was busy. Guests at two of the other tables were speaking French, a reminder that we were close to the Canadian border.

We read that it was good to arrive at Ausable Chasm early if you want to avoid waiting on a long line to get entry tickets. The park opened at 9:00 a.m. and given Gary and my sleep patterns, getting there at that hour would not be an issue. It was good advice. The Inn provided a ‘take-away’ breakfast – a pre-packaged box with yogurt, nuts, cheese and a pastry, plus coffee and juice were offered. It proved to be quite adequate and efficient. So, we got to the park just after it opened and there was no issue parking and there were only a couple of people ahead of us to buy tickets. When we returned to the Welcome Center just before noon, the line was quite long.

Ausable Chasm offers different kinds of experiences depending on the desired level of adventure. We opted for the package that included access to the hiking trails, the walk along the river and the raft excursion (there was another level up that included rock climbing, etc.). It was just the right challenge for us. The walk along the river in the chasm involved crossing suspension bridges – the kind that bounce and sway as people walk on them. It was unnerving to know that the water was rushing over rocks about fifty feet below us, but I did it without hesitating. Yay me!

One of the two suspension bridges we crossed.

The chasm offers many beautiful views from the rim and from the bottom. It is quite a geological phenomenon. And we learned that it isn’t called a canyon because of how narrow it is. You learn something new every day!

The walk at the bottom is led by a tour guide. After completing the path, we were left where the raft loaded. We put on life preservers and boarded the raft. The current was mild, though there were two areas of rapids, but even those were pretty tame. It was just the right amount of excitement for me. Having gone white water rafting in Quebec and getting ejected from the raft and being rescued by my son, I was pleased that this was less exhilarating.

Once we completed the water portion of our adventure, we had a choice. We could hike back to the gatehouse or take a shuttle bus. We were ready for more hiking and we took the more challenging route. We made our way through a dry chasm – which involved climbing through and around large rocks that at one time was a river bed before time and nature did its thing and rerouted the river. It wasn’t too hard, and it was very beautiful. The light filtering through the trees and our verdant surroundings were magnificent.

We got back to the Welcome Center feeling like we had a good workout. I needed to get postcards to send to the kids and find a souvenir magnet to add to my wall back home and then we could check into our next accommodations – The Shamrock Inn which was just down the road. A shower was definitely in order – all that hiking in the heat, and I had soaked through my shirt. Not to mention that my hiking shoes and socks were sopping wet from the raft ride.

The Shamrock Inn provided a lovely room, clean and comfortable, though it was a bit small. The friendly owner, who checked us in and lived on the premises, recommended a place for lunch back up the road in Keeseville, a small café that was known for its great grilled cheese sandwiches. After cleaning up, off we went. We were not mislead. Those were killer grilled cheese sandwiches – and I got a frozen strawberry lemonade which was perfect after our morning’s efforts.

One of my favorite things about traveling is seeing different towns – how do other people live? What does a town offer that is charming or unusual? Does the town look to be thriving or is it struggling? Just driving the roads in and around the area was interesting. Fortunately, Gary shares my enthusiasm for that. Keeseville looked like it was trying to comeback from difficult times. Peru looked like a settled community with both established businesses and places that were struggling. In between we saw a mixture of beautiful lakefront homes and trailer parks. We like to look up the towns on Wikipedia, see if there’s some interesting history, what the population is…

In that vein, we went to the Museum of the Underground Railroad which is right next to Ausable Chasm. This area of the north country of New York State had a role in helping escaped enslaved people make it to freedom in Canada. We learned quite a bit about the journey and about some specific people who successfully made it and some local people who helped. We also learned how different views split church congregations in the area. It is a small museum, but worth the visit.

We had one more day in the area and we decided to go across Lake Champlain to Burlington, Vermont, which involved taking a short ferry ride. We rented bicycles and rode along the Burlington Greenway Bike Path which skirts the lake and traverses a causeway that connects the mainland of Vermont to Grand Isle. It was a beautiful ride that took us through forested areas, we passed public beaches, and then to the causeway. We rode 9 miles out and then turned around.

We didn’t go all the way across to Grand Isle. 18 miles was sufficient for us, given that we had not biked at all in quite some time. My legs were aching, and Gary’s butt was complaining, but it was well worth it. We rewarded ourselves with cocktails and lunch after returning the bikes. There was a restaurant on the water right across from the rental place. It was wonderful to sit in the shade, drink some water and sip a pina colada.

Me after 18 miles in 85 degree heat – I did it!

All good things must end. It was time to go home – back to the grind of work for Gary and back to my routines. Three days went by quickly, but it did feel like a mini vacation. We did all that I hoped to – satisfied my curiosity about a place I had heard of as a child, took in the beauty that is the north country of New York State, spent quality time together, learned some history, got a good deal of exercise and enjoyed good food. I look forward to our next three-day jaunt whenever and wherever that might be.

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Author: lindasunshine22