“People who say they sleep like a baby usually don’t have one.” (-Leo Burke)

Did your mother insist that you make your bed every day as a child?

Mine did.

I was quite young when I discovered that if I planned things very carefully, I could ease gently into the still-tucked sheets at night. I became very adept at sleeping snugly ensconced there so that I barely disturbed the covers at all. In the mornings, I could slide right back out of those sheets with the hospital corners almost completely intact if I played my cards right. It certainly made making the bed a much simpler process.

So, you can imagine that it was sheer torture for me when one morning, my father, in desperate attempts to rouse me from a deep slumber, yanked the covers off of me, towards the end of the bed. This was after three or four attempts at waking me, all to no avail. That, however, made me jolt out of that bed like a bat out of hell.

These days, of course, I make the bed every day…but I only make the bed with hospital corners at the bottom end… I leave the blankets out at the top end of the bed, and I smooth out a nice comforter over the whole thing so that it minimizes the difficulty of that morning ritual.

Life is good.

“If people were meant to pop out of bed, we’d all sleep in toasters.” (-unknown)

“Dreams say what they mean, but they don’t say it in daytime language.” (-Gail Godwin)

Aren't dreams fascinating? Who knows why we dream what we do.

I once dreamt that I knew I was having Siamese twins, (and I knew this—how?) In my dream, I was quite disgusted with my doctor, because he didn’t seem to have a clue that I was having these Siamese twins. I kept thinking “What kind of doctor is HE?!”

I have no earthly idea why I dreamt that...

Joe was telling me about a dream he had the other night that had me laughing:

He said that he was in a large auditorium, where a woman was asking him to give an important presentation on (get this) “the Three Stooges” to a group of college students. He was nervous, because he couldn't remember what their names were. Then, the woman handed him a big plastic bag, and told him he was lucky that this meant he’d be getting a free lunch! But in his dream, that only made him worried, because he’d be busy giving the presentation during lunch time! A real nightmare, eh?

Recently, my dad told me he was dreaming about my mom, and she was evidently relaying to him (in his dream) that she was worried about something or other. I was glad to hear he still thinks about my mom, but in this instance, with a strange sense of humor as well. He was trying to help her deal with her stress, when, in his dream, he suddenly thought to himself, “Wait a minute—she’s dead now, so she doesn’t have to worry about these things any more!”

What a load off!

Have a great weekend, and Sweet Dreams, all!
;))

“Tea to the English is really a picnic indoors.” (-Alice Walker)

Today it's pouring rain outside. It couldn't be a more dismal day, so I decided to start the morning with a hot cup of tea.

I woke up to the sounds of torrential rains, thunder and sirens, thinking how fortunate we are to be inside where it’s warm and safe and dry.

Our shelves are filled with various and sundry teas, and today it was Mango tea with honey in it for me.

Some nights, it’s chamomile or Sleepy Time. Some days there’s just no replacing Constant Comment, or Plum tea. Grandma always served us Tetley’s with oatmeal cookies, but I'm also quite fond of English Breakfast Tea or Earl Grey or Darjeeling...and of course, anything with cinnamon or orange is usually a good bet.

I’ve said before that my dad always brought back gifts for me of pretty teacups whenever he and my mom would travel anywhere. Aren't they beautiful?

For me, it really is almost like a picnic indoors to relax with a simmering, steaming cup of tea. I'll sometimes put a spoonful of jam into my hot tea, but I'd also just as soon put flowers in my cups. And I will often pour the used tea leaves over flowers outdoors to perk them up.

To sit snugly inside, where it’s warm and toasty, and peer out the windows at the dreary downpour outside, is simply bliss…Thank goodness TOMORROW is when I have to head out to Duke! I'm so fortunate I didn't have to go out into it today.

Tea is a cup of life. (-Unknown)

Lots of people put a lemon slice into a teacup but sometimes, I just like a slice of orange instead.

“Each cup of tea represents an imaginary voyage.” (-Catherine Douzel)

(Off to my indoor picnic, folks!)

“It takes a long time to grow young.” (-Pablo Picasso)

August 25th was my mother’s birthday. I often think about how her life was so representative of all our lives…none of us really knows what's ahead of us, and we all have aspirations and dreams just as she did as a young woman...(my mom below)

Dreams of starting a family,...(mommy and daddy below)

and dreams of raising children…She surely never knew early in life that she would wind up having Multiple Sclerosis. (Mary Kate, Claudia and Sue with my mom below, before Eddie was born yet)

And she certainly couldn’t have known, on the day this picture was taken, at Ellis Island, that those towers behind her would one day topple, and that that wheelchair she sometimes needed here would become her constant companion late in life. (my mom and dad below)

Life handed her many surprises, as it does all of us, but she accepted them all and responded with dignity as each unfolded before her. She kept walking for as long as she could, sometimes pushing the wheelchair in front of her until she tired and could go no further. (my mom and me in Olde Towne Alexandria, VA)

At my parents’ 40^th wedding anniversary, she could still stand and walk with a cane,...(my parents below, at their 40th anniversary)

But around the time of their 50^th anniversary, she was no longer really able to walk. She had a wonderful attitude about it, though…I remember her laughing, and telling me when I took her shopping, that she had noticed, in shopping centers, little toddlers in strollers would look over at her on their level, and she said she could tell they couldn’t quite figure out why this adult was in a stroller just like them. She was quite amused by that. I watched the children in other strollers, and sure enough, they did seem somewhat fascinated by her, as if she was a kindred spirit. (our family at that time, below, celebrating my parents' anniversary at the art museum)

She was happiest when she was surrounded by her family, and since we all lived all over the place, like most families, it was hard to get us all together very often...

Mommy's gone now, but not gone from my memories…
Happy 84^th Birthday, mommy!
I love you. (my mom and dad on their 50th wedding anniversary below)

“The remembrance of a beloved mother becomes a shadow to all our actions; it precedes or follows them.” (-unknown)

Hands in the spaghetti

I was never glued to the tube for the Sopranos, but I was a fan. I probably even missed some seasons in their entirety, but for a number of episodes, I tuned in with lots of other people to see what good old Tony was up to.

Once, I was telling Joe what my brother Eddie says about people he thinks are too cowardly in handling challenging situations. Eddie would always say to me, “You know what I mean, Sue, she’s just not someone who’s willing to get her hands in the spaghetti.” Of course, since it was Eddie, I knew exactly what he meant by that. Not being willing to get your hands into the spaghetti was just not at all attractive to Eddie! He liked people who would fight for a cause, even if that meant getting down and dirty if you have to. (Who knows where he comes up with these things.)

Anyway, I'll set the stage for you:

Last year, I was heading down to visit my dad, and I had shared with Joe that I wanted to have a real heart-to-heart talk with my dad about some important topics from the past. I suppose I was a little bit apprehensive, hoping daddy would understand what I would say, and that he'd take it in the right way when I did. Now, as it turns out, my dad is a “Tony,” --(although, certainly a much nicer, more admirable Tony than Tony Soprano.) My dad is now living in Statesboro, Georgia with my older sister Mary Kate.

Joe came along on my visit, (and Joe is originally from Oklahoma.)

My dad and I wound up having a very nice visit, much as I thought we would, and we really communicated well--we had a great talk, hugged and cried, and there was nothing at all to worry about, but prior to my heading down there for my visit, Joe thought I might be anxious, and he handed me this hilarious photo with this caption beneath it. I never shared it before with my dad, and daddy, I know you read this blog, so I hope you get as big a kick out of it as I did.

It still makes me laugh…

“The family. We are a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another’s desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms, inflicting pain and kissing to heal it in the same instant, loving, laughing, defending, and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together.” (-Erma Bombeck)

“A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.” (-JRR Tolkien)

I keep several sets of wine charms in some little nesting containers my brother gave me years ago: you know, like those little Russian dolls that fit into one another, each progressively larger than the last. Eddie said he knew I’d like them, and I think of him every single time I look at them on our kitchen counter top.

So, let me tell you a little bit about my youngest sibling, Eddie. He’s 7 years younger than me, and I remember the day he was born as if it was yesterday. My oldest sister, Mary Kate and I were always together until Claudia came along, and then the three of us were inseparable as siblings. People always referred to us collectively as “the girls:”

It was “Tony and the girls...”

...or “Mary and the girls.”

Suddenly, there was Eddie, and life as we knew it was never quite the same ever again. Eddie was an adorable little guy, and he was well-loved by his 3 older sisters. Overnight, we became “the girls and Eddie.”

Eddie was always gregarious, intelligent, and hilariously funny. As a teenager, girls always had crushes on my brother. Everyone knew there’d be fun if he was going to be around. As the one in the middle, I often felt as if I faded into the background, because it was either “you’re Mary Kate’s sister?!” (My older sister Mary Kate was very smart.) Or, “you’re Claudia’s sister?” (Claudia, my younger sister, could be a Wild Woman.) But most of all, it was “You’re Ed’s sister??” (Usually spoken in disbelief, and accompanied by a big smile: Eddie was handsome and cool and people just always gravitated towards him…even today, that’s true.) He can “work a room” like no one I’ve ever known. Everyone enjoys him.

When I was a single parent living in Virginia with my son Eric, Eddie came to live with us. He was going back to school, and he called me from New Jersey to ask if he could come stay with me until he “got settled” in Virginia. We never discussed it more—I was deliriously happy to have Eddie move in with us. In my mind, I figured he'd be with us—3 months? In his mind, evidently, there wasn’t quite the same finality. He wound up living with us for a number of years while Eric was growing up. They were many years apart in age, but Eric was raised almost as if he had an older brother, and I sometimes felt I had 2 sons. (Although, to this day, in our family, we all think of Eric as sort of the older brother to the older Eddie.)

Once, when my older sister's sons were small, they looked up at Eddie as he regaled us with one of his hilarious stories, and then, when Eddie left the room, her youngest son Michael watched his uncle leave the room and innocently asked, "Is Eddie a boy? or a man?" We all burst out laughing...we're still trying to figure that one out!

When my son was married, he was trying to decide who, of his friends, should be his Best Man at his wedding. Katie, Eric’s wife, said: “I don’t think there’s any doubt as to whom it should be…Eddie.” I was touched, and Eddie was amazingly flattered.

Eddie becomes the center of attention in any room he enters. He’s one of those people who takes up a lot of body space when he’s around, not in an obnoxious way, but just because he fills a room with his entertaining presence. He’s lovable and always interesting, because he’s just interested in everything. When he was little, Eddie’s bedtime reading with my dad consisted, for quite some time, of a set of encyclopedias for kids called Tell Me Why. They read those tomes from “Aardvark” all the way through to “Zygote,” and to this day, Eddie will come out with some wacky, little-known-fact that amazes me, and I’ll ask him: “Where’d you learn THAT, Eddie?!” His matter-of-fact reply will often be simply: Tell Me Why.

Now, he’s a dad, and he and his wife Jenn, up in Falls Church, VA, are the best parents of a wonderful son Graham, (affectionately called “Graham Cracker.”)

I’m very lucky in the siblings I have. We’re all very different, but I love them all. Eddie just makes me smile. You gotta' love him.

“Siblings are the people we practice on, the people who teach us about fairness and cooperation and kindness and caring—quite often the hard way.” (-Pamela Dugdale)

“It snowed last year, too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.” (-Dylan Thomas)

"Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old." (Franz Kafka)

Well, if that quote is true, I guess I will never grow old. I always seek out beautiful places, and I’m going to tell you today about one I love.

Fearrington Village, on the outskirts of Chapel Hill, NC, used to be centuries-old farmland until a couple, RB Fitch and his wife, Jenny, saw the beauty of the land and had a vision: over the years, they turned that farmland into what is now a little village of homes, shops and elegant gardens surrounding a beautiful, award-winning Inn, which was originally the old farmhouse on the property. The silos and barns are still there on the hillsides, but now it’s an absolutely delightful place to visit. The Fitches had a vision and they have executed it with finesse.

It’s always been a place that touches my heart. First of all, it’s a bucolic haven just a few miles out, and I have such fond memories of wonderful family gatherings we’ve had there. We had my parents’ 50^th wedding anniversary at the Fearrington Inn and I’ve enjoyed many meals and celebrations with family and friends there. My parents first read about Fearringon in the New Yorker, in tiny little ads over the years that cited this as "a wonderful place to retire." Fearrington was instrumental in bringing my parents to NC in the first place.

I once did some little sketches of the Village, and RB Fitch bought 1,000 sets of notecards I did so that he could hand them out to prospective homeowners who toured the place. There are belty cows still grazing on the grounds, and a wonderful garden shop called “The Potting Shed.” There’s also a lovely gift shop called the “Dovecote” and a fabulous bookstore, "McIntyres." If you are ever in this part of North Carolina, I highly recommend that you treat yourself to a visit to Fearrington. You won’t regret it.

“If you truly love Nature, you will find beauty everywhere.” (-Vincent Van Gogh)

"A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin..."

It warms my heart to think that Albert Einstein, a physicist, who could readily wrap his brain around notions like critical opalescence and mass-energy equivalence, could also ultimately feel that music, and the violin in particular, were the things that brought him the greatest happiness.

In my family, as children, we were early on exposed to the arts. I always sort of assumed that all families had that same exposure until I grew older and realized how fortunate I was to have had that influence from my parents. At that time, we lived on the outskirts of Manhattan, and took full advantage of going into the City whenever possible, to see the NY City Ballet at Lincoln Center, or we'd head to Broadway and off-Broadway plays, or Shakespeare in the Park, or we'd visit art museums on weekends for as long as I can remember. My father listened to the Saturday afternoon operas on the radio, and my parents went religiously for years to operas at the MET, and they played classical music in our house. I had early on memorized Prokofiev’s “Peter and the Wolf” and knew the story behind "Madame Butterfly" in kindergarten.

While my younger sister and I “played piano,” (quotation marks intentional) my older sister played piano beautifully. It was from her practicing that I was introduced to Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Liszt, Brahms, Mozart, Bach, Berlioz, Tchaikovsky, Chopin… To this day, anytime I hear any classical music on NPR, I immediately think “Mary Kate played that.”

I remember my dad reading to me in his “big chair” when I was very young. My feet stuck straight out, and I thought, “one day, my legs will be long enough to go over the edge of this chair.” I don’t really remember him ever reading me children’s stories, but I do remember him reading me “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” by Coleridge. I didn’t understand much of it, but I loved that he was reading it to me. I remember that I couldn’t comprehend, for example, how there could be “water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink,” until he explained to me that it was salt water, which you can't drink, and I thought, “he’s soooo smart.”

Turns out they both really were so smart. They inculcated in us all a love of art and music and theatre and dance, and we’re all so much richer for it.

“Music is the mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life.”

(-Ludwig Van Beethoven)

Song for Susan

Song for Susan

Kettle whistles, “Habit now,”
Seems to sing its wistful tune
Sixty years, the ready sound
Sixty years, tea at noon…

(-sue)

My maternal grandparents were immigrants from Scotland, and they figured very prominently in my childhood. When I was young, I wrote a poem about Grandma Susan. Her inclination was to have a Tea Party every day of her life.

As a child, I loved visiting her, because she was an eccentric woman with artistic tendencies. She’d draw and write songs and poems, and entertained us for hours with the stories she made up, that literally lasted for weeks. They’d be continued on our next visit, while we longed to hear the end of her tales. During the winter, she’d bundle us up with her in a huge blanket, and sit with us on the rug, telling us we’d be like “the Babes in the Woods.” While we didn't really know who the babes in the woods were, when she said that, we knew we were about to be transported into her imaginary world of handsome lads and lovely lasses being swept away to balls, like something out of Jane Austen, through the machinations of the little old women who populated her stories.

But the thing I enjoyed the most with grandma was afternoon Tea. She baked every single day, and while the smells of oatmeal cookies and orange marmalade would emanate from her kitchen, she’d put a kettle on for a spot of tea. Her cups and saucers were lovely china, and she had utensils that had real ivory handles on them. The aromas and warm steam coming up from the cups are images and rituals I will always associate with her. She made me a tea lover for life.

"A Proper Tea is much nicer than a Very Nearly Tea, which is one you forget about afterwords." (-AA Milne)