Perfectly imperfect

Having a birthday at the end of March can include a wide variety of types of weather. I have tried to hail taxis in the middle of a blizzard, worn sandals and sunglasses sitting in an outdoor cafe and, like today, have looked for my rain gear. While the saying is, March goes out like a lamb, it really goes out any old way it wants.

I like it like that.

Like the weather on my b-day, I am neither sunny or stormy. I am something in between and that suits me fine. Of all the great things about getting older, self-acceptance is one of the best gifts. While I strive to be the best I can be, I have finally learned that there are just some things about myself that will never change. And instead of wishing those things away, I have accepted them. Here is a short list of some of my less than sunny qualities (consider this notice not to take any of this behavior personally):

Baggage claim blues
I will never, ever be pleasant at baggage claim. After a long trip (and when you are flying these days isn't every trip a long one?) I am not excited about being home (or arriving in paradise) - -I am tired and cranky and I want to get to my destination. I can't explain it and I don't even have the energy to try to fake it. Your best bet when traveling with me is to just stay away. I'll cheer up, I promise.

Bye for now
I hate long good-byes. When I'm ready to leave I want to go, I will say good-bye once but if you're the kind of person who has to see everyone and have a long farewell, I'll meet you in the car. When I'm done, I'm done. Good-bye, let's go.

No so holy day
I don't like to go to church. I will if I have to but don't give me dirty looks when I don't sing along or kneel, stand, squat, jump, wail or whatever the service requires. It's not my thing.

I'll cry if I want to
I worry that no one will come to my parties. If you're friends with me you have to suffer through this...days before I worry no one will come, then I'm afraid too many people are coming...on the day of I'm back to worrying that no one will come. Once the first person shows up, I have no worries.

Little Miss Smartypants
Sometimes I have to be the smartest person in the room, when I do I make other people feel bad.

Hold onto your Monopoly boards
I am competitive and avoid playing board games as it brings out that side of me and isn't always pretty.

Hmmm...should it be this one? or that one?
I have a very thorough decision making process. If I'm buying tile for my bathroom I have to see every tile available. If I'm painting my dining room I have to see every paint sample. I try not to pull other people into this but sometimes it can't be helped.

I vant to be alone
I need to spend time alone. Too much togetherness makes me itchy. I don't need a lot just a few minutes every day to collect my thoughts. If you are in my face 24/7 I will get mean.

Get yer own
I don't like sharing the covers. I would rather we each had our own blankets.

Oh no...you didn't just say that?
I have no tolerance for BS. In fact, if you try to BS me I'll lose it.

You know the funny part? I could keep going. Perhaps the greatest revelation I've had in my 40s is that the only person who ever expected me to be perfect was me.

Apparently my friends and family have known all along what a pain in the butt I can be and wonder of wonders, they love me anyway.

That, my friends is the best birthday gift of all.

Conjuring characters

The starting point for most of the characters I have written usually begins with someone I know. Sometimes it is the way they look, or how they move or talk or laugh or what kind of influence they brought to my life, but the beginning of a character always starts with that spark. It doesn't take long before the inspiration is realized into someone wholly different. In other words, they become a character. Once they are a character I don't think much about the person anymore. In fact, I forget about it until the work is done (or someone else reads it and asks.)

People that know me often recognize elements of themselves or others in my characters. Sometimes it is obvious and sometimes it's more obscure and often it goes completely unnoticed, except to me.

In the last few months a curious thing has begun to happen. Some of the people who have inspired my characters have come back into my life.

I have heard from a friend from elementary school that I haven't been in touch with since...well...elementary school...who inspired a name in The Last Bridge. I got an update about someone else who passed away that was a huge source of inspiration for one of my characters. A couple months ago, I heard from an old friend who inspired another name in The Last Bridge.

The most surprising was hearing from someone who inspired a character in my second novel, this was a shock since we had not ended things well a few years back. Suddenly, out of the blue I hear from him.

There is one person though I have not heard from and in writing this I'm wondering if I am rubbing the Genie's lamp and asking for him to appear. Who is it? Well, it is a him. The character he inspired? Well you'll just have to read The Last Bridge and try to figure out who...

If you could conjure one person from your past who would it be and why?

Our Town is my town...

"We all know that something is eternal. And it ain’t houses and it ain’t names, and it ain’t earth, and it ain’t even the stars . . . everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, and that something has to do with human beings. All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years and yet you’d be surprised how people are always losing hold of it. There’s something way down deep that’s eternal about every human being.
-stage manager, in the play OUR TOWN" — Thornton Wilder

Last night my sister Tami and I went to see the play Our Town at the Barrow Street theater in the village. Our Town is a play I see every chance I get as I find, like any great piece of art, it reveals new meanings to me every time I see it.

I read Our Town before I ever saw it produced. I was in high school and it was an assignment for English. I liked it, but I thought it was kind of cheesy. From my teenage perspective, I wondered why I should care so much about Grovers Corners, New Hampshire.

That year, my sister played Mrs. Gibbs in our high school production of Our Town. I sat in the first row and experienced her up close as she came out to the audience calling, "here chick, chick, chick." We joked about it for years.

My friend Gwyn was next up in Our Town and although I did not get to see the performance -- our connection to the play was more about her costume (instead of buying a black skirt for the play she wore a blue one with black lining inside out -- which drove me crazy!)

It wasn't until I was in my late twenties when I truly connected to Our Town. Back then, the story of young love and how profoundly it can change your life was what pulled me in. I was yearning for that as well.

In my late thirties I saw the play at the Bay Street theater in Sag Harbor with my friends Marc and Gina who had taken me to North Conway, New Hampshire many times. This time, I knew New Hampshire more intimately and understood how the beauty of nature can be a substitute for city culture. I was drawn to the notion of small town life.

Last night, with my sister, I felt the magnitude of Wilder's message of mortality and eternal life. After experiencing the loss of my father and aunt, I find myself thinking about the legacy we leave behind and how our time together is short, even though it feels like we have forever.

At the end when Emily realizes the great gift life gives us, I looked out into the sea of faces, strangers who made up our audience and saw tears and nods of recognition. There we all were, decades after Wilder's own passing, experiencing a connection to the playwright and his message, experiencing firsthand that universal recognition that there is something in all of us that goes on forever.

Small graces

This morning I opened up my latest batch of dry cleanning and grabbed my favorite pair of black pants off the hanger. As I was pulling them on I remembered the loose button that was dangling precariously by a thread the last time I wore them. Before zipping up I searched for a safety pin and made a note that I should sew it back on before I lost it for good.

Imagine my surprise when I found the button securely fastened back in place. I checked the stitches to confirm it had been sewn by hand and took a moment to think about how that happened.

I have been taking my dry cleaning to the small independent store around the corner from me in Queens for over ten years. The youthful looking Korean woman who I assume is one of the owners, never remembers how to spell my name but she wishes me a good day as she hands me my tickets. We repeat at pickup.

I don't think much about what happens to my clothes after I leave them at the dry cleaners. I know they do the pressing there, maybe they do the chemicalization (what is that they do exactly anyway?) there as well. All I know is I drop it off, pay and get nicely pressed and cleaned clothes back. This time, I got a bonus.

I'm guessing she noticed the button dangling off my pants as she was stuffing them into the "to do" bag and maybe she asked the elderly seamstress that sits hunched over an ancient sewing machine by the window to drop a few stitches to save my button. Or maybe someone else noticed it when they pressed my pants or decontaminated them (again what do they do?) the point is someone noticed and did something about it.

No charge, no mention, no, "guess what I did for you?" A gesture without fanfare or drama.

The world is full of these small graces. The unsung acts of kindness and compassion we pass along our way for no other reason than it seems like a good idea.

I am grateful for the small grace that was bestowed upon me with a needle and thread. A button is secure and my faith in the essential goodness of people is intact. Not a bad way to start the day.