All in Personal essay

Living With What Is No Longer Mine

Bethany Ball
Personal essay

by Bethany Ball

While walking across the Mont Blanc Bridge in Geneva this spring, I saw a beautiful, chic young girl saunter by. The bridge, dividing the two centers of Geneva, is the perfect place for people watching. It's long and the walkway is narrow. The foot traffic is swift. Audis and BMWs and buses buzzed by, carrying bankers and watch executives from the old city to the new, or maybe to the Alps to rest and relax.

photo via Flickr by Jonathan ZiapourWhen I saw this girl walking past me, I had my usual response. Appreciation mixed with a little envy and curiosity: where did she get that gorgeous scarf and where could I find one just like it? Would I achieve the same affect if I wore the same clothes as she did? My son and my husband were tagging along behind, my husband trying to console my son who was crying. He was jet lagged and wanted to go back to the hotel where a magnificent box of Legos, bought as a gift by his grandfather, was waiting.

At the moment that I saw the beautiful girl, I was furious with my son. But the sight of her had buoyed up my sagging, jet lagged spirits and brought something else into focus: beauty and beautiful objects and youth. Perhaps it was because I was there with my son, now six years old. There was no pretending anymore that I could ever be as young and carefree as that girl. Or that any outfit I put on would transform me into youth. That world belonged to her now, not to me. My world was just behind me, dissolving in sniffles. I reached my hand out to my son and he ran and grabbed it gratefully. He was six years of my new reality, condensed in the form of an intelligent and sensitive young boy.

HAWAII REVISITED

HAWAII REVISITED

Jules Older
Personal essay, travel essay

by Jules Older

On our first trip to Hawaii, our twin daughters were two-and-a-half.

Max in Hawaii. Photos by Effin OlderOn this trip, our grandson Max was two-and-a-half. Max’s mother, Willow, and her sister, Amber, were now 35. And his young sibling, Babybrotherben, just turned eight months.

On the first trip, we four — Effin and I and our twin daughters — stayed in a cottage at Puunalu on the (then) largely undiscovered north side of Oahu. This time we eight (add Willow’s husband Leroy and our dear friend Barbara) stayed in a slightly bigger cottage on the south side of Kauai.

Travel with Kids

In some ways travel with kids is harder today. If you intend to drive, you have to lug along awkward, heavy car seats. You have to make your way with kids and car seats and fold-down strollers and disposable diapers through airport security. On the plane, there's much less legroom and even less food.

On the other hand, these days you can rent a van, and you can rent or bring along a portable DVD to keep the kids amused.

Max did pretty well through the taxi to SFO, the airport wait, the five-hour flight to Honolulu, the Wiki Wiki bus to the other part of the airport, the two-hour wait for the next flight, the next flight, and half the mini-van ride to our cottage. We made a big deal of driving in a “brand new blue mini-van.”

Hawaiian Meltdown

At precisely the halfway point between airport and cottage, Max went into meltdown. His lower lip quivered ominously. “I w-w-want to go h-h-home.”

IF YOU CAN MAKE IT HERE...

Bethany Ball
Personal essay

by Bethany Ball

A few months after I arrived in New York City, I was homeless.

My friend Joe, who I’d rented a room from, hadn’t paid the rent on his sublet and the locks had been changed. Joe, en route to Chicago, wasn’t too concerned. I was frantic.

A friend tipped me off to a building—a nearly burned out structure on the desolate block of 109th and Amsterdam—that a woman from Calcutta had just inherited from her uncle. When I first met Elizabeth, she was on her hands and knees in a simple colorful sari, hand-sanding the floor of one of the apartments. She wore a mask over her face, which she did not remove. When she stood up she came to my waist. Elizabeth was kind enough to let me live in one of the unrenovated apartments, until a renovated one opened up. The problem was the renovations never got done. The apartment had three large bedrooms, kitchen and a large living room with a fireplace. But it was all rubble, dust and debris and, it appeared after months of ‘repairs’, it would never be anything else. Elizabeth hired drug addicts and crooks. They tore down windows without reason, cut pipes, smashed tiles and pulled down the drywall. They put wood studs in the middle of living spaces for rooms they never finished. Keys to my apartment, furnished by Elizabeth, allowed them to enter my apartment whenever they pleased and I would often return home to find things left behind; a sweat jacket, a pair of jeans, that day’s New York Post.


I lived in the one room that locked. I covered holes in the wall with a photograph of my great grandfather with his violin. A water-damaged print of the Virgin and Child covered up another. The rest of the apartment was filled with bric-a-brac, bug-eyed Keane figurines, clothing and furniture, piled floor to ceiling in the other two rooms.

My Mother, Who Had No Age

Susanna Starr
Mother's Day, Personal essay

by Susanna Starr

We celebrated my mother’s birthday on Feb. 8th, but never really knew how old she was. She said that she was born in 1900 because it not only made her two years younger than my father, but was easy for her to calculate her age. In 1968, when my mother died, we did some of our own calculations and came up with something between 72 and 74, but of course didn’t know for sure.

Coming of age in New York’s Harlem, she expressed her independence by dropping out of school before she even entered high school and then taking a factory job, something not unusual at the time. In her early twenties, she opened her own retail shop with one of her multitude of sisters.

Education was never one of her goals but she was beautiful and was known for the way she dressed, spending more on her clothes then than I do now. Of course, I don’t have the interest in them that she had.

Marrying my father and settling down with children must have been difficult for her but she thought that was what she was supposed to do, especially since she had passed the 30-year mark and needed to make a move if she was going to do what was expected of her by her family and culture.

Her mood swings, her constant complaints about her life, her put- downs of my father, my brother and less, of me, were accepted. She was discontented about almost everything. Never knowing what was going to set her off, I retreated and tread lightly. Not ever being able to drive (she said she was too nervous), she was imprisoned in her own life.

Now, that I’m approaching that time of her last years, I’m a great deal more understanding of this woman, my mother, who never lived the life she thought she should have. Instead, although vastly different in temperament, I’ve done the living she never did……

 

I Don't Want to Die, Mom

Marla Finn
Mother's Day, Personal essay

This July I turn 59 years old. If I live as long as my mother, then I am about to embark on my last year of life.

Mom, you were the queen of selflessness.You gave up everything for everyone else. My deepest frustration was not being able to get you to see that your mother and sister were sucking the life out of you. Every day, on the phone, you’d try your hardest to get them to listen, think things through, and calm down. It NEVER worked. The medical profession says that stress can cause disease. It's clear in your case that it did.

There's A Whole World Out There

There's A Whole World Out There

Eric Lucas
Mother's Day, Personal essay

I was lolling in the bathtub reading a comic book (the Amazing Flash) when my mom came in waving a copy of the afternoon newspaper. “Russians Launch Satellite,’ blared the huge headline. I tore myself away from superhero suspense to listen. You should listen to your mom, right? It was October 4, 1957. I was 6 years old.

“You may not understand this, but your world just changed,” my mother told me. “Pretty soon people will travel into space. You could. There’s a whole universe out there.

“All you have to do,” she added, “is make sure those grades keep up.”

She used to work that into every conversation; in fact, until recently, she would occasionally resurrect her offer that, should I wish to go to law school, she’d pay for it. Never mind I have no interest in law school and I’ve enjoyed a 30-year career writing everything from hotheaded newspaper columns to, well, hotheaded internet columns.

Most of my childhood is vague to my recollection, but I remember that evening the whole world marveled at the news Sputnik I had circled the globe. A 6-year-old boy’s grasp of the world is pretty much rooted in baseball, bikes and Cheerios, so I can’t say I comprehended the fact the universe had just shifted. Did this make the amazing technology behind the Flash more likely? What about Superman? “Just remember this moment,” my mom admonished.

A Difficult Birth

Andrew Adleman
Mother's Day, Personal essay

by Andrew Adleman

Her death is still as fresh as my birth. It was nine months ago, (her death, not my birth) and I miss her very much, especially on days like today. I remember her love and her singing Happy Birthday to me. I also recall the story she told of my difficult birth.

She was, of course, rushed to the hospital where she waited, and waited, and waited — in labor for 72 hours. I am not sure if mom was reluctant to bring me into the world, or if I was being extra cautious about sliding my pudgy baby body those last few inches to a new existence. Given my subsequent history, I’m pretty sure it was the latter.

Just as my mother had endured my birth, this willful woman endured her life, and mine, though not without letting me know that she knew what was best. To her dismay I did not become a Jewish heart surgeon (or even a Presbyterian foot doctor). Mom also put up with me marrying two non-Jewish women (not at the same time, God forbid), and gradually grew to love them as she loved me.

Waiting for the Burglar

Jean Kepler Ross
Mother's Day, Personal essay

by Jean Kepler Ross

The more time goes by, the more I become like my mother, for instance: waiting for the burglar. My neighbors have been ripped off five times in two years and I find myself trying to out-think the would-be burglar when I travel.

Mom showed me the way in this behavior by turning on her radio when she left the house, doing a pre-departure round to check door and window locks and hiding valuables when she took trips. One time, after she returned from a trip, Mom couldn’t find her silverware and was convinced the burglar had shown up and stolen it. Dad refused to submit an insurance claim, as he was positive Mom had hidden it and forgotten the hiding place. Sure enough, years later, the “stolen” silverware was discovered in a picnic basket in the attic.

The highlight of this long wait for the burglar happened when Mom, Dad and my sister were home one night, watching TV in the living room. My sister went out to the kitchen to get a soda and found the kitchen door not only open, but propped open. The burglar had finally shown up and they hadn’t heard a thing. Nothing was actually missing…my sister had aborted the heist by showing up at an opportune moment. In a way, we were all relieved that the years of expectation weren’t in vain, but we laughed pretty hard at the irony that we were home when it happened. Meanwhile, I still put my lights on timers and hide my valuables when I leave on trips. I seem to be programmed to wait for my own burglar!

Just Because You're Poor Doesn't Mean You Have to be Stupid

Rachel Dickinson
Mother's Day, Personal essay

by Rachel Dickinson

My mother was always an intrepid traveler, which seemed odd because in other aspects of her life she is so passive. For her, I think getting in the car and heading out of our tiny village in Upstate New York was a way to escape poverty. With the windows open and the radio blaring and a cigarette propped between two fingers she'd begin the journey, which was often home to Washington, D.C.

Mom's Story

Andrea Gross
Mother's Day, Personal essay

by Andrea Gross

Ten years, ago I was watching as Charlie Rose interviewed a guest who was publicizing a book about his mom and dad. Rose looked envious. "You know," he said, "I've interviewed thousands of people, but I've never interviewed my parents. I've heard many of their stories, but I've never written them down." I looked closer. Did he have tears in his eyes?

Light bulb: I was working for a major consumer magazine. Like Rose, I spent my time interviewing people who weren't my parents. Mistaken priorities? Definitely.

Two weeks later I was at my parents' apartment, fully outfitted with tape recorder, microphones and all sorts of journalistic paraphernalia. My mom talked non-stop for four days.

Her eyes sparkled as she told stories of flying in a single engine airplane with the handsomest boy in town. She spoke of times that made her laugh, experiences that made her cry, and events that changed her from a young girl concerned only with appearances to a wise woman dedicated to helping others.

Everybody's Jewish Mother

Judith Fein
Mother's Day, Personal essay, holiday tradtions

by Judith Fein

I was sleeping on a cot in her living room. Early morning sun was streaming in through an opening in the white linen drapes and she was standing over me.

“I was thinking about it all night,” she said. “I can’t believe you don’t know who Usher is!”

“Usher?” I asked, dragging myself from dreamland.

“Yes, Usher. Have you been living under a rock? He sings R &B, has won 5 Grammies and is a major philanthropist.”

I looked up at my 91-year-old mother.

“Okay, ma, you win. It’s important. I’ll find out all about Usher,” I conceded.

She doesn’t just know about Usher. At 85, as a result of her rabid interest in Eminen, she gathered her dear ones at a restaurant in La Jolla, threw some signs and began: “My name is Mickey and I’m here to say/I’m coming out as a rapper today.” The mouths of her guests and the entire staff of the restaurant fell open.

My Shrink, the Bike

Nancy King
Life Lessons, Personal essay

By the time I was nine years old I had been yearning for a two-wheeled bike for two years and three months but there were none to be found—not in stores, not in newspaper ads. The bike my parents and I finally found was second-hand and three sizes too big, just because FDR decided making war materiél was more important than manufacturing bikes for little girls too impatient to wait for WWII to be over.

The Reluctant Shaman

Rachel E. Mann
Personal essay, Spirituality

Rachel E. MannI could write about my two trips to the former Soviet Union, the first during the time it was being speculated by the old Sovietologists that Andropov had died because he was no longer showing up in Politburo photo shoots, and the second the summer of the coup when a drunk Yeltsin danced on a tank in front of the White House in Moscow.  These are among a number of outer trips in my life.  But for me, the outer journeys are just juicy manifestations of a bigger and far more important inner journey that led me to becoming a reluctant shaman.

 

Just declaring in a public forum that I am a shaman takes the breath out of me. To say that my life is a trip may actually be an understatement.  I mean, I think it’s a truly crazy trip when you realize you suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), depression and a chronic pain condition called fibromyalgia and simultaneously you suddenly find yourself meeting spirits who come to help you, or you are wandering in the Underworld where you meet and retrieve lost parts of yourself, and you encounter the traumas of your ancestors and even the world as a whole. In the process, I have met some interesting and amazing men and women, in this more ordinary realm of life, some of them whom I call the “new shamans” of the West.

Long Life's Journey To Home

Marlan Warren
Life Lessons, Personal essay

by Marian Warren

"You have to come down if you want your stuff," Beatrice said. "There's termites under the building and I have to fumigate."


I can't remember what I stored with Beatrice while exiting Los Angeles for rural Kansas , but lately I've been missing certain photos, journals and scripts. In ‘04, I fled after 20 years of trying to make a career and happy love life. My friends begged me not to go:

"You're the last person in the world who should move to Kansas !" said my charming boss.

"One thing I'm hearing about where you're going...No available men," said my handsome therapist.

"You won't be able to find a job. People will see you as an outsider. Like when I moved to Florida ," said a well-meaning friend.

Yes, I pray—but not to your god

Eric Lucas
Personal essay, Religion

by Eric Lucas

They approach a bit haltingly, these young women attired in pastel fabrics.

Eric Lucas“How long have you been saved?” they inquire.

“Saved?” I respond. I know what they’re after, but one has to let this conversation run its course.

“Well, I saw you praying, and I was so glad to see another believer here in the restaurant.” I raise my eyebrows. “What church do you go to? Baptist? Church of Christ?” They plow on earnestly.

That’s when I drop the bombshell, my own personal bazooka round aimed at American religiosity.

“I don’t go to church,” I say, pleasantly.

Silence.

“But you were praying,” they accuse me.

Yes, indeed, I was praying. These encounters invariably take place when I am on the road in America, have surrendered to expedience and stopped at a fast-food outlet for dinner. It might be Anaheim, it might be Amarillo. Wherever I am, I say a personal, silent prayer before my every meal, and have done so for 25 years. That’s a long time; my prayers were born in a search for spiritual discipline, and they have nothing to do with any religion. Not Christianity, not Judaism, not Islam. I don’t pray to Christ, or Yahweh, or Zoroaster, or Allah or even Mephistopheles. I don’t like organized religion. Doctrine annoys me. Scriptures are superstitious malarkey.

LIKE A ROLLING STONE

Judith Fein
Life Lessons, Personal essay

by Judith Fein

Yeah, life is a trip all right. A potentially life-altering trip.

A few hours ago, the sun was smiling on Santa Fe. We’ve had winds more vicious than dogs, white snow when purple lilacs should be blooming, sun, no sun, and today, sun again. The kind of sun that makes you fling open your front door, slide your tootsies into your tennis shoes, and hit the streets. Which is exactly what I did. You’ll see I am not kidding.

My husband Paul and I were walking downtown, past the Plaza, babbling about this and that and also that and this when suddenly I tripped over some dumb nib sticking up out of the sidewalk cement—obviously placed there by a jinn when I wasn’t looking. I flew up into the air, hit the curb, careened against the curb and landed about 12 feet from where I had taken to the air, Superwoman fashion. Paul, who normally has faster reflexes than a sprinter at the start of a race, just stood there, his jaw slack. Then he ran to help me up.

“Yes!” I screamed, stretching my arms skyward. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

I am sure Paul thought I had fallen on my head. He screwed up his face into a question mark.

Big Sky, Big Drama: It's Not Easy Being Dude

Jules Older
Personal essay, travel essay

by Jules Older

It was — as skiing trouble so often is — intended to be the last run of the day. But hey, the sun was still shining, the snow was still soft and our legs still felt strong. Dick and Bud and me, we were dudes. Eastern dudes, old dudes, groomer-hugging dudes, but dudes.

We were also a wee bit lost. But everything on Big Sky’s Andesite Mountain had been so mellow, why worry? Why even consult the trail map? Real dudes don’t read maps.

 

Trails Named after Distressed Animals

We started down something called Crazy Raven. Which led to Mad Wolf.

Here's some free advice. Don’t ski trails named after distressed animals. You wouldn’t ski Hydrophobic Raccoon, would you? Or a route named Cow with Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease? The same applies to Crazy Ravens and Mad Wolves.

What led us astray — apart from the inherent stupidity of dudehood — was the approach.

Crazy Raven lures you in with a broad and gentle approach that — once turning back is no longer an option — suddenly and sadistically narrows, steepens and bumps up.

Which, at the end of the day means big, mean, rutted moguls frozen harder than Dick Cheney’s heart. By the fourth or fifth awkward stem turn, we were feeling considerably less dudical.

Halfway down, when the moguls were dwarfed by jagged rocks, we decided to bail. The only option was crossing through a narrow stretch of woods to Mad Wolf, which despite its unpromising name, had to be better than the bloody Raven.

Uh, no.